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Authors: Leonard Tourney
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resistance strong now, Matthew decided to change the subject back to Susan’s relationship with Ursula.
“You met with her in the barn loft?”
“I did—along with others.”
“I don’t care about them. I care about you. I want to know what it was you saw.”
“I told at the trial.” She began to whimper.
“I know you did, but I wasn’t there—remember?”
“We were mostly Ursula’s audience. She spoke, we listened.”
“Spoke what?” he asked, more insistently.
“What would befall each of us,” she said.
“What did she say would befall you?”
“She said I would marry.”
“Well and good. Who, did she say?”
“She named no names.”
“I should think not.”
“She said I would marry a man not of this town. She said he would be mounted on a fine bay horse, have a full purse and a merry wit. She said I would be happy and bear many children. She said my mother and brother and sisters were well at home and that William, my youngest brother, would suffer a fall but not be hurt by it, which thing turned out to be the truth indeed, for the week after she told it me my mother came from Colchester to see me and said that William had fallen from the haycock and had lain without his wits for an hour’s time, then woke refreshed as though he had been asleep. By this I knew Ursula spoke the truth.”
“How was she able to know these things?” Matthew asked. “She had a familiar.”
“Ah, it was witchcraft, then?”
Susan nodded. “Her familiar, she said, was an old Greek who had died long before. She said he came to her in the form of a cat and whispered things.”
“Things about anyone?”
“No, just about her circle—about us.”
“What other powers did she claim by this cat, this familiar?”
“She said that if anyone threatened us, she could protect us and cause them harm who threatened. By the cat she knew these things. She would also make images of wax or clay, sometimes of swollen radishes that, lain overlong in the ground, would grow into human shapes with bellies and limbs. These she would set over the fire until the man or woman so depicted would waste away with continual sick-
06 •
ness. She also claimed knowledge of uncouth poisons, which she would use to cure or cast on disease, and she knew of certain roots which, concealed beneath the bolster, could make the barren wife fertile or the husband impotent.”
“This is all truly witchcraft,” Matthew said sternly. “Why didn’t you shun her, knowing as you did what evil she designed?”
“Why, sir,” returned Susan with an expression of injured innocence, “she told us it was not of the Devil at all, what she did. Christ, by clay and spittle wrought together, opened the eyes of a blind man, showing that there is indeed virtue in such combinations of elements.”
“A foolish argument, and you the more foolish for believing it,” said Matthew. “Satan is a subtle creature. That miracle of which you speak our Lord did of his own virtue, not that of the clay or spit, else that would be the common method of healing the blind and no miracle at all.”
Susan made no answer to this; her head hung dejectedly.
“How long did you practice these things with her?”
“About three months.”
“Did she ever raise spirits of the dead—either for herself or for others’ use?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But she did claim to have the power to do so?” said the constable, remembering what John Waite had said about his aunt’s participation in these mysteries.
Susan admitted that Ursula claimed to have such power, but she insisted she had never seen her use it.
“Were there others in this circle who claimed to have like power?”
“To raise spirits?”
“Yes.”
“Only Ursula. None other.”
Only Ursula. From his memory he retrieved the image of the hanged girl, the child-woman. Harmless and pitiful she had seemed to him in her predicament, diminished by the towering
“You met with her in the barn loft?”
“I did—along with others.”
“I don’t care about them. I care about you. I want to know what it was you saw.”
“I told at the trial.” She began to whimper.
“I know you did, but I wasn’t there—remember?”
“We were mostly Ursula’s audience. She spoke, we listened.”
“Spoke what?” he asked, more insistently.
“What would befall each of us,” she said.
“What did she say would befall you?”
“She said I would marry.”
“Well and good. Who, did she say?”
“She named no names.”
“I should think not.”
“She said I would marry a man not of this town. She said he would be mounted on a fine bay horse, have a full purse and a merry wit. She said I would be happy and bear many children. She said my mother and brother and sisters were well at home and that William, my youngest brother, would suffer a fall but not be hurt by it, which thing turned out to be the truth indeed, for the week after she told it me my mother came from Colchester to see me and said that William had fallen from the haycock and had lain without his wits for an hour’s time, then woke refreshed as though he had been asleep. By this I knew Ursula spoke the truth.”
“How was she able to know these things?” Matthew asked. “She had a familiar.”
“Ah, it was witchcraft, then?”
Susan nodded. “Her familiar, she said, was an old Greek who had died long before. She said he came to her in the form of a cat and whispered things.”
“Things about anyone?”
“No, just about her circle—about us.”
“What other powers did she claim by this cat, this familiar?”
“She said that if anyone threatened us, she could protect us and cause them harm who threatened. By the cat she knew these things. She would also make images of wax or clay, sometimes of swollen radishes that, lain overlong in the ground, would grow into human shapes with bellies and limbs. These she would set over the fire until the man or woman so depicted would waste away with continual sick-
06 •
ness. She also claimed knowledge of uncouth poisons, which she would use to cure or cast on disease, and she knew of certain roots which, concealed beneath the bolster, could make the barren wife fertile or the husband impotent.”
“This is all truly witchcraft,” Matthew said sternly. “Why didn’t you shun her, knowing as you did what evil she designed?”
“Why, sir,” returned Susan with an expression of injured innocence, “she told us it was not of the Devil at all, what she did. Christ, by clay and spittle wrought together, opened the eyes of a blind man, showing that there is indeed virtue in such combinations of elements.”
“A foolish argument, and you the more foolish for believing it,” said Matthew. “Satan is a subtle creature. That miracle of which you speak our Lord did of his own virtue, not that of the clay or spit, else that would be the common method of healing the blind and no miracle at all.”
Susan made no answer to this; her head hung dejectedly.
“How long did you practice these things with her?”
“About three months.”
“Did she ever raise spirits of the dead—either for herself or for others’ use?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But she did claim to have the power to do so?” said the constable, remembering what John Waite had said about his aunt’s participation in these mysteries.
Susan admitted that Ursula claimed to have such power, but she insisted she had never seen her use it.
“Were there others in this circle who claimed to have like power?”
“To raise spirits?”
“Yes.”
“Only Ursula. None other.”
Only Ursula. From his memory he retrieved the image of the hanged girl, the child-woman. Harmless and pitiful she had seemed to him in her predicament, diminished by the towering
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