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Authors: Elizabeth Lloyd

BOOK: Witch Child
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Salem, 21 July 1692, eve
'Tis horrid how she so terrorizes me.
This eve, after meal, Papa bid me fetch his pipe, which he had forgetfully left upon the chopping stump when he had been splitting wood prior to meal. Mama had bid me hasten so as not to delay the commencement of our nightly singing of psalms, and she was quite put out with me for pausing at the well for a sip of water.
“Rachel!” she called from the window. “Do be quick about your task! The Lord awaits our reverence!”
“Aye, Mama,” said I, swiftly dropping the ladle back into the bucket which made a dull plop as I lowered it into the well. So peaceful was the dusk, I had hoped to prolong my errand; but Mama, as usual, had somehow guessed my intentions, and I felt her eyes upon me until I quickly turned the corner at the barn.
The chopping block is situated midway betwixt the barn and the forest, and lies about ten paces from the road, such placement being convenient for Papa when the oxen drag tree stumps from the forest and out onto the road toward home. There Papa splits countless cords to feed our hearth.
Seated atop the stump this dusk was a cat, large, orange, and quite plump, and I thought little of him as I hurried across the grass, intent upon not increasing Mama's irritation. Suddenly the cat moved up onto all fours, arched its back and hissed. Beneath it lay Papa's pipe.
“Move, kitty,” I ordered as I approached and was startled when it made a small leap toward me, menacingly. Its eyes were glassy green and vicious, and I paused, retreating a step so as to avoid its attack.
I stood a moment, thinking 'twas my imagination, for slowly the plump creature settled back upon its haunches, appearing quite benign. Yet, when I again took a step forward, the creature once more leapt to its feet and spat, and as I attempted to reach for Papa's pipe, it clawed at me.
Instantly I let out a small cry. Long scratches upon my hand reddened with blood and stung like fire. And when I looked up, the creature's mouth was opened into a wide leer, as if laughing at me.
In the distance I heard Mama call, “Rachel! Rachel, do you still dally? Make haste for psalms!”
But I could not make haste. In those glassy green eyes, I alarmingly saw the eyes of Goody Glover. Quickly I shook my head to make her disappear. “'Tis foolish,” I told myself. “Why should I fear a cat?”
Yet every time I attempted to approach, a large orange paw snatched out for me, nails vicious and sharp; and as I began moving round the stump to avoid it, the plump creature jumped from its perch and kept me at bay, pacing back and forth betwixt me and my quarry, its back arched, its orange hair on end, its glassy eyes leering. 'Twas as if it played a game with me, moving me farther and farther from the stump, all the while hissing threateningly.
“Rachel!” Mama called impatiently. “Where are you?”
Frightened, I halted, awaiting the cat's next reaction. Slowly it lowered itself onto its haunches and began to slink toward me, hissing; and as I picked up a piece of wood to chase it away, it paused, its green eyes gleaming with challenge, and they were the same eyes that had stared at me from a noose.
“Away! Away!” I instantly screamed. “Begone you vicious witch!” The spitting mouth yawned into a grin and howled, a howl which reached into the depths of my soul and seemed to tear it from my breast. Swiftly the vicious creature leapt at me, clawing at my legs, tearing through my stockings; and as I frantically kicked and screamed, I ran, claws all the while digging into my flesh, an angry hiss harshly erupting into a cackle.
“Begone! Begone!” I screamed as I stumbled to free myself and was nearly driven mad with pain.
Papa's voice said, perplexedly, “Rachel? What on earth . . .”
On the ground I lay, crying, Papa standing over me, and at his sound, the animal instantly released his hold and fled. My stockings were torn to shreds, blood oozing from their tatters, painfully.
“O Papa! Papa!” I wept. “She attacked me! 'Twas Goody Glover!”
“Hush,” ordered Papa instantly. “Hush! 'Twas only some stray barn cat! Good heavens, daughter! Look at your legs! Why did you not defend yourself?”
“I tried to, Papa!” I cried. “But she wouldn't let me!”
“Hush!” Papa repeated firmly. “Let us bring you inside so your mother can apply some ointment.”
Tenderly he then lifted me up and carried me, and when we reached the house and Papa made a short explanation, Mercy said, wondrously, “Rachel was attacked by a cat?”
Let them all think what they like! I know it was Goody Glover! She was trying to take me!
Salem, 22 July 1692
A very sad thing happened today. Buttermilk died.
Buttermilk was Papa's favorite cow. At noon she fell strangely ill, and Papa found her in the south meadow, lying on her side, heaving. Try as he could, Papa could not help her. Before his very gaze, she just rolled her eyes and died. She was a very gentle cow. Papa said she gave the best milk in the village. We had a small ceremony, Papa dug a grave and we all cried. I had stopped to pet her this morn on my way to the woods to pick sassafras for tea. I wish I hadn't petted her. I hope no one finds out I did.
Mama sat with me all last night. A candle burned on the night table beside us, and Mama read from the Bible while Mercy lay wide-eyed and silent in her bed across the chamber. Mercy is afraid of me.
Salem, 22 July 1692, eve
I feel quite pleased with myself, and this aft was able to distract my mind from my terrifying visions.
At midday, Deliverance Porter came round and bid me come with her to find amusement. I like Deliverance. She is a happy, friendly, amiable sort, who makes life ever so much fun. Also, she brings out the mischief in me, which is what I desperately needed. Removing our shoes, we raced along the river bank until we reached Ann Sibley's house.
Ann Sibley is also nice, but of different character than Deliverance—being shy and quiet, but sweet. With Ann was Abigail Watts—whom I can't much tolerate, being not only homely as a mule, but of equally mulish, disagreeable temperament—and (to my disdain!) Phebe Edwards. So sweet is Ann, she would never turn away a body who comes to call—not even Phebe and Abigail.
I knew I was in for nettlement when I spotted Phebe. Two more distant characters I cannot imagine than Phebe and I, and constantly are we at each other's throats.
The trio was sprawled in stacks of hay in Ann's barn, petting a lamb and daydreaming about the identity of their presumed future weddeds. 'Tis Phebe's favorite topic.
“Mine shall be very handsome and fetch me pretty dresses from Boston,” announced Phebe, airily, while Deliverance and I settled ourselves amongst them. Our arrival had hardly disturbed Phebe's self-absorption.
I could not restrain myself. Cattily I retorted, “No one in your family has ever
seen
any dress but homespun in their entire lives.”
Phebe merely smiled confidently, tossed her curls, and concluded, “I shall be the first.”
Hah! thought I. And cows shall dance on the moon, and pigs fiddle! Deliciously I pictured Phebe in the years to come, a frumpy goodwife surrounded by her mewling brood, and scarcely could I wait for that day to arrive to be able to remind her of
this!
Deliverance, turning to Ann, asked, “And what about you, Ann? Whom shall
your
wedded be? And what shall be his profession?”
Ann blushed. 'Tis no secret Ann has long held an admiration for Deodat Easty—yet so shy is Ann, she cannot even bring herself to speak in his presence. Softly Ann murmured, “I . . . I think he shall be fair of complexion. And perhaps a husbandman.”
We all giggled, knowing the description to fit Deodat. Ann flushed again, then questioned Abigail about
her
intended. Such a great show did Abigail make of pondering the question that I listened with vast interest, wondering who would be the poor soul to be stuck (forever, no less!) with one possessing such a disagreeable nature. Finally, Abigail settled on Joshua Snow, and I snorted. Joshua Snow is not only the ugliest boy I have ever laid eyes upon, but a halfwit as well. His father is a cabinetmaker by trade, yet Joshua cannot tell one end of a mallet from the other.
Abigail glared at me with challenge. “And who might
your
intended be, Rachel?” she demanded.
My eyes narrowed. I had no intention of being caught up in their little web so they could ridicule
me
. Besides, long ago Phebe declared Jeremiah for herself, and I would appear the fool claiming Jeremiah to be mine instead. And what if, in the end, Jeremiah
does
select Phebe over me? Then I'd be the fool indeed!
Aloud, I played for time. “Deliverance hasn't yet given
her
intended,” I said.
It didn't work. Laughing, Deliverance said something like: “O nay, you first, Rachel. 'Tis of
you
the question was asked. Besides, everyone knows I shall wed Peter Cook!”
Caught, I flippantly remarked, “How should
I
know my intended? I'm not in possession of some crystal ball.”
Deliverance smiled, deliciously. Already I have recorded how she brings out my streak of mischief. So I then announced, “But I shall make one!”
Everyone was ecstatic. In unison, hands clapping, they eagerly asked, “How?”
My mind began racing. Having put myself on the line, I had to be clever. “Well . . .” said I, “bring me the white of an egg and . . . and a clear glass.”
Excitedly five bodies raced into Ann's mother's kitchen, then raced back to the barn, the mind in one body (mine!) all the while searching frantically for a procedure. Carefully, with four sets of eager eyes anxiously huddled round me, I cracked open the egg on the side of Ann's mother's prized crystal bowl, then slowly let the egg's white ooze down the side of the glass.
Phebe asked, enthusiastically, “What is to happen, Rachel?” 'Twas the nicest she has ever spoken. I stammered. I was not yet entirely certain of my intentions, but my pride was at stake, and I had to think of
something
.
“Well, er . . . ‘tis . . . 'tis to take the shape of the first letter of the name of my intended.”
Nothing much was happening, so I swirled the bowl a bit. Suddenly Abigail cried, “Why, ‘tis the shape of a ‘J'!”
To my utter astonishment, gazing down, and as sure as my shift is laced, a thread of solid color in the egg's white did indeed form a distorted ‘J'!
“'Tis for Jeremiah!” cried Deliverance, happily.
Stunned, I could scarce tear my eyes from the white. Then I laughed. What a delicious joke! Fate has indeed intended Jeremiah for
me
!
Phebe sulked. “Piffle. 'Tis probably for Joshua Snow.”
Joshua Snow! That halfwit! I would have smothered Phebe with wads of hay, were I not saved by Abigail.
“Joshua is
mine
,” whined Abigail.
In a snit, Phebe grabbed the bowl, tossed the white onto the dirt floor—whereupon the lamb eagerly lapped it up—and, with a flip of her head, decided “'Tis a foolish game, anyway. Whoever heard of an egg serving as a fortune?”
Phebe is such a goose. She never plays by the rules, unless she wins. I feel smug as song for having outsmarted her. But I know 'tis only a matter of time before she retaliates.
Salem, 23 July 1692
At Meeting today, Reverend Parris lectured on the evils of witches, and I listened extra intently, hoping his bellowings would help drive away Goody Glover.
“‘Tis a guileful and deceitful age we live in,” thundered the booming voice of Reverend Parris from the lecture stand. “Rotten-hearted devils have infested our community and corrupted our unity and peace. Alas, our war against the Devil has raised amongst us great hatred, which ariseth even in the nearest relations. 'Tis that hatred which brings us betrayal and subversion. A great guiltiness I feel in our village. Corruption in the human condition. Amongst us there are those who covet and care for money more than for the Church. But we shall weed them out! There shall be no more pacts with the Devil!”
'Tis as near as I can remember what he lectured, for on and on he did ramble. Mama, beside me in the fourth row on the women's side, nodded piously at appropriate points, and though I tried to concentrate with intentness, my mind wandered constantly.
On my other side sat Goody Bishop, she who is even more devout and Godly than Mama, and whose back was straight as a board and equally as unmoving. Goody Bishop is keen on spotting witches. Already she has reported three. Nervously I tried to appear pure and serene. I shall have to take care with Goody Bishop.
Daniel and Papa sat opposite, with the men; but Goodman Bishop was absent, he being elected as one of the tithing men to patrol the village for Sabbath breakers. And behind Papa and Daniel, sat Jeremiah and his father. Jeremiah smiled at me when he entered. I smiled back, deciding to forgive him for afternoon last.
So suffocatingly hot was the room, I could scarce catch a breath. The glass in the windows, having long been shattered and with no funds for repair, are boarded in some crazy-quilt fashion, which keeps out not only the birds and the elements, but the air as well. The light was dim. The air was still. Perspiration crept down my back, wetting my shift. Reverend Parris's voice droned on, admonishing us all for the requirement of tithes.
Sometimes it seems Reverend Parris will never tire of demanding money for his Meetinghouse, or for his salary. All, presumably, tied up with the sudden profusion of witches—though 'tis hard for me to understand the connection. I tried to, though—through the heat and the bellows.
My cheeks felt warm and feverish. I fanned myself with my hand. My face went from hot to cool, and my blood felt as if it drained to my toes. My hymnbook, open upon my lap, swam before my eyes. Suddenly, from out of its pages, popped the evil face of Goody Glover. Even in Meeting!
Anxiously my heart began to pound. I squirmed, in fright. Mama frowned and reached over to still me. Mixed with Reverend Parris's booming voice was the cackle of Goody Glover's laughter. I feared to breathe, so terrified was I of exposure.
Reverend Parris led a prayer, but in my frantic state, I could not remember the words. My voice stumbled in distraction. Mama's foot hit mine, sharply. It hurt. Blood rushed from my head. Perspiration dripped. Laughter deafened my ears. My body felt dazed and icy. My stomach shrank into a small pit. And when we rose to sing a psalm, I fainted.
I think the fainting was my salvation, for had I not, I would surely have been discovered. When I came to, I was lying sprawled on the Meetinghouse steps, cradled in Mama's arms and listening to Mama calmly explain to Goody Bishop how I had not eaten my suppawn at morning meal—thus causing my weakness.
I think Goody Bishop believed her. I hope Goody Bishop didn't hear me stumble over my prayers. Goody Glover stumbled over prayers when they tested her for being a witch. 'Twas part of her conviction.

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