Susannah Morrow (44 page)

An hour later, Richard pushed his way through the gawkers at the door and shouted at them to leave. When they had gone, shouting
and cursing and laughing every step of the way, he gestured to me with a leer and a wink. “Come on, you—the pretty one. Get
on over here. You’ve been summoned.”

I’d had my fill of being summoned. “Tell them I will not go.”

“Aye, you will. Danforth hisself asked for ye.”

“Why?”

“How should I know?” Richard unlocked the door and came inside; a pair of manacles dangled from his hand. “Come on now.”

I did not make it easy for him. Richard jerked my arms from behind my back and forced the manacles on my wrists so roughly
that the healing welts and sores burst open again to sting and burn. When I cried out, Richard ignored me. He pulled me to
my feet, and led me out of the cell and up the stairs.

The thin light coming into the cells upstairs burned my eyes; so used was I to darkness. When Richard led me outside, the
sun was unbearably bright. I had to close my eyes to keep them from hurting.

The air was brisk, but not freezing, not as it had been the last time I’d seen the sky. While I’d been in jail, the winter
had gone; I felt spring already. I had grown used to the stale, rotting scent of my cell, and now the scents of the sea, of
drying cod, salt mud, and the tannery, were so new to me that I was overwhelmed. I blinked and stared at the world through
watering eyes. The sky was pale blue, with dozens of ship masts thrusting into it, so tall I could see them even past the
houses. ’Twas as if the world had been newly tinted; trees were budding, green shoots pushing through where the sun shone
warm. The snow and ice that had covered the ground when I’d last been outside were gone; there was only mud now, the unpaved
roads nothing but a morass of deep carriage-wheel ruts and puddles.

It seemed impossible that there should be a change, that I should have been imprisoned for so long. ’Twas unfair that I had
not been present to see the winter fade. The days passed as they always did—with me, or without me.

’Twas a thought that sat heavily upon me as I followed Richard. It turned out there was not far to go—a block or so, just
past the Salem Town meetinghouse that sat across the street from the jail.

“What is this place?” I asked Richard.

“The courthouse,” he said tersely.

I stopped in surprise and dismay. “’Tis my trial? I had not expected—”

He jerked my chains so I had to walk or fall. “Come now. I ain’t got all day for this.”

No one crowded the street; when we went inside, I saw the magistrates’ desk and the bar of justice and the benches—all empty.
The Proctors had said there were crowds watching the pretrial examinations; surely there would be as many for the trials themselves.
Yet the room was empty.

Richard paused only a moment; then he turned, and I saw another door, which he knocked upon. “The prisoner’s here,” he announced
to the wood.

I heard a step; then the door was opened by a man I had not seen before. He had thinning hair and an unsettling air of command
about him. He glanced at me, then stepped back to allow us entry. In a deep voice, he said, “Bring her in.”

’Twas a small room, with a desk and chairs that reminded me greatly of Jonathan Corwin’s study. As if to make that memory
brighter, I saw Judge Corwin standing at the desk along with John Hathorne, who had questioned me so brutally at the examination.
I stopped short. Then I heard a voice, a quiet “There is nothing to fear, Susannah.”

I turned to see Lucas standing there. Lucas, and behind him Thomas Putnam and Samuel Parris.

I grabbed the back of a nearby chair. My chains rattled and clanked against it. “What is this?” I whispered. “Why am I here?”

“I must confess, ’tis what I wonder as well,” the man with the deep voice said. “What is it you wish to tell us, Goodman Fowler?
What news have you?”

“Let her sit,” Lucas said firmly, and when none of them protested, I did so gratefully. Then he looked to the man who’d opened
the door. “Governor Danforth, you are a busy man, I know. I would not take up much of your time. You were not present when
this woman was imprisoned, yet what I would say now requires your attendance.”

Danforth nodded somberly. “Proceed.”

“Susannah Morrow is my wife’s sister. My wife died in late October, and since then, Susannah has lived in my house. Six weeks
ago she was…accused of the terrible crime of witchcraft. I testified against her.” Lucas did not look at me as he said these
words. He gestured toward Hathorne and Corwin. “These men have my deposition on record, along with my signature.”

“I have it here,” said Corwin, motioning to a heavy record book on the desk.

Lucas said, “’Tis all laid out for you. What is not laid out for you is the truth. What I have not said is that I lusted for
Susannah Morrow from the moment I first saw her. What I have not said is that I was bewitched by her. I could not resist the
temptation of her—”

“My God, Lucas,” I said, “I’m begging you.…Have you not said enough already?”

“Is that your testimony?” John Hathorne asked. “That she possessed you? That she led you into sin?”

Lucas shook his head. “I tried to lay the blame at her door. Believe me, I tried. But the truth is that Susannah did not lead
me. I have been…obsessed by her, and I wanted to believe that obsession was not of my own making. I wanted to attribute it
to the Devil, because I could not bear the thought that I could fall into such sin without Satan leading me there. I could
not bear the thought that I could…want…so desperately. Susannah is my wife’s sister. What is between us is a sin, and I know
this. But ’tis not bewitchment. I have been deluded, as I believe my daughter has been as well. I wish to withdraw my testimony.”

There was stunned silence, mine no less than the others’.

Then John Hathorne asked quietly, “Have you fornicated with this woman, Goodman Fowler?”

Lucas met Hathorne’s gaze steadily. “Aye.”

Samuel Parris said, “God forgive you, Lucas.” Then they all began to talk over each other in horrified voices.

Tom Putnam stepped forward, his eyes wide in his pale face. “This cannot be true. You are led by your cock, Lucas. Admit at
least that the only reason you recant this now is because you want her still.”

Lucas laughed. “Aye, I want her still. Is there a man among you who does not?”

“She has deluded you.”

“No. I was deluded before. Now my mind is my own.”

“How can you recant this testimony, when so many are clearly afflicted?” Hathorne asked.

“There may be witches,” Lucas said stubbornly. “Susannah is not one of them. I’d lay my life on it.”

“Your own daughter is one of the afflicted,” Tom insisted.

“She is misguided.”

“How can you know this?” Samuel Parris asked. “How can you say there is another judgment when ’tis clear the girls are tormented
by your sister’s specter? They have called out her name. They have seen her. How do you explain this?”

“I cannot explain the others. Charity was close to her mother. She has been troubled since Judith died. I have not been…vigilant,
and she has taken solace in delusion. ’Tis because of me she is so sorely afflicted.”

“Because of you?” Hathorne burst out. “You are the cause of the child’s fits?”

“Had I been more attentive, I believe she would not be one of the afflicted.”

Corwin frowned. “Has this woman put a spell on you to make you say these things?”

“No. There is no spell. I come here of my own free will—”

“Your own daughter calls out upon this woman. How can it be that she is so afflicted, and you, who live in the same house,
who has…fornicated…with this…this
witch,
is not so tormented?”

“I have explained it already. Her mother’s death—”

“—has left her feeble-minded. Aye. But perhaps ’tis something else. You have said that you refused to acknowledge the truth
of your feelings for this woman. Can it be that you are denying the truth of her role as Satan’s minion as well?”

“These are lies,” Lucas said impatiently. He turned to Danforth. “These are lies, sir. Susannah Morrow is no witch. I believe
my daughter will admit the same when she is removed from the others.”

“Are you claiming that the others lie?” Corwin asked.

Lucas shook his head. “I hardly know them. I have no way to judge.”

“But you say your daughter will recant her testimony.”

“Aye. I think she will.”

Putnam asked, “Have you spoken with her, Lucas?”

“The last time I saw her, she told me of visions,” he said, and I knew with dismay what he spoke of, the visit of her mother’s
spirit, the charge that I was a murderess. Charity had said nothing of recantation. She was worse than ever. Lucas spoke now
from hope and determination, nothing more. ’Twas what he wished to be true, not what was.

Danforth was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and I saw how the others deferred to him, and I grew cold.

“Where are the afflicted girls?” Danforth asked into the silence.

“Some stay in the ordinary here,” Corwin replied. “Some in the village. There was scheduled to be an examination today, but
there has been a delay. They have not all returned home.”

“Where is your daughter, Goodman Fowler? Is she in the village or here?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas said, and I saw how it pained him to admit it. “She has not lived with me since her fits began.”

Charity had not even been with him; she had been trapped with those girls, gathering power in delusion day after day.

When Danforth told the constable who stood behind me, “See if the Fowler girl is one of those at the ordinary. If she is,
bring her back here,” I knew what would happen. When I looked at Lucas, I saw with dismay that he knew it too.

Putnam turned slyly to Lucas. “Unless Lucas prefers she not come.”

Lucas gave him a sharp look, but he said, “Bring her. She is sixteen now, no longer a child, and I have hidden too many things
from her. I would not hide this.”

The constable left. When the door had shut behind him, Hathorne said to Danforth, “What do you expect from this?”

“Why, corroboration,” Danforth said with a small smile. “Proof that Goodman Fowler has not himself been bewitched into saying
lies.”

Lucas made a short, angry sound, and turned away, and Parris, who stood behind him, stepped back and murmured a small prayer.
Lucas said bitterly, “The time for prayers is long past, Pastor,” and Parris looked at the floor and grew quiet.

“I would ask for one thing,” Lucas said. “I have not spoken to my daughter since I came to see the truth. She cannot yet know
how I feel. I would ask that I be given a chance to talk to her alone.”

“I cannot give you that,” Danforth said. “You have said she will recant; I must be assured she does so of her own free will,
without influence.”

“She is influenced every day by those girls.”

Danforth raised a brow. “But you are her father. You have directed her every day of her life. Surely she will know already
how much faith to lend to your words.”

The room was silent as we waited for Charity to be brought in.

At the knock on the door, Lucas jerked from the window; Putnam and Parris went still; Hathorne looked up from the record book.
Danforth rose slowly from the bench and said, “Bring her in.”

The door opened. I was sitting behind it, so ’twas impossible for Charity to see me at first, and I caught a glimpse of her
as the constable brought her in. She looked far worse than when I’d seen her last; she was horribly thin, the knobby bones
of her wrists and her shoulders stood out; her jaw and her cheekbones looked strangely sharp. The chilblains at her face were
gone, but what remained was a reddish rash that she scratched at. Her skin was waxy pale, her hair lusterless. Yet what was
the same was the way she stiffened at the sight of her father, the yearning for him that seemed to stretch her very skin,
the way she leaned in his direction as if she waited hopelessly for a touch that never came.

Oh, see that, Lucas,
I prayed wordlessly.
Hold her.

Perhaps he would have. I had thought he would. But then Hathorne rose from the desk and distracted Charity’s attention, and
when she turned, she saw me sitting there. The blood left her face; her eyes went wild. She pointed a shaking finger at me,
and screamed, “Oh, there she is! There is the murderess! Where are the bodies you have buried, Susannah Morrow? How they cry
for you!”

She stumbled back; she would have fallen had not the constable been there to catch her. But she struggled so in his arms that
Locker had no choice but to lay her down upon the floor.

The other men stood back. Lucas ran to her. “Charity,” he said, kneeling beside her, trying to pull her into his arms—’twas
a scene so like the first time, when I’d stood naked beside him.

“Charity,” Lucas whispered to her, holding her wrists away from his face so she could not claw him. He was intent; the desperate
love in his face was painful to see—he was a man wrestling for possession of his daughter’s soul, and losing. “Listen to me.
Listen to me. You must stop this now. Stop it! There is no Devil in this room!”

Charity’s gaze went past her father. “There is a man in a winding sheet! He says she stabbed him! Oh, how white he is! ‘Murderer!’
he calls her. ‘Murderer!’”

Lucas gave her a little shake. “This is not true, Charity. I have already told these men that Susannah is no witch. I have
told them the truth of things.”

She was trembling now, gooseflesh rising on her skin. “She has bewitched you. The Devil has you! I see Satan speaking in your
ear!”

“’Tis nonsense,” Lucas said.

“She has swallowed you! I knew it! I saw it! She has swallowed your soul! Oh, Father, how can it be so? How can you have let
her in?”

“No, Charity—”

“Oh, here she comes! Keep her away from me!” She jerked from him, putting up her hands to ward off an invisible attacker.

“She sits there on the chair,” he said. “Charity, this is delusion—”