Witch Child (25 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
“A poppet placed by another,” corrected the magistrate, “is not evidence of witching. Do you have other evidence, Goodwife Bishop?”
Undaunted, Goody Bishop said, “I have reason, your Excellency, to believe the accused herself placed that poppet under the witch's bed. And other poppets, as well!” Her bright eyes fell on Goodman Glover, and I started. Instantly I guessed what lies
his
testimony would hold.
his
testimony would hold.
“Your reason for believing such?” demanded the magistrate.
“I shall leave that to others to report,” replied Goody Bishop, simply.
The magistrate's color was rising, and I felt a ray of hope as he snapped, “You shall confine yourself to your own evidence, Goodwife Bishop. Now do you, or do you not, have testimony against the accused?”
“I do, sir.”
“Then tell it!”
“I have witness to the accused's speaking in foreign tongues, sir.” At first I was completely mystified as to her meaning, and thought surely she had been caught in yet more hearsay, until she went on to explain: “The accused also rides brooms, sir. I saw her with my own two eyes. Aye, I did. The accused was riding round her pasture on a broom and yelping in some very foreign tongue, which I am certain neither you nor I nor anyone else in this chamber would recognize!”
Amazed, I knew in a moment of what she spoke. 'Twas the day I frolicked in the pasture with our new colt and was entertaining Jeremiah. Yet no sooner did I instantly open my mouth to explain, than the magistrate demanded, “Rachel Ward?
Have
you ridden a broom?”
Have
you ridden a broom?”
“Aye, sir, butâ”
“And were you yelping in some foreign tongue?”
“âTwas not exactly a foreign tongue, sir. 'Twasâ”
“Was it the English tongue?”
“'Twas an animal tongue, sir. Iâ”
“An
animal
tongue, Rachel Ward?”
animal
tongue, Rachel Ward?”
“Aye, sir. âTwasâ'
“Proceed with your testimony, Goodwife Bishop.”
Eagerly Goody Bishop continued. “The accused reads thoughts, sir. Oft has she known what I was thinking before I even spoke it!”
“Is this true, Rachel Ward? Are you capable of reading thoughts?”
“Only of minds like glass!” I snapped, knowing such tartness brought me little gain; but so frustrated was I over the magistrate's concerted intimidation of me and of my lack of opportunity to explain myself, I could not help it. Instantly I regretted such folly. The magistrate already had me convicted.
Acidly, he instructed, “You shall confine yourself to aye or nay, Rachel Ward. Is that understood?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Now then, Goodwife Bishop. Proceed.”
She had saved the best for last. Eyes gleaming, back erect, Goody Bishop reported, “The accused stumbles over her prayers, sir. Oft. Even in Meeting. Her mother has heard her, as wellâas have I, with my own two ears!”
Caught, it would have been futile to deny. 'Twas the one accusation I knew to be true, and its reason (my visions) would meet with little compassion. Fervently I glanced toward Mama for assistance, but her gaze was maddeningly directed to her lap.
“Rachel Ward,” bellowed the magistrate as I jumped,
“have
you stumbled over your prayers?”
“have
you stumbled over your prayers?”
“Aye ... aye, sir,” I stammered.
Satisfied, the magistrate's sharp voice rattled the chamber as he summed up my transgressions. “Rachel Ward, you have admitted to riding a broom, speaking in a foreign tongue, reading minds, and stumbling over prayers. What powers the Devil doth hold! Thank you, Goodwife Bishop. You have been exceedingly helpful.”
“As a faithful servant of our Lord, sir.”
“Aye, Goodwife Bishop. The Lord blesses His servants.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You may be seated while the next witness is called.”
How pious was Goody Bishop! How I hated her for that piety and its misdirection!
Spirits ebbing, my body felt weak from standing. Swaying, I thought for a moment I might faint. But then a voice shot through the chamber: “âTis the Devil trying to save her! He tries to take her from her trial!” 'Twas the voice of Goodman Disborough. Immediately I snapped to attention. Silently I vowed that if I turned to stone, I would neither faint nor move nor give one small further whit of cause for accusation. Because somehow I must prove my innocence.
At the magistrate's beckoning, Simon English stepped briskly forward, his stubby legs scurrying, and it was with renewed confidence that I straightened to face him. 'Tis not enough he has ruined Papa, I thought, bitterly. Now he shall try to ruin me, as well. I wondered how.
Another magistrate spoke, this one with silvered wig and an iron tongue. “Goodman English? You have testimony?”
“Aye,” replied Goodman English eagerly, and I was equally as eager to hear his accusation to learn what it would contain. I had not long to wait.
He said, “âTwas first started when I entered into argument with the accused's father. 'Twas at his mill. During that argument, the accused glared at me, and on the way home, my cart crashed and nearly knocked me dead. Killed one of my oxen, too. And demolished my cart.”
'Twas my first real surprise. I had entirely forgotten the incident and was ready to explain how Goodman English had beaten his oxen mercilessly when the Magistrate demanded, “Rachel Ward? Did you glare at the testifier? Immediately after which his cart crashed?”
“Aye, sir, butâ”
“Excellent testimony, Goodman English.”
“O there's more, sir. Sometime after that, when I was engaged in a suit against the accused's father, a most mysterious storm blew up. Out of nowhere. You might remember it yourself, sir. And lo and behold, it took my roof!”
“Rachel Ward? Do you convene with the elements? Do you serve up storms?”
“Nay, sir, Iâ”
“Do you deny a violent storm arose? And that it took Goodman English's roof?”
“Aye, sir. A storm did arise, butâ”
“I do not presume you to admit to spells upon the elements. Unless, of course, you wish to confess to being a witch.
Do
you wish to now confess?”
Do
you wish to now confess?”
“Nay, sir, I do not, butâ”
“Thank you, Goodman English. 'Tis excellent testimony. Excellent testimony, indeed.”
“But there's more, sir.”
“More?”
“Aye, sir. I didn't put it in the deposition, but there's one more.”
It was then that I realized the magistrate read from a petition, thereby knowing who each testifier was to be and what he would testify. My heart began to sink. Without being told, I knew it to be the petition circulated by Goody Bishop. I also knew it would be quite thorough.
Goodman English continued with: “The other thing, sir, is that the accused made my crops fail. After her father's mill shut down, by my bringing suit, my crops immediately withered and died. 'Twas most peculiar. I didn't put it in the petition, sir, due to the fact that it had not yet occurred.”
“Rachel Ward? Have you made this husbandman's crop to fail?”
It was useless, I knew, to explain that Goodman English is a terrible husbandman, or that I had not even known of the mill's closure until after its occurrence. But at least I could attempt to deny the charge; I could at least enable the scribe to enter it into record.
“Nay, sir, Iâ”
“I do not expect you to admit to such covenanting. Be it so recorded, Scribe, that the accused has caused the testifier's crops to fail. Thank you, Goodman English. The court shall now adjourn for midday meal. It shall resume again at half past one.”
So now I write from my cell with my dry slices of bread while others feast upon turkey legs and rabbit. Since there is no one else to talk with, I have related some of what has happened to the mute girl, with my putting on a false face and telling her that the situation shall improve, that this morn, facing my enemies, was the presentation of the most damaging testimony. This aft shall opportune those favorable to my cause. Sliding my hand into her small white one, I asked her to provide me strength and to think of me while I stand alone and solitary against my accusers. For a moment I thought I felt the slightest tremor of fingers. Excited, I told myself the girl was going to show me some sign of a bond between us. Alas, her eyes communicated nothing. And as the tremor was only momentary, I decided it was merely the result of my imagination and my fervent need for compassion. So it shall again be just God and I battling my accusers when court resumes.
Salem, 17 September 1692, aft
My hope for favorable witness was immediately dashed when Daniel was called to the fore. Slowly, precisely, Daniel rose from his seat on the front bench, making no display of hurry, and in his measured movements I could sense all the years of building hatred and resentment.
A magistrate's voice rang out, this one from the magistrate with the white wig which glistened like snow against his black robes. “Daniel Ward? You are brother of the accused?”
“I am, sir,” replied Daniel, formally.
“Present your testimony.”
“I wish to testify, sir, that the accused has wrought disharmony within our family. She has caused bitterness, discord and extreme dissension by her recent actions. Prior to such actions, only peace and serenity reigned.”
Daniel's reference to me as “accused,” rather than “sister,” stung, as did such public renouncement by a member of my own family, despite my contempt for that member.
The magistrate said, “Rachel Ward? Are you aware that domestic disharmony is against nature and dishonors God?”
“Aye, sir,” I murmured. “I am.”
“Do you wish to speak in your defense?”
Finally an opportunity to speak out! Yet I was caught without defense. Defense would dredge up days, weeks and months of private sufferings which were best kept private. Hopelessly I glanced toward Mama, but her gaze remained blank, telling me nothing. Finally, I murmured, “Nay, sir. I do not.”
The magistrate said, “Continue, Daniel Ward.”
There's more! I thought, gloomily.
Daniel said, “The accused caused my father's prized cow to die, suddenly and without explanation. The accused petted the cow, and not two hours later, the cow died.”
Buttermilk! So Daniel knew! All this time Daniel knew without speaking! Or was he only guessing . . . ?
The magistrate said, “Rachel Ward? Have you a defense for the demise of your father's cow?”
I said, “I . . . I didn't mean it . . .” and I hated myself for my stammer.
Daniel's eyes glittered with revenge. He said, “The accused also caused to befall me a most peculiar illness, of which no explanation exists, an illness which occurred immediately after a harsh exchange between us. For days did I lie ill, to recover just as mysteriously upon the accused's arrestâwhich broke her evil spell.”
Surely my ears deceived me! Was Daniel accusing me of even his illness? Terrible thoughts began to race through my head, thoughts that rankled and raged, and from somewhere within the depths of my deep-seated mistrust of this half-brother I never liked, I wondered if he had planned this all along. If he had never truly fallen ill, but had merely feigned such illness to pound another nail into my cross.
The magistrate demanded, “Rachel Ward? Did you exchange harsh words with your brother?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And immediately afterward did he fall mysteriously ill?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And did he then mysteriously recover upon your arrest?”
“Aye, sir. He did.”
My guilt appeared as evident as the vengeful smirk upon Daniel's curling lips. Daniel had left me without recourse. Nothing could release me from the trap he had so carefully set, and I hated him.
The magistrate said, “Continue, Daniel Ward.”
Daniel replied, “The accused also caused my affianced to stop loving me. The accused did so out of spite for my happiness.”
Resigned, I could see all tables rapidly turned against me; so when the magistrate said, “Rachel Ward? Did you cause your brother's affianced to turn from him?” I said, calmly, “Aye, sir, I did.” For in a way, I suppose I had.
“Continue,” instructed the magistrate to Daniel.
“Lastly,” said Daniel with satisfaction, “the accused caused my father's mill to fail.”
“That's not true!” I cried, suddenly.
But Daniel's further explanation left me again in error. He said, “The accused's influence caused my father's suit against Goodman English to be lost. The losing of such suit now sends my family into poverty and despair. The accused did all this, your Excellency, out of spite, because she has never been a favored child.”
Of all the testimony, this is the one that hurt the most. Even Papa's ruin I was to accept. And while all that Daniel said had foundation in truth, I knew its truth was twisted and distorted; for while I may have unintentionally been a contribution, I had never set out to be so, and I still love Papa dearly, despite his disownment of me for all I have caused.
The magistrate said, brusquely, “Rachel Ward? Did you cause your father's mill to fail?”
Dejected, I hung my head. “I . . . I did not intend it, sir.”
The magistrate said, “Daniel Ward, you may be seated. Next witness, pray step forward.”
Returning to his bench, Daniel's stride was confident and victorious, and I despised him with all the breath within me for how he had made me appear. Were I truly a witch, I would have bid all the forces of Hell and Satan to strike him dead, and I did not feel an ounce of hesitation in such thoughts. Nay, I even wished I were indeed a witch, so I could make it so. And I think Daniel knew it.
Goodman Disborough was next, and his testimony was mercifully brief, for I did not think I could endure much more. His bearlike form stood at polite attention as the magistrate instructed, “Goodman Disborough. Advance your testimony.”
Coughing to clear his throat, Goodman Disborough's voice emerged deep and husky. “The accused caused a mysterious fire to burn down my house,” he said. “And this burning happened immediately after I refused her father a loan of a sum of money.”
The magistrate said, “Explain the mysteriousness of the fire, Goodman Disborough.”
“Certainly, your Excellency. I was burning brush when a spark suddenly traveled across marshy fields and wetted grass, and directed itself immediately toward the house. All the village remarked upon its peculiarity, since it followed fortnights of continued rains. The field was unusually muddy, you see.”
Nervously he fidgeted with the brim of his hat, which was held awkwardly in front of him, and I wondered if he felt guilty for all the times Papa had helped him; yet in Papa's one request, Papa was refused. Bitterly, I recalled how Papa had even assisted at the house raising. I wondered if Goodman Disborough felt guilty about that, too.
The magistrate bellowed, “Rachel Ward? Is this another example of your covenanting with the elements?”
“Nay, sir, Iâ”
“Did your father request a loan from the testifier?”
“Aye, sir. He did.”
“And after refusal, did the testifier's house immediately and mysteriously burn?”
“Aye, sir. It did.”
“Thank you, Goodman Disborough. Next witness, please.”
By now, I was resigned to not only listening without explanation, but also being trapped by gnarled words and twisted events, all of which I was without defense. I could only hope my redemption would come when finally someone spoke in my favor. If someone did.
Next was Bridget White. It was with disgust that I watched her enormous, slovenly figure trot forward, her limping son in tow, and I knew without doubt what Goody White would present as evidence. But I was wrong.
The magistrate said, Goodwife White? You have testimony?”
“I do indeed, sir.” The filthy child beside her rubbed his sleeve across his runny nose. Bridget White said, “I was in my cart one day, sir, near to where the accused and her mother was washing clothes, when all of a sudden the horses got spooked by something, run off the road they did, and turned the cart upside down. All was in the most frightful mess you ever did lay your eyes on, with horses bucking and children screaming, and me all the while trying to get that weighty cart off this little one here. And me, a big woman, couldn't for the life of me move that cart! Then all of a sudden, the accused appears in the middle of the road, standing in her
shift
, mind you, like some
ghost
, and water running off her like a drenched rat. Well, hardly could I collect my wits about me over such an amazing sight when suddenly the accused walks over to the cart and lifts it, pretty as you please. With nary a struggle nor breath. Such an unnatural show of strength, I still can nary believe. You'd have to have seen it yourself to believe it, your Excellency.”
shift
, mind you, like some
ghost
, and water running off her like a drenched rat. Well, hardly could I collect my wits about me over such an amazing sight when suddenly the accused walks over to the cart and lifts it, pretty as you please. With nary a struggle nor breath. Such an unnatural show of strength, I still can nary believe. You'd have to have seen it yourself to believe it, your Excellency.”
'Twas my second major surprise. So certain was I that Bridget White would claim me responsible for her child's mangled leg, and so ready was I to leap to my defense by claiming rescue, that all I could do was gape, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Again I was bereft of defense. Bridget White had told the truth, startling as that might be.
The magistrate said, “Rachel Ward? Did events occur such as Goodwife White testifies?”
“Aye, sir,” I said, in amazement. “They did.”
“And did you show display of unnatural strength?”
“I hardly thought of it at the time, sir, so anxious was Iâ”
“Did you, or did you not? Answer aye, or nay.”
“Aye, sir. I did.”
“Thank you, Goodwife White. Before the next witness, the court shall have brief recess for tea. All return to the chamber in one hour.”
So now I again sit back in my cell, once more recording feverishly, and just as feverishly wishing my recordings could replace those of the Scribe's. Greatly do I fear history shall show me guilty of my crime with no knowledge of the truth. Future generations shall read the court's testimony, not only for me but for all the others so accused, and they shall remember our village as beset by Devilish forces which have risen up and reigned with terror over once serene hearths and pious hearts. Pray, God, how can I make known what truly occurs? How can I leave witness that words can twist and events can become so misconstrued and that the two together can result in anything seeming possible if truly desired?
I have considered making my own recordings known, to proffer them up as evidence of my innocence, which was my original intent when I began this journal. Yet now my writings contain so many secrets which would only bring even further destruction and tragedy. Nay, I cannot show it. For even were it not to plant seeds of further unhappiness, too well do I see that even my own words can be distorted.
Alas, I must go. My jailer comes for me.
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