by Brom
Abitha was hit with a shock of cold. It took her a moment to understand that she’d been doused with a bucket of water—wonderful cool water. A weak cry escaped her parched throat and she began licking the droplets from her hands and arms, sucking it from her blouse and hair.
There came a rattle as Garret unlocked the chain and lifted the lid. “It’s your big day, witch,” he said. “Time for you to put on a show.” He nodded to Norton and the huge guard grabbed the side of the cage and flipped it over, sending Abitha tumbling out.
She let out a howl, feeling as though her tendons had been torn from the bone by the sudden jolt. She lay on her side, clawing at the soft dirt, trying to bear the pain, trying not to scream.
They left her there, and after a while Abitha managed to sit up, clenching her teeth as she worked to unbend her neck and back. She could no longer feel her legs, felt sure she could no longer move them either. She began rubbing them, trying to get the blood flowing, trying to slowly straighten them.
Sometime around noon they began to arrive, the men, women, and children of Sutton. Soon, every spot along the corral fence was occupied. Aside from a few children running about and laughing, people were quietly talking amongst themselves, their faces full of anticipation. Abitha could do nothing but sit in the dirt, in her filthy rags, the entire village staring at her.
Captain Moore arrived, giving the corral and guards a quick inspection. Abitha watched one of the guards testing the rope, grasping the noose and pulling himself up to see if it would bear his weight. It did.
A table was brought in, along with two chairs, set up facing the noose. One more chair was brought in and set beneath the noose.
Garret and Norton removed Sarah from her cage; her blouse was stained with dried blood. Abitha met Sarah’s eyes, but there was nothing between them other than sadness and hopelessness. They dragged Sarah across the corral and sat her in the chair. She didn’t look at the noose, wouldn’t, only stared at her feet.
“Out of the way!” someone shouted, and the crowd nearest to the gate parted. The guards dashed over to open the gate and in strolled Magistrate Watson, carrying a bible, his plump face pink and sweaty. Reverend Collins and Reverend Smith followed the judge in. But Abitha saw no sign of Reverend Carter.
The judge pulled the captain aside, away from the ministers. He spoke in a hushed tone, but Abitha managed to catch some of it.
“Still no confession?” the magistrate asked.
Captain Moore glanced at Sarah. “None. The woman is unmovable.”
The judge appeared deeply troubled. “Reverend Carter is not the sort of man to take lightly. He will make good his threat to bring this before the governor. We’re talking about the wife of a prominent minister here, Captain. Think how it will look should we not get that confession.” The judge wiped his hand across his mouth. “The governor will request a full accounting, I am sure. He has made it his business to stick his nose in such affairs as of late.” The judge shook his head. “Mayhap we have gone too far, but we must see this through now … we must have her confession.”
The captain studied Sarah and frowned. “There are still ways, sir. But they are not easy ways.” Captain Moore lowered his voice, spoke in some detail, but Abitha could hear none of it.
Magistrate Watson clapped the captain on the shoulder. “I am hopeful it will not come to that … but let us see how it goes.”
A guard came in carrying the magistrate’s large ornate chair, placing it at the table. The judge set down his bible and dropped into his chair. He invited the two ministers to sit next to him.
The magistrate put on his spectacles and took a moment to arrange a few papers. Finally, he glanced up and stared at the two women, making no effort to hide his disgust. “Well, they certainly look a mess.” He shook his head. “Reverend Smith, would you do us the favor of a prayer?”
The reverend nodded and stood. He asked everyone to bow their heads and gave a short prayer.
The guards took up places on either side of the women.
“Sarah Carter,” Magistrate Watson bellowed, talking so everyone could hear. “You stand before us accused of aiding a known witch and familiar in the corruption of a child. A severe charge that carries a severe punishment. But there is still hope for you.” He studied her. “If you but admit your role, the court in its mercy has found room to grant you a reprieve. We but need your confession and your sworn oath never to involve yourself in witchcraft again. If you can show us the proper contrition, show a genuine desire to protect this community from Satan’s evil influence, you shall be spared. Sarah Carter … will you now confess?”
The crowd stilled, not a sound, as though no one dared even to breathe.
Sarah stood; she appeared scared, her hands quivering, but still she met the magistrate’s eyes. “Sir, I … I cannot confess to a crime I did not commit. I beg you to please understand that to do such would be to consign my soul to perdition.”
A murmur went through the crowd.
Magistrate Watson frowned. “Sarah,” he said, his voice becoming stern, pressing. “Look there at that noose. If you do not confess, then I will be left with no other choice but to charge you with lying to the court to protect a known witch and thus entering a covenant with the Devil. Such charge brings with it a sentence of death. Now, this will be your last chance. Do … you … confess?”
“I confess only to my love and faith in the good Lord above.”
The magistrate’s face reddened. “Sarah Carter, you will confess.”
Sarah just stared at him.
“You will confess!” he demanded, spittle flying from his lips.
Sarah slowly shook her head.
Magistrate Watson slammed his palm on the bible. “There are other ways!” His eyes shifted to Abitha. “Captain, see to the witch.”
Abitha flinched.
Captain Moore strolled over, almost as though the scene had been rehearsed.
“Abitha,” the captain said, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner. “You … have been found guilty of witchcraft and condemned to death. For that there is no reprieve. But … I would like to offer you a choice … a quick merciful death, or a slow … bad death.” He studied her. “I have decided that you are to be hung from your ankles until you expire. As you can imagine, this is not a peaceful way to die. The convicted can linger for days as the blood pools in the brain, until eventually the pressure becomes unbearable, the pain excruciating. I have seen prisoners scream themselves into insanity. You can avoid this, you can choose a quick snap of the neck instead, an almost instant death. It is in my power to grant such a mercy. I would but ask one small thing of you in return.”
The crowd waited in silence, but Abitha knew what was coming.
“For you to show some contrition by allying with the Lord and the good people of Connecticut. To state it plainly and clearly before all … that this woman, Sarah Carter, did aid you and your imp. That is all.”
“No!” Sarah cried out. She started toward Abitha, but the guards grabbed her, held her. “Abitha, for the love of God, do not do this thing. Do not condemn me so! Please! I beg of you!”
Captain Moore stepped forward and drove his fist into Sarah’s stomach, doubling her over. The guards dropped her to the dirt, where she lay gasping and groaning.
“Abitha,” Magistrate Watson said. “You have this one last chance to save yourself so much needless suffering. What say you?”
Abitha sucked in a deep breath. Such a simple thing to say, she thought. Only it wasn’t. If she said nothing, Sarah would die martyred, her name in good standing, her death a blight upon the face of all of Connecticut. If instead she accused her, Sarah’s name would be forever tarnished, and her husband, her daughter, they would pay the price, and God only knew who would be next after them.
Abitha noticed Magistrate Watson fretfully squeezing his hands together. She understood his desperation, the pressure he was under, but then she saw another face, there in the crowd, that of Wallace
, and what struck her odd was that Wallace too appeared nervous and anxious. She wondered why that was, when he should be gloating; then, she understood, almost laughed at how obvious it was. An upstanding Puritan woman, the wife of a minister, was about to be hung on account of Wallace. A woman who would rather strangle to death than confess to a lie, and that held weight. Such a thing wouldn’t look good for Wallace or the judge. But especially not for Wallace, as there would always be those who doubted him, who knew of his underhandedness. They might not hold my death against you, Wallace Williams, but by God, they would that of Sarah, of a woman only guilty of trying to save her daughter.
“Abitha Williams,” the magistrate called. “We await your reply.”
Abitha barely heard; she was still staring at Wallace. Is he praying? She could see his hands clasped, his lips moving ever so slightly. Why, yes, he’s praying. Their eyes met, and when they did, she gave him a vicious smile. Nay, Wallace, I will not answer your prayers.
“Abitha, I will ask you but once—”
Abitha turned her smile, that fierce, wicked smile, on the magistrate. “It were not Sarah Carter that aided the Devil, good sir. Nay. It were that man yonder!” She pointed at Wallace. “It were his greed that brought the Devil into the fold, his deceit and wanton ways. Tell them, Wallace Williams!” she shouted. “Tell them how you have played them all with your lies, how you have made pact with the Devil so that you could take Edward’s land!”
Nervous murmurs fluttered through the crowd, and Wallace went pale, suddenly looking as though he were the one about to be hung.
“I ask who here is not aware of his underhanded ways? Who—”
“Shut her up!” Magistrate Watson cried.
Captain Moore drove his boot into Abitha’s gut, kicking all the air from her. Abitha rolled into a ball, gasping and clutching her chest.
Magistrate Watson’s face grew redder still. “Satan shall not win this day. Captain, a word.”
The two men began an intense discussion. The magistrate nodded his approval to something and Captain Moore strolled quickly away. He enlisted a few men from the crowd and disappeared into the stables, leaving everyone wondering what was going on. The men returned a few moments later carrying an old wooden door.
Jesus, Abitha wondered, what is this to be?
Upon the captain’s orders, two guards grabbed Sarah, dragged her to the middle of the corral, and forced her down on her back. The men then placed the heavy plank door atop her, pinning her to the ground, leaving only her head visible.
Sarah’s eyes darted about, confused and horrified.
Magistrate Watson strolled over, peered down at her. “You will confess, Sarah. You must. It is the only way to keep Satan at bay. I care not how long it takes. You will confess.”
“Where’s my husband?” Sarah cried. “Thomas! Thomas!”
“Your husband is in the stocks. If you wish to see him, simply confess. Do it now and I will take you to him myself.”
“No. No. No!”
A small retaining wall of stones wrapped around one side of the stables. The judge nodded to the men waiting there, and they lifted out a few of the larger stones and carried them over.
“Let us start with six,” the magistrate said.
The men carefully laid six of the heavy stones on the door.
Sarah let out a cry.
The judge paced slowly around the trapped woman, his hands clasped behind his back. “Do you confess, Sarah Carter?”
“No!”
Magistrate Watson held up two fingers, and the men laid down two more large stones.
Sarah let out a groan, her face turning red from the strain, the veins bulging from her neck and forehead.
The magistrate stood watching, waiting, his face glistening with sweat and frustration. “Let us end this, Sarah. Please, I beg of you, confess.”
Sarah shook her head, and he let out a huff and threw up his hands. The judge tromped back to the table and sat down heavily in his ornate chair. “Some cider,” he demanded, and one of the guards brought him a large mug. He sat there sipping his drink, glowering at Sarah, listening to her rasping gasps and waiting.
The crowd waited as well, silently staring as Sarah fought not to suffocate under the immense weight as the muggy day dragged slowly on. Legs grew tired, and many began to sit on the ground along the fence.
After what must’ve been an hour, perhaps a little more, the judge stood and wandered back over to Sarah.
“You can lay out here all day and night, slowly dying beneath the weight of your own guilt, or you can simply confess and be done with this. The choice is yours.”
“I cannot,” she gasped between rapid shallow breaths.
“Just a few words and you can go to your husband.”
She shook her head.
Magistrate Watson’s face tightened. He held up two fingers, and the men laid down two more stones.
Sarah let out a sharp scream, her breathing becoming ever more labored, as though each breath were taking her last bit of strength. Abitha knew the woman couldn’t last much longer.
The judged paced back and forth, his agitation growing with every step.
Sarah’s lips quivered. Her eyes bulged, her mouth gaped, rapidly opening and closing. Her face was now purple, her left eye bright red; bloody tears streamed down her cheeks.
Oh, for the love of God, someone stop this! Abitha thought, and turned away. She searched the crowd, hoping to find some outrage there, some desire to end this senseless torment. A few were crying, but most watched grimly, their faces stolid and righteous. There were some, yes, like Goody and Ansel, whose faces betrayed their inner vileness, but most appeared transported, almost in rapture, as though sharing this moment with God Himself, their hands clasped to their breasts, staring upward into the firmament, their lips moving in silent communion with their Lord and savior. Abitha could see that these people believed, truly believed, that they were doing God’s work here this day. And there was something about these people that horrified Abitha even worse than those whose faces were lined with cruelty. As at least cruelty was a thing that could be pointed out, confronted. But this belief, this absolute conviction that this evil they were doing was good, was God’s work—how, she wondered, how could such a dark conviction ever be overcome?
There came a commotion from near the gate. “Let me pass!” someone shouted. “Let me pass!” A girl pushed her way through the crowd, shoving past any who tried to stop her. The girl came running into the corral. “Mother!” she cried. “Oh, Mother. Enough!” She dashed over and slid down on her knees next to Sarah.
Captain Moore started to intercede, but the judge raised his hand, shook his head.
Martha clasped her mother’s face between her hands. “Mother, please, please. End this! End this now!”
Sarah shook her head, said something—barely a whisper.
“Yes, you can!” Martha cried as the tears streamed down her face. “You have to! Father has lost his mind to all of this … I am alone. Do not leave me! Please, I beg of you! I love you!” She let out a sob. “I … I love you, Mother.”
Sarah turned her head, looked at her daughter for a long, long moment, and again she whispered something.
“She says yes!” her daughter exclaimed. “She will confess. Remove the stones so she can speak. Do it now!”
The men looked questioningly at the magistrate.
His face lit up. “Yes, here, remove the stones. Be quick!”
The men rushed in and gently rolled off the stones; Sarah sucked in a deep breath.
Magistrate Watson knelt beside her, his face bright with hope. “Do you confess, Sarah Carter … to the charges brought against you this day?”
Sarah sucked in a few more breaths, coughed violently. “Yes,” she sobbed. “God forgive me … I confess.”
The judge leapt to his feet. “It is done!” There was absolute glee in the man’s eyes.
They lifted the door off Sarah, and she curled u
p into a ball, hitching and coughing and wheezing uncontrollably.
Abitha stared on in shock. Seeing these fanatics break this Godly woman somehow seemed a worse crime to her than even seeing her hung. “Oh, Sarah, what have they done to you?”
“God has won the day,” Magistrate Watson proclaimed, all but dancing. “Bear witness, all, to this great victory over Satan!” He marched over to Abitha and spat in her face. “When you are in Hell, be sure to tell Lucifer how the good people of Sutton overcame his wicked designs this day!”
Hard hands fell upon Abitha; Norton and Garret grabbed her arms and dragged her to the end of the corral, to the large oak. Garret kicked her prone, pressing her down with a heavy boot, while Norton bound her arms to her sides, the ropes biting deep into her flesh. Then they bound her skirt, legs, and ankles together, pulling the ropes so tight that Abitha felt sure her very bones might snap. They secured one end of a rope around her ankles and tossed the other over a thick low-hanging limb. Then slowly they tugged the rope, lifting her up off the ground feetfirst.
Abitha spun and swayed back and forth, her world suddenly upside down, the blood rushing into her head, her face tight from the pressure. Her vision blurred, then cleared, and even as she spun, she could see the crowd, catching quick glimpses of their faces, and again she saw their righteousness, their rapture. They were, after all, doing God’s work this day.
She watched Captain Moore put shackles on Sarah and take her away. And as her mind tried to sort through her pain, her grief, her sorrow, she couldn’t help but feel that Sarah had somehow abandoned her, that they had all abandoned her.
Samson, where are you?
As the rope bit deeper and deeper into her flesh and the pressure mounted inside her head, drumming along with her racing heart, Abitha cursed them. “He will come!” she cried. “He will come. The Devil will come for all of you!”
