Free Witch Child by Elizabeth Lloyd Page A

eve.”
    Then the reverend, after much Scripture reading, left.
    I know not at all what to make of his visit. Over and over have I turned his conversation in my mind, yet I feel not at all comforted. When Mercy and Daniel returned, I wanted so much to be able to say I am well—or at least on the road to recovery—but I could not.
    In fact, nothing at all was said within the family. Papa returned from the mill, Mama laid out evening meal and everyone acted as if nothing at all extraordinary had occurred—which only increased my discomfort. ’Twas only later, when I had gone to the well to fetch water and had returned, bucket in hand, to find everyone huddled in a corner whispering, that I knew Mama had told. Guiltily, they all immediately straightened. Furious, I slammed the door and returned to the well, whereupon Goody Glover came to me in the form of a small brown bird. Just as Reverend Parris had predicted.

Salem, 7 August 1692
    Last eve, so profusely did the blood gush from Goody Glover’s snapped neck that it poured into my throat and sent me so choking I could scarce catch my breath.
    â€œMama! Mama!” screamed Mercy as I lay in my bed, convulsing in terror. “Come quick! Rachel has another of her fits!”
    In the rafters a bony head hung upon a square shoulder, neck gaping with a flowing wound, and the saliva that drooled from her lips mixed in with her sticky blood and thinned it to make it run faster. Into my eyes it fell, into my nose and throat, and it matted my hair and covered my face until my whole head was immersed in her blood. I could not close my mouth for its pouring. Choking and gasping, I felt as if I were drowning, and I could think of nothing, not even Mercy’s frantic wailings, as I fought to breathe and strained my lungs as they filled with blood.
    Frantically I thrashed. My legs flailed and my hands punched wildly, but I could not escape. Her long gnarled fingers reached down and held me fast against my sheets.
    â€œStop it, Rachel. Stop it,” ordered Mama, harshly, and she slapped me.
    But I could not stop. The blood poured ceaselessly, and I felt that my tongue would follow; and all would fill my throat and I would die upon my bed.
    Again Mama slapped me, and again; then quickly she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “Stop it, Rachel! Stop it!” she ordered. “Take some of this treacle!”
    The treacle became blood, and I gagged and choked until its brownness covered my gown. So miserable was I that I threw myself upon Mama’s shoulder and wailed, “Help me, Mama! Help me!”
    â€œSsshhh, Rachel. Ssshhh,” whispered Mama as she rocked me. “I shall help you. I shall try.”
    But I know she cannot. Goody Glover shall never cease her torture. Until she takes me.

Salem, 7 August 1692, aft
    Papa, too, is now troubled. The dam he has built for the mill has caused the English cart road to flood, and Goodman English is in terrible temper over the situation. Today, at the mill, Goodman English vented all his anger, and there was a frightful row. And while Goodman English ranted and raved, Goodman Corwin, for no apparent gain, was vigorously nodding and giving agreement to the tantrum. ’Twas the situation when I found them.
    Poor Papa. He tried to explain. “When the rains stop, the river shall recede.”
    Goodman English would have none of it. “If ’tweren’t for the dam,” raged Goodman English, “I shouldn’t have to depend upon the rains!”
    Again Papa tried to reason.
    Goodman English interrupted. “How shall I get my milk to town by which to feed my family? We shall all starve! Neither cart nor canoe can get through the mud!”
    Goodman Corwin punctuated the ranting with a vehement nod.
    Goodman English’s snit, I know, was brought on on account of jealousy. He’s jealous because we live on Ipswich Road—which leads directly to town—white the