I had no desire or thought to revisit the past in such a way. But one night, when the weather had turned to the cool of autumn and the smell of decaying things lay about, I had a dream. And in the manner of dreams, I knew that I lay heavily in my bed next to my husband, surrounded by the sleeping forms of my sons and daughters and their sons and daughters, and yet my spirit-self had flown to a place at the edge of the cornfields by my grandmother’s house.
It was night and there were long shadows in the field, and I stood listening to the swelling and rustling of the tassels on the corn. The murmet twisted on his pole with the wind as though he were looking at me, not with malicious intent, but with a calm waiting. The moon was full and it had a haze of silver around it, foretelling a sunrise filled with rain. But in that moment the sky was bluish black and clear of any clouds. The air felt liquid against my skin and warm, like the breath of a child. The murmet moved to and fro, pointing north and south, and then east and west, and soon there came a quivering and a shaking at the edge of the field. A little foot emerged from the corn, wearing a worn, overly large shoe with a silver buckle that flared in the moonlight. Then there appeared a hand wearing a black glove, then an arm, a little crooked body, and finally a dark head, the eyes saucerlike and glimmering against the green. And then I saw that the figure had not been wearing gloves; it was the black hand of Lieutenant Osgood’s slave boy.
He looked at me, very sad, and we gazed at each other for a while. His other hand was hidden in the corn, and when he brought it out, he was holding a small scythe, the kind one would clear bracken with, too small to trim a field. The edge was rimmed with a dark stain of red turned to copper. The boy shook his head as if to say, “It is a pity what I must do,” and then he pulled back a few stalks of corn, making a path for me, and pointed into the opening with his scythe.
I was very afraid and could not lift my feet to move. Dark forms flitted about within the corn, figures of men and women that were tantalizingly familiar but never fully revealed through the shadows. Then the little black boy opened his mouth and spoke to me in a sweet, childish voice. “Sarah, come into the corn.”
“But why, why must I come in?” I cried, my voice sounding loud and peevish in the still night.
And in spite of my desire to remain fixed where I stood, I moved forward as though dragged on a sled until I came to rest next to the boy. He whispered into my ear, this time speaking in the voice of Margaret. “Can you keep a secret, Sarah?” she asked. I nodded, remembering all our secrets shared together in her mother’s house, and she said, her breath hot in my ear, “You cannot harvest the corn until you go into the corn.”
I awoke with tears on my face, my hands clutching at the ribs around my heart. I had for more than forty years kept the past behind an impenetrable wall of my own devising. I thought that to move beyond this wall and revisit the past would scorch my reason and make me mad. But then, as I lay sweating in bed, restless and prickly, it came to me that to harvest a field of corn one does not wade into the dark middle of things and cut the stalks from the inside out. It is best done starting with the outside ears and working inward, stalk by stalk, keeping the light of the sun always at one’s back so that its rays can illuminate each ear of corn, be it whole and sweet or black and blighted. And in this way does one make a meal that feeds a starving body back to wholeness.
What follows are the records of the witchcraft trials brought to me from Salem Village. Upon receiving them I started to remember. And with remembrance came healing.
T
HE
T
RANSCRIBED
D
OCUMENTS FROM
T
HE
T
RYAL OF
M
ARTHA
C
ARRIER
R
ESIDENT OF
A
NDOVER
M
ASSACHUSETTS 1650 TO 1692
The Complaint
Complaint v. Martha Carrier, Elizabeth Fosdick, Wilmot Reed, Sarah Rice, Elizabeth Howe, John Alden, William Proctor, John Flood, Mary Toothaker and daughter, and Arthur Abbott
Salem May the 28th 1692
Joseph Houlton and John Walcott both of Salem Village, Yeomen, made complaint on behalfe of their Majesties against Martha Carrier of Andover, wife of Thomas Carrier of said Towne, husbandman, et al, for sundry acts of witchcraft by them and Every one of them Committed on the bodys of Mary Walcott, Abigail Williams, Mercy Lewis, Ann Putnam and Others belonging to Salem Village or farmes lately, to the hurt and injury of theire bodys therefore Craves Justice.
J
OSEPH
H
OULTON
JOHN WALCOTT
The Warrant
Warrant for Arrest of Martha Carrier, To the Constable of Andover
Salem May the 28th 1692
You are in theire Majesties names hereby required to apprehend and forthwith secure, and bring before us Martha Carrier, the wife of Thomas Carrier of Andover, on Tuesday next being the
31
st day of this Instant month of May about ten of the clock in the forenoon or as soon as may be afterwards at the house of Lt. Nathaniel Ingersall in Salem Village who stands charged with having Committed Sundry acts of Witchcraft . . .
J
OHN
H
ATHORNE
J
ONATHAN
C
ORWIN,
A
SSIST.
The Depositions
John Roger v. Martha Carrier
The deposition of John Roger of Billerica aged
51
yeares or thereabouts, saith, that about seven yeares since, Martha Carrier, being a nigh neighbor unto this deponent, and there happened some difference betwixt us. She gave forth several threatening words as she often used to do and in a short time after this deponent had two lusty sowes which frequented home daily that were lost. And this deponent found one of them dead on the night he was found at the Carriers house with both eares cut off and the other sow I never heard of to this day. . .
Samuel Preston v. Martha Carrier
Samuel Preston aged about 41 yeares, saith, that . . . I had some difference with Martha Carrier which also had happened severall times before and soon after I lost a cow in a strange manner being cast upon her back with her heels up in firm ground when she was very lusty, it being in June. And within about a month after this the said Martha and I had some difference again at which time she told me I had lost a cow lately and it should not be long before I should lose another which accordingly came to pass . . .
Benjamin Abbott v. Martha Carrier
The testimony of Benjamin Abbott aged about
31
yeares, saith, last March was twelve months, then having some land granted to me by the Towne of Andover near to Goodman Carrier’s land, and when this land came to be laid out Goodwife Carrier was very Angry, and said she would stick as Close to Benjamin Abbott as the bark stuck to the tree and that I should repent of it afore seven yeares came to an end and that Doctor Prescott could never cure me . . .
Allen Toothaker v. Martha Carrier
The deposition of Allen Toothaker aged about
22
yeares, saith, . . . about last March Richard Carrier and myself had some difference and said Richard pulled me downe by the hair of my head to the ground for to beat me. I desired him to let me rise, when I was up I went to strike at him, but I fell down flat upon my back to the ground and had not the power to stir hand nor foot. . . . One time she, Martha Carrier, clapped her hands at me and within a day or two I lost a three year old heffer, next a yearling, and then a cow. Then had we some little difference againe and I lost another yearling. And I know not of any naturall causes of the death of the abused Creatures, but have always feared it hath been the effect of my Aunt and her malice . . .
Phoebe Chandler v. Martha Carrier
The deposition of Phoebe Chandler aged
12
yeares, testifieth that about a fortnight before Martha Carrier was sent to Salem to be examined, upon the Sabbath day when the psalm was singing, said Martha Carrier took me, said deponent, by the shoulder and shaked me in the meeting house and asked me where I lived, but I made her no answer (not doubting but that she knew me, having lived some time the next door to my father’s house, on one side of the way). . . . And that day that said Martha Carrier was arrested my mother sent me to carry some beer to the folks who were at work in the lot and when I came within the fence there was a voice in the bushes (which I thought was Martha Carrier’s voice, which I know well) but saw nobody, and the voice asked me what I did there and whither I was going, which greatly frightened me . . .
May 1692–July 1692
T
HIS, THEN, WAS
my mother’s trial.
Richard, who had been watching Mother’s arrest from the hayloft in the barn, followed the constable on foot the few miles north up Boston Way Road and then south along Salem Road at the meetinghouse juncture. It was not yet seven of the clock, but as they rolled over the common green, a small group gathered to stare at Mother as she passed by. No one spoke. Not one person called out with curses or warnings or even pleas of leniency for pity’s sake. And until they came to Miller’s Meadow, men and women stepped out of their homes or stopped working in the fields to watch and give testament to their neighbors that they had seen the witch of Andover.
The day was warm, and the constable, being a porous beefy man, drank often from his water skin, though he never once offered a drink to his prisoner. Richard had not thought to bring a water skin, and so when the cart crossed the little bridge over Mosquito Brook, he dipped his hat into the stream and ran to give Mother some water. John Ballard growled and showed Richard his fist and said that if he came close again to his prisoner, he would be tied hand over hand and thrown into the cart as well. Richard followed the cart the whole of the seventeen miles into the quiet, fearful streets of Salem Village.
Through Richard’s telling of the examination we heard only the scaffolding of events. Later, we would all see for ourselves the place where judgments were rendered. The Salem Village meetinghouse was squarely built on a raised stone foundation with narrow doors on three sides that had all been opened to allow the coming and going of the accused, their victims, their neighbors giving depositions, and the sundry curious citizens who came from towns and villages across Essex and Middlesex counties.
Mother was lifted down from the cart and brought into the meetinghouse, her hands still tied, and though Richard tried to enter, he was warned by the constable to stay in the yard and not to interfere with the judges. Richard stood at the back of the press of people, but as his height was well above six feet, he had a clear field to the inquiry. As soon as she was taken in, the judges motioned to the constable, and he led her forward to stand facing the three men whose names were well known in Salem and beyond: Bartholomew Gedney, John Hathorne, and Jonathan Corwin. John Ballard signed the warrant receipt, took the rope from Mother’s hands, tipped down the brim of his hat to the judges, and left her in the charge of the court.
Standing to her left, separated by some men and women in chains, were Aunt Mary and Margaret. Mother tried to speak to them but she was cautioned to silence. In the pews at the front, a group of young women and girls sat hanging on one another’s shoulders, talking quietly, and looking keenly at the gathering of the accused. Whenever the judges called before them one of the prisoners, the girls would pitch forward or scream or fall to the floor and roll about like a serpent shedding its skin. Richard said that Mother stared steadfastly at the judges and ignored the girls as one would ignore the tantrums of a hobbled child.
Finally the name Martha Carrier was called, and Richard said that one of the girls, named Abigail Williams, immediately stood up and pointed, not at Mother but at Aunt Mary. As soon as Mother stepped forward, she quickly realized her error and changed the direction of her pointing, like a weather vane in a shifting wind. Then the other girls whipped themselves into frenzy, and it was several minutes before there was enough quiet for the judge to speak. One of the judges faced the accusers and asked the pointing girl, “Abigail Williams, who hurts you?”
And Abigail answered, raking her nails down her face, “Goody Carrier of Andover.”
Then the judge turned to another girl and asked, “Elizabeth Hubbard, who hurts you?”
And Elizabeth, clasping her arms around her stomach, said, “Goody Carrier.”
Turning to yet another girl, he asked, “Susannah Sheldon, who hurts you?”
And Susannah responded, turning to the onlookers as though she would enlist their help in fighting her tormentor, “Goody Carrier. She bites me and pinches me and tells me she would cut my throat if I did not sign her book.”
There was another great outcry, this time among the general witnesses, who said to one another, “The Devil’s book . . . she asked them to sign the Devil’s book. . .” At that moment a girl named Mary jumped up, crying that Mother had brought the Devil’s book to her as well and tormented her while she slept. The judges waited patiently for the room to settle and then they pointed their eyes at Mother. The chief judge then asked Mother, “What do you say to this you are charged with?”
Mother’s voice sounded loud and clear through to the back of the room, “I have not done it.”
Then one of the girls leapt up, pointing to a place on the wall behind the judges, and screamed, “She looks upon the Black Man,” and another girl squealed out that a pin had been stuck into her thigh. The shortest of the three judges asked Mother, his eyes searching anxiously over his shoulder, “What black man is this?”
And Mother responded, “I know none,” but her voice was all but drowned out by the crying of the two girls. “He’s there, he’s there, I see him whispering into her ear. . .” And “See how I am pricked again.”