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The Reverend Jonathan bore the news three weeks back. “Sister Deborah,” he meekly said, “you are accused of evil transgression by Brother Amos.”

 

“My cousin?” I was shocked, sitting there in the parsonage. “Of what transgression, sir?”

 

“He charges demonic affliction, sister. Your image appeared to him while in a dreamlike state.” The pastor was vexed as he continued. “His illness worsened immediately afterward, according to his testament.”

 

“‘Tis untrue, Brother Jonathan!” I would have screamed it had I not been in his residence. “I am neither possessed nor have ever sought to possess! But what is to come of this?”

 

I am not a witch. But to proclaim it does little to diminish my fear. The good magistrates of Salem will doubtless render their verdict with pious self-assurance, as they always do.

 

This does not mean that I will pass gently across that threshold. I am a good Puritan woman, faithful and dutiful, but I am not meek. My biblical name, Deborah, bespeaks my strength. I will assert it.

 

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I was brought before two magistrates for what they said was a preliminary inspection. I professed my innocence at such a frivolous charge, uttering disbelief that it was even brought. “You must not take this accusation lightly, Sister Deborah,” said Master Godwin, a rotund and balding man with a stern face. “The penalty for witchcraft is death.”

 

Anger and fear assaulted my sentiments at once, but it was anger that emboldened me. “Under whose authority?” I asked. “What law of the Commonwealth says thus?”

 

“Our ‘Body of Liberties’,” said Master Spyre, the other magistrate, “and scriptural authority.” He was thinly built, with narrow black eyes above a beaked nose. A vulture could have doubled for him. He opened a text, from which he read, “If any man or woman be a witch, that is, hath or consulteth with a familiar spirit, they shall be put to death.”_

 

My heart raced at this and I felt weakened. This is madness! But what recourse had I?

 

“There is a path to your redemption, Sister Deborah,” Master Godwin gave me an earnest look. “Confession may lead to restoration.” His hands opened in hopeful invitation.

 

“Do you mean to say, magistrate, that if I should admit to the wickedness, I shall be spared death?”

 

“Yes, sister.”

 

“And would not God himself abandon me for false confession?”

 

The two looked at each other, seeking, I would suppose, an acceptable response while protecting their moral standing before Heaven. Both were silent for a time. “We mortals cannot know God’s intent,” Master Spyre finally replied, “But we know he is merciful.” Mercy was assuredly not the look that crossed his face.

 

 I bit my tongue to restrain my passion, but could not counterfeit the look of revulsion that swept across my countenance. How dare they! “Good gentlemen,” I at last exclaimed in disbelief, “you ask me to redeem my mortal shell for its scant few years remaining; and in return, I stand to forfeit my immortal soul for the eternity it should endure in God’s bosom!”

 

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I said as much again to the Magister’s Court convened a week later to hear evidence and determine my guilt or innocence. The eight gentlemen sat in a row before me at the high bench, attired in their waistcoats and neckcloths, the barrister presiding for the Commonwealth in his powdered wig. Their lofty perch was itself intimidating without their dour expressions following my refusal to confess.

 

The Reverend Jonathan spoke first in favor of my character and reputation, of my piety and fidelity, and did so with prodigious generosity. I was touched by his charity.

 

But so alone I was, in this world of men! Except for Jonathan, so abandoned! Mostly women had been charged, the weaker sex, presumed the more disposed to Satan’s guile! Ought I to feel shame for my sex? It took all my resolve to retain composure, to subdue my sense of helplessness.

 

Throughout, I could see naught but passive coolness in the demeanor of my jurors. Master Godwin, speaking on the side of caution, favored me by advocating for evidence beyond the simple claim of spectral appearance. “There may be divers causes of apparitions, particularly to one in a transitory state of sleep,” he said. “The devil himself may induce the specter and thus ensnare an innocent.”

 

The subsequent testimony of Cousin Amos did much to harm my cause. His vivid description of my appearance as a wraith, shimmering directly before his eyes—it was clearly me, he pointed out—was damning. “Her eyes glowed with the very fires of Hell,” he shuddered. “She lingered there in a most threatening and frightful manner, twisting my body in pain such that I could sleep no more that night.”

 

 It was a ghastly testament. I struck back. “I beseech you to weigh my virtuous character,” I urged, “against the imaginative affliction of one half-asleep!” My voice was unsteady. “One whose apparition might well have arisen from simple dyspepsia!” I arose from my chair, trembling, mustering my final stubborn ounces. “That you would condemn me on evidence so solitary and feeble is disrespectful of the truth you are pledged to seek!”

 

I had overstepped and knew it. The barrister rapped the table with his knuckles. “Sister Deborah,” he sternly admonished, “it is you who disrespects this court! Pray, do not add to your plight!” But I had.

 

My plight was dual, cursed for having been born a woman and accused of having consorted with a daemon. I was reviled twofold! I looked at the faces of the court and realized I could be condemned on either hand. My resolve was finally broken.

 

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The credulous who seek out iniquities will surely find them. They hanged me before dawn, lest sunrise should expose the dreadful scene on that chilled March of 1693. It was 1711 when they delivered their apology.