Children of Salem

by Robert W. Walker

  It’s time, Jeremy told himself, time I go to see Serena. The real Serena, and to bite back my anger and to keep a civil tongue, and to wish her every happiness. Had no right to harbor the fantasy that she would be here waiting, pining for me all this time. Still an angry, flare up of a thought bedeviled him and erupted in words: “Judging by the age of her daughter, Serena didn’t pine long.”

  “Massa done beat poor Mary ’til her back bleed,” Tituba calmly informed him as if speaking of the weather and without halting in her work. She had picked up a pitchfork taller than she, and she pitched some hay before Dancer who gobbled and crunched on it.

  Jeremy stopped cinching Dancer and took the pitchfork from her and sat it aside. “What did you say?”

  “Massa drew blood. Made her scream veddy bad. Here! Look.” She led him to a stall beside hers. “Look, look there.” She pointed at the blood splotches in the dirt and hay.

  Jeremy could see that they were fresh—from this morning.

  He looked to see splatters of blood in the hay and dirt where Tituba pointed. “Tore her dress.” Tituba said in his ear. “Shame her.”

  “My God.” Jeremiah returned to Dancer and cinched the saddle tight. He wondered how much was exaggeration, how much truth, but the blood was obvious. Tituba shadowed him.

  “And den he beat her b’cause . . . b’cause Massa afraid he wants her—to touch her and lay wid Mary. So he say she, ‘Mary! You got de Devil in you! I gots to beat it outta you for temptin’ me!’”

  “Careful of such accusations, Tituba Indian.”

  “My real name not Indian. Real name he can’t say, so he call me Indian on de papers.”

  “I see. Then what is your real name?”

  “Ti’shuba L’englesian.”

  “French?”

  “French enough; like you.”

  The remark made him wonder who’d passed that bit of family history onto her, but he was too busy at the moment to consider the gossips.

  “How is Mary now?”

  But she slinked away from Jeremy when she saw Parris’ approaching shadow at the door. Knowing she hadn’t time to look properly busy, she began to chant a Barbados song. She twirled in dance as if to entertain Jeremy with anything but gossip and news of Mary’s having been beaten.

  Jeremy turned to see that Parris stood in the doorway to the barn.

  “Off with you, Tituba!” he shouted. “Now, into the house!”

  Tituba stopped cold and rushed past him and out.

  “That servant wench’s become my cross to bear,” said Parris. “I warned you about her; she’s not right in the head. Pay no heed to her.”

  “She says you beat and shamed Mary mercilessly.” Jeremy pointed to the blood.

  “She exaggerates. It’s what Ne’gras with French blood do.”

  “You mean lie.”

  “Lie, cheat, steal. Warned you about her; she’s not right in the head. Breaks into fits!”

  “Are you referring to her song and dance?” Jeremy had seen nothing else from her approximating fits.

  Their eyes locked. The senior man asked his apprentice, “Have you been asking about my history among the villagers, Goodfriend Jeremy?” It sounded as if he knew the answer. Ingersoll and others had conveyed the news.

  Jeremy knew not to lie. “I am as curious of your history here as any stranger might be, Samuel, my good friend and mentor.” Jeremy hoped that his ruse was not completely undone.

  “So your purpose in interrogating the elders is to learn my history with the parish?”

  “I have learned it, sir.”

  “Ingersoll fill you in?”

  “Among others, yes.”

  Jeremiah set his foot in the stirrup and lifted onto Dancer, throwing his leg over the horse. He looked down on Parris from this height and realized just how small the other man truly was. “Each day, Samuel, you seem to have new suspicions and doubts over my being here. Perhaps it is not working out; perhaps I should return to Boston and request another parish.”

  “I’ll happily tell you when it is no good between us, not you, Jeremy. It’s up to me to say when you can return to Boston.”

  Dancer stirred as if she might rear as Parris had hold of her bridle and was yanking hard at it.

  “Sir, I am here at the request—no order—of Increase Mather, and my sole purpose is to get an education toward eventual ordination.”

  “So you’ve said, but now you’re saddling your horse to follow those Nurses out to their compound?”

  “You have been talking to Ingersoll then, haven’t you, Samuel.”

  “I have.”

  “Then you’ll know the reason why.”

  “He suggested something about your affection for the family, and one girl in particular, yes.”

  “I gather you know my purpose then.”

  “Indeed I know everything that goes on in Salem.”

  Jeremy had to control his anger and his quivering jaw. “I got to deal with a private matter that neither concerns you nor the village gossips.”

  Parris’ smile was lecherous. “Aha, so you go as an infatuated man, of course … to confront her with your melancholy.”

  Jeremy responded with a look of a man checkmated, exactly right for the moment.

  Parris relaxed his grip on Dancer. “I am not one to stand in the way of affairs of the heart. I’m not so old and gone as to’ve forgotten.”

  “Then you must know this trip has naught to do with you, or my service to Salem, or to—”

  “I see! A spur of the moment thing, eh?” Parris actually winked.

  “Precisely. My stepmother had a saying.”

  “Oh? A French proverb was it?”

  Dancer whinnied as if signaling impatience, or was it a warning for Jeremy to cut this short.

  “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  Parris laughed lightly. “And the head be damned, eh?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Wise of your French mother, this saying of hers.” Parris still held up horse and rider. “But Jeremy, my friend, one must never heed the heart in all things.”

  Jeremy took the bait. “For instance?”

  “Lust.”

  “Lust, Samuel?”

  He grew thoughtful and patted Dancer about the shoulder and mane. “Lust can destroy a man. Remember that, and perhaps you’ll remain safe from….Well, safe.”

  Jeremy wondered if he meant to say safe from Tituba L’englesian, but he decided not to pursue it, not here and not now. “How is Mary now?”

  “She is abed beside the little one.”

  “And Betty’s fever?”

  “Both are in a bad way.”

  “Both with fever?”

  “Afraid so. Look, Jeremy, I merely caution you to beware of the Nurse clan.”

  “Beware?”

  “You’re young, easily swayed.”

  “You needn’t worry, sir.”

  “Watch your back, Jeremy.”

  “I will…I will.”

  “Standing as close as you are with me, some will treat you badly.”

  “Aye, understood.”

  “Good man!”

  “You needn’t worry on that score.”

  “Sometimes…wish I’d stayed a seaman.”

  Jeremy was torn. Here Parris stood opening up to him, and yet both Dancer and Jeremy’s inmost desire was to be away now. He kicked at the sides of his horse, and the animal reacted, tearing loose from Parris’ hand.

  Parris’ booming voice trailed after Jeremy. “I wish you only the best, Mr. Wakely, and I look for the best from you!”

  Jeremy wondered at the remark; wondered if it’d been intended to have more than one meaning. Parris most assuredly hoped that his apprentice might consider the appearance of things here in the parish, and to keep faith with his mentor. The wind hit his face at full gallop for the Nurse home.

  Jeremy hoped that getting away from Parris and the village would bring some perspective, but most of all, he loo
ked forward to looking on the face of Serena Nurse—married or not, children on her hip or not, out of his reach and untouchable or not. He simply must look on her face again and hear her voice. He wanted her to tell him that she was content and happy.

  Riding hard he saw smoke from fires in the distance ahead. Soon he neared the main house of the Nurse compound and saw the cooking fires of a great feast.

  # # # # #

  Jeremiah arrived on the heels of all the Townes, Nurses, Eastys, and Cloyses gathered round the circle of tables in a clearing in the snow-littered valley and front yard of Francis and Rebecca Nurse’s home. It did make for an odd setting, and some of the family had bundled themselves for the worst, but with a stillness over the area, without a harsh wind, and with the sun beaming down, many had begun to take off their coats and truly enjoy the repast. It appeared enough food to feed a garrison of soldiers, Jeremy thought, as he came on the Nurse family compound.

  The little girl who’d so reminded Jeremy of Serena was first to take notice of him on his speckled white horse. Others soon followed suit as Jeremy searched the faces for her mother—for Serena.

  He found her going between the tables, doling out food from a huge bowl, when she took notice of all those staring at the stranger who’d quietly walked his horse the last fifty yards up to the house.

  When her staring at Jeremiah had gone on so long that her mouth had fallen open, Mother Nurse pinched Serena. “It’s true then,” she muttered to Serena. “Like a lost sparrow, your Jere’s returned to Salem.”

  “He’s not my Jere, Mother, and he’s no sparrow; more like a vulture. Look at him in his minister’s clothes.” She dropped the bowl on the table and rushed for the house, disappearing inside.

  Everyone else sat stunned, some going back to their meals, the children gravitating toward Dancer when Serena suddenly emerged again with a huge blunderbuss pointed at him, the wide barrel of the turkey shooter the size of a bugle. This sent the children scurrying for their parents, and Jeremy saw the curious girl who had in a sense led him here leap into the arms of a big man. Was it Serena’s husband?

  Serena shouted, “Who invited you here, Mr. Wakely? And on this of all days?”

  “I-I came to offset any talk of…” he fought for a rational explanation of his being here in her yard. “That is surprise regarding my having arrived, arriving as I have, you see.” He indicated his minister’s garb.”

  “Take yourself off our land!”

  “Serena, I didn’t want any gossip reaching you—that is before I should have the opportunity to inform you myself.”

  “Such kindness! After ten years, Mister Wakely—or is it Reverend Wakely?”

  “I’d hoped to speak in private.”

  “Well it’s just too late for that.”

  “Too late?”

  “It’s all I’ve heard for the past twenty-four hours, Mr. Wakely. How you’ve materialized.”

  “I am sorry, Serena.”

  “You’ve far more to apologize for than . . . than anyone here has time to hear, sir.”

  Jeremy gritted his teeth and looked again at the man he assumed to be Serena’s husband. He was handing their frightened child to a woman Jeremy recognized as Serena’s older sister, Becca. The child curled up in Becca’s arms.

  Finally, Ben Nurse stood and shouted, “Any reunion was bound to be rocky.”

  “And hello to you, Ben, Goodman Nurse, Mother Nurse.” Jeremy removed his minister’s black hat. “I’d hoped a reunion would go well.”

  Foolish thought, said their combined stares. But Ben stepped forward and shook his hand and added, “Welcome home, prodigal. Beautiful horse!”

  “You may’ve changed, Jeremy Wakely,” said the elder Nurse, Francis, grinning, indicating Jeremy’s outfit. “But Serena hasn’t. Not a whit.”

  “Now if you please,” Serena said, gun still upraised. “I’m asking you to leave.”

  “But I wish to speak to you, privately,” he persisted, half expecting her husband to come at him now.

  “We-we have spoken,” sputtered Serena, “and-and since you’re now Samuel Parris’ boy—”

  “Apprentice, not boy.”

  “—y-you might know that there aren’t many of us fond of the village minister.”

  “I’ve learned that much, yes.”

  “That man is working at being the village puppeteer, and—”

  “Puppeteer?”

  “—a-and now that you’re in his employ, we are not interested in anything you might care to say, Mr. Wakely.”

  “Please, Serena. I just want to talk.”

  “Talk? You dare to talk of talk to me? Where was the talk when ten year ago you disappeared without a word?”

  “I tried to see you, but the storm prevented—”

  “Ahhh, it’s a storm kept you away ten years!”

  “The flooding, remember?”

  “Your timing hasn’t improved.” She shook her head, the big gun wavering with the movement. “I waited….” Her voice choked off.

  “I had to see you, to know you are well and happy.”

  She gritted her teeth and fought to gather her poise. “We are having a family gathering, and you, sir, are not welcomed. This is family only, and you are not . . . family, now are you?”

  Jeremy glanced again at the young Serena look-a-like and hiking his head toward the child, he muttered, “Obviously, you didn’t wait too awfully long.”

  Serena’s features scrunched at this. Confused, she looked at Becca’s daughter, Selene, her niece. It was a family chant how much Selene looked like her Aunt Serena. Serena put it together that Jeremy assumed her married to a Tarbell and that Selene was hers. She finally said, “You have a nerve if you think—oow! If you will, please just go, Jeremiah Wakely, now!” Again the gun came up, its smooth wide bore the size of a tuba.

  He’d never heard such bitterness in her voice—not even when he’d accidentally made her slip from a boulder into the Frost Fish at its coldest when they were children. He climbed on his horse to the protests of some in the clan who shouted for charity. Joseph Nurse called out to Serena, saying, “Put that gun down before it goes off!”

  Becca Nurse was whispering in Serena’s ear, while Ben cried out, “Stop acting the fool, sister, and talk to ’im.” An aunt called out, “Invite the young man to sit and eat, Serena! After all, he’s still your Jere, and we all know it’s true.”

  She turned on her brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, the blunderbuss coming round like a cannon. Everyone gasped, ducked, and pulled children down again. Serena shouted, “All of you! Keep out of my affairs.”

  “Auntie Serena won’t shoot us!” shouted the girl that Jeremy had taken for Serena’s daughter.

  Jeremy, astride Dancer again, was stunned on hearing the Serena look-a-like call her Auntie. He raised both hands overhead in the universal gesture of defeat. “I want no family dissension!”

  “Then leave our home!” shouted Serena.

  Francis, aghast at the treatment of the apprentice, kept moaning, “What’re you doing, child?”

  Rebecca was now whispering in Serena’s ear. “This is not any way to get a man.”

  “No, no arguing on my part,” Jeremy assured everyone. “So if it pleases you, I take my leave and am sorry to’ve interrupted your feast.” He then whispered to Serena, “I had no idea you were celebrating.”

  “How would you know anything about us?” Serena again held the blunderbuss on him.

  “I’ll be at the river, Serena.”

  She looked as vacuous and stunned as her little niece’s doll.

  “The hollowed out tree, where we once played as children.” They’d shared their first and last kiss there as children.

  The flash in her green eyes told him he’d finally said something right, something she could respond to. “You’ll get off our land is what you’ll do!” she shouted after Jeremy who turned his horse and loped off. Anger rising, Serena fired off the old turkey blaster into the afternoo
n sky, providing fireworks for the feast, the blast startling Dancer to rear on hind legs. A handful of dark powder clouds from the gun played now above the feast, the odor snipping at everyone’s nose like the tincture of gossip. Serena knew they’d all be talking about her and Jeremiah Wakely for weeks to come after this. Give the biddies among them something to chew on.

  Serena had watched the gray-speckled white horse’s hooves come down running, and the mare carried Jeremy off at a gallop. Raucous laughter erupted from Serena’s brothers, sisters, and brothers-in-law. The entire extended family joined in the laughter, all but the child who looked and acted so much like Serena. This shy one pouted instead, angry with her aunt for chasing off the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

  “You’re mean, Auntie Serena!” shouted the little one, racing off to hide her face. “Mean and wrong!”

  “From out of the mouths of babes,” quoted Rebecca.

  Francis Nurse carefully plucked the oversize firearm from his daughter’s grasp. “You’re not overreacting now are you?”

  Rebecca placed an arm around Serena, guiding her off for a private word.

  The noise and clatter of dishes continued around the tables as neighbors passed by the gate, some with goods on the way to market, some stopping to stare, and some asking about the gunfire. It was obviously a special day, this Sabbath, for the Nurse family. Still, it made no sense to sensible passers-by why people would be sitting about on a cold day amid the snow at some festival of their own making. Frolicking on a day when they ought to be filling the pews at the meetinghouse.

  “Hey, you there! What’re you celebrating?” shouted a man named Israel Porter sitting atop his ox cart, not slowing on his way to the village.

  No answer came. No one could hear over the clamor of celebration.

  Another man named Fiske, a carpenter by trade, also shouted from the road, the same question only louder.