You are on page 1of 6

Diary of a Journey

The Story of Elizabeth Baker


The Angel Witch of Salem
November 23, 1680
Dear Diary, today I commence my true lifes journey. A journey I shall document in this
diary. You are my one and only confidant. Your blank pages make me dream and wonder
about the future, a future that, today, seems as dark as a moonless night. As I hide within my
wardrobe, my brothers play outside. Their faces fill with smiles as they run through our huge
green lawn chasing birds and grasshoppers, rolling down the hills, and jumping into the pond.
All I hear is joy. The birds sing and the sun shines. Their laughter makes me grieve. I am
bound to this cold, dark house with endless rooms of emptiness. I am not allowed to run, I am
not allowed to sing, I am not allowed to leave the house. I am not allowed to jump, I am not
allowed to scream, I am not allowed to have fun whatsoever. I am simply not allowed, for I
am a lady, and, according to Mother, ladies are not allowed. I must knit, I must sew, I must
do all the things that all ladies must do. Careful with your dress, Elizabeth. You wouldnt
want me to fix your hair again, would you, Elizabeth? Dont act like a boy, Elizabeth! Oh,
how I wish I had freedom! I wish I could be like my brothers and run free! I envy them. Why
must Mother be like this? Why must England be this way? Men say and women obey.
Now Mother searches for a husband for me to wed. She has already made it clear that I will
not have a say on who he shall be, despite my frustration. Anyhow, I told her I will not marry
and, thus, I have not spoken with her for a week. After an argument I had with her last night,
she sent me to my room and said I would not be allowed to see my friends for a month. Little
does she know; I have no friends.
There are things I simply do not understand. Father said business is not going too well. He
said that although there are many Englishmen in search of new ships, they refuse to buy them
from us because we are Puritans. Id like these buyers of his to explain to me why believing in
the same God as them, reading the bible, living a normal life as we do, and being Puritan is
such a huge issue when it comes to buying ships and making business. How am I to know?
Father told us they look at us differently now. He said that when he was younger, people used
to respect Puritans like us, and that, now, many from our church are leaving old morose
England to move to New England in the exciting New World, where life seems to be better
and all seems to be more beautiful. Soon I became fascinated by this idea of a far-off land, a
land where things are different. Perhaps there, I may be free from having to wed, from having
to be a lady, and from having to hide my true emotions from the world within a diary full
of empty pages.
For now, nothing has truly changed, yet I knowI feelthat the future holds tales of great
mystery and wonder for me to tell.

Matheus C. Bevilacqua

December 13, 1680


Dear Diary, we are moving to the New World! Father, with his great spirit of adventure, has
decided that we must leave this life in search of a new one! We leave England soon. The other
day, I heard him speaking with Mother about how here many are going through economic
hardships, as crops are no longer growing well and land is becoming more and more scarce.
People arent buying boats as they did before, said Father. Things have changed for us
Puritans; people now look at us differently. I dont know why, but for them it now seems that
we are demons, living in a land of saints. In the Colonies, land is plenty and people need
ships to send goods back to England. As Father talked to Mother and she listened silently
without saying a word, he added, There, Ill be able to grow and expand our business. We
mustnt put up with those looks any longer. We shall go to a land where we shall find people
like us, a land where we will be able to worship and believe freely. There, they are like us.
They did not ask what I thought of this. They told me, bluntly and indifferently. What was I
to expect?
The maids were talking the other day, as they always do, and silently, from behind the door, I
heard them speaking of Father. Believing they were alone, Anna and Daisy whispered of how
Father has made powerful enemies after some recent deals. Perhaps that is why we are truly
leaving England. Once again, who am I to know? I am a lady in their eyes, and ladies are not
allowed.
January 27, 1681
Dear Diary, Father has left before us in order to arrange matters prior to our arrival. We now
rock our way to the New World in this vast and endless ocean of water and foam. The salty
breeze swirls through the decks as the violent gale thrusts the sails forward. I can hear the
waves crashing as we move onward, further away from England. These waves have
incessantly crashed and smashed against the bow for more than a month. I am sick of the
sound of the waves and the rocking of the ship; oh, how I miss the squawk of seagulls and dry
land.
Mother has spoken with the captain and told us that we shall be arriving soon in Salem,
Massachusetts. Many here are falling ill, and disease is spreading quickly like the waters of a
flood. The ones that die are mercilessly thrown overboard into the deep dark waters of the
ocean. Mothers cry in despair as they see their children being buried at see, as the sailors
rather call it. Perhaps the huge black rats that run over the decks and into the cabins at night
are the ones transmitting the disease. Many of the men aboard have tried to exterminate
them, yet there are always more of them as the endless days go by.
Food is also becoming more and more scarce and portions have been made smaller in order
to make our supply last the entirety of the trip. People are getting hungry and some half even
fought over food. The other day, two men fought over a loaf of bread and the fight, if not
broken up by crewmen, wouldve resulted in a terrible tragedy.
Will I ever see land again? England seems so distant and the Colonies yet so far. Mothers
afraid of what is going on and has told us to not leave our cabin. My brothers may leave a few
times while the sun is out, yet I must remain in our room all-day and all-night. This ship is

Matheus C. Bevilacqua

far too dangerous for a fragile young lady like you, Elizabeth, says Mother more than one
hundred times a day. Fool! Ha! As if I would obey her. Once she leaves to visit the deck and
in the few times she locks the door on her way out, yet I have found an extra key inside the
bottom drawer of the desk inside our cabin. From the gap beneath the door I watch patiently
as the shadow of her steps disappear and their sound fades out. Then, I gently unlock the
door with my key, step out of the room, and lock it once again. With great thrill, I wander
around the ship in search of excitement and adventure.
It was in one of these hidden escapes the other day when I met Emma. Emma is a very nice
girl the same age as myself who has left England for similar reasons as us and is tired of the
trip as much as I am. We have spent entire afternoons back in my cabin playing board games
for distraction. Shes pretty good in chess, but I win in checkers every single time, which
makes her a bit annoyed, but I dont really care as long as I am the one whos winning.
During these long games, we have extensive conversations about how life was like back in
England, how we imagine life will be in the New World, and most importantly, how our
mothers will soon force us to wed. We know we are free from our old suitors back in England;
nonetheless, we also understand that it will be only a matter of time until they find new ones
and well be forced to marry. We attempt to focus on the future and not get caught in
thoughts of nostalgia and the past, imagining that our lives will change completely and well
be free once and for all, but we know that these are lies. Despite her mother saying so, she
does not see herself as a lady and so do I; therefore, weve made a oath that we shall not wed
who our parents select and we would rather die before we do so. I think perhaps Emma
might be my first true friend.
On one of our secret expeditions around the ship last Thursday, Emma and I heard loud
screams of pain coming from one of the cabins below the deck. With great curiosity, we ran
to the sound of terror. Exhausted from our sprint, we arrived at the room where many
women were gathered around a tiny bed in the center. Pushing through people and crawling
under dresses, we were finally able to see. A mother lay on the bed, crying in pain, as a child
was slowly pulled out of its womb from between her legs. Soon her pain was over and the
child cut loose. Exhausted from labor, the mother grinned with eternal love as her newborn
child was placed upon her armed. We all clapped as we too cried from the touching scene.
Later that day, we returned to my cabin where we found Mother waiting for us. That day, for
the first time, she was not mad; she did not say a word. She knew where wed gone and what
we had seen, and that is perhaps why she wasnt mad. All she did was open her arms for a
hug. This time, Im not sure why, I ran and hugged her. And there we stayed, holding each
other tight, in beautiful silence. Mother.
February 18, 1682
Dear Diary, an entire year has gone by since our arrival in New England, where we landed
and settled in Salem, Massachusetts. Father was waiting for us on the docks as we
disembarked from our long and seemingly endless journey. I remember hearing the sound of
seagulls and rushing to the window of our cabin. I saw no grass or trees or hills, no houses or
churches or docks, yet the fact that there were birds was a sign that dry land was not too far.
Soon we saw the shore and people celebrated from the deck above. Our long journey had
finally ended. What I did not know was that an even tougher one was about to begin.

Matheus C. Bevilacqua

I remember being excited about the busy streets full of people moving around quickly in all
possible directions and talkinggossiping it seemeda lot, but it did not matter at the time.
The buzzing of the people and the business of the streets was very similar to England, yet
something was somehow different. At the time I knew not what this difference truly was, yet
now I seem to know better than anyone else.
Time paced onward, as it usually does, and I gradually began to grasp the peculiar values and
customs of the society I had been forced into. Despite the inexistence of religious persecution
of Puritans in Salem, vicious looks, worse than the ones back in England, travelled around
like torrential rain. The murmur of voices in the streets I first noticed when I arrived was no
better and no worse than filthy, foul gossip. Gossip spreads silently and quickly, more quickly,
in fact, than lightning from the darkest of thunderstorms. A simple detour from a regular
and acceptable lifestyle immediately becomes a scandal and is condemned in every possible
way by not one, but all citizens of Salem. If any problems arise or any unfortunate event takes
place for whatever reason, it is sin the causer of such tragedies, and the sinner, for sinning,
shall burn in hell for all eternity. Oh God, how am I to survive one more minute in this town
of madmen and madwomen?
I, in this past year, have been forced to read the bible astoundingly more than I had to back
in England. At first, I attempted to resist this obligation, arguing with both Mother and
Father about it and being severely punished thereafter. I shall not speak up to any of my
parents ever again, I was forced to repeat a multitude of times. Regardless of their attempts,
as I delve deeper into the stories of the bible, I learned to appreciate them and find shelter
from these people in their words of wisdom. Like these pages on which I write, I am free in
the pages of the bible. In this diary I have a voice, and with it, I can shout, I can scream at the
absurdities of the society in which I live. No one, however, shall ever read this diary; it is the
crack into my soul, the dagger to my heart.
Mother and Father have commenced speaking of marriage once again. My answer, final and
permanent, was no.
I was born of a storm as my kind tend to be
But I'd never look more than mere woman to thee
For "woman" in this world means captive and slave
But freedom's the power that my heritage gave
'Twas in my first lifetime it came to a head
When the man I called father would force me to wed
"But it's travel I want, and to see the wide world!"
I shouldve known better, been brighter and bold,
For this is no better than the underworld.
Their looks are upon me. I seldom leave the house, for (1) I am not permitted and (2) I have
no desire to leave the house; on the streets Id be forced to face the eyes of the demons of
Salem as they walk down the streets. When I do leave, I see the eyes. Saints, as they see
themselves, they are most certainly not. They send others to hell, for that is where they are
from. Emma, I have noticed, has conformed to their ways; she shall marry a suitor who she
has never met. From what I have seen, she seems happy about it; he is rich. I, nonetheless,
have kept our oath and, as a result, word has gone out that I do not wish to marry. They say I

Matheus C. Bevilacqua

act like my brothers and respond back to men. They say I refuse to obey them. Shell be sent
straight to hell!
They say Im a sinner
And a sinner Im not.
Those who speak are the sinners,
And, as sinners, shall rot.
Among these sinners to my eyes, are three arrogant girls who do nothing other than talk
about other peoples lives and facilitate the propagation of gossip. In essence, they spread
gossip better than the rats spread disease on our journey to New England. A fortnight ago,
two of them were afflicted by some mysterious condition. Both of them fell sick; their bodies
fell to the ground and trembled viciously, contorting from one side to the other, as they
hallucinated, seeing things no one else saw. Once they awoke from that horrible state, a
doctor was called to examine them. Once he had done so, he came to the incontrovertible
conclusion that their affliction had not been caused by ailment or sickness; according to him,
it was the result of witchcraft. These witches, whoever they are, are worthy of my sincerest
gratitude. These abhorrent girls have earned what they truly and fully deserved.
February 25, 1682
Dear Diary, today I shall tell you one last story, the story of the witch who knew not of
witchcraft, the story of one who dared not lie, the story of a woman, not a witch. I shall tell
the end to my story.
This last chapter of my lifes journey begins in the public house as I peered at the hard, worn
faces of my neighbors, imagining, wondering about the true identity of the Salem. They say
these evil beings are masters of disguise. Something told me they were there, somewhere, only
I could not figure out where. As I searched for my sorceress, I caught sight of the three evil
afflicted girls sitting in the corner. They were all quiet that day, for some strange reason.
Nothing was afflicting them then, yet their outbursts are always soentertaining, as odd as it
may seem. For a single second, I exhibited a subtle smile; I had imagined their bodies
shaking, snarling like wet animals. One of them had caught my eye in that same instant; she
knew what I was thinking. She then turned, slowly, and suddenly her eyes widened, her
bodies collapsed to the ground, and she began shaking, shivering, shuddering. The other two
soon began screaming in horror. Who is it, Mary? Who is tormenting you? they asked.
Tell us, Mary. Tell us. Abruptly, her body stopped. She turned and pointed at her torturer;
she pointed at me. All of a sudden time stopped. None of my nightmares had ever been so
sickening as this.
The darkness. The fetid smell. The putrescent air. It all seemed to seep through my skin.
Heavy chains held me to cold, foul ground. Town jail was much worse than I had imagined.
As the night went on, I searched for people within the gloom of beyond the bars of my lonely
cell. I soon saw Bridget Bishop and a number of other accused witches whose stories I had
heard from Mother attentively. I knew these women. They seemed like good women. They
are witches. Are they? My eyes had soon gently closed.
A bright light shortly awoke me. I was then dragged to the massive wooden doors of a great
hall brimming with people. Before me stood my trial. The constable soon paced down the

Matheus C. Bevilacqua

aisle to where I stood, taking his time in every step. He then grabbed my arm with force and
hauled me gruffly to the front of the room. As I walked, all I saw were eyes. The frigid eyes of
the magistrate, the blazing eyes of the afflicted girls, the gaping eyes of the audience, and the
soft, silent, crestfallen eyes of Mother.
Neighbor after neighbor accused me, recounting tales of how my evil spirit has attacked them
in their sleep, stabbing, biting, and leaving marks. Theyve spoken of how theyve seen me
drinking blood in a ritual for the devil. Lies after lies after lies. The citizens of Salem watch
avidly, hungry for drama.
Soon came the questions, fierce, fast, and ferocious. Like a storm of bullets, one after the
other they came, Are you a witch? Why do you torment these folks? How do you know you
are not a witch? We know you are a witch. How long have you been a witch? Dont deny that
you are a witch. Why wont you confess? How long have you been in the devils trap? Why
do you laugh at it? Is this amusing, to see these folks so hurt? Why wont you confess? Did you
make a compact with the devil? You cannot expect peace of conscience without a free
confession! Why wont you confess? Confess!
NO! I howled, grasping for air. I thought the truth could set me free. I was wrong. I stood
before the judges, my neighbors, my Father. I stood before God and I spoke the truth, I am
innocent! I am not a witch!
My answers did not matter; the jury gave its verdict, Guilty. As the heavy word sunk deep
into my soul, dragging me down with it, came the ones that shredded my remaining hope to
pieces, Today you hang.
I now stand, atop a hill, beneath a tree. I can see the excited faces of the demons surrounding
me with eyes of hellish fire. Among these demons stand people, as tears glisten down their
faces. They give me hope that the world might be better someday. They remind me that I am
innocent. I should not regret having fought for my innocence until the very end. The
Reverend stands before me, speaking words of wisdom, saying farewell. He preys for my soul.
With a pure heart he paraphrases the bible, The Devil has often been transformed into an
Angel of Light. To my amusement, he goes on, adding words of his own, There are times,
nonetheless, when an Angel of Light is mistaken for the Devil. A terrible, horrible sin is
committed at its death, as people murder an Angel in the name of God.
Finally, my time comes. Finally, I leave this world for good; I leave this world of evil. As I
gather my last thoughts, they place the rope around my neck. I write now in my last moments
of life. As I cross from the world of the living to the world of the dead, I write my final words.
The end comes slowly as I dangle in agony and clutch my faith. I dangle in agony, I clutch
my faith, I fight for breath. It is time; the reaper has arrived, and to him, I surrender my
spirit.
Elizabeth Baker
Matheus C. Bevilacqua
*First poem in 4th Entry is an excerpt from Ladies Dont Do Those Things by Michelle Dockrey. It has been modified and complemented to fit
the story in this diary.

Matheus C. Bevilacqua

You might also like