Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Witch Child (24 page)
“But why did you let him?” Jeremiah demanded. Clearly he did not at all understand.
Emphatically I told him, “I didn't. I couldn't stop him. I didn't realize what was happening until . . . well, until 'twas too late.”
Vast indeed was the difference betwixt the reaction I yearned for and Jeremiah's gape. Not pity but stupefaction was written into his face, and slowly I was beginning to realize I had committed a blunder.
Still incredulous, Jeremiah asked, “Why didn't you tell someone? The constable? Or the reverend? Reverend Parris would have had him arrested!”
'Twas the one question I should have foreseen, and did not. How I despised my thoughtless tongue! “I . . . I couldn't.” I cringed at how evasive I sounded. “There . . . there were other reasons.”
“Such as?” he demanded.
“I can't tell you,” I said.
He shook his head then, staring at me as if I were someone he did not recognize and was attempting to, like someone who comes upon a face in the road that was once encountered and could not be placed. Then, frowning, he rose and went to stand at the window, his back to me. How tall and wiry he was. I wondered what he was thinking.
Nervously I told him, “No one knows about the babe save for Mama and me. Even . . . even
he
doesn't know about the babe. So . . . well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak of it until . . . well, until whatever happens.”
he
doesn't know about the babe. So . . . well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak of it until . . . well, until whatever happens.”
“Why did you tell me this?” he suddenly asked. His back remained to me, and his voice was low and angry.
“I . . . I don't know.” With every breath, I regretted my impulsiveness, and had I been able to cut my tongue from my throat, I might likely have done so. Too well should I have realized Jeremiah's conservative nature. Yet weary was I, too, of how I could never share with him my deepest troubles. Tiredly, I said, “I'm sorry I told you. Perhaps we could just forget it, andâ”
Harshly he interrupted. “Did you not know how it would make me feel?”
Fervently I searched his tone for evidence of that feeling, but beyond anger, I could not determine it. If only he would face me!
“Nay,” I finally answered, and I wished it were an hour prior and I could turn back the clock and do things differently. “Couldn't we just pretend I didn't tell you about it? 'Twas a mistake Jeremiah. I shouldn't have said anything. Pray, don't think ill of me. Not now, Jeremiah! Not at the end!”
Abruptly he sniggered, a high, jarring. snigger. “What a dolt you must think I am! All those times I awkwardly kissed you . . . and all the time you were with child!”
Horrified, I cried out, “Nay, Jeremiah!” Too keenly was I now aware of the enormity of my blunder. My chains jangled as my hands flew to my face and I pled, “'Twasn't at all like that, Jeremiah! I wasn't with child then! Truly I wasn't!”
His sarcastic laugh crushed me. “O? 'Twas afterward, then, that you smiled and mocked me?”
O God, I prayed. Please don't let him hate me! “I never mocked you, Jeremiah! I swear it!” Frantic, I wanted nothing to spoil the memory of our innocent kisses. “Your kisses meant a lot to me! I dreamed of them! O Jeremiah! How in love with you I was!” And still am, I wanted to add, but did not.
He turned then, and his face was distorted in a sneer that wrenched my heart into painful slivers. Yet my pain had been self-inflicted; no one was to blame but myself, and my own oafish bungling. Perhaps Bridget White is correct. Perhaps I am a peculiar child.
“Mercy brought me a locket,” said Jeremiah, abruptly. I knew his politeness had ended. 'Twas that politeness which had prevented him from asking about the locket initially, his attention to proprieties dictating that he begin by demonstrating his concern for me and for what had once been shared betwixt us before proceeding to his real mission. From his impatient shifting of weight from one foot to the other, I also knew that he was anxious for our meeting to be over.
Nervous and shaking, I was now not at all certain of the wisdom of proceeding. What had once seemed so noble and sacrificial, now seemed naive and folly. I found myself regretting everything about the locket. I wished I had buried it in a corner of the dungeon and had let it lay for whoever might have discovered it, let it lay for some wretched prisoner who might unearth it and therein bequeath it to her children in her one last desperate act before the noose. I wished I had never gotten involved. I wished I had never stolen it!
Yet, searching further inside myself, I knew I could not have buried it. I knew I had to tell Jeremiah the truth of what lay within, for if I did not, I knew by some sixth sense that someday even greater disaster would befall. Sufficient disaster had already been experienced.
Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and said, “Inside the locket, Jeremiah, is an inscription. I shall tell you what it means and how I came to learn about it.
Methodically I began unthreading the whole entangled story, trying to keep my voice calm and toneless so as to lessen the shock; and Jeremiah did not interrupt me, but listened in silence, his color graying and turning to ash, his dark eyes widening then narrowing, his chest barely moving with breath, and too clearly did I feel the jolt my words were producing. O if only I could have spared him! And when I finished my tale, I understood exactly the reason for Jeremiah's reaction. He blamed
me
for the tragedy. Because I was the messenger.
me
for the tragedy. Because I was the messenger.
“I don't believe you!” he cried.
Quietly I said, “'Tis true, Jeremiah. You must realize it before others do.” I had to impress upon him the danger.
“'Tis a lie!”
“O that it were.”
“You've made all this up!” he screamed. “You've made it up to get back at me for how I've treated you! This and that other story, too!”
The acid in those words stung like hot lye for the knowledge that Jeremiah would consider me capable of such vile retaliation. But still I kept my voice calm. “I would not say such things to hurt you,” I said. “I do it only to warn you. For when the truth becomes known, 'twill bring great tragedy. You must prevent that, Jeremiah. You must figure out a way. Please, Jeremiah. Please listen to me, and think.”
Still he did not believe me. “âTis a monstrous thing you do! How could you have thought up such a diabolical lie? Aye, that's it! 'Tis the Devil speaking! You
are
a witch!”
are
a witch!”
With that, his lanky limbs immediately sprang into motion, and he flew from the chamber. I watched him in horror as he threw wide the chamber door and cried out, “The Devil! The Devil's in there, jailer! Speaking with his malevolent tongue! God spare me from such wickedness! Silence this Satanic power that grasps for us all!”
In moments, the jailer came to get me, as I sat there drained and weary. 'Tis out of my hands now, I told myself. The future is for Jeremiah to decide. I wanted to feel a sense of release. I did not. I still felt troubled.
Jeremiah had believed nothing I said.
Salem, 16 September 1692
My trial, I have learned, begins on the morrow. I confided to the mute girl that I am frightened; but she did not reply, and I do not know if she heard me. So thin is she that I have decided to give her some of my journey cake next time Mama brings some. If Mama ever again does. The nights have grown chilly, and dearly do I wish I had Mercy's shawl. I wonder whom Mercy shall give it to. Pray, God, guide and watch over me.
Salem, 17 September 1692, noon
I awoke this morn quite hopeful. The suppawn in the large trencher brought by the jailer was not so watery as usual, which I thought to be a good sign. And our bread did not have weevils.
The mute girl's teeth were chattering from the cool night, so I put my hand on her arm to comfort her; but she did not acknowledge me. Such a thin, pathetic thing she is, with dark circles rimming her vacant eyes. I wonder if there is a mind left behind that glazed stare. The only time that glaze disappears is when she is sleeping, and then she looks so soft and at peace that I sometimes wish God would show His mercy and take her when she is most serene. I slid my hand down into her small shivering white one and spoke to her, telling her it was the day of my trial and asking her to pray for me, telling her that I have not a friend at all left in this world, and it would make me feel ever so much stronger if she were to offer to be my friend. Alas, she gave me no response. I suppose she has her own troubles to occupy her. Perhaps that is why she has retreated from the rest of us, into her own private refuge.
I was still attempting to make contact with her when the jailer appeared. As I shuffled around the heaps of rags, one of the women murmured, “God be with you,” which I thought to be another good sign. Turning quickly, I wanted to thank her, but could not determine the source, for all faces were turned away from me. I was heartened, however, knowing that someone cared.
First being led through the corridor, through the antechamber, then through another corridor, finally I was brought through a door which opened into the court chamber, my chains all the while banging against my ankles. Behind two long, highly polished tables sat what I was soon to learn were the Chief Justice, six magistrates, and several reverendsâall, I thought in astonishment, to decide the fate of small, insignificant
me!
And witnessing the event would be an audience completely filling a half score or more benches, an audience which included faces vastly familiar to me yet suddenly so unnervingly foreign.
me!
And witnessing the event would be an audience completely filling a half score or more benches, an audience which included faces vastly familiar to me yet suddenly so unnervingly foreign.
What a shock to find a chamber so heavily peopled. Swiftly I began sorting through what seemed a blur of faces, fervently trying to single out one with some glimmer of compassion. Alas, all were exceedingly somber and grave, some even hostile. So I braced myself for what was certainly to follow.
I was not allowed to sit. The Chief Justice bade me stand sideways at the front of the chamber, alongside the end of the imposing length of table and positioned such that I would face both the magistrates and the audience. A constable sat beside meâas if with scores of eyes upon me and my limbs bound by chains, I might even consider flight.
Dishearteningly, I saw one of the magistrates to be the severe looking one with sharp features and stiff white collar who had previously searched me for witch's teats. He glared at me. Beneath that glare was fervent dislike. Then he spoke with all the ferocity of fire, asking whether I now wished to confess (which I did not), whether I admitted entertaining Satan (which I denied), and whether I did not now wish to make my peace with God by apologizing for countenance of the Devil (to which I replied I had already made my peace).
Such answers sat ill with him. “The court shall proceed!” he bellowed. The resounding bang of his gavel nearly sent me leaping through the ceiling.
Nervously I tried to focus on the maze of faces and was able to pick out Mama in the first row, betwixt Mercy and Daniel. She looked solemn and weary, older by years than only this past spring. And though I gazed at her with desperation, she showed me no sign of encouragement; nor did Daniel, who sat grim and foreboding. Papa, I realized with vast disappointment, was not beside them. So Papa will not come to my trial. I wonder if he shall come to my hanging.
Goody Bishop sat perched in the audience, looking pious and self-righteous as always; and I also saw Goody Corwin, Bridget White with her throng of filthy children, the Englishes, the Disboroughs, Phebe, Abigail, Ann and her mother, Deliverance, Jeremiah's parents (alas, no Jeremiah!), the three girls whom I first met in the antechamber, Goodman Glover and a host of others, most of whom I cannot or choose not to recall. I wondered who was for me, and who was against. Glumly, I thought probably none of the former and all of the latter.
With no little surprise to me, Goody Corwin was called as first witness. I knew she would be. I had prepared myself that the onset of the trial would be the worst, with the most damaging testimony, so I was anxious merely to be on with it and have that portion to be over, so we could proceed with testimony in my favor. Little did I know how bad the testimony would be.
Goody Corwinânow Widow Corwinârose, stepped forward and appeared sufficiently distraught over her lost husband. Nay, 'tis unfair of me. I am certain Widow Corwin is indeed distraught, as was the small, tattered son who clutched tightly onto her chapped hand, the same small, tattered son who stood beside me at the old well hole, asking, “Where's my Papa?” The remainder of her shabby ten children remained seated and squashed one into the other on their wooden bench. I was going to be in for a bad time of it. I tried not to think how all were now without husband and father.
Tears began streaming down Widow Corwin's leathery face as she pointed toward me and sobbed, “That's her! That's the specter of the Devil who took my husband! Made the earth open up and take him, she did! My poor beloved Thomas! Now 'tis only meâall alone in this worldâto feed my children. Thomas was such a good husbandâgood and true! Never hurt a soul! Then he was taken by that girl there who assumed the spirit of Satan!”
Such fervent tears spilled easily and suddenly. Too suddenly. A vague sensation of something rehearsed indicated itself to me. And no sooner had I had such sensation than the weeping Widow looked despairingly down at her son whose face also began to screw up into a wail. Sighing, I tried not to be heartless. I told myself Widow Corwin had indeed loved her husband, and those tattered children will now indeed be without father. Wrestling with my conscience, I tried to feel responsible.
To me, the Chief Justice gruffly said, “Rachel Ward? How do you reply to this charge?”
Nervous, I tried to find my voice, but what came out was a small squeak. “'Twas an accident, sir.”
“An accident? An
accident
the earth suddenly opened up and a hole appeared?”
accident
the earth suddenly opened up and a hole appeared?”
“It, er, didn't exactly open up, sir. You see, he stepped back from me andâ”
“He? He, who? Be specific, Rachel Ward.”
“Goodman Corwin, sir.”
“The husband of the woman before you?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And Goodman Corwin stepped back, and you made the earth open?”
“Not exactly, sir. You see, Iâ”
“Did you and Goodman Corwin exchange harsh words before the earth opened?”
“Well ... aye, sir, I supposeâ”
The tattered son said, “She were screaming at my Papa!”
The Chief Justice said, “And why were you screaming, Rachel Ward?”
“I wasn't exactly screaming, sir. We were arguing. Well, not exactly arguing, either. You seeâ”
“Be specific, Rachel Ward! About what topic were those harsh words exchanged?”
“Er, wellâ”
“About
what
, Rachel Ward?”
what
, Rachel Ward?”
“You see, sir, he thought I had stolen something from him.”
“He? Goodman Corwin, you mean?”
“Aye, sir.”
So intimidating was his constant interruption and harranguing of me that my head began to spin and I could scarce keep my thoughts aligned. I am certain that was his intention. Taking a deep breath, I tried to regain my control so as not to trip over the next crucial part.
The Chief Justice demanded, “And
what
did you steal from Goodman Corwin, Rachel Ward?”
what
did you steal from Goodman Corwin, Rachel Ward?”
“I didn't really steal, sir. I onlyâ”
“Why did Goodman Corwin
think
you stole something?”
think
you stole something?”
“He . . . he was mistaken, sir.”
“About
what
, Rachel Ward? About
what
was he mistaken?”
what
, Rachel Ward? About
what
was he mistaken?”
“About . . . about nothing really, sir. You see, I didn't really steal anything. There . . . there was some necklaceâ”
A wailing Widow Corwin suddenly screeched, “The locket? So that's where the locket went! All this time I've been blaming the children!”
The Chief Justice demanded, “Did you steal a
locket
, Rachel Ward?”
locket
, Rachel Ward?”
Swiftly I snuck a glance toward Jeremiah's mother, holding my breath. She appeared to be without recognition. Hesitantly I ventured, “Well, there was something of a locket, sir.”
Again Widow Corwin screeched. “âTwas a beautiful locket! A gold locket! 'Twas to be our fortune! Make her return it! Make her return that which is mine! And for which she opened the earth to send my poor beloved toward her Hell!”
Mama looked ashen. Her daughter was not only a murderess, but a thief. I dared not look at her. The Chief Justice raged with this new evidence of my guilt.
“Return the locket!” he bellowed.
“I . . . er . . . don't have it, sir.”
“Where
is
it, Rachel Ward?”
is
it, Rachel Ward?”
“I . . . er . . . threw it somewhere in the river,” I lied.
Widow Corwin let out a heart-rending wail. The chamber echoed with it, sending shivers up my spine. The Chief Justice waited until her horrendous wailing lessened to a disconsolate sob. Then he concluded with: “So, Rachel Ward. You stole a locket from the now deceased Goodman Corwinâstealing being a clear example of entertainment of the Devil. And when Goodman Corwin confronted you with your theft, you then summoned up your diabolical powers and made the earth open to take him toward your fiery inferno. Do you deny all this, Rachel Ward?”
Scores of faces stared at me, waiting. It was no use to deny the part about the diabolical powers, nor of anything else, either; denial would only lead to further discussion of the locket. Fortunately, Jeremiah's mother still appeared oblivious. Before me, a distraught Widow Corwin stood with shoulders hunched and hands covering her face, disconsolately weeping. The small boy beside her looked white and frightened. I knew this part had not been practiced. I decided the locket had been the one thing Goody Corwin had depended upon to provide for her now fatherless children. In a small voice, I finally said, “I'm sorry, Goody Corwin. I didn't mean this to happen.”
Ferociously she jerked her head upwards toward me, eyes red and swollen, and cried out, “You! You are a witch! A witch sent from Satan to destroy me and my family!”
I think she truly believed what she said. I replied nothing. There was nothing I
could
reply. Gloomily, I glanced over at the scribe who was furiously recording the proceedings. Someday, somewhere, someone shall read his recorded proceedings and know why I was convicted of being a witch. Yet they shall know nothing of the truth.
could
reply. Gloomily, I glanced over at the scribe who was furiously recording the proceedings. Someday, somewhere, someone shall read his recorded proceedings and know why I was convicted of being a witch. Yet they shall know nothing of the truth.
The Chief Justice then adjourned the Court for a few moments, to allow the scribe to complete his recordings, and to allow a pitcher of water to be passed round the chamber. I was not offered any. Nervously I looked at Mama, hoping she would smile or show some sign of encouragement, but her expression was without emotion. Stoic. I wondered what
her
testimony would be. A sad tale, indeed, when one is sent to the gallows by one's own mother. Goodman Glover sat eagerly forward on his bench, his small weasely face gleaming, and I wondered if Mama noticed Goodman Glover's presence and what she thought of it. So much tension and heartache sat under that roof.
her
testimony would be. A sad tale, indeed, when one is sent to the gallows by one's own mother. Goodman Glover sat eagerly forward on his bench, his small weasely face gleaming, and I wondered if Mama noticed Goodman Glover's presence and what she thought of it. So much tension and heartache sat under that roof.
Next to testify when Court was resumed was Goody Bishop. Her form seemed to stretch as tall as a steeple, and her angular face was set and confident; she had all the posture of a woman on an exalted mission. Hastily she strode forward.
“Let it be known,” said Goody Bishop, addressing the court before the magistrate even gave the order to proceed, “I take no pleasure in instances such as these. Too fervently do I wish we were without witchery. But as one of God's most fervent servants, I feel it incumbent upon my person to assist in halting that which has become a pernicious influence upon us.”
How self-righteous she was! As if God had appointed her and her alone to purify His world! Bitterly I noticed she did not glance toward Mama as she made her little speech; nor did Mama look at her in return. I wondered if Goody Bishop realized that by her betrayal, and its consequences, she was sacrificing the £21 loaned to Papaâa sum which would now be a long time paying without the mill. Perhaps she does realize it. Perhaps 'tis just further indication of her fervent belief in her cause. I wonder if she sees herself as a martyr.
The magistrate who so despises me spokeâthe one with the sharp features and the stiff collar. Unimpressed by Goody Bishop's devout little display, he impatiently asked, “You have evidence, Goodwife Bishop?”
“Aye,” replied Goody Bishop, drawing herself up to her full height. “A poppet of the accused was found under another witch's bed.”
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