Crane Pond (9 page)

Sir William won't arrive until sometime in May. A specific court to handle the witchcraft cases will then be set up. Sewall is to hold himself in readiness for appointment to that court. In the meantime, two of his colleagues from Salem Town, John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin, are appointed to conduct preliminary examinations of the accused, these to take place in the Salem Village meeting house.

Cotton Mather huffs and puffs around one windy afternoon with the latest news of these examinations, wig askew and cheeks crimson.

‘I now have a professional stake in these proceedings,' Sewall points out. ‘I don't want to be swayed by the winds of opinion.'

‘I am not a conveyor of
opinion
,' Mather protests. ‘I attended the opening examinations and simply wished to report their substance to you, as a person with an interest in the matters under scrutiny. There's no virtue in ignorance.'

One of the accused, Goody Good, is well-known as a muttering woman. She wanders round the village with her mouth opening and closing angrily but people can't make out what she is actually saying. Sewall imagines curses coming from another realm as though accidentally overheard, from a malignant world folded into our own as shadows are folded into the brightness of day.

Another, Goody Osborne, is involved in property transactions, strange business for one of her sex. There are rumours of inappropriate transactions of another kind as well. Goody Osborne tried to turn the tables by claiming she was haunted just like the girls accusing her. ‘One night she was lying in bed and a
thing
grasped the back of her head.'

‘A thing?'

‘A thing. It gripped her hair and tried to pull her towards the door of her bedroom. So she says.'

‘What kind of a thing?'

‘I use the word “thing” to indicate a being which has been given no name in the world we see around us. But she says it was like an Indian, all in black.'

Sewall is startled. He has been expecting a Beelzebub or a Mephistopheles, not a savage. But of course Indians grasp the hair as a prelude to scalping. ‘Perhaps it
was
an Indian,' he suggests. ‘A
real
Indian.'

‘A spectre is as real as any other phenomenon.'

‘If it was a spectre, then surely she was being haunted, just like the afflicted girls.'

‘Ah,' says Mather, ‘but under further examination, she confessed it may all have been a dream.'

Just as Cotton Mather insists that spectres are as real as flesh and blood phenomena, so Sewall suspects that dreams can be as true as daytime truths. He says as much.

‘Are the children dreaming when they writhe in pain while the examinations are going on?' Mr. Mather asks. ‘When they choke and struggle with their eyes bulging? When their limbs are forced into unnatural attitudes? The point is, Mr. Sewall, that the adversaries are unseen but the results of their actions are clearly visible.' He's obviously now convinced of the children's innocence. ‘It's a matter of evidence, like following footprints in the sand,' he continues. ‘You can't sit in a court of law and judge someone by their
dreams
because dreams do
not
leave footprints in the sand.'

‘By the same token,' Sewall says, ‘I have
not
seen those witches haunting the children with my very eyes. Which is why I wish to keep a distance from any account of the examinations.'

‘I'm simply addressing your own claim that Goody Osborne is one of the afflicted rather than a witch. She admitted in the examination not just that this
thing
's visitation might be merely a dream, but also that she hasn't been to church for many a month. Do you ever think about the towns and villages of our commonwealth in the night-time?'

This is a strategy favoured in sermon-giving, catching the congregation, just as they doze off, with the sharp immediacy of a question that charges towards them from an unexpected quarter. ‘Our little candles in that great darkness?' continues Mather, his voice now orotund (albeit with a somewhat fluting timbre), following the cadences of a previously aired idea.

Of course Sewall thinks of such things. Whenever he is out on business or pleasure he is aware of the day inexorably declining through winter afternoons or summer evenings, of the looming danger of being benighted. Many a time he hurries through a meeting or a pudding so he can set off home without further delay, and when he arrives safely by the light of the moon or the stars he always says
Laus Deo
, Praise the Lord, as his front door shuts behind him.

‘This was a pagan land before our fathers and grandfathers settled here,' Mather continues, as though Sewall is a roomful of people. ‘A land of Devil worship. Outside the scope of our plantations, a pagan land it remains. And when a weak sister like Goody Osborne steps out of the light of our candles and away from the congregation of the saints, she must enter the darkness that still surrounds our settlements. It's been waiting all along for her to stray, and indeed for any or all of us.' He pauses to give Sewall time to understand what he knows already—that no one is exempt from the importunity of darkness. ‘That's why she stated that the thing in her bedroom was like an Indian, all in black. In the interests of painting a convincing picture of the so-called apparition, she accidentally let slip the truth of her new allegiance.'

Cotton Mather's face shows the satisfaction of a verdict reached, as if it is he who is the judge. Sewall tries to take him up on the question of paganism. Many Indians have converted to Christianity already, and despite the atrocities that are being committed in the frontier towns by those tribes that have allied themselves to France, he believes Indians hold the key to America's destiny—indeed that they are an indispensable part of God's plan for humankind.

In reply Mather talks of the Indians who went to Mexico to settle there. This journey was strangely like the passage of the Israelites through the wilderness. But whereas the latter were conducted by God to the Promised Land, the Indians were led to Mexico by the Devil in the form of an idol they called Vitzlipulitzli. ‘They carried him in an ark of reeds, and housed him at night in a tabernacle. This is proof positive that the Indian is
Simia Dei
, the Ape of God. Indeed it is my belief that they are the Devil's chosen people and were led by him to settle the American continent just as God's people were led to
their
promised land. And I fear they may have forged an alliance with witches to restore the land to heathenish ways once more.'

Sewall earnestly wishes to bring the discussion to an end. ‘The matter of guilt has yet to be decided,' he reminds Mather.

‘But there is a witness,' Mather informs him. ‘Apart from the girls, I mean.'

This, it turns out, is a slave belonging to Samuel Parris, a woman called Tituba Indian. Mather gives a meaningful nod as he gives her married name. Her husband, John Indian, belongs to Parris too. Sewall has no brief for slavery. It appals him that people should buy a man or a woman with no more concern than if they were purchasing a horse, and he is taken aback at the thought of a minister of religion indulging in such a practice. The girls accused Tituba, who confessed immediately (no doubt, Sewall thinks, she's used to doing what she's told). The Devil had come to her accompanied by four women, Goody Good, Goody Osborne, and two others she didn't recognise. Also a tall man from Boston. In short the conspiracy is growing.

These witches hurt the children and make Tituba do the same. A thing (another phenomenon for which there is no earthly name, though it somewhat resembles a hog) tells Tituba to kill the children. Then, as though the thing's resemblance has triggered a rhyme in the very nature of things, it is transformed into a dog, a black dog. There was a red rat and a black rat. And when the witches wanted to torment the girls they flew to them on sticks. And on the subject of flying there was a bird amongst this hubbub of animals, a yellow one, owned by the tall man from Boston. And the yellow bird flew from the tall man's hand and alighted on Goody Good's, then suckled her between her fingers.

‘Suckled?' asks Sewall, thinking he might have misheard.

‘There must have been a nipple in situ, for that purpose.'

A few months since, a black dog killed the cow that supplied his household with its milk and Sewall uttered a prayer to God, asking him to offer his breast for their supplies. Now he hears tell of a black dog once more, this time in its natural abode, a witches' coven. And news of demonic suckling. Ever since that wretched business of the pirates Sewall has found it difficult to pray, and has gained scant satisfaction or spiritual ease from church worship, even the singing of psalms, which used to be his great delight. His voice holds firm but his spirit fails to rise, as if he has lost his heart's true baritone. Now the possible explanation dawns.

There is the darkness; here is the light.

Here is the rule of the Lord; there is the aping of God.

There are two domains, one a dim reflection, a dismal parody, of the other. When he, Sewall, reprieved those pirates, he unwittingly helped to create an overlap between the two. How else to explain a pirate almost instantly becoming a captain in the royal navy? No wonder Sewall has since found it impossible to gain any satisfaction or comfort in the observances of Christian worship. It may have been that his prayers to God have been redirected to Vitzlipulitzli as the consequence of this unintentional switching of loyalty. In Boston he prayed for God to offer his breast; in Salem Village a nipple appeared between a witch's fingers.

Cotton Mather finally takes his leave. He has a particular talent for feeling put-upon, so contrives to suggest that this conversation has kept him from more important matters, grumbling to himself about a sermon awaiting completion as they proceed through the vestibule to the front door. Sewall leans round him to open the latch and is surprised by a gust of wind that all but shuts the door again, blowing out not just the candle he's carrying but the pair ensconced in the panelling. Mather has to clutch hold of his wig to prevent it flying off, and to sidestep this indignity immediately adverts to his earlier rhetorical flight. ‘The big dark,' he announces, then, pleased with this description, repeats it, ‘big dark,' raising his arm to point outside before scuttling off into the night.

‘Laus Deo,' Sewall mutters in his wake. He tries to justify this in his mind as an anticipation of Cotton Mather's safe arrival home rather than as what it actually is, a thank-you for his departure at long last. Then he closes the door.

As he feels his way past the cupboard he can make out little sounds from within, groans and whimpers. Betty again, wrestling with her despair. Or perhaps, it suddenly occurs to him, with a witch.

A
t breakfast next morning Sewall makes an announcement. ‘I shall catch the ferry to Salem Town today.'

Wife Hannah is raising a portion of bannock to her mouth. She lowers it on hearing this news. ‘The wind is still blowing,' she says. ‘The sea will be high.'

‘I crossed the Atlantic a little while ago, don't forget. I think I can manage a short trip up the coast. And if the sea is
too
high the ferry won't sail.'

‘Father, may I come with you?' Betty asks. Her sister Hannah observes her intently while she says this, then looks anxiously towards her father.

‘No!' Sewall exclaims, more firmly than is warranted.

‘Can
I
come, father?' pipes up little Joseph. Daughter Hannah peers short-sightedly at him just as she had at Betty. Joseph is waving a piece of bannock in one hand. He pulls a morsel off it with the other and puts it into his mouth, entirely unconcerned about the outcome of his question. Young Hannah turns towards Sewall once again to hear his ruling.

‘No, Joseph, not today,' Sewall replies in a more accommodating tone.

Young Hannah settles back in her chair, relieved. If her brother and sister had been able to go, their momentum might have pulled her along too, and set her afloat on that high sea. ‘I am going to consult with Mr. Noyes,' Sewall explains. ‘Upon a matter in the Book of Revelation.' Nicholas Noyes is the minister at Salem Town, and an old school friend of Sewall's. The two often meet to discuss topics of mutual interest, in particular Biblical prophecy and the scandal of periwigs.

‘I thought you were going to visit my Uncle Stephen and Aunt Margaret,' says Betty. ‘I like going to see them.'

‘Can't Revelation wait till the weather is better?' wife Hannah asks.

‘It's a question of prophecy that we need to settle.'

‘But these prophecies have waited hundreds of years—surely they can wait a little longer?'

‘Some of them may be coming to fulfilment. There may not be time to delay longer,' Sewall explains. A memorable apothegm coined by Mr. Noyes comes into his mind: Prophecy is history antedated; and history is postdated prophecy, words which give Revelation's most dizzying flights the urgency of fact.

‘You must call on brother Stephen and sister Margaret while you are there, in any case,' Hannah tells him. ‘To see how they are and give them my good wishes.'

‘
I
would like to call on them and see how they are,' Betty says.

‘I'd love to see Margaret again,' wife Hannah agrees, a little wistfully. ‘She always raises my spirits.'

Sewall fears she will imitate her children and ask to come too. ‘I will ask them to visit us soon,' he tells her. He feels compelled to add: ‘Unless you want to come with me today.' He drops his face so he doesn't look her in the eye, ashamed at the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

‘Oh no,' says Hannah at once. ‘Besides, I have a headache.'

He raises his head to give her a sympathetic look, though his sympathy is freighted with relief.