Chapter 2The Market Place

The patch of grass in front of the jail, on Prison Lane, was packed with people - a ton of Boston folks - on a summer morning, like, two hundred years ago. Everyone was staring at the heavy oak door with iron bands.

Normally, seeing so many serious faces would have meant something huge was going down. Like, maybe someone important was about to be executed, because the courts and everyone else agreed they were guilty. But back then, things were different.

It could be just a lazy servant getting the lash, or a kid who totally messed up and his parents handed over to the authorities. Maybe a religious weirdo - an Antinomian or a Quaker - was gonna be run out of town with a whipping.

Or an Indian, hopped up on booze, causing trouble, getting chased back into the woods with stripes. Even old Mistress Hibbins, the grumpy widow of the judge, might be facing the gallows for being a witch. Whatever it was, everyone was super serious.

Religion and law were basically the same thing back then, and everyone took public punishments really seriously - even the mildest ones felt intense. If you messed up, you wouldn't get much sympathy from the crowd.

A punishment that would be embarrassing now might have felt just as serious as a death sentence.

It was a thing to notice, on that summer morning when our story kicks off, that the women in the crowd were totally fixated on what was gonna happen next.

Back then, things weren't as polished as they are now, so nobody stopped the ladies in their skirts and hoops from heading out and squeezing into the crowd closest to the scaffold.

These women were built different - stronger, both physically and emotionally - than their descendants six or seven generations later. Each generation seemed to get a little softer, a little less vibrant, and a bit smaller.

The women standing around the prison door weren't that far removed from a woman like Elizabeth, who was a pretty good representation of what women were like back then. They were her fellow countrywomen, fueled by hearty food and a pretty straightforward way of thinking.

The sun was shining on broad shoulders, full chests, and rosy cheeks, all shaped by life on a distant island and not yet faded by the New England air. Plus, these women talked loud and didn’t hold back - something that would surprise us today, whether it was what they said or how they said it.

"Listen up," said a woman, looking tough, around fifty. "I need to get something off my chest. It would seriously help everyone out if we older women, church members in good standing, handled cases like Hester Prynne’s. What do you think, ladies?"

"If she stood trial right here, with all of us five together, do you think she’d get the sentence the magistrates gave her? Honestly, I doubt it! "People are saying," another chimed in, "that Reverend Dimmesdale, her pastor, is really upset that this mess happened to his church."

"The magistrates are good guys, but they’re way too easygoing - that’s the truth," added a mature woman. "At the very least, they should have branded her forehead with a hot iron. Hester would have felt that, I’m sure. But she - that bad girl - probably won't care what they put on her dress!"

"Seriously, she could cover it with a brooch or some other crazy accessory and walk around like she owns the place! "But," a younger wife said softly, holding her child’s hand, "no matter how she covers it up, she’s always gonna feel the pain."

"What are we even talking about, marks on her dress or her forehead?" another woman yelled, the meanest and most heartless of all these judges. "She’s shamed us all, and she should just die. Isn’t there a law for that? There is, in the Bible and the law books."

"So if the magistrates didn't enforce it, they shouldn't be surprised if their own wives and daughters mess up!"

"Seriously, goodwife?" a guy in the crowd called out. "Is that all there is to women - just fear of the noose? Wow, that's rough! Quiet down, everyone, the jail door’s locking, and here comes Mistress Prynne."

The jail door swung open, and out stepped a figure, like a dark shadow coming into the sunlight. It was the town-beadle - grim and serious - with a sword and his official staff. He totally embodied the strict Puritan laws, and it was his job to enforce them, especially on offenders.

He reached out with his staff, then put his hand on the shoulder of a young woman, pulling her forward. But she pushed back, standing tall and showing real strength, and stepped out into the air, like she was totally in control.

She held a baby, about three months old, who blinked and turned away from the bright light - because until now, its whole world had been the dimness of a dungeon or some other dark corner of the prison.

When the young woman - the mother of this child - finally stepped into view, her first instinct was to hold the baby close. Not really out of love, but to hide something sewn into her dress. But then she realized one little secret wouldn't cover up another.

She took the baby onto her arm, her face flushed, but she had this fierce, proud look, and she didn’t look away from the crowd. On her dress, right over her chest, was a big letter A, stitched into the bright red fabric. The embroidery was wild and amazing, all fancy swirls of gold thread.

It looked like the perfect finishing touch to her dress - seriously stunning, even for the time. It was way more extra than the colony’s rules allowed, though.

The young woman was tall, seriously elegant, on a grand scale. She had dark, super glossy hair that practically glowed in the sun, and a face that was beautiful, with regular features and a rich complexion. Plus, she had this intense vibe from her high brow and deep black eyes.

She was totally lady-like, like women used to be; more about poise and dignity, not that fleeting, delicate grace you see now. And she looked extra lady-like coming out of the prison, honestly.

People who'd known her before, expecting her to be totally crushed, were shocked to see her beauty shine so bright, creating a kind of glow around her misfortune and shame. It was almost painfully beautiful to watch. She'd made her outfit in prison, designing it exactly how she wanted.

It felt like an expression of her spirit, a wild, reckless vibe. But what really caught everyone's eye - it was like a spell - was that SCARLET LETTER embroidered and illuminated on her chest. It made her seem separate from everyone else, like she was in her own world.

"She’s seriously good with a needle, no doubt," one of the women said. "But has any woman ever pulled off a move like that? Seriously, what's it but laughing in the faces of our judges? Making a big deal out of something they meant as a punishment, you know?"

"It’s a shame," grumbled the oldest, toughest lady. "We should take that fancy dress right off her shoulders. And that red letter she stitched so perfectly? I’d give her a piece of my old, scratchy flannel to replace it, for real. "Oh, chill, everyone," their youngest friend whispered.

"Don’t let her hear you! She felt every single stitch in that letter, deep down." The stern beadle waved his staff. "Move back, folks, move back, in the King’s name!" he shouted.

"Clear a path; and I promise you, Mistress Prynne will be out where everyone - men, women, and kids - can see her awesome outfit, from now until way past noon. Bless this righteous Colony of Massachusetts, where bad stuff gets dragged out into the sunlight!"

"Come on, Madam Hester, let’s show off that scarlet letter in the town square!"

A path opened up through the crowd, fast. Leading the way was the beadle, followed by a bunch of serious-looking dudes and women with not-so-friendly faces. Hester Prynne headed towards where she’s supposed to face her punishment.

A pack of excited schoolboys, who didn’t really get what was going on except it was a half-day off, ran ahead, constantly turning to stare at her. They checked out her face, the baby in her arms, and that embarrassing letter on her chest. It wasn't far from the prison to the marketplace, back then.

But for Hester, it felt like a long trek. Even though she acted tough, every step with the crowd watching felt like they were kicking her heart right there in the street. But, like, there's this amazing thing about us: we don't really feel the full pain while it's happening.

It's more about the ache that lingers afterward. So, Hester Prynne kept her head high and walked through it all, finally reaching a platform at the edge of the marketplace. It was right under the roofline of Boston’s oldest church and looked like it had always been there.

This thing was actually part of a punishment system. It's mostly just history now, something we talk about, but back in the day, people thought it was just as powerful as the guillotine in France - you know, the thing the French revolutionaries used.

Basically, it was a platform for the stocks, and above it was a frame built to clamp down on someone's head and put them on full display. It was like, the ultimate embarrassment, made real. I mean, it's messed up to stop someone from hiding their face when they've done something wrong, right?

That was the whole point of this thing. But in Hester Prynne’s case, like in other situations, her sentence was just to stand on the platform for a bit, without the head-clamping part - that was the really brutal part of this whole setup.

She knew what she had to do, so she climbed up a set of wooden steps and was shown to everyone in the crowd, about shoulder-height above the street.

If there’d been a Catholic in that group of Puritans, he might’ve seen this gorgeous woman - her clothes and how she carried herself were totally picture-perfect - and the baby she held close.

It could’ve reminded him of the Divine Motherhood that so many famous painters have tried to capture. Something that would echo that sacred image of perfect motherhood, whose baby would save the world . But here, the deepest sin was messing with the most sacred thing about being human.

It made the world even darker because of this woman’s beauty, and made the baby she’s had even more lost.

It was definitely a mix of shock, the kind you always feel seeing someone else’s mess, especially before society gets totally numb to it. The people watching Hester Prynne’s situation hadn’t lost their innocence yet.

They could’ve handled seeing her die, no questions asked, but they weren't cold enough to just laugh at something like this. Even if they had wanted to make fun of it, they wouldn't have gotten away with it.

The Governor and his advisors, a judge, a general, and all the town ministers were sitting in a balcony of the meeting-house, looking down at the platform. When people that important were part of the show, it was clear that whatever happened would actually mean something.

So, the crowd was serious and quiet. Hester was doing her best to hold it together, with what felt like a million eyes staring at her, all focused on her chest. It was almost too much to take. She’s a passionate person, and she’s braced herself for the worst insults.

But this quiet, serious mood of the crowd was way more intense. She almost wished they’d just laugh at her instead.

A huge wave of laughter exploded from the crowd - every person, girl, boy, all chiming in. Hester Prynne could have totally thrown them a shade with a sarcastic smile. But she was stuck with this awful punishment. Sometimes, she just wanted to scream, you know? Just let it all out.

Or jump off the scaffold. Or just lose it completely.

Sometimes, though, the whole scene - and she was totally the main focus - just kind of faded out for her, or at least got blurry, like a bunch of weird, ghostly images. Her mind, especially her memory, was super active.

It kept pulling up other stuff than this rough street in a small town on the edge of the Wild West. Other faces than the ones looking down at her from under those tall hats.

Even the smallest memories popped up - stuff from when she was little, school days, games, little fights, and all the little things about her life before. They all came rushing back, mixed with memories of the big stuff later on.

Each picture felt just as real as the next, like they were all equally important, or just a big joke. Maybe it was her mind’s way of dealing with things, showing her these crazy images to escape the harshness of what was actually happening.

It was like, the pillory gave Hester Prynne this whole perspective shift, showing her the whole path she’s been walking since she was a little kid. Standing up there, feeling totally exposed, she saw her hometown back in Old England.

It was this old, run-down gray stone house, pretty rough around the edges, but still had this faded family crest above the door - a reminder of fancy ancestors. She saw her dad’s face, all bald with this long, white beard hanging over his Elizabethan collar.

And her mom’s, too, with that look of worried love she always remembered, that would still stop her in her tracks even now. She saw her own face, all bright and young, shining in the dark mirror she used to stare into.

There was another face there, too - a man older, with a pale, thin, scholarly look, his eyes a little blurry from reading tons of books. But those eyes could still totally see right through you.

She thought of him as this bookish, cloistered guy - a little crooked, actually, with one shoulder a bit higher than the other. Then she remembered these twisty, narrow streets, tall gray houses, huge cathedrals, and old, quirky buildings from a city over in Europe.

That’s where she started a new life, still with that same crooked scholar. A new life, but kind of built on old stuff, like moss growing on a crumbling wall.

Suddenly, there was the bustling town square of the Puritan settlement. Everyone was there, staring - really staring - at Hester Prynne. She was on the scaffold, holding a baby in her arms. And there was that letter - a big, bright red "A" - stitched onto her chest with fancy gold thread!

Could it really be? She held the baby super tight, and it let out a cry. She looked down at the scarlet letter, even touching it with her finger, just to make sure the baby and the shame were real. Yep! - that was her life, her reality - everything else was gone!