Witch Child Page 6

  I see him older, bearded, wearing a captain’s blue jacket. He is standing in the prow of a long narrow boat. Some men are rowing, others crouch forward, pointing like dogs all in the same direction. They hold weapons with barbed points, ropes curling from long wooden shafts. Behind them a ship stands at anchor, sails furled. All around them other boats plough through the choppy sea, hunting the whale.

  The waters churn and froth. A huge blunt head breaches, narrow mouth open and armed with teeth. Harpoons dangle like darning needles from the creature’s grey side. Baited beyond fury, the great whale turns with a lash of its huge tail and lunges towards its tormentors. It swims with powerful beats, making waves as great as a ship in full sail. Then the sea settles and the crew look about, wondering where their quarry has gone. It surfaces right underneath them, as if it had marked the spot. Whale and boat disappear in a welter of blood-streaked foaming water. Gradually the sea calms. Pieces of wood float on the surface but there is no sign of the men.

  ‘What is it? What is the matter? What ails you? Are you ill?’

  I was back in the present and Jack’s hand was on my shoulder, callused and scarred, but a boy’s hand, brown and supple. I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I have seen his past. I have seen his future. I know how death will come to him and I feel the knowledge like a burden. Grandmother said never to reveal the manner of someone’s dying. There is no help and no avoidance. What will be, will be, but to know too soon will colour someone’s life, darkening the hue for them, stealing the light.

  Jack was looking at me, his blue eyes bright and puzzled. I thought he would demand to know more, for he is shrewd and sharp-minded, but just then the captain began shouting, ‘Hey, you there! Jack! I’m not paying you to idle the time away talking with wenches! Look lively or you’ll feel a rope’s end across your back!’

  Jack jumped to, leaving me alone, and I was glad, for I had much to think about. The visions came to me unbidden, just as they did to my grandmother, but the gift does not come fom her. It comes from my mother. This is art of a different order, beyond my grandmother’s power. I felt it settle about my shoulders like a weighty mantle.

  Entry 25

  Contrary winds hinder our progress somewhat, but land to starboard keeps all in good spirits. Life on board has eased. The seas around us teem with fish and the captain has ordered boats ashore to find fresh water and to forage for whatever food the wilderness affords.

  Jonah Morse has made up a salve and the cuts on Jack’s hands are healing well. He has been kept busy about his duties, so I have not had much chance to speak with him, but he knows where I am. He comes to the sail locker where I hide in the day to write. We meet there and talk, although he risks a whipping if he is caught.

  I tell little about myself, but he makes up for that. He talks for both of us. He tells me of the places he has been, and what he has seen. I do not know how much of that to believe; sailors are famous for their stories. He also tells me of his plans and dreams. He tells me of Salem, the port where we are bound, and tells me of the handsome houses being built there, and the fine wharves for the ships to land their cargo. One day he will build like that, he says, only bigger and finer and in stone not wood.

  ‘You see if I don’t.’

  I laugh, because I don’t doubt him, and that is when we begin pretending. That while he is away sailing the seas and making his fortune, I am at home, waiting for him, and when he comes back he will marry me. He will build a fine house for us, and bring me things to fill it: furniture from London, silks and velvets from Paris, tulip bulbs from Amsterdam. I laugh and so does he, we know it to be fantasy, but sometimes I find myself thinking at night as I wait for sleep; making lists in my own head, planning the rooms in the house, planting the garden, even thinking of the children we will have.

  Then I stop. I have seen Jack’s life to come and I did not see myself in it. Even if we were meant for each other, even if we were destined to be together, I know I would be waiting all my life for the day when he would go to sea and never come back to me. The sight is a curse not a blessing. I wish that I had never seen anything.

  ‘Where do you disappear to?’ Martha asked today, as she snipped a strand of thread.

  ‘Just up on deck.’

  ‘Not to meet that sailor lad Jack again? Surely the cuts on his hands are healed by now?’

  ‘No,’ I said, but she knows I am lying.

  ‘The Reverend Cornwell has been asking for you,’ she said, looking down at her stitching.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘You have a fair hand, so he says, and he wants you to scribe for him again. Have a care, Mary,’ she added, folding the cloth over her worn fingers. ‘Tongues wag.’

  ‘What do I give them to wag about?’

  ‘You are a lone girl, nearing womanhood. You need to have a care how you conduct yourself with that sailor lad –’

  ‘We are friends! Why –’

  ‘Not just him.’ Martha nipped a length of thread between her teeth before starting another seam. ‘The Reverend Cornwell.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He’s always asking for you.’

  ‘I scribe for him. Surely – no-one could think –’ I stopped appalled, and then began to laugh.

  ‘Hush!’ Martha gave me a warning look and glanced about at the crowded cabin. Even the bedding has ears. ‘Some would think him a good catch, a very good catch for a girl in your position.’

  ‘Well, I don’t!’ I could feel my temper rising. ‘I – I think it’s ... Why – he’s, he’s ... ’ I shuddered and shook my head. ‘He wouldn’t think of me. I am too lowly. You must be mistaken.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Martha shrugged. ‘I know the way a man looks at a maid. Here,’ she said, taking lengths of cloth from her work-bag and finding needle and thread. ‘You can get on with this.’

  ‘What is it that you are making?’

  ‘Seaming up cloth for a quilt cover.’ Martha had made a small living as a haberdasher and dressmaker. She had brought what was left of her stock with her. ‘The winters out there are bitter, so they say, and there is nothing like a quilt for keeping out the cold. These lengths are good for nothing else.’ She spread the pieces for me to see. Dark wools and linens, in earth browns and blacks, forest greens and indigo. ‘You can stitch ’em together. You are a good needlewoman, Mary, and it’ll keep you out of mischief.’ She regarded my ink-stained fingers critically. ‘It is a more fitting occupation for a woman than writing.’ She shook out the material she had been working. ‘And the way things are, perhaps we ought to make a start on your Marriage Chest.’

  She winked at me, then, but I did not wink back. I know she is half joking, but marriage! I had not thought of it beyond a game of ‘let us pretend’. I do not want to think of it in any other way, but Martha is my only protector, it would not do to upset her, so I bow my head and spend my afternoons sewing and snipping like a goodwife.

  Entry 26

  We are nearing the end of our long journey. We have entered a great bay dotted with many small islands. To the west of us lies a line of high hills. Jack points out landmarks on the shore: Mount Desert, the Campden Hills, Agamenticus, Cape Porpoise, Pascataquac. Some are known only by their Indian names, others have been named by sailors. The wind blows from the land with a garden scent of trees and earth and things growing. I gaze at the sea dashing itself against tall cliffs cloaked in dark green forest. The coast looks unknowable. Empty of life.

  Entry 27 (mid June? 1659)

  Last night we stood off between Cape St Ann and the Isles of Shoals waiting for the right wind to take us towards our harbour. We woke to see Marblehead looming up on the western horizon, but then fog came, shrouding everything, slowing our progress in towards Salem. The sailors sounded the depth beneath our hull every few minutes, calling the fathoms back to the captain. The main ship channel passes between two islands and the approach to the harbour is narrow and hazardous.

  The mist cleared after noon, allowing us
the first glimpse of human habitation since land had first been sighted. People crowded up on deck to see ships clinging like insects to the wharf. Behind the quay lay the square squat buildings and triangular roofs of Salem.

  Deck and cabin are loud with excitement, but I do not share in the general joy. I do not know what this place has in store for me. The ship is familiar to me; it has been home to me. I would rather stay on board.

  I was watching from the ship’s bow when Jack swung down from the rigging, light as a cat.

  ‘Here, Mary, this is for you.’

  It was the coin he had been given for first sighting land. It was broken in two.

  ‘Half for me. Half for you. Keep it to remember me.’

  ‘You have come to say goodbye?’ This made me more despairing than ever.

  ‘I reckon so. For now, anyway.’ He looked towards the nearing shore. ‘We will soon be into port and I’ll have to look lively.’

  ‘But I’ll see you in the town!’

  He shook his head. ‘I reckon not. We sail for Boston on the morning tide. That’s why I thought to say farewell now. Later, there mayn’t be time.’

  I did not know what to say. I had not thought to part in this way, had not expected it to come so sudden. Jack was like the brother that I had never had, more than that. I turned away in confusion.

  ‘Do not be sad. I’ll come back and find you. This,’ he held up his half of the coin. ‘This will be a sign. One day the two halves will be joined. You have my word on it. I’ll never forget you, Mary, and I never break my word.’

  He leaned towards me, as if he would kiss me, but just then a voice roared out.

  ‘You, boy, Jack! Get up to the lookout!’

  He looked to leave me, but darted back to kiss me anyway. I thought I saw the captain grin, and then Jack was off up into the rigging. I watched him sitting on the cross-trees, as tiny as a child’s toy. My mouth burned and my fist closed over the broken shilling. I know that this will be the last I see of him.

  g

  New World

  Entry 28 (June 1659)

  We came into harbour on the early evening tide and it seemed as though the whole town had turned out to greet us. Men, women and children surged forward, voices raised, yelling out greetings and shouting up for news. Some passengers went below to gather their things, but most stayed up on deck to witness the moment of our coming in. They lined the rails, scanning the faces in the crowd. I felt the mood around me change from elation at our safe arrival to anxiety. They turned to each other with a slight shake of the head and then looked back to search again. I asked Martha what was the matter?

  ‘There’s summat amiss. The Brethren who went before us – at least some should be here and none is.’

  She left me to join a knot of others. I could not tell what they were saying, but I could hear the rhythms of worry in the rise and fall of their voices.

  It took a long time for us and all our goods to be unloaded from the ship. The Elders, and the Reverend Cornwell, were the first to step ashore. They stood in huddled talk with the leaders of the town, leaving others to supervise our disembarking.

  At last we were all on the dock. Then it was the turn of the beasts we brought with us. Cattle and hogs, sheep and gaunt horses emerged blinking from the confines of the hold. They were hoisted and winched across, legs dangling. A good number have died on the voyage, those that remain stood, legs wobbling like newborns, bellowing and bleating their bewilderment. Martha’s fowl, the few that remain, lay huddled in their coop, as lifeless as bunches of rags.

  I wanted to go back on board. Homesick for the ship, on dry land I felt as bewildered as the lowing beasts. The ground felt strange beneath my feet. The light was glaring; the air hot and still. It was stifling, even there on the quay, and I did not like all the people staring at me. I wanted to go back. I wanted to find Jack. But that was impossible. There could be no going back. The last of our goods had been unloaded and new cargo was swinging on board. We ceased belonging to the ship as soon as we set foot on shore.

  Family groups gathered in clusters among the barrels, boxes, crates and sacks. They stood on the quayside, their personal things stacked around them, waiting for news. Anxiety grew. No-one knew what we were to do.

  The Elders had gone with the Salem men. When they returned, their faces were grim. Elias Cornwell climbed up on to a barrel. He stood to address us, arms stretched. A black shape rimmed with light, he cast a long shadow in the setting sun.

  First he bid us bow our heads before the Lord and offered a long prayer of thanksgiving for our safe deliverance.

  ‘We crossed the ocean to join our Brethren and make a new life in a new world, a pure life, free from outside interference. We are arrived, safe delivered, for which we thank God and His Providence.’

  These words brought a quick pattering of ‘amens’, but then a voice called from the crowd:

  ‘What of our Brethren? What news of them?’

  ‘Aye’, ‘What news?’, ‘What news?’ The questions rustled round the crowd, repeated from mouth to mouth. Elias Cornwell lifted his arms higher to quell the muttering.

  ‘Reverend Johnson and his flock are no longer here.’ The muttering grew to a roar. Elias Cornwell had to raise his voice to be heard over the din. ‘Hear me, good people, hear me. The leading men of the town tell me that Pastor Johnson has taken his flock, leading them like Moses into the wilderness.’

  The sound from the crowd grew. ‘What are we to do? What are we to do?’

  Reverend Cornwell’s voice took on the edge of command. ‘We must ask for God’s guidance until our own way forward is clear. Meanwhile, the good people of Salem have opened their houses to us, offering shelter in the spirit of Christ, for which we thank them. Tomorrow there will be a meeting of the Elect in the Town Meeting House. Until then, I want each one of you to spend time in prayer and reflection.’

  He lowered his arms and bowed his head, the signal for a period of silent prayer. We stood, our shadows lengthening in the last rays of sun, the dust beneath our feet taking on a golden cast. We were on solid ground, but I found myself swaying, my body moving still to the remembered rhythm of the ship. We have arrived, but we are strangers in a strange land. This dust looked the same, settling on my shoes like the dust of home, but it is different. I did not suffer seasickness before, but sudden nausea all but overwhelmed me.

  Entry 29

  It is the night of our first full day here and the feeling of strangeness continues. Rebekah and I explored the town, in the company of Tobias, but none of it seems real to me. It is like being in a dream, or the world of Faerie, where all seems the same until you look carefully.

  It is hot, hotter than an English summer, and much more humid. The heat does not fade with the setting of the sun, it seems to increase until I find it hard to breathe. I cannot sleep. That is why I am writing my Journal. I write at the window. The table upon which I write is a shelf cut into a great forest tree that is part of the frame of the house. I take light from the sky. The night is very clear. The moon hangs low and large, like a silver lantern, and the stars blaze across in a great arc. I recognise constellations, but even my untutored eye can see that they have changed. It is as if a great hand has twisted the spheres out of their position.

  On the ground fireflies give out little points of light and crickets and frogs call into the night. The scent of new-worked wood is everywhere. Nothing is old here, little is built of brick or stone. Most of the houses are wood-framed and clad in planks, their steep pitched roofs tiled with wooden shingles. Everything appears new. Even the oldest buildings have scarce had time to weather. Few of the buildings are very large, or very elegant. Most are small to middling, built for strength and shelter and to keep out the weather.

  The people resemble their dwellings in that none are very mean and none of very grand estate. I have seen no beggars, sturdy or otherwise, and no very rich people either. Dress is no marker since all dress the same, in colours sad and s
ober. Blacks, browns, greys, russets and greens, unadorned with lace or silk. What they wear and cannot wear is dictated by law. They are strict in this, and I suspect in much else. It is hard not to notice the gaol, the stocks and the whipping post.

  The good folk of Salem show us how life will be. This is no land of milk and honey. Their faces show a history of work and hardship. They have built their life from nothing, fashioned it from the forest. Belongings brought from home are few and stand out among furnishings made from what they find around them. Pewter is for display only. Even the plates and bowls and spoons are made from wood.

  The people are hospitable, sharing their houses and food with us, but they are dour. Even the way they speak is different. A marked nasal twang harshens each pronunciation. They give us porridge to eat and meat and vegetables all boiled together. The food is fresh and each mouthful tastes like manna after weevil-riddled biscuits and salted pork half rotten from the barrel. Most of the food is the same as we would cook at home, except for the porridge which is bright yellow in colour. It is made from the corn which grows tall in the fields and gardens which surround the settlement. There are other plants, too. Beans and a low creepy plant with large fruits something like a marrow in taste but which swell round and orange. At least the land seems fertile. One of the first things Martha did was kneel down and scoop up some dirt.

  ‘Good growing earth, that’s what this is,’ she said, crumbling it between her fingers, showing it to Jonah. He nodded his approval, smiling his pleasure. They are going to plant together. Not just crops to eat. They are planning a Physick Garden so that they can grow the herbs they need to make medicine.