Seeing it fresh, it appeared to Bristol that everyone hated everyone else. She understood Hannah’s concern for the common good; the common good appeared severely threatened. The problem, as Bristol perceived it, was that the doctrine of common good had eroded to a point where each person thought solely of himself. Neighbors had become people viewed with suspicion and distrust. Someone must be found to blame for the dissension and grumbling discontent in the village. Pointing fingers abounded.
Bristol pondered this while she drove to the meetinghouse, the reins rough and unfamiliar in her smooth hands. Perhaps if she’d not been away, perhaps then the changes would have occurred gradually enough to escape notice. As it was, a pattern opened before Bristol and revealed disturbing alterations to the village life she remembered.
As Bristol understood from Hannah, the animosity between Salem Village and Salem Town had escalated to eruptive bitterness. Salem Village wanted free of Salem Town, but the town would not permit it. Salem Village desired a township in its own right, craved freedom from town taxes, town law, town watches, town supervision and interference. Commercial Salem Town had little understanding or tolerance for the very real problems of rural Salem Village. Compounding the issue were the merchants along Ipswich Road; though geographically within Salem Village, most felt a far greater kinship with the profit philosophies of Salem Town. The Ipswich Road people supported Salem Town. And the majority of villagers hated them for it. This schism fatally weakened village petitions for autonomy.
Further disrupting village harmony was the familiar sour note of Reverend Parris. On this issue, many Ipswich Road people aligned with villagers they opposed in the fight for autonomy. The parish council, now composed of anti-Parris people, including some that lived along Ipswich Road, had voted to refuse the reverend further payment of salary. They fervently hoped Samuel Parris would go away, taking all the controversy with him. Instead, the reverend and his dwindling supporters gave every sign of preparing to wage a grim political battle to replace the council.
Frenzied counts were taken among the population by both sides, seeking to solidify their position. This placed many villagers in an awkward position. Some did not support Reverend Parris, but did not support the council either. They broke into a new and vocal grouping. As did those who supported Reverend Parris and supported the council on all but the Parris issue. As time passed, these four groups experienced altercations and reformed into still smaller, angry units.
Local politics degenerated into a bewildering maze for newcomers. The same people shifted into different alliances on different issues. Only the bitter outcome of these passionate upheavals could be seen with any clarity.
Great political frustrations translated into bitter personal hatreds. Each group—and there were many—blamed another group for village problems and tensions. Each angry person within each angry group passionately desired changes and improvements they were not getting. Someone blocked the way; someone was at fault. But placing blame was a sly business. To acknowledge another group as having the power to cause all this misery and upset was to declare one’s own group powerless. This, no one wished to admit. Thus frustrations and tempers built and built, with no acceptable outlet.
People turned on one another in rage. They might have their hands tied on the larger issues, but not the small ones. If a lifetime neighbor’s fence encroached, one had the power and the duty to see it removed, stone by offending stone. If the neighbor dared point out the fence had stood as it was for thirty years, no matter. Remove it! And we’ll see you in Court if need be.
If babies died or livestock froze or crops failed, the disaster was too great for frustrated hearts to bear. It was bad enough to watch the community turn on itself like a ravening animal, but to believe God punished the villagers as well—that could not be borne. Something or someone else had to be at fault. And the ruined farmer looked desperately to his neighbors, wondering how they’d managed to kill his livestock or to blast his field—and why. And he lashed out in revenge.
Bristol’s head spun with such stories; she’d heard them again and again since her return. The slightest offense was enough to create a lifelong enemy. The entire village fumed and smoldered.
Before Sabbath services began, the Adams women visited Noah’s grave, and Bristol grieved silently before a simple freestone marker, wondering what position Noah had taken in the village disruptions. How had his sensible practicality fit within the sparring groups?
Try as she might, Bristol couldn’t summon a clear image of her father. When she stared at the mounded earth, isolated pictures flashed through her mind, but most came from distant childhood. She blinked and choked on a lump in her throat. Keenly, Bristol felt Noah’s absence. She wished with every breath that she could make up for the worry and heartache she’d caused him. Wished with all her heart she might have pressed her face into that leathery neck and whispered, “I love you, Papa,” just once.
Blinking hard, Bristol bent and placed a spray of bright autumn leaves below the gray stone. After a moment, she followed her mother into the meetinghouse.
Sliding into place beside Charity in the children’s pew and waiting for Reverend Parris to begin the text, Bristol immediately noticed the deep quiet of the room. She remembered loud chatter and friendly greetings. Now the villagers held themselves in stiff silence, their cold faces toward the front, indifferent to who walked down the aisle or who filled the seat beside them. Uneasily Bristol smiled at Mary Warren and felt a pang of surprised hurt when Mary tossed her head and looked away, no trace of a smile on her lips. “What’s wrong with Mary?” Bristol whispered to Charity behind her hand.
Charity pulled her gaze from the men’s side of the room and lifted a surprised brow. “Mary works for John Proctor—in his tavern. You know that. We don’t have anything to do with the Ipswich Road people.”
“We used to be friends with the Proctors and the Warrens,” Bristol answered dryly.
Impatient, Charity frowned. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
Charity’s hands fluttered. “Oh, I don’t know. Just before. Before everybody started fighting.” Her eyes flicked to the men’s side; then she leaned to whisper into Abigail Williams’ ear. Abigail listened, giggled, and whispered into Ann Putnam Junior’s ear. Ann smiled and whispered back.
Bristol sighed. It appeared she’d made an enemy of Mary Warren without even being here. The idea seemed so outrageous she was tempted to laugh. But she didn’t.
Automatically Bristol’s eyes strayed to the men’s side, and she discovered herself looking for Caleb Wainwright. He wasn’t among the men. The knowledge had no effect on Bristol one way or another. She felt neither disappointed by his absence nor happy to avoid a confrontation. Merely indifferent.
Covering a yawn, she wished the services would begin. Abigail Williams tossed herself about on the pew and whispered loudly, and Bristol decided a year and a half had done nothing to improve Abigail’s disruptive temperament. She could understand why Hannah disapproved of the girl. A year and a half had, however, added greatly to Abigail’s appearance. Her apron and long collar did nothing to hide a woman’s figure blossoming beneath—and a bold challenge sparked her blue eyes, unusual in a twelve-year-old.
Watching the three girls, Bristol decided only Ann Putnam Junior looked as she had when Bristol sailed. Though the same age as Abigail, and though both were blond and blue-eyed, there the resemblance ended. Ann possessed the translucent face and eyes of a visionary; she had a look of permanent innocence. That quiet Ann could be so in the influence of impish Abigail Williams remained a mystery to Bristol. Perhaps Charity bridged the gap. It seemed to Bristol that Charity’s diffidence aligned with Ann, and Charity’s newfound resistance to authority would delight Abigail. Bristol shrugged; it was none of her affair.
Still, she was relieved when the service began and the girls settled into the pew. But her relief was of short duration. Quite simply, Reverend Parris’ thunderous text f
rightened Bristol. He didn’t preach, he ranted; he shouted and screamed and purpled in the face. Once Samuel Parris had preached that New England was the promised land, God’s haven for his saints. But now Reverend Parris’ promised land had drastically narrowed in scope. Perhaps God-fearing souls were safe within the walls of the meetinghouse (a far smaller area than all of New England), and then again, perhaps not. Evil stalked even the village meetinghouse and imperiled all within. And here the reverend’s flushed face looked betrayed, angry, and puzzled that it could be so.
That it undeniably was so went unquestioned. According to Reverend Parris, Satan, in all his treacherous guises, could count a large portion of villagers as his own. Many, he shouted, had signed the dread book and now served Satan as their master instead of looking to the clergy for leadership. These disciples of evil tormented the good folk of the village, making lives miserable and wretched and filled with dissent.
The parishioners nodded emphatic agreement, and some leveled dark stares of accusation at one another. They knew as well as the preacher that servants of Satan lived within the village. Hadn’t they suffered for it? No one was safe anymore. The only solace in an evil world was the safety of one’s own hearth. It was a sorry time in the history of man when a person couldn’t count himself safe from evil even within the house of God.
At the noon break, Bristol stumbled outside for a deep breath of cold fresh air. She felt bludgeoned and wary of the people around her. Which were the servants of Satan? Realizing what she’d just thought, Bristol gave herself an irritated shake. What was she thinking? She’d known these people all her life—they were good decent people. Not evildoers, or witches, or malicious imps, or plotters of some dire misfortune aimed at innocents.
Setting her mouth, Bristol strode firmly to Mary Warren and took her arm with a forced smile. “Hello, Mary.”
Mary Warren drew back as if she’d been stung. But Bristol held to her arm. “What are you doing?” Mary gasped.
Bristol’s voice pleaded. “Mary, we used to be friends!”
Mary shook off Bristol’s hand. “No more,” she snapped. “Your family are friends with the Wainwrights, and we don’t speak to people who claim other people’s pigs as their own.” She started to turn aside, her face flushed and angry.
It was layer on layer of confusion. “Who, Mary? Did my family claim Warren pigs?” Bristol lifted a hand in a helpless gesture. “All the pigs root in the forest, it’s easy to lose one... that doesn’t necessarily mean someone stole it. But I’m sure Mama will make it right if such a thing did happen.”
Mary hissed. “The Wainwrights took our pigs!” She nodded fiercely. “Mark my words, you’ll rue the day your family took up with a Wainwright.” She leaned and whispered into Bristol’s dust cap, “If you want my opinion, I think old man Wainwright signed the devil’s book before he died.” Bristol gasped. “They didn’t lose their harvest this year, but the Haversacks did!” Mary’s eyes glittered triumphantly. “How do you explain that? The fields are side by side!” Having made her point, Mary flounced away.
Bristol stared after her. Had the whole community gone mad? Bristol looked around in disbelief. Instead of separating into two groups, one to the reverend’s house, the other to Ingersoll’s tavern, now families ate their lunch from hampers in their wagons, or beside the lane, or at a corner of the meetinghouse. A few families banded together, but most sat in isolated groups, eating quietly and ignoring the people around them. Bristol looked toward Hannah for guidance; she felt as if she stood on the moon, for all her knowledge of local custom and the welcome she felt.
Hannah marched firmly across the lane and into Ingersoll’s tavern. Bristol and Charity followed. A wry smile played across Bristol’s pink lips; apparently the Adams turned their backs on the reverend’s table, but at least they weren’t yet reduced to eating their Sunday lunch from the back of a wagon.
The afternoon service was as black and frightening as the morning’s had been. When Bristol reeled outside at its finish, she felt she wouldn’t trust a neighbor to fish her from a pond if she were drowning. She struggled with these new attitudes, finding them repugnant and distasteful. Her eyes frowned toward Hannah talking in the doorway with Reverend Parris; she wished Hannah would hurry. Bristol wanted to go home. She needed to think about what she’d seen and heard and try to regain a sensible perspective.
The moment Hannah climbed up on the wagon seat, Bristol flicked the reins and shouted to the horses. They rode in silence until the Adams gate came into view. Then Hannah swiveled to address both Charity in the straw behind and Bristol on the high seat. “Reverend Parris is coming by in about an hour. I want you both to see the parlor is dusted and made ready.”
The girls nodded. Confused, Bristol glanced at Hannah. “Mama, wouldn’t it have been easier to speak to the reverend at his house? While we were right there?” Bristol saw by Hannah’s tight face that such a visit was out of the question.
“No,” Hannah said shortly. She cast a meaningful glare toward Charity, quiet behind them. “I won’t set foot in a house that shelters Abigail Williams! Skipping! Mark my word, that girl’s no good!” Hannah sniffed. “Besides, that Tituba person makes me nervous. It’s not natural the way all the young girls flock to that woman!”
Bristol started. She hadn’t thought of Tituba in more than a year. “... and the one who is not, shall stand in dark flames....” Bristol’s skin rippled in a sudden chill. Perhaps Hannah was correct; there was something odd, something not right about Tituba.
Bristol smiled slightly as she turned the horses toward the barn. Now she was doing it. Harboring dark suspicions on the flimsiest of evidence. Whatever side one took on the Reverend Parris issue, Bristol gave him grudging credit for an improved sermon deliverance. She didn’t recall ever leaving Sunday meeting with a single memory of what had been said. Yet today Bristol felt she could quote the reverend verbatim. His text and sermon had left her deeply shaken.
Later, watching the reverend settle into a stiff, seldom-used chair in the Adams parlor, Bristol realized Reverend Parris was a disturbed man. He’d lost weight, and while the pompous superiority would never fade from his features, it appeared diminished. He had the air of a man who has tried and failed and cannot fathom what went wrong.
Samuel Parris had arrived in Salem Village expecting to assume spiritual and community leadership, only to discover half the population did not want him there at all, and the half that did had approached nearly every available minister in New England before reluctantly settling for Samuel Parris. When the respect and leadership Samuel Parris had expected were not forthcoming, he had demanded it... and then his troubles began in earnest. His battle to assume his rightful place, to walk in the gentle glow of God’s approval, had been lost inch by painful inch. Until now he was reduced to begging for his salary and stepping among people who met his gaze with flinty eyes. Like those of Hannah Adams, who reminded him his troubles extended even into his own household. Naturally he’d punished his niece Abigail and his daughter Betty for the skipping episode. But the punishment had not been satisfactory. Both girls exhibited a peculiar relief rather than penance, causing him to wonder what crimes they hid in addition to the skipping.
Samuel Parris agonized inside. How many supporters the skipping incident had cost, he couldn’t guess. He spent hours contemplating the problem, for Samuel Parris had a mind for petty concerns—the larger issues, he scarcely saw. The disintegration of Salem Village was occurring before his eyes, and he did not see it. What he saw was that people like Hannah Adams no longer extended their support; and this, Samuel Parris considered an abominable unfairness, as that chit Charity Adams had been skipping right along with Abigail and Betty and the others.
He sighed, seeing again the taloned claw of Satan behind this matter. Gradually the reverend had come to understand that Satan and Samuel Parris engaged in hand-to-claw battle, both on issues of personal concern and in the matter of village souls. A battle it seemed no one apprec
iated but himself.
He blinked and tugged his thoughts to the Adams parlor and the business at hand. Here, at least, he entered into a mission of trust and importance. His chest puffed, straining the cloth of his waistcoat.
“As you know,” be began, looking soberly at Hannah, “it was my privilege to guide Noah Adams through the last dark days and assist him home.”
“Aye,” Hannah answered sourly, her expression leaving an abyss of doubt as to the reverend’s helpfulness. Even Charity grimaced and turned a pale freckled face toward the plank floor.
Samuel Parris frowned at the three women. He directed his gaze to Bristol, who watched him with a careful measuring stare. Bold chit! “Before Noah passed to his reward, he entrusted me with letters to you each.” Now he had their full attention, he noticed with a grim smile. He seized the advantage, delivering a mini-sermon on the values of trusting one’s minister. And paying his salary.
“Give me the letters,” Hannah interrupted, extending her hand.
Reverend Parris drew himself up and shot her a reproving glare; then he gave it up. Slowly he withdrew three packets from his coat. He tapped them against his palm. “I need tell you I am privy to the information in these letters.” He paused, allowing them time to realize Noah had shown the respect of confiding in his spiritual leader. “And I am prepared to discuss a certain issue and initiate immediate action.” Reluctantly Samuel Parris relinquished the letters. Then he settled back and waited as each woman broke a seal and began to read.
Bristol’s fingers trembled as she opened the thick sheaf of papers and smoothed them on her lap. That her father had expended his last strength to pen his thoughts to them touched her deeply. More than ever, a sore heart wished she had arrived home in time, wished she might have held his hand and been with him. Bristol focused on the first page, and Noah’s voice spoke to her.
Daughter,
As ye can see by this scrawl, it doesn’t go well for me. William Griggs, who admits he’s lost more patients than he’s healed, doesn’t give me much hope or time. And I’m not prepared to die until the loose ends are tied. Bristol, girl, I was wrong to send ye away. I’ve pondered it in life and on my deathbed, and I’ve seen the error of my thinking. I misinterpreted the providences regarding ye, and for this I have tormented myself and ye. I beg yer pardon. All the providences pointed ye toward Caleb Wainwright. I see this clearly. And from the wisdom of my deathbed, I wish to put it right.
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