The Sacrifice Read online

  Mama hugged Abigail tight. “Me, Bear,” she whispered. “You will accuse me.”

  nineteen

  “Nay, Mama!” Abigail cried, suddenly thinking clearly. “Are you mad?”

  Mama shook her head. “I am not mad, Bear,” she said. “This seems to be the answer. If an accused witch accuses someone else of teaching them the devil’s work, the accused is considered innocent and is freed. The teacher of the devil’s ways is then arrested in their place.”

  “Surely, Mama, you are aware that they will arrestyou then, andyou will be imprisoned in this place,” Abigail said.

  “Aye. I know this to be true,” Mama said. “But at last I shall have some peace, knowing you and Dorothy are to be safe.”

  “And when your trial comes,” Abigail said scornfully, “will you in turn accuse someone, or will you refuse to confess to being a witch and thus be condemned to death?”

  “That is our secret,” Dorothy said. “Mama will refuse to admit to being a witch, but they cannot condemn her.”

  “And why not?” Abigail demanded. “They have hanged many for their refusal to speak.”

  Mama smiled and rubbed her belly. “They may not hang one who is with child,” she whispered. “So you see, I am saved.”

  What Mama said was true. Witches who would not confess but who were with child were not hanged until after the birth of the baby. But did this make things right?

  “What if we are unable to free you after the babe is born?” Abigail said. “What if you should sicken here and die like Aunt Elizabeth?”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened. “I had not thought of this, Mama,” she said. “What if we cannot free you after the babe is born? What then?”

  Mama rubbed Dorothy’s head. “I will be fine, Dorothy. I am strong. This you know, and the babe will keep me safe. Even now there is talk of protest against those doing the accusing. Grandpappy speaks out against it daily. ’Tis only a matter of time before reason returns, and the babe will give us that time.”

  Abigail stared at her mother. Did she truly believe they could go through with this? What her mother was asking was too much! How could she possibly stand in front of the magistrates and accuse her own mother of teaching her witchcraft? And how could she condemn her to this horrible place?

  “Nay, Mama,” Abigail said. “I cannot do it.”

  Mama’s hand dropped from Dorothy’s head. She stood, drawing herself up tall in front of Abigail. “You will do it, Abigail Faulkner. You will do it because I am telling you to.”

  Never had her mother spoken to her this way. Then her mother’s face softened, and tears came to her eyes.

  “You will do it because I can take the thought of you here no more. My torment does but hurt the babe inside. Truly I say to you, Bear, you must do this for me so that I might rest easy,” Mama said.

  She went to the cell door and called for the jailer. Then she turned once more to her daughters.

  “Over the next day, talk to each other and prepare stories for the magistrates,” she said. “Say the stories together, for they must sound true should they ask. Now I must go, for there is much to do to prepare for my coming absence at home.”

  The jailer opened the door.

  Mama smiled slightly. “At last,” she sighed, “at last, you will be set free.”

  Then Mama was gone, and Abigail and Dorothy stared at each other. Abigail’s fright had been replaced by the horror of what they must do. If Mama was right, and Dorothy and Abigail played their parts, they would be free in two days’ time. But how was Abby to live with herself after she had accused her own mother of witchcraft?

  The day of their trial, Abigail and Dorothy were led from their cell. No one wished them luck nor said good-bye, but Abigail was not surprised. Friendships in places full of suspicion were not easy to make.

  Still, when the leg irons were taken off her feet, she turned one last time to look at the bunk on which she had rested with Aunt Elizabeth. Though she did not believe in ghosts, there was a part of her that wondered if some spirit of Aunt Elizabeth’s still wandered these halls, unsettled and angry.

  “Come,” the jailer grumbled. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to stay a little longer?”

  Abigail quickly shook her head and with her sister followed the jailer down the darkened corridor and up the stone stairs to light and freedom.

  When they reached the top, Dorothy put a hand to her eyes. Abigail, too, shut her eyes, for the sunlight hurt after being in darkness for so long.

  They were led to a small room in the prison where Mama waited for them with a tub of steaming water. Mama helped them take off their clothes and bathe. She combed their hair to free it from nits and lice and helped them dress again in clean clothes, all the while hugging them to her and planting kisses on them. Her happiness was overwhelming, and whenever Abigail or Dorothy started to protest what they were about to do, Mama would hush them.

  “Free. You arefree, girls,” Mama said, smiling through her tears. “You are clean and in fresh air once more. Do not break my heart now with talk of refusing to do what I have told you to. Nothing, no jail, no cold, no hunger will affect me as much as seeing you in this place did. Now my heart sings at your release.”

  “We are not released yet, Mama,” Dorothy reminded her, “and if we are, it will be at the price of your freedom.”

  “Aye, daughter,” Mama said, laying her cheek on Dorothy’s freshly brushed hair. “But if you do as I have told you, ’tis only a matter of time, and we will all be free.”

  Dorothy looked over at Abigail, and Abby knew her sister mistrusted those words as much as she did.

  When at last they were clean and presentable, Mama came with them outside. Abigail felt like a young child, for the sights before her seemed fresh and new as if she had never seen them before. She breathed in the sea air and watched the people bustling about. Autumn was in full swing in New England. The trees shone in all their colors and brilliance, and there was a crispness to everything. In front of her lay the ocean, sparkling in the October sunshine. Vessels lay at anchor, rocking peacefully back and forth on their moorings.

  Freedom, Abigail thought. But at what cost?

  She forced herself to put the thought from her mind and climb up into the prison wagon to begin the journey to the meetinghouse. She was weak from her stay and welcomed the ride.

  Dorothy looked at her and smiled. For a moment, Abigail pretended they were only out for a day in town, riding in the autumn sunshine with not a care in the world.

  But when at last the Salem Town meetinghouse came into view and she saw the crowds outside awaiting her trial, she shook herself free of that dream. Today would be one of the most difficult days of her life.

  The wagon came to a stop, and Grandpappy came around to the back. A constable lifted first Dorothy and then Abigail to the ground. Grandpappy hugged them both. As he pulled Abigail toward him, his lips brushed her cheek. “Thank the Lord you have agreed to this plan of your mother’s,” he whispered. “Though I fear it might be ill advised, I know that she must be at peace knowing you are free. Without that, she will surely die from worry.”

  Abigail looked into her grandfather’s eyes. He seemed older than she remembered, and she knew that the past months had taken their toll on them all. Would any of them, accused and accusers alike, ever be the same again?

  “’Tis still a lie, Grandpappy,” she said to him.

  Grandpappy nodded, his eyes clouded with worry. “Aye, granddaughter,” he said. “But one that I think the Lord will forgive.”

  “Will he?” Abigail asked.

  Grandpappy lowered his eyes to the ground and when at last he looked at her again, there were tears in his eyes. “I am an old man, Abigail. I have lost a daughter to this madness, and it may be yet that I will lose another. Should I lose you and Dorothy, also? Nay, I think not, child. The Lord will understand that perhaps this was but a means to stop a madness. Do as your mother tells you, Abigail. End her pain.”

&nbs
p; “And what of my pain, Grandpappy?” Abigail asked.

  Grandpappy drew her near him, and she waited for his answer. But this time the man of the pulpit had nothing to say.

  · · ·

  The constable came to them and touched Abigail on the shoulder, telling her to come into the meeting-house with Dorothy. Abigail drew a deep breath and went up the stairs, mustering her courage as best she could. Yet she felt faint, and her stomach sickened as she took those first steps toward condemning her mother.

  twenty

  The meetinghouse was filled with people who had come to see Dorothy and Abigail and their trial. Many of the people were from Andover, yet there were others who were unfamiliar to Abigail. She wondered what could have brought them from their chores and their fields to watch the trial of two total strangers. The constable led them to the front and told them to sit on a pew. Dorothy’s hand slipped inside Abigail’s, and Abigail gave her a squeeze though her own palms were damp.

  A few pews back, Abigail saw Grandpappy, Mama, and Papa. Paul, Franny, and Edward had stayed at home. They had wanted to come, but Mama had refused to let them see what was to happen.

  Papa’s face looked drawn and tired. He smiled when Abby looked his way, and Abby was puzzled by that smile. Did he know what they were going to do today or had he been too sick lately to be told of the plan? Was it even wise to have brought him here?

  “I did not expect so many,” Dorothy whispered.

  “Aye,” Abigail agreed, looking again at the packed meetinghouse. “It is most unusual that strangers would care what becomes of us.”

  “Mama says there have been a great many at each trial,” Dorothy said. “She says that most of Salem Town attends, and that their fields lay fallow. She fears many will starve come winter for having neglected their duties to attend these trials.”

  “’Tis no concern of ours, Dorothy,” Abigail said sharply. “Truthfully, I do hope they all starve for showing such ghoulish interest in our case.”

  Dorothy smiled. “’Tis exactly what Mama said. Still, Abby, I am most fearful of today,” Dorothy continued. “I pray our words are enough to convince them to free us, and yet, I cannot truly believe that in speaking them we must condemn Mama.”

  Abigail touched her forehead to Dorothy’s. There seemed little to say to this.

  The constable was coming down the aisle again, and at his side was Sarah Phelps.

  “Oh, there is that most hateful Sarah,” Dorothy said. “I truly wish I could scratch her eyes out, for she has been the cause of all our pain.”

  Abigail was inclined to agree with her sister. Still, as she looked around the room at the faces full of fear and hatred, she could not bear to continue all the mistrust that seemed to surround them.

  “Forgive her, Dorothy,” Abigail said, surprising herself. “She was but frightened by something she did not understand.”

  “You sound like Grandpappy,” Dorothy said, “but if it was not for her, we would not be here.”

  “Aye, but what is done is done. Let us work to end this madness, not prolong it.”

  “Still, I shall hate her,” Dorothy said.

  Abigail nodded. She understood. In her mind, Abigail knew they should forgive Sarah, but she could not prevent her heart from feeling hatred too.

  There was a commotion outside, and at last, the three magistrates entered the meetinghouse. They were severe-looking men in black wool coats and dark hats, their faces stern and unsmiling. They walked to the front of the meetinghouse and sat down behind a large table.

  Then one of them stood. “Today we are to hear the case of Abigail and Dorothy Faulkner. We will start with a prayer to our Lord.”

  Abigail lowered her head but no prayer came to her lips. She could think of nothing today to be grateful for. She had already prayed for release a million times before without an answer.

  “Amen,” the magistrate said. “Let us begin the trial of Abigail and Dorothy Faulkner with the testimony of the tormented one. Come forward and state your name.”

  Sarah Phelps walked slowly forward to the front of the courtroom. She held her hands stiffly at her side, and when she spoke, her voice shook.

  “Speak your name, girl,” the head magistrate commanded, “and give us a full account of your tribulations at the hands of these girls.”

  Meekly, Sarah nodded. “My name is Sarah Phelps, and I do live in Andover. I did most recently work for the Faulkners. They were kindly to me, and yet Master Faulkner did often have fits which were most horrible to see. I had made up my mind to end my employment there when I did see Mistress Faulkner, who was ill at the time, sit up in her bed and scream out as if someone had sat upon her bed. Then I did see Abigail and Dorothy Faulkner go to her and soothe her.”

  A murmur rose from the crowd.

  “She was but with fever!” Dorothy cried out, unable to stop herself.

  “Hold your tongue!” one of the magistrates warned her. “You will have your time to speak.”

  Sarah glanced uneasily at them, then quickly looked away.

  “Continue,” the head magistrate commanded.

  “I did run from the house then,” Sarah Phelps said. “But Abigail Faulkner followed me. She turned on me an evil eye so that my throat did close, and I could not speak for a fortnight.”

  Abigail stared at Sarah. How could she say such a thing? Abigail remembered casting an angry glance at Sarah as she ran to find Papa, but that had been out of irritation at her leaving them, not a devil’s eye.

  Sarah caught her looking and threw up her hands. “Nay,” she cried. “Nay, please do not look at me so. I fear she is casting her evil eye on me even now.”

  A murmur went up from the crowd. Abigail was shocked. Surely it was not evil to cast an angry look at someone who was falsely accusing you? And yet, maybe now itwas considered evil. Abigail dropped her eyes.

  “The accused is not looking upon you now,” a third magistrate said, his voice soft and kind. “Have you more?”

  “Aye,” Sarah Phelps said. Abigail’s head shot up. What more could there be?

  “When I returned home, I lay without speaking upon my bed,” Sarah said, “and for six days did Abigail and Dorothy visit me.”

  Visit her?

  “What is she talking about?” Dorothy muttered to Abigail.

  Abigail shrugged. She had no idea. They had not seen her again after that day.

  “They flew about me in the night,” Sarah said, “begging me to join them and do the work of the devil. They told me they would continue to torment me unless I did as they ordered. But I refused. Once my voice returned, I did go and accuse them.”

  Abigail’s mouth dropped open. Was Sarah mad? What was she talking about?

  Abigail turned to look at the townspeople. They were staring at her in horror, in total belief that she and Dorothy had done this. How were they to prove that they had not flown at Sarah and threatened her?

  “Sister,” Dorothy said softly, “we are undone.”

  In that moment, Abigail understood. There was no way to prove you were innocent. If the magistrates allowed Sarah to claim such a thing to begin with, then they had already lost. Their case was decided.

  For Abigail and her sister, and for the others who had gone before them, there were only three choices. Deny it all and condemn yourself to hang, because you would be unable to prove the accusations untrue. Speak, and admit to being a witch, and return to prison. Or speak and say that you were following another’s instructions, and in accusing someone else, free yourself. This, Abigail saw, was what Mama wanted. Mama had known there were only these three choices, and that Abigail and Dorothy would not have the ability to use reason as a weapon. Here in Salem Town, reason was not present.

  “Rightly done,” the head magistrate commended Sarah. “Tormenting witches must be brought to justice. I thank you, Sarah Phelps, for your efforts on this community’s behalf.”

  Sarah nodded and sat.

  The magistrates turned their ste
rn faces toward Dorothy and Abigail.

  “Rise, Abigail and Dorothy Faulkner,” the head magistrate said. “What have you to say to these accusations?”

  Dorothy’s hand still clung to Abby’s. She turned her eyes toward Abigail. Abigail looked back over her shoulder.

  Mama was staring at her, nodding, urging them to go forward and condemn her. Grandpappy was across the aisle from her, holding Papa’s hand, as if he could give his own strength to Papa, who had none.

  “Well?” the head magistrate’s voice boomed out. “Are you to speak, Abigail and Dorothy Faulkner? If so, rise and do so.”

  “Aye,” Dorothy said softly, rising as she spoke. Her voice shook with fright. “I will speak.”

  Here she hesitated.

  “Yes,” the magistrate prompted.

  “I am not a witch,” Dorothy whispered, “but have only been following the instructions of my mother, who has been dealing with the devil.”

  With this, Dorothy slid back into her seat. Behind her, the townsfolk screamed and shouted, and they moved away from Mama as if she had smallpox.

  “Aye,” Sarah Phelps shouted. “Dorothy is right. ‘Tis not they who are witches but the mother.”

  “Quiet!” the head magistrate shouted into the screaming crowd. “Quiet!”

  He turned toward Sarah. “How are you come upon this conclusion?”

  Sarah stood, her face eager. “’Tis the mother who does have the power to calm Master Faulkner from his fits, and ‘tis the mother who did see someone upon her bed. Who could it be but the devil?”

  Again, the meetinghouse grew loud with voices. “Quiet! Quiet!” the head magistrate shouted out again.

  Then he turned toward Abigail, his face stern. “You have said naught. What say you to this charge? Was it indeed your mother who told you to torment Sarah Phelps?” He waved his quill pen at her. “Come, child. Speak. What have you to say?”

  twenty-one

  Abigail looked back at Mama, whose eyes begged her to speak. She looked at Dorothy and saw shame in her sister’s face. Abigail’s heart went out to her older sister.