Hour of the Witch

by Chris Bohjalian

“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.”