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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 9 September 1692
They came to ask me to confess to witching.
The jailer fetched me from my sordid little chamber, plucking me out from the small sea of rags by extending his long hairy finger toward me and ordering, “You there! You what come in evening last! Aye, you! The little one! Magistrate waits to see you!” He gave me a little shove as I reached the door, to exert his authority, I suppose, then shoved me again as I shuffled down the corridor. The quivering faces behind me relaxed as the door slammed with a jolt. My chains clattered against. the wooden floor.
I was led into an antechamber, where, awaiting my presence, sat a town constable and a magistrate of the court. The magistrate did the talking.
“You are Rachel Ward?” he asked, tonelessly. A severe looking man he is, with sharp features and a crisply starched white collar which had been newly pressed, though I don't think the pressing was for the benefit of me. He appeared rather bored at first, having been through such proceedings so often, I presume. On the short wooden table in front of him lay a sheaf of papers, which crinkled as he thumbed through them. I suppose they referred to my charges.
“Aye,” I said. “I am Rachel Ward.”
His eyes peered up at me over the smooth rim of his eyeglasses. I don't think he liked my tone.
“You want to confess?” he asked.
“For what?” I said.
Suddenly his voice came to life. I could hear the harshness in it. “For entertaining Satan,” he growled.
“Nay,” I replied.
“Nay, what?” he demanded. “Speak up, girl! Don't answer me with cryptic words! Explain yourself! Do you or do you not wish to admit that you have been compacting with the Devil?”
“Nay,” I repeated. “I do not wish to admit such a thing.”
He eyed me long and hard, his gaze travelling over me from cap to toe as I stood small and chained before him. Probably, I think, he was trying to determine from whence I derived my haughtiness. Narrowing his gaze, he said, “Are you aware of the severity of your charges?”
“I have done nothing wrong,” I replied. Which was not exactly the truth. I
had
stolen the locket, though I didn't think anyone knew that yet, for if they had, they would have searched me.
His bellow nearly made me jump. “Do you not admit you made the earth open up and swallow a man!”
“'Twas an accident,” I replied, calmly.
“An accident! 'Twas a diabolic touch! Do you not admit you caused that well hole to appear?”
“I do not so admit. Someone else caused it.”
“That someone being Lucifer in one of his deceitful guises! Assumed by
you!”
“I know not who dug that well. It may have been Lucifer. It was not I.”
“Do you deny being in covenant with the Devil?”
“Aye, I do.”
“Speak up, girl! Explain yourself! Why do you deny sorcery with that fiendish Prince of Darkness?”
“Because I have done nothing wrong. I have done nothing which I have intended to bring harm to others.”
“God hears your false tongue!”
“God is my judge in my intentions.”
“Don't blaspheme His name, girl! Don't deceitfully use Him to erase your guilt! That, too, is the work of Satan! Aye, I have seen such tried by many before!”
“I do not intend blasphemy. Which is why I do not confess to falsehood. Were I to admit to witchery, 'twould be Satan guiding my tongue, not God.”
The magistrate shook his head, a disgusted, heavy shake that told me my arguments had been repeated before him a hundredfold, if not more. Gruffly he conferred with the constable in whispered tones. Finally he straightened and turned his attention back to me.
“Are you aware, girl, that confessing can save you? If you repent of your compacting, the Lord will hear you and have mercy upon your tortured soul. Your chains will be loosed, and you will be spared from the gallows.”
“My soul would still remain tortured,” I said, truthfully. “For if not witching, I should be charged with murder.”
My statement took his breath away. Harshly he accused, “Are you reading our thoughts, girl?”
“Nay, I merely speak the obvious. For if I am to be hung, I prefer it for something which nearest resembles the truth.”
“Aha! So
murder
you admit?”
“Nay, sir. But murder is more true than compacting with Satan.” Proudly, I then added what I also knew to be the truth. “I realize the village would have my preference reversed. For riddance of a witch purges souls and purifies the air and offers more promise than does riddance of a murderer.”
The magistrate's sharp features purpled with anger. “Your tart tongue serves you poorly, girl! The Lord hears your proudness and shall strike it down!”
“Aye. So my mother has warned me.”
“And has your mother also warned you a petition is being circulated to give yet further evidence of your witching? Do you know your neighbors add to that list? Do you know the list lengthens far beyond the sorcering of a well hole? Do you know those additions shall be marched up before you at your trial?”
“Nay, sir. I do not know of such a list. I have not spoken with my mother since my arrest.” I did not ask what this list contains. Too well do I know how the most innocent of occurrences can be misconstrued as the touch of the Devil. I would learn soon enough all that would damn me and send me to the gallows.
“And now knowing of that list,” continued the magistrate, harshly, “do you still not wish to repent?”
“I have nothing to repent for, sir.”
“Jailer!” bellowed the magistrate, as he furiously began writing on the papers before him. “Return this witch to her prison! Let the Devil hear her conversation!”
Wearily, I shuffled back down the dank corridor, my chains jangling, wondering if I had made a mistake.
Salem, 10 September 1692, morn
Mama brought me some journey cake, but as I have no milk or beer to dip it in, I must consume it in dry mouthfuls. To receive it, I was again shuffled into the antechamber, having been once more searched out by the jailer's pointing finger, and each time one of us is so selected, all eyes stare up at that outstretched finger and quiver and quake, knowing not what awaits such selection.
Mama sat in a tall ladder-back chair, weary from her journey, her long dark skirts caked with dust, and upon her lap sat a small cloth covered bundle, which contained the journey cake. I was surprised to see her. I did not think she would come. Shuffling across the room, chains clanging, I took a seat in the chair beside her, grateful for a seat other than the floor. Removing her cap, Mama ducked her head to conceal a wince of pain, but since acknowledgement of that pain would have embarrassed us both, I pretended not to notice. Bitterly I thought that if it had not been for Mama and Goodman Glover, I would not be here, because Goody Glover would not have singled me out. My visions are where my downfall began.
I attempted to sit erect and proudly, so as not to display any weakness; but it was a difficult task, because my bones ached from sleeping upon the cold floor, and already my wrists and ankles are rubbed raw and bleed. Mama sat equally proud, but there was a softness in her that I have not seen before.
“Do you fare well?” Mama asked.
“Well enough,” I replied, coolly.
“And . . . and your quarters? Are they . . . suitable?”
I suppressed a sarcastic laugh, but I need not have. The sarcasm was evident in my tone. “The rats do think so. They are the only ones well fed. Though the lice do survive, as do the weevils.”
Did I provoke guilt? 'Twas my intention, and apparently I was succesesful, for Mama again averted her eyes and gazed down upon her lap. “I . . . I brought you some journey cake,” she said.
My chains clanged as I reached out for the bundle, but I did not open it. “Did you come alone?” I asked.
“Aye. Your . . . father works hard to prepare his countersuit against . . . Goodman English.” We both knew she was lying. A vast heaviness settled in my chest. Even Papa has deserted me. With false brightness, Mama added, “But Daniel fares better. Afternoon last he was able to take food. Today he sits in the settle.”
“That's nice,” I said, dully.
“And Mercy,” said Mama, vainly attempting conversation, “has been knitting you a shawl. She shall bring it to you.”
“I don't think I shall be allowed it,” I said, cruelly. “We aren't allowed any comforts.”
“Well,” ventured Mama, lamely, “perhaps we shall try, anyway.”
Silently we sat staring at the small window, I trying to inflict punishment by my silence; Mama, I think, aware of my hatred, but pretending she was not. Beyond the window I heard a bird chirping, and I could see the sun shining upon the green common; and all that brightness contrasted to my own wretched circumstances only fueled my bitterness, making my hatred grow stronger. I suppose I shall go to my grave having snuffed out every last trace of consideration toward me.
Mama said, softly, “Goody Bishop . . . she is circulating a petition against you. She . . . asks our neighbors to provide evidence of your charges.”
“O?” I said, wondering how Mama felt about these proceedings.
“I . . . I pled with her against it. I . . . told her you were being misjudged.”
“And her reply?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“She . . . she said it was her duty. She said the village . . . must be purified of its curse. That it would be against God's will . . . to impede such purification.”
Mama's posture remained straight as a rod, but her voice sounded small and beaten; and I wondered if she and Papa were yet speaking. I thought it ironic that her best friend was playing a major role in her family's destruction. I wondered if Mama felt the hurt of that betrayal. I think she did.
Formally, I said, “In the end, God shall judge us all.”
“Aye,” replied Mama. “So He shall.”
“Her petition . . .” I asked, not being able to completely stifle my curiosity, “have many added to it?”
“I . . . don't know.”
Again I sensed her lack of truth. “Undoubtedly a great many,” I prompted.
“I . . . I'm not certain.”
I wondered if Jeremiah had signed it. I considered giving Mama the locket to hand over to Jeremiah for hiding, but I decided against it, fearing Mama could not be trusted.
“I shall have to go soon,” said Mama, quietly. “'Tis a long journey back.” Rather lamely, she added, “I . . . I brought the horse.”
“No matter,” I answered, disinterestedly. “Already I hear the jailer to return me to my chamber.”
She stood then, gazing after me as I shuffled across the room, walking slowly so as not to further chafe my ankles, which pain me with every movement; and even as the door opened, then closed, I felt Mama's eyes follow me. I wondered what she was thinking.
Salem, 10 September 1692, aft
This aft I was again singled out by the jailer's finger, and I had hoped above hope that 'twas Papa who had come to see me. How dreadfully mistaken was I!
Fearing, however, that something may be amiss, this being my second selection in the same day, when the jailer's hard eyes glared down at me, I swiftly pretended the discovery of lice in my shift; squirming in mock surprise, and giving a short squeal of fright, I bent over and unfastened a few buttons of my dress, causing the jailer to momentarily avert his eyes, at which point I hastily retrieved the locket and hid it in the nearest place I could think. In the mute girl's pocket.
“You, there!” bellowed the jailer, again peering down at me. For a moment my heart sank, fearing he had seen my action. But he had not, for he then bellowed, “Up with you! And no need to re-fasten those buttons!”
Too soon did I learn his meaning.
Again I was led into the antechamber, this time to find myself facing not only the magistrate, but a reverend and two frightfully prepossessing women. The magistrate spoke first.
“Rachel Ward. You are accused of being a witch.”
“Aye,” I replied, rather stupidly, because I wondered if he had forgotten he had seen me afternoon last.
Sternly, he said, “Do you still deny covenanting with the Devil? We provide you a last opportunity.”
For a moment, I wavered. But my voice emerged clear and strong as I replied, “I am not guilty. I have made no covenant with Satan.”
“You deny he has appointed you his servant on earth?”
My eyes darted from him to the women, who stared at me with such ferocity, I nearly quaked in my chains. “Aye,” I replied. “I do.” I wondered if I sounded as fearful as I suddenly felt.
“Then we must make an examination.”
Dumbly I stared, not understanding his meaning. Is my trial to be now? I wondered.
One of the women spoke, her voice high and nasal, with an elongated nose that made her appearance rather like a crow. “Remove your clothing,” she commanded. “We shall search to test your word.”
Still not comprehending, I continued to dumbly stare, and my pause seemed to incense her.
“Have you no hearing, girl? Remove your clothing! We are to search for witch's teats!”
O God! I thought. Pray do not do this to me! Have I not always been Your faithful servant?
The constable unlocked my irons. How free I suddenly felt! How soothed were my wrists and ankles without their chafing weights! My eyes leapt toward the window. 'Twas blocked by the imposing figure of the magistrate. The constable guarded the door. I was trapped.
Again the crowlike woman snapped, “Girl! Unfasten your dress!”
Stammering, I asked, “Are . . . are the men to leave?”
“Have you something to hide?” she sneered, contemptuously. “Is there a teat grown to suckle the Devil?”
“Nothing . . . er . . . grows,” I replied. “But I, uh, have never unclothed in front of a man.'Tis sinful I am taught.” Fervently I hoped my argument would sway them. It did not.
The crowlike woman retaliated. “And whom are
you
to speak of sin? You who do the work of the Devil. But if you do not do his work, then prove as you proclaim! Prove you have not been entertaining that which resides in the world of fire and terrorizes us with his evil deeds. Unfasten your clothing, girl! Display your innocence!”
My eyes met each one of the four gazes upon me .esentfully, a meeting which searched for a glimmer of compassion, a meeting which communicated both boldness and a plea. But it had no effect. Arms crossed, four bodies returned my stare coldly. Slowly I began to unbutton. One by one, I pushed a button through its hole, no longer meeting their eyes, feeling a heat rise up inside me, knowing my cheeks flushed and my body shuddered, and I prolonged the undressing as long as I possibly dared; yet my prolonging did not appear to disturb them; they seemed to derive a strange sort of satisfaction from my hot humiliation. Only once did one of the women impatiently snap, “Make haste, girl. Do you require all aft to disrobe?”
Valiantly, I hoped when I reached my shift 'twould be sufficient, though I knew such hope was useless; too well did I know the procedure; too clearly did I recall the public humiliation of Goody Glover. Only could I consider it a blessing that my own exposure would be witnessed by four, not forty, not a throng. “The shift, girl!” the woman reminded. “Does the shift conceal what you wish to hide?”
Naked, I stood before them. I suppose because I am a child, they thought I was without modesty. Intently they approached, then poked and scrutinized every private part of me. Even the men did not flinch. Shame was left only to me. My small brown nipples stood pert and hard as if with chill, and my tiny bosoms coiled from their probing touch. Inwardly I writhed, every sense feeling their prying, examining fingers, intently searching for a third breast, which I knew they would not find.
How far I have come since that day I stood, as a child, witnessing Goody Glover. Am I still a child? I do not feel so. Though humiliation enveloped me with all its heat, I did not show it. I made myself stand erect as if wood, my eyes focused into thin air, pretending to neither see nor hear, pretending no existence of a touch, a frown, a disappointed sigh of futility. Birds chirped outside the window. I did not hear them. A bright sun streamed past curtains and made a white pathway across the floor. I did not see it. I willed myself to lack all emotion or sense. Only numbness met the rough prying hands as they moved over every crevice of my body. And when they were finished, when all stood back and rubbed their hands over their faces in disappointment, I slowly reached down, picked up my rumpled heap of clothing and methodically re-clothed.
The magistrate announced, “You are without an extra teat.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. “I know,” I said, proudly.
“Do you still deny you have bound yourself to the Devil?”
“I do,” I replied.
“Then you shall be judged by a trial.”
All this, I thought, yet nothing is proven. Shame and humiliation have absolved me of nothing. “Do you not believe your own search?” I asked, bitterly.
“A search proves nothing, unless 'tis fruitful,” said the crowlike woman, self-righteously. “Not all of Satan's instruments are provided with means to suckle. You have been chosen to do his deeds without.”
“So,” I concluded, “searches prove only guilt. Not innocence.”
“'Tis the
procedure
,” she maintained, and I knew it to be so. “The trial shall be your judge.”
“
God
shall be my judge,” I told her.
“Care of your tone, girl! Else you condemn yourself!”
“Already I am condemned.”
“By
Satan
, you confess?”
“By a witch-crazed village,” I said, coldly.
The magistrate fairly leapt at my words, stepping toward me as the constable clasped on my irons. “And do you now deny even the existence of witches? Has Satan bid you to blind others to his acts? Is your mission to convince us that Satan does not spread his fiendish sorcery?”
“My mission is the truth.”
“Then speak it!”
“As you bid, sir. I think the truth is that Satan has not sent us witches, but madness. A madness which serves him just as well. I think he laughs at us from the depths of his Hell for the torment we have wrought upon ourselves. For in the end, 'tis the judges and juries which serve him, and they do so better than any instrument he could have devised.”
The magistrate purpled. So choked with fury was he, his words emerged in bellowed gasps. “You say the
courts
are the instrument of the Devil?”
“Not by their intent, sir. Through their misguidance.”
I thought his hands would shake the breath out of me. Violently he gripped me by the shoulders. “I shall see you mount the gibbet, girl!”
“Aye, sir. I am sure you shall.”
I spoke with resignation, yet with pride. For if the gallows are to be my fate, I shall go to them with a clear heart, and with a tongue which shall perhaps open a door and serve those who come after me. Perhaps that is how God intends me. Perhaps He has not deserted me but instead uses me to serve Him in a way which is not yet clear to me.
My examination was over. The jailer led me away in my chains while four gaping sets of eyes gazed upon me in fury.

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