Witch Child (29 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Softly, I cajoled, “You have such pretty hair. Does she not have pretty hair, Mama? Even though 'tis matted, I see it still shine. Truly I can.” I started to remark that “Someday soon, when I am in Heaven, I shall send you down a comb so your lovely hair can be soft and silky as it once was,” but I stopped myself from such remark. By unspoken agreement, neither Mama nor I refer to the future, because it is too depressing. Instead, I said, “Pray, your name at least tell me. So I have something to call you by.”
She did not reply. Her dark, vacant eyes never moved from the wall before her. No matter. I shall continue to speak to her, with me providing both sides of conversation, much like one does with a puppy.
I go now to another occurrence, which was Jeremiah's visit. But wait! The jailer comes now with our evening meal, and I must help Mama to eat.
Salem, 20 September 1692, eve
Of Jeremiah's visit, I shall now tell.
His appearance this aft was entirely without expectation and caught me by much surprise. Upon arriving in the antechamber, I discovered he had wheedled himself into the jailer's better graces by carrying some brandy as a gift, and though I was brought merely journey cake, I was soon appeased for my lesser present by the jailer's drunken good spirits which allowed Jeremiah and I to be alone without disturbance. And eventually, from beyond our antechamber door, we heard a wheezing snore, telling us Jeremiah's brandy had been aptly appreciated.
To my great relief, there was no awkwardness in Jeremiah's speech, and when he crossed the chamber to greet me, he smiled and held my two chained hands betwixt his own.
“How do you fare?” he asked, quickly, and while there was concern in his voice, there was no pity. Had there been pity, I think I would have broken.
“I do well,” I lied. He knew I lied, yet he smiled reassuringly, which gave me strength.
“I've been a fool,” he said. “I shall not even ask you to forgive me.”
“Your apology came at my trial,” I told him. “'Twas much more than I had ever hoped.”
“Nay,” he maintained, firmly. “You should have hoped for even more. Always I thought I had good judgement. Always I considered myself level-headed, conscientious, and acting with what was socially proper and justified. I was none of those things.”
“Nay, Jeremiah. Pray, don't so chastise yourself. You were no different than anyone else. I . . . I just wanted you to be, that's all.”
“And I shall be, Rachel! I shall! I promise you that!”
He put his arms around me then, and hugged me, my chains cutting across his chest as I returned his hug, but if the chains hurt him, he did not remark upon it.
“How I admire you,” he said into my hair. “What strength you have shown.”
“You have strength, too, Jeremiah. Strength to admit you were wrong. Not many are capable of that.”
“But only after so much damage was done. Is it damage, Rachel? Do you still care for me? Pray, say you do! I always thought I had such a generous heart, but yours is enormous. Selfless. O that mine were so!”
“Jeremiah! Could I ever
not
care for you? I have since you helped me learn my letters. And
your
heart is generous, too. Merely in a different way than mine, that's all. How I always yearned for the trust you have in people, your openness. You shall always be a success in this world, Jeremiah, do you know that? You'll be a success because everyone likes you. Not as I am considered—always labelled peculiar.”
“Peculiar only to those too narrow to see. Unique, Rachel. Unique and special is what you are.”
I could not keep the bitterness from my tone as I replied, “Uniqueness is not acceptable in this world, Jeremiah. One must be harmonious with the herd. As you have witnessed two days past.”
He pulled away from me then, staring down at me, his hands on my shoulders. And when he answered, his voice was as bitter as mine. “These witch trials have turned us all inside out.”
“Aye, they have. Mama is so broken I do not even recognize her. 'Tis a malicious world indeed when a woman's life can be torn asunder by another woman's whim. I speak of Goody Bishop, Jeremiah. Goody Bishop who has positioned herself as judge, jury and executioner of us all.”
“I know of whom you speak. But what of
you
, Rachel? What shall
you
do?”
“I?” I asked, confused.
“Aye,
you
. Shall you now confess?”
Stunned, I could scarce believe his question. “To witching?” I gasped. “Jeremiah! Pray don't say you still think me a witch!”
“Nay, never! You are no more a witch than I! But confessing as such can save you from the gallows.”
“Confession to a lie?” I spat, contemptuously. “Tis what Goody Bishop and all the others would have me do! Me, and all others like me! They would wish to forever ostracize us so they might hold us up as visual examples of the power of the Devil! Aye, much more would they prefer
that
alternative than their precious example lost to the gallows!”
“But you could
live
, Rachel. You'd be alive!”
“For what living, pray tell? Nay, Jeremiah. Even I do not possess strength to exist under a label which is despised, feared and shunned. And even had I such strength, I would not do so out of principle. Rather would I meet the gibbet with honesty than escape through the weakness of a lie.”
Gently Jeremiah's sunburnt hands ran down my arms, caressing them, and he said softly, “I did not think you would betray your principles.”
Those soft words provided me all the courage I would ever need, not only for this lifetime, but my next, and with them I know I shall no longer fear my fate but shall go to meet it with the honor and dignity I have so desperately grappled to maintain. To do less would betray not only myself, but Jeremiah, and God.
Swiftly, I said, “Tell me about your parents, Jeremiah. What have you done with the locket? What has become of it all?”
The pain was evident in his face, and he again pulled me toward him, this time to conceal that pain. “I had to do nothing,” he softly said, his voice breaking. “The Indian servant returned for her lost keepsake, and her burden was too great to carry. She told my mother everything.”
Thus, I knew why his parents had not returned to the trial. Saddened, I asked, “What . . . what happened?”
“My mother's heart is broken. As is my father's. They lie in separate chambers, weeping. The old Indian tends to my mother but cannot console her. I know not what is to happen.”
The desperateness of the situation overwhelmed me, so I buried my head deeper into his chest, asking nothing further, offering no words of consolation, for there was nothing I could say or do that would help. Compassion, by holding, was all that I could offer.
Jeremiah said, “I'm sorry, Rachel. Sorry I did not believe you.”
“I know, Jeremiah.”
“I shall never doubt you again.”
Miserably, I thought, “You shan't have opportunity!” But I did not say so.
He pulled back from me then, gently, and smiled into my eyes. “I have good news,” he said. “Goodman Glover is no longer with us.”
'Twas the first he had spoken of my own private tragedy, and the mere speaking gave me a jolt, much less the information. Surprised, I asked, “Where did he go?”
“To where the devil has taken him. He has flung himself from a tree, and the Lord's mercy snapped his neck, leaving him as Satan's fodder. I think not many shall weep.”
Certainly not I, I thought, bitterly. I only regret his retribution was not slower and more painful, but I shall not dispute God's plan. Thank you, God, for allowing me to go to the gallows with a lighter heart, never doubting your justness in all things reverent.
Jeremiah held me again, tenderly, and I knew he was thinking of my child and how near my circumstances were to his own. His hand, as it ran through my hair, moved with sympathy, but sympathy merely increased my misery; suddenly I realized that if Jeremiah looked at me in pain that moment, I would not be able to endure it.
Swiftly I said, “I love you, Jeremiah. I have always loved you. I want you to remember that, and that in spirit I shall always be with you. And I want you to tell Ann, too, that I forgive her. Will you do that for me, Jeremiah? I shan't want Ann to live in sorrow, for I know she did what she felt was right and just. Pray, Jeremiah, tell all that I forgive. I shan't want to leave any bitterness behind. Too much bitterness have we all already tasted. And say a prayer, too, Jeremiah, that God shall soon remove this hatred and fear that have so divided us.”
Fortunately my jailer returned then, having awakened from his wheezing slumber, for my voice broke, and the strain would have been too great had I remained. I could smell the brandy on the jailer's breath as he led me away, my chains clanging against the rutted floor.
It was with reluctance that Jeremiah forced himself to release me, and he called out—“Do not despair!”—as he watched me go.
“Aye,” I murmured quietly, and could not bear to turn to see him one last time. I wish to remember him as I knew him best, not bidding me farewell in the antechamber of a prison, but with his easy smile as we raced across a pasture.
Thus it was with a heavy heart that I returned to Mama, the mute girl and my wretched cell, wondering what shall happen to them after I am gone.
Asea, 23 September 1692
Scarce do I know where to start.
Evening last, in the dead of night, while Mama slept with her head upon my shoulder, I suddenly heard the door creak open. So dark was the chamber, however, being lit only by the small shaft of moonlight coming from the tall, barred window, that at first I thought the creak to be due to a rat. Then I heard a frantic whisper.
“Rachel? Rachel, are you here?”
I thought I was dreaming! 'Twas Jeremiah! Surely it could not be so!
“Rachel?” it repeated, urgently. “Rachel, are you here?”
“Jeremiah?” I breathed. “Is it you?”
In seconds the door flew open, then closed. I could make out his tall dark form stumbling over sleeping heaps of rags. Sweet heavens! What was he doing?
“Over here!” I said in a whisper, throwing off Mama's head and jolting her confusedly awake. “What do you do, Jeremiah? Are you insane—”
“Hush!” he softly ordered, suddenly beside me. In his hands were the jailer's keys, and he was fumbling with them to find the one to my irons. Hurriedly he explained, “The brandy. I left another for the jailer early this eve. For hours I've waited, thinking he'd never fall into stupor! But I shall explain all later. We must hasten! We haven't much time!”
“Angels above, Jeremiah! You shall find yourself amongst us!”
“Of that, I have no intent!” he replied, still fumbling to find a key that fit. “Now pray, hush! Else you shall awaken the others.”
So tight was my throat throughout this frantic search for keys, that while the search required no more than a minute, in the black darkness and with the panic of what could befall us all, it seemed to require an eternity. How thankful I was for Mama's disorientation. She seemed to realize not at all what was occurring. By the time Jeremiah at long last released my irons, and I finally heard that blessed small click, my heart was pounding so frantically, I thought the whole chamber should reverberate with its thunder. Swiftly, Jeremiah turned to Mama, releasing her as well.
Nearly hysterical, I said, “Where shall we go? What shall we do? They shall find us!”
“Nay,” whispered Jeremiah, as he rapidly pulled me to my feet. “I have a ship. Now, make haste! No more questions!”
I thought I would never get Mama to the door, so confused was she and so feeble in spirit, and I am certain she wanted only to lie in that filthy spot to die, thinking life held nothing else for her. Thus, Jeremiah and I had to half support and half carry her over the sleeping heaps of our neighbors, and when in what seemed like eons we finally reached the door, I was ready to instantly bolt, Mama in tow, and would have, had I not suddenly heard a soft voice behind me.
“Susannah,” it said.
Startled, I froze. 'Twas the same voice which had before bid “God be with you.” Who was it? Which woman had shown me her compassion? Was she now to reveal herself?
“My name is Susannah,” it repeated.
Astonished, I realized it was the mute girl! She had spoken!
From the corner of a far bench, the girl's dark eyes were turned toward me, pleading. Hastily I made a decision.
“Jeremiah! We have to take her!”
“Nay! There's not time!”
“But we can't just leave her!”
“Would you have us take the others, as well?”
“Just her, Jeremiah! Please! She was my only friend! I can't go without her!”
I thought Jeremiah would strangle me on the spot—else swiftly shove me back inside and leave me to my insanity. But to his everlasting credit, Jeremiah swiftly stepped over two sleeping bodies, lifted the girl, threw her over his shoulder and was back in the corridor, fastening closed the door.
Between Mama and the mute girl, I feared we should never make it out of that prison, me tugging on Mama who kept resisting, while the mute girl, who was finally relieved of her chains in the antechamber, remained so dazed that her bones were like a limp pillow. Carefully Jeremiah dropped the ring of enormous keys upon the jailer's table, not daring to attempt to retie the severed rope around the jailer's waist (which is how, I learned, Jeremiah came to possess the keys in the first place, with the aid of a small knife), and I knew as soon as the jailer awoke, he would be after us. Never have I experienced or tasted such fear as at that moment, with the sleeping jailer before us and freedom so near; and never do I wish to taste such fear again.
Outside were tied two horses—one being Jeremiah's, the other belonging to the jailer. We stole the jailer's, which I knew would make him more furious still. Jeremiah and the mute girl rode his. Mama and I took the jailer's. Blindly we rode like a fierce storm through the black night. I followed Jeremiah like a sheep, trusting him completely, but fearing every moment to hear the pounding of horses pursuing us.
When we reached the sea, Jeremiah knew exactly where to lead us, having made the arrangements, and once on board, a salty smelling seaman led us down into the ship's hold, which was small and dark and stacked with sacks of wheat and barley bound for England. And who was I to find alongside us as travelling companions? Jeremiah's mother (Jane) and her old Indian servant!
For the remainder of the evening and half into the following day, we were locked in that dark hold for safety until asea, and it was during that time that I learned all else that had occurred. Jeremiah was the one who told me. He sat beside me, his arm around me, applying salve to my bleeding ankles and wrists.
I learned that our ship is one belonging to an old friend of Captain Bradley, Jane's adoptive father, and through that friendship is how our passage came to be arranged. Jane, her pretty face wounded and weeping, has left Jeremiah's father. Nay, she did not desert him in his despair. Rather, she showed him the kindness of release, for without such release they would have remained locked forever in their situation of desperate tragedy. Kindness, I think, takes many forms, and I know Jane's was not easy. Often do I see her pretty dark head nestled upon the shoulder of her servant, and I know in her thoughts she relives all she has left behind.
So much do Jane and I have in common, and yet so much do we differ. She loved the father of her child; I despise mine. I thought much of that child during the day and a half when we were secretted within our hold, and at times it depressed me greatly, for sorely do I regret that I shall always have reminder of Goodman Glover and his sordid use of me. I wondered if ever I could find love for a child that represented such a painful memory, and with desperation I spoke of this to Jeremiah on the second day when finally we were able to go out on deck and smell the crisp, salty sea with its biting winds that reddened my cheeks and tousled my hair.
“You must forget the child's parentage,” Jeremiah advised me. “Fatherhood is earned not from blood but from love and raising. You, yourself, should know as such. Was not your true father your mother's husband?”
Troubled, I sighed, saying, “I do try to think so. Aye, I shall always think of Papa as my father. Yet I wonder how I would have felt had I known the truth from the beginning.”
“Forget that truth,” he said. “Forget it now and forever after. Force it from your mind so it never occurs to you to tell the child. The child must never know! Truth,” he added, forcefully, “sometimes holds the least compassion. When so, silence is the better.”
The last, I knew was spoken from experience, and I cannot help but wonder how his own knowledge would shape him in the years to come. 'Twill add character, I think, and make him stronger. Thus, when I tremble for what form a child shall take whose father's blood runs twice through its veins, and when I dread for a babe born both grotesque and inferior for its genetic depravity, I have only to look at Jeremiah to be assuaged. Pray, God, may my child be even a fraction so admirable.
Jeremiah's arm rested upon my shoulder, and I looked up into his face as he gazed out at the choppy sea. His thoughts were on the future, moved from our troublesome history. “Where we go now,” he said, “we shall start a new life. I know not what England brings, but it shall be better than what we left.”
Stung by the realization of what I shall never again see, I said, “We tried so hard, Jeremiah. All of us did. Can we ever go back do you think?”
“Nay,” replied Jeremiah, bitterly. “Small minds await us behind. Small minds and perceptions of us that are not accurate. We would never be accepted.”
“But we know who we are—and what we're like.”
“Our own knowing means nothing. 'Tis not how we see ourselves, but how others see us, that makes us what we are. In England, we shall bear no burden of the past.”
He kissed me then. He turned me toward him, cupped my face within his hands and lowered his lips to mine, firmly, and with emotion. Absent was the soft brushing of lips we had oft exchanged in the past, and absent, too was awkwardness and youth. Jeremiah kissed me as a man would kiss a woman, and I knew that I loved him.
When we broke, we stood at the railing, watching the swell of the waves beneath us, and I could not help but recall that never once had I seen Mama and Papa kiss, nor even hold hands. Perhaps such display is evil, as I have always been taught. But I do not think so. I think God intends us to love and to show that love. For it is the gentlest of all emotions, and yet the fiercest.
I sit now, writing upon our rolling deck, trying to imagine what is to become of us all. What a bizarre assortment we are: me, in my tattered filthy garb, so clearly just released from prison, always an outcast, and newly stirring with child; Mama, who is now more infant than mother, bereft of her dignity, and broken; Jane, who has left behind both husband and father, and whose pretty face is too lovely for such grief; a wrinkled old Indian slave woman, whose coppery squareness has become Jane's solace; small, thin Susannah, once mute, but no longer so; and Jeremiah, with his father's blood twice in his veins, and who leads us all. We have not a pence amongst us, nor a destination to offer roof nor shelter. But we shall survive. God would not have taken us this far if He intended to cast us to the ocean winds. I do not believe Jeremiah, though, when he says we shall never return to Salem. I think someday we shall. And it shall be with a hope and a promise that we cannot now foresee.
Susannah spoke with me today. She told me a little of her history, which is quite surprising. But I shall write of that tomorrow.

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