Midnight in Pungo

The pulsing drone of locusts smothered even the sound of their own breathing as they picked their way through the trees and underbrush, hugging the edge of the tobacco field.

“Of course we came at night,” Felicity said. “We mustn’t be seen.”

“Yes, I suppose. But why her garden?”

“Don’t be stupid, Euodia. She’s the only one who grows that putrid root.”

Felicity gathered the folds of her skirt to step over a fallen tree. Once safely over, she turned around to help her companion. Euodia’s sudden timidity frustrated her since it was she, not Felicity, who had invented the scheme in the first place.

“Just returned from the gaol and already at it again,” Euodia had complained that afternoon weeks before. “A woman of her age looking at men that way.”

To Felicity it had seemed that it was her friend’s husband who had the wandering eye. Yet she knew the stories; the rumors that swirled around a trial by ducking would live on for generations. Her own husband never seemed to take notice of the woman, but that only made Felicity that much more suspicious—the woman was infamous and, she must admit, strangely beautiful.

“We won’t be the first to lay such a charge against her,” Euodia had said. “I don’t believe in some kind of dark arts any more than I believe in the sacraments—and neither do you—but that hardly matters. Everyone else believes and they’re certainly ready to believe it about her.”

From there the plan had taken shape: spectral maladies, unlike ordinary illness, were as hard to disprove as they were to diagnose. The magistrates needed only some piece of evidence to latch onto, something to point in the direction of their oppressor, but not enough by itself to convict.

“I suppose it would be more like a warning than anything?” Felicity had asked.

“Exactly that: your John and my Benjamin are off limits. That’s all we mean to prove; she shall be made to understand.”

Finally, they approached within sight of the cottage. Wisps of smoke rose from the stone chimney, but the rest of the house was cloaked in darkness.

“I’m not having second thoughts if that’s what you’re thinking,” Euodia whispered.

Felicity raised a finger to her lips then pointed toward the garden on the far side of the house. It seemed, to her chagrin, that they had emerged from the woods too soon, having meant to approach from the other side. Now they would have to sneak past the house.

As they stepped from the shadows, clouds parted revealing the moon. The grating of the locusts became a welcome sound then, muffling their steps as they rustled through the tall grass. Euodia—her courage seeming to return—approached the low, rail fence that hedged the herb garden and fumbled at the latch.

Just as she was pulling it loose, the sound of the locusts disappeared as suddenly and completely as snuffing out a candle. The hinges creaked terribly and the women froze in place.

Euodia turned slightly to meet Felicity’s gaze. They waited in silence for what seemed an eternity, but no sound came from the house. Concluding that the woman must be already abed and a heavy sleeper, they eased themselves through the gate’s narrow opening and into the neat rows of herbs.

Moments later Euodia whispered, “Over here.”

“Are you sure?” Felicity asked.

“Just smell.”

Felicity bent toward the ground and breathed in. The odor like rotting meat was unmistakable. What use the woman had for the vile swamp cabbages Felicity could not imagine, though the knowledge must have come from the last of the colony’s native inhabitants.

She straightened quickly, eager to relieve her nose. “How do we get it up?”

“Find one of her tools laying about,” Euodia suggested. A brief search, however, proved their target to be a careful steward of her belongings.

They knelt beside the plants, trying not to breathe too heavily, and pondering the problem. Felicity broke the brief silence.

“We shall have to use our hands. ʼTis simple enough to wash when we return.”

“A poor idea. The leaves burn, you know.”

“And how would you know that?” Felicity asked, turning toward her companion.

Euodia’s face was contorted with fear and Felicity realized at that moment—as she spied the thin shadow in the moonlight—that it was not Euodia who had spoken.

“Euodia Mathews and Felicity Warner. I might’ve guessed it would be you two.”

“Now, Grace—”

“Save your pleading, Mrs. Mathews. Your words are wasted on me. Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you were planning to do.”

“We can ex—” Felicity started to say, but Euodia cut her off.

“We’ll leave, go back to things as if this never happened.”

The older woman scoffed. “That’s all I’ve wanted to do since my husband died. For fifteen years—” Her tone had been rising, but she stopped short. “Nay, young ladies. If I may not have peace, then neither may you.”

The woman cast off her nightcap and the shawl that was wrapped around her shoulders. A gust of wind stirred her gray-streaked hair and the light of the moon seemed to shine more intensely on her face. Felicity watched in paralyzed horror as the woman reached toward Euodia, touching her forehead with an outstretched thumb. Her mind refused to believe what her eyes saw: her companion’s head shrank and darkened, her back bent into a frightening arch, and the fabric of her blouse seemed to come alive.

“If you want to gossip like a croaking toad then live as one. And if you,” she said, turning to Felicity, “are fool enough to say anything, I leave you to imagine what fate awaits you. Be gone!”

Felicity stumbled up and out of her crouching position, throwing herself toward the woods as fast as she dared. Though still unsure that she believed the words, nevertheless she muttered the rest of the way home: “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night.”