Free Witch Child by Elizabeth Lloyd

so I could tell both Mama and Reverend Parris what she said.
    Reverend Parris prodded, “Any unusual occurrences in the household? Like strange noises? Or pots falling from the hearth? . . .. Or bread not rising?”
    â€œNo,” interjected Mama, firmly. “My yeast is always faultless.”
    Uneasily, I shifted. Too well did I remember the day of Goody Glover’s hanging, and I wondered how much Mama had noticed.
    To me Reverend Parris asked, “Does Goody Glover e’er appear to you in the form of animals? Like birds, or bats, or dogs, or chickens, or—”
    â€œAye,” I said, nervously, “. . . she . . . she has appeared to me in a large orange cat.”
    â€œAnd does she e’er appear as a large, yawning, fiery pit?”
    â€œNay . . . er . . .”
    â€œWhen you see her, do your limbs stiffen, then go into spasms?”
    â€œWell, I, er, shake a lot. I . . . I’m just so frightened, you see. But I . . . I don’t really stiffen . . .”
    â€œDo you speak in foreign tongues? In some language unknown to others?”
    â€œNay . . . I, er, not that I remember.”
    â€œNay, she does not,” verified Mama.
    So swift were his questions, I had the feeling he was trying to trip me.
    â€œHas she struck at you?” the reverend asked. “Fought with you?”
    â€œNay,” I said, quickly trying to remember. “Nay, I . . . I don’t think so . . .”
    Suddenly Reverend Parris’s voice grew quiet and low. “And why, Rachel, do you think Goody Glover wants you?”
    My breath could scarce make it past my lips. Never could I tell what little I do know—about Mama and Goodman Glover. And certainly I could make no conjecture. To Reverend Parris, I finally mumbled, “I . . . I don’t know.”
    Reverend Parris then sat back in the settle—from his previous posture of leaning intently toward me—and pondered his conclusion. Nervously I fidgetted with my apron, twisting its corner round and round my finger ’til it crumpled in a tight knot. I dared not look at Mama. He let the silence lie interminably while making his deliberation, until finally he smoothed the front of his linen shirt, and announced:
    â€œâ€™Tis a clear case of possession.”
    A dropping pin could have been an explosion, so still was the room. Such declaration, Mama did not want to hear. But Mama believed it. I know she did.
    â€œNot . . . not imagination?” attempted Mama, feebly.
    Reverend Parris was certain. “All the signs are present.”
    Mama’s expression was pale and uncertain. Papa was not going to like this verdict.
    But Mama, always of poise, quickly recovered herself. Drawing a long breath, she asked, “The cure, Reverend Parris? What say you for recommended action?”
    â€œAye.” Reverend Parris nodded. “The cure. In situations such as this, ‘tis usual, of course, to increase Bible reading. Three or four hours a day should give pause to evil demons and provide alertment that the soul is wise to the terrors and tortures of Hell.” Too well am I already wise to the terrors and tortures of Hell! “Should also be done whene’er the demons appear,” continued the reverend. “And in accompaniment, I recommend fasting. Fasting does tear out the demons’ sustenance.” Glumly, I wondered if that meant no evening meal. “And finally,” said Reverend Parris, “administer Venice treacle. One cup every hour.”
    That nearly did me in. At the mere thought, my stomach violently heaved. Venice treacle being the most repulsive compound ever imagined, already I could smell the horrid fumes of pounded bodies of snakes mixed with wine and every herb known to a kitchen garden, all boiling in some wretched kettle. Anxiously, I wondered if I could escape it.
    â€œAye,” replied Mama, obediently. “I shall have Jacob search out snakes this very