Shall Not Suffer a Witch to Live

“He is approaching,” I said. “Should I stay or leave?”
“Stay, Bridgett, I’m frightened as never before,” Hope answered. “But say nothing, lest you become involved as well.” We drew away from the small, frosted windows of our cottage and awaited Jonathan Harding’s knock.
When I first heard the vile rumors concerning my sister Hope, I hastened to our cottage, gathered Hope’s cat, carried it into the woods, and released it. Bathsheba might be regarded as a witch’s familiar and used as evidence against Hope. The harsh winter snows had slowed the process, but already nine women had been accused, convicted and executed in the previous ten months. I have little doubt that many of the misfortunes that have befallen the families of Salem, including the disappearance of loved ones, are the work of witches, but is it possible that so many of us have turned to Satan? Might the court have erred in its zeal to find the truly guilty?
Because of weak evidence and few witnesses in some of the cases, the accused have been tied into the dunking chair to elicit confessions. But confessions, pleas for forgiveness, and pledges to reject Satan and all of his ways did not save them. Like the others, they were hung in public gallows, their bodies left to twist and sway in the wind for days. Just the sound of the creaking wood terrified me and my sister. Most distressing was the execution of my friend Gertie. When the trapdoor suddenly opened and she dropped toward the ground, her distraught father bolted under the platform and took hold of her with his full weight to shorten her suffering.
When the bodies were finally taken down, they were buried in unhallowed ground with no headstone. The interrogations, trials, executions and unholy burial served warning to anyone contemplating an allegiance to Satan or to anyone tempted to challenge Salem’s most influential citizens. Especially the Putnams. In cases of witchcraft, the papists resort to exorcism; we Puritans follow Exodus, chapter 22, verse 18, thou shall not suffer a witch to live.

The knock on our door was soft, even polite, and Hope lifted the latch to allow him entrance. As Jonathan stepped in, he had to remove his hat and bow slightly to fit under the door frame. A small amount of snow had gathered on his heavy black cloak. Though only a few years older than I, he had already lost some of his coal-black hair. But he remained a handsome, powerful and vigorous appearing man, his complaints of aches and pains notwithstanding.
“Welcome, Magistrate. Please remove your cloak and be seated,” Hope offered.
“Thank you, Sister Hope. And a good eve to you, Sister Bridgett,” Jonathan replied. “The warmth of your cabin is welcome. Are you both well this cold night?”
“We are quite well, thank you, and your tonic is freshly prepared,” Hope answered. “I pray your pain remains subdued by my treatment and the grace of Our Lord.” She poured a steaming liquid into a teacup and passed it to Jonathan. I moved to a corner of our cottage, lit two more candles, and began to work at our spinning wheel, our most prized possession and main source of coin. After Jonathan had taken several swallows, Hope said, “Magistrate, you are always welcome here, but should you have come now? I will be in your court two days hence.”
“I am mindful of this and have taken precautions that none should see my arrival here,” Jonathan replied.
Hope asked, “Have you come then for more than your usual treatment?”
“Aye, sister, to warn you. The evidence against you is formidable, and witnesses eager to condemn you are numerous. I believe you should flee Salem with all haste.” Hope said nothing, but poured more of the hot medicine into his teacup.
“Have you not heard me?” Jonathan asked.
“I am aware of my plight, but have nowhere to go,” Hope responded. “Save for Bridgett, I have no kin, nor do I have any desire to establish myself as a healer in another town. The people of Salem know that my poultices and tonics relieve what ails them, and the thread and yarn that Bridgett and I spin is highly prized. Even had I a place to flee, weather such as this makes travel nigh impossible.”
“Sister Hope, they would see you dangling at the end of a rope! Certain are they that you are a witch. Some even suspect that it is you who has summoned the small pox to our village,” Jonathon said.
“Who claims harm by my hand?”
“They know your medicines are powerful, yet the pox has them terrified. They say you offer no treatment for it and that with glee you watch them die or become disfigured, not sparing even the children. Some believe that the pox is a curse you have called upon Salem.” Jonathan continued to sip the hot drink
“And Goodwife Putnam?” Hope prodded.
“The mayor’s wife claims proof of your guilt by means of the witch’s cake.”
“Nonsense! They would need my piss for the witch’s cake.”
“They claim it was obtained from your chamber pot whilst you slept. Do you not see how determined they are? The wives of Salem, led by Goody Putnam and Goody Bartlett, are behind this and firmly press the palms of their hands into the backs of their husbands.” Jonathan paused, then asked “Why is it that our sisters fear you?”
“T’is simple. Their husbands look at me with the same desire which holds sway over you.”
Although Hope’s utterance was part of our desperate plan to save her life, it caused me to turn from my wheel and see that the two of them had silently locked eyes. Jonathan quickly looked away before quietly saying, “My behavior with you has been entirely honorable, Sister Hope.” He was speaking truthfully, but the small scar at the right side of his brow belied total innocence. Perhaps the scar, serving as a remembrance, had kept him righteous these last ten years, for Hope was alluring and it would surprise me little if Jonathan desired her as he had once desired me.

One morning whilst Mother still lived, I told Hope I was going to gather mushrooms but didn’t want her to accompany me. She gave me a curious look, but agreed to stay home. She must have wondered of my intentions, since we had always gathered together. Hope was only twelve at the time and may have seen boys only as a nuisance, but I was ardently anticipating a morning alone with Jonathan.
I entered a path into the shadowed woods at the western edge of the village, occasionally placing a mushroom in my creel. The path had not recently been cleared, and branches crossed at eye level whilst vines and roots threatened to trip me. Yet my heart raced and my spirits soared as I neared a small clearing about a quarter mile along the path. Mother had forbidden this place to me for fear of the Wabanaki heathens, but when I entered the clearing, only my dear Jonathan awaited me. I immediately slowed my pace, partly through a genuine shyness and partly to avoid appearing too eager. As we approached each other closely, he partially raised both forearms toward me with his palms upward. I lay my own forearms onto his, taking no small pleasure in feeling the size and strength of him. It began with a gentle embrace and kiss, but in seemingly no time at all, he brought me to the ground and tore my blouse open. At this point, I stopped pleading and began fighting him as best I could, but he was much the stronger and heavier. Suddenly, Jonathan recoiled, his breath rushing from him and blood spurting from his forehead. I craned my neck to look behind me and saw Hope standing there with the jagged rock she had used to pommel him. She stared with a horrified visage and I knew not whether it was due to my plight or what she had done to Jonathan, but I quickly rose. Hope and I ran toward the path at the edge of the clearing. As we raced down the path, twigs snapped only yards behind us and branches of leaves whipped back as he pursued us. Then Jonathan must have fallen or given up, because as we neared the village, we heard no more of his pursuit. Before leaving the woods, Hope brushed dirt from my clothing and washed it from my face with her spit and fingertips. She then covered my hair with her own bonnet as mine had been lost. Because of her relative youth, anyone seeing us would be more tolerant of her head being uncovered than mine. Although I had closed my blouse as best I could, buttons had been torn off, and there was nothing to be done. But by carefully observing the coming and going of people in our village and repressing an urge to run, we were able to return home with little notice. When Mother arrived in the late afternoon, I was wearing fresh clothing, and Hope had repaired the blouse I had worn. I told Mother nothing of the incident, saying only that the recent lack of rain must be responsible for the dearth of mushrooms — my second deceit that horrid day. Hope simply confirmed that there were no mushrooms to be found. I was scarcely able to conceal my dejection from Mother, but my sister seemed quite cheerful and pleased with herself.

Hope and Jonathan had been conversing as I tortured myself once again with this remembrance. When I pulled myself from it, I heard Jonathan say, “Sister Hope, I have neither touched you nor made improper suggestions during the course of your ministrations to me.”
“There is no need for words or touch; that which emanates from you is unmistakable.” Jonathan seemed unable to respond to this, and Hope continued. “Worry not. It flatters me.” This further surprised him, but Hope pressed her advantage. “Do you deny a prurient interest in me? You mustn’t lie, as that too is sinful.”
“This conversation has become absurd, and I will not partake of it,” Jonathan finally replied.
“No matter,” Hope replied in a dispassionate tone. “I have no need of you or any mortal man. Nor have I any fear of your court, for your court hangs only the innocent. Having long since shed my faith and innocence, I will be set free.” Hearing this, I stopped breathing. Now there could be no turning back. Everything depended on Hope’s ability to have Jonathan accept a most brazen deceit.
“What say you? That you consort with Satan?” Jonathan asked. Hope then stood up from the table, approached Jonathan closely, and slid her blouse off her right shoulder to expose a small, brown, raised birthmark on her right breast. This scandalous behavior had not been part of our plan, and it shocked me. Hope had always followed our mother’s admonition that no one should see this mark. Even in my presence did she keep it covered. Jonathan recognized it instantly.
“A witch’s teat! You suckle Satan?”
“Yea, to him have I given myself body and soul. And in his embrace am I most joyous. He imbues my medicines with power and my incantations with magic, and whilst the women of Salem gradually crumble into bent-over hags, young and beautiful will he keep me.”
Aghast at what he heard, Jonathan rose suddenly, knocking his chair loudly onto the wood planks. “You cannot mean —”
“In Salem, it is mine to heal and mine to sicken. The pox came at my summons, and it will stay until these village hypocrites are soundly punished or in their graves. Be grateful that I have chosen to spare you.”
Jonathan stepped back, and with veins bulging in his neck, shouted, “This is sacrilege and heresy, and no more will I hear of it! You will hang and your soul will descend to the pit.”
“And my death will be yours,” Hope shot back.
“What say you?”
“That in court, when I am forced to name others of my ilk, all will be spellbound when you are accused. We both will hang.”
“You would do this to me? A blameless man?”
“No one is blameless! Especially in this village! You have conspired in the deaths of nine innocents. You will see to my protection during the trial or face the same mob as I. Perchance we will enter the gallows side by side.”
“You expect me to sway the court? Even were I to accede to this, how could such a travesty be accomplished?”
“Let terror be your motivation and experience your guide,” was my sister’s only response. Jonathan lifted his teacup from the table, peered at its contents, and raised it nearly to shoulder height. I thought he would hurl it at Hope, but he angrily tossed it to the floor. Hope showed no fear, not even flinching, and greatly did I admire her resolve to make our plan work. All the other accused women had done everything possible to deny any allegiance to Satan, and all had been sent to the gallows. Yet Jonathan might still set upon her, for surely this must wound his pride grievously.
He paced to and fro for several moments, then turned to Hope. “And what is to happen if I succeed in swaying the court? After the trial, would you not be safer with me dead?”
“I have sufficient reason to see you live, but for now you must return home lest your family wonder of your absence. Take your leave, for my master comes soon and he will not look kindly upon your threats.” Jonathan glanced behind himself at the door. Then he quickly took hold of his cloak, stared momentarily at Hope and bolted with no further word.
I hastened to latch the door against the cold wind and then strode to Hope, hugged her and said, “Well done, sister! Well done! He is terrified.”
“He believes me?” Hope asked.
“Had you not shown him your birthmark, he might restlessly ponder your words, with the eventual outcome uncertain, but now he is ours. It never occurred to me that you might show him the mark on your breast. What prompted this?”
“Fear that he would discern our ruse… and anger,” Hope replied.
“Anger that he might have been complicit with Goody Putnam and the others?”
“In truth, something else. The scar on his brow returned me to the clearing ten years ago when he had forced you to the ground with your blouse open. I uncovered myself as you had been, but tonight I was the aggressor and he the terrorized.”

. . .

On the frigid day of the trial, Hope and I exchanged few words over our morning porridge, each of us lost in our own thoughts and prayers. I wanted to comfort and reassure my little sister, but the best I could manage was a heartfelt embrace and an admonishment against using her left hand for any purpose during the trial, lest it be seen as the devil’s influence.
We waited until the last possible moment to begin our walk to the town center, knowing that by late afternoon, Hope’s fate would be decided. When we arrived, some of our neighbors were gathered at the entrance to the courtroom, and it was nearly full inside. All the trials for witchcraft had been like this, a powerful diversion for the townspeople from the arduous and repetitious days of a determined winter. They had come to gawk at Hope’s predicament, yet many of them used charms to promote the health of their crops and livestock.
Presently, Jonathan entered to open the proceedings, and everyone stood. Most of us were then able to take a seat when Jonathan sat in the magistrate’s chair, but the periphery of the courtroom was packed with those who would stand throughout the trial.
Merely being the crowd’s object of attention unsettled Hope, and I nearly despaired as her confidence seemed to ebb moment by moment. Where was the strong and resourceful young woman who had confronted Jonathan just two days previous? Alone at the front of the court, my sister Hope became a meek church mouse.
Looking over the crowd, I took note of how wretchedly the passage of time has treated Goody Putnam. Yet age alone cannot account for her uncomely appearance. Something repugnant has settled upon her, a curse perchance. And over the years, she can’t have missed her husband’s wistful gazes in Hope’s direction. A wicked jealously must inspire her accusations against my beautiful sister, and I must take care that my own anger at the mayor’s wife should never degenerate into hatred.
When the initial formalities were completed, it became clear that Jonathan had decided to fill the role of prosecutor as well as magistrate. I knew not how to interpret this. In the previous trials, prosecutors worked with a presumption of guilt rather than innocence, made efforts to embolden the accusers, and sought to elicit a public confession from the accused. Most frightening of all, the prosecutors felt obliged to uncover the identity of others who might be accomplices in witchcraft. On some occasions, these hapless souls were present in the courtroom, causing many in attendance to look about and speak among themselves.
As the trial proceeded, Hope denied the accusations brought against her, never spoke unless directly questioned, and offered no more information than each question required. I thought this wise, but her gaze remained directed to the floor in front of her, and I knew this meek demeanor to be no charade as she continuously twirled the strings of her bonnet. If Hope’s passivity caused Jonathan to lose his fear of her, I might well be walking home alone. Hope needed to summon the assurance, even defiance, she had shown Jonathan two nights ago in our cabin, yet it never surfaced. As each witness approached the front of the court, the creaking of the floorboards under their feet evoked a remembrance of the wooden gallows where hanging victims twisted and swayed in the wind, their faces flushed and engorged. I ached to comfort Hope but they had not let me sit beside her, and alone did she bear the strident accusations of Goodwife Putnam and others. Goodwife Bartlett stated that shortly after dusk one evening in mid-October, she had seen Hope soaring through the air, causing fruit to fall to the ground as she grazed treetops in the orchard. She added that Hope was naked, her skin tinted with the green ointment needed for flight, and that she clutched the broomstick tightly between her thighs in a most unchaste fashion. This description greatly disturbed those gathered within the courtroom, and Jonathan had considerable difficulty quieting them and restoring order.
I believe Jonathan did his best during the trial to protect Hope. At one point, his acerbic humor interrupted an antagonistic exchange with Goody Putnam when he forced her to reveal how Hope’s piss had been obtained. When Jonathan pointed out that the ne’er-do-well she had hired to take it from our cabin had likely pissed in the container himself, the entire courtroom erupted into laughter. But as Goody Putnam returned to her seat, her angry visage frightened me. I pray that Jonathan’s efforts to vindicate Hope will not turn Salem’s wealthy and influential against him. Many times have I realized that if not for his reckless behavior toward me years ago, I might now be wed to him. A less virtuous part of me still longs for Jonathan, but he chose to marry another who bore him four healthy children whilst Hope and I remain single and childless. During the lightning storm that is a witch hunt, unmarried women are the tallest trees in the forest.
As more witnesses were called, more testimony mounted against Hope. There was a limit to what Jonathan could accomplish without calling his own integrity into doubt, and as the hours passed, his resolve to sway the proceedings clearly dwindled. The pointed challenges and criticisms he had directed at the earlier witnesses eventually gave way to begrudging acceptance. Seeing this, I shamefully fled the courtroom and abandoned my sister whilst the townspeople damned me with their eyes. Their reaction was understandable, but I could tolerate no more of this travesty.

. . .

Calamity! My gentle, innocent, God-fearing sister has been found guilty. They took her directly to the dungeon under the jail and shackled her wrists to a wall in the belief that it would prevent her spirit from taking flight and wreaking vengeance on her accusers. Thanks to Jonathan, I have been granted a brief visit with Hope this evening. On the morrow, she will be put to death.
I entered the jail with a single candle, a blanket, and a stew of pork and cabbage. As I began descending the steps into the cold dark dungeon, my sister’s voice could be heard in conversation. However, I found her to be alone and realized she must have been praying aloud. The jailer had provided her with a wooden stool, and comfortably seated, she ate voraciously as I fed her. To my great surprise, Hope was in good spirits and was more concerned with my despair than her own plight. Whence this cheer and optimism? Was the promise of deliverance into the arms of Our Savior sufficient to soften the dread of an imminent and horrible death? Would that I possessed faith this powerful! “Do not concern yourself, Bridgett,” she told me repeatedly. “All is well. There is nothing to fear.”
When the jailer told me that I had stayed past the allotted time, I hugged my dear sister a final time and departed. As I approached our cabin, I sought strength in a special prayer. Lord, your stars can be seen from the deepest well. The deeper the well, the brighter they shine. Grant me your light in my darkness, your joy in my sorrow, your grace in my sin, your glory in my despair, your life in my death. Amen.

. . .

Her hands bound behind her back as if she were a violent criminal, Hope was led to the steps of the gallows by two jailers. However irrational, they feared her even at the last. Those who had gathered — nearly a quarter of the six hundred souls composing our village at the time — were largely silent. Reverend Samuel Parris was in attendance, but due to the nature of Hope’s crime, he would not pray upon her. In his eyes, my sister was irretrievably lost, and prayer in this situation would constitute blasphemy. Thus my own prayer was all the more fervent as it was likely to be the only one.
Hope climbed the steps, offering no resistance, and the noose was placed round her delicate neck. Afraid to speak out loud, I mouthed the words, I love you. She returned the message in kind and gave me a radiant smile. Again that unwavering faith!
I lowered my eyes, unwilling to see Jonathan nod to her executioner. The sudden creak of the opening trapdoor made me wince, and the crowd gasped. I looked up and saw her feet kick, stop, then twitch a final time. Forever had they taken her from me.
Overcome by the most wretched despair of my life, I turned away and began to leave when a woman screamed in abject terror. It was Goody Bartlett, and she was pushing her fellow citizens aside in order to flee the inner circle of onlookers. This was followed by more screams and even curses as others ran from the gallows. In moments, the crowd dispersed, and I was able to closely approach the platform. The remaining souls turned to stare at me with considerable fear, backing away as I approached the body of my sister.
At first, I could not bring myself to look upon her face. Rather, I saw that the fine shoes and clothing she wore were those of a wealthy woman. Had Jonathan, seeking to provide a modicum of dignity to Hope in her last moments, procured these and brought them to my sister?
Finally, I raised my eyes to her face and saw the inexplicable. Instead of my beautiful, sweet sister, I gazed upon the ugly, hate-filled visage of Goody Putnam, the mayor’s wife.

. . .

My sister has vanished. If she yet lives and breathes, her whereabouts are unknown, and I think it unreasonable to expect her to return in any case. How little I knew of her!
Whence this thirst for power that led Hope to become one of Satan’s own? T’is true that our life here in the wilderness is precarious and harsh, but trusting in divine providence, we freely chose to leave the safety of Mother England and come here. But as I looked back on my life with Hope, something unsettling came to mind; I may have played an unwitting role in my sister’s embrace of Satan. Might Jonathan’s assault upon me years ago have prompted Hope to search for a means of dominion over others?
Though civil in manner, the single and widowed men of Salem show no interest in me. Even were they to regard me as untainted, disapprobation from the rest of the village would descend upon them should they consort with the sister of a witch. That is how all of Salem regards me. I cannot fault them, for that is how I regard myself. My longing for Hope is undiminished, but now it is my lot to live without her companionship. I must try to discern God’s plan for me and follow it to the best of my ability, my isolation and loneliness notwithstanding.
And yet, I have acquired a companion of sorts. A most curious turn of events began to unfold in the weeks following the disappearance of my sister, and as a result, a decision has been thrust upon me. Its implications are frightening.
On a cool sunny afternoon, after delivering thread and yarn to those households which do not entirely shun me, I began to make my way back home. The coins I had acquired were few, but some of the women had charitably given me bread and eggs in excess of what was owed. I would continue to eat, at least for the immediate future. But upon approaching my cottage, I was alarmed to find the front door ajar.
I entered cautiously, looking about, but found no one. Had I failed to completely shut the door when beginning my errand? The wind that day had been strong. Nothing appeared amiss, so I closed the door firmly and dropped the latch. As I placed the bread and eggs into my cupboard, something jumped from the bed which Hope and I had shared. It was Hope’s cat, Bathsheba, whom I had taken deep into the woods when the rumors of witchcraft had first arisen months ago. She should have died of starvation or been caught by a fox or other predator. Yet she appeared well nourished, her coat thick and glossy. With yellow eyes she stared at me in that unfathomable feline fashion and then trotted to the front door where she stopped, rested on her haunches, and waited. Sensing that she wished to leave, I opened the door for her. Bathsheba took several paces outside, then turned and looked back at me, mewling in a strange manner. After several moments of this, she took a few additional steps down the path, turned to me and called again. When I refused to follow, she trotted off toward the woods and did not look back.

Now weeks have passed since Bathsheba first reappeared, and she has continued to confront me. Even on windless days would I find her in my cottage, reclining on the bed, the front door gaping wide. Her attempts to coax me grow more strident.
What am I to do? There is nothing for me in this village of pious hypocrites, but I am terrified to follow Bathsheba into the forest. Only one thing is clear to me. Her call is more alluring each time she comes.

Credit: Joseph Cusumano