by Lara Parker
She hesitated. “What will become of me?”
“Confess!”
“Banishment?”
“But not death—”
She paused and looked out over those who waited for her decision, their faces alert with expectation. Barnabas could see her pale eyes, like moonbeams, as she searched the crowd; and for one brief second her gaze fell on him, and he caught his breath. Then for the first time, she looked down and frowned. From where he stood, Barnabas could see her profile, and for a moment he could almost swear she was Jacqueline, with her delicate nose, her soft mouth, her high cheeks, and the grace with which she held her neck and shoulders. She lifted her head. “I have only fled the Devil. I have been unjustly accused,” she said. “Hang me if you must. The sin shall be upon your souls.”
“Then accordingly you must be sentenced! ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’”
Antoinette cried out again. “Wait! What difference does it make who you hang? You want to find someone guilty. You want to see someone die. Then take out your revenge on me.”
The gavel fell again and again over the din of the crowd, and the judge cried, “Woman, bite thy tongue. You are accused as well, and will be tried, and you only implicate yourself with this ranting.”
“Then sentence me. You will have your witch on the gallows, and all your hatred and fear will be placated. What’s more you won’t wake up one morning with guilt in your hearts and vomit on your pillow because—”
“Silence, woman!”
“—because you murdered a girl as innocent as the newborn baby in her arms. She has suffered. And she has done nothing wrong. Let her live, I beg you.” And she stopped, out of breath.
The judge with the large wig looked down at Miranda. “Is this woman your mother?” he asked.
“I do not know her,” answered the girl, who now seemed ready to faint. “But if my mother lived, I would have it be her.”
“Set her free, and take me,” Antoinette cried desperately.
But the judges seemed not to hear her. They rose as soldiers and marched down from the bench and out of the meetinghouse door.
BARNABAS WAS DETERMINED TO CHANGE THE VERDICT, if only to help save Antoinette. He had the arguments of history on his side, and the Salem Witch Trials had long ago been exposed as nothing but religious mania. While searching for one of the judges in the crowd, he saw Cotton Mather leaving the courtroom by the back entrance.
“Sir, if you please, I must stop you for a moment.”
Mather looked up in surprise. “Are you from these parts?”
Barnabas fished for an answer. “No, I come from the North, from the territory of Maine. But I am . . . originally from England.”
“And are you a member of the legal profession? By your elegant haberdashery I can only assume you to be a man of some means.” He patted his own fine black waistcoat and fingered his lace collar, as though inviting a compliment in return.
“I. . . hold a position of importance in the . . . analysis of the law.”
“Ah, a magistrate? A philosopher?” Mather seemed pleased to meet one of his profession.
“You could say that, in my way, I determine the fate of other men. I am a judge—of sorts—as was your father, Increase Mather, I believe.”
“You know of my family?”
Barnabas realized that he had struck home. He now had the man’s full attention. “I have read both your writings. Your illustrious father founded a university, did he not?”
Mather nodded, displaying some pride. “Harvard. The first college in the commonwealth. And I attended those halls as well, following in his footsteps.”
“As you do at these proceedings.”
“Yes, although I regret to say my father has proven inadequate to the awesome responsibilities of prosecuting witchcraft. I am afraid he now falters in his histrionics, and wavers in his doctrines.” Other parishioners walked past them and several stopped to look back but then turned and moved on. “What is your purpose in addressing me, good sir. I must proceed to the hanging.”
“To say that I believe in my heart the girl is innocent.”
Cotton Mather looked surprised. “Miranda du Val? But her diabolical nature has been proved by damning evidence. The girls have all witnessed her evil at work, and the slave, Tituba—who has confessed and been pardoned—saw her fly. Fly, my good man! Take to the air! What’s more, a severed head spoke her name.” He made a motion as if to say that was the end of the conversation, but Barnabas persisted.
“Seemed to speak her name. Who heard it?”
“Amadeus Collins. One of the judges.”
“A severed head speak?”
Mather turned back to him. “Miraculous, I agree, but such are the diabolical wonders of the invisible world.”
At these words Barnabas realized he was dealing not only with a man of superior intellect, but also profound faith. If he was going to convince him of his misguided direction, he would need a powerful argument.
“I was at the meetinghouse just now and saw the hearing. I overheard several townspeople say that Amadeus Collins seeks to obtain her property for his son. Surely his motives are suspect.”
“He is the most respected of judges! Come, sir, walk this way.” He moved forward and Barnabas hurried beside him, pressing his point.
“And the foolish hysterics of children? How can you put faith in their antics? I defy you to take any one of them aside, threaten her with severe punishment, and she will say whatever you ask her to say. And later she will admit it was all for sport.” Mather stopped, and drew himself up in anger.
“Sport? Call ye these dreadful machinations sport?”
“I’m only saying that you have it in your power to put an end to this madness. Before you make another terrible mistake.”
Mather’s cheeks flushed in obvious annoyance and he spat out his words. “I shall hold you ignorant and downright impudent if you dare to assert the nonexistence of witches. These afflicted children present doleful evidence.”
“But haven’t some admitted they did it in jest? And don’t some of the girls say, ‘She said it,’ and then, ‘No, she said it.’ Has it occurred to you they love their theatrics, and the attention of the town has gone to their heads?” Mather shook his wig, and began to walk once more, waving Barnabas away.
“Only think,” said Barnabas to his back, “what if you are wrong!”
“Wrong?” He stopped and glared. “God would never allow the Devil to use innocent persons to condemn others.” Mather looked hard at Barnabas. Then he collected himself as though at the pulpit, ready to deliver a sermon. His voice became melodious. “My good man, hear me well. I know not why you have chosen to accost me, or where you find your reasoning, but I have seen with my own eyes these effects of cruel and bloody witchcraft, the flying of demons, and poor children driven to despair. I have seen atheism and blasphemy, and many who run distracted with terrors. I have visited the homes of God-fearing families, and seen their tortured children. It would have broke a heart of stone to see them.”
Now other townspeople gathered: an old man, and a woman with a child. They listened with fear in their eyes, and looked to Mather as though he alone could save them. Antoinette moved by with the other prisoners, disappointment written on her face.
“Sometimes they would be deaf, sometimes dumb, sometimes blind, their jaws out of joint, their necks broken, their heads twisted around, as you saw today in the meeting. Untold and wondrous things! Some claim to be in a red hot oven, others lying under freezing water. One rested upon an invisible spit, run into his mouth, and out his foot, and he screaming, and groaning as though he were put to the fire and roasted, and then crying out that knives were cutting him. And more, much more, beyond imagination. I will never use one grain of patience with any man that shall impose upon me a denial of devils or witches. And I say to you an army of devils is broken in upon us! The Last Judgment is at hand! And it is we who must lead the charge against the Devil’s l
egions!”
“Have you spoken with your father, Increase Mather?”
Again Mather puffed himself up. “I speak to a Higher Father!”
“But what of the fact that your father has rescinded his treatise on witchcraft, that he no longer believes spectral evidence is valid. He now challenges his previous position.”
Mather’s face darkened. “He is no longer a soldier of the Lord. When we began this battle, he carried sword and shield against the lion, and he was victorious. But he drew back his legions before he found the Black Man. The battle was only half over.”
At this moment Barnabas began to despair. “And you see no irony in the fact that these unhappy people came to the New World to escape religious oppression? Only to find themselves even more fearful for the fate of their souls?”
Mather seemed to have thought long and hard about this question. “It is true. The fervor and faith of those who landed on these shores was implacable.” He warmed to this topic. “But having inherited this great banner of the Lord’s grace, our children grow soft before our eyes, desire only property and earthy power. Why?” Barnabas was at a loss, and the judge thundered out his own answer. “Because the Devil has followed us over the water! Satan is the great conspirator laboring to overthrow the Kingdom of Christ. He knows we ask ourselves each day what we must do to be saved, and for that he despises us. He fears our piety, for he knows in the end it will mean the final destruction of his heinous kingdom. And just as Jesus pointed to Judas at the last supper, Christ knows full well how many devils there are in his church.”
Barnabas laughed bitterly. “Yes, at first there were two. Now there are nineteen hanged and hundreds in prison. Why are there suddenly so many? If you let these girls go on, soon we shall all be devils and witches!”
Mather’s wig had gone slightly askew during his tirade and he raised both hands to settle it back on his head. Then he smiled. “You argue well, I must say. It is something of a pleasure to spar with you.” The judge leaned in to deliver one more attack. “Good sir. Salem will not endure without a stalwart leader of men at her helm. One who knows the truth and is willing to fight for it. Don’t you think it pains me to see those poor specters hanging from the gallows? But I shall leave no stroke unstruck that may bring men from the power of Satan unto God. There are devils and witches, I assure you, nightbirds that appear when the light of the gospel shines forth.”
“Just one more thing,” Barnabas said to Mather out of desperation. “Of all these deaths, even Rebecca Nurse’s, do you regret any?”
“All were found guilty.”
“Have you made any errors in these proceedings? Would you do anything differently? Do you repent any of it?”
The man held himself like a statue. “Absolutely nothing. God has spoken through me, and I will not weaken. I need no man’s permission, nor my earthly father’s blessing. I have set myself to countermine the whole plot of the Devil against New England. God has made me his emissary, and we shall be victorious.”
“And what of the Indians?” he said. “Are they all devils as well?”
If Mather was irritated he did not show it. “Some may be saved. But in the wigwams of Indians where they have their pagan powwows, they raise up masters in the shape of bears and snakes and fires. And what is it these monsters love to do? In the homes of Christians? I leave it to you.”
Now most of the townspeople had walked ahead. Mather stopped and turned to Barnabas. “I will only tell you that this Miranda du Val you defend was raised by the Wampanoag. They gave her a name, Sooleawa Sisika, which I believe means Silver Bird, and they called her Tree-Flyer, because, as absurd as it seems, they said she talked to the trees when she flew through them.” He moved away, for he had seen the other judges and wished to walk with them.
Barnabas was stunned, and suddenly understood why—if Jacqueline were truly possessed by Miranda—the leaves around Collinwood had bedeviled him for weeks. Tree-Flyer! At that moment, Mather called back.
“Do you intend to continue on to Gallows Hill?”
Barnabas offered to accompany him, although he knew now changing the course of history was all but impossible. A séance carried one into a dream where the heart reaches out in desperation, but the body cannot follow. Now he must find a way to free Antoinette and take her back to the present. He followed the procession of dark figures, strung out in twos and threes, and he thought of those words said when Death was at the head of the caravan. And in a long line he shall lead them.
THEY TRIED TO TAKE the infant from Miranda, but she held on so tightly they would be obliged to rip it in half to tear it from her grasp. Even though she put it to her breast, it did not suck, and it did not cry. There were whispers that it was deformed, a Devil’s child, further proof, which now they did not need. She was a witch for all to see. Someone would catch it when she dropped it, a devout parishioner who would raise it in a pious home.
As the wagon moved slowly up the road on the way to Gallows Hill, Miranda failed to notice the trees dropped the last of their leaves as she rode past, bare branches clawing the sky. She was mulling over her sinful plan, for the knife with the ivory handle was still secreted in her dress. Even the child of a demon was murder. She shook the bundle gently, opened her shift, saw its dark eyes, touched its cheek, and taking her nipple between her fingers, nudged the wee mouth. It thrust out its fists to keep from falling and she took heart as she saw its face shrink to a grimace and she thought it might cry. Again she tried, and weak as it was, it first jerked its head back and forth, then finally caught her and began to suck.
Something rushed into her heart. Perhaps if she humbled herself one time, they would free her. The golden lady had pleaded for her; might she not plead for herself? The cart rocked gently and the child held on. If only they would let her live, she would go to her farm alone, raise her babe in the Indian way, teach him the lessons of the forest. She might share with him the mockingbird’s whistle, the smell of wild oats, the bear’s hidden shadow. She might cheat him of his Devil’s ancestry, and perhaps they could fly together.
They reached the scaffold, and she saw standing beneath the empty noose a tiny form in a white winding sheet. That was the sign. The baby’s mouth had gone limp, and when she looked down, the child’s tiny face was smooth and untroubled. Miranda stared amazed and unblinking at a stillness so complete, the light extinguished, and was settled at last on what she would do.
They unlocked her shackles and pulled her from the cart, keeping a tight grip on her arms. She held herself erect, perhaps for the first time aware of her comeliness, and was careful not to trip on the makeshift stair. Peter Clothier, who had been her jailer, was now her hangman; what dismal occupations fell his way, she thought. Once more he tried to take the child, but looking over his shoulder, caught the eye of Amadeus Collins who slowly shook his head,
“Hang them both,” he said under his breath.
Then, like a fine plumed bird, out of the crowd flew the woman with yellow hair, dragging her chains. She sprang against the edge of the platform, arms outstretched, and turned to the astonished congregation. “No. no, please, you mustn’t do this. She is the purest among you, as innocent as the babe in her arms. Please, I beg you, don’t take her. Before you do something terribly wrong, take me instead.”
With impatient movements, the constable pulled the woman back, and held her while she stood trembling, her eyes bright with tears. Reverend Collins shook his head and said in a disdainful tone, “Observe, the accused has no shame! Here stands another poor afflicted victim of this scheming witch who tortures another in her final moments. Surely Hell is her home!”
A flock of blackbirds careened across the sky, hundreds in flight, turning this way and that on the wind as one motion, before they settled, noisy and fluttering, in the bare branches of the great hanging tree, leafing it once more. Somewhere Miranda knew she must find her voice. Already the noose was settled on her shoulders, the trap poised to spring.
Pe
ter looked to her. “Wilt thou say a prayer, Miranda?” When she nodded, he stood back and bowed his head. A faint breeze lifted the edge of her skirt and caressed her hair; the sky darkened, the blackbirds quivered, and in the circle of the forest, the great trees bowed down. At first she spoke softly, clutching her dead child to her breast.
“People of Salem. I do not doubt there are among you disciples true of heart, who hold to their faith, and love God. I bless these, and wish them well.” She looked down at Antoinette. “One has shown me love.”
She drew a breath and spoke with greater strength. “But there are also those who have shouted ‘Witchcraft,’ whispered it, and shunned it, and searched it out, only to find it smoldering in their own hearts. Because you know truly you have never seen witches, at this, the moment of my death, I say to you, look within. Have you not tortured innocents, with no proof other than hearsay? In your hearts you know these girls lie villainously. Again and again you have cried ‘Witch!’ but you have not seen one. You have cried ‘Witchcraft!’ but in truth you have seen it not. I say to you, since you have so lusted for it, watch carefully, for you shall see it now!”
When she raised up the child, its swaddling fell from its body and it was perfectly formed. “I curse this town, and all those who have driven this madness. Most fixedly, I curse the Collins family who took my farm but will find no happiness there. The fields are poisoned and the stream a bog of snakes. And those who take my life shall never prosper, shall never know happiness, but will have blood to drink for all eternity!”
The knife flashed, and before they could stop her, she had opened the little corpse. Without a beating heart to speed the pulse, the blood oozed slowly, spreading over her hand and down her arm, until at last she lifted the child above her head and cried, “Behold, my baptism!” and, as the blood flowed over her face, coating her in liquid crimson, she cried once more, “May my death be the last!” before the trap fell, and the noose sprang for her unquiet life.
