Page 67 of The Witch

I have been to Town Hall many times before. But in all my years, I have never seen it like this.

My trial appears to be the social event of the year. The entire room is filled with townspeople, crowded onto benches and chairs, and some standing on their feet. Most I recognize, at least in passing, but a few faces are unfamiliar. It seems that half the town has turned up to watch me be tried for witchery. They are all craning their necks for a better look and squabbling for choice seats, clearly expecting a show.

Everyone’s eyes are on me as I am led to the front of the hall, my wrists still shackled in front of me, my face and dress filthy. I do not look to be the wife of a successful merchant. If only they had not torn my dress, I could have looked presentable. But I reckon that would be less interesting.

As I near the front of the room, the faces become more familiar. Elias Fenn from the market occupies a seat in the witness stand. So does Hiram Hatch, grasping his hat with great fervor. And lo, in the second row sits my husband.

Archie’s presence brings tears of joy to my eyes. When they took me away, he promised that justice would be served in this trial. He will testify that I am a woman of God, and since he is a greatly respected member of the community, the magistrate will surely believe him, and I will be released.

But then my heart sinks when Molly Howe enters the courtroom.

Molly’s red hair is swept from her face, and she has pilfered my best peacock-blue dress from my own closet, as well as my white shawl. I have been absent from our home for barely half a week, and she has already scavenged from my closet! Meanwhile, I sit here in rags.

How could Archie allow this to happen in my absence?

“Take your seat, Mistress Eldridge!”

I was so distracted by Molly’s entrance that I did not realize the sheriff had led me to one of the chairs at the front of the room, drawing it out for my repose. I obediently take my seat, resting my shackled hands in my lap to render them hidden from the gaze of my peers. But the damage has been done.

Magistrate Putman enters the Town Hall courtroom wearing a white powdered wig and royal blue robe, and he takes a seat at a table at the front of the room. He is a broad man with a square jaw and sharp brown eyes that miss nothing. People say he has been the magistrate for Woodhaven since the town was founded, and there is nothing he cares for more deeply than dispensing justice.

“Good folk!” Putman raps on the table with a wooden gavel, and the room falls silent. “We must proceed forthwith with the inquiry into Mistress Caroline Eldridge, who has been accused by many witnesses of the practice of witchcraft.” He stares at me sternly before speaking again, “Mistress Eldridge, thou art accused of witchery and confederacy with the devil. Dost thou comprehend these charges?”

There is a hush from the courtroom as the townsfolk wait for my response. “I…I do.”

“How dost thou plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

There is a hum in the courtroom. I cannot make out any words except for one, which I hear repeated over and over: “Witch.”

“Not guilty?” Putman’s brow creases in surprise. “Mistress Eldridge, we have a long list of accusers and evidence against you. It will be easier on you if you admit your wrongdoing at the hands of Hitty Atkins and accept a prison sentence. But if you are found guilty by the court, the sentence will be death.”

I understand what he is saying. I might avoid a trial and unfavorable outcome by pleading guilty and telling the court Hitty made me do it. This confession would both validate the magistrate for the death sentence he handed to poor Hitty and reassure the townsfolk that I no longer present a threat to Woodhaven. For this, I would likely serve a year, perhaps two, in a Boston prison.

But I will not do this. I will not stand here and tell the people of Woodhaven that Hitty Atkins bewitched me. I would rather die, although I still feel confident it will not come to that.

“Not guilty,” I say through my teeth.

He looks at me for several seconds, as if I am some sort of puzzle he cannot solve. “Very well,” he finally says. “I accept thy plea.” He bangs his gavel once. “We shall now harken to witnesses as they share their accusations against thee.”

The first witness is Mistress Joanna Radcliff. I have known her for many years from the market, where she comes with her babe and five other younglings. We have oft exchanged kind words. Yet today, her face is brimming with disdain.

“State your accusation, Mistress Radcliff,” Putman says to the woman.

“I was bewitched by Mistress Caroline Eldridge!” she declares.

“Pray, how did the accused bewitch you?”

Joanna glares at me. “I was sitting in my home, innocently working on my spinning wheel. I saw Mistress Eldridge walk by my house and she waved to me as such.” Joanna demonstrates a wave, as I might have done on many occasions. “Then when she was gone, I felt as though something was sticking me with a needle all over my body! I realized that she had bewitched me!”

“That is ridiculous!” I cry out, unable to restrain myself.

“Mistress Eldridge.” Putman’s voice is stern as his gaze pierces me. “Witchcraft and consortium with the devil are very serious matters. We will discover the truth today in this courtroom. Can you behave yourself, or will we have to remove you to the jailhouse for the duration of the trial?”

Being removed from the room is unthinkable—if I cannot be here to defend myself, all hope is lost, and moreover, I cannot bear to be locked up again. I nod my head, vowing to maintain my silence henceforth.

The complaints continue after Joanna Radcliff. Several townsfolk claim that I pinched them or made their food taste foul. Two women insist that I caused their children to have fits, which although ridiculous, reminds me in an unsettling way of what happened to Judith Hatch. Could it be possible that I somehow did cause Judith Hatch to have that fit?