Hello again! Sorry for the slow updates; I had originally separated this chapter into two parts, but I decided just to mush it into one long chapter.
Also, for some clarification, when Mrs. Overland scolds Jack for "nearly drowning", it does not allude to when Jack had fallen through the ice in canon; this is a separate incident.
Again, thank you all for the wonderful responses!
Chapter V.
For the past week, learning about this pre-industrial world Jamie finds is tougher than he imagined. Clothes are challenging, as they had vastly different names compared to the simpler ones from his future. Words like doublet and jerkins were like jackets—and there was a good assortment of vests, too—but fancier. Then there were the cursed breeches and stockings—though it was a great relief to find he could still wear pants, or trousers as they were called. Shoes had buckles instead of laces or Velcro, belts were made of real leather instead of fake leather, there were more cloaks than coats (Jamie had fun swirling around in Jack's green cloak like an overdramatic Snape), and there were many more buttons on those fancier vests and jackets.
Alongside all this mess, Jack had been forced to bedrest for a week, including Jamie, too. For that long week, they'd shared the bed, remaining respectful of each other's space on the small narrow mattress. And god, what an awful bed it was! Jack had told him the bed was stuffed with straw and pine cones to ward off bedbugs—something Jamie knew would be far more common in this bedding than a regular, more modern mattress—the pillow was stuffed with goose feathers, the bed frame itself made out of hand carved wood, rickety and creaking in all its primitive glory.
Even worse, the medicines Mrs. Overland offered were disgusting, though he didn't say it out loud. They smelled something awful, and looked like vomit and poop mixed together. He could tell Jack didn't like the concoctions either, based on his constant grimaces and gagging once his mother was out of sight. Jamie remembered he hadn't been able to stop laughing after the first time he'd done it.
According to Jack, at Jamie's questions of daily activities, they both had been let free of chores for the week, some that included laborious jobs like chopping wood and milking nanny goats. Turns out, in Jack's past life—the one they were reliving now—he'd been a shepherd, herding sheep and goats into their pens and around the fields up by a hill, with a sheepdog that followed him loyally, even though the animal didn't belong to him. At the time he'd been learning all this craziness, the dog, Tanner, was housed at their owner's place, someone named Earl Townsend.
After some resting after Jamie's bath on their first day in the Hawthorne village, Mrs. Overland and her daughter had returned home a few hours later, the adorable little girl dressed up in plain brown clothes—a dress that reached to her ankles, and a tiny black cloak that fit her tiny frame perfectly. Her brown hair—lighter than Jack's deep copper brown—to Jamie's surprise, was styled similarly to his own sister, Sophie's messy blonde.
Seeing her face for the first time rang a bell in Jamie's mind, wondering where he'd seen someone with features close to her own—until he realized he was basically looking at his reflection, seeing her wide brown eyes, button nose, and ruddy cheeks. Jamie was looking at his ten year old self in the face of a girl from three hundred years ago.
From what he witnessed when his friends sister, Emily Overland she'd introduced herself as, she had jumped into his spindly arms; she was a sprightly spirit much like Jack, and, well, Jamie might be miscalculating here, but Emily looked well enough to have a fiery temper just like her mother.
Strangely enough, Jack had appeared to be close to tears when she'd hugged him tightly, her sniffling muffled into his shoulder.
"You are stupid, Jack," she'd told him.
Jack buried his face into her long hair. "I know. I'm sorry, Emily." Jamie pretended not to notice the tremble in his arms as he squeezed his sister tight.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "Mum, too."
Mrs. Overland, who had been observing from afar, looked a little teary-eyed. "Worry not, Jack. Just do not do it again."
Jack nodded so hard Jamie wondered if it made him dizzy. He then made sure to keep the little girl in his sight at all times, inviting her to sit on the bed he and Jamie have been sharing together.
Some of the things Jack had showed him over time, using his staff as a crutch most of the time, was the smelly shed that housed the horses and goats he'd seen when Richard had pulled him to the magistrate's house, the well that actually wasn't empty but filled with cold water, the massive townhouse that loomed over the street where the market sat, and finally the fields where the sheep strolled every morning.
Jack had instructed him about the early hours most of the townsfolk would awaken to, ready to work for the day. Everything, the teen had told him, was for the village itself. To keep it functioning, to keep trade plentiful, to provide for the people—rich or poor—and for themselves, too.
Unlike Jamie's modern worldview of an American city not needing to be directly relied on by its people and just doing his own thing in providing for himself and other smaller things for his economy, this colonial society directly relies on the citizens, with much more limited resources, wants, and needs. In both times, Jamie knew, trade is important, but instead of there being cargo ships or long-haul truckers passing by to distribute supplies into American supermarkets, this time period was in need of traders, merchants, architects, and wagon travelers for a stable economy, no matter the size.
In this Early American period, labor is needed for a healthy supply of goods. Shipmakers, wheelwrights, blacksmiths, and other, smaller jobs like chandlers and cobblers. Which is why Mrs. Overland emphasized the importance of tasking as a hard-working citizen of this village.
"All work and no play," Jack had said.
And now, after all these hours of touring the village and avoiding talking to curious strangers, their time was up. Mrs. Overland had explained there were only so many times a good Christian can miss church days as well as chores, and if they missed any more, there basically would be fines added to their paycheck, or worse.
And, throughout all this, Jamie had no clue where to start in such a strange situation, though Jack, from his secretive smiles and mischievous demeanor, knew exactly what he was facing in the coming days and Jamie dreaded it.
How bad could it be?
"Up and at 'em!" Is the first thing that Jamie hears when he is rudely woken up on the seventh day of their stay. He groans, snuggling deeper into the blankets. "Noooo…."
That didn't deter Jack. "C'mon, Jamie! It's Sunday!" He continued to shake Jamie's shoulders.
Jamie grumbles. "It's the weekend…" What else did they have to do on a lazy Sunday? Church?
He hears a laugh from Jack, and is suddenly encased in freezing cold air when the younger man yanks away the blankets, and he buries his head under the feather-filled pillow. There was a pattering of feet and his pillow was yanked from his grasp and now he was facing the bitter cold of no insulation. "Jaaack…"
"Jaaamiee…" Jack parrots. "Get. Up."
Finally relenting, he sits up, tugging down the nightgown when it reveals his bare legs. "Why do I havta wear this stupid thing?"
"It's time for church." Jack tells him, ignoring his whining. Floundering, Jamie sat with squinty eyes as he processed the declaration. "Church?!" Who the heck chose church to be this goddamn early?!
And of course he jinxes himself again.
"Morning Prayers." Jack replies.
Morning what now?
Feeling all sorts of emotions, Jamie flops down onto the bed, internally crying when it doesn't even bounce. Stupid goose feathers, stupid straw… Stupid church forcing me to get up at ungodly-o'-clock for praying—something I don't do anymore.
Hands at his shoulders startle him, attempting to push him off the bed. Not wanting to meet the cold floorboards of a cold house, he springs from where he lay, smoothing down the nightgown. "I'm up, I'm up."
Jack chortles. "I'll leave you to get dressed. Be quick, though. Mum's got breakfast ready."
As Jack leaves his room, Jamie unhelpfully retorts, "You could've told me to get up for breakfast, not church!" Not that there was anything wrong with attending church, it just wasn't something he participated in. It wasn't something he was interested in, either.
Jack doesn't listen. He simply closes the door behind him and Jamie is now alone. Definitely not a morning person. Gotta get used to getting up early now, it seems, Jamie chides himself.
Grumbling, he walks to the lone wardrobe and opens it, staring at the assortment of clothes that he still had no idea how to wear properly. What was clothing etiquette here? Did he have to go all out with a puffy collar for church, or just wear a loose vest with simple trousers? Or worse, breeches with stockings?
This is already a pain in the ass.
Jamie picks something that seems simple: a simple blue long-sleeved vest-thing (doublet, Jack's voice reminds him) with a loose shirt and brown trousers, hoping it's appropriate for a day like attending mass. It wasn't much of a hassle to put it all together, and it fit almost perfectly. Jack might be a few inches shorter than him, but their physiques were close enough.
Dressed without much trouble, he exits the room turning into the dining area attached to the kitchen that had a steaming pot on the stove, where Jack, his mother, and sister sat at the four-sided table with one chair empty. Jamie wonders what it has been for before his arrival. Maybe their father?
As he takes his seat, Jamie inspects the assortment of food for breakfast: bowls full of oatmeal (porridge, Jack would likely insist), with a loaf of bread on a dish sided with a block of butter, a dull butter knife laid beside it, the table covered by a thin white tablecloth, and the silverware appearing rusty with style and clearly handcrafted. Even the forks had three tines instead of the four he expected. How odd, Jamie thought, is it a design choice?
Exchanging words is a little awkward, as this was only the first week of Jamie's stay in a stranger's house and he understood Jack's family being wary of him—having turned up in the woods knowing their son like a childhood friend despite never being a part of the village. The silence is stilted and stiff as they ate, the silverware clanking against dish-ware loudly in the tense silence. It didn't seem to be the case with the Overlands, though Jack kept a beady eye on him for who knows what.
The food doesn't taste great, either, but Jamie knew when to keep his mouth shut and be grateful. The bread, while fresh, is cold and nearly stale; the drinking water murky and bitter (and hopefully not poisoned with parasites); and the porridge just plain weird: grainy and pulpy. He could see Jack fighting a smile as Jamie struggled to choke down the less-than-pleasant serving. Screw you, the city boy tells the jerk silently.
Breakfast is finished quicker than Jamie expects, and the mother of two retrieves the dishes to store them away to be cleaned later, allowing the three younger to prepare for the day. Jamie didn't have a cloak or coat to wear, (and didn't want to intrude by asking for one) so he stands awkwardly to the side and watched as Jack dons his muted green cloak, helped his sister into hers, and placed a felt hat similar to some of the men he'd seen wearing over his head. Mrs. Overland, he observes, puts on a crimson red cloak that reminded Jamie of Little Red Riding Hood.
Jack wears a smart-looking dark brown waistcoat over a long-sleeved tunic hidden by his outdoor cloak, with a frilled collar jutting out from the collar like he had straw stuffed down his shirt front. Jamie smiles a little when he realizes Jack sorta looks like one of those patriots from old Revolutionary War documentaries he watched when he was a kid.
Jamie stifles a laugh at the sight of his breeches and stockings, vastly different from Jamie's much comfier trousers. Emily, on the other hand, looked a lot like her mother. She wears a thin white cap instead of a bonnet, also wearing a long dress held by the arms of an apron, a dull gray shawl draped over her tiny shoulders.
Mrs. Overland's outfit is a simple dress with a waistcoat, but colored a muted blue instead of yellow like that one time earlier in the week. She had her shawl tucked into the square-shaped collar of the blouse, added with a long white apron and blue skirt that looks very uncomfortable in the unusually warmer weather. Wrapped around her head is a faded white bonnet, tied at her chin with a small string. It isn't very elaborate but their clothing choices fascinated him. Jamie remembers Jack most often in his old frayed pants and faded blue hoodie, in a time where nobody cared about what they wore at that time. It is silly, Jamie muses, to think clothes and appearances are so important nowadays more than anything else. The three seem so elaborate and elegant (and overdressed) in their own weird way, and that makes the geeky historian in Jamie squeal with delight—seeing such interesting outfits mashed together with their personalities.
With them all prepared for the day, Jamie then follows them out the door and into the chilly morning, where the sun is just beginning to rise, clouds peeking over the bare trees. His breath fogs from his mouth like vape and he shivers—it was a mite too cold without a cloak of his own. He feels a bit ridiculous. There are smoldering bonfires near the overly large house that was Lord Sufford's house, recently put out. Jamie hadn't noticed them in the week he'd been housed at the Overlands, being somewhat sick at the time; he wonders what they are meant for—s'mores and campfires? Partying? The mere thought of stiff pilgrims partying bubbles up a snort from Jamie's throat, but quickly smothered it when he saw Jack eyeing him again.
Frost marrs the ground, dewy in the warming air. Again, puddles were iced over, the thatched roofs of the houses were covered in ferns of rime, and the chilled air nipped at his prickling skin.
Jamie pretends to not be bothered by the cold, like the family walking beside him, yet it bites at his nose like Jack used to when he was younger. As he watches the villagers clothed in thick layers trekking the road down to the church, he notices something they all carried he hadn't seen before: thickly bound books. Discreetly sidling up to his friend, he nudges him, and gestures a thumb at the book in his hand when he'd gained his attention. Jack held up the item and Jamie read the stamped letters. The Holy Bible, or rather a much older version of the one he knows. Huh.
Just then, a large looming building appears, wide in its width, and just as drab and boring as the rest. It has two small waxed windows on the front facade, the roof is symmetrical in slope and size instead of having an overly steep slide on the back, and a small steeple on the very top. And of course no decorations in sight.
"The meetinghouse," Jack whispers to him.
"Not the church?" Jamie asks in confusion.
"It's the meetinghouse where mass is held." Jack explains quietly, so as not to be overheard. "It's considered disrespectful to God to have a church, so there's a meetinghouse instead."
Jamie hums in thought. "Huh."
Jack then nudges him in return and gestures to the open doors as people filtered through the stepped threshold. Jamie suddenly grew tense, his anxiety increasing as they neared. Hopefully he didn't look hungover from his constant sleeping? Did he have his buttons on right? Bedhead? Sleep marks on his face? Or worse, acne? For the first time since he was a young teenager, Jamie feels overwhelmingly self-conscious of his appearance, wondering what these stuffy, strict people thought of him as an unknown man with no known origins?
Fiddling with his collar, Jamie starts lagging back as the trio neared the building, but Jack seems to have anticipated this and grabs him by the arm, pulling him forward, giving him a warning look. Behave.
Inside, with the light filtering through the minuscule windows, around him are pews crafted of plain wood and lined in neat rows, with simple carvings etched into the armrests. Candles illuminate the area, held by iron chandeliers hanging from the slanted ceiling. There's a looming pulpit stand towards the back of the room attached to the wall parallel to a large stained-glass window that brought dim overcast light directly onto it, lighting up the dull wood. And in the very back, he could see some of the villagers walking up steep stairs to the higher set pews on a balcony in a more secluded corner by the front door. Above them all rise beams of wood, arching high over the thickening crowd of churchgoers.
Jamie follows the two females, but Jack suddenly takes his arm roughly and steers him away. Stopping himself from hissing under his breath in the abrupt pain of Jack's blunt nails, he reluctantly lets Jack guide him to a pew full of tall burly men, and several young scrawny teenage boys, some who give him odd looks as he passes by them.
It becomes clear to Jamie that there is an organized seating arrangement where all the men would sit in a row of pews, and the women and children would sit in their own rows further in the back. The hulking figures of the hard-working men cowed Jamie, looking over him like giants from the fairytales with their hardened features and cold untrusting gazes.
The mild chatter suddenly falls into a hush, and Jamie darts his eyes from his clenched fists to a side door that opens to reveal a man wearing long dark robes. They were similar to what a Pilgrim wore, or as close it could get. The man sports a puffy, white lace collar, white dissimilar to the ones Jamie has seen in old paintings, ones with ruffles that encased the entire neck. He wears an outfit very similar to what Lord Sufford had worn when Jamie met him, in all but his facial features.
The man—Priest? Pastor? Reverend? Was he a magistrate like the Sufford man?—climbs the steep side stairs to the stand shadowed by the large glass stained window that had a giant eye etched into the fired glass.
The man raises his arms in welcome. "Good morn' to all!"
Jamie fought a chuckle by clenching his jaw. A part of him wanted to burst out laughing, but he stopped himself. Barely. Honestly, Jamie still felt ridiculous—in fact, this whole thing felt ridiculous. But he was here in the fucking past, where it is clear religion is the main theme in this pious village.
The Industrial Revolution hasn't even started yet! A part of him mourned.
As the man in the pulpit opened his own thick book, Jamie listens to the sound of pages fluttering around the room as the crowd copies. Jamie stared stupidly at Jack's Bible as the teen flipped to whatever page they'd be reading from today. Good thing I can read Roman numerals, he reflects as Jack lands on page 394.
Inhaling deeply to calm himself, he quickly skims over the ink that is not from a computer. Maybe a printing press? They were neat, but lopsided and faded in some spots. He roves his eyes over the words but something was off… Jamie's eyes widened. He couldn't understand the words! There were words missing vowels and the letters flipped! And there were so many spelling errors… This is Shakespeare's language, not English! Leaning closer to Jack, who paid no mind, he eyes a script of words.
12:20 A bruised reed shalle not break, and smoking flax shall hee nott quenct, till hee fend fowrth judgment unto viktorie.
What. The fuck.
"And now shall we pray."
Wait, what?
Jamie snaps his head up to the man at the pulpit and sees him folding his hands together. A hard stomp from Jack on his leather-clad foot brought him out of his rather rude staring. He quickly folds his own hands and closes his eyes. It seems I missed the introductions.
"Our Lord," the pastor begins in a solemn tone. "We ask You to bless us on this fine day. We ask You to bless our food and water, to give us comfort in times of need. Please, we beg You to forgive us of our sins, to cleanse us of our suffering."
Even though Jamie is no longer a regular churchgoer, he knew when to respect an environment like this. Expressing his incredulity was the last thing on his mind. For once since he woke up, Jamie tries to keep his heart calm and let the man's words fill his ears like white noise as he sinks into his thoughts.
Jamie thought of his family in his time, imagining he was in church with them, too. With fondness, he recalled the horror of having to wear fancy outfits with too-tight collars and ties. The boredom was immense, especially as a kid with too much energy. Jamie could remember from when he was even younger than ten his Mom provided him coloring books as everyone in the pews sang from their Bibles. He recalls the kind old priest that gathered the children to the front of the room and asked them questions about the Bible, stories such as King Solomon, Noah's Ark, and the Hand of God; he also remembers the Sunday School he had begun attending as he got older, and the teacher that had him and his classmates read books like Wander.
And now he could hear fervent praying, quiet and breathy but passionate nonetheless. Jamie couldn't help but wonder what they believed in so deeply to elicit such devotion, recalling Jack's definition of the word pious. From what he's read in textbooks and what he has seen in this timeline so far, society was far stricter than in his time and religion was at the very forefront of it all. It spanned from what people wore to what they talked about and what they considered sinful. It reminded him of the Ten Commandments, one of them saying "thou shall not lie" or something along those lines.
"…Amen."
"Amen," Jamie echoed along with dozens of other voices as he finally opened his eyes.
For the next hour, the old man lectures about God, his strength and great wrath, before he ends with another heartfelt prayer. Just when he thinks church is over after that mind-numbing experience, Lord Sufford stands from where he'd sat in the very front with his wife, and ascends the steep steps to the stand with his own Bible in hand. Eye twitching, Jamie turns to Jack in bewilderment, who shakes his head and motions to be quiet. Blinking, Jamie watches as Sufford says his own prayer, opens his Bible, and begins his own sermon.
Blinking, he looks inquiringly at his friend. "Jack?"
Jack sighs, giving a not-so-discreet look around before whispering to him, "Three ministers, three sermons. One hour each." And then returns to his Bible, clear that he was no longer willing to converse with Jamie at the moment.
Just then, a sharp pain blooms from the crown of his skull, causing him to let out a pained yelp that echoes through the cramped room. Whirling around, he sees a pockmarked young man holding a ridiculously long pole with a bulbous wooden tip that hovered over his head. Making eye contact with the unknown male, Jamie stares at the man's wagging finger as he jiggles the wooden pole threateningly.
Turning back hastily, he makes sure to appear focused on Lord Sufford's speech, listening to the footsteps he'd heard earlier depart to another area, trying to ignore another, louder cry of pain from where most of the women sat.
The fuck was that? Some form of corporal punishment?
Rubbing his aching head while glaring at the man holding the long pole, Jamie returns to try and decipher whatever Jack's Bible read in its weird English language as a distraction from the pulsing goose egg forming on his head, catching a few recognizable psalm numbers from his studying the Bible as a youngster. Quickly growing bored with that, he resorts to putting his hands on his forehead like he's praying and doing his best to listen to the Sufford lord's preaching.
Eventually he begins to doze, eyes slipping shut. His legs start to ache, his body unaccustomed to sitting on plain hard wood for hours. His head smarts like he ran into a door frame, and he knows it's already bruising.
Soon, after trying to stay awake to avoid that weird pole guy, Sufford closes his book and steps away from the pulpit. Jamie resists the urge to stand and stretch like a sleep-satisfied cat, instead arching his back in a semblance of stretching.
Finally, the last minister approaches the sharply designed stand with his Bible, and opens to his preferred page. His voice is thick with an accent, probably British or Irish, heavy with gravel and dry like parchment. Even though it is interesting to hear such an accent from an American, it is still so utterly monotonous.
"Ugh," he groans into his hands.
Whack!
"Ow!"
Again, the pole boy has returned to snack him soundly on his head. Glaring at the man who ignores him, he sits up straighter, making his spine creak in agony. Spying a look at Jack, he seems completely immersed in his Bible. Though, looking closer, his eyes have the same glazed sheen of boredom he's sure his own have, too. A smile quirks at Jamie's lips. It seems Jack isn't as entertained either, but is definitely better at hiding it. And… is he ignoring him?
"Jack?"
"Hm."
Jamie chances a glance at Pole Guy and sees him watching the women intently, pole at the ready.
"Jack."
That seems to drag Jack out of his mind. "What?"
"How much longer?" He most certainly does not whine. No sir, he doesn't.
Jack glances at the wispy, white-haired elder at the pulpit, listening to his creaking old voice.
"I'd say forty minutes."
Jamie's jaw nearly drops. "How'd you do that?"
Jack shrugs. "Dunno. Just an estimate, really."
"Also," Jamie adds, "there's an asshole in the church! He just hit me on the head!" Jamie elaborates angrily. "Twice, with that stupid pole! And he keeps hitting other people, too!"
"Be quiet," Jack shushes him,"that's the tithingman—"
"Little boy!" booms a voice suddenly from the front of the cavernous room.
Both boys' look to the front of the pulpit where the elderly minister looms over with his hands on the ledge, Bible forgotten. Beside him is the so-called tithingman with his pole standing straight and proud, the man himself looking rather smug.
Around them, people have begun to murmur, their piercing eyes focusing on him with great interest.
Uh, oh.
"Who are you to interrupt this sacred mass, boy?"
"M-Me?" Jamie stutters, pointing a finger at his own chest. Already he can feel the burn of unapproving stares on his reddening skin.
"Yes, you, idiot boy!" The man's voice, despite his staggering age, grows ever louder, his wrinkled hand slamming harshly on the pulpit ledge. Jamie tries not to flinch, suddenly feeling very small and akin to a bug pinned to a board based on the man's needling gaze that kept him forced to the ground.
"Come up, here, now."
His heart just about burst from his chest at the sight of the people's eyes widening, smiles being covered by rough and dainty hands, and noses turning up in disgust. Oh dear god.
Without protest, Jamie stumbles to his feet, very much not enjoying the sensation of all the blood in his face draining to his feet, not daring to look at Jack at all.
Once he'd approached the pulpit, quivering in the face of so many nosy people and curious gazes, he does his best to make contact with the man, older than even the sort of middle-aged man that had taken Jack from his arms the first night here in Hawthorne.
"Yes, sir?"
"You have disrespected this holy church by speaking of pointless nothings," says the minister. "So now you will—"
"Pardon me!" A voice suddenly thunders from the seated audience. Behind him, the same salt-and-pepper haired man that had rescued them a week prior standing from a row on the left where several broad-shouldered men sit with dirtied skin, ragged hair, and rugged clothes.
"Surely, Lord Jones," the man begins, "this is too much?"
"What say do you have in this, Davis?" snaps the minister, Lord Jones. "Mr. Turner reported to me of this newcomer's treachery, and so he shall be punished."
"He is naught just a boy, minister." The older middle-aged man protests calmly. "He is new. Perhaps he doesn't know our customs."
"Nay," Minister Jones denies, tapping a bloated finger onto his Bible, "A week is plentily too long to teach this wretched boy of the Word of God. Has the Widow not taught this wretched boy anything?"
"Widow Overland!" He calls suddenly, his aged voice loud over the mutters. There is a shuffle of fabric before said woman stands, her daughter clutching her skirts like a lifeline. "Yes, Lord Jones?"
"Have you taught this boy nothing? Taught him of the mighty hand of God upon us?"
She inhales once. Exhales. "No, sir."
"Why have you not?"
"I have had no time. They needed their rest. Alas, I knew not my duty either, Lord Jones."
"How unfortunate," mocks the minister. "Very well then. You are to be seated. Do not think I will forget this, woman."
"I understand."
She sits down at his dismissal, and simply turns away from Mr. Davis who does not speak again and simply sits down back to his seat by another ragged-looking woman.
"Boy," the lord snaps at him, his anger returning. Jamie tries not to flinch. "You have caused quite the unnecessary commotion in the sacred meetinghouse. So as retribution, you shall kneel."
Jamie, heart stuttering beneath his ribcage and blood rushing back into his cheeks in his shame knowing there was no way out, kneels.
His knees dig into the harsh raw hardwood flooring, protesting their movement after nearly three hours of sitting on unforgiving furniture.
And then the minister continues like nothing happened. In dawning horror, Jamie realizes he'll have to kneel like this for the next forty minutes or more—Jack's estimate really only being a wild guess. Behind him, the muttering dies down, but continues much more quietly—more whispers and hushed murmurs than anything else.
Jamie swallows back some noise that threatens to rise from his throat, and he can feel his sinuses sting with tears. Tears, he thinks inwardly, really? You're nineteen, not ten.
His jaw clenches anyway. Don't cry. Don't cry, don't cry.
Honestly, he isn't sure why a part of him is taking this so badly. It's a mild punishment compared to others his mom had hounded on him: hers didn't include humiliation, only to help him learn a lesson. Hers were more gentle, letting him think of his mistakes and the consequences. Let him apologize appropriately, and strive to remedy his errors, too and heal the trust that had been broken.
Not this. Not whatever the fuck this humiliation stint is.
Here, he's forced into an uncomfortable position. Unwillingly, he may add. There's no apologizing, no real way to remedy the problem, only facing his problems in an incorrect way. Yes, he's given time to think about his wrongs, but not in a way that is healing. This punishment is meant for one thing: humiliation and disgrace. In front of an audience, too.
Biting back a bitter scoff, Jamie now understands what he'd actually done. In the face of this village, where nobody here knows him and thinks he's a foreigner from a strange land (even if it's from the same state), he has embarrassed them, too, though he isn't sure how. Surely, they now think he's some troublemaker, a rouge little brat in a world that being disobedient basically meant dishonor. Maybe to them, from what he's seen from his tour of the town during his weeklong stay, being rebellious was not in the cards.
Or he's overthinking it and they're just plain cruel and eager for some drama.
The sudden slam of an old book closing startled him out of his thoughts, blinking the blurry sheen from his eyes and hearing the mutters be rejuvenated as mass ends. By this time, his knees scream at him in pain, but he doesn't move. Jamie surmises he's not allowed to until the minister releases him from the punishment.
"Dismissed," says the old man, and the din behind him grows exponentially as people begin to shuffle out the old meetinghouse. A set of quiet footsteps approach, and Jamie isn't sure if it's Jack or the old minister himself.
"Rise."
He gets up, groaning in pain from the extended position he'd been forced into. He brushes off his dusty outdated clothes, gazing into his unfathomable cold blue irises.
"Mind your words next time. Understood?"
Jamie nods. "Yes, sir."
Dismissed, Jamie hobbles out the building, ignoring the titters that follow him like a curse, and meets Jack and his family by the giant old tree that sits overlooking the dispersing crowd. The first thing that comes out of his dry mouth is, "I'm sorry."
Mrs. Overland only shakes her head and avoids his eyes, but it is a blow nonetheless. Emily simply frowns at him, perhaps disapprovingly, as much as she can as someone her age. But Jack, on the other hand… His expression is set in a firm scowl, light in its weight but distinguishable from the pursed lips and furrow in his dark brows.
And, boy, does that look hurt the most. Almost as bad as the humiliation itself.
"I'm sorry, Jack." He tries again, feeling his eyes sting again. God, why am I so emotional?
Maybe because you just humiliated Jack's family? A mean voice inside him sneers.
"It's fine." Jack says shortly.
"It's not!" Jamie protests. "You pretty much told me to behave, and I didn't listen."
"I told you," Jack retorts, "it's fine."
"Jack, I—"
The teen only turns away, maybe to hide the expression on his face. "You humiliated my mother, Jamie." He finally turns to look at Jamie, and the hurt on his face weighs more guilt into Jamie's heart. He messed up, didn't he?
"I didn't know—"
"And that's not your fault. Or my mum's. But you do know it is important to… to…. I don't know, listen during church? I saw Turner hit you on the head, and yet you kept talking! You—"
Just then, they both notice the audience that had gathered around him, not so subtly listening in on their conversation. It seems the villagers were still hungry for more drama and eager for gossip. Jamie feels an irrational anger and embarrassment draw up inside him, wanting to burst out at the people who had no right to make him feel this way. His face, he can tell, turns red.
Jack coughs, his frown deep and troubled. "Never mind."
In a stance of bravery, Mrs. Overland barks to the crowd, "Well, off you get! Nothing to see here, you nosy buggers!"
Lord Jones, who had just exited the church and bolted the doors closed, sneered nastily at the woman. "Watch your temper, woman!" He barks, "Or straight to the stocks you will go!"
"Hear, hear!" Shouts a voice from the thinning crowd around the family.
Other than some final disliking mutters, the gathering obediently disperses, turning away as the mother of two pulls the three closer to her body, glaring daggers at the minister.
Mrs. Overland huffs in annoyance once they are gone and out of earshot. "Rather rude lot of them." Her words can't muster up much of a chuckle with how deep Jamie's guilt runs. Instead he remains silent.
Emily suddenly pipes up, watching Jamie intently. "Have you gone stark-raving mad?"
"Emily!" Her mother chides, grasping her thin arm.
Jack only sighs in exasperation.
"No," Jamie says haltingly, "I haven't. I just have learned much about Hawthorne." Hadn't learned enough so much so that not even a week in, he's causing a ruckus in a place where impressions mean everything.
"Good," the young girl says in her high-pitched voice. "I wouldn't want you gone to the madhouse!"
Jamie snorts, earning a heated glare from Jack, as Mrs. Overlands scolds Emily for her words.
"Come on," Jack says tiredly, "let's just go."
All the way home, Jamie chides himself over his poor actions. You're such an idiot!
As an adult, he could've handled the boredom better, and kept quiet the first time the tithingman had whacked him upon the head. He still felt quite raw inside, emotions pulled into a sprain that twinged with fresh turmoil. If this was what church was like in the 18th century, what would the school teach? Would they teach about God and the Ten Commandments? Tell stories about His all-seeing glory?
Jamie doesn't know. Right now, he needs a breather, a break, and a good nap to put off all the terrible things he'd just experienced as a new, unadjusted member of the village. It is fucking awful, Jamie realized, as they pass by Lord Sufford's house, to have to witness this all day; to listen to the cruel gossip of the townsfolk and watch as people's lives became unraveled just because of a mistake they didn't accept.
Jamie shakes his head in disappointment. You are supposed to keep your head down, Bennett—to stay quiet and not muck things up. And I failed.
Not for the first time, he stumbles, his knees creaking in agony. Jack catches him before he could fall to the unrelenting cold soil, and hoists him up again just like he'd done to him all those days ago.
"Thanks," he croaks, feeling tired and overrun with shock. Today was enough to show him the cruelty of this time period, and all he needed right now was rest, and some time alone. Shame is still boiling at his heartstrings, heating his cheeks and piercing his gut with a white hot poker.
"No problem."
All he wants right now is some good sleep, that's all. Just let me rest.
Thank you for reading!