Again Violet looked to her father, and he said, “Go on, tell the magistrate.”
“The imp…was sittin’ on the Devil’s knee. It had white hair, looked like spider webs. It wasn’t wearing no clothes, and…its skin was all gray and wrinkled up, like a dried apple. ’Cept for its face.” She hesitated, her expression tormented; in that instant Woodward thought she more resembled a life-burned woman than an innocent child. “Its face…was a little boy,” she went on. “And…while the Devil was talkin’ to me…the imp stuck out its tongue…and made it wiggle ’round and ’round.” She shuddered at the memory of it, and a single tear streaked down her left cheek.
Matthew couldn’t speak. He realized that Violet Adams had just described perfectly one of the three grotesques that Jeremiah Buckner claimed he saw in the orchard, having unholy sexual relations with Rachel.
Add to that the child’s description of Satan as seen by Elias Garrick, right down to the black cloak and six gold buttons, and—Dear God, Matthew thought. It couldn’t be true!
Could it?
“Violet?” He had to strain to keep his voice steady. “Have you heard anything of the other tales concerning the Devil and this imp that may have been told around town? What I mean to say is—”
“No sir, she ain’t makin’ up a lie!” Adams clenched his teeth at the very suggestion of it. “I done told you, she’s a truthful child! And yes, them tales are spoken here and yon, and most like Violet’s heard ’em from other children, but by God you didn’t see her pale as milk when she come home that day! You didn’t hear her sobbin’ and wailin’, near scairt to death! No sir, it ain’t a lie!”
Violet had downcast her face again. When her father had ceased his ranting, she lifted it to look fully at Matthew. “Sir?” she said timorously. “It happened as I told it. I heared the voice and went in the house, and I seen the Devil and the imp. The Devil said them things to me, and then I run home quick as I could.”
“You’re positive—absolutely positive—that the figure in the black cloak said…” Matthew found the appropriate lines on the paper. “‘Tell them to free my Rachel’?”
“Yes sir. I am.”
“The candle. In which hand did the imp hold it?”
She frowned. “The right.”
“Did the Devil have on shoes or boots?”
“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t see.”
“Upon which knee did the imp sit? The left or right?”
Again, Violet frowned as she called up the memory. “The…left, I think. Yes sir. The left knee.”
“Did you see anyone else on the street before you went inside?”
“No sir. I don’t recall.”
“And afterward? Was there anyone on the street when you came out?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. I was cryin’. All I cared to do was get home.”
“How come you to stay late at school?”
“It was ’cause of my readin’, sir. I need help at it, and Master Johnstone had me stay late to do some extra work.”
“You were the only student asked to stay late?”
“That day, yes sir. But Master Johnstone has somebody stay late most every day.”
“What made you notice those gold buttons?” Matthew lifted his eyebrows. “How, with the Devil and the imp sitting there before you, did you have the presence of mind to count them?”
“I don’t recall countin’ ’em, exactly. They just caught my eye. I collect buttons, sir. I have a jar of ’em at home, and ever when I find one I put it up.”
“When you left the schoolhouse, did you happen to speak to anyone on the—”
“Matthew.” Though it had been only a whisper, Woodward had delivered it with stern authority. “That’s enough.” He glowered at his clerk, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed. “This child has spoken what she knows.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Enough.” There was no denying the magistrate’s will; particularly not in this instance, since Matthew had for all intents and purposes run out of questions. All Matthew could do was nod his head and stare blankly at what he’d scribed on the paper before him. He had come to the conclusion that, of the three witnesses who’d testified, this child’s story sounded the most chillingly real. She knew what details she ought to know. What she couldn’t recall was forgivable, due to the stress and quickness of the incident.
Tell them to free my Rachel, the Devil had said. That single statement, coupled with the poppets, was powerful enough to burn her even if there had been no other witnesses.
“I assume,” Matthew said, his own voice somewhat diminished, “that the schoolmaster has heard this story?”
“He has. I told him myself the very next mornin’,” Adams said.
“And he remembers asking Violet to stay late that afternoon?”
“He does.”
“Well, then.” Matthew licked his dry lips and resisted turning his head to look at Rachel. He could think of nothing more to say but the same again: “Well, then.”
“You are very courageous,” Woodward offered the child. “Very courageous, to come in here and tell us this. My compliments and gratitude.” Though in pain, he summoned up a smile albeit a tight one. “You may go home now.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir.” Violet bowed her head and gave the magistrate a clumsy but well-meant curtsey. Before she left the cell, though, she glanced uneasily at the prisoner, who still sat backwards upon the bench. “She won’t hurt me, will she?”
“No,” Woodward said. “God will protect you.”
“Well…sir, there’s somethin’ else I have to tell.”
Matthew roused himself from his dismayed stupor. “What is it?”
“The Devil and that imp…they wasn’t alone in the house.”
“You saw another creature, then?”
“No sir.” She hesitated, hugging her Bible. “I heared a man’s voice. Singin’.”
“Singing?” Matthew frowned. “But you saw no other creature?”
“No sir, I didn’t. The singin’…it was comin’ from back of the house, seemed like. Another room, back there in the dark. I heared it just ’fore the candle went out.”
“It was a man’s voice, you say?” Matthew had put his quill aside. Now he picked it up again and began to record the testimony once more. “Loud or soft?”
“Soft. I could just hardly hear it. But it was a man’s voice, yes sir.”
“Had you ever heard that voice before?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure if I had or hadn’t.”
Matthew rubbed his chin and inadvertently smeared black ink across it. “Could you make out anything of the song?”
“Well…sometimes I feel I’m near ’bout to know what song it is, that maybe I heared it before…but then it goes away. Sometimes it makes my head hurt thinkin’ of it.” She looked from Matthew to the magistrate and back again. “It’s not the Devil cursin’ me, is it, sir?”
“No, I think not.” He stared at the lines on the paper, his mind working. If there was a third demonic creature in that house, why didn’t it show itself to the child? After all, the idea had been to scare an alarm into her, hadn’t it? What was the point of a demon singing in the dark, if the song and the voice were not loud enough to be fearful? “Violet, this may be difficult for you,” he said, “but might you try to remember what the voice was singing?”
“What does it matter?” Adams had held his peace long enough. “She done told you ’bout the Devil and the imp!”
“My own curiosity, Mr. Adams,” Matthew explained. “And it seems to me that the memory of this voice troubles your daughter, or she would not have brought it to light. Don’t you agree?”
“Well…” The man made a sour face. “Mayhaps I do.”
“Is there anything further?” Matthew asked the girl, and she shook her head. “All right, then. The court thanks you for your testimony.” Violet and her father withdrew from the cell. Just before they left the gaol, the
child looked back fearfully at Rachel, who was sitting slumped over with a hand pressed to her forehead.
When the two were gone, Woodward began to wrap the poppets back up in the white cloth. “I presume,” he whispered, “that all other witnesses have fled town. Therefore…” He paused to try to clear his throat, which was a difficult and torturous task. “Therefore our trial is ended.”
“Wait!” Rachel stood up. “What about my say? Don’t I get a chance to speak?”
Woodward regarded her coldly. “It is her right, sir,” Matthew reminded him.
The magistrate continued wrapping the poppets. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Of course it is. Go on, then.”
“You’ve made your decision, have you not?” She came to the bars and gripped them.
“No. I shall first read over the transcript, when I am able.”
“But that’s only a formality, isn’t it? What can I possibly say to convince you I am not guilty of these lies?”
“Bear in mind,” Matthew said to her, “that the witnesses did swear on the Bible. I would be wary in calling them liars. However…” He paused.
“However what?” Woodward rasped.
“I think there are some omissions of detail in the testimonies of Mr. Buckner and Mr. Garrick that ought to be taken into account. For instance—”
Woodward lifted a hand. “Spare me. I shall not discuss this today.”
“But you do agree, don’t you, sir?”
“I am going to bed.” With the bundle tucked under his arm, Woodward pushed the chair back and stood up. His bones ached and his head grew dizzy, and he stood grasping the desk’s edge until the dizziness abated.
Instantly Matthew was on his feet too, alert to preventing the magistrate from falling. “Is someone coming to help you?”
“I trust there’s a carriage waiting.”
“Shall I go out and see?”
“No. Mind you, you’re still a prisoner.” Woodward felt so drained of strength he had to close his eyes for a few seconds, his head bowed.
“I demand my right to speak,” Rachel insisted. “No matter if you have decided.”
“Speak, then.” Woodward feared his throat was closing up again, and his nostrils seemed all but sealed.
“It is a wicked conspiracy,” she began, “to contend that I murdered anyone, or that I have made spells and poppets and committed such sins as I am accused of. Yes, I know the witnesses swore truth on the Bible. I can’t understand why or how they could create such stories, but if you’ll give me the Bible I’ll swear truth on it too!”
To Matthew’s surprise, Woodward picked up the Holy Book, walked unsteadily to the bars, and passed the volume through into her hands.
Rachel clasped it to her bosom. “I swear upon this Bible and every word in it that I have done no murders and I am not a witch!” Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of trepidation and triumph. “There! You see? Did I burst into flame? Did I scream because my hands were scorched? If you put such value on Bible-sworn truth, then will you not also value my denial?”
“Madam,” the magistrate whispered wearily, “do not further profane yourself. Your power to confuse is very strong, I grant you.”
“I am holding the Bible! I have just sworn on it! Would you have me kiss it?”
“No. I would have you return it.” He held out his hand. Matthew saw the bright fire of anger leap into Rachel’s eyes, and for an instant he feared for the magistrate’s safety. But then Rachel stepped back from the bars, opened the Holy Book, and began to methodically rip the parchment pages from it, her expression all but dead.
“Rachel!” Matthew cried out, before he could think better of it. “Don’t!”
The torn pages of God’s Writ drifted to the straw around her feet. She stared into the magistrate’s eyes as she did her blasphemous damage, as if daring him to prevent her.
Woodward held her gaze, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “Now,” he whispered, “I see you clearly.”
She yanked out another page, let it fall, and then shoved the Bible between the bars. Woodward made no move to capture the mutilated Book, which dropped to the floor. “You see nothing,” Rachel said, her voice trembling with emotion though her face was held under tight control. “Why did God not strike me dead just now?”
“Because, madam, He has given me that task.”
“If I were truly a witch, God would never have allowed such an act!”
“Only a vile sinner would have committed it,” Woodward said, showing admirable composure. He leaned down and retrieved the volume, the back of which had been broken.
Matthew said, “She’s distraught, sir! She doesn’t know what she’s doing!”
At that, Woodward turned toward his clerk and managed to say heatedly, “She knows! Dear God, Matthew! Has she blinded you?”
“No, sir. But I think this action should be excused on the grounds of extreme mental hardship.”
Woodward’s mouth fell agape, his gray face slack. He seemed to feel the entire world wheel around him as he realized that, indeed, this woman had beguiled the very fear of God out of his clerk.
The magistrate’s shocked expression was not lost on Matthew. “Sir, she is under difficult circumstances. I hope you’ll weigh that in your consideration of this incident.”
There was only one response Woodward could make to this plea. “Get your papers. You’re leaving.”
Now it was Matthew’s turn to be shocked. “But…I have one more night on my sentence.”
“I’ll pardon you! Come along!”
Matthew saw that Rachel had moved back into the shadows of her cage. He was torn between the desire to rid himself of this dirty hovel and the realization that once he left the gaol he would most likely not see Rachel again until the morning of her death. There were still so many questions to be asked and answered! He couldn’t let it go like this, or he feared he might be haunted for the rest of his days. “I’ll stay here and finish my sentence,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ll stay here,” Matthew repeated calmly. “One more night will be of no consequence.”
“You forget yourself!” Woodward felt near collapse. “I demand you obey!”
Even though this demand had been delivered in such a frail voice, it still carried enough power to offend Matthew’s sense of independence. “I am your servant,” he answered, “but I am not your slave. I elect to stay here and finish my sentence. I will take my lashes in the morning, and that will be the end of it.”
“You’ve lost your reason!”
“No, sir, I have not. My being pardoned would only cause further problems.”
Woodward started to argue the point, but neither his voice nor his spirit had the strength. He stood at the cell’s threshold, holding the violated Bible and the bundled poppets. A glance at Rachel Howarth showed him that she’d retreated to the far wall of her cage, but he knew that as soon as he left she would begin to work her mind-corrupting spells on the boy again. This was like leaving a lamb to the teeth of a bitch wolf. He tried once more: “Matthew…I beg you to come with me.”
“There’s no need. I can stand one more night.”
“Yes, and fall for eternity,” Woodward whispered.
Woodward laid the Holy Book down atop the desk. Even so desecrated, the volume might serve as a shield if Matthew called upon it. That is, if Matthew’s clouded vision would allow him to recognize its power. He damned himself for letting the boy be put in this place; he might have known the witch would leap at the opportunity to entrance Matthew’s mind. It occurred to Woodward that the court records were in jeopardy as well. There was no telling what might befall them during this last night they’d be within the witch’s reach. “I will take the papers,” he said. “Box them, please.”
This was not an unreasonable request, as Matthew assumed the magistrate would want to begin his reading. He immediately obeyed.
When it was done, Woodward put the box under one arm. There was nothing more he could do
for Matthew except offer a prayer. He cast a baleful glare upon Rachel Howarth. “Beware your acts, madam. You’re not yet in the fire.”
“Is there any doubt I shall be?” she asked.
He ignored the question, turning his eyes toward Matthew. “Your lashing…” It seemed his throat was doubly swollen now, and speaking took a maximum of effort. “…will be at six o’clock. I shall be here…early as possible. Be alert to her tricks, Matthew.” Matthew nodded but offered no opinion on the validity of the statement.
The magistrate walked out of the cell, leaving the door wide open. He steeled himself not to look back, as the sight of Matthew voluntarily caged and in mortal danger of witchcraft might tear his heart asunder.
Outside the gaol, in the dim gray light and with a mist hanging in the air, Woodward was relieved to see that indeed Goode had brought the carriage for him. He pulled himself up into one of the passenger seats and set the bundled poppets at his side. As soon as Woodward was settled, Goode flicked the reins and the horses started off.
Shortly after the magistrate had departed, Green came to the gaol to deliver the evening meal, which was corn soup. He locked Matthew’s cell and said, “I trust you sleep well, boy. Tomorrow your hide belongs to me.” Matthew didn’t care for the way Green laughed; then the gaol-keeper removed the lantern, as was his nightly custom, and left the prisoners in darkness.
Matthew sat on his bench and tipped the foodbowl to his mouth. He heard a rat squeaking in the wall behind him, but their numbers had dwindled dramatically in the wake of the ratcatcher’s visit and they seemed not nearly so bold as before.
Rachel’s voice came from the dark. “Why did you stay?”
He swallowed the soup that was in his mouth. “I intend to serve out my sentence.”
“I know that, but the magistrate offered you a pardon. Why didn’t you take it?”
“Magistrate Woodward is ill and confused right now.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. You elected to stay. Why?”
Matthew busied himself in eating. At last he said, “I have other questions to ask of you.”
“Such as?”
“Such as where were you when your husband was murdered? And why is it that someone other than you found the body?”