Borrowed Sugar

(Contains references to the Salem Witch Trials)

Charity Lester was hanged from one of the apple trees in her orchard. All the townsfolk turned out to bear witness to her death, standing on the edge of her apple grove, the autumn air sickly-sweet with the scent of unpicked Jonathans.

All watched the town elders cut down her lifeless body and place it in a crude pine box sitting atop a pedestal. Then all filed past to look upon her youthful face one last time. Everyone hurriedly made the sign of the cross before turning away, and mothers holding babies, performed this gesture on their infants’ foreheads as well.

All made this religious gesture, for Charity Lester, without trial or evidence, had been found guilty of being a witch by the village elders. Her crime, they had said, had been consorting with the Devil himself. As they tightened the noose around her slender neck, they spoke to the gathered people. There could be no other reason that she baked an apple pie every day, only for the Devil’s consumption, and therefore offered to the demon a sacrifice of much needed sustenance.

Holding her mother’s hand, Mary Eaton had to stand on her tiptoes to look upon Miss Lester’s dead body. Mary had never seen a dead body up close before, although there had been other women in Raven’s Crossing who had been hanged. But this being All Hallow’s Eve, the Ruling Elder had demanded the entire village come witness Charity’s punishment – to look upon her deceased body – her wicked body - to assure them she could do no more harm. But all knew very well, the elders did this to warn others of the fate that would befall them, should they too, consort with the Devil.

“Miss Lester is only sleeping,” the child said, tugging Joan’s hand. “See how happily she smiles.” But Mary’s mother tried to pull her daughter away.

“Come child,” Joan said.

“See, mother,” Mary insisted, pulling back. “I saw Elder Alden’s wife give her something to read for when she wakes up,” and she pointed to a small leatherbound book the dead woman clutched beneath her folded hands.

“Come away, Mary,” her mother repeated, glancing down at Charity’s youthful face framed in curls as yellow as the goldenrod that grew in yonder field. The dead woman was indeed smiling, as if she were truly just sleeping and having a delightful dream. As if she protected a lovely secret. And Joan had no doubt Charity Lester had kept many secrets during her short life.

The child looked back as two of the townsmen placed a lid on the casket and began to nail it shut, each hammer’s blow echoing eerily across the glade. But her mother hurried her along the leaf-strewn path back to their cottage. Once inside, she bolted the heavy latch and closed the linen curtains.

“Light the lanterns,” she told Mary. Joan uncovered the resting dough she had made earlier and rolled it out on the wooden board. Then carefully laid the dough into a pie pan and pricked it with a fork.

“Put more wood in the stove,” she said to Mary. After this was done, Mary came to stand by her mother.

“Are we to have a pie, then?” Mary asked. “A pumpkin pie for All Hallow’s Eve?” But Joan ignored her daughter.

“Did you do as I said?” Joan asked.

“Yes, mama. I put more wood in the stove.”

But Joan clucked her tongue. “No, Mary. The book. Did you take the book from Charity Lester?” At this, Mary frowned.

“I did,” she answered. “But I don’t think I should have. Now Miss Lester will have nothing to read when she awakens. Do you not think Miss Lester will be angry?”

“Bring me the book,” Joan said anxiously, and Mary retrieved it from her coat pocket. Joan began cutting peeled apples into thin slices then sprinkled cinnamon, nutmeg, and brown sugar over them.

“An apple pie?” Mary pouted, handing her mother the tiny book. She wrinkled her nose. “We always have apple pie, and I’m tired of it.”

“This one is made from Miss Lester’s orchard of apple trees.” Joan took the book and glanced at Mary. “From the tree in which Charity was hanged, in fact.” Joan wiped her hands on her apron and opened the book, flipping through the pages, each containing elegant handwritten script. Joan stopped on a page. “Just as I thought,” she said.

“What is it, mama?”

“Recipes,” Joan said, placing the spiced apples in the bottom of the crust. She opened the stove, checking the heat. “Almost ready,” she said, closing the heavy iron door. “Charity always made the best apple pies, didn’t she?” Joan asked Mary.

But Mary wrinkled her nose again. “I want a pumpkin pie, mama. And I think we should give the book back.”

“One more ingredient,” Joan said, taking a jar of sugar she had borrowed from Charity from a high shelf. She sprinkled some over the apples, laid on the top crust, and pushed the pie into the oven to bake. Lastly, with ink and pen, she wrote in the little book next to Charity’s last entry.

“When the pie is done and has cooled, we shall take it to Elder Alden for a nice All Hallow’s Eve dessert. But we will not be giving the book back to our dear Charity Lester, may her soul rest in peace. She no longer needs it and couldn’t read it now if she wanted. And when the pie has been delivered, and I see for myself that Elder Alden has taken a bite, we shall come home and I will make you a splendid pumpkin pie.”

“What about the book, mama?”

“Why, the book shall be given back to Mrs. Alden, who will lend it to another wife, Sarah perhaps, who will also make a special apple pie with apples from the hanging tree. Then Sarah will gift that pie to one of the other Elders in our village.” Joan paused. “And I’m sure she’ll be quite out of sugar.”