Witch Child (19 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Salem, 3 September 1692, aft
Late morn I found another note wadded into the hen house door. Its scrawly hand read:
“One more chance. Then I tell the world. This aft. By the river.”
Sickened, I crumpled it into a ball. This monstrous man is the father of my child. How odious the thought does cut. Even still, all seems so unreal to me. Perhaps the enormity will later find realization. Right now I cannot think of it. I do not feel like a mother.
Wearily I sat on the fence rail and pondered what to do about the ultimatum. Briefly I considered showing the note to Mama and asking her advice, hoping she might provide a solution that would spare me a dreaded confrontation. But presently I abandoned the thought. Knowing nothing of Mama's past with this man, or of how she truly regards him, puts me at a disadvantage in weighing her advice. What is more, I fear a solution by Mama might entangle all of us further. The only way was for me to handle it myself.
I left while Mama was supervising the Whites with . the haying. With Daniel still abed and unable to resume his chores, the haying has now fallen to Mama, and one would think all the White hands should provide more than sufficient labor. Alas, 'tis not so. When I left, the Whites were making unthinkable disorder as a result of their clearly disinterested efforts, and Bridget White was complaining how her back ached from bending. Mama cryptically replied that Bridget White has the largest back under our roof, and it must bend to earn that roof.
The river was quiet and cool. I sat down amongst the reeds, put my feet in the water and watched a snake wriggle past. I wondered how long it would take Goodman Glover to appear. I hoped he wouldn't appear, but he did.
His small stooped form crept up behind me, yet I heard him, and I turned round, saying nothing, wondering what he would do and what I would do in return. His eyes were pink and squinty. He smiled, and his thin lips opened to reveal his yellowed, gaping teeth. I think he waited for me to scream, and when I didn't, it confused him. Standing with his hands on his small hips, he stared down at me, his smile wavering, and finally he sat down beside me. Liquor reeked from his breath. His shoes were getting wet, but he seemed not to notice.
“You're a pretty thing,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied, curtly. Oddly, I felt a strength and a coolness rise up in me, and it surprised me.
Tentatively, not knowing what to make of my demeanor, Goodman Glover put his arm round me. I pretended not to feel it. I kept my gaze upon the river. “Would you like to kiss me?” he asked.
“Not particularly,” I replied.
He did so anyway. I tried not to gag. I sat like a rock and pretended not to feel his small, wriggly tongue move round in my mouth. It felt like that snake that had slithered past.
“Did you like that?” he asked, grinning.
“Nay,” I said.
He laid one hand on my breast. Then he squeezed, and I felt repulsed. I heard his soft chuckle.
“Your Mama's a harlot,” he said.
“I don't believe you,” I replied. I don't know whether I did or did not, but I was beginning to ask myself why I was placing such store in the word of this weasely man who is always drunk, shuffling and disgusting. It didn't make much sense, I decided.
“'Tis true,” he said. “Your Mama used to be real free with her favors.”
“I still don't believe you,” I said.
I think that made him angry. He said, “Ask lots of men round here. They'll tell you. They'll tell you what your Mama was like before she married your Papa.”
I thought I had found a hole in his story. Curtly I pointed out, “So you were not the only one? You were not so special?”
That threw him. Sputtering, he maintained, “O aye, I was! Your Mama used to do it with me all the time! Right here on this very bank! Aye, right in this very spot I used to lie atop her! And she loved it!”
“What about the other men?” I coolly asked.
“They weren't special!” he sputtered. “Your Mama
liked
it with me. Not with the others. She told me so. All the time!”
liked
it with me. Not with the others. She told me so. All the time!”
“I don't believe you,” I said. “Mama would never like someone like you.”
“Aye, she did,” he maintained. “And you like it, too. And you'll get to like it better. Just like your Mama did!”
Repulsed, I tried not to shudder. “What do you want from me?” I asked.
His soft, low chuckle sent shivers up my spine. “I want you to join your body with mine,” he said. “Just like your Mama did. And you'll like it! O aye, you will! Every day you'll come back pleading for more.”
“And if I don't?” I replied coldly.
“I'll tell the whole village about your Mama. I'll tell them how she used to lay with meâand with every other man in the village, too. And see how you like
that!
See how your Papa likes it, too!”
that!
See how your Papa likes it, too!”
I said, “I don't believe you. I don't believe a word you tell me. And I don't think anyone else will, either.”
Now he was really annoyed. “O?” he snapped. “Well, see if you believe
this!”
this!”
With that, he grabbed hold of my hand and shoved it toward his breeches, toward where his legs come together, and his small dingle jutted out hard and straight beneath the cloth, like Goodman English's bull. Both fascinated and repulsed, I let my hand lie there a moment while Goodman Glover, his pink eyes gleaming, laughed his soft low chuckle.
I thought, “This-is what gave me a child.”
“Feels good, don't it?” he said. He pushed my hand along his dingle, and as he did so, a strange look appeared on his face. Suddenly I squeezed, as tightly as I could, as if his dingle were a vicious bug and I was trying to kill it, and he let out a pained howl.
Rising, I spat out, “You're disgusting! And I don't believe a word you've ever told me! You can tell anyone in the village whatever you wish to tell, but I don't think they'll believe you, either!”
With that, I stalked away, leaving him moaning in the reeds and clutching onto his dingle. Where I summoned up such courage, I do not know. Perhaps because so much horrid has already happened, I can imagine nothing being any worse. And if I can save no one else, at least I can save myself.
Salem, 4 September 1692, morn
Goodman Lawson was hanged today. At dawn he went silently to the gallows, ready to join his hanged wife. I do not think his lost mind realized what was happening, or of what he was accused, for his eyes were vacant, and he walked to the noose in the slowness and dumbness of a trance. Goody Bishop smiled in satisfaction. She said, “One more witch is rid.”
Salem, 4 September 1692, aft
I have a premonition. 'Twas a dream I had last eve. A house was built of straw. A vast wind arose, swirled round and blew the house into a thousand pieces, casting its walls across the open fields, into the forest and onto the gurgling river, until the house was strewn into oblivion, with not a trace remaining, and no one could ever remember where it stood. And no one cared. I think that is what is to happen to all of us. To Jeremiah. To Mama and Papa. To the village. The terror of witches shall destroy us. Already that vast wind is rising, and there are murmurs that the straw house is hung together by naught but a thread. The prison bulges with the accused, the arrests still mount, the hangings continue, yet nothing has brought solutions, nor provided prosperity, nor instilled contentment where disharmony prevails. Slowly that realization is being whispered. It is being carried by the breezes preceeding the wind. But fanatic believers keep those whispers fearful, and the judges still threaten God's wrath to any who dare disagree. They will be proved wrong, though. With the wind that takes us all.
I have not, and shall not, tell this premonition to a soul. Only witches have premonitions. But this one, I think was provided to me by God. To give me strength.
Salem, 5 September 1692, morn
This morn, as I sat morosely idling with my food, unable to eat, Papa snapped at me.
“Shall you never stop making an amusement of meal, and eat!” he said. “Is this your mulish way of avoiding your morning chores?”
Tears sprang to my eyes. 'Twas the first time Papa has ever spoken to me so harshly.
Mama said, “Leave her be, Jacob.”
Angrily, Papa replied, “This foolishness has gotten out of hand. If you shan't eat, Rachel, then leave the table. I'll not have my own meal spoiled by your glumness and idling.”
Mercy whined, “Rachel never eats, Papa. Goody Glover won't let her.”
Mama said, “Hush, Mercy!”
Papa slammed his fist on the table, making our trenchers so rattle that all of us jumped in fright. “Goody Glover, be damned! I'll not have that name mentioned again in this house! 'Tis the end of this nonsense! Now eat, Rachel!”
“I'll try, Papa,” I whimpered.
Mama said, sharply, “Jacob! I'll not have curses at this table!”
Bridget White, clutching as many of her mewling brood as possible within her hefty arms, cried out, “Curses! Strangled throats! Screams in the night! Praise be to God, what else infects this household! Another day and my children and I shall be forced to seek other shelter!”
Papa roared, “My blessing to do so today, Goody White! You and your insufferable brood have caused nothing but chaos!”
Meekly, I said, “I'll try to eat, Papa,” trying to appease him.
Mama said, “Goody White, you are welcome to our shelter. Jacob, I'll not have you speak to our guests in this manner.”
“And I'll not have chaos, free-loaders and children who don't appreciate their food!” Papa yelled.
With that, he shoved back his chair, plopped his felt hat upon his head and stomped out the door.
Mama called out, “Jacob! You haven't finished your meal!”
Papa roared, “My appetite holds nothing for clamor!”
The door slammed with a jolt, making my stomach do flips. If I possessed little appetite before, I now had even less.
I know Papa's short temper is a result of his problems with the mill, and I try to tell myself thatâtis those troubles, and not me, which cause him to be so out of sorts. Yet deep down, I cannot help but think I am truly the cause of it all. I do wonder, in light of all that has happened, if life might not be better for all if I simply disappeared. 'Tis this thought I am considering, dearest journal, as I sit here and record.
After Papa left this morn, all eyes were fastened upon me, in silence, and if nothing else caused me guilt, their silent staring did so, causing me to wither. Promptly I did the only thing I could think of. I picked up my wooden spoon, ladled it into my suppawn and took a large swallow. I nearly gagged. Quickly I grabbed a handful of shortbread to keep it down. Then, clasping hand over mouth, I raced up the stairs to relinquish all into the chamberpot.
Mama sat on the edge of my bed and wiped my face with a damp cloth. Softly, so that Bridget White would not hear, she asked, “Have you bled yet, Rachel?”
How dearly I wish I could have replied, “Aye, Mama. I have!” But I couldn't. My crestfallen face told her her answer, and Mama in turn looked even more wretched than I.
“I have an errand,” said Mama, after awhile. “Can you manage the Whites?”
I knew her errand. But its intention, she kept silent from me.
Fearful, I ventured, “Mama . . . you . . . you won't make me wed him, will you?”
My voice held a heartfelt plea, for truthfully, dearest journal, this expectation has plagued me dreadfully; and I know should it ever come to pass, 'twould cause me to run away without slightest regret or hesitation. Mercifully, I do not think this option even occurred to Mama. Her eyes widened in horror at my mention, which surprised me, for I would have thought her to have at least given it consideration.
“Nay! Nay!” said Mama, vehemently. “That shall never be, Rachel!
Promise me!
That shall never be!”
Promise me!
That shall never be!”
“Aye, I promise, Mama,” I said, much relieved. “I should wish . . . I should wish to die before such happened!”
For a long while Mama was absent. Taking her shawl from the peg beside the door, she silently swung it round to her shoulders, then purposefully set off down the road, her head high and proud, her jaw set with tension. Despite myself, I felt admiration. I watched her through the window, her long dark skirts kicking up dust, her back straight, and no matter what deceit she might conceal, I could not help but wish that I myself could move with such sureness and certainty. What a child I am. How much learning remains for me. And yet soon I shall be a mother.
Anxious though I was for her return, I tried to remove it from my thoughts. With determination, I occupied myself with the Whites, tried to will away my nausea and attempted to accomplish something of my chores. Yet all the while I felt a rising hope that Mama, with her proud head and resolute disposition, would somehow provide a solution.
Thus, it was with vast disappointment that I saw her return. A small speck on the road she was when I glimpsed her. Only then did I realize how eagerly I had awaited, and swiftly I set down the bread dough, wiped my floured hands upon my apron and rushed out to meet her. As I neared, and her speck grew larger, her arched back was no longer rigid, and her proud head faced to the ground. Without speaking, I knew nothing was solved.
Slowly she approached me, and when she drew close, she did not look at me. I was crushed. She had provided my last hope, and now she had failed me.
Wearily she laid her arm around my shoulders and walked beside me. Her face was ashen, and her red eyes told me she had been weeping. Her voice, when finally she spoke, was bitter and full of despair.
“He is a despicable man,” she said, and still her gaze was directed at her feet. “You must avoid him in every way.” Ever so quietly, she added, “I . . . I did not tell him about the child.”
That is all she has related. When we reached the house, she set her shawl upon its peg, then silently completed the bread. I yearn to know what occurred, but I shall not ask, for I know she will not tell.
And so, dearest journal, 'tis only for me to reach a decision.
Other books
Cover Up by KC Burn
Insatiable by Ursula Dukes
Up Your Score by Larry Berger & Michael Colton, Michael Colton, Manek Mistry, Paul Rossi, Workman Publishing
Maurice by E. M. Forster
Healing Hands (The Queen of the Night series Book 2) by Laura Emmons
The American Earl by Kathryn Jensen
The House of the Mosque by Kader Abdolah
Then They Came For Me by Maziar Bahari, Aimee Molloy
Dust & Decay by Jonathan Maberry
Skunked! by Jacqueline Kelly