Page 3 of Damnation (Gallows Hill)

Chapter Two

Sarah

M y body aches as I rise for the day. Dorothy stirs in my arms as we sit up.

Our bed wasn’t safe last night, not after William consumed his first drink.

He only delivered a few hits to my face before I took Dorothy into my arms and locked us in the broom closet.

Countless hours passed by with William beating on the door before the pounding stopped and we were able to take rest. Unfortunately, our dirt floors hardly bear a comfortable sanctuary, and my body screams in punishment.

“Mama? Is it safe?”

I fight back tears, not allowing a single one to drop as I smile at my sweet girl. She’s only five years of age. It isn’t fair. This life she was born into isn’t fair.

“Yes, my love. God has gifted us another day together, let us take thanks and joy in it.”

She smiles at me sleepily, her deep brown hair and green eyes a reflection of my own.

Together, we stand as I open the door first, carefully peering out before allowing it to fully open.

A few steps and I see William passed out on our bed, snoring heavily.

I take relief in moments like these. We ought to be getting ready for church at this time of the day, but with William’s state, I’m too afraid to wake him and much too afraid of what will come if Dorothy and I show alone.

People will whisper, talk, and William will blame me for all of the sort.

So, I decide to grab the last crust of bread we have, handing it to Dorothy alongside some water I fetched last night before we head into town.

I look up in the sky and see that it would not have mattered if I had woken William.

Church is well on its way to being over, and soon the town will be streaming with townsfolk, hopefully one more generous than the last.

I hate who I have become. A beggar woman.

It’s humiliating, disgraceful, but with William’s temper and inconsistent work, we’re barely surviving as is.

We have no other hope. My stomach groans in agony as I try to recount the last day I had a meal.

Must be going on three days as of this morning.

Every scrap I can manage, I pass to Dorothy, but I feel the weight of my decisions in the sway of my steps.

“Are you okay, Mama?” she asks, her little hand delicately tucked into mine as our feet move down the dirt road.

I conjure the most convincing smile I am able, nodding at my sweet girl.

“Of course. Why don’t you ask Mrs. Osborne if you can help her stock the shelves?” I say as I gesture to Sarah Osborne’s shop.

Sarah and her husband have some of the most fruitful land in the village, and she truly has a special touch with her jarred spices and crops. Dorothy smiles at me, nodding as she releases my hand and runs inside.

Sarah and I are not quite friends, but more so friendly.

Friendlier than any others in this village, I’d say.

Neither of us quite fit with the others, and that’s okay with us.

We believe one day things will change, for we are both gifted in ways others are not.

My mother had passed down to me recipes and remedies that heal.

From a belly ache to poison, I create various tonics and tinctures that Sarah sells from time to time in her shop, discreetly, of course.

The practice of such is not looked upon with fondness, so we both ensure that our business is conducted as privately as possible.

The only other member in town who knows of my work is likely Tituba, the Parris’s servant.

She too practices rituals and remedies from her homeland, though she dabbles too close to the line of darkness for my liking.

I stand off to the side from Sarah’s shop, and I see her peek through the doorway, offering me a compassionate greeting before stepping back inside.

I nod to her as the church doors swing all the way open, and the townsfolk begin this way into town.

My stomach turns unpleasantly as I attempt to swallow my pride and focus on why I’m here.

Even if I can walk away with a piece of rye or a pence or two, it shall leave us in a better position than when we rose this morning.

From the moment our eyes meet, Sarah Abbey and Sarah Gadge sneer with disdain, turning their heads to the side.

I’ll never understand why so many choose to name their children the same.

Most people in our small village bear the names Sarah, Thomas, or John.

Originality is certainly lacking in our land, there is no doubt of that.

I’ve never gotten off well with either of them. Both have denied me in my harshest of times, only delivering cruelty and hatred. For such self-proclaimed holy women, you really ought not know it.

Dozens of others pass by, only sparing me an unsatisfied look or grimace, as if I wish to be here, as if I wish to be the pathetic beggar woman with a husband who hates her so.

I feel a tear slip down my cheek, refusing the banishment I beg of it before it settles into the corner of my mouth.

The cut left from my husband’s hand stings, and I look down at my feet in an attempt to conceal the pain and the emotion.

When I lift my head again, my vision is blurry, but I do my best to temper myself when I lock eyes with him.

A man I’ve known for so long, yet speak with rarely.

One who always lingers but never stays.

A married man with many children.

The same man I often dream about most nights, though I know far better than to.

Thomas Putnam.

He’s one of the wealthiest men in the village, the most respected, no doubt. It would tarnish his reputation just to be near me. So, why is he walking towards me with purpose?

My heart beats in my chest heavily, my hands going cold with fright, or maybe excitement.

I’m too unwell to tell the difference. His long legs consume the distance between us as many begin casting wary glances towards him.

He pays them no mind, though, his deep brown eyes never falling from my own gaze.

When we are just a pace apart, he pauses, nodding his head in greeting.

“Good morrow,” he greets.

I attempt to speak, but my words fail me for longer than I’m able to bear. Finally, I collect my voice and return his greeting.

“Good morrow, Mr. Putnam.”

“It’s Thomas, won’t you call me that?” he asks, his eyes never falling from my own for even a moment.

My mouth opens to respond before sound finally leaves it once more.

“Thomas.”

I worry that, to his ears, his name from my lips sounds as desired as it feels on mine. It must, because his body tightens and his chest heaves with a heavy breath before he clears his throat.

“I did not see you in church this morning. Are you well?”

I attempt to smile, to assure him I’m fine, but I wince the instant I attempt so. My mouth stings, and it seems to attract his attention.

His eyes focus on it with great detail before a darkness clouds his face. I watch in curiosity as his jaw tightens several times before he speaks.

“Did you and Mr. Good have a disagreement?”

I wish, maybe then I could continue to convince myself that I deserved his anger.

Instead, I am merely a casualty of his wrath.

For so long, I deluded myself to the idea that he would get better, that the last time would be the last time.

I’ve grown wiser, unfortunately, and such fantastical notions have soon left as my age has grown.

It is not out of the ordinary for a husband to “guide” his wife physically, but the manner in which my own does…

I wouldn’t wish it upon the worst of enemies.

“In so little words,” I respond, a sad smile touching my face as I do.

“Tis the third time this week, is it not?” Thomas asks.

How could he possibly know that? Has he been watching me far closer than I realize? Our lands are quite a distance from one another, and though our paths cross from time to time, this is the first conversation we have ever shared.

I do not speak. I know better than to do so, especially when I have nothing but disparaging remarks when it comes to my husband.

Thomas nods like he already knows my answer for himself before reaching into his pocket and pulling out five pence.

My eyes widen as he holds it out for me.

When I do not offer my hand, impatience fills his features as he takes my hand with his free one, dropping the silver coins into my hand before closing it with his.

Flutters fill my stomach, and my heart begins beating thunderously once more as his hold on my hand remains.

“Tell him you collected one, then keep the rest for yourself. Do you understand me?”

I shake my head, rendered speechless.

“I-I cannot. I cannot accept so much from you. I do not require so much?—”

“You do, Mrs. Good. You deserve…far more.”

His words suspend in the air between us, causing me to feel faint as I look up to him.

“Sarah.”

He rolls his lips together like he is reconsidering whether to speak so informally. Being the impulsive man I have seen him to be, though, he does not waste another moment.

“Sarah, please. I insist upon it.”

You would think I am daft the way I have found myself unable to form any considerable amount of words in this man’s presence.

Perhaps I am, though, because I cannot understand why a man with a reputation such as his, one known for his greediness and narcissism, would be so generous.

Especially generous to an unfortunate woman such as myself.

“Thank you…Thomas,” I say, pausing for a moment before using his name.

If there is a single listener into the conversation, the scandal would very well ravage the village before nightfall. My eyes scan our surroundings, relieved to find us alone. Who would believe a gossiper as it is? They would think the person had gone mad. Thomas Putnam and…myself? Outlandish.

“Thomas!” his brother Edward calls out, his strides carrying him towards us faster than I’d care.

In an instant, Thomas drops his hold on my hands, forcing a chill to consume my body, and turns away to face his brother.

I know the gesture is meant to be dismissive, but why do I feel more so protected, as if he was shielding me from his brother, from the rest of the village? It must be my own delusions once more.

“Brother, Ann is looking for you.” I hear Edward say.

Peering around Thomas, I find Edward staring at me with deep curiosity before his eyes return to his brother.

“Should I tell her you are otherwise engaged?”

There is a teasing tone that I’m not certain I enjoy before Thomas speaks.

“Of course not, on my way then.”

I think that is it, until Thomas turns to face me once more, nodding his head as he speaks.

“God be with you, Mrs. Good.”

“God be with you, Mr. Putnam,” I say. “And you as well, Mr. Putnam.”

Edwards casts an uneasy glance to me before reaching into his pocket and flicking a pence. It hits my chest before falling to the ground. I fight the urge to pick it up, not interested in the disrespectful show he is no doubt attempting to orchestrate.

“Well manners are rewarded with well pay, Mrs. Good. My sincerest hope you do not forget that. It may be the very thing to save that agreeable face from similar treatment, yes?” He smirks, gesturing at my cut lip.

An angered noise escapes Thomas before he grips Edward’s arm, ripping him away from me and storming down the road towards their homes.

I cannot clearly hear the impassioned words they speak to one another, and I truly am grateful for that.

The disrespect of the village, while should be tiresome, never fades.

The pain never stops, and each disparaging look and comment pricks at myself on the inside like no strike ever could.

Once they are out of sight, I quickly bend down, grabbing the pence that Edward flicked at me. My pride begged me not to, but my mind was victorious over that battle.

Six pence. That’s more than William has ever made in a week, let alone a day.

Tis more than I have ever held in my hand at one time. I find myself quickly concealing the coins, stepping into Sarah’s shop to purchase as much food as I can manage for a pence while keeping the other five hidden, just as Thomas instructed.