Witch Child (20 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Salem, 5 September 1692, aft
A sultry, late summer aft, it is.
Daniel lies upstairs languishing, his body growing thin and weak. He worsens, I think, by the knowledge that Prudence Cory is officially being courted by someone else; I was the one who brought him this news afternoon last. I thought perhaps the information would provide him reason to rise from his bed by giving him the strength of anger to fight for his beloved. How different Daniel is than I always thought. Resigned to his fate, he merely turned his head dully, when I related the news, then tonelessly bid me leave his chamber. Only in his eyes did I see that old fire of hate.
Goody White announced at noonday meal that I am the most peculiar child she has ever encounteredâan observation brought on by my wooden tongue and my reclusive demeanor, which today is heavy with thought and decision. I replied caustically that I have no wish to be a cantankerous complainer such as she. Mama then intervened, with some of the few words she has spoken since she returned from Goodman Glover, and told me I must practice charity toward Goodwife White. Heatedly I told Mama Goodwife White deserved what she doled. Still I do not understand why Mama defends her.
Papa's mood at noonday meal was curt and cryptic. His suit is to be heard in a fortnight, and I know he is sick with worry for the countless hours required in preparing his defense. Yet of the details, he speaks nothing to neither Mama nor I. Oft he climbs the stairs and sits with Daniel, and of what they converse, or whether Daniel talks, I do not know.
Oddly, not hours after Mama's return, I found another note left in the henhouse door. I marvel at its boldness.
It said: “This is a warning! I mean what I say! Meet me again by the river!”
Disgusted, I shredded it into a thousand pieces, then tossed it into the hearth and watched its edges flicker then curl into flame. I spat upon its ashes.
Yet I am thankful for its appearance. It helped me to make my decision.
Salem, 6 September 1692
All is set now. I have collected a small parcel of my most treasured possessions and hidden it in a corner of the chest in preparation for my departure. I shall go north, in a direction as far from this curse of witches and all its biting accusations as I can travel. I shall go alone. I shall leave even Goody Glover behind, and I shall tell no one of either my intention, or, when I . arrive, of my destination. And I shall go two days hence.
How simple it all seems. I wonder that I did not think of it before. How I hate myself now for so allowing a shrewish woman and her vile, repulsive husband to repeatedly terrorize me. Once I would have wept to have lost Mama and Papa and all that I knew and loved; now I see my loss as my salvation.
Where I shall finally arrive, I do not know. Nor am I certain as to how I shall eat or sleep, or how I shall care for a child. God must be my guide. He must provide me strength and vision and wisdom to survive.
Yet before I go, there is one more thing I must accomplish. I have not forgotten Jeremiah.
His cruelty toward me at Meeting today cut like a sharp scythe. As I passed by him, he neither acknowledged nor spoke to me, glancing past me as if I were made of air, and I flushed with mortification as he called out to Phebe, who danced toward him, then giggled flirtatiously as he inspected her hand. How tenderly did he touch its bandage. And though he pretended not to notice me, I knew he did, and I knew that his avoidance was as much a spoken word as if he had said, “I don't wish to be your friend.” What would he say, I wonder, if he knew of my intentions to save him?
So broken was my heart at his treatment of me, that momentarily I abandoned all those good intentions and bitterly considered marching to the top of the Meetinghouse steps and blurting out the whole grotesque story. But I did not. I watched his parents climb into their wagon, I saw his father's arm linger just a moment longer than necessary as it circled his wife's waist and I heard Goodman Corwin brag to the Englishes about his intent to purchase a bull. With all that I saw and heard, I could do nothing so cruel as to destroy Jeremiah's family.
Aye, I shall save him. I shall do so on the morrow, for finally I have devised a plan. And then the morrow following, I shall gather up my small parcel and depart.
Perhaps, God, You shall more carefully watch over me for my charity toward others.
Salem, 7 September 1692
Today, on the scheduled barn raising for the Disboroughs, I set my plan into action.
The occasion for the barn raising was the completion of the exterior of the Disborough home, which leaves only the stock to require suitable shelter before winter howls with its ice and chill. Most of the village, I knew, would be attending. Goodman Corwin would be there, I was certain, for he would not be able to resist another opportunity to hint at his sudden change in means, but I did not think he would bring the locket. I reasoned so, because I thought he would fear losing it in all the exertion of labor.
When it came time for the family to depart, I stayed behind. Twas my plan. Feigning an increase in my illness, I stood in the doorway and watched Mama, Papa, Mercy and the entire White brood clambor into the wagon, thinking how 'twas perhaps the last time I would see them all as such. On the morrow I would be gone.
I watched until they disappeared from view and I could hear the creaking cart no longer, then quietly I closed the door behind me, taking care Daniel would not detect the latch, and hurried through fields and forest toward the farm of the Corwin family.
The distance was great from our house to the Corwins', and I rapidly tired as I ran; but I had dared not take the mule for fear someone would see me, and neither did I chance using any roads, which would have been smoother, for the roads would be well trafficked today. As I ran, I began to worry about the time that was required and I feared I should not make it back home by evening, and I wracked my brain as to how I was going to explain my absence. I decided I would think about it later.
The sun was quite high in the sky when I reached the mean and scrubby farm. My chest heaved with breathlessness, and as fast as I could still muster, I crossed their rutted fields with their sharp little hills and entered the cabin.
I was glad for its smallness. It gave me fewer places to search. But I was disgusted at its filth and saw the remains of morning meal still upon the table. Two mice scurried across the earthen floor, which had not been swept in days. Goody Corwin was as poor a goodwife as her husband was a husbandman.
I began in the most obvious places. The wooden till on the rough hewn mantle. Beneath the lid of the settle. In the blanket chests, which smelled musty and unclean. The sugar bowl, which was empty. Beneath the limp straw mattresses. In chamber pots. Behind the hanging samplers. Along the ladder rails, leading to the sleeping loft. Beneath the faded rugs. In the wood box. In the water pitcher. In bread bowls, baking tins, and wooden trenchers. Even in the ashes of the hearth. Not a drawer nor a container remained unsearched, and I was nearly in tears for my frustration. So untidy was the house, with so much clutter strewn this way and that, it could have been beneath my very nose, and I would not have seen it. So I began re-searching all the places I had already looked, willing my eyes to be keen and alert. Still there was nothing. Disappointed, I sat in a corner, put my head in my hands and nearly wailed. This was my only chance. If I did not find it now, I never would, for I could scarce walk up to Goodman Corwin and boldly snatch it from his pocket!
As I sat there, I noticed the cupboard beside me had recently been moved. Its legs had made a small scrape in the smooth earthen floor. Curious, I reached over and carefully edged the leg across the scrape. Then my heart beat with joy! Beneath the leg, the gray earth had recently been disturbed. Swiftly I began to dig with my nails, and in only moments a shiny gold circle appeared. Hastily I opened it. “REM, from birth.” Elated, I dropped it into my shift and shivered at its coolness as it slid past my small bosoms and onto my stomach. Carefully I moved the cupboard leg back into place. Taking one last look around to make certain I had left no trace of my search, and satisfied that Goodman Corwin could not report missing what was not rightly his, I opened the door to race toward home.
Then I stopped dead in my tracks. There, in front of me, dismounting from a horse, was Goodman Corwin and his youngest son! My first thought was “You're not supposed to be here!” Later, I was to learn he had returned for a mallet. At the time, however, I surely did not ask the reason for his presence.
I don't know who was more surprised at the confrontationâhe or I. For we both stood stock still in amazement. Instantly my feet became unglued, and I did the only thing that came to mind. I ran.
It took a moment for him to grasp the situation, and I had covered quite a distance before I could hear him racing after me. Weary from the pace I had kept in reaching the farm, I could not run as fast as I normally can; still, my young speed was swifter than his elder, heavier one, and I had very nearly made it across some overgrown pasture, when I tripped upon a half hidden rotted bucket, which enabled him to close in on me. As I scrambled to my feet, I felt his hands on my shoulders, and he whirled me round to face him.
His round face was flushed and perspiring, and his voice came in heavy pants. Still, he managed to make his words quite loud and angry.
“What were you doing, girl?” he bellowed. “What were you doing in my house?”
“I . . . er . . .” My mind reeled, trying to think of an explanation. The locket felt like ice against my stomach, and I was glad I hadn't lost it.
He shook me. “Tell me, girl!” he demanded. “Tell me what you were doing in my house!”
Blankly I stared up at him. I could think of nothing. Suddenly his eyes darted down to my hands, hanging limply down from my firmly clenched shoulders. I suppose he saw the dirt on them, because wildly he grabbed at them and stared in stunned disbelief at my blackened nails. I cursed myself for not having washed them.
Aghast, he said, “H . . . how did you know? That's . . . that's what you came forâisn't it?” His voice suddenly turned bolder and stronger, and again he shook me. “Give it back to me! Give me back what you stole, you little thief!”
What happened next, happened so quickly, I can scarce remember the progress. I recall trying to shake loose of his grasp. I think I gave him a little shove, for my intention was to wriggle free and run. He stumbled backward, I think, in reaction to my shove. And before my very eyes, the overgrown grasses opened up, and he disappeared with a screamâa scream that echoed and grew fainter as it seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. I heard a soft, distant thud, then all was silent.
Stunned, I froze, thinking I had somehow imagined it. Then my foot touched the rotted old bucket, and I knew it was from an old well. And Goodman Corwin had fallen into its hole.
My heart sank. Fearfully I tiptoed closer, and my voice sounded like it came from a timid rabbit.
“G . . . Goodman C . . . Corwin? Are . . . are you there? Can . . . can you hear me?”
Silence. The only sound came from a small, tattered boy who appeared beside me. “Where's my Papa?” he asked.
Salem, 8 September 1692
They came last eve and dragged me away in chains. At first the charge was to be murder; now I think'tis to be that of a witch. Goody Bishop is collecting the evidence.
The constable was the one to clasp on the irons. I stood, silent and numb, in the middle of the great room. A dozen eyes burned into me, gaping. Goody White elatedly announced, “I always said that child was peculiar!” Her tattered children, dirty thumbs in mouths, sleeves wiping at runny noses, stared at me with all the awe of watching a ferocious beast. Even Daniel rose from his sickbed and staggered to the top of the stair to watch me led away.
Papa turned from me, grimly. He said nothing. His clothes were dirty from pulling up Goodman Corwin's mangled body. Mama was weeping, her labor-ruddy hands brushing back tears. Mercy showed me the first sign of affection since my visions began, stepping tentatively forward to touch my hand. “Shall I ever see you again?” she asked in her small, whiny voice. I did not answer. I did not know, and I did not want to think. Mama's silent weeping grew to an audible sob.
Roughly the constable pushed me forward. The chains clanged as I walked, my steps felt strange and heavy, and I wondered if the chains would dent the floor. I paused as I reached the door, turned and took one last look around, knowing I would never see the great room again. Then numbly I walked out into the dark night, my ankles already rubbing raw from the weight of the irons. I felt all those eyes upon me, burning into my back, as I was roughly lifted, then dropped into the waiting, rickety cart.
I was taken to Salem town, where I have never been, because the village's small prison already overflows with witches. An eternity that journey seemed to require, me lying like a heap of grain against the creaking slats, my hands tethered together with heavy chains, my feet bound by chains heavier still, and I gazed up at the coal black sky with its tiny white dots of stars and thought how still the night was. Only the creak of the wagon and the snorting of the horses broke the silence. I thought back to that day which seems so long ago now; when I watched this same rickety cart carry Goody Glover up to the gallows. It was the first time I knew the same fate was to be my own. The rutted road tossed me from side to side and back again, and occasionally I cried out in pain; but the constable continued on in his rapid, jolting pace.
Aye, so long that journey required, yet not long enough, for too soon did we pull into the square with its neat clapboard meetinghouse facing the courthouse, and too soon was I roughly led round to the back of the courthouse toward the prison, led by the constable's flickering lantern in the dark of night. The jailer was awakened, a burly, hairy, swarthy man who resented the intrusion upon his slumber.
“Eh?” he roughly grumbled. “What's the charge?”
“Witching,” replied the constable, cryptically.
The burly jailer lit his lantern and peered down at me, wondering, I suppose, if I were any different than the rest. I presume I was not, for he looked vastly disinterested, undoubtedly because he had seen so many, then he yawned an enormous yawn, shook the sleep from his eyes and gruffly shoved me through a door. The darkened corridor before me seemed vast indeed, but now I think it appeared so only because it was so black and dark, the flickering light of the lantern merely opening it up to be endless as we walked. My chains clanged and clattered with all their enormity in the black silence, and my pace was a shuffling one, requiring great effort against the chains' weight. On either side of the corridor were enormous doors, and I think there were either four or six in all. When we reached the fourth, the jailer took a long brass key from his belt, shoved it into an enormous lock, pushed the heavy door ajar, then pushed me in, me stumbling and falling over my heavy chains. Behind me I heard the door close and the key again turn in the lock, securing me inside.
The chamber was small and dark. Heaps of filthy rags lay strewn about, lit only by a dim stream of moonlight trailing through a tiny high window, which was barred, and as my eyes adjusted, I realized those filthy heaps of rags were people. Six or eight had taken the wooden benches which ringed the walls. The rest lay on the floor, as did I.
My first memory of the cell was the stench. The acrid smell of urine cut through my nostrils worse than any of Mama's boiling lye, and on top of it was the strong sickly sweet smell of darker human excrement. Two large, full chamber pots stood in the corner. Later I was to learn they are emptied once daily. Then, I wanted to wretch.
Not one of the piles of rags moved or took note of me. Slumber, I have so soon learned, is our only escape. There being no place for me to move, I laid in my own heap by the door, feeling the tears trickle down my cheeks, salty stinging tears, but I did not wipe them away, for they were my only comfort. And so I passed the night.
When morning came and that thin thread of moonlight became a small trickle of sun, making the chamber gray and hazy and viler still, I expected I would immediately be dragged to the courtroom, tried and hung; but I was not. Some, I have learned, languish and rot for fortnights and for months, while for others the end comes within weeks, and that is what makes the agony so unbearable. The not knowing.
For morning meal, we were brought a large bowl of suppawn which was watery and cold. I did not want to eat it, for we were all expected to eat from the same large wooden trencher, and my stomach heaved for all the filthy unwashed fingers which dipped into it. Some of those fingers were attached to a pile of rags which was no more than a pile of bones draped in tatters. I decided to force at least some of the unappetizing preparation down my throat for nourishment. The ensuing elimination of bodily wastes was too noxious to describe, for the poor quality of food, which is oft allowed to sit in the jailer's chamber until rancid and rife with flies, makes bowels run and stomachs turn in torture. The race for chamber pots after eating brings moans of agony from those who must sit and wait.
There are, in my small cell, two score exactly, and someone told me we are among the fortunate, for many have been carted as far away as Boston. I suppose the constable did not wish so long a journey in the middle of last eve. I wonder if Boston cells could be any more vile.
Most of the prisoners are older than I, being goodwives and ranging all the way up to the wrinkled and aged. There are two other children besides myself. One is a pale, mute little girl who stares at the wall, and I helped her pick the lice out of her hair. In demeanor, my neighbors are a bizarre lot. Some are cantankerous and mean and take open delight in their witchery, freely admitting their sins, and would have long ago been released for their confessions, save for the fact that they refuse to relinquish such practices, so are incarcerated to spare their victims, if such sparing is possible. They remind me of Goody Glover. Most are stunned or confused and do not at all understand why they are here. There are spinsters, who are considered “strange” due to their unweddedness, and indeed a few are decidedly strange, leaving no doubt as to why they are unwed. An elderly woman has been charged for the practice of medicine with doubtful results. Two goodwives have been charged for being incorrigible rails. Many have visions which order them to sign up souls for the Devil. A few are extremely low in intelligence, and I think that is the case with the two other children. The mute says nothing; the other babbles in some incoherent tongue. Of all of us, there are perhaps three who could have once been held up as a pillar of village or town, and those are the ones for whom I feel the most pity, for they have been brought here as the result of some envious neighbor who reported them the cause of some unfortunate occurrence for which they were hardly aware; and they weep softly for being torn whether to admit witchery and thereby gain their freedom or whether to be true to their souls and to God and maintain their innocence. The rest of us are misfits. We have never been popular, sought out for our advice, or been glibly charming at conversation. Only God knows whether our eccentricities threaten His teachings.
And so concludes my observations of my first day. You, dear journal, I was able to conceal beneath my skirts before the constable arrived, and my current neighbors, paying little attention to anything, pay even less attention to some new little heap of chains who sits in the corner and writes. The locket still lies cold and concealed in my shift.
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