Ye Lyttle Salem Maide: A Story of Witchcraft

Seldom has a little girl undertaken entirely alone a more perilous journey than Abigail had started upon. Salem was not more than fourteen miles from Boston Town, but the trip invariably occupied a day, owing to the many patches of spongy ground, quicksands, and streams which intersected the way. Travellers were often aided by fallen trees and natural fordways of stone. Abigail was confident of her way, having made the trip with her father. She soon discovered the original Indian path which was acquiring some semblance to a public highway. Trees had been notched, and now and then the government had nailed notices, signifying the remaining distance to the metropolis of New England. Far more serious dangers than losing her way threatened Abigail. In the wild woods lurked savages and wolves, and the wily Frenchman with unbounded influence over the cruel Indian.

When the sun was high in the heavens, Abigail ate her luncheon. To go with what she had brought she found some strawberries, the last of the season, as if they had lingered to give this little guest of the forest a rare treat, daily acquiring a richer crimson, a finer flavour.

Abigail was obliged to follow a little stream some distance before she found an available spot to lie down and drink. It was here she missed her way. Confident that she could at will regain the main path, she walked on along a ferny lane.

Nightfall found her in the heart of the forest, unwitting which way to turn. Darkness seemed to rise from the earth, enveloping all, rising, rising, until only the tops of the trees were still brightly green. Such a sense of desolation and loneliness came over her that a sob welled up in her throat. The forest encircled her, dark, impenetrable. She walked on some distance, and at last caught a glimpse of the white sea-sands. It looked lighter on the water, the waves yet imprisoning the sunlight. Her anxious gaze was attracted by a faint column of blue smoke rising beyond five tall pine trees. So very thin was it that it was indeed surprising she had observed it. She started forward gladly, but even as she made her first eager steps she drew back with a low cry of fear. How did she know but that the fire was kindled by Indians or Frenchmen? Shivering with fear, she ran back to the forest.

“God save my soul,” she murmured, stopping to catch her breath, “here be a pretty to-do. Yet perchance it might prove to be woodmen or hunters cooking their supper, or a party of travellers, belated like myself. I doubt not ’twould be wisdom for me to go tippy-toe and peek at them.”

She stole back near the trees and crouched behind a clump of hazel-bushes. It was some time before she summoned sufficient courage to part the leaves and look through. And her teeth chattered like little castanets. Softly her two trembling hands parted the foliage, and her brown eyes stared out.

There just beyond the five pines was a little thatched cottage, very humble, but all so neat and clean. The roof was covered with moss which, even in the twilight, gleamed like green velvet. Up one side and over the corner, trailed the dog-rose with its blush-tinted blossoms, while on both sides of the pathway flourished the wild lilies and forest ferns. In the doorway stood a spinning-wheel, a stool beside it.

Abigail wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “Happen like I smell potatoes frying in the fat o’ good bacon.”

She walked boldly to the threshold and looked in.

An old woman, her back turned to the door, held a smoking skillet over the red coals on the hearth.

Abigail’s heart leapt in her throat. Frenchmen and Indians—what were they? This old woman might be a witch.

Quickly she doubled her thumbs in her palms, and hastened to be first to address the old woman with pleasant words,—these being precautions advisable to take in dealing with witches.

“The cream o’ the even to ye, goody,” she said, “and I trust ye will have appetite for your potatoes and fat bacon, for my mother has taught me unless ye have relish for your food from honest toil, ’twill not nourish ye.”

The old woman turned. “Ay,” she answered in a cracked voice, “honest toil, honest toil, but I be old for toil. Who might ye be that comes so late o’ day?”

As she came forward, something seemed to clutch at the little maid’s throat, and she could scarcely breathe.

For a single yellow tooth projected on the old woman’s lower lip, and she had a tuft of hair like a beard on her chin,—unmistakable signs of witchery.

Yet Abigail was troubled by misgiving, for faded and sunken as the old woman’s eyes were, they were still blue as if they had once been beautiful, and they had a kindly light on beholding the little maid.

“Beshrew me, it be a maid,” she cried; “ye have a fair face, sweeting. How come ye here alone at the twilight hour?”

“I come from Salem, and I be bound for Boston Town,” answered Abigail, timidly.

“It be good to see a bonny face,” replied the old woman; “take the bucket and fetch fresh water from the spring back o’ the five pines. Ay, but it be good to see a human face, to hear a young voice, and the sound o’ young feet. Haste, little one, whilst I cook another flapjack, which ye shall have wi’ a pouring o’ molasses.”

Abigail proceeded to the spring, joyful at the avenue of escape open to her. She planned to fill the bucket, leave it by the spring, and run away. But as she lifted the bucket to the stone ledge, the effort took all her strength. She could not help but think how like a dead weight it would seem to the old woman, with her bent back, when, finding that her guest did not return, she would hobble down to the spring. Strangely enough, the old woman seemed to her like a witch one moment, and the next reminded her of her own dear old Granny Brewster. So with a prayer in her heart, she carried the bucket up and set it down on the stoop, just without the threshold. There, as she had first seen her, stood the old woman cooking a flapjack, with her back turned to the door.

“It smells uncommon relishing for a witch-cake,” murmured Abigail, remembering with distaste the corn-bread in her pocket. She pictured to herself the old woman’s disappointment, when she should find her guest stolen away. Although possessed by fear, pity stirred within her breast, and, moved by a generous impulse, she put her hand in the front of her dress and drew forth a precious, rose-red ribbon with which she had intended to adorn herself when she reached Boston Town, and laid it on the threshold, near the bucket. Then, with an uncontrollable sob at this sacrifice, she ran swiftly away.

She heard the old woman calling after her to stop. Not daring to turn around, and ceasing to run, lest doing so should betray her fear, she doubled her thumbs in her palms and began to sing a psalm. Loudly and clearly she sang, the while she felt the hair rising on her head, fearing that she heard the old woman coming up behind her. Desperately she looked back. Still, very faintly in the deepening dusk, could she see the little old woman standing in the doorway, while from her hands fluttered the rose-red ribbon. And as the voice of an angel singing in the wilderness, Abigail’s singing floated back to her dull ears.

Abigail walked rapidly, glad to leave the little hut and its lonely inmate far behind.

The night was upon her. Where could she seek safety? Her anxiety increased as the shadows deepened.

Alarmed, she looked around her for the safest place in which to pass the night. At first she thought of sleeping near the sea, on the warm sands. But she could not find her way out of the woods. Suddenly, on the edge of a marsh, she spied a deserted Indian wigwam. Near by were the ashes of recent fires, and a hole in the ground revealed that the store of corn once buried there had been dug up and used. Into this wigwam she crept for protection. Terrified, she watched the night descend on the marsh, which, had she but known it, was a refuge for all gentle and harmless animals and birds. Fallen trees were covered with moss, the lovely maiden-hair fern, lichens, and gorgeous fungi. The purple flag, and the wild crab, and plum trees grew here, as well as the slender red osiers, out of which the Indian women made baskets. Ere twilight had entirely vanished, Abigail saw brilliantly plumaged birds flying back to the marsh for the night. A fox darted into the dusk past the wigwam. To her, nothing in all this was beautiful. Crouched in the wigwam, she saw through the opening white birches, like ghosts beckoning her. A wild yellow canary, with a circling motion, dropped into its nest. Abigail shuddered and breathed a prayer against witchery. Will-o’-the-wisps flashed and vanished like breaths of flame, and she thought they were the lanterns of witches out searching for human souls.

As night now settled in good earnest, a stouter heart than this little Puritan maiden’s would have quailed. The terrible howling of wolves arose, mingling with the mournful tu-whit-tu-whoo of the owls and the croaking of the bull-frogs. She was in constant dread lest she might be spied upon by Indians, who, according to the Puritan teachings, were the last of a lost race, brought to America by Satan, that he might rule them in the wilderness, undisturbed by any Christian endeavours to convert them.

On the opposite edge of the marsh, a tall hemlock pointed to a star suspended like a jewel just above it.

When, in after years, Abigail became a dear little old lady, she used to tell her grandchildren of the strange fancy that came into her mind as she watched that star. For, as she said, it was so soft and yellow, and yet withal so bright, that it seemed to be saying as it looked down at her:—

“Here we are, you and I, all alone in these wild woods; but take courage. Are we not together?”

A sweet sense of companionship with the star stole over her, and she was no longer lonely. She found herself smiling back at this comrade, so bright and merry and courageous. Thus smiling, she passed into the deep slumber, just recompense of a good heart and honest fatigue.

When she awoke, the sun was shining. Hastily she drew off her shoes and stockings, which she had worn during the night for warmth. Then as her eyes, still heavy with sleep, comprehended the beauty of the marsh, she was filled with delight.

The sun sent shafts of golden light into the cool shade. All the willows and slender fruit trees glistened with morning dew. The pools of water and the green rushes rippled in the morning breeze. The transparent wings of the dragon-fly flashed in the blue air. All the birds twittered and sang. Beyond, the solemn pines guarded the secret beauties of the marsh. Thus that which had filled her with terror in the darkness, now gave her joy in the light.

By the height of the sun she judged she must have slept late and that she must make all haste to reach Boston Town in time. It was not long before she struck the main path again.

Great was her astonishment and delight to learn by a sign-board, nailed to a tall butternut tree, that she was within little over an hour’s walk from Boston Town.

This sign, printed in black letters on a white board, read as follows:—

And below was written in a flowing hand:—

“Oh, stranger, ye wich are Aboute Arriv’d safe at ye End of ye dayes journey the wich is symbolical of ye Soule’s Pilgrimage onn earth, Kneel ye doone onn yur Marrow Bones & Pray for ye Vile Sinner wich has miss’d ye Strait & Narrow path & peetifully Chosen ye Broad & Flowery Waye wich leadeth to Destruction & ye Jaws of Death.”

Abigail read the sign over hastily and passed on. “I will get down on my marrow-bones when I come back,” she murmured; “I be in mickle haste for loitering.”

Soon she neared the river beyond which stretched the pleasant hill. She heard a voice singing a hymn a far distance behind her. She turned and waited until the singer should have turned the curve of the road. The singing grew louder and then died away. A little later Mr. Cotton Mather, mounted on his white horse, came in sight. It seemed to her that far as he was from her, their glances met and then he turned and looked behind him.

That moment was her salvation. Quickly she ran and hid behind the trunk of a great tree. Cotton Mather came slowly on. His horse was well nigh spent with fatigue. She saw him distinctly, his face white from exhaustion, his eyes sombre from a sleepless night. His black velvet small-clothes were spattered with mud. He reined in his horse so near her that she might almost have touched him.

He removed his hat to greet the cool river breeze. His countenance at this time of his young manhood held an irresistible ardour. Some heritage had bestowed upon him a distinction and grace, even a worldliness of mien, which, where he was unknown, would have permitted him to pass for a courtier rather than a priest. At this moment no least suggestion of anything gross or material showed in his face, which was so nearly unearthly in its exaltation that the little maid watching him was awed thereat and sank to her knees. His very presence seemed to inspire prayer.

A moment he looked searchingly around him, then spurred his horse to take the ford. She saw the bright water break around his horse’s feet, the early sunshine falling aslant his handsome figure. She watched until he reached the further bank and disappeared behind a gentle hill. Then she came out from her hiding.

When in after years she beheld him,—his public life a tragedy by reason of his part in the witchcraft trouble and his jealous strivings to maintain the infallibility of the Protestant priesthood,—saw him mocked and ridiculed and slaves named after him, a vision would rise before her. She would see again that magnificent young figure on the white horse, the radiant air softly defining it amidst the greenness of the forest, herself a part of the picture, a little child kneeling hidden behind a tree in the early morning.

The fordway was so swollen that Abigail did not dare attempt to cross on foot. And although further down where the river narrowed and deepened there was a ferryman, she had not the money with which to pay toll. Thinking, however, that it would not be long before some farm people would be going into town with their produce, she sat down on the shore and dabbled her feet in the cold water to help pass away the time. At last when the first hour had passed, and she was waxing impatient, there appeared, ambling contentedly down the green shadowed road, a countryman on his fat nag, his saddle-bags filled with vegetables and fruit for market.

Abigail rose. “Goodman,” said she, “would ye be so kind as to take me across the river? I be in an immoderate haste.”

“To be sure,” said the countryman; “set your foot on my boot; let me have your shoes and stockings. Give me your hands. Now, jump; up we go, that’s right. Ye be an uncommon vigorous lassie.”

The horse splashed into the water, which rose so high that Abigail’s bare feet and ankles and the farmer’s boots were wet. The little maid put her arms as far as she could reach around her companion’s broad waist, and clung tightly to him, her little teeth firmly set to keep from screaming as the horse rolled and slipped on the stones in the river bed.

When they reached the other side, Abigail, desperately shy, insisted upon her companion permitting her to dismount, although he offered to carry her all the way into town.

“Ye be sure ye can find your home, child?” he asked, loath to leave her.

Abigail nodded and sat down on the ground to pull on her shoes and stockings, while the countryman after a moment’s further hesitation made his way leisurely up the grassy hill.

After a brisk walk, Abigail arrived at Boston Common, a large field in which cows were pastured during the daytime, and where, in the evening, the Governor and his Lady and the gallants and their “Marmalet Madams” strolled until the nine o’clock bell rang them home and the constables began their nightly rounds. The trees that once covered the Common had been cut down for firewood, but there were many thickets and grassy knolls. On one side the ground sloped to the sea where the cattle wandered through the salt marsh grasses. And there was to be heard always the sweet incessant jangle of their bells. At this hour of the morning there was generally to be seen no person except the herdsman, but as Abigail approached a stately elm which stood alone in the field, she saw a student lying on the grass, reading.