Witch Child (15 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 25 August 1692
Imagine my excitement when Jeremiah came to call. 'Twas in midmorning, when I was glumly at my spinning, not wanting to leave the walls of the house, that Mama came into the lean-to and clearly announced, “Jeremiah waits by the fence. He says he would like to speak with you.”
My heart nearly leapt from my shift! Mama, too, was pleased. I could tell because she was smiling, which she so seldom does. Nervously, I straightened my apron and went outside to greet him. We went round to the barn and sat with our backs to it, to afford ourselves some privacy.
Jeremiah was somber. He knew he had done something wrong, and I think he regretted that he had shown a chink in his upright armor and now had to admit to a fault. Awkwardly, he said, “I'm . . . I'm sorry, Rachel, for how I acted yesterday. 'Twas coarse of me.”
I wanted to believe him, certainly. But I was suspicious. Testily, I asked, “Do you really mean it, Jeremiah? Or are you saying that because Ann made you?”
“Ann made me do nothing.”
“Except feel ashamed. Which you should have done on your own.” I could not resist rubbing it in. Sometimes I hate myself for how vindictive I can be.
Soberly Jeremiah nodded. “‘Tis true,” he replied. “I should have known. But will you forgive me, just the same? I really didn't mean to hurt you. 'Tis just that I . . . well, I didn't think.”
Absently, I picked at a blade of grass and chewed on it while I sorted out my feelings. All last eve I had lain awake with those feelings, deciding just what I would say if the chance presented itself, which, truthfully, I had given up all hope of ever occurring; so now I tried to put those thoughts all together, in some coherent fashion, so I could explain them to Jeremiah in a way that he could understand how he had hurt me.
“I do not forgive easily,” I said. “My temper is not like yours, which is quick to flare and swift to abate. My temper seethes before I show it, and it lasts longer.”
“I know that,” Jeremiah said.
“I think 'tis because I don't care about many people. There's only a few I pick out to be my friends—like you. You see, what most people do neither riles nor elates me; it merely interests me. But those people I do care about—those few I have picked out—I care about deeply, and everything they do matters. So when they hurt me, they hurt me to the quick.”
“Like I have?” asked Jeremiah, softly.
“Aye, like you have. Because I trusted you. Trust means a very lot to me, Jeremiah, because I give it so rarely. Those I do give it to, I expect to be worthy of it. I expect them to live up to my trust.”
“'Tis a weighty burden, Rachel. We all cannot be perfect.”
“But
honorable
you can be. We may disagree, Jeremiah—and often we do, because we are different people—but there should be honor in that disagreement.”
Jeremiah, too, began plucking at grass blades, feeling, I suppose, the churl for how he has acted. “I've let you down, haven't I?” he asked.
“Aye. You have. But you know that. Even before Ann had to point it out, you knew it. But what hurt worst of all, Jeremiah, was not just your ignoring me, but how you so obviously showed that someone else was more important. I'm talking about Phebe, in case you haven't guessed. How do you think I felt yesterday when you were flirting with
her
while letting
me
stand there like some lump of earth? And when everyone knows you're supposed to be my very best friend.”
“Forget about Phebe.”
“How can I forget her when 'twas
her
you were giving all your attention?”
“I was only talking to her because . . . well, because she can be amusing sometimes. She isn't such a bad sort, really.”
“O?” I said, feeling the anger rise in my throat. “And I suppose ridiculing me—
mortifying
me—in front of all those people isn't a bad sort!”
“'Twas only done in teasing.”
“That's not true at all, Jeremiah! And you know it!”
“Rachel, I came to apologize. Not to start an argument.”
“What kind of apology is
that?
Defending someone who has made me feel smaller than a pence?”
“You weren't exactly at your best, either. Calling her a gurley-gutted Devil!”
“Which I'd call her again a million times over! And wipe that smile off your face, Jeremiah Moore! Phebe deserved every word of that description!”
“O, I guess she does sometimes. She can be a little empty headed and silly—”
“A
little!”
“'Tis really just her way of being friendly. I feel sorry for her sometimes. And if you'd seen her later after she smashed her hand—”
“Phebe smashed her hand?” I was delighted!
“Mmm. ‘Twas not long after you left. She was watching the house being raised, when one of the ropes suddenly slipped round, knocking her off her balance, and as she fell to the ground, her hand got caught 'twixt the cross beams.”
I could not have been more pleased. “I hope she was in enormous pain.”
“Rachel! That's a terrible thing to say! She nearly fainted from agony, and 'twas all I could do to help her mother take her to the physician, the tears all the while running down her cheeks; but never once did she scream or wail. What an oak she was! But did you not see us leave? We practically walked right over you while you were talking to Goodman Glover.”
Goodman Glover! Horrified, I breathed, “You . . . you didn't see anything, did you?” What if Jeremiah were to find out the total tale of my anguish!
“He was drunk, if that's what you mean. But then he is always drunk. A queer man, isn't he? They say his wife was a terrible rail. Henpecked her husband to death. 'Twas no wonder she was discovered a witch. The poor man was probably pleased as punch to see her hang from the noose.” Remembering, Jeremiah suddenly stopped dead, then stammered, “O . . . er . . . I forgot. She's the one who now, uh, causes your . . . your possession.”
Silently I turned over this new piece of information about Goodman Glover. So Goody Glover was a rail who made her husband's life miserable. I wanted to tell Jeremiah that Goodman Glover is not a “poor man” at all. He is vile and disgusting.
Aloud, I said, “Jeremiah, why do you so hate to say that word—‘possession'? Why can't you sit and talk about it with me?”
“We've been through that before.”
“Not so I can understand. 'Tis not as if I've been accused of being a witch, and—”
“Rachel, I don't want to talk about it.”
“That's the trouble, Jeremiah. You don't want to talk about anything that's
important
. But sometime we have to. Sometime—”
“Nay, we shan't. We shan't have to talk about it at all.”
“But I want to. I'm tired of you stradling a fence. Are you on my side, or not?”
“Don't force me to make a choice, Rachel.”
“A choice? All I'm talking about is whether you're with me or against me. You're my
friend
. Or have you suddenly forgotten that again?”
“You're asking whether I support your possession, or I don't.”
“Well,
do
you?”
“Don't do this to me, Rachel.”
“Do
what?”
“Make me tell you that possession has ugly implications, and I want no part of it.”
“Jeremiah! Is that how you
really
feel about me?”
“Not about
you
. About your possession.”
“But . . . but that's part of me right now. There's nothing I can do about it. I do try, but—”
“Then talk of it with someone else.” Abruptly standing, he said, “I have to go now, Rachel. I've thought of something I must do.”
“But, Jeremiah! I thought you came to apologize!”
“I have apologized. But you're too selfish to think of any problems but your own. You won't even consider my side.”
“Because you won't tell me!”
“You just haven't listened.”
Watching his back, I scrambled to my feet and spat out: “I suppose that ‘something you have to do' is Phebe!”
Evenly, he said, “It is. I promised I'd call to see about her hand.”
“I hope her hand rots with the Devil!” I cried.
“You'd best be more careful with your words,” he said, with a coolness that sent chills up my spine. “Considering your present situation of being possessed. And what it can lead to next.”
Angrily, I took the wad of grass in my hand and threw it at him.
Salem, 26 August 1692
For the second morn in a row, I have felt so ill I could scarce keep down morning meal. I know 'tis because of worry for all that has happened.
When I rise, I feel light-headed and dizzy, and the smells from Mama's cooking hearth come drifting up the stairs to set my stomach so churning that I am fearful of descending to the kitchen. This morn I sat wearily playing with my food at the trestle table while Papa bid me eat.
“Growing girls need sustenance,” he reminded. “Else they shall wither to a thistle.”
Obediently I forced down a piece of corncake. But so violently did it begin tossing about, that finally I had to race to my chamber pot to dispel it.
Mama loses patience for the suffering of my morning chores. She knows 'tis merely the aftermath of the prior eve's nightmares and cacklings, for by noon I am able to swallow; but the knowledge makes her no happier.
Salem, 26 August 1692, eve
As there seems to be no one else with whom I can discuss my possession, I decided to go talk to Eunice Flint, who is just my age and who a fortnight ago was discovered also possessed, by Goody Warren, who has since been arrested. I asked Mama if I could take the horse, Eunice living way back in the village. I told Mama of my intention, saying that if I did not converse with someone where I might find understanding, I might possibly go mad. I was surprised at how readily Mama agreed. I think at this point, Mama, too, would try anything to have me cured.
The Flint house is a crude one, being nothing more than a cabin, and surrounded by land that is scrubby, marshy and rutted. How glad I am that we live on the better side of the village, where the earth is more inviting. As I approached, I saw Goodman Flint out harvesting his corn, a young son trailing after him and dropping ears into a sack fastened to the back of a mule. 'Twas a peaceful, idyllic scene, one that I soon found deceiving. For when I reached the cabin door, the clatter of noise emerging from within made me think some calamity had occurred. At least eight small children, or as near as I could count, all under the age of six, filled every corner of the tiny room, their high pitched voices and frenetic activity making such a commotion I wondered how a body could think. Triplets lay in an enormous cradle, screaming to be fed. Twins toddled round banging on benches with wooden spoons. Toddlers I judged to be three and four squealed over the possession of a cornhusk doll. A five-year-old attempted to help prepare midday meal, constantly dropping utensils every which way and manner. And over all this clatter presided a young, serene Goody Flint and a clearly capable eleven-year-old Eunice. I marvelled at their patience!
Yet for all the chaos and the smallness and simplicity of the cabin, all was clean, neat and scrubbed. Clothes were decidedly threadbare; but they were mended, and not an ounce of dirt marred the children's happy, active faces.
Not really knowing the Flints, having only seen them in Meeting, I attempted to introduce myself through all the din, and as near as I could make out, they recognized me, being familiar with our family through Papa's mill. Goodman Flint had apparently been hired by Papa in the mill's construction, as a part of the labor. Though ‘twas Eunice I came to see, 'twas clear another pair of hands would be useful, and I set about helping to feed the triplets, glancing tentatively over at Eunice from time to time, thinking she looked as normal as I, wondering if her possession was as wretched as mine. Just as I had about decided that Eunice appeared much too capable to suffer the torments which plague me, an astounding thing happened. Eunice, feeding one of the twins, dropped the earthen bowl with a crash, and she herself clattered to the floor.
All chaos came to an immediate halt. Eyes were on Eunice. Writhing, she screamed, “Nay, Goody Warren! I shan't assist in your spells! Be gone with you! Be rid! A cat! A cat! A cat creeps upon the mantle! 'Tis you! Nay! Nay! Your claws reach for my eyes! You shan't have them! I shan't join you with the Devil! A bird! A bird! Now a bird you are! Your talons reach for me! Be rid! Be rid! Gone with you, you witch!”
Writhing, Eunice's soft brown eyes turned to glass, her tongue lolled from the side of her mouth, and her limbs alternately froze in paralysis, then frantically fought.
“She chokes me! She chokes me!” cried Eunice, hysterically.
It was unnerving. Suddenly I realized the effect of my own fits upon observers. Is Mama as distressed as Goody Flint when she watches me thrash and quake? Is Mercy as terrified as this roomful of gaping toddlers? Even the mewling of the triplets was stilled.
When all was finally over, Eunice, limp and exhausted, threw both hands over her face and softly moaned, “Where am I?” Goody Flint, relieved, swiftly went to her side and, cradling Eunice's head, helped her drink some cider. So guilty did I feel, knowing the pain I have inflicted upon others, I could scarcely watch.
Later, as we sat on the hitching post out front, I asked Eunice if she, too, felt guilty about the distress she causes.
“0 aye,” she sighed. “It does so trouble me, for Mother does so depend upon me. She is not my real mother, you know. My real mother died when I was a child, then Papa married this mother, and O what a brood they have!”
“Indeed,” I chuckled.
“And I am so dearly necessary to help with it all. Almost never do I find time for myself.”
“You seem quite capable,” I remarked, thinking Eunice had probably not had a day to herself in five years. Particularly with a mother but ten years older than herself.
“I do try to be,” Eunice said, valiantly.
We then exchanged occurrences of our possessions, our exchange making me feel ever so much better knowing someone else experiences the same torments as I, and oft when I described something about Goody Glover, Eunice would exclaim, “Aye! Aye! Goody Warren does that, too!”
Feeling sorry for both of us, I sighed heavily, and asked, “Why do you think we have been singled out? Why is it us who have been possessed, and not someone else?”
“Perhaps,” suggested Eunice, tentatively, “. . . perhaps 'tis because we are special.”
“Special?” I said with a blink. “You . . . you make it sound as if 'tis
admirable.”
Eunice smiled, a soft little smile, and two pink spots colored her cheeks. Quietly she said, “Perhaps it is. Perhaps God has chosen us to be tested. To see if we are able to withstand the Devil's challenge. And if we do, think how much stronger we shall be. Why, we could be heroines in our struggle!”
Never had such a possibility even remotely occurred to me. I turned it over in my mind, thinking I rather liked it, and was still deep in consideration when Goody Flint called out to Eunice for help with the twins, who had dampened their gowns and needed changing. And hardly had I started to think one small part of me might be, just
might
be, heroic, than Eunice, returning to the house, fell into another fit over a butterfly which flitted in the door before her. The butterfly was Goody Warren. “She's giving me warning!” cried Eunice, writhing. Again all other motion stopped. And again, when ‘twas over, a consoling mother pressed a cup of cider to a stepdaughter's lips, who smiled weakly in gratitude. I was beginning to have suspicions I did not like. Too evident was it that Eunice's fits brought attention to a stepdaughter who was overworked, saddled with responsibility and neglected of notice. I tried not to think of the implications for Goody Warren.
Cheerfully Eunice called from the hearth as I left. “Do come back, Rachel. We shall talk again. For you, our latchstring is always out.”
“Aye. Aye, I shall,” I said absently.
But I knew I wouldn't.

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