Chapter 12The Ministers Vigil

Feeling like he was living in a dream, Mr. Dimmesdale got to the place where, like, forever ago, Hester Prynne had faced the town. It was the same platform - the scaffold - all beat up from weather and, honestly, a ton of people who’d stood there since. It had been seven years.

The balcony of the meeting-house loomed above. The minister climbed the steps.

It was a low-key night in early May A thick blanket of clouds covered the whole sky. If all the people who’d watched Hester Prynne’s punishment were suddenly there, they wouldn’t see a face above the platform, barely even a human shape in the dark gray of the midnight. But the town was asleep.

There was no chance of getting caught. The minister could stand there, if he wanted, until morning painted the east red, with no risk except the cold, damp night air seeping into his bones, stiffening his joints with rheumatism, and clogging his throat with a cough.

That would keep tomorrow’s prayer and sermon from happening. No one could see him, except that one eye that had seen him in his closet, whipping himself. So, why was he here? Was it just pretending to be sorry? A fake show of regret, where his soul messed with itself!

A joke that made angels blush and cry, while demons laughed with glee! He’d been pulled here by this Remorse that followed him everywhere. And right alongside it was this Cowardice, always pulling him back with a shaky grip, just when Remorse pushed him toward revealing the truth.

Poor, messed-up guy! What right did someone as weak as him have to carry the weight of crime? Crime is for the strong, who can either deal with it or, if it's too much, use their fierce strength for something good and just shake it off!

This fragile soul couldn’t do either, but he kept doing things that tangled together, in a crazy knot, the pain of unforgivable guilt and useless regret.

Standing on the scaffold, Mr. Dimmesdale felt this huge wave of dread wash over him. It felt like the whole universe was staring at this bright red mark on his chest, right over his heart. Seriously, there’s been this gnawing, toxic pain there for a long time. He just...shrieked.

It was this loud cry that echoed through the night, bouncing off the houses and hills. It was like a bunch of devils picked up the sound and were just tossing it around, fueled by all the misery and fear. "It’s over," the minister mumbled, hiding his face in his hands.

"Everyone in town is gonna wake up and rush out here."

It wasn't like that, though. The scream probably sounded way louder to his own shocked ears than it really was. The town didn’t wake up. Or, if it did, the sleepy folks just thought it was something scary in a dream, or the sound of witches.

Back then, people often heard their voices floating over the settlements or lonely houses as they rode with Satan through the air. So, the minister, hearing nothing out of the ordinary, opened his eyes and looked around.

He saw Governor Bellingham himself at one of the windows of his mansion, a bit away on another street. The old guy had a lamp, a white nightcap, and a long white gown. He looked like a ghost, pulled up from the grave too early. The scream had definitely startled him.

At another window of the same house, he spotted old Mistress Hibbins, the Governor’s sister, also with a lamp. Even from that distance, he could see her grumpy, unhappy face. She peeked her head out of the window and looked up anxiously.

No doubt about it, this old witch lady had heard Mr. Dimmesdale’s shout and thought it was the noise of demons and night-hags, the kind she was known to hang out with when she went into the forest. Seeing the gleam of Governor Bellingham’s lamp, the old lady quickly blew out her own and disappeared.

Maybe she floated up into the clouds. The minister didn’t see anything else she did. The magistrate, after checking out the darkness - though he could barely see any further than he could into a millstone - went back inside.

The minister started to chill out a bit. But then his eyes caught a tiny, sparkly light way down the street, getting closer. It flashed off a post, a garden fence, a latticed window, a pump with its full trough of water, and an arched oak door with an iron knocker and a rough log for a doorstep.

Reverend Dimmesdale noticed all these little details, even though he felt like the end was coming with every step he heard. He knew the light would hit him soon, and reveal his secret he's been hiding for so long.

As the light got closer, he saw his fellow clergyman - or, really, his mentor, his friend - Reverend Wilson. Dimmesdale guessed Wilson had been praying at someone's deathbed. And he had. The good old minister came straight from Governor Winthrop’s death chamber, who had just died and gone to heaven.

Now, surrounded like a saint from way back, with a glowing light around him in this dark, sinful night - like the departed Governor left him a piece of his glory, or he caught a glimpse of the heavenly city as he watched someone pass through its gates - good Father Wilson was heading home, using a lantern to light the way!

The light made Dimmesdale think all these things, and he smiled - almost laughed - then wondered if he was losing it.

As Reverend Mr. Wilson walked past the scaffold, pulling his Geneva cloak tight around him and holding the lantern in front of his chest, the minister could barely stop himself from speaking. "Hey, Father Wilson! Come on up, would ya? Let's hang out for a bit! Whoa!

Did Mr. Dimmesdale actually say that? For a second, he thought the words came out of his mouth. But they were just in his head. The venerable Father Wilson kept walking slowly, looking carefully at the muddy path in front of him, and didn't even glance at the platform where the guilty stood.

When the lantern light disappeared, the minister felt super drained, realizing he's just been through a seriously anxious moment. His mind had tried to lighten the mood with a weird, almost dark sense of humor.

It wasn’t long before a weird, kinda funny feeling crept back into his thoughts, messing with all the serious stuff he was thinking about. He felt his body getting stiff from the cold, and wasn't sure he could even climb down the scaffold steps. Morning would come, and there he’d be.

People in the neighborhood would start waking up. The first one out in the dim light would see a blurry figure way up there on the scaffold; and, totally freaked out but also curious,

would go door to door, getting everyone to come see what they thought was a ghost - seriously, that’s how it would seem - of some long-gone rule-breaker. A bunch of people would start buzzing around from house to house.

Then - with the morning light getting brighter - old guys would jump up fast, each in their flannel shirts, and moms, not even bothering to get dressed.

The whole crew of proper people, who’d never been seen out of place before, would suddenly show up in public, looking like they just woke up from a bad dream.

Old Governor Bellingham would come out looking grumpy, with his fancy collar crooked; and Mistress Hibbins, with bits of leaves stuck to her skirt, looking even more sour than usual, like she barely slept after her night out; and good Father Wilson, too, after spending half the night with someone who was dying, and not thrilled to be woken up so early from his dreams about angels.

Also coming would be the elders and deacons from Mr. Dimmesdale’s church, and the young women who totally adored their minister, and had practically built a shrine for him in their hearts - which, by the way, they probably wouldn’t even have time to cover with a scarf in all the chaos.

Seriously, everyone would be spilling out of their houses, faces all shocked and freaked out, staring at the scaffold. Who would they see there, with the reddish sunlight hitting his face? It was the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale!

He was practically frozen, totally drowning in shame, just like Hester Prynne had been.

Completely freaked out by how messed up this picture was, the minister, totally unaware and super freaked himself, burst out laughing.

A light, airy, childish laugh immediately answered him, and he felt a jolt - but he couldn't tell if it was amazing pain or incredible joy - as he recognized little Pearl’s voice. "Pearl! Little Pearl!" he called out after a beat, then lowered his voice, "Hester! Hester Prynne! Are you here?"

"Yeah, it’s Hester Prynne!" she replied, sounding surprised. The minister heard her footsteps coming from the sidewalk, where she’s been walking. "It’s me, and my little Pearl. "Where are you going, Hester?" the minister asked. "What brought you here?"

"I was just at Governor Winthrop’s deathbed," Hester Prynne answered. "I took his measurements for a robe, and I’m heading home now. "Come on up here, Hester, and little Pearl," Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale said. "You’ve both been here before, but I wasn’t with you."

Come on up here again, and we’ll all be together!" She quietly climbed the steps and stood on the platform, holding little Pearl’s hand. The minister reached for the child’s other hand and took it."

Suddenly, he felt this huge rush of new life - a life that wasn’t his own - pouring into his heart, rushing through his veins like a flood, as if the mother and child were sharing their energy with his sluggish system. They formed this electric connection. "Minister!" whispered little Pearl.

"What do you want to say, kid?" asked Mr. Dimmesdale. "Will you stand here with Mom and me, tomorrow at noon?" Pearl asked.

"Nah, not like that, little Pearl," the minister said. The fear of everyone looking at him - the thing that had been stressing him out for ages - came rushing back. He was totally buzzing, though, a little weirdly. "Not like that, sweetie."

"I’ll be with you and your mom one more time, but not tomorrow. Pearl giggled and tried to yank her hand away. But the minister held on tight. "Just a sec, kiddo!" he said. "Will you promise," Pearl asked, "to hold my hand and Mom’s hand tomorrow at noon?"

"Not then, Pearl," the minister replied, "but sometime else." "And when will that be?" Pearl pressed. "On Judgment Day," the minister murmured. It was kinda weird, but he felt like he had to say it, being a teacher and all.

"Then, we’ll all stand together - you, your mom, and me - right in front of the judgment seat. But we won't meet in this world's sunlight!" Pearl laughed again.

But before Mr. Dimmesdale finished speaking, a light flashed across the whole sky. It was probably one of those meteors you can sometimes see burning up way out there. The light was so bright it cut through the clouds. The sky looked like the dome of a giant lamp.

Everything on the street was clear, like it was midday, but it felt eerie because the light was so unusual.

The wooden houses with their crooked roofs and funny gables, the steps and doorways with grass growing around them, the gardens with fresh dirt, the wagon tracks - even the marketplace, with green borders on either side - everything was visible, but it looked different, like it meant something new.

And there stood the minister, hand over his heart. And Hester Prynne, with the embroidered letter glowing on her chest. And little Pearl, who was a symbol herself, connecting them both.

They stood in that weird, serious light, as if it was going to reveal all the secrets and bring together everyone who belonged together. Pearl’s eyes seemed to have witchcraft in them. And when she looked up at the minister, she had that mischievous smile that made her look so playful.

She pulled her hand away from Mr. Dimmesdale’s and pointed across the street. But he put both hands over his chest and looked up at the sky.

Back then, it was totally normal to think that anything weird in nature - like meteors or other stuff that didn’t happen every day - was a message from something supernatural. A fiery spear, a flaming sword, a bow, or a bunch of arrows in the sky? That meant war with the Indians.

Even sickness could be predicted by a shower of red light. Seriously, we doubt there was a single big event, good or bad, in New England from when it was first settled until the Revolution, that people hadn’t gotten a heads-up about through something like that. Lots of people saw these things.

More often, though, it came down to one person’s story - someone who saw it all through their own imagination, coloring it and twisting it in their mind afterward. It was a pretty awesome idea, actually, that the fate of a country could be shown in these huge, dramatic signs in the sky.

A scroll that big was perfect for Providence to write down a people’s doom. Our ancestors loved the idea, thinking their new country was being watched over by heaven with extra care. But what do you say when someone thinks they're getting a message just for them, on that same giant scroll?

That's a major red flag - a sign of someone totally losing it. A person, stuck in their own head because of long, secret pain, expanding their ego until the whole sky felt like a page for their own story and destiny!

We’re chalking it up to his own sickness, both in his eyes and his heart. The minister, looking straight up, saw a huge letter - the letter A - blazing there in a dull red light. Maybe a meteor did flash through the clouds, but not in that shape.

Or, at least, not clearly enough for someone else to see anything like it. There was something really weird about what Mr. Dimmesdale was feeling right then. As he stared up, he totally noticed little Pearl pointing at old Roger Chillingworth, who wasn't far from the scaffold.

The minister saw him with the same look he used to see the letter. The meteoric light gave his face a new look, or maybe the doctor just wasn't hiding how much he hated his victim.

Seriously, if that meteor lit up the sky and showed everyone the day of judgment, Roger Chillingworth could have looked like the devil himself, smiling and scowling while claiming what was his.

It was such a strong expression, or the minister saw it so intensely, that it felt like it was still painted on the darkness, even after the meteor was gone, like the whole street and everything else just disappeared. "Who’s that guy, Hester? Mr. Dimmesdale gasped, totally freaked out.

"I’m shivering just looking at him! Do you know him? I hate him, Hester!" She remembered her promise and didn’t say a word.

"I’m telling you, I’m totally freaked out by him!" muttered the minister again. "Who is he? Seriously, who? Can’t you do anything for me? I’m seriously terrified of this guy! "Minister," said little Pearl, "I know who he is! "Spill it, kid!" said the minister, leaning in close to her lips.

"Quickly! - as quietly as you can." Pearl mumbled something into his ear, which sounded like words, but was just the kind of nonsense kids play with for hours.

Anyway, if it had any secret info about old Roger Chillingworth, it was in a language the smarty-pants minister couldn’t understand, and it just made him even more confused. The little elf-kid then burst out laughing. "Are you messing with me now?" said the minister.

"You were a scaredy-cat! - you weren’t being real!" - answered the child. "You wouldn’t promise to hold my hand and Mom’s hand tomorrow at noon! "Sir," said the physician, who had now walked up to the bottom of the platform. "Reverend Dimmesdale, is that really you? Wow, seriously!"

We guys who bury our noses in books need to keep an eye on ourselves! We daydream while we’re awake, and wander around in a daze. Come on, good sir, and my dear friend, let me walk you home! How did you know I was here? asked the minister, nervously.

"Seriously, and I swear," answered Roger Chillingworth, "I didn’t know anything about it. I spent most of the night at Governor Winthrop’s bedside, doing what I could to help him feel better. He was headed home, you know, to a better place. I was on my way home too, when this crazy light showed up."

"Come with me, please, Reverend Sir; you’ll be totally wiped out trying to do Sabbath duty tomorrow. Whoa! See what a trip - these books! - these books! You should chill out a bit, good Sir, and do something fun; or these late-night weird thoughts will stick with you."

"I’m heading home with you," said Mr. Dimmesdale. He felt this wave of sadness, like waking up from a bad dream, all shaky and weak, and let the doctor lead him away.

The next day was Sunday, and he gave a sermon that everyone thought was the most amazing, powerful, and full of goodness they’d ever heard. They said it brought a bunch of people to faith, and they promised to be eternally grateful to Mr. Dimmesdale.

But when he came down from the pulpit, the old sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the minister recognized as his own. Found it this morning, said the sexton, on the scaffold where people get publicly shamed. Probably Satan dropped it, trying to be a jerk to your reverence.

"But he’s clueless, as always. A clean hand doesn’t need a cover-up! "Thanks, my friend," said the minister, trying to stay calm, but totally freaked out inside; he was so confused, he almost thought the whole night was just a dream. "Yeah, it’s my glove, for real!"

"And since Satan decided to swipe it, you gotta deal with him straight up, no messing around, from now on," said the old sexton, a grim smile on his face. "But did you hear about what everyone saw last night? - a huge red 'A' in the sky! We think it means Angel."

"Governor Winthrop became an angel last night, so it felt right to have some kind of announcement, you know?" "No," replied the minister. "I hadn’t heard about it."