Slewfoot

by Brom

  They spotted Abitha right away, hammering boards to a post, rebuilding a shelter for the livestock. Her hair was loose and wild, she wore no bodice, no shoes, only a loose blouse, apron, and single skirt. The blouse was untied at the neck, exposing her cleavage, the sweat causing the thin fabric to cling to her chest. Wallace watched the shape of her small breasts as they swayed back and forth while she worked, and it wasn’t long before he felt a stirring in his loins.

  There, Wallace thought, the very Devil tempting me through her wiles. He glanced at Ansel and Isaac, could see she had the same effect on them, Isaac appearing embarrassed and Ansel all but leering.

  “See how wantonly she dresses?” Wallace said.

  Ansel nodded, not taking his eyes off of her. “Aye, this is not a Godly woman, that much is clear to see.”

  They found a vantage point that gave them a good view of the farm and waited, watching Abitha’s every move, but as the hours dragged by Wallace began to fear they’d come all this way for nothing. Ansel now sat upon the ground, his back against a tree, his eyes half-closed. Isaac too had found a comfortable spot and was fighting to keep his eyes open. But Wallace stood, leaning against a large maple, watching Abitha’s every move like a bird of prey.

  Wallace caught movement from the corner of his eye, thought he saw someone down near the bottom of the field, but when he looked, no one was there. Edward? Is that you? If so, rest easy, brother. I will not let this wicked woman steal Papa’s farm.

  Abitha set down her hammer and went to the well for a long drink, after which she took a seat in the shade of the porch. She picked up a circular object and began to work on it, weaving flowers and other small items together.

  Wallace squinted. What is that? His heart raced. He nudged Ansel.

  “Look,” he whispered. “See there. What is it that she makes?”

  Ansel and Isaac got to their feet.

  “It is but a wreath of flowers,” Isaac said.

  “No,” Ansel said. “It is some kind of talisman … mayhap a pagan crown.”

  Abitha’s bent, one-eyed cat came out from under the porch and yowled at Abitha.

  “That is a most foul beast,” Wallace said.

  “It could be more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her familiar.”

  “Familiar?” Wallace asked. “I know not what that is.”

  “Her spiritual guide … an imp or demon sent by Satan to assist her. That would explain why it is so tortured-looking.”

  The orange cat strolled over and took a seat next to Abitha. Wallace watched the feline paw at the straw Abitha was weaving with.

  “Look there,” Ansel said. “Do you see? The creature … it helps her! Do you see?”

  “I see,” Isaac said, his face horrified.

  “Ansel,” Wallace asked, “do you feel the crown will be enough? To convince the judge?”

  Ansel considered. “I think it might. Magistrate Watson has presided over several cases of witchcraft, including that of Widow Muford. He is well versed in the deceitful ways of Satan. I am sure he will see it for what it truly is.”

  “Then come first chance, I shall retrieve it.”

  A short while later, Abitha laid the crown back on the porch and returned to her work.

  “You two stay here,” Wallace said, and headed down.

  He took the long way around, coming in from behind the cabin so as not to be seen. Giving the beehives a wide berth, he came up along the side of the cabin and peered around, saw Abitha by the barn hammering a plank into place, her back to him.

  Wallace stepped out and hurried over to the porch.

  The cat leapt to its feet at the sight of him, arching its back, hissing and glaring with its one crooked eye.

  Wallace fell back, horrified, then saw just what Abitha had been weaving, that along with the flowers and seeds, there were small bones, beetles and strands of hair, her own hair.

  No one can dispute such deviltry, he thought, and pushed himself forward, forcing himself to snatch up the loathsome object.

  “What are you doing?”

  Wallace spun around, almost dropping his prize.

  Abitha stood a few paces away with the hammer in her hand, glaring at him.

  Wallace held up the crown. “This is your undoing, witch!”

  “Thief,” she said. “A swindler, an arsonist, a bully, a liar, and a thief! Your father would be so proud of you.” She spat on the ground before him.

  He felt his face flush, his temper burn. It was more than her words, more than the way she was speaking to him—it was her sneer, her contemptuous little sneer.

  He stepped forward, fist drawn.

  She raised the hammer. “Leave!” she shouted. “Now!” There was no fear on her face, none, and that was the final insult.

  He slapped the crown down and lunged at her.

  Abitha tried to strike, but he came in hard and fast, punching her in the chest with the full might of his arm, knocking the hammer from her hand and sending her tumbling to the ground.

  She managed to get to her knees, gasping and coughing, trying to breathe.

  “Witch!” he cried, grabbing her by the hair. She weighed nothing to him and he spun her like a rag, tossing her into the fence. She slammed into the post and landed in a crumpled heap.

  “I have had enough of you!” he shouted.

  She looked up at him, and he saw it, what he’d wanted, what he needed—the fear. Oh yes, she is afraid now—terrified. He drank it in and laughed.

  She tried to crawl away, but he caught her by the ankle and spun her yet again, slamming her back into the post. Abitha let out the most pitiful cry.

  He laughed some more and reached for her again, when Isaac dashed between them, grabbing Wallace by the arm, trying to hold him back.

  “Enough, Father! You will kill her. Now stop!”

  Ansel ran over and plucked up the crown, holding it as one would a deadly snake. “Lord, this is indeed deviltry!”

  Wallace shrugged the boy off, shoving him out of the way. “God has revealed the witch to us! It is our duty to be His sword, to slay Satan wherever we find him! We have our proof! Let us end this now!”

  Wallace picked the hammer up from the dirt and started toward Abitha, then heard—no, felt—a strange humming. He blinked, trying to figure out where it was coming from, realized it was coming from inside his head.

  It grew in volume.

  Wallace dropped the hammer, clapped his hands over his ears, and the hum traveled into his skull, into his teeth, vibrating through his entire body.

  Abitha was staring at him, her eyes blazing, both her hands on the ground, her fingers digging into the grass, and he saw that it was her … she was humming.

  Something struck him on the back of the neck, just a thump, like someone had tapped him, then came the sting.

  “Oww!” He swatted it; it was a bee. Then another, on his cheek, followed quickly by two more, then three more, then ten, twenty. The air suddenly full of them, stinging his face, his arms, the pain overwhelming, blinding; they were in his shirt, his pants.

  Wallace screamed and fled, flailing frantically at the air. He dashed right into the fence, hardly feeling the impact over the unbearable pain. He found his feet and ran as fast as he could into the woods—running and running through the underbrush, heedless of thorns in his mad scramble to escape his tormentors.

  * * *

  There came a sudden pounding from the front door. Reverend Thomas Carter opened the door to find Wallace glaring at him, his face swollen and covered in red lumps. Ansel and Wallace’s son, Isaac, and at least a dozen other men and women from the village stood in his yard behind the huge man, their eyes full of alarm. They all began talking at once, speaking over one another. The minister could decipher little, but the two words he clearly heard over and over were: Abitha and witch.

  No, not this, Reverend Carter thought. Not here. His chest tightened; he’d seen the havoc witch hysteria had broug
ht upon Hartford many years back, knew where it led. Lord, give me strength. He raised his hand. “Stop,” he commanded. “Please, one at a time.”

  “It’s Abitha,” Wallace proclaimed in his loud brash voice. “She is cavorting with the Devil!”

  Reverend Carter wanted to grab the man, beg him not to do this, not to play this dangerous game.

  “We have the proof,” Wallace said, pulling Ansel forward.

  Ansel unfolded a cloth, revealing a circlet of dried flowers as though it were Satan’s very crown. “We found her making this!” the old man proclaimed, his bulbous eyes bulging as he held the circlet up so all could see, holding it by the cloth, careful not to let it touch his bare skin.

  “It is but a wreath of flowers,” Reverend Carter said. “I do not understand.”

  “Look closer,” Wallace shouted, now speaking more to the crowd than the reverend, his voice alive with theatrics. “Bones and hair … her hair! She does consort with a familiar spirit! We did witness this, the three of us, myself, Ansel, and Isaac here.”

  “Aye,” Ansel said. “They did consort indeed … Abitha and her imp! Whispering and conspiring with one another. And then, this.” He shook the circlet again. “There, before our eyes, they crafted this together. A horrifying sight to behold.”

  The crowd fell back, staring warily at the circlet.

  “Familiar spirit?” Reverend Carter asked. “What manner of creature do you speak of?”

  “The imp has taken the form of a cat,” Ansel said. “A bent and crooked beast with but one wicked eye. And when it set that evil eye upon me, I felt a chill to my very bones and could not move until I spoke the Lord’s name.”

  “What say you, Reverend?” Wallace challenged. “Why do you stand mute? Why do you not cry witchcraft in the face of such evidence?”

  The crowd grumbled, nodding their heads in agreement.

  Reverend Carter struggled for the right words, knowing all too well how any and all could be swept up into such hysteria.

  Wallace’s eyes bore into him. “And this?” he cried, jabbing at his own face. “What of this? I am covered head to foot in welts.” He turned to the crowd. “She did this. Set her bees upon me! Isaac and Ansel as my witness.”

  “You were at her farm?” Reverend Carter asked. “But why?”

  “We are beset with demons and you worry on trivialities,” Wallace challenged, not hiding his scorn. “Why is that? Why do you defend her so?”

  And here it comes, the reverend thought. How quick the fingers are to accuse. “I seek only full knowledge of circumstance. As to make a fair assessment. It is well known that you have an ongoing feud with Abitha.”

  “You dare imply my motives are anything other than protecting my children and this village from the Devil’s hand?”

  “I am well versed in the severity of your claims. That is why we must be prudent. We all know where this can lead if we are not deliberate in our proceedings.”

  “She did curse Wallace,” Ansel said. “After which the bees attacked him in a most unnatural way. As though possessed and under her spell. How is it Isaac and myself stood beside Wallace and did not suffer the same affliction, less it were some kind of witchcraft?”

  An uneasy rumble drifted through the crowd. A few carried bibles and they thumped them to their chests. More people joined them, curious to see what the commotion was about.

  Sheriff Pitkin and Deputy Harlow arrived, the sheriff carrying a pike. They pushed up through the crowd.

  “What is it, Reverend?” Sheriff Pitkin asked. “What brings such trouble?”

  Once again, the crowd all spoke at once.

  The sheriff thumped the pike loudly on the minister’s step until they quieted.

  “Reverend, what is the trouble?”

  “Wallace, here. He brings forth a charge of—”

  “It is Abitha Williams!” Wallace cut in. “She has been witnessed using black magic.”

  The sheriff set hard eyes on Wallace, appeared ready to reprimand him for interrupting, then saw the big man’s swollen face and winced. “What has happened to you?”

  “That is what I am trying to tell you. Abitha is using black magic.”

  “And we are to believe you?” Sheriff Pitkin asked. “All here are well aware of your vendetta against that woman.”

  “We have witnesses—proof! Hear this.” Wallace pulled his daughter forth from the crowd. “Show them, Charity.”

  Charity appeared frightened and nervous.

  “Go on, child,” Ansel said. “Abitha cannot touch you here. You are beyond her reach.”

  Charity held out a napkin. Ansel took it from her and unfolded it, revealing a small clump of dried rose petals wrapped in twine, holding it up for all to see.

  “More of her witchery!” Wallace said. “Tell them, Charity.”

  “Aye, it were Abitha that did make it for me. She told that if I wear it always about my neck … then I would be rewarded with Cecil’s love. But when Father arrived home, vexed as he were, and began to speak ill of Abitha … it—” There were tears in her eyes. “It did burn me such that I had to tear it from my breast.”

  Many in the crowd gasped, sharing wary glances between one another. Reverend Carter could see the seeds of suspicion growing; there were plenty here who had solicited Abitha’s remedies.

  “I see,” Sheriff Pitkin said. “Mayhap we should—”

  A cry came from behind Wallace and the crowd parted to reveal young Mary Dibble beating at her apron. “It burns me!” she cried. “Take it from me!” She tore off her apron and flung it upon the ground, stumbling away from it. The circle widened, all eyes staring at her apron as though it were full of spiders.

  “What is it, child?” her mother, Goody Dibble, asked.

  “There, in the pocket. A charm. Abitha did give it to me. Promised me many suitors, she did. But I knew it not to be deviltry. I swear it! She did trick me with sweet words.”

  Ansel knelt down and gingerly slipped his hand into the apron pocket, sliding out a dried rose, wrapped in red twine. He left it on the ground in front of the crowd.

  Reverend Carter met the sheriff’s eyes; he could see the man was unsure what to do.

  “Please, punish me not!” Mary cried. “I beg of you. I were under her spell. I swear it before God!”

  “Fear not,” Ansel said. “It is but your pure flesh repulsing her black magic. Now that her witchcraft has been exposed, her witchery can hide no longer from any who are innocent at heart and righteous with the Lord.”

  “It bites like a hornet!” Jane Foster screamed, clawing at her neck, tugging out a small pouch and throwing it on the ground next to Mary’s apron. Followed a moment later by fearful cries from Rebecca, and the Danforths’ servant girl, Helen. Rebecca tugged a bracelet of twisted rooster feathers from her wrist, while Helen yanked another of the pouches from about her neck. Both threw them on the ground by the apron.

  The crowd stepped farther back from the pile of charms.

  The sheriff looked to each woman in turn. “And these, they are all from Abitha?”

  They all nodded adamantly.

  “She tricked me, too!” Charity shouted, stepping forward. “Spoke to me in a forked tongue. She did try to corrupt me with promises of love and admiration. I see that now that her spell is broken.”

  “Aye, as do I,” Helen cried.

  “As do I!” Jane cried.

  “The Devil’s hands have been lifted from my eyes!” Charity shouted. “I denounce her! I denounce her and all her deviltry!”

  “I denounce her!” Helen cried.

  “I denounce her!” Mary cried.

  “I denounce her!” Rebecca cried.

  “Aye, I denounce her and her deviltry!” shouted Jane.

  “Reverend,” Wallace called. “What do you intend to do?”

  The reverend was certain that Wallace had orchestrated this tragedy, yet could find no recourse, no way to hold the man accountable. He realized that there was nothing he co
uld do for Abitha at this point other than try to save her from the brutality of a vigilante execution. They were in Sutton, not in Hartford; the law was a tenuous thing out here, most small villages preferring to handle such matters on their own—quickly and often brutally. “We will arrest her,” Reverend Carter said, barely able to get the words out. “We will have a trial like rational men of God. The Lord shall decide her fate.” He caught Wallace’s smile, realized that he had played right into the man’s hands.

  “Now, there is the first sensible thing you have said,” Wallace stated. “I will ride to Hartford this minute.”

  And before the reverend could respond, Wallace was away.

  Oh, dear God, Reverend Carter thought, realizing he’d just invited the wolves to Sutton. He started to shout after Wallace when a sudden cry came from behind him. It was his wife, Sarah. She was clutching their daughter in her arms. Martha’s face had gone deathly pale, her eyelids drooping. She seemed unable to stand.

  “What is it?” Reverend Carter asked.

  “I know not, husband! She just collapsed.”

  The reverend help lay Martha on the porch. Martha’s eyes fluttered open, met his, then opened wide. He could see the terror in them.

  “What is it, child? What plagues you so?”

  She seized his arm. “Am I touched by the Devil then?”

  The crowd drew silent, pressing forward to listen.

  “No, child. Of course not.”

  “She put her hands on me. Abitha did. Stood at my bedside, Father. You and mother saw her. You saw her! What has she done to me?”

  “She has done naught impure. Only an old remedy. Mother and I would never allow anyone to sully you. Now hush. We can speak more on this later.” Reverend Carter glanced about at all the wary faces and gave the sheriff a dire look.

  Sheriff Pitkin turned, facing the crowd, and thumped his pike. “Hear me, all of you. I assure you that Abitha will be arrested this day. Will be held accountable. But let me make it clear here and now that I will tolerate no disorderliness from anyone. Now disperse … the Lord does not look favorably upon idle hands and wagging tongues.”

  The reverend watched the crowd drift away, painfully aware of the whispering and talking behind hands as they cast suspicious looks upon him and his wife.