Witch Child (6 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Salem, 1 August 1692
Today was a strange day. Mama bid me to Goody Abbey's on an errand, and I took the long way round, by the road, for fear I might otherwise encounter Goodman Glover. I know not what secret lies betwixt him and Mama, but neither do I wish to learn it from his thin, weasely lips.
Passing the Lawsons', I found a small crowd gathered round the door and soon saw why. Shortly the constable appeared, dragging away a frightened Goody Lawson, her poor wailing husband racing from his fields to plead for his wife's redemption. But his pleas went unanswered. They are wed but a year. His new wife was bound in chains and shoved into a rickety cart with nary a backward glance. 'Tis said she mixed a brew of spiders and toads and cast a spell upon Goodman Turbell, which sent the Turbell horses into fits, and all-the result of an argument regarding the Turbell pigs which got into Goody Lawson's kitchen garden. I feel sorry for Goodman Lawson.
At the Meetinghouse, I found a notice tacked to the door. It read:
Two days hence, on 3 August, will begin the trial of Goodwife Patience Hale. All who have evidence of her entertainment of the Devil appear before the magistrates at dawn on the appointed day.
Goody Abbey, I know, shall be at the trial. Her daughter, Bethshaa, accuses Goody Hale of making her possessed. 'Tis said that when Goody Hale entered the Abbey house, a beam fell upon Bethshaa, and Bethshaa has not been in sound mind since.
I wish I were Bethshaa. Bethshaa is more fortunate than I. Bethshaa can be redeemed by the death of her afflictor. My afflictor already lies dead. The only one left of
my
affliction is me.
my
affliction is me.
Today, when Goody Bayley walked past the Ingersoll house, a chair flew across the room. Will Goody Bayley be next, I wonder?
Today is hot and steamy. I feel sorry for Goody Lawson, Goody Hale and all the others who are crammed into the wooden hut that has become our prison.
Papa says 'twill rain again this aft, as portended by the dark gray clouds on the horizon. One of those clouds looks like Goody Glover. Another, like her weasely husband.
Salem, 2 August 1692
So unhappy am I, I can scarce take delight in Papa's mill and its great success.
Everyone in the village now comes to Papa to grind their grain. “'Tis ever so much easier,” declares Goody Bishop, “than grinding it on one's own small stones.”
Tonight, at evening meal, Papa was beside himself with joy. On and on he waxed about how many sacks already he has ground. Creaking carts, says Papa, roll up to the mill practically all the day long.
When meal was finished, Papa pushed back his chair, Mama brought him his pipe and Papa bade me come sit beside him on the stool by the hearth, sensing my sadness.
Mama said, “The supper dishes wait for Rachel, Jacob.”
I said, not meanly at all, “I prefer to sit with Papa.”
Mama did not like my reply. She gave me a swift swat on the backsideâwhich I did not feel at all through my heavy muslin skirt and petticoatâand admonished me for my willfulness. Then Daniel chimed in, glaring. “Rachel needs obedience lessons.”
Evilly I made a face and stuck out my tongue. Mercy looked frightened. I suppose she thought I was going into one of my fits. Already she fears to sit next to me at meals. “Mama,” Mercy always whimpers in her whiny voice, “please don't make me sit next to Rachel.” I like the power I'm beginning to have over Mercy.
To Daniel, I taunted, “And what of you and Prudence Cory?”
I know 'twas mean of me. Daniel turned purple with fury. Satisfied, I listened as Daniel attempted to explain my remark to the rest of the family, all the while glaring, wondering if I would expose him further. I decided not to. I shall use it as a weapon, doling out little balls of shot piece by piece, as Daniel deserves.
I wonder if âtis monstrous for a sister not to feel affection for her brother. Since Daniel is only a half-brother, perhaps 'tis forgiven. Once I asked Papa what Daniel's real mother was like, the mother who was Papa's wife before he married Mama, and Papa said merely she was a kindly woman whom Daniel adored. She died when Daniel was five. I guess I should feel sad for Daniel, but I don't. Because he's so bossy. And because Papa treats him as special. Papa has willed Daniel the mill.
Daniel is Papa's favorite. Mercy is Mama's favorite. And I? I am no one's favorite. But I don't care. Someday they shall all be sorry for how I am treated.
When I finished the dishes, Mama announced âtwas time for family prayers. So 'twas prayers and much singing of psalms I had to endure before I could hear more about Papa's day at the mill. Pray, God, do not think by these words that I begrudge your psalms and prayers. 'Tis only that they come so
often
.
often
.
“Goodwife Hale's trial is to be tomorrow,” Mama remarked.
“Mmm,” Papa replied.
Vexed at being overlooked, I interjected, “Who else was at the mill today, Papa?”
“Ah, let's see,” Papa said. “There was Goodman Burroughsâhas two new mules, Martha. And Hezekiah Abbey brought his wife, Sarah . . .”
“Sarah's to testify tomorrow,” Mama said.
“Aye,” Papa replied. “The daughter's been possessed by the Witch Hale.”
Stubbornly I again interjected: “What were Goodman Burrough's new mules like, Papa?”
Mama said, “'Tis time to practice your stitches, Rachel. Idle hands are the work of the Devil.”
I did not want to do my sampler. My stitches are always unevenânot neat and perfect like Mercy's. “But what are Goodman Burrough's new mules like, Papa?” I persisted.
“Hefty, handsome critters,” Papa said. “Asked him what he'd take for a trade.”
“Rachel, watch your stitches,” chided Mama. “Jacob, do you think we ought attend tomorrow's trial? I fear sometimes simply being near witches is an ill omen, yet . . .”
“'Tis not a witch till she's tried,” Papa reminded.
“Aye, 'tis so, Jacob. Yet with the evidence . . .”
Witches, witches, witches! If I hear the word one more time, I think I shall scream! I merely wanted to talk to Papa about the mill! Why does no one listen when I speak? Frustrated, I threw down my sampler, put my hands over my ears and fled from the roomâup to the bedchamber where I am now writing.
Mama called out after me, “Rachel Ward! Pray, return here this moment!”
But Papa said, “Let her be, Martha. âTis the age. 'Tis difficult half betwixt child and grown.”
I'm glad Papa took my side. I wonder if Goody Glover would help me cast a spell on Daniel.
Salem, 3 August 1692
'Twas helpful I had been so out of sorts with Mama and Daniel. It gave me determination.
For when Goody Glover came last night, I cried out with all my strength, “Go away! Go away! Be gone, you cackling witch! You shall never take me! I swear it on my life!”
Mama held me and rocked me. Eventually Goody Glover left, though her blood still covered my hands, and all day I have had constantly to wash them.
Daniel is too ecstatic to live with. This aft he officially asked Mr. Cory's permission to court Prudence, and Mr. Cory has agreed. So Daniel prances and preens like some barnyard rooster; and no matter how much he talks about caring for Prudence, I just know 'tis her property he adores, and he is picturing himself lord and master over a wharf, two town lots and three ships.
Daniel finally went to Mr. Cory, I think, because he feared I would eventually tell about his and Prudence's “discussion”âwhich I probably would have. How I would have loved to have watched Daniel in the stocks! Mr. Cory, I think, then agreed to the courtship because of the successes of Papa's mill, about which everyone is now remarking. I've noticed how Daniel is taking great interest in Papa's books, and I'd like to tell Papa that Daniel does so out of his own interest, not Papa's. But Papa probably wouldn't believe me.
Salem, 3 August 1692, eve
The most delicious thing has happened!
This eve, after evening meal, when I was feeling so disgusted about Daniel's prancing and preening, Jeremiah came round to ask if I would like to accompany him to search out a deer. Cradled in his arm was his new musket. With it he said he had found quite good fortune, and to be certain, I did not refuse the venture.
I do so adore accompanying Jeremiah on any purpose or on no purpose whatsoever. I so admire him, and today was a perfect example of the reason.
We set out through the woods, taking no particular path, but rather winding our way amidst the trees and heading toward a place in the river where a small tributary branches off and settles into a pond. “'Tis where the deer come to drink just before dusk,” Jeremiah told me.
When we reached our destination, Jeremiah bid me silence, and we sat upon a log to wait.
“Shall it be long?” I asked. I was impatient, and for some reason my insides were bouncing with exuberance, which is quite unusual for me.
Jeremiah, too, was eager, and he smiled at me, his dark, smooth complexion creased in gentle humor and anticipation. How I hungered to talk with him, to exchange all the little trivialities of the day, to tell him about Prudence and Daniel and all my exasperation. Yet I held my tongue, for I knew if I spoke our mission would be spoiled, and Jeremiah would be disappointed.
How still everything was about us. Leaves rustled softly over our heads as a warm, early evening breeze drifted in from the sea. A goldfinch ferreted amongst the bed of dried pine needles at our feet, searching for supper, I suppose. The lowering sun made our private world dim, yet light enough to see, and comfortably cozy. I thought about Goodman Glover. I wondered if he lurked somewhere about us. I thought how 'twas the first time I had ventured so far within the forest since my ghastly encounter, yet I was not at all fearful. I am never fearful with Jeremiah. Merely being with him makes me feel secure.
Quietly Jeremiah opened his powder horn and poured a trickle into the barrel of his musket, then tamped it down. “Hold this,” he said, softly, as he got out his pouch of shot, and I did so gladly. Frequently have I gone with Papa when he hunted for our table, but never have I felt so excited as I did today with Jeremiah. Perhaps 'twas a premonition of what was to follow.
The slightest snap of a twig signalled that our quest was soon to be discovered. Beside me, Jeremiah scarcely breathed. His brown eyes danced, and lightly he touched my arm, winking, then motioned my gaze in the direction of the pond.
More twigs crackled, then ahead of us, emerging from the depths of the forest, stood a stag, so magnificent I nearly gasped. Twelve points sat atop his majestic head. Twelve points! I thought, “How green Papa will be with envy!”
That magnificent animal stood poised not thirty footsteps from us; yet so concealed were we by the trees, and so motionless were our forms, that his large head glanced keenly about, and he saw us not at all. Slowly, gracefully, his smooth neck lowered, and he began to drink. Beside me Jeremiah raised his musket. For a moment I was torn. The beauty of the stag so took my breath away that I yearned to cry out, “Let him live!” Yet another part of me desperately wanted Jeremiah to triumph. That part of me feared the trees, or Jeremiah's youth, would cause him to miss, and I did not want him to miss. I wanted him to win. I wanted him to succeed.
Suddenly our silence exploded with the shattering of a musket. The stag fell. His magnificent body shuddered in one last plea for life, then lay beautifully still.
“I got him!” Jeremiah shouted. He leapt to his feet. “Do you see, Rachel? Right through the breast and the heart!”
How excited Jeremiah was! Exuberant, he hugged me and led me in a quick little dance, then grabbed my hand and hastened me toward the stag. “I must dress him immediately,” he said. “'Tis almost dark. My father shall wonder what's happened to me! And yours, too! O Rachel! What luck you have brought me! Twelve points, and meat enough for a month, perhaps two!”
Betwixt his excited jabberings, it occurred to me that Jeremiah was surprised by his own proficiency, that he had not expected to down such a prize. Yet I was not at all surprised. I always expect Jeremiah to shine at everything he attempts. I was proud of him. Eagerly I told him so and squeezed his hand.
That was when it happened.
I am not certain about the exact procession of events, for what happened occurred so quickly that I think we were both somewhat startled. 'Twas right after I squeezed his hand, when I thought once more he intended to hug me, but instead, his head bent down and . . . he kissed me!
He kissed me! Jeremiah kissed me!
To be sure, 'twas a swift, small kiss. Not at all like the absorbed entanglings of Daniel and Prudence. And after Jeremiah did it, he blushed a little and ducked his head. And I think I blushed, too. My blood felt all warm and tingly, and my eyes were probably as wide as Mama's trenchers. But then Jeremiah glanced back down at me, his smile shy yet sparkling, and he kissed me again. Our noses bumped, awkwardly, and foolishly we both turned our heads in the same direction; but finally one of us got it right, and our lips once more touched-a warm, lingering touch.
Playfully Jeremiah placed his finger upon my nose and gently squished it. “You're nice,” he said. His eyes' looked right into mine.
“You're nice, too,” I replied. Eerily my voice seemed to come not from my mouth, but from someone else's. I was numb. I had no feeling, yet I felt every movement of the breeze around me. A thousand sensations filled me.
Purposefully Jeremiah then took his knife from his belt and began to dress the deer, and all the while he worked, he spoke to me. As I helped him, I spoke in return, and I, who can never seem to find my tongue, was suddenly as glib as a chipmunk. But best of all, everything I said was right! Nothing was wrong! Jeremiah laughed at my teasing! He was amused by my jestings! And I felt the cleverest person alive! Yet now I have not a clue as to what I said, for I cannot recall a single word.
Giddily I knelt so my arm would touch against his, hoping my touching would seem an accident and that it would prompt him to kiss again. Which he did. Thrice more as he worked. And after each, we giggled and blushed.
How happy I am! All the way home, and even still, I feel as if I am floating. How jealous Phebe shall be! I can scarce wait to tell Ann, knowing Ann shall tell the others!
And so, dearest journal, today I have received my first kiss. I, who have always been so plain and who have always so yearned for the admiring glances that seem destined to be directed continually toward people like Deliverance and Phebe, finally feel pretty. How fortunate I am to have someone like Jeremiah. How I do adore him!
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