the parlour. And if they had been shot, surely she would have heard the crack of the muskets?
‘What do you think did for them, Goody Scarlet?’ asked Mary. She was a plump, gingery girl with curly ringlets, only fifteen years old, although she had been helping out in the Scarlet household since she was twelve.
‘I can’t tell, Mary, not just by looking at them,’ said Beatrice. ‘They have no marks on them, do they? And if somebody has deliberately killed them, why did they do it? We have no enemies that I know of. Who would do such a thing to spite us? And if it was Indians looking for food, why didn’t they carry them away – or drive them away while they were still alive? That would have been easier, wouldn’t it?’
It occurred to her that it might well have been Indians, but Indians who were seeking revenge rather than provisions. The Penacook tribe still bitterly resented the English settlers for driving them off the land that had once been theirs, and they would raid the village every so often. If that were the case, though, they would have been much more likely to enter the house and kidnap Beatrice and Mary for ransom, and maybe take little Noah, too, who was still asleep.
She didn’t mention this thought to Mary, however. The poor girl was upset enough as it was.
‘What can we do now?’ asked Mary. ‘Should we butcher them? We should butcher them, shouldn’t we, before the meat becomes maggoty? It’s so hot today.’
‘No, Mary,’ said Beatrice. ‘Not until we know what killed them. It could have been the scour, or another infection much worse. If we were to eat their meat, we could suffer the same fate as them. When Francis returns I’ll have to see what he decides. My Lord, he’s going to be mortified. We paid more than two pounds ten shillings a head for these poor creatures.’
There was nothing more that she could do for the moment, not without discussing it with Francis. If the pigs had been the victims of some disease, she had no idea what it could have been, although she had treated many sick pigs in the past. Pigs with long-term illnesses would visibly waste away, but it would take them weeks, if not months, before they died. Acutely sick pigs would invariably vomit or suffer from copious diarrhoea.
She went back out through the gate, with Mary following her. As she was latching the gate, she glimpsed a bright reflected sparkle in the boar’s open mouth, as sharp as a star.
‘Wait, Mary,’ she said, and went back into the pen. She bent over, and when she pried the boar’s lips open wider, she saw that there was a small triangle of broken mirror stuck to its thick grey tongue. She carefully picked it out, wiping it on her apron, and then she held it up so that Mary could see it.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mary.
‘It’s a little piece of looking-glass. I can’t think what it was doing in his mouth. Surely he wouldn’t have tried to eat it.’
‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Mary, and pressed her hands together as if she were praying.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You know what they say, Goody Scarlet, about a piece of broken mirror on your tongue. That’s the Devil’s Communion.’
‘The Devil’s Communion?’ said Beatrice. ‘I’ve never heard of that before.’ She went over to one of the sows and opened up her mouth, too. Right at the back of her tongue she saw another shard of mirror. She left it where it was and examined the other sows. All of them had fragments of mirror on their tongues, of different shapes and sizes, some of them curved, some of them thin and pointed like knife blades. Whatever mirror they had come from, it must have been smashed with considerable violence.
‘Satan’s work, this is,’ said Mary. ‘The Devil makes mock of the holy communion by placing a piece of a broken looking-glass in your mouth instead of a wafer. Your own vanity cuts your tongue, see, so that you drink your own blood instead of the blood of Christ.’
‘And who told
‘What do you think did for them, Goody Scarlet?’ asked Mary. She was a plump, gingery girl with curly ringlets, only fifteen years old, although she had been helping out in the Scarlet household since she was twelve.
‘I can’t tell, Mary, not just by looking at them,’ said Beatrice. ‘They have no marks on them, do they? And if somebody has deliberately killed them, why did they do it? We have no enemies that I know of. Who would do such a thing to spite us? And if it was Indians looking for food, why didn’t they carry them away – or drive them away while they were still alive? That would have been easier, wouldn’t it?’
It occurred to her that it might well have been Indians, but Indians who were seeking revenge rather than provisions. The Penacook tribe still bitterly resented the English settlers for driving them off the land that had once been theirs, and they would raid the village every so often. If that were the case, though, they would have been much more likely to enter the house and kidnap Beatrice and Mary for ransom, and maybe take little Noah, too, who was still asleep.
She didn’t mention this thought to Mary, however. The poor girl was upset enough as it was.
‘What can we do now?’ asked Mary. ‘Should we butcher them? We should butcher them, shouldn’t we, before the meat becomes maggoty? It’s so hot today.’
‘No, Mary,’ said Beatrice. ‘Not until we know what killed them. It could have been the scour, or another infection much worse. If we were to eat their meat, we could suffer the same fate as them. When Francis returns I’ll have to see what he decides. My Lord, he’s going to be mortified. We paid more than two pounds ten shillings a head for these poor creatures.’
There was nothing more that she could do for the moment, not without discussing it with Francis. If the pigs had been the victims of some disease, she had no idea what it could have been, although she had treated many sick pigs in the past. Pigs with long-term illnesses would visibly waste away, but it would take them weeks, if not months, before they died. Acutely sick pigs would invariably vomit or suffer from copious diarrhoea.
She went back out through the gate, with Mary following her. As she was latching the gate, she glimpsed a bright reflected sparkle in the boar’s open mouth, as sharp as a star.
‘Wait, Mary,’ she said, and went back into the pen. She bent over, and when she pried the boar’s lips open wider, she saw that there was a small triangle of broken mirror stuck to its thick grey tongue. She carefully picked it out, wiping it on her apron, and then she held it up so that Mary could see it.
‘What’s that?’ asked Mary.
‘It’s a little piece of looking-glass. I can’t think what it was doing in his mouth. Surely he wouldn’t have tried to eat it.’
‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Mary, and pressed her hands together as if she were praying.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You know what they say, Goody Scarlet, about a piece of broken mirror on your tongue. That’s the Devil’s Communion.’
‘The Devil’s Communion?’ said Beatrice. ‘I’ve never heard of that before.’ She went over to one of the sows and opened up her mouth, too. Right at the back of her tongue she saw another shard of mirror. She left it where it was and examined the other sows. All of them had fragments of mirror on their tongues, of different shapes and sizes, some of them curved, some of them thin and pointed like knife blades. Whatever mirror they had come from, it must have been smashed with considerable violence.
‘Satan’s work, this is,’ said Mary. ‘The Devil makes mock of the holy communion by placing a piece of a broken looking-glass in your mouth instead of a wafer. Your own vanity cuts your tongue, see, so that you drink your own blood instead of the blood of Christ.’
‘And who told
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