“Try, child, try,” the reverend begged.
“His lips form a letter. I cannot hear the word. Wha…wha.”
“Witch,” the crowd cried, a contagion of fear sweeping them.
Prudence English collapsed.
The major, acting as beadle, secured English behind the heavy oak door of the jail. At Reverend Purge’s insistence, she was also chained to prevent the Devil from rescuing his servant.
* * *
—
The next day, the evidence mounted. Witch cakes were prepared, the rye flour mixed with Prudence English’s urine, and fed to three dogs. Each animal became possessed, barking wildly at invisible foes while stumbling as if lame. Eden had been carried to Goody Towns’s home and put to bed. Upon awakening, she claimed no memory of her declarations. This was of little consequence, as the entire community had witnessed her spectral testimony.
Finally, Bethuna came forward and revealed that upon visiting the English household, she had heard Prudence English mumbling unrecognizable words while standing over a figurine made of sticks and dried grass. Prudence threw the homemade doll into the fire and cackled. The sight had caused Bethuna to run back to the Purge household. The episode had been so frightening, so un-Christian, that Bethuna had blotted the scene from her memory until Reverend Purge’s interview with her brought it back in vivid detail.
Prudence English sat quietly. As each damning bit of evidence fell, her face remained blank. The reports, the congregants whispered, told her nothing she did not already know. And so, it came as no surprise that when Reverend Purge called upon her to confess, she admitted being in league with the Devil, her tone flat, as if she were reciting the mixing instructions for her prized cakes.
At the end of the evidence, the reverend and the beadle met briefly before announcing that Prudence L’Anglais would be bound over to the Court of Oyer and Terminer on the charge of witchcraft. Major Dan returned her to jail, and every citizen of Eastham went to their house feeling a little more secure. A witch had been rooted out of town, and the only casualty had been her own husband.
“What say you, Sanaa?” Samuel asked when they were safely shuttered in his home, in front of the fireplace. The blustery wind muted their voices from anyone who might be outside.
“I am troubled, Samuel.”
“Witches are a troubling thing.”
She leaned closer to him, her coif nearly resting against his shoulder. “In Barbados, we accept de witches. Dey are part of de world around us, like angels. We do not fear dem, but rather we respect dem.”
Samuel looked to the door and windows.
“We do not see dem acting like dis.”
“But Goody English confessed,” Samuel reminded her.
“As would we all if we had been treated so.”
Samuel stared at the dancing flames. He steepled his index fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I believe you are correct,” he said finally.
“As constable, you can stop dis.”
“Witchcraft is both a religious and civil crime,” he answered. “I cannot act alone.”
Her hickory-colored eyes watched him.
Samuel stared back into the fire, thinking. Then, he slapped his thigh with his hand. “We must move quickly, before the trial condemns her. I will go to the jail tomorrow and interview her and then the child, Eden.”
“Both Prudence English and Eden feel alone,” Sanaa said. “Dey may not speak freely to a man.” Here, she paused momentarily. “Let dem speak wit another of de outsiders in dis community. Dey will be fah mo’ likely to speak de truth.”
“And what shall I do?”
“Master Samuel, discover who did do dis murder. Let Sanaa discover who did not.”
His lips spread into a small smile. “Then dat is what we shall do.”
She smiled back.
* * *
—
Early the next morning, beneath a sullen sky, Samuel knocked at the reverend’s house. Elizabeth, Purge’s wife, opened the door and, wordlessly, pointed to the table. The minister, still in his nightshirt, sat yawning and rubbing his eyes. Bethuna moved slowly about the room. Even the children seemed subdued.
“It has been a long few days, Reverend,” Samuel began.
“You speak truly,” he replied. “The trial shall be soon. Then we will be rid of this scourge.”
“Assuming Goody English be found guilty.”
Purge’s eyes flared for a moment before recovering. “Of course.”
“This entire affair saddens our community.”
Reverend Purge nodded.
“I should like to propose a contest to lift the village’s spirits.”
The reverend raised an eyebrow.
“Goody English has been recognized as Eastham’s finest baker. I thought a cake competition would give thy flock something else upon which to focus.”
“Contests lead to pride, and pride is a sin,” the reverend reminded.
“Though it would reveal the premier baker when she walks to the gallows.”
“Assuming Goody English be found guilty.”
“Assuming so, Reverend.”
Reverend Purge drummed the table with his fingers. “An excellent idea. We need a distraction, and this weather proves too cold for anything out of doors.”
“As the community’s leader, the townsfolk will look to you, Reverend. Might you send Bethuna down to assist Sanaa in preparing and delivering competition packages?”
The reverend cocked his head.
“Common ingredients make the contest fair. They reveal the superior hands.”
The reverend nodded. “Bethuna, please go to Master Samuel’s house and assist Sanaa.”
The slave nodded and began wrapping herself.
“Exactly what we need,” the reverend said, his face pleased.
“I recommend you rest, Reverend. I will spread word of the contest,” Samuel said.
Samuel walked along a trod footpath. Stepping over the reverend’s fence, he entered onto the English property. The small parcel had few trees to serve as a windbreak. The cold bit through Samuel’s cape. He shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, fingering the smooth silver coins he carried. Samuel tried to distract himself by remembering the land in springtime, when the absence of shade made the grass grow thick and lush. It did not work. Instead, he ducked his head and pressed forward.
He knocked at the Bennetts’ door. Timothy answered and ushered him inside. Samuel grasped Timothy’s hand in greeting, but the young man quickly pulled away. Samuel put his palm beneath his cape and touched his forearm.
“I apologize for the chill of my handshake. Is your mother here?”
Goodwife Bennett appeared from the back room. She wore a simple brown dress of fine material held out by petticoats.
“Mistress Bennett, I bring news.”
“Not more witches?”
“No, Mistress, the reverend has called for a cake-baking contest to distract our minds from the horrible situation of these last few days.”
Samuel saw her tongue delicately touch her top lip. She unconsciously glanced at the new copper pots hanging near the fireplace. Whisperings said that Mistress Bennett always had considered herself a superior baker to Prudence.
“The reverend is wise. This challenge may be exactly what the community requires.”
Asking her to spread word about the contest, Samuel took his leave. He walked through the cold morning air toward Major Dan’s house. He caught up with the man dragging his leg through the snow.
“Good morrow, Major,” Samuel said.
“Little good is to be had,” he replied. “I have returned from the prisoner.”
“Troubles?” Samuel asked.
“The reverend insists I call her L’Anglais, but by any name, the same. She si
ts, does not quarrel, barely lifts a finger. She does not eat. Chaining her like a bear in a pit seems unnecessary.”
“Perhaps Sanaa may persuade her to take food. It would not do to have her die before she might be hanged.”
The major consented. Samuel then stretched his legs, heading toward Widow Glower’s small house.
Knocking, he announced his arrival. “Widow Glower, this is Sam—”
“Go away!” she screamed.
Removing his hat, Samuel put his ear to the frozen wooden door. Inside, he could hear only sobbing. Unsure of what to say, he returned home and waited for Sanaa. Later that afternoon, she accompanied him back across the frozen ground to the Glower house.
They discussed their separate journeys.
“I spoke wit Eden,” she reported. “She cries mightily at de thought dat she named her mother. No memory has she. Prudence English has no will left. De news of her husband along wit de chains and de lonely have broken her. She’d confess to being Queen Mary.”
“Watching her in the meetinghouse, I suspected as much,” Samuel said.
“Bethuna fears de reverend. She will say what she thinks makes him happy.”
“And she condemns a woman for it.”
“She de slave. She is far from home with no place to go.”
Samuel heard the implicit accusation.
“And I fear he beats her,” Sanaa continued.
They had arrived at the Glower house.
Samuel raised his hand to knock but Sanaa stayed it with a finger. He stepped back. “Widda Glower,” she shouted. “Dis is Sanaa, wit a message. You all right in dere, Widda Glower?”
Nothing happened. Samuel stepped forward, prepared to pound upon the door when it cracked open.
“Who’s there?” the voice inside asked.
“Sanaa. I’m here wit my master Samuel.”
The door pushed open a bit wider.
They stepped inside and Widow Glower quickly shut the door.
Samuel and Sanaa looked at her wordlessly. She had handkerchiefs stuffed in both ears, the tails drooped.
“Why have you come?” the widow shouted.
“We had concerns about your welfare,” Samuel said.
The old lady did not reply.
Sanaa reached forward slowly with her hand and pulled the handkerchiefs free. She handed them to Widow Glower. “We fear dat you do not fare so good,” Sanaa said, remaining close to the woman.
The widow’s eyes flicked from Samuel to the ground and back.
“You may trust dis one,” Sanaa said. “He will tell no tales.”
Glower’s eyes flicked back to Samuel.
“The Devil comes for me,” she said and then shivered. “He wants to put my name into his book.”
“Why do you think dis way?”
“He lurks outside. I have smelled his brimstone, heard his unholy hammer. I have seen the flickering dance of his minions. He comes for me, I know it. Earlier today, he knocked at my door, called me by name, introduced himself, polite as could be. ‘Widow Glower, this is Satan,’ he said. I heard him with mine own ears.”
Sanaa convinced her to take some food and to rest, promising to pray and to make a holy mark upon the door. The exhausted woman fell into a deep sleep before they had crossed the threshold.
Leaving the Glower house, they passed by the Bennetts’ small thatched-roof cowshed. The thick fireplace and sturdy bellows could readily be seen at the backside of the stall. Makes sense, Samuel thought, to keep the smithy out here and not at the house, where an errant ember would endanger the entire community. Samuel wished they were doing some forging now, for he dearly would have loved to feel the heat off the forge. As they passed, he placed his hand against the thick bricks and felt, at least in his mind, the remembered warmth.
Samuel and Sanaa walked along, neither speaking. Samuel, his arms tucked inside his cape, fondled the smooth coins inside the pocket of his doublet. He sought to untangle the twisted thoughts spinning inside his head.
Sanaa turned to him nearly as soon as they entered his house. “De governor will convene de Court of Oyer and Terminer de day after tomorrow. She will be hanged unless we act.”
“Pointing out difficulties with the evidence will not change the outcome. It will only make the citizens of this town angry at us. There is a dead man who must be accounted for. If we cannot give them another, we must remain quiet for our own sakes.”
“But—” Sanaa began.
“No more,” Samuel said. “I forbid it. We will consider this afresh on the morrow.”
* * *
—
The next morning when he awoke, Samuel felt the quiet in the house like an extra layer of cold air. He dressed and ate quickly. “Come,” he said, “let us do what we can.”
Sanaa followed behind him as he walked. Their mood and the dull light of the leaden sky were offset by the excitement of the community. The anticipation in the air was palpable and only increased as they neared the meetinghouse.
Inside, the eagerness crested. Five women stood with cakes arranged on plates. Each eyed the others. Samuel and Sanaa collected the plates.
“And who doth be the judge?” Mistress Bennett asked as Samuel received her baked offering.
“I am the collector,” he said. “The judge will remain secret until after the decision has been made.”
Mistress Bennett pursed her lips and squinted her eyes. She turned and looked at Reverend Purge, who gave the smallest shrug.
“I shall pray he has taste buds,” she said, “though using this crude flour hardly made for a fair contest.”
Some of the other women nodded in agreement.
“All began with the same supplies. This seemed the truest judge of talent. We will know when I come back at the meridian,” Samuel said.
* * *
—
Nearly the entire village had gathered in the meetinghouse when Samuel returned just before noon. The nervous chatter within the room fell away, and a hush settled as he walked inside. Although his face was set in a grim expression, his eyes were alive, roaming the crowd. The five contestants sat on the women’s side of the room at the front of the meetinghouse.
“Have they been judged, Constable?” Reverend Purge asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Samuel said.
The answer served to provoke the nervous chatter again. Samuel raised his hands to quiet the crowd.
“Before I announce the judge’s results, I have a few questions for the contestants,” he began. “Did each of you use the rye flour I provided?”
Each woman nodded.
“Did anyone use special ingredients?”
Every contestant declared she had not.
“I take it, therefore, no one prepared their breads using Goody English’s urine.”
The congregants erupted. Reverend Purge silenced the crowd, shouting, “What is the meaning of this?”
“The rye flour came from the stores of Goody English, the same flour used to make the witch cakes. See what the judges think of your handiwork.” Samuel quickly strode to the back of the meetinghouse and threw open the doors. Outside, dogs chased their tails in the street, howled without reason, and in every respect behaved exactly as the beasts that were used to damn Goody English as a witch.
Samuel shouted to be heard over the din of excitement within the room. “ ’Twas not her urine which spoiled the cakes, but rather the rye. It is diseased.” He turned his head momentarily to where the rest of the Bennetts sat. “Timothy, would you close the doors, please? We have seen enough.”
“Thou hast tricked us!” Mistress Bennett cried.
“They were judged by the beasts and found to be contaminated.” Samuel reached into a bag hanging from his belt. “Gladly, I will share a cake with anyone willing to eat it.”<
br />
No one accepted Samuel’s offer.
“This means nothing,” the reverend declared. “There is the confession and the spectral evidence of her daughter.”
“Her daughter who ate the cake,” Samuel reminded, “and the statement of a woman chained and accused of the most horrible of crimes on the day she learned of her husband’s brutal murder.”
“Bethuna was a witness,” the reverend retorted.
“Bethuna wishes to please her master. She knows you hunt witches, and she fears to be disobedient.” As Samuel spoke, he walked to where Bethuna stood. Her eyes widened as he drew closer. Samuel laid his hand high up on her back. The woman flinched noticeably. “You were beaten?” Samuel asked softly.
Bethuna’s head bobbed.
“I questioned her forcefully,” the reverend said.
“Forceful questioning with your fist?”
“A switch,” Purge answered, voice slightly subdued.
“Only thus did she make her claims about Prudence English?”
“The Devil does not readily reveal his handmaidens.”
Samuel turned to face the meetinghouse. He could feel the crowd coming to his side.
Reverend Purge could feel it too. “I have no reason to declare her a witch without cause.”
“Not intentionally, but, nonetheless, I fear you have done so,” Samuel answered, his voice calm, tinged with sadness.
The reverend’s eyes grew wide.
Samuel pressed forward into the momentary silence. “Reverend, you wish to protect our town, so you are alert for witches. You think and read about them; witches consume your thoughts. Your fellow ministers are lauded for purging their towns. Pride is insidious, like winter cold. It comes in through the tiniest of chinks. That is why it is a sin. Pride and desire.”
A collective gasp rolled through the crowd.
“The English property sits alongside your own parcel of land. Their small pasture is the best grazing land in the village. Their cow outperforms all other beasts for milk production. That is why they have butter to sell. I fear you covet their property.” Samuel quickly held up his hand to finish his statement before the reverend’s expected outburst. “You are a good man who means well. I do not claim that you declared Goody English a witch to take her property, only that prideful and covetous blindness have clouded your eyes to the true facts.”
Odd Partners Page 21
