Kathleen Kent - The Heretic's Daughter

She recited the signs, saying, “Firstly, a voluntary confession of the crime.”

The Reverend responded, “As Perkins has written, ‘I say not, that a bare confession is sufficient, but a confession after due examination…’ ” He patted the shoulder of her frock with a dirty hand and lingered there. A black crow despoiling a field of snow.

Margaret continued, “Secondly, if the accused will not confess…”

The Reverend squeezed and kneaded her shoulder tightly. “Then there is need of the testimony of two witnesses. Who must offer proof.”

Allen leaned forward in his chair and asked, “What kind of proof ?”

The Reverend removed his hand from Margaret’s shoulder and counted off on his fingers. “The accused was seen in the company of the Devil by invocation or spell making. The accused has a familiar, such as a dog or some other creature, in the use of spells. The accused has put into practice spells or enchantments against the accuser’s person or belongings. Also suspect are divination and petty forms of magic, such as moving objects about the room.” I looked at Uncle, thinking of the feather he had pulled from my ear. Uncle waved Margaret back to her seat and said, “I myself have successfully broken the spell of a witch by boiling away the water of the victim.”

The Reverend picked from the pocket of his coat a small worn Bible and said, “That, Dr. Toothaker, is using the Devil’s shield against the Devil’s sword and will go very hard on you should you be called to account. There is only one way to conquer witchery and that is to invoke the holy word of God. And that, mark you, is the only legitimate course of action.” He threw the Bible down on the table. “This is God’s hammer, which will forever break the Devil’s sword. Boiling piss in a pot, no matter how well meaning, will only bring trouble.” He looked pointedly at my uncle, who sat silent for the rest of the meal.

The Reverend took his leave late, crumbs following behind him like a cloud. I crept out of hiding and stood before my eldest cousin, watching him scowl at me. He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side as though listening for something, and I knew with a certainty that he disliked me as much as I disliked him. Something about him made the front of my teeth ache as though I had bitten into a hard summer peach that was mostly pit.

He turned to his father, saying, “It’s a dangerous thing, don’t you think, to take them in. After all, Thomas’ family has been known to carry infection.”

I could feel the red blush of anger creep up my neck into my cheeks and I dropped my head to hide my true face. Father and son lit their pipes, and when the smoke was thick enough, Allen leaned his arm upon the chair where his father sat and said to me, “Your father brought pox to Billerica when first he came. As well as a bad history.”

“My father is every bit as good as the next man,” I replied, feeling a hatred like black ice form in my heart. In that moment I wondered if this was what Uncle had meant by saying Father had blood on his hands.

Allen bent down so that our eyes were on a level. “One would think he believes himself better than most, as he has taken over our grandmother’s house.” If I had been a boy, I would have thrown seed to the Devil and planted my fists over his nose.

Uncle put a hand on Allen’s arm and said, “You must remember, Sarah is our family, and while she is here we must try to be kind.” But he said nothing in defense of my father, and the shadowy smile behind the pipe smoke stung deeper than the insults.

Later that night I lay with my back to Margaret, stewing in rancid juices until she coaxed me to turn and face her. “Do not be angry, cousin,” she said. “You will love my brother as I do when you have come to know him better. You will love him as I love you.”

I lowered my head and tucked it into the hollow of her throat. Not because I was ready for sleep but because I wanted to hide the thought that burned my face. The thought, the prayer, that in that moment I would be made an orphan so I could forever stay in my cousin’s house. Roger as my father, Mary as my mother, and Margaret as the sister of my heart. I think God must have damned me then for my thoughts, for the next day Father came to take me home.

MARGARET AND I returned the following morning from the barn, our arms about each other’s shoulders, lingering in the watery light of the sun that played in and out of blue-gray clouds. We squatted down to look at the spongy ground and at the ripening tips of bulbs stabbing their way through the thinning layers of snow. The churning engine of spring was massing, bringing a sharp smell to the air as from a blacksmith’s stable. There would never be a time of an early melt when I would not think of my cousin braced by the gathering warmth, the clouds racing behind her smiling and enraptured face.

I did not know my father at first. I had come into the common room to find a giant sitting at the table, my aunt sitting across from him with her head in her hands. She was sobbing loudly and Uncle stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. The giant looked up at my approach but did not speak. It was Margaret who spoke first and made me know my father again.

“Uncle, what has happened?” Her hand found mine and squeezed it painfully. Uncle Roger beckoned for me to come closer. I took tiny steps towards the table, trying to multiply the distance and increase the time before hearing what I did not wish to hear.

Father stared into his lap and said, “Your grandmother has died.”

“And Tom and Andrew and Richard?” My hands crept to my ears to blot out the words.

“They are alive.”

“And now must I leave?” I would be the last in the room to comprehend that I had not asked about my mother.

“The ban has lifted. It is time for you and Hannah to come home. We will leave at nightfall.”

Margaret led me to our room, where I lay on the bed until it was time to leave. She whispered to me again and again that we would never be parted. That she was the sister of my heart, now and forever. Aunt tied together a bundle of food and clothing for our journey. She promised they would come to Andover in the spring, but I would not be comforted. Hannah screamed and struggled and had to be torn from Aunt’s arms. I believe that losing Hannah was more painful to her than the death of her mother. Even as a swaddling babe, Hannah had been sober and quiet, as though she sensed from the beginning my mother’s intolerance for plaintive neediness. But my sister had come to know the fawning attention and gentle caresses of the Toothaker family. That Henry had come to adore her as well raised him in my estimation and made a sort of peace between the two of us. Hannah would soon be sent to other families and other house-holds, and not all of them would be so kind. It was this separation from her truest mother, though, that would leave her forever fearful and grasping.

Margaret and I held back at the last and exchanged poppets. She lifted the crimson skirt of her doll and showed me where she had left a needle so I could practice my sewing and not lose the skill. From the cart I watched Margaret grow smaller and smaller until she looked like the poppet I held in my hands. Father had said to me as he lifted me into the cart, “Your mother is alive.” I set my jaw and looked away, giving him no cause to think me happy about the news. I would return to a cold house with no certainty of when I would see my cousin again. I gripped the poppet tightly and felt the needle prick my finger.

A needle is such a small, brittle thing. It is easily broken. It can hold but one fragile thread. But if the needle is sharp, it can pierce the coarsest cloth. Ply the needle in and out of a canvas and with a great length of thread one can make a sail to move a ship across the ocean. In such a way can a sharp gossipy tongue, with the thinnest thread of rumor, stitch together a story to flap in the breeze. Hoist that story upon the pillar of superstitious belief and a whole town can be pulled along with the wind of fear. Perhaps I should have seen the needle prick as a sign. But I was very young and the wound had stopped bleeding long before we arrived in Andover.