by Don Dewey
She was at the general store in Salem one day, with its plank floors and stacks of merchandise. It was the only place to obtain supplies and foodstuffs, and so was frequented by the entire population of the town. In that quaint and necessary place, one simple, helpful action triggered her demise. A child, a young lady actually, the daughter of the other Parker, Alice, was running loudly through the store. That wasn’t done either, even though she was a child. Alice had a terrible time controlling her daughter, and realized too late, as parents often do, that she was getting out of control.
Mary (Ruby) had a strange weakness for the problems and sorrows of young girls. Her own daughters had never received their due from their fathers, and she’d never been able to make the difference in their young lives. Now she watched this child be a child, expending energy just to use it up, and she smiled. She also thought she’d do this child a favor and teach her that the ways of this community, this small culture, were not the only ones she needed to learn. She wanted to somehow introduce this child to the wider world.
When she ran by Mary, she tripped and fell on her face. Mary pulled her foot back out of the narrow wooden planked aisle, and with a skillful toss of her left hand, unseen by anyone, she flipped a basket of roots, very smelly roots with earth still on them, directly onto Sarah’s face. The young girl lay there, smelled the acrid roots, and jumped up screaming. Mary caught her arm in a steel grip and said quietly, “Hush. You’re in trouble already. Do you want it to be worse? Here comes your mother.”
Sarah was brushing roots and dirt off of herself, shaking her long dress, and looking fearfully at her approaching mother. “I didn’t do anything Mother.” She spoke so quickly she stumbled over the words.
Alice, her mother, very embarrassed by her daughter’s actions, spoke first to Mary. “I am so sorry, Ma’am. She’s just a child, and I hope she didn’t bump you or frighten you.” Turning her attention to Sarah, she said in a stern voice, “Young lady, out! You cannot be acting like this in here.”
Mary stepped in very smoothly. “Your name, child?”
Sarah looked down, but knew she had to answer this adult she’d blundered into. “Sarah.” Her voice was tiny and fear trembled in it like a palsy.
“Do you have something to say to me?”
“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.” It tore at Mary’s heart that the child spoke in that fearful, trembly voice.
“For what?” Mary demanded.
“For, uh, for…” Sarah stumbled because she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t think she’d hit this lady, and she certainly didn’t think she’d knocked over the roots. She didn’t know what she thought.
“For what, indeed!” continued Mary. In her mind’s eye, long ago in Crete, she saw a small child named Ruby run from the harsh punishment inflicted by a brute of a man, after she had snagged a piece of fruit, sure he hadn’t seen her. She had deserved some punishment, she supposed, but not what she received. And this child had done nothing but be a child. “Did you strike me?” She waited for an answer.
“No ma’am.” Her voice was so timid as to be hard to hear.
“Did you hit the roots and tip them?” she pressed.
“No ma’am,” little Sarah said again.
“Then for what are you sorry, child?” Mary asked gently.
Alice stepped in then. She wanted to get her overly active child out of there as soon as she possibly could. “Ma’am, she said she was sorry. Please, let us leave.”
Mary held her ground. “No. This child was frightened enough to be sorry for something she hadn’t even done. This town has that effect on people. She shouldn’t be sorry for doing nothing wrong!”
The man running the store came up to them and added his tupence. “She ought not to be running in my place. It’s not right for a child to be underfoot like that. She should be sorry.”
“Nonsense!” Mary made the pronouncement with enough tart in it to redden the man’s face. “Don’t be stupid, sir. She was being a child. Children run. It’s as simple as that. I tossed the roots. She needed to learn to not fear when she’s in the right.”
“Well then, you owe for the...”
“Of course. Put it on my bill, and I’ll pay you when I come in next. Mind you, I know their worth; charge me no more.”
Alice was sighing with relief as she trundled Sarah out of the store.
Outside the women stopped to talk. “Thank you for clearing Sarah. She is rambunctious, but a good girl.”
Mary gave both Alice and Sarah a warm smile. “Tis a lesson we all need. Too many are afraid to simply live. We shy away from anything which even smacks of possible taint. Sarah did nothing wrong.”
They agreed to disagree, and continued to chat for a long while, enjoying the freedom of their conversation. Mary was thinking they could become good friends over time, and she hadn’t had any friends in quite a long while.
***
To her amazement, Mary received a visit two days later from the vicar. His concern was that she’d demonstrated the ability to move objects with her mind, or more likely, with the aid of an unseen demon. Her response to him was less than cordial.
“Have you taken leave of your senses, sir? What are you talking about?”
“Well,” he said with a tinge of embarrassment, “the incident in the store two days past. Alice Parker and her daughter were there, and the shopkeeper. You admitted to tipping over a basket, yet the shopkeeper swears that you didn’t touch it.” The stern old man was not terribly comfortable with this issue, she was certain. His narrow chin quivered, and his cheeks were aflame. Looking down, he continued, “He didn’t formally accuse you, but he thought I should be aware of it.”
“Well, now you are,” quipped Mary. “And being made a fool of as well. Must you listen to people like that?”
“People like that are the town. Salem’s made up of people like that, wanting to make sure we’re righteous, and don’t fall into sin. It’s my duty to pursue it. So sorry if that causes you any distress.” He said with an exaggerated tone that made it clear that the vicar believed she was wrong about it all.
The following week Mary went to share the conversation with Alice. At tea she made her declaration. “The men who run this town are idiots!”
“Mayhap,” Alice agreed, “but they do run it. It ill behooves us to make waves. Best to just let it go and try to live in peace.”
“You mean to live as the men say we should live,” Mary said in a bitter tone. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. We’ll simply have to disagree. But Alice, what about your little girl Sarah? How can you let her accept such a terrible way of life? As a girl she may never have real freedom, or be able to direct her own life. Have you considered that?”
“Oh Mary, you’re a dreamer. The world will never be as you think it should be. Sarah’s best hope is to marry a man who will provide for her and give her a stable life and treat her well. We can expect no more.”
Mary reached across the table and took Alice’s hands in her own small ones. “I’ve daughters too, and I know they’ll never be what they might have been.” Tears welled up as she spoke, “They live in a world made for men, by men, and have little chance to use their skills and minds to their fullest potential. My own girls never understood that either, and I’m afraid back then I didn’t understand it completely myself.”
Alice pulled her hands away and patted Mary on the top of one hand. “You have a good heart Mary, but we’ll never live to see the world you see in your dreams. Leave Sarah to me to raise, please, and I’ll do my best.” She smiled a sad smile of the defeated who try to make the best of their bad situation.
Mary wiped her tears on the lace of her sleeve and nodded, realizing she could never get Alice to see what might have been. The smile Alice gave her wasn’t one of contentment and acceptance, but of resignation and hopelessness.
After she returned to her home she sat for a long time, starring out the window at the town, wondering about her daughters she would never see aga
in. Were they alive, were they safe, and were they happy? Someday she desperately wanted a child to raise; one who could know about her life and could live her own life without fear and abuse. Silently she sat and stared at nothing, tears running down her cheeks.
Chapter 13
Accusation
The very next week the vicar returned, puffed up and pious. He’d brought another man with him. “May we look about your home, Madam?”
“Why?” Mary asked with pointed bluntness, not particularly willing to let them inside.
“We have been asked by the city fathers to look around. Move aside please, and let us do our duty.” He pushed past her. She could easily have stopped this decrepit old man and his companion from entering her home, but thought better of it. She wasn’t completely unconcerned with consequences.
She stepped aside and lifted an arm to indicate they could enter. “What exactly are you looking for?”
As they continued their walk-through, the vicar spied some jars and containers which weren’t placed out in plain sight on the counter. “These, perhaps?” He said it with a lift in his tone, almost a “gotcha.”
“Those are salves and oils. I use them for stopping squeaks in doors and furniture and for softening calloused feet. For what reason would you be interested in them? Perhaps your feet need some relief? Or perhaps you just squeak.” She smiled as she wielded insults with finesse.
The vicar’s companion lifted lids and sniffed the jars. Nodding, he spoke to the vicar. “This is enough for me. I believe we can go now.”
“G’day, Madam. We’ll be going now.” The vicar said it with a self-satisfied tone of voice. She said nothing at all as they left, holding the door open, and frankly glad for their departure.
Within weeks the rumors were growing faster than the summer crops. Witches everywhere! Anything out of the ordinary was viewed with such suspicion that it could be accused as witchcraft. That possible accusation alone was enough to silence most people. The church and the law were stringent on this: witches mustn’t be suffered to spread sin amongst the righteous. Over a hundred accusations had been made. Finally the day came when Mary’s friend Alice was accused of souring the milk of her neighbor’s cow. Her daughter Sarah struck at the men who came to take her mother for imprisonment and trial, and so got herself added to the charge. Mary immediately went to the magistrate and complained. There was a fair number of people around when she accosted him, and it didn’t go well.
“Sir, how could that girl sour a cow’s milk? What a ridiculous charge. Her neighbor is a superstitious fool! To do such a thing is impossible.” Mary was flushed with anger.
“Hold your tongue, woman!” responded the magistrate. “You approve of her actions?”
“What actions? I tell you it’s impossible. That fool just wants to blame someone else for his troubles. I’ve never heard such rubbish...”
“Desist! Stop now or you shall be charged as well!” The angry magistrate had turned red faced.
“May I ask you a question, sir?” Mary asked with a new, seemingly subservient attitude.
Still upset, he was somewhat mollified by her change of tone. “Of course.”
“Just how would a person cause the milk, still in the cow as I understand it, to sour? I am sure I don’t know.” She said this with great sincerity in her tone.
“It’s simple,” explained the spiritually superior man. “One simply prays to Satan himself, and through his power the evil is accomplished.”
“Ah, so you know how to do it.” She looked about at the other people, all listening intently to their conversation. She knew she wasn’t liked. Her presence was only tolerated. “Do any of you know how to sour a cow’s milk? Anyone, please?” No one dared to answer, for fear of being accused. So her question was left hanging out there. She turned back to the magistrate. “Since you you’re the only one here who knows how to sour a cow’s milk, I suggest to us all that you should be tried for witchcraft. I certainly wouldn’t know how to do it, and these good people don’t know how to accomplish it, except that you’ve now explained how to all of us.”
With that accusation, the small crowd erupted. Accusations abounded against her, against Alice and Sarah, and against people Mary didn’t even know. The old magistrate was beside himself, clutching his chest and rasping as he breathed. Suddenly he dropped to his knees. Seeing him, and suspecting what was happening, she did the only thing she could do: she laid him back, ripped open his terribly tight coat and shirt, and massaged his chest, trying to calm him. “Breath deeply, and slowly. Concentrate on that - just breathe. Your heart is having trouble. Breathe with me.”
The crowd had grown, and now was watching silently as she worked. His breathing eased, and slowly his pasty pallor regained a bit of color.
“There. Much better. Your jacket was constricting your breathing and you were upset. You should be fine now.”
Slowly he got to his feet, clutched his open garments about himself as if to hold his dignity close, for which it was far too late. He stood there staring at her for too long. Anticipation was so ripe in the room that people found they were collectively holding their breath. He suddenly lifted his hand and pointed one boney finger at her. “Witch! Witch!” The crowd rushed around her and she feared they’d crush her or beat her to death. She knew she could die, but she hoped it wouldn’t be like this. The crowd pushed her to the main hall by simple force of numbers, where she was locked in a cell. The old man stood staring at her. “For your witchcraft you shall be hanged. Mark my words, witch! Your trial shall be quick.”
“You would say thus after I saved your life?” She was incredulous at the dense and twisted mind of the man.
“You used the arguments of Satan to trick me, and his talents to cure me. You’re of the devil, and shall be hanged for it. We found ointments and demonic enchantments in your home. You have condemned yourself!” He turned and stalked off with all the grace and ceremony as could be mustered by an emaciated old man, still beet red, with his garments disheveled, leaning on his walking stick for support as he hobbled away on his skinny legs.
“Fool,” she screamed after him. “You’d be dead except for me. All I did was help you breathe.”
He paused and turned back to her. “I shall continue breathing, but you shall not...” After a long pause, he added the one condemning word: “Witch! ”
Chapter 14
Conviction
The trials went on for two months. There were a few men arrested, but mostly women were the victims. Several were imprisoned and died while incarcerated. Others were indeed hung by the neck until dead. Alice and her daughter Sarah were accused, tried and convicted. The charges were ridiculous of course, but Mary ached for them; especially for young Sarah. During Mary’s trial her nimble mind almost got the better of her thick minded accusers. Her arguments were so logical that those in charge were hard pressed to respond intelligently. At one point when she was doing well, and had the proceedings turning in her favor, some young girls, among the accusers of Mary, Sarah and Alice, began writhing in the courtroom, pretending to be possessed. They made a real show of it, playing to the magistrate with their antics. One of them leaped to her feet and pointed to the rafters, claiming she saw Mary’s spirit there, watching them as she inflicted this pain on them. The testimonies and spirited acting of the girls served their purpose. Mary was convicted.
How can these girls find this amusing? They toy with people’s lives! In all of my years, all my identities, I’ve never been so cruel.
Chapter 15
Execution
Mary was in her cell when Alice and her daughter Sarah were hanged, and she cried out for the injustice of it. She was sure the gallows was positioned so close to the cells to add terror for those still on trial, and for those waiting their turn for the noose.
Alice and Sarah were hanged together. She sobbed when she heard the proclamation, and then could barely breathe as she heard the gallows rope hum as Alice’s body dropped and caugh
t, snapping her neck. Then she screamed aloud as young Sarah met the same fate. She envisioned the girl as one of her own daughters, now long since gone. Once again she experienced the pain of having a friend and a child wrenched from her. It caused her great anguish that she was never as close to her own children as they might have been. This wasn’t justice. This was worse than Crete. She was beside herself with anguish, anger and a renewed hatred for the men perpetrating this horror. She knew she could never forget or forgive this terrible thing, and suddenly she realized how much she had cared for young Sarah. Now it was too late; Sarah was dead, and Mary had unwittingly contributed to her death.
Mary was taken out when there was little in the way of a crowd. She had hidden some things on her person. She did it not for this specific incident, but for whatever came up. She’d lived many lives as Ruby, and knew her circumstances could change in a heartbeat. She had a small but finely honed throwing star sewn into her long dress, ratty now by way of imprisonment, soilage and the inability to change into clean garments. She was certainly looking the part of a witch or a hag as they took her out for her hanging. Her hair was bedraggled, her face dirty, her clothing disarrayed and filthy. But she was also ready.
“What would happen to you if I escaped?” she asked the man leading her out.
“You won’t.”
She pressed him. “But what if?”
“Witches have disappeared before. It would’ve happened again,” he said with a leer. There was no one else about, and he pressed her body, dirt and smell and all, up against the wall and kissed her, saying, “I guess it won’t hurt you to give me some fun before they stretch your neck.”
