Witch Child (23 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd
Still giggling over the Whites, Mercy took one last look at me and, with her childish whine, observed, “You look terrible, Rachel! Like some old pig who's been wallowing in the mud! Only you're skinnier. Next time I'll try to bring you some corn cake.”
I hope she does. I haven't eaten since morning last.
Salem, 14 September 1692
Two days I spent in the hellish dungeon until they brought me back upstairs to the normal prison. I suppose they needed to make room for someone else.
How sad to arrive back and have Goody Warren gone. How little did I realize the extent to which I had come to depend upon her disconcerting cheer and her distracting chatter; and, as she was my only friend in this miserable, dirty prison, without her, my cramped chamber seems oddly empty and desolate, despite its numerous motley heaps of chained rags which spill onto every bench and corner.
At midday, they came to take away the little mute girl, and a pall fell over the chamber, for fear we would not see her again. Though she speaks to no one, I think we all feel rather possessive toward her. Her large dark eyes and small white face stare vacantly at the wall, and what she thinks of, I cannot imagine. No one comes to see her. Never is a piece of journey cake brought, as is for the rest of us. And whether she has ever spoken, or always been mute, I do not know. Secretly I harbor the hope that I shall one day encourage her to speak. I was glad when she was returned.
Salem, 14 September 1692, eve
Word has reached us that Giles Cory has been pressed to death. A gruesome death, to be certain. Boulders were placed atop his body one by one, and after each he was asked to enter a plea against the charges the courts have levied against him. Each time he refused. Such refusal denied the court's right to try him, so yet another boulder was added. Until he died.
So yet one more man is added to all the women who are executed for witching.
Salem, 15 September 1692
Jeremiah visited me today.
I suppose I partly expected him. If Mercy had been faithful in carrying out her mission, as I suspected she would be, Jeremiah's curiosity would have plagued him, and he would not be able to allow me to go to my grave without learning of the secret which I carried. Yet that he came told me he does indeed expect me to go to my grave, else he would have waited for my return, and I found that realization vaguely depressing. Nothing else, I think, has made my circumstances seem quite so bleak. I wondered what Jeremiah would say when I told him what he had to hear.
He was standing in the antechamber, by the window, when the jailer led me in. How handsome he looked with the light streaming in behind him through the small leaded panes of glass. Had I ever said him gawky? His long, lean limbs held themselves with all the strength and posture of a man, and he appeared to have grown taller by at least a head since last I saw him. His smooth olive complexion showed the wispy hint of a beard, and I knew he would soon be shaving. Looking into that smooth, dark face, I desperately searched for signs of pleasure at seeing me but was disappointed to find not a trace. Only a grimace of pain did I detect, much like that I had seen on Mama, and I realized the shock of my own appearance.
Nervously I stood facing him, my wrists bound by heavy chains, as were my ankles, and I knew that my dress was filthy and torn, that my face and hands were dirty, that my once silky hair hung twisted, matted and unprotected by a cap which has long since gone to bind my bleeding wrists. I was a sorry sight indeed. Had I once fretted over a smudge of dust upon my skirts when Jeremiah called? How long ago that seemed. Self-consciously I raised my hand in a futile attempt to smooth out my hair, but then lowered it, for the clanging of my chains echoed in the still room and widened the gulf between us.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I anxiously said, “Hello, Jeremiah.” My voice was that of an old woman.
“Hello,” he murmured. I do not think he was conscious of his stunned stare, nor of the extremely discomfiting effect it had upon me.
“I, uh, seem to have misplaced my comb,” I said, with a flustered, feeble attempt at humor.
I think in that feeble attempt, Jeremiah's heart went out to me, and he realized how much I suffered, for he moved across the room and came toward me.
“I have one,” he said.
With his own wooden comb, he then began to untangle my hair, my heart all the while fluttering up into my throat; and while his combing pulled and pained me, I did not whimper, and the tears that filled my eyes were not of hurt. When finished, he took his clean white handkerchief, dipped it into a pitcher of water and cleansed my face and hands, and I tried not to show my nervousness. How vulnerable I felt! What is he thinking? I wondered.
“There now,” he said with a kind smile, standing back from me. “You look more presentable to receive a guest.” So he was trying to put me at ease.
Awkwardly I returned his smile. “Shall I provide my guest with my best chair?” I asked, pointing toward the two ludicrously uninviting stiff ladder-backs which stood starkly in the corner. Yet how inviting they seemed to meâwho always made my seat upon the floor!
Jeremiah matched my false cheerfulness. “Thanks,” he said, “but I prefer to stretch out my long limbs. Half the morn I've spent bouncing up and down astride a frisky horse. Come. Lounge beside me on the floor with our backs to the wall.”
I did not tell him how those stiff ladder-backs looked like a feathery haven to me. Instead, I allowed him to lead me toward the spot he had chosen, shuffling in my walk and agonizing over every clang of my dehumanizing chains, those clangs seeming as loud as thunder. Jeremiah pretended not to notice. Sitting close to me, he casually drew up one knee and draped an arm over it.
“I should have brought some food,” he said. “'Twas stupid of me. I, er, didn't think.” I could tell he was as. nervous as I.
“We are well fed,” I lied. And because Jeremiah knew I lied, I airily added, “Only last eve, the jailer passed out cakes and wine. I declined, however, saying I remained stuffed from the afternoon's feast of quail and sugar buns.”
Jeremiah chuckled. “So much feasting. Yet your clothes hang on you like a new sapling. Has the clothing grown instead of the girl?”
“Aye. My feasting made me a trunk, and I outgrew my original garb. I had to borrow these from one of the women. Any more weight I add, and I shall have to borrow something from that fat old jailer!”
“Make sure 'tis the clothing with the keys!” he laughed.
He meant it in teasing; but instantly it spoiled our little game, and the air hung heavy and quiet again, for I could not think of anything clever with which to reply. Too conscious am I of the humiliation of my irons, too raw are the sores on my ankles and wrists to treat my damnable tethers lightly, and as soon as the words were from his mouth, Jeremiah knew all this. Uncomfortable, he apologized, saying he seemed to be saying all the wrong things. That he wished he knew what was right.
“There are no right things,” I replied. “Just conversation. The world is a strange place, is it not, Jeremiah?”
“Aye,” he said, politely, not really understanding my meaning.
I explained, “Only last summer we chased each other along the river with nary a thought of witches or prisons. Now look at all that's happened since.”
My words were gloomy, I suppose, and Jeremiah, uncomfortable with the gloominess, countered them with something more pleasant, being true to form in ignoring the unpleasantries of life. “You were quite a runner,” he said. “Always faster than I.”
I decided to go along with his distractions, simply because memories seemed infinitely more easy to discuss than the wretched present. And what followed became a brief nostalgic journey through our past. “I was faster,” I said, “only because you let me. Remember how we used to have contests picking berries? I always won then, too, because you let me.”
“Just as you always allowed me catch the most fish. By giving me the largest worms.”
“Jeremiah!” I said, with surprise. “You weren't supposed to guess that!”
“Do you think me without sight? Certainly, I guessed. You were never good at pretendingâexcept for the time you feigned a broken ankle so I would carry you home and you wouldn't have to walk through the marshes. I thought I was such a hero! Until suddenly you climbed down and skipped to the door! I could have wrung your neck for the fool I felt!”
“What fun that was! But do you remember the time we were skating and I fell through the ice? You really were a hero then!”
“And laid abed a week with sassafras tea for it.”
“As was I. O Jeremiah! Remember how you used to tease me? All those times you chased me with lizards and snakes . . .”
“With you howling and scurrying up trees!”
“And remember when you drank all that beer with Deodat Easty? Both of you as sick as poisoned magpies! And I sat with you for hours, plying you with herbs, 'til finally you were presentable enough to return home. What a whipping Mama gave me for missing my chores!”
“I
was
almost poisoned when you first were learning to cook. Remember those sugar buns you brought me? I thought I'd never eat again! Whatever was wrong with them, anyway?”
was
almost poisoned when you first were learning to cook. Remember those sugar buns you brought me? I thought I'd never eat again! Whatever was wrong with them, anyway?”
“Salt.”
“Salt?”
“I accidentally dropped the salt box into the batter. It didn't seem so bad at the time.”
“And you didn't sample before giving as a gift?”
“Nay. They looked too pretty to waste with sampling. O Jeremiah, remember the time I was collecting the eggs and dropped the basket and broke every last one of them? I was in tears for what Mama would do, and you brought me some of yours. You were always watching out for me, weren't you?”
“And remember the time the cow kicked me? I couldn't walk for weeks, and every day you came to help me with the milking. You watched out for me, too.”
“And remember when we took Papa's horse without telling and rode practically as far as the moon?”
“I sure do. We got ourselves so lost I thought we'd never return. Your father threw a fit for our cavortings and almost bid me never see you again!”
“He didn't only because you presented him with that lovely pipe which you had intended for your own father.”
Tears began glistening in Jeremiah's eyes, and it was with touching sentiment that he sighed, reached over for my hand, and said, “Ah, Rachel! What lovely times we've had, have we not?”
My heart was in my throat. I wanted to sob, and my voice trembled as I replied, “Aye. We have.”
“I wish . . . I wish we could do them all over again.”
By his words, I knew he was certain we would not. I felt more miserable than ever. I wanted to tell him, “We
shall
do them again! And they shall be even better than before!” But I did not tell him. Because I was no longer confident.
shall
do them again! And they shall be even better than before!” But I did not tell him. Because I was no longer confident.
Hesitantly he asked, “Do . . . do you still have your visions?”
“Nay. Goody Glover has deserted me.” I almost added “also,” but thought better of it. I did not want to be bitter. Not when I knew not what lay ahead of me. I wanted to be calm and stoic and unthinking. I said, rather absently, “Perhaps they were only my imagination, after all. Just as Papa always said.”
“I wasn't very understanding about them, was I?” Jeremiah said. “I'm sorry about that. 'Tis just that they . . . well, they frightened me, because I didn't know what to expect. I've been thinking about how I've acted Rachel, and I'm not very proud of it. I should have been stronger than that. Will you . . . will you forgive me?”
So, I thought, heavily, Jeremiah too comes to ease his conscience, just like Mercy. How many others will come to ogle me in my tatters and chains so they may depart with lighter hearts? I tried to keep the sting and disappointment from my voice as I said, “That's alright, Jeremiah. I forgive you.” But I did not. And he knew it. Yet no words could put back together what had already been broken.
Feeling suddenly sorry for myself, I said, “I've made such a mess of things, haven't I?”
“Nay! Nay!” said Jeremiah, quickly, but I knew he was just being polite. How I yearned for sincerity in his denial.
“I was going to run away,” I told him. “I had wrapped some things in a shawl, and I was going to head north, someplace where there aren't any witches or trials or accusations. But then . . . well, other things happened.” I did not elaborate upon those other occurrences. “Strange,” I added, “I might have been on some empty road at this moment.”
The absurdity between my daring plans and my present circumstances was lost on him. “How would you have fared?” was all he asked. “Where would you have lived?”
I shrugged, neither knowing nor caring of the answers to his questions. “Perhaps I would have become like Bridget White, and gone door to door begging for shelter.” Then, with a short laugh, I added, “Nay! 'Tis a terrible thought, is it not? No matter. God would have taken care of me. He probably would have hired me out to some needful family.”
With no more than idle curiosity, a reaction which pained me greatly, Jeremiah asked, “You would have gone by yourself?”
“Aye.” I nodded. “Just me andâJust me.”
Suddenly his interest grew alert. Finally I had touched a chord of emotion. “Just you and who?” he pressed.
I don't know why I told him. Perhaps I wanted to break through his placid demeanor. Or perhaps I was searching for sympathy. Perhaps in my childish manner, I thought if I made clear to him my desperation, he might once again like me and protect me as he had for so many years. What error lies in seeking love out of pity! But then again, perhaps I told him simply because I had always told him everything important.
“Just me and the babe,” I finally replied, and I looked directly into his eyes as I spoke, to determine his reaction.
He was stunned. His jaw dropped, and he gaped.
“I am with child,” I repeated, and, upon reflection, I think I repeated this fact more for my own benefit than for his, for so peculiar is the idea still to me, that yet I have difficulty believing it.
“Whose . . . whose is it?” he asked, and for a moment his voice returned to the high pitch of a boy, a pitch that nearly made me smile for how at odds it was with his manly posture.
“I was defiled,” I told him, and again I waited for his reaction. Then, to make certain he understood, I said, “Someone forced his way with me.”
Incredulous, Jeremiah asked, “Who? How?”
“'Tis of little matter.” I had no intention of amplifying upon my horrid memories. Besides, not at all could I bear to reveal my defiler as being the weasely, repulsive form of Goodman Glover. Rather would I prefer Jeremiah to think it one of the boysâeven homely Joshua Snow!âthan the disgusting figure of Goodman Glover.
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