On a soft February morning Hildegarde stole into the grove, recently greening. Snow crunched beneath her tall boots. At her waist was tied a brown rag purse. Out of the drawstring closure protruded pale, weedy things. She marched in place several times to warm her limbs and clapped her limp hands. Salem Village was cold with a long winter.
She gazed into the distance toward the house with an orange window and a spire of smoke drifting from the chimney, her heart filled with love for the young minister. She loved to hear his voice as he spoke from the pulpit, loved his words of unconditional love and forgiveness from the Almighty. She even loved his words of admonition, his call to search the dark corners of her heart and repent of her sins.
Her mind was encompassed with an image of her love. She did not know very much about the Bible, but in her readings she had found even Jesus—even Jesus—had loved a strong-willed woman. She dared hope the minister Matthias would return her regard, rather than select among the feeble-minded babies that filled his pews, many of whom would make a far better vacuous, servile plaything than Hildegarde. If Matthias were like Jesus, and like many of his congregants she did confuse the two, he would prefer a woman like Mary Magdalene. A woman like Hildegarde. So she told herself.
With a deep sigh she sank onto the mossy carpet and withdrew her purse, emptying the contents delicately into the voluminous folds of her skirt. A love charm? She tossed her rope of long, curling black hair over one shoulder with a flick of her delicate wrist. If her beauty did not charm the minister she saw no need for further resource.
She was making a protective charm for the child she watched. The little girl complained of bad dreams and seemed frightened of her own shadow. Hildegarde wished the child’s parents would allow her to go to church with Hildegarde and listen to Matthias preach, but they insisted upon the long trek to Salem to listen to Rev. Hathorne. She believed Mercy’s visions had more to do with paranoia and vague distrust than the devils and specters Rev. Hathorne avowed encircled the small community of Puritans, ever-vigilant for ingress.
She lay aside all thoughts of her love, which threatened her concentration, and filled her mind with love for Mercy as she wove a loose net of silken thread. She was conscious of the life teeming around her, the calls of birds and scampering of animals in the briars which surrounded her. She began to sing a soft lullaby, losing her sense of time and place in the arduous task. She improvised sentiments and verses for Mercy, till the forest reverberated faintly with Hildegarde’s gentle song.
A crack in the brush was too sharp and deliberate to be that of a deer. She glanced up, gave a stifled gasp, as she encountered a dark, cloaked shape at the edge of the grove. From the figure’s stillness she knew he had been watching her for a moment.
jubilant
