What critics
are saying
about
Witch...
"Jennifer M. Wilson presents the life of Bridget Bishop without fear or inhibitions. Her words offer Bridget’s history in all its brutal beauty, both in the old country and in the New World.
Human nature, in all its flaws and wonders, is the
context for the disheartening mentality behind the first execution of a woman
(Bishop) in Salem, 1692. From youth to old age, Wilson’s words paint a
realistic and engaging portrait of Bishop. She is able to elicit compassion from
the reader for her interpretation of the character. At times, this goal is no
easy task; Bridget’s flaws are readily available in many descriptive sections
of the story. ...Although much is revealed about the consequences of peoples’
fears and hardships, the author works compassion into the story throughout. They
are, after all, only human, and thus, have realistic desires and needs. ...While
they are responsible for their own choices, they are at the same time, products
of their rough and uncertain times....Despite the rough Puritan life and
resulting uncertainties, Bridget’s story is inspirational. Her dreams, hopes,
realizations, and actions all validate other women’s experiences in difficult
times. She proceeds with her instinct as guidance, regardless of the external
consequences. She says true to herself while living within the context of her
time. The story is suitably wrapped up in an attractive, black jacket design,
with a very fitting piece of artwork (illustrated by David Wilson) on the front.
Appendices of relevant historical documents and bibliography are included, which
further increase the value of this book.
Ultimately, the book is a must read—not because of Bridget’s unfair demise
and status as the first woman executed in Salem for witchcraft--but for her
passionate life, which Wilson instinctively weaves into a vibrant tapestry."
- Nicolette
Westfall, Women Writers, June 2007
"The novel is a well-crafted story of Bridget’s downfall. The author writes skillfully of the time period and sheds light on some of the feelings a woman of that time may have had...Wilson tells a story of one woman’s life as an outcast in a society of outcasts. Most of the story deals with the times, the woman, and her society; the witchcraft theme is hinted at almost from the beginning, and prejudice and man’s inhumanity to man is at the core of the novel." - Naomi Theye, Historical Novel Society
"Bridget's story is as important for the backdrop it presents as it is for the telling of her life. The harsh sterility of the Puritans in the colonies stoked a powder keg of repression lit by the anxiety of economic and political pressures. Witch hunts have become more sophisticated since then - McCarthy went after godless Communists, not dabblers in the paranormal, for instance - but are still around in one form or another. As long as powerful people promote a culture of fear and dare name the bogeyman of the hour, and as long as society at large allows itself to be sucked in by exaggerations and lies, Bridget Bishop's story will ever be repeated, the only difference in the details. The only way we can combat such hysteria is through, as Frances Hill's A Delusion of Satan suggests, 'constant reminders of common humanity.' " - Curled Up With A Good Book Reviews
"I enjoyed
this story as both a work of historical fiction and as the testimony of the life
of Bridget Bishop. The author has obviously done a good deal of research not
only into the life of the characters but also into the culture, norms, and daily
lives of those living in Britain and in the Puritan colonies of the 1600’s.
These aspects intermesh perfectly allowing the reader to travel back in time to
experience life as if he or she were a dear friend to Bridget Bishop, a friend
who saw both her kind creative qualities and her manic destructive tendencies.
If every step I took was fated, and every word I spoke written out long before my birth, then I can be held accountable for none of it. I would exist as naturally as the sky, and could be blamed for the events in my life only as the sky could be blamed for throwing down lightning.
Someone is sobbing.
The sound echoes in my head as I wake, cramped and cold on the floor of a dim prison chamber. My body is drenched in the wet mineral fog of morning. My throat is sore, and my joints ache. The air is thick with the smell of unwashed flesh, cold wet iron, and fear. The pale morning light forms a pattern of shadows where it seeps through the bars on a window. It is no longer raining outside, but water still leaks in over the sill and flows in rivulets down the wall. I can see steam rising from the ground outside as the sun climbs higher.
My senses slowly flicker back to life. My wrists burn from the shackles that tear at their wounds repeatedly whenever I move. After fifty-two years on this earth my body is unaccustomed to the abuses of prison. My arm is dead and so I rub the nail of my index finger against the flesh pad of my thumb until the touch penetrates through and the needles rise up to the surface. I focus on the life returning to my hand, slowly creeping in as the blood moves. I wonder if death is as vacant as that empty numbness. I wonder if my hand retained any memory of itself while it was asleep. These thoughts slither out of the remembrance that I am already scheduled to die.
The sobbing continues.
It is Abigail, a teenager who was brought in, as all of us were, on charges of witchcraft. She was imprisoned along with both of her parents. She is crying and begging God for forgiveness in prayers we can all overhear - though forgiveness for what, I am sure even she cannot imagine. She may have been doing it all night, tormenting those who can’t sleep because of the sound, tormenting the guard, whom I know feels some pity for her. Her translucent blond hair hangs in shimmering strands around her face. Her bodice, loosened in transport, was never fastened again properly and when she leans forward, she unknowingly exposes her own flesh.
Keys jingle from down the hall, and I hear a man clearing his throat. It is William the guard, come to check on his tenants. I have known him many years, just another unhappy man I served ale to in my tavern. He’s lonely, and he feels for Abigail, and I can see that he treasures the bits of comfort he can offer her as he leans over to wipe her cheek and feed her a sip of water.
As I watch them, she looks over his shoulder at me. In her eyes there is a cowering horror, as though I could summon beasts from beyond the grave to take her away if she should ever finally fall to sleep. She leans toward William’s dense body. She only knows what she has heard about me, and nothing more. But she believes in this, in everything that has brought her here. I feel as though I can see her so clearly and yet she cannot seem to see me at all. Her fear dirties her perception like mud on glass, allowing enough light through to reveal form but not detail.