The Heretic's Daughter: A Novel - By Kathleen Kent Page 0,71
a small voice, “Because they say you are a witch.”
“And do you know why Mary and Margaret are arrested?” she asked. And I responded, “Because they are believed to be witches also.”
And here she put her hands on my shoulders so that I could look nowhere but into her eyes and she said, “No. They are arrested to make Uncle confess and in the hopes that they will in turn cry out against others for practicing witchcraft. They will come for me tomorrow, but I will not confess and I will not cry out on anyone. Do you know what that means?”
I started to shake my head no, but a terrible idea was forming in the back of my mind and my eyes must have widened, so that Mother nodded her head grimly and said, “When they cannot make me confess they will come to my family and it will not matter that you are a child. There are children in Salem Town jail even now.” She saw the look in my eyes and knelt in front of me, holding me tight in her arms.
“If they come for you, you must tell them anything they want to hear to save yourself. And you must tell Richard and Andrew and Tom to do the same.”
“But why can you not do the same. . .” My voice had started to rise plaintively but she shook me and choked it off.
“Because someone must speak for the truth of things.”
“But why must it be you?” She ignored my question and pulled out of the sack the red book I had seen her write in so many weeks before.
“This book. . .” She paused for a moment, fingering the worn leather. “This book has in it the history of your father in England before he came to the new colonies.”
“That is all?” I asked, disappointed.
“Sarah, there are men who would walk over your breathing body to possess it, and it could mean the destruction of every one of us. You must promise me two things. On the heads of your family. First you will guard this book. We will hide it tonight but you must take it back again when the time is right if I should not be able to. And the second promise is that you will not try to read it until you have come of age.” I looked at her, confounded. How was I to make such a promise when I didn’t know what I was promising to keep?
“Give me your hand.” And as I held it out she took it and placed it over the book as one would take an oath on the Bible. She said forcefully, “Promise me, Sarah.”
“But I don’t understand,” I cried. I didn’t care if she shook me until my teeth rattled in my head. I didn’t care if my voice traveled south over the swamps and woke every sleeping farmer beyond the border in Reading. But she didn’t shake or strike me, she held on tightly and let me cry until the saltwater soaked her dress down to her skin. Then she pulled away and, taking off her cap, wiped the tears from my face, saying, “Sarah, time is very short. Someday it will all be made clear to you. But tonight I must have your promise. When they come for you, tell them what they wish to hear and they will be satisfied and let you go. Even if you have to say you fly to Bald Hill on a pole and dance a jig every night. Even if they ask if I am a witch, say aye and let it go.”
I started to shake my head again but she said, “My fiercesome, fuming Sarah. This is a heavy burden but you are the only one who can carry it. Richard can hardly bear the weight of his own brooding nature and would collapse with the knowledge of it. And Andrew, poor witless Andrew. He cannot find the door for looking through the window. Tom is good-natured but he cares too deeply for the feelings of others and would make the wrong turn through wishing to please. This book is our history and a family’s history lasts only so long as there is someone left to tell it. And so in you will we be carried forth, and even if I should die, we will not be forgotten.”