Black StigmataChapter 9
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Pa and Eliza found me slumped, half asleep, my hand stretched up and still gripping the bars of the window into the cell. On the other side of the stone wall Mataoka lay in a tight ball on the threadbare cot, scared for her life. At least the crowd had dispersed, leaving us finally alone; leaving us consumed by our darkest fears fo, r the future.
“Eliza has told me all,” pa whispered, then stood back. I looked at the fearful Eliza, and she just nodded slightly. “So your wife is a murderer too, just like you,” pa stated quietly, no judgment in his voice.
“Pa, they were planning to kill Eric, our children and me, and rape Eliza and Mataoka,” I sobbed, burying my face in my hands and sinking lower against the wall, “They would have. I know they would have!”
“And you didn’t fight them?” Was there a hint of disappointment in pa’s tone?
“I was going to, but they had guns and all! I was going to, but Mataoka saved us,” I sobbed.
“There’ll be a trial, of course,” pa continued as though I hadn’t spoken.
Eliza took a tentative step right up to the bars and peered in, trying to see my wife in the dwindling daylight. “I brought you some bread,” she whispered, her voice quivering with emotion. “And some water.”
Pa leaned down and rested his hand on my shoulder, steadying me. “Jonathon is no son of mine; I disown him,” pa hissed, small globs of spit spattering everywhere, “It’s just such a shame you suffered him to live. Now he might do us all in.”
That night exhaustion finally came to my wife and me, and we each found a shallow, uncomfortable sleep on each side of the cold, stone wall until the dawn guards kicked my feet and rattled the door and woke us both so they could taunt the accused and talk loudly of how witches were burned alive at the stake.
The town had its own grand church and it was there that Mataoka was dragged the next day to stand before the magistrate, Mr Bletchley. I followed her, the guards letting my wife hold and squeeze my hand during the procession, and I got a seat right at the front beside her. Together we faced Mr Bletchley who stood beside the vicar at the pulpit. The pews behind us quickly filled with spectators. I looked around, staring in disbelief at the crowd. There, among them, were many farm families that I knew, that I had grown up with. At the back sat the mountain of a blacksmith, eyes lidded with grief, and on the end sat our Reverend and his wife. Oh, I bet he was disappointed we weren’t being tried in his village church instead of in town!
“Mrs Harvey Bollings, you are accused of killing men by witchcraft!” Bletchley’s high-pitched voice carried clearly through the hushed church. “Where is the witness?”
A watchman pushed Jonathon to the front and a murmur of the crowd showed awareness of his obvious inebriation. He struggled to stand, but he had no struggle talking, and he turned to grin at the crowd, basking in their attention.
“I saw her curse and kill a dozen good men, Simon Smith and James Daymore among them.”
“And where was this?”
“At their camp, a rum Indian camp, a week yonder.”
The word ‘Indian’ seemed to raise a murmur as the crowd listened intently to my younger brother. Mr Bletchley held up his hand and waited for silence to descend again. Mataoka, still gripping my hand, raised it to her other and sank to her knees, her hands pressed tight together and her head bowed in silent prayer.
“Everyone knows I was in a band patrolling to the west when the Indians threatened to attack this summer,” Jonathon proceeded. “We came across an Indian, all right,” Jonathon grinned, “Her!”
He paused for effect. “And before we could restrain her, she cursed us all to hell and we were all struck down with the most dreadful cramps and pains and all the men but me quickly died!”
“I thought you split from that party when they headed north to settle?” Mr Bletchley queried. Clearly Jonathon’s story when he had first returned with Eric and Eliza had been different.
“I lied for fear of my life, for I had been cursed, too, and my tongue was not my own,” my brother lied, shrugging at the crowd as though saying nothing was his fault.
“You no-good bastard! I’ll kill you,” I suddenly leaped up and shouted, and launched myself at my brother. Two guards who flanked him deftly moved in front of him and I collided with them. They grabbed my arms and got a knee into my gut as the crowd all stood as one to better see the attack.
“Mr Bolling, you forget yourself,” the clear voice of the magistrate silenced and stilled everyone. “Your wife stands accused of a heinous crime. Resume your seat.”
The guards pushed me back roughly. The crowd sat down again, and Mataoka still knelt and rocked in silent prayer. That Mr Bletchley hadn’t had me arrested, too, ... did that hint that he didn’t entirely disagree with my sentiment? Did he distrust Jonathon’s testimony? Did he see the lies?
“We need a jury,” Mr Bletchley announced after a thoughtful pause. Some watchmen from the back started to pass through the crowd, yanking at the older men and women until twelve were gathered at the front. Most were willing and excited, but a few looked sheepish and lost.
Mr Bletchley looked them over approvingly. “The jury shall examine the accused for the witch’s mark,” he commanded clearly, and the two guards left Jonathon’s side and came forward to pull Mataoka to her feet and take her over to where the jury was clustered.
The sound of ripping cloth pierced the church hall as the jury grabbed at my wife and unceremoniously defrocked her. Mataoka screamed and tried to clutch the shreds of her dress to her bosom but the old ladies tugged it free and stood her there, naked, in front of the whole church.
The church was deathly silent as all craned to better see my wife, exposed, at the front. Mataoka’s dark, honey skin shimmered and shone brightly in the ray of light coming in the big window as the jury held her arms tightly to stop her from running. There was a stillness as everyone drank in her young beauty and perfect skin. I knew the body well, and I knew there was not a scar nor birth mark anywhere on it!
“Let go of me!” Mataoka found her voice, “I am no witch! I am a lady!”
“You forget your station!” Mr Bletchley spat, suddenly angry, “Do not presume you are a lady, for you are an Indian!” His brow knitted and his eyes looked fearsomely at the affront.
Mataoka struggled against her captors but they held her firm.
“There!” one of the old ladies now shrieked, pointing just below Mataoka’s groin, on the inside of her thigh. The others pulled her legs apart to better see and all looked intently at where the old hag was pointing. “There! There’s a mark!”
Was it a bruise? Was it just a bruise of my hips from our recent coupling? Mataoka did often bruise there when we cuddled. My heart fell. Was that truly the ‘witches mark’?
“She is a married woman! To bear marks there is just a sign of her husband’s affections.” A tall lady walked confidently up the aisle. The crowd tittered, amused, and suddenly understanding as the lady swept to the front. It was our Reverend’s wife!
“This is Martha, a good Christian wife,” the Reverend’s wife turned to the congregation and stated. “I have known her. I taught her at Sunday School. I attended her wedding to her husband, Harvey. She honors her husband and that mark is no sin.”
The crowd laughed, much of the anger defused. Mr Bletchley smiled too, and nodded respectfully at her.
“Give her her clothes, for has she not been humiliated enough? See, there is no nipple for the devil to suckle upon her. Martha, recite the Lord’s Prayer, for all know no witch can utter it correctly!”
Mataoka looked wide-eyed and lost, but stared into the Reverend wife’s kind face and found some strength and support. Now, Mataoka started to pray out loud, her voice growing in confidence and clearness.
The jury let go of her and Mataoka sank to her knees to take up her torn dress and hold it against her front. Still squatting, she repeated the Lord’s Prayer again and again, rocking.
“So, the accusation is untrue?” Mr Bletchley queried.
“I seen the bodies! I know where they be buried! I buried them! I can show you!” Jonathon shouted suddenly. All turned to face him, nobody having paid him much attention for many minutes.
“You know where the bodies are buried?” Mr Bletchley now sounded dangerously clear and calm. “You buried them? Where?”
Jonathon looked suddenly scared, realizing what he had just admitted. He glanced at Mataoka, then looked at me, fear etched in his panicked eyes. “It was him! It was my brother!” Jonathon now shrieked, pointing accusingly at me, “He made me do it! He made me bury them!”
“Guards,” Mr Bletchley commanded, nodding dismissively at Jonathon. The guards grabbed him by an arm each and led him away. Mr Bletchley looked for calm.
Sherry
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