The Probable Future

IN THE MORNING, Stella called good-bye to Liza, grabbed her backpack, and left as though it were an ordinary day. But when it came time to turn onto Lockhart, and head toward the high school, she went the other way.

“I’m not going to school,” Stella said when Hap caught up with her. “Take notes for me in science.”

“I’ll come with you,” Hap said, ever grateful for an excuse to miss classes on such a clear, fine day as this.

“No.” Too abrupt. Hurt feelings. Could he tell she’d been kissing someone last night? Did it show in the light of day? Could he figure out she wasn’t quite as trustworthy as she appeared to be? “I mean, it’s a family matter.”

“Sure.” Hap was looking at Stella as though he had just realized something. Perhaps he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought. “You do what you want.”

Stella went down Dead Horse Lane, and took the cutoff when she came to Rebecca’s path. The day was warm and mayflies circled over the shallows. Long ago, there were so many turtles living here it was impossible to count their number, even though scores of their eggs were collected and made into soup. There were wild turkeys in the thickets and the brooks were filled with alewives, a bony fish that swim inland from the salt marshes every spring. By the time of Rebecca Sparrow’s thirteenth birthday—celebrated on the day when she first walked out of the woods, set in the very center of March— the town of Unity was twice as big as it had been when she first appeared. No one who met her would guess she hadn’t spoken a word of English when she was found, but anyone could tell in a second that her livelihood was laundry, for her hands were chapped and raw, with fingertips the color of plums and nails broken to the very quick. The old washerwoman had died of a pox, leaving Rebecca her house, her kettle, and her secret recipe for barley soap.

When Charles Hathaway saw Rebecca Sparrow walk over the shattered mirror on the morning of her thirteenth birthday, he knew he’d done right to keep his son away from her. All the same, there was just so much a father could do. When local boys began to shoot arrows at Rebecca for sport, Samuel was the one who chased them away. It was Samuel who visited Rebecca in the evenings, paying no mind to the mosquitoes that hovered over the lakeshore like a black curtain, ignoring the snapping turtles that sank into mud-holes, ready to bite through the toughest pair of boots. He went to see her even after his father insisted he marry one of the Hapgood girls in town, Mary. Even after a son was born to them, he remained loyal to Rebecca, if loyalty meant she was the one he couldn’t wait to be with. He went to the lake no matter the weather; he used a salve of swamp cabbage to keep mosquitoes away, and he knew his way through the dark, past stones and turtles, past the old oak tree where the beehive held honey so sweet bears came down from the woods and refused to be chased away by smokers or muskets.

When Rebecca was close to her seventeenth year, she gave birth to a daughter on the first day of March, Sarah Sparrow, a calm child who seemed to need no sleep at all. That was the year when the mosquitoes swarmed in huge, dank clouds, and anyone who came too near to stagnant water took ill with a high fever. Samuel was the first to die, and after his death the sickness spread out in a circle, one family to the next. But down at the lake, Rebecca Sparrow was healthy as could be, though she cried for weeks over Samuel. People took note of how her baby thrived. If that was not suspicious enough, Mary Hathaway, Samuel’s widow, had seen Rebecca and the child she held with their arms stretched out, covered by birds, as if they were both made of feathers, not flesh, as if neither one was entirely human.

It seemed reasonable to question Rebecca about those who’d fallen ill. Soon enough she was brought to the meeting hall, where she was watched carefully for signs that might reveal if the town itself were being put to the test. God worked in mysterious ways, it was true, but so did the devil. Wasn’t that the reason why upstanding men often craved things they had best stay away from? Why women often strayed to vanity, and children needed to be guided, lest they stumble and fall? The town fathers took from her the silver compass she kept in her pocket and the star around her neck; they removed the gold bell that kept the baby occupied, and paid no attention when the poor thing began to wail.

There were those, such as Mary, who’d had suspicions all along, but now the town fathers agreed there must be a test. Everyone knew a witch felt no pain, so pain was the method they employed. A hot coal was placed into Rebecca’s boot, and the townsfolk were even more certain they were in the right when Rebecca didn’t cry, although clearly her foot was burned, the skin smoldering. They stuck pins beneath her nails, and still she didn’t say a word, though her fingers turned scarlet, and several of the nails dropped off. They added whole acorns to the stew they served her for dinner, and she didn’t spit them out. At last the good women in town were instructed to sew stones into the hem of Rebecca’s dress, and her cloak, then they filled her boots with rocks as well, before they brought her back to the lake.