Forbidden Knowlege

(CW: Story contains allusions to the Salem Witch Trials; death; religious trauma; and the incorrect usage of "Indian" when referring to "Native Americans;" hinted to racism towards Native peoples.)

She hid the leather bound book in the corner of her room where the floorboards were loose, where she could pry them up with ease to reveal the secret hiding spot. Where she kept the forbidden knowledge away from her mother, father, and sister, Lucy. It was knowledge that her world, the world upon the banks of the Salem Port, feared. Still, the forbidden knowledge had been teased in front of her like a rotting piece of fish in front of a feral, hungry, emancipated feline. She needed whatever it was that the church forbade her to have.

Her name was Piety. She resembled much of what one would expect from a feral, hungry, emancipated creature: sunken eyes, pock-marked skin from a long ago tussle with smallpox, and a mass of curly chestnut hair. Her mind was sharp, like that of a silver glinted blade sought after by brave warriors and noble nights from a long ago time. Yet, the claustrophobic walls of the village church pushed inward on Piety, pressing upon her throat, snuffing the very voice from her body, turning her soul to ash, driving her completely into the ground—she was trampled upon. Looked upon with suspicion. Jealousy. And ill will. 

There was no way to rise above the injustice. No way to rise above the discomfort, or to hide from the eyes she always felt lurking inches from her flesh, like a set of pointy canines prepared to tear apart skin. But Piety knew there was power in knowing. Knowing things beyond the pallor of one’s skin, or the blood spilt at the base of a crucifix, or the splintering wood at the edges of a windowpane. Knowing. Knowledge. It would all set her free, thus digging her up from a spiritual grave, giving her purpose. For once in her god damn life. 

Piety sought out the forbidden knowledge, by visiting the old crone that lived beyond the edges of their coastal village, visiting her secretly and only after dusk, to gain the wisdom that was held within the walls of a precariously constructed cottage. Like the church, the old crone’s cottage walls pushed inward, though, when Piety entered, she remarked how she surprisingly could still breathe and speak. Unlike when she was forced to attend Sunday mass with the other Puritans. The old crone always began their conversation by asking Piety, “Was the ocean foamy today?” 

One particular night, when Piety visited the old crone, she had said, “The ocean was particularly foamy, today. I could smell the salt all the way here, in fact.” Piety sat down on the wooden floor, in front of the crone who simply rocked back and forth in a decrepit wooden chair, lightly illuminated by a dwindling fire. An empty bowl of gruel sat on a nearby wooden table, the smell of which made Piety’s stomach turn thrice over. 

“The cabbages are growing nicely this season. And the potatoes,” the crone said, eyeing the ceiling as if fairies were dancing between the rafters—rafters, which were decorated with bundles of herbs tied with coarse, brown twine. 

“I saw the raspberries have ripened nicely,” Piety said, pulling the canvas bag off her shoulder and lying it on her lap. “We ought to be harvesting them soon, yes?”

The old crone shook her head. “Those raspberries have at least two weeks to go.” 

“Oh.” Piety tilted her head to avoid facing the silence that always crept in when they were together. 

“Why have you come tonight, girl?” the crone asked, ushering over a mangy looking hound with drooping ears. It laid at her feet, falling asleep instantly, its stomach rising and falling with a soothing rhythm. 

“I was curious whether you know of a treatment for head pains. I get them sometimes, something awful. Mother does, too. I would like a tonic or something to dull them.” 

The crone raised an eyebrow and then flicked her finger. “Valerian root. Crush it into a powder and make tea from it.” 

Piety nodded fiercely, digging into her canvas bag for her book. She clammered to the old crone’s desk to write with her quill and ink. Valerian root. Powder. Tea. Piety looked over her shoulder at the crone. “What does valerian look like?”

The crone sighed. “It has a long green stalk. Little pinky, purple flowers on top. You must dig to its root when you harvest.” 

Piety nodded and then scribbled in her book, drawing the best representation she could muster from her mind’s eye. Once finished, Piety closed her book and resumed her seated position on the floor. “Anne agreed to let me observe a birth. She said if I do well to follow instructions, she will let me learn midwifery.”

The crone scoffed. “Your Ann knows nothing of birthing babes. None of yous do. Talk with a Pawtucket woman and then you may learn a thing or two.” 

“An Indian? I could never,” Piety said, clutching her chest. 

The crone’s upper lip curled. “And why not? Are you scared? I am half Pawtucket myself.” 

“You are?” Piety tensed her body, gazing into the deep lines of the crone’s face. 

The crone nodded and then relaxed her face. “My mother, God rest her soul, was a Pawtucket woman. Was raised in the tribe down river till I was thirteen. That was when my cursed father came to claim me. I fear he was touched by the Devil, that one. Turned me over to the church before he died in the fit of a fever. Figured he knew his time was nearing and he ought to make right by God somehow. By the time I was old enough to leave the church, my mother had died at the hands of a Frenchman over a beaver pelt—” The crone paused, then sighed, and then let her bottom lip droop. 

“Do you miss her?” Piety whispered. 

The crone laughed. “Of course I do, silly girl. I may be old, but not old enough to forget a mother’s love.”

Piety nodded slowly, thinking of her own mother, swollen with child. What a scary fate, motherhood, Piety thought, tapping her fingers on the cover of her sacred book of knowledge. 

“Why do you think I live so far removed from the village, girl?” the crone asked, bending to graze the spotted fur of her hound. 

The girl shrugged. 

“Because I am dangerous,” the crone said, leaning back and puffing out her chest. “I have knowledge the church would rather you never discover. Because if it were discovered you were smart enough to see beyond the veil, they would curse you. You would be burned. You would be thrown to the ocean, just to see if the water would reject you—reject it would. Know that to be true.” 

Piety swallowed. “If you are dangerous, then why—how come you have not been burned or drowned?” 

The crone smiled. “Because I am still useful. Dangerous, yes—but useful.”

“So I must be useful to avoid a terrible fate?”

The crone nodded once. “But also, you must live in the shadows. You must cloak yourself in enough secrecy that they can forget you exist long enough to avoid blasphemy. Yet, not long enough that the vulnerable die from preventable deaths.” 

Piety simply blinked in response, clutching her book tighter with both hands. 

“You have chosen this path, girl,” the crone said, leaning forward just enough to not disturb the hound at her feet. “There is no turning back now.”

Piety felt her eyes grow weary and her stomach tied itself into a knot. “Why would I want to turn back?”

“Because,” the crone began, her face darkening despite the fire glowing near. “Troubling times are coming, and I will be long gone by then to offer any assistance. You must take care, young one. Put yourself first, and rely on your forbidden knowledge. It will not fail you.” 

Piety nodded and then gathered her things to leave. 

***

While walking back to the village, Piety decided to walk along the beach line to listen to the waves lap against the shore. She let her mind wander to a more idyllic place, where she could learn and practice her forbidden knowledge freely. To peel back the veil and peer inside whenever she pleased, and not only while under a cloaked night the color of spilled squid ink. 

Midstride, feeling her boots sink into the damp sand, Piety looked up to only then be greeted by glowing green saucers that floated on top of the blackest eyes she had ever seen. A doe as big and broad as a buck stood in front of Piety, proud and tall. The doe blinked. Piety blinked. The doe snorted, narrowed its eyes, and then let out a piercing scream that knocked Piety backwards. She clawed her way to her hands and knees and watched the doe prance away, unserious and almost girlishly. Watching the creature disappear into the woods, Piety heard a voice manifest itself in the air around her. It said, “Braziness will get you killed, girl. Take care to trample upon it before it rises above.”