A Devil in Hingham | 1 | Whore

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I gave thanks by moonlight, with my blood and my flesh. Dancing naked in the deep woods, beneath creaking boughs of sycamore and red maple. I whipped my thighs to a masterpiece of spackled blood and raised welts with slim switches, and reveled in the pain. I gave thanks to every Earthly and Heavenly power-that-be.

I was an unmarried woman, with no family, no prospects, and yet my garden flourished. Yet I still owned my father’s land. Yet I still walked with my head held high and could call death upon those who crossed me. I was woman who belonged to no one…

Save for the Devil to whom I’d sold my soul.

It was of women like me that townsfolk talked in hushed whispers by candlelight, and preachers condemned from their pulpits, and wise old men blamed for the withering of crops and the death of livestock.

“Witch,” they said, when storms flooded out the lower fields and the corn was washed away.

“Witch,” they whispered, when certain men of the town took ill and died of fever.

“Witch,” they cried, when my mother and father had both died and yet I refused a husband. Somehow, I still managed not to starve.

 

That night in the woods, I had given thanks with every part of my body. Naked I had lain upon the leaves beneath the full moon, and moved my fingers over my most intimate places. The greatest power in the world is within a woman’s cunt – that I knew to be truth. The greatest power, and the greatest pleasure. So with my fingers within me, I was filled with power again and again.

But I was not alone in those woods.

A dark figure watched me from the shadows. I did not see it there until it was too late – and then of course, when my eyes fell upon it and I scrambled up, dizzied from my revelry, the figure fled. I scrambled for my clothes, and took the longer path back to my home lest I find someone waiting for me along the main road. It would merely be my word against their’s – or so I attempted to reassure myself, crawling beneath the blankets of the bed that had once belonged to my parents.

It was no small feat, for a young woman such as I to lay claim to her father’s modest house and land. It drew unwanted attention as it was, and without fail whenever I set foot in town to go to the shops I was confronted with the same question: “However do you manage, Miss Fenn? Surely you have want of a husband?”

But I needed no husband.

I had the Devil.

 

I had to make believe that I had not been seen. I could not go hiding and skulking about. I put on my best dress and hat – the one that used to belong to my mother, festooned with pearls and puffs of goose down – and went into town to buy a bottle of oil and a loaf of bread. I nodded and smiled, jovial to all who saw me. They could gossip all they wanted, but how could they fault a kind woman in good spirits?

I was just outside the shop when I heard my name called. The familiar voice made my heart stutter, and I knew which face I would see before I even turned: Father Caleb Morley, the preacher, come down from his mighty high pulpit to mingle with the sinners. I sucked in my breath, and put on a friendly face.

“Father Morley,” I curtsied, but kept my eyes on him even as I inclined my head. “A pleasure to see you.”

It was both a pleasure – and a horror. Father Morley had taken up the pulpit at 17, after the sudden death of his father, but that had not stopped every girl in the town from making eyes at him from the pews. For a time, the complaint went about that he was much too handsome to be a Man of the Church, that he was distracting the minds of young women in service. He swiftly made up for their fears by becoming a true terror of a preacher. His sermons had rained hellfire and brimstone upon the townsfolk for the past 10 years, often sending folk home in sorrowful tears for their sins. He put the fear of God in Hingham, but there was still no denying he had a beautiful visage. He was dark haired, blue eyed, and his beard was always kept trimmed short. I still sometimes envied his wife, Chastity Morley, that she had gotten to see what lay beneath his somber black garb.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Fenn,” he said, in a chipper tone that was utterly different from the commanding voice of damnation he had at the pulpit. “I’m glad I caught you this morning. I had a most unusual dream the other night that I thought may interest you.”

“A…dream, Father Morley?” I hesitated, not wanting to linger long in useless conversation. The preacher was the last person I needed poking about in my business.

“Indeed,” he chuckled, as if recalling something irresistibly amusing. “You see, I dreamed the other night that I glimpsed you, Miss Fenn, out in the woods in an extremely compromising position.”

My heart seemed to stop and my chest went cold. No…no, it couldn’t have been him! I forced myself to laugh. “Begging your pardon, Father Morley, but this sounds highly inappropriate for a married man to be speaking of. If you’ll excuse me-”

“Oh, but you are certainly not excused,” he said softly, and took a step toward me as his hand closed over my arm. Somehow his face remained friendly, soft. “Are you inclined to sleep-walking, Miss Fenn?”

I shook my head quickly. In his close proximity I could smell tobacco on his clothes, an unusual vice for a preacher. I was certain I had never seen him smoke. His closeness made my heart stutter with fear, but so too with something else. I felt foolish for thinking of all the fantasies I’d had of him in that moment, the silly things I had made part of my nighttime rituals. How better to serve the Devil than with the blasphemy of objectifying a preacher?

He frowned at my response, but the expression seemed practiced – my answer had been entirely expected. “Allow me to assure you, Miss Fenn, that I am also not inclined to perverse dreams any more than you are inclined to wandering in your sleep. I think you and I both know what happened in the woods was not a result of slumber.”

“And what is it you believe you saw in the woods, Father?” I kept my head high, and unafraid, although inside my heart was pounding. He took a step back, and released my arm, knowing I would not run away.

“I saw a witch, Miss Fenn,” he said, lowering his voice as if uttering the very word would make the Devil spring up from Hell. “I saw a witch at work on her Paganistic rituals, touching herself perversely, intimately. I have no doubt that this witch was you.”

I gulped. I had no words. Yet still he smiled, sighed, and said, “I have not seen you at Sunday service as of late, Miss Fenn. May I inquire as to why?”

“I’ve been otherwise occupied,” I said sharply. “With these Devilish rituals of which you wrongly accuse me!”

He chuckled, and shook his head. “Sarcasm, Miss Fenn? It will not serve you so well as you hope. There is no need for lies any longer.” Suddenly he looped his arm through mine, clasping it firmly to his side. “Walk with me, Miss Fenn. I have many empty hours ahead of me, and you have been neglecting the House of the Lord.”

I did not protest, although I balked at the suggestion of setting foot in church. I had not entered the chapel since my mother’s funeral nearly a year ago. Mother had never wanted her funeral in a church – she had wanted it in the woods, in the sacred places that were so precious to us. But what else could I do to avoid raising suspicion? Mother would have understood.

The white church stood just beside the courthouse of Hingham, shadowed by maple and cloaked in fiery leaves. Folks nodded and smiled amicably as we passed, and I said softly, “If you are so certain of my guilt, Father, why then have you not gone straight to the authorities? Why approach me with such secrecy, and now seek solitude with me? What is it you want from me, Caleb?”

My use of his first name did not faze him. “The Lord is merciful, Miss Fenn,” he said. “He always offers the opportunity for forgiveness, therefore, so too will I.” We ascended the stone steps before the chapel, and Caleb opened one of the massive double-doors to usher me inside. He then withdrew a thick iron key from his pocket, and locked the doors from within.

The church was quiet, serene when not bustling with townsfolk. Golden light shone down through the round stained glass mural to the sacrificed Christ. Candles flickered around the altar, and Caleb led me down the nave.

“I do not blame you for turning to witchcraft, Amity,” he said, casual now that we were alone, as I followed him hesitantly. “I don’t blame your mother, either, for taking it up after your father’s death.” At the altar he turned, and his blue eyes seemed to capture the candles’ flames so that they glowed from within. “What else is a lonesome girl to do?”

“I’m not lonesome…” I said, but he immediately tsked.

“Now, now, Amity. No more lies. You are in the House of God, and I am offering you the opportunity to make right your wrongs. I am offering you the blessing of forgiveness, if you are willing to ask for it.”

I stiffened. I would not betray the Devil I served merely to please this man! But…with a word, he could have me burned. I knew he had not brought me here merely to make me pray. “What would you have me do, Father?”

He was attempting to look somber, but his desire shone through. It did not show in the obvious, garish way men often gave away their lust: rather, Caleb Morley’s desire came through in careful restraint. He kept his hands clasped behind his back as he moved away from the altar and said, “Kneel. Kneel and confess your sins, Amity.”

I went forward, and was about to drop to my knees when he suddenly held out a hand to stop me. “Ah, now wait just one moment. It is a serious sin you have committed, Amity. A serious sin requires serious confession.”

“I have not yet confessed to anything,” I muttered, and watched as he went to a nondescript cabinet in the transept and withdrew something from within. It took me only a few seconds to recognize the object: it was a flogger, with a short handle and tails of tightly braided leather. The welts I had given myself along my inner thighs seemed to burn merely at the sight of it.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with self-flagellation,” he said, running the tail of the whip through his hand. “In fact, I’m certain of it after the display I witnessed last night. Tell me, Amity: why is it that you do it? Is it merely devotional to suffer, or do you enjoy it as much as I suspect?”

“I would have to be truly perverse to enjoy such pain,” I said. He stepped closer, and pressed the flogger into my hands.

“Indeed you would,” he said softly. “I believe you to be perverse indeed, Amity Fenn. Even now, I see it in your eyes: excitement. Longing. Does fear please you?”

I would not grace him with my affirmative answer. The thought of being forced to confess and then punish myself in a church was enough to set my insides to flame, and the heat spread to my loins. I grasped the flogger, the smooth, rounded wood of its handle, and said softly, “Shall I disrobe?”

He did not so much as flinch in his expression. “Of course. Lay yourself bare before the Lord.”