Witch Child (8 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Salem, 5 August 1692 eve
Jeremiah did not come today. I feel hollow and empty. And lonely.
Salem, 6 August 1692
As nervous as a trapped mouse was I waiting for the visit of Reverend Parris. When Mercy was sent away after noonday meal, I wanted to flee out the door after her and disappear into her shadow, so fearful was I of what to expect.
Gloomily I stood at the window and stared out through the small leaded panes of glass. It seemed to take forever for Reverend Parris to arrive. Mama set about making tea, and I heard the bubbling of the kettle in the hearth, but I did not turn, and neither of us spoke.
I found myself wishing I were an orphan, like that child who was abandoned some years back in the village. If I were an orphan, there would be no one upon whom I would bring shame. If I were an orphan, I could indeed flee out the door, and no one would come looking or notice. 'Tis what that abandoned child finally did. After the Disboroughs took him in, he just up and disappeared one day with nary a note nor word. Talk was he went to sea. If I were a boy, I would go to sea.
When Reverend Parris did arrive, 'twas with much pomp and dignity. Reverend Parris has this unsettling way about him of making one feel of lesser station. Sternly he strode up to me, peered down, clasped his hands behind his back, bent over slightly and frowned.
“This
was to be my salvation!” thought I, feeling more miserable than ever.
“This
was to be my salvation!” thought I, feeling more miserable than ever.
Taking my place upon the small stool by the hearth, I watched Mama while she took Reverend Parris's hat, served the tea and took her own place in the rocker. Reverend Parris sat in the settle, which he did with much grandiose situating of his long velvet waistcoat.
Both then proceeded to stare at me. My tongue felt like wood. What was I to say? Dumbly, I kept my eyes on the small table between us.
Mama began the conversation by explaining me to Reverend Parris. “Rachel is a quiet, solemn child,” explained Mama, “with a very active imagination. The village unrest has piqued that active imagination. You see, Reverend, Rachel does not have many friends; she does not make friends easily. So she has much time by which to let her thoughts wander and run rather . . . well, rampantly.”
Mama, I know, was following Papa's orders. Her words were clear and crisp, as if being recited from memory, and vaguely I wondered how often they had been practiced.
Mama continued. “Rachel is extremely close with her thoughts, Reverend. She does not speak much. Yet when she does speak, oft times she is cryptic and abrupt. Oft have I to remind her to soften her tone. I think, perhaps, her lack of softness comes from little practice, for she is very poor at making conversation. 'Tis true, Reverend, that children should speak only when addressed. Yet Rachel oft times does not speak even then.”
Uncomfortably I squirmed. âTis a peculiarâand unsettling!âexperience indeed to sit and hear oneself explained to another. I kept thinking 'twas someone else Mama was describing. I had to pinch myself to remind myself it was
me!
I wanted to say, “Mama,
that
is not me. 'Tis not what I am like at all!” That I have so few friends, I wanted to tell, is a situation of my own choosing. Why, were I to really want, I could have more friends than anyone in the village! I am merely selective, that's all! And as for being abrupt, as Mama described, I am simply straightforward.
me!
I wanted to say, “Mama,
that
is not me. 'Tis not what I am like at all!” That I have so few friends, I wanted to tell, is a situation of my own choosing. Why, were I to really want, I could have more friends than anyone in the village! I am merely selective, that's all! And as for being abrupt, as Mama described, I am simply straightforward.
All those things I wanted to tell. But I told none of them. Feeling more alone than ever, I fidgetted on my stool.
Mama said, “Rachel also has difficulty completing her thoughtsâwhich is why people oft consider her peculiar.”
Peculiar! 'Twas the first I had ever heard of
that!
that!
Mama said, “And now she feels she has these visions . . .” Her voice trailed offâlamely, I thought. Did I, or did I not, have visions? What was I to admit?
Silence. No one said a word. Awkwardly my eyes peered up from the table to see what the verdict would be. Two faces stared back at me. How I do hate being the subject of staring. I feel as if people can see
inside
me. I feel as if I have nothing left as private. A person needs to have some private things. If everything about a person's character is held up for all to see, 'tis as if one has no clothes.
inside
me. I feel as if I have nothing left as private. A person needs to have some private things. If everything about a person's character is held up for all to see, 'tis as if one has no clothes.
In the midst of this staring, it occurred to me that perhaps I could squeeze my eyes shut and disappear. If I couldn't see others, they couldn't see me. So I tried it, but it didn't work. When I opened my eyes, both were still there. And Reverend Parris was looking at me
very
oddly. Mama paledâfearing, I suppose, that my squeezing my eyes shut meant I was going into one of my fits.
very
oddly. Mama paledâfearing, I suppose, that my squeezing my eyes shut meant I was going into one of my fits.
After what seemed like an eternity, Reverend Parris finally spoke, with every word punctuated by a pause in its delivery. “Any recent deviations in Rachel's quiet character?” he asked.
Who was to answer? Me? Or Mama? What if I blundered? How I wished Mama had rehearsed me as well as she had rehearsed herself!
Mama said, “Well aye, Reverend, there have been deviations. Sometimes Rachel begins chattering, rather aimlessly.”
“To drive away the visions!” I wanted to explain.
Reverend Parris asked, “Any agitation?”
“Oft,” replied Mama. “Whenever her imagination conjures up these visions . . .”
“They are
awful
visions!” I exclaimed, suddenly, surprising even myself. I wondered if my blunder had arrived. I didn't care. The visions
are
awful; and if I didn't tell Reverend Parris so, how was he to help?
awful
visions!” I exclaimed, suddenly, surprising even myself. I wondered if my blunder had arrived. I didn't care. The visions
are
awful; and if I didn't tell Reverend Parris so, how was he to help?
Reverend Parris then asked, “And what do those visions look like, Rachel?”
Stammering, I told them they were of Goody Glover, all the while anxiously glancing back and forth to Mama for some clue as to how much I was to reveal. Reverend Parris's frown grew deeper. Gravely, he began to rapidly question me while I haltingly tried to answer as best I could; but so frightened was I, my explanations became disjointed, and I began to feel my doctor worse than the disease. Merely I wanted him to pronounce me cured, then depart.
“Does her vision appear to you now?” Reverend Parris eventually asked.
Swiftly I glanced about the great room. I saw nothing. With faint hope, I thought perhaps I was cured. Hesitantly, I shook my head.
“What does she say to you?” Reverend Parris asked.
“N ... nothing” I stammered. Oddly, I found myself wishing Goody Glover would indeed speak, so I could tell both Mama
and
Reverend Parris what she said.
and
Reverend Parris what she said.
Reverend Parris prodded, “Any unusual occurrences in the household? Like strange noises? Or pots falling from the hearth? . . .. Or bread not rising?”
“No,” interjected Mama, firmly. “My yeast is always faultless.”
Uneasily, I shifted. Too well did I remember the day of Goody Glover's hanging, and I wondered how much Mama had noticed.
To me Reverend Parris asked, “Does Goody Glover e'er appear to you in the form of animals? Like birds, or bats, or dogs, or chickens, orâ”
“Aye,” I said, nervously, “. . . she . . . she has appeared to me in a large orange cat.”
“And does she e'er appear as a large, yawning, fiery pit?”
“Nay . . . er . . .”
“When you see her, do your limbs stiffen, then go into spasms?”
“Well, I, er, shake a lot. I . . . I'm just so frightened, you see. But I . . . I don't really stiffen . . .”
“Do you speak in foreign tongues? In some language unknown to others?”
“Nay . . . I, er, not that I remember.”
“Nay, she does not,” verified Mama.
So swift were his questions, I had the feeling he was trying to trip me.
“Has she struck at you?” the reverend asked. “Fought with you?”
“Nay,” I said, quickly trying to remember. “Nay, I . . . I don't think so . . .”
Suddenly Reverend Parris's voice grew quiet and low. “And why, Rachel, do you think Goody Glover wants you?”
My breath could scarce make it past my lips. Never could I tell what little I
do
knowâabout Mama and Goodman Glover. And certainly I could make no conjecture. To Reverend Parris, I finally mumbled, “I . . . I don't know.”
do
knowâabout Mama and Goodman Glover. And certainly I could make no conjecture. To Reverend Parris, I finally mumbled, “I . . . I don't know.”
Reverend Parris then sat back in the settleâfrom his previous posture of leaning intently toward meâand pondered his conclusion. Nervously I fidgetted with my apron, twisting its corner round and round my finger 'til it crumpled in a tight knot. I dared not look at Mama. He let the silence lie interminably while making his deliberation, until finally he smoothed the front of his linen shirt, and announced:
“'Tis a clear case of possession.”
A dropping pin could have been an explosion, so still was the room. Such declaration, Mama did not want to hear. But Mama
believed
it. I
know
she did.
believed
it. I
know
she did.
“Not . . . not imagination?” attempted Mama, feebly.
Reverend Parris was certain. “All the signs are present.”
Mama's expression was pale and uncertain. Papa was not going to like this verdict.
But Mama, always of poise, quickly recovered herself. Drawing a long breath, she asked, “The cure, Reverend Parris? What say you for recommended action?”
“Aye.” Reverend Parris nodded. “The cure. In situations such as this, âtis usual, of course, to increase Bible reading. Three or four hours a day should give pause to evil demons and provide alertment that the soul is wise to the terrors and tortures of Hell.” Too well am I
already
wise to the terrors and tortures of Hell! “Should also be done whene'er the demons appear,” continued the reverend. “And in accompaniment, I recommend fasting. Fasting does tear out the demons' sustenance.” Glumly, I wondered if that meant no evening meal. “And finally,” said Reverend Parris, “administer Venice treacle. One cup every hour.”
already
wise to the terrors and tortures of Hell! “Should also be done whene'er the demons appear,” continued the reverend. “And in accompaniment, I recommend fasting. Fasting does tear out the demons' sustenance.” Glumly, I wondered if that meant no evening meal. “And finally,” said Reverend Parris, “administer Venice treacle. One cup every hour.”
That nearly did me in. At the mere thought, my stomach violently heaved. Venice treacle being the most repulsive compound ever imagined, already I could smell the horrid fumes of pounded bodies of snakes mixed with wine and every herb known to a kitchen garden, all boiling in some wretched kettle. Anxiously, I wondered if I could escape it.
“Aye,” replied Mama, obediently. “I shall have Jacob search out snakes this very eve.”
Then the reverend, after much Scripture reading, left.
I know not at all what to make of his visit. Over and over have I turned his conversation in my mind, yet I feel not at all comforted. When Mercy and Daniel returned, I wanted so much to be able to say I am wellâor at least on the road to recoveryâbut I could not.
In fact, nothing at all was said within the family. Papa returned from the mill, Mama laid out evening meal and everyone acted as if nothing at all extraordinary had occurredâwhich only increased my discomfort. 'Twas only later, when I had gone to the well to fetch water and had returned, bucket in hand, to find everyone huddled in a corner whispering, that I knew Mama had told. Guiltily, they all immediately straightened. Furious, I slammed the door and returned to the well, whereupon Goody Glover came to me in the form of a small brown bird. Just as Reverend Parris had predicted.
Salem, 7 August 1692
Last eve, so profusely did the blood gush from Goody Glover's snapped neck that it poured into my throat and sent me so choking I could scarce catch my breath.
“Mama! Mama!” screamed Mercy as I lay in my bed, convulsing in terror. “Come quick! Rachel has another of her fits!”
In the rafters a bony head hung upon a square shoulder, neck gaping with a flowing wound, and the saliva that drooled from her lips mixed in with her sticky blood and thinned it to make it run faster. Into my eyes it fell, into my nose and throat, and it matted my hair and covered my face until my whole head was immersed in her blood. I could not close my mouth for its pouring. Choking and gasping, I felt as if I were drowning, and I could think of nothing, not even Mercy's frantic wailings, as I fought to breathe and strained my lungs as they filled with blood.
Frantically I thrashed. My legs flailed and my hands punched wildly, but I could not escape. Her long gnarled fingers reached down and held me fast against my sheets.
“Stop it, Rachel. Stop it,” ordered Mama, harshly, and she slapped me.
But I could not stop. The blood poured ceaselessly, and I felt that my tongue would follow; and all would fill my throat and I would die upon my bed.
Again Mama slapped me, and again; then quickly she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “Stop it, Rachel! Stop it!” she ordered. “Take some of this treacle!”
The treacle became blood, and I gagged and choked until its brownness covered my gown. So miserable was I that I threw myself upon Mama's shoulder and wailed, “Help me, Mama! Help me!”
“Ssshhh, Rachel. Ssshhh,” whispered Mama as she rocked me. “I shall help you. I shall try.”
But I know she cannot. Goody Glover shall never cease her torture. Until she takes me.
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