I, Mary Barber

England, 1612

I, Mary Barber, pen these words down from my cell in hopes that writing down the events of the past weeks will help me figure out where I went wrong.

On the fateful day of March 12, 1612 I was gathering firewood for Gram when I heard voices.

I had frozen, stooped to the ground, when I recognized the voices of Patience Moore, Sarah Goode, Charity Baker, and Elizabeth Seely, the “afflicted” girls.

           “Who shall we accuse next?” asked Sarah casually.

         “I think it should be someone we don’t like—or who doesn’t like us,” Charity whispered conspiratorially.

         “What about Mary Barber and her grandmother, the ‘wise women’?” The girls all laughed when Patience said that.

         “Yes,” said Sarah, “Mary never believed we were having fits. She said it was either ill prepared meat or acting.”

         “Mayhap she is right. She does know a lot about medicine,” Elizabeth said skeptically.

         “Oh Lizzy, no she’s not right. Mary’s a witch. We just need to gather sufficient evidence,” Sarah said matter-of-factly.

         I straightened up and started to walk home. As Sarah and the others emerged from where they were hiding, Elizabeth saw me.

         “Oh, Mary dear, why don’t we help you carry all that wood home,” she called.

         “Well, I…” I began.

         “Nonsense, you work every day. We have never worked a day in our lives,” said Sarah. With that, they relieved me of my burden.

…

We arrived home to find Gram busy making some sort of medicine.

“Hello Gram. Elizabeth, Patience, Charity, and Sarah helped me carry wood home.”

“Oh, how lovely. Why don’t you girls stay for dinner,” my grandmother said sweetly. I groaned inwardly. What I needed now was some time alone with Gram. I didn’t want four “death omens” hovering over me.

“That would be lovely, Widow Browne,” Charity said sweetly.

Gram poured the girls a cup of hot water for tea. I went to the cupboard and pulled out a packet of forgetfulness tea. Filled with lavender and other calming herbs, as well as a small dose of deadly nightshade, Gram sometimes used the tea to help people forget painful events. I carefully poured the contents of the packet into the cups. Tomorrow morning they would remember nothing of what happened here.

Gram looked at me curiously, but I just smiled at her.

“What tea is that?” asked Patience.

“Nothing,” I quickly replied, “There’s just an herb in it that will ward off evil spirits and keep away nightmares.”

“So you’ve heard about witches possessing us?” Elizabeth asked, eyeing me.

“Who hasn’t?” I asked, nervous under her scrutiny. She looked away and drank her tea.

At last the girls said they had to leave. As soon as they were out of sight, I turned to Gram.

“Why did you ask them to stay?” I shouted angrily.

“It was the polite thing to do,” answered Gram, “I see nothing wrong with it.”

“There’s nothing wrong except that they’re going to accuse us!” I stormed.

“Oh?” Gram asked, raising an eyebrow, “Where did you ever get that idea?”

“I heard the girls talking in the woods,” I said.

“I see, that would explain the tea. Your mother was a lot like that too.”

“Like what?” I asked my anger dissipating.

“She too used her knowledge to her own advantage.”

“I don’t use herbs to my own advantage!”

“You did just now.”

“I had to, if not to save me then to save you.”

“Say what you will,” Gram said, shaking her head.

…

For the next two weeks, I somehow found myself outside of Patience’s, Sarah’s, Charity’s, and Elizabeth’s houses every night. I remember leaving Gram’s house of my own free will, but so scared was I that Gram and I would be brought to trial, that I traveled the streets in a daze. Gram was having me bring one packet of forgetting tea to each girl every night. After drugging them once, we couldn’t afford to stop. Keeping them on the tea would keep Gram and I alive. Gradually, though, I realized that something was wrong. As I wandered the streets people would hurry inside. I did not say anything to Gram because I didn’t want to worry her. Perhaps if I had we would both be free now. I didn’t though, and on March 27, the mob came for us.

The smith and the cooper broke down our door. Behind them I could see practically the whole of Northampton with torches and pitchforks. Men and women who had relied on Gram and I for years now turned against us in one night. Stupidly, I wondered if I would do the same should a friend of mine be accused. I had no chance to come to a conclusion, for Sarah’s father, the minister, stormed in.

“Arrest them,” he shrieked, “Lock them up. Make them know pain. I don’t care how. Just do it.”

Men came in and dragged us away.

“Gram!” I screamed. I couldn’t see her through the flood of people.

“She’s old,” I begged, “Don’t take her away.” I began to sob.

A large, rough hand was clamped over my mouth. I bit it.

“Witch!” the hand’s owner shouted, “She’s got fangs!”

I pushed that man away, but it didn’t help me at all: there were too many of them. A jubilant Sarah rushed to Gram’s herb store and grabbed a packet of precious ginseng Gram had been saving since before I was born. A pinch was shoved into my mouth and I felt my body go limp. With no will to fight back, I was pushed and shoved down to the prison. For years it had been abandoned. Now it was used to hold witches.

When they got to the jail, I was shoved into a cell. The men holding me pushed me down too hard and I hit my head on the stone floor. My world went instantly and blessedly black.

…

When I regained consciousness, the sun was rising.

“Gram?” I called out tentatively. At first there was no answer.

Then a man said, “You won’t find her in here. They went out to float her.”

I gasped, horrified. “Witches” who were floated rarely lived until the trial. They were tied up, thumb to toe, toe to thumb, and tossed into the water. If they floated, they were a witch. If they sank, they either drowned, or were accused anyway.

For hours I paced my small cell. Around noon, Gram was dragged in. She coughed, and was drenched, but otherwise unharmed.

“Gram!” I shouted joyously. The minister stared coldly at me.

“Speak to her again, witch, and there’ll be no trial.”

I stared stupefied at his retreating back. What on earth did Sarah go through? Why were we even being accused? As soon as everyone left, the man, a few cells down, spoke to me again.

“I am Arthur Bill. I, like you am a victim of these girl’s cruel games. But, unlike you, I was fool enough to believe they were actually being cursed by witches.”

“When’s your trial?” I asked. Part of me was in shock. The other part of me was trying, and failing miserably, to be sensible.

“It’s April 26, the same day as yours.”

“That’s awhile away. What are we going to do until then?”

He laughed, “Repent. Meditate. Or, somehow conjure ourselves out of this mess.”

I ignored his answer, and his attempt at humor. “How are you Gram?” I asked.

“I’ll live,” she answered, “Although I could do with a blanket.” I silently took my apron off and tossed it into her cell, the cell next to mine.

“Thanks sweetie, you always did care more than your mother.” My mother. Gram loved her far more than she acted. She simply felt betrayed that my mother had moved on to bigger and better things. I also knew, although she would never tell me, that Gram was furious that my mother left. I didn’t miss her too much, I didn’t remember her that much. Gram was the only mother I ever wanted.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I’m sure they’ll find you innocent. I’ll tell them it was all me.”

Gram coughed. The hacking noise went straight through to my heart. “You’ll do no such thing,” she said when the coughing stopped. “We’re both innocent and won’t play into their hands.” I knew she was right, but I still wished I could save her.

…

The days in prison went quickly. Each morning Gram quizzed me on the properties of certain herbs and plants. I would tell her and give a description of where I picked them each day. She corrected me often in the beginning, but then slowly grew more and more silent. I worried about how the jail conditions were affecting her. I began to slip in as much of my food as I could. At night, after Gram was asleep, Arthur would encourage my care of Gram. He believed that I was the only thing keeping Gram alive at all; she needed to see that I was alright. In what seemed like an eternity at the time, but no time at all in retrospect, it was April 26: the morning of the trial.

…

“Arthur Bill, you are charged with selling the souls of Sarah Goode, Patience Moore, Elizabeth Seely, and Charity Baker to Satan. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” was Arthur’s firm answer. During the weeks in prison, Arthur had told us about himself. He was a tax collector, which explained why he was accused of “selling” souls. He was 23, and his father was a tailor. Arthur was not married.

“Agnes Browne, you are accused of brainwashing the formerly named girls. How do you plead?”

Gram stood up. “I plead however my maker wishes me to plead.”

“Widow Browne,” the judge began, “Are you innocent, or guilty?”

“Innocent.”

It was my turn. “Mary Barber, you are accused of helping Agnes Browne. You are accused of feeding  the afflicted girls Satan’s magic, in order to help keep them under his thumb. How do you plead?”

I hesitated. “Innocent,” I said finally.

“Are you sure,” the judge mocked. “You seem hesitant. Choose carefully. You lie not only to us, but to God as well.”

“Innocent,” I said firmly, struggling to keep the tears in my eyes and off my face.

…

The day was over. We were back in prison. Each of the following days of the trial was much the same. Whenever Arthur dared to defend himself, Sarah and the other girls fell into their pretend fits and had to be escorted out of the room. I never dared to defend myself; I could feel Sarah’s piercing gaze on me at all times. Gram was too weak to even show up every day. She was only brought in when necessary. At last, all we waited for was the verdict. The judge had finally decided on July 8. We sat stiffly in the courtroom, waiting for him to enter. I had never felt such tension in a room before. After the initial mob, many of the townspeople had decided that Gram and I were innocent.

“The judge, being ordained by His Majesty King James, finds Arthur Bill, Mary Barber, and Agnes Browne guilty. They will hereby be hanged on July 22.” The last thing I saw as we were led out of the courtroom was Sarah smirking at me.

Every night until tonight, I had dreamed of Sarah’s face. Tonight, July 21, is the last night of my life. I have written down my tale in hopes that someday, someone will know I’m innocent.

Historical Note and Bibliography

Bibliography:

http://www.hulford.co.uk/trials.html  http://www.odyssy.net/users/erica/wicca/england.htm



Historical Note:

Mary Barber was a real person. She was executed in Northampton on July 22, 1612. Elizabeth, Sarah, Patience, and Charity aren’t real. The real “afflicted” girl in the Northamptonshire Witch Trial was Mary Parsons. I didn’t include her in the story because I didn’t want two girls named Mary. Agnes Browne was also a real person and was executed on the same day as Mary. Everyone else in my story is fictional.