"Did the animal act peculiar?"
"They all act peculiar, muskrats. There was one I caught last spring ..."
Mr. Morton suggested that he reply to the question.
"She talked to it."
"What did she say?"
"I don't remember exact, but things you say to people."
"She talked to it as if it were a person?"
"Yes, and the muskrat answered back. Not words, mind you, but squeaks. It made my scalp tingle to hear them talkin'."
"What else, Mr. Goshen, did thee observe while living in the cave on Long Pond that would lead thee to believe that Sarah Bishop is a witch?"
"The bat, mostly. A white bat."
"A white bat?"
"Yes, white as driven snow."
"White is an odd color for a bat, is it not?"
"Never saw one afore in my whole life. And I'm forty-two and have run onto lots in my time. Black and brown sometimes, but nary a white one. Hope I never see one again."
"Did Sarah Bishop talk to the bat as she talked to the muskrat?"
"Sure."
"What else concerns the white bat?"
"She let it out as soon as the sun set and took it back in at crack of day."
"Where does thee think the bat went when she let it out?"
"No tellin'. They roam far. I saw it once. It was dusktime about two miles from here."
"Do they roam as far as Ridgeford?"
"Further, maybe."
Mr. Morton asked more questions of Sam Goshen, but when he began to ramble, he told him to sit down, and called upon the Indian. The Indian, whose name was Jim Mountain, testified that he had seen the bat and wanted to kill it, but that I had prevented him. He made up a long story about how he had actually seen it while he was camped near Ridgeford.
"Fire burning," he said. "Hot fire. Tall." He held his hands high, over his head. "Bat fly in fire. Through fire like nothing."
The wind had died down a little, but I could hear the stir of dry cornstalks. To the east the purple clouds had moved closer.
Two other people were called by Mr. Morton, a woman and an old man. Both of them had seen the white bat flying at dusk. "Looked scary," the woman said. "It was white with a pink mouth." The old man had seen it three times, in the same evening that three people died.
Mr. Morton asked then if there was anyone who wished to testify in my behalf.
"I will," Isaac said and went over and stood in front of him. They looked at each other as if they had never met before in this life.
Mr. Cavendish was not listening. He was reading from a ledger he held in his lap. But the other men seated against the wall had their eyes fixed upon me. The faces of two of them were not unkindly, but quizzical as though they had not made up their minds. The faces of the other two were grim, dead set against me.
I looked away, out at the fields and the blue sky. I tried to pretend to myself that I was back on Long Pond, alone in the dugout, that geese were flying and swallows were making their nests and deer were grazing in the meadows. I couldn't. All I could see was Mr. Morton standing in front of me on his short, fat legs, mean-faced and unbending. I felt like fleeing, but I could not find the strength.
40
THE CURTAINS WERE flapping again as Isaac started to speak and there was thunder far off in the east. One of the men sitting against the wall said he couldn't hear very well. Isaac raised his voice.
"This meeting is outside the law," he said. "As each of you—Seth Adams, Harold Stokes, Lem Baumgarden, David Smalley, our host, Mr. Charles Cavendish, and my father, Thomas L. Morton—as you all well know, you have no authority to set a fine, impose a sentence, or carry one out should it be imposed."
Mr. Morton was standing no more than two short paces from his son, but he was not listening. He was squinting at me with a look of pure hatred.
"What you six men can do," Isaac said, "is to drive an innocent girl from her home. Not by means that are humane or legal but only by means that are evil. If you do so, you are a set of fools and God will punish you."
He opened the Bible and read, "'Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.'"
Two of the men got up while he was talking and went to a window. They glanced out at the darkening sky and came back to report that a storm was building. The other three went and looked out. Then the first two got up again and joined the others at the window. Now no one was listening to Isaac.
It made me angry. I was tempted to use the musket.
Isaac's father hadn't moved. He stood with his feet thrust apart and his head thrown back, looking at me. I acted as if I didn't see him.
The clouds must have moved fast, because suddenly the room grew dim. There was a flash of lightning, and thunder rumbled over the roof. All of the men ran outside. I could hear their excited voices in the street, but Mr. Morton still stood there, as if he were in a trance.
The room was quiet. The wind had ceased and the curtains had stopped flapping. Isaac opened the Bible. He waited until Mr. Morton turned his gaze from me, and their eyes met. Then he continued to read from Matthew.
There was the sound of raindrops on the roof, a dry sound, like pebbles falling. Isaac's father grew pale. Suddenly he raised his hands and let out a moan of thanksgiving.
Then he said, grasping Isaac by the shirt front, "You see, you see, we have brought the witch to justice. Now sweet rain falls upon us."
Another flash of lightning lit the room, thunder rolled, and the wind came up and blew the curtains straight out. Mr. Morton ran down the stairs. I heard him shouting. Thunder rolled again and trailed away. The post rider galloped down the street, tethered his horse at the hitching rack, and ducked inside the tavern.
It rained for only a few minutes. Then the rain stopped and the sun came out bright and hot. There still was the sound of cornstalks rustling in the wind.
The men trooped silently up the stairs. Their clothes were damp from the shower. Mr. Morton took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. The post rider came in carrying the mail. He was spotted with rain and grime. Mr. Cavendish instructed a servant to bring him a drink. When it came, the rider swallowed it in one gulp and opened his pouch, which had two letters for Mr. Cavendish.
"The cost is one dollar," the post rider said.
"Fifty apiece?" Mr. Cavendish searched in his pockets and brought out a Continental bill. "One dollar. That's dear, young man."
The rider waved the bill away. "Hard cash, sir."
Mr. Cavendish went off to get the money and when he returned Isaac spoke to his father.
"A short while ago thee bragged that a witch had been brought to justice and thus 'sweet rain falls upon us.' I use thy exact words, sir. What does thee say now that the storm clouds passed over and have only spit upon the village of Ridgeford?"
Mr. Morton pounded a small fist on the billiard table. "More than ever, she's a witch."
Isaac started to answer. He paused and turned to the post rider.
"Has thee come directly down from Boston, as is thy wont?" he asked.
"Departed Boston town nine days ago," the rider replied.
"Tell me, what was the weather when thee left Boston?"
"Dry."
"Very dry?"
"Dry as a year-old codfish. Not a drop of rain in weeks. People complain of it bitterly and pray on their knees."
"Did thee find sickness along the way?"
"Sickness everywhere. Real bad in Hartford."
The rider finished his drink and closed the mail pouch. He left with a wave of a hand, ran down the stairs, and slammed the front door behind him. The clop, clop of hoofs sounded in a room that had grown quiet. Isaac glanced at the men huddled around the table.
"It is possible that bats can fly from Lake Waccabuc as far as Ridgeford village," he said. "But they cannot fly hundreds of miles to the city of Boston." He looked at each man in turn. "
Is there anyone here who seriously believes otherwise?"
His father mumbled something but fell silent. The others were silent, too. Mr. Cavendish opened his letter and began to read.
"Furthermore," Isaac said, "if the weather in Boston is dry as a year-old cod, if sickness lingers in all towns and cities and villages, then they cannot be caused by the girl who stands before you in this room."
"Witches fly," his father answered. "Around the world, if they are so minded."
Mr. Cavendish looked up from his letter. "That I doubt," he said and went on reading.
One of the men said that he likewise had doubts. Another started to say something but coughed instead. They both looked shamefaced. Sam Goshen rose and went to a window and looked out. The Indian finished what the post rider had left in the glass.
Isaac said, "Sarah, let the men ponder on God's admonitions. It is time they did."
He took my arm and led the way down the stairs and into the ladies' parlor. He ordered two vanilla squibs and some tarts. They came on a pewter tray as Goshen and the Indian and four men of the committee trooped silently down the stairs. Mr. Morton lagged behind. When he passed the parlor he glanced in and hesitated. For a moment I thought he was about to confront me again. But he quickly turned away and stamped out into the rain-pocked street.
"My father," Isaac said, "has not changed his mind an inch. He still thinks thee is a witch and will think so until his dying day. Likewise, the apothecary, Harold Stokes. However, they are only two men against four. Father will therefore hold his tongue and not condemn thee to the village."
"I will not leave Long Pond," I said, "even if they all condemn me."
41
THROUGH THE OPEN window came a gust of wind. People were still wandering around in the street, looking up at an empty sky.
We drank the squibs and ate the tarts, which Isaac thought were very tasteful. At least, he said they were. It was so hot that the sugar had melted on them. I didn't tell him that I myself had made the tarts the night before.
There was a sudden, distant roll of thunder. But nearer, from somewhere down the street, came the sound of hoofs. A solitary horseman rode up and stopped in front of the tavern. He was a Hessian, with long hair and a wide mustache dyed black.
He tethered his horse and hurried up the stairs and into the tavern. He glanced through the door, first at Isaac, then at me. I returned his gaze.
He went to the board at the end of the hallway. I watched him as he put up a notice. In a few minutes he was back on his horse, galloping down the street. Isaac waited for me to go out and read the notice that the Hessian had left. I didn't move.
My musket stood in the corner. Isaac glanced at it now. He smiled. "The first time I've seen thee without it. Thee must have felt brave when thee set it there. I was glad thee did not take it up when the soldier came. I wonder about the musket. When did thee get so wedded to it?"
"A long time ago. Last year. I bought it from a ferryman on the Sound. He taught me how to use it. That was after my father was killed and my brother died. When I tore a page from the Bible."
Isaac was eating a tart. He stopped eating.
"The Sermon on the Mount," I explained. "The part that says, 'Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'"
Isaac was shocked. "Thee tore it from the Bible? Thee destroyed a page from the Holy Bible?"
"Yes, I threw it in the fire."
Isaac stared at me in disbelief. "Thee reads a Bible that has its heart torn out?"
"I don't read the Bible much."
"When thee does?"
"The Old Testament is the part I read."
"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?"
I nodded and handed him the last tart on the tray. He put it on the table and brought forth his Bible and slowly opened it to Matthew. Then with great care he tore out a single page. He held it up.
"Will thee place this in thy Bible?" he said.
"Yes."
"Will thee read it?"
"I may."
The hot breeze rustled the page.
"Pledge me that thee will," he said.
I took the page and put it in my bodice.
A clock struck the hour. Isaac jumped to his feet. "I am late to tend the store. I will be there this evening, too. Does thee require anything...?"
I required many things, but had no money to pay for them. "Nothing," I said.
"There is another Meeting two Sundays hence," Isaac said. "Can thee come?"
"I think so."
"Do! And bring the Bible with the page from Matthew that I have given thee. We cannot live without God's love. And our own love, which we must share with Him and with each other."
We said good-bye and he ran down the stairs and up the street. I watched him go. Mr. Cavendish was reading the notice the Hessian had posted. I was tempted to read it, too, but I left and went on my way.
The last of the sun shone through the trees on the village street. I had the musket on my shoulder. I held it lightly, for my hand was not yet healed.
My way led through a stream bed that was dry except for a mossy pool. Drinking at the pool was a snake. At the sound of my footsteps it stopped drinking. By the brown and yellow bands I recognized it as a copperhead.
The serpent lay only two short strides away. It did not try to move but raised its head, flicked its black tongue at me, and stared with yellow eyes. I stopped and put the musket to my shoulder and took careful aim.
I was about to press the trigger when the serpent began to drink again. I watched it sip the mossy water. Then, putting the musket under my arm, I made a wide circle around the pool and went on.
Dusk came as I reached the western ridge. I looked back. Above the trees, down in the valley, I watched the lamps in Ridgeford village go on. It was a pretty sight, to see them light up one by one. I had forgotten how pretty friendly lights could be.
Scott O'Dell, Sarah Bishop
(Series: # )
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