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.”
SILENT TREATMENT AT OUR TAVERN TABLE
Mercy Lewis, 17
“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.
THE GRAND CONJURER
Mercy Lewis, 17
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.
WHAT I DO FOR MERCY
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
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.
FEELING QUITE RED
Margaret Walcott, 17
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.
REQUEST
Margaret Walcott, 17
“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.
HE IS NOT THE MAN
Mercy Lewis, 17
The tailor of cloths and hides
gazes at me.
I do not know this man
to point a finger at.
Only Ann does that.
“He is upon the beam,”
Ann says, and all look
up to the rafters,
but I see neither person
nor specter there.
Judge Corwin points at the tailor.
“Be this man a witch?”
he asks us Afflicted.
Elizabeth says, “Yes, sir.
He is the one who hurts me.”
But her voice quivers
as she speaks, like a branch
rattled in the wind.
Allowed back in court for the first time,
Abigail looks to Ann,
but Ann stares toward the window.
In a voice unsteady
as a one-legged man Abigail says,
“He is the man. He is very like the man.”
Margaret says, “Yes, he is very like the man.”
The tailor’s eyes plead with me.
I shift on the court bench.
“He is not the man,” I say.
Gasps and chatter fly
about the court like roused hornets.
Judge Corwin calls, “Silence.”
Ann’s eyes enlarge
and she demands of Nehemiah Abbott,
the tailor, “Be you the man?”
Ann spits and sputters,
writhes and kicks herself
onto the floor.
She cries, “Did you put a mist on my eyes?”
We are dragged outside
and asked again
to look upon the countenance
of Goodman Abbott.
All the girls nod with me this time.
Though Goodman Abbott
be like the specter,
he is not the same man.
They release Nehemiah Abbott
from his chains.
Little Ann folds her arms,
grinds her toe
into the dusty path.
I stroke her head
and she straightens up.
Her eyes hold back water.
“Did I do wrong?” she asks me.
“Of course not,” I say.
“In fact, you did exactly right.”
I lift my head
to be for once
not only a part
of the beloved choir
but its lead soloist,
the whole town listening.
LIVING AT THE PUTNAMS’
Margaret Walcott, 17
I fold my skirts into Ann’s bureau,
my entire wardrobe crammed
into one drawer.
This room smells like a waste bowl.
I light a taper.
I open the bureau
and Mercy’s green shawl lies
inside right where my blue
one ought to go. I toss hers to the floor.
“How dare she go against you
like that? Ye are our leader.”
I feel the anger break
through my veins like waves.
“But Mercy was right,” Ann says.
I roll my eyes. I turn round
to shake out my blanket,
and Mercy looms in the doorway.
“How long you been loitering there?”
I ask her.
“Long enough.” She strokes Ann’s arm.
“Ann, would you bring us tea?
I set the water to boiling.”
Ann’s off like a ship in high gales.
“Now heed me,” Mercy says.
As she speaks I spot a flaw of hers—
her teeth are too big for her mouth.
I pull back my arm and crack
my blanket at her face like a whip.
The shock stuns her.
I laugh at her popped eyes
and her hair stuck up
like some frightened cat’s.
I strike her again.
She catches the blanket
and drags me toward her.
I dig in and yank backward,
then release my hold,
and she crashes into the wall.
But I let her go with such strength
I tumble myself down too
and bruise my tailbone
direct on the floor.
Mercy smiles and laughs
like we be sharing a joke,
but I do spit ’pon the ground
rather than smile at her.
“Listen, Margaret,” she says.
“I’ll not listen to thee.
Go and fetch, servant girl.”
Mercy slows her voice.
“You best apologize.
You should not treat me as such,
Margaret Walcott. I be offering
you a hand in friendship.”
Now I could nearly laugh.
“You are not my friend.”
“No,” Mercy says,
and she dusts her skirts.
“I suppose I am not.”
MARGARET IN THE HOUSE
Mercy Lewis, 17
I pull open another drawer
and not a bloomer to be found.
“Wilson, do the witches
now steal my wash and stockings?”
My sweet dog taps his tail
upon the boards; his tongue
quivers in the affirmative.
Margaret’s laughter stokes
the hallways and shatters the ears,
sounding like a spoon scraping an empty pot.
Her cackles are followed by
a deep moan, and Missus Putnam hollers,
“Mercy, fetch a pail and cloth!
Our guest has fallen to fit!”
I wiggle back into my dirty dress
and haul a bucket toward Ann’s room,
but halfway there my knees bend under
and I slip to the floor.
I slither as a beast upon the ground
until Mister Putnam carries me
back to my bed.
“The girl is not well.
She cannot attend to others,”
I hear Mister say
after I have been
tucked into my covers
and relieved of my day.
Wilson snuggles aside me.
I stretch my arms above my head,
rise and tiptoe to my window
to watch the morning bowl of sun
soak the fields with God’s first light.
“Mercy?”
Ann knocks upon, then opens,
my door.
She holds her brush in hand.
“I cannot be in that room
with Margaret one moment more.”
Ann hoists up on my bed
and motions for me to sit up
so she can brush out my hair
while standing on the bed above me.
Ann grumps, “Margaret lights tapers
so my room smells
of wax and burn. I hate it!
Why did she have to come?”
I shrug. “I think she was made to.”
Ann throws down her brush.
“I might have to sleep in here with you.”
“That would not please your mother.”
“My mother will have to learn
to do as I wish, or perhaps
I shall call her a witch?”
Ann’s voice is more question
than statement.
“No, Ann, you must never do that,”
I say, and fold her into a seated position.
I give her back the brush
and begin her hand stroking my hair.
But perhaps, you call Margaret…
I shake the idea away.
ADVICE
Margaret Walcott, 17
Aunt Ann squeezes my hand.
“A goodwife does always
as her husband does bid her.
To honor him be never a sin.”
But what of the betrothed? I want to ask.
Instead I stammer, “What of Mercy?”
“Mercy shall never be a goodwife,
because she is too low
to marry into a proper name.
Her slim beauty will be scoured away
unlike your fair silken own.”
Aunt lowers her voice to whispering
and purses her lips like she suffers
from a bitter yam.
“If she be seen at all, ’twill be
as one of tawdry repute.”
The tears crash down my cheeks.
How then could Isaac…?
Aunt stares on me till I say,
“I miss Isaac.”
“I shall have Thomas ask
Isaac and his father to supper.
What else, child?”
“Ann sees so many witches,”
I blurt faster than I did wish.
“I be meaning, I feel as I cannot say
all the specters I see.
I know not the names.”
Aunt Ann smiles larger than her land.
“I can help thee. Just speak with me,
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