Susannah Morrow (37 page)

“That I should live with such sin—” I began.

“What is between us is no sin.”

I snorted my contempt at her words. “What would you call it then? Bewitchment? Obsession? I know what you have done to me.
I had thought ’twas only a dream, but ’twas your specter instead, putting a spell upon me—”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “Did you not order your specter to climb onto me, to sit upon my hips in the dead of night, to
hold me still so I couldn’t breathe? Did you not order it to say that you would have me, whether I willed it or not?”

“No,” she whispered. “No. I don’t understand you, Lucas. I never did such a thing.”

Her denial was fodder for the fire building in me. “I wondered why I saw no footprints in the snow outside my window when
you left, but Tituba answered that for me. What long pole did you fly away on? Do you keep it in this house? Tell me, so I
can burn the cursed thing.”

She shook her head. “I never flew on a pole. I never went to your bed, Lucas, not without your wanting me there. It must have
been a dream.”

“What dreams have such real power? I could feel you. You were as real as you stand before me now.”

“Perhaps ’twas a very real dream, then,” she said, “but a dream, nonetheless. Things are not always what they seem, Lucas.
You know that. When I first came here, I believed you beat your children and Judith.”

She was adept at this, this switch in subject, the turning back of guilt, the Devil’s trick.

“I cannot explain this by a misunderstanding,” I said. “Nor can you.”

“I have explained it. ’Twas a dream.”

“William Allen was visited by Sarah Good’s specter too. Do you know about that? Is it a trick all in the Devil’s service must
learn?”

“I cannot answer that.”

“Cannot? Or will not? She did the same to him as you did to me. She sat upon him. She held him prisoner in his own bed for
an hour.”

Susannah glanced away. “Such nonsense. Is that what was said at the examinations today? Is that what you would use to condemn
me?” She looked back to me again. “You cannot do this. I know what you think, Lucas—if I’m the Devil, meant to tempt you,
’twill appease your guilt; ’twill absolve your sins. But there is no sin here, and I am not a sacrifice to be made to your
God. I love you—”

“What can you know of love? You could not even bring yourself to marry the men you lived with. When you tired of them, you
left. What can you know of the kind of love that keeps a man and woman together for seventeen years? What can you know of
sacrifice?”

I used my words like weapons, battering her, and she went white with hurt. I buried my remorse with savagery—the Devil would
turn my own emotions against me, and I would not give him the chance. I turned on my heel, starting to the parlor, but then
I remembered Jude upstairs, sleeping and vulnerable, in danger now that Charity had exposed Susannah.

“I want you in the parlor tonight,” I said, “or in the cellar. I don’t want you near Jude. I will sleep out here on the settle
to make sure you stay away from her.”

She stared at me in disbelief. “You cannot mean it.”

“Aye, I do. What choice will you make? The parlor? Or the cellar?”

She paused, and then she said quietly, “The parlor.” I stepped back from the door and motioned for her to go to it. She hesitated
as she passed me. I held firm.

I
WOKE TO THE SOUND OF SUSANNAH TENDING THE EIRE
. I
SAT UP
, sore from a night on the settle, disoriented.

There was a knock on the door.

Susannah jumped and spun around, spilling a handful of meal onto the hearth in her surprise. Clearly, she thought it was the
warrant for her arrest, and I knew it could be. Wearily I made my way to the door.

I was not sure whom I expected to see. One of the constables, perhaps, or Tom Putnam. Even Samuel Parris would not have been
a surprise. But when I opened it to find Nicholas Noyes standing on the doorstep, I was perplexed. “Parson. ’Tis an unexpected
visit.”

“Forgive me for coming at such an early hour, Lucas,” Noyes said. “I’ve come to talk to your sister.”

I ushered him in, saying, “Susannah—’tis Nicholas Noyes. The parson from town.”

She stood stiffly, her hands clenched tightly before her. “Good morning, sir,” she said. She let silence fall after, and ’twas
loud and uncomfortable.

Noyes shuffled within it. “I-I’ve been asked to speak to you regarding our poor afflicted ones.”

“I know already of their accusations,” she said. “Have you come to arrest me?”

He shook his head and smiled wanly. “This needs care, as I’m sure you realize. There is no point in haste—no one wishes to
make arrests in error. The whole village greatly admired your sister. Even in town, we knew of dear Judith’s good works.”

I understood then why he was here, what he hoped to gain. Susannah was no beggar, no scandalous woman, and no slave. My family
was respectable, and she was a part of it. Despite their suspicions, and the girls’ outright accusations, they were wary now
of making a mistake.

I saw Susannah’s puzzlement. “Are you saying…’tis my sister’s reputation alone that has saved me?”

“We would take care in this,” Noyes said again. “And to that purpose…I’ve come to take you to Thomas Putnam’s house.”

“Why?”

“Three of the girls are there. Little Annie, of course, and her cousin Mary Walcott. Mercy Lewis as well. John Hale and I
have been counseling caution. We believe ’twould be wise for you to talk to the girls.”

“You want me to talk to them?” Susannah’s eyes, her voice, radiated skepticism.

“We’d like to see if perhaps there has been…a mistake. You understand, we would be sure in this.”

“Do I have a choice in this?” she asked.

Noyes looked at her. “’Twould be best, I think, for you to talk to these girls.”

“You did not answer my question. I asked you: Do I have a choice in this?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Susannah took a deep breath. Then she took off her apron. Her hands smoothed over her skirt, went to her hair—’twas as if
she primped for company. I could do nothing but watch her, even as she turned to me one last time before she grabbed her cloak
and went with Noyes out the door. Her expression was as blank as Charity’s had been yesterday, and I felt the familiarity
of that look as a chill that cut straight into my bowels.

I was too weak in this, and dangerously alone. I needed help. Guidance. Someone to give me the strength to keep my children
safe. There was only one man I could trust with my deepest fears. Sam Nurse.

I took Jude to the Penneys’ house, where I left her with Hannah and Faith. I instructed her not to return home until I fetched
her. Then I went to find Sam.

I told him everything. My friend listened to the whole, sordid tale, and then he nodded in silent understanding, and I did
not feel so alone. Together we went to the magistrates, and I told my tale again—without saying to Jonathan Corwin the one
thing that mattered. That Susannah and I had been lovers was a sin I could not admit—to tell Sam was one thing; to write it
down for my neighbors to gossip over…that I could not do.

Sam stood at the back of the room, silently supportive through the three hours I was there. After I’d told my story, Corwin
sat silently, reading over my words as he rubbed his closely shaven beard. The red-gold hairs glinted in the candlelight.

Finally he put aside the paper I’d signed and looked up at me. “These words are true, as you know them?”

I nodded. “Aye. I’ve written no lies.”

“When did your sister come to this place?”

“October twenty-second.”

“You remember it well,” Corwin said in surprise.

“’Twas the night my youngest daughter was born,” I told him bitterly. “The night my wife died in childbed. I’m not likely
to forget it soon.”

“She’s your own family.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “I’m afraid, with my wife’s death, I was not so vigilant as I should have been. Satan found an open
door—no one is more ashamed of that than I. I have prayed for forgiveness. I have done my best to strengthen my family against
his onslaught. Had I been successful…there would be no need to come to you now.”

Corwin watched me steadily. “Your own daughter is much besieged.”

“Aye. My regret is that she warned me about Susannah, and I didn’t listen. I could not believe—”

“’Twould have been difficult, I think,” Corwin said, sitting up and handing the paper I’d dictated back to Ezekiel Cheever.
“Judith was so good. To believe ill of her sister…”

I said nothing to this. I thought of all the stories my wife had told me, all the reasons I should have known what Susannah
was from the beginning. The truth was, I had thought ill of her before I even knew her. ’Twas another thing I could not explain,
because to explain it would reveal how driven I was by my passions, how Susannah had used such a terrible weakness—my carnal
nature—against me.

“You are not the only one to speak out against her,” Corwin said. “There has been other testimony since yesterday.”

That surprised me. “Has there been? Who?”

Corwin shrugged. “There were many witnesses who saw her use magical chants to calm a child during a baptism. Another man has
come forward with a spectral visitation similar to yours. A woman claimed her child went into convulsions and died soon after
your sister passed by. There are other tales as well. I cannot afford to dismiss anything now, not with circumstances as they
are. We wait only to see if the girls continue to call out against her.”

“And then?”

Corwin met my gaze steadily. “If all continues as I expect, we will issue the arrest warrant tomorrow.”

I rose, mumbling my thanks.

“Thank you for coming forward, Goodman Fowler,” Corwin called after me. “We shall see that the Devil finds no reason to tarry
in Salem Village.”

Aye, ’twas what we were doing, I knew. Providing fallow ground for the Devil’s seeds.

“You did the right thing,” Sam assured me as we went outside. “You had no choice. If she is a witch, ’tis best to reveal her
now, before she can do more damage.”

I had no words as he left me. I thought I was heading toward home, but then I found myself going a different direction, deeper
into the village, to Ingersoll’s.

There were men there, sitting at tables and drinking beer. The smell of stew and fire smoke was deep and heavy. When Sarah
saw me, she came hurrying over.

“Charity’s been asking after you,” she told me in a low voice. “I heard they’ve taken Susannah over to Putnam’s today. She
heard it as well; ’tis no keeping her from news here.”

I nodded. “I did not expect to.”

“Tom wanted Charity there, but I said he’d have to take it up with you.”

“I’m grateful for that,” I said, though it hardly seemed to matter now, not given where I’d just been, what I’d done. “Where
is she?”

“Upstairs.”

I hurried past her, up the stairs, back to the little storage room where I’d left Charity only yesterday—years ago now, it
seemed. I knocked upon the closed door and heard the shuffling of her feet, and then she was peering at me through the crack,
my blue-eyed, pallid daughter.

“Father,” she said, and there was surprise in her voice—and relief, genuine pleasure. “Oh, Father.”

She opened the door fully and came into my arms; I was so undone by her greeting and my own emptiness that I held her tight.
“How do you, child?”

She pulled away, her expression miserable. “I am not well.”

I took her shoulders and held her so she could not do otherwise than meet my eyes. “I went to the magistrates today. I testified
against your aunt. Jonathan Corwin has told me they will issue an arrest warrant for her tomorrow. She will no longer torment
you, Charity. She cannot hurt you again.”

Tears came into her eyes, a pure and overwhelming relief. ’Twas then I realized why I was here, what I wanted from my daughter.
I was looking for redemption, for forgiveness. T’was in her eyes now, a light that filled my heart, a supreme comfort. Whatever
doubts I’d harbored fled; to see Charity’s hope at my allegiance was as the greatest restorative.

She came again into my arms, throwing her hands around my neck, holding me close. I felt her joy and triumph—I had not seen
those things in my daughter for so long that now the memory of how I loved them came sweetly back to me. I had not known how
much I had missed them.

Then I heard her whisper against my ear, “Make sure they chain her, Father. Their specters can escape if they are not chained.”
And the sweetness of her joy fled in my sudden realization of what we’d done, of what it meant.

Susannah had not returned when I fetched Jude from Hannah’s and came home. It had begun to sleet, and ’twas nearly dark before
I heard the latch turn at the door. Susannah hurried inside, her blue cloak so wet ’twas nearly black, her skin pink from
cold, her hands red when she peeled off her gloves. There was no sign of Noyes behind her, and I had heard no horse bring
her up the path—nor did I hear one leave.