Susannah Morrow (48 page)

’Twas in this mood that, an hour later, I looked up to see Jem unlock the door for Hannah Penney.

At first, I did not realize it was her. I saw her pause inside the door, and then she caught my eye and I knew her. She was
not carrying baby Faith.

“Hannah!” I called. My chains banged against my legs as I moved; her eyes went to them, and I remembered—the last time I’d
seen her, I had not been wearing them.

“Dear God,” she murmured, and I saw her lips move in a quick prayer before she said to me, “The Lord has truly seen fit to
punish you here.”

I knew she was not talking about the cell itself, but of me. In these last weeks, I had formed an interest in my bones. For
the first time in my life, I could see them in my skin, and they were fascinating to me, their knobs and valleys, their ridged
definition. The ones at my wrists were so sharp that the manacles had rubbed the skin raw over them, sores that never healed;
I almost expected the bones to come bursting through. I could feel hard edges in my face now—my jaw, my cheeks—there was no
softness over them for my fingers to press into. Yet this was not frightening to me; here in this cell, we were all the same.
In constant view of each other, we turned into skeletal horrors slowly and easily; there was none of the suddenness that must
shock Hannah now.

I did not try to reassure her. “Have you news of Lucas?” I whispered.

Her gaze came back to me. “Aye,” she said reluctantly. “’Tis why I’ve come.”

“Is he gone? Please, tell me he is gone.”

“Aye. Days ago now. I would have been here sooner, but there is such madness—”

I gripped her arm hard, shaking her a little so my chains rattled. “Tell me,” I demanded, pulling her as far as I could from
listening ears. “Tell me everything.”

“He came one night to take Jude and Faith. I warned him the babe was not yet weaned.…He will have trouble with her, I’ll warrant.
I told him my sister once fed a child on cow’s milk and sugar, though who knows—”

“Aye, aye. What else? What of Charity?”

Hannah glanced past me to the others, and then lowered her voice. “She was staying at Ingersoll’s. You know she was sick.
Wasting away, I heard, though I did not see her. She’d been abed, poor thing. Couldn’t even speak her name, they said. Then,
one morning, when they went to bring her breakfast, she was not there. No one found a trace of her. ’Twas as if she disappeared
into the air. But if I had to guess—Lucas and Sarah Ingersoll were friends, and Charity was gone the morning after Lucas came
to get the others from me. Sam Nurse has been tight-lipped about it as well. He knows something, I’m guessing, but he won’t
say a word.”

“You’ve not said a word to anyone, have you? Have you told them you think ’tis Lucas who took her?”

She looked at me as if I were a fool. “Susannah, what should I say? ’Tis well known that he escaped, and Jude and Faith are
gone from me when everyone knows they were put in my care. I’ve said nothing, but everyone suspects I saw him.”

“Will they follow him, do you think?”

“Follow him where? No one knows where he’s gone, except perhaps…you.”

“Me?”

“Aye. Lucas bade me tell you: He’s gone to the place you talked about. Those were his words.”

The place we talked about.
New York.
“Have you told anyone this?”

“Not even George, though he’s asked. ’Twas a message for you alone; I see no reason for me to tell.”

“Thank you.”

Hannah sighed. “They are not happy about his escape, I’ll tell you. Perhaps they will try to find him, but my guess is ’twill
not be for some time. There are so many others. You yourself confessed there were twenty or more. With so many witches, how
can they risk the village to find only one? What is a single man in light of such evil?”

“I thank you for bringing me his message. It cannot have been easy for you.”

“I welcomed the task,” she said simply. “I have been praying for your soul, Susannah. I had wanted the chance to pray with
you. I am relieved at your confession—such repentance can only help ease your way toward God’s forgiveness. How tormented
you must have been. When a soul longs so for Christ’s salvation, ’tis an easy mark for Satan.”

“Aye,” I said, turning from her.

She clasped my arm tightly. “But the Devil can be conquered. Surrender to Christ is the only way.”

I looked around to her again, to her pleading gaze, and I said, “I have surrendered already to too many things, Hannah.”

“Pray with me.”

I hesitated and looked down at this woman who had been my friend. If praying with her would give her peace, then I would oblige.

“Very well,” I said.

She smiled and clasped my hands. “Those chains are not what keep you prisoner. Let us find God’s grace together.”

She prayed, and I closed my eyes and listened to her words. Yet ’twas not of God I was thinking, but of Lucas, of three girls
bent close together in joy and fear as their father led them from Salem Village, slipping onto an empty road, where shadows
were sharp against a bright spring moon.

LUCAS

—Redemption—

Long is the way

And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.

—John Milton

Paradise Lost

I
DID AS
S
USANNAH BADE ME, THOUGH ’TWAS WITH A WRETCHED
heaviness in my soul that I crept out the door while Jem’s back was turned and slipped into the night. I sensed that I would
not see her again; the feeling added an urgency to my flight that made me run more quickly, though to run from her was the
last thing I wanted to do.

The back door of the prison led to the muddy banks of the river. The tide was out now; the fetid mud of the river flats filled
my nostrils; it seemed forever since my lungs had filled with anything but the stench of jail. The night was soft and warm;
I heard the sounds from a nearby tavern, the creak of the ships on the harbor, the gentle tug of wind through their riggings.

I stayed hidden in shadows, a fugitive in my own town—the irony of it was not lost on me as I raced as surreptitiously and
quickly as I could to the road leading to the village. At every sound of hoofbeats, I hid myself in the reeds and grass. Once,
my efforts roused heath hens that flew squawking and frightened into the road. They so startled the rider that the man cursed
and pulled up his horse, his breathing broken and anxious as he searched the fields for signs of Indians or thieves.

I had little time; ’twould be soon enough that the magistrates were told of my escape, and they would be searching for me.
’Twas very dark when I finally reached the outskirts of the village, only a short distance from my home, and I resisted the
urge to go there, to see what damage they’d done to the land where I’d spent sixteen years sowing my sweat into the soil along
with seed. Instead, I took the path I knew well enough to tread even in deepest darkness. I made my way to the Penneys’.

’Twas not without nervousness I did so. I had trusted Hannah with my children, but George Penney was still a toady to Hannah’s
father, and he to Nathaniel Putnam—their sympathies would lie with Parris and his supporters and the relentless search for
witches. By now, the story of my recantation would be well known. They could not help but realize where I stood.

Yet my fears for my children had been a singular darkness the weeks I’d spent in that foul prison. I would not leave without
them.

As I came closer, I saw the dim glow of light from within, and when I went to the door, I stopped, hearing a child’s cry,
a baby. Faith or Hannah’s boy? I hesitated, suddenly frightened, and then I pounded the door with all my strength.

“Hold, hold!” came a voice from inside. George. I heard the creak of his footsteps, the pull of the latch, and then the pause.
“Who is it? Who comes now?”

“’Tis your neighbor,” I said, my voice rough from exertion. I did not sound myself, and I prayed he would not recognize me
and bar the door. “I’ve news.”

The door opened. “Wha—”

George’s eyes opened wide; he gulped like a drowning fish, and then he was pushing the door closed again. Before he could,
I shoved my foot inside. “Let me in,” I said, pushing past him into the small house, which was loud with the sounds of children.
From the hearth, Hannah looked up in fear as she bounced a child feverishly on her knee. It squalled louder.

“Oh, dear God,” she exclaimed, rising, holding the child tight. ’Twas not my babe, but her own. “Lucas. My God, what have
you done? What spell have you used to—”

“Where are my children?”

George stepped between me and his wife. He frowned, his corpulent face breaking into a dozen wrinkles. “Have they released
you? We’ve heard nothing of it.”

“No doubt the news will come tomorrow,” I told him, and saw his skepticism as he scrutinized me. I had been in jail for several
weeks; I could smell the foulness of it on my skin. “Where are my children?”

Just then, I heard running footsteps down the stairs; I saw a rush of white, and then there was a slam against me that nearly
stole my breath, little arms going round my waist, a child pressing herself to me as if she could not hold me tight enough.
“Father,” Jude said. “Oh, Father, you’ve come!”

“Aye, I’ve come,” I told her. “Get yourself dressed, child, and show me to your sister. We must go.”

“Shall we go home, then?” she asked me, and I was held mute by the fullness of my love for her.

Finally I found my tongue. “We’ve a new home to go to. Hurry now, we’ve not much time.”

“You cannot mean to take them,” Hannah said. “They’ll find you, Lucas, and then what? What will happen to them then?”

“’Tis my job to worry over that,” I said.

George nodded. He said to Hannah, “Fetch the babe and their clothes.” When she hesitated, he said curtly, “Quickly now.”

Hannah looked ready to protest. Her hold on her own child grew tighter, but then she pressed her lips together and hurried
up the stairs.

“Thank you,” I told George.

He looked grim. “I’ll say nothing of this for as long as I can. But I will tell them eventually that you were here. You know
I must.”

“All I ask is that you give me a few days.”

“If I can.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Is she with you?”

The thought of Susannah brought a sudden despair. “No. I’m alone.”

“Where will you go?”

“Come, George, you know I cannot tell you that.”

Hannah came into the room again. This time, her child was gone; in her arms was Faith, newly awakened, still sleepy. Jude
was behind them. She carried a canvas bag that bulged with what was left of her clothes and Faith’s.

“She’s not yet weaned,” Hannah said worriedly. “You will have trouble with her.”

“There are goats along the way,” I said.

“She’s not used to it—”

“I will not let her starve, Hannah.”

I saw she did not want to put the babe into my arms, but then George nudged her, and she did it. Faith gazed up at me for
a moment, and I felt her little sigh, the settling of her contentment; she closed her eyes again, drifting into sleep.

I looked at Hannah. “You visited Susannah once before.”

She looked wary. “Aye. We were friends.”

“I would ask you to do one thing, if you would.”

“She cannot, Lucas,” George said. “You have already put us at great risk. If they knew we had seen you, helped you—”

“Aye, of course.” I motioned to Jude. “Let’s go, child. Are you ready to walk?”

“Aye, Father.”

“Then say good-bye.” To Hannah, I said, “I have never thanked you for caring for Faith. I’ll say it now. I appreciate all
you’ve done.”

George went to the door, impatient for us to leave, and I turned to go. Hannah grabbed my arm. “Let me say good-bye to the
child,” and as she leaned close to kiss Faith’s downy forehead, Hannah whispered to me, “I’ll go see her.”

I whispered back, “Tell her I’ve gone to the place we talked of.”

She looked puzzled, but she nodded.

George said, “You’d best hurry.”