The village was small, more like a hamlet. It was situated on a hill surrounded by moss and cranberries. There were four houses with roofs gray from rain, nestled under mighty oak trees, which is why the village was called Oak Hill.
Only eleven souls lived in Oak Hill. The village sustained itself with farming, hunting, and fishing. The wealthiest person there was John Tropp. He was a stingy and hardworking man. At almost sixty, he was still strong and wiry. That autumn, he gathered around 800 kilograms of cranberries with Paul. His son, that is. Paul was eighteen and had two older brothers who lived in London and hadn’t been home for about three years. Although Paul wasn’t anxious to go to the city, he wasn’t very fond of rural work. One morning, Paul came home and said to his father, “Send the matchmakers to Lake Town.” “To whom?” asked John sternly. “To the Dempsey’s, to Polly.”
Knowing his father’s fiery temper, he added, “If you don’t send them, I’ll run off to the city with her.” There was no joy for John in his youngest. He wasn’t like him. He seemed light and fickle. He wasn’t a good steward, but he was the last. If he left for the city, John would have to manage the farm alone. His wife, Martha, was getting too old and frail, some illness weighing heavily on her. Vinnie Dempsey was a drunkard and a layabout, but his daughter was a beauty. John had seen her in the summer hayfields. Tall and statuesque, with a flaxen braid to her waist. Her large grey eyes were like deep pools. What did she see in Paul?
Such a girl would grace any home, and Martha had long needed a helper. In no time, they were married just before Halloween. And a month later, an officer came to Oak Hill and drafted Paul into the army. At the farewell, Polly cried for Paul as if he were gone forever. After Paul left, Polly’s life in Oak Hill became unbearable. Her father-in-law began harassing her. He would pinch her as if in jest when walking by or try to hug her while she milked the cow. And once, when she was scrubbing the floor, he brazenly reached under her skirt. She couldn’t speak up; she was ashamed before her mother-in-law, who lay behind the curtain.
Once, when she was gathering hay in the loft, John snuck up behind her, threw her into the hay, and tried to kiss her, his breath reeking of garlic and moonshine. His rough, bushy beard covered her entire face, not letting her cry out. Polly struggled to breathe as her father-in-law fumbled under her skirt. How she managed to escape his heavy grip, she couldn’t remember, but once free, she grabbed a pitchfork, pointed it at his chest, and hissed, “I’ll stab you, you old dog! Lord forgive me!”
From that day, her father-in-law stopped his indecent behavior but still criticized Polly for every little thing she did wrong. Polly cried and complained about her lot. She visited her mother in Lake Town, seeking comfort. Her mother would empathize, shed a tear, and send her back, saying, “Endure it. Paul will return, and everything will be fine.” Before returning to Oak Hill, Polly stopped at the village store to buy matches, seasoning, and some spices her father-in-law had asked for. Reluctantly, she headed back to Oak Hill. Trudging in her boots through the snow, she pondered her difficult situation. It had been three months since Paul left.
She liked that cheerful, playful boy, even though there were more handsome lads in the village. They were all rough, disrespectful, but he was kind and never used harsh words. They hadn’t even truly gotten to know each other, and now her father-in-law was attempting to take his son’s place. “That won’t happen! I must deter the old fool. But how?” Immersed in her thoughts, Polly didn’t notice when she arrived at Oak Hill. Her father-in-law greeted her with grumbles over her prolonged absence and poor purchases. After drinking some milk, Polly retreated to her room and locked the door.
The next day, they heated the bathhouse. It stood away from the house, near a small pond. Polly hauled water and lit the fire. While doing chores, she slipped some red pepper into her apron pocket. Thinking that wasn’t enough, she added some mustard powder. Later, when she went to tidy the bathhouse, she coated the benches with pepper and mustard and sprinkled the devilish mixture into a bucket with soaked birch branches. The pepper and mustard irritated her nose. She sneezed and dashed out of the bathhouse just in time because her father-in-law was approaching with a bundle of clothing under his arm. “Why’d you let out the heat, you wretch?” he yelled at her. Stepping aside into the snowbank, Polly silently let him pass and hurried to the house. Once inside, she leaned against the wall, her heart pounding wildly. “What will happen?” She feared, yet felt exhilarated for daring to punish the old scoundrel. “Now, old blockhead, you’ll get a scorching.”
“That same wretch,” thought John. “Perhaps she didn’t ventilate the bathhouse well? Or maybe there’s still a smoldering ember in the stove?” He poked at the stove with a poker, doused the glowing embers with water, then sprawled out on the bench with delight. The bench was hot, slightly burning his skin. John squirmed, adjusting to the heat, but the heat turned into a fiery burn.
Confused, John sat on the bench. He felt around the boards with his hand but found nothing. Instinctively, he scratched his private area and nearly fell to the floor. It felt as if a wasp had stung him in the front, and nettles were whipping him in the back. Roaring with pain like a wounded bear, John dashed from the bathhouse in his birthday suit and plopped into the snow. The burning eased slightly, but the snow grew too cold, forcing him back inside.
In the house, Polly was rolling on the floor, stifling her laughter. Martha emerged from her room with a puzzled look, as she hadn’t heard Polly laugh since Paul’s departure. Martha, having long noticed her husband’s advances toward their daughter-in-law, lacked the strength to intervene. But now, Polly, emboldened, told her mother-in-law of her deed and how she had given the old man a lesson. Martha initially frowned, feeling sorry for her husband, but then burst into laughter and said, “Serves him right, that old lecher.”
Reentering the bathhouse, John pondered what had just transpired. Did something spill on the bench? Pouring a ladle of hot water over the bench, he climbed back on it. It seemed it wasn’t burning now. He threw some steam on the stove, took a birch branch from the bucket, and started thrashing his back and thighs. But soon, his nose and eyes stung, his body burned as if afire, and his rear itched as though he’d sat on an anthill.
Sliding off the bench onto the floor, he crawled to the door, almost breaking it down as he spilled out into the familiar snowbank. John came home silently as night fell, bypassed dinner, and went to bed immediately but couldn’t sleep. His whole body burned. He squirmed on the creaky bed like a fish on a skillet, groaning softly in pain. When it became unbearable, he flung open the window, dropped his trousers, and stuck his fiery rear end into the cold air. It felt better, but John thought one could light a cigarette from his buttocks.
Grateful it was night, he hoped no one would witness the scene: John, the reclusive proud man, perched naked on the windowsill like a crow on a limb. It’s hard to say what they’d think. From below the house, John’s loyal dog, Barky, whose kennel was by the window, watched the scene unfold. Barky stood on his hind legs and gave his master’s backside a lick. The surprise kindness sent a chill through John’s chest, and, losing strength, he collapsed onto the floor.
The thud awoke Martha, who emerged from her room, and Polly followed, holding a candle. The sight before them was both tragic and comical. John lay unconscious on the floor, bare-bottomed, oblivious, while Barky’s shaggy face peered through the open window. From that day on, John left Polly alone, never mentioning the incident. Soon, Polly received a letter from Paul and left to join him where he was stationed.
Though old granny Dora claims in her tale it was Polly, I think she was speaking of herself. She resembles her even now, in her eighties with devilish sparks still flickering in her eyes.
