Wicked Girls (6 page)

Outside Sunday meeting

Betty and Abigail stand

stationed aside the Reverend.

One arm around each,

he shows them off like they are sons

wounded and home from war.

Doctor Griggs shoves forth Elizabeth.

She joins the Reverend's small troop of seers.

Elizabeth twists down her sleeve,

tottering on her boots as though

she be not sure she belongs.

Missus says, “Ann, step now

and take thy place among them.”

Ann stares up at me and I shrug.

I understand why her foot

sticks in the snow.

The other girls hunch

tattered and wan,

unsteady and unready

for all the eyes

which fall upon them.

“Go on, stand ye by the Reverend,

and tell all what thou hast seen.”

Mister Putnam's voice disavows

hesitant feet. Ann scurries forth.

Missus looks to join her,

but Thomas Putnam raises his hand

and shakes his head. “Little Ann

will sit aside me in meeting today.”

He hands Missus his cloak,

whistles Wilson to his side

and clasps the hand of his daughter.

Missus gasps as though a door

be shut upon her breath.

She tosses Mister's cape to me

without a glance my direction.

Out the corner of my eye

I see Margaret snicker.

Ann stands before the parsonage

held steady by her father,

and all look on her, amazed.

Margaret plods toward the others,

unarmed, without her father at her side.

“Maaaargaret,” her step-mother crows

loud as a pestered gull.

“Thou art not a seer.”

I be nearly tempted to pity

Margaret when turned eyes

shame her face red.

In the diversion, Ann's panicked

brow raises to me,

as if I should tell her what to do.

I shake my head

as she is swallowed

into the church.

“An old woman rocks

in my grandmother's chair,

knitting black baby's stockings.

I know this old woman

but don't remember her name,”

I say quickly to avoid interrogation.

Mother squeezes my hand and doesn't let go.

“Ann, dear.” She locks eyes with me.

“Is it Rebecca Nurse who torments you?”

Mother smiles and nods her head. Her eyes swirl.

The name Nurse is not to be whispered

in my house, for that family stole land

from my mother's father before I was born.

I stretch to seek Mercy.

But Mother blocks her from view.

My fingers turn metal cold with pain.

“Yes. Goodwife Nurse.

That is who sits in Grandmother's chair,”

I say. Mother releases my hand.

“That bonnet be right smart.”

I turn and look,

but none is on the trail,

except a red-chest sparrow

high-stepping his pin legs

in the dirt.

“Margaret.”

“Art thou bewitched?”

I point a twig at the feathered one,

and he flies away.

Laughter bubbles like notes out of a flute

and the chuckling can't belong but to one.

“Isaac?” I say his name so quiet

only the leaves know I speak.

He pulls the string under my chin,

and my bonnet falls to the ground.

I feel all the hair sprout

horrid and toadlike from my head.

My one hand quick smooths it down,

the other fastens my cap back in place.

But he undoes it with more speed.

This time I yank the cloth over my ears

and hold tight. With less than a tug

he snatches my bonnet high above my reach.

My face heats. “Pray, let me have it back!”

My fists wish to beat his chest.

Why and how could he

carry that wood for any but me,

not to say a servant,

not to speak for that lowly wench?

“Margaret, what be?” Isaac dabs

one finger under my eye

as it starts to spill its sadness.

“Isaac.” His father calls his name

from not twenty paces away.

Isaac hands back my bonnet

and with a fast wave good-bye,

he makes his leave of me.

Uncle Edward asks, “Ann, what clothes

doth Goodwife Corey wear when she attacks ye?”

My breath quickens, and I gasp like I be drowning.

I cannot see what clothes Goody Corey wears.

“I cannot see the Invisible World,” I say.

“I feel Goody Corey choke and prick me.

She tells me it is her who torments me so.

She says my sight will not return until evening

and then she will pay me off for daring

to name her to you.” I collapse under my words.

Uncle and Deacon seem satisfied

with my explanation, satisfied

as one feels after a hearty meal.

The men journey off to Martha Corey.

Only Mercy's eyes contain questions.

Mercy looks up at me as she lifts the baby.

I feel tall. She motions for me

to press my ear against her lips.

“Who is Martha Corey?” she asks.

“Father and Reverend Parris say

Goody Corey speaks against

the existence of witches in our village.”

“Ann, dear.” Mother stands behind me.

“Whisper not in Mercy's ear.

I can hear plain what you say.”

She sits on the ottoman.

“Goody Corey also gave birth to a child

out of wedlock with one of her slaves,

or maybe 'twas just a servant,

but the baby was not only Puritan white.”

“So then all believe her to be a witch,”

Mercy says.

“Not all, for Martha Corey be pious

and a church member,” Mother says,

and smooths the hair off my forehead.

“But she will be judged a witch.”

Master Putnam tests his daughter

like a cruel schoolmaster.

He walks her tormentor, Martha Corey,

into the house. Ann bends and shrivels,

and when she claims Goody Corey

is the cause, her tongue shoots

from her mouth and her teeth

clench down on it until blood comes.

When I bend to aid her,

Ann whispers to my ear alone,

“Do you not see a man on a spit,

Goody Corey roasting him like a boar?”

She squeezes my hand,

but I yank it away. I feel a pang of pity

for her, but 'tis not my place to bear

her father's investigation.

Ann says, “I see the Invisible World.

There,” and she points to the left.

“A man skewered on a stick

turns roasting like a boar.

And Goody Corey turns the spit.”

“Come, Mercy.” Ann's whisper to my ear

is a plea and a command. “Come with me, now.”

I shake my head at Ann.

Hot as the man roasting on the stick

I feel the eyes of the Putnam men

scathe my skin.

I wish for twelve shawls

to burrow beneath,

for my own dress feels ripped apart.

I split and chasm—Ann's voice calls,

“Here, Mercy.” She offers me a place

the others cannot touch,

a place I can crawl inside and wear as home.

I blink my eyes. Mister Putnam

and the other men blur to a low hum.

But will any believe the servant girl

sees the Invisible World?

Ann's moaning and writhing envelop me.

I let myself slip into the cavern.

I fathom Goody Corey's specter

strikes me swift with an iron rod.

I fall in pain worse than a whipping,

and gasp, “I see it too! I see it too!”

Ann points at the real Goody Corey.

“Make her go.”

Master Putnam sends Goody Corey away.

My limbs twist and shake

even more violently than Ann's,

for I am bigger than she.

It takes three men to hold me down,

though none seem unhappy for the task.

The night cools and howls

near midnight.

But only Wilson dares

close his eyes.

The wooden chair

I rest upon trembles, then rocks

back and forth on its legs.

All believe 'tis the witches

who tremor my chair.

The men study my every movement,

but this staring be reverent.

What is good about witches

is that when I call out “Mother,”

Mother listens and replies,

“Yes, dear Ann.”

And when I do say

I see the Invisible World

Father doth bend an ear

and hold me upon his lap.

But what is most amazing

about Affliction

is that Mercy is come along now

as my sister.

She eats beside me at the table.

We sit in meeting and examination as
kin
.

Isaac and his father shake off their hats

and shake hands with my father

fore they sit at the table

and swallow five mugs of cider

and whisper for two and a half hours.

I crouch down, as my legs

ache from standing and spying.

“Peer not round the corner,

Maaaaargaret.” Step-Mother shakes

my shoulders and I nearly wail

like a boat entering harbor.

My heart breaks in fast waves

against my skin.

“You frightened me,” I whisper

through grinded teeth.

She thrusts me back

so she can best see.

“Looks as though Isaac will marry you

after all.” Step-Mother shrugs.

“Though I cannot know why.”

“How do you know we will be wed?”

I ask her.

“Well, there be no brawl and your father

just patted Isaac's back.”

I run toward the front room,

but Step-Mother catches my skirt

and winds me back into her

like I be a spool of thread.

“Oh, no. That be affairs of men,”

she says.

“But I just want to rejoice

with Isaac a moment.”

“Rejoice,” she snorts.

“Go and pray now

you make him happy enough.”

I sulk down the hall.

Dear Lord, I pray that Mercy

may find torment so great

she recovers not

and then Isaac shall be happy

with only me.

They bind Goody Corey's hands

in front of her

like a mock prayer.

She bows down her head.

The night wind

slices her back in a cross

shoulder to shoulder,

and I hold the blade.

The stain of red is upon my hands.

I point “Witch, witch”—

and they cart her away.

Creaking wheels cut the snow.

Goody Corey's face softens

from its haggard knot

into my mother's freckled cheek.

I fall to knees,

beg, “Forgive me.

I will take the lash and chain,

just set her free.”

Wilson licks my fingers,

and I wake.

The sun already half-mast

and yet none calls my name

to fetch or serve,

but they take me now

more like one of their own.

Be this the Lord's way?

Inside Ingersoll's ordinary,

the tavern owned by Margaret's uncle

with food and housing for travelers,

my place aside Ann, Elizabeth,

Betty and Abigail awaits me.

Margaret also sits at our table.

All nod “Good day” to us seers

as though we are menfolk,

not maids or children.

Ears perk and lean

toward our table.

The town asks

what have we seen

of the Invisible World?

Elizabeth's eyes a royal purple,

her face filled with scratches

like she wrestled a wild boar.

“Martha Corey did torment me

last night,” Elizabeth whispers to us

as though she means it.

Her sleeves stretched over her hands

like mittens.

Margaret yanks Elizabeth to her feet

so all can observe the girl's swollen face.

“Martha Corey did beat Elizabeth,”

Margaret brags to the crowd, and yet

she be the only girl at the table,

still, without the vision

to see.

Margaret brushes my arm

as she takes her seat. She jumps back

as though she might catch pox

should her skin fall on mine.

“What be, Margaret?” I ask her.

She swallows as in disgust.

“How could any believe

the words of a serving girl?”

Ann grabs Margaret's arm.

“You will speak to Mercy with respect

or leave this table, Margaret.”

Silence clamps tight the bench.

The other girls pick

at the bread crumbs dusting their plates.

Margaret nods at Ann.

She looks not on me.

Abigail reveals a bruise upon her arm

and announces with the volume of an angry reverend,

“Rebecca Nurse pinched and pricked me.”

The crowd gasps. All lose their breath

at the same moment.

“Rebecca Nurse is a Gospel woman,”

someone whispers.

Abigail shakes her arm.

“Aye, but the evidence be right here.”

Ann says, “Rebecca Nurse visited me too.”

The noise nears rowdy.

Elizabeth huddles us round.

She speaks just above the clamor,

“We are called. The Lord sends us

to find the devils among us.

We must follow only the Lord.”

The little girls nod.

I slowly nod too.

But Margaret acts is if she hears nothing,

as though she were as deaf

as the plate before her.

She straightens her dress

and adjusts her bonnet's bow.