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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 14 August 1692
I have
tried
to keep my word to Papa. All day I have tried. But I have disappointed him.
To Mama, I have been polite and have attempted not to show at all how much I hate her. I helped her with the soap making and thought I was quite civil. I helped her gather up all the lye and put it into the large black kettle, and I even helped her collect wood in the field behind the house to build the fire beneath it. Even did I take the paddle from her and stir for a while, the foul smells of the thickening lye nearly choking off my breath. My tone, when I spoke, was cool, however, and I could not resist slyly asking:
“Mama, how well do you know Goodman Glover?”
Mama stammered. Calm, self-assured Mama stammered! “Why . . . why do you ask?”
I hated her more than ever. “No reason,” I replied, letting my voice trail off vaguely. “I just wondered.”
Mama did not answer. I despised her. At midday meal, Papa gave me a stern frown for my disposition, but I didn't care.
Salem, 15 August 1692
Again I have disappointed Papa. For at long last, after continual inquiry by both Mama and Reverend Parris, Goody Glover has finally spoken.
I had gone to fetch some butter from the chum in the icehouse when it happened. ‘Tis an errand I do so dread to do, because the icehouse is always so creepy. Sides of beef, venison and mutton hang from the rafters, and always I am afraid the spindly, blood-red legs shall brush against me and touch me. Daniel says 'tis absurd, my reaction. ‘Tis only meat which finds its way into our stomachs, Daniel says. Of course, 'tis so. Yet I do positively detest looking at animals without their skin.
Being in a hurry to be in and be gone, I left the door open a crack, swiftly edging my way round the blocks of ice, which Papa cut from the river last winter. The sawdust floor was damp and soggy from the ice being half melted. Sides of meat hung over me like eerie critters, smelling strongly of pickled brine, and I crouched low so as not to touch them. The stream of light from the cracked door led me toward the back and the butter. Almost had I reached it when I saw her. Goody Glover. Her face rose up in a mist from the top of the churn.
Startled, I stumbled backward into a side of beef and let out a yelp. Leaping in the other direction, I fell into another side, then dove for the floor. I was trapped! The small, dank room began echoing with cackling laughter, and faces leapt from a side of mutton, grinned, then drifted up to the ceiling, disappeared and suddenly shot out of another. Her blood dripped down onto the critters and made them redder. Frantic, my heart nearly pounded out of my shift. Edging toward the door, my back plastered to the wall, I screamed in terror. Laughter deafened my hearing; my hands flew up to muffle my ears. Constantly I cried out, “Be gone! Be gone! You evil witch!”
Finally my lungs could scream no longer. I had to pause to catch my breath. Sobbing, I asked, “What do you want? Why do you so torment me?”
The voice was gravelly and jarring, strained, as though its wind was cut short from the pull of a noose. Stunned, I was not certain at first if I had really heard it.
“I want you to sign my book,” she said.
“Wh . . . what?” I stammered.
“I want you to sign my book,” she repeated.
Book? What book? The Book of the Devil?
“Wh ... what book?” I pressed.
“Satan's book,” she said. “He wants your soul beside me.”
One long, bony hand held out a piece of parchment. The other held a pen. Further did I plaster myself to the wall, agape and staring.
Finally I knew what she wanted. To sign away my soul to the Devil! Somehow I had always known it. 'Twas why Goody Black was convicted. For the same contention.
“No!” I screamed. I found my lungs again. “No! I shan't sign your evil book! Not even . . . not even if you slit my throat! Be gone, you evil witch! Be gone from me forever!”
Shrill laughter trailed after me, even after I flung open the icehouse door and fled.
Sobbing, I ran past Mama and on to Papa and threw my arms round his waist and poured out my story.
“She shan't have it!” I wailed to Papa, in determination. “She shan't have my soul, even . . . even if she slits my throat!”
Papa said nothing. He merely looked down at me in confusion. Behind me, in a calm voice, Mama replied, “She shan't slit your throat, Rachel. Of that I promise you.”
“But what about my soul?” I cried, as I frantically looked up into Papa's eyes. “Can you keep that from Goody Glover, as well?”
Papa just shook his head, sadly.
Salem, 16 August 1692, morn
“Slit your throat! Slit your throat! Slit your throat, Rachel!”
On and on the raucous voice cackled, all through the night and into the dawn. From the rafters her evil face glared down at me. Her cloying fingers reached out, grasping for me, and blood gushed from her neck in torrents, soaking my linens. Again and again, tossing her head back in laughter, she chanted, “Slit your throat! Slit your throat! Slit your throat, Rachel!”
Goodman Glover appeared, too, in the same disgusting manner; and Jeremiah, and Mama. This time 'twas not I caught beneath Goodman Glover's disgusting spasms, but Mama, and a smile played upon her lips. A deceitful smile, that made me want to wretch and strangle.
Goody Glover snarled. The blood that spewed from her neck oozed into my mouth making my screams frantic with chokes, until I was not certain whether 'twas her blood I tasted or my own.
And all the while I choked, her yawning mouth curled in laughter. Her shrill, mesmerizing litany—“Slit your throat! Slit your throat, Rachel! Do it now!”—nearly drove me to madness.
Again I was tied to the bed, but this time when Mama tried to comfort me, I spat at her. And Papa slapped me.
Salem, 16 August 1692, aft
More sadness there was today.
Goody Hale was convicted. Tomorrow she is to be hanged. Bethshaa Abbey is said to be no improved. I wonder what solutions these hangings bring.
Tomorrow also holds the trial of young Goody Lawson. Are Goody Lawson and Goody Hale fortunate, I wonder, to have their trials be so swift? Is hanging better than languishing in that dirty little prison, which happens to so many who have been arrested? Goodman Lawson would not think so. Goodman Lawson would wish his new wife were indeed allowed to languish. ‘Tis said he stands at the hut's window, holding his wife's hand through the bars, his eyes red from weeping, fervently pleading his wife's innocence and begging anyone who passes to listen. 'Tis said, if not cautious, he will join his wife.
Daniel continues to strut round the house and makes no secret of his pride at winning the unattainable Prudence. How it does nettle me to see such pleasure when all round
me
caves in like gloom! Afternoon last, when Daniel returned from midday meal with the Cory's, his face was flushed, his chest swollen, and so superior and conceited was he while describing the beauty of the Cory home, I burst into tears. My depression was more than I could bear!
Deeply upset is Papa over the English matter. Goodman English now goes from neighbor to neighbor to rally support, while Papa mournfully tries to carry on. The countersuit is to cost £21. We do not have it. I heard Papa whispering to Mama that it shall have to be borrowed.
Ann came round today, improving my disposition slightly; but after she departed, Goody Bishop arrived to spin with Mama, and my mood sunk to gloomier depths than ever. Not two moments had passed when Goody Bishop asked how my Scripture readings were progressing. I knew at once why she had come—not to spin but to supervise my cure.
Morosely I sat on the lean-to floor across from them, carding, numbly listening to the whirr of their wheels.
Goody Bishop asked, “Do you take your Venice treacle regularly?”
“Mmm,” I mumbled.
“And your fasting? How does
that
progress?”
“As much as I can endure,” I sullenly replied. “I must have
some
food to survive.”
A tall, prepossessing woman is Goody Bishop, having large bones and rather sharp features. Always I have envisioned her standing sternly at the gates of heaven, meticulously checking through some thick ledger to determine whether each quivering, waiting soul should be allowed to pass. I wonder if Goody Bishop is indeed as perfect and as Godly as she pretends. I wonder what she would say if she were to learn about Mama.
Her stern voice suggested, “Perhaps you should try more hours with the Scriptures.”
It did not surprise me that Mama immediately bid me to take up Goody Bishop's suggestion, even though Mama had just previously lectured me upon my neglect of the wool. Mama always weakens under Goody Bishop's will. So, fetching the Bible, I obediently returned to my position on the floor to read under their watchful gaze, my mind not concentrating, my innards wriggling under Goody Bishop's constant stare. I saw her frown. I marvelled she could spin so instinctively while being so watchful of my reactions. Her eyes narrowed. I knew what she was thinking.
Peevishly I said, “Aye, I do pay attention to my reading.”
Startled, Goody Bishop exclaimed, “Why, Rachel Ward! How you do read my thoughts!”
“Hmmph,” I thought. “You are as obvious as cream that has curdled!”
Mama's brows knit at my temperament, and I was then forced to endure Goody Bishop's suggestions of other supposed cures for my condition, all of which were addressed to Mama. Carrying charms was recommended with great emphasis, as was standing upon my head thrice daily to drive out the evil spirits. All, maintained Goody Bishop, have worked for others. Then, lowering her voice, Goody Bishop ominously said to Mama, “Of course there was the case of the little Tompkins girl. Nothing worked. She simply turned out to be a witch.”
I pretended not to hear.
Salem, 17 August 1692, morn
Another eve Goody Glover has terrorized me.
“Slit your throat! Slit your throat, Rachel! Slit your throat with a knife from the kitchen!”
So mesmerizing were her orders, and so frantic was I from madness, that I nearly rose from my bed and carried out her bidding. Pray, God, provide me with sanity. And strength.
Salem, 17 August 1692 aft
Tragically, the Disborough house has burned to the ground.
How swiftly things do happen. Only this morn Papa went to see Goodman Disborough about borrowing the £21 for his countersuit. Goodman Disborough refused him, though, and I heard Papa and Mama whispering about it later.
Apparently Papa promised Goodman Disborough to pay the money back by winter, after the fall harvest brings more business to the mill, but Goodman Disborough replied: “Winter's honoring depends upon the verdict of the court. From whence comes the honoring if the mill is shut down?”
Papa was angry. Harsh words were exchanged. 'Twas not highly honorable of Goodman Disborough, I think, after only last year when Papa was so helpful with the Disborough plowing because Goodman Disborough had hurt himself in a tree felling accident. Papa reminded him of that.
At any rate, not hours later, a spark from a brush fire Goodman Disborough had lit—burning scrub and tree limbs from a field just cleared—strangely caught the grass afire and headed straight for the house. 'Tis mysterious indeed, what with the sogginess of the ground from all the rains we've had.
So now the Disborough's home lies in ashes. Only the stone chimney remains. And a stricken Disborough family has taken up residence with the Englishes. They all probably sit round the great room and talk about how much they dislike Papa. And the rest of the village prattles about how peculiar the incident is.
“'Tis the Devil's work, again in our midst!” declares Reverend Parris.
He called again today, asking if I had yet had a fit where my limbs stiffen and my eyes roll round in their sockets and I babble as if in a trance. Surprisingly, not two hours after he departed, I had one. 'Tis peculiar how he always seems to know just what's to happen. I suppose he has seen so many cases like mine, he just knows the pattern.
I'm glad I did not go to the hanging of Goody Hale. 'Tis said to have been most morbid. Goody Hale vowed to cast a spell over the entire village, making all our crops wither and our stock sterile, and the audience was frightened to the tips of their shoes. Reverend Parris read from the Scriptures for two hours after she died, to counteract her threat.
I would so like to see Jeremiah. All day I found myself standing at the window and gazing down the road, waiting. Deep down I know 'tis senseless.
Salem, 18 August 1692
Mama bade me accompany her today to lecture. I did not want to go, not only for the deep disregard in which I now hold Mama, but because I feared Goodman Glover might be there. Usually we do not attend lecture, the Sabbath already requiring a day absent from chores; but Goody Bishop suggested that my condition requires as much exposure as possible to pious matters, and Mama, to be sure, obeyed the suggestion.
“We must not provide Goody Bishop reason to prattle,” Mama said.
I said, “Goody Bishop
always
prattles. She's a nosy old busybody who finds nothing much at her own hearth, so attends to everyone else's.”
Mama shushed me with sternness and said if I did not watch my tone, I would find myself spending my days in the lean-to. I wonder if Mama has guessed that I hate her.
So off I was marched to the Meetinghouse for the second time this week. Goodman Glover, to my vast relief, was not there. But I did not escape him for long. On the return home as Mama and I walked with Ann and her mother, whom should we encounter on the road, but
him
. And he tried to engage us
all
in conversation!
Desperate, I edged in between Ann and her mother, trying to conceal myself behind Goody Sibley's short, round figure. That evil, weasely man tipped his hat. “Good aft, ladies,” he greeted, and he said it in a soft, low voice that was O so falsely charming. I wanted to wretch! I dared not look at him, so keenly could I feel everything he had done to defile me. I could not help flushing with shame, either, that I had not been able to stop it.
“Good aft, Goodman Glover,” replied Mama and Goody Sibley in return.
“Lovely day, is it not?” he said, real friendly.
I wanted to kick Goody Sibley. She, with her ever cheery nature and high chattery voice, stood as if she were ready for a day's conversing and made not a motion to budge. She was enjoying the company! While her nasal chatter rattled on and on with that despicable man, I kept my eyes to the ground, but every so often I glanced up and caught his one good eye darting in my direction. How dirty and unclean I felt! As if he were once more pinned on top of me!
Then Mama entered the conversation. Goodman Glover said, “You look handsome today, Goody Ward.”
“Thank you,” replied Mama, in a polite tone.
“Your husband does well by his mill, I assume.”
“Aye,” replied Mama. “Very well, thank you.”
I wanted to scream for the sarcasm which lay behind his question and for the casualness of Mama's reply. Goodman Glover knows as well as anybody about Papa's troubles—the whole village knows—and both he and Mama pretended nothing at all was wrong! Is this some secret code betwixt them?
Goodman Glover said, “I hear the son does well, also. Courting the Cory girl, is he not?”
“Aye,” replied Mama. “'Tis a good match. They complement each other well.”
“With a marriage planned next spring?”
“Aye. Daniel nears eighteen then.”
“A good age to be wed. Were
you
not eighteen when wed?”
Mama's voice grew soft, and her cheeks betrayed a light flush. “Aye, Goodman Glover. Just eighteen I was.”
I felt ill down to the pit of my stomach. Mama and Goodman Glover were remembering the time before she was promised to Papa—when she and Goodman Glover were suitors—and I wanted to bury my face in my hands for knowledge of what that meant. Mama had joined her body with
his!
Mama had for some unGodly reason shared everything with this small disgusting man! I saw his thin lips curl into a smile, and I had all I could do not to pick up a clod of dirt and throw it at both of them. I marvelled that Mama could remain so calm and poised—as if nothing at all had happened. What a fraud she is! Only a slight rise in her color betrayed her.
“'Tis exceptionally warm today,” remarked Mama—I suppose to explain her flush.
“O ‘tis! 'Tis!” chattered Goody Sibley. “What heaven would lie in a glass of cider. Do you not think so, Goody Ward? Do, do stop at our house and have one. Goodman Glover, I do wonder that your waistcoat does not make you faint. The cloth is so heavy. And you without a wife to make you another. You poor, poor man. Perhaps were you to chop some wood in exchange, I could put my needle to task . . .”
On and on she chattered, like some squeally mouse, until I thought my nerves would snap. Ann, sweet, shy Ann, stood obediently by, never once showing impatience, except when once she softly whispered to me about a butterfly which flitted onto her arm. But as I softly whispered a reply, I caught Goodman Glover watching me, so I abruptly halted our exchange, not wanting to do a thing to call attention to myself. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, adieus were bid, and I hated Mama doubly over for how calm she sounded. How had she the nerve to speak so naturally to this man after what they had done!
As “gooddays” were exchanged, I swiftly tried to edge my way round the other side of Goody Sibley, so as not to come within an inch of that evil man; but somehow, in a way that I am not entirely certain, he brushed into me, and I heard a soft chuckle which sent my flesh crawling. My eyes were to the ground, but in that instant, something was pressed into my hand. By that evil man! 'Twas a piece of paper!
Frantic, I knew not what to do. I could not call attention to it, for I knew not what it said. And neither could I drop it on the road, for fear of who would find it. All the way home I had to carry it, all the way past Ann Sibley's house when Mama declined Goody Sibley's offer of cider for how weary she felt, all the way with just Mama and I walking alone, saying nothing and walking in silence, I despising her more than ever. All that way I carried it, it burning a hole in my hand, wondering what that despicable man
now
has done. Finally, as I left Mama at the hen house and I went in to collect the eggs, I quickly unrumpled it and read.
Scrawled on that crumpled piece of paper, by some demented hand, was the warning:
“Be good to me, pretty girl. Else the entire village shall learn your Mama's past. More to come from me soon.”
Pray, God, what am I to do?!!!

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