The Sacrifice

KATHLEEN BENNER DUBLE

Margaret K. McElderry Books
New York London Toronto Sydney

Margaret K. McElderry Books · An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
· This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. · Copyright © 2005 by Kathleen Benner Duble · All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. · Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian · The text for this book is set in Adobe Garamond. · Manufactured in the United States of America · 10 9 8 7 6 5 4   · Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data · Duble, Kathleen Benner. · The sacrifice / Kathleen Benner Duble.—1sted. · p. cm. · Summary: Two sisters, aged ten and twelve, are accused of witchcraft in Andover, Massachusetts, in 1692 and await trial in a miserable prison while their mother desperately searches for some way to obtain their freedom. · ISBN-13: 978-0-689-87650-9 ISBN-10: 0-689-87650-5 eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10712-6 (hardcover) · [1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction. 3. Witchcraft—Fiction. 4. Puritans—Fiction. 5. Family life—Massachusetts—Fiction. 6. Massachusetts—History—Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.D8496Sac 2005 · [Fic]—dc22 · 2004018355

For my father, who gave me the inspiration, and my mother, who taught me the determination

No work is ever the effort of a single individual. In the case of the story of Abigail Faulkner and her family, I have had many people add their insights, knowledge, and creativity to the process.

I would first like to thank the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for recognizing the potential in this unfinished manuscript by naming it a Work-in-Progress runner-up, and in rewarding that potential monetarily. The money was welcome; the recognition, a true gift.

Because I am a writer and not a historian, to Juliet H. Mofford of the Andover Historical Society, I thank you for giving your time to read my manuscript and sharing your expert opinion.

To Liz Fredrick, Donna McArdle, and Marcia Strykowski, thanks for your attentive ears, warm praise, and heartfelt criticism. Your critiques are invaluable, not just to this manuscript, but to everything I write.

To Amy Hourihan and Jenny Steward, thanks for
lending your keen eye, sharp wit, and abundant intelligence to the proofing of my galleys, a tedious task for which I am most grateful.

To my daughter Tobey, thanks for taking time out of your crazy high-school schedule to wander the graveyard in North Andover for a decent photo of your mother. I know this took some time!

To my daughter Liza, thanks for making me laugh. I hope you’ll read
this
book.

To my husband, Chris, thanks for the time you put into reading draft after draft of my manuscripts and galleys. You always seem to be able to pinpoint where I’ve gone wrong. I look forward to the day when you can tell me how to fix it.

To my editor, Sarah Sevier, who, thankfully, does know how to fix it: You took on this manuscript, directed me clearly and concisely, and tightened and strengthened the story with a skill I can only try some day to replicate.

And finally, to my father, who found the story in the first place: I thank you for always doing the grunt work on so many things for me, whether it is researching the best computer for our family, flying across the country to help me in a crisis, or finding me an ancestor with a story I was destined to tell. You’re the best!

“They will not see me move.
They will not see me move,” Abigail whispered to herself, although her whole body cried out to shift her legs and ease the pain as she sat straight and still in the stocks. Her legs burned and her backside ached, but she remained determined. She kept her head held high, even when a cold mist developed, sending shivers through her body. Even when her cousin Steven, who had teased her into lifting her skirts and racing him in the first place, came and grinned at her. Even when Goody Sprague walked past and stared at her with disdain. Abigail did not move. She did not even blink an eye. She wouldn’t.

Abby did not for an instant believe it was evil for a girl to take pleasure in running and having her legs
free. If she wasn’t meant to race, why had the Lord given her those legs in the first place?

Her right thigh begin to twitch. She tightened the muscles with all her might and gritted her teeth.

“They will not see me move. They will not see me move,” she continued to whisper to herself.

Rain was now dribbling down her back, snaking its way between her shoulder blades, cold and wet. Abby sat up straighter.

The parchment paper sign, SINNER, that hung about her neck grew damp and clung to her bodice. Cold crept into her hands, which lay clasped in her lap. With her feet locked into place and her legs stretched straight out in front of her with no support, Abby felt strained beyond enduring. She willed herself to see her limbs in the wooden holes as if they were someone else’s, removed from the pain.

It felt as if days had passed, though Abigail knew her sentence was only six hours. She was hungry, yet this made her more determined. She lifted her head higher and peered out into the growing darkness, watching lights appear as each house in the village lit its candles.

At last, just when she felt as if she couldn’t stand
it any longer, they came: four of the town elders and Abigail’s grandfather, Reverend Dane.

Abigail looked straight into Grandpappy’s eyes. She regretted having shamed him, but she was not sorry for the racing. Surely he had mistaken the words of the Lord if he believed that she was a sinner. Abby knew that she flew like the angels when she ran.

“Your punishment is complete, Abigail Faulkner,” Justice Bradstreet said. “Release her.”

The others lifted the bar of the stocks. Abby stared at the men, and left her legs there. She would not move until they had left. She was not about to let them see her shake and perhaps fall as she attempted to stand on her stiff and weak legs.

“Are you not yet repentant, Abigail?” asked Elder Stevens in wonder.

Abby saw Grandpappy’s face turn scarlet at her refusal to move. She knew he would not like how she was about to answer Elder Stevens. Abigail thrust forth her chin and prepared to speak.

But she was saved from saying anything by the arrival of her mother. Mama came from the shadows and descended upon them, her face stern and drawn.

“Please, good sirs, leave me to tend to her,” she
said. “The child will sicken if we leave her here much longer. Can you not discuss saving her soul in more tolerable weather? Let me take her home now.”

The elders grumbled but finally turned and left for their own homes, warm fires, and suppers.

“You are too easy on her, Hannah,” Grandpappy said.

“Not now, Father,” Mama said. “We can discuss this at a later time.”

Grandpappy grunted. He gave Abby one last look, then headed off into the darkness.

Mama turned toward her daughter. Her eyes searched Abigail’s, but she said nothing. Quickly, she leaned down and began to rub Abby’s legs until Abby began to feel them again. The sensation was painful, and Abigail had to bite her lip to stop from crying out.

Mama leaned over and put her arms around her daughter. “Can you move your legs?”

Abigail lifted first one leg, and then the other to the ground. Pain tore through each one as she moved them from the stocks.

“I fear I may not make it home, Mama,” she whispered.

Mama lifted Abigail slightly. “I’ll wager you’ll do it, Bear. But rise slowly now.”

At the sound of Mama’s nickname for her, Abby blinked back tears. She remembered the day her mother had first called her that. She was only five years old, and a big black bear had wandered into their garden. Abigail had just finished her daily weeding when she saw the bear rooting around, tearing up the garden she had just put in order.

“Get out of here!” Abigail had yelled, bringing her mother to the door.

“Abby,” her mother had said softly, gesturing furiously at her. “Come slowly here, child. Back away from him.”

“I will not,” Abby had replied angrily, picking up a stick. “Get out, you old bear!”

“Abigail, stop,” her mother whispered. “You’ll make him angry.”

But Abigail would not stop. She banged that stick against the wooden gate of the garden, attracting the bear’s attention, then moved slowly toward him. She hit the stick again, continuing to move toward the bear and the garden gate. Finally, the bear backed away, then fled into the woods.

“Abby,” her mother said, running forward and clutching her daughter to her. “Are you mad? Don’t you ever do that again!”

“I will,” Abby had said fiercely. “I’m not about to hoe this garden twice for any old bear.”

Her mother had laughed and kissed her daughter. “You are fierce enough to be part bear yourself, child,” she had said.

Thinking of this memory, Abigail willed herself to be courageous now. But her legs ached terribly, and the tears threatened.

“Steady,” Mama whispered. “’Tis not seemly to cry here, Abigail. Let us get you back home. You have withstood this most bravely. Do not let them see you weaken now.”

Abby nodded and began to take her first steps, leaning upon her mother. Her legs shook and her feet felt numb, but she felt more confident with Mama’s arm strong and sure around her.

“Slowly, Abigail,” Mama whispered.

Abby did not glance up at the steep climb ahead of them to their home. Instead, she looked down at the muddy road, concentrating on every step, placing each foot carefully before adding weight
to it. Slowly they walked up the hill until at last, Mama stopped.

“We’re home, Bear,” Mama said. “Dorothy!” she called.

The door swung open, and Abigail sighed with relief at the sight of her sweet home stretched out in front of her. She took the last few steps inside and collapsed onto a stool, weak and weary.