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“Sin is not hurtful because it is forbidden, but it is forbidden because it is hurtful.”

 

—Poor Richard’s Almanack

 

 

A ruddy harvest moon cast long shadows that wavered in the damp July night. I dug in the garden till my shirt clung with mud and sweat. At last I stood over a shallow pit. A distant bell rang the night hour. An echo tolled back, as two separated voices calling to one another. I turned nose to sky and wiped my brow. My cuff smelled of damp loam, and of rum.

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I dumped the horror in the grave.

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Scoop by scoop I filled the hole, some rocks jumbled in where twine formed careful edges for planting: basil, thyme, dill, Saint John’s wort, fennel. I kicked at another pebble, then from its yield I realized it was one small toe from one bare foot. With one thrust I covered it with more rubble. My vision seemed bloody at the edges from exhaustion.

 

“May God have mercy on my soul.”

 

Can a man pray to a God in whom he is not certain he believes?

 

I leaned to rest on the shovel, more fatigued than I had known a man could be. The surge of energy coursing through my veins earlier had drained, leaving the muscles in my shoulders aching from exertion.

 

“Ben?”

 

A figure wended up the path, hunched in the wind like a crab against the tide, one hand keeping his tricorn hat fast to his head. “Ah, no,” I breathed.

 

Governor William Keith trotted along, his straight-lasted shoes crunching the crushed-shell drive. I smoothed my hair back but could feel moist earth on my fingers and knew I’d streaked mud on my brow. I attempted to stand at ease upon the rutted mound.

 

“You’ll never believe—” He scurried to a halt, eyes darting from the shovel to my filthy clothes. “For God’s sake, Ben.” His voice frayed to tatters. “What have you done?”

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