Hour of the Witch

by Chris Bohjalian

Did other men treat their wives the way Thomas treated her? She knew they did not. What she could not parse was whether he acted as he did only because of his proclivities at the ordinaries (and at their house), or whether there was a deeper cause. Did he despise her because she was barren? Did he really believe that she was dull and his violence was tutelage? Was it something that was in him or—what might be worse—something that was in her?

“And always better a scrivener than an attorney. I know more and more people are resorting to those appalling advocates who twist and trick, but many of the magistrates still view them with justifiable disdain.”

“I don’t wish to accuse anyone!” “But thou must,” said Priscilla. “We shall see. But Mother? I have thought on this much. Prithee, know that I am prepared to fight. I am. Not because I expect still to be breathing come spring, but because, for better or worse, it is how the Lord hath made me.” “Continue,” her father said. “If I fail, which we all know is what we must expect, I will take comfort in the knowledge that our Lord knows my sorrow and feels my grief. He felt the sting of every thorn in His son’s final crown. He felt the bite from every Roman lash. He felt the agony of each and every Roman nail. That is where love and lamentation chance upon one another, and that is where we find God.” Priscilla sank to the floor, crying, and James and Mary knelt beside her. Mary kissed her mother’s wet cheeks. She whispered into her ear, “I have been tempted by the Devil. But in the end, I resisted. I have faith that God knows what is in my heart and—if it comes to this—will feel the noose and be saddened.”

at one point she looked up into the sky, awed by the stars. There were just so many. She thought how she would see them again from a ship at sea in eighteen or twenty hours, the same God behind them. There were people in the world who were good and people who were evil, but most of them were some mixture of both and did what they did simply because they were mortal. And her Lord? Peregrine’s Lord? He knew it all and had known it all and always would know it all. But the deliberations of His creations? Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless. Still, there was one thing of which she was certain. “Oh, I think we do know,” Mary said finally. “Yes, this may be the hour of the witch. But the Devil? He most definitely wears breeches. The Devil can only be a man.”