She knew what they would discuss that night at the meeting. Her husband, dead, after so short a marriage, their child, stillborn a month before its time. She thought of the tiny, perfect body she had delivered, so like John in feature. The child haunted her dreams.
There was gossip of course. There was always gossip. Noverton was built in the wilderness, and the forest pressed close against it. During the bright summer months, this gave the village a sense of protection, but once the glory of autumn was spent, the trees turned to skeletons of themselves, they began to feel trapped by the long, bare branches, the dark shadows, and the impenetrable depth of the forest. The terrors of the Old World could be banished to a small wood, easily traversed. Here they crawled out of the dark, cried from a wilderness no man could plumb, tapped like fingers upon doors and windows. Night fell early, and the minister thundered atonement. The villagers barred their doors, lit fires to banish fear, as well as chill.
And they talked. And talked.
She pulled on the cloak, newly dyed, to befit her widowhood. Black had never suited her, and now that grief had left its mark, it made her look eldritch. The cupped light caught at the harsh planes of her face. The window gave back the reflection of a hollow-eyed creature. She did not blame her neighbours for their whispering.
"The handsomest man in the settlement, to marry a thing like that, and willingly?"
"It was witchcraft, surely. That's how she got him. He'd not have looked at her, else."
"And the child the price of it, like as not."
She took the turnip lantern into her hands, and straightened herself with a shiver. She knew what they would discuss tonight, and she only prayed God she'd have the strength to bear it, to live up to John’s pride in her.
John....
She did not blame them for gossiping. She did not know why he had loved her any better than they did. But he had. She went out, brokenhearted.
A cold wind chased faded leaves across the stone path. Daylight was already failing, the dimness made dimmer still by the fog. Their home-- the home she had helped John to build—lay hard upon the forest. She paused, halfway between her house and the gate. The trees seemed terribly close, the fog walling her off from the world of living things.
A dry rattling sounded from the bare branches. An ancient raven stared down at her. Ravens perched in the trees to either side of him. She glanced around. There were, indeed, ravens in every tree. Save for the sound that had drawn her attention, they were silent. And watchful.
The wind had died utterly, and there was no sound, no movement of air. What were ravens, after all? Or fog or dark? She had more to fear from her neighbours than these lesser creatures of God. She walked on, ringed by fog, and ravens flitting from tree to tree, so that she was never free of their circling.
And then he was walking towards her, a man in black. He wore John's face and form. He walked with the jaunty step that set John apart, in a way that even the comeliness of his face did not. He spoke her name, and her heart leapt to hear John's voice. But the feeling coming from him was not the feeling that came from John. She crossed herself as if she were as papist as the Irish, though she knew such a thing would scandalise her neighbours. He stopped and they looked at each other.
"They have not been kind to you."
"No." she answered John's voice.
"And they will name you a witch tonight, in spite of your sorrow."
She fully expected that, and met his eyes without flinching.
"Come."
He held out a hand, and light danced from it. She saw John in his shirt sleeves, smiling down at her, their child bouncing upon her hip, smelled sawdust, the smoke of cooking, felt the warmth of her child, the taste of his mouth on hers.
"No."
The light was gone. The twilight world of fog was all that remained, with black ravens circling restlessly, black, bare trees, and this man who was not John.
He touched her mind, and she saw all that he offered--riches beyond count, honour, ease and pleasures such as no man of earth could ever supply. She was stunned by hunger for so many precious things.
"No."
"They will burn you."
"They may. Or they may not. It will be as God wills. But I would die alone, the woman John loves, rather than go with his counterfeit."
Fire leapt into his face then, and he moved towards her. The great, ancient raven gave a cry and the flock flew up with a noise like thunder. Not-John shredded like smoke, before the storm of their wings. She threw the cloak up over her face, while the world flew to pieces around her.
Then all was still and she looked out on world, emptied of its terrors, with stars were just kindling in the evening sky. She went on her way, the ravens wheeling still around her, and she was comforted.
They did not, after all, bring a charge of witchcraft against her. There were some, afterwards, who swore to an angel beside her, with a sword of fire in his hand. Others said it was not an angel, but John, with the light of blessedness upon his face. None had the courage to speak, nor to accuse.
The meeting ran short, and when it had ended, they scattered to their homes, ashamed, as men who have been judged, and found wanting.
