The Advent
Balanced on the horizon, a ship with listless English flags trailed through the swelling waters, a halo of hot dusky sun circling round its sails. Ostensibly, the ship was the hard-planked, sea-rough vessel worthy of those antiquated voyages of Greece or untamable Rome but, if one were particularly observant, grievous details of decay and rank disease lingered around the ship. Pale and scarlet-eyed was the captain and passengers, all leering toward the virgin spot of green forest and ivory sands that sprawled sumptuously in front of them. Clawing at the wet and weathered boards of the ship, the people stood still, their eyes glinting a hungry crimson . . .
Let us turn ourselves away, for a moment, from the lashing black waves and the approaching ship, and rest our imaginations on the gleaming seashore and the emerald myriad of rustling trees— where we shall now be acquaintanced with a gathering of earnest villagers, their pigeon-gray cloaks flapping in the capricious noontide wind. Restless hats and caps flying up, waltzing with the winds, leaving their owners more addled and frustrated than before.
Clumped in a large and somber group, these virtuous Puritans held fast to their clothes which were being so rudely robbed by a devilish wind. Only a short time before had the Puritans been married to the New World, leaving them apt to be wary of their wild, ill-mannered spouse. Waving their black-gloved hands, the Puritans shooed away the caresses of the wind and, determined, fixed their sterile gaze upon the looming ship that drew closer and closer towards them. Each person murmured lowly among themselves in ponderous tones, while the waves hissed, admonishing them to be in better reverence of their new minister's arrival.
Slicing through the dark marsh of seaweed, the inky vessel could only stumble against the rickety Boston deck and drift laxly near it, swaying to and fro in a defeated flurry until two half-dead sailors reined in the ship with slimy and snake-like ropes.
A stench not unlike sulfur emanated from the ruined ship, sending a brief and brilliant sensation of horror among the godly villagers. Perdition itself could not have crafted a more hideous vision, as the ship's passengers phantasmal, cadaverous faces glared over the ship's ledge. Looking like they had made birth from Tartarus rather than Britain, the sailors and passengers stirred from their huddled masses — a great many others didn't stir, but had languidly shut their eyes, paling, the bright flame in their eyes quenched and dead forever.
Bedighted in grandiose frills and lavish velvets, Governor Bellingham emerged from his plain companions and dared to approach the vessel that, in the last passionate blazes of the sun, had mutated fleetingly from deepest black to a ruby, a polished coral, a red rose. In the red-hot gleams of the waxing sun, the sails became fiery, the sailors were gleaming in blood-red light, and the passengers' eyes stared in a hypnotic scarlet glare which brought blaring memories of barbarous old England's cathedral gargoyles. But the apparition flickered away, gradually disenchanting back to its terrific obsidian, and upon seeing this preternatural vision, the crowd hushed into a frightened silence.
Reverend John Wilson, who was one of the most shaken among the crowd, called out towards the hollow-eyed phantoms on the ship, imploring them to answer if the young minister, the young Dimmesdale, was still aboard and still among them in earthly existence. There came only gazes from those on board.
As the boarding plank clattered down upon the deck, the passengers dragged their weary bodies out of the terrible prison that had borne them here. Casting their eyes upwards, they abandoned themselves to the vast darkening sky, the sparkling stars and gauzy lavender clouds, and ignored the whispered welcomes from their Puritan brethren. Agony turned to peace, as the newcomers entered into the arms of the New World. What awed and animal emotions shone in the newcomers' eyes! Too, what peace! How, wondered these Puritan villagers, could they glean such solace from tormenting Nature?
Dimmesdale, no matter how many times the villagers called for him, was not to be summoned and none of the passengers were ever consistent on wheather he was dead or alive.
Yet, unbeknownst to the searchers, two sailors together hoisted a frail shadow up to its feet and carried it forth . . . the shadow was stumbling upon itself like a newborn fawn but something about the ghostly character was persistent and unyielding to the death that so clearly hovered over him.
"'Tis the reverend!"
And it could not be otherwise, for the young man's persistence was above and beyond mortal constraints. Even though death clung about him, in his dirtied rags and skeletal frame, life defiantly remained. Verily, only some power unknown to man had kept him alive, perhaps for reasons that were for an unknown and merciful purpose.
Blood-shot eyes widening, the young minister marveled at the legions of trees and the rich violet heavens, at the first few shy stars winking down upon the earth, the radiant glitter of the sands— and his hobbling feet felt the solidity of ground—! Overcome, he reeled and writhed in an all-encompassing sense of joy. At last, a new beginning! A place to light a beacon of goodness to the world!
All watched the minister gently limp himself away from support, raise his eyes completely heavenwards, and make a few fragile steps on the New World's fresh soil. Eyes aflame with rapture, the minister lowered his gaze to his new congregation . . . and, immediately, his eye's ethereal light extinguished as though snuffed out by a bitter wind. The obsolescence of his joy was evident in his face, which lost all color and twisted fearfully as though the Devil stood within the crowd itself.
Gleaming eyes rolling slowly into the back of his head, the minister fainted into the arms of one of the somber-browed townsmen. Cradling him up, the people carried the listless body away, ushering him deep into the tangled, alien New World . . .
A few scuttling people were left in the bosun's lamplight, searching frantically for the newcomers who might be their loved ones . . . and, while the light dimmed and guttered in the prickly seaside wind, and as the crescent moon rose like a mocking and luminous grin, one woman searched for the outline of an old scholar, of her malformed husband . . . searching for that haggard profile.
The Bellingham Mansion
A light, slivery sheet of rain ran across the golden autumn flowers, the gnarled gourds and their lissome vines, and the large leaves of the cabbages— giving a glossed, alluring polish to the governor's ornamental garden. Glistening like an inciting gemstone itself, the Bellingham mansion stood in lavish and shimmering haughtier, deliberately separated from the cruder cottages of Boston and wild meadows near the thick and untamable wood. The mansion was in its own elaborate world, sparkling mysteriously.
Now, if we lift our eyes to the lattice-windows— which the garden so lovingly decorated with a curtain of untamed vines and fiery flowers to cover the windowpanes— we might see a blurry yellow light flickering inside the dusky panes. Peering through the dim windows, we might see the young minister coiled up in a sturdy oaken bed and, yonder in the nebulous and smoky shadows, an opulent figure bedighted in lace and lemony fringe observing the minister from her cushioned chair.
Mind reeling with undecipherable nightmares, the minister gradually blinked open his weary and swollen eyes to behold the magnificently carved tufts of oaken stars and flowers on his bedpost. In a slow and opiatic state, Dimmesdale admired each polished brown petal, paying little attention to anything else, until he heard a distinct, irritating rustle comefrom the shadows.
Surrounded by a golden smoke, an elderly woman sat in a high-backed Elizabethan chair, with one velveteen arm laid casually on the putrid green ruffles of her skirt and the other fondling a white clay pipe that puffed out long ribbons of coruscating gold.
The minister was immediately awake, his heartbeat increasing tenfold and a frightened tremble hiding in the corner of his lips. The lady's eyes were luminous, pearlescent almost— quite akin to those legendary fairy queens and sibyls of Old England— but, most horrifyingly, her bright eyes were pinned on him.
Unnerved, the minister queried in his raspy, torn, and shattered voice, "Who art thou?"
"A nurse for thee." Was the plain answer. There was a certain danger in her personage, a certain . . . maliciousness.
"And, prithee — wherefore am I here?" He ventured, feeling a strange fear clutch his stomach.
"To be restored to thine youthful health again . . . " Eyes flashing, the woman added, " . . . by me, thy faithful Mistress Hibbins."
After a small reparation, the minister felt the tight cocoon of fear untangle in his stomach as it dawned upon him where he was and wherefore. Frayed nerves smoothened, as the young man remembered the arrangements he had made with Governor Bellingham while he had still been in England and, in an odd sort of revelation, the minister marveled at the fact that he was not waking up in familiar England but in the Americas. He was on the edge of the world, a sea divided from his old study in Oxford, and now in this enchanted utopia.
Upon seeing Dimmesdale's astonished face, the lady broke into a wild grin and gathered up her glisteningly ornate skirts and dissipated into the dark halls outside the sickroom. Dimmesdale awed at her, as he imagined her dress to be made not out of fine thread and silk but of flashing comets and winking stars. Shooing off this flight of fancy, the young minister frowned at her frivolity and opulence— to be the sister of a solemn old Puritan ruler and to be so proudly bedighted in costly garments! Surely, not all the people in New England were so frivolous?
Reappearing with a stream of swirling smoke, Mistress Hibbins brought a painted mug of goatsmilk and a soup of turnips, carrots, and onions that were lovingly cooked into something close to a tasteless pulp. Sitting down, she fed the minister, meticulously measuring each spoonful and, with even greater caution, made sure that Dimmesdale sipped every drop. All this was done not with motherly concern, but in a necrotic diligence that bewildered the young minister.
Carefully setting aside the food, Mistress Hibbins paused and then smiled, "Might I ask thee a question?— for 'tis only a trifling one."
The minister warily consented.
"What didst thou see in the crowd, before fainting away? Ay, many can testify already that a certain horror was portrayed on thine poor face—" Nonchalantly, she crinkled a pinch of tobacco into her white pipe, "What didst thou see, good minister?"
Although he could never be sure, Dimmesdale suspected that the awful slyness of her tone insinuated that she knew already— yet was only teasing and tormenting him, as calm and nonplussed as a cat toying with its tiny prey. A line of golden smoke twined its way leisurely through the swirling air, as Mistress Hibbins stared intently at him.
"A horror," Dimmesdale paled down to a sickly white, and his voice turned to a whisper. "But, I cannot remember— God is gracious— the apparition."
Here the woman cackled, teeth shimmering like jewels in the orange glow of the candle . . . "Graciousness indeed! But enough, thee shall be rested if I am to be thy nurse, and made healthy again. Settle in thy nice blankets, and rest peacefully. Dream of sermons and saints, and other holy things. "
Shaken deeply by her demeanor, the minister felt determined not to succumb to sleep but to keep a vigilant eye on his nurse . . . still, the soothing pitter-patter of the gentle rain against the dirtied windows persuaded him to doze and the warm soup in his stomach lulled him, finally, off to a long and dreamless sleep.
Mistress Hibbins quietly watched the innocent slumber, strange schemes mixing in her devious mind, as the magnificent waves of smoke entwined about the shimmering violet spangles of her headdress.
Out of these interwoven and obscure eddies of smoke, two oblique forms emerged. Whether they came from the cloud of magician's smoke, like summoned apparitions, or from out the ornate darkness of the hallways, I can't say with indubitable certainty, for the shadows were so ghostly at first that they scarcely could be called human. Within the glare of the candle, though, the forms grew more and more solid . . .
"Yonder is our new minister, mine good companions." Murmured the old woman, turning briefly to the two strange visitors.
Seeping from out the shadows came the form of a woman, arrayed in far simpler dress than the Mistress but, nevertheless, her garments were still exceedingly fine, spangled with sewed-on obsidian beads and deep ruff. "How young! And how sweet a countenance— oh, what sadness it must surely have been his dear mother to see him leave!"
"Certainly," Added the second shadow, which revealed itself to be a man with a tranquil air and a refined and courtly gait about him. A stately cane of cherrywood supported his richly gloved hand. But his eyes had a soft and peculiar periwinkle film over them, for he was blind. "Certainly, my dear, if I possessed still mine sight I would behold a sweet boy— !"
Both bowed to Mistress Hibbins, who remained indifferent to their obeisances, and the two stately people instantly gathered around the sleeping minister. They inspected and smiled at his frail features, which they believed to be a physical indication of his soul's weakness and amenability.
For the sake of clarity, I unfortunately must introduce you, dear reader, to this ignominious and calculating couple— Hepzibath and Godfrey Pyncheon, both with lineage from a grand line of leaders, religious or otherwise. Both are respected in the town, for the blind Godfrey was of a relation to the blessed Mr. Mather himself and Hepzibath was known to be a dutiful housewife. Thick as thieves were they and Mistress Hibbins, under the pretense that they were keeping her from waywardness — but the truth was much more sinister.
"For I do sense an uncommon fervor about him—!" Cried out Godfrey, whose senses were made acute from both his lack of sight and from the dark techniques Hibbins had taught him, "And a heretical originality, ay! As a little boy, I can see that our Dimmesdale was one who screamed the catechism and then questioned it. Marry, our Reverend John Wilson will not be understanding of this wildness and curiosity."
"Oh, for shame, though," Observed Hepzibath, "See, the youth brought Bibles and his dear little journals. And, all these dear journals, as I peek through them, are written quite devotedly to God. He could not be too heretical, surely."
Rising regally up from her seat and drifting through the shimmering smoke, Mistress Hibbins strode with a devilish air out to her companions, "Verily, he is a true Christian — but no Puritan, for his mind revolves around wanton and passionate thoughts. If we are crafty, he might be of great advantage. But, alas, let me tell thee of—"
Before Mistress Hibbins could finish, a loud and somber footfall echoed wearily down the hallways, flushing out all other sounds in is reverberation. Such a strong and remorseful step could belong to none other than Reverend John Wilson coming to greet the new minister.
Hushed, the three witches watched the doorway . . .
A Visitor
Entering the room, Reverend Wilson gave a courtly nod to each nurse—even with his plain countenance and the simplicity of his dress, the old Puritan could be as refined as any gentleman. Stepping forward, he gave a delicate glance towards the sleeping minister and, from his Geneva cloak, he produced a small loaf that smelled of sweet spices. Presenting the welcoming gift like a wise man in the nativity, he reverently placed the bundle on the bedside table. Mr. Wilson stared in solemn silence at the drowsy and childlike Dimmesdale, who was stirring at the grand and sumptuous scents. Old cinnamon and gruff brandy, a hardy ordure of withered berries— a smell that was poignantly filled with memories of England. Smells and spices overcoming him, Dimmesdale awoke.
"Greetings, Mr. Dimmesdale." Said Mr. Wilson, in a dire tone. Then, with a slow turn, he addressed Hepzibath Pyncheon, "He is in a grave state, indeed, with such an emaciated frame . . . " "Aye," Replied the housewife, who had sobered greatly upon the arrival of Mr. Wilson, "But, in charity, my husband and I shall care for him along with Mistress Hibbins. God is good to spare such a young life, Mr. Wilson!"
Quite impressed by her seemingly compassionate and righteous nature, Mr. Wilson nodded at her wisdom. "Thy works are incredibly noble, and thy kindness is a blessing to our town!"
Watching from the shadows, Mistress Hibbins smiled a cunning, dark smile that shimmered in wickedness. Catching the glistening smile, Hepzibath and Godfrey's eyes twinkled in sly, glimmering merriment. Only did Dimmesdale see, in horror, this chilling exchange—and immediately he felt its evil.
"See how the fever makes thee shake!" Cried Mr. Wilson, lowering bewildered frown towards Dimmesdale, "Yet, praise God, it's evident you shall be on the mend with such good nurses as these. When thy health has been improved, I shall visit thee again to talk over sermons."
Dimmesdale would have cried out and clung to Mr. Wilson in desperation, if only he had possessed the strength. Both in mind and body, the young minister felt feeble and hopeless. The only godly man he had met so far was now to abandon him here—left at the mercy of Mistress Hibbins!
A heavy despair weighted down upon the minister's beating heart, as Mr. Wilson bowed to the nurses and vanished out of the dark doorway and into the obscurity of the ornate hallways, leaving the young minister in the frightening glitter of his nurse's smiles and stares.
Threads
Twining the spare threads around her fingers, Hester Prynne held up the handkerchief—a tiny vision of bright colors and flourishing designs — to the sultry light of the dying fire. Hester sat urbanely in the damp corner of her cottage, studying her craftsmanship. The stitches curled and woven into fox gloves and ferns, a lush line of cool green and soothing magenta — and, out of a frivolous and wayward thought, Hester compared the stitches' graceful lines and patterns to a blithe dance. Green and magenta danced and twirled together, in a gleeful little jig, like she those had had with her family in England—
"Frivolous thought!" She muttered, a sour frown bending upon her brow. Dancing was, as she had been told by the townsfolk, a ridiculous and wasteful sport. Moreover, she realized what a waste it was of her time to embellish a handkerchief — when she had still to make gloves and shawls for the fast-approaching winter.
Embittered, Hester threw aside her needlework and swept out of the room. Marching into the dismal and unlit kitchen, Hester stormed to and fro until finally, when the last sizzling spark of wrathfulness extinguished, she covered her crimson face in her hands, prayed, and calmly stepped out.
Still praying for composure, Hester did not retire again to her sewing but instead fastened on her cloak so tightly it choked her and strode out into the gentle, yet deathly cold, rain. How could she endure sitting alone, with only these wistful memories to keep her company?
Out she walked, through the unkempt and complex path of the graveyard that nestled next to her cottage — the thistles that sprouted from the tombs tugging irritably at her sturdy cloak, as though pushing her back to the cottage, to wait, to sew, to go mad.
But, Hester soldiered on. An unseen hand led her onwards, as she prayed the sour air would give her sickness and take her away from her pathetic, wasteful existence. Out, out Hester made her exodus and towards the wind-swept meadows, and the rustling, sinister wood.
Bubbling up from within her was a clawing, murderous desperation that screamed and yelled and kicked. Prayers seemed only to magnify the hellish feeling, as though God desired her not to conceal it but to feel its burn and relish it.
Vaulting up her wrath no more, Hester prowled furiously around the margin of the meadow, murmuring oaths and gnashing her teeth.
Selfish! Wicked! Thoughtless! – Thoughtless of her husband to tear her so far apart from her mother and father! And, worse still, to leave her wallowing here, in this farce of a paradise, this corrupted Eden! Oh, and how heavy would be the frowns of the townspeople, lest they saw her now! The frivolous passion of a woman's heart, they might say! Yet, did not Christ himself passionately throw over the merchant tables in Jerusalem? How could her wrath be unjustified? She was condemned here, sentenced among people who felt so little for her, or for anything. Even for God, whom Hester did genuinely love, they sought little of expressing true devotion or fellowship! Did they feel? Were they human, or was Hester among the dead?
Utopia
Feeling the soft prickle of fresh air, Dimmesdale carefully walked out of the rank darkness of the wooden mansion and into the parterre. Although the garden was wilted, wrinkled, and faded with the frost and constant rain— there were still a few autumn flowers appearing, in a dazzling defiance, among their withered beds.
Hope glowed within the minister, as he surveyed the persistent spots of voluptuous life among the stale and smothering death that surrounded them. Bending down to awe at the leaves of one meager tuft of flowers, Dimmesdale gently plucked off one golden leaf and one dewy petal, with such reverence and respect that one could think that the minister was afraid to harm the lustrous flowers. Handling them like precious gems, he folded the leaf and petal next to his most beloved scriptures in his Bible.
But, this blaze of hope extinguished as Dimmesdale felt the eyes of his three nurses pin down upon him from the diamond-paned windows of the grand and ghastly house. Unnerved, the young minister felt a terror grip his soul and, in defense, he put the Bible to his chest like a shield. Although he was aware that Godfrey and his wife were members of prominence in the town and church, there was still a fearful impression in Dimmesdale that told him that they were striving to convert him to some strange and secret sect inside the community, to twist and control him, to watch and study his every move.
Dimmesdale looked up at the unholy trinity, feeling a cold pit open up at the bottom of his stomach. Was he forever to be under their all-seeing eye? Worse still, were all people in this colony as horrifying?
"Reverend Dimmesdale!"
The shaken minister turned briskly towards the voice. Standing underneath the high arched entrance of the house, stood the eminent Mr. Wilson, a cordial smile peering beneath his sober black hat.
"Reverend Dimmesdale," Mr. Wilson squinted his eyes in astonishment, "How changed art thou! Bedridden one week, and strolling in the governor's garden the next! How merciful of God to preserve thee so stealthily!"
Never did Mr. Wilson suspect how overjoyed the young minister was to see him, for Dimmesdale kept the polite and placid demeanor that was expected of a minister — but, if Mr. Wilson could peek into Dimmesdale's heart, he would see the wild relief that the distressed man felt to see and talk to someone other than his terrifying nurses.
While kindly drawing the young minister into the governor's study, Mr. Wilson talked of the town meeting that was scheduled for the next day— an event mainly to observe Dimmesdale, to put him under immense scrutiny and test him of his abilities to preach goodness to the townspeople.
"Now, we should discuss the upcoming sermon." Mr. Wilson added thoughtfully.
Nodding dutifully, the young minister sat down upon one of the many polished oak chairs in the magnificent room. For a fascinated moment, he became enchanted by the windowpanes and their sparkling mosaic of glass and glowing amber. Each pane sent a trembling beam of white light across the room— and each beam danced jovially over the maps and solemn leather tomes of law.
Governor Bellingham appeared, a vision of highborn elegance as usual, but his face was haggard and weary. He had been scarce around the mansion, because he had been corresponding with John Eliot during most of the month— to ensure a treaty between the Indians and his town. His exhausted face was a testament to the difficulty of the treaty, and his depression was the result of many an argument between the missionaries and himself.
Opening up the cellarette, the governor poured himself a generous glass of brandy and then gave equally generous glasses to the two men. And, so commenced the meeting:
"So, prithee, Mr. Dimmesdale," Started the governor, sipping his drink, "What hath you to contribute to our town? What will be the focus of your sermon tomorrow?"
Taking a moderate sip, Dimmesdale replied, "I hope to firstly focus on potential of our Puritan town—how this land is an opportunity to light a beacon to the world, not to be a refuge. We will use our freedom to spread our message like we never could before in England."
A sternness took hold of Mr. Wilson's usually congenial face, while his brow was weighed down by a iron frown. "Yet . . . we shall expel all wickedness from our community, of course? We cannot be so liberal with some of the licentious men and women who come through our town."
Feeling a little affronted, the young minister added delicately, "Of course . . . though there must be a hesitation to become too unwelcoming. Imagine the many sinners that we might ignore who could be converted. What of those left in darkness outside our good community? They cannot be abandoned whilst we live in the light."
Governor Bellingham bridled, his face souring in disapproval, "If they are not saved, their whole desire should be that they bring themselves into a good community . . . 'tis not our responsibility to save their souls, 'tis their's and God's. "
"Yet, for thine own words before, thou wouldst make it so difficult for a unregenerate man to enter a godly community. Christ himself was among reprobates, and loved them—thus, so should we, if our community strives to be godly."
Governor Bellingham and John Wilson exchanged a grave look, while a cloud passed over their countenances.
The governor glanced down at the young minister, and spoke with a knowing, belittling tone that caused Dimmesdale to secretly burn with indignation, "With observation over my life, I have seen how these ideals can apply to Christ but cannot necessarily apply to the common, fallible man. And, to presume we are like Christ would indeed be idolatry."
Feeling shocked at the purport of the governor's words, the young minister's heart sank into his boots. He feebly opened the Bible in his lap to find a scripture that might persuade the two discerning men otherwise— but the leaf and petal spilled out, in a golden flourish, onto the floor.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Wilson shook his head in disappointment, "Perchance, it would be wisest if I performed the sermon tomorrow— for it seems we do not see eye to eye with thine convictions and I do not approve of what influence thine ideas might have upon our town."
The young minister nodded submissively, although his soul was seething. "I heartily apologize for any offence."
"There was no offence, young Mr. Dimmesdale." Stated the lordly governor, holding up his chin, "Only misunderstanding—and, perchance, a thoughtlessness on your part."
Standing up, the young minister bowed to the two men and promptly disappeared into the garden, his face red as a ruby and eyes downcast in total mortification—and, perhaps, a glint of anger. But, the minister did not dare show these scarlet emotions in front of them, lest they think any less of him.
Hester's Refuge
Very few understand the value of refuge or the sanctity of a silent moment as Hester Prynne.It was times like these, when she sat amidst the lordly trees, that she pretended that she was the only person left on earth. In her solitude, she would nestle herself next to a mossy nook near the meadow and read over scripture or, on particularly frustrating days, she would carry her needlework into the damp, shady wood.
The other housewives might have harangued her for her disappearances, but she felt no obligation to please them— she herself had no children or husband to care for, and did not see a point to help the other women with what was their responsibility. Moreover, as a woman without her husband, Hester had little identity or worth in the town—and it pained her when she was left to "guide the house alone", only to be a silent effigy sitting stone-like by the fireside.
Among the velvety moss and the wrinkled cushion of fallen autumn leaves, Hester was the master of her own little world. In her readings, she could be among the Egyptian temples or in a humid, buzzing marketplace in Jerusalem— here, in her imagination, the Bible was alive and not a sermon, spoken through the interpretations of a minister who censored the wilder, more exotic parts. While imagining these foreign marvels, Hester made her needlework look as realistic as the curling ferns and dew-speckled leaves that circled around her .
One day in her hermitage, Hester wondered if it were better for her to disappear altogether— perhaps, to live forever in the woods. But immediately she cast off the idea, for there were malicious things that happened among the woods at night— the screams of witches and the prowling of Indians. Once, when Hester had stayed too late in the wilderness, she had seen three cloaked, devilish forms drift through the trees, each phantom carrying a blood-speckled animal. Hester has seen them dancing in the night in their diabolical sacrament, by a roaring fire that spat out starbursts of blood and magic. There, the curious Hester had seen Mistress Hibbins and her companions circle around the flames . . .
As if evil were summoned by her thoughts, a black form slinked from out of the trees. Amazed and frightened by the sight, Hester ran to the bushes— Was this the Black Man who roamed the wood, to snare men's souls?
Straying here and there, holding the black cloak closely, the black figure finally backed up against a tree, gave a defeated whine, and sank down to its feet. Frowning, Hester observed how the phantom's hands covered its face and, looking closer, she saw upon its chest was a minister's collar. Respiring for a moment, Hester smiled in relief but, soon after, a sense of urgency overtook her— she must escape, lest the minister sees her so idle in the wood and make her the subject of scorn at his next sermon. Worse, a suspicion of witchcraft could be put upon her in court.
Yet, Hester thought, why was a minister out in the woods? Surely, whatever transgressions he could accuse her of, she could easily accuse him of the same.
Gathering together her wits, holding her small New Testament to her heart, Hester rose from out of the tangled bushes with a stoic, suspicious air that caused the minister to pale in its harshness.
Dimmesdale Visits the Refuge
In disgrace, Dimmesdale had left the governor's study with a spurned pride and a heavy heart. Hoping to find refuge in the oasis of his books, he went to his room . . . only to be greeted by the daunting smiles of the nurses. Trapped, mortified, and discouraged the minister avoided their smiles and set out to consult the revered Eliot, that wise Puritan leader who lived across the wood with the Indians. Perhaps, he had thought, some encouragement might come from such a wise and experienced leader . . .
But the path leading through the wood was narrow and untamed, pitter-pattering unevenly through the wilderness— and, to a minister accustomed to the familiar Oxford roads, it was easy to lose one's way.
Lost and defeated, the minister collapsed under the shame of failing already in the eyes of his superiors. Surely this prefigured his ultimate failure in the eyes of the town . . . and his failure as a minister. Another weight pressed down upon his heart, a heavy disappointment. A disappointment that his hopes were crushed for the new world, this strange Eden, could be a haven for those with heads and hearts ready for reform.
And, now, appearing from the wilderness, this gray spectre. Her frown pinned down upon him, as if reading and judging all his thoughts . . .
"Who art thou?" The judge-like woman raised her chin, and lowered her eyes down to him. "Is that Reverend Dimmesdale?"
Feeling a little close to crying, Dimmesdale surveyed the wood around him for escape and, when none was found, looked up at his judge and nodded.
Hester watched him very carefully, surprised by the state he was in. A small feeling of understanding came over her, as she watched him sigh and cover his face. "Now, wherefore art thou in such a disparaging state?"
Settling down on a mossy stump across from the distressed minister, Hester introduced herself in a much more compassionate tone. Biting his lip, as to prevent tears, the minister bowed as nicely as a man can when he is feeling pathetic— and, in an inexplicable openness, he told her how he had come to be there, the horror of his nurses, and the shame of his failure.
Surprised with his own behavior and puzzled why he could tell his troubles so easily to a stranger, the minister frowned at himself— yet it was undeniable the relief that came upon him, it was like the shackles that weighed down his heart were unlocked and he was set free. Hester herself was startled at his torrent of problems that he detailed to her, but something deep within her felt comfortable hearing it all. There indeed was a strange familiarity between the two.
"Dost thou not think they are obstinate men?" Arthur Dimmesdale spoke quite childishly of Mr. Wilson and Governor Bellingham, when he finished his vent. "Worse still, think of the fate of the people outside the town, who will never be allowed to have a godly life!"
Hester was silent, composing her thoughts—and then she offered, "Knowing the townspeople more intimately than thee, I can say that it will be impossible to alter their ways so quickly." Here she paused, deciding if her thoughts were valid, "Thy ideas are noble and I understand them . . . but I should suggest the sermons only insinuate certain messages, so as not to offend. You must persuade them with force but also with care."
Flittering autumn leaves surrounding them, the two talked and planned in the gloomy shade of the oak trees. Very rarely was there such an exchanging of ideas between a Puritan man and woman— but Dimmesdale was not naturally inclined to dismiss or belittle and Hester held an intelligence that truly surprised him. Between Hester and Dimmesdale there was a confidence and a friendship that astonished them both how quickly it formed— it was a friendship like the ones they used to have as children, excited and new, unlike the stale acquaintances they made among adults.
As nature became frenzied in the last moments of day, the two became more happy and cheerful with their plans and, while they ventured back to the town, their steps began to grow lighter and lighter until their feet were almost skipping along the winding roads to the village.
Unbeknownst to Hester or Dimmesdale, three pairs of eyes followed their every move . . . glinting wildly with a sinful mischief.
Snowfall
Blanketing the town with a heavy layer of glimmering frost, snow had covered the town overnight, dressing the menacing woods in dapper white robes of crystals and enchanting the villager's rustic wooden homes into temples of whitest marble. But in contrast to the chilled atmosphere of the outside, the inside of the church was blazing with the words of the young minister—scorching the consciences of the congregation, his sermon touching their hearts and minds and consuming them in its flame.
Impressed by the young minister's humble change from their last meeting, Mr. Wilson had permitted Dimmesdale to give his first sermon and, as he sat astounded after the fire of holy words, he praised the godly youth and implored for forgiveness on whatever qualms they had once had.
Although the young minister had won the hearts of many that day, Hester seemed to beam and adore more than the rest— for she knew secretly that she had partly made that captivating message which spellbound the town. Her voice was finally being heard, even though her minister was channeling it.
Yet, as was respectable, Hester reined in her happiness until after the sermon, when she pulled aside Reverend Dimmesdale, and the two talked about their success so excitedly they had to cover their mouths, for it was sinful to smile on the Lord's Day.
Richly attired in yellow frill, violet bodice, and tasseled silk sleeves Mistress Hibbins approached with her glinting eyes and congratulated Reverend Dimmesdale in such a knowing tone that caused small tremors to crawl up his spine. As she walked away, Dimmesdale began describing the constant terror he experienced in the governor's mansion . . . how he would see Hibbins smile at wickedness and how she had such evil mastery over the Pyncheons.
"I know they are witches," Hester confided in Dimmesdale, "Thy suspicions are not wrong— for I have seen them hold meetings in the woods. Though 'tis fruitless to tell anyone of their wickedness, for they will not believe my word against theirs."
Shocked by her words, the young minister's face transformed darkly at first but, after a moment, there burned a few sparks of enthusiasm in his eyes. "Hester, they will listen to me if I expose them! I have won the townspeople's trust and, if we are patient, we can reveal them in the midst of their wickedness!"
Spying, as she always did in church, Hepzibath Pyncheon had gathered enough information from this conversation to turn pale, whisper some words into her husband's ear, hurriedly put on her cloak and, in the blink of an eye, Hepzibath and her husband were gone. Never were the Pyncheons seen again in the village, the only mark left by them was a ransacked house and footprints leading into the woods.
As the rest of the town retired, with burning hearts, to reflect upon their scathing sins, the minister and Hester continued to talk and consult each other about the next sermon. Straying into the white woods, with its towering trees laboring with pounds of diamond-like snow, the two suddenly turned into children, and began to throw handfuls of snow into the air so the crystals would fall down glimmering like jewels.
When Dimmesdale, who had forgotten completely the solemnity that must be kept on the Lord's Day, began throwing some handfuls at Hester, she stormed back at him with a battery.
Running away from an attack by Hester, the young minister stopped suddenly in his tracks and turned as colorless as the snow beneath him. Clutching his heart, he looked intensely into the distance . . . and, when Hester reached him, he grabbed her by the arm and pointed towards two figures nearby.
Wrapped in ragged skins and belts of sinew, two Indians stared across with cautious black eyes.
No one dared move. Tension filled the air, as the two sides marveled at each other, amazed and puzzled, but most of all, frightened. One Indian was a woman, dressed in skinned boots and her tangled raven hair bejeweled with small shells and the other was a man, with feathers strung round his neck which was an indication of priesthood.
Both pairs stood in apprehension, recalling the atrocious stories of blood and mercilessness wrought by both sides . . . yet there was a familiarity between them, almost as though they were mirror images of each other.
Then, distracted by a snap of a twig, Hester and Dimmesdale nervously turned away . . . looking back only to see that the two Indians vanished into the wilderness. Likewise the two Puritans desperately ran back through the thick snow, greatly shaken.
Stigmata
Trembling still as he retired to his room, the young minister was given some comfort by reading his journals and books on the thick cedar table and with a candle burning near them, sending flickering shadows to and fro throughout the room . . . the faint light insinuating thick wooden chairs, tasseled black draperies, and a small cabinet stippled delicately with stars and moons. Soberly the young minister wished that the governor had not put so many grave distractions in his room . . . as the young minister's mind was distracted enough.
Dimmesdale exhaustedly settled down into his bed and, by degrees, everything faded into a nightmarish and confusing darkness. Sinking deeper and deeper into his dreams, Dimmesdale suddenly found himself again standing on the boarding plank, on the brink between the ship and the New World. All the townspeople were gathered once again to see him arrive. Only now the air smelled of smoke – of witchcraft.
There, in the crowd, was a grinning and mischievous face with snake-like eyes — though, the face belonged neither to devil nor deviant — but it was his own. It was his face that glistened at him with a horrendous joy from the crowd, like a twisted mirror image, beckoning him into the forest. The false Dimmesdale was dressed in royal velvet with Spanish frill . . . his eyebrow arched mischievously, his free hand grandiosely rested on his hip, and a devious smirk twittered haughtily along his lips. He stood among the crowd, exalted, while Hester stood an outcast in threadbare clothes — holding up her hands to him. Like she had been crucified, Hester's palms had two red slits like the stigmata on Christ.
Flying in the dark, looming sky were Mistress Hibbins, Godfrey, and Hepzibath. Surrounded by a halo of jarring crimson, they cackled together while they smoked and blew wavy, mesmeric clouds of glittering smoke that transformed into the letter A. The smoke changed to hellish flame and burned the letter upon the minister's heart. An inexplicable sadness rippled over him, as he touched the imprinted letter on his chest.
And, to terrify him all the more, the moon above turned crimson and the clouds dripped with blood. Shrinking to the ground, Dimmesdale felt the tight, itching pain in his chest and, at once, he realized he was no longer by the docks— but on the town scaffold. Standing next to him was Hester, a similar mark glowing from her chest and a similar pain in her eyes . . . and it seemed that the crowd had grown in size, and the whole world frowning down upon them.
Just as the mark on Dimmesdale's chest scalded the worst, a cool golden light appeared far off in the crowd. It was an uneven sort of light, like when one sees the sun from underwater, but it was strong enough to sooth the horrible wound on his chest. Undaunted by the horrors that surrounded it, the light shone an even more brilliant gold to spite the red ugliness that covered the world. Taking the form of a little girl dressed in jewels of great cost, the golden light turned all the blood drops into rosebuds by her laughter. The cold murmurings of the crowd turned into coos of delight, as the little fairy laughed away the thunder and heavy clouds, her feet dancing so lightly they barely touched the ground. Clear and blue became the sky, the red stains washed away by her presence.
And as the fairy-child pranced up to the scaffold, as proudly as an infant princess, she looked down upon Dimmesdale, smiled wildly, and climbed into Hester's arms . . .
Epilogue, Outside the Prison
A thin ray of light, like a thread of a spider's web, shone out of the heavy iron bars of the prison window. That lissome ray rested upon the wide, anxious eyes of a man seeped in shadows, dressed in the darkest black, holding his white hand over his heart. There he hid, unbeknownst to man, in the shadow of the prison, grieving.
Over the last many months, the townspeople had noticed a drastic change in Arthur Dimmesdale. His sermons had become a more ethereal in their messages, a weary truth pervaded though each word he spoke— the young minister had left behind that heretical fire in his voice and quelled it with a awed and trembling tone. He grew pale and fragile, as though some invisible frost was chilling him to his death . . . surely, the stern Puritans thought, the sins of Hester Prynne had shocked the pure minister into sickness. Surely, the paling of his cheeks when he saw the licentious woman was his spirit waning away at the brazenness of her crimes.
How they mistook his shame! How unaware they were that at night the minister stood near the prison, listening to the sounds of the cooing baby and feeling the weight of sin upon his heart!
Many a young couple had the minister married, outwardly with a serene face, but how his spirit burnt with jealousy against them! His conscience, or something more sinister, had tormented him with the idea that he too could have been so with Hester, if only he had been wiser. Each time he rose to the pulpit, and as he spoke in broken tones about godliness, the hypocrisy of his words tasted bitter in his mouth and his heart grew sick and heavy. Each time Dimmesdale saw a child holding the hand of their father, the minister lowered his head knowing that he could never be so with his own child.
Countless times had the magistrates coaxed Hester Prynne into revealing the partner in her crime, but she never betrayed one word against Dimmesdale. Yet he never felt secure or peaceful. Every day was a sin, every breath a crime to Dimmesdale. In Oxford life had been simpler because each thought and action was prescribed to him by his professors, leaving very little room for making mistakes or developing his own opinions. Here, where the young minister had hoped to free himself from such constraints, he found only confusion. Every time he did what he felt was truly right, shame and sorrow followed suit. Now, in this ultimate transgression with Hester, he was too stunned and too bewildered to state his guilt but instead silently played the role that everyone wanted him to play: the pious reverend.
Tomorrow was the public judgement day of his sin. Upon the scaffold, Hester would be given the opportunity to publicly reveal the other sinner— to put him to public shame, and perhaps even send him towards the gallows. Yet, Dimmesdale knew that Hester would not take the responsibility of exposing him, but would leave it upon his own feeble shoulders to confess. And the minister always had yearned to confess himself openly while the magistrates privately interrogated Hester, yet there was always a craven impulse, at the last second, to stay silent.
Silent the minister stayed, carrying the poisonous sin within his heart, and silent was he now as he listened to the coos of the baby and the voice of its mother, listening to the joys that he would forever be barred.
THE END.
Word of Disclaim:
Hawthorne, I thank you for writing such a painfully good book. And for illustrating such tortured characters, which fledgling writers like myself can awe over. Readers of my story, all characters that aren't familiar are my imperfect attempts at creating characters half as interesting and complex as Hawthorne's.
This was composed for an English class. . . - - I was always curious about Rev. Dimmesdale and Hester's respect/fear/anger/dread/love relationship. And I was very curious about the town of Boston (pre-Dimmesdale)- - What were the Puritans doing? How was their ideology changing to one of self-sacrifice and ministry to one of isolation and supremisy? How were the Puritans being influnced in this New World? How did they see Nature? How did they restrain a woman from genius? . . . et cetera.