Witch Child (26 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 17 September 1692 eve
The third round of proceedings filled me with even greater sense of abandonment and showed me just how dire my situation has become.
Phebe Edwards was called to the fore, her smashed hand neatly wrapped with clean white muslin, so as not to detract from her pretty appearance, and her blond curls had clearly been meticulously arranged so as to spill entrancingly from the front of her cap. Undoubtedly Phebe had spent all tea-break grooming herself for just such an angelic appearance. Positioning herself so the light from the window shone most advantageously upon her, she smiled invitingly, and I knew her testimony would be without mercy.
One of the magistrates said, “Phebe Edwards? You are friend of the accused?”
“Friend!” I thought, incredulous. Were I to have friends such as this, I would need no gallows!
Primly, Phebe said, “Aye, sir. I am.”
I could have wrung her neck for how sweet she sounded.
The magistrate instructed, “Proceed with your testimony.”
Phebe's voice was musical and clear. “Well, sir, the first I noticed of her witching was when she fashioned a crystal ball.”
“A crystal ball, witness?”
“Aye, sir.”
“For what purpose?”
“For portending the future, sir.”
“Rachel Ward, do you fashion crystal balls for portending the future?”
Lamely, I replied, “Well, sir, I—”
“Do you, or do you not fashion crystal balls? Aye, or nay?”
“Aye, sir. I—” It killed me to see Phebe's victorious smirk. 0 that I could have related her own eagerness to have me fashion such a device! That she stood here now was only due to her displeasure with the results!
The magistrate asked, “And how did the accused fashion her crystal ball?”
“With an egg, sir,” said Phebe, primly. “And a glass bowl.”
“Rachel Ward? Did you fashion a crystal ball with an egg and a glass bowl?”
“A
crystal
bowl,” I snapped, irritated. Phebe smiled.
The magistrate glared at me. Then he said, “Proceed, Phebe Edwards.”
“Well, sir,” said Phebe, “the next time I noticed her powers was at the Disborough house-raising. The accused was quite jealous of me for the attention paid to me by someone she wished for her own intended. She called me a ‘gurley-gutted Devil'.” An audible gasp rose from the chamber. I didn't care. I regretted not one whit what I had called her, and I would have liked to have called it again—right then and there! “And then,” continued Phebe, sweetly, “very soon after, while I was watching the framing, one of the ropes most mysteriously slipped and caused my hand to be crushed.” With a heart-rending tremor of lips, Phebe proceeded to hold up the evidence. Even the magistrate was touched.
Recovering himself, the magistrate bellowed, “Rachel Ward! Did you verbally attack your friend by calling her a gurley-gutted Devil? And immediately afterwards, was her hand mysteriously crushed?”
If I could have crushed
both
hands, I thought with a fury, I would gladly have done so! Glumly, I murmured, “Aye, sir. I suppose—”
“Phebe Edwards,” said the magistrate, with sudden softness, “please be seated. Thank you for your testimony. And now next to testify is Abigail Watts.”
A smile passed betwixt Phebe and Abigail as their paths crossed, and I seethed with anger. Too clearly could I see my future unfolding, all caused by small minds, vindictive dispositions and my own life-long neglect of courting favor. Scarcely could I wait for Abigail's testimony.
Preening, Abigail took her place in the exact spot Phebe had vacated, and by the pleased flush on her homely face, I knew she had not slept all night for her eagerness to be the center of attention. Abigail, who always walked in Phebe's pretty shadow, finally had her own opportunity to shine, and it went without saying that she would make the most of it. When the magistrate instructed her to proceed with testimony, Abigail paused just the slightest moment for effect, undoubtedly to insure all eyes and ears were hers and hers alone, and what she then proceeded with was the most astonishing story.
“The accused, sir, constantly appears to me in my rafters, demanding for me to sign my soul to the Devil. She is quite mean in her demands, sir. Sometimes she drools all over me. And she has this wicked laugh that sounds like a shrieking cackle.”
My
story! My story of Goody Glover and borrowed to now become Abigail's! Once again my wretched visions had come to haunt me!
The magistrate said with concern, “And does the accused present you with threats?”
“0 aye, sir,” agreed Abigail, readily. “Quite vehement ones. Once she said she would slit my throat if I did not sign Satan's book. Sometimes she fights with me. And once . . . once, she even bit me!”
Slowly Abigail rolled up her sleeve to display a perfect set of teeth marks. And so effectively had she gauged her timing, that the chamber immediately broke into audible gasps and pitiful moans, such gaspings and moanings creating so much disturbance that the magistrate had finally to bang his gavel and command a call for order. I wonder how long it took Abigail to concoct this story. And whom she had coerced into biting her. I know Abigail does not have the nerve, nor the creativity, to have done it herself.
With much satisfaction over her effect, Abigail then calmly re-took her seat, pausing from time to time as she passed each bench to further display her badge of teeth marks to a gaping, curious audience. And by the time she had finally re-seated herself, I knew without doubt I was convicted, sentenced and hung.
Next called to witness, and paraded before me, were the three girls whom I had first encountered in the antechamber, their testimony naturally giving further seal to my supernatural powers, none of which did I even attempt to refute, so clear were the odds against my favor. Thus, it was with rising hope that I heard Deliverance called to testify. Such hope was swiftly shattered.
“You are Deliverance Porter?” asked the magistrate.
“I am, sir,” replied Deliverance. Her lips were solemn. I remembered how they looked open in laughter, and it was with a wrenching ache that I recalled all the fun we had once shared.
The magistrate said, “You are friend of the accused?”
“Since childhood, sir.”
“A good friend?” prompted the magistrate.
“Her
best
friend, sir.”
Deliverance did not look at me, and as fervently as I tried to catch her glance, her eyes fell only upon the magistrate who questioned her. It was my first sense of foreboding.
The magistrate asked, “You have witness to the accused's character?”
“I do, sir.”
“Proceed.”
“Well, sir, Rachel has always been different from other people. She does not make friends easily. For a long while I felt honored that I had been selected by her to be a friend, for she had so few of them. Recently, though, I have come to realize that I was not so much specially selected as fallen victim by default. You see, sir, I was the only one who
agreed
to be her friend. No one else seemed to like her.”
It was with sadness that I realized how little my friendship had meant to Deliverance. All those times we had frolicked and played together, sharing our innermost secrets, I now knew meant nothing at all. Like petals from a dying flower, they had served their purpose and were allowed to fall to the ground, thence to wither and fade. Never again will I trust to others my thoughts and dreams; and my tongue, always closely held, shall be closer still.
The magistrate said, “And why is the accused unliked?”
“I think, sir,” said Deliverance, carefully, “'tis because she cares nothing for what other people think. Thus, she does not attempt friendliness or conversation. Nor, when she does speak, does she soften her tongue. She seems simply to say what fills her mind, regardless of its effect upon others.”
I remembered then, how starkly opposite Deliverance is from me, how fervently Deliverance courts and needs other people's approval, and how she had once complimented and envied me for my solitary nature. So I understood, then, exactly why Deliverance renounced me. Renouncing secured approval; defending would have defied it. In that one moment, I saw Deliverance's character more clearly than I have ever seen any other. Deliverance cares what people think of her, but she cares not for other people in return.
With a great emptiness did I watch her return to her seat, and the hollowness in my heart was one from which I knew I would never recover. My understanding of her motives neither comforted me nor improved my sad despondency.
With one last breath of hope, I watched Ann walk forward, her small, sweet form pausing quietly beside the table, and so desperately did I need that sweetness that I wanted to run and hug her and bury my face next to hers in sobs to erase my estrangement. Surely Ann would defend me. Surely Ann, who had once turned on all the others like a ferocious lioness, would do so again in my hour of need. But she did not.
She glanced at me, though only briefly, and in that. glance there was such pained sorrow that my rising spirits evaporated like mist.
The magistrate said, “You are Ann Sibley?”
“Aye, sir,” replied Ann, softly.
“And you have testimony?”
She winced. My heart went out to her. I knew, then, that Ann did not wish to say that which she had to, and I wanted to calm her by reassuring, “That's alright, Ann. I understand.”
The magistrate directed, “Proceed, please.”
With obvious discomfort, Ann said, “Well, sir,'twas after the fortune telling incident that has already been described. The egg which was used by Rachel, sir, was tossed upon the barn floor, and my pet lamb lapped it up. And very soon afterward, sir, that lamb suddenly died. He was such a sweet lamb, sir. I did so dearly love him.”
O please, no! Don't hold me responsible for that, too! Not for Ann's lamb!
The magistrate said, harshly, “Rachel Ward? Did the testifier's lamb die after lapping the instrument of your portention device?”
“I . . . I suppose it did, sir.”
He instructed, “Proceed with your testimony, Ann Sibley.”
She was trembling. “Well, sir, not long after, Rachel pled with me to mix her blood with mine.”
To be blood sisters, Ann! Because I liked you so much! Not to taint you!
The magistrate said, “Rachel Ward? Did you plead with the testifier to mix your diabolical blood into hers?”
Miserably, I nodded. “Aye, sir. I did.”
He said to Ann, “And did you do as the accused pled?”
“Nay, sir. I . . . I did not.”
“And what happened then?”
“Well, sir, you see, she . . . Rachel, sir . . . appeared in the form of a bumblebee and rose up and stung me.”
Much as I wanted, I could not despise Ann for what she accused. I know she said so from the belief that her words were correct and proper in the eyes of God. And it is with great despair that I realize Ann truly does believe me a witch. Yet even so, her testimony came with extreme reluctance, and I wondered who prompted her witness. When I saw her solemnly take her seat, I knew. Her mother nodded at her in approval. I remembered, then, how Mama in all her dignity had gone to the Sibleys to beg for food, yet had been rejected. Goody Sibley feels guilty about that rejection. Now she can rationalize it. She can delude herself by saying her rejection is justified becaused in the end 'twas only for the family of a witch. Ann will not recover, though. Ann's heart is tremulous, and she shall always recall this day and regret it, even when matured and old. I wish I could spare her that. I wish I could tell her that what she did was with a heart pious and Godly, and I shall never hold resentment. But I cannot tell her. For I know there shall be no opportunity.
So the first day of my trial has ended. So many have testimony that it requires carriage over into another. Has an accused ever been presented with so many eager to speak in disfavor? If the morrow holds a ray of hope, I cannot think from whom it might be. I told the mute girl that all is lost, that soon there shall be another heap of rags sleeping beside her. When I gave her half my evening bread, having decided my own strength not being worth sustaining, to my immense surprise, her hand squeezed mine. Aye, ‘twas only a fleeting squeeze! But 'twas there, I swear on God's Good Book! Pray, God, let that be the ray of hope for which I so yearn.
Salem, 18 September 1692, morn
When the jailer came to collect me, one of the women again murmured, “God be with you,” but again I could not determine the source of the voice, for as I turned, all eyes were once more averted from me. So my only comfort was the knowledge that someone cared. I do wish, though, that she had revealed herself. Sorely do I need a touch or some small physical gesture to provide me courage.
In the second row of the court sat Jeremiah, his tall, dark form seated intensely forward on his wooden bench, and when I entered the chamber, my heart gave a short lurch of encouragement. Jeremiah had come. He had not abandoned me. Yet almost as quickly as I saw him, I realized the space beside him lay vacant, his parents being starkly absent, and that absence suddenly weighed on me and made my heart sink again. Why were his parents not there? Had something been revealed in my yesterday's exchange with Goody Corwin, some small spark of memory which had lit in the mind of Jeremiah's mother, causing her to recall the locket and his father to guess the truth? Or had Jeremiah simply told them?
My mind trembled with dismaying thoughts regarding my presumed expectations of Jeremiah's shattered family, but I had scant time to ponder this development, because the first to be called as today's witness was none other than Goodman Glover. Who presented me even greater cause for concern.
His weasely, stoop-shouldered figure shuffled to the fore, and I wondered if as usual, he had been drinking. I prayed so. For it would weaken his testimony and damage its credence. His one good eye rested upon me, sending my flesh crawling as if with spiders, and I dared not even think of what he would testify. Anxiously I glanced at Mama. Her expression was impassive, betraying neither fright nor agitation, so I took a long, deep breath and waited.
The silver-wigged magistrate led the examination. “Goodman Glover?” he said. “You have testimony?”
“Aye, sir. I do.”
“Pray, proceed.”
The witness's thin lips curled into a smile. Maliciously he savored each word before it was spoken. “The accused,” he said, eagerly, “likes watching naked boys. I catched her, I did. Down by the river. When the boys was swimming.”
Undoubtedly he felt my humiliation, delighting in the swift, hot color which flushed my cheeks, such flush deepening with the shocked intake of breath echoing from the chamber. Even the magistrate's voice was reproving. “Rachel Ward?” demanded the magistrate. “Do you watch boys swimming unclothed?”
Gluing my eyes to the floor, I dared not learn Jeremiah's reaction. “I . . . er . . . once I did,” I mumbled.
“Speak up, Rachel Ward!” ordered the magistrate. “Aye, or nay?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Proceed, Goodman Glover.”
“The accused fornicated with me.” Two beady eyes gleamed, and my head shot up so swiftly, I felt my neck jerk.
“I did not!” I hotly replied. “You defiled—!”
“Begged to join her body with mine,” Goodman Glover maintained.
“A lie! 'Tis a lie, you grotesque man! You're the one who—”
“Kept begging me, she did,” he interrupted, calmly. “Left me notes, too.”
Mama moaned softly as I screamed, “You left the—!”
“And when I refused, she laid her hands on my private parts and—”
“You're a vile, ugly man!”
“—and she squeezed them.”
“I squeezed them because—!”
“And she did all this because she wanted to be my wife.”
“Never!” I shrieked.
“That's why my wife came to her in visions. My wife knew what the accused wanted.”
“I did
not!”
“She and my dead wife used to cast spells together.”
“A lie! A lie!”
“I watched 'em.”
“I didn't!”
“Made poppets.”
“Nay!”
“Stowed 'em under the bed.”
“Nay! Nay!”
“Goodman Bishop found 'em after my wife was convicted. Ask him. He'll tell you.”
“You're a vile, filthy man, and I hope God strikes you dead!”
Somewhere in the midst of this ghastly turmoil, I became aware of the magistrate banging his gavel for order. I could feel the hard grasp of the constable physically restraining me from tearing Goodman Glover from limb to limb, could see tears spilling down Mama's cheeks, could hear the audience clucking and swooning. Yet all this while, Goodman Glover remained calm and unperturbed, his malevolent smirk never fading. How I wanted to smack him! How I wanted to cry out with the explanations to unravel his whole sordid tale! But I could not. Because explanation would lead to his reason for blackmailing me. Whether that blackmail has foot in fact, I do not know, but even in my fury, I knew my own life would not be saved by taking others. All I could do was maintain him as a liar.
The magistrate snapped above the din, “What say you to these accusations, Rachel Ward?”
“I deny them!”
“All?”
“Every last word!”
“The poppets?”
“The poppets are a figment of this repulsive man's imagination!”
No one believed me. One more nail had been pounded into my cross. I no longer cared. Only did I yearn for release from my torture.
Slowly Goodman Glover slinked back to his seat. Mama's color had turned to ash, and though she sat staunchly erect, one hand brushed away her streaming tears. Mercy, wide-eyed and clearly frightened by these proceedings, was then called to the fore; but so terrified was Mercy that her whine was barely audible, and the magistrate had finally to call court into short recess so everyone might collect themselves. Which is why I sit recording when it is not yet noon. And shall be vastly relieved when finally this day is over.

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