Hour of the Witch(23)

James rolled his eyes at the good-natured chiding.

“But,” Wilder continued, “thy husband is also a man of good standing and reputation. He, too, is deemed a saint. And that means the trial will draw formidable attention.”

“I can live with that. I cannot live with him.”

“I assume thou wilt move in with thy parents during the trial?”

She looked at her parents. She hadn’t asked. But already her father was nodding. “Yes,” she answered.

“Then I will start the proceedings tomorrow. The Court of Assistants is scheduled to convene in two weeks, and the trial will occur then. Dost thou need a scrivener? Someone to take testimonies and assist with witnesses?”

    “Who wouldst thou recommend, Richard?” her father asked. “I have used Charles Proper for my business pleadings.”

“Proper is a good man. But in this case? Use Benjamin Hull. Very good at petitions of a more domestic nature. Keeps an office on the corner of High and Mill Streets. Studious fellow. Exacting to the point of eccentricity, but that’s a gift, given his choice of calling.”

“Very well,” her father said.

“And always better a scrivener than an attorney. I know more and more people are resorting to those appalling advocates who twist and trick, but many of the magistrates still view them with justifiable disdain.”

“I agree,” said James.

Then the magistrate continued, his tone avuncular, “Mary, this is a step of great consequence. Just to be certain: wouldst thou prefer to think about this one more night?”

“I would not. I would like to go home and get some of my clothing, my diary, and my Bible, and then I would like to go to my parents’.”

“Thomas is at the mill?”

“Or a tavern. I suppose he came home for dinner, and when he found the spider cold and the house empty, he went to eat elsewhere.”

“What about thy girl?”

She paused. Finally, she could bear standing no longer, and so she leaned against the wall, apologizing as she did. Then she answered, “My girl ran off last night.”

“Before or after Thomas stabbed thee with the fork?”

“Before.”

“So she did not witness the attack?”

“She did not,” Mary answered, and the alarm was visible on both of her parents’ faces.

“Where is she now?” Wilder asked.

“I do not know. Perhaps she has come home. Perhaps she’s there now. But I presume she went to Goody Howland’s, where her brother was indentured until he died.”

    “Why did she leave?”

She started to shake her head. It was complicated and absurd: it all came round and round to those bloody forks. She felt herself sliding down to the floor and tried to muster the strength to stand, but it was gone, it was gone completely, subsumed by the throbbing in her hand and the fever that was rising up through her arm, and the anger and the frustration and the injustice and the fear. It was all just too much. And so she collapsed onto the wooden boards, and suddenly her mother and her father were kneeling beside her and the magistrate was gazing down at her, his face a mix of confusion and concern. She wanted a drink of water badly.

“Mary,” her mother was telling her, “don’t move. Just try and be still.”

She nodded. The magistrate was unsure whether to ask her his question again. Finally, she said to them all, “My servant girl left because she thought I had buried some of those very forks in the ground. In the walkway to our door. She ran away because she thought I was using them as some sort of spell. She believes…”

She paused because it was all so ridiculous. So inane. She almost couldn’t bear to speak the words.

“Go on,” said the magistrate.

And so Mary did. “She ran away because she thought I was a witch,” she said. Her mother, unsettled by all that had already occurred, glanced at her father, her face shaken and her eyes scared.



* * *





When Mary and her parents returned to her home, there was no sign of Thomas or Catherine. The three of them went inside and saw that the hearth was cold and then, at her father’s insistence, went back outside to the walkway.

“Show me where thou found the forks and the pestle,” he said. And so Mary did. The marks where she had dug were still evident, the dirt in small piles.

“Thou told Richard that thou didst not place them there. Was that the truth?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice tremulous because she knew this was not precisely the case. She had not placed them there the first time. She had not placed the pestle there ever. But she had returned the forks to the earth, jamming them back into the dirt as if they were stakes. On the other hand, she understood the intent of her father’s question. And so had she lied? Had she just sinned? She was unsure, but she feared that she had.

    “But if thou hadst discovered the forks previously and confronted Catherine previously, why were thou out in the night with them?”

“James, stop interrogating our daughter,” her mother said.

“I am only making sure we understand. The magistrates certainly will ask.” Then he turned back to Mary and continued, “I do not mean to sound harsh, little dove.”