The Sacrifice (14 page)

“Aye!” Abigail screamed, silencing them all. “Aye, my mother did tell me to do this.”

The meetinghouse erupted. Abigail fell to the pew in a slump, unable to control her sobbing any
longer.
There,
she thought,
I have done it. Yet I didn’t lie. Mama
did
order me to stand here today and do this
. Dorothy put an arm around Abby’s shoulders and bent her head toward her sister’s. She, too, was crying.

“Arrest that woman!” the head magistrate called out.

Abigail turned to watch, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Constables appeared. Mama rose with all dignity and put out her hands so that they could be tied together. Her chin was high, her eyes steady. She looked at Abigail and Dorothy, and she smiled. But Abigail could see the slight fear in her mother’s eyes.

Across the aisle, Papa had risen too, his face clouded with confusion. Grandpappy put his hand on Papa to steady him and keep him from following Mama.

“’Tis the most horrid thing I have ever done, Abby,” Dorothy whispered. “I can only remind myself that they cannot put Mama to death. The babe will save her. Oh, Abby, did we do the right thing?”

“I know not,” Abigail replied. She wondered how her mother, pregnant, would be able to handle the cold and damp cell better than they could at the ages of ten and twelve. Abigail thought of Aunt
Elizabeth, dead in her grave. Would Mama die too?

“Abigail and Dorothy Faulkner,” the head magistrate’s voice boomed out.

Abigail turned with her sister to face that formidable man.

“You are free to go. The court does thank you for your honesty in helping to prevent the spread of witchcraft in our colony.”

Honesty?
Abigail thought.

Mama was led up beside them. She was shaking slightly.

“Hannah Faulkner, I do commit you to Salem Town Prison until such time when you may be heard on these accusations,” the head magistrate said.

“What is happening?” Papa’s voice was loud in the meetinghouse. “Where do they take Hannah?”

Abigail looked back at him. Grandpappy whispered to Papa, finally telling him, it seemed, of their plan. Abigail saw his eyes grow wide, and he slumped down into the pew, staring at Mama as if she had betrayed him.

The others in the meetinghouse stood looking with hatred and fear at Mama. Fear and hatred. Jealousy and anger. That was what all this was about.
Lies and more lies. And today Abigail Faulkner had had a hand in continuing the river of madness. She who had withstood the stocks. She who had braved the rats and the cold of the prison cell. She had given in to fear today. She was no better than Papa.

Or was she? In the end, who was to decide what she should do? Was it these people? Was it Mama? Or was it she who was responsible for her actions? Wasn’t it
she
who should decide?

So what was it to be? Was she to be the girl who had given up in a mean, damp prison cell after her aunt’s death, or the girl who had defied them all, lifted her skirts high, and racd with pleasure?

Papa was praying in his pew. But he did not try to stop them from taking Mama. They began to lead Mama away, and he did nothing.

In that moment, it became clear to Abigail who she was. She was not and would never be her father. No one would make her decisions. She would not be bound up with fear. She was her mother’s child. Today and every day, she would do as
she
decided. She stood and cried out into the room.

“Nay! Stop! I must speak!”

Mama turned, her face white.

Abigail felt her mother’s pain, but so too did she feel her own. The meetinghouse was quiet.

“I have not been honest with this court and the magistrates,” Abigail said.

Mama moaned.

Abigail looked back and saw Grandpappy grip the back of his pew. Papa’s head came up. The meetinghouse erupted with noise again.

“Quiet!” the head magistrate shouted. “What is this, child?” he said. “What are you saying?”

Abigail swallowed hard, then stepped forward with determination.

“Sir,” she began, “it is not true that my mother did teach us witchcraft. My mother is no witch. Nor am I. Nor is my sister.”

She thought back to the women in her cell, the women she had avoided as if they had plague. She saw them there, in the darkness, in the cold and damp, each struggling in her own way to survive the madness that had befallen them. And she saw her aunt. She knew Aunt Elizabeth would urge her to speak, to speak the truth, her truth as she knew it to be and with the strength she had always had.

“There are no witches here in this courtroom,”
Abigail spoke out. “There are no witches in all of Massachusetts, nor in all the land.”

The whole of the meetinghouse seemed to gasp for breath.

“You must end this madness,” Abigail said, looking right at the magistrates. “You must listen to reason. Sarah Phelps has claimed that I did fly about her. How is she to prove this? If she cannot prove it, and yet you convict on her words only, who is to say that next you will not be accused? Each and every one of you?”

“But we are innocent,” cried one woman.

“As am I,” Abigail rejoined, turning now to the crowd. “But there is no way for me to prove this to you, as you are set to believe something that Sarah Phelps simply says.”

Abigail sighed, looking back at the magistrates. “Please. Can you truly believe that witches have been your neighbors for these goodly years and you did not know it? I beg you. End this madness now. Release those in prison.”

A great quiet came to the meetinghouse. Abigail waited. Would the magistrates listen to her? Would they see reason?

“But then,” one voice from the crowd said quietly, “how do you explain the behavior of the Salem Village girls?”

“Aye,” another voice called out. “You must explain how they came to be tormented.”

Abigail’s heart sickened. They did not believe her.

Then Dorothy stepped to her side and took Abigail’s hand.

Abigail felt her strength return. “The girls are lying,” Abigail said quietly. “They have been playacting.”

“Nay,” a voice called out, “I believe her not. She does but confuse us to save her mother. The mother is instructing her to say these things. Take the mother away, and the daughter will be free of her powers.”

“Aye,” Sarah Phelps said, jumping up. “Aye. ’Tis she who is the witch. Why even now I can see the mother’s spirit flying about our heads. Oh, look! Look! Do you not see her?”

All eyes turned to where Sarah Phelps had pointed. There was nothing there, but the people were shrieking and covering their heads as if her mother’s spirit flew at them.

“Abigail Faulkner,” the head magistrate intoned, “for lying to this court that your mother was no witch, you will spend a day in the stocks on the morrow. Take the mother away now. Free the daughter from her powers and leave her to think on her lies.”

A great despair fell over
Abigail. She had failed. Dorothy dropped her hand and slumped to the floor, but Abigail ran to her mother.

“I am sorry, Mama,” Abby whispered. “I did try to lie for you, and yet I could not.”

“I should not have asked you to,” Mama said. “I see that now. But Abigail, rest easy. You did try to right a wrong, and though the crowd turned against you, you did what you knew to be right and true. I am proud of you, Bear.”

“I will keep trying to end this thing, Mama.” Abigail promised.

“As will I from my cell,” Mama said. “Yet I shall
rest easy knowing you and Dorothy are well and at home. Keep Papa safe for me, and give my love to your sister and brothers.”

She kissed the top of Abigail’s head.

Dorothy came up to them, and Mama kissed her, too.

“I am sorry, Mama,” Dorothy said, crying.

“It was what I told you to do, was it not?” Mama said, smiling. “Do not worry, Dorothy. Take care of things for me at home now and know that I love you.”

A constable began to lead Mama outside, and she stumbled slightly on a step as she walked. Dorothy turned away, but Abigail followed Mama out of the meetinghouse.

I have failed,
she thought as the wagon pulled up for Mama.
What I did was for nothing
.

Abby watched as Papa hurried to embrace Mama. She saw him shaking as her mother whispered words of encouragement to him. She had done no better than Papa in stopping this from happening.

Grandpappy came and stood beside Abigail, but he said nothing.

Mama was helped into the wagon. “I love you,
Bear,” she cried out. “Stay brave, and bring me news when you have it.”

“Aye, Mama,” Abigail yelled back.

As the wagon pulled away, Abigail could see that her mother was crying at last. She watched until the wagon turned a corner and was gone. Papa stood in the middle of the road, unmoving, as if he were a lost child.

“You were brave to speak out, Abigail,” Grandpappy said softly. “It could have cost you your life had they chosen to believe you for a witch.”

“And what would it have cost me, Grandpappy, had I said nothing?” Abigail asked.

Grandpappy nodded. “Quite a bit, I suspect. And for knowing that, I know you for the good soul that you are, Abigail.”

“A good soul does little for me, Grandpappy,” Abby said bitterly. “Do you not see that my speaking out has had no effect? I might as well have stayed as silent as Papa. I did fail.”

“Did you?” a voice said.

Abigail looked up. There stood an unfamiliar man.

“Governor,” Grandpappy said, standing straighter, surprise in his eyes.

“I was most affected by your speech today, Abigail,” the governor said. “I believe that you spoke the truth.”

Abigail stared at him.

The governor smiled, a sad smile. “They have accused my own wife, Abigail. I have taken her safely away, but I came back to see to the accusation against her. Listening to you today, I know what must be done. I intend to join your grandfather and end this madness.”

Slowly, Abigail’s spirits began to lift. Maybe there was hope for Mama after all. Maybe speaking out in the midst of madness had done some good.

“Truly you mean it, sir?” she asked.

“Truly I mean it, Abigail,” he said. “For your mother’s sake, but also for my wife’s.”

Papa came up the stairs slowly, shaking his head from side to side.

“What am I to do without her?” he said softly. “How am I to survive?”

“You must be strong, Papa,” Abigail said impatiently.

He looked her in the eye. “Aye, Abby,” he said. “I know this to be true. I am weak, though I do truly try to be different. Why can I not be strong and courageous?” he asked, his eyes imploring Abby to answer. “Why must I be plagued by these fears that torment me, by these voices in my head?” He looked away. “Why can I not be more like you?” he whispered. “More like your mother?”

There was such pain in his voice. Standing there, Abigail saw her father as if for the first time. He was not like other fathers. He never had been. But for once, Abigail understood how much that pained him. Never once in all her years had he admitted to her that he was aware of his illness, that he wished for things to be different.
What must that be like?
Abby wondered.

For a moment, she thought back to the days right after Aunt Elizabeth’s death. She had been afraid then, unable to fight anymore. Abby realized that she had had a glimpse of the fear that consumed her father. Could she truly hate him for something he could not control, when he wanted nothing more than to be rid of it?

She put her arm around her father. She had been
blessed with strength. He had been cursed with weakness. Who was she to condemn him for this? He might not be the strongest of fathers, but perhaps he did try harder than most. When he was well, Papa was kind, and Mama loved him much.

“Come,” she said. “Let us go home.”

Dorothy was standing in the doorway of the meetinghouse. “Home,” she said. “Truly, Abigail, have you ever heard a better word?”

Abby smiled. “Nay, sister. I have not.”

“Let us be about it, then,” Grandpappy said.

When Abigail’s house came
into sight, she began to shake. It was as if a part of her had doubted this could truly happen. And she knew that until Mama was home and safe, fear was to be her companion, just as it was for Papa. It was a strange and unsettling feeling.

As the wagon drew near, the door to the house flew open. Franny was in the doorway, waving wildly. She had Edward in her arms. Abigail could see Paul running in from the fields, Uncle Daniel with him. Never had Abigail been so happy to see her family.

Abigail hugged Dorothy to her. They had made it. They were home.

When the wagon came to a stop, Dorothy
scrambled out and ran to Franny. Abigail jumped down after her. She took Edward from Franny and planted kisses all over him. He had grown so big while they were gone. He squirmed and bucked until she let him go. He stared at her suspiciously.

“Edward, it is me, Abby,” she said, hurt by his behavior.

“He has not seen you in three months, Abigail,” Papa said softly. “That is a long time for a fellow his age.

“Papa,” Edward said, lifting his chubby arms high into the air and running for his father. “Papa. Papa. Papa. Papa. Papa.”

Papa swung Edward high, and he let out a belly laugh.

“He talks!” Dorothy cried.

Grandpappy chuckled. “Too much if you ask me.”

Abigail went over to Franny. “You haven’t changed too, have you, little one?”

“I think I grew a bit,” Franny said hopefully.

“I do not want you to change, Franny,” Abigail said, hugging her sister. “I want you to stay just as you are.”

“But I must grow, Abby,” Franny said impatiently,
“or I will never be big like you and Dorothy.”

Abigail thought of all the things she had endured the past few months. Growing up was no easy task.

“Are you all right, then, Abby?” Franny asked, her eyes wide. “Did the witches in the prison torment you?”

“Nay,” Abigail said softly. “There are no witches there, Franny. Only poor souls as confused as Dorothy and I were.”