Crane Pond (15 page)

‘In that case, Mr. Marshall,' Danforth says, ‘call in the accused.'

The marshall and his stewards bring in Goody Cloyse and the two Proctors, John following the women in like the afterthought he is. The afflicted children are not in position today but nevertheless as the prisoners enter there's a threatening rumble from the audience, though one or two voices cry out in support of the Proctors.

‘Please read the indictments,' Danforth asks Parris.

Parris begins with Sarah Cloyse. ‘On the 11th day of April 1692, by the Grace of God, and divers other days and times, both before as after, certain detestable arts called witchcraft and sorceries, hath used and practised in upon and against Mary Walcott of Salem Village, single woman, by which wicked arts the said Mary Walcott, the 11th day of April and divers other days and times as well before as after is and was tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, wasted and tormented. Sworn witnesses, Mary Walcott, Ann Putnam, Mercy Lewis.'

Mr. Danforth reminds the court that the precedent for taking pining and wasting as proof of witchcraft is to be found in Keble in respect of the Lancashire witch trials in England, and also in Bernard's
Guide to Jurymen
. The judges give their assent and remand her to Boston jail, pending trial. Immediately the marshall brings out a set of shackles and fastens them to Cloyse's arms and legs, while she struggles and weeps. ‘There's no need for all this,' she cries out to the judges when she has been chained up, ‘I'm a defenceless woman. What harm can I do?'

Mr. Hathorne answers for the justices. ‘Not much in your bodily form, perhaps. But these chains are to hamper your spectral flights.'

With that, two of the stewards escort her from the meeting house to a waiting cart outside, each taking an elbow. She walks stiff-legged, clanking as she goes.

The same indictment is read out against Elizabeth Proctor, with the same consequence, except that there are murmurs of discontent from some of the onlookers, and a few cries of ‘Shame!' She makes no appeal but stands head bowed and sobbing while the shackles are put on. Then she turns and raises her manacled arms towards her husband. The heaviness of the movement gives it a strange authority, as if she is a yearning statue of herself. Proctor is prevented by his guards from clasping her proffered hand and his face visibly reddens with anger or frustration.

It's strange they can continue to love each other, given their alleged allegiance to Satan. Perhaps marriage is maintained in hell, thinks Sewall. It cannot continue into heaven, because all who go
there
are married to Jesus, and to maintain any earthly tie would be bigamous. But the Devil offers his followers not love but a contract—he always has his pen behind his ear, as Major Appleton claimed. It's a more limited relationship, and might therefore allow his people to maintain
their
relationships with each other after death. Sewall remembers that promise he once made to his own Betty, that he would join her in hell if it should turn out that she isn't one of the elect. Perhaps his wife could come too, and the other children? For a second he has an absurd distracted image of them all resuming their family life for ever more in that dark kingdom. He brushes this fantasy aside—it's as stupid as it is wicked.

There's a pause after Elizabeth Proctor has been escorted out. Mr. Parris clears his throat. ‘Before I read out the mittimus relating to John Proctor,' he tells the judges, ‘I would like to read another paper which explains its background. I suggest that the documents are filed together.'

Mr. Danforth gives Sewall a quick sideways look. Sewall, pleased to notice this, lowers his brows in order to be fiercely attentive.

Parris's paper begins with detailing a couple of occasions earlier in the month when John Proctor's spectre tormented Abigail Williams. This is obviously intended to demonstrate that there are pre-existing reasons why Proctor
should
have been judicially examined yesterday. Then the document twists round somehow so that it begins to concern the writing of itself.

Parris reads out how the marshall arrived at Mr. Parris's study in the Salem Village manse yesterday evening in order to enquire about the progress of the mittimus regarding John Proctor, but how their conversation was interrupted by Mary Walcott, who was present in order to give evidence of her torments and who suddenly cried out, ‘There's Goodman Proctor, he's going to choke me!' and then was immediately choked. (Presumably she was still gasping for air as Parris put the finishing touches to his piece.)

Just as the examinations don't merely assess previous crimes but provide a forum in which new ones occur, so Parris's paper is not just a report of previous hauntings by John Proctor but an account of new ones taking place while it was actually coming into existence. It's as though both yesterday's examination and Mr. Parris's paper have succeeded in parcelling up the witchcraft and delivering it still living to the judges, as an animal in a cage might be presented to a collector, snarling and baring its teeth.

In this respect the examination and the account fulfil the same function, which is perhaps why Mr. Danforth now gives Sewall a solemn nod, the sort that's designed to make the recipient nod in turn, which Sewall does.

Parris then reads out John Proctor's mittimus, which takes the same form as those for the women. As he listens Sewall takes note of the temporal words that are part of the required formula:
on 11th of April and divers other times, as well before as after. . . .
Evil has no beginning and no end, just like goodness. Its truth is also tenseless.

The marshall takes John Proctor out to join the two women in the cart, and it soon creaks off towards Boston. They will be benighted long before they arrive, and Sewall wonders where they will stay. The Proctors' inn is conveniently situated for travellers on that road, but its doors are probably closed for now.

D
aughter Hannah is to go to stay in the town of Rowley with her mother's cousin William Dummer and his wife, a couple without any children of their own. They decide to break the news to her privately in Sewall's study, and ask Susan to go and fetch her. Timid servant leads in timid daughter. The two girls stand with heads lowered as if waiting to be told off.

‘Thank you, Susan,' Sewall says brightly. He and his wife are sitting in chairs on either side of the fire, but the girls have positioned themselves beside his desk, like schoolchildren summoned by the teacher. Susan looks up, bemused, unaware that he is telling her she can go. Young Hannah's hand sneaks over to grasp hers, though whether to give or receive comfort isn't quite clear. Sewall hasn't realised that the two girls have become such friends, but of course Susan is closer to Hannah in temperament than Betty is, being gentle and not tempestuous. ‘Susan,' he says softly, hoping not to embarrass her, ‘you can leave us now.'

Young Hannah immediately turns towards Susan as if beseeching her to remain. ‘But you don't
need
to,' her mother says quickly, seeing this. ‘It's nothing bad or secret. We just wanted to tell Hannah that it's time for her to go away for a while. She will live with her Uncle William and Aunt Abigail up in Rowley, so she can get some experience of the world, just like you are doing here, Susan. It's lovely up in Rowley. It's right by Newbury, where Hannah's father comes from.'

Hannah stares at her mother, white-faced with horror.

‘You like being with
us
, don't you, Susan?' wife Hannah asks.

‘Yes, madam.' Susan's face has gone white in sympathy with her friend's. She and Hannah are still holding hands.

There's a pause, then young Hannah whispers: ‘
I
like being with us too. That's what I like.' She swallows, and the plunge of her Adam's apple hurts Sewall's heart.

‘You will learn all sorts of new things when you're there,' her mother continues. ‘
You
've learned lots of new things since you've been with us, haven't you, Susan?' Susan solemnly nods but at the same time squeezes Hannah's hand harder as if to ask forgiveness for this tiny betrayal.

‘But I don't want to learn lots of new things,' Hannah protests. ‘I can learn lots of new things if I stay
here
.' She gives a little gasp, as if suddenly becoming aware of having contradicted herself. Then a tear rolls down each of her cheeks.

‘Dear child,' Sewall says. ‘You're thirteen now. It's time you saw more of the world. You can't stay with us for ever and ever.'

‘I
want
to stay with you for ever and ever,' she says. ‘I don't want to see more of the world. I don't want to get married. I just want to live here, with you and Betty and Joseph and Mary, and with Sam if he was at home.'

‘You don't have to get
married
, dearest,' wife Hannah says. ‘Just stay with the Dummers for a while and then come back. That's all you have to do.''

‘You know I visited Uncle Stephen and Aunt Margaret over in Salem the other day,' Sewall reminds her. ‘Well, they have a girl living with them called Betty Parris. She's much younger than you, and she's having a lovely time. She embroidered a cushion with a house on it.'

‘She's a witch, that's why she's staying with them.
I'm
not a witch. I've never done any witch magic in my whole life. And I'm hopeless at sewing. If I wanted to learn sewing properly I could learn it here.''

‘Betty Parris isn't a witch,' Sewall tells her. They have avoided mentioning her within earshot of the children. It's amazing how stories get around. ‘None of those girls are witches. They are afflicted children. They have been
fighting
the Devil, not signing his book.'

‘I've never even
seen
the Devil and I never want to. I don't want to sign his book and I don't want to fight him either. I just want to stay THE—WAY—I—AM.' She says this last not loudly but certainly in capital letters, with a pause between each word. Wife Hannah goes over to her daughter and embraces her. Immediately, young Hannah begins to sob loudly. Sewall realises how tall she has become—almost the same height as her mother—so that the raw childlike sounds seem incongruous.

Susan, standing to one side, suddenly looks very alone. She's crying too. It occurs to him that she must find it hard living away from her own family, as she has done for several years. Of course, she has a living to earn while Hannah is only going off in order to be improved (indeed Sewall will pay a small monthly amount to cousin Dummer to cover her keep). There's no way back to her family for Susan, though he can hardly remind his daughter of her own advantage in this respect within the servant girl's hearing.

Eventually Hannah quietens down. She's essentially an obedient child. ‘You must not forget your prayers while you're away,' Sewall reminds her.

‘No, father.' She is in fact punctilious in her devotions, but seems content to leave complex matters for others (like her sister Betty) to wrestle with. She's never expressed any concern about the question of election. Is that a sign of saintly innocence or spiritual complacency? Certainly in general she is innocent rather than complacent, so Sewall hopes for the best.

‘And we won't forget to pray for
you
,' he tells her. This is a mistake because she immediately begins crying once more at the thought of those faraway prayers.

 

A few days later a letter arrives. It's from Thomas Putnam, father of one of the afflicted children. Or rather it's a copy by Mr. Parris, acting in his capacity of court clerk, of a letter Putnam addressed generally to the judges. Sewall stares at it in bafflement. He has spent many years pondering Revelation but this is prophecy close at hand, in the here and now. ‘We, beholding continually the tremendous works of Divine Providence, not only every day but every hour,' declaims Putnam, ‘ thought it our duty to inform your Honours of what we conceive you have not heard, which is high and dreadful. A wheel within a wheel, which makes our scalps tingle.'

Strangely, Goodman Putnam doesn't go on to explain what it is that the justices have not yet heard, this wheel within a wheel. The letter leaves off abruptly with that tingling of scalps.

Next day Sewall is summoned to Dorchester to speak with Mr. Stoughton. He takes the letter along to show him. It's a miserable ride, in pouring rain. ‘Ah,' says Stoughton, by way of greeting. He's sitting in his study behind a desk that's empty save for a quill, a sand box, a sheet of paper. The room is cool, no fire lit. Sewall tries to express in his gaze a readiness, if not a need, even a yearning, for some refreshment after his miry journey, but Mr. Stoughton is impervious, not being himself a man prone to yearnings.

‘I received a strange letter yesterday,' Sewall says, taking it out of his pocket and placing it on the top of the desk. It is damp and smeary now, compromising its ordered surroundings.

Mr. Stoughton glances down at it and then looks up at Sewall with grey unsurprised eyes. ‘I've seen a copy of this already,' he says.

‘Do you know what the news is, then? This wheel within a wheel?' Mr. Stoughton will be privy to wheels within wheels if anyone can be, having wheels within wheels of his own.

‘Have you ever seen a man with a performing monkey?' Stoughton asks.

‘Yes,' Sewall answers cautiously.

‘Well, this nobody, this Putnam, is one of those fathers who thinks his child is a performing monkey. He's just a bankrupt farmer who believes his day in the sun has finally arrived.'

‘I see,' says Sewall, somewhat bewildered.

‘His child, Ann Putnam, has seen George Burroughs.'

‘What? But he's in Maine.'

‘He visited her in spectral form, I mean.'

Sewall stares speechlessly at Mr. Stoughton as the implications of this sink in.