Hour of the Witch(24)

“I understand,” she said. And she realized that she must tell the truth now, wholly and completely, both for the sake of justice and for the sake of her soul. “I had replaced the forks where I had found them, hoping the person behind them would not know he had been discovered.”

“Didst thou suspect witchcraft from the beginning?”

“I did,” she said.

“Human or demon?” her father asked.

“Human.”

“Mary,” her mother said, her tone cautious, “I know thou dost pine for children. Tell me: was this a spell of thy making?”

“Mother! What in the world have the Devil’s tines to do with a child?”

“I wanted to be sure. That’s all. I need to know my daughter has not been seduced by the Devil or His minions.”

“It is thou who brought the forks to this house! It is thy husband who brought them to this city!”

Her father shook his head and said, “They are but utensils.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed.

“But,” her father continued, “if thou, with all thy knowledge, could misconstrue their use and perceive them as a bauble dangled before us by Satan, anyone could. This matters because of what that servant girl believes. We all know that even the most nonsensical accusations have caused grievous injury.”

    “The harm caused by those forks begins and ends here,” said Mary, and she raised her wounded hand, angry that her parents were losing sight of the real crime.

Her mother rubbed her back in a wide, gentle circle. Her father started toward the back of the house and the women followed him. They saw that the Devon was in desperate need of milking, and Priscilla grabbed a bucket and tended to the animal, while James spread grain for the chickens. Mary gazed at the vegetable garden, which was still not fully put to bed for the winter—there were those massive, brown pumpkin leaves, not yet converted into mulch—and at the section of their meadow with the tall poles where she and Thomas grew their hops. The twine was empty now, the hops having been harvested with the last of the vegetables.

Then Mary and her mother went inside and climbed the stairs to the second-floor chamber. They packed some clothing and the few items Mary wanted into her leather satchel. Her mother said she would carry her extra shoes. It didn’t take long. For a moment, after Mary and her mother had retrieved her possessions, the two of them surveyed the small room.

“Reassure me, Mary,” her mother said, her voice low. “I will ask but this one last time: Thou art not dabbling in witchcraft? True?”

“True,” she replied, though a part of her grew frightened. Had she in fact replaced those forks in the ground because she hoped their presence might breathe life into her barren womb? Were they an offering to the Devil, a quid pro quo? I offer my allegiance as a handmaiden and in return am granted a child? She had endured so much last night, slept so little, her body wracked by pain, and been asked so many questions today that she just didn’t know anymore, which caused her to fret further still about the state of her soul and her future in Heaven.

Before they left, Mary wrote a short note to Thomas and placed it on the table where they ate, telling him where she was and that she wasn’t returning. She noticed the pestle that she had pulled from the ground on the shelf. When her mother wasn’t looking, she dropped it, too, into her satchel.





Mary Deerfield may be barren, yes, but is she unclean? I will not dissemble and suggest that I know. Only our Lord and Savior can say why she has never been with child.

—The Testimony of Physician Roger Pickering, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1662, Volume III





Nine



Mary offered to help her mother and Abigail, the older of her parents’ two servants, prepare supper that night, but neither would allow it because of her hand. Her mother insisted that she rest while she stirred the succotash in the spider, adding a little butter and garlic, as it cooked. Abigail took the bread and venison from the oven and then began setting the table. Mary was relieved the Devil’s tines were nowhere in evidence. Her parents’ other servant, Hannah, was outside feeding the animals. It would be dark soon, and her father would be home from his warehouse. The three women chatted, though Mary alone was seated in one of the ladder-back chairs.

It was then that they heard a horse’s hooves and, a moment later, boots on the walkway. Abigail went to open the door even before someone had rapped on the wood, and there stood Thomas.

He took off his hat and bowed before his mother-in-law and his wife. “Good evening, Priscilla,” he said, and Mary was unsure what to make of his tone. It was almost bemused.

“Thomas,” her mother murmured, little more than acknowledging his presence.

Then he turned to Mary and said, “Wouldst thou like to come home now? Art thou ready?”

Abigail looked at her mistress and asked if she should set an additional place at the table for Thomas. Before the woman could reply, however, Thomas answered, “If anything, Abigail, there will be one person fewer at the table. I believe my wife will accept my apologies and come home with me.”

    “Thou art apologizing for sticking the Devil’s tines into my hand?” Mary asked him.

He sighed. “I did no such thing. That is the truth.”