Susannah Morrow (19 page)

We left quickly after that, each of us whispering excuses and trying not to look afraid. When Betty said, “’Tis only white
magic, nothing more,” I nodded my agreement and glanced at Mary, who had a soft, satisfied smile on her face.

Betty’s words were a rhythm in my head as I fled that house, as I let that heavy wooden door thud shut behind me, and raced
down the pathway through the woods and back home.

That night, I slept fitfully, and I was burning even though the room was so cold that both Susannah and Jude had the blankets
pulled nearly over their heads. But my dreams were black and disturbing, and Mama’s scream was still in my ears when I woke
with the dawn. I went to the window and looked out on the white world I loved, but I saw only darkness there. There were shadows
on the snow that I had never seen before, shadows that loomed before me, that mocked me with my innocence. And trees that
crowded my head so I could see nothing else, nothing but the dream I’d had, and the sight of a plain, white pine coffin being
borne through the streets of Salem Village.

LUCAS

—Obsession—

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self place; for where we are is Hell,
And where Hell is, must we ever be.

—Christopher Marlowe

Doctor Faustus

I
LOVED MY WIFE
. I
DON’T THINK
I
EVER SAID THE WORDS TO HER
while she lived, but it was the truth. I remember the first time I saw her, standing at the back of a tiny room in some tavern
in Lancashire while my master preached. The rest of the congregation was loud and unruly; only Judith listened with a true
heart.

She had a way of calming my worst moods; the touch of her hand made me realize the crudeness of my passions and quieted them.
Judith was my savior, and I do not say that with blasphemous intent; God understands that if He understands nothing else.
She was, in every way, the perfect wife. I never looked at her that my restive emotions did not settle.

When she died, I grieved for my own wretched existence without her. That Judith had been one of God’s elect, I did not doubt.
She was with God, but I…I was alone without her, and I was crippled at my loss. I had a duty to my children—how could I counsel
them to celebrate her victory in joining our Lord, when I could not do the same? I held in my tears and my grief, and bade
my daughters follow me. Yet once they were asleep, I crawled into bed beside Judith and held her cold, stiff body close as
if I could breathe life into her again. Instead, I woke before dawn with a corpse cradled in my arms—a body without my Judith’s
spirit, and I was repulsed at what I’d done, at the foulness of my soul. I had valued her too highly, above even God.

I vowed then, in the shadows of our bed, with the curtains drawn dark and quiet all around, that I would never forget those
last moments we had together, that I should remember her suffering, her dying.

It does me good to think on her last day. I can see again the darkness of the storm outside the window, and the way Judith
bustled at the hearth making breakfast as I readied to leave. I remember the worry on Charity’s face, and how her pale blue
eyes grew large with fear when I made to go. I did not want to disappoint her, but neither could I spoil the child I loved
by giving in to her pleas. ’Twas my task to keep her pure of heart and spiritually strong.

And so I stood my ground and let Judith comfort her, and I prayed to the Lord for strength as I left the house and went out
into the pouring rain and that hellish darkness. Had I known what I would find when I reached my destination, I would have
turned around again and faced my wife’s disappointment. I would not have gone—not that day nor any other.

The way to Salem Town had been slow, the path nothing but mud that came a foot up Saul’s legs, sucking at his every step,
and he was exhausted before we’d gone many yards. I unhitched the cart and left it by the side of the road. As the lightning
split the sky and the thunder crashed around me, I cursed the
Sunfish
for making such good time, and I cursed Judith for wanting her sister so badly that I must go out in this storm to fetch
her.

By the time I reached Salem Town, it was already late afternoon, and I was worried for my wife and angry that I had left her.
I could not keep the thoughts of her other labors from my head: the struggle, her anguish, and then the grief when the child
died. My diaries over the years were filled with anger toward God over the deaths of my children; I was such a poor servant,
to not trust Him to know what I needed. My life was but a picture on God’s wall; He knew it better than I could hope to. It
was Judith who faced those losses with stoicism. As always, even in her sorrow, she was the better Christian.

The rain slashed and my horse struggled against the wind as we came into Salem Town, past the closely spaced houses and the
muddy, rutted meetinghouse green, with its stocks and whipping post standing black and ugly in the rain, the dogs in the nearby
pound yowling with fear at the storm. I smelled boiling soap and the lingering odor of fish left to dry on hundreds of flakes
littering the shoreline, the rank tannery fumes that no nor’easter could wash away.

The sea was everywhere in Salem Town, infringing at every point. Inner Harbor slashed through the town, its waters alive with
sail and rigging. There were few wharves; at low tide, ships heeled on the mudflats. Now the tide was in, and the ships were
bobbing and tilting on the waves.

On the waterfront, empty barrels rolled drunkenly, driven by the wind. The harbor churned with wood and foam and seaweed,
debris cast ashore, pummeled into the mud by the rain, and all was gray. Gray sky, gray rain, gray shadows of the ships, their
rigging ghostly and black, plunging into the low clouds to disappear until lightning danced about their lines. ’Twas folly
to be out in such weather. I would not have been blamed had I stayed home with the wife who needed me. No one would have expected
me to come.

No one except my wife’s sister. The very thought embittered me so that, as I made my way to the shop owned by the
Sunfish
’s captain, I was ready to throw her back to the sailors if she gave me the slightest reason to do so.

Salt mist and rain nearly blinded me as I approached the rundown little shack. The roads were so bad that I had dismounted,
and Saul pulled at the lead rope and followed so reluctantly he nearly wrenched my arm from my shoulder.

I was only a few yards away when a shadow stepped from the door—a woman, I saw, though more than that was impossible; she
was only a dark-cloaked shape. She made no move to find shelter from the rain; she merely stood and waited, watching me, and
I knew before I reached her that this was the woman I had come to take home.

“Lucas Fowler,” she said in a soft, quiet voice. “’Tis you, is it not?”

I stopped, wiping the rain from my eyes, though it still dripped in a steady stream from the corners of my hat. Saul pranced
nervously. “Aye,” I said. “Tis me.”

She drew back her hood and turned so I could see her face. Judith had told me that Susannah was beautiful, and I’d doubted
her, because Susannah was her sister, and sisters often thought better of each other than neighbors did. I knew which of them
had the better heart, and in my naÏveté had not been able to fathom that God would give a beautiful face to the one whose
spirit was lacking.

But as I looked at the woman standing before me, with her hood lowered and rain falling on her face and drenching her hair,
I knew Judith had told the truth. I was struck dumb at Susannah Morrow’s beauty.

She motioned to the shop. “My trunks—”

“I’ve no place to put them,” I told her, my voice sharper than I’d intended. She looked startled for a moment, and then she
glanced at the horse. “’Tis the storm,” I explained. “Had I brought the cart, you would be waiting two more days.”

“I can send for them, then,” she said. “Shall we go?”

“It may be a few days before someone can bring them out. Have you what you need?”

“If I don’t, I’m sure Judith will lend me whatever’s necessary.” She pulled her hood up again and lifted her face to the sky.
“How long will it rain, do you think?”

“Until it sees fit to stop. We’d best hurry. My wife is in childbed.”

“In childbed? Already?”

I nodded, and the bitterness of the morning came back to me, my own fears. “’Tis a month early.”

“Your horse looks exhausted. Will he make it, do you think?”

“God will provide one way or another.”

Susannah was slight and easy to boost into the saddle. Saul was too tired to take the both of us, so I led him from the wharf
and past the houses and the green with its pillory, out of Salem Town. The mud that had slowed the horse was no better for
me; at times it was so thick and viscous that I nearly lost a boot. Other times, puddles that looked shallow turned into small
ponds that came to my thighs as I led Saul through, and Susannah drew her feet up with a little cry, pulling her skirts so
I saw they were not good working boots she wore, but square-toed shoes made of pale kid, tooled in blue and gold. It seemed
she had not changed in the years since Judith had last seen her. I did not dare think on what that might mean.

Night came quickly on a day such as this, and before long, we were plunged in darkness. My fowling piece was slung over my
shoulder beneath my cloak, along with a powder horn, but the day was so wet I doubted I could light it, and so I kept my eyes
alert, searching the woods about us for signs of Indians or thieves.

The wind and the rain came up again, so we could not talk, and I was glad of it. With every step closer to home, my anxiety
grew, until my arm began to ache from pulling on Saul’s reins to urge him to a faster pace. I did not know what we would find
when we arrived there, and I prayed that we were not too late.

But it was late when the house finally appeared before us, a black shadow with light glowing dim in the windows. I led Saul
into the yard.

Just then, the front door flew open, and I saw Prudence Way in the doorway, her skirts blowing around her feet, her apron
blotchy with dark stains I knew were blood. I held my hand for my sister-in-law, and she took it and jumped down, stumbling
as her feet found purchase. I had no time to tend to the horse, as good as he had been; I only swatted him and regretted that
I must leave him foaming and saddled and let him make his own way to the barn. I would care for him later.

I cannot forget the sight that greeted me when I walked through the door, the heavy scent of blood and fire smoke. When I
saw Judith twisting weakly on the bed, and my daughter’s tear-filled eyes, I knew my wife would die.

Prudence’s whisper only confirmed it. “She’s not much time left. Nor the babe, either. You’d best do what you can to ease
them toward God.”

The world narrowed before me. I saw only Judith’s pale face as I went to the bed. She grasped my hand. I was so tormented
by the thought of her death, by what I would do when she was gone, that I was paralyzed. God help me for that, for thinking
only of myself in her suffering. I saw my wife weakening, the pool of blood on the sheets, and I cursed myself for putting
her through this misery, for being unable to control the unseemly desire to take satisfaction in her body when it was so clear
she could no longer withstand the inevitable result—the labor of childbirth.

Later that night, as the house quieted around us, and I watched my wife’s endless sleep and the peace of her features, I tried
desperately to be happy that she had found salvation, but all I felt was the overwhelming responsibility her passing had cast
upon me. I felt lost without her.

As I crawled into bed with my wife’s corpse, and took her into my arms, I murmured into her ear the words I had never been
able to say to her in life.

My wife was dead, but I had loved her. Yes, I had loved her.

Judith and I had lived in Salem Village since Charity was born, ten months after our marriage. Judith’s parents had been loath
to let her leave Lancashire, especially to go so far, where they would never see her again. Susannah had left the year before,
at the tender age of fifteen, to run after some yeoman’s son who’d decided to seek his fortune in London, and so they had
no daughters left to see them into old age. I had never met Susannah; when Judith and I met, her sister had been long gone
already. When Judith spoke of her, it was with love mixed with bitterness. Judith told me that she had protected Susannah
all her life, and I had never doubted her loyalty to the sister who hardly deserved it; I looked forward to a lifetime of
being the beneficiary of that loyalty myself.