Witch Child (28 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
“Swift and unexplained, was it not?”
“I . . . er, why, aye. 'Twas.”
“And did you not ply her with potions?”
“I . . . I gave her some herbs. She was a rather frail woman, andâ”
“And did you not sit beside her bed and chant?”
“Psalms. I . . . I used toâ”
“Psalms only, Goodwife Ward? Did you not chant other things, as well?”
“I . . . uh . . . aye, there were some small tunes from my childhood . . .”
Goody Bishop's eyes glittered with piety and justice. “Did you not, Goodwife Ward, cast a spell upon your master's wife? Did you not ply your herbs and chants to cause her sudden death? Did you not ply those herbs and spells to provide you a husband for your bastard child?”
No sooner had such stunning accusations been made than Goody Bishop wheeled to face the Chief Justice. “Hear me, sir! One witch has begat another! A silver tongue that wheedles a guilty daughter's innocence is the self-same silver tongue which caused a wife to die to provide a husband! Does anyone present not remember the unexpected death of the first Goodwife Ward? Was anyone here not stunned to learn Jacob Ward had wed his debt-ridden servant?”
Daniel colored purple. His face was twisted in hate so vicious, he was capable of slaughter. In the next pandemonious moments, Daniel leapt to his feet and angrily cried, “I remember! I remember! This woman killed my mother!” Mercy, terrified, screamed, “Mama! Mama! I want my Mama!” The entire chamber was on its feet, the gavel of the Chief Justice banging futilely, and before my very eyes, Mama, aghast and sobbing, was dragged through the door by a rough constable, while a frantic Mercy was restrained by Daniel. In moments I, too, was dragged from the chamber, into the antechamber, there to await decision upon my trial.
So I have sat, throughout the entire noonday meal, in this antechamber, detained while my fate is decided, a fate to which I am resigned, while wretchedly I attempt to make sense of this sickening disaster. So tumultuous are my reeling and floundering thoughts, my head feels as if 'tis being split apart by some cracking mallet. Papa is not my real father. From Goodman Glover my blood does derive. And I carry my father's child.
Behind me, now, the court refills. Achingly I hear the noise of the magistrates' chairs scraping across the floor. I hear the excited chatter of the audience, Jabbering over a morn of unexpected surprises. And it is with a sick heart that I realize when I am returned to my jury, Mama shall not be present as witness.
Salem, 18 September 1692, eve
I write in haste, for Mama needs me. When I was returned to the court chamber, the last time to be stood before gaping eyes, the Chief Justice banged his gavel for order, then turned ferociously toward me and growled, “Rachel Ward. You are convicted of the crime of compacting with the Devil.”
His words little affected me. Too severe was the evidence for anything else.
“Do you wish to confess?” he demanded.
“Nay, sir,” I said, softly. Then I steadied myself, for if I am to go to my grave, it will be with the certainty that I have done nothing wrong. “I am not a witch,” I said, clearly. “And neither is my mother.”
At that, another uproar ensued, causing the Chief Justice to once more bang his gavel while bellowing:
“Rachel Ward! Your sentence is death! By hanging!”
So oft had I heard those words in my despondent envisionings, I did not think they would move me. But they did. They hit me with a jolt. And when I took a deep breath, I savored it, wondering if anyone in that chamber realized what miracle exists in such a simple thing as breathing.
Desperately my eyes searched for Jeremiah, grasping for strength, wondering if he realized the bond we now had in common, yearning for his comfort and understanding. Alas, his bench was vacant. He had not stayed for my conviction. The pain was too great, his new knowledge too close to experience, and I forgave him. In the bench behind, the weasely form of Goodman Glover had shrunk to be indiscernible within the gawking sea of faces, and his pinched pallor was ghostly and green. How much he learned that he had not known prior, I do not know. Were he to learn I carried his child, I was certain it would have destroyed him, and in that, I gained satisfaction.
All else in that sea of faces I do not remember. Too close to death was I to pick out individual gasps and gleams, for all I savored was the miracle of breathing.
I shall not, however, think of it any longer. I have more disturbing things to consider. When I was returned to my cell, I found Mamaâproud, dignified Mamaâchained, broken and weeping. My current mission must be to console her and to provide her with strength for what lies ahead.
Salem, 20 September 1692 aft
For two days I have not written due to all that has occurred.
Mama is so broken and dispirited, that it is as if she is the child and I the mother. How wretched am I for the past griefs I have caused her and for how I have misjudged her, all the while thinking her affection was nothing for me and all for Mercy. How much she has sacrificed in my cause, and what guilt it brings me.
The first eve we spoke but little, for Mama continually wept over all the mistakes she has made. I thought my own mistakes to hold even greater enormity, having been such an ungrateful daughter. But Mama maintained that, nay, she was the one at fault, that her misjudgements were horrendous, and that even the trial she handled badly. Not my salvation was she, she wept, but my hangman.
How it disturbed me to see her once composed, controlled demeanor fall to pieces, now a shattered old woman. The rock I had so long depended upon was no longer solid and firm, and as swiftly as if she had been taken in death, the Mama I had once known was gone from me. Erect shoulders now slumped and heaved with defeat. Clear, steady eyes were shot with pain and were red and swollen from tears. And capable, strong hands now trembled as if with palsy while they nervously clutched and unclutched at disheveled skirts. But the outward signs were not near so disturbing as her inward breaking and the knowledge that in spirit Mama was lost and changed forever.
At first her sudden deterioration was disorienting to me, and I knew not how to react, save for a fear that began to envelop me as well. With Mama's confidence went mine also. However, my own fears eventually subsided with a resurgence of the strength I have had to develop, and fortunately that strength began to serve me. Thus, God provideth where He also taketh away.
With my own spoon, I helped Mama to eat, ladling suppawn from the chamber's unappetizing bowl and holding it to Mama's lips, all the while encouragingânay, pleadingâher to take sustenance which I knew would be sorely needed. With my skirts, I wiped her despondent tears. With my hands, I held her trembling fingers to implore composure.
About her public confession, there was still so much I wanted to know yet feared to ask for dread of causing her further disquiet; but finally on the second afternoon, Mama's grief appeared more subdued, so I quietly began to venture my questions.
“Mama,” I asked, gently. “Why did Daniel never mention that you were once a servant? I know why Papa didn't tell, for Papa would not have wanted to hurt you. But why did Daniel never say?”
Mama's face was the color of gray lye. Her eyes were dull, but she did not seem to mind talking about the past. In truth, I think it began to be a catharsis for her while we talked, such talk allowing her to emerge from the shadow which has always hung over her for the fear that her mistakes would someday be discovered. With tremulous voice, Mama said, “Daniel was so young then. And I was with him and your father as servant for such a short time before his mother died. I don't think Daniel really realized I was a servant. I don't think he realized it until morning last.”
“But he knew about the debtor's prison.”
“Aye. After your father and I wed, we journeyed to release my parents and took Daniel with us. âTwas a mistake taking DanielâI knew it even then. But your father was adamant, wanting his son to learn about the ways of the world. He said he wanted to teach Daniel responsibility by lesson. 'Twas then that Daniel learned how I, too, had once been in that prison, because my parents told him. And in the effusiveness of their gratitude for their releaseârelease, which, of course, came through your father's charityâDaniel also learned of my lack of dowry and my spinsterhood. 'Twas impressionable information for a boy of five. Sadly, it was information never forgot.”
Impulsively I squeezed her hand to reassure her of my own affection. “Why,” I curiously asked, “does Daniel so resent you? Was the dowry really so important to him?”
“Nay. Not at first. At first his resentment was because he loved his own mother so much. You must understand it was quite a shock to Daniel when she died so suddenly. He had great difficulty accepting it, having so idolized his mother. Then, too, she was quite different than I. A very gentle, kindly woman, she was, and not only Daniel, but your father adored her. But she was also a frail, sickly woman, andâI don't mean this uncharitablyâI think there were times when she was a burden to your father. Because of her delicate nature. In a second wife, I think your father wanted someone of sturdier stock. As was I. As for Daniel, he began to resent any affection your father showed for me, feeling such affection was a rejection of his own mother. And as the years passed, his resentment began to take other shapes and to search for other reasons. Reasons which had no foundation in fact. Such as my squandering your father's money. I never did as such, Rachel. Truly, I never intended so. But eventually, Daniel's resentment began to poison your father, driving a wedge between us. Daniel was always very close to your father, you see, and your father listened to him.”
My next question I ventured with my heart in my throat, so important was it to me to be absolved of guilt. “So 'twas not I who tore the family apart?”
“Nay. At least not in ways you could control. You must understand how soon you came after the first wife's death. It was hard for both your father and Daniel to accept another family then. Much easier was it years later with Mercy. And Mercy was a more obedient temperament than you.”
“Not as somber? Or unsociable?” I pressed.
“Aye,” replied Mama, honestly, and though her honesty stung, I could not fault her for it.
Such a whole history of me that I have never learned before. Thirstily I wanted to know it all. “What about your parents?” I asked. “What happened to them?”
“We took them back to Dedhamâwhich was my home. They lived with one of my uncles, but only for a short time. They died soon after from diseases they had contracted in prison.”
“And . . . and Goodman Glover?” I ventured, tentatively. “What finally happened with him?”
“0 Rachel, what a fool I was. 'Twas so unfair of me to never have told your father. All these years I've lived with the agony that he would learn. Yet if I
had
told him, he would never have married me. I was so desperate then. Our farm and every last wooden trencher was taken as result of my father's mismanagement. I found myself as spinster servant woman with no knowledge of how I would ever retrieve my parents from debtor's prison. And as such, I fell under the soothing spell of Isaac Glover. True, he is a vile man. But at first he did not appear so. So charming he can beâaye, Rachel, he truly can be. And so estranged was I from all that I knew that I clutched onto his soft charm like a helpless babe because he made me feel valuable and desired. If it had not been for your father's wife dying, I dread to think what would have become of me. But such events saved me. For a while afterward, Isaac Glover menaced me by threatening to tell of my horrendous transgression. But I did not fear him. I knew he wouldn't tell. The crime of inveigling affections would be his as well as mine. Besides, he was too proud to admit to dalliance with a servant girl. So he wed Sarah Walling, who was a scold and a nag and made his life miserable. But I always knew his revenge would come. And so it did, years later, at the trial of my daughter.”
had
told him, he would never have married me. I was so desperate then. Our farm and every last wooden trencher was taken as result of my father's mismanagement. I found myself as spinster servant woman with no knowledge of how I would ever retrieve my parents from debtor's prison. And as such, I fell under the soothing spell of Isaac Glover. True, he is a vile man. But at first he did not appear so. So charming he can beâaye, Rachel, he truly can be. And so estranged was I from all that I knew that I clutched onto his soft charm like a helpless babe because he made me feel valuable and desired. If it had not been for your father's wife dying, I dread to think what would have become of me. But such events saved me. For a while afterward, Isaac Glover menaced me by threatening to tell of my horrendous transgression. But I did not fear him. I knew he wouldn't tell. The crime of inveigling affections would be his as well as mine. Besides, he was too proud to admit to dalliance with a servant girl. So he wed Sarah Walling, who was a scold and a nag and made his life miserable. But I always knew his revenge would come. And so it did, years later, at the trial of my daughter.”
Nay, revenge came even before the trial, I thought; but I did not remind her. No purpose would be served by further suffering, nor by remembrance of how I had allowed myself to be so repulsively used. Yet through all this conversation Mama had continued to refer to Papa as my father, though now I knew he was not. I had to put my knowledge into words.
“Papa,” I said softly, “is not my real father, Mama. Why do you still speak of him as such, now that I know the truth?”
My heart went out to her for the pain my statement caused, yet no longer could I hide behind a cloak of concealment. Too near is our end to take refuge in deceit.
Mama said staunchly, “I shall always think of my husband as your father.” I knew she spoke the truth. Was it not Papa who once told me some things are best left unsaid? Perhaps some are also best left unrecognized, else we shall destroy ourselves with our grief.
I had to ask of Mama, “Did Goodman Glover know? That he is my father by blood if not by name?”
“Nay,” said Mama quietly, “not until today.”
So that explained his sick reaction. He knew he had defiled his child, and with that knowledge he must live, to accept God's vengeance. I wished I could communicate to him that by his depravity he had begat yet another child, and I thought again of the life inside me. I wondered what twisted shape it would take, were it to survive. Perhaps 'tis best all our sordidness shall be snuffed out with the noose. God, in his infinite wisdom, has provided us our only escape.
Mama said, “I think his wife knew, though. I think 'tis why she tortured you. She came upon us once, in the woods, after we had exchanged . . . some intimacies. And from the guilt in my demeanor, I am certain she realized our assignation was more than just a chance encounter. Afterward, when they were wed, as was I, Sarah Glover was the only one to remark upon the swiftness of my birthing. Did she ever mention as such to you, Rachel, in her threats?”
I knew, then, why Mama had been so constant in her inquiry as to whether Goody Glover had spoken, and of what Goody Glover had said. And I knew, too, of the reason Goody Glover had fashioned me into a poppet so as to cast a spell, and why my eyes had been the last she had sought before she had died, at long last able to communicate her suspicions and her resentment which had run so deep and been so long harbored. How she must have hated me! Would she, I wondered, have become a scold and a rail had she not had cause for being so, had she acquired a husband who treated her with respect and affection. How queerly are we all fashioned by our circumstances.
“Nay, Mama,” I replied. “She told me nothing. I am not even certain now how much I imagined and how much held truth. Sometimes I think the terror was of my own making, and the visions of my fancy. Perhaps I was merely the victim of my conscience and the fears of our neighbors.”
Mama did not believe me. “You were possessed,” she said. “Goody Glover found retaliation for my sins in you, her husband's daughter.”
'Twas the first and only time Mama had openly spoken of my parentage, and I realize why even her mind refuses to acknowledge it. It is too sickening to speak.
Quietly, I asked, “What happened the day you went to see him, Mama? When you went to ask for my mercy?”
She paused for the slightest fraction of an instant before saying, “He threatened me. And he forced his way with me. Else he would expose you as a witch.”
Her voice was dull and leaden, and whether it concealed emotion, or whether all emotion had already died, I do not know. As for me, I gasped. On my behalf, Goodman Glover had Mama as well as me ensnared in his vengeful net. Mama, poised, self-assured Mama, had fallen victim to a depraved man's lunacy. For the sake of her daughter.
Shuddering, I ventured, “And Goody White? Why did you allow Goody White to take over our home? And at a time when so much else was being lost?”
“'Twas another misguided attempt to save you,” Mama replied, and so wretched did I feel for all the hatred I had once directed toward her, she all the while protecting me, that I did not think I could bear another word.
“How?” I asked, weakly.
“I feared she would use her child's mangled leg to accuse you of witching,” Mama said. “Too little did I realize she would use an occurrence even more convincing. You see, Rachel, since the start of your visions, I feared all would come to this.”
I wondered if Mama realized all the hate I had once communicated and what she thought of it. For a moment I thought of explaining that hatred, and begging forgiveness, but I did not; such explanation would be not a catharsis, but a wound, a wound which would fester and never heal were it to be opened and examined. Whatever Mama thinks of my past actions shall remain unspoken, therefore hopefully forgotten, and in our days remaining I shall try to make it up to her.
Two days now have thus seen Mama and me sitting side by side, bound by our mutual chains on the chill, damp earthen floor, and for all the disagreeableness of our circumstances, we have never been closer either in body or spirit. Sadly for these two nights that have passed, for these two morns, for these two noons, Papa has not been to visit, nor has Mercy. I do not pretend to understand their motives. I can only hope Mercy, Mama's beloved, is being prevented from her desperate desire by a brother filled with irrational hatred. I can only think that Papa is wracked by tormented knowledge of events which occurred before he was wed, and for that I am disappointed in him. I had thought Papa capable of greater understanding. To Mama, I do not speak of this. Yet too sharply do I feel her pain, for too well do I know the sting of desertion.
The mute girl becomes a salve for me, providing distraction from both Mama's and my sufferings, and gives me the opportunity to concentrate upon some subject which does not hurt. I offered her part of my bread this morn. Then I asked her her name, once more hoping she would enter into an utterance, but it did not surprise me that she did not respond.
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