I Walk in Dread (9780545388047) Read online

  “I heard that little man Burroughs was cruel to his two wives,” someone offered against him. “And is it true that none of his children was baptized?” “He took a sinful amount of pride in his appearance.” “He used to stand on his head and twist his body in all manner of poses.” A jumble of voices all made the case against the Reverend Burroughs. Burroughs! What long memories the gossips have. He left the Village eight years ago, back to Maine, where he originally came from. He was Susannah Sheldon’s Minister there.

  Finally, one of the Church Members rose up, shaking her head, and shook a finger at the rest. Goodwife Martha Corey is the wife of old Giles, who owns a large farm just below the southwestern edge of the Village. Goody Corey puts me in mind of the Widow Ruste because she speaks her mind, and it is a good mind. Goody Corey made the other women know that she would have no part in this sinful gossip. Then she hoisted her little son Thomas up on her hip, turned her back to the women, and said very loudly:

  “Who made you?” — God. “What else did God make?” — God made all things. “Why did God make all things?” — For His own glory.

  Before long, all the children in the room were piping in to recite their catechism, and so the gossips were silenced. And next comes the best part of the day, but my hand is ready to fall off from writing so much. Besides, Mem is coughing and tossing in bed. I am afraid she will get up and catch me. I shall finish today tomorrow!

  Monday, January ye 18th

  Friday ye 15th

  Abigail and Ann would have relished in the women’s skirmish. I was glad they had missed it, and I was not going to tell them what they had missed, either! Mem was off somewhere talking with guess who about guess what. In boredom, I took up a book from Ingersoll’s shelf, the Reverend Wigglesworth’s Day of Doom. Flipping straight to my favorite part, where Christ speaks to the unbaptized infants, I began to read.

  You sinners are, and such a share

  as sinners may expect,

  Such you shall have; for I do save

  none by my own elect.

  Yet to compare your sin with their

  who lived a longer time,

  I do confess yours is much less,

  though every sin’s a crime.

  Lost in the book, no longer was I aware of sitting on a hard bench in the cold corner of the inn — until I heard my name, and felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. Goody Corey had sat down next to me, and was listening. I have a habit of moving my lips and whispering when I read, without knowing I am doing it. She apologized for stopping me, but she wanted to speak with me. She told me that I have the voice of an angel!

  I am not used to compliments. Praise spoileth the child as surely as molasses rots the teeth. “By the grace of God, Goody Corey,” I said, and looked humbly at my hands. I had chewed the nails down to the quick during the sermon. That is another habit I do without realizing.

  Goody Corey looked around, seeing if anyone was overhearing us, then bent to tell me privately that her eyes are not what they used to be, and strain to read. Would I be willing to visit her now and then between Sundays and read to her from the Gospel and other texts?

  God bless Goody Corey! I cannot contain myself! The Lord hath granted me a regular escape from this prison where I live. It will not be every day, for the wool will not hop upon the spindle and turn itself to thread by magic, but when I have time free, I am to go to the Corey Farm and do my favorite thing on earth!

  Oh, I hope her husband will not be there. Giles Corey is rumored to be a brute and a Devilish rogue. Myself, I have not witnessed him lie or cheat or steal, but I have heard his foul mouth in public. He is forever in and out of court with disputes, and was once accused of murdering a farmhand. Apparently the dead man’s wife said it was something else that killed him, and the lazy fool deserved the beating, anyhow. Goodman Corey was found innocent. Still, he scares me.

  January ye 19th

  I just returned from the Corey Farm. It is longer than a mile. By the time I got there, the holes in my shoes had let the wet and the cold into my feet and made me limp into the house. Goody Corey noticed, and immediately went searching for some shoes to fit me. If she had any spares herself, she would give me some. Her own feet are nearly the same size as mine.

  Her husband has spares, but his shoes are too big. So are the ones her son outgrew. Besides her own two grown sons, Goody Corey has four stepdaughters and four stepsons-in-law who live on the large properties that belong to Giles. She is a grandmother of children older than her own little Thomas. What a blessing to have a child when most women have become barren. God has surely turned her gray years into golden years!

  Upstairs in the eaves, Goody Corey dug through a trunk of old things that belonged to her husband’s first wife. She pulled out a pair of stiff old shoes, and they looked decent! But they would not let my feet into them. Finally Goody Corey gave up the search and showed me how to line the bottoms of my shoes with old newspapers soaked in bear grease. It did help keep the wet out.

  I will learn much from Goody Corey. She knows the entire Bible by heart! She even knows who beget whom. As I was reading to her, she went about her business in the kitchen, cooking and sewing and tending to Thomas, yet her voice was always there to pick me up whenever I stumbled over a word.

  Why did she want me there, when she already knew the Good Book inside her head better than I could read aloud? I asked her, and she said that hearing the Gospel read in the tones of an angel was a pleasure most dear to her. Besides that, she would like to hear The Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, which book she would be next in line to borrow from someone in the Village.

  I fairly jumped with joy at hearing that! People often talk about Mrs. Rowlandson’s perils and patient sufferings after she was taken in an Indian raid, and her return home to Lancaster after the ransom was paid. It will be a pleasure to read the book she wrote.

  Before I left, Goody Corey pulled a bundle of corn from her apron to pay me. I tried to refuse, but she refused to let me! God willing, I will earn enough corn to obtain new soles from the cobbler. However, if Giles Corey ever encounters me at the farm, I am simply to say that I am visiting.

  “Keep the corn between ye, me, and thee,” she said, and pointed to the fence post.

  ’Tis a good thing ye can keep secrets, my dear book!

  January ye 20th

  Today I began reading the narrative of Mrs. Rowlandson. It is as exciting a plot as ever happened to Job or Isaiah, and gives me gooseflesh. It was on February ye 10th, 1675, at the sun rising, when the house of the Reverend Rowlandson and other homes in Lancaster were laid siege. Lancaster is many miles due west from here, but not so far as Connecticut. Many friends and relatives were killed or wounded, but Mrs. Rowlandson and her three children were taken captive. The Indians told her they would not hurt her if she went along with them.

  I nodded upon reading of this, for it was something our father used to tell us as part of his frequent lecture about how to behave on the frontier. “If you come upon a wild animal that might eat you, do not run from it, for that will cause it to chase you. Instead, remain calm and sing it away. However, if an animal stalks you with evil intent, and it be an animal that cannot climb, such as a wolf, climb a tree and wait for help. If a bear come clawing at you, it might leave you alone if you roll in a ball on the ground as if dead. And if Indians attack you and do not knock you on the head right away, but take you captive, do whatever they say as quickly as possible, and they will keep you as their own or ransom you back to your family.”

  Mrs. Rowlandson wrote that she used to think she would rather be killed than taken alive, but when that moment came she chose to go with them rather than end her days. And so she and her children went into captivity. In her book she speaks of several Removes all up and down the wilderness. I can hardly contain myself with suspense to read the next section, but I do not know when I will be able to leave Mem.

  She has fallen sick, and this time it is
no play-acting to escape work. Her cough has grown painful to hear, and makes a mess in her handkerchief, and she is burning up with fever. I know she must be very ill, for she did not mention Mr. Cooper all day, and what’s more she did not eat a thing, though I butchered an old hen that molts more than it lays, so I could make Mem a good healing soup.

  I cannot help but worry that Mem has been cursed by Sarah Goode. Pray Lord keep and protect my sister. If anything were to happen to her, I would like to die myself.

  Methinks I shall go check on Clover.

  January ye 21st

  Last night was Saint Agnes’ Eve, which is a traditional time for fortune-telling. I hope Susannah did not waste any eggs.

  Oh! Liv, what a fool you have been! Why did I not think of this before? Mem’s sickness is no witch’s hex! We did feed Sarah Goode and Dorcas, after all, and gave them a warm fire, so what reason would the witch have to afflict Mem? Mem’s coughs and chills and fevers must be God’s punishment for divining with the venus glass!

  I would like to know if Susannah is afflicted, as well. I would walk to the Village to find out, but I cannot leave Mem alone. What has come over me? I do not dare leave her out of my sight. It is as if a hand of iron holds my chest, stopping me from going out the door. I had to force myself out to the barn to tend the animals this morning, and the slop pail needs to be emptied. Even the mighty temptation to read Mrs. Rowlandson’s book cannot remove the iron hand from my chest.

  I am going to make the bayberry candles now. The work will keep me occupied, and I will feel more at ease knowing we have a good supply. If Mem needs help in the night, there may be need of light in the darkness.

  January ye 22nd

  Friday already, and Mem still sick abed, sweating with fever though the cold creeps through the walls. If only there were enough logs to heat the house through, perhaps she would recover from what ails her! But such is the way of winter.

  Even in the Corey kitchen, the fire’s heat cannot reach far from the hearth. The invisible cold seeps into bones as stubbornly as it creeps through the walls, even though pains have been taken to fill every crack. No mouse, no bat, no speck of light can creep through the chinked walls at the Corey Farm, yet the bitter air succeeds.

  If cold air can creep through strong wood, it is no wonder that evil spirits make way into the weak hearts of men. The world is full of perils, seen and unseen.

  Today the Sheldons came to call, Susannah and her mother, too. Susannah looked in fine health. Why, God, does Mem receive punishment while Susannah does not? Forgive me, God; I should not have written that. Like Mrs. Rowlandson, I must trust in Thy wisdom and design.

  The minute they got inside, Susannah set to whispering with Mem, while the mother looked about the place suspiciously, poking her nose around the doorway to the bedroom and craning her neck to see up into the loft. The chickens had not settled down quite yet, and were making noise. It sounded as if someone might be moving around upstairs. Susannah’s mother then said, very loudly, even though I was two feet away from her mouth, “Girls, if your uncle does not wish to do work for me, I wish he would have the common decency to tell me so himself, instead of sending messages back and forth between children.”

  Later, Mem and I laughed over it. At least the Widow Sheldon does not know that our uncle is gone from this place. Instead, she suspects that he has been avoiding her.

  The Widow Holten, on the other hand, is starting to wonder. She came by today, as well, to bring us more wool to spin, which someone gave her in trade. She said, “Girls, I have not seen your uncle about the Village in some time, not even at Ingersoll’s.” It is true that our uncle enjoys the company and the rum at Ingersoll’s Ordinary.

  “Really?” I said, trying to sound surprised.

  “Why has he changed his habits so?” the Widow Holten asked. “It is not good to be reclusive. Is there something the matter? Can I be of help?”

  At that moment Mem came coughing from the bedroom, her skin pale except for her flushed cheeks.

  “My dear!” said the Widow. “You are some ill. Have you taken any asafetida in wine?” And so the Widow was distracted from sticking her nose in our uncle’s whereabouts.

  This cat-and-mouse game of telling the truth without being honest is not fun anymore. God, I beg You, please send our uncle home before one of our Widows comes back?

  January ye 23rd

  The news has got around that Mem has got something ailing her. Several people of the neighborhood turned out to see her today. In fact, our little house was so crammed with visitors come to pray for Mem’s health that it felt almost like a Sunday Meeting instead of a Saturday afternoon. With each new knock at the door, Mem looked hopefully to see the face behind it, but Mr. Cooper did not come. I think that is a blessing. Her coughing and hacking are not very attractive.

  The Widow Holten brought her medicinal vapors to drink in a tea. The Sheldons brought some honey cakes. Someone else brought a pomander of sweet-smelling herbs. Mem sat still on her carding stool, her hands crossed demurely on her lap except when she was lifting her handkerchief to her mouth, and listened patiently to the advice and prayers for her health. From the way her hem was twitching, though, I think she must have been fluttering her toes like hummingbird wings, wanting to fly back to bed.

  After a time the room fell silent, and the visitors all gazed at her expectantly, as if waiting for something to happen. They stirred with interest when she excused herself to go outside. Those nearest the door followed her partway to the privy, in fact. Those remaining inside cocked their ears to better hear her empty her lungs.

  When she returned to her stool, the visitors watched with intent interest as she folded her handkerchief to a clean spot. The faces of the crowd sagged with disappointment. This struck me as very strange, until finally a small child piped up, “When is she going to scream blasphemies?”

  This broke Mem’s demure posture. “What did he say?” she asked, mighty irritated. Maybe Mr. Cooper should have come. Mem looks pretty when her cheeks turn red.

  As the mother hushed the child, my mind reeled. “I do not understand,” I said. Mem may jest about silly things. She may even do foolish things such as use a venus glass in secret. However, she would not speak with disrespect for the Lord! Where did the neighbors come up with that idea!

  There was a murmuring in the gathering, and someone said, “Is Remembrance not afflicted like little Betty and Abigail? That is what I heard.”

  Afflicted? What ill had befallen the girls? I was sore confused.

  “You had better explain yourselves,” Mem said.

  Then it came out that the Reverend’s daughter and niece have been contorting their bodies into unnatural positions and uttering terrible sounds that mostly make no sense, though sometimes blasphemies are heard. The deacons and midwives of the neighborhood have rushed to their aid. Word has gotten out that Mem is afflicted with violent illness, and so our friends and neighbors also came running to her aid. (Methinks they ran to the parsonage first but could not find room to stand.)

  “There is no sport here,” whined the child. “Can we go home now?” The child’s mother yanked him close to her by the arm and covered his mouth, but it did not take long for the kitchen to clear.

  After the dust settled I sat quietly trying to sort my scrambled thoughts. The image of Betty under the chair last Sunday floated up. How long had she been behaving so strangely? And when had Abigail begun? What could have caused such horror in the house of a Minister? This did not sound like any common sickness I had ever seen or heard tell about. Had the Devil gotten into the girls?

  At that thought, a sense of doom pressed down on me. It felt as heavy as the stench of the sickroom where my father and brothers lay dying, one after the other. Something terrible is going to happen in Salem Village. I can feel it in my bones, as surely as the caterpillar can feel a long winter coming.

  January ye 24th

  Mem is too sick to attend the Sabbath today. Even if she co
uld walk and breathe at the same time and get herself to the Meeting House, the congregation would not appreciate her noise. The clattering of feet trying to stay warm in the unheated building is enough for the ears to contend with. I told her I will stay home with her, but she insisted that I go and bring back news of the affliction. So I will push my way past the iron hand that stops me at the door and go to the Meeting House. At least the weather is dry; I will enjoy the fresh air.

  January ye 25th

  The affliction was all anyone could speak about when the Reverend Parris wasn’t preaching. Methinks more of the faithful were watching Betty and Abigail out of the corners of their eyes than were paying attention to the sermon. The two girls did nothing out of the ordinary, however, except yawn frequently behind their hands. All of that twisting and screaming must be exhausting.

  That vile Hobbs girl tried to get with me and tell me again about her fun in the Maine woods with the Devil. I told her mine ears did not want to hear her nonsense and went to sit with Goody Corey at the nooning. She informed me that Mrs. Mary Rowlandson misses me! I told her that I also miss Mrs. Rowlandson. I am eager to continue reading as soon as Mem recovers from her fever.

  It is Monday. It is snowing deep again. Mem hopes the white sky is a sign that the Coopers will stop today.

  January ye 26th