Chapter 20The Minister in a Maze

As the minister left, ahead of Hester Prynne and little Pearl, he looked back. He kind of expected to just see a faint trace of her and the kid, slowly disappearing into the woods' dim light. It was hard to believe everything that had just happened.

But there was Hester, still in her gray dress, standing next to a huge tree that had fallen ages ago. Moss had been growing on it forever, so these two, carrying the world’s biggest weight, could sit down together and get a little rest.

And Pearl was there, dancing near the stream - now that the third person was gone - and back to her spot next to her mom. So the minister hadn't just fallen asleep and been dreaming!

To clear his head from all that confusion and mixed-up feelings that were bugging him, he went over the plans he and Hester had made to leave.

They’d decided that Europe, with all its people and cities, was a better place to hide and find safety than the wilderness of New England - or anywhere in America, really. Think about it: a wigwam, or just a few European settlements spread out along the coast. It wasn’t ideal.

Plus, the clergyman wasn’t exactly built for roughing it in the woods. His talents, his education, everything he was about, needed civilization and refinement. The fancier, the better, right? Luckily, a ship was in the harbor.

One of those shady cruisers you’d find back then - not exactly pirates, but definitely not the law of the sea. It had just come from the Spanish Main and was setting sail for Bristol in just three days. Hester Prynne - who was working as a volunteer helping people - knew the captain and crew.

She could easily get two people and a kid passage, and keep it super hush-hush, which was definitely what they needed.

The minister asked Hester when the ship was expected to leave. "Probably in four days," she replied. "That’s perfect!" he thought to himself. Now, why Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale thought that was so great, we're holding back for a sec. Basically, he had to give the Election Sermon in three days.

It was a big deal for a New England minister - a real milestone. So, he figured this was the perfect way to wrap things up professionally. "At least, they’ll say I didn’t leave anything undone, or do anything badly," he thought.

It's sad, though, that someone as thoughtful and perceptive as this minister could be so totally wrong! We're gonna have more to say about him later, but this? This was just weak. It was a tiny clue, but a solid one, showing a sickness that had been eating away at his character for a while.

Nobody can wear one face for themselves and another for everyone else forever without getting totally lost about which one is real.

Mr. Dimmesdale was buzzing with energy after seeing Hester, and practically flew back into town. The path through the woods felt wilder, rougher, and way less traveled than he remembered.

But he hopped over puddles, pushed through the brush, climbed up, and dove into the dips - he conquered the whole trail, super fast, which totally surprised him. He couldn’t believe how slowly and winded he’s been just two days earlier. As he got closer to town, things felt different.

It wasn't like it was yesterday, or even a few days ago, since he'd left. Yep, all the streets were still there, and all the houses looked the same, with their gables and weathercocks everywhere. But he still got this nagging feeling that things had changed. The people he saw felt different too.

They didn't look older or younger, the old folks’ beards weren't whiter, and that baby from yesterday couldn’t walk yet. He couldn’t put his finger on how they were different, but he felt it deep down.

It hit him hard, like a wave, as he walked past his own church. The building looked so weird, yet totally familiar. Mr. Dimmesdale’s head was spinning. Was he just dreaming he’d ever seen it before? Or was he dreaming about it right now?

This thing, showing up in different ways, didn't show any real change outside. But it totally shifted how the person looking at everything felt. Just one day had passed, but it felt like years had gone by.

The minister's will, Hester’s will, and whatever fate was between them - that's what changed him. It was the same town, for real. But the minister who came back wasn't the same one. He could'a told the people who were all, Hey! - I'm not who you think I am!

"I left that guy back there, hiding in a secret spot by a mossy tree, next to a sad little stream! Go look for your minister - see if his skinny frame, his gaunt cheeks, that white, heavy brow with all the worry lines isn’t just lying there, like an old, tossed-aside jacket!"

His friends would’ve still insisted, "It's you!" - but they'd be wrong, not him.

Before Mr. Dimmesdale got home, something major was going on inside him. Seriously, it felt like a total reset - like a whole new set of rules for his thoughts and feelings. He was getting these urges, wild and unexpected, like he had to do something crazy.

It felt both out of his control and like it was coming from a deeper part of himself, the part fighting against it. He ran into one of his deacons.

The old guy greeted him with all the love and respect he deserved - he was, like, super-respected for his age, his good character, and his position in the Church. It was a perfect example of how wisdom and age can command respect, without being, you know, overbearing.

They talked for a few minutes, and Mr. Dimmesdale barely managed to keep himself from saying some seriously blasphemous things about the communion supper. He totally froze and went pale, terrified his mouth would just blurt something out and he's be stuck owning it.

Even with that fear, he couldn't help but imagine how shocked the deacon would be if his minister said something so disrespectful!

Another thing just like the last one. Reverend Dimmesdale was rushing down the street when he bumped into the oldest woman in his church - a seriously devout and respectable lady.

Poor thing, she was a widow, totally alone, and her heart was overflowing with memories of her late husband and kids, plus all her old friends who’s passed. But all that sadness, which could have been crushing, felt almost like a happy, spiritual thing for her.

She's been feeding her soul with religion and the Bible for over thirty years.

And ever since Dimmesdale became her pastor, her biggest comfort - something that had to be a heavenly comfort too - was meeting him, whether it was planned or just a chance thing, and getting a warm, inspiring word of Gospel truth from his lips, into her ear, which was a little dull but totally listening.

But this time, right before he was about to whisper something to the old woman, like the enemy wanted, Dimmesdale couldn't think of a single Bible verse, or anything at all. Except for a short, sharp, and what seemed like a totally unbeatable argument against the idea of the soul living forever.

Saying that would probably have made the old lady drop dead, like poison. What he actually whispered, the minister could never remember. Maybe he mumbled something that didn't make sense to the good widow, or maybe Providence just interpreted it in its own way.

Looking back, though, the minister saw an expression of pure gratitude and joy on her face - it was like a glow from heaven, lighting up her wrinkled, pale skin.

After parting with the old church-member, he ran into the youngest sister of all. She was a new convert - and won over by Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale’s own sermon, after his vigil on the Sabbath - trading the temporary joys of the world for the heavenly hope.

That hope would shine brighter as life got darker, and finally bring glory out of the gloom. She was as fair and pure as a lily blooming in Paradise. The minister knew she held him sacred in her heart. It was a place of spotless goodness, draping his image with snowy curtains.

Her love gave religion warmth, and her faith gave love a pureness. That afternoon, Satan must have lured the poor girl away from her mother and into the path of this seriously tempted - or, should we say, this lost and desperate - man.

As she got closer, the arch-fiend whispered to him to plant a tiny seed of evil in her gentle heart. It would surely bloom darkly and bear bitter fruit soon.

He felt so powerful over this innocent soul, trusting him as she did, that he could ruin all her goodness with just one wicked look and bring out the opposite with just a word.

So - in a struggle stronger than any he’s faced before - he held his Geneva cloak over his face and hurried on, not acknowledging her, leaving the young sister to figure out his rudeness as she could.

She searched her conscience - which was full of harmless things, like her purse or her sewing kit - and scolded herself, poor thing, for a thousand imaginary mistakes. The next morning, she went about her chores with puffy eyes.

Before the minister could even celebrate dodging that last temptation, he felt another impulse hit him - totally ridiculous, and almost as bad.

It was, honestly, embarrassing to even say, but he wanted to just stop right there and teach some seriously wild words to a bunch of little Puritan kids playing nearby. They'd just started talking, too. He shut that down, figuring it wasn’t something a minister should do.

Then, he bumped into a drunken sailor, one of the ship’s crew from the Spanish Main.

And here’s the thing: having held back on everything else, poor Mr. Dimmesdale suddenly wanted, just for a second, to shake hands with the rough-looking guy and crack some off-color jokes - the kind sailors are always throwing around.

He even wanted to drop a few solid, satisfying, and totally defiant oaths! It wasn't so much about being a better person, but more about his good taste and his habit of acting like a proper clergyman that got him through that moment.

"Seriously, what’s messing with me like this?" the minister muttered to himself, stopping in the street and slapping his forehead. "Am I losing it? Or am I totally sold out to the devil? Did I make some kind of deal with him in the forest, signing it with my own blood?"

"And is he now calling me to follow through, by suggesting every horrible thing his imagination can cook up?"

As Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale was having this moment with himself, and smacked his forehead, old Mistress Hibbins, known as the witch-lady, supposedly walked by. She looked super fancy - high head-dress, rich velvet gown, and a ruff starched with this famous yellow stuff Ann Turner taught her.

Ann was her bestie, before they hanged her for messing with Sir Thomas Overbury. Whether the witch knew what he was thinking or not, she stopped, looked at him with a knowing look, smirked, and - even though she didn't really chat with preachers - started talking.

"So, reverend, you took a trip into the forest," the witch-lady said, nodding her head-dress. "Next time, just give me a heads-up, and I’d love to tag along. Seriously, without bragging, my word can get any random dude a good welcome from that powerful person you know!"

"Honestly, madam," the clergyman replied, giving her a respectful bow, as her status and his manners demanded, "I’m totally lost as to what you're getting at! I didn’t go into the forest to meet some powerful person; and I definitely don’t plan to go there to gain anyone’s favor."

I just wanted to see my friend, the Apostle Eliot, and celebrate all the people he’s brought to faith! "Hah, ha, ha!" the old witch-lady cackled, still nodding her head-dress. "We gotta talk like this during the day! You're playing it cool.

"But at midnight, in the forest, we'll have a different conversation!"

She passed with a kind of dignified grace, but kept glancing back and smiling at him, like she knew a secret just between them. "So, did I basically sell my soul?" he wondered. "To the devil this yellow-starched and velveted old lady has picked as her prince and boss! The poor minister!

He’d made a deal pretty much like that. He'd been chasing a dream of happiness and ended up giving himself over - really making a choice for the first time ever - to something he knew was seriously wrong. And that bad feeling just spread through him fast.

It shut down all the good stuff and woke up all his worst impulses. Scorn, bitterness, random meanness, wanting bad things to happen, making fun of everything good and holy - it all came alive, tempting him even as it scared him.

And meeting old Mistress Hibbins, if it actually happened, just showed how much he connected with other messed-up people and the world of twisted spirits.

He’d finally made it to his place, right on the edge of the graveyard, and rushed up the stairs, finding refuge in his study. The minister was relieved to be out of sight, without having to show off any of those weird, messed-up things he’s been wanting to do while walking through town.

He stepped into the usual room and looked around at his books, the windows, the fireplace, and the comfy tapestries on the walls. It felt just as strange as it had felt on his walk from the woods into town.

This is where he'd studied and written; where he's pulled all-nighters and come out barely alive; where he's tried to pray; where he’s felt a million different kinds of pain! There was the Bible, with its fancy old Hebrew, Moses and the Prophets talking to him, God’s voice through it all!

On the table, with the pen and ink beside it, was an unfinished sermon, a sentence cut off in the middle, where his thoughts just stopped flowing onto the page, two days ago.

He knew it was him, the pale, thin-faced minister, who’d done and suffered all this, and written this far into the Election Sermon! But he felt like he was standing apart, looking at this former self with a mix of scorn, pity, and a little envy. That guy was gone.

Another man had come back from the forest - a smarter one, with a knowledge of hidden secrets that his old self could never have understood. A seriously bitter kind of knowledge, though!

While he was thinking all this over, there was a knock at the study door, and the minister said, "Come in!" - not entirely without the thought that he might see an evil spirit. And that’s exactly what it was! It was old Roger Chillingworth who walked in.

The minister stood frozen, white as a ghost, with one hand on the Hebrew Scriptures and the other pressed to his chest.

"Welcome home, Reverend," said the doctor. "And how’s the Apostle Eliot doing? You look kinda pale, though, honestly. Like the trip through the wilderness was rough on you. Do you think I can help you bounce back and get you ready to preach your Election Sermon?"

"I’m okay, I think," replied Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "The journey, seeing the Apostle, and just breathing fresh air - it’s actually done me good, after being stuck in my study for so long. I don't think I need your medicine, doc, as good as it is, and coming from a friendly face."

All the while, Roger Chillingworth was watching the minister like a doctor checks on a patient. But honestly, the minister felt like the old man already knew, or at least strongly suspected, what went down with Hester Prynne.

The doctor realized then that, in the minister’s eyes, he wasn’t a trusted friend anymore - he was his worst enemy. It’s weird how long it takes to say things sometimes, and how safely people can skirt around a topic without actually hitting it.

So the minister didn’t think Roger Chillingworth would bring up their situation directly. Still, the doctor was getting scary close to the truth. Maybe you should let me check you out tonight? he said. Seriously, dear Sir, we gotta get you strong for this Election sermon.

"People are expecting a lot from you - they’re worried you might not even be around next year."

"Yeah, to another world," the minister said, sounding resigned. "Hope it’s better; honestly, I don't think I'm sticking around with my flock through another year! But about your medicine, kind Sir, I'm good for now. "Glad to hear it," the physician replied.

"Maybe my treatments, which haven't worked for so long, are finally kicking in. I’d be a legend, and totally deserve New England’s thanks, if I could pull this off! "I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart, my friend," Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale said, smiling softly.

"I can only thank you with my prayers. "A good man’s prayers are worth a fortune!" old Roger Chillingworth said as he left. "Seriously, they’re the real deal - like New Jerusalem’s currency, stamped by the King himself! Alone, the minister called for a servant and asked for food.

He ate like he hadn't eaten in ages. Then, he tossed the already written pages of the Election Sermon into the fire and started another one. He wrote with such passion and energy, he felt totally inspired.

He just wondered why Heaven would use someone like him - a "foul organ-pipe" - to share its message. But he left that mystery to figure itself out, or not, and kept writing, pushing hard and feeling amazing. The night flew by, like a wild ride, and morning peeked through the curtains, blushing.

Finally, sunrise hit the study and shone right across the minister’s stunned eyes. There he was, still holding the pen, with a ton of writing behind him!