“Fire burns all hands that touch it.”
“I serve God, sir. Do you?”
“Sometimes God is best served by obeying his more merciful statements. Judge not lest ye be judged. Think of that before you point a finger.” Then he was gone.
Purity waited alone in Reverend Study's office. His library, really, it was so stacked and shelved with books. How did he get so many? Had he really read them all? Purity had never had an opportunity to study the titles. Sets of pious literature, of course. Collections of noted sermons. Scriptural commentary. Law books? Interesting– had he thought of studying law at some time? No, it was ecclesiastical law. With several books on the prosecution of witches, the investigation of witches, the purification of witches. Reverend Study might pretend to have no concern with such matters, but he owned these books, which meant that at some time he must have planned to refer to them. He had not been “here” during the witch trials in Salem, which were the last held in eastern Massachusetts. That could mean he hadn't been born yet– how long ago were they? –at least a century, perhaps half again that long. But he had been involved in witch trials somewhere. Yes, he knew and cared very much about these things.
She held the book On the Investigation of Witchcraft, Wizardry, and Other Satanic Practices but could not bring herself to open it. She heard that they used to torture the accused. But that must not be the way of it today. The laws were strict that a person could not be forced to incriminate himself. Ever since the United States were formed from the middle colonies and put that rule into their Bill of Rights, the same principle had been given force of law in New England as well. There would be no torture.
The book fell open in her hands. Could she help it? It fell open to a particular place which had been well-thumbed and much underlined. How to put the question to a witch who is with child.
Was my mother pregnant with me when she was arrested and tried?
The child is innocent before the law, being unborn and thus untouched by original sin. Original sin inheres to the child only upon birth, and therefore to take any action which might harm the unborn infant would be like punishing Adam and Eve in the garden before the falclass="underline" an injustice and an affront to God.
I gave my mother a little longer life. I saved her by being– yes, my very name– by being pure, unstained, untouched by original sin. How many weeks, how many months did I give to her?
Or did she think of this as torture, too? Had my father already been hanged as she languished in prison, awaiting her own trial as she grieved for him and for the child in her womb, doomed to be an orphan? Would she rather have died? Did she wish she didn't have a child?
She should have thought of that before she partook of forbidden practices. “Knacks,” they called them in the wicked parts of the land. God-given gifts, that journeyman blacksmith called them, as he attempted to deceive her. But the true nature of Satan's false gifts would soon come clear. The “knacks” these witches use, they come from Satan. And because I know I have never had truck with Satan, then the small talents I have can't possibly be a hidden power. I'm just observant, that's all. I don't turn iron into a golden plow, like the one Arthur Stuart told about– a plow that dances around because it's possessed by evil spirits like the Gadarene swine.
She trembled with uncontainable excitement. Fear is what it felt like, though she had nothing to fear. It also felt like relief, like she was receiving something long waited for. Then she realized why: Her mother named her Purity to help her keep herself unstained by sin. Today she had faced the temptation of Satan in the form of that wandering blacksmith and his troupe of lesser witches, and for a moment she felt such terrible desires. The barrister was so attractive to her, that half-Black imp was so endearing, and Alvin himself now seemed sufficiently modest and self-effacing, and his dream of the City of God so real and desirable, that she longed to join with them.
That had to be how her mother was seduced by the devil! Not understanding, not being warned, she fell into the trap. Perhaps it was Purity's father who seduced her mother, just the way Verily Cooper had been calling to Purity on the riverbank today, evoking strange feelings and longings and whispering inside her mind that this was love. It had to be the devil making her think such thoughts. Married to a witch! Trapped just as her mother had been! Oh my Father which art in heaven, I thank thee for saving me! I am a sinner like all others, but oh, if thou hast chosen me to be among thy elect, I shall praise thy name forever!
She heard the hurried footsteps on the stairs. She closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. When the door opened, Reverend Study and the tithingmen found her sitting on a side chair, her eyes closed, her hands clasped in her lap, the classic pose of the soul who refused to be touched by the evils of the world.
Reverend Study declined to go with them to catch the witches. Well, too bad for him, Purity thought. Let others of stronger heart do what must be done.
Horses would do little good on the river road. One of the tithingmen, Ezekial Shoemaker, took a group of grim-looking men on horseback to try to block escape downriver, while the other, Hiram Peaseman, kept his men with Purity as they walked the path that the witches must have taken.
“Why are you so certain they went downriver?” asked Peaseman, a stern-looking man who, until now, had always made Purity somewhat afraid.
“They said they were bound for Boston no matter what I chose to do.”
“If they're witches, why wouldn't they lie to throw us off?”
“Because at the time,” she said, “they thought to persuade me to join them.”
“Still don't mean they weren't lying,” said Peaseman.
“They told many a lie, I assure you,” said Purity, “but they spoke the truth when they said they were bound for Boston.”
Peaseman fixed his icy gaze upon her. “How do you know that wasn't a lie as well?”
For a moment Purity felt the old fear come over her. Had she revealed her hidden power?
And then her new confidence returned. It wasn't a hidden power. “I'm very observant,” she said. “When people lie, they show it by little things.”
“And you're never wrong?” asked Peaseman.
They had stopped walking now, and the other men were also gathered around her.
She shook her head.
“Only God is perfect, miss,” said one of the other men.
“Of course you're right,” said Purity. “And it would be pride in me to say I was never wrong. What I meant was that if I've been wrong I didn't know it.”
“So they might have lied,” said Peaseman, “only they did a better job than others.”
Purity grew impatient. “Are you really going to stand here, letting the witches get away, all because you don't know whether to believe me or not about which way they were going to walk? If you don't believe me, then you might as well doubt everything I said and go back home!”
They shuffled their feet a little, some of them, and none spoke for a moment, until Peaseman closed his eyes and spoke what was on their minds. “If they be witches, miss, we fear they lay a trap for us, into which you lead us, all unwitting.”
“Have you no faith in the power of Christ to protect you?” asked Purity. “I have no fear of such as they. Satan promises terrible power to his minions, but then he betrays them every time. Follow me if you dare.” She strode forth boldly on the path, and soon heard their footsteps behind her. In moments they were all around her, then ahead of her, leading the way.
That's why she was last to see why they were stopping not fifty rods along the river path. There sat Alvin Smith on a fallen tree, leaning up against a living one, his hands clasped behind his head. He grinned at her when she emerged from the crowd. “Why, Mistress Purity, you didn't need to come and show me the road to Boston, or to trouble these men to help me on my way.”