Fiona sobbed weakly. "Oh, thank heaven! When may I see her?"
"Soon she will be released, and then I can bring her here to stay. But before we talk, I want to get you something to eat. You're still quite weak and must regain your strength. Just rest peacefully; I won't be long."
He kissed her lovingly and Fiona sank back, hardly able to assimilate all the news. Just one thing was uppermost in her mind: her mother lived. The trials were over. She breathed a prayer of thanks, and tears of joy trickled down her cheeks.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Harmon came in to help Fiona wash and change her night shift, then handed her a hairbrush. To her astonishment, Fiona felt a mere cap of curls upon her head. "What is this!"
"Giles feared you had a brain fever," Mrs. Harmon told her, with a smile, "and it is usual to shave off all the hair to cool the scalp. But in your case, he didn't act quite so drastically, but only clipped it short. I vow the curls are very fetching and just as red as ever."
"Well, my hair is the least of my worries. I am just so happy that the trials are over and I never can thank you enough for all you've done. I see the flowers in the corner. Are they from you, or Giles?"
" 'Twas Sally brought them, every day a new bouquet. When you are stronger, Giles will let her visit you."
"I really feel strong now and so eager to know everything that happened. Mrs. Harmon, can you tell me—"
"Mother Harmon." She patted Fiona's ring. "Soon you will be one of the family, and we are all so glad."
"I'm glad, too, and very proud—"
"Ah, here comes Giles. He will answer all your questions, dear, but I know he doesn't wish to tire you. He can be the best judge of that. How nice it is to have a doctor in the family." Her sweet face beaming, Mrs. Harmon met Giles at the door with a murmured word, then left them alone together.
In spite of what she'd said, Fiona's first remark was a little anxious. "Oh, Giles, my hair—do I look very strange?"
He set down his laden tray and drew the table closer to her bed. "How could you look strange? For five days I've sat there, watching you every waking minute."
"Oh, dearest, you must be so weary."
"Not at all. Now that you are well—and I might add, as beautiful as ever—I feel renewed in body and spirit. Now, eat this food and then—and only then—will I answer all your questions."
Fiona took the bowl of gruel from him and tasted cream and brown sugar. Soon she scraped it clean and followed it with a slice of buttered toast and a mug of fresh, cold milk. She wiped her lips and hands on a damp napkin thoughtfully provided. "Now, Giles, I am ready to hear everything."
Giles moved the stool back and crossed his arms. "How much do you remember?"
"I remember going to Boston and the Phipses' ball, of course. Next day we started home and came to Gallows Hill. I saw Sally there…"
"She sneaked off to wave farewell to her beloved friend, even though Oliver had warned her not to expose herself where Blaize might see her. I hate to tell you this, but Rebecca Nurse died that day."
"Oh, Giles, I was afraid of that."
He went on quickly. "They buried her in the unconsecrated ground of Gallows Hill, but late that night, her sons carried her to a secret spot upon their farm."
"At least the dear soul is at peace." Fiona wiped her eyes and continued after a moment. "The next thing I recall is Blaize grabbing Sally and me."
"Yes." Giles's mouth thinned. "He dragged you both off into the brush, and when I ran to your aid, Blaize had a dagger at your throat and Sally lay stunned upon the ground. Solbaid fired a pistol, but the shot went wild. Sally managed to call Gray and the wolf came flying through the trees to kill Blaize and drag him off with lightning speed. The dwarf ran away, and Fiona—it's the strangest thing, but no sign was found of Blaize's body, the wolf, or Solbaid. And that same day, the judge's house caught fire and burned to the ground." His smile was fierce with satisfaction.
Fiona silently digested these strange happenings that were beyond any logical explanation. She only knew it was an end to evil doers and caused her not the slightest grief.
"Then Sally is all right? Good. Now, tell me about the witch hunt. What did Phips do about the trials?"
"He came to Salem and found enough errors in the mittimuses to warrant exonerating fifty people, including your mother. I saw him briefly at the meetinghouse and he said he was writing to the king for permission to dismiss the whole proceeding, since it was all based on spectral evidence and many people had begun to question its validity."
"Bless Sir William," Fiona breathed thankfully. "And bless you, too, my dearest."
Giles crossed the room and knelt down by the cot, drawing her into his arms. His lips met her, but only tenderly as he stroked back her hair.
"Tomorrow I will bring your mother home," he said, smiling. "And I think you will be able to await her in the garden. But for now, the doctor prescribes another nap."
"Does my mother know that we are betrothed?" Fiona asked drowsily, pillowing his hand beneath her cheek. "I think she will be… will be…"
"Pleased," Giles finished for her, as Fiona drifted off into another healing slumber.
Next day, Fiona waited on a garden bench with a warm shawl around her shoulders and clothes all newly washed and ironed. She was hardly able to contain her impatience and wished that Giles had let her accompany him, but he said she was still a little weak and the town would be filled with crowds. She could hear bells ringing and the sound of voices as people hurried down the road, cheering, shouting, even a distant cannon being fired. The tide of witch hunt fever must have surely changed.
When Fiona saw Giles and her mother drive up in the wagon, she raced across the garden to fall into her mother's arms. A long, tight embrace said more than words.
Giles left them on the bench, since they elected to stay outdoors a little while. Fiona knew her mother must long for the fresh air and open space after her days in jail, and for a moment or two, they sat in silence, hand in hand, drinking in the sun's warmth, the beauty of summer flowers, the chirping of birds, the rustling of green leaves against an azure sky.
Neither of them commented on the others thin appearance, but Fiona knew her mother's shock was just as great as her own. However, that would now change with happiness and freedom in their grasp.
"Fiona—your hair—" Her mother laughed a little. "Faith, 'tis quite becoming. Giles didn't tell me until today that you had been ill. How fortunate that you could be here beneath his care."
Almost breathless with her happiness, Fiona held out her hand with the little sapphires sparkling in the sunshine. "Mother, Giles and I are going to be married."
Her mother gave her a swift kiss. "Ach, that he told me several days ago. I felt so happy. I knew then that everything would turn out right. Giles visited me each day and I know the jailors were more considerate, seeing I was his friend. Then Governor Phips also came to see me. Yes, indeed. He told me all about your visit to him, and proud I was to have such a brave and resourceful girl."
"I think Sir William would have stopped the witch hunt eventually, but I was afraid it might be too late to save you."
Her mother answered softly, "Alas, others were not as fortunate as I."
"Rebecca Nurse—"
"Aye, so tragic. Everyone cried when they heard that she was gone." She sighed deeply. "Now, daughter dear, I suggest we put the nightmares all behind us and talk of other things."
"If we can," Fiona interposed grimly. "Here come Mercy and Grace. Good heavens, would you look at how her skin cleared up?"
Grace seemed uneasy, hands twisting in her apron, but her face was without a blemish, smooth and young. Mercy, too, in white cap and apron, had taken care with her appearance. She cleared her throat. "If you can forgive us, we wish to make amends. Please come back and stay with us. Grace seconds me in this and—and—speak up, girl!"
Grace pushed back her bonnet, stammering a little. "L-Look, the ointment helped me after all. I—I am truly
sorry I accused you both."
"Are you indeed?" Fiona answered tightly.
Grace looked down and twisted the edge of her apron. "I told Mr. Hathorne that I had made a mistake when my face got better, but Aunt Ellen had already been sentenced. However, nothing happened to her, after all."
"I accept your apology," Fiona's mother said, unsmiling and grave. "Since 'tis wrong to hold resentment, I will try to find forgiveness in my heart."
"Someday," Fiona added.
Mercy looked from one to the other, almost groveling. "A lot of people in Salem made mistakes and now they are repenting—just as we are."
Grace nodded. "Folks say they were deluded by Satan. How could anyone help that?"
Fiona glared. "They could have used their brains to realize what a mistake the witch hunt was, instead of following like sheep and listening to little children—"
"Stop, Fiona." Her mother pressed Fiona's arm. "I thank you, Mercy, for an offer of a room, but the Harmons have said we can stay here until we go to Boston, where Giles and Fiona will spend a few days after they are wed."
"Wed!" A red tide swept Grace's face, but finally she giggled. "Even with that funny hair?"
With a frown, Mercy dug her daughter in the ribs. "I wish you both much happiness. We may not meet in the future. Grace and I are moving to my sister's house in Marblehead as soon as I can sell my home. The feeling against witch hunters is running strong in Salem, and it could be unpleasant if we stay."
With that they left, and soon Giles came out the door with his mother. "Your room awaits you, Ellen," Mrs. Harmon said. "Perhaps you'd like a rest now until the midday meal."
Thanking Mrs. Harmon and her son, Ellen went indoors, and when they were alone, Giles put his arms around Fiona. "I imagine you would like us to be married in Boston, instead of having the Reverend Parris perform the ceremony."
Fiona shuddered. "I agree completely."
"What a felicitous start for our new life together—complete harmony." Giles laughed, drawing her into his arms for a long, devoted kiss.
Returning it with all her heart, Fiona knew that from now on, they would look only to the future, cherishing each happy hour for the rest of their lives.
And today was only the beginning.
Epilogue
Yes, there really was a time when a handful of children decided the fate of an entire community. In 1692, Salem was ready and willing to believe that Satan had selected their town for punishment. There was no other way to account for all the recent trials and tribulations: floods, fires, disease, plagues of locusts, crop failures, more infants dying than ever before.
The witch hunt started when a new minister came to town. Samuel Parris was a humorless, rabid zealot who had been a failure in his other parishes. In Salem, he was determined to make good and ruled his daughter, Betty, and adopted niece, Abigail, with an iron hand so he could hold them up as paragons to the community.
However, during a particularly dull and icy winter, the girls rebelled and started sneaking in friends to have their slave, Tituba, entertain them. She had come from the West Indies, supposedly the daughter of a witch doctor. The stories Tituba told, the songs and dances, fortunes read from tarot cards, and perhaps some hypnotism—all proved fascinating.
The group that met when the parents were away increased to include several other teenaged girls: Ann Putnam, 12, Elizabeth Booth, 16, Suzanne Sheldon, 18, Elizabeth Hubbard, 18, Mercy Lewis, 19, and Mary Wolcott, 16.
At last the inevitable occurred: the girls were caught. Reverend Parris roared with rage, saying they all would be put into the stocks and whipped.
His daughter and his niece cried out, "We are not guilty of wrongdoing. Tituba bewitched us!" To prove it, they howled like dogs, refused to eat, and tried to throw themselves into the fireplace. Several doctors came and could find nothing physically wrong. At last they decided it must be true. The girls had been bewitched!
Tituba was taken off to jail, swearing her innocence. Most of the people, appalled and frightened, believed she was a witch. Only a few wondered if the girls were lying to save themselves from punishment. On hearing this, the group banded together, all acting as though beneath a "crazy spell" and crying out that other witches dwelt in Salem and were afflicting them. Naturally, this included anyone who doubted the girls' bewitchment.
A terrible conflagration swept the town. Hysteria became rampant, and "witchcraft" was on every tongue, suspicion in every eye. It wasn't long before the jails were jammed with suspects. The trials made the most exciting break that the repressed Puritans had ever known. (Real court transcripts have been used in my book relating to the trials of Sarah Good and Rebecca Nurse.)
Jonathan Corwin and John Hathorne were the two examining magistrates, and an interesting sidelight is that the family of John Hathorne later changed the spelling of their name so they wouldn't be associated with the hated prosecutor. His most famous descendant was Nathaniel Hawthorne, author of The Scarlet Letter, written in 1850, one of the greatest novels ever written in America. It tells a story of seduction and deception in Puritan days. He also wrote The House of the Seven Gables, a place which can still be visited in Salem, complete with a secret staircase.
There are several authentic characters in my book. The history of William Phips is exactly as narrated. He was a most colorful, adventurous individual, and the treasure he discovered was a real phenomenon for any day and age. He became convinced that the witch trials were a mockery when the "afflicted girls" overreached themselves and cried out upon his wife, Mary, after she had signed a pardon for one of the accused witches. Phips dismissed fifty cases for lack of legality and then received permission from the Crown to pardon all who were left in jail. By that time, two hundred people had been accused, nineteen people hanged, and one man pressed to death with heaped-up stones while still protesting his innocence so that his heirs would not be impoverished, as the estates of confessed witches were forfeited to the Crown.
After the year-long horror, many people had become weary of and sickened by the witch hunt, and when it ended in 1693, the town quickly came to its senses. The jurors circulated a petition in which they admitted they "were not capable to understand nor to withstand the mysterious delusion of the powers of darkness." They humbly begged forgiveness of everyone who had been harmed by their actions. The judge, Samuel Sewall, also offered a paper, to be read in church, in which he pleaded for forgiveness. In 1697, January 14, a fast day, was observed by the entire colony.
The parishioners demanded that Samuel Parris resign, and bitterly he acquiesced. The insurrection against him was led by Rebecca Nurse's children.
Tituba was freed by a new master, since Parris refused to take her back and let her wait in jail for a year, long after others had had their court costs paid and were set free.
The central part of Salem, trying to forget its shame, changed its name to Danvers in 1752. A long time later, tourists came to view Rebecca Nurse's house on Pine Street, preserved by her descendants. The house of "witch" Sarah Osburne remains on Maple Street, a big, stout dwelling, partially rebuilt. The curious can gaze at Gallows Hill, where one gaunt tree stands against the sky. Rebecca Nurse was first buried there in an unhallowed grave, but her sons came back in the dead of night and removed her body to their farm.
After William Phips disbanded the witch trials, the whole hysteria collapsed, including the mouthing of the so-called "afflicted girls." The only one to repent publicly was Ann Putnam, who confessed in church that she had erred and begged forgiveness. Her mother, who had denounced Rebecca Nurse, became seriously ill, and in 1699, both of Ann's parents died. She was left to care for several children and her health declined. Wracked by guilt, she died ten years later.
Reverend Parris died at Sudbury in 1720. His wife had died when he left Salem Village. Daughter Betty married in Concord at age 27.
In 1709, a group of twenty-one accused witches and the children of those who died demanded that the general court pay for their
unnecessary suffering and clear their names. A small sum was paid, about fifty pounds to each.
In 1953, Arthur Miller, a Pulitzer Prize winning author, wrote a play called The Crucible pertaining to the Salem witch hunt. It is still often performed on the stage and has a strong denunciation of bigotry. Miller said he had a "sleepless social conscience," and nowhere is it more evident than in The Crucible.
In 1957, perhaps influenced by this play, the Massachusetts legislature passed a resolution stating that the court's actions in 1692 "attaches no disgrace to any descendant of those accused witches."
For such an important historical event as the Salem witch hunt, not a great deal of information has been preserved, perhaps due to the shame of the whole colony. Whatever the reason, there is no denying history, and the horrible event will stand forever as a warning of the awesome power and destruction brought on by ignorance, fear, and bigotry.
No one was ever again tried for witchcraft in America.
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