Wicked Girls (9 page)

I scan around the tavern

and could pinch myself

that we girls should sit here

nearly daily now,

but as the witches pinch us first

and so many folk

be ripe to believe,

I try to accept my seat.

Across the street

some whose family

stand in the confession box

or those who never did like

the selection of Reverend Parris

as village minister,

they eye us girls

with tar and gravel

as though we ought

be the ones chained

to the jailer's wagon.

Abigail rattles her mouth,

the excited babe showing

off how she has learned to speak.

“I saw the specter of Reverend Burroughs,

one who was pastor before

in Salem Village, leading

a group of witches outside

the parsonage last night.”

How names she my old master?

How knows she what a true wizard he was?

Margaret laughs. “You cannot know

'twas Minister Burroughs.”

“Reverend told me it was so,”

Abigail nearly shouts. “He said

that Reverend Burroughs was acting

the Grand Conjurer, the leader of the witches.”

“What matters what your uncle says?”

Ann thrusts Abigail into the back of the bench.

“I am the one to say!”

A grand hush ripples across the tavern,

and all the folk stare on us.

Even Ann quiets then.

She nods at me. “Come, Mercy,

we best be heading home.

All of you best go home and pray.”

“I just sit there and stitch

while Abigail screams and runs

about the room till they carry her out,

and it is always like this with her,”

Margaret says, and narrows

her eyes in a sneer.

“Why does she not listen to me?”

Ann shakes her head.

Under our table at Ingersoll's

Wilson snuggles beside me

without so much as a yap.

Margaret's feet stack one upon the other

in a tangle. Her skirt sticks under her rump

in a ball like she's a little beggar girl.

How can one so uncouth be betrothed?

“What are you looking at?”

Margaret asks me.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Pay attention,” Margaret says.

Her voice slaps my hand.

“We've a problem with Abigail.”

Ann says, “Something must be done.

Nothing foul must be among us.”

My feet go cold like I've slipped

into winter's pond without boots.

Why did Ann not discuss this with me?

Margaret flicks her hair behind her shoulder.

“Ignore her. Act as she does not exist.”

She knocks over a mug of ale.

I turn from the smell.

“But Abigail knows not what she does,”

Elizabeth says as she mops the table

with her apron.

The threat in Ann's stare

could frighten a wolf.

“Elizabeth, you are
wrong
!”

Elizabeth shrinks back.

Ann then softens her tone.

“I fear if we teach not Abigail

a lesson, she shall place

her hand upon Satan's book

as Ruth Warren hath done.”

Ann stands up, makes herself

the height the rest of us are

when seated. She declares,

“Abigail is as one laid to grave.

Speak to her no more.”

Not another word to be said.

Sour voices on the wind

name us liars, say we sin.

Listen not

to girls but men.

For the witches we do name

pass their days in public shame

or come from families

Putnams blame.

So if we girls shall keep our place

we'll see some witches none can trace,

folk we've never

seen of face.

Abigail's sightings mismatch

ours like sleeves cut

from different fabric.

Margaret, Mercy, Elizabeth and me

call new witches into court,

the first of whom we have never seen,

Bridget Bishop of Salem Town,

the woman they say bewitches

children to death.

We also name Giles Corey

and his gruesome acts,

the old man who,

before any of us we were born to see it,

beat his servant to his last breath.

But Abigail sees neither

Goody Bishop nor Goodman Corey.

She can no longer sit beside us

on the testimonial bench.

The villagers see her not.

She be as a ghost to them.

For I have made her invisible.

“I know her to be Deliverance Hobbs.”

I point my finger at the old witch

in the dark green cloak

who none of the other girls

know by face.

I only know the witch

called to question

because Mother pointed her out to me

before she sat me down upon my bench.

We rattle and roll upon

the floor, but our sounds do not echo

through the room. I must thrust

five pins through my hand

beneath my skirt before

the courtroom screams, “Witch!”

Deliverance Hobbs confesses

with her hands tied upon the stand.

She unpeels her skin

during Judge Hathorne's examination

and admits that witch blood

courses her veins.

“What do we do now?” I ask Mercy.

“When a witch confesses,

we stop our fuss,” she says

as Mercy's wails bury their sound

and her body falls motionless

as a dead cat.

The courtroom hisses

as they drag away Deliverance Hobbs.

Mercy tugs my arm and says,

“Good that she confessed.

One less voice weakened

our screaming.

There was power in five.”

“Ann,” Abigail hollers,

but Ann has iron in her ears.

She will not even turn toward Abigail.

Abigail stands before Elizabeth,

looks up to her with prayerful eyes.

“What be happening?” Abigail asks.

Elizabeth coils her hands into her sleeves.

She stares through Abigail

as though she were air.

“Margaret, please,” she begs.

Margaret stands

and Abigail blocks her way.

A hard shoulder

into Abigail's nose and cheek,

and Abigail skids to the floor.

Margaret tramples over

Abigail's crumpled body

without even a glance down.

The tears fire across Abigail's cheeks.

She swipes them away.

“Is this punishment for what I see?

For what I tell? For my talk

of Minister Burroughs

and his commune of witches

grazing in our pasture

with their black hoods and red books

and drinking of Satan's blood?”

Abigail now looks on me.

I wish to set her free, but

she kneels down before Ann.

“I am sorry. Pray do tell me

what to say, what to do,

and I promise to do

as you command,” Abigail says.

Ann pats Abigail's head

like she rubs the pup

at her feet, tousles Abigail's hair

and pinches her cheek.

She looks at the rest of us

and then points at Abigail

crouched upon the ground.

“Stay, girl,” she says.

“Do exactly as I say

and I might let you

remain with us.”

And Abigail does.

My vision of the Devil

be that crooked-teeth grin

of the man who took me in,

the one who they say can lift

six-foot muskets with his little finger.

He who holds up his book

to timber little girls with one blow.

His red, hot hands

roamed my arms

and inside my discomforts

like a pinching burn.

I found nowhere to run

and nobody to call for help

when he called himself

Reverend and master

and father of the house

and I be but an orphan

of eight.

“What witches, wizards and specters

have you seen in the Invisible World, Mercy?”

They ask me again today.

And I think perhaps

I can recall one bad dream

I had of a Grand Conjurer

last night.

Night crawls across the sky,

and a trumpet screams

from the pasture beside the parsonage.

I twirl around, but no one's there.

I say to Father,

“I rub my eyes and appears,

same as Mercy saw last night,

a meeting of witches in the clearing

gathered on their poles,

drinking Devil's blood,

and Reverend Burroughs

stands at the head.

He lectures the witches,

‘We will claim New England.

Begin in Essex County

and overtake Salem Village.

One battle, one witch at a time,

until all the land be ours.'”

My father nods agreement.

“Reverend Burroughs be

the Village pastor before ye were born.

He is a thief and a liar.

Of course, he be a witch.”

Father straightens his hat

and sets off to visit

the magistrates again.

He come in the tavern sweaty

from a day in field and barn.

I wish hard that Isaac will

trot over to me and demand

I fetch him a cider,

but he pretends as though

he sees me not, and grabs a bench

aside his mates William and Ben.

I wave my pinkie at him,

but Isaac must weary of me,

as if I be but a fence he must mend

or a heavy log to haul across the bay.

So I anchor beside Ann.

I whisper, “What of Isaac?”

“We've matters to discuss.”

Ann angers that I even mention Isaac's name.

She looks to raise her hand to me.

And then do my skirts flame.

I must stand to let the heat

out from under me.

“Can we talk of nothing but witches?

Ye all be mad with this,” I say.

Mercy says, “Go on, Margaret,

ye need not remain with us.

Sit with Isaac. Be with thy
betrothed
.”

Her eyes shift like shadows of the night.

I inch over to Isaac timid-footed

and tap his shoulder. He swats my arm

away like I be a pesky gnat.

“Do not attend me

when I be among my mates,”

he says quickly.

I look over at the other girls

staring 'pon us.

I smile all my teeth

like Isaac did proclaim

I be the prettiest fowl in the coop.

I hurry toward the door.

Red splotches before my eyes.

“She be all the time foul,”

Step-Mother says to Father.

I creak open the door,

and the room hums with silence.

“Margaret.” Father guides me

to a chair. “Your uncle Thomas

has asked that you come to aid

in his home. And I did say you would.”

“But I be not a servant.”

The tears I been holding

shower 'pon my face.

“Of course not,” he pats my head.

“We think there may be more power

in having three seers under one roof.

Perhaps the witches will stop

their torment. Now ready yourself.”

I know he be wrong, we will torment

all the more, but I rise to pack my bags.

Father smiles. “Ann's mother

requested that you come.”

The corners of my mouth round up.

My aunt Ann—might she

offer some aid with Isaac,

and Ann's mistreatment of me,

and dread Mercy? My feet tingle.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

I do not bid Step-Mother farewell.

I just kiss Father's cheek

and slide out the door.