Susannah Morrow

by Megan Chance

  “She will,” Griggs said. “They all do. Bring her to Ingersoll’s tomorrow during the examinations. See if she is at all affected by the other girls.”

  “How could she not be?” Susannah asked. “I should think ’twould be better to keep her away from them. They cannot help but feed off each other.”

  Griggs said sharply, “If there are witches in the village, ’tis in our best interest to find them. There are others, Tituba said. We must use all our abilities to discover who they are.”

  “You surprise me, Doctor. I would have thought your first interest would be healing.”

  There was anger in his voice when he said, “Do not forget, my own niece is involved in this. I want only the best for her.”

  “Then perhaps you should send her to town, or to Boston.”

  “You would let witches roam freely? You would give the Devil such power?”

  “He only has what power you give him,” Susannah told him. “I would think young girls are hardly—”

  “Enough,” I said, angry that she would dare to dispute these things that she could not possibly understand. “You do neither us nor Charity any good, madam. Quiet yourself.”

  I did not care when she flinched. I wanted to punish her as I punished myself. I looked back at the doctor. “We’ll bring her tomorrow. Godspeed, William.”

  Griggs looked at Susannah and then back to me, nodding. “Good night,” he said as he went out, and the night swallowed him. The room felt still and heavy, as if there had never been a disturbance here, as if Susannah and I had held these postures for an eternity.

  “I think it cannot be good to take Charity to Ingersoll’s,” Susannah said. “You planned to take her to town tomorrow. Tell me you will do that.”

  That she could go on as if nothing happened sickened me. I could not believe she would still think of sending Charity out now. I shook my head. “No.”

  “Lucas, you cannot mean to—”

  “This is beyond me now,” I said. “I cannot help her, and you have proven to be no use to her at all.”

  “I…I don’t understand,” she whispered. “This has been a strange night. Let us take comfort from each other.”

  I recoiled, staring at her in disbelief and horror. “Do you not understand? The comfort we’ve taken in each other is what led to this. How many more signs must God give us before we end this sin?”

  “No, Lucas, I…I will not let you do this.”

  “’Tis not your choice! I have had enough of this. Dear God, my daughter is tortured by the Devil, and we have let him in. How can you speak of taking comfort?”

  “Please, Lucas.…”

  ’Twas as if she could not stop herself. She touched my hair, and when I made to jerk away, she came closer, letting her hand fall to my cheek. Impossibly, improbably, I felt desire. That she should have this power over me, that she could make me want her now…

  I grabbed her hand, stopping her. “No. This must end.”

  There was desperation in her eyes. “I will not let it.”

  I saw the warmth in her gaze, and because of that, I wanted to hurt her. I gripped her wrist harder and said, “I suggest you go into town for your needs. There are dozens of sailors there eager to oblige.”

  I saw shock in her expression, and then pain, and I threw her from me and turned away, feeling a terrible satisfaction as I left her standing there. I went, without a backward glance, to the parlor, where I shut the door tightly behind me, closing her out, dismissing her.

  I leaned against the door for a moment, then forced myself to look at my daughter, who slept painlessly and well. I went to her side, where I stayed the night through, praying for salvation.

  Chapter 27

  CHARITY WOKE WITH THE LATE DAWN. SHE HAD SLEPT NEARLY motionless the night through, and I dared to hope that perhaps last night had been only a passing fit due to momentary shock. I waited anxiously for the moment she opened her eyes.

  When she finally did, I was not even looking at her. I was staring blankly at the window. It wasn’t until she said “Father” that I realized she was awake, and I jerked around to see her.

  Her eyes were clear; there was no delusion there. I grabbed her hands and mumbled such a quick prayer to God that I barely knew the words I said, only that they were heartfelt. “Charity, you are yourself.”

  She frowned a little, and when the worry and fear came into her expression, my heart sank—I had been relieved too soon. I saw when the remembrance hit her. She glanced around, to the door, the bedcovers, and seemed to shrink inside herself. She pulled her hands from mine. They were trembling as she raised them to her face and moaned, “Oh, I am too late. I am too late. I saw what you did, and so did Mama. She said that you could…you could tell wickedness…that you could…fight it, but you cannot, can you?”

  “’Tis one thing to tell wickedness, Charity, and another to fight it. I am only a man—”

  “You promised…to keep the Devil from this house. You promised to help me fight him. Only yesterday, you promised it.”

  “I know,” I said. I felt the tears coming to my own eyes. “I know.”

  She was crying so hard she could hardly say the words. “Has God left you then, Father? As He has left me?”

  “He has not left you.”

  “‘If Christ hath no possession of thee, thou art possessed by the Devil,’” she quoted softly.

  I grabbed her hands and held them fast. “We will pray. We will go to meeting, we shall fast in humiliation. This…bewitchment…that has come over us—we will send it away. I promise you this. Charity, my dear, I promise it.”

  “You cannot keep your promises. The Devil has already corrupted you.”

  I wanted to deny her, bur to deny would have been a lie, and I could not do that, either. I stared at her, wordless, undone. I rose and stepped away from her, turning from her accusing countenance.

  “You will not even deny it,” she said—such misery, such desperation.

  I sighed, beaten. “Aye, I will not. There is weakness in every man, and the Devil has found mine. I would that you had not seen it.”

  I could not bear to see her reaction to my words. Instead, I stepped to the parlor door and went into the hall. Jude and Susannah were coming down the stairs, and I stopped short, caught—my weakness both before me and behind me. My daughters, Susannah…

  “Lucas,” Susannah said. “What has happened? Is Charity…?”

  “She’s well enough. As soon as she’s ready, we’re off to Ingersoll’s.”

  “Lucas, you can’t—”

  I glared at her. “’Tis none of your concern.”

  “Aye, it is,” she said, coming to me. When I stepped away, she said in a quick and desperate voice, “You are a fool if you do not hear this.”

  “No,” I said. “I was a fool before. Look what your counsel has brought us. ’Tis time I listened to someone else.”

  “You’ve been quick enough to take the blame for this. I wonder that you do not want to affect the cure.”

  “And you have taken no blame at all,” I pointed out. “Which of us is wrong? Dear God, my daughter is ailing; you have tormented me for weeks with your concern. I would think you would be anxious to see her well.”

  “I am. But this is not the way.”

  For a moment, I wavered. Then I heard Charity stirring in the room beyond, and I knew my answers must come from God alone.

  I said, “I’m taking her to Ingersoll’s.”

  “You cannot do this. Please, Lucas. Take her to town. The Pooles want her—”

  “The village needs her more.”

  “There are others who can do that work. Would you sacrifice your daughter to this…this madness?”

  “I will be with her. There’s no need for further sacrifice.”

  Susannah hesitated. She glanced back at Jude, who had gone to the fire, and I closed my eyes in dismay, for in my distress I’d forgotten she was even there.

  “Then I will come with you,”
Susannah said.

  I did not argue with her. When Charity and I set out for Ingersoll’s, Susannah and Jude followed.

  The mud and ice of the ordinary green was overflowing with people, the tavern door left open. Villagers lingered in the doorway, talking in loud and animated voices while they waited for the examinations to start in the meetinghouse next door. The smell of beer and roasting meat hung heavy in the damp air. There was anticipation and anxiety too—for every neighbor who greeted me solemnly, there was another alight with excitement, as if this were some merry entertainment.

  I hurried Charity through them, into the ordinary, thinking ’twas time to get this over with, though I could not say even in my mind what this was, or what I thought would happen, what I expected to see. I pushed through the crowd, letting Susannah follow with Jude behind. A short ways into the ordinary, Charity stopped suddenly, yanking on my arm, and I saw that she was staring straight ahead. I followed her gaze and felt a sinking in my stomach when I saw what she looked at. Her friends. The afflicted girls.

  They sat together at a table, crowded around it the way they’d been the day of Faith’s baptism—so long ago now that it seemed like another world. They were guarded over by Tom Putnam and his brother Edward and Samuel Parris, along with Doctor Griggs and Nicholas Noyes and John Hale. The magistrates were at a nearby table, eating heartily. The prisoners had not yet been brought from the jail, and just now the atmosphere was loud and drunken and cast with anticipation.

  William Griggs glanced up just then and caught my eye, grimly gesturing for me to come forward.

  At the table, one of the oldest girls—Mary Walcott—went suddenly still. She had been knitting; there was already a goodly length of green fabric trailing across the table. Now her needles stopped their relentless movement. She swiveled hard, staring into the crowd with narrowed eyes, staring at Charity. My daughter gasped and halted so quickly I nearly stumbled.

  The crowd began to murmur—I thought for a moment ’twas because of Charity, but then I heard a shout from outside that grew in intensity and volume. “They’re here! The prisoners’re here!”

  The crowd seemed to turn as one; a wave of noise passed from the door to where the girls sat. A dozen necks craned to see out the windows. But Charity did not take her eyes from her friends, and so neither did I. ’Twas as if the hand of God came down upon them in one swipe; in the same moment, the little Putnam girl went stiff and Abigail Williams began to shake and scream. Mercy Lewis pressed into a corner as if she were being attacked on all sides, swatting at the air.

  Through the crowd, I heard a shout—“Lucas, you must take her from here!” Susannah’s voice. In that moment, I realized that Charity was trembling as one with a fatal fever; her face had gone gray. She slipped from my hold, sagging to the floor with a moan like a wounded animal.

  The crowd backed away, soft cries of alarm and concern mixing with the animal noises coming from my daughter’s throat, the screams of the other girls. I fell to my knees beside her. “No, Charity, no,” I whispered. She had gone boneless where before she’d been rigid, so I could not keep my hold on her. Desperately I shook her. “Charity. Charity, come back to me,” but it was clear she no longer saw or heard me. When I looked into her eyes, I saw she was there, but not there, a strange contradiction, one I could not measure.

  I heard another cry from beyond, and another. The magistrates leaped to their feet; tankards spilled, splashing through the din. Corwin shouted at the crowd to be silent—a useless order; he could barely be heard beyond a few feet. Parris began to pray loudly.

  My own daughter fought me with every movement. She was making that terrible gurgling sound that reminded me of the first time I’d seen her thus, on the parlor floor, shaking at the horror she’d seen: her own father fornicating with his sister.…

  “She…hurts…me,” she moaned.

  “Who hurts you?” I asked desperately. “Who does this to you?”

  “She is pinching Charity!” the Putnam girl called out. “Oh, make her stop; please make her stop!”

  Noyes frowned. “Who afflicts her? Is it Goody Good? Or Osborne? Is it Tituba?”

  “No, no, someone else,” said Annie. “Someone else.”

  “Who is it?” Parris asked.

  “I do not know. Oh, I do not know.”

  Charity would not tolerate my hands. Desperately I cried, “Will someone not help me?” and saw how they backed away—except for one person. One person, who pushed through the crowd.

  Susannah.

  I had been looking for her, I realized, and this realization shocked me. My anger over what we’d done had not faded in any way, yet when I saw her, I was strangely relieved. Jude clung to her legs, her little cap askew, her light brown hair straggling into her face. Her hold was so tight that Susannah could barely move, but still she came toward me.

  Then, suddenly, she stopped. Her gaze went past me, and I turned to follow it and saw that Charity had gone still. Charity was staring at her as if all the horrors of the world had lit upon Susannah’s face. Then my daughter screamed and curled into a ball, throwing her arms over the back of her neck as if to protect herself.

  Mary Walcott shouted, “Oh, be gone, you wretched spirit!” She stood now at the table, her eyes wide and dark. She pointed with a knitting needle into the air. “Leave Charity be! Stop hitting her! Oh, look at her prance around—’tis as if she’s on the stage! ’Tis a red bodice she wears—oh, you vain creature!”

  I went cold.

  “Who is it?” Parris asked. “Who hits her? Who?”

  Charity launched to her feet with such force the crowd swayed back. “’Tis the black man standing beside her. He whispers to her! Oh, Father, make her stop! Stop!”

  “Who is it, Charity?” I asked—I could hardly hear my own voice. “What are you saying?”

  Her gaze cast through the crowd. With growing horror, I followed it. With a shaking hand, she pointed to Susannah.

  Mary Walcott said, “Leave her alone, Susannah Morrow! Have you not punished her enough?”

  The name landed with the force of thunder. I heard it ringing in my ears. I heard Charity’s cry, “Aye, aye, ’tis her!” and the gasp of my neighbors, Jude’s whimper of dismay. I could not even move. I could do nothing but stand in shock, even though I had known.…I had known this would come. I had known.…Everything I’d questioned rushed back to me: Charity’s fear of her aunt, Susannah’s reluctance to bring her here, the way she’d quieted Faith. And most damning…most damning of all: my own inability to resist her.

  I looked at her. She was staring at me as if to find strength from my face, but when I met her eyes, she went pale and shrank away as if she recognized my thoughts and had no defense against them.

  The girls took up the cry: “Susannah Morrow, Susannah Morrow…” I saw her grasp Jude by the hand and step backward into the crowd. I made no move to stop her as she disappeared. My own confusion was too great; there was even a part of me that urged her to run.

  “Where has she gone?” someone asked, and I realized they were looking for Susannah, and that Charity had taken her place at the table with the other girls. No longer my own daughter, but belonging now to this crowd, to these accusers, to Tom Putnam, who listened with a grim expression to her charges.

  From the door of the ordinary, I heard the call, “The girls! We need the girls in the meetinghouse!” I turned to see Ezekiel Cheever pushing through the crowd, and beyond him, through the window, I saw the form of Susannah’s blue cloak, and Jude beside her, hurrying down the path with Hannah Penney. I felt an uncomfortable and strange relief.

  Ezekiel arrived red-faced to the table. He was breathing hard; his words came in gasps. “The prisoners are waiting, Your Honors. ’Twould be better if we could start soon. The crowds…”

  Hathorne nodded. With an abrupt and authoritative gesture, he motioned to the crowd. “We’ll adjourn to the meetinghouse.”

  ’Twas like a river moving toward the door. Within m
oments, my neighbors were emptying from the ordinary, and the girls went suddenly calm again, as if soothed by God’s giant hand. Edward Putnam and Tom began to lead them out, along with the ministers. I was the only one unmoving, and as they passed, I grabbed Charity’s hand and pulled her from her friends.

  Tom reached for her. “We need her testimony, Lucas.”

  “Not hers,” I said. “Not for these women. Charity has said nothing of those accused now.”

  “She may—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “She will not go today.”

  “Release her, man,” came John Hathorne’s voice. He had stopped at the door, and he motioned impatiently for me to let my daughter go. “She is a witness now. We shall return her to you at the end of the examinations.”

  Tom took her arm, and I reluctantly released my hold on my daughter. She went with him as easily as a lamb, with only a final look back at me—her gaze troubled and dark, confused. Her arms were covered with welts that were beginning already to fade, as if she were recovering from some terrible disease.

  But I knew better. She was not recovering; she was in the very midst of it, and I was afraid for her. I could not leave her.

  Quickly I followed after.

  The meetinghouse was as crowded today as it had been yesterday, more so, I thought, because those who had not heard the first day of examinations had rushed to listen now. I cared nothing for it, not at first. When Sarah Good was led in and questioned again, I watched Charity as she called out with the others. In my wretchedness, I could not even listen to the testimony. I heard nothing but her cries until Hathorne said, “Who among you is William Allen?”

  William rose, twisting his hat in his hands. “I am he.”

  “Did you not testify that this woman came into your chamber one night and sat upon your feet?” Hathorne asked.

  I thought of a cold winter night, of Susannah standing at the end of my bed, with scarlet all around. It had been a dream, I’d thought. Only a dream. Had it not been?

  “’Tis true,” said William. “She bore a strange light with her. When I…When I kicked at her, she went away.”