windar
Teller of Tales
Chapter 6
It was a strange feeling as four strong men grasped the crossbeam to which my arms had been nailed and began raising the cross. I felt myself lifted into the air as they strained against the weight, muttering curses and groans. Before they had lifted the crossbeam more than a couple of feet off the ground, I heard a man shouting, “Wait!” and saw the crowd parting to make way for him. Was this someone come from Boston, perhaps, to stop this mob of locals from carrying out this illegal and irregular abomination?
The man wore thick gloves even on this warm day as he stood before the Magistrate, who signaled to the men raising the cross to set it down. He carried a strange circle made of woven branches. “What is the meaning of this?” the Magistrate demanded.
Out of breath from his run, the man paused to gulp some air before speaking. “Your honor, did not Christ wear a crown of thorns when crucified? When I heard what was happening I made this from some of blackberry bushes that grow near my home.” He held the branches up. “Should not this witch who claims to be Our Lord have one, too?”
The crowd shouted its approval. “The Queen must have a Crown. She’s a Tory, isn’t she?” one woman cried.
The Magistrate looked around, seeming unsure whether he should bend to the will of the mob. Finally, he muttered, “Be quick about it.” The man with the crown came over and knelt so that his face was close enough to mine that I could feel his breath. He grasped my hair in his left hand, lifting my head off the wood on which it rested, then, with his right hand, he shoved the crown roughly onto my head. I could feel the sharp thorns digging into my forehead and feel the trickles of blood running down my cheeks. Satisfied, with his work the man stepped back into the crowd.
That additional humiliation accomplished, the Sheriff motioned to the crew and I felt myself rising into the air again. Looking down, I could see that as the top end of the cross rose, the bottom end was sliding into the narrow hole that they had dug in the ground. I braced myself for the jolt that would accompany the end of the cross hitting the bottom of the hole. The impact caused me to swing away from the wood and then slam back into it, producing waves of agony as the wood rubbed against the wounds made by the whip. As the cross approached vertical, the men transferred their grip from the crossbeam to the upright, bracing it to keep it from toppling over. Now, I felt the full pull of my weight on my arms and shoulders, the muscles straining at the uncomfortable and unaccustomed position.
“Keep hold of it,” one of the men told his comrades as he took a few paces to one side to retrieve the shovel they had used to dig the hole. He began lifting the loose dirt lying beside the hole, throwing it into the open space around the wooden beam, stopping to tamp it down after every few loads. In a short while, the hole had been filled in and the cross stood tall and firmly anchored. The men stepped back and tested it by banging their hands against the wood. I could feel the shockwaves passing through my body, adding to my already growing distress.
“Seems, solid,” one of them said. “Looks like you won’t be going anywhere, Miss Jesus, I mean, Ann,” he added. The others laughed.
That seemed certain, for where could I go? This was where God had commanded me to be, and even if I chose to disobey Him, I was quite firmly attached, my arms nailed to the crossbar, my feet nailed to the upright about 3 feet above the ground, my head above those of even the tallest men. And the pain in my arms and feet made it almost impossible to think about more than just trying to cope for the moment. I looked up at the sky muttered a silent prayer to God for strength.
When I looked down, I saw the Magistrate and the Sheriff standing at the base of the cross, looking up at me. “You are not Jesus, Ann, you are but a deluded woman. You will die on this cross and you will not be resurrected. But, even now, Ann, it is not too late. Recant your foolish blasphemy and we will take you down and treat your wounds. There is good chance you can recover if you don’t stay up there too long.”
“My Brother Jesus was offered no such respite, so how can I betray Him?” was all I could reply.
“Then let this be on you, Ann, not on us,” he replied as they turned and walked away.
And so, I hung there, helpless, suffering on this lovely spring day. The sun was now approaching its zenith, birds were chirping, the new leaves on the trees offered some shade and from my high vantage point I could see down to the Merrimack River, flowing swiftly at this time of year. It had pleased God to allow my final day to be spent amidst His beautiful Creation.
Despite the remote location, word of my crucifixion had certainly spread through the town and the surrounding countryside. In addition to those who had followed the procession from town, more kept arriving, the crowd growing to perhaps 400 persons, both men and women. None had ever seen such a sight nor would see such again. Vendors were taking advantage of the opportunity to sell jars of ale and rum as well as sweetmeats and pastries.
One man, obviously drunk, approached. He stared, fixated, at my crotch. Lost in my agony, I hadn’t realized that they had attached me with my legs splayed, my most private parts on full display. Leering, the man looked up at me. “I know about you Shakers. No man has been up there I bet,” he spat, pointing at my womanly parts. Little did he know of the life of carnal sin I had led before learning of God’s word, of the four babies I had birthed, all taken from me as punishment.
He turned to the crowd. “Someone get me a ladder and I’ll make sure Miss Jesus here doesn’t die wondering.” Some laughed, but others, ashamed, turned away.
A woman came forward, perhaps his wife or a sister or just an ordinary townswoman. “Robert, that’s enough, you are drunk and you are shameful.” She took his arm and led him away. Perhaps he himself felt shame, because he didn’t resist.
The rest of the crowd continued to mill about, murmuring, watched by one of the Sheriff’s deputies, there to insure that no one interfered with my suffering. And suffering I was. With my weight borne by my shoulders, breathing had become exceedingly difficult, and the dead pull tore at the wounds surrounding the nails driven through my wrists, causing fresh rivulets of blood to meander down my arms and across my accentuated ribs. Driven by the need for air, I would have to shift my weight to my shattered feet, causing shooting bolts of pain from the nails pressing on the bone. Pushing up also caused my leg muscles to cramp from the unaccustomed strain. The exertion caused me to break out in a cold sweat seeping from every pore of my naked shuddering body. Moreover, as my back slid against the rough wood, the fire from the whip wounds was reignited.
However, as painful as it all was, I knew this would be my last chance to reach these souls. Taking in as much air as I could, I began, “Like my Brother Jesus I am crucified, not by Romans, but by the leaders of your town.” I gulped more air and pushed my body up. “God has sent me here to turn you away from the sins of the flesh, to show you the righteous way. The final days are at hand. There is little time to waste.” Then, exhausted, I slumped down again.
Many in the crowd were laughing, mocking my words, gesturing obscenely. But a few stood quietly looking up at me. I could only hope that they were absorbing my message. Gradually as the afternoon, wore on, the crowd dwindled, as they grew bored with the spectacle. So, too, did my strength dwindle from the effort of rising and falling in order to breathe and from the pain that now coursed throughout my entire body.
Eventually, the sun sank in the west towards my home where my Shaker brothers and sisters awaited my return, not yet knowing of my fate. As night fell, it began to get cold, for, even in late April, it can be near freezing at night in New England. Despite the sweat from my exertions and my agony, I began to feel profoundly chilled. As the wind began to increase, my nipples hardened in the cool air and I could feel my body trembling in a vain attempt to keep warm. The cross began swaying in the wind, despite its being firmly anchored in the ground, though there seemed little chance it would topple over.
In the dark, gazing up at God’s Heaven, I marveled at the glory of His Creation and thanked him for choosing me as the vessel of His Word. My suffering, great as it was, was a testament to Him and to my Brother Jesus.
As the night wore on, I could feel myself growing weaker. The chill wind caused my body to shake uncontrollably and the spasms in my leg muscles made it ever harder to push myself up to breathe. I felt lightheaded, on the verge of losing consciousness. I muttered a silent prayer “God, please take me, your humble servant, into your bosom. Let me see my Brother Jesus and sit with Him by Your side.”
There was a bright light and then only darkness.
It was a strange feeling as four strong men grasped the crossbeam to which my arms had been nailed and began raising the cross. I felt myself lifted into the air as they strained against the weight, muttering curses and groans. Before they had lifted the crossbeam more than a couple of feet off the ground, I heard a man shouting, “Wait!” and saw the crowd parting to make way for him. Was this someone come from Boston, perhaps, to stop this mob of locals from carrying out this illegal and irregular abomination?
The man wore thick gloves even on this warm day as he stood before the Magistrate, who signaled to the men raising the cross to set it down. He carried a strange circle made of woven branches. “What is the meaning of this?” the Magistrate demanded.
Out of breath from his run, the man paused to gulp some air before speaking. “Your honor, did not Christ wear a crown of thorns when crucified? When I heard what was happening I made this from some of blackberry bushes that grow near my home.” He held the branches up. “Should not this witch who claims to be Our Lord have one, too?”
The crowd shouted its approval. “The Queen must have a Crown. She’s a Tory, isn’t she?” one woman cried.
The Magistrate looked around, seeming unsure whether he should bend to the will of the mob. Finally, he muttered, “Be quick about it.” The man with the crown came over and knelt so that his face was close enough to mine that I could feel his breath. He grasped my hair in his left hand, lifting my head off the wood on which it rested, then, with his right hand, he shoved the crown roughly onto my head. I could feel the sharp thorns digging into my forehead and feel the trickles of blood running down my cheeks. Satisfied, with his work the man stepped back into the crowd.
That additional humiliation accomplished, the Sheriff motioned to the crew and I felt myself rising into the air again. Looking down, I could see that as the top end of the cross rose, the bottom end was sliding into the narrow hole that they had dug in the ground. I braced myself for the jolt that would accompany the end of the cross hitting the bottom of the hole. The impact caused me to swing away from the wood and then slam back into it, producing waves of agony as the wood rubbed against the wounds made by the whip. As the cross approached vertical, the men transferred their grip from the crossbeam to the upright, bracing it to keep it from toppling over. Now, I felt the full pull of my weight on my arms and shoulders, the muscles straining at the uncomfortable and unaccustomed position.
“Keep hold of it,” one of the men told his comrades as he took a few paces to one side to retrieve the shovel they had used to dig the hole. He began lifting the loose dirt lying beside the hole, throwing it into the open space around the wooden beam, stopping to tamp it down after every few loads. In a short while, the hole had been filled in and the cross stood tall and firmly anchored. The men stepped back and tested it by banging their hands against the wood. I could feel the shockwaves passing through my body, adding to my already growing distress.
“Seems, solid,” one of them said. “Looks like you won’t be going anywhere, Miss Jesus, I mean, Ann,” he added. The others laughed.
That seemed certain, for where could I go? This was where God had commanded me to be, and even if I chose to disobey Him, I was quite firmly attached, my arms nailed to the crossbar, my feet nailed to the upright about 3 feet above the ground, my head above those of even the tallest men. And the pain in my arms and feet made it almost impossible to think about more than just trying to cope for the moment. I looked up at the sky muttered a silent prayer to God for strength.
When I looked down, I saw the Magistrate and the Sheriff standing at the base of the cross, looking up at me. “You are not Jesus, Ann, you are but a deluded woman. You will die on this cross and you will not be resurrected. But, even now, Ann, it is not too late. Recant your foolish blasphemy and we will take you down and treat your wounds. There is good chance you can recover if you don’t stay up there too long.”
“My Brother Jesus was offered no such respite, so how can I betray Him?” was all I could reply.
“Then let this be on you, Ann, not on us,” he replied as they turned and walked away.
And so, I hung there, helpless, suffering on this lovely spring day. The sun was now approaching its zenith, birds were chirping, the new leaves on the trees offered some shade and from my high vantage point I could see down to the Merrimack River, flowing swiftly at this time of year. It had pleased God to allow my final day to be spent amidst His beautiful Creation.
Despite the remote location, word of my crucifixion had certainly spread through the town and the surrounding countryside. In addition to those who had followed the procession from town, more kept arriving, the crowd growing to perhaps 400 persons, both men and women. None had ever seen such a sight nor would see such again. Vendors were taking advantage of the opportunity to sell jars of ale and rum as well as sweetmeats and pastries.
One man, obviously drunk, approached. He stared, fixated, at my crotch. Lost in my agony, I hadn’t realized that they had attached me with my legs splayed, my most private parts on full display. Leering, the man looked up at me. “I know about you Shakers. No man has been up there I bet,” he spat, pointing at my womanly parts. Little did he know of the life of carnal sin I had led before learning of God’s word, of the four babies I had birthed, all taken from me as punishment.
He turned to the crowd. “Someone get me a ladder and I’ll make sure Miss Jesus here doesn’t die wondering.” Some laughed, but others, ashamed, turned away.
A woman came forward, perhaps his wife or a sister or just an ordinary townswoman. “Robert, that’s enough, you are drunk and you are shameful.” She took his arm and led him away. Perhaps he himself felt shame, because he didn’t resist.
The rest of the crowd continued to mill about, murmuring, watched by one of the Sheriff’s deputies, there to insure that no one interfered with my suffering. And suffering I was. With my weight borne by my shoulders, breathing had become exceedingly difficult, and the dead pull tore at the wounds surrounding the nails driven through my wrists, causing fresh rivulets of blood to meander down my arms and across my accentuated ribs. Driven by the need for air, I would have to shift my weight to my shattered feet, causing shooting bolts of pain from the nails pressing on the bone. Pushing up also caused my leg muscles to cramp from the unaccustomed strain. The exertion caused me to break out in a cold sweat seeping from every pore of my naked shuddering body. Moreover, as my back slid against the rough wood, the fire from the whip wounds was reignited.
However, as painful as it all was, I knew this would be my last chance to reach these souls. Taking in as much air as I could, I began, “Like my Brother Jesus I am crucified, not by Romans, but by the leaders of your town.” I gulped more air and pushed my body up. “God has sent me here to turn you away from the sins of the flesh, to show you the righteous way. The final days are at hand. There is little time to waste.” Then, exhausted, I slumped down again.
Many in the crowd were laughing, mocking my words, gesturing obscenely. But a few stood quietly looking up at me. I could only hope that they were absorbing my message. Gradually as the afternoon, wore on, the crowd dwindled, as they grew bored with the spectacle. So, too, did my strength dwindle from the effort of rising and falling in order to breathe and from the pain that now coursed throughout my entire body.
Eventually, the sun sank in the west towards my home where my Shaker brothers and sisters awaited my return, not yet knowing of my fate. As night fell, it began to get cold, for, even in late April, it can be near freezing at night in New England. Despite the sweat from my exertions and my agony, I began to feel profoundly chilled. As the wind began to increase, my nipples hardened in the cool air and I could feel my body trembling in a vain attempt to keep warm. The cross began swaying in the wind, despite its being firmly anchored in the ground, though there seemed little chance it would topple over.
In the dark, gazing up at God’s Heaven, I marveled at the glory of His Creation and thanked him for choosing me as the vessel of His Word. My suffering, great as it was, was a testament to Him and to my Brother Jesus.
As the night wore on, I could feel myself growing weaker. The chill wind caused my body to shake uncontrollably and the spasms in my leg muscles made it ever harder to push myself up to breathe. I felt lightheaded, on the verge of losing consciousness. I muttered a silent prayer “God, please take me, your humble servant, into your bosom. Let me see my Brother Jesus and sit with Him by Your side.”
There was a bright light and then only darkness.
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. Would I write a story without some kind of twist at the end?
.