GREETINGS
Mercy Lewis, 17
Girl just my height
comes rapping on the door.
I’ve the littlest propped on my hip,
dirt on my apron and sleep
pasted beneath my eyes.
She is as crisp as untrodden snow.
Her smart frock fits as grass
coats a rolling hill.
Each feature on her face
fine as painted porcelain,
save for her expression.
She stares at me like I might disappear.
“Good morn, with what
may I help you?” I say.
“Where is Ann?” She scrunches up
her nose. She has not removed
her eyes from mine.
“Junior or Senior?” I ask,
and stick two fingers
in the baby’s mouth to stop it crying.
The girl be transfixed upon my hair;
she stands at the door still unspeaking.
I repeat, sweet as maple jam,
“Pray, ask you after the little,
or the lady Ann?”
“Margaret, you got away!”
I startle a mite when Ann Junior
calls from behind me, and the baby
lets out a great wail.
Ann says, “Mercy,
this is my cousin, Margaret.
Margaret, this is Mercy,
the one I told you of.”
Margaret looks to judge me
up and down
with her stone eyes,
but I won’t abide it.
I just smile at her, come to play
with a little girl.
A REAL BEAUTY
Margaret Walcott, 17
I click the door
behind me so none
can hear, especially not her.
“She ain’t that pretty,” I say.
Ann’s head nods,
but her eyes do not agree.
And neither does her mouth.
Ann says, “Mercy can read and write.
And she has been a servant
since she was eight. She was schooled
when she was only five.
Mercy helps me with my lessons.”
Ann offers this to me
like it be flavored sugarcane.
“She’ll not make a goodwife
with all that reading and such.
’Tis against the Lord’s way.”
I flop down on Ann’s bed.
“Then why has Father made
me work at my lessons?” Ann says.
I flip through the scattered
parchment on her bed,
pages and pages Ann copied over.
“What be this about?”
I point at the text.
Ann looks bewildered
as though I have poured
a pitcher of water down her back.
“Why, Margaret, know you not
the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Course I do.
I was testing ye, Ann.”
I pick up the page
and say from memory,
“Our Father, who art in heaven.”
Ann relaxes her shoulders and laughs.
“You caught me well there,” she says.
I nod, but as soon as she turns her back
I grab the parchment paper
and slip it into the pocket of my new skirt.
Maybe if I look at it enough, I’ll figure
how to read it.
Then like I be reading fortunes
I crack open an empty egg
for beautiful Mercy.
I try to stop the smile
from devouring my face.
“Pity Mercy cannot marry
for she be an orphan
with no dowry or name.”
“Yes, ’tis horrid.”
Ann’s eyes dig into mine.
“How would you feel?”
I look down
and shake my head.
“I hope never to know.”
WHAT THE WINTER WIND BRINGS
February 1692
Bones chatter, while branches
snap heavy with ice.
Something stronger than fever
quakes and curls
through Village girls.
Their screams and contortions
be of awesome proportion.
’Tis a sight to behold,
distraction from cold.
THURSDAY MEETING
Margaret Walcott, 17
Issac motions and we sneak
behind the meetinghouse.
He whispers against my cheek,
“How fare ye, Margaret Walcott?
Needest thou a kerchief?”
I hold up my arm.
“I need not a kerchief
when I have my sleeve.”
His lips do curl up
in a sweet curve of smile.
A shuffle of feet
toward the church and he says,
“We best get back.”
But when I turn to leave,
Isaac holds me by the elbow
and anchors me to his side.
His breath is smoke.
His lips on my neck
cause me stumble.
Quickly he does release me.
Isaac tugs at his sleeve
and readjusts his collar;
then paces far ahead.
He walks toward his father, hat-stiff,
as though he and I never did speak.
But he must be trembling too.
ABSENT AND ABSENTMINDED
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
“Neither Abigail nor Betty
was in meeting. They never
were absent from lecture before.
Why are they not here?”
I look into Margaret’s eyes as I talk,
but it is like I speak to the wind.
“Does Isaac not seem dizzy
on his feet?” she says.
“Isaac? Isaac who? Margaret,
hearest thou what I say?
Betty and Abigail, where are the girls?
Do you suppose they have the fever?”
But Margaret just stares without response.
So like snow blown by God’s breath,
I drift over to Mercy.
And Mercy whispers, “Curious
the Minister’s daughter and niece
were not in church.”
LISTEN
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Mercy and I press
against the doorframe
to hear our elders speak.
Betty and Abigail are still sick,
and if it isn’t fever
it is a disease of the soul,
an evil hand upon them.
Could I be to blame?
Did we girls summon
the Devil’s magic
telling those fortunes?
I have to reveal
our little egg trick
to Mercy. “Mercy?”
“Hush,” she says.
“I want to hear
what they say.”
WORK NEVER ENDS
Mercy Lewis, 17
No sun shines on this rainy morn,
but with Missus off to help
with the weaver’s wife’s afterbirth
my day should be bright.
Except little Ann shadows me wherever I go.
“What did your mother look like?”
she asks me, her eyes big as biscuits.
God’s honest truth is it is hard
to picture my mother’s face some days.
“She had eyes green as clover
and could spot trouble
coming half a day away.”
“I mean was she pretty like you?”
Ann says. A blush flares across her face.
“Yea, she was handsome.
Our servant Rosaline
said her skin
was softer than a babe’s
and fairer than the Queen’s.”
“And she is dead? All your family is dead?”
I nod. “They thought my father’s aunt
might be living, but—”
I pause and wonder where I hid that letter.
My eyes feel heavy.
“I don’t care to talk of this anymore.
I want to rest now. Pray go see
what your sister is about.”
Ann looks like I have
called her a cross name or stomped
her favorite doll.
She tugs my sleeve. “Have you heard
the latest tell about the Minister’s
daughter and niece?”
“Are they not ill?” I ask.
Ann shakes her head.
“Father said Betty and Abigail
been having terrible fits,
screeching under the table like wild dogs.
Talking words that none understands.
They contort into eights and levitate
above their sheets such as none
can believe their eyes.”
Ann pauses for a breath.
“There be more.”
“Do tell,” I say, and grasp her hand.
“Father says the girls shout as hobgoblins,
like they were Satan’s kin.
And ministers from many miles spread
pray all hours by their bedside,
but to no aid.
Reverend Parris even tried the folk remedies:
parsnip seeds in wine,
a draft of soot with heartshorn,
spirits of castor with oil of amber.
Nothing works, no amount of prayer
and fasting ends their spells.”
THE MORE I TELL HER
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
I look up at Mercy.
She drinks in my words,
and they seem to light her
from the inside out.
I want to touch the glow
of her hair. I sit on my hands.
“Father says Reverend Parris
kneeled aside his daughter and niece
and named them possessed.
But this was falsely diagnosed,
for the girls fare too well and right
when not afflicted
to be taken of the Devil.”
I fall back onto the bed,
out of my breath.
“There is something more.”
Mercy clasps my hand. “Tell me.”
I look direct into her eyes.
“Father says
somebody in our village
must be doing
witchcraft.”
THE GOOD DOCTOR’S GOOD GIRL
Margaret Walcott, 17
Up on Ipswich Road
a girl my age, not a servant,
boards with Doctor Griggs.
Uncle Ingersoll says
the girl’s so quiet you can hear
snowflakes falling ’pon her cheek.
“Elizabeth,” I call
when I pass her on the road
back from Uncle’s tavern.
She spins her head,
searching for another with her name.
“Good to meet you,” I say.
“I’m Margaret Walcott.”
She clutches her parcel to her chest.
“Cold today,” I say, and she says nothing.
“How fare ye?” I ask her, but still
Elizabeth gives no response.
Is she mute, be she a simple girl?
I try once more. “Have you heard
what goes on at the Minister’s?”
She nods, opens her mouth,
but then covers it with her hand
as if she would be slapped for her speech.
I pull her hand away.
“Pray, be not feared to speak.
I shall be your friend, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth shifts her weight side and side.
I whisper, “There may be witches
in this village. Know ye about the craft?”
“’Tis Satan’s work,” she says.
Her eyes swell and ignite.
“I knew a witch hanged for her poppets
and spells. For the Bible says,
‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’
Exodus chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen.”
“Do tell me, friend, all ye know
and hear,” I say.
WHO KNOWS WHAT IS BREWING?
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Even Margaret of the vacant stare
asks, “Do you know further tell
of the Minister’s girls?”
She stretches across my bed
and picks up my comb.
She drags it through her hair
rough enough I fear it might break.
“No,” I say, though I perfectly well
know what they have been about
at the Minister’s house.
“Well, Abigail and Betty
are all folk can talk about,”
Margaret says, and locks her eyes on me
as though she be wishing to stir my pot
and test what ingredients I hold.
I keep my lid closed.
NEVER TELL OF FORTUNES
Margaret Walcott, 17
Ann grabs her comb from my hands
such that she slices my finger.
I suck up the blood bubbling
at the surface of my skin.
“You don’t suppose that folk magic
game of yours what called up that coffin—”
Ann’s anger smokes from her nostrils.
She grasps my wrist and whispers,
“’Twas thou who wanted to play fortunes.”
I wrest free of her and say,
“Ye taught me to read egg whites.”
Ann shakes her head.
“No, cousin. Thou art wrong.
If anyone, ’twas Betty and Abigail.”
She hugs me against her chest.
“Promise never to tell
we played that game,
else we might be accused
of witchcraft.”
I clutch her little hand and whisper,
“No, never.”
WASHING OUR HAIR
Margaret Walcott, 17
The basin steams
and Elizabeth reaches
to dunk her hands in the water.
“You’ll scorch yourself!
Use that cup.”
I tip my head back.
“Aaagghh!” I holler
when she pours
fire on my scalp.
Elizabeth jumps back,
then lowers her head to say,
“Sorry, Margaret. I only meant to…
The Doctor likes hot water.
He says it purifies the skin.”
She lathers soap in my locks,
then carefully rinses me clean.
She squeezes off the drips,
rubs in aloe,
and dries me with rags—
much better than our maid.
I smile as Lizzie untangles
my gnarls. It feels like my head
be a loom she’s unthreading.
“Your turn,” I say,
and Elizabeth looks
as stunned as a frozen bird.
Did she think I invited her over
to wash my hair alone?
I unlace the woolen top
of her dress and dunk her hair
in the soapy water. I tug
my pewter comb
through her curls, but never
does she yelp or moan.
I tie her hair up in frayed blue ribbon.
“Come, we’ll draft wool
while we dry our hair by the hearth,”
I say, and look for Step-Mother.
When I be sure
the beast be hidden,
I take Lizzie’s hand and whisper,
“Isaac Farrar kissed me.”
Elizabeth gasps, and her eyes
jump like buttons coming loose.
“You never been kissed?”
She rattles her head back and forth.
“Well, it be like sweetest jam.
And Isaac knew quite well
how to spread it,” I say.
Elizabeth coughs to signal
that Step-Mother enters the room.
I wink her my gratitude.
TALK OF THE WITCHES
Mercy Lewis, 17
I sneak Ann into my room.
We crouch down by my bed
and whisper like sisters ear to ear
so not a sound escapes the air.
“Did your father truly see the bruises
appear upon Betty and Abigail?”
“Yes, and the girls called out
Tituba, their slave, saying she did teach them
folk magic. The girls also named
the beggar woman Goody Good.
Tituba and Sarah Good are the witches
who’ve been tormenting the girls.”
“Who be Sarah Good?” I ask.
“Sarah Good says unholy words.
She frightens even the Reverend.
She has been accused before.”
Ann smiles.
Wilson barks.
I quiet his mouth with my hand.
“And all did believe them?” I ask.
“All that Betty and Abigail say in fit
Wicked Girls Page 3