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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 24 August 1692, dawn
I am exhausted and frightened. Goody Glover's litany started last eve 'ere I scarce blew out the lamp.
“Slit your throat, Rachel! Slit your throat! Take a knife from the kitchen!”
Angrily I put my hands over my ears to drown out the voices. I didn't scream, for screaming would only bring Mama.
On and on her orders droned 'til my head felt as if it would split into a thousand pieces. “Where were you today?” I whispered. “Where were you when I made you a bargain? Did you not hear what I promised?”
Her cackle nearly rendered me deaf. “Slit your throat, Rachel! Slit your throat! Take a knife from the kitchen!”
“Be gone!” I whispered. “I shan't listen to you another moment!”
Mercy called out from her bed. “Rachel? Is that you? Did you say something?”
“Nay! Nay!” I replied, cryptically. “Now, hush! And go to sleep!”
“Slit your throat, Rachel. Slit your throat. Take a knife from the kitchen.”
Her cackle calmed to a short cajole.
“Slit your throat, Rachel. 'Tis the only way. Your only escape.”
“Why do you torture me so?” I whispered. “What have I done? Why do you hate me?”
“Your body has joined with my husband's,” she said, and I shuddered. So she had seen even that! What else had she seen?
“Why did you not stop him?” I softly pled. “You must know how I detest him! I did not want to join!”
Her voice erupted into a jarring cackle. “Why did
you
not stop him?” she said, and I wanted to weep for the answer to the very same question. “You wanted it, didn't you? Just like your Mama!”
“Nay! Nay!” I cried. “I hated it! Every moment I hated it! And I hate you, too!”
Mercy said, “Rachel? Are . . . are you having one of your fits?”
“Go to sleep!” I snapped. “Leave me alone!”
Goody Glover threw back her head in laughter.
“If you go away,” I whispered, “I shan't tell anyone about your husband and Mama. I promise I shan't. You don't want people to know, do you?”
“You shan't tell even if I stay,” she said. “You shan't tell because
you
don't want anyone to know.”
Miserable, I knew she was right. Harder I pressed my hands against my ears to muffle her cackle. “When did it happen?” I asked. “With your husband and Mama?”
“A long time ago,” she said.
“Shall you tell me about it?” I softly pled. “Shall you tell me so I can understand?”
Again she threw back her head, shrilly, and would tell me nothing. Then she whispered, “A secret. A secret. A secret you must learn. Slit your throat, Rachel. Slit your throat with a kitchen knife. Come with me, and I shall tell you everything.”
“Stop! Stop!” I cried as her bony fingers reached out for me.
Mercy called out, nervously, “Rachel? Shall I call Mama? What's going on?”
“Nothing!” I snapped. “Nothing's going on! Now go to sleep!”
Goody Glover said, “There's no way out, Rachel. You have joined your body with my husband. You are unclean.”
I choked back a sob.
“No one shall want you, Rachel. Not even Jeremiah. Have you told him, Rachel? Have you told Jeremiah of your joining?”
“Nay,” I whispered. “I can't tell him. I . . . I can't!”
“How did it feel, Rachel? How did it feel when my husband lay atop you? Did you like it? Is that why you didn't flee?”
“I hated it,” I sobbed. “I tried to flee. Truly I did. I . . . I just couldn't, though.”
“Why, Rachel? Why?” she pressed. “Why couldn't you flee? Because you teased him, didn't you?”
“Nay! Nay!” I whispered frantically. “I didn't tease him! I didn't want it to happen! I couldn't flee because . . . because I just couldn't! He . . . he was too heavy!”
Her laughter tortured me to the very depths of despair. “My husband is a slight man,” she said. “And yet you could not move him?”
“But I'm only a girl!” I wailed. “I'm not very strong!”
“Strong enough for water buckets, are you not?” she said. “Strong enough to lead the stock and manage the cow.”
“I . . . I know,” I said, sickened.
“But not strong enough to move my husband,” she said. “No one shall ever believe that, Rachel. Not your Papa nor your Mama, nor even Jeremiah. You are spoiled, Rachel. You shall never wed. No one shall have you.”
“I know,” I sobbed.
“Slit your throat, Rachel. Slit your throat. 'Tis the only way. Put your family from their misery. Have you not caused them sufficient grief? Slit your throat, Rachel. Slit your throat. Rise and get a kitchen knife.”
All she had said was true. I have caused the family grief. Continuous grief, and with no end. No one wants me. Even now Jeremiah avoids me. I shall never wed. I shall always be a burden.
Slowly, methodically, I rose from my bed, trancelike, moving quietly toward the door.
Mercy called out, “Where are you going, Rachel?”
“Hush,” I ordered. “Go to sleep.”
The stairs creaked beneath my feet. All was dark below, lit only by a thread of moon seeping through the open windows. I did not need a lamp; I knew where I was going. Numbly, I seemed to float to the cupboard, and I opened the drawer. The wooden handle felt cold on my fingers, and the smooth steel of its long blade caught the glint of moonlight and shimmered silver-blue. Slowly I ran my finger along its edge. It was sharp. Papa had sharpened it evening last. Dazedly I stared at it. For how long, I do not know. I remember feeling the cool breeze of night as it gently caught my gown. I am not certain what I intended. Mixed with the soft breeze was a whisper. “Slit your throat, Rachel. Slit your throat. Slit it with the knife.”
I do not think I would have obeyed. But I am not certain. Like a leaden weight, I felt powerless to move or think. The glint of steel mesmerized me and carried me away into the caressing voices.
“Slit your throat, Rachel. Slit your throat. Slit it with the knife.”
Then I heard Mama behind me.
“Rachel! Pray, God, what are you doing with that knife? Give that to me! Give it to me this instant!”
Her voice was sharp and frantic. Still powerless to move, I stood frozen while she grabbed my hand and threw the knife across the floor. It made a sudden clatter. Angrily she grabbed me by the shoulders and began shaking me.
“Give me your ear, Rachel! Give me your ear! This nonsense must halt immediately! Do you hear? You must halt this at once!”
I said nothing. Like a rag doll, I stood limply within her grasp, my head bobbing backward and forward as her hands shook my shoulders.
“Rachel, what ails you?” she demanded. “Why are your eyes so glazed? What did you intend with that knife? Speak to me, Rachel! Tell me what you intended!”
“I . . . I don't know,” I murmured, and I am certain I spoke the truth. Even still I do not know my intention, and not knowing fears me. Would I have done as Goody Glover ordered? Or would I have turned the knife on Goody Glover instead?
Mama ordered, “Up to bed with you! I shall be up in a moment! Then we shall speak this thing through!”
As I climbed the stairs, Mama remained in the kitchen, and I knew she was searching out all the knives. I knew she would hide them. I thought, “She doesn't need to hide them,” and I started to tell her so, but I didn't. Because I wasn't certain.
Salem, 24 August 1692, eve
I dreaded today's sun to rise. Mama was furious because I would not speak to her last eve of my intentions. She sat on the edge of my bed for what seemed an eternity, attempting to draw everything out of me; but I told her nothing. Nothing was I able to tell. Too much pain would be caused.
I dreaded also that, miserable and exhausted, I must face a house-raising. Even Mama, I know, did not want to attend. At morning meal her face was strained and heavy, and only through her strong force of will was she able to match Papa's eagerness.
We had to attend because of Papa's mill. The mill fares poorly, and two factions have developed in the village: those who side with Papa, and those who side with Goodman English. Papa, of course, bears the brunt. People stay away in droves for not wanting to get involved.
For this reason, Papa was determined the whole family would be in attendance for the raising of a new home for the Disboroughs. Papa wanted to show the village that we bear the Disboroughs no grudge, even though Goodman Disborough refused Papa the loan of £21 and moved his family in with the Englishes. Papa's intention is to persuade as many people as possible over to his side, thence have them bringing back their grain to the mill. “'Tis good business,” I heard Papa explain to Mama. “If we wish neighbors to bring us their grain to grind, we must in turn show we wish to help others. By raising a house.”
How I dreaded going. Everyone I did not want to see would be present. But no choice had I. After sun-up, Daniel went to fetch Prudence, since the Cory family as a rule is above such common activities as house-raisings, and I resigned myself to piling into the wagon with the rest of the family, all the while fervently vowing to stick close to Papa for protection against Goodman Glover.
Only once had I seen the Disborough farm since the disaster. That time it had been a desolate and lonely place, its acres of charred grasses looking like a black dried-up lake bed, and its lone chimney rising from a forlorn cellar hole which was filled with rubble and ashes. How different it looked today. Neighbors from every corner of the village swarmed round the blackened field, the men intent upon the raising of a house, the women quilting or setting out tables of food, the laughing squeals of children drifting all the way down the road, well past the bend; and while the grass remained charred, the scene was much improved because the rubble and ashes had been cleared, and the solitary chimney did not look half so forlorn with the heavy oak framework which was being lifted around it to provide it with a shelter. Soon, after today's framing and fall's finishing, a new house would stand; and after winter's snows and spring's growth, the field would return to its soft, fertile green, and only a memory would remain of this summer's tragedy.
Papa tethered the horses, then went to help with the house. I turned to follow, but before I could climb from the wagon, he was gone. Clearly men's work had no room for a child.
It seemed everyone had some purpose to attend but me. After Mercy and I helped Mama carry the food we brought, Mercy trotted off to giggle with her friends. Daniel, with Prudence on his arm, also disappeared into the throng, with Daniel playing quite the sophisticated suitor. That left only Mama. And I followed her like a lost puppy clinging to heels.
From across the field, I watched Papa talking with a group of men who were inspecting the framing, and I saw him make a special effort to approach Goodman Disborough. Even did Papa lay an arm around Goodman Disborough's shoulders. I ached for how Papa was swallowing his pride and being so pleasant; and I thought of all those times Papa had helped the Disboroughs, yet the one time Papa asked for assistance in return, Goodman Disborough had refused. Goodman Disborough smiled as if he remembered nothing. Then Goodman English walked up. I held my breath. Even from the distance, I could see Papa's jaw tense. Yet still Papa was pleasant; their conversation was brief, but while Goodman English looked surly and seething, Papa remained calm. Later Papa told me he said to Goodman English, “'Twill be settled in the courts. Today let us leave our differences behind us.” How
could
Papa be so civil!
Daniel moved confidently and easily amongst his friends as well as the adults, and it surprised me how friendly and well-liked he seemed. He even took charge of attaching the lifting ropes and lining up the framing. I began to wonder if there is a better side to Daniel after all. Prudence smiled over at him, a soft, flushing, adoring smile, and when I saw Daniel return that smile, my heart did a sharp twist. Once I had seen Jeremiah return
my
smile like that; once I had expected the day would come when Jeremiah, turning of age, would be officially asking to call on
me
, just as Daniel had done for Prudence.
Nervously I espied Goodman Glover. His stooped, weasely form was planted at the barrels of beer, already into the spirits. Cringing, I edged closer toward Mama. He did not see me. Noggin of beer in hand, he took off toward the framing, his walk hinting at a drunken swagger, rather like a sailor attempting to maintain his balance on some rolling deck.
All this activity I noticed. But truly my eyes were fastened like buttons to buttonholes to the far end of the field, to that vexing spot where Ann, Deliverance, Phebe and Abigail stood surrounded by a cluster of boys, the entire group teasing, laughing, flirting and having what was clearly a marvelous time of it. Jeremiah was with them. He was demonstrating how to make a whistle from reeds; I knew it to be so, because he had shown me the exact same trick years ago when we had been sitting by the river with our bare feet wriggling in the water among the stones. But whom was Jeremiah most intent upon impressing with his current demonstration? None other than Phebe. My heart tore into shreds.
Miserable, I listened to Mama and her group of goodwives chatter on and on about the selection of food. I felt like a pariah. No one talked to me; no one took note of my presence; and, save for Goody Bishop, who pointedly inquired as to how my Scripture readings were progressing, thereby making me wither with the attention given to my possession, not one word was addressed in my direction. Dumbly, I stood like a weed, and being about as popular.
“Rachel,” whispered Mama. “Go play with your friends.”
“Friends?” thought I, gloomily. “I have none, save for Ann, and she stands in the midst of that laughing throng. No one even knows I'm alive! No one even waved a greeting!”
“Rachel,” hissed Mama, again. “Do go see to your friends. Else people shall think something is wrong!”
“Wrong?” I wanted to say. “The whole world is wrong! I am friendless! Forgotten!”
Mama left me no choice. I was as unwanted with her as I was with the others. Hesitantly I moved from Mama's side, slowly making my way past the quilters and spinners, trying to melt into the activity so as not to provoke the attention of Goodman Glover. I tried to prolong every moment before I reached Jeremiah, Phebe and the others, and when I did reach them, I glumly held back, remaining a few paces off from the group, running my foot round in the grass, pretending to look for clovers. I hoped Ann would notice me and say something nice.
But Ann was too absorbed in something being said by Deodat Easty; she was blushing furiously. Abigail giggled stupidly, in some secret with ugly Joshua Snow, and villainously I wondered what Abigail would say if she knew about Joshua's silly looking dingle. Deliverance made some clever remark to Peter Cook, making him laugh uproariously, and Phebe tossed her curls and openly flirted with Jeremiah, who seemed to be enjoying the attention immensely. Phebe was the only one who I was certain saw me. But she pretended she didn't. Too delighted was she in captivating Jeremiah.
Amongst that long, agonizingly self-conscious search for clover, I eventually heard Ann's soft voice, kind and pleasant, and my hopes soared. “Rachel! How pleased I am to see you! Do come join us!”
Everything was going to be all right! By Ann's acceptance, the others would follow, and no longer would I be some misbegotten pariah! Relieved, I edged forward. But as I did so, all conversation stopped with faces turning tense and ill at ease. Smiles drooped. I glanced at Jeremiah. He paled in discomfort. Clearing his throat, Jeremiah started to bid me a greeting, but no sooner had he distracted his attention from Phebe (who probably inwardly raged, and who was sufficiently confident of her ability to gain everyone's approval of her forthcoming cleverness), than Phebe dropped to the ground and began writhing. “Don't let her take me!” Phebe screamed. “I'm to sign her book! Don't let her make me! Is that a bird I see on your shoulder? Nay, bird, don't attack me! Help! Help! He flies to attack!”
Aghast, I stared down at her in horror. Then the worst happened. Everyone began to laugh! Phebe mocked me for all to see, and everyone applauded!
Something inside me snapped. With venom, I cried, “Phebe Edwards, you're a gurley-gutted Devil and I hate you!”
“Taa, taa, taa,” chanted Phebe, airily as she rose and dusted herself off. “She thinks I care that she despises!”
The laughter grew more awkward, and I turned to flee, gulping back tears of mortification. In a flash, Ann caught my arm—dear, sweet, quiet Ann—and turned round on the group with a ferociousness that left me stunned and startled.
“You ought be ashamed of yourselves!” snapped Ann, her eyes lit like fire. “Some friends you are when another is in need! I cringe to admit I know any one of you!”
I know Ann was trying to help, and I was truly grateful for her kindness, yet only did I want her to let me loose so I could flee! Where did Ann find such strength? Where has that strength been all these years?
Ann ordered, “Rachel, if you turn round, these people shall present their apology. Which is sorely needed, indeed.”
Stammering, I murmured, “That's all right, Ann, I—”
“I don't blame you, Rachel,” interrupted Ann with renewed vigor. “I should want no apology from their kind, either. Come, let us help with the food. I'm certain I see a nicer sort by the table.”
With that, Ann led me away, no one bothering to call out or to follow—being too embarrassed, I supposed—with Ann saying softly, but firmly, “Pay no attention, Rachel. They don't mean what they do. They know nothing of how you feel. They only do such things in shortsightedness and sport. Later they shall come to you, one by one, and apologize. You shall see.”
But no one did. Not even Jeremiah.
The only one who did seek me out was Goodman Glover. When I went to water the horses. Fortunately, he was too drunk to make his threats coherent.
“Pretty girl,” he said, his words thick and slurred. “Be nice to me.”
Before I could tear from his grasp, he loosed his breeches and
exposed
himself to me!
“Like my organ?” he said, with a drunken grin. “You remember it, don't you? You liked it, didn't you? Want to touch it, pretty girl?”
I stared, sickened, at the small floppy dingle which stood out white and shriveled against the dark cloth of his breeches. Too vividly did I recall what had so recently transpired. Had that small floppy thing really grown to such enormity? How could I not have stopped his vile mutilation of me?
He fumbled for my hand, trying to draw it toward that thing of which he was so horridly proud, and I felt ill for all the memories that leapt out at me. Angrily I wrenched myself free. Stunned, I watched him fall to the ground, his drunken, weasely form too intoxicated to rise, his glazed eyes unable to focus. Even his laughter was slurred. Then swiftly I returned to the house-raising.
And so, God, not a soul in the world cares what happens to me. Except Ann, of course.

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