Witch Child (17 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Salem, 30 August 1692
All day I feared to look at Papa. When he arrived home for meals, I stared at him intently, fearing against fear to see some awful knowledge etched within his glance. Was his brow more deeply creased? Did his jowls sag lower than afternoon last? Were his clear blue eyes dark and cloudy, wracked by pain? Oft did I consider going to the river, making apologies for being a day late, pleading for reprieve; but I convinced myself no one would be there to hear my plea, and even if he were there, the plea would not be heeded. Fate was irreparably cast. But deep down I know I did not go because I did not want to. Dear God, is that so wrong of me? Is it wrong to allow Papa to be so pained, as surely he soon will be? How long before Goodman Glover tells? How long before Papa learns? Dear God, would that You could reach down with Your all-powerful hand and guide me.
That Papa does not yet know, I am certain; for if he did, âtwould have come out this eve, in the argument betwixt him and Mama. 'Twas an argument following a day of tumult, for I knew the Whites could never live under our roof with peace.
Goody White does not do a lick of work, thus being not only surly but lazy, and anything she
does
attempt, she makes a frightful mess of, thinking, I suppose, that she will not be called upon to do another. At pain was she to complain all the day long about her weariness and loss of sleep due to her disturbance by my visions, which I did try so hard to control. Yet so often did Goody White's house-rattling snores jolt me from slumber, and so startled was I upon each waking by the loudness and strangeness of those wheezing sounds, that I kept thinking it was Goody Glover; and before I could will her away, she instantly swirled up in front of me, with all her cackling laughter. And blood. I think that is what aggravated Bridget White the most. How I kept washing my hands.
does
attempt, she makes a frightful mess of, thinking, I suppose, that she will not be called upon to do another. At pain was she to complain all the day long about her weariness and loss of sleep due to her disturbance by my visions, which I did try so hard to control. Yet so often did Goody White's house-rattling snores jolt me from slumber, and so startled was I upon each waking by the loudness and strangeness of those wheezing sounds, that I kept thinking it was Goody Glover; and before I could will her away, she instantly swirled up in front of me, with all her cackling laughter. And blood. I think that is what aggravated Bridget White the most. How I kept washing my hands.
The noisy, ill-mannered brood is no better. Even Daniel, in all his moroseness and self-imposed silence, complains. Daniel's illness gets no better, and he says bitterly that if those ragtag ruffians do not refrain from bolting into his darkened chamber, he will roar up from his weakened sickbed and pound them into the floorboards. For once, I wish Daniel well with his venom.
So seldom have I ever heard Papa and Mama argue, that I was startled when even
this
horrendous situation brought them to such lowered depths. Mama, particularly, attempts harmony at all costs. Yet Mama's voice was raised like the shrillest shrew, and poor Papa, with all his troublesâand more to come of which he does not yet know!âwas forced to drive his own voice sharper; so that in the end, I could not at all recognize these two people who had for all my thirteen years kept such stability under our roof. They were in the malt house when I heard them, Papa having ordered Mama there after evening meal. I heard that whispered order and tiptoed out soon after, leaving Mercy to contend with the unruly Whites and knowing not of whence we had all disappeared.
this
horrendous situation brought them to such lowered depths. Mama, particularly, attempts harmony at all costs. Yet Mama's voice was raised like the shrillest shrew, and poor Papa, with all his troublesâand more to come of which he does not yet know!âwas forced to drive his own voice sharper; so that in the end, I could not at all recognize these two people who had for all my thirteen years kept such stability under our roof. They were in the malt house when I heard them, Papa having ordered Mama there after evening meal. I heard that whispered order and tiptoed out soon after, leaving Mercy to contend with the unruly Whites and knowing not of whence we had all disappeared.
“She has to go,” said Papa, firmly. His voice was scarcely muffled at all through the stone walls.
“She can't,” said Mama, with conviction.
“Let someone else take her in,” commanded Papa.
“No one else
will!”
will!”
“Then let her rot in the woods! My conscience shall be bothered not a whit!”
“Rotting in the woods is
not
what I fear, Jacob!”
not
what I fear, Jacob!”
“You
live
by your fears!”
live
by your fears!”
“And do you not also? Is not everything you do ruled by fear of losing the mill? Then make
this
one of those fears, as well!”
this
one of those fears, as well!”
Curiously, I wondered what Bridget White had to do with Papa's troubles with the mill, or Mama's fears, whatever those fears are, but I had scarce time to think about those perplexities, because Papa said:
“Nay, I'll
not
make it one of my fears! I'll not have my home wrenched limb from limb!”
not
make it one of my fears! I'll not have my home wrenched limb from limb!”
“And would you live with the consequences?”
“Consequences be damned! You mustâ”
“Jacob! I'll not listen to your curses!”
“Curses I'll say if I wish! If you want to rid the fear, then rid the problem!”
“You sound like your son!”
“So today he's
mine!
Afternoon past, you damned him for disclaiming to be yours!”
mine!
Afternoon past, you damned him for disclaiming to be yours!”
“He made clear his desires! So it shall be! Why do you not reprimand him for how he addresses me!”
“Love is earned, not ordered!”
“Earned only when 'tis given encouragement!”
“Encouragement! Encouragement it should be when now he lies ill and cursed?”
“Jacob! God still your tongue! May your voice be rent forever should you put such a thought into his head!”
“'Twill occur to him soon! I'll stake my life!”
“Nay, if 'tis not given seed! And when you talk of earning, you'd best look beneath your own hat for that! Else you stand to lose love you once cherished!”
“If you wish to speak further of
that
situationâ”
that
situationâ”
“I do
not!
I wish you only to be the husband and father I wed!”
not!
I wish you only to be the husband and father I wed!”
“So you now regret
that
as well?”
that
as well?”
“I regret nothing! Save for your lack of feeling!”
“My feelings are stretched to their limits! Tomorrow that woman and her odious family
go!”
go!”
“They stay!”
“They go!”
“They stay, I say!”
“By tomorrow they are rid!”
“And Rachel and I go with them!”
“Damn you, Martha!”
I heard the heavy stomp of Papa's boots, the slam of a door, and by the light of the stars, I saw Papa's tall angry figure stalk off into the fields, his arms swirling round like windmills. Mama remained in the malt house, weeping weary and heartbroken tears, and for all I despised her, I could not help but feel pity. She sounded like a lost child, deposited in some ditch. 'Twas perplexing indeed, hers and Papa's altercation. Why would Mama leave with Goody White, and take
me
in the process?
me
in the process?
Salem, 31 August 1692
I have stumbled upon a piece of information so grotesque I can only write it. To not a soul can I breathe a word, for 'twould bring destruction to someone I still hold so very dear were it to become common knowledge, as I fear it soon shall be, and I must figure out how to stop it from becoming so. Nay, even do I fear writing it for the risk that this journal may someday be discovered, may someday even be presented by me to prove my innocence. But write I must, for I cannot hold such monstrosity inside, needing somehow to sort it all out, of which recording shall assist me. And so I shall record.
Two travellers paused for refreshment today at the ordinary of Jeremiah's father. 'Tis not an unusual occurrence for travellers to pause, yet the circumstances surrounding these two particular travellers were indeed unusual, and I cannot help but think the wicked hand of the Devil has made it happen.
With the travellers were their two servants, an old Indian woman and a colored coachman, and 'tis around the Indian woman the tale unfolds. I became aware of the first part of the tale when Ann came to spin with me, bringing me the news that the Indian woman once was servant to Jeremiah's mother, Jane, when Jane was a child. Such rejoicing took place at the ordinary over the unexpected reunion that the whole village soon knew of it, Jane and the old Indian slave having thought they had lost each other forever. From the pieces of gossip which Ann and I fitted together, I learned that Jane's father had been a sea captain, he and Jane's mother residing in Boston. The Indian slave had belonged to the family, and to the slave Jane had been greatly attached, the slave in return being equally attached to Jane. Sadly, though, when twelve, Jane's father was lost at sea; sadder still, Jane's mother soon after died of heartbreak, having been deeply in love with her husband and disconsolate without him.
Homeless, and having no brothers or sisters, a gentle and timid Jane had no choice but to hire herself out, thus being taken in by an ill-humored family who abused her and required no less labor than sunup to sundown, and still more labor until late eve when finally Jane could rest her weary head upon her straw mattress. Her clothes were threadbare and scant, for her new family had no use for Jane but to cook, clean and tend to their family of numerous demanding children.
In this sorry state did Jane reside for four years, until she was sixteen, at which point her new “father” passed through our village on his way north, stopping at the ordinary for ale, and causing a great sensation for his ill-treatment of his adopted daughter. Jeremiah's father promptly took pity upon the girl. The young, dark-haired Jane gazed up at him with wide, appealing eyes, and Jeremiah's father, Oliver, having just buried his second wife, promptly fell in love, Jane so strongly reminding Oliver of his first wife. Aye, Oliver told Jane, she was equally as gentle and quiet as that first wife, and being so similar in appearance to that beloved, she brought him great joy, for he dearly adored his first wed and had not been truly happy since he had lost her. A bond instantly formed between Jane and Oliver, as if they had been destined for each other.
Negotiations were advanced, with Oliver offering a “dowry” of a grand ink-black mare and £ 10 in exchange for Jane, and Jane in turn bringing no dowry but herself. All were greatly pleased, even the ill-humored adoptive father. The next day, Oliver and Jane were wed. And Jeremiah eventually was to be their son.
So ends the lovely part of the tale. Parts of it I had once heard from Jeremiah himself and still think it touching and romantic. The grotesqueness, I was to learn later.
So pleased were Jane and the servant woman over their unexpected reunion, that Jeremiah's father carried out two barrels of ale to the edge of the road and proceeded to offer free refreshment to all who passed. I accompanied Papa to witness the reunion, myself being more interested in the possibility of seeing Jeremiah. Jeremiah, however, was busy assisting his father as host, both animatedly handing out noggins this way and that, which resulted in the busy Ipswich becoming quite jammed at the ordinary hitching post, because it seemed no horse or driver wished to refuse the opportunity for free refreshment, or the chance to listen to such an enchanting tale. 'Twas fate, they all decided. Fate with another of her surprising twists.
Aye, fate had indeed been surprisingâmuch more than anyone suspects!âand now I shall move on to that other part of the story.
Being overlooked in the excitement, and never having been proficient in seeking out conversation, I wandered round to the back of the ordinary and headed down to the river. There I heard, and saw, the old Indian woman in agitated conversation with the colored coachman. Such agitation was highly curious to me, since not moments before I had seen the old woman and dark-haired Jane walking arm in arm, in joy, the two whispering and laughing like children. In fact, never had I seen Jeremiah's mother look quite so radiant and lovely. I remember thinking that she was a beautiful woman indeed, and 'twas no wonder Jeremiah's father had fallen instantly in love, plus paid a worldly sum for her hand.
The old Indian woman, begin short and squat and having a broad, square wrinkled face with much gray streaking her coarse hair, pulled her woolen shawl round her shoulders and clutched it tightly to her, the clutching being solely from agitation, for the day was bright and warm.
“Me poor little Jane,” the woman was wailing, softly, to the colored coachman. “Whatever are I to do? O the wickedness that has been did to her!”
The coachman looked as perplexed as I, his two white eyes narrowed in his black face like half moons in a midnight sky. And so nervous was the old Indian, I found myself nervous and agitated simply watching.
Standing silent and obscured by a thicket of birch, I did not move, and they did not hear me. I hoped dearly the coachman would ask the old Indian to explain her agitation, for if he had not, I, out of great curiosity, most certainly would have stepped forward and asked myself. What wickedness could have been done to such a lovely dark-haired woman who moments before had been flushed with radiance? Soon I was to know.
The old Indian wailed, “You swear .as a Christian ruled by our Christian God never to repeat a word of the tale I will tell?”
Eagerly the black coachman nodded, his white teeth gleaming, he being just as curious as I. The old Indian woman, to insure his loyalty, softly chanted some Indian words and made unusual signs which I did not understand, then proceeded, in her illiterate grammar, to relate the tale which is so grotesque.
“Me little Jane,” she said, “not be the Captain's daughter, like she think. Her real father give her to his sister's watch when she not be yet a year. And all because he so aggrieved over the dying of his wife and not able to tend to such a tiny babe. The watch were to be temporary, he riding her all the way to Hadley hisself. The sister take her and say she keep the babe as her own, 'til the father find a new wife. But the sister not do that. She sell the babe to Captain Bradley and his wife. I be with them, when they be up in Hadley settling the inheritance of an old aunt. The Captain and his wife be wonderful people. Best masters ever owned me. But they be sad without child. No child come year after year. So when the sister approach them with a babe for sale, they take it and pay £30 gold. All the dead aunt just willed. Then they go back to Boston. And the sister write the father that the babe had took sick and died. And Captain Bradley and his wife be joyful and think their Indian servant be without ears. She never tell. Which I don't. For I love that babe and help make her grow to girl. How pretty she be. Grow prettier all the time. I tend her like my own. And she mind as sweet as a lamb.
“But the Captain and his wife must feel bad for what they do. One day Captain Bradley returns from sea with a gold locket for his little girl. And inside that locket be etched âREM,' and the words âfrom birth.' The child don't know what REM means. The Captain tell her it be initials for a long and enchanted life, that the initials be for some foreign words he learn in some island. The child delighted. But I know the truth. I know what the letters mean. They mean Jane's birth name. And I know the Captain someday want Jane to figure it out so she know who her real father be. But she never did. Because she gave the locket to me, to keep our spirits always as one, when we be torn apart after the Captain died. And this be the locket. I wear it round my neck ever since. See? See if it don't say inside what I tell.”
Wrinkled hands trembling, the old Indian woman removed the locket from her thick neck, opened the catch and held it out for the gaping colored coachman to see. The old woman continued, her voice shaky and disturbed.
“You know what REM mean? It mean Rebekah Elizabeth Moore. Not Jane Bradley, like Jane think. And that man in there she so love? That man who adore her so, and with her produce a son? That man be the same man who all those years ago ride a tiny daughter up to Hadley to be safe in the care of his sister. That man be Jane's father!”
Is it clear, now, the monstrosity of the situation? Jane has married her father! Jeremiah is the son of his father and sister!
Scarcely can I believe it myself, and would not had I not heard it with my own two ears. Now I know why Jeremiah is an only child, why all other children have died even before birth, and I find it only a miracle that Jeremiah survived.
So “unnatural” is all that has transpired that I can only guess at its effect were the village to learn of it. Every evil that has ever befallen us surely would be attributed to this one unnatural event, and even I am not certain it should not be, not certain whether it does not indeed bear the mark of that diabolic Prince of Darkness who may have long ago sent us his wicked stroke which caused us all our witches. If not true, surely it would be interpreted so.
Silently I stood in the thicket of birch, trying to absorb this enormity, and so close to me did the agitated old Indian and the grave colored coachman finally pass that I marvel they did not see me. I can only attribute their blindness to their agitation and state of worry. They and their masters soon departed the ordinary, before the barrels were emptied, but afterward the situation grew graver still.
As I, stunned and numb, moved silently through the imbibing throng in front of the ordinary, that throng intent upon watching a serene and happy Jane Moore wave goodby to her long lost servant while the coach disappeared to a small cloud of dust in the distance, I spotted a drunken Goodman Corwin reaching down and picking up a small shiny object fallen in the dusty road. 'Twas a locket, delicate and gold. Like two bright stars Goodman Corwin's eyes lit. He, who has for years struggled to feed a family of ten on land which makes crops wither and wilt, had finally found his fortune! I could read those thoughts as if they were my own. Swiftly Goodman Corwin looked round, then dropped his discovery in his pocket. And his normally downtrodden expression miraculously transformed itself into delight, a dozen years falling from his defeated slump as he pranced off down the road, whistling.
O how I wanted to run after him and snatch from him that damning piece of evidence!
âTis only a matter of time, I know, before Goodman Corwin loses caution, forgetting any fear that if his prize is made known, its rightful owner will return to reclaim its possession. Goodman Corwin, 'tis certain, will proudly display that prize. Conceit will guide him. And when he does, Jane will recognize it, Jeremiah's father will guess the truth, and the results will be too disastrous to imagine. I must figure out how to prevent it. I must save Jeremiah. I cannot let such suffering befall him, for dearly do I still care for him, even if he does not return that caring.
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