The Sacrifice

  the SACRIFICE

  KATHLEEN BENNER DUBLE

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  Margaret K. McElderry Books · An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com · This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. · Copyright © 2005 by Kathleen Benner Duble · All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. · Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian · The text for this book is set in Adobe Garamond. · Manufactured in the United States of America · 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 · Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data · Duble, Kathleen Benner. · The sacrifice / Kathleen Benner Duble.—1sted. · p. cm. · Summary: Two sisters, aged ten and twelve, are accused of witchcraft in Andover, Massachusetts, in 1692 and await trial in a miserable prison while their mother desperately searches for some way to obtain their freedom. · ISBN-13: 978-0-689-87650-9 ISBN-10: 0-689-87650-5 eISBN-13: 978-1-439-10712-6 (hardcover) · [1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Sisters—Fiction. 3. Witchcraft—Fiction. 4. Puritans—Fiction. 5. Family life—Massachusetts—Fiction. 6. Massachusetts—History—Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.D8496Sac 2005 · [Fic]—dc22 · 2004018355

  For my father, who gave me the inspiration, and my mother, who taught me the determination

  acknowledgments

  No work is ever the effort of a single individual. In the case of the story of Abigail Faulkner and her family, I have had many people add their insights, knowledge, and creativity to the process.

  I would first like to thank the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for recognizing the potential in this unfinished manuscript by naming it a Work-in-Progress runner-up, and in rewarding that potential monetarily. The money was welcome; the recognition, a true gift.

  Because I am a writer and not a historian, to Juliet H. Mofford of the Andover Historical Society, I thank you for giving your time to read my manuscript and sharing your expert opinion.

  To Liz Fredrick, Donna McArdle, and Marcia Strykowski, thanks for your attentive ears, warm praise, and heartfelt criticism. Your critiques are invaluable, not just to this manuscript, but to everything I write.

  To Amy Hourihan and Jenny Steward, thanks for lending your keen eye, sharp wit, and abundant intelligence to the proofing of my galleys, a tedious task for which I am most grateful.

  To my daughter Tobey, thanks for taking time out of your crazy high-school schedule to wander the graveyard in North Andover for a decent photo of your mother. I know this took some time!

  To my daughter Liza, thanks for making me laugh. I hope you’ll readthis book.

  To my husband, Chris, thanks for the time you put into reading draft after draft of my manuscripts and galleys. You always seem to be able to pinpoint where I’ve gone wrong. I look forward to the day when you can tell me how to fix it.

  To my editor, Sarah Sevier, who, thankfully, does know how to fix it: You took on this manuscript, directed me clearly and concisely, and tightened and strengthened the story with a skill I can only try some day to replicate.

  And finally, to my father, who found the story in the first place: I thank you for always doing the grunt work on so many things for me, whether it is researching the best computer for our family, flying across the country to help me in a crisis, or finding me an ancestor with a story I was destined to tell. You’re the best!

  one

  “They will not see me move. They will not see me move,” Abigail whispered to herself, although her whole body cried out to shift her legs and ease the pain as she sat straight and still in the stocks. Her legs burned and her backside ached, but she remained determined. She kept her head held high, even when a cold mist developed, sending shivers through her body. Even when her cousin Steven, who had teased her into lifting her skirts and racing him in the first place, came and grinned at her. Even when Goody Sprague walked past and stared at her with disdain. Abigail did not move. She did not even blink an eye. She wouldn’t.

  Abby did not for an instant believe it was evil for a girl to take pleasure in running and having her legs free. If she wasn’t meant to race, why had the Lord given her those legs in the first place?

  Her right thigh begin to twitch. She tightened the muscles with all her might and gritted her teeth.

  “They will not see me move. They will not see me move,” she continued to whisper to herself.

  Rain was now dribbling down her back, snaking its way between her shoulder blades, cold and wet. Abby sat up straighter.

  The parchment paper sign, SINNER, that hung about her neck grew damp and clung to her bodice. Cold crept into her hands, which lay clasped in her lap. With her feet locked into place and her legs stretched straight out in front of her with no support, Abby felt strained beyond enduring. She willed herself to see her limbs in the wooden holes as if they were someone else’s, removed from the pain.

  It felt as if days had passed, though Abigail knew her sentence was only six hours. She was hungry, yet this made her more determined. She lifted her head higher and peered out into the growing darkness, watching lights appear as each house in the village lit its candles.

  At last, just when she felt as if she couldn’t stand it any longer, they came: four of the town elders and Abigail’s grandfather, Reverend Dane.

  Abigail looked straight into Grandpappy’s eyes. She regretted having shamed him, but she was not sorry for the racing. Surely he had mistaken the words of the Lord if he believed that she was a sinner. Abby knew that she flew like the angels when she ran.

  “Your punishment is complete, Abigail Faulkner,” Justice Bradstreet said. “Release her.”

  The others lifted the bar of the stocks. Abby stared at the men, and left her legs there. She would not move until they had left. She was not about to let them see her shake and perhaps fall as she attempted to stand on her stiff and weak legs.

  “Are you not yet repentant, Abigail?” asked Elder Stevens in wonder.

  Abby saw Grandpappy’s face turn scarlet at her refusal to move. She knew he would not like how she was about to answer Elder Stevens. Abigail thrust forth her chin and prepared to speak.

  But she was saved from saying anything by the arrival of her mother. Mama came from the shadows and descended upon them, her face stern and drawn.

  “Please, good sirs, leave me to tend to her,” she said. “The child will sicken if we leave her here much longer. Can you not discuss saving her soul in more tolerable weather? Let me take her home now.”

  The elders grumbled but finally turned and left for their own homes, warm fires, and suppers.

  “You are too easy on her, Hannah,” Grandpappy said.

  “Not now, Father,” Mama said. “We can discuss this at a later time.”

  Grandpappy grunted. He gave Abby one last look, then headed off into the darkness.

  Mama turned toward her daughter. Her eyes searched Abigail’s, but she said nothing. Quickly, she leaned down and began to rub Abby’s legs until Abby began to feel them again. The sensation was painful, and Abigail had to bite her lip to stop from crying out.

  Mama leaned over and put her arms around her daughter. “Can you move your legs?”

  Abigail lifted first one leg, and then the other to the ground. Pain tore through each one as she moved them from the stocks.

  “I fear I may not make it home, Mama,” she whispered.

  Mama lifted Abigail slightly. �
�I’ll wager you’ll do it, Bear. But rise slowly now.”

  At the sound of Mama’s nickname for her, Abby blinked back tears. She remembered the day her mother had first called her that. She was only five years old, and a big black bear had wandered into their garden. Abigail had just finished her daily weeding when she saw the bear rooting around, tearing up the garden she had just put in order.

  “Get out of here!” Abigail had yelled, bringing her mother to the door.

  “Abby,” her mother had said softly, gesturing furiously at her. “Come slowly here, child. Back away from him.”

  “I will not,” Abby had replied angrily, picking up a stick. “Get out, you old bear!”

  “Abigail, stop,” her mother whispered. “You’ll make him angry.”

  But Abigail would not stop. She banged that stick against the wooden gate of the garden, attracting the bear’s attention, then moved slowly toward him. She hit the stick again, continuing to move toward the bear and the garden gate. Finally, the bear backed away, then fled into the woods.

  “Abby,” her mother said, running forward and clutching her daughter to her. “Are you mad? Don’t you ever do that again!”

  “I will,” Abby had said fiercely. “I’m not about to hoe this garden twice for any old bear.”

  Her mother had laughed and kissed her daughter. “You are fierce enough to be part bear yourself, child,” she had said.

  Thinking of this memory, Abigail willed herself to be courageous now. But her legs ached terribly, and the tears threatened.

  “Steady,” Mama whispered. “’Tis not seemly to cry here, Abigail. Let us get you back home. You have withstood this most bravely. Do not let them see you weaken now.”

  Abby nodded and began to take her first steps, leaning upon her mother. Her legs shook and her feet felt numb, but she felt more confident with Mama’s arm strong and sure around her.

  “Slowly, Abigail,” Mama whispered.

  Abby did not glance up at the steep climb ahead of them to their home. Instead, she looked down at the muddy road, concentrating on every step, placing each foot carefully before adding weight to it. Slowly they walked up the hill until at last, Mama stopped.

  “We’re home, Bear,” Mama said. “Dorothy!” she called.

  The door swung open, and Abigail sighed with relief at the sight of her sweet home stretched out in front of her. She took the last few steps inside and collapsed onto a stool, weak and weary.

  She had made it. She was home.

  “Drink this,” Mama said, handing Abby a warm mug of steaming cider.

  Abigail, who lay in bed with several coverlets over her, took the pewter mug and drank deeply. The warmth of the cider ran through her. Still, she shivered.

  Outside, the night watch called the hour.

  “Take your ease, Bear,” Mama whispered. “I want you abed this evening. Tomorrow is the Sabbath, and you’ll be wanted at the service. So rest now.”

  Abby scowled. Already, she could feel the stares of the congregation and the fiery sermon her grandfather would deliver for her benefit alone. She could feel the aches in her bones as she tried to sit still for the four hours of service on the hard wooden pew of the meetinghouse. After a day in the stocks, she knew this would be no easy task. It angered her to think that she would have to withstand a long sermon on top of today’s punishment.

  Mama smiled and stroked Abigail’s cheek. “Stop fussing, Abby. You’ll face tomorrow bravely. You proved today that you’re stouthearted enough.”

  “Mama, what Abby did was wrong,” Dorothy whispered. Abigail’s older sister stood at the door with a bowl of stew and a piece of corn bread.

  Abigail could smell the stew, and her mouth watered.

  “Dorothy, come,” Mama said. “Bring Abigail’s food here and take her soiled garments downstairs with you.”

  “But Mama,” Dorothy continued, as she handed the bowl to Abigail, “it’s wrong for her to race. Shouldn’t we be telling her not to do it?”

  Mama sighed and reached out to rest her hand on top of Dorothy’s head. “I know they say it is wrong, daughter, but I fear I am as uncertain as your sister as to why lifting one’s skirts and racing is against the Lord.”

  “It’s sinful, Mama,” Dorothy said. She turned and looked at her ten-year-old sister. “I fear for Abigail’s soul.”

  Mama laughed. “It seems anything that is pleasurable is sinful, dear one, and as for Abby’s soul, she is as innocent as you are. Do not take things so seriously, Dorothy. Life is hard enough without some joy at times. Perhaps I shall have you join Abigail here, and let you race with the devil for a fortnight.”

  “Mama!” Dorothy said, her eyes wide.

  Mama laughed again.

  Then Dorothy, too, began to laugh. “I would never race, Mama,” Dorothy said, making a face, “as I do most truly hate to run.”

  Mama and Dorothy laughed all the harder. Mama hugged Dorothy and then gave her a little push. “Take the garments, Dorothy. We will speak more on this matter later. Tonight I am weary, as is Abigail.”

  “Are you all right, Abby?” Dorothy asked, turning to her sister.

  “Aye,” Abigail answered with a weak smile. “I shall be fine on the morrow.”

  Dorothy picked up the wet clothes and left the room, looking back uncertainly at Mama and Abigail.

  “So, daughter, pray, tell me. Was the race worth the result?” Mama asked.

  Abigail swallowed her stew before answering. She was well aware of what her family would suffer because of her behavior. But then she thought of the run, of the race across the field this morning, of the way she’d let her legs fly. It was worth it, she thought fiercely. It was worth every minute.

  “Say it not, Bear,” Mama said, smiling. “I see the answer in your face.”

  Then Mama’s smile dimmed. “Still, I fear life will not be easy for you should you always insist on doing things in your own fashion.” She rose from the feather mattress, taking the bowl from Abigail’s hand.

  “Mama,” Abby said, “I am sorry for the trouble I cause you.”

  Mama bent and kissed her daughter. She stroked her cheek. “Oh, Abby,” she said. “I truly don’t mind if it means you are happy.”

  There was a noise in the doorway. Abby’s father was there, shuffling back and forth. He cleared his throat as he shifted from foot to foot. “How fare you, Abigail?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “Well,” she replied. Her impatience rose at the sight of him. He had not come to check on her once while she was in the stocks. She had known he wouldn’t. He never could face anything unpleasant, and that fact irritated Abby.

  Her father nodded. “All right, then.”

  He turned and was gone.

  Abby’s mother sighed. “If only happiness for others in this house could be so easily won,” she said.

  Abigail knew Mama loved Papa, and so she understood her mother’s sadness. Abby loved him too, but she hated his weakness and sometimes lost patience with him, even when she tried her hardest not to.

  “Good night, Abigail,” Mama whispered, then blew out the candle in the room.

  “Good night, Mama,” Abigail whispered back. She turned on her side and stared into the darkness. Her legs ached from having been held so straight and stiff in the stocks. She knew the pain would keep her from sleep. And too, Abby wished tomorrow was any day but the Sabbath.

  two

  Abigail woke to find her body stiff and sore. She moaned slightly as she turned over in bed. Even the feathers beneath her seemed to poke at every weary spot on her body. In the room next door, Abby could hear Mama and Papa talking, and she noticed that Dorothy was not in bed with her. Mama had obviously let her sleep later than normal on the Sabbath, and Abigail was grateful for that, but now she must hurry in order to be ready in time.

  Painfully, she pushed herself up and out of bed. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and she grabbed onto the washstand to steady herself.

  She used the chamber pot a
nd then washed her face and hands. The water was bitingly cold, and Abigail wished she could go back to her bed and coverlets. But staying in bed was not possible. She must sit through the long Sabbath service, like it or not.

  Slowly, Abigail put on her best gown and stockings for the service. Had she been permitted a glass, she would have committed the sin of gazing into it today to assure herself that she did not look pale. She meant to arrive amidst the stares of the towns-folk with her head held high and a ruddy glow.

  She left her room and made her way painfully down the steep stairs to the kitchen. Her younger sister, Franny, was sitting on the floor, playing with her cornhusk doll.

  “Dorothy watered the garden for you today,” Franny piped up. “But only because Mama said she must.”

  Abigail was relieved not to have to draw water from the well or tend to the garden this morning, but she knew that now she’d hear Dorothy complain of the extra work. Each of them had enough chores without adding more to their load.

  Sarah Phelps, their maid, came into the room. She went to the fire and began to dish out food and place it on the table. While some townsfolk had been critical of the Faulkners for employing a maid, saying it smacked of excessiveness and an open display of wealth, Abigail knew that Sarah’s family desperately needed the money. Because of this, Mama had kept her on, in spite of all the criticism.

  Abigail held onto the back of Papa’s chair to steady herself. “Good morrow,” she said to Sarah.

  “Your mother will be down straightaway, Abigail,” Sarah said without looking at Abby.

  Abigail’s heart thudded at Sarah’s curt response. They had always been friends, and Abigail was surprised that one transgression could change their friendship. It hurt her to see Sarah acting so cold.

  And yet she had to face the truth. Sarah’s reaction would be like many others today at Sabbath service. Abigail must prepare herself to handle the unforgiving looks of some and the averted eyes of others.