The Heretic's Daughter: A Novel - By Kathleen Kent Page 0,67

with one hand as she leaned over the side, her fat fingers reaching and straining for the turning spokes of the wheels, and with the other hand I held on to the corner of an oilskin that Father had spread over us to save us from the misting rain that started as we pulled from the yard. The air was by turns hot and then cold, and I struggled with my shawl as I sweated and shivered beneath it. Mother had been cross and short with us all the whole of the morning, for she, like the rest of us, dreaded going to the meetinghouse. The air about the congregants the previous two Sundays had been heavy and punishing as the Reverend Barnard peppered his sermons with the names of townsfolk accused in Salem for witchcraft. For the Reverend it was a sign of a greater battle to come. One that could spill over at any moment into Andover. His lurid predictions had taken precedence over the sermons of the Reverend Dane, and, like an angry ship captain upon the foredeck, he cried out warnings of the evils to come.

We arrived a full quarter hour late. The Reverend was at the pulpit, and he paused in his invocation to follow us with his eyes as we found seats at the very back of the room. There were no open stares from our neighbors, just a ripple of sly nods one to the other and a cascade of knowing exchanges, “you see, you see, you see. . .” As we settled quickly into our seats, I searched the front pew for the Reverend Dane and was surprised to see the Reverend Nason from Billerica along with the other elders seated facing us. He was more grossly fat than ever, but his gaze was keen, his eyes within their restricted field squeezed into sharp focus like a narrow spyglass. He stared at me for a moment, as though he had seen into my hiding place as I peeked at him through the hole in Margaret’s bedroom wall, and then looked sharply away.

When the psalms had been sung, Reverend Barnard began in a clipped, bitten-off way, “Many this day are tormented. Most of them children. Innocents. Christians. Saints. . . . I myself was witness to this witchery a fortnight ago when I gathered with others of my calling in the home of the Reverend Parris in Salem Village. I saw with my own eyes the work of the Devil as he strove to separate those tortured children from their salvation. My brother pastor, the Reverend Nason, who sits before you, has seen this struggle as well. He has been moved, as I have, to work day and night to stop this spread of evil, and believe me, my faithful followers in Christ, it will spread as contagion is spread without our diligence and scrutiny. But we will find out this black work through prayer and through testimony. Yes, testimony. For it is not enough to fear evil or to pray against evil. It must be dragged into the light of day so that it may be carved out and cleansed and made pure with fire and with the sword if necessary, for does it not say in the Scriptures, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?”

And here he stopped for a moment to calm himself, to swallow, to compose his face, which had twisted itself into ticks and grimaces. He pointed to the Reverend Nason and continued quietly, confidentially, as though sharing a secret. “He goes on the morrow to Salem Village to give testimony of a man from Billerica, a physician by calling, who not only claims to have killed a witch but boasts he can foretell a witch at any place. Not through prayer or fasting or by the consultation of his minister but by the use of charms and spells. He has even taught his little daughter this charm making and has boasted of it in taverns in Billerica and here in Andover as well. This is Devil’s work. You see how it spreads? How it crosses borders and roads like a rolling fog?”

My breathing had stopped, forcing the blood to beat against my skull like a clapper vibrating inside a bell. I saw in my mind’s eye Margaret, standing all clean and straight in front of the Reverend Nason, reciting her catechism on finding a witch, and recalled Uncle’s claims to be able to break the spells