Prologue
And now Nineteen persons having been hang’d, and one prest to death, and Eight more condemned, in all Twenty and Eight, of which above a third part were Members of some of the Churches of N. England, and more than half of them of a good Conversation in general, and not one clear’d; about Fifty having confest themselves to be Witches, of which not one Executed; above an Hundred and Fifty in Prison, and Two Hundred more accused; the Special Commission of Oyer and Terminer comes to a period.
—Robert Calef 1692
The Reverend Parson
November 31, 1655
“Reverend!” barked a young boy who knocked on the door. “Reverend Parson, me mum has sent your milk.”
Nine-year-old Gabriel Beckett was nervous and kept looking over his shoulder. His leather boots were old and wrapped in a thick blue cloth. His wool mittens had holes from overuse, and his jacket was thick. He pushed the wool hat from his eyebrow so he could better see the door.
The sky had turned gray, and eight inches of snow were on the ground.
He knocked again and waited before calling out. “Reverend, I’ve got to get home before the weather starts. Me Da said we’re getting another storm.”
The weather wasn’t the only reason. It was no longer safe for reformists.
“Mum is worried about the Calvinists and the turf war,” he said. Gabriel craned his neck, looking over his shoulders and checking behind him.
“She’s afraid they’ll come after me.”
Two years earlier, the Calvinist church began a violent and slanderous campaign against the Reverend Parson’s new congregation of Reformists. Dangerous accusations and innuendos led to scuffles, shoving matches, and eventually fistfights in the square.
“Reverend Parson, I’ve got to git home. If’n those blackhearts catch me, they’ll kill me straight away. Especially because me Da isn’t with me.”
That past Easter, the violence reached its peak. The Calvinists attacked Reformists preparing for Good Friday, wounded two, and torched an elder’s home.
The retaliation was swift and deadly. Men from Parson’s church killed the Calvinist ringleader and hanged him from a tree overlooking Mill Pond.
Gabriel’s fingers twitched as he wrung his hands from anxiety. He didn’t like coming to the pond anymore, not since the Witch Trials and executions.
“Reverend, me mum, and Da believe nothing they’re saying. And I enjoy coming to church. Please open the door so that I can get home.”
Calvinists accused Parson’s congregation of witchery and black magic. They tried five women for being in league with the devil and possession of witch’s bottles. They sentenced four to hang from the tree overlooking Millpond.
“Reverend, I heard my Da say that you were making people nervous. I’m supposed to make sure I talk to you before I go. Mum says that since Muron Muldoon’s burning, we’ve barely seen you.”
The Goodwife Muron Muldoon was the fifth woman convicted. She was the only woman, however, burned at the stake.
Gabriel stepped from the wooden porch and peered around the corner. He looked for footprints or any sign that the Reverend was home. Distracted by the undisturbed snow, he knelt and took a handful. Though it chilled his fingers, he molded it into a tight ball. Taking a step back, he lunged forward and threw the ball at the house.
“Reverend,” he shouted. “I don’t know what adultery is, but me mum doesn’t believe that you and Mrs. Muldoon were fornicating.”
Most reformist congregants knew that Parson, though married, had an eye for Muron Muldoon. It wasn’t a surprise when the Calvinists accused them of an affair. Their accusation involved deviant sexual practices and spell casting by Muldoon. They determined it corrupted Parson and the church.
So on November 24, they burned Muron Muldoon at the stake for being a witch.
Gabriel tried once more. “Reverend,” he yelled. “It’s me, Gabriel. Please open the door. I’m cold, and I want to go for supper.”
Curious as most boys are, Gabriel saw several blackbirds coming and going from the oak tree down the road on the millpond’s edge. He lost focus on the assignment given by his mother and began counting. Pointing with his finger, Gabriel rattled off the numbers. “Eight, nine, ten, eleven.”
Though freezing and the cold biting his feet, he wanted to see what they were doing.
“Reverend, I’m going to the tree. I’m leaving the milk on the porch.”
He jumped from the steps and made his way from the front yard onto the main road. The tree was still some distance off, but he was close enough to hear the bird’s wings and their gurgling croak. He soon realized that the blackbirds were ravens, targeting something hanging from the tree.
Gabriel stopped, went to the pond bed, and pushed the snow from the ground. Then, finding the perfect-sized throwing stone, he ran and hurled it at the trees.
“Get on with it now, you daft crazy birds.”
Although his toss fell short of the mark, it was now a game.
“Jesus Christ, ya black hearted beasts. Get off with ya!”
He rustled the tree, scanning the ground for another projectile. Seeing nothing, he again moved to the pond bed. He knelt to move the snow and pushed through the dirt and sand.
“Oh, you’re a good’n, boyo,” he said, taking the heaviest rock that he could throw. But when he looked up, his stomach dropped. What once hid behind the massive tree trunk was revealed.
Gabriel didn’t move, still kneeling in the snow. He felt the wind hit his cheek, and every time it did, this object swayed. His heart pounded, and his mouth went dry. The stone in his hand was no longer a toy. It was a weapon.
Curious as most boys are, he needed to see more. He stood, cocked his hand behind his head, and crept up on the tree. The ravens were no longer his focus. The sound of creaking replaced their fluttering and croaking.
He grasped the stone type and was ready to throw it when a strong wind hit him in the cheek. His wool hat that covered his ears flew from his head. Forgetting the moment and his fear, he chased it to the foot of the ice. He refused to put down the rock and struggled with replacing the hat over his ears and forehead. When he finally mastered the task, he turned toward the tree.
“I’m not afraid of you, not at all,” he said. But then, the wind shifted, and a dreadful smell smacked him in the face. He dropped the rock and pulled his scarf over his nose. He thought he would vomit as he dry heaved. Instead, instinct forced him back to his knees on the pond’s edge. His hands frozen, heaving on the ice. Terror overtook him.
The ravens were silent, flying away from the tree. Then he heard that creaking sound again. It was harsh and grating. It was constant now.
Gabriel shivered.
“Me mum says there’s no such thing as the banshee. I don’t believe in you!” He felt the lump in his throat and the tears well in his eyes. He gritted his teeth and counted in his head. His thoughts turned to words as he breathed harder.
“One, two, three!”
He let out a war cry. But when he saw it dangling from the tree, his heart throbbed, and he lost his breath. He wailed and ran onto the road and past the Reverend’s house.
It wasn’t an hour before Gabriel returned with his father and others. The snow had been falling, and the temperature dropped another 10 degrees. Gabriel stood in the road halfway between the Reverend Parson’s house and the tree. Surrounded by grown men he knew his whole life, he’d never felt so alone. His finger trembled as he pointed towards the tree.
“There, Da, there. Please don’t make me go. It’s there. I don’t want to see it ever again.”
Gabriel’s father knelt, so he and his son were eye to eye. He put his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders and, with his thumbs, he wiped the tears from the boy’s eyes.
“I’m proud of you, me wee bairn,” he said. He adjusted Gabriel’s wool hat and gave a slight tug on his ear.
“You’re courageous, me son. We must take him down.” Gabriel’s father stood back up and waved the other men ahead.
“I want you to go inside the Reverend’s home. Your mum and sister are making soup. I need you to take care of them until we get back. Can you do that for me, Gabriel?”
“I can,” the boy said. His father looked him in the eye, proud of what his son had done. But Gabriel wasn’t finished. He was still confused. Why did they say it was a body and not a thing? He didn’t understand, and just wanted to know what was hanging from the tree. He took a deep breath or gulp and tried to wet his lips. And he asked.
“Da, what is that?”
His father’s smile turned, and his eyes and face wrinkled. Gabriel sensed the hesitation. His father shook his head, looked at the sky, and breathed out with a heavy sigh.
“It’s not what, lad,” he said. “It’s who. That’s the Reverend Parson hanging from the tree, me bairn. Those cold-blooded bastards murdered him.”
