Wicked Girls (8 page)

A young man with shoulders broad as a lake

trails Mister Putnam round the stables.

“Fine mare,” he says, his voice

deep earth brown.

“She'll produce fine foal, I believe.

I'll not be trading her if that be

what ye desire, Isaac Farrar.”

Mister shakes his head.

“No, sir,” Isaac says.

“But might I take her for a ride?”

Mister nods, and Isaac mounts

the spotted mare.

As he grabs hold the reins

his eyes saddle upon me.

I shade red to be caught watching him

for I never do care to observe anyone,

and I ought be slopping the pigs.

Mister Putnam notes my presence with a smile

and calls, “Mercy, come yonder

and fetch a cup of water.

I hand Mister Putnam the tin,

and he squeezes his arm around me.

“Mercy doth see the Invisible World.

She and my daughter Ann,

the Lord has called them.”

Mister ruffles Wilson's head,

but calls not his dog away from me.

Isaac fixes upon me

without cessation or flinch.

“I be acquainted with Mercy,” he says.

“Beg your pardon, but I do not recall—”

“Do you ride?” he asks like a gunshot,

before I can finish my speech.

Mister twists his face, such that I cannot

tell if it be in anger or pleasure.

“'Tis not proper for a servant—” I begin.

“Do you ride?” Isaac insists, and leads

his own horse over to me.

“Yes, I ride,” I say, and hold fast

the reins of Isaac's gaze. I remember

him now—he helped me carry my firewood.

I nearly wish to smile at him, but I cannot say why.

“She cannot ride.” Mister grinds his teeth.

“She might find fit and fall.

It be too dangerous. It be not proper.”

Mister turns me round and pushes

me toward the house.

I hear him say to Isaac,

“I think it best if I rest

Beatrice this afternoon.

She was rode hard this morning.

And she does not take well

to strangers.”

The note Ruth Warren

nails to the meetinghouse door

Ann reads to us:

“Thank ye in public

for my condition did but improve.

I do rightly believe the Devil deceived,

and we girls did but speak falsely.

The magistrates might as well

listen to someone insane

and believe what she said

as any of the afflicted persons,

for I submit there be as much truth in madness

as in any of the girls' claims.

Our fits and pains may be put to end

by the Lord's will and concentration of mind.

I humbly ask ye all to forgive

my weakness against the Devil.

Your gracious servant, Ruth Warren.”

“I've a mind to whip

that Ruth Warren

same as Goodman Proctor did,” I say.

Ann flicks my arm.

“Quiet your tongue.

Cause not disturbance, Margaret.”

I want to say, Or else what?

What'll ye do? Who crowned

thee queen? But I hold in

them words for now.

“Do you suppose Ruth be beat

into writing all that?”

I whisper to Elizabeth.

Inside the meetinghouse

all the eyes of the church

lock on us Afflicted

tighter than a bridle.

The question whirling

o'er the rafters, gathering

fast as storm clouds—

If Ruth Warren

recants that she was tormented,

if she can stop her fits,

why then do we other girls

not quit ours?

I stare straight at the pulpit,

try not to let the fire

of their eyes burn my cheeks.

I glance over at Isaac,

want to wave up my hand

and have him lead me out of

this stomach-churning church.

But he never looks my way.

After meeting the sky's

still and gray as a dead fish.

We girls gather in a cluster.

Uncle Thomas speaks loud, so many hear,

“I believe Ruth Warren must have signed

or at least placed her hand upon the Devil's book.”

The crowd gasps and nods.

Doctor Griggs adds, “Were our girls

to do that, their aches would leave them too.”

“But their souls be blackened.”

Reverend Parris's voice shakes the trees.

Abigail steps in the center

of the churchyard

and wilts onto the ground,

falling like a leaf blown down

in a rustle of wind,

her face red as the Devil's book.

“What be she doing?” I say

to the other girls. Ann's eyes boil.

Reverend Parris clasps his scaly hand

on my shoulder. “Be you brave, Margaret Walcott?”

He looks at Mercy and Ann and Elizabeth and me.

“Do not sign that book of blood.

Push away Satan's quill.”

We all nod our heads.

Reverend tears down

the note Ruth Warren tacked

to the meetinghouse door.

He rips down her recant

of seeing witches,

her attempt to cast

the rest of us liars.

Soon as he be gone

my step-cousin says,

“Five of us. One of her.

Ruth Warren will face regret.”

All look on Abigail,

fainting skirts upon the ground,

but one.

I feel him once again

wrap gaze around my shoulders

like a shawl, a woolen cloak I need not

on this steam-hot day.

I turn my back to Isaac

though I wish to turn round.

Ann pulls me aside.

“Mercy.” She sounds

as though she holds stones

on her tongue. “Ruth Warren,

how shall we make her pay her trouble?”

I whisper to Ann,

“Does any yet look on us?”

“None.” Ann taps her foot

as though she has somewhere else to be.

When I draw up my eyes,

his look is still roped upon our group.

I point Ann with my glancing,

“But what of that one with your uncle?”

“None stands by Uncle and Father,

save Isaac Farrar, Margaret's betrothed,”

Ann says. “And he always be staring this way.”

“Your cousin will be wed?”

I choke out the words.

Ann nods, then insists,

“What of Ruth Warren?”

“Call her a witch,” I say.

Ruffle the goose

and she'll snap at your tail,

kick you to stream

and bar you

from the row of ducks.

The water muddies.

'Tis hard to know

where next

to dunk your head

and bite the new fish

when you be

scouting the sea

alone.

I be weeding the garden

and mending the fence round it

to keep the vermin out

when a large shadow falls

over the seedlings.

Isaac bends to my ear.

“Follow me, fair Margaret.”

I can't protest, for as I stand

he be already to the stream

beyond our house.

The sun squints my eyes.

I wipe my hands 'pon my apron

and dash into the woods

past the barn till I find

my sweet one lying in the clearing

flooded in sparkling light

looking more handsome

than Christ himself.

He pats the ground, says,

“'Tis a fine day.”

I nod and lie beside him.

He curves me against him

like a belt drawn into a loop.

His kisses tender but brutal,

I wish them never to end.

He begins then at unlacing

my dress. I shake my head.

“But we are betrothed,” he says,

and slides a hand beneath

my petticoat.

I feel cold with fright

as though the day be winter ice.

I skirt away from him.

“I think I hear Father call me,” I say.

Isaac's eyes roll

and he blows out

an angry sigh

as he places my hand

in that same unholy place

beneath his clothes

he did afore in the woods.

“Not all be as cloistered

in their stockings as thou,” he says.

I pretend not to know

what he does imply,

close my eyes

and set to work

while whirling high above us

the wind screams

wild lashings

across the leaves.

The breeze smart

against my neck,

dewy leaves and grass

tickle my nose.

Wilson and I wander

a new route

this morning

on the way to Ingersoll's.

Across the field

out in their garden

they praise the day

like three smiling

blossoms.

Rebecca Nurse

and her two sisters

plant and weed.

Laughter sprinkles

across the soil

as Charlotte slips

in the mud.

Rebecca

lifts Charlotte to a stand,

brushes off her skirt.

I wish to rush across

the meadow

offer my hand,

and join the row of happy sisters.

I stare at my hands,

my horrible filthy hands,

and run.

She knows her little fists

like cannonballs

have the power to crumble

fortress and family.

She decides that Goodwife Cloyse,

the sister of Rebecca Nurse,

will be next accused.

“Sister of a witch.

She must also be a witch,”

Ann says.

Abigail's words jump from her mouth

so she be the first to say,

“Goodwife Cloyse did flee meeting

last Sunday right in the middle,

and she has not been back to the parsonage.”

Margaret nods. “And she has been speaking out

against the accusation of her sister.”

Ann looks to me to add comment,

but I just stroke Wilson's head.

“But I never did see the specter

of Goodwife Cloyse.

Did ye all?”

Elizabeth's voice be quiet,

but her words be loud.

Margaret clasps Elizabeth's hand.

She says the words that Ann

wishes would come from my lips.

“This matters not.

Kin what stand up for each other,

must make their home in jail.”

Elizabeth rises to leave our table.

Her uncle enters the ordinary

and she quickly sits down.

Her body trembles

as she tugs upon her sleeves.

Just before sun's at mid-sky,

the meetinghouse stacks with people.

I grab Abigail outside the courtroom.

“You best keep quiet sometimes.

You cannot see everything.”

Goody Cloyse stands first in the confession box.

Abigail says, “I saw Goody Cloyse

and Goody Nurse serve our blood

at a meeting of the Devil's

where forty witches come to my uncle's pasture,

congregating till a fine man in white

scared them away.”

When Goody Cloyse faints

and the crowd's eyes are diverted,

I kick Abigail hard enough she squeals.

A second witch appears chained before us.

When the magistrate asks,

“Does Goody Proctor hurt you?”

Mercy and Elizabeth and I cannot form words.

Abigail opens her mouth wide as a baby bird.

I stuff it with my bonnet.

The rest of us flap like geese in a pattern.

I head the formation,

and our wings fly all the same speed.

We girls shake together

whenever a witch looks our way.

And the witches become felled birds

the constables chain and cage in jail.