Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

Witch Child (9 page)

BOOK: Witch Child

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Salem, 7 August 1692, aft

Papa, too, is now troubled. The dam he has built for the mill has caused the English cart road to flood, and Goodman English is in terrible temper over the situation. Today, at the mill, Goodman English vented all his anger, and there was a frightful row. And while Goodman English ranted and raved, Goodman Corwin, for no apparent gain, was vigorously nodding and giving agreement to the tantrum. 'Twas the situation when I found them.

Poor Papa. He tried to explain. “When the rains stop, the river shall recede.”

Goodman English would have none of it. “If 'tweren't for the dam,” raged Goodman English, “I shouldn't have to depend upon the rains!”

Again Papa tried to reason.

Goodman English interrupted. “How shall I get my milk to town by which to feed my family? We shall all starve! Neither cart nor canoe can get through the mud!”

Goodman Corwin punctuated the ranting with a vehement nod.

Goodman English's snit, I know, was brought on on account of jealousy. He's jealous because we live on Ipswich Roadâwhich leads directly to townâwhite the English house sits way back in the village, requiring the family to contend with cart paths which are always marshy, rutted and give one a positive stomach ache for all the jouncing around of innards. And, because of the lack of free land, Goodman English and his family will have to make do with their backwoods farm and its inconveniencesâwith no hope of improvement.

Goodman Corwin is also jealous, as I have already recorded, because of Papa's inheritance and sudden turn of fortune. Goodman Corwin is not one to be pleased by a turn of fortune, unless 'tis his.

Feeling rather of advantage for a change, I listened to Papa reason.

“Would you have the village deprived of a mill?” Papa asked. “Would you have us all again grinding by handâelse travelling the distance into town? Pray, Simon, would you have your grain not only traversing your cart path, but also spending the better part of a sun going forth then back from town?”

The waterwheel behind me was going “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.”

Goodman English wanted none of Papa's reasoning. I watched him stalk out, with Goodman Corwin trailing in his shadow, and I made a face at them bothâout of loyalty to Papa. Goodman English climbed into his cart, ranting some incoherent threats about taking the matter up with the magistrate. And so fiercely did he whip his oxen, I felt certain those oxen would balk and turn on him.

Sighing, Papa walked over to me. “Be glad you are a woman, Rachel,” Papa said. “You shan't have to contend with such burdens. Daniel shall bear them instead.”

Secretly, I think the mill no burden at all. I wish I were to inherit it instead of Daniel.

Later, when Papa arrived home for meal, I learned that Goodman English's cart lost a wheel and crashed on his way homeâdemolishing the cart, though leaving its shaken, angry driver intact. I am glad about the cart.

Salem, 7 August 1692 eve

Where is Jeremiah when I need him? Every day he calls, yet three have past with nary a visit!

Is it Phebe Jeremiah now takes with him fishing and in slow meanderings through the woods? Is it Phebe to whom Jeremiah now shows off his musket, and with whom he now shares his teasing and laughter?

How I wish I were pretty! âTis so horrid being plain. Papa says 'tis what is inside which counts, and vanity shall never bring advantage. But âtis not at all how the world works. 'Tis not ugly old cows about which people coo and pander, but the soft, silkiness of their calves. Was there ever a homely cur whom people yearned to adopt and nurture? Nay, 'tis the frisky cuteness of a pup.

I do wish my hair were fair and curly, and my nose had not near so many freckles. Boys like pretty girlsâof that I'm certain. And are girls no better? Do I not make fun of Joshua Snow for being so ugly? Does Jeremiah ever think the same of me?

My nose is too long. My cheeks are too shallow. How I do yearn for the round, softness of Phebe. O how I hate to admit Phebe is pretty!

Mama says looking glasses are not for admiring but for adjusting one's cloak, and when she catches me studying my reflectionâwhich I have oft done latelyâMama admonishes me for my preoccupation. Yet how is one to really know oneself if one does not know how one
looks?
Such reasoning sits ill with Mama. “'Tis the inside which one should study,” Mama reminds. Yet I cannot help but feel that what is inside is reflected in what is out. I do wish Mama and I weren't always at such cross-purposes.

Perhaps 'tis indeed my inside manner in which Jeremiah tires. Perhaps he is more attracted to the shallow prattle and lightness of Phebe. Perhaps I should try more cooings and panderings, as Phebe does so well. Boys always do seem to like girls who are airy. Why do I torture myself so?

Who am I? What am I to become? Of what substance is my character? Shall I ever be poised and capable like Mama? So many doubts plague me.

How much calmer I shall be when I am free of my possession. Perhaps then Jeremiah will like me again.

Salem, 8 August 1692

I composed a poem today. I shall record it.

“Like treasures, her thoughts were carefully
guarded.
Her feelings were precious jewels,
To be kept close and shared
Only with the right, deserving persons.
And in the end, what was her fortune?
Loneliness. And a brimming jewel box,
About which no one knewâor cared.”

'Twas in my mind when I awoke this morn. Round and round the words rambled in my headâput there, I suppose, by Mama's description of me afternoon lastâand all day they have stayed with me. I feel sad. I think I shall try to change my character.

If only there were someone to whom I could pour out all my troubles, I'm certain I would feel ever so much better.

But to Mama I fear telling too much for fear of causing her further worry. Already Mama looks aged. Yet always her shoulders are erect, and always she holds herself with surety; so, to the outside world anyway, she gives away nothing. But I, who know her so well, see the calmness drain from her expression, and she pauses more often now before she speaks. It wrenches me to think of those times I have made her weep. Mama, who is so stern and constant, brings more fear than my visions when I see her break. Papa is my diversion, my happiness. But Mama is the rock upon which we all rest.

To Papa I can tell even less, so distracted is he with his problems over Goodman English and the dam. And still he refuses to admit anything might be awry with his own flesh and blood. 'Twas exactly as I heard him whispering to Mama. “The Reverend Parris is wrong, Martha. Nothing ails that which has sprung from my loins.”

Papa likes to pretend nothing is unusual. This is how he acts: He comes home for noonday meal, plops down on the bench at the trestle table, rubs his white sleeve across his perspiring forehead, takes a long swallow from his noggin of beer, glances at me sitting in the great room by the hearth, and asks (matter-of-factly), “How is Rachel doing with her fasting, Martha?” 'Tis as if he's inquiring about some lesson I'm learning!

I like how Papa has a curly lock of hair which always tumbles onto his forehead. Papa is nice lookingâhave I yet recorded that? âTis no wonder Mama took him over Goodman Glover. Papa has a soft face with reddish brown hair, and his shoulders are quite broad. His eyes rather twinkle when he smiles. Papa laughs more than Mama. 'Tis from Mama I get my sharp features and stern appearance. I do wish I looked more like Papa instead.

The other night Papa was playing his jew's harp, and he allowed me to sit at his feet and lean my head on his knee. How I do love Papa's attentionâ'tis ever so much more comforting than Mama's.

The Venice treacle tastes wretched, but yet has little effectâsave for keeping me doubled over with vomit. Goody Glover and her husband spent all last eve in my rafters. Only exhaustion keeps me from recording details.

I should like to record my thoughts on Reverend Parris, of which I recorded only a few in the writing of two days past. His sermons brim with the evils of money and with unfavorable comparisons to successful merchantsâso much so that I think the reverend is secretly envious, wishing such prosperity for himself. Oft have I noticed how people who speak so strongly against a thing are concealing some deeper emotion instead. So I think it is with Reverend Parris.

Papa says Reverend Parris squandered a small inheritance on poor investments. 'Tis why he was forced to accept the ministryâfor want of any other agreeable station. Yet things have not at all worked as he had planned. It does, I think, quite bother him to have constantly to beg for his monthly salary. And I do think the resentment he harbors spills over into his sermons and teachings. Sometimes I feel his pompousness divides us as much as the issue of the witchesâsometimes even adding to that issue. How are we to rid ourselves of our evil demons when our Reverend constantly reminds us of our wicked ways and accuses us of pacts with the Devil?

Please, God, do not think me impious toward one of Your shepherds. Merely am I trying to sort out what I have heard others whisper. Merely am I trying to
understand
.

Now, having recorded all that, I shall record that Reverend Parris returned again todayâpresumably to check upon my progress. I have the oddest sensation that he almost
delights
in my possession. As if 'tis further evidence of what he calls our “infested village.”

Alas, God, I do wish You would redeem those amongst us who are “rotten hearted.” So I can be cured.

Salem, 8 August 1692, eve

I saw Jeremiah today. When I was collecting eggs in the henhouse, I espied him leaving the road and entering the woods with his musket. I think he saw me, but I prefer to think he did not. Swiftly I set down my basket and followed.

I caught up with him near to the spot in the path where I had encountered Goodman Glover. Breathless, I called out, “Jeremiah! Wait! 'Tis me!”

When I think back now, for the slightest fraction of an instant, his pause was reluctant. But when he turned, his smile was pleasant. “I've had so many chores . . .” he began, by way of explaining his lack of appearance, and, thus, I knew he felt guilty.

Instantly I forgave him. “So have I!” I echoed with enthusiasm. So pleased was I to be once again within his company that I cared not at all for the days that had passed without him. “Mama has kept me busy morn, aft and eve with carding, spinning, breadmaking and candles! Scarce have I had time to catch my breath!” 'Twas a lie, to be certain. More truly have I been occupied with treacle, prayers and Reverend Parris. But of that I could not tell Jeremiah. “Are you going hunting?” I asked.

“Thought I'd look for some quail,” he replied, offhandedly. “I haven't much time, though. My father has much for me to do at the ordinary.” He stood facing me, but not really looking at me, and I wondered if he felt awkward for the change that had occurred betwixt us. To put him at ease, I reached for his free hand and squeezed it and smiled. His shyness bolstered my confidence, and I thought, “Even Jeremiah feels foolish at times!” The thought improved my spirits immensely.

“May I accompany you?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said; and his musket slipped, so he disengaged his hand from mine to straighten it.

He turned to walk the path slowly, and I walked beside him. Since the path is narrow, and wide enough for only one, Jeremiah politely walked to the side, his steps making crackling sounds in the carpet of dried leaves. I thought how handsome he looked. His head bent toward the ground as he walked, and his musket lay across one of his broad shoulders. His tall, slender frame moved with ease. His dark brown hair was clubbed, and I thought how soft it was.

I said, “It seems so long since I've seen you!”

“I know,” he replied, nicely. He related something about the ordinary, but I wasn't really listening. My thoughts were absorbed in merely his presence. Casually I brushed my arm against his, hoping he would take my hand, but he didn't.

“I think about you every day,” I told him, and now I could bite my tongue for how eager I sounded.

At last he looked at me, rather sheepishly. Vaguely it occurred to me that perhaps he regretted having kissed me. But swiftly I pushed the thought from my mind and decided he simply felt shy about it, because he's so proper. Impulsively I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. He blushed the color of a cherry. I waited for him to stop and kiss me back, but he continued walking. How I wanted him to kiss me!

We conversed for a while, but our conversation now seems thin and of little substance. When we paused near some ground scrub where quail might be hidden, I ran my hand along the grip of his musket, pretending to admire it, but secretly hoping he would take advantage of my closeness and touch me. He didn't.

His mind seemed distracted, somehow. Preoccupied. His demeanor was pleasant and polite, yet distant in a way I can't quite put my finger upon. When after a short while he sighed and said, “I guess there won't be any quail today,” I found myself vastly disappointed. I wished he hadn't given up so swiftly.

“Shall I see you on the morrow?” I asked when we parted at the road.

“I'll try,” he said.

Pray, God, do let him still like me.

BOOK: Witch Child

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