Feminine 101

If you have not already done so, or if you are new, I recommend starting with Chapter 1. This is a linear story and will make a lot more sense read as a whole. Please leave a like, comment, or subscribe to my blog to get notifications when a new chapter is published. If I get 100 views on a single post of One More Life, I will self-publish a digital and printed copy with an exclusive Epilogue. If you only missed the last post, you can read Chapter 4 here.

The cell was all dampness, rimmed with shadows. The only light sources emanated from the door down the hall and a single barred window. Through the drizzle, icy in spite of the summer months, Rebecca peered towards the blurred shadow of the gallows. It seemed Bridget’s death would not be the last of this dreadful business. Rebecca prayed silently that God would forgive her accusers. Foolish, petty children, all of them. 

.

Tomorrow morning she was sentenced to ascend the gallows and meet her Maker. But she could not bring herself to tremble. I know in whom I hath believed. The enemy of old had infiltrated the church to destroy once again. She thought with kindly pity on the self-superior men who had presided so officiously over her farce of a trial. She shook her head. 

.

At seventy-one, she understood well that more than her hearing was failing, but she saw and heard clearly what the blinded souls of this town, so frightened of their own shadows, could not: the hand of the devil turning neighbor against neighbor. Her blood would be on their hands, and she could muster only sympathy for how these dark months would haunt them to their graves. 

.

The air became chill so she retired to the bedroll in the corner. Her aching body protested as she knelt stiffly to the uneven stone floor then rolled to lay her head on the crook of her arm. It was a lonely place. To be sure the cells beside her were occupied with the damned as well, but there was no conversation. She reached to the empty floor beside her head, closed her eyes and pictured her husband, the shock of white hair at his temples teased ceaselessly by the wind. 

.

Frances was not always stooped and weathered with age. When they had first met, he was a vibrant young man so full of hopes and dreams. Her family had traveled to the new world when she was only a girl, and Frances had come to sweep her off her feet. He was charming and full of energy. They bought a farm, raised a great number of children, eight that survived, now grown with families of their own, save one of course. She summoned a memory of the faces of each of her children and their spouses, then each darling grandchild. As each face suspended itself in her mind’s eye, she prayed blessings and protection over all her brood. 

.

As her youngest daughter’s face marched across her memories, she smiled softly. Her wedding day had been the last time that the whole family was together. Fondly, she recalled the crowded dining room bursting at the seams with family. The men argued good-naturedly about the crops or the sermon or both, and the women swatted greedy fingers trying to swipe a taste of custard. She remembered the fat face of two-year-old Sarah grinning like mad at grandpa’s antics. Rebecca thought of how handsome he looked merrily bouncing their grandchild on his knee. She chuckled softly to herself. The older boys came rampaging through the kitchen door and up the stairs. Mothers scolded, fathers frowned, chairs scraped, babies cried. And she stood with a hand on Frances’s shoulder, his hand reaching to grasp hers. If she could have suspended that moment teeming with ordinary, God-given life, she might have stayed there forever. Surely it was but a taste of the promised glory! 

.

Her brow darkened and the smile slipped away. Time did not freeze, but marched unswervingly onward. A few short days after her seventy-first birthday, a quiet affair involving sweet corn cakes and maple syrup with her beloved, the trials had begun. Their peaceful village had begun churning like storm-tossed waters of the bay. Frances had confided his fear that hard feelings might take an ugly turn. Rebecca had dismissed him at the time. These were their friends. They had their disagreements, but such was life. Surely it was no cause for alarm. But a few short weeks later, an ominous knock thumped at their door. Frances escorted the lawmen into their kitchen. She was astonished, but had obediently exchanged her apron for a cloak and followed them into the bitter, New England cold. Months of trial crawled by and tales of spectres and ghosts sent to torment the servants of God plagued, nay, terrorized their quiet village. Women no longer greeted women, but ducked their heads and hurried past one another. Men stared straight ahead, lest they see a spectre, or draw the ire of the accusers. 

.

Frances had wept to see her behind bars. He had testified with great passion at her trial, all the more stunning considering he was a shy man not given to public displays. He even circulated a petition which thirty-nine charitable souls had dared to sign on her behalf. All for naught. She accepted the good Lord’s will. Who could resist it? She had told Frances as much. Tears slipped down their cheeks, but he had gone away quieted.

.

Now, she imagined him lying in bed, his body troubled by the countless aches and pains to which one becomes accustomed with age. She pictured him lying there, knew his hand rested on her pillow. This would ultimately undo him. Where she went, he would always follow. Not to the gallows, perhaps, but certainly to the grave. She prayed he would not suffer too greatly in that meantime. 

.

From her ‘pillow’ on the floor, she could see through that dreary portal to the night sky beyond. The clouds had lifted and stars now sparkled in their heavenly trappings. 

.

“Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer,” she whispered. Then she closed her eyes thinking of the women in the neighboring cells. In tender tones she had once used to lull her babes to sleep, she began to sing, “Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nature…”

.

The morning dawned radiant and warm, unaware of the grim deed to be carried out. A small crowd had gathered to observe the condemned. Rebecca could only guess at their motives. Some certainly had come for the spectacle, she and her companions little more than ghoulish entertainment. Still others were there to see that justice was accomplished. A few had convened that she might know she was not alone. Her accusers were markedly absent, unable to look upon the destruction they had wrought. 

.

The iron hinges of her cell door protested as it swung open. The other four women clustered together, their appearance utterly frail. Rebecca forced her aching back straighter. What had she to fear? Wincing despite herself, she strode with all the dignity she could summon. Goody How, rail thin and ragged after months of confinement, reached out a hand and snatched Rebecca’s. A feeble squeeze was all she managed, but Rebecca laid her own weathered hand over the poor, fragile woman’s and allowed it just a moment to rest before marching on. 

.

The jailer, a man whom she had helped birth, gently took her elbow and escorted her onto the green where the sun utterly blinded them. She began to stumble, but felt the jailer’s strong grip tighten to steady her. She straightened and walked on. Birds warbled cheerful songs. Insects chirped contentedly. Morning glories clamoring up the church’s eastern wall flourished in shades of violet, blue, and white. The earth and her morning had turned out in all her splendor to behold their demise. 

.

The gallows were poised against the brilliant blue sky like a great, ragged scar. How fitting, she mused to herself. In silence she prayed that Frances would stay away, hoped that he would not see her thus profaned. The women were seen up the stairs, some stumbling, but she gave thanks for the small triumph of dignity that her feet did not fail her at that moment. The executioner was hooded, but she would know him anywhere. Her sons had played with him as children; he had even dined at her table. The noose was slipped over her head as Reverend Parris began to solemnly intone a final pronunciation over the women perched on the scaffold.

.

He had ever been a verbose preacher, so Rebecca contented herself by boldly meeting the eyes of every observer who had seen fit to show. But a tousled head of snowy hair stilled her gaze. “Frances…” she breathed. “Oh look away, my love.” Tears stung her eyes at the anguish he would surely suffer this day. A longing filled her. Nearly fifty years they had walked together in this life, but she had never cherished him so much as now. A lump in her throat made her swallow hard and squeeze her eyes tight, raising her wrinkled face to the sun. She breathed deeply to still the sobs that welled up in her chest. Then she blinked.

.

Parris had gone quiet and now the executioner was shrouding the first woman’s head. Rebecca found her husband’s aged figure. Another tear slipped down her cheek as he raised his face to brazenly meet her gaze…

Continue to read Chapter 6 here.

If you enjoyed this, wish to own a copy for your collection, and enjoy exclusive content, you can purchase the book here.

©2025 Noell, LLC