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Old Sullivan found us,
Mehitebel and me,
by the great oak that day,
way out past the smokehouses,
in that pretty little clearing
among the Jack-in-The-Pulpits,
age fourteen, I'd say,
or thirteen. We'd brought
all our treasures along, the shells,
the ribbons and Indian beads,
my dead sister's Irish pendant,
bright-banded turkey feathers,
a little brass key
that had opened something
long lost, and two locks
of hair, I remember,
but can't remember whose,
and a little pot of lye,
and some violets,
pressed in a prayer book.
With all the solemnity
of our maidenhood,
we'd laid these objects out
in a little circle, and lit
a little candle stub
in their midst.
When he happened by,
we had just summoned
to our quiet clearing
some spirits of our imagining,
putative denizens of that shade,
bright wood-nymph or sprite,
and softly began to sing
a favorite hymn
from somewhere at the back
of that little prayer book
to entice them there.
We did not hear him
approach. All at once,
he was standing over us,
not speaking, then turned and left.
There is talk now in the village
that this latest sickness
is a scourge on all our households,
hard justice leveled for misdemeanor
of some sort, bitter harvest
of sins long since sowed,
and I feel their eyes upon me.
The loss of my last living child
drove me long ago
from my neighbors' company
into this tiny hunter's cabin
out past the smokehouses,
among the whispering elms,
with squirrels and voles and owls
my only companionship,
and the little family of foxes
that eat from my hand.
In the village, approached
by the occasional housewife
seeking some nostrum or poultice,
I see the flicker of fear
in the eye, and disgust,
barely disguised.
But what is that to me?
Long ago I left behind
that little prayer book,
the hymns to cleanliness
and righteousness,
the promise of glory,
the trepidations of conscience
to which these neighbors cling,
for the cool embrace
of this forest's shadow,
but know with what trembling
zeal they may at any time
return here, in search
of dark enchantments, to find me
in the guilty presence once again
of the spirits, to haul me back
into their company, back
into the flames of fear.