The Captive Bride (26 page)

“Aye, there will always be ignorance, Mr. Winslow, but Rev. Cotton Mather's book
Relating to Witchcraft
documents the acts of witches well. It's all there, the invisible world, all your incubi and succubi—all your witches and wizards of
night and day. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,' as the Scripture says.”

The soft May breeze blew a lock of silver hair across Gilbert's eyes, and he brushed it back. “No good will come of it. What's needed is a dose of good old-time religion.
That
would purge all the silly notions people have of trying to live for God on Sundays and for the devil the other six days.”

A laugh broke from Howland's deep chest, and he pulled his cane pole up and began to wind up the line. “Things are always so simple with you, sir! No grays—just black or white, right or wrong.”

“Well, I'm an old man now, son,” Winslow remarked with a smile as he took his own line in. “When I was your age I was just about like you, running around trying to split hairs on matters. But the closer I get to home, the more I see that living is not very complicated. Jesus said, ‘Whosoever cometh not after me and forsaketh all he hath cannot be my disciple,' and that's fairly simple—'all that he hath.' ”

Howland reached down and scooped up the stringer of fish they had caught. Then as they walked along the side of the bubbling stream, he mused thoughtfully, “But yours was a different world, wasn't it? Things are much more complicated now than when you came to Plymouth.”

“Men are born, they love, they die—and someplace along the way they either meet Jesus Christ and follow Him, or they don't.”

“You sound like Rachel,” Howland chuckled. “Or I suppose she sounds like
you.
All you Winslows are pretty much alike, aren't you?”

“A stubborn breed, Robert!” Gilbert smiled. They made their way back to his house, and Rachel met them at the door, smiling at the pair.

“More fish to clean?” she asked, shaking her head. “Put them in the back and I'll clean them when I return. I've got to go over to Elizabeth Crowley's with some food.”

“I'll clean the fish,” Gilbert said, taking the string from
Howland. “You go with Rachel, Robert—then come back and we'll have these fellows for supper.”

“Why, I'm not sure ...”

“Oh, come along, Reverend,” Rachel urged; then she gave a little giggle, which surprised him. “I promise not to bite your head off or argue about scripture.”

Howland had steered clear of Rachel since their disagreement on his first night, but now took the heavy basket of food she handed him, and they made their way through the village, talking about unimportant things.

Finally he said, “I've been wanting to apologize to you, Miss Winslow, for my sharp words.”

She turned to look at him and smiled. “I'm too straightforward, I know that. Forgive me, please.”

Then the air was cleared and he told her of his church and the problems until they came to a small unpainted clapboard house on the edge of the village.

Four children were playing in the yard, but they all came running when they saw her, calling her name and pulling at her clothing. It made a pretty sight, Howland decided, and he wondered—not for the first time—why she had never married.

She gave each of the children a piece of honeycomb from the basket, then led him inside. “Elizabeth?” she announced. A small, worn-looking woman came to the door and paused at seeing the tall form of the minister.

“This is Reverend Howland, from Littleton, Elizabeth. Reverend Howland, this is Mrs. Crowley.”

“How d'you, sir?” the woman said in a small voice, then turned to say, “Jamie is took bad, Miss Rachel!”

“Let's see,” Rachel stated, and the three of them entered the room where a small boy, not more than four or five, was lying on a bed almost hidden by the covers. His face was red, and he was breathing roughly and unevenly.

Rachel sat down beside the boy, started to speak, then turned as if she had just remembered something. “Reverend Howland, will you pray for Jamie?”

“Why, surely.” Howland stepped forward and prayed briefly, then stepped back, his duty done. “I trust the Lord will be merciful on your boy, Mrs. Crowley,” he murmured quietly. It always made him feel inadequate, praying for the sick, and he had done little enough of it at Harvard. As the pastor of a flock, it was different, however, and it was one of the things that drove him to talk with Gilbert Winslow.

“Please, Miss Rachel,” Mrs. Crowley whispered, “won't you say a prayer, too?”

“If you like, Elizabeth.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small object. Howland leaned over and saw that it was a small vial. Opening it, she put a drop of oil on her finger, closed the vial, then replaced it. Softly she touched the boy's forehead with the oil, and then put her hand on his head. For a long while she said nothing at all, then she said, so softly that he barely caught the words, “Lord, what is your will for Jamie?”

Howland was mystified! He stood there staring, and the silence was so heavy it almost had substance as she continued to wait. The boy did not move and she did not speak again— for what seemed like a very long time. Then he saw her head nod, as if she were agreeing with something someone had said. “Lord, we ask you to heal this child.”

The boy's eyes fluttered open. He focused on her and said in a tiny voice, “Hullo, Miss Rachel.”

She stooped and gave him a kiss. “Hello, Jamie.”

“I've been sick.”

“Yes, but you'll be fine now.” Rachel rose and there was a peaceful look on her smooth face as she moved past Howland. “I'd not let him stay under that heavy cover, Elizabeth. And don't let him have anything very heavy to eat until tomorrow.”

“Bless you, Miss Rachel!” Mrs. Crowley cried out, wiping her eyes with her apron. “God bless you—and you, too, sir,” she added as they left the house.

They made their way along the street, everyone they met
greeting Rachel by name and nodding to Howland. He waited for her to say something about Jamie, but she did not.

Finally he said, “You think the child is—no longer sick?”

“Jamie?” she asked in surprise, looking up at him. “Oh, yes, he's fine.” Then she asked, “Why do you ask?”

“Well—” He gave an embarrassed grin, and despite his manner, which was sometimes heavy, she saw that he had humor. “I suppose that I've had so little success in praying for the sick that it startled me the way you prayed—so
positively!
” He looked down at her, thinking how clear her eyes were, and confessed, “I'd not be able to do that! What if he didn't get well? What would people think?”

“I don't mind what people think, Reverend Howland,” she returned firmly. “God didn't call me to be popular, but to do His will. And the instant you start doubting God's word, you're
already
a failure, aren't you?”

He thought about her words, then shook his head. “Well, doubt comes to me, I confess. Don't you ever wonder if your prayers will be answered?”

“God has never refused to answer my prayer.”

He stopped short and stared at her in disbelief. An elderly couple passed, stopping to turn around and stare at them standing there in the middle of the street. “God has answered every one of your prayers?” he asked, doubt threading his speech. “I never heard anyone say so.”

She looked up at him, the smooth countenance calm and possessed. Her full lips turned up in a smile and she seemed amused by his doubt. “Didn't you teach the eleventh chapter of Mark at Harvard?”

“Why, of course!”

She began to quote it, and her voice was filled with a certainty that held him still.

He stared at her, then said, “But—surely that's symbolic?”

“I try to think the Lord Jesus meant exactly what He said.”

He shook his head, saying nothing. They began to walk. Finally he broke the silence. “I've never known anyone who says that God answers
all
their prayers.”

“Yes, you have!” He stared in surprise at her certainty, and she laughed. “You know my Grandfather.”

“He says that, too?”

“Yes, and my mother.”

“I can't believe it!”

“Reverend Howland—”

“Please, call me Robert!”

“I like that name!” she smiled at his invitation. “Well, Robert, I don't know if I can explain or not, but I'll try. Years ago,” she began, a distant look filling her dark eyes, “I watched Mother as she prayed, and I saw how God always seemed to answer her. But I hadn't experienced that power for myself. It took a crisis—a desperate situation—to bring me to the realization of my own need for Christ and His power to meet my needs.”

“A crisis?” Howland's expression intensified as he became drawn into the drama of Rachel's story.

“Yes. I was caught in the middle of an Indian raid on a small village near Plymouth. Someone I cared a great deal about was—” She paused, groping for words.

“Go on,” Howland encouraged gently.

Rachel took a deep breath. “Well, in the midst of all the shouting and burning and bloodshed, something happened inside of me. I called out to the Lord, and He answered—really
answered—and miraculously saved me and a friend from certain death.”

Howland let out a long, low whistle.

“We were held captive by the Indians for some time, but in some ways I was less captive than I had been all my life. I had been adhering to a ‘form of godliness,' as the scripture says, without experiencing its power. At last I knew Christ's presence for the first time, and saw Him answer my prayers. Before then my faith—if you could call it that—had been a secondhand experience from my mother.”

“Is that why you're so set against the Half-Way Covenant?” Robert grinned, remembering their last spirited encounter.

Rachel laughed lightly. “Let's not get into
that
again! Let's just say that afterward, I knew Jesus Christ for myself. And since that time He has always answered my prayers.”

“But how?” Howland was still mystified.

“Grandfather taught me to pray, and the one thing that makes him different in his praying is that he never asks God to do anything unless he's sure it's God's will.”

“I don't quite understand,” Howland frowned. “How can he always know God's will? God may choose not to reveal it.”

“Then he waits until God
does
choose to speak. So that's the way I pray. When we were with Jamie, I was asking God to reveal His will.”

“And God
told
you it was His will to heal the boy?” Howland was skeptical, as he always was of those who had visions and personal words from God, always prefacing their remarks with
God told me to say ...

She did not answer immediately. Her face was still as she thought how best to tell him how it was with her. “I don't
hear
God, not as I hear you,” she admitted. “But there is a spirit in man, isn't there? And didn't the Lord Jesus tell us that His Holy Spirit would teach us all things?”

“Well, yes, but I don't think that means—concrete things.”

“Why not?” she asked simply. “Don't you think Jesus is
interested in the things we do? Doesn't He care about Jamie more than you or I ever could?”

“Yes, God cares, but—”

“He said, ‘My sheep
hear my voice,
' didn't He?”

All this was making Robert Howland very nervous, and he sought for a way to change the topic, but she did not notice his agitation.

“I asked God if it was His will to heal Jamie—and in my spirit I felt that He said
yes.
So I simply prayed for what God already wanted to do. And he is healed.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she whispered, “Praise the Lord, for His mercies are everlasting!”

All this was a far different thing from studying a dusty book on the subject
Praying for the Sick,
and Howland was certain that the woman was a victim of rank emotionalism. He had been carried away by the charm of the family; now he suddenly resolved to spend less time in their company.

But he was committed to the fish supper, so he went with her to the home of the local pastor, Reverend Samuel Parris. Parris lived in a small brick house in the center of the village. As they approached the house, a black woman opened the door. “Hello, Tituba,” Rachel said. “Is Reverend Parris at home?”

“Yes, he with Miss Betty.”

At that moment a thin man with close-set eyes and a harried expression entered the hall. He was followed by two young women, both pale and agitated. Catching sight of the two visitors, he stopped abruptly, gave a sharp look at the two young women, saying, “Abigail, you and Susanna run on now—but come back this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” one of them said, a very pretty brunette with a sly look. “Come along, Susanna.” The two of them left, and Rachel introduced the men.

“Reverend Parris, this is Reverend Robert Howland, the new pastor at Littleton. Reverend Samuel Parris.”

“I welcome you, sir,” Parris said quickly. He had a nervous
tic in his left eye. “I trust you will have a fruitful ministry in your new field—but you must watch yourself! These people can be untrustworthy, sir!”

“Why, I think I have been treated quite fairly, Reverend Parris,” Howland answered, a little shocked that a minister would be so outspoken in his criticism of his church members to a stranger.