A Measure of Light by Beth Powning

Author:Beth Powning [Powning, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-80848-6
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Published: 2015-03-10T04:00:00+00:00

In the meeting house, Mary closed her eyes. Littlemary sat beside her, bravely upright although she was white-faced and weak.

“We read in 2 Corinthians 3:6: ‘Who also hath made us able ministers of the new testament; not of the letter, but of the Spirit: for the letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life.’ ” The minister followed Anne Hutchinson’s teachings.

Within ourselves, we may apprehend God.

So Anne had told her, in her strong voice. Thinking of Anne, Mary felt such a sickening as a child feels before punishment.

She looked at the bent heads of the Newport women. She worked side by side with them at whangs, spoke with them of pickles and radishes, of flax and thistles; they met her eyes with bland friendliness and she wondered what they said about her. They must respect her as the wife of a successful farmer, merchant and politician. Yet her education accorded only wariness, resentment. And since, after the birth of each child, she did not invite the women for ale and cakes but, rather, vanished from view, the other wives were affronted. They did not visit or send food.

She no longer prayed nor asked for forgiveness. God’s silence was absolute and the light of the world was not hers, neither beauty nor joy nor peace—the baby’s face beneath his pudding cap, wild roses in a pewter pitcher. She was restrained as if by a forbidding hand. Feel no joy. This is not for you.

She turned her eyes to the window and watched the silent, tossing leaves. She had become a vessel for bearing children, never knowing when God might see fit to send another monster or call home the tiny creatures.

“Let us now give thanks for the life of Littlemary Dyer,” the minister said.

Only last week she had stood behind two men in Newport. They did not see her, and she had heard one tell the other of a newly published pamphlet. “New England Heretic, Mother of a Monster,” he’d murmured.

Fury had pushed her past, shaken by the same violent impulse that had made her stand at the Boston meeting house and walk down the aisle with Anne.

August 1650

My beloved Mary,

I must needs report the death of your Uncle Colyn. He rose to withstand the raging of a client who was distraught over a settlement and did blame your uncle. I heard the shouts and ran from the surgery but my husband had fallen. ’Twas too late, there was naught to do. He lies in the churchyard with your parents and brother.

I would have you come home once more before I die, for depart I will, soon, called by my Lord. A dimness comes over my eyes and a doddering to my limbs. I know that I bear disease. ’Tis new and I despair, for I have many demands upon me, a child arrived this day with oak splinter in the eye …

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