Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Witch Child (10 page)
Salem, 9 August 1692, morn
Shall Goody Glover never be satisfied 'til I join her in death? Why does she so torment me?
Last eve her blood again spilled into my throat, and so profuse was its flow, the Venice treacle could scarce find its way past. And as the drool dribbled from her distorted lips, her mouth opened into its wide cackle, making the blood flow even faster. So violent were my thrashings, Papa could not at all catch hold of my limbs to tie me down, and Mama had finally to toss upon me a pitcher of water.
Mercy ran wailing to the great room, refusing to return even after my convulsions had subsided. “What if Goody Glover gets me, too?” Mercy wailed.
“Goody Glover shall get no one,” Mama maintained, firmly.
Papa said, “I think we should ask Reverend Parris to return.”
Mama replied, “He returns every day, Jacob.”
Daniel, disgusted, slammed the front door and went to the barn, saying he could scarce catch a wink for his troublesome half-sister.
And I? I exhaustedly helped Mama change my soaked sheets, wondering where all is to end. Pray, God, what plan is for me? Am I forever to be tormented? Or am I to soon indeed choke upon her blood and follow my torturer to her grave?
Salem, 9 August 1692, eve
I hate Phebe! I hate Abigail! I hate Deliverance!
Today I went round to call on Ann Sibley, and with her were the three people I now most hate: Abigail, Phebe, and Deliverance. All were tossing horseshoes beside Ann's barn. “No one,” thought I, suddenly miserable, “had thought to invite
my
inclusion.” Too soon did I know the reason, because at my appearance, all motion instantly stilled. For a moment I wondered if I had grown horns, so strangely did all stare at me. Remembering my resolve for a change of character, and all too clearly hearing Mama's description of me as friendless, I smiled. So seldom do I smile, I expected everyone to excitedly greet me. No more in error have I ever been.
my
inclusion.” Too soon did I know the reason, because at my appearance, all motion instantly stilled. For a moment I wondered if I had grown horns, so strangely did all stare at me. Remembering my resolve for a change of character, and all too clearly hearing Mama's description of me as friendless, I smiled. So seldom do I smile, I expected everyone to excitedly greet me. No more in error have I ever been.
All stared at me in nervousness. It made
me
nervous. just watching them. Phebe actually took two steps backward. Abigail tossed another horseshoe. For a moment I thought everyone was going to pretend I didn't exist! Hopefullyâexpectantly!âI looked at Deliverance. Surely Deliverance would bid me a greeting. Deliverance was my best friend. Deliverance always wants to be
liked!
me
nervous. just watching them. Phebe actually took two steps backward. Abigail tossed another horseshoe. For a moment I thought everyone was going to pretend I didn't exist! Hopefullyâexpectantly!âI looked at Deliverance. Surely Deliverance would bid me a greeting. Deliverance was my best friend. Deliverance always wants to be
liked!
Obviously Deliverance did not care about being liked today. Deliverance half smiled awkwardly, and when Phebe said something about leaving, Deliverance almost tripped over Phebe's heels to follow. Abigail was in close pursuit. Phebe could not, of course, resist acting catty. Still not addressing me, she excused herself to Ann by saying
very precisely
, “My mother has given me strict instructions as to certain persons I'm to avoid.”
very precisely
, “My mother has given me strict instructions as to certain persons I'm to avoid.”
Stunned, for a moment I hadn't a clue as to her meaning. Deliverance didn't even glance at me. Then I realized. 'Tis because of my possession. How swiftly its news has spread.
As if Phebe's claws hadn't yet made their mark, she then tossed her head in that irritating manner and said, meanly, “O Ann, do tell Jeremiah if he comes round that I shall be at home. He was expecting me here today.”
I felt mortally wounded. If Phebe's claws had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart, I could not have felt worse. So Jeremiah has indeed replaced me with Phebe! Has he kissed her, too, I wonder?
Wretched, I glanced at Ann, mortified at what she must think. Had she told the others about Jeremiah and me? What a fool they must think me to be!
My insides writhed as I watched the trio walk across the fields, whispering, giggling, their heads bent as close as thieves. No need had I to wonder of what they were whispering. 'Twas of me!
Miserable, I wanted to put my face in my hands and run home weeping. But so desperately alone did I suddenly feel, that I needed a friend, any friend, no matter how reluctant that person was for my company. I again looked at Ann. She had a strange expression on her face, rather like when one has eaten something foul and wishes to be able to spit it out. But Ann is too sweet to be unkind.
Bluntly I asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
Ann began picking up the horseshoes, presumably to give herself time to think, but finally she answered, softly, “Of course not.”
She didn't mean it. But I didn't care. Nervously I began helping her collect the horseshoes, hoping she wouldn't change her mind, and eventually she asked in her sweet voice, “Mama asked me to pick wildflowers for the table. Would you like to help?”
At that point I would have picked ragweed, so desperate was I for company. We went to the meadow and meandered slowly over its small green hills, picking daisies and buttercups and Indian paintbrush, and so relieved was I that I had not been completely ostracized, I didn't care whether Ann talked to me or not. Which, for a while, it looked as if she would
not
.
not
.
I was relieved, however, that Ann was too kind to mention Jeremiah. Were she to have referred to him in any manner, even to express sympathy, I am certain I would have wept.
Yet Ann's curiosity about other things did not go unspoken. As she reached down to pluck some paintbrush, she softly asked, “What's it like, Rachel? Being possessed?”
So startled was I, I did not answer for a moment. 'Tis the first time anyone has ever mentioned my condition so naturally, just as naturally as if she had inquired: “What's it like, Rachel? Living on Ipswich Road?”
Pondering the question a moment, I wondered if I really wanted to answer. Normally, âtis exactly the sort of personal probing I would avoid, replying with some cryptic statement which would close off any further curiosity. But, remembering my resolve to change my character and to be more open, I heaved a long sigh and said, honestly, “Ann, 'tis the most dreadful thing you can ever imagine.”
Slowly, and in vivid detail, I then began describing much of what has happened to me, feeling a sense of release in finally having someone to whom I could spill out all my troubles. I probably should not have told so much, but Ann listened with such interest, and with such sympathy, I could not stop myself. Sometimes I even made my visions sound worse than they are, just because I needed the sympathy. Alas, my pride, I fear, went the same way as my reserve, and I felt not a whit of shame or reluctance in what I told.
At the end, Annâdear, sweet, gentle Annâput her arms round me in a hug and told me how glad she was to be able to understand.
“Dearest Rachel, I am so glad you have confided in me.” Her voice was sad, and I truly think she felt some of my pain. “Please do feel you can always count on me should you ever need help . . . or just to listen should you need to talk.”
I think she meant it. Oddly, I suddenly had a deep desire that some of her peace and gentleness could be a part of me, that if it were, it would soothe me; and I impulsively removed a pin from my hair and pled, “0 Ann! Do let's be blood sisters! You are the only one who cares about me! Truly you are! Do let's seal our bond!”
Ann looked startled, but she was kind. Stammering, she put me off with: “Er . . . umm . . . your, uh, pin shan't, uh, be sharp enough. Perhaps we . . . uh . . . should do it another time.”
She probably would have done it had I pressed; but I didn't press. I think I know why she refused. She, just like the others, thinks me contagious.
Feeling awkward, I instantly regretted my impulsiveness and was about to tell Ann that I hadn't really meant it and was merely jesting; but I hadn't the chance, because suddenly a bumblebee swirled out of a clump of daisies that Ann had reached to pick, and its black and yellow fur landed on her hand. I still feel badly for Ann. I know it hurt. Tears welled in her eyes, and she whimpered as she ran to the house for her mother.
On the way home, a chicken flew into my path and opened its mouth into a loud cackleâGoody Glover's cackle. Its feathery body kept flying at my legs and pecking at my ankles, and it chased me all the way home, 'til I was nearly driven to distraction and finally collapsed on the great room floor, wailing. It seems I never escape her! And now she has taken all my friends! Even Jeremiah!
Salem, 10 August 1692
How lonely I am for Jeremiah. Does he not think of me at all? I turned thrice and ten today, and he did not even remember.
Mama and Mercy presented me with a pewter spoon for my bridal chest; Papa and Daniel bestowed me a cup and saucer. I wonder if I shall wed to eyer use them.
Salem, 11 August 1692
I could bear it no longer. Being the direct person I am, I had to hear Jeremiah himself explain why he has replaced me.
I went to the ordinary, which was the only place I knew to find him. The dust from the road made small, dry puffs as I walked, clinging to the hem of my skirt and streaking it gray, which quite ill-humored me, for I did so want to look my best for this occasion.
I had hoped to find Jeremiah outside; but I did not, and so I took a deep breath and marched up the three small steps and proceeded to enterâwhich, as a girl, and as a villager, is quite unheard of, ordinaries being licensed only for men and for travellers, and considered wasteful idleness for villagers, who should be putting time to better use.
Tentative at first, I pushed open the large, heavy door a small crack. Six or seven men sat at trestle tables, cooling themselves with tall draughts of beer. I recognized no one, of course; but at the far end of the room, the taproom door stood slightly ajar, and behind it I could see Jeremiah doing something with a stack of kegs. My heart began to pound nervously.
Pushing the door a bit farther, I stepped inside. Some of the men set down their wooden noggins and watched me. Quite naughty did I feel, standing in an ordinary. Swiftly my eyes took it all in, from the warm coals in the enormous hearth to the rows of shelves with empty noggins reaching almost up to the low ceiling, to the neat samplers hung on the plaster wallsâevery detail of which I tried to remember so I could relate it to Deliverance, or even Abigail, if ever again they decided to speak to me. Then Jeremiah stepped from the taproom and stopped dead in his tracks.
His jaw dropped open in amazement. I giggled awkwardly. Quicker than I could blink, he was beside me and hustling me outside, giving me quite the lecture for my erring ways and speaking softly 'til we reached outside so as not to cause a commotion amongst the travellers.
As soon as we were in the sunlight, I abruptly interrupted and defended myself. “Had you come to callâas you used to,” I said, “I shan't be forced to such erring!” What courage I displayed!
I had meant it half in teasing and half in challenge, but my abruptness gave him pause from his lecturing, and I could almost see him gulp. Suddenly he looked guilty. I was glad. I wanted him to feel guilty for ignoring me.
Hands on my hips, I defiantly repeated, “Why
have
you ignored me?”
have
you ignored me?”
Still Jeremiah did not give a direct answer. Looking vastly uncomfortable, he mumbled something I could make neither head nor tail of, then finally he repeated what he had said two days pastâhow his father had been keeping him quite busy at the ordinary. Stammering, he said, “'Tis . . . er . . . been a time of, uh, so many travellers that I guess . . . well . . . the days have all drifted into one.”
Trying to decide whether his answer was genuine, I stared him straight in the eye to try to determine if he meant it. I couldn't decide. So with even more directness, I then asked, “Have you replaced my company with that of Phebe?”
Jeremiah snapped, “I told you my father has kept me busy.”
I decided I did not believe him. Whether he had indeed replaced me with Phebe, I still did not know; but I
did
know, and I knew
he
knew, that he had been avoiding me. Bluntly, I said what I knew to be filling his thoughts.
did
know, and I knew
he
knew, that he had been avoiding me. Bluntly, I said what I knew to be filling his thoughts.
“So. I suppose you've heard about my possession.”
“Well, er, yes,” he stammered. “I have, uh, er, heard of it.”
His discomfit increased to the point of pain. And while his long legs shuffled around in the dirt, I could see him visibly wince. Deliverance once said Jeremiah's arms and legs look like they are growing too fast for his body. At that moment, his gangliness seemed to grow immeasurably.
Vexed at not having the conversation going at all as I intended, I started to morosely sit down on the steps; but no sooner had my knees half-way bent than Jeremiah swiftly caught hold of my elbow and led me round to the back, toward the chopping stump, which I thought to be because he felt it not seemly for a girl to be sitting on the steps of an ordinary. Brushing off the wood shavings on the stump, Jeremiah prepared me a place, but perversely I now decided I wanted to stand.
“Well?” I demanded. “'Tis my possession, isn't it? That is why you've been ignoring me.”
“Nay, nay. 'Tis not true at all,” he denied. “We're still friends. I promise we are.”
Startled, I asked, “Why would we
not
be?”
not
be?”
Again Jeremiah was awkward, moving round on the stump, and I could tell this conversation was something he vastly wished to avoid. His feet kept self-consciously burying themselves in a pile of shavings, until finally he asked, “Do . . . do you have these . . . er . . . fits often? I mean, could you just be standing somewhere and . . . uh . . . fall into a fit?”
Somewhere deep inside me a light dawned. Furiously I spat out, “So that's why you hustled me outside, then so swiftly round to the back! You fear I shall scare away your father's customers! Well, if you worry whether I shall fall into a fit on the steps of your father's ordinaryâI shan't! My visions have to drive me to distraction before I give in, and I promise I shall leave well before that!”
By Jeremiah's scarlet face, I knew I had read his thoughts precisely. And so burning was a lump in my throat, I could scarcely swallow.
“âTis not what I thought at all,” Jeremiah swiftly lied. “Truly 'twas not! I was . . . er . . . just curious, that's all.”
Contemptuously I shot back, “What a fraud you are, Jeremiah. You're just like Deliverance and all the rest. You're afraid of me, aren't you? You're afraid I'm contagious!”
The chill in my voice could have frozen tea. But inside, that lump scorched a hole through my throat, and I wanted to sob.
Dejected, Jeremiah said, “I've missed you, Rachel. Truly I have. Don't leave. Let's talkâlike we used to. About, er, other things.”
“Things which are not important to
me?”
I hissed.
me?”
I hissed.
“Rachel, pray . . .”
“Don't âpray' me, Jeremiah Moore! You're no better friend than any of the others! And you, of all people! You're the one person I thought I could count on! The one person I thought would understand me!”
I suppose Jeremiah felt miserable. His face was pale, and his eyes were sad and repentant. I didn't care. I rushed on, my words withering and sharp.
“So, I see your friendship runs no deeper than a shallow puddle! You're even worse than the others, who at least
admit
their intentions!”
admit
their intentions!”
“Rachel, that's not fairâ”
“Not fair! Not fair, Jeremiah Moore! And whom are you to speak of fairness? You, who deserts a person just when they need you the most! Well, I shan't vex you with my presence any longer! You shall have no more fears of my having fits on your father's steps!”
Hurt to the quick, I turned on my heel, blinking back the tears, but swiftly Jeremiah caught my hand and pulled me back.
“Rachel, listen. Pray, listen! You're right in some ways. I . . . I am not a very good friend. But . . . but you know how it is when people are accused of . . . er . . . possession.” I could tell it pained him to speak the word. “Everything around them gets . . . well, er, confused. And everyone starts talking about . . . well, about how maybe something worse might happen....”
“Like being witched!” I spat.
“Well, er . . .”
“You needn't worry about that either, Jeremiah Moore. If I do become a witch, you shall be the last person upon whom I cast a spell! You shan't be worth it!”
I knew my words were dangerous, but I was too angry to care.
“Rachel!” gasped Jeremiah. “Do beâ”
“Careful?” I snapped. “O wouldn't you and all the others just love to see me hang from a noose!”
“Rachel, that's not true! Iâ”
“Or would you rather see me driven insane from the terror of my visions? With not one friend in the world to turn to! Aye, 'tis indeed what everyone wants, isn't it?”
“Rachelâ”
“Well, upon my life, you shall have neither! I shall . . . I shall kill myself first!”
With that I did turn on my heel, and raced away, blinking back tears of hurt and frustration.
'Tis strange, how I have always felt about Jeremiah. All my thirteen years he has been my playmate and my protector; always around him I have felt soft and kind, a softness and kindness which has extended beyond him to all else and all other persons in the world. So much more pleasant, and pretty, has the world always appeared when Jeremiah was there. And when he has not been there, my feelings have been just the opposite; instead of large and bright, the world has seemed small and unfriendly and frightening, and inside I am closed, sharp, wary.
Now I wonder whether all these years I have made a mistake, whether the person I thought to be so steady, so caring, was merely a figment of my imagination, another vision which has deceived me, a vision having no more substance than the soft, ill-formed shape of a clam, a vision having no more strength of character than a rope, which, when its ends are loosed of its bounds and it has lost its constrictions, falls limp and useless and serves no purpose.
I had hoped Jeremiah would follow me. When I arrived home, I sat in the shadow behind the barn, and I watched the narrow, dusty road for hours. But he did not come.
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