Witch Child (18 page)

Read Witch Child Online

Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
2.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Salem, 1 September 1692
All day I have wracked my brain for a plan, yet no solution will come to me. My sleep was so fitful last eve, and so terrorized by all sorts of horrid visions, that Goody White, after seizing me by the shoulders and roughly shaking me until my neck nearly snapped, announced that if I were to continue to shriek and wail so as to send the walls shuddering, she would toss me into the barn. Mama went with me. The two of us walked like apparitions ourselves, our long white nightdresses like white mist in the dark dead of night, moving in silence the short distance between house and barn. We climbed into the loft, making our beds in the hay, listening to the screechings and burrowings of rats, as I tried to will away the horror of my visions.
Mama's voice was strong and stern. “Tell me, Rachel, what you see. Why do your visions continue to worsen?”
I could not tell her. My head was too full of all the vile things I know yet cannot breathe. Dear God, why have you given me so many burdens? Am I destined to be heroic, as Eunice Flint portends? I do not feel so at all.
Papa said this aft that Goodman Corwin came into the mill with a swagger. Papa said Goodman Corwin jauntily hinted at purchasing a bull and leasing it out, and adding a lean-to to his shabby cabin. Papa wondered how Goodman Corwin has found the means. Papa talked of Goodman Corwin's astonishing lightness of character. Goodman Corwin is not yet telling. I must figure out how to stop him.
I did not remark upon Papa's recountings, which he said to no one in particular, he and Mama still not speaking nor meeting each other's eyes, and the chaos produced by the unruly Whites distracted the curiosity of anyone else, were anyone else to have reason for curiosity. Which they don't. Not yet. But if bragging has reached Papa, other ears are certain to follow..
Salem, 2 September 1692
I shall record today's events exactly as they happened.
At morning meal, so weak and wretched did I feel, that Bridget White moved her entire brood to the other end of the table for fear my illness was terminal. Truthfully, I had begun to wonder so myself. Tiresome indeed it is to always rise with nausea, and I had wondered if I should ask Mama if 'twas part of becoming a woman. Many ploys has Mama attempted to settle my stomach, but the only one which meets with any success is the sprinkling of salt upon a dried piece of jerky. The two taste like pungent hide, but my stomach accepts them.
This morn, as Mama and I sat at one end of the table, I caught her watching me, pensively. Uncomfortable, I said -I felt well enough to do the milking and immediately rose to escape both her scrutiny and the clatter of children. However, not moments had I settled myself upon the stool, when Mama appeared in the barn beside me.
“Leave the cow,” ordered Mama, tonelessly. “I wish to speak with you.”
“I shall be only a minute,” I said, stalling. I did not know of what she intended to converse, but I had an eerie premonition that I did not want to hear it.
“I wish to speak with you,” she repeated.
“Cornflower needs milking,” I said.
“Cornflower can wait,” she replied.
“But, Mama,” I reasoned obstinately, “she's ready and—”
“I am ready, too,” Mama interrupted.
The strain of all these past weeks was evident in her voice, for it rose and verged on anger, which is unlike Mama with her poised control. I decided I had best be obedient. Collecting the milking bucket with its shallow puddle of milk, I patted Cornflower's neck, then sat down beside Mama on the rickety bench we use to hold odds and ends, such as curry combs and horse blankets. Mama moved the combs and blankets.
Her voice was calm when she spoke, but her gaze was piercing. “I'm going to talk to you about being a woman,” she said.
I could feel myself flush. I did not want to talk to Mama about something so intimate because I so despised her.
“'Tis been over two fortnights since you've bled,” she said. “Have you not bled since, Rachel?”
My flush went deeper. I thought of other bleeding, but it didn't count. 'Twas a different bleeding.
“Rachel?” Mama repeated. “
Have
you bled?”
I didn't look at her. “Nay . . . uh . . . er . . . nay;” I said, and I hated how timid I sounded.
“I see,” Mama said. She seemed to turn my answer over in her mind for a long while; and when she turned her gaze back upon me, it was veiled and controlled, and I could not read what she was thinking. “I'm going to ask you something, Rachel,” she said. “And I want you to tell me the truth.”
I froze. “0 God,” I thought. “What if she asks me something about Goodman Glover!” So vividly was that grotesque situation on my mind, and so fervently was I trying to conceal it, that naturally it was the first thing that popped into my thoughts.
“You and Jeremiah are very good friends,” Mama said, which startled me, for it was so removed from what I expected. “He has not called on you recently. Is there a reason?”
How I hated her for that observation! Miserable as I was for Jeremiah's avoidance, I like to pretend that no one else notices. Nothing could have alienated me more than for Mama to have stated her observation so baldly.
“Is there a reason?” she repeated.
Seething, I said, “I . . . I don't know. Perhaps he tires of me.”
Such pain was contained in that admission. Yet I could think of no story to contrive, no other excuse to advance. Denial of Jeremiah's avoidance had already been withdrawn from me.
Mama asked, “Is there a reason he tires of you?”
Cryptically I said, “I guess he just doesn't like me. I . . . I think he likes Phebe instead.”
Steeling myself, so the pain would not be so jagged, I stared at the wall. Mama paused for a moment before she continued.
“Is there nothing you did, Rachel, to cause him to dislike you?” How well I knew the answer to that question!
“Aye,” I said, finally. “I . . . I am possessed. He's . . . he's afraid that I'm also a witch.”
“I see,” said Mama tonelessly. Her deep breath was audible before she proceeded. “Rachel, sometimes when a boy and a girl have known each other for a long time, they . . . they become familiar with each other. Have you and Jeremiah . . . become familiar with each other?”
Confused, I said, “I . . . I don't know what you're talking about. If you mean . . . how well do I know him . . . I think I know him pretty well. Well enough anyway to know he would not wish to be the subject of this conversation. He likes Phebe now, Mama! How clearly do I have to tell you!” If she forced me-to admit his replacement one more time, I knew I would burst into tears.
“Has he ever kissed you?” she pursued.
“That's none of your concern!” I quickly snapped, which, of course, gave Mama her answer.
“Has he ever done more than kiss you?” she asked.
Angrily I said, “Do you want me to tell you he's held my hand! That he's touched my arm! Tugged on my hair! Do you want me to tell you every little thing he's ever done!”
“I want you to tell me if he's shared your womanhood with you,” she said. “If he has lain with you as man and wife.”
Shocked, I wheeled round to face her. So far from my mind was the question she advanced, that I could scarce believe she had asked it. Immediately I cried, “Nay, Mama! Nay! We have done nothing! I swear on my life!”
The sweetness and innocence of Jeremiah's kisses instantly vanished like a puff of smoke in the presence of Mama's accusations, and I hated her for that spoiling, hated her for thinking that Jeremiah had used me, then discarded me. My one pleasant memory was swiftly erased like wind on dust!
Now I realize why she asked. Because her next statement was “Rachel, I fear you are with child.”
So swift was this accusation on top of the other that I could do nothing but gape. A knot formed in my stomach. I felt violently ill.
Mama continued. “You are past your time of bleeding,” she said. “Your morning nausea is that of a woman who holds another life inside.”
She paused for a moment, allowing her words to absorb meaning, and during that pause, my eyes burned with tears for a realization Mama did not understand. Never have I felt lonelier, or more lost.
Mama said, almost pleadingly, “Now, Rachel. Is there something you would like to tell me about Jeremiah?”
Blinking back the tears, I said miserably, “There is nothing to tell, Mama. Nothing. Jeremiah and I have done nothing.”
“I see,” Mama said. Suddenly her head dropped into her hands, and she was visibly and surprisingly shaken. Quickly she leapt to her feet and began pacing, back and forth across the barn floor, her feet leaving swift, small remnants of footsteps, her fingers wringing themselves one into the other, and so distressed was she, that I was certain she knew the whole story. But she-did not know.
Agitated, Mama sat back down on the bench and grasped my shoulders. “Your visions, Rachel . . .” she said, and her voice broke into a short wail. “Your visions . . . have they . . . have they threatened you with . . . with anything like this?”
“Like . . . like what, Mama?” I said, frowning, not able to grasp her reasoning.
“Like having a child!” she said frantically, and her fingers clutched like nails into my shoulders.
Dumbly I stared. “Like having a child?” I repeated.
“Rachel!” she cried out; and her fingers pained me so greatly that I could think of nothing but their hurt. “Have your visions given you a child! Are you carrying the child of the Devil?” . . .
Aghast, I could scarce find my voice. My own mother accused me of bearing the child of Satan! Pray, God, how could all have come to
this!
Instinctively, I told the truth. For far less ghastly was the truth than the accusation.
“Nay, Mama!” I said, fiercely. “‘Tis not of the Devil! 'Tis of Goodman Glover! 'Tis Goodman Glover's child, I bear!”
Oddly, I expected to see relief. But there was no relief. Mama's frantic face turned ashen, and for a moment I feared she would faint.
“Goodman Glover . . . ?” she repeated, and her voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“He defiled me!” I said. And because I hate her so much, I added, “Just like he defiled
you!
Only you
wanted
to be defiled!
I
was
forced!”
Bracing myself, I waited to see how she would react to this piece of information. Fully did I expect her to slap me. But more than anything, I yearned to hear a denial. I hoped above all hope that none of what I thought was true, that this terrible nightmare would suddenly vanish, and we could all go on with our lives just as always. Yet my last thread of hope was not to be. No denial was spoken.
Mama's voice was small and quiet. And heavy. “What else did he say?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said, bitterly. “Only that you used to lay with him. And that you liked it!”
Still I yearned for a denial, and my bitterness grew as it was withheld.
“Who else knows of this?” she asked, desperately.
“No one,” I said. “I would not want to mortify Papa.”
“And of you?” she pressed. “Who else knows of you and . . . and him?”
I sneered. “Do you fear to speak his name?” I asked. “Once you must have spoken it often. Nay, I have told no one of myself, either. Nor do I intend to.”
“You mustn't,” she said rapidly. “No one must know. No one. Not until I think of an explanation. For . . . for the child.”
Mama left then, swiftly, her face creased with worry, and I remained on the bench for a while, thinking, feeling not at all like a mother with child. Then I went back to the milking, for I knew not what else to do. And all day I have simply gone through the motions of living.
Salem, 3 September 1692 morn
Last eve goody Glover's terrorizing was more jolting than ever. She reeked with fury.
“You bear my husband's child!” she cried, and her cackle was devoid of its usual sarcasm. It was seething and stormy.
Her enormous bony head was distorted with rage, pulling the skin taut across her angular cheekbones and making her jaw jut out with horrifying protrusion. Blood poured from her throat onto her gnarled hands, and with those hands, she clasped my neck to choke me.
“I don't want it! I don't want it!” I cried out over and over. “Stop it! Stop it! I can't breathe! You're cutting off my breath!”
Her hands pommelled my. stomach, to snuff out its life, and in desperation I cried out, “Stop! Stop! ‘Tis yours! I'll give it to you when 'tis born! I promise I shall!”
Bridget White called out, frantically, “What's going on here? Are you having one of your fits?”
Goody Glover roared, “'Twill be no birth! I'll kill it first! I'll kill you both!”
“You shan't!” I screamed. “God shall protect me! Stop it! Stop it! I can't breathe!”
Bridget White cried, “Martha! Martha, come git your possessed daughter!”
Goody Glover stormed, “Take the knife, Rachel! Slit your throat!”
“I can't!” I screamed. “Mama has . hidden the knives!”
Mama said sternly, “Rachel, sit up! Sit up, this moment!”
“I can't!” I screamed. “I can't! She's choking me!”
Bridget White cried, “Let her be choked!”
Goody Glover roared, “You bear my husband's child! 'Twill be your doom!”
“Be gone! Be gone!” I screamed. “I can't breathe!”
Mama said, angrily, “Come with me, Rachel! Come with me this moment! Come to the great room!”
“I can't, Mama!” I screamed. “She'll follow me! She's choking me!”
Bridget White cried, “Let her be choked! Put an end to it all!”
Goody Glover roared, “You bear my husband's child! 'Twill be your doom!”
Mama grabbed me by the arm and pulled. “She shan't follow you Rachel! She shan't! Rise this instant!”
Bridget White cried, “Praise God! Praise God! 'Tis lunacy! The Devil has come to take us all!”
Mama snapped, “Hush, Bridget!” and slammed the door behind us.
Goody Glover did not stay behind in the sleeping chamber. As I sat upon the settle, her face suddenly rose out of the embers and thundered, “Slit your throat, Rachel! Slit your throat! Else I'll reach inside your stomach! I'll pull out the babe!”
“Nay! Nay!” I screamed, more terrified than ever. Frantically I raced to the hearth and began tossing out logs of red hot embers, desperately attempting to make her disappear. With a sizzle the logs fell to the carpet, scorching my hands but not burning, for so swiftly did I toss, my palms held their fire for only an instant.
Horrified, Mama grabbed a blanket from inside the settle and began furiously beating, all the while trying to push me aside. “Stop it, Rachel! Stop it!” she cried.
Goody Glover stormed, “Slit your throat, Rachel! Slit your throat, else I'll wrench out the babe!” .
“Be gone!” I screamed. “Be gone you evil demon! I hate you! I hate you, you ugly witch!”
From upstairs, Bridget White yelled, “What goes on down there? Is that smoke I smell!”
“Hush!” Mama cried. “Back to bed with you, Bridget!”
Papa's heavy foot clamored down the stairs, his strong arms suddenly coming up behind me and clasping me in a vice-like grip. “Good God!” he swore. “What goes on with you, girl? Are you to drive us all to madness! Calm yourself this instant!”
At Papa's voice, Goody Glover vanished. Spent, I turned into Papa's chest and sobbed. “O Papa,” I wailed. “She causes me to do such fearsome deeds! What am I to do? How am I to rid her? I'm so terrified of her!”
Papa's answer was simple and deceived no one but himself. “Will her away,” he ordered. “Use the same imagination that brings her.”
I did not argue. To my deathbed, Papa shall refuse to recognize that my torments are beyond my control; that he has not yet tamed me by means of a throttle, I can only attribute to his gentle disposition.
“I'll try, Papa,” I whimpered. But I knew it was no use.

Other books

All Jacked Up by Penny McCall
The Edge of Ruin by Melinda Snodgrass
Of A Darker Nature by Clay, Michelle
The City by Gemmell, Stella
The Rest Falls Away by Colleen Gleason
Dying Scream by Mary Burton