I Walk in Dread (9780545388047) Page 13

  Mem thought Goodman Corey had put on an act of supporting the witch hunt early on. He only gave evidence against his wife to divert attention away from his own wizardry. But now the truth was out. Nobody in the crowd had a good word to say about him, Susannah said. Well, I thought, nobody had a good word to say about him before he was arrested, either. How does being a rogue make him a wizard?

  They discussed Mary Warren. Was she a witch or not? At first she seemed guilty, from the way all the afflicted girls fell into seizures when she opened her mouth. The only one who could speak to accuse her was Elizabeth Hubbard. Then Mary Warren herself fell into terrible seizures and convulsions, and between them uttered such words as, “O Lord, help me! O good Lord, save me!” And, “I will tell, they did, they did, they did. I will tell, they brought me to it.”

  Who were “they” — the girls or the witches? Or perhaps the Proctors? What would she tell? Nobody knew, for she could speak no more, and was removed from the courtroom. Susannah believes that Mary is innocent of witchcraft, and has been used by the witches to cast suspicion on the afflicted girls. Mem believes that Mary is likely a witch, else the Devil could not have used her specter. “Remember Hobbs?” Mem said.

  Apparently the Hobbs girl confessed that she gave the Devil permission to use her form to do his work. It is not she in her own person who afflicts the girls, but rather the Devil himself who borrows her shape.

  “The Devil cannot use any specter without the body’s permission,” Mem said, and looked over at me smugly, as if that were certain proof of witches.

  Thursday ye 21st

  There were nine complaints filed today, and tomorrow nine more people will be examined for suspicion of witchcraft. Besides those, the girls have shouted other names, including Burroughs and Jacobs. Burroughs was the unpopular Minister here before Mr. Lawson. Jacobs is the old man who denounced the girls with his two canes the last Lecture in March.

  I suppose now the court will not stop until they have found forty witches, the number Abigail Williams saw at the Devil’s sacrament. Each day I wake up with a feeling of dread that I might be among the number accused. The girls do not like me much more than they like Hobbs, after all.

  Dreamt last night that I was spinning by the hearth up in our Maine house, and there in the kitchen sat Mem and Susannah discussing whether Benjamin is a wizard, because he said Susannah had a hole in her pocket. How could he possibly know that if he did not have supernatural powers? Goody Corey and the Widow Ruste sat with my stepmother knitting and trading recipes. Little Rebecca Cooper stood at my knee reading from the Bible, and I helped her sound out the difficult words. Then my father walked in, with the dead boys trailing behind him, and I woke up in shock at the sight of them. None of the rest had surprised me in the least, though.

  What a ridiculous dream! Yet it seemed so vivid and real, full of color and feeling, that when I woke up in the dark bedroom I was confused, and had to think to remember where and when I really was. Salem Village.

  Again, I am convinced the girls must dream their visions. They see the specters in their dreams, and then recall them later, and cannot tell fantasy from reality.

  If only I could dream my father back to life again, and this time sleep through it, long enough to talk with him, and feel his arms around me. Is it a sin of selfishness to pray for a good dream?

  Friday ye 22nd

  Something terrible has happened. Must write quickly before Mem gets back from her beloved examinations of the nine new witches.

  I was out working in the garden yesterday, and was jolted up off my knees by a force to my head. I screamed in utter terror that a Wabanaki had crept out of the woods to take my scalp! But no, it was Mem who had me by the hair, and was twisting my head back, keeping me down on my knees.

  “You told me you are not a witch, and I believed you!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “What is this?”

  She was holding this book in the hand she was not using to twist my head.

  The book flopped open on the ground, and Mem pushed at the pages with her toe until she stopped at what she was looking for. “What is this? What is that?”

  Her toe pointed to symbols, not words. I did not remember what they were. The pages came near the beginning, and my book is nearly full now. I flipped back in my memory until I got to the Sabbath when we had made our marks in the mud outside the Meeting House. She gave me no time to explain before flipping through to another page.

  “And this!” she said, pointing to a rusty brown smear shaped like half a moon. She had stopped at the pages where my blood-chewed fingers had smeared the paper, when I was writing about the examination of Goody Osborn.

  “Never mind,” Mem shouted. “You do not have to tell me. I know exactly what this is. This is the Devil’s Book!”

  I screamed for Ben, who would surely save me from Mem’s wrath, but he was not around. “Mem, stop!” I screamed. “How do you expect me to answer you when you are tearing my head off?” My twisted neck hurt sharply, and I was crying, full of the rage that only pain can bring. It is a good thing she did not let me go then, or I may have murdered her.

  She loosened her twist on my neck slightly. “I am afraid to let go,” she said.

  It did not hurt so much as before, and I could think again. She had my book. She had my heart and soul at her feet. “No,” I promised, “if you let me go, I swear on the Bible I will not lay a hand on you.”

  “Where did you learn that line?” Mem said. “From the Devil?”

  How dare she! Though it pained me, I tried to twist around so that I could kick her legs out from under her. She kept moving, too, keeping control of me. “Mem, let go! You are hurting me!” I cried. “Tie me to a tree if you are so afraid, or lock me into the bedroom. Just let me have my head back.” Here she comes, more tomorrow!

  Saturday, April ye 23rd

  Mem led me by the hair into the house and threw me into the bedroom, and pulled a chair across the door, and sat in it so I could not get out. From behind the door I said, “Mem, that book is not what you think. It is a diary. I have been writing my thoughts and feelings each day, the way I used to when we lived in Hartford. Remember?” She grunted. “Well, if you be filling a book with writing, then why have I not seen you at it? You never kept it a secret at the Widow Ruste’s. What secrets do you have to keep now?”

  I sighed and flopped back onto the bed, sinking down, down into the goose-down mattress. I wished I could sink into sleep and lose myself there, and wake up to start this day over. I would remember to put my book back in its hiding place. I realized now how Mem had found it: I forgot it was in my old dirty apron pocket, and Mem was washing the clothes today.

  “Mem, it is just my private thoughts. That is all.”

  “Private thoughts?” she harrumphed. Then the door clattered, and flew open, and she stood there with her hands on her hips. “What private thoughts could you possibly have that you could not share with me? I am your sister! We share the same blood! We have been through thick and thin together!”

  The pillow was warm with my tears. “I know,” I said. “Yet, we do not always agree, and” — I paused to gather my courage — “I am afraid, Mem. I am deathly afraid to say my thoughts out loud. So I write them down.”

  She looked fearful herself, then. “Liv, if you do not tell me what is in this book of yours, I will know you are a witch.”

  My heart could not have galloped any faster if it were a horse. My sins and prayers, my dreams, my ideas about the witchcraft, my mean thoughts toward Mem, my sweetness on Darcy: How could I possibly share all that with her?

  In my moment of doubt, she pulled the book from her fresh clean apron and thumped on it with her knuckles. “Either you read me your book, or I shall take it to the Reverend Parris.”

  Something in her voice made me want to jump on her and fight to get the book away. But more strongly I just wanted to have the scene over. And I believe that in my heart I wanted to read her the book, anyway
. I wanted Mem to know the inside of me, and discover my truths. If I had felt I could talk to Mem about everything, I might never have felt the need to write in the book in the first place.

  Of course, I could not let her see me being too agreeable too fast, so I said, “Maybe it would be a good idea to give the book to Mr. Parris. Then he could learn about the sweetheart in a coffin.”

  Mem’s face went pure white, and her eyes grew big. “You wrote about the egg in the glass?”

  I nodded and reached for the book. “That and many other things you would not want the world to see, Dear Mrs. Cooper Senior.”

  She gasped, then handed the book to me. I took a deep breath and opened it to the first page, and began to read. Whenever Benjamin is not around, I have been reading to her, for she says our brother should not be privy to my private thoughts about her private thoughts.

  When I read her the part where the neighbors all came to see her when she was sick, because they thought she was afflicted, she was taken aback. “I remember being shocked that they came not to soothe me but to entertain themselves,” she said. “The people of Salem Village were looking for sport, and that was what the girls gave them. Once the girls got all that attention, they could not stop.”

  Methinks Mem is starting to understand me better, but we are only in January and have not got to the witches yet.

  And now I must go look for a new secret place, where nobody can find my book, or me writing in it. I am not going to say where! The book needs a safe place where Mem cannot get it. She says when we are finished reading, it must be destroyed to protect us from the damning details. As long as I keep writing, though, we shall never finish reading. Ha!

  Sunday ye 24th

  Dear God, save us. Today at Sabbath, Susannah Sheldon went and saw the specter of Philip English climbing over his pew to pinch her. Philip English is a very wealthy merchant who owns many ships. He speaks with a French accent. Susannah Sheldon hates anything French, because the French and Indians killed her uncle Arthur. She saw it herself when she was very small.

  Mem does not know what to think. She wants to believe her friend, yet she is starting to have doubts about the affliction. “It just gets bigger and bigger,” she said. “And closer.”

  Too close for comfort.

  Monday, April ye 25th

  Darcy stopped by today, and said that tongues are wagging everywhere he goes about the nest of witches in Salem Village. He cannot bear to think of us living in this place another moment. Will we move now to Haver’il? Benjamin can have the position that was offered to our uncle.

  Mem studied his face closely. What was she looking for? Can she see his love there? I believe she does view him differently now that she has gotten to know him through my eyes, by reading my book. Yesterday we read up to February 28, when he showed up at the Sabbath alone. Now, looking back on it, it is obvious why Darcy wanted to speak with our uncle so desperately. He was the one who needed permission to court Mem!

  Benjamin looked at Mem looking at Darcy, and said it was a fine offer. He said he never makes snap decisions, and shall sleep on the idea. Oh, I hope Benjamin agrees! I am itching to get away from here, away from the whole witch hunt, which is inching ever closer to home. It seems to me that escape is the only escape.

  We had dinner together, and then Darcy said he had to move on to reach Marblehead before dark. Before parting he asked Benjamin if he might have a moment alone with Mem. Out the knothole I spied on them as Mem walked Darcy to his team and wagon loaded with barrels. He tipped his head to kiss her good-bye, and she did not push him away!

  Oh, dare my heart hope that Mem will learn to love him, and that I will soon be bouncing little hook-nosed nieces and nephews on my lap?

  Tuesday ye 26th of April

  Mem and I have read my book through March, and she has finally been swayed to my way of thinking. It was the shoes that got her. Goody Corey is too kind and wise to be a witch. And if she is innocent, then most or perhaps even all of the other accused may also be innocent.

  This afternoon Mem visited Susannah Sheldon and learned that her friend has been very busy being tortured by specters. Susannah saw two new witches on Monday, and yet another one today. For the first time in this whole mess, Mem is afraid for herself. What is to stop Susannah from imagining Mem is pinching her?

  Wednesday ye 27th of April

  We got through the book up to the wonderful feast of Coopers. Mem no longer believes that the specters are reliable evidence. There is still one question nagging at her, though: the confessions. “If they are not witches, why would Tituba and the Hobbs girl confess? And her mother.” On Friday at the examinations, Goody Hobbs admitted taking part in the Devils’ sacrament with Cloyse the deacon.

  Why confess what could not have happened? I have given that much thought. Unless the direction of the court changes completely — and that is about as likely as the Ipswich River changing directions — those convicted of witchcraft will hang. Everyone knows this. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  Only those who refuse to confess will be convicted, however. Those who confess it will be allowed to live, for it is believed that the Devil’s influence can be exorcised from their souls. If the victim touches a witch who repents, the hold of the Devil is released. She is no longer a witch.

  Goody Corey would rather die than confess to something she did not do. Of that much, I am sure. “To some people it is better to confess and bear the shame than not to confess and bear the pain,” I said. “There are those who would rather lie and live than tell the truth and die.”

  Mem wonders, also, what could be causing the fits, which seem very real. The girls cannot be acting. I have given that much thought, also. “I do not know for sure,” I said. “All I know is that sometimes when I am around the girls, I start to feel what they feel. I feel as though I have pins pricking my body, and I want to scream.”

  Even the mere memory of the feeling makes me shudder. I hate it!

  “I have felt that, too!” Mem said. “But when I am not near the girls, I do not feel it. And I have never seen any specters.”

  “Nor I,” I said. I told her I thought they remembered dream images. Also, they may be seeing visions put before them by the Devil, in order to bring down innocent people. The Devil would have a good laugh over that!

  Thursday ye 28th

  Today Mem got up before the rooster, and rustled about making awful noise, and there are not even any examinations in town. “What in God’s name are you doing!” Ben shouted. He loves his sleep like meat loves salt.

  “Packing,” said Mem.

  “Packing?” Benjamin and I said together.

  “You heard me,” said Mem. “I am getting ready to move to Haver’il. What are you two waiting for?”

  I leaped out of bed and tackled Mem, only this time I did not beat her silly, but hugged her until she tickled me silly. Benjamin with a sleepy smile got up, scratched under his arms, and rode off to Haver’il to let the Coopers know.

  Friday ye 29th

  Darcy will arrive in the morning with the big wagon, and we will load it up and be gone from this place, not a moment too soon.

  Thank you, God. Thank you!

  Saturday ye 30th of April

  So all our belongings are loaded end upon end, and Ben is on his horse ready to ride, and Darcy is beside the wagon offering his hand to help Mem up, when she says, “Before I marry you, Mr. Cooper, there is one matter we must resolve.”

  The word “marry” made my ears ring. I was so happy to hear it!

  “Whatever you say, my dear future Mrs. Cooper,” said Darcy.

  “We must resolve the matter of my dowry.”

  Benjamin cleared his throat nervously. What dowry could he possibly be expected to give? All he has of any value is the land in Maine. He would never part with that!

  Darcy put his hand out to calm Ben, then grinned at Mem and said, “You are right! We must resolve that. Here is my dowry.” He plucked a chicken out of
a crate and held it by the feet while it flapped its wings. “Now can we go?”

  Mem smiled and shook her head. “Oh, but for me to feel right about joining your fine family, I must bring a dowry worth much more than that chicken, even if it lay golden eggs.”

  “Remembrance!” snapped Ben.

  She ignored him and went on. “My dowry is worth more than money can by. My dowry spins, gardens, keeps house, and though she cannot cook, she can read like an angel. What’s more, she can write like the Devil! Letters, I mean. And account books.” Mem curtsied while gesturing toward me.

  I was sitting on the cupboard with the cat in my lap, kicking the hog away from chewing my petticoats. Benjamin leaned back and sent his laughter to the clouds. Darcy looked me up and down, and tried to look serious without much luck.

  “Indeed,” he said. “You bring me a truly priceless dowry, Remembrance. A dowry that can keep my books! That is a dream come true.”

  So this is the last page of my life in Salem Farms. My Devil’s Book shall hide in Haver’il, where the Lord may guide a soul to find it, if that be His will.

  Tomorrow begins a new book.

  Epilogue

  The Trembleys were wise to escape Salem Village when they did. While Liv, Mem, and Ben were settling into their new house in Haver’il, the Reverend George Burroughs was being brought back to Salem Village for examination. By the end of May, dozens more women and men had been imprisoned for suspicion of witchcraft. Mem’s friend Susannah Sheldon became one of the most active accusers.