Witch Hunt (6 page)

William stood in the back of the room and waited for the proceedings to begin. When the hearing was called to order and the first prisoner, Priscilla, was brought to the bar, William strode forward to be with her.

Priscilla’s pale face lit up when she saw him.

The knot in the pit of William’s stomach tightened when he saw her dirty and disheveled condition, but he smiled at her, walked to her side, and took her tiny hand in his.

“I’m William Hawthorne,” he told the magistrate. “I believe my wife and daughter to be innocent of the crimes they’ve been accused of, and I’m here to stand with them during this examination.”

Sheldon nodded. “That’s your right.” He picked up a piece of paper and read from it. “We have before us now the examination of six-year-old Priscilla Hawthorne. She’s accused of the abomination of witchcraft.” He looked across the bar at the small girl. “So, are you a witch?”

Priscilla thrust out her chin and said, “I am not.”

The magistrate cleared his throat. “My notes here indicate that you’re not a churchgoing Christian. Is that true?”

“I don’t go to church.”

“Why?”

“It’s too far to come into town every week. We live on a farm.”

“Other farm people come into town to attend church.”

“Ours is the farthest farm from town. It’s very far.”

“If you haven’t been instructed in the faith, how do you know that you aren’t a witch?” Sheldon asked.

“Because I heard that witches do bad things and kill people and play with someone called the Devil, and I don’t do any of that.”

“Does anyone in your family do those things?”

“No.”

William felt Priscilla’s fingers tighten on his. He gently squeezed her hand in return.

“Why did you kick Constable Stone?” Sheldon asked.

“Because he was hurting Catch. My dog.”

“Your dog was attempting to prevent the arrest of an accused witch. Only a devil dog would do such a thing. The constable’s action — the hanging of that beast — was appropriate to the circumstance. Why did you try to prevent it?”

Priscilla’s face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. Her composure faded as she whispered, “I loved him.”

Sheldon gave her a hard stare and then turned to the six young girls who sat primly on the bench before the bar. “What say you, God’s mouthpieces?”

On that cue, four of the girls began to writhe and moan. Then two of them fell onto the floor in convulsions.

“She pinches me.” The girl named Elizabeth held out her arm for everyone to see the tiny spot of blood. “Her shape is here and is
pinching me
.”

William squinted and strained to see the marks.

“Get
away
, little witch. Leave me
alone
.” Elizabeth flailed the air around her at the unseen specter and continued to develop new wounds.

Then William saw the tiny flash of reflected light. Elizabeth had a needle in the palm of one hand and was poking herself with it. William’s mouth fell open with surprise. He looked to Sheldon, but the magistrate had apparently not seen.

The clamor the girls made increased in volume. William had never seen or heard such commotion. Was this show performed at every hearing? How could grown men take such things seriously? One of the girls jumped to her feet, ran around the room, and flapped her arms. “She’s trying to make me fly. Please make her stop.”

Another girl crawled around the floor on all fours, barking.

Elizabeth pointed to her. “Look! The devil dog has come back to be with his mistress.”

The dog-girl stopped in front of the bar, squatted and urinated a huge puddle, then scampered back to the bench and the other girls.

The crowd gasped.

Sheldon raised his hand. “I’ve seen enough. Take the little witch away to Boston where she’ll be held over for trial.”

“Father?” Priscilla turned and threw her arms around William’s waist.

Rage filled William. He pointed at Elizabeth. “She was sticking herself with a needle. I saw it.”

Sheldon appraised him. “If you saw something, I’m sure it was the witch’s doing.”

“Search her. See for yourself.”

Sheldon shook his head. “If there’s a needle on her person, I’m certain it was placed there by the witch.”

“But she was sticking
herself
,” William said.

Sheldon made a sound of exasperation. “Then the Devil, or this young witch, made her do it.”

William’s mind raced. “She cried.”

“What?” Sheldon asked.

“I’ve been told witches don’t cry.” William turned Priscilla’s tear-soaked face toward the magistrate.

“I see the Devil pouring water into her eyes,” Elizabeth shouted, the venom in her voice more pronounced than it had been before William’s attempt to discredit her.

“There you have it.” Sheldon waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Take her away.”

Priscilla was pried out of her father’s arms and led away.

A sob escaped William as they took her from him. Panic filled him. He struggled with thoughts of grabbing her and fighting their way out of the court. He no longer felt like a man.

Margaret was brought into the room and led to the bar. Relief crossed her face when she saw William, but she shook her head to tell him that he shouldn’t have come.

“Margaret Hawthorne, you’ve been brought to this hearing on the charge of witchcraft,” Sheldon said. “Are you a witch?”

“If a witch is one who harms the innocent and cavorts with the Devil, no, I am not,” Margaret said.

“Did you deliver a baby girl, named Grace, to Susanna Weston on March twenty-eighth?”

“Yes, I did. I’m a midwife.”

“Did you devise a blend of herbs for Goodwife Weston to give to her newborn?”

“And to take herself. Yes.”

“Why did you do that?”

“It was a hard birth. Goody Weston lost a lot of blood, and was weak. The child had taken a long time to be born, and she, too, was weak. I gave them herbs to strengthen their hearts and enrich their blood. I’ve given it to other mothers and babies in the past.”

“What were the herbs you gave Goodwife Weston?” Sheldon asked.

“A blend of hawthorn berries, shepherd’s purse, and comfrey. They’re quite common herbs, your honor.”

“And you are aware that baby Grace Weston died this Wednesday past?”

“I didn’t know until my arrest, but yes, I’m now aware of that.”

“Did the herbs you forced on Goodwife Weston kill baby Grace?”

“I did not
force
anything upon Goody Weston, and no, I’m sure they didn’t harm the baby at all.”

Sheldon paused and studied his notes. “Where did you obtain your knowledge of herbs?”

Margaret hesitated, and William knew she was searching for a safe answer. “I read books.”

“What books? You mean the Devil’s books?”

“I mean books. I read.”

Sheldon leaned across his table toward Margaret. “Have you signed the Devil’s book?”

Before Margaret could reply, the girls on the accuser’s bench once again began their hysterics. Two fell onto the floor to writhe, while Elizabeth shouted accusations.

“She appeared to me one night while I slept and forced me to drink a potion. I burned with fever for days afterward.”

Sheldon looked behind the row of accusers at a matronly woman who sat behind Elizabeth. She nodded her head as if to confirm Elizabeth’s dread illness.

Sheldon turned to face Margaret. “Did you poison this innocent child?”

“No, I did not.”

Elizabeth then shocked the entire room to silence. She pointed at William and said, “And he was with her. He held me while she poured the potion down my throat.”

William had never known true terror until that moment.

Sheldon looked at William and Margaret with a contemptuous expression. “Well, so we have a witch and a wizard, too. I should have known.” He waved the constables forward. “Arrest this man on a charge of witchcraft. Take the rampant hag to Boston, along with the little witch. These hearings are adjourned.”

Margaret did not know anything about devils, but demons were familiar to her. The Boston jailhouse seethed with demons. Those it housed generated the horror that permeated the building. Very few true criminals had passed through its bars; for the most part, it had hosted victims.

As the jailer shoved Margaret and Priscilla into their new cell, Margaret gagged from the stench — the two slop pots in the huge cell were overflowing. Eight pairs of desolate eyes watched the Hawthornes while they were locked into leg chains. Margaret watched Priscilla’s tiny ankles taken captive, and wondered if they had forged the miniature restraints just for the occasion, or if they were accustomed to arresting children in Boston.

“The examiners will be in soon,” the gruff jailer said.

“Examiners?” Margaret asked.

The man turned away without responding and hurried out of the cage.

Margaret looked around at where she and her daughter would be housed for the months ahead — she had heard that the trials would not even begin until summer. There was a bucket of water and a bucket of corn gruel, apparently the day’s meal. Mounds of old straw were scattered throughout the cell and most had women perched upon them. Margaret led Priscilla to one of the piles, and when they sat down, bugs scattered.

Priscilla, exhausted from the difficult trip to Boston, curled up in a ball, her head in Margaret’s lap.

“I hate them,” Priscilla said.

Margaret stroked her hair. “Who?”

“The Christians.”

“Don’t hate, Prissy. You only hurt yourself with hate.”

“They treat us like animals.”

“Does Samara hate people?” Margaret whispered.

Priscilla thought about it. “No. But she’s afraid sometimes.”

“Fear can be a tool of survival. Hate is another matter altogether.”

“I wish I could be free, like Samara.”

“Why don’t you visit with her, then?”

“All right.” Priscilla closed her eyes, her mind escaping to run free in the fields.

Margaret heard the feeble cry of a baby and looked around, startled. Two straw piles away, she saw the telltale bundle, listless in its mother’s arms. Gently, she extricated herself from Priscilla’s sleeping form and went to investigate.

The pale mother watched her approach with a wary expression.

Margaret smiled. “How is it that you have a baby here with you? Was it charged as a witch, too?”

“I birthed it three days ago.”

Margaret looked at the bloodied straw on which the woman sat. These were not fit conditions for delivering babies. “I’m a midwife. May I see?”

The woman clutched the baby to her bosom. “The midwife-witch that murders babies?”

Margaret sighed and sat down on the floor a few feet away. “So they say. But you must know that they lie. I’m no more a witch — by their standards — than you.” She paused for a time to allow the woman to think about her words. “My name’s Margaret. And who are you?”

The woman’s apparent fear seemed less pronounced, but not altogether relieved. “Rebekah.”

“And your baby?”

Tears filled Rebekah’s eyes, and she shrugged. “I’ve not named him.”

“Not named him? After three days? Why do you delay?”

“He’s not going to live.”

Margaret approached Rebekah and took the baby from her arms. When she unwrapped the dirty and bloodied petticoat that served as the child’s swaddling clothes, she gasped. The infant’s eyes were running with yellow pus, and his tiny face was dotted with inflamed sores. He was nearly dead already.

“What happened?” Margaret asked.

Rebekah’s voice was flat. “It’s not so clean here. The bugs bite him. I have little milk …” Her voice died off.

“What of your husband? Your family? Why don’t they come for him?”