Page 16 of Damnation (Gallows Hill)
Chapter Thirteen
Sarah
I have gone back and forth to Salem Village many times since my first day in trial.
Each time, I refuse to allow them to hear what they desire.
I’m so thankful ‘tis that way too. In the beginning, Thomas urged me to comply, to accept the charges of witchcraft and hope they will spare me.
I know that not to be true, though. Bridgette Bishop has been hung, a kind older woman who has never looked wrong at another.
If she had little hope, then what fate may lie with me?
Dorothy has begun to lose weight despite the rations I provide her.
‘Tis not enough. My little girl’s light is dimming, and I am unable to help it.
Though selfishly, I am joyous to be with her, I fear for what fate shall meet her.
At first, she did not know why she was brought here.
Then she was brought to trial, where she later explained Ann Putnam had accused her of witchcraft.
I do not know why it hurt so much to hear that.
Ann is a mirror image of her mother, in looks and actions.
I have no doubt twas her mother who planted the very idea.
Still, I cannot banish the thought that if Thomas wanted to, he could have intervened.
He promised to love and care for Dorothy as his own, and this is the treatment she receives? That I?
He has not been back since delivering me from my trial.
In these months, it has allowed me time to think and finally see with open eyes.
His words were a farce, his intentions hollow.
He desired a distraction, a mistress, and I so foolishly became that for him.
I was desperate for freedom, for love, I fell for his tricks, and now here I rot, his child growing inside me, and my own dying daughter in result.
My discomfort grows with the day, and if this baby grows the same way as Dorothy did, I expect the birth within a few fortnights.
I know not what to think of that. ‘Tis one thing to live with his child inside me, but to look upon its face?
I am unsure what feelings will arrive. Will it be joy?
For the gift of God is truly something to be celebrated.
Or will I feel anger? Pain? Sorrow? I wish to hold the baby inside for as long as I am able, because I have no desire to find out.
A sickly sounding cough rasps through the cell, and I look over to see Elizabeth Booth curled into herself.
She is shaking as if she is cold and moaning in pain.
Checking to ensure Dorothy is asleep, I slip beside her, feeling her head with the back of my hand.
‘Tis the fever indeed. The conditions in here are less than poor, and many are beginning to pass away from such.
Sarah Osborne died a quick yet painful death of the very same, I gathered.
Though I hope God shall not judge me too harshly, for I made no effort to heal her.
Still, from what I can tell, I would imagine Elizabeth does not have long.
Reaching for the bowl of murky water, I place it into the sliver of moonlight pouring in from the slatted window high above us. ‘Tis a full moon tonight, which means if I have any chance of achieving success, tonight is the night to do so.
Letting the bowl sit in the light, I close my eyes as I imagine her healing, imagine the sickness inside her being pulled out from the power of the light. I continue these images for several hours, until I grow tired and unfocused. Then, I lift the bowl to her mouth.
“Drink, drink,” I whisper in encouragement.
Elizabeth blinks up at me, her sweat dotted face looking more sickly by the moment as she parts her lips and takes small sips. I nod at her to continue, and she does as I ask before I pull the bowl away from her.
I rub my hand gently upon her back, and she smiles at me weakly before returning to her position. All I can hope is that I was successful.
“Y-you really are a w-witch, aren’t you?” Roger Toothaker shakes from the corner.
He, too, looks to be sick with the fever.
“No, but I know remedies to help those who need it,” I say as I lift the water, gesturing to him.
He snarls at me as if I have offended him. Surely the physician he is thinks nothing of my methods.
“Keep away from me! I want nothing to do with whatever you concocted over there. You are no healer. You gave her but water you muttered over.”
I do not argue with him, for I have not the energy. So, I place the bowl down and return to Dorothy’s sleeping side.
My eyes do not miss the way Roger stares at the bowl longingly as a coughing fit takes over. The stubbornness inside of him does not allow him to move, though. It bothers me none as I close my eyes, continuing to visualize. This time, ‘tis not for Elizabeth’s health, but mine and Dorothy’s freedom.