Silver Tears

by Weyrich, Becky Lee

  “The guard is lying,” Alice protested. “The child was sick—sick and starving.”

  One of the ministers, a tall man with lank hair, stepped forward. “There is more. My brother and I have come to plead with you to confess your devilish tricks that have so afflicted Goodwife Hargrave in the past weeks. The poor woman is still abed, raving of fiends and spirits tormenting her after the spell you put upon her. She told us she realizes now that Lady Phips was only your tool. She related how you admitted to allowing your serving woman to practice magic from the islands.”

  Chris moved closer to Alice as if his nearness might protect her from their charges. “That was only a joke,” he insisted. “How could Prudence Hargrave, who’s made one false accusation already, make such a charge and expect it to be taken seriously?”

  The second minister shook his head sadly. “The poor woman’s affliction is no joke. She might well follow the bitch witch to the grave shortly.”

  Ollav, Alice’s black Coon cat, hissed and swiped a paw at the preacher, leaving bloody streaks across his hand. The man shrieked as he drew back.

  “Her familiar!” he cried, dabbing at the blood with a bandanna. “The evidence continues to grow.”

  “I’m sorry Ollav scratched you,” Alice apologized. “My pet—and that’s all he is—gets nervous around strangers.”

  “Seize the beast!” cried the injured clergyman.

  A wild scramble ensued, but Ollav got away. In spite of the fix she was in, Alice could admire the cat’s wily escape. She knew exactly where he’d be hiding, but the three men would never guess and her lips were sealed.

  As the men chased after the cat, Chris whispered to Alice, “I think we ought to make a break for it. It’s our only chance.”

  “I think not, Mr. Gunn.” Hawthorne had overheard their plan.

  Alice’s heart sank. The men gave up their search and returned their attention to her, battering her with endless questions. Alice, of course, denied every accusation, but her fate seemed sealed. This was what she had feared most since that bitter cold dawn of 1685.

  “You will come with us now,” Hawthorne ordered when their questioning proved useless.

  “She will not!” Gunn roared, throwing a punch at the man that missed by only the barest margin.

  “Chris, please, no,” Alice begged. “Don’t make things worse than they are.”

  “Listen to your wife, Gunn,” Hawthorne ordered.

  “Damned if I’ll let you take her!”

  As strong as Gunn was, he proved no match for the three men when they all set upon him. Hawthorne soon had Chris’s hands tied securely.

  Mary Phips watched from her doorway, horrified and helpless, as the three men forced Alice and Chris into their wagon and drove away down the dark street.

  “Heaven help them,” she sobbed.

  An hour later Alice stood in a back storeroom of the jail, facing three old women dressed all in black. Where they had taken Chris, she had no idea. The last she’d seen of him was in the wagon outside the jail as two guards hustled her inside. She only hoped he was faring better than she was.

  Alice tried to back away from the women, to avoid their leering eyes and groping hands, but it was no use. The room was small and windowless, and the trio of crones stood between her and the door. Mary had mentioned an “unpleasant search” to her, but she hadn’t elaborated. Now Alice understood why.

  “Well, girl, what are you waiting for?” the tallest of the women demanded. “Strip all your things off, or we’ll have to do it for you.”

  This was the moment Alice had dreaded most of all. The interrogation by the ministers had been emotionally painful and embarrassing. They had accused her of all manner of unspeakable evil. Her arrest had come almost as a relief from their torture by tongue. Her arrival at the jail had chilled her blood. It was one thing to come offering charity to the inmates; it was quite another being one of the prisoners in this awful place. And being parted from Chris was almost more than she could bear.

  To her momentary relief she had not been cast into one of the filth-strewn cells, but had been brought instead to this private chamber. Her reprieve had been short-lived, however. Soon the three women had entered, ordering her to remove her clothing to be searched.

  A clawlike hand shot out suddenly, tearing at the high neck of Alice’s gown.

  “No!” she cried. “Don’t touch me. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Then get on with it.”

  The three women never averted their eyes for a moment as Alice removed her things. Finally she stood before them wearing only her thin shift.

  “That, too,” the woman ordered.

  Slowly, dreading what she knew the women would see, Alice pulled the shift over her head. The evidence they sought would be there, she was sure of it. There was nothing more she could do to hide it from them. What had been done to her through love would now be construed as a mark of evil, sealing her doom.

  For an instant her only sensation after removing the shift was cold. The night wind whistled at the bars of the door, seeming to wrap her naked body in icy sheets. She closed her eyes, willing herself to endure both the cold and the indignity of the women’s probing stares.

  An icy fingertip touched her breast. Alice’s eyes shot open.

  “Look just there,” the tall woman said to the other two. They all nodded, muttering dire predictions as they took turns prodding the purplish mark on Alice’s right breast.

  Alice closed her eyes again and steeled herself for the explanation. “My husband made the mark,” she explained, “while we were making love.”

  The trio gasped as one and drew away. The tall woman returned, peering at the bruise from Chris’s teeth and pinching it until Alice cried out in pain.

  “You heard her very words,” the woman said. “She calls the devil ‘her husband.’ What more proof could we need? She admits to having lain with Satan.”

  “No!” Alice screamed at them. “I mean my husband, Christopher Gunn.”

  “The devil’s mark,” the three intoned, “the witch’s teat.”

  “We have our proof,” the leader told the pair. “I shall report it to the authorities myself.”

  Alice wanted to sob and scream and tell them all that she was innocent, but her mother’s words echoed in her mind. She lowered her head and prayed softly, “Chris, help me. I need you. I love you.”

  Her words echoed hopelessly in the cold cell. She imagined she could already feel the noose tightening around her neck.

  Two days passed before Alice saw another soul. For reasons not explained to her, she was left in the bare room. Once a day a plate of food was shoved under the door to her. Each time this happened, she shouted at her unseen visitor—begging, pleading, demanding news of her husband’s fate. Her questions went unanswered.

  On the third day they came for her, and a short time later Alice found herself once more at the Salem Meeting House, but this time she was not there to worship God. The room was crowded with people from Boston, Salem Village, Beverly, Ipswich, Topsfield, and even Salem Town, all there to see the witch, Alice Gunn, tried, convicted, and hanged.

  Still, she had no idea what had happened to Chris or why her trial took place with such speed when others in the jail had waited months. Many were still waiting. No one had told her anything.

  She stood alone before the scowling judges as witness after witness came forward to speak against her. The guard from the jail explained how Alice had killed the child. He also claimed that she had bewitched him into letting her take the infant away.

  After the guard’s testimony, Prudence Hargrave, with her husband silent and looking grim beside her, was brought in on a litter to give her damning evidence.

  Having told of magical spells, maleficium, and dreams of demons, Goodwife Hargrave ended by saying, “My poor husband, too, has been afflicted by this witch. Once she almost caused his death by calling down a curse on his head. At a
later time she tried to force him to commit uncleannesses with her. When he refused, she cast a spell that later caused him to fornicate shamelessly with a bar wench before my very eyes.”

  “You’re lying!” Alice cried.

  “Keep silent!” one of the judges yelled. “The accused is not allowed to speak unless asked to answer charges.”

  Alice cast a pleading look toward Jonathan Hargrave. He paled and turned away.

  Next her three female examiners were called to testify about the devil’s mark. They told all in excruciating detail, even quoting Alice’s remarks about making love to her husband.

  “Does the court wish to examine the mark for themselves?” the tall woman asked of the judges.

  Alice’s face flamed with humiliation as the six men held a brief, whispered conference.

  “The prisoner will step to the bench,” one of the men ordered.

  “No, she will not!” William Phips burst into the courtroom. “By authority of the king, I forbid it.”

  Alice turned, smiling broadly at Will, her heart beating so rapidly she thought she might faint with relief.

  Will called a momentary halt to the trial so that he might speak with her. Alice’s hopes rose only to be dashed as he told her his news.

  “I heard about the trial the moment I got off the ship, Alice. I rushed right here.”

  “Thank God you’ve come, Will. Do you know what they’ve done with Chris?”

  Will glanced about the court. “No. You mean he isn’t here?”

  She shook her head. “They arrested us both, but I haven’t seen him since that dreadful night. Will, you must find out what’s happened to him.”

  “Don’t worry, Alice. I’ll look into it immediately. How are you holding up?”

  “How do you expect?” she whispered. “They were going to hang me. But I’m safe now that you’re here.”

  Will’s broad brow creased and he sighed. “I’m afraid they still may unless I can think of something. You see, the king’s edict will prevent future trials, but it won’t stop one already in progress. Don’t despair, Alice. I’ll figure a way to get you out of this, and I’ll find Chris, too.”

  The trial resumed. Even poor Mignette was forced, through threats of more torture, to bear witness against her mistress. She admitted to practicing voodoo with Alice’s knowledge and consent. Jonathan Hargrave, who might have helped her by testifying honestly, was never called as a witness.

  Crowds of strangers, people Alice had never seen in her life, testified instead. One man claimed she had bought fruit at his market stand, whereupon all his other goods had shriveled and turned black with rot. A woman said Alice had passed her house a week before, and she’d not had a wink of sleep since. Horrible demons and fierce black cats kept her awake all day and night. On and on it went—sick children, spoiled milk, dying animals, straying husbands—before it was over, Alice was accused of every ill in the Colony of Massachussetts, but had no opportunity to say anything in her own defense.

  After a time, she distanced herself mentally from the horror of her trial. Her mind went back to her old life—before Boston, before Maine, before her mother was hanged.

  “Be strong, my child,” her mother’s voice seemed to say. “Don’t let them see you cry.”

  Alice ached to cry, but her mother warned her not to give them the satisfaction.

  As the trial dragged on, day after day, she began to give up any hope of escaping the noose. She no longer waited for William Phips to perform some miracle on her behalf. Her only hope was that she could taste her husband’s lips once more before the hangman offered her the kiss of death.

  The final day of the trial arrived. All the witnesses had spoken, all the evidence lay before the court. In her heart Alice knew what the verdict would be. It was Bury St. Edmunds all over again, only this time the rope was meant for her. She glanced toward the door, hoping Chris might come. Then she closed her eyes, ready to die rather than face life without him.

  “Don’t cry, love. There, Alice, there’s a good girl for your mum. Whatever happens, child, whatever they do to you, don’t ever let them see a single tear.”

  One of the six stern-faced judges stood, rapped sharply with his gavel to call the proceedings to order. “We gather here today to hear the final verdict on this woman’s fate. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ So saith the Bible and so saith this court.”

  Alice held her breath as the chief magistrate rose slowly from his high bench. For a moment, their eyes met and his seemed as cold and emotionless as steel piercing through her. She looked away, praying silently, Please, Chris, come to me before it’s too late!

  “Alice Gunn, having heard the testimony of many over these past days, and owing to the examination of your person and the finding of the devil’s own mark upon your breast, it is the considered belief of this court that you are indeed a consort of the Evil One. You are a witch.”

  As the judge spoke those words, the door at the back of the courtroom banged open. Christopher Gunn stood there, maddened by what he had just heard. His angry gaze darted about until he spied Alice. She looked so brave, standing there with her shoulders squared and her head held high.

  “Oh, love,” he whispered, “why did they have to do this to us?”

  “Chris, my darling.” He read her lips more than heard her soft words as he started toward her, shoving people, benches, and chairs out of his way.

  “Damn you all to hell!” he yelled. “You’ll not touch the woman I love!”

  The court was in chaos. Chris didn’t care. The bloody bastards had kept him locked up during the entire trial, and his imprisonment only made his menacing, heathen features reappear. He should have been here with his wife, by her side where he belonged. All that mattered now was that he have Alice in his arms once more. He made his way across the crowded room and drew her trembling body close to his. He kissed her fiercely, sweetly, deeply.

  “Darling, you came,” she murmured. “I was so afraid that—”

  “Hush now,” he whispered between kisses. “You have nothing to fear. I won’t let them harm you.”

  The noise in the courtroom was like a crushing wall, closing in on them. Through it all they heard the judge’s gavel and his booming voice. “Alice Gunn, since you have refused to confess to your crimes, you are condemned to be hanged as a witch, and may your soul abide in hell for the duration of eternity.”

  Alice heard Chris yell, “No!” but little else penetrated her consciousness. She was aware only of her husband’s nearness and his love enveloping her.

  “I love you too much,” he murmured. “I’ll die with you before I let you go.”

  She looked up into his eyes, but couldn’t see his face. She felt weary, and his features seemed hidden in mist. “Chris?” she whispered. “Darling?”

  All the noise in the courtroom ceased. The crowd began to move away, their faces pale with alarm as well as wonder.

  “It can’t be,” a woman whispered, “but look, there it is on her face.”

  Only one final embrace, Alice thought, that’s all I ask.

  She clung tightly to Chris, trying to make herself a part of him forever, but seeing the expressions in the crowd, he pulled back to gaze at her.

  “Alice?” he said in an awed, hushed tone. “I’ve never seen you cry before, darling.”

  All the emotions she’d damned up inside over the years were swept aside as a flood of silver tears rushed down her cheeks. She cried for her mother, for herself, for Chris, and for the unborn child he had not been told she was carrying. She cried for all the evil in the world, all the good. She cried simply because it seemed to be the only thing she could do.

  “I can’t die… I can’t leave you… Chris, I love you!” she stammered.

  The judge pounded his gavel. The silent onlookers moved slowly toward the doors. Alice and Chris, oblivious to all else, remained in each other’s arms.

  The judge,
shocked and embarrassed, cleared his throat. “This is a highly unusual development. Alice Gunn, you have proven yourself innocent of all charges by weeping real tears. You are no witch, and I call an end to this trial.”

  “And a new beginning for our lives,” Chris whispered as he bent to capture his wife’s lips once more. “I love you, Alice.”

  Epilogue

  Chris carried his wife up the stairs the moment they arrived home. She was sobbing softly and trembling all over. The trauma of the trial still clouded her thoughts and consumed her emotions. Chris wanted desperately to put an end to her years of suppressed tears. He wanted to hear her laugh again and see the sunshine of her smile lighting her lovely face.

  Nuzzling her ear with his lips, he whispered, “Will you do something for me, darling, when we get to our room?”

  She sniffled, making a determined effort to stop crying. “Chris, I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you right now.”

  He paused on the stairs and kissed her deeply, then smiled into her tear-bright eyes. “Good! That’s what I want to hear. Anything and everything is what I’m yearning for right now.” He kissed her again, then smiled broadly, his green eyes merry. “Mostly though,” he continued, “there’s just one request I’m dying to have you satisfy.”

  Trying to second-guess her husband’s wishes drew Alice’s mind away from her terrible ordeal. His kisses helped a good deal, too.

  “I can’t very well satisfy you, my darling, unless you tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Show me your witch’s teat,” he demanded with a playful nip at her neck.

  “What a thing to demand the minute we’re alone together!” Alice replied with mock horror, then laughed, exactly as Chris hoped she would.