crucible epiloge

The soft rain pelted the earth collecting on the brims of men's hats and sending children scurrying home to warm hearths and hot meals.  A solitary man ignored such summons of the heart and continued his work alone having shooed off the other men to fill their stomachs with stew under sound roofs.  He continued to move the soft earth one shovelful at a time.  Though he knew it was there the man could no longer see the wooden box buried deep in the earth’s arms.  Tears no longer joined the rain as he dug, the ability to cry lost behind a veil of bitter numbness and resignment. Casting his gaze to the cloud shrouded sky he pondered what God thought, what he made of this brutal, shameful casting away of life. 

The man honored the dead in the only way he knew hoping this small act would help heal the raw ache cast of Salem-an ache he himself felt within him buried beneath his pulse.  They did not deserve to die and surly not in this ghastly way.  He went each day and buried them in modest wooden boxes so that they may have this small shred of peace,  sometimes other men of the town joined him and they worked in somber silence, grunts of labor and the music of a spade hitting unyielding earth the only sounds to touch their ears.  Occasionally tears would spill  from one of the men's eyes onto the recently turned earth as one buried a neighbor,  a friend, a wife, sometimes you would catch a man holding his shovel,  staring off, his eyes not seeing and you know he too feels as haunted. 

The rain water collecting on the brim of the man’s hat spills over jarring him from his melancholy.  He picks up his shovel and resumes his work.  Self-pity is a not a luxury this man permits himself, considering himself lucky for the ignorance of the faces of those who lay in the boxes beneath the earth.  When the graves are finished his would kneel down on the soft earth and offer up a prayer to these poor souls.  The rain continues to fall in cold sheets.  The man pats down the freshly turned earth with the blunt end of his spade.  Walking to the edge of the forest he plucks a single flower, watching as the rain water cascades down the soft petals of the purest white the man has ever seen, the sight of something so beautiful following such an atrocious event making his heart clench.   He lays the lily upon the grave.  He sends out his prayer his knees in the damp earth as his prayer spills from his lips the emotion behind them unmistakable.  The man stands to leave, turning at the last second to say a final word.  Goodbye John, May you now find your peace.  Then, standing by the grave of John Procter the cold rain coating his soul in sorrow, Reverend Hale allowed himself to cry. 

Light streamed out from the windows.  Being this many towns over provided the man with rare and precious anonymity.  The door opens before he has time to touch the metal with his numb fingers, the light and warmth of the inn spilling over his dampened boots.  He tipped his hat to the gentlemen walking out and stepped into the fire lit atmosphere.  The inn was fairly quite a few sitting at tables basking in the fires warmth before they would stumble into beds dreaming of their far off destination.  Choosing a table in the corner the man removes his dampened hat, his gaze falling upon the flames dancing in the hearth.  The terrors of yesterdays springing forth behind his closed eyes.  Every moment was filled similar as to this.  Before the man would take such a time to watch the flames and think, like these other lucky men, of his destination. Now however, the faces of those accused danced behind his eyes such as the flames did, trapezing in the stone hearth.  Rare now are  moments of fleeting peace and serenity for the man.  Reverend Hale wondered if peace would befall him again.  He felt restless, the need to make peace rustling within him like dry leaves in the fall.  He made his amends in the only way he knew.  But was it enough? how was he supposed to right this great wrong.  The church was supposed to be the infallible word, the truth personified through ink in the pages of the bible.  Alas how could the Gospel, how could the holy father condone this.  He was pulled out of his musings by a young girl, not yet fifteen, who lay down a platter offering him a shy smile.  He pulled forth  some coins out of his pockets and then the girl was walking away.  So young, so innocent, and the same age as some of the girls were in Salem.  Older than some of the girls in fact. His still numb fingers grasped the pewter spoon spooning hot stew into his mouth with controlled mechanical motions his mind still on the girl the same age, and how those girls in Salem had ruined a town.  How had the church not seen this, not stopped it?  Part of him yearned to the church, but then who would believe some sad once minister.  You are a broken minister.  John's words still echoed in Hales head.  Those words held true Hale mused he was not able to stop this but perhaps he could still do more.  People needed to see the harsh lessons these last couple of days had thought him ,perhaps their would be people willing to listen, people whom he could touch could save.  A selfish venture if he ever heard of one, for deep down Reverend Hale pondered and knew in part he wished to spread word to heal his own ache.  Gazing  into the fire he saw truth in its flames. Reverend Hale would never be free of the Salem witch trials. 

    The man stepped off of the podium.  The paint on the walls was peeling, occasionally a strip would fall, a feather dancing in the stifling summer heat.  The man smiled as the people left but it did not reach his eyes.  His smiles rarely did anymore.  Dust billowed beneath the mans feet as reverend Hale walked down the road.  The sun shone down upon his hat as he approached his horse.  The mare recognized him and the man re paid him with a lump of sugar.  This mare had been with him for a long time.  She had been the one after all who he had ridden out of Salem on.  Her eyes held peace still.  A peace he longed for, a peace he could not begrudge her for.  Still that longing for the ignorance his mare had beat within him still.  Looking over his shoulder as he slung the leather bags upon his horse, he could barley see the small white church he had been speaking at.  Preaching not only love of god but love of fellow man.  A love he hoped would never be soiled again with greed.  A hope he knew belonged to the novice inside his heart.

     The sun had set by the time his horse slowed to a steady gallop and by the time he slid off the worn leather, the stars were shining down on him, whispering in his ear.  He walked along side his horse the night shrouding him like a cloak.  He walked down the dark well trodden road, pinpricks of light marking houses.  He slowed as he passed a field. A Field he realized he knew.  The man stopped and stared at a house in the distance, all fields look alike he mused he must be mistaken.  The man continued onward slightly more wary as he walked down the night clouded road.  Reverend Hale came to a stop as a light voice danced over the field chiding a child for spilling creme.  Reverend Hale knew that voice.  He had heard it waiver with fear scream with anguish and stand up for itself.  The voice of Elizabeth Proctor brought back many memories, and none of them pleasant.  He could see her children through the window, her youngest, a girl, wiping up the spilled cream.  She looked to be four or five years old he mused as an older boy picked her up and tickled her sides.  He could hear his voice talking to his sister. Gabriella, was her name.  The angel that led the kings to the cradle of the lord.  A fitting name.  Reverend Hale watched with sad eyes as the girl, a child who never had the chance to meet her father,was taught how to set the table by the older boys.  Elizabeth walks in the room carrying a pie and the children cheer.  Elizabeth smiles though reverand Hale notices that, a mirror to his own, the smile does not reach her eyes.  A man walks in he waches as he sits the children smile up at him refering to him as uncle not father.  He had heard rumor that Elizabeths husband was more of a cousin to her than a martial figure, but the reverned has not the heart to put stock in rumors.  He wonders if they think of him, John, often do they see this man sitting and remember the strong voice of John Proctor sweeping the room?  He takes a step towards the house, then thinks better on it and steps back.  Should he knock upon the knotted wood? He imagines Elizabeth opening the door the smile dissapearing as she pears into the night and sees the face of this man.  A man whom last saw her on the day her husband was carted to the gallows.  Hale looks back to his horse then back at the house.  Saying goodbye to the smoke curling from the chimney and the smell of bread, reverand hale slips back upon his saddle and trots onward into the night the chatter of the Proctor family fading away as he rides.