INSIDE THE TINY, STUFFY ROOM in Elder Brome’s house, Stavia lay in stupefied darkness. From time to time, the darkness wavered and broke, leaving a gray space at its center in which there was sometimes a sound. This time there was a tapping at the window, a soft, almost random knocking, as a twig might tap in a light wind. Even through her pain, through the gray blanket of mist which wrapped her around, stifling her, she told herself there was no wind, there was no tree, there could be no twig tapping. In her mind the twig wavered, becoming a tree, a forest, blackness once more, full of great, horned beasts which bellowed at the sky. “Come, Stavia,” they cried.
“Stavia,” someone whispered, evoking the grayness again.
She could only moan. It was what was needed, an imperative moan, voiced so that the twig, the forest, the darkness would know where she was. Still, she did it softly. Then again. There was no shout from the other rooms of the place, no threat. She moaned again. Worth the risk of more pain to be able to express pain. Hurt something. Hurt somewhere. She was in the middle of a seeking whirlpool of pain, like a chip in an eddy, whipped around and around by it.
Perhaps there was a whisper outside the window. She couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. The moaning had taken too much energy. She had no more to wonder with. The bellowing blackness came again.
Far away, outside, over a hill, perhaps, or across some unmeasured gulf of shadowed night, there was a great deal of unshaped noise. A blot of noise, running off in all directions, with clangor in it and voices and jagged edges of agony.
Above her in the house someone stirred, cursed, shouted. Heavy feet stamped their way downstairs. Voices banged together. Doors uttered. A confusion of noise here; another one there; and then the two moving toward one another, mixing, like ugly colors in water, swirling. Dark yellow and sullied wine, in saw-toothed patterns.
Near the head of her bed something snapped.
Cold air on her face. Hurting air.
“Ahhhh,” she said, not aware she’d said anything.
“Here,” said someone. “She’s tied up. By all that’s holy those bastards….” There was light on her face, very dim, as from a dark lantern. Even the light hurt. When the pressure on her shoulders stopped and someone’s arms raised her, it hurt even more and she began to scream—began only. There were soft things in her mouth keeping her from screaming. Fingers. She bit the fingers and someone cursed.
“Stavia!” Voice in her ear. “It’s Joshua. Be still, love. We’re getting you out.” She felt a prick in her arm, something sharp to hold against the wall-wide agony of all the other hurt. “For the pain,” Joshua’s voice said. “Be still.”
“Out,” her mind said. “Be quiet or they can’t get you out.” She stopped fighting the hurt and let it be. The blackness came back as she thought, “That’s good. I won’t be around to care.”
“Get every piece of rope,” Joshua’s voice said. “Spread the bed back up neatly. Put the feathers around the bed. Remember to make those footprints down the wall under the window….” They were carrying her out through the door, through the house, out the front door, then away into the trees. She was cradled in Joshua’s arms. There was someone else, whispering. She knew that voice.
“It’s Corrig, Stavia,” someone whispered. “It’s all right. Be still.”
Then there wasn’t anything else at all as the pain went somewhere else and left her alone with the loving, comfortable darkness.
ELDER JEPSON’S BARN burned to the ground. Elder Brome’s bachelor house was only partly burned, though the whole front of it would need to be replaced whenever people could get to it. That much they could see by lantern light. By that same light they could see the words carved on Capable’s back as well. “She is a holy woman.” It was not until Capable came around that they were able to ask him who “she” was, and it was only then that they went looking for Stavia.
The room was untouched, as though no one had ever been in it. There was no sign of the woman, or of the ropes which had bound her to the bed. There were footprints leading vertically down the wall from the high window. There were several great white feathers lying by the bed, feathers larger than any they had ever seen.
“The thing said an angel was comin’ to get her,” Diligence cried. “He said it. An’ Susannah said we shouldn’t have hurt her. Susannah said it wuz a mistake.”
Elder Brome struck his son across the mouth without changing expression. He did not wish to be reminded of Susannah. As for the idea that any woman might have had anything sensible to say about the whole matter, that smacked pretty much of heresy. However, the feathers and the footprints and what the boys had to say about the faces made bile rise in his throat and burn there until he spat and spat again. He was frightened. Something had gone wrong somewhere. Something needed thinking out.
Elder Jepson brought several of his grown sons to talk it over, and Diligence repeated to this group what he had seen and heard. “The devil said Chernon was their friend,” he claimed over and over again, and this information was supported by others. Several of the younger men had seen and heard the demon or demons. They had chased Chernon in the night but had lost him. They were sent to track him, find him if he could be found, and bring him in.
“Hear Susannah kilt herself,” Elder Jepson remarked. “Why’d she go and do that?”
Elder Brome affected not to have heard. Unwisely, Vengeance said, “She left a note. Said she was
