Wicked Girls (19 page)

Carrying the wool to town,

I feel as my feet are logs,

large to lift, and I can't manage

their weight. My eyelids flutter

and I must be dreaming him,

Isaac, or maybe he be there,

for someone do catch me

before my head hits the road.

“Margaret, ye be whiter

than a soul and feel as a bag

of bones in my hands,” Isaac says

as he lifts me up. He carries me

into my uncle's ordinary

and spoons soup into my mouth.

“When last didst thou eat?”

“I can't rightly say.” My tears

fall heavy as I cling to his arm.

I push away the spoon.

“No, thou must eat,” Isaac says,

his voice soft as a rabbit's back.

But then it cracks with thunder:

“'Tis them girls and their witches

been starving you. 'Tis that Mercy Lewis.”

Isaac stands liken he might put a fist

into something.

“Don't leave me,” I say. “Please, I beg thee.”

I put myself to knees before him.

“Take me back.”

He holds up my chin.

“Farrars do not hang folk.

We do not call our Christian neighbors

witch. Dost thou understand?”

I wrap my arms around his legs.

“Yes, Margaret Farrar sees not.”

Isaac sits me down.

“A Farrar woman sees not.

She speaks not.

She must be a good Christian woman.”

He dunks bread into my porringer

and feeds me. “She must be hearty

and strong to raise me sons.”

I nod my head.

“Pray well and the Lord

shall forgive ye and we shall

be wed as planned.”

I move to wrap my arms

round Isaac, but he holds up

his hand. “We do not show

our affection in public.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

Isaac's eyes wander to the daughter

of the traveling merchant

in the smart blue frock

across the room,

but I just clasp my hands

and bow my head

and pray.

Holiday ends.

Time to unpack

your bags and launder

your clothes.

Some stay on the road,

refuse to reenter

home and resume

regular life,

the sunrise-to-sunset

day of cooking,

spinning, tending, study—

pierced with the dagger of silence.

A stranger beats on our door,

a man the height and hat size

of my father, his arms heavy

with a young boy.

“Sorry to bother ye, sir,

but they say you have the sight

here, and I thought someone

might tell of who hurts my son.”

The man's arms buckle,

and he nearly drops his son.

“Set the boy down, good sir.

Take rest. The Devil will out.

Ann can tell ye who afflicts

your son,” Father says.

He beckons me with a curled finger.

I close my eyes and raise

my hands above the boy.

His skin looks as though

he were dusted in chalk.

“'Tis Goody Cary beats the boy

till he cannot breathe,” I tell them.

“Goody Cary is a tried witch,”

Father says.

The man scratches his scalp.

“'Tis not Goody Obinson

that afflicts him? The old woman

half blind and all insane?”

No one breathes; for one moment

Father, the visitor and I

just stare at one another.

I let go my held breath and ask,

“Be she crazed and white-haired?”

“Yes, that be her,” the man says,

almost smiling. He smooths

his hand across his son's forehead.

The boy coughs and sits up,

color pouring into him

as he drinks the water

Father provides.

“He is coming healed!”

The boy's father falls to his knees.

“Praise the Lord!”

We pray for an hour,

no words except prayers

between us.

“Not all believe we must fight

the Devil, but I see proof today.”

The man tips his hat.

“My own Reverend, Increase Mather,

says to me, ‘Do you not think

there is a God in Boston,

that you should go to the Devil in Salem

for advice?'”

The man shakes my father's hand.

“No devil I know cures a child.”

He and his son leave our home.

They leave no scent of their boots on our floor,

but the words that Reverend Mather spoke—

those cling to every fabric in the room.

“We've been called to Gloucester

for our spectral vision,” Ann says.

She crosses to stand aside me

as I poke at the crumbled logs

so the fire stays lit. When I say nothing,

she asks me, “What be the matter?”

“I can't go,” I say, and feel

the scorn spread across Ann's face.

“You preached about remaining

strong and united!” She kicks the embers.

Ann's boot catches flame.

I stomp it out and she squeals

like I severed her foot.

“Make not such a fuss,” I say.

I take her hands. “Isaac…” I begin,

but Ann boils a broth of anger.

I burn my hands

trying to touch her.

“You will not understand.

But I can't go with you.

I can't ever again. I be done.”

Ann screams, a wail what rattles

the chair. I step back from her.

Her father bounds into the room.

“What be about?”

Ann collapses in a faint,

and Uncle Thomas looks to me.

I shrug. “I can't see the Invisible World.

I know not who torments her.”

Ann kicks. She catches me

under the chin, and my jaw

clenches together.

Ann recovers from her spell

and says, “Margaret cannot

see or speak anymore.

I will go with Abigail Williams

to Gloucester to name the witches.”

Mercy winds up the path.

She squints her eyes.

In her arms she lugs a heavy bag.

I want to rush to meet her.

I wish to cling to her skirt,

and fall to my knees,

but I remain at the door.

The light behind her halos her

like an angel.

“Please help me bring this bag inside,”

she says.

I refuse, but watch her

stagger down the path

like an unsteady mare.

She unloads candlesticks

and chocolate pots, chalices

and newly soled shoes from her bag.

I almost wonder if she did not

steal from my uncle the Constable.

“Margaret be done. She sees no more.

She will marry Isaac in the spring,” I say.

Mercy nods at me as if this information

were widespread as the ocean

when I know that only my family

knows of these plans.

“There are papers circulating

against the trials. Know you of
this
?”

Mercy asks me.

I shake my head “No.”

Father smoked his pipe late

into the night last evening.

The smoke floated me to sleep

as his footsteps paced the floor,

but I heard no talk.

Mercy looks at me as though I am

worth very little, like counterfeit coin,

and says, “Reverend Increase Mather

wrote a paper saying that spectral evidence

cannot be used in court and that we afflicted girls

may be deluded and should not be consulted.”

She lies down on the bed, a grayish color

to her face, and pulls the sheet round her neck.

“Constable's wife sent me back after she heard this.

Said we girls cannot be trusted.”

“Mercy.” I move to stroke her head,

but she flinches away. “We can fight this,” I say.

“This is over, Ann. There is no more

Invisible World. And we should rejoice.

We have done enough.” Her voice hollows then.

“Please let me alone. I feel ill.”

I stomp outside without my cloak

and try to shiver off my desire

to break into a storm of yelling

and pounding and hurting

anyone who comes my way.

Father closes the meetinghouse door,

the room empty and full of shadows.

The boarded windows clatter.

Father ushers me to the first pew,

then paces before me, his hands

clasped behind his back.

He grasps a pamphlet.

“Ann, a man who perpetuates

a lie is a fool, but a man who perpetuates

a child's lie is an idiot. There are many”—

he shakes the paper—“who now say

to consult you afflicted girls

is to consult the ruling devils.”

Father grabs me by the wrist.

“You make me not a fool, child?

You are truly bewitched, are you not?

I ask ye alone, in the house of the Lord,

see you witches?”

I tremble. I stare forward, mute.

He shakes me. “All these months

of writhing and screaming and ye stay silent now?

Has a witch removed your tongue?”

I try to nod, but cannot make the motion.

Father slaps my face.

The sting forces out tears

like when a cup overflows,

but still I do not move or speak.

Unsure whether to stroke my head

or whip me, he picks me up

and lays me down on the bench.

“Well, ye certainly are possessed

if ye are not bewitched.”

Father throws down the pamphlet.

He says to the rafters,

“Reverend Increase Mather and his

Cases of Conscience Concerning Evil Spirits

Personating Men—

he gathers forces against us

who fight the Devil for you in Salem, Lord.

He comes at us well-armed and well-manned.”

“She will mind the children

and hang the wash.

She will jar the food for winter.”

The volume of her voice increases

like a drunken soldier's

as she wobbles near the door.

“Out of that bed, girl,”

the Missus orders me.

I feel withered like the air

has been sucked from my body,

but I dress with haste

and begin scrubbing and chasing

the whining children. I pen up

the child old enough to crawl

by turning the benches

round the table on their sides.

Ann Jr. pinches my waist

and I screech, then smile.

Perhaps Ann will help me

clean the basin of dishes.

She picks up a teacup

and dries the porcelain.

“Thank you, Ann,” I say.

Ann leans over as if

to kiss my cheek, and whispers,

“If you are not with us,

you are against us.”

She yanks out a lock of my hair.

I scream and Ann smashes

the teacup to the ground.

The baby and the toddler howl.

“Mother!” Ann yells and produces

tears the size of coins.

“Mercy, what have you done?”

Missus slaps me sound

across the face, a whack

that echoes through the house.

Ann says to her mother,

“But Mercy did not mean

to break the cup. It was the witches.”

Her mother strokes Ann's head,

does not look at me and shuttles

Ann into the parlor to lie down

beside her.

Ann turns back to me

with the Devil's smile.

“Mercy.” The trembling voice

taps my shoulder while I trudge

through snow and ice

to gather stove wood.

Elizabeth stoops to help me.

“I can see no more devils and death,

speak no more lies.

I can no longer be a seer.”

“You never did wish to be a seer,”

I say, and stack my arms full

as a logger's boy.

“What shall I do?”

Elizabeth's words test my hearing

against the harsh wind.

I would rather swallow

my advice than utter it,

but I say,

“Return to your life before.”

Elizabeth nods as we set down the wood.

I feed the fire as she says,

“Remember that day

we tore off our stockings

and walked in the stream?”

Elizabeth giggles.

“And, did skip meeting.”

“I will always remember it.

'Twas a glorious beautiful day.

An aqua sky, high sun

and a sweet steady breeze.”

I smile. “And a lovely friend.”

I hold her hand tight

until she feels strong.