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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 27 July 1692
Goodman Cole was arrested today, charged with being of middle age, never married, having a querulous nature and reading thoughts. His sister is beside herself with grief. How I do hate that word “querulous.” Mama once applied it to me, and I had to ask Daniel of its meaning and was immediately regretful, for Daniel, of course, instantly decided he was in agreement with such description. And told me so.
Character and nature seemed to control my thoughts today. This aft, as we sat with our samplers, Deliverance and I engaged in an interesting conversation on the subject, and Deliverance, being of highly amiable nature, says her own type of character bears a weighty burden.
“Always I am afraid people shan't like me,” Deliverance confessed. “'Tis so inwardly tiring, always trying so hard to please.”
Surprised, I said, “But you always appear so happy. As if you are having such fun. And you are so
friendly.”
“‘Tis just the point,” Deliverance explained. “Friendliness comes to me because I fear
not
to be. If I shan't be friendly and fun, no one shall like me. 'Tis so wearying—so very wearying—to be entertaining. Sometimes I yearn not to see people at all for how drained it makes me.”
I turned this curious discovery over in my mind. Then I asked, “But why is it so important that people
like
you? I mean, why do you
care
what people think?”
Deliverance heaved a long sigh. “I wish I knew. If I knew, I could
stop
caring. O Rachel, how I do envy you! You never seem to care a fig what people think! Why, you just plunge right in saying or doing whatever you please, having no burden whatsoever!”
Oddly, I still cannot discern whether Deliverance's compliment was really a compliment at all. I know Daniel would not think it so. Nor would the courts.
Salem, 28 July 1692
My visions continue to torment me.
They came again today at Mama's quilting bee, immediately after Goody Sibley turned to me sending the regards of Ann.
“'Twas Ann's intention to be here,” explained Goody Sibley in her bubbly chatter, “but this morn has brought Ann much distress. Her lamb—of which she was so greatly fond—was found dead in the pasture, of unknown causes.”
I feel badly about Ann's lamb. I know how much she loved it. I remember how we all played with it the day I led the fortune telling.
“Ouch!” I cried suddenly. I had stuck myself with my needle. Oddly, my whole body suddenly felt as if it were being pricked with needles. Just like that first evening!
In rising panic, I glanced at Mama and grew even more frantic. In her face I saw the face of Goody Glover. Nervously I gulped, squeezing shut my eyes and gritting my teeth.
Goody Bishop looked at me strangely.
Mama ordered, crisply, “Rachel, pray fetch the sugar for the tea.”
Mama realized! Gratefully I arose and fled to the cupboard. Yet when I opened the door, whose face should I then see, but that of Goody Glover, her evil, angular grin peering out at me. Hastily I grabbed the sugar and re-took my position on the stool.
The most peculiar sensations began to overwhelm me. A dozen hands moved in and out of the patchwork, and the hands were the long, bony ones of Goody Glover. A thread of stitches swirled round like snakes, curling toward me, hissing. Blood oozed from the rafters. The blood from Goody Glover's snapped neck.
Frantically I began to chatter. I chattered, non-stop, about anything which I could think: how the rains do linger, how Daniel keeps up with the pasture fences, about the rag rug Mercy is braiding, about the number of eggs our hens have lain. On and on I chattered, ceaselessly. 'Twas the only way I could fight the visions. Everytime I paused for breath, a face loomed out at me. Swiftly I rubbed my hands against my skirt to rid them of their drool. And blood.
The roomful of gaggling hens stilled. Goody Bishop peered over at me, peculiarly. I suppose I, whose tongue is always so stilled and wooden, must have caused surprise with such incessant conversation. I tried not to think of it. Smiling brightly, I continued my babbling, determined to will away those horrid visions. Some of what I said must have made little sense, for from time to time Mercy nervously interrupted with “What Rachel means is . . .”
Hardly did I pause for Mercy's explanation. Eagerly I rambled on, fighting the panic rising in my words.
Finally, and with firm solemnity, Mama ordered, “See to the cows, Rachel. 'Tis time for new salt licks.”
Relieved, I jumped up, nearly knocking over the quilting, and fled to the pasture; whereupon I threw myself upon the ground and wept.
Goody Bishop stared after me, suspiciously.
Salem, 28 July 1692, eve
A rather solemn thing has happened. I have become a woman.
This eve, while I was helping Mercy with the dishes, I felt rather strange. As I turned round to place something in the cupboard, Mercy, behind me, gasped, which caused me to pull my skirt round to the place to which Mercy pointed, and there I discovered a large spot of blood. So instantly certain was I that 'twas blood from Goody Glover's snapped neck, that I screamed. A terrified scream. Suddenly blood oozed from the rafters, spilled down my neck, ran along my fingers and filled my hands. So frantic was I, that I immediately dropped a trencher which clattered to the floor with a resounding crash, and I would have run from the room, hands over my ears to drown out the cackle, had not Mama grabbed hold of me to calm me.
Mama shook me vigorously. Her voice was loud and commanding, and the whole family stood agape at the commotion which had erupted. Papa looked stunned; Daniel, angry.
When finally my fears had subsided, Mama shooed everyone away and proceeded to take me upstairs and sit me on the edge of my bed. Then she talked to me quietly. She told me how I mustn't be frightened, that 'tis something of which I should be proud, that it means I am fortunate, for it promises that someday I shall bear a child.
But after I had calmed, I was not at all frightened. I was rather pleased with myself. I felt superior to Phebe and Abigail and all the rest, for they were still children, and I was grown. Inside me, a creeping warmth felt serene and awed. And older.
Then Mama showed me how to tear up cloths to the right size to absorb my womanhood. I must wash the cloths whenever they are changed, Mama instructed, else they will stain. And I must practice discretion, so as not to cause embarrassment to Papa and Daniel. And also, I must be careful not to handle berries when I bleed, for the poison in their leaves might cause me to be sterile.
Perhaps now that I have gained womanhood, I shall also gain wisdom, like Mama. And Goody Glover shall find it futile to plague me.
Salem, 29 July 1692
Jeremiah called today. I wanted to tell him about my new womanhood, but naturally I could not. Instead I told him about my fashioned crystal ball, and of its portention.
Jeremiah laughed. I think he was a little abashed, because he blushed. Then, playfully, he grabbed me by the hand and swung me round in a wide arc, making my skirts fly and my breath come in short gasps through my laughter. 'Tis unlike him to be so playful. Usually he is rather sedate. That is why I know he was embarrassed.
But he did not deny the portention. So now I know Jeremiah has no designs on Phebe! 'Tis
me
Jeremiah wants!
Because I knew not what else to do, and feeling rather awkward about my exciting realization, I raced Jeremiah round to the pasture behind the barn to watch our new colt. Mischief overtook me. Snatching up an old broom which leaned against the barn, I began riding it like a horse, neighing and snorting and gamboling after the colt—who hadn't a clue what to make of all my antics, save for appearing to love them. He gamboled back and forth in front of me as if I were a sister, matching all my neighs with snorts and whinnies.
Jeremiah howled.
I don't think Goody Bishop was much amused by my antics, though. Her small cart appeared round the bend, harnesses jingling, and I saw her pull up to the hitching post in front of the house. She, with spinning wheel in hand, climbing down, had come to visit Mama. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her stop, stare and frown. 'Tis no wonder what she thought after my yesterday's chatter. I didn't care. I went blithely on with my neighings and gambolings, adoring being the center of Jeremiah's attention.
I don't think Jeremiah saw Goody Bishop, he being doubled in laughter in the shadow of the barn; for if he had, I am certain he would have bade me stop. But he did not bid me. So I didn't.
To blazes with Goody Bishop!
Salem, 30 July 1692
I have made the most startling discovery.
Upon returning from Goody Bishop's house by the path through the woods, having borrowed some candle wicking for Mama, I heard a twig snap behind.
Whom was I to find, but Goodman Glover!
He said he was searching for bees from which to collect honey, but I didn't believe him. I had the oddest sensation he had been following me. Even more oddly, he tried to engage me in conversation. Removing his face-cover of bee's netting, he began explaining how he had come to fashion his strange device.
A short, slight man is Goodman Glover, with shoulders somewhat stooped and with one eye which moves eerily about in its socket. In that one eye, I think, he is blind—though I did not ask because I didn't want to encourage his conversation. 'Twas so disconcerting, half listening to rambles and not knowing on which eye to focus.
My brain rambled with shivering thoughts. I wondered how he felt having had a wife hanged. What was it like, I wondered, being wed to a witch? What did they say to each other? What did he think about her casting of spells? Did they, in fact, cast omens
together?!
My thoughts gave me the creeps.
His voice was soft and low, almost soothing at the beginning.
“A pretty little thing, you are,” he told me.
Never in my entire life has anyone even so much as hinted at prettiness in my description. Truthfully, I am rather plain. I hate to admit it, but I was flattered.
He said, “You'll be as handsome as your Mama when you're growed.”
Mama, handsome? Momentarily I pondered the idea, then decided Mama was plain, as well. I turned to leave.
“I knowed your Mama when she was young,” Goodman Glover said.
Suddenly my attention was rivetted. Halting in my tracks, I thought, “This strange man has known my mother? How—and with what intention? Were they playmates together, tossing horseshoes and romping along the river?” Odd, thinking of Mama as a playful child. Finally I decided his knowledge of Mama had been merely as neighbors.
Curtly I said, “I must return to the candle molding.”
He would not allow me to go. Swiftly a small hand caught at my sleeve. As it did so, I felt a queer panic.
A low voice said, “I almost married your Mama. Courted her a summer, I did.”
Stunned, my mouth fell open. A small face stared back at me. A face which slowly began to look like a weasel. Liquor reeked on his breath.
I could not help myself. In a breathless voice, I stammered, “You . . . you almost m . . . m . . . married my Mama? But . . . but why did you
not?”
“Cuz your Papa stole her from me.”
My mind raced. What on earth had Mama ever seen in a man as horrid as this? How could Mama ever possibly have allowed him to come courting? And what if Papa hadn't come along? What if . . . ?
With a start, I suddenly realized: “Why, Mama could have been Goody Glover!!!”
One unwavering eye burned into me—not
through
me, but
into
me—as if this man were willing thoughts into my head!
His soft voice now made my hair stand on end.
“You could have been
my
little girl,” he said.
At that, he reached out to clutch at me with his other hand, but I shrank back. My heart hammered in my ears as suddenly I tore from his grasp and raced along the path—like the Devil himself was clutching to retrieve me—all the while stumbling over rocks and ruts, frantically scrambling back to my feet, daring not to look behind.
When I reached home, I was sobbing. My dress was torn, and one knee was gashed, bleeding through my stocking.
Dazed, I headed for the malt house and threw myself upon the floor, weeping and frightened. My brain was a blur of faces, all evil and cackling, all mixed together like a horrid stew. Over and over, like a pounding storm, my thoughts kept hammering:
“I might have been Goodman Glover's daughter!! Mama could have been Goody Glover!!”
Salem, 31 July 1692
Last night was the most terrifying ever. Even tying my limbs to the posts could not halt my thrashings and convulsions. Where'er I looked leapt the cackling face of Goody Glover. And this time when she threw back her head in evil laughter, from the depths of her open mouth popped out the weasely face of her husband, his one wavering eye rising in a vapor.
“Mama! Mama!” I screamed. “Don't let her take me!”
“Hush!” Mama commanded. “No one shall take you, Rachel.”
No words could soothe me. Papa stood at the end of my bed, and wildly I thought, “At the foot of my bed could have been Goodman Glover! Mama might have been his wife!”
Goody Glover's bony fingers reached from the rafters and clasped the small, stubby fingers of her husband. Then they clasped Mama's. Three figures stood together, then two, then one. My screams rang out as loud as my lungs could allow. And when Mama touched me, I screamed still louder. Everyone was mixed all together into one. Mama. Papa. Goody Glover. The weasely face of her husband.
Mama kept asking,
“Why
, Rachel?
Why
does Goody Glover want you?”
Why? For reasons I could not tell. Does Papa know about Mama and Goodman Glover? Does Papa know Mama herself could have been Goody Glover?! Does Papa know I could have been Goodman Glover's little girl?! Perhaps we could all be witches! Perhaps we all
are!
Perhaps 'twas the very thought Goodman Glover was trying to will from his head into
mine!
“Mama! Mama!” I screamed. “Make her go away! Don't let her take me! I don't want to be a witch!”
The bindings only increased my terror. My every limb felt clutched within the grasp of Goody Glover. Around me the wandering eye of her husband swirled, staring at me from wherever it roamed, leaping out from the glow of the candles.
So long did my convulsions last, breath could not come when finally my fit was ceased. Spent and exhausted, I lay in my disheveled bed, my sheets soaked as if from drowning, my pillow as wet as rain. From Goody Glover's drool.
Mama was as drained as I. Papa looked confused. Mercy, ashen. And Daniel, looming in the doorway, clearly wished witch's fingers had indeed snatched me from my bed, drawn me out the window and made me disappear from the face of the earth forever.
I wonder what Daniel would say if he knew Mama could have been Goody Glover.

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