Witch Child (3 page)

I whispered to Martha, asking who he was.

‘Elias Cornwell. Reverend Johnson’s nephew. He ent been with us long. Come from Cambridge.’

He is young, but he stands with his shoulders hunched and his back bent like an old man. Scholar’s stance, Martha calls it. His black clothes hang loose on him and his bony wrists thrust out from his sleeves as if his coat is too small for him. His long pale hands fluttered over the pages of the Bible like a spider, the fingers inked from nail to knuckle. He found his place, looked over the heads bowed in front of him and prepared to speak.

He reminds me of a ferret. His face is white to milkiness, with pinched features gathering into a thin pointed nose. The tip is pink and square ended. I kept expecting it to twitch.

He removed his hat and cast pale eyes over us, catching mine before I could lower them. Frown lines marked his high sloping forehead and I thought I saw that sensitive nose twitch as if scenting an interloper. I hurriedly studied the rough floorboards beneath my feet.

He marked his place in the Bible, but he did not read. The text he had chosen was learnt by heart. His speaking voice was a surprise to me. Deep and full, despite his frail frame, it filled the small hall.

‘We are God’s chosen people. His purpose for us is clear. “I will appoint a place for my people Israel, and will plant them, that they may dwell in a place of their own, and move no more; neither shall the children of wickedness afflict them anymore, as beforetime ...
”
’

He was quoting from the Second Book of Samuel. Grandmother made sure that I was well versed in biblical matters.

His rich voice rang out over the congregation. Heads nodded slightly in response to his words, shoulders and backs braced and relaxed with the rhythm of his preaching. He spoke a belief that was shared by all.

‘If we have transgressed, if we have strayed in any way from God’s purpose, we must beg His forgiveness. We must pray ... ’

I listened for a while, there was much to admire in his eloquence, but as the hourglass turned I found my attention straying. I thought my own thoughts, all the while trying to keep my mind away from the aching discomfort spreading up my legs from the hard floor and the long standing, but I am used to lengthy preaching and praying, and well practised in seeming to be devout.

My grandmother always attended church, tramping the path from our cottage in the woods to the village in all weathers and taking me with her, even though she did not believe a word of what was said and it was four miles there and four miles back. She went every Sunday, even after they had sent the vicar packing, burnt his robes and taken mallets to the statues of the saints and the Virgin, smashed the coloured glass in the windows and taken away the altar to set up a simple table in its stead. She went, even though malice whispered all around us, and hatred muttered after us like pattering footsteps. She never missed a service, even after she was scratched on the cheek, scored above the breath with a steel pin to break her power as a witch. She did not even flinch, just stood, head bowed, while her blood dripped down, spotting the worn stone flags on the ground.

‘Mary? Mary?’ I felt a hand shaking me. ‘Our prayers are ended.’

It was Martha. I looked about as if waking from sleep. Even the most devout were stirring and stretching. I went to move too, but my head swam and I staggered a little. Martha’s grip on me tightened. I saw the minister’s pale eyes narrow. For a moment I was afraid he had seen right into me, guessed my true nature, but then his mouth, thin as a razor slash, twitched with approval. I lowered my eyes. He had taken my rapture for excessive devotion. I could breathe again.

Entry 10

Our prayers are answered. The mist has disappeared, torn apart by a fresh wind blowing steadily from the east. I joined in the thanks, as fervent as the rest. Tarrying here is tedious. I want to be gone.

We left the inn and made our way to the squat tower which marks the West Gate of the city. Through it the ships stood anchored at the quay; beyond them lay the sea. We went through the massive archway in ones and twos and little groups, carrying babies and baggage, carting bundles of bedding and cooking utensils. We picked our way between rubbish and puddles, trying not to drop things, hoping that we had all we needed, parents calling to children not to run off, not to get lost. Each person, caught up in the occupation of the moment, stepped through with no seeming pause or hesitation, although this is the Gate of No Returning. There will be no coming back.

I had never been on a ship before, never seen the sea until a day or so ago. To me, the vessels looked huge. Our ship, the
Annabel,
seemed to stretch nearly the length of a street. It smelt of tar and new wood. As I stepped on board, I felt the subtle rocking motion beneath my feet. I clung to thick rope held taut and creaking by the masts and spars high above me. I was no longer on solid ground.

When all were aboard and the ship was loaded, we were called to assembly. I stood with the others, head bowed, staring at the wooden planking, scrubbed white and caulked close so no gaps showed in it. Elias Cornwell led us in prayer while the great ship strained at its ropes, as if anxious to be gone. All its human cargo was silent. The captain ceased from shouting and giving out orders. He and his sailors stood bareheaded, as solemn as Elders, as the minister asked for God’s blessing upon us, and all:

‘
“... that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in great waters.

These men see the works of the Lord: and his wonders in the deep.
”
’

After our prayers were over, we were directed below to the great cabin. This is to be our home. It seemed a great expanse at first, running nearly from one end of the ship to the other, but it has soon filled up until each person’s space is but a bed width.

The sailors sweated and chanted above us, hauling sail and heaving up the great iron chain of the anchor, and we set ourselves up in little groups, piling and positioning our belongings to make enclosures.

‘Packed as tight as the cattle in the hold,’ I remarked as we arranged our bundles.

‘And likely to smell as rank.’ Martha nodded towards the slop buckets in the corner. ‘Here, strew this in your bedding. I plucked it from my garden just before I left.’

She reached in her pack and handed me a bundle of herbs: lavender and rosemary, fresh and pungent, and meadowsweet dried from another season. The scent took me straight to my grandmother’s garden and my eyes blurred with tears. Martha went to speak, but her voice was drowned by a fresh flurry of shouting from above us. The heavy mooring rope fell with a dull thud to the side of the ship. The movement changed, rising and falling in sudden surges of motion. The mainsail cracked as the wind caught it and the whole ship veered, causing people to stagger. We were away.

g

Journey 2: the voyage

Entry 11 (March? 1659)

Good weather and fair winds held. The sailors praised the Pastor until we had passed Land’s End, saying that his prayers had worked, but at night I dreamed of blessings of a different kind. All along the coast, I saw women in high places, on craggy headlands and jutting promontories, keeping a watch for our passing. Some were standing, long hair streaming, arms outstretched. Some sitting on rocking stones, staring out as if from thrones. I dreamed myself near enough to see their faces. I knew that they had been sent there by my mother. Word had gone out to protect me. I am her daughter and she is a most powerful witch.

Entry 12

Thirty-six paces up, nine across. That is the main deck. Fourteen paces up, eight across, that is the great cabin where we live. This is my world. I had thought the ship large when I first saw her, but the further we are out on the ocean the smaller it seems, until it has shrunk to walnut size, like some little fairy ship surrounded by the deep green sea.

Captain Reynolds is housed in a little cabin tucked at the blunt end of the ship, under the half-deck. The sailors bestow themselves and their belongings where they may. There are few private cabins. There are other passengers besides those of our party and we are all packed as close as herring in a barrel and salted fish would smell sweeter – especially when the hatches are closed. The Reverend Elias Cornwell is one of the few to have a cabin to himself. It is a little space, but private – a great luxury compared to the rest of us. He is afflicted by seasickness so badly that Daily Prayers are led by one of the Elders.

He is not alone. Many others are similarly stricken. Martha is kept busy among them and I help her. Reverend Cornwell has no wife or female relative so it often falls upon me to tend to his needs. I do not look forward to this. I know something of herbs and healing, but looking after the sick is not a pleasure to me.

His cabin smells sour, of vomit and the slop bucket. There is a small window with a sliding wooden shutter which I am quick to open. Under the little window is a writing flap. Normally this is fixed flat to the wall, but once in a while it is down and covered in writing materials. There is a shelf with books upon it and others in a trunk lying open at the foot of the bed. Religious works mostly, Bible commentaries and col
lected sermons. Some are in English, some are in Latin.

I was examining these, to see if there was anything of interest, when I heard a voice from the bed. I started up, more in surprise than guilt. Reverend Cornwell rarely acknowledged my presence.

‘You can read?’

‘Aye, sir. English and some Latin. And write.’

‘Who taught you?’

‘My grandmother, sir.’

He heaved himself up in bed the better to look at me. His face was ashen above his nightshirt, his thin hair plastered to his forehead.

‘And what was she?’

He looked at me sharply. I kept my face clear, but I could feel the pulse beating in my neck.

‘A simple countrywoman, sir.’

‘And she knew Latin?’

‘She was taught by her grandmother before her.’

I did not add that she in her turn had been taught by the nuns and that we had many of their books, carried off from their library, saved from King Henry’s men.

What is your name?’

‘Mary, sir.’

‘Bring me some water.’

I went over to fill his beaker.

‘You know your Bible?’

‘Yes, sir. She taught me that as well.’

He nodded and then his head fell back on the pillow as if any effort was too much for him.

‘You write well? Your hand is fair?’

‘Yes, sir. Tolerably neat. Why do you ask?’

‘I might have need of you. I mean to keep a record of this journey.’

‘You mean like a diary?’

He gave me a look as if he meant nothing so frivolous.

‘A Journal. A Book of Wonders, a Record of God’s Remarkable Providences.’

‘Like the progress we make?’ I asked.

The ship was making excellent speed. Many took this as a sign that God’s Providence was working already. Even now I could hear the waves hissing against the side. The great sails cracked above us. I braced myself against the lurch and pitch as the ship heaved and yawed with the changing wind. He did not answer, just closed his eyes and leaned back again, skin tinged green and sheened with sweat.

‘I wish to write down, each day, how we fare,’ he said eventually, ‘but I am too weak at present even to hold a pen.’

‘You wish me to write for you?’

He nodded. He could no longer speak. He retched instead into the bucket by his bed.

Entry 13

Each day I am called to the Reverend Cornwell’s cabin, either to report on any wonders that might have occurred, or to scribe for him. There
are
no wonders, not yet anyway. Daylight and darkness regulate our lives. The days are filled with cooking, tending the sick, minding the children, tidying our portion of the ship. Reverend Elias finds no wonder in that, so I write down his other meditations. These are many and detailed, thoughts buzz about him like flies round a midden. His cabin is filled with a thin sour smell peculiar to him and I long to leave, but have no choice but to stay and I write until my mind aches with the tedium and my fingers are black with ink.

When I do not scribe for Reverend Cornwell, I help Martha. Life on board is a trial to all. Many of the families are tightly knit by marriage and they occupy different areas of the ship: the Symonds, the Selways and Pinneys fore, the Vanes, Vales and Garners aft, the Rivers, Deans and Dennings amidships. Martha knows them all, but I have yet to make much acquaintance with anyone, except for Jonah and Tobias Morse who occupy the space next to us. People tend to keep to the folk they already know. I have exchanged nods and smiles with Rebekah Rivers but, although she talks readily to Martha, she seems shy of me. Martha treats Sarah, Rebekah’s mother, for seasickness. Many still suffer grievously. Martha is very busy.

She is joined in her ministrations by Jonah. He is an apothecary. He and his son, Tobias, are of the Puritan persuasion but not of our party. They joined the ship in London. Jonah is a friendly, lively little man, dark-complexioned, with sharp black eyes under bushy grey brows. His hair, what he has of it, is also grey, fringing his bald pate. He is deft and neat in his movements, his hands as small and white as a woman’s. He has a cabinet of ingenious design, full of little drawers and cupboards which hold all manner of things, remedies, bottles of glass and pottery, all packed about to keep them safe. Moved by the plight of those stricken by seasickness, he is offering a concoction of his own making which he swears will alleviate the symptoms and bring on swift recovery. I told Reverend Cornwell of it, but he has refused all remedies. His affliction is a test sent from God as He tested Job the Prophet. Martha thinks this foolish. She has the skill of healing and recognises it in others. She thinks Master Morse and his cabinet will be useful to us. Not just on board ship, but in America.

His son, Tobias, is a very great contrast to his father, being blue-eyed and fair-complexioned, tall and broad of shoulder. He is about nineteen, a carpenter by trade, just out of his apprenticeship. He is quiet-spoken and says little. They both share an interest in things mechanical, but there the resemblance between father and son ends.

Jonah has spent much time travelling. He has been as far as Russia, where he was in service to the Czar, and to Italy where he says he met the great Galileo. He has a great stock of stories to tell. Martha says to take them with a pinch of salt, although I see no reason to disbelieve him. He has a spyglass with which to study the stars and often takes his bedroll on deck and sleeps up there with the sailors. He knows about navigation and the instruments used to calculate our course and is one of the few passengers allowed to approach the captain. He joins him in the quiet starlit watches of the night and they pace the deck, eyes skyward, Jonah noting differences in the heavens. The new moon appears much smaller from here, and the position of the pole star is much below where it would be if seen in England.

Entry 14 (April? 1659)

I have seen my first Great Wonder.

I was up on deck with Jonah. I spend as much time there as I can. Life below decks is becoming impossible. In the confined space, jealousies, rivalries, even hatreds sprout and blossom with strange speed, like plants in a hot-house. Quarrels can break out over anything. I have earned scowls and sneers for I know not what from girls I don’t even know.

Our captain allows us up on deck as long as the weather permits and we do not interfere with the work of the ship. We are lucky, so the sailors say. Some masters keep the passengers battened below for the entire voyage, like slaves out of Africa. I give thanks each time I leave the crowded darkness of the great cabin with its stench of vomit and slops, rancid cooking, wet wool and unwashed bodies. I am glad to get out of the din of babies squalling, children crying, voices raised in bickering and quarrelling, all this against the constant thud and swish of the waves against the hull.

Jonah and I were watching the porpoises that swim and dive next to the ship. They are not the Great Wonder. They have accompanied us for many days and are no longer anything much to remark about. No, the thing I saw was of the air, not the sea. A huge bird drifting above us in lazy circles on scarcely moving wings, weaving in and out of the sun, seeming to appear and disappear as if by magic. The sailors pointed, open-mouthed, and I stared until my eyes ached. It was a bird of the southern ocean, the sailors said, hardly ever seen in these latitudes at all.

Jonah asked to know more. He is a great collector of information on many different subjects. It had been likely blown off course, they said, probably by some great storm. The sailors are very superstitious, looking for signs in everything. There was much debate amongst them as to whether this was a good or ill omen. They were agreed on one thing. When Nathaniel Vale got his fowling piece and took a shot at the great bird, thinking to bring it down for fresh meat, it was as if he had aimed a shot at the captain. The sailors leapt forward and took the weapon from him. They looked up, full of fear. To harm such a bird would bring very bad luck indeed.

The bird appeared untouched, the shot going wide, but it left us, wheeling in one last great arc and flying away across the trackless wastes of the great ocean. A feather drifted down. One of the great wing feathers: pure white, tipped with black. It caught in the rigging just above my head.

I snatched it before anyone else could. It will make an excellent quill, better than the one I have already for writing this, my Journal. I have stripped the filaments from the end of the shaft and fashioned a nib. I have found a quiet place for writing. It is dry, sheltered from wind and spray, used for storing spare ropes and sails and such and little frequented.

Entry 15

The wind which brought the bird blows strongly from the south, driving us north. Each day the air gets colder. I write wrapped in a blanket now. I can see my breath before my face and my fingers stiffen. The sea is dark green and strangely still like glass. Huge broken fragments of ice float by us, glinting white and blue in the sun. Some pieces are small, but others are great, as big as islands. The sailors shake their heads. We are being taken too far north by wind and current. Some mutter about the great bird and view these floating islands with mournful apprehension.

The icy beauty is deceptive. Much of the bulk lies under the surface and can rip a hull from under a ship as sure as solid rock. Jonah Morse has a great eye for wonders, and although mindful of the dangers, he is excited. He has seen such before, he tells me, on a sea journey he undertook to the kingdom of Muscovy. I find the ice islands beautiful, particularly in the early morning and in the evening, when the ice gleams and takes on colour, rose and honey, from the rising or setting sun. They stand up like great rocks, or the cliffs of some icy wasteland, their bases carved and hollowed with deep blue caves and tunnels.

Our progress has slowed almost to dead stop. Sailors sound the depth, crying out the fathoms into the cold silence. The captain roams from one side of the deck to the other, pulling at his beard, brow furrowed. Occasionally he raps out orders, relayed by barking shouts and bo’sun’s whistle as the ship slips by the sheer white cliffs rearing straight up from a blue black sea.

Entry 16

The ice islands are more frequent, but they are smaller and it is easier for the ship to nudge a way through them. The weather is cold, however, and getting colder. The deck is slippery and frost forms on the rigging. It is very calm, eerily so. There is not a breath of wind. Ice weighs the sails which hang drooping from the yards ready to catch the first hint of a breeze. The passengers mutter, but the captain says there is no reason for alarm, but we are further north than he would like us to be. Sometimes it seems as if we will be sailing these chilly dark waters forever, roaming the oceans like the great bird we saw, never to touch land again.

Entry 17 (May? 1659)

We are nine weeks out of Southampton. The great bird can live off the sea and its harvest, but we cannot. Food is near to being rationed. We have had little rain so water is low and grows green in the barrels. There is concern among the passengers lest, when we do reach land, the growing season will be over and there will be no time to build houses and shelters before the American winter, which from all accounts can be bitter.