Weeks before he put his cloak around us, there was an incident that, I think, will help you understand. I remember that morning because it was the first deep freeze, and I was hacking at the water trough with a hatchet to break up the ice.
While I beat icy shrapnel into the frozen air, I wondered how anyone could be so devoted to authenticity. Who cared how the humans of centuries ago lived? Wasn't it enough that we survived and thrived now? Of course, auditors could enjoy a comfortable curiosity. They weren't digging graves in the frozen ground.
The ice broke, at last, and frigid water rose through the cracks. The cow tried to push me aside, but I braced my elbow against her nose. "Don't be an idiot," I grumbled. "You'll freeze your tongue."
I picked the shards out of the trough with purple, trembling fingers and tossed them to the ground. "Go on, then," I said, when the water was clear.
The cow's attendants, a pair of evil goats, jostled with her for the open water. I backed away before they could splash me. I retrieved my mittens and returned to the house with four fresh eggs cradled in my shawl.
I don't think you understand what it was like, living in that house. You cannot imagine how much I treasured every moment in the cold barn. When my mistress released me in the evenings, I climbed to my loft in the barn with gratitude.
Elisabeth had purchased her way to an upper-class experience, and her duration would be much shorter than most of the subjects. Rumors said she had only nine years left. Still, the experiment's parameters hadn't protected her body or mind from the realities of ancient life.
First, she had suffered a bad fall from a wagon. Then, she had contracted a consumptive habit that left her weak and fretful. Then, her births had been dangerously difficult, and neither child had survived.
Following the tragedies, the village had sent a string of girls to help at the farm, but each had fled before a month was out. The woman, it was said, could not be pleased. That woman, they whispered, was wrong in the head.
I did not have the luxury of flight.
Having been in her employ for nearly half a year, I felt that I understood Elisabeth Proctor better than most. Her body was plagued with pain that no apothecary could cure. Her mind, however sharp, had shattered under the grief of her lost children. Her marriage, which gossip said had been arranged by the auditors for genetic purposes, was an unwanted pressure.
This is why, you must understand, that when I stepped into the house, I ducked. The pewter cup, thrown at my head, ricocheted off the doorframe.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, limping toward me. Her hip was out again. She was pale, and her lips were chalky. I knew that she must have slept badly and was dehydrated.
"I was in the barn," I answered, offering the eggs to her. "I told you --"
She slapped my face so sharply that I dropped one of the eggs. "Liar!" she hissed. "Liar! You think you can deceive me."
I backed away and placed the remaining eggs on the rough-hewn table. I knew this mood. "I don't understand," I said. "How can I serve you, ma'am?"
"You cannot take him from me!" she screamed. Her hair, escaped from her cap, waved wildly around her cheeks.
"Miss Elisabeth," I said gently, "you are safe. I am here. There is no one here but us. I would take nothing from you."
"Liar! You would take John from me!"
At the time, the very idea was ludicrous. I extended my hands toward her. "Mr. John went into town," I reminded her. "He left yesterday. He won't be back until tomorrow. He has the meeting, remember?" I tried not to think of that meeting.
Elisabeth frowned and wrung her hands. "No, no," she said, "I know you were with him, in the barn. You were with him, laughing at me." She allowed me to turn her shoulders and I walked her back to the chair near the fire. "Everyone laughs at me."
"Mr. John isn't here," I said. "And I am not with him, I am with you."
"You should pray for forgiveness," she said, settling into her chair. "You think you are good, but you are not without sin."
I adjusted the blanket around her legs. "We are, none of us, without sin," I said, quoting the Book used in the village. I wondered if she could read my mind.
She shifted uneasily in the worn chair. "It hurts," she said.
"I know. Would you like some tea?"
Elisabeth buried her face in her hands. "I'm not crazy," she whispered. "I'm not crazy, Hannah. I can think."
I dared to place a hand on her shoulder. "I know," I said.
"I don't mean the horrible things I say."
"I know," I said.
She began to weep quietly. "I... I don't know what's wrong with me," she cried.
I cleaned the egg from the floor and set the kettle. I wondered if the auditors were monitoring her condition. I knew they would do nothing to help. I hoped the data was worth it.
----
I know that I was wrong.
Have you ever been hungry? So hungry, that the very thought of the food you desire makes your mouth water, and your stomach growl, and your knees weak?
It felt like that.
For weeks following our encounter in the barn, John avoided me. He was polite when he found me with Elisabeth. He was respectful when I delivered his lunch or assisted with his projects. But there was no sign that he recalled our moment together, and I believed he had forgotten it. Perhaps, for a man like him, a moment's weakness was too common to be remembered.
Perhaps, I was the only one who lay awake at night.
That winter, New Salem was plagued by illness. A raspy, evil cough carried off several elderly subjects and two infants. No sooner had the graves been dusted with snow, then a strange fever made the rounds. The Meetinghouse ordered more severe quarantine restrictions.
By the time Elisabeth caught pneumonia, our farm had been isolated from most of the village for weeks. Goods were obtained through delivery. Every few days, a runner would leave papers for John. He read them with a worried frown, then thrust them into the fire.
I waited on Elisabeth as best I could. The apothecary visited once, but his medical expertise was limited by historically accurate resources and information. He referenced "humors" and "effluvium" until Elisabeth screamed at him to get out.
At the door, the man insisted that John and I remove from the house. "Auditors be damned," were his exact words. "It's airborne, it's contagious, and I've had enough of death. Stay away until she is well."
That was how, on a bitter winter's night, we sat across from one another in the weak light of a lantern. The bread was moldy, but it was better than nothing. The silence between us was broken only by the evil goats, who were never quiet for long.
