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Massachusetts
The snap of a branch, followed by an owl hoot, made Pheobe Lowell jump in her skin. Every sudden noise unnerved her. In the chimney corner, Granny Nell rocked placidly. Nothing disturbed the older woman, although Pheobe worried about her. If the townspeople came, they would take Granny away with them.
Granny Nell was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. That fact was significant in itself. She knew about herbs, and, in the kettle in the clearing, she created potions. Young village girls came to her for love charms and elixirs to either help make them pregnant or get rid of an unwanted fetus. The old woman also acted as a healer and a midwife.
Pheobe lived with Granny Nell in the small cottage deep in the woods. Her mama died giving birth to her, and she never knew her father. Granny shook her head when she asked about her parents, reluctant to speak about them. Nevertheless, Pheobe knew her mother had never married her father.
A stigma lay heavily upon the old woman and her granddaughter. When they walked into the village of Commonwood, eyes followed them, and they heard whispers behind their backs. The gossip became fiercer following the trouble in Salem. A frenzy brewed against witches. Pheobe waited expectantly for the frenzy to become a panic.
"I won't let them take you, Granny," Pheobe declared, breaking the silence. "I'll find a way to stop them. They can't take you away."
"Hush, child," her grandmother admonished. "Fate will decide." Pressing her foot against the floor, she pushed her rocking chair back and forth.
The old woman was far from beautiful. Her long nose hooked on the end and a large wart grew at the bottom of her chin. Crooked teeth lay behind dry, cracked gums. She habitually wore a black worsted dress that covered her body from neck to feet. A white lace shawl covered her frail shoulders. Her unkempt hair was gray and straggly. Pheobe loved her, nonetheless.
Rising, the young girl walked briskly toward her grandmother. Sinking to her knees, she buried her head in the ample lap. Pheobe tried not to cry, but she couldn't help herself.
"There, there, child," Granny crooned softly. She smoothed Pheobe's hair with gnarled hands. "Whatever will be, will be."
"How can you remain so calm?" the girl asked, tears glistening in her blue eyes. "I've heard them talk in the village. They say you're a witch. They'll swim you, then they'll hang you."
Pheobe swallowed hard. The practice of 'swimming' to prove a person a witch was abhorrent to her. Closing her eyes, she pictured the dunking stool beside the village pond. She knew Granny Nell would float, proving her a witch. She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. That meant she had the devil's power in her.
"They will do what they want, child," Granny Nell stated stoically. "I'm an old woman. I've lived a long life."
"And you will live much longer, Granny," Pheobe remarked, grasping the old woman's hands. "You've done well here. Many people call you before they go to Doc Pritchard. They trust you more than they do him."
"Aye, tis so." Granny Nell's eyes stared above her granddaughter's head.
People didn't trust the new doctor and his newfangled ways. They wanted a true healer. If it wasn't for the trouble in Salem, they would continue to come to her to cure their ailments. However, the panic continued to spread. Witch hunters roamed the countryside, and the villagers were eager to point out potential necromancers. Granny Nell fell into that category. They would come for her, dunk her, and try her in a kangaroo court. Pheobe knew her beloved Granny would swing from the gallows without a fair trial.
A branch snapped closer to the house. Pheobe stared at the door, waiting for it to swing open. The villagers would gather in the dooryard, holding up torches. They would arrest Granny and set the cottage ablaze. The old owl hooted again, and an eerie silence fell.
"If anything extraordinary occurs, I want you to go to Boston." Granny Nell's voice crackled as she spoke. Rising, she hobbled toward a cabinet. Opening it, she took out a casket and a letter: "Take this to Nathaniel Chester. He's a silversmith. He'll understand."
"Who? Who is Nathaniel Chester?" Pheobe asked, taking the sealed envelope. She turned it over in her hands.
"Your father."
"My…my father?"
"Yes, the man who impregnated my Cicely and ran from his duty." Granny Nell retook her seat in the rocker. "Ah, he was but a child then, an innocent lamb like my daughter. His family's reputation meant more to him than the girl he claimed to love. He returned to Boston, married the girl his father selected, and eventually inherited the family silversmithing business. You will go to him with that letter. It proves your identity."
"I won't go, Granny," the girl protested vehemently. "I won't leave you."
"You will do as you are told." The old woman took Pheobe's hands. Her rheumy eyes captured and held hers. "You deserve better than this. You're the daughter of a prominent Boston man. He will care for you."
"I'm happy here," Pheobe spoke softly.
"No, child. The people here will scorn you. They will watch to see if you take up my practice after I am gone," Granny Nell wisely stated. "They are suspicious of anyone different. These are trying times. This trouble in Salem has turned people against each other; accusations fly like thistledown. The finger has already pointed in my direction. It shan't point at you."
Outside, a branch snapped. The owl hooted again, followed by an answering call. Pheobe looked through the window. A dim light shone amongst the dense trees, growing steadily brighter. Suddenly, she realized the owl was not an owl but a signal. They were coming for Granny Nell.
"Granny." Pheobe cried, turning from the window.
"The backdoor, child," the old woman ordered, rising swiftly. Her gnarled fingers closed around the girl's arm. "Quickly."
Pheobe protested, but her Granny pulled open the door and pushed her out. She ran amongst the thick trees, her heavy shoes scattering fallen leaves. Panting for breath, she turned. Men and women gathered before the cottage, holding torches aloft. Loud voices shouted Granny Nell's name.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Preacher Ebenezer Toft marched through the gathered villagers like an ancient god. His eyes bulged beneath his straggly white hair. Pheobe gasped and hugged the nearest tree. In her eyes, the Preacher looked like Satan personified.
His terrible, threatening voice rang out, calling Granny Nell's name. The door cracked open, and the old woman stepped out. She boldly faced the Preacher and the crowd. In the distance, Pheobe's heart slammed against her bodice.
"'A man or woman who is a medium or spiritist among you must be put to death. You are to stone them; their blood will be on their own heads.' Leviticus 20:27." Ebenezer Toft's voice rang out and echoed around the clearing.
The crowd cheered, and arms raised torches to the sky.
"Burn the witch," a voice cried out.
"Hang her," another shouted.
The Preacher lifted his arms skyward. A hush fell over the frenzied villagers.
"'But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.' Revelation 21:8," the Preacher shouted. The crowd yelled its approval.
Bull Nelson, the blacksmith, and Zadock Wainwright, the tavernkeeper, stepped forward. They both towered above the older woman. Granny Nell stared at them defiantly; their bulk did not phase her. They grabbed her under their arms roughly and dragged her away.
"'Vengeance saith the Lord is mine.' Romans 12:19," Ebenezer Toft tilted back his head and screamed at the sky. His white hair stood out from his scalp, waving wildly around his fierce face.
The villagers rushed forward, touching their torches to the cottage. Pheobe could not bear to watch. Spinning wildly, she rushed pell-mell through the forest. Tripping over an exposed root, she fell to her knees. Her long skirt tangled around her feet when she tried to stand. Finally, she stood and ran.
******
Pheobe stood in the busy street. The silversmith's house stood opposite her. It was a wooden structure, its upper floor jutting above the lower. She touched the letter in her pocket with trembling fingers. Would Nathaniel Chester accept her as his daughter, or would he send her on her way? Pheobe took a deep breath and, straightening her shoulders, walked across the street. She balled her nervous fingers and knocked on the door.
A slender boy, about twelve years old, opened it and ogled her. Pheobe tried to speak, but her tongue tripped over itself.
"What do you want?" the youth asked impolitely.
"Who's there?" a deep masculine voice inquired from inside.
"Don't know." The boy shrugged and began to close the door.
Pheobe sighed, her whole body sagging. It had taken her three days to walk to Boston. At first, she remained in wooded areas, afraid a villager might spy her. After she put some distance between her home and her destination, she walked along the side of the road. She had barely eaten a thing, and her shoes nipped at her toes. Still, she plodded onward.
Once she reached Boston, it took Pheobe a while to locate the silversmith's house. Never had she seen so many houses or busy streets. The number of people milling around intimated her. It took a lot of nerve to finally ask for directions. After so much effort, she hated to get turned away.
Turning, Pheobe started toward the street. She bowed her head in defeat. Then, she heard the deep voice call out, "Mistress." When she looked back, a heavy-set man filled the open door.
"Yes, sir?" she asked, keeping her distance.
"Did you wish to see me?" he asked, stepping onto the low stoop.
"Are you Nathaniel Chester?" Pheobe shyly asked.
"Indeed I am." The man smiled widely. Pheobe liked him instantly.
"I've come to deliver this." Reaching into her pocket, she drew out the letter. Pheobe stepped lightly toward the man and handed it to him.
Nathaniel Chester slit open the envelope. He drew out the letter, and a gold locket on a thin chain fell into his hands. Looping it over his fingers, he pressed the catch and glanced downward. When he looked at Pheobe again, tears glistened in his eyes.
"Cicely," the large man muttered, swiping at his tears. "I…I…" He could barely speak from emotion. Finally, he asked her who she was.
"Pheobe Lowell," she answered, casting her eyes downward. "Daughter of Cicely Lowell; granddaughter of Eleanor Lowell."
"Are they with you, child?" Nathaniel asked, glancing around expectantly.
"My mother died giving birth to me," Pheobe stated, her voice beginning to crack. "They…they came and took Granny away three nights ago. They accused her of witchcraft and…and…" She couldn't go on.
"Good Lord in Heaven," the silversmith stated, frowning deeply. "Come in, child, come in." He held the door wide and stepped aside.
Pheobe brushed past him and entered the parlor. At odds about what to do with herself, she stood in the center of the room, knotting her skirt in her hands.
"Nate! Nate!" Her new father yelled out, bursting in behind her. "Come along, Nate, and meet your long-lost sister."
The boy poked his head out of the open stairwell, then clambered down. He eyed Pheobe suspiciously.
"I'm pleased to meet you," she stated, offering her hand. However, Nate barely acknowledged her. Instead, he yanked open the front door and strode out.
"Well, never mind him. He'll come around eventually." Nathaniel sat heavily in a chair before the massive fireplace. "Sit down, sit down." He indicated a matching chair. "I never thought I would see the day. You look exactly like Sis."
"Do I?" Pheobe asked eagerly. She knew very little about her mother.
"Indeed." Nathaniel nodded, lost in memories. "I should have stood my ground and married your mother. My parents were against it. I was too young to disobey."
Pheobe listened eagerly as her father described his affair with her mother. Nathaniel spoke of love and wandering through the woods gathering wildflowers. Cicely enchanted him, and he wanted to bring her back to Boston. His parents called her witch's spawn and forbade the liaison.
"My wife died three years ago," Nathaniel stated emotionlessly. "Hester was a shrew. I should have never agreed. It was an unhappy marriage. Nate was our only child. She bore one, she said. After that, she demanded I leave her alone."
"I… I'm sorry," Pheobe muttered, not knowing what else to say.
"You have nothing to feel sorry for, child," her father said, his eyes sorrowful. “It was my mistake and mine alone. Unfortunately, Nate follows in his mother's footsteps. He has a lot to learn in life."
Pheobe remained silent. She wanted to neither agree nor disagree.
"You will stay here, naturally," Nathaniel offered, his face brightening. "I am pleased to acquire a daughter I knew nothing about."
"Thank you, sir," the girl whispered, averting her eyes shyly.
"Father." The silversmith reached out to lift the girl's chin. He looked deeply into her eyes and nodded with satisfaction.
Pheobe smiled. She began to speak, but the door burst open. Nate rushed in, holding a newspaper aloft. He pushed it into his father's hand. Nathaniel looked down at the headline.
"A hoax, Papa," Nate blustered, his cheeks cherry red. "It was all a hoax."
Nathaniel handed the paper to Pheobe. Her eyes fell upon the headline, and tears dripped down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed.
"There, there, child," her new father muttered, kneeling before her. He grasped her hands tightly in his massive fists. "It's over now. You're with me, and you're safe."
"Granny died in vain," the girl muttered, drying her eyes with her palms. "They killed her for nothing."
"Aye, child. Tis what happens when ignorant people believe in false accusations," Nathaniel agreed, nodding sadly. "Pity the fools, my dear. Pity the fools."
ns 15.158.61.6da2
