Thanksgiving

Entry #4

Thanksgiving

by Paul Freeman

 

“Whore! Harlot! Look! see there! Look at the fallen woman, see how she parades her shame in the face of God and all honest folk,” the old preacher screamed his tirade from a plinth set up in the town square so that he could preach to the God fearin’ folk of the frontier town. 

“Don’t listen to him, Abigail, you know he only hates you because you spurned his advances and refused to marry him.” 

“I know, but his barbs find their mark all the same,” Abigail said to her sister, tears glistening in her eyes. The two girls hurried, arms linked, from the square with the hems of their dresses dragging in the mud and the preacher’s taunts ringing in their ears, unable to avoid the scornful eyes of the townsfolk on their backs. 

“Let he… or she who has forsaken God feel the heat of Hell’s fiery flames. Let her burn. See, see how she turns from the words of our Saviour. See how she scurries when I brandish the good book.” He held aloft a tattered, leather covered bible.  “I name thee Satan’s child, witch! She has cursed us and damned her own soul.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he worked himself into a frenzy, jabbing a finger at the girls retreating backs.  

“Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name…” he roared the words after them. 

“He’s gone too far this time, don’t listen to his lies, Abigail. We’ll have father speak with him. He can’t do that to you, not on this day of all days, a day of celebration, a day to give thanks….” Abigail suddenly felt the absence of her sister’s arm as her words were cut short. 

“Catherine! Catherine, what is it?” she cried, staring in shock at her sister who was lying on her back in the mud. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the rock beside her and a crimson pool swelling by her head. Catherine groaned but didn’t move. 

“Witch! I live in the farm next to her and all the milk turned sour over night,” a hard faced woman shouted. 

“She cursed my Timmy and the poor lad has been abed sick these past three weeks,” another accused.

Abigail was crying openly now, shaking her head at the madness of it all, she was no witch. She bent down to her sister, wondering how they were going to explain Catherine’s ruined dress to their mother. How can people be so cruel – so vicious? She looked to the gathering crowd, seeking help and mercy in their cold, hard stares. 

“Grab her! Hold her!” Rough hands manhandled her away from her stricken sister.  

“Burn her!”  The cry was taken up by the entire mob. 

Abigail sobbed as she was taken to the centre of the town and tied to a stake. She pleaded and screamed to no avail. “I’m not a witch, I’m not a witch.”  

Through the flames she could see the preacher, watching with his dark malevolent eyes, a barely concealed smirk twitched at the side of his mouth.