The Chains that Bind

Bitter wind howls through cracks in the walls. The chill of the stone floor seeps through her linen skirt and wool stockings, through her kneecaps and deep into her joints, which feel as though they could splinter at the slightest tap. She shivers and coughs, arching her aching back, but she must continue praying until the appointed hour or she will surely feel the lash. The scent of baking loaves drifts into the room. Hunger gnaws at her stomach like rats under the floorboards.

She has not eaten since dawn—a snatch of bread before fetching water from the well, wood from the shed. While Lucia milked the cow, she kindled the fire, singing absentmindedly the song that Lucia taught her, with words in a foreign tongue.

“You dare to sing the Devil’s music?” The floorboards shook as Mother entered, full of fury.

“Pray forgive me, Mother. The tune lingers in my head and catches me unawares.”

“No porridge for you. When your chores are finished, you will pray till nightfall. If your prayers are sufficient, perhaps you can have supper.”

She is a disobedient girl, prone to laziness and mischief, Father says. She must learn discipline, or the Devil will steal her soul. She prays all afternoon, but her mouth runs dry. Her mind wanders to the copse at the rise of the hill, where Lucia taught her the song as they filled baskets full of black walnuts and beechnuts. They were meant to fetch them home to store for winter, but the beechnuts were so plentiful that Lucia cracked open handfuls of the fuzzy brown shells, and they feasted on the meaty white triangles within. It felt like Christmas Day, when they each got their own bowl of nuts. But that night, she had terrible pains in her stomach—punishment, no doubt, for her wickedness.

A sharp rap on the skull brings her back to the hearth. Pain creeps across her head and a wail forms in her chest that she struggles to contain. She must not cry, but the wail pushes its way out.

“Stop that,” Mother hisses, rapping again with the knitting needles, “before your father hears.” But it is too late. Footsteps crackle through leaves out front, hinges creak and a cold wind sweeps across her back. She dares not look up.

“What is the meaning of this?” he thunders.

She tries to stand but her legs are numb. She falls onto all fours, and her wail becomes a howl.

Mother gasps in horror.

Father’s face grows red with rage. “She behaves like an animal.”

Her blood turns to ice, her body shakes all over and she collapses. Everything goes black. When she awakes, she is wrapped in a quilt in bed. Warm hands cradle her. The scent of bread wafts from them. A soft voice whispers in her ear.

“It’s all right, child. You’re all right. Lucia’s here.”

A shadow darkens the doorway. “What’s that you whisper?” Father rasps. “This is your doing.” He points at Lucia. “You afflict my child with Devil’s magic.”

“No. I . . .”

           “Away with you, Witch.” Father’s cane strikes the floor. The warm hands withdraw. The scent of bread disappears with the rustle of skirts.

Father approaches and bends, placing a hand on her shoulder—the first touch from him in many years. She cannot remember when Father last looked at her in the eye.

“Has she bewitched you, child? Has that foreign savage brought the Devil into this house? Speak, and you will be redeemed.”

Has Lucia bewitched her? Did she curse the nuts and tempt her to eat them? Is that why the strange song comes to mind against her will? Or why she steals bites of bread and blames it on the rats? Could it be Lucia’s doing that she feels the urge to run along the path to the town, though Mother has said it isn’t proper? Perhaps it is not she who is wicked, but Lucia’s magic that has made her so. She holds Father’s gaze and gives a single nod. A gesture so slight it might go unnoticed had Father not been searching for it.

“I knew it,” he seethes and storms from the room.

Cold hands take hers, and Mother begins to pray.

           Lucia is led away in chains.

Without Lucia, the daily bread is dense and tasteless, the fire will not stay lit and the chill cannot be chased from the kitchen and parlor. An eerie silence fills the house. Doubts creep in. Perhaps she was mistaken. But everywhere she goes she is asked about Lucia, and each time she repeats her accusations, they become more convincing. Even more so when others join in, recalling the songs Lucia sang, the potions she made. Some claim to have seen Lucia’s specter, and she thinks she, too, has seen it.

At the trial, the magistrate glares down from his desk, his dark eyes glinting in the lamplight. She trembles beneath his gaze, as cold as the room. Lucia is led into the courtroom in chains, and seated on stool in the front corner.

“See how the girl shakes in the presence of the witch,” a voice behind her whispers.  

The magistrate bangs his gavel, and the questioning begins.

“Did the servant Lucia bewitch you?”

She nods.

“Speak, girl!”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers.

“How so?”

“She fed me nuts in the forest and taught me the Devil’s song.”

 The audience erupts in murmurs. Men and women shake their heads in dismay.

“Have you seen her specter?” The magistrate’s voice echoes through the courtroom.

“Yes, in my room at night, and in the barn. Her song issues from my lips unbidden.

“Sure signs of a witch,” a voice calls. “Hang her,” yells another.

“Order,” the magistrate bellows.

“Has she given you any potions or brews?”

“After eating the nuts, I had a stomachache, and she brewed a potion that eased the pain.

“It was tea,” Lucia cries.

“Silence, Witch!” the magistrate bangs his gavel.

When she is done, others testify that Lucia’s specter taunted them and tempted them to sign the Devil’s book. When the last witness has spoken, Father stands and grips the railing as though to rip it from the floor.

“Is that not evidence enough?”

The magistrate bangs the gavel again. “The accused may now address the court.”

Lucia proclaims her innocence, but it is no use. At last, she admits she is a witch. Confession can elicit mercy, but none is granted.

The magistrate clears his throat. “The accused is convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to hang. Take her away.”

An anguished wail rises from the front corner of the courtroom. Lucia’s chains rattle as the jailer leads her away. Audience members approach Father to offer prayers and thanks for protecting them against the Devil’s servant.

The courtroom empties. Mother leads her out, the echo of chains clanging in her ears.

The week before Lucia is due to hang, Mother runs out of the paste Lucia concocted to relieve her toothaches. Dr. Johnston makes a mixture of crushed garlic that stinks so badly no one will sit near her at church. Goody Winthrop suggests Brandy, and Mother is scandalized. No other remedy relieves the pain so well as Lucia’s paste.

“We must visit Lucia while there is still time.”

“Why, Mother?” she asks.

“I need her paste recipe, and we must grant her our forgiveness before she is hanged.”

“Forgive a witch?”

 “It is our duty to offer forgiveness to those who have trespassed.”

“But I’m afraid.”  

“There is nothing to fear. She will be chained. A witch cannot cast spells without her hands.”

This is not what she fears. She cannot bear the thought of meeting Lucia’s eye. She tries again to dissuade Mother.

“What if the paste is meant to bewitch you?”

Mother winces and cradles her jaw. “This pain is more like to drive me to the Devil than a paste.”

The jailer leads them through the front room, where tall windows let in slant December sunlight from the street. On the rear wall, the jailer opens a heavy wooden door with a key. A fetid smell of rot and waste wafts from the dark hallway beyond. Mother covers her nose with a handkerchief as they enter the dim light. Windows in the jail cells on either side are small and high and layered with dirt. Frost coats the walls, turning the stone pale gray. It is colder in the dungeon than on the street. Their breath comes in white puffs as they pass prisoners whose hollow eyes follow them from behind bars. Lucia kneels on the stone floor of her cell, her head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. The manacles on her wrists hang loose, revealing sores where the skin has been rubbed raw.

Mother issues a cough, and Lucia looks up. Her blank expression remains unchanged, but she rises from the floor and eases onto the edge of the cot, her hands extended to keep the chain loose, so the manacles do not chafe. Her face has grown gaunt, her tawny skin ashen.

           “Yes?” she says, her voice blank.

“We have come to offer forgiveness,” Mother says.

Lucia’s eyebrows rise. “For what?”

“For the harm you inflicted on our daughter.”.

“Harm? What harm I ever done to you?” Lucia looks her way with eyes that eviscerate. She cannot bear it and drops her gaze to the floor.

Lucia turns to Mother. “You come for the paste for toothaches, no?”

Mother’s lips tighten and she nods.

Lucia could easily refuse, send them away empty-handed. What more could they do to her? But she begins reciting ingredients and instructions. Mother repeats them, committing them to memory.

When Lucia is done, Mother, unable to utter thank you, says. “May God have mercy on your soul,” and turns to leave.

She repeats Mother’s prayer. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Lucia stands on shaky legs, approaches the bars, and whispers with a smile that unnerves her, “Thou shall not bear false witness. That is what God commands.”

The blood rushes from her head. She feels faint.  

“You the one need mercy, child.” Lucia’s expression is full of pity. “I have only a few more days to spend in prison. You have an eternity.”

           She turns and hurries down the hall, the ringing in her ears like chains clanging.