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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 20 July 1692
Last night was so terrifying I can scarce believe it to describe it. I am dazed. And frightened.
I know not where to begin.
In my sleep she came to me. Goody Glover. I awoke with a start, feeling as if I were being prickled by a thousand pins, and there she was, staring down at me from the rafters. Her mouth was wide and cackling like an evil hen, and drool dribbled from the side of her mouth, down and under her chin. Terrified, I instantly screamed, “Away! Away, you evil witch!”
Frantic, I dove beneath the covers. She followed me. I could hear her cackling laughter. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and my body was all atremble. 'Twas not my tears wetting my face, but her drool!—her drool sliding down from her chin and down around the top of the quilt and onto my cheeks. My whole body shook, and again I cried out in fits and sobs, “Away! Away! Be gone, you evil witch!”
Mercy, in the bed across the chamber, arose, tiptoed over, and touched me. I let out a shrill scream. 'Twas not Mercy's touch, but Goody Glover's long bony fingers reaching out for me, cloying, clutching. An evil grin danced in front of me, and beneath the depths of my quilt, I felt as if I should suffocate.
The whiny little voice of Mercy asked, “Rachel? Rachel? 'Tis a nightmare you're having?”
The chamber rang with deafening cackling as Goody Glover threw back her head in laughter. No longer could I control my limbs; they heaved in violent spasms. I screamed. Again and again I screamed, and I could not stop myself. My lungs felt on the verge of bursting, and I could not catch my breath; yet still the screams flew from my lips.
Mama's voice sounded, and when she pulled the covers back, I sat bolt upright and shrank from her touch. “Don't touch me! Don't touch me!” I screamed.
The full moon outside the windowpane threw back its head in cackling laughter.
Where'er I looked, Goody Glover's face leapt out at me, her scrawny face thrown back in evil laughter. On the washstand, in the looking glass, on the thread of moonlight streaming across the rag rug—everywhere was Goody Glover's vision. Her face rose from the water pitcher, and when her mouth opened and cackled, from its depths leapt out the bulging eyes of a snapped neck.
From my convulsing limbs, the bed heaved, the ropes groaned, and I was certain 'twas Goody Glover shaking my bed, coming to fetch me.
Again Mama reached for me, and this time I fought her, thrashing and sobbing. “Away! Away! Don't touch me!”
Mama's voice was stern and commanding. “Hush, Rachel! Hush!” she said.
Vaguely I remember the light of a candle. Papa set it on the table, and it made soft lights dance in the chamber, casting shadows on the walls, scores of shadows, all evil and terrifying. In each of those shadows danced the wicked face of Goody Glover, cackling, drooling. Long bony fingers—witch's fingers! —reached out for me. Hardly could I scream again so weak was my body. Yet still I found strength, and I thrashed and fought.
Firm hands closed round one of my wrists, and so frantic was I, I thought my pounding heart would explode. From some distant part of my brain, I heard the sound of tearing cloth, then Papa's voice, swift and heavy: “Hold her, Martha, while I tie her to the posts.”
As one arm was held tight to a post, I nearly tore the other from its socket trying to release it. But swiftly the other arm, too, was wrenched, jerked, and tied tight, and I screamed at the top of my lungs. My kicking legs heaved the lower half of my body from the bed. One foot met the resistance of Papa's stomach, and I saw him stagger. It was not Papa's stomach. It was the tall, angular stomach of Goody Glover, and it was Goody Glover I kicked across the chamber.
Only when both legs were finally secured, when my sprawled body, tied to all four posts, moved in small heaves, could I faintly recognize the sound of Mama's voice.
Sitting on the bed beside me, Mama removed her nightcap and used it to mop the perspiration from my brow.
“‘Tis not perspiration!” I wanted to cry out. “'Tis Goody Glover's drool!”
“Who is it, Rachel?” Mama demanded. “Whom do you see?”
“Goody Glover!” I frantically cried. “'Tis Goody Glover—come to get me!”
Papa's voice, in wonderment, sounded. “I can't believe 'tis happening!” Papa said.
“What does she say?” Mama pressed. “What does Goody Glover speak to you?”
Through muffled sobs, I whimpered, “Nothing! Nothing, Mama! She says nothing! She . . . she just stares! And . . . and laughs! And she reaches out for me!”
“But
why?”
Mama persisted.
“Why
does she want you?”
“I don't know,” I sobbed. “0, Mama! Make her go away! Don't let her take me!”
Slowly my sobs silenced into whimpers, and my body grew limp and exhausted and flushed with fever. Papa laid a cool cloth upon my brow; then he leaned over me, and I saw his forehead creased in disbelief and confusion. Mercy, standing flat against the wall, was white and frightened. Daniel filled the doorway, his hands on his hips, his face purpled with rage. Glaring at me, Daniel declared, “She shall bring shame upon this family!”
Mama's calm voice filled the room, quoting the Bible, and her controlled presence gradually quieted us all as she eased into a soft chant of psalms. In muffled chokes I asked, “P . . . Papa? C . . . could you please bring in another candle? Her . . . her face keeps popping from the shadows.”
Papa brought in three, and I felt a little better; so slowly he began to remove the cloth bindings, watching to make certain my fit had subsided. And when finally he released me, Mama's capable hands gathered me up and folded me into her bosom, nestling me like a frightened lamb into her breasts. She paused from her psalms then and, in a stern voice, addressed the chamber.
“We shall speak of this to no one,” commanded Mama. “'Tis to be kept secret—only within our family.”
With renewed fright, my body shuddered. So I am a terrible secret which everyone must hide. I am indeed to bring shame upon our family, as Daniel predicts! O dear God, pray do not let this really be happening!
I sobbed again, and Mama shook me, ordering, “Rachel, listen to me. You must collect yourself. Hush, now. Be silent while I read.”
With one hand she opened the Bible, and Daniel stalked from the room in disgust. Mercy's eyes were wide and frightened, and in them I suddenly saw Goody Glover's, so I squeezed my own eyes shut to make them disappear.
In mesmerizing tones, Mama continued with the Scriptures, and Papa eased himself down upon the foot of the bed, looking oddly lost and ill at ease. For hours Mama read. At some point in those readings, in my exhaustion, I must have fallen into slumber, but when I awoke, Mama was still next to me, sleeping, the Bible open between us.
At morning meal, all was awkward and uneasy. While Mama ladled suppawn from the large black kettle in the hearth, Papa kept his eyes upon his trencher and made stilted conversation. Mercy's face, still white and pinched, cast darting glances at me, her eight-year-old body rigid with fear. I knew she was frightened of me. Daniel—who, at sixteen, felt his word carried as much weight as Papa's—continued to glare at me, still plainly furious, and at one point, he concluded, to no one in particular, that I was a sorry addition to the family; that I had always been a disaster.
Miserable, I waited for Papa to defend me. But Papa was too busy making stilted conversation. And Mama, drawn and weary, merely took her place at the trestle table.
Pray, God, help me! I am only twelve!
Salem, 20 July 1692, aft
I can't stop thinking about
her
. Goody Glover. All day she has rattled round in my brain, and last night haunts me like a fearsome shadow.
During the trial, the jury bade her take off all her clothes, then they searched her for witch's teats. I should die of shame should that ever happen to me. Goody Glover was shamed, too. Yet beneath her flush of shame, out of the corner of her eye, she stared at me in that peculiar way—almost, but not quite as bad as she stared at me at her hanging.
They say she invoked the power of the Devil by stroking poppets with her spittle. Goodman Bishop found some of the poppets stowed beneath Goody Glover's bed. One of them had light brown hair like mine. I don't think anyone has made a connection, though. Lots of girls have light brown hair.
The conviction said Goody Glover gave entertainment to Satan. During the trial she was locked in a small wooden hut on the edge of town so she would not infect anyone else. Then she was convicted. And hanged. The next day. Which was morning last.
So many people testified. Goody Morse told about when she had refused Goody Glover the use of her horse, so Goody Glover had made her house rife with terrifying strange noises. William Seager said Goody Glover had made a strange white cat attack him in the woods. Goody Osborne wept for her poor gone Mr. Osborne, lost when his fishing boat capsized in a freak storm. She said the storm was brought on by Goody Glover because Mr. Osborne admonished her for the loss of his babe when Goody Glover served as Goody Osborne's midwife. What's more, Goody Glover had inflicted the babe with a fit. 'Tis why it died.
Goody Osborne, William Seager, Goodman Bishop and Goody Morse all applauded when Goody Glover's body dropped in the rope. Finally I applauded, too, but my hands were numb.
This morn, after meal, Mama's bread wouldn't rise. Mama set it on the hearth for hours, yet it remained flat as a corncake. I felt ill with fear. Mama sighed and said something about a poor batch of yeast. Pray, God, don't let it be
me!
Salem, 21 July 1692
I have told Jeremiah about my visions. Now I regret that I did, for his reaction was not as I wished.
He came, today, to show me the musket his father gave him for his birthday. 'Tis a lovely musket, having a long, smooth barrel and a grip of polished mahogany, and eagerly I admired it. Jeremiah was pleased by my admiration. I was glad. I like pleasing Jeremiah.
Jeremiah is fourteen. He is olive of complexion, slender of form, and decidedly handsome—at least so thinks Phebe Edwards who always swishes her skirts and assumes airs to gain his attention whenever Jeremiah is around. But, then, Phebe oft swishes her skirts and assumes airs.
I like Jeremiah because he is very wise and kind. He knows ever so much more than I ever shall; and he is ever so much kinder to people than I can ever be. Jeremiah, I think, is the only person who truly understands me.
In telling about my visions, I think I should have tempered my recounting. Phebe Edwards, undoubtedly, would have tossed her head in that infuriating manner which makes her curls dance, then teasingly murmured over her shoulder, “O Jeremiah, you shall never guess who visited me evening last!” But I? I simply planted my feet and blurted out my story.
Jeremiah was taken aback. His slender face paused in mid-smile, then grew long and concerned; and as my last word was spoken, he instantly bade me hush. Bade me not to give any more thought to it. “Rachel Ward!” he exclaimed. “Should you want to give cause for talk and have others consider you
possessed!”
I frowned. I climbed upon Papa's split rail fence, which is my favorite place to think, and put my head in my hands to consider the matter. I tried to decide whether possession is really so shocking. After all, lots of girls this summer are possessed. 'Tis preferable indeed to being a
witch!
But then, one oft leads to the other. I suppose that's why Jeremiah is so frightened.
Jeremiah climbed up beside me, put his arm round my shoulders, and made his voice soft and gentle. I like it when he touches me. It makes me feel all tingly inside. He tried to console me with the thought that everyone in the village fears himself possessed. Or else his neighbor is a witch.
I shuddered when he said “witch.”
I guess Jeremiah liked his line of thinking. Because he concluded that I was merely impressionable. Those were his very words. He said, “Rachel, how impressionable you are. Your nightly visions are merely bad dreams. Very bad dreams. And are brought on merely by . . . well, by all our rains. Girls your age are always having dreams—why, you've told me so yourself. Many times!”
Morosely I thought about Dorcas Good. Only four, yet hauled off to Boston prison in irons for entertaining Satan. So much for dreams. And girls my age. I decided not to tell Jeremiah about the bread not rising.
Sighing, Jeremiah asked, “What's happening to us—to all of us? Does the Devil intend to constantly give temptation? Is God testing us for our evil ways? Father talks daily of how our jail is bursting to the irons, yet not another sun sets when another neighbor isn't added. Pray, Rachel, do not you be possessed, too. And pray, do not be seeing reality in merely your dreams.”
I wondered whom Jeremiah was trying to convince: me or himself. Jeremiah is extremely conservative. He dislikes it immensely when something happens to disrupt the natural order of things.
Sensing my annoyance, he reached down and picked me a daisy. Curtly I told him it had a bug on it. He laughed, brushed the bug off, but still I didn't want it. Nor did I wish to accompany him to watch him shoot his musket, as he suggested.
The nice thing about Jeremiah is that never is he in ill-humor. My sullenness disturbed him not at all. He merely smiled, saying he would see me on the morrow.
After he left, I went round to my chores in the malt house and prayed to God not to make me evil. Then I cursed Jeremiah for being so proper and unbending.

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