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| My home village of Spielburg. |
I had finally arrived
back in Spielburg, despite the carriage
requiring repair that delayed us in a nameless village a few miles from home. I
had intended to visit Mary immediately upon my arrival, but the delay had
caused me to arrive close to midnight, and it would have been improper for one
to call on a single woman so late in the evening. As the carriage took me
through the streets of Spielburg, I could not help but notice how quiet things
were, despite its late hour. Because it was the night before a Sunday, for
which most men had the day off, I had expected to see the lights on and the sounds
of carousing in the local gathering places and the occasional farmer stumbling
back to his home after indulging with his cohorts. There was none of this,
however, for there was not a single light in a single window. Bothered by this,
I had my carriage driver increase the speed up to my ancestral home. The oddity
increased when, at the entrance to my family estate, the carriage I was riding
in was stopped by a guard where no guard had been posted before I left. I was
disturbed to see this security, for it had never been warranted before, with
Spielburg being a rather safe place. Since my arrival was expected, we were let
through without too much of a delay, although I could not help wondering what
would have happened if I arrived unexpectedly. As we pulled up to the front of
the building, lights began to turn on as word of my delayed arrival was sent
ahead. My door was opened by a familiar face, Caruthers, the head of the
servants who had been in the service of our family since my grandfather’s
youth. I had begun to ask him about the strange things that I had seen since
arriving in town, only to see him shake his head sadly and point me to the door
where my mother stood waiting. As she walked me up to my room, I posed to her
all of the questions that I had since my return to the village. She explained
to me that our estate and the village had been plagued by a series of tragedies
that had begun but two months ago. Some sort of curse had been brought upon our
family and the surrounding village, and it had been determined that witches
were to blame. They were accused of sabotaging crops, bewitching cows, and even
killing a stable hand. The accused witches had just recently been arrested for
their crimes, and were being held until they could be tried at the next assize.
Being skeptical of such things partly due to the books I had read in my
studies, I felt concern for the poor women who had been caught up in such
superstitious non-sense. As my mother prepared to leave me to retire for the
night, I asked her who were being accused of such crimes. She paused at the door for a moment,
before turning and telling me that the accused witches were two local women,
Alice Bakerson and her daughter, Mary.
I did not sleep at all that night, not after hearing what my
mother had told me. I was uncertain of the existence of witches in the first place,
but to believe that Mary, my Mary, and her mother were capable of such acts is
beyond belief. At dawn this morning, I left the house before any of the others
had awakened. As I rode into town this morning, all I could think of was seeing
Mary. If I could only see her, everything would
be alright again. I arrived at the local gaol where Mary was certain to be
held. When I attempted to gain access to her, however, I was denied by the
sheriff, a man whom I had never met before. He informed me that the ‘witches’
inside were being kept isolated so that they could not work any of their
maleficum. Enraged, I asked who had order this isolation. To my dismay, I was
informed that it was the accuser, my father. I left in a rage, immediately got
astride my horse and galloped back to my home. When I arrived, I did not even
take the time to take my horse back to stable; I dismounted right in front of
the door and ran up to my father’s study, where I stormed in through his door
without so much as a knock. His initial reaction of shock quickly faded and
turned into the scowl of which I was more familiar with. He was sitting at his
desk with my brother looking over his shoulder at some documents. The
conversation that we had was short and to the point, and left me feeling more
angered than when I had entered:
“I see that school that I paid a small fortune to send
you to did nothing to improve your manners” my father had said before looking
back down at his papers.
“I demand to know what right you have to accuse two
innocent women, our neighbors, of such vicious crimes, and then isolate them.
How are they supposed to mount a defence? How are they supposed to counter
these accusations?” I practically spit these words at my father I was so
angered.
At this point my brother put himself between my father
and myself. He placed his hand on my shoulder and guided me into a chair before
sitting on the edge of father’s desk. I was so upset at this time I almost
resorted to pugilism, only refraining by the grace of God.
“Little brother, I can understand your emotional state
about this. We all know how you felt about that ‘woman’ who stands accused. But
you have to see that father is only doing what is best, for us and the village.
You have not been here; you did not see the horrible crimes that these witches
committed. We lost over half of our crops, over two-dozen head of cattle, and
our stable boy to some unnatural affliction. It was then that evidence of
witchcraft began to surface about the Bakersons. We have witnesses from all
over town who have given testimony to the indecent acts that the mother was
known to have committed with some of the various guests since her husband died.
Many came forth about the tirade that she went into when father insisted upon
repayment of the remainder of the loan that her husband had taken out before
his death. Many heard the curses that she spit out, while complaining that she
could not pay. Furthermore, as these issues came to light, more people began
questioning the death of her husband only a few years ago, wondering if the
fever that claimed him was truly natural.”
I looked at my father, who had not looked up and was
still writing away at his desk, before looking back up at my brother. “And
Mary? Why was she accused, if all of this ‘evidence’ was leveled at her mother?”
“Surely even you can understand, little brother,” he
replied with that annoying knowing smirk, “that this kind of evil runs in the
blood. How could she have been raised by a witch without becoming one herself?”
“Have either of them confessed? Or been informed what
their rights are?”
“Rights?” my brother laughed, “What rights? This is
witchcraft we are talking about. It is an exceptional crime to which the normal
laws do not apply. Here is what is going to happen: these women are going to be
held until the next assize judge makes his circuit. Then, they are going to be
delivered to Lancaster for trial, where they will be found guilty and executed.
It is as simple as that.”
I stood up angrily, knocking my chair over. “This will
not stand brother. I may not have focused on the law in my studies, but I know
enough from them, and my religious studies to know that this is wrong.” And
with that, I stormed out of my father’s study, slamming the door behind me.
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