LITMIR.BIZ

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looked up. “How could you understand? Do you know what a vile, dirty thing I am? I tried, oh, you don’t know how I tried to remove myself from her door, and yet, every time, I was lured back. ‘His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.’ Five times, Thaddeus, five times I thought it was at an end, that someone would take her away and that would be the end of it, and yet each time I was thrust back into iniquity. Five times she was denied, five times I was damned. ‘He shall die without instruction; and in the greatness of his folly he shall go astray.’”

      And suddenly it all became clear. Five times he had killed, five times to match his fury when he discovered that the release he so greatly desired had been thwarted. And with each denial his rage grew, his madness increased, his caution diminished. At some level he had wanted to be stopped, Lewis knew now, else why would he have left the Book of Proverbs open to the chapter that described his torment? Why else leave the pins that could surely lead only to him. And yet the clues had been missed, the desperation unchecked, fed by fire and gunshot and the groans of dying men, his sin growing ever bigger, his blood thirst never slaked.

      He tasted the bile in his throat; this was what Sarah had died for — this man’s displaced revenge on a sister he could not shed himself of — Sarah and Rachel and all the others. A revenge that left in its wake a trail of motherless children, wifeless men, daughterless fathers.

      Simms was raving again, which at the moment was as well, for Lewis wasn’t sure that he could bring himself to offer this demon any comfort. Not now. He knew that at some point he would have to make his peace with this thing, this awful thing. But not yet, O Lord, not yet.

      II

      The courtroom was packed. As the bailiff cleared a path down the centre aisle for him, Lewis took note of the people who had crammed onto the rows of benches and were spilling over the ends, some of them holding small children and squalling babies, others with their market baskets tucked under their feet. Still others perched on the wide window ledges, craning for a better view, or stood on tiptoe at the back of the hall, digging their elbows into their neighbours’ ribs as they tried to get a look at the murderer. The crime had been described in graphic and substantially erroneous detail by the local newspaper, and for weeks speculation and rumour had trumpeted from its front page; the news of local sensation for once edging out the affairs of both the Province and the rest of the world.

      Lewis’s name was called, and he was asked to swear on the Bible that he was speaking the truth. He was to give his testimony before Spicer gave his. This was a tactic decided on by the lawyer for the prosecution. As an ordained minister, his word was unlikely to be contested, and whatever embellishments Spicer chose to add to his own role would not in any way tarnish the truth of the matter: Simms had been caught red-handed. Quite literally red-handed, Lewis thought idly, for the dye from the book of Proverbs had been on his hands when he was wrestled down, red dye and red blood mingling together to proclaim his guilt.

      When asked to describe the events of the day in question he had been encouraged to tell only of discovering Simms in the act of choking the life out of the woman in the cabin. He had described all of the murders and the reasoning that had led him to suspect Simms to the lawyer who had spoken to him beforehand. He had held nothing back, but the man had fixed him with a steely eye and said, “You have only to say that you witnessed Simms running out of the cottage and that you went inside and discovered that the woman was dead. Anything else will simply confuse the court. Do you understand?”

      Lewis recounted what he had seen in a calm voice, and then the lawyer who had been appointed to defend the accused stood up. Lewis truly expected the man to question why he had been in that neighbourhood when he had no business there, why he had followed Simms, why they had burst through the door of the cottage without cause, but the man did nothing of the sort.

      “How long have you been an itinerant preacher, Mr. Lewis?” he asked.

      The question so took him by surprise that it took him a moment to answer. “For over twenty years,” he said finally.

      “And this is with the Methodist Episcopal Church of Canada?” he asked, and barely bothered waiting for Lewis’s nodded reply before returning to his seat.

      “No further questions, Your Honour.” And with that he was dismissed.

      The lawyer had given it all up as a bad cause, he realized. He was simply going through the motions, not interested in the whys and the wherefores, just in getting the whole thing over with so that he could go home to his dinner. There was no doubt what the outcome would be: Simms would hang.

      He didn’t bother waiting for Spicer. Word would spread soon enough about his testimony, and what the court had decided. Instead, he walked down by the river to watch the water trickling over the rocks. The rains had finally stopped — there had been none for nearly a month now — and the river was low again. One could almost have walked across it, unlike during the spring when the sheer weight of the water threatened to sweep away the bridge where the river emptied into the bay.

      There were men working on this bridge as he watched, heaping up great boulders and rocks around the pilings, strengthening the banks that channeled the stream toward the outlet that led to the open water beyond. Every year they piled their rock and fortified their beams and some years it was enough; but a spring of heavy rain or a sudden torrential outburst could swell the river all along its course, from the far backcountry to the bay, and then the water would spill over its banks, flooding the streets and the cellars and leaving behind a greasy, gritty film that stank and festered.

      Every year there was someone drowned in the river’s torrent, most often a young boy, for the boys seemed unable to keep away from it. There were enough dangers for them in the course of life, you would think they would know enough not to court the ones they could avoid. There was the cholera that swept through Canada in devouring epidemics, malaria that came from the swampy areas being cleared, unexplained fevers and quinsies and convulsions, sharp axes that could remove a limb in a twinkling, horses that could throw, bulls that could gore; you would think it would be enough without adding drowning to it all. Or war. Or murder. Life was fragile, vulnerable in this place, and no effort seemed able to hold it in place, no words could stop it from slipping away, no prayers seemed able to protect it.

      He had hoped that Simms’s trial would offer him a sense of closure, lift the weight of Sarah’s death from his soul. He was relieved, it was true, that he no longer had to worry that he would again ride into some secluded clearing and find another young woman dead. He was glad that this particular madness had been bottled up, could no longer threaten the world. But he knew, too, that hanging Simms could not bring the young women back, and he wondered at the waste of it all. Five, soon to be six dead, because one man’s hatred and loathing had turned inside out and taken them all down to destruction. And yet, in spite of any reassurance he was offered, he still held himself responsible in part. He had suspected with no grounds for suspicion, made judgments on less than fact, prevaricated, assigned guilt where he wanted to find it. He had believed all the time that he was right, and seldom did he stop to consider that he was as subject to prejudice and intolerance as the next man. One of the major tenets of his faith was a constant striving toward sanctification, toward a state in which it was not possible to sin, to know the very grace of God. It distressed him to realize how far short of this ideal he had fallen. No, not fallen … stumbled, slid … one downward step at a time.

      As he stared at the trickle of water in front of him he began to reach a new understanding of the questions that plagued him, although it was not knowledge that he particularly welcomed. There was no sudden rush, just a slow dawning, and the kernel of it lay in what he had said to Martha: “The badness is always there, in everybody, and you have to struggle not to let it out, and not to act on it.” There was no denying of evil, no final shutting of it away. It would lie there forever, like the destructive potential of the river in spate, ready to roil up and rush over its constrictive banks, and all you could do was build on as high a ground as you could find and hope that your foundations held against the torrent. And that was enough. He knew what he had to do. It was a lesson that he had needed to learn, and it was only his own stubbornness that had

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