As I write, Elias paces the room, cracking his long fingers to ease the red knotted joints. As he walks, he talks, and as he talks his pale eyes gleam with a cold fanatical fire, every bit as wintry as the sun striking the ice outside.
‘Winter grips harder. Ships freeze in Boston harbour. The wolves grow ever bolder. Children sicken. Cattle die.’
‘But that happens every year.’
‘This year is worse, next will be worse still, and so on, until it snows year round. This year is 1660. We enter the Last Days, Mary. We have scant years left until 1666, the Year of the Beast. Can’t you understand? Satan’s reign is all about us. We must be ever vigilant, lest we be corrupted along with the rest. Only the pure, the untainted, will be fit to welcome back the coming Christ.’
Sometimes he comes close, leaning to see what I write. I smell his fishy breath, feel it on my cheek and neck, and struggle not to choke and gag.
He truly believes in Christ’s Coming, and that his Kingdom will have Beulah at its centre. His only worry is that this will happen before he can get his pamphlet to the printers. I think him more than a little mad.
Entry 73
Hunger stalks the town and the wolves do grow bolder, he is right about that. There was fresh snow last night and this morning Tobias showed me a set of tracks going straight down the main street. Broad forefoot, narrow hind.
‘Perhaps it is a dog.’
‘That’s no dog.’
His friend, Ned, spat. It is so cold his spittle froze before it hit the snow. The tracks went as far as the Meeting House. They stopped beneath the line of heads, as though it scented its own kind nailed up there, then went on. By the door the snow was melted, frozen yellow where she had squatted.
‘Shows what her thinks of yon.’ Ned grinned, his already discoloured teeth streaked and rimmed red with blood from his bleeding gums.
Entry 74
Goody Johnson’s eldest girls have fallen sick now, so I often spend the day with her, helping her with the smaller children, just as Rebekah helps Sarah. I do not feel like a servant. Goody Johnson is nearing her time and is great with child, so she needs all the help that I can offer. Besides, she has been kind to us. If it were not for her, we would be like to starve or use our seed corn for eating. If we share what she gives between us, we might just get by. When the work is done, and the children quiet in their corner, we sit in the kitchen and she gives me warm spiced ale with some cake to dip in it. She asks me of my past. I have told her what I can, but she knows I am keeping something back.
A silence broods between us, rendering some moments stilted and awkward, until one day she asked me.
‘You have not told me all, have you, Mary?’
I cannot lie to her. She is so good, so gentle, to lie would be sinful.
‘Don’t ask me.’
I cannot speak of it, not in this house.
I hear his words again: ‘I am His representative.’
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ I have heard him thunder it from the pulpit.
‘I think I guess at it. I was not always as I am now.’ Her faded eyes looked deep into mine and seemed to take on darker blue and violet. ‘When I was your age I ran wild. I, too, lived with my grandmother. I never knew my father; he was a soldier. My mother left to follow him and no-one ever saw her again. I reached womanhood in a country plunging into war. Many parts became beyond the law, and into this breach stepped men bent on malice, intent on fishing in waters already troubled and muddy. I think you know the kind of whom I speak. They came to our town, to root out witchcraft, so they said, but their real interest was in their fee, twenty shillings to free the town from witches. My grandmother was dead by then, thank the Lord she was spared, but their attention turned to me instead.’
As she spoke, my own memories flooded me, causing my blood to heat and freeze me, running alternately hot with hatred, cold with fear.
‘They hunted me down like an animal, bound me and threw me into the millpond to see if I would float. I sank. I was bound hand and foot, I could not reach the surface and even if I did, I would be hanged for a witch. I was drowning. I was on the bottom looking up at them. I can still see their faces through the rippling water, circled above me, waiting for it to happen.
‘Then suddenly the surface of the water broke with a great splash. Someone was swimming down to me. Strong arms went round me, pulling me to the surface. He was a young preacher, on his way to his first parish. He had followed the hue and cry and when he saw what they did, he dived in to bring me back for God. He denounced the Witchfinder and his men as charlatans, interested in money, not saving souls. He cast the demons from me, right there and then. Along with a deal of water from my insides.’ She smiled at the memory and then her lips gave a bitter little twist, as if life had failed to give her the joy and hope that moment had promised. ‘He baptised me that day, there in the millpond, and a good few others besides. And when he left, I went with him.’
‘He saved you?’
‘That’s right. I owe him my life. I vowed to make him a good wife and lead a pious life. And I have. I have bowed my head in prayer and obedience, I have borne his children.’ She clutched my hands. ‘I changed. You can do the same!’
‘What if I can’t?’ The words came out in a whisper.
She looked away from me and her hands withdrew.
‘Then the Lord have mercy upon you.’
‘I will try, Goody Johnson. I truly will.’
I said what she wanted to hear, because she had been kind and I wanted to please her. I could not say what I really felt: if I had to choose between the life she’d had and death by drowning, I would choose the latter.
Entry 75
I have seen the wolf. I was on the edge of the wood, looking for nuts that the squirrels might have missed. Some have lost their virtue and do not have much taste, but they can be ground with acorns to be made into flour, and the butternuts are as good as ever they were. I was clearing snow and scratching about, when I felt my skin begin to prick. I looked up, expecting to see Jaybird and wondering what he was doing here, when there she was, not ten yards off. Very like a dog, but bigger, with greyish, dun-coloured fur, pale tipped at the neck, where it thickened in a shaggy ruff, and a black stripe running down the back. She stood on broad forelegs, big about the shoulders and chest. Her flanks were thinner, moving in and out with her breathing, her body tapering back to slender hind legs and narrow hindquarters. She was panting, her breath puffing white into the cold air, her red tongue lolling through her long white teeth. Her eyes were golden. She watched me and I watched her.
I was not afraid. I just willed her to go away. Hunger caved her belly and I know they bait traps for her at the edge of the forest.
We both stood quite still, caught in a gap of time, then she wheeled away, as though she heard my message, bounding off, her dark shape lost in the crowded blackness of trees.
Entry 76 (February, 1660)
Goody Johnson is dead. She died last week. The second week in February. She died in childbirth.
‘She should never be having another. This ’un could kill her.’
Martha had said all along, and said so again, as she hurried to the birthing room, then looked over her shoulder, lest she had been overheard. Her words could be taken as ill wishing and a midwife must be careful.
Martha and I went together for the birthing. Goody Johnson laboured long, to the brink of exhaustion and beyond. It took through one day and into the next. Goody Johnson was narrow, despite having had so many, and had no strength to push any more. The baby was big, and when he came, the cord was twisted about his neck. I had to fairly pull him from her. I cut the cord and gave him to Martha, who took one look and covered him with a cloth.
She stared at the mother, who lay as though dead, and turned away, her own face grey and drawn.
‘I fear that they will be buried together.’
Martha tried everything she knew, but she could not save her. She
had given the last of her strength and was just drifting away from us. She woke once and asked to see the babe. Martha replied with a little shake of her head. She turned her face to the wall, eyes closed, lids deep violet against her sallow skin.
She never opened them again.
Martha called for Reverend Johnson. He was reluctant to enter the chamber, smelling as it did of blood and birthing. He held to the Bible teaching that a woman is unclean after giving birth.
‘If you want to see her in this life, you better come now,’ Martha said to him. ‘And bring your children that they may say farewell to their mother and their brother.’
Goody Johnson lay still, as though she had already begun her last and most perilous journey, but the sound of her children’s voices and their tears seemed to bring her back. Her eyelids flickered and her thin hand stirred on the counterpane. The Reverend Johnson’s voice rose in sonorous praise to the Lord. Martha and I withdrew leaving the family to spend their last time together.
Outside it was snowing again. We began our trudge back.
‘Another good woman gone,’ Martha sighed as we trod through the snow. She looked tired, defeated. Every year of her age showed in her face. ‘Ours is a hard calling. Birth and death go together too often for my liking. Let us hope we don’t get the blame for it.’
She said no more, but I knew her meaning. To be a midwife, to be a healer, brings danger. If everything goes well, then all are grateful, but when things go wrong, as they do often enough, well, that is a different matter. Those that heal can harm, that’s what they whisper, those that cure can kill.
We walked past the Meeting House. Another wolf has been caught, its freshly severed head dripping blood on to the drifting snow. The bared teeth snarled defiance and the eyes, glazed in death, still glowed yellow. I hope it’s not the one that I saw at the edge of the forest, but there is no way to tell.
Entry 77 (March, 1660)
The ground is hard as iron. Despite what the calendar says, winter seems reluctant to loosen its grip. Goody Johnson has lain a fortnight and still her grave is not dug.
She and the child lie wrapped in the same winding sheet, lodged in an outhouse, where the cold will keep them from corruption, until the earth is thawed enough to take a spade.
Entry 78 (early March, 1660)
Goody Johnson was buried today. Elias Cornwell conducted the service. Reverend Johnson stood, head bowed, surrounded by tearful older children and sobbing little ones.
‘Man that is born of woman ... ’
The words rang out over the snow-patched hill as Goody Johnson was lowered into the pit. It was bitterly cold. The Reverend Johnson wiped at his nose and dabbed at his eyes, although whether he cried from the wind or in sorrow, who can tell?
Entry 79 (late March, 1660)
This Sunday, Reverend Johnson took St Paul as the text of his Sunday sermon.
‘It is better to marry than to burn.’
Few in front of him mistake his meaning. Reverend Johnson is casting about for a new wife before the grass on the grave of the old one has grown to a finger width. He wants someone to care for his brood of children and warm his bed, he makes no secret of it. There is no lack of candidates. Girls and their mothers scrape what they have left in their larders into bread, cakes and pies for him. He is invited to different houses every night for supper.
Deborah Vane, for one, has set her cap at him. She no longer fidgets and yawns her way through Sunday Service. She no longer needs to be prodded awake. She now sits upright, back straight, eager-eyed, hanging on every word that issues from the pulpit, hardly taking her eyes off Reverend Johnson except to make notes in a little book she keeps on her lap. Except if it is Elias Cornwell’s turn to preach. Then she falls to giggling with her sister, whispering comments about him behind her hand, as she did before.
Across the aisle from her, Ned Cardwell sits, neck and ears red, studying his boots. He is a hired man, but he has ambitions and has made no secret of his admiration for Deborah. Along the row from him, Josiah Crompton is also down in the mouth. He had hopes, too, or so Tobias tells me. Deborah ignores both of them. She only has eyes for the Reverend Johnson.
Entry 80 (March-April? 1660)
The Reverend Johnson does not have eyes for her. In the ordinary way of things I would be pleased, I like Deborah about as much as she likes me, but I find no pleasure in Deborah’s humiliation. I wish that Reverend Johnson would marry her, as quickly as may be. That would be far, far better than what has happened now.
The preacher has turned his eyes to Rebekah. Even though he knows that she is promised to Tobias, he has been to her father, asking for her hand.
I found Rebekah crying, which is hardly surprising. I’d cry too, and bitterly, if I was in her shoes.
‘What does your mother think?’
‘She’s with me.’
‘Has your father given his answer?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then go to him. Plead with him. He’ll not go against your happiness.’
I pulled at her arm, trying to get her to her feet, but she slumped back, head on her arms, racked by fresh sobs.
‘Come, Rebekah. It is not as bad as that –’
‘It is worse.’
‘Worse?’
I did not understand. What could be worse than having to marry Reverend Johnson?
She looked up impatiently, her normally pale face red and puffed from so much crying.
‘Do you not understand? Do I have to spell it out? I am with child!’
I sank down next to her.
‘With child?’
‘Yes,’ she hissed at me. ‘Speak softly and don’t repeat everything I say.’
‘How?’
‘How do you think?’
‘Tobias?’
‘Of course him.’ She twisted her soaked kerchief. ‘We thought to marry in the spring. Now this ... ’ Her lips were trembling again.
‘What about Martha? She will know ways ... ’
She grabbed me, digging her fingers into my arm.
‘You are to say nothing to her! It would be a deadly sin, and besides it is Tobias’ child!’
‘Does he know?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You must tell him. Now. He must go to your father and ask his permission to marry you straight away.’
‘What if my father will not give it?’
‘Then you must tell him the reason.’
Her hazel eyes grew wide. ‘I cannot!’
‘You must! With things at such a pass, there’s no help for it! He will give his permission, the shame would be too great else. He would not want you to be known as unchaste ... ’
‘Neither would I!’ Her face reddened further. ‘I am not! And I do not want my father to think that of me.’
‘Go to your mother, then. Tell her. But do it quickly before your father has time to make up his mind in favour of Reverend Johnson.’
Entry 81 (April, 1660)
The ground has softened enough to take a plough. John Rivers is out all day, hacking at the land as if it were an enemy, driving his bullock team as if he would plough the whole village under. He begins at dawn, returning at dusk and speaking to nobody, his black brows louring, his jaw set as if carved from granite.
Martha was not slow to guess the state of affairs when Sarah asked her if Rebekah had been to her for advice. Martha offered the help she could give, but this is refused again.
The two women sit muttering together by the fire and I am not invited to join their council. I go to Rebekah who keeps to her room, where she cries and sighs, waiting for her father’s decision.
Tobias keeps out of the way. When he does appear, Jonah and Martha shake their heads at him, and he walks as if on eggshells. He spends most of his time hiding in the bier with the animals, or out in the forest.
We all wait to see what John Rivers will do. His answer is not long in coming. He loves his daughter, and liked Tobias well enough until this came to pass.
He is not a man to go against his wife, and after much pleading from her, he gives his consent.
By Sunday, the banns for Rebekah and Tobias will flutter on the door of the Meeting House and by the end of the month they will be married.
Entry 82
Reverend Johnson caught me after Sunday Service as I was reading the banns on the Meeting House door.
‘I want to speak with you,’ he said.
‘Me, sir? What about?’
He did not reply, perhaps he thought my question too insolent. His dark eyes pierced into me. He gripped me by the chin, turning my face up to him.
‘The foul fiend oft times hides behind a fair visage, have you not heard that, Mary?’
I could not say, his question having struck me dumb with terror. I shook my head as vigorously as I could, held as I was by his restricting fingers.
He seemed not to expect an answer.
‘I have heard it. Aye, and seen it, too.’ He let go of my chin. ‘I think you meddle in things that do not concern you.’
‘I? Meddle? I do not understand you.’
‘I think you do.’
He said nothing more, just stood, hands clasped, staring at the notice of marriage.
‘Master Tobias Morse to Miss Rebekah Rivers ...’
I looked away hastily, not wanting to show that I understood him.
‘If I’ve offended you, sir ... ’
‘Do not seek to trick me with false servility.’ His deep voice was quiet but at the same time full of threat, just as the distant rumble of thunder promises a storm. ‘There is something about you that I do not trust. Elias thinks you harmless, but I might discover otherwise. I think he is ruled less by his mind than by other parts. Perhaps you lay a spell on him?’
‘No, sir, I –’
‘You come into my house,’ he went on, as if I had never spoken, as if to himself. ‘And my wife dies, my child besides. Perhaps you put a spell on them, too?’
‘Oh, no, sir –’
The words dried in my mouth. The blood drained from my face. My breath came quick and small. I thought that I would faint. His accusations were so serious, and set my mind in such a whirl, that I could not think of anything at all.