Witch Child (17 page)

Entry 85 (May eve, 1660)

Not everyone is happy that Rebekah and Tobias are married. This Sunday the Reverend Johnson frowned from the pulpit and his sermon was grimmer than ever. Deborah Vane shares his wrath. Her spleen spreads to her sister Hannah and their friends Sarah Garner and Elizabeth Denning. They narrow their eyes at us in church and turn to whisper to each other whenever they see Rebekah and me together. I thought them harmless, mere irritations, like mosquitoes in summer, until I met them one morning coming from the forest. They have baskets filled with flowers that grow here. The woods now are scarfed with green and the floor carpeted with colour. Their baskets spill spring flowers: spikes of blossom, sprigs of lobelia, delicate pink roses, orchids and lilies, but beneath I glimpse plants of a different kind: the purple heads of monkshood, what looks like hemlock, strong-smelling weeds with fleshy leaves and a kind of wild arum, which is not like a flower.

‘Where do you go to? The forest?’ Deborah asked, feigning innocence while the others sniggered.

‘Aye.’ I had my own basket and trowel. ‘I am going to meet Jonah. We are to collect plants together. He says the garden wants colour.’

At this, the sniggering turned to outright laughter.

‘You do not go to the forest to collect
flowers
.’ Sarah Garner sneered down at me.

‘And you do not go with Master Morse,’ Elizabeth Denning added.

‘Do I not? What do I do there, then?’

‘We know.’ Deborah looked at the others, who simpered together, their eyes sly.

‘
We
know,’ they repeated together.

‘Oh. And what do you know?’

‘That that is not all that you do.’ Deborah leaned towards me whispering, her hand guarding her mouth in a gesture of exaggerated secrecy. ‘We know!’

‘Know what?’

‘That you talk to the animals. Bend trees to your will. Conjure spirits. Meet with the Indians. Dance naked!’ She hissed the last, and then brayed with laughter. ‘See! She blushes!’

The others joined in, hooting their glee at my expense.

‘Who would not!’ I felt myself going hot. ‘Such a suggestion is immodest!’

‘You blush from guilt. We know what you do,’ Deborah stresses each word, jabbing a finger at me. ‘You put spells on people. Don’t worry.’ She looked at the others. ‘We will not tell. Not if you promise to help us.’

‘Help you? In what way?’ I tried to keep my voice steady, but the sweat was breaking over my body. Everything they said filled me with fear.

‘Don’t pretend innocence. We know what you can do. Today is Mayday Eve – a very great night for witches, I believe.’ Her eyes grew sly again. ‘A night when you can see things.’

‘Like your future husband,’ Hannah supplied. ‘And bind you to him, if you have the skill!’ She all but squealed the last, her weasel features screwed up with excitement. ‘That’s where you can help us.’

‘I cannot. I do not have the skill you speak of.’

‘We know that you do.’ Deborah smiled. ‘You did it for Rebekah, you can do it for us.’

‘What?’

‘Rebekah and Tobias. You wove a spell to bind him to her. A love spell.’ The others giggled. ‘That was your work.’

‘There is certainly magic there,’ I tried to laugh. ‘But it is not of my making.’

‘Do not try to hoodwink us. You secured Tobias for her. He would not have chosen her, why would he? She is ugly. You even turned the Reverend Johnson to her and away from me!’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps you want him for yourself!’

‘Me and Reverend Johnson!’ I had to laugh at that. ‘Now I know you are dreaming!’

‘Elias Cornwell, then!’ Sarah Garner burst out. ‘Everyone knows he won’t hear a word against you and favours you above all others!’

‘That may be so, but I have done nothing to encourage him.’

‘Yes you have!’ Deborah Vane hissed.

‘I have not!’ I shook my head at them. ‘You are mad. All of you ... ’

So that’s the way of it. Sarah Garner wants Elias Cornwell for herself. She is tall and plain, with a long thin face. She would make a good wife for him, but I will not help her, nor the others, either. They have it all planned out. Deborah wants the Reverend Johnson, Elizabeth Denning wants Josiah Crompton. And they want me to cast spells to secure these men as husbands for them.

‘What about you?’ I chucked Hannah under her pointed little chin. ‘Are you not too young to choose a sweetheart?’

I smiled, still trying to make light of it. She can’t be much more than nine or ten.

‘I’m not too young,’ she smiled back, showing her little splintery needle teeth. ‘I want Tobias,’ she lisped the end of his name. ‘I want you to put a curse on Rebekah. Make a poppet. Stick pins in it.’

‘Rebekah is my friend.’ My grip tightened on her chin. ‘And if you do anything, anything to harm her, or her child –’

‘Stop it!’ She struggled away from me. ‘Deborah, she’s hurting!’

‘I’ll do more than that if you’re not careful.’ I looked at all of them. ‘I will not help you. And my advice is to leave well alone.’

I went my way homewards, trying to dismiss their words as girlish spite and mischief-making. They went on, their baskets full of flowers for May garlands, but such things are forbidden here. And the herbs that lay under the blossom, that lay in the bottom of the baskets, those were herbs for a witches’ brewing. I guess what they intend, and it chills me, turning my blood to ice water, making my heart as heavy as a stone.

Entry 86 (May, 1660)

‘Signs of witchcraft, of hideous practice, have been found in the forest!’

The Reverend Johnson’s voice thunders from the pulpit. All talking is forbidden, but alarm rustles through the Congregation, like leaves stirring in the wind. I look along the rows. Deborah Vane has gone quite white, as has her sister next to her. Sarah Garner and Elizabeth Denning study their shoes. There have been rumours all week of this. Traces of a fire found in a forest clearing. Ashes on the ground, stubs of candle wax, and a strewing of some evil brew, fetid herbs and frogs boiled to whiteness.

‘Satan’s work. Here at Beulah. Profanity! Iniquity! I warn you, my people, we must be ever vigilant! Ever watchful. The foul fiend and his minions are all around us – even at Beulah! They caper and gibber in the forest, carrying on their heathen rites not a mile from God’s House!’

He is talking about the Indians. He goes on, warming to his theme, warning that they are everywhere, living all through the forest, as common as fleas in a dog’s pelt. That we do not see them makes them all the more dangerous. They are the Devil’s instruments, in league with the Evil One himself, intent on driving us from our rightful place in this land. He orders patrols to guard the settlement, men with muskets to go through the woods.

I see the girls draw breath again. They sit back, eyes closed in silent prayers of thanks. Hannah smirks at her sister and starts to play with a doll she keeps on her lap.

Entry 87

I have been listening for Jaybird, trying to distinguish one cry from another, waiting for his call to sound out from the birds’ empty clamour. This evening I thought I heard it, measured, insistent, close to the house.

As much as I want to see him, I have been forbidden the woods by Martha, but I wait until she goes next door to Sarah. I must go to him and warn him. I cannot let him walk into danger. The fear is great here. The patrols continue. If he is found anywhere near, he or his grandfather, they will be shot.

He is just in the edge of the forest, a little way from the house. I am glad to see him and he has a gift for me, a pair of beaded moccasins such as he wears in the forest, but I have little chance to thank him, or to do anything more than warn him. Almost as soon as we meet, I hear Martha calling. I hide the moccasins inside my shawl and hope to sneak past Martha, but she catches me. She is all of a bother, her rosy face white and mottled. Jonah is away, helping Tobias with the house he is building for Rebekah. We are alone together.

‘What are you doing out alone in the woods?’

‘Nothing. Walking merely.’

‘You know I have forbidden you! You know the talk there’s been about you! Now especially –’

‘Aye, and I have obeyed you. Except for tonight. There was something I had to do.’

‘You do not go to conjure?’ There is no one else here, but Martha spoke low, as if the very walls could betray us. She does not believe that what was found in the forest has anything to do with Indians.

‘Hush, Martha! That was not me. You know I would do nothing so stupid!’

‘I did not think that you did. Yet you would keep this!’

She holds out my Journal.

‘Where did you find it?’

‘In your box.’

I snatch, but she holds tighter. The first page tears between us.

I hold the line curled in my fist.

I am Mary. I am

‘A witch!’ Martha hisses, white to the lips. ‘You are mad to write it! If I can find it, so can they. You could get us all hanged!’

‘You knew I kept it.’

‘But not what you wrote! I never sought to pry before, Mary. It is not my way. I thought you wrote as other girls would, of everyday things, lovers and dreams. I should have known!’ She holds the page hard, creasing it. ‘You are not as other girls, are you?’

She makes a dash to throw the papers on the fire, but I am quicker. I stop her before she reaches the hearth.

‘No, Martha. You cannot do this.’

Words have power. These are mine. She has no right to destroy them. The will seeps out of her. Her hands lower.

‘Then you do it.’

‘I will, I promise.’

‘Do it now. It will not be long before suspicion turns away from Indians and will ’o the wisps, things that do not exist. There will be searches. They will come looking for evidence. Poppets, spells, curses, tablets. If I can find this, so can they. And if they do, no power on earth can save you.’ She brandished the papers, waving them in my face and throwing them down on the table before me. ‘Burn it! Get rid of it!’

With that she retired, leaving me alone. I went to my little room at the back of the house and dragged my box out from under my bed. On top is the quilt Martha and I are making. Under that is my pouch. I took the slip of paper still curled in my hand, and folding it small, I put it in there with my little stock of coin, the locket my grandmother gave me, my mother’s ring, the half a silver shilling that was Jack’s gift to me.
I tucked the beaded moccasins down towards the bottom of my box and went back to the main room, fully intending to do what Martha expected.

I sat in the chair for a long time, watching the red heart of the fire crumble to ash.

I was roused by noises above my head. I started, thinking Martha would come down to find that I had not done as she said. There was no further movement, no feet on the ladder, she must have just been turning over in her bed. I relaxed, but my eyes stayed on the ceiling, caught by the quilt frame slung up there.

I know what I will do.

Entry 88

I started that very night, folding the pages thin as spills, tucking them into the padding that goes between the cover and the backing. They may search all they like, they will not find it now.

Entry 89 (June, 1660)

The days stretch to midsummer, staying light late into the night. When the day’s work is done, Tobias and Jonah pack a supper and make their way to Tobias’ plot. They take advantage of the light nights to clear the land and work on the house. Sometimes John Rivers goes with them. Sarah and Rebekah sit out with Martha and me to stitch my quilt.

It is made from a fine piece of linsey-woolsey that Tobias brought me back from Salem. The colour is a deep midnight blue, and I sketch my own designs upon it: flowers for my grandmother’s garden, sails for the ships that brought us here, pine trees and oak leaves for the forest, feathers for the people who live in it, little cabins for us.

Martha frowns and clucks, such designs are not traditional, but the quilt is mine, and I care not a fig what she thinks. She can put her spirals in the corners and border it with an unending vine. I want my patterns left alone. I design them wide, to act like pockets. Later, I work like Penelope, undoing the stitches of the day, slotting each page away.

Entry 90

Midsummer’s Day. As hot as any I’ve known, although no sun shone. The clouds hung thick and low over the town from early morning. It was oppressive. Like stifling under a hot wet blanket. Dusk came early to a loud chorus of crickets and frogs. Suddenly that stopped and night came on, as dark as winter.

There was little light to work and the quilt felt damp, soaking up moisture from the atmosphere. Martha suggested we went inside and lit the candles. She felt as though a storm was coming and, as if to prove her right, little flickers of light showed on the horizon to the south. As yet far off, but it was enough to get the quilt packed up.

Rebekah is in her fifth month. Tobias was away that night, clearing his acres and working on their house. Jonah had gone with him, and John Rivers and Joseph, the Rivers’ oldest boy. Leaving us women alone at home. We went to Sarah’s house and Rebekah asked me to stay with her for company. Good that she did. Martha stayed, too. She does not like the thunder and did not want to be alone in the coming storm.