Free A Measure of Light by Beth Powning Page A

many,” Mary said. “You have such influence. Surely they will stop you.”
    Anne glanced at Mary. “Do not tempt me with pride. ’Tis not only me, Mary. ’Tis Reverend Cotton, as well, who shares my views, although he keeps them close; and Henry Vane, and other men, too, who have their own reasons for distaste of those who would make the laws without consent and flay the backs of those they call sinners. Do you know, the children wake at night? They scream in terror after some of Reverend Wilson’s sermons.” She imitated the minister’s nasal intonements. “ ‘These are the sins that terribly provoke the wrath of Almighty God against thee …’ I tell the children to attend only to the Holy Spirit within themselves, but ’tis a mishmash for them, I fear.”
    She paused, considering.
    “I wish only to awaken people’s hearts to the search for grace within themselves, so to maintain the living spirit of our religion. I will argue as does Mr. Cotton, from the truth as given in the Scriptures. For what else did we cross an entire ocean?”
    “Yes,” Mary said. Still she felt like an acolyte, unsure. “I do agree with you.”
    Anne slid her eyes at Mary, smiled, slightly.
    “Then you, too, may be in danger.”

SIX
Whangs and Other Happenings— 1636

    MARY RAISED HER FACE TO enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face. She looked out over the bay. Sails came into view, passing the outer islands.
    “Sinnie,” she cried, rising to her feet. They were kneeling by the front door, sorting beet root. Samuel napped on a bed of wildcat pelts. “The ships! The ships have come!”
    The scratch on the windowsill had darkened. Masts and spars rose over the low ridge that rimmed the harbour. By early afternoon, fifteen ships lay at anchor.
    Anne Hutchinson’s twelve-year-old daughter arrived with a message.
    “Mother sends this,” the girl said, handing Mary a cloth bag. “’Tis tea brought from London by the Wheelwrights. She bids you come for supper to make their acquaintance.”
    “Who are they?”
    “My uncle, John Wheelwright. He is a minister, married to my father’s sister. They have five children. And with them …” her voice caught, “…  is my
grandmother
!”
    “Joy for you, indeed,” Mary said, infected by the spring light and the girl’s excitement. “Surely we will come!”
    —
    The adults of three families squeezed around one table: Hutchinsons, Wheelwrights and Dyers. Rich, evening light stretched across the floorboards, up the daub wall, onto pussy willows in an earthenware vase.
    Anne scooped hasty pudding from an iron pot. Children carried trenchers to the table.
    “We shall petition the church that you be co-pastor with Reverend Wilson,” Anne said to her brother-in-law, John Wheelwright.
    Mary studied the new faces, impatient to hear news of home. Anne snapped spoonfuls of pudding, squinting in the blue-grey swirls of steam, nodding at the places where the trenchers were to be set. The children, Mary saw, were entirely accustomed to their mother’s bold pronouncements.
    “Wilson is our minister, Cotton is our teacher. Whereas they do both believe in the inevitability of God’s will, Reverend Wilson lays undue weight on morality.” She paused, glanced at the children. “He believes that by ‘works,’ a strictly moral life, a person proves that he is saved. There are many who would be glad to set a balance to Reverend Wilson’s views. You would be such a one, brother John.”
    John Wheelwright sat with shoulders held back and chin lifted, accentuating his height, drawing down his eyelids. He wore a silk cap; his cheeks were burnished from the crossing.
    “I should be happy to do so.” He held one palm upright, his fingertips making minute tremblings. “My views are much like those of Reverend Cotton. Yet I
have
heard talk that he is tainted. Such nonsense. Or is it?” He glanced at Will Hutchinson and William, surprised that the men did not weigh in. “You are as