Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Mary Esty, how can you afflict these children so and not repent?” The judge peered down at me, his face severe below the wig that fringed his black skullcap.
“She chokes me—oh, she chokes me kuz I wunna sign in the Black Book!” Mercy Lewis rolled at my feet. Her own groping fingers had produced the red blotches on her neck. The other girls mimicked her, chanting a scurrilous litany, until Anne Putnam suddenly sprang up and pointed to the beams overhead. “There! There’s her spectral shape a-sittin’ there—with a fat green snake windin’ round her wrist! See how it sucks her thumb—ooh, now it’s changed into a little yellow bird! Mary Esty, come down from there and stop afflicting me!”
“Come down, come down!” her companions chorused. Their elders stared in fascination, fancying they saw my shape and a snake and a bird among the empty trusses.
“’Tis some strange delusion has struck the child,” I faltered. “I know nought o’t.”
Anne fell to the ground, shrieking that nails and pins were being driven into her, and indeed, I watched wounds erupt from her fair skin. My heart skipped a beat, then raced wildly as the others began to develop similar symptoms. It couldn’t be so and yet ’twas. Anne was not the sly minx Mercy Lewis was, and I believed her tortures genuine.
The judge’s eyes bored into me, raking my soul. “How can you say you know nothing when you see these tormented?”
“Would you have me accuse myself?”
“Yes, if you be guilty. How far have you complied with Satan whereby he takes this advantage against you?”
“Sir, I never complied but prayed against him all my days. What would you have me do?” I pleaded, searching his face for some remnant of the affection he once bore me; but there was none.
“Confess, if you be guilty!” he thundered.
A flux of love, hurt, and fear welled in my throat and I was forced to clear it. At once the girls began to clear their throats. My hands went to my mouth. Theirs did likewise. What could I do against such conspiracy?
An ancient crone tottered towards the bench—Margaret Redington, my neighbor, whom I had cured of the King’s Evil and to whom I had brought fresh meat when she had none.
“Come February,” she began in a quavery voice, “I was at Goodman Esty’s and talking with his wife about an infirmity I had and presently after I fell into a most solemn condition and sometime later I was exceeding ill and that night Goody Esty appeared to me and proffered me a piece of fresh meat and I told her ’twas not fit for the dogs and I would have none of it and then she vanished away.”
My heart quailed. How could the woman lie so? She had snatched at the meat—good meat—and wolfed it before her sister returned home so she wouldn’t have to share it. Ironically, I’d always suspected her of being a witch.
Now Samuel Smith took the stand, uncommon sober, but reeking of stale urine and vomit. “I was one night at the house of Isaac Estick of Topsfield,” he said, nervously drawing his hand over hair slick with bear grease, “and I was as far as I know too rude in discourse, and the above Estick’s wife said to me that I might rue it hereafter. And as I was going home that night about a quarter of a mile from the said Estick’s house by a stone wall, I received a little blow on my shoulder with I know not what and the stone wall rattled very much which affrighted me. My horse also was affrighted very much, but I cannot give the reason of it.”
That old tale again, born in his cups.
“Mary Esty, what have you to say to this?” the judge asked.
Oh, Will, Will, how can you believe such lies? “I will say it—I am clear of this sin,” I declared aloud.
He gaveled down the noise. “Of what sin?” he demanded.
“Of witchcraft.”
Stroking his chin, as though unsure of himself, he turned to the witnesses. “Are you certain this is the woman?”
The girls promptly began to bark and bleat and mew. Some crawled around on all fours. Mercy Lewis crept forward and rolled at my feet. I clenched my hands to suppress a desire to slap her. She reared on her haunches and clenched her hands. Instinctively I unclenched mine, whereupon she relaxed hers.
Judge Stoughton had not failed to notice.
“Look, now your hands are open, hers are open.”
“Indeed, so it is with children who play ‘Simon Says,’” I retorted, which caused Mary Warren and Betty Hubbard to hold their breaths until their faces purpled, and Anne Putnam cried out, “Oh, Goody Esty, Goody Esty, you are the woman!”
The strain of the day had taken its toll and I lowered my head to drive away the faintness that threatened to engulf me. So, too, did the heads of the young girls droop, then slowly twist nearly halfway round. The elder Ann Putnam pushed them aside and ran toward me. “Put up her head!” she cried. “For while her head is down the necks of these be broken!”
As the sheriff jerked my head upright the girls straightened theirs.
“’Tis she,” the elder Ann continued, “who with her sister Rebecca, murdered my babies while they were yet in the cradle—forsooth, some yet in the womb. And eke my sister’s babes, so that she died of grief. Night after night these butchered innocents come to me in their winding sheets and beg me to avenge them.”
Stoughton’s eyes bored into me. “And thou sayst this is not witchcraft, Mary?” He’d used my first name and the old form of speech! Yet he gave no other sign of recognition.
“’Tis an evil spirit,” I conceded, trying not to flinch as a frenzied Sarah Bibber dug her sharp nails into my scalp, “but whether it be witchcraft, I do not know.” That there was something diabolic afoot I did not doubt.
“She wanted us to sign the Devil’s Book,” they chorused.
“She flew in my window at night and sat on my bed with the book,” Abigail Williams cried out. Betty Parris, the minister’s daughter, prowled on all fours, yowling like a cat in heat.
“Let the accused touch the afflicted so she may draw her devils back into herself,” the judge ordered.
One by one the girls were brought to me and Sheriff Corwin forced me to lay my hands on them. As I touched the soft flesh, each “victim” ceased her struggles and let herself be led away quietly. It took three men to bring Betty Parris to me, spitting and scratching, a great ball swelling in her throat. Stoughton went livid. “Woman, withdraw all thy devils!” he roared. “Wouldst thou slay this child before our eyes?”
“I know nought o’ devils,” I protested. “I have no power to stop this. I fear for the child as do you.”
Betty pushed her ash blonde hair away from her eyes. “Nay, ’tis not Goody Esty afflicts me. ’Tis the demons I see in all o’ ye! Oh, ye are sore possessed…
“Cut! Cut!” Lucian hurried forward, script in hand. “Lucy, those weren’t your lines. Where’d you get them?”
Lucy stood trembling, her lips white and her eyes downcast behind the thick lenses. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I’ll try to do it right the next time.”
“Well, we’ve been going at it pretty hard,” he relented. “Take five, everyone. Good work, girls.”
They drifted off toward the refreshment tables, loaded with confections from nearly every oven in Peacehaven.
“You’ve trained the girls well, Mitti,” Lucian said. “And you adults are coming along, too, even though you still have to use your scripts, except for Mitti and Greg.” He turned to Elspeth. “Your characterization of Sarah Bibber is excellent, but don’t be so realistic. We don’t want Mitti torn to pieces before the pageant. And, Charity, you’ve got to project more for Mistress Ann Putnam. One thing puzzles me, though,” he continued, turning to Greg. “Why did you switch to the second person singular when you addressed Mary at the last? I thought you said according to your research the ‘you’ form was fairly universal by 1692 instead of the ‘tho
u.’ Did you change the script?”
“I wasn’t aware I was doing it,” Greg replied.
Homer Redd came up, stuffing his mouth with blitz torte. “You were too sober as Samuel Smith, Homer,” Lucian told him. “Don’t you think he might have taken a belt or so to fortify himself? Like you do when you go to the dentist.” The farmer reddened. “Oh, and you, Irv, pick up your cues faster—lay Mitti’s hands on the girls immediately. You ought to know how a sheriff acts. As for you, Aunt Jenny, you’re playing Goody Redington too young. She was at least seventy.” Sheer flattery! He knew damn well Aunt Jenny was over eighty.
The rehearsal had been going on since noon. Lucian had urged us to wear costumes, even at rehearsal, to help us get into our roles. I’d had a hard time to keep from staring at Greg. He was attired exactly as Stoughton had been in my dream, with maroon robe, black skull cap, and linen and lace neckpiece. “You’ve done a superb job, Mitti,” he said. “I—I want to apologize for the way I acted at Christmas. You’re not scuttling the pageant—you’re making it with your portrayal of Mary Esty.”
“You were uncommonly convincing yourself, Greg,” I countered, keeping my tone cool, though my heart pounded and I hid my shaking hands in the folds of my long dark-green gown. “Where did you get your costume? It looks so—authentic.”
“I had it copied from Stoughton’s portrait in the Harvard archives, where I’ve been working the last two months.”
“I thought you were in Jamaica.”
“Jamaica?” He was puzzled. “I haven’t been there since I was a little boy. No, to tell you the truth, you’d made me question some of my theories and I went back for additional research.”
I turned my head to hide my relief. “I have something for you. I found an article on Salem that Aunt Bo started and apparently never finished. It gives a new light on the whole subject. Read it. You might want to make some changes in the pageant.”
He put the copies I’d made into his pocket, but the old wariness came into his eyes. I added quickly, “You’ve done a clever job of weaving in the actual trial testimony. When I speak my lines I feel little shivers to think I’m saying the same words Mary Esty did three centuries ago. And you play a hanging judge with a vengeance.”
“I want to show Stoughton as he was—bigoted, cruel and self-righteous.”
“He didn’t think that of himself. You have to believe his lines in order to make the audience believe you.”
“You really can’t accept your ancestor for what he was, can you?” The spurt of anger passed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. What do you think was Stoughton’s motive?”
“Fear, Greg, stark fear.”
Iris wedged herself between us, interlacing her fingers with his. “Greg, darling, can we go over our scene together? I want to be sure I have my part right.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine, Iris,” he assured her. “I was just about to offer Mitti some refreshment. Would you join us?”
“Why don’t you two go ahead?” I suggested. “I’m not hungry, and one witch at a time is enough for you, Greg.”
Iris tugged at his arm. Reluctantly—I hoped—he followed her to the table.
I walked over to Darcy and Marion, who were going over their lines in the corner. “Can’t you rest even for a minute?” I asked them.
“Oh, I could,” Darcy drawled, “but Marion’s nervous about the scene where he gets pressed to death.”
“What’s so hard about that?” I asked. “All you have to do is moan and cry out, ‘More rocks! More rocks!’”
“But some of the guys might get carried away,” he worried.
No wonder, after the harassment he’d suffered at the hands of the town bullies! “I’ll speak to Lucian. We ought to have rocks made of foam rubber or papier-mâché. Relax! The way we’re going today, we won’t get to the last act.”
Darcy grabbed my arm. “Well, glory be! There’s Alison!”
Ward and Bruce were helping Alison with her coat. She’d insisted she felt well enough to be at the rehearsal. “I hope I’m not late,” she said now. “Ward made me rest all morning.” Her eyes sparkled and it was hard to believe her appearance of health was only a reprieve, not a pardon.
“We put your big scene off until later,” I reassured her.
Lucian climbed onto the stage and blew his whistle. “Since we’re running a little late,” he announced, “we won’t try the third act today. I’d planned to move us all up to Bishop’s Bluff for the gallows scene, since the ground’s frozen again, but there’s not going to be time. Lucy, take it again from the second scene where you accuse Tituba of having bewitched you. You direct, Mitti—I have to do Parris. Damon,” he called to the doctor, who was talking to Tyler Bishop, “you’re in this, so get on up here.”
“Good thing Lucian has some sense,” Ward growled in my ear. “I’d never have let Alison go up on that bluff tonight.”
Lucy dragged her feet up the steps to the stage and lay down across the three chairs that were a makeshift bed. She was ominously white, but Lucian seemed not to notice. She began to moan and gnaw at the blanket which had been thrown over her, then suddenly stopped. “Please, Daddy,” she whimpered, “I don’t want to do this part again today. Can we do something else?”
“Nonsense, the scene needs work,” Lucian objected.
Lucy put aside her glasses and resumed her position.
“Betty, child,” Lucian gave his line, “what ails thee?”
Her convulsions increased until those gathered around her had to hold her down on the bed.
“Tell us, Betty, in the name of Almighty God!” he commanded.
“Don’t say that name!” she shrieked, her hands over her ears. “I can’t bear it!” She fell back in a swoon and Andy Cloyce, as Dr. Griggs, took hold of her wrist.
“Her pulse is weak and rapid,” he said, “dangerous for a child of her delicate nature. Bleeding would be of no avail. This is not a natural disorder. The evil hand is upon her.”
“Hmmph!” Damon, who played the irascible Thomas Putnam, sniffed. “Just as my wife said—an evil spirit walks among us. Tell us, Miss Betty, who has done this thing?”
This was Lucy’s cue to sit up, point to Rhoda Jackson crouching at the foot of the bed and cry out, “Tituba—oh, Tituba!” Instead, she wailed, “Iris—oh, Iris!”
Iris, who was clinging to Greg’s arm, went rigid as curious eyes turned to her, but she quickly regained her composure. “The child’s right, Lucian. She isn’t well. She needs rest.”
Her father glared at her. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Lucy. Apologize at once!”
She slid down from the platform and dragged toward Iris, her head drooping. A shiver went through her as the woman took her hand. “I’m sorry, Iris,” she murmured.
“Okay, okay, everyone,” Lucian barked, “we’ll try the last act.”
As we were taking our positions, the outside door banged and Dana came hobbling into the auditorium, wisps of hair straying about her face. “Cariad’s gone! Gone!”
Sheriff Good took command at once. “All officers and reserves are immediately ordered to duty!” He turned to Dana. “All right, what happened? And none o’ your Indian lies!” he added menacingly.
Dana leaned wearily against the refreshment table. “Cari wanted to go out, so I bundled her up and put her out in her play yard to romp with her dog while I fixed supper. Then I heard the dog yowling and went to see what was the matter. Cariad was gone and the dog was trying to jump out.” She handed the sheriff a torn piece of brown corduroy. “I found this on the ground. Outside the fence there were huge footprints in the frost.”
“Maybe her dog would track her,” Jim Willard suggested.
She shook her head. “Just as I was getting into my car to come down here, I saw him clear the
fence and dash off into the woods. I tried to call him back, but he was gone.”
Someone spoke up. “This is a sabbat night for the coven—when they make sacrifices.”
“Jim!” Good barked at Willard, “take a posse over to the witch farm and round ’em up!”
“I’ll need a warrant,” Jim objected.
The sheriff’s face flushed. “You fool around gettin’ a warrant when they got a child in their hands?”
“You don’t know that.”
Homer Redd shook his fist in Jim’s face. “You goddam half-ass cop! No wonder kids get murdered around here!” He sprang up on the stage. “Who’ll follow me? We’ll round ’em up!”
“Okay, I’m deputizing you, Homer,” Irv told him. “You, too, Scotty. Jim, get on the radio and call in the regular deputies, and then you and Caleb go get those two-way radios out of your office.”
A vision of Jonah Good darting into the woods came into my mind. Had he been the one all along? But Jim had accounted for him on Halloween. Still, he might have had time after the Willards had gone home that night. “Jim!” I grabbed his sleeve as he passed below the stage. “The Hobbs farm!” Then in a whisper, “Is Quentin coming?”
“I’m giving orders,” Irv barked. “I’ll check the Hobbs farm. No, you don’t, doc,” he directed at Damon who had said something in a low voice, “I want you to stay right where we can find you.”
While Irv had his head turned Jim gave me a thumbs-up sign. So Quentin would be there. But would Jonah take her to the farm?
The eerie notes of an Indian chant sounded above the hubbub. Dana had slumped to the floor and was swaying back and forth, chanting a prayer to Maoona.
The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users Page 34