Susannah Morrow

by Megan Chance

  Finally he put aside the paper I’d signed and looked up at me. “These words are true, as you know them?”

  I nodded. “Aye. I’ve written no lies.”

  “When did your sister come to this place?”

  “October twenty-second.”

  “You remember it well,” Corwin said in surprise.

  “’Twas the night my youngest daughter was born,” I told him bitterly. “The night my wife died in childbed. I’m not likely to forget it soon.”

  “She’s your own family.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “I’m afraid, with my wife’s death, I was not so vigilant as I should have been. Satan found an open door—no one is more ashamed of that than I. I have prayed for forgiveness. I have done my best to strengthen my family against his onslaught. Had I been successful…there would be no need to come to you now.”

  Corwin watched me steadily. “Your own daughter is much besieged.”

  “Aye. My regret is that she warned me about Susannah, and I didn’t listen. I could not believe—”

  “’Twould have been difficult, I think,” Corwin said, sitting up and handing the paper I’d dictated back to Ezekiel Cheever. “Judith was so good. To believe ill of her sister…”

  I said nothing to this. I thought of all the stories my wife had told me, all the reasons I should have known what Susannah was from the beginning. The truth was, I had thought ill of her before I even knew her. ’Twas another thing I could not explain, because to explain it would reveal how driven I was by my passions, how Susannah had used such a terrible weakness—my carnal nature—against me.

  “You are not the only one to speak out against her,” Corwin said. “There has been other testimony since yesterday.”

  That surprised me. “Has there been? Who?”

  Corwin shrugged. “There were many witnesses who saw her use magical chants to calm a child during a baptism. Another man has come forward with a spectral visitation similar to yours. A woman claimed her child went into convulsions and died soon after your sister passed by. There are other tales as well. I cannot afford to dismiss anything now, not with circumstances as they are. We wait only to see if the girls continue to call out against her.”

  “And then?”

  Corwin met my gaze steadily. “If all continues as I expect, we will issue the arrest warrant tomorrow.”

  I rose, mumbling my thanks.

  “Thank you for coming forward, Goodman Fowler,” Corwin called after me. “We shall see that the Devil finds no reason to tarry in Salem Village.”

  Aye, ’twas what we were doing, I knew. Providing fallow ground for the Devil’s seeds.

  “You did the right thing,” Sam assured me as we went outside. “You had no choice. If she is a witch, ’tis best to reveal her now, before she can do more damage.”

  I had no words as he left me. I thought I was heading toward home, but then I found myself going a different direction, deeper into the village, to Ingersoll’s.

  There were men there, sitting at tables and drinking beer. The smell of stew and fire smoke was deep and heavy. When Sarah saw me, she came hurrying over.

  “Charity’s been asking after you,” she told me in a low voice. “I heard they’ve taken Susannah over to Putnam’s today. She heard it as well; ’tis no keeping her from news here.”

  I nodded. “I did not expect to.”

  “Tom wanted Charity there, but I said he’d have to take it up with you.”

  “I’m grateful for that,” I said, though it hardly seemed to matter now, not given where I’d just been, what I’d done. “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs.”

  I hurried past her, up the stairs, back to the little storage room where I’d left Charity only yesterday—years ago now, it seemed. I knocked upon the closed door and heard the shuffling of her feet, and then she was peering at me through the crack, my blue-eyed, pallid daughter.

  “Father,” she said, and there was surprise in her voice—and relief, genuine pleasure. “Oh, Father.”

  She opened the door fully and came into my arms; I was so undone by her greeting and my own emptiness that I held her tight. “How do you, child?”

  She pulled away, her expression miserable. “I am not well.”

  I took her shoulders and held her so she could not do otherwise than meet my eyes. “I went to the magistrates today. I testified against your aunt. Jonathan Corwin has told me they will issue an arrest warrant for her tomorrow. She will no longer torment you, Charity. She cannot hurt you again.”

  Tears came into her eyes, a pure and overwhelming relief. ’Twas then I realized why I was here, what I wanted from my daughter. I was looking for redemption, for forgiveness. T’was in her eyes now, a light that filled my heart, a supreme comfort. Whatever doubts I’d harbored fled; to see Charity’s hope at my allegiance was as the greatest restorative.

  She came again into my arms, throwing her hands around my neck, holding me close. I felt her joy and triumph—I had not seen those things in my daughter for so long that now the memory of how I loved them came sweetly back to me. I had not known how much I had missed them.

  Then I heard her whisper against my ear, “Make sure they chain her, Father. Their specters can escape if they are not chained.” And the sweetness of her joy fled in my sudden realization of what we’d done, of what it meant.

  Susannah had not returned when I fetched Jude from Hannah’s and came home. It had begun to sleet, and ’twas nearly dark before I heard the latch turn at the door. Susannah hurried inside, her blue cloak so wet ’twas nearly black, her skin pink from cold, her hands red when she peeled off her gloves. There was no sign of Noyes behind her, and I had heard no horse bring her up the path—nor did I hear one leave.

  She was sober and quiet. I did not need to ask her what had happened; I knew by the look on her face what her visit to Putnam’s had been like. She seemed shaken and fearful, and I, with my knowledge of what would likely happen on the morrow, could not stay in the room with her. Hastily I put Jude to bed and curled up myself on Charity’s feather bed, which had lately held Susannah too. My dreams were dark and lingering, and I woke exhausted and anxious.

  They came for Susannah in the late morning. Jude and I were at the table, while Susannah chopped soaked cod for dinner. Susannah had been preoccupied and silent all morning long, her movements hurried and short. At the sound of the knock, she dropped the knife. It clattered to the hearth, and she let it lie. She put her hands on the board and bent her head. I saw her expectation in the stiff set of her shoulders—she knew what this was.

  I rose and went to the door, and though I had expected it to be the warrant for her arrest, when I saw George Locker—one of the constables—standing at the door, I was startled anyway.

  “George,” I said. “Good morning.”

  “Not so good, I’m afraid.” He handed me the paper that held the order, and I read it quickly:

  Whereas Messers. John Londer, Lucas Fowler, Thomas Putnam, and Samuel and Sarah Shattuck of Salem Village in the County of Essex, personally appeared before us and made complaint on behalf of Their Majesties against Susannah Morrow, for suspicion of witchcraft by her committed, and thereby much injury done by Mary Walcott, Charity Fowler, Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam, Jr., and Mercy Lewis, all of Salem Village, contrary to the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady William and Mary, King and Queen of England, etc.—You are therefore in Their Majesties’ names hereby required to apprehend and bring before us the said Susannah Morrow about eleven of the clock to the meetinghouse in Salem Village, and there to be examined, and hereof you are not to fail at your peril.

  It was signed by John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin. ’Twas exactly as I’d imagined it would be, except for the inclusion of my name, which startled me, so that George Locker said again, “I am sorry, Lucas, but I must insist—”

  Dutifully I stood back. Susannah had turned, and she was pale, though she faced us with a quiet equanimity that made me feel my name on
that paper as if it were burned there. George Locker pushed past me in a disconcerting jangling of metal.

  “’Tis a warrant for my arrest, is it not?” Susannah asked.

  I held out the paper. “I—everything seems in order. ’Tis naught I can do—”

  “And naught you would do, in any case,” she said, her voice low as a whisper. Her words settled on me uneasily, though I should not have cared. Her punishment was just; I had only followed God’s orders in making sure ’twas carried out.

  George pushed back his cloak and reached for something. Black iron, chains—’twas a moment before I realized they were manacles.

  “My God,” Susannah murmured. It seemed her knees buckled for a moment; then she gained composure.

  “Father?” Jude asked from the table. Her voice was high and plaintive. “Father, what is happening?”

  “’Tis nothing, Jude,” I said.

  Jude stood, frowning in worry. “Auntie—”

  Susannah smiled, though it seemed an effort. “’Tis nothing to fear, Jude. I’ll go with the constable. ’Twill only be a few days, you’ll see.”

  “I’ll explain it to you later,” I told my daughter.

  Jude would have none of me. Her face was pinched and white. She did not take her eyes from Susannah. “You said you would not leave me.”

  “And I shall not. I shall not.”

  Jude began to cry. I went to her and pulled her tight against me. When George put the chains on Susannah, Jude gasped, and I whispered a prayer in her ear. She did not mind me. She went still as George opened the door to take her aunt away.

  George said, “You’re needed at the meetinghouse now, Lucas.”

  Then they were gone.

  “Where have they taken her?” Jude asked.

  “We must pray ’tis to her redemption,” I said.

  Jude jerked from me. “She is not a witch,” she said, and ran to the door before I could stop her, wrenching it open. There was only rain beyond, gray and cold; they had already disappeared down the path, though the rattle of Susannah’s chains still echoed, a mournful, eerie sound.

  Chapter 30

  I TOOK JUDE TO THE PENNEYS’ AND RAN AS QUICKLY AS I COULD INTO the village. Already the crowd had gathered, with members of the village militia lined up before the door to guard the way. Susannah and Locker were not yet here, though I could not have beat them; I assumed they held her somewhere until the girls could be gathered, and just as I had the thought, I looked up to see them led over from Ingersoll’s. I searched the group until I found my daughter, who looked calm and at peace. Though I stood at the doorway, she did not seem to see me as Thomas Putnam and his brother took them inside. I followed, pushing my way to the bench behind where they were seated. Charity turned as if she sensed my presence.

  “Do not be afraid, child,” I reassured her. “All will soon be well.”

  ’Twas then I heard the whisper starting from the back, the unmistakable sound of the accused being brought to the meetinghouse, and Charity cried out, leaping from her bench and falling to her knees along with the other girls. I grabbed her, holding her still, while Thomas Putnam did the same for his daughter, and my neighbors came forward to help some of the others. Charity struggled mightily in my arms. ’Twas nothing but sound and chaos, and through it all, I saw the top of Susannah’s head as Locker led her down the aisle; I heard the clank of those chains.

  They brought her to the front, and she turned to look at the girls. Her gaze went from one to the other, finally lighting on Charity…then looking past her. To me.

  She moved toward me, crying out, “Lucas—”

  Locker yanked on the chain, and she stumbled back; whatever other words she’d meant to say died in her throat. The sound of my name lingered in my ears. Charity’s fingers curled like claws around my arm.

  “Turn her away from them!” Corwin shouted from the magistrates’ table, and Locker obliged, roughly turning Susannah from the girls, pushing her to the makeshift bar of justice.

  Joseph Herrick, one of the other constables, came rushing up to stand on her other side, penning her in. “Do not look at them!” he shouted at her when she tried to turn back again. “Keep your eyes away.” He put her hands on the bar. She stood facing the judges, her eyes directly on them, never glancing to the chaos of the girls.

  The girls did not cease their afflictions. The crowd was unruly and loud; Susannah was the stillest person in the room.

  John Hathorne went to stand before her. The crowd hushed, and Susannah glanced up as if she’d just realized Hathorne was there.

  The crowd gasped. Someone said, “Dear Lord, she smiled!” and I saw Susannah’s confusion, the way she looked to us as if searching for her error. Hathorne, too, seemed shaken, but only for a moment. Then he stepped closer, and his words were loud and ringing, unaffected by the vibrant presence of her.

  “Susannah Morrow, you here stand charged with sundry acts of witchcraft. The afflicted persons are even now dreadfully affected by you.”

  “I am innocent,” Susannah said in a low voice. “I have done no witchcraft.”

  Hathorne turned to the girls. “Look upon this woman and see if she be the one who has been hurting you.”

  Mary Walcott shouted out, “Aye! ’Tis her! ’Tis her!”

  Charity shoved against my arms. “Oh, Aunt, why do you torture me so!”

  Hathorne said, “What do you say now that they charge you to your face?”

  “I have never hurt them,” Susannah told him. “I barely know them.”

  “You barely know them? You barely know your own niece? Your sister’s child?”

  “Oh, aye.” She lifted her hand weakly, and the girls went suddenly still, each lifting a hand as well. ’Twas an affliction too horrifying to stand, as if they were mere puppets, controlled by Susannah’s strings. The crowd quieted; every eye was on the girls as Susannah said, “Of course I know Charity. I love her as if she were my own. I have never hurt her.”

  “’Tis not what she says.”

  “’Tis her imagination then. I have never intended to hurt her.”

  “What contract have you made with the Devil?”

  Susannah shook her head. As if pulled by a single string, each girl shook her head.

  “Dear God!” someone called out. “What horror is this?”

  Susannah paused. She tried to turn her head farther, to look at the girls, but Herrick stepped up closer, and she frowned and turned back to Hathorne.

  “What contract have you made with Satan?” Hathorne pressed.

  “None. I have made no contract with him.”

  “She lies!” young Annie Putnam called out. “She calls the Devil her God!”

  Mary Walcott shouted, “She asked me to sign the Devil’s book! She took my hand and said if I did not, she would cut it off!”

  “It is not true,” Susannah said, but the other voices drowned her out. She quieted, biting her lip.

  “Look how she bites her lip!” Charity screamed. She jerked out her arm, which held the proof, a bite mark so pronounced that I was amazed. How had the specter done this, when I was holding her so tightly? “She is biting me! She bites me! Owww! Look at this! Look at this!”

  “And me!” Elizabeth Hubbard, the doctor’s niece, leaped up.

  “And me!”

  Hathorne turned away in concern, walking to where we stood. He motioned to me to release my daughter. When I did, Charity and Elizabeth Hubbard and Mary Walcott ran up to the magistrates’ table, where they pushed in between Ezekiel Cheever, who wrote feverishly, and Jonathan Corwin. The crowd was silent as Corwin looked them over.

  “There are bite marks,” he said grimly to Hathorne. “These poor children have been bitten.”

  “No,” Susannah said. At the desk, Charity and her friends fell into convulsions. Susannah lifted her hand as if to halt them, and they each lifted a hand, even from where they lay on the floor, as if forced to the movement.

  “Dear God, stop her!” Tom Pu
tnam called out in anguish. “Hold her still!”

  Joseph Herrick grabbed Susannah’s hand, and forced it again to the bar. Locker leaned over to whisper something in Hathorne’s ear, and the magistrate nodded sternly and went over to Susannah again.

  “How came it that when you passed the meetinghouse this hour a board fell?”

  She looked confused. “I…I don’t know. ’Twas loose, I think.”

  He waved to Locker, who stood smugly by. “This witness says ’twas solid.”

  “I have no power to affect buildings,” she said.

  “What power do you have?”

  “None. I have no power.”

  Hathorne’s voice rose. “What contract have you with the Devil?”

  “I’ve made no contract with him.”

  “She lies!” Charity called out. She rose to her knees. “She brought the Devil into our house! She bade me lie to my father—not once, but many times!”

  The words she said brought such a misery into my soul I could hardly stand to hear them. The room now was charged with my failure, with the true horror of what I had allowed to happen to my family. Tom Putnam looked at me, a measuring glance that was at once pitying and satisfied, and I looked away, wishing this was over, wishing Susannah were gone. Locked far away, someplace where I might never see her.

  “What say you to all this you are charged with?” Hathorne asked Susannah. “Can you not find it in your heart to tell the truth?”

  “I do tell the truth.”

  Hathorne turned to look at my daughter. “What say you, Charity Fowler? What testimony do you make against your aunt? What is the truth?”

  At the question, Susannah’s fingers gripped the back of the chair so hard her knuckles stood out in clear relief.

  Charity stood. She was calm, and her voice was even, almost a recitation, as if she had the words from another place. She did not look at me, or her aunt, but only at Hathorne. “She knows spells. She taught them to my sister, to make her sewing neat, to make the butter come. She has tormented me in visions. She bade me join the Devil. She followed me where I went and told me to lie to my father. I have seen her with the black man—there he is now, beside her! Oh, look how he whispers in her ear!”