I Walk in Dread (9780545388047) Page 3

  I went to bed feeling sore confused, and had a confusing dream. I was a Wabanaki girl long ago, long before the Mayflower, looking in awe at the full moon shining down upon the glittering earth, and feeling as one with all creation. The clouds covered the moon, and I went into my uncle’s wigwam to sleep next to my sister in a bed of deerskin.

  The dream surrounded me in peace while I was in it, but upon waking, my heart raced in my ribs. I was an Indian, a barbarous heathen, yet felt as holy as I have ever felt singing a Psalm! What could it mean? Have I sinned in my sleep? God save me.

  I had better make sure nobody ever finds this book, else I wind up in the stocks on the Village green for blasphemy. Perhaps I will burn it, after the pages are full of words.

  Monday ye 11th of January

  The sun and rain have melted most of the snow, and thawed the roads, so that the horses and wagons have churned them to mud. On our walk to the Village yesterday, Mem and I made our way along the side of the road, trying to keep out of the mess by stepping on dead grass or clods of snow. However, the Reverend’s niece Abigail Williams found use for the mud. She is ever filled with ideas for new things to do.

  It being warm like spring outside, the young people went out of doors during the nooning. Abigail picked up a stick and drew her initials in the mud. It was her mark, she said. We girls should all be prepared to sign our own special marks on official documents, and not fall back on a simple X like ignorant folk. Thy mark should have a unique shape to show thy personality.

  Hearing this, Mem let out a big round laugh and wanted to know why girls would ever need to do such a thing as sign our names. “Would ye have us brand our bread like cattle?”

  The other girls looked sidelong at Abigail for her reaction, and saw her smiling, so they all laughed with Mem. Abigail handed the stick to Ann Putnam, saying, “Here be your branding iron.” Abigail and Ann are forever whispering to each other and making sport, and when I see them, I suffer the sin of envy. Why do they not include me? I am their age. Like Ann, I have survived many siblings. Like Abigail, I am an orphan who lives with an uncle (if he would come home). Perhaps, I thought, this game would be my chance to win their friendship.

  Ann tried many swoops and swirls and settled on a mark that looked like so:

  Then she surveyed the excited faces to choose the next writer. My heart skipped with hopes that she would pass the stick to me. However, Ann handed the stick to Elizabeth Hubbard, who is seventeen, like Mem, and lives with Dr. Griggs and his wife, who is her aunt. She stepped up and drew a mark like this:

  Again, my heart skipped. Elizabeth teased Mercy Lewis and Mary Walcott by holding the stick toward them and then pulling it back before giving it over to Mem. Mem! Who had scoffed at the idea! My heart curled with bitterness, God forgive me, and I hoped that she would embarrass herself.

  Mem stepped up and drew an egg shape. Inside, she made two eyes crossed, and a mouth with a tongue sticking out. This was her mark!

  The girls laughed and laughed! The ones who had not made their mark begged to have the stick next. The vile Hobbs girl tried to grab it, but Mercy kicked her ankles till she ran away. I stepped in front of Susannah to plead the loudest. Mem is my sister, after all. She tried to make me promise to empty the slop bucket for the rest of her unmarried life before she would give me the stick. I said I would promise not to tell the girls any of her secrets if she gave me the stick. And so she gave it to me, and I stepped up and took my turn in the mud.

  As I wrote, the air grew heavy and silent. When I turned to witness their expressions, I expected to see only awe and admiration. Abigail and Ann would put their arms in mine and skip off to be a circle of three. Instead, I saw only the face of my sister rolling her eyes at me in disgust, and the backs of the other girls returning to the Meeting House.

  “What did I do wrong?” I asked Mem, and she refused to answer.

  “If you are so smart,” she said, “then you should not need me to explain such a simple thing to you.” Lord, I am not so smart. I do not understand.

  Tuesday ye 12th of January

  Perhaps God used the girls to punish me for wishing Mem ill in the game? I have repented of that, and hope the group will not shun me next week.

  Even though snow and ice bound us into the house but a week ago, there is none left to thaw over the fire for our use. Yet we are still housebound. The rain and all the snow it melted have flooded out all the lowlands. The roads have liquefied. It feels like March without the hope of greens.

  Mem and I are a miserable and thirsty pair. We are out of fresh water. There is barely enough left in the bucket to boil the dinner, yet I refuse to fetch the water on top of all the rest I do. My shoes have both worn through at the big round bone beneath the fat toe. My lazy sister, whose shoes are like new, should be the one to trudge through the mud and flood to the common well. She will dry up like a beef jerky before I will shoulder those empty pails! It is vowed: I shalt not show my face at the well. Mem shall see that she is not the only stubborn Trembley around here!

  Noon …

  Dirty puddles are forming at the edges of the floor, seeping in through the walls where the water has pooled outside. As I sop them up with rags, the puddles tempt me to drink. However, I will not admit to Mem that I am thirsty. When she nags me to stop moping about ruining the girls’ game and go fill the buckets, I say to her, “You know where the well is, Mistress Pining for Mr. Cooper.”

  Afternoon …

  The animals are lowing with thirst. I have plugged my ears with wool and am going to lie down to sleep so I cannot hear them. Mem is bound to take pity and give up her stubbornness very soon.

  Evening …

  Dreamt that I was lying facedown in the shallows of the Ipswich River and gorging myself with water until my innards swelled like the udder of an unmilked cow. This is surely a message from the Lord that I must drink. I confess: I am not as stubborn as Mem. I will go fetch the water, though the road swallow my feet and chew up my shoes.

  Wednesday ye 13th

  On the way back from the well I saw that poor little waif Dorcas Goode tramping along the road toward the Village with her awful mother, out begging for food and shelter. Such is their life, eating the crumbs that people throw them, sleeping in barns with the animal dung and fleas. Folks say Sarah Goode is a witch and will curse the cows of anyone who turns her away. Folks also say that Sarah Goode was not always poor, that she actually came from a fine, wealthy family. However, only our All-Knowing Father in heaven would know that by looking at her. If not for the dirt holding them together, the stinking rags she wears would likely fall apart.

  My pity for them soon turned to shame for myself. But for the grace of God, that could be Mem and me. Then my shame turned to fear. What if some evil has befallen our uncle and he does not return? Mem and I will be truly alone to find our way in the world. I was awash with regret for arguing with her over doing the work. I do not know what possessed me to do it, or to get so angry with her when she was chosen to write her mark in the mud. The Devil must have gotten into me. We have a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. We should be grateful for God’s providence, and beseech Him to continue it.

  Upon return home I left my mud-soaked shoes by the door and asked Mem to join me in prayer. We sang our favorite Psalms by the firelight, and after we climbed in bed with our heated rocks I asked Mem to tell me stories about our mother. Mem cannot read or write, but she can talk a pretty picture. Her stories make our mother come alive in my imagination: her soft voice, her quick laugh, her kind teachings. It was she who taught Mem to cook. I fell asleep with the image of my mother nursing me, while little Mem turned the cakes on the pan.

  This morning, without a word, Mem got up and went to fetch water.

  Thursday ye 14th

  The Widow Holten came to get her wool thread today, and to speak with our uncle about bringing her a wagon of hardwood chopped small for cooking. We told her he was out about at work, we did not know whe
re. She asked when he would return. She is near out of wood and would like to see him soon.

  Mem elbowed me in the ribs. She thinks the Widow Holten is sweet on our uncle. I cannot imagine anyone being sweet on our uncle. He only washes his face for Sunday Meeting, and does not believe in changing his clothes unless they need mending. But Mem may be right. The Widow does get him to do this, that, and the other thing even though she has relatives nearby.

  We informed her that our uncle never tells us when he will be home. He might have sailed back to England to see the king and Increase Mather, for all we knew. At this, she laughed. The Reverend Increase Mather has been in England for many months trying to convince the king to restore the charter. We make jokes to lighten our worries. The charter allows freemen to own property and the Massachusetts Bay Colony to govern itself, and if the Reverend Mather does not succeed, all will be lost. I do not know what that really means, but it is what the men say at the public meetings.

  Then the Widow Holten asked how we wished to be paid for the wool thread. Mem’s face lit up with an idea. “Would you happen to have any sturdy shoes you don’t need? Liv has holes in her soles.”

  The Widow looked down at my feet and saw that they are large, while we looked at her feet and saw that they are tiny, and we all laughed. She offered some bayberry tallow, which we were glad of. The Cooper blizzard greatly depleted our store of candles. If only we could see by the light of Mem’s eyes when she speaks of him, we would not need to make more!

  Friday ye 15th

  The weather has turned cold again. I never thought I would be grateful for ice, but at this time of year it is better than mud. We are able to walk on the ground without losing our feet. Susannah’s mother sent her here to inquire after our uncle again, for she is still in need of help with some heavy work. Mem elbowed my ribs. She now thinks that Susannah’s mother is after our uncle, too! How silly! Mr. Sheldon is barely cold in his grave. I think Mem can only think of one thing now that she is after a husband herself. The two of them sat and talked the morning away, and I don’t have to say about which maker of barrels who lives in Haver’il. Thank God they left the venus glass alone.

  Saturday ye 16th

  Today I was busy knitting and Mem was busy doing nothing when someone came to the door. Mem jumped to get it, and threw the door open without checking the knothole. She denied it later, but I am sure she thought it was Mr. Cooper, for he said to watch for them on Saturdays, but I do not think he meant any Saturday soon. The animals made a fuss. A dust of snow swirled into the room, for the skies had been spitting little dry flakes all the morning, and as the cloud fell away, mine eyes recognized the dark shape that filled the doorway. My throat instantly lumped with dread.

  There stood the beggar witch Sarah Goode with her evil-smelling pipe, and before her stood little Dorcas with purple lips and chattering teeth.

  Mem commenced to cough and hack and wave her arms about. Sarah Goode removed her pipe and set it beside the door.

  “Please, missies,” said Sarah Goode. Her voice was very deep and scratchy, as though her throat were filled with sawdust. “I doth not ask anything for mine self, just a few moments to warm my toes by a fire and a stale scrap of something for mine little daughter to eat.”

  I swallowed the dread in my throat and made wide eyes at Mem, shaking my head. Uncle Razor Strap would never abide our sharing our miniscule stores with the beggar witch. He could, after all, be home at any moment.

  Mem told her the price for apples, and tried to shut the door, but Sarah Goode had her foot in it. “Dorcas is hungry. Ye can see her bones, can’t ye?” The beggar pulled back the hood of her daughter’s shawl. Dorcas was nothing but skin and bones, with hair like a bird’s nest, all stringy and matted around her head.

  Mem stepped back. Later she told me she was avoiding the fleas that she could see hopping about, but the woman took it as an invitation. She pressed Dorcas into the room, and the two of them fell in front of our miserable little fire as if at the feet of the Lord Almighty.

  Mem and I looked at each other, and at the backs of the Goodes, and at each other, not knowing what to do. My temples throbbed with nervous fear. We had a witch in our kitchen!

  Mem raised her eyebrows mischievously and cleared her throat to speak. “Goody Goode,” she said. The name sounded funny, and I stifled a laugh. If she were a gentlewoman she could be called Mistress or Mrs., like Mrs. Parris.

  Goody Goode turned her head to listen, but kept her hands over the fire. She looks the part of a hag, with her matted gray hair and creased, leathery face. Yet, she has little Dorcas, and her round middle shows she is carrying another infant, so she cannot be anywhere near as old as she looks.

  Mem said, “I hear tell that ye are …”

  I could not take air, for my fear, and I prayed: Oh, no, dear Lord, do not let Mem ask if Sarah Goode is a witch, and if she does, dear Lord, do not let the witch curse us. We have but one cow and cannot afford to lose our Clover.

  “You are … married,” said my sister.

  My breath came back. Mem grinned at me. She had frightened me on purpose! I did not think it humorous then, but now I smile over my writing of it.

  And then how Goody Goode did grumble! Her husband, William, was no good. William had gone bankrupt and lost their property and now had to hire out as a laborer and could not keep a home for his wife and children. William was to blame for all her ills. Her father was no good. Her father had married a shrew and then killed himself, and then the shrew remarried a selfish man who would not give the children their rightful inheritance. Her father was to blame for all her ills. The people of Salem Village were no good. They rebuffed her and accused her of spreading smallpox, and they turned her little child away hungry. The people of Salem Village were to blame for all her ills.

  It was time to put on the dinner and bake a pie for the nooning tomorrow. It would be cruel to cook in front of Goody Goode and Dorcas. Even though the Bible says thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, it seemed the only way to get rid of them was to throw them a morsel. Whilst Mem continued to hear about Sarah Goode’s sorry life, I went to the root cellar and found two apples that could not be sold for their bruises and worms. Goody Goode devoured every bit, core and all, but Dorcas spit out the unsavory parts onto the floor.

  Her mother quickly stooped to pick them up, and whispered something to her daughter, and little Dorcas mumbled something to us that I think was a blessing. On the way out the door the mother mumbled a Psalm under her breath, mixing up some of the words the way the slow-witted children do when learning their catechism. Pray the Lord protect our cow?

  January ye 17th

  Clover, and all the other animals, seem fine. Mem was wheezing in her sleep, but she often does. I wonder if a witch cursed her in the womb? Off to the Meeting House now.

  Later …

  So much happened today to tell about!

  The Reverend Parris preached with great zeal. The Revelation is nigh. All signs point to Doomsday: Indian raids and massacres, epidemics of sickness, and the loss of the charter that allowed us to rule ourselves under the laws of God, until the king took it back seven years ago. Why hath God turned from His chosen people? Why hath He deemed us unworthy of His rewards? Devout Puritans must search our own hearts — and our actions — for the cause of God’s disapproval, before it is too late. We must repent and repair, and tread with care, for the Devil is running amok in Massachusetts.

  The morning sermon seemed as infinite as doom itself, though it lasted only three hours, and my mind wandered off the fire and brimstone to plan how I would tell Abigail and Ann about Saturday’s visit from the witch. As soon as the final Psalm was sung, I quickly edged my way to follow them.

  They were walking with Betty Parris and the Indian slaves who live with the Parrises — Tituba and John Indian, I think they are named. There are not many slaves in Massachusetts. The Parrises used to live in Barbados, and brought their slaves from there.

  Clearly
this group was heading back to the parsonage for the nooning. I had not been invited, so knew I must capture their interest before they went inside. I called their names. Abigail and Ann halted. The others just glanced at me and moved on into the house.

  “God be with you,” I said cheerfully.

  They did not speak a response, but only sliced me with narrow stares that seemed to cut off my tongue. I could not speak the words I had planned. Frozen, I watched them proceed to the parsonage and go inside. That is when I saw the strangest sight, so strange that I wonder now if the shadows were playing tricks on my eyes.

  It looked as if Betty was crouching under a stool with her limbs all twisted! Had she been years younger, I would have thought it a childish game, but Betty is nine years old, and this was the Sabbath!

  Back to Ingersoll’s Ordinary I went. Many womenfolk were enjoying their victuals and discussing the sermon. Who could be responsible for reaping God’s punishment upon us? Had our previous Ministers led us astray? James Bayley? George Burroughs? Deodat Lawson?

  All three had left unhappily over the course of the years. In fact, mine uncle claims that the Reverend Samuel Parris must have something wrong with him, for no Minister worth his salt would come to Salem Village after knowing of the quarreling and smiting that drove away the first three. There are those who would have Parris gone by now. That is why they do not pay his salary and stock his woodpile.