Dragon's Wish

by Elizabeth Rain

  I was still arranging things on my stand when the first customer walked up, eying the baskets of early strawberries I’d brought. Salem seemed busier than usual to me that afternoon, but it turned out to be good for sales. By 3:00 p.m. I’d sold out of everything but the last of the radishes. I frowned as I loaded them back up. They weren’t my favorite either, but the hogs would eat whatever we didn’t. I patted my pocket, feeling the weight of the handful of shillings I’d made. I’d taken in a small barrel in barter from the Cooper in town as well. I brushed my fingers over the smooth polished wood. Mama would make the sour dill pickles in it we all favored. The coins would do well enough to fill mama’s list. I stored the rest of the baskets in the buckboard and turned towards the mercantile.

  I GAVE CHARLIE THOMPSON a smile when I entered. He looked up from the counter as I came in. I’d always liked Mr. Thompson, the owner of the mercantile. He ran the store alongside his prune-faced wife, Isla, and his daughter, Olivia. “Hello, and how are you doing today, Mr. Thompson?”

  He gave me a worn smile, fine lines bracketing his mouth. Always a quiet man given to deep introspection, today he seemed more preoccupied than usual. “I’m doing well. It’s a pleasure to see you well. What can I get for you?”

  I set the scrap of linen on the scarred wooden counter next to a jar of horehound candy. My mouth watered at the sight of the sweet confection, but I was here for more important things than sugary treats. “We need extra honey. We used all the last you gave us up. Mama’s making mullein and elderflower cough syrup and uses it to cut the bitter taste.”

  Charlie nodded and took the list. Flour, sugar, cornmeal and rice. “Speaking of which. When you see your mama can you get her to send a jar of that into town with you the next time you come. The last batch worked like a charm. I felt better in a matter of days.”

  “Sure Mr. Thompson, I can do that.” Charlie Thompson was among the townsfolk that appreciated the natural medicine’s that my mother created.

  “Will do. While you put that together, I’m going to look at some of that muslin you have in the corner. Probably some thread as well.” I moved towards the bolts of cloth in the corner as Isla Thompson came out from the back stockroom of the store.

  ISLA THOMPSON’S EYES narrowed on the brief flash of stockings as Elspeth whirled and walked away. Scandalous, that’s what. The way young ladies were allowed to dress. Blasphemy is what it was. Girl’s skirt was at least two inches too short. She huffed, snatching the list from her husband who looked at her in surprise. “I’ve got this. There’s stock in back needs unloading. It’s heavy for me.” She allowed, giving her husband a pointed look. With a forced sigh, he left.

  Isla turned and wedged herself onto the too tall stool behind the counter, ample parts of her hanging off each side. Her feet were killing her. She eyed the beautiful young woman across the store with suspicion. Poor mountain trash. Couldn’t be trusted not to rob an honest, hard-working businessman—or woman—blind. Not on my watch she won’t!

  I RAN MY FINGERS OVER the rough bolts of linen, my lips twisting. I could feel Mrs. Thompson’s eyes boring through me from clear across the room. She’d always seemed to have something against me, though I’d never been able to fathom what. I stared in dismay at the wide variety of color choices. The white was blinding. A folded remnant of that went into my basket for a new apron. There were bolts of gray and black as well. What I wouldn’t have given for a dash of blue or green. But the plainer the better to the Puritans. I chose a charcoal gray. It would hide the dirt well and there was enough for several pairs of breeches and a skirt each, maybe for myself and Mama. I turned back towards the counter to pick up thread and pay for my purchases.

  My eyes narrowed on Isla Thompson, her hefty self straining against the pull of gravity towards the floor beneath the flat-backed stool she sat on. Her daughter Olivia had come from the back and stood at her side. I hadn’t met Olivia but once or twice. She seemed to have taken more after her father, unlike her mother who was bitter as they came.

  I lay my purchases on the counter and waited for Mrs. Thompson to ring them up. I watched as she counted it all in her head, taking a running tally myself at the same time.

  “Is that all Miss Walsh?” She stared down the thin blade of her nose over the top of her glasses. I swallowed, nervous under her hawk like stare. My eyes met Olivia’s.

  “Yes, please,” I answered, politely.

  “That will be seventy-eight cents.” She stated, eyes daring me to argue.

  I sighed. “Are you sure? I had a slightly different number.”

  Isla Thompson pulled herself up to her full five feet and still made me feel small at a shade over five foot four. “Are you calling me a liar, Miss Walsh?”

  “Not at all. Anyone can make a mistake. Perhaps it was me. Could you recount it, please?” she persisted with a determined smile.

  Isla’s face heated to a dull red and her eyes went hard. She began adding again, this time out loud. She got to the end and hesitated, her eyes feigning shock. “Oh dear, it seems I made a slight error. As you say, it could happen to anyone. Sixty-Eight cents please.”

  I carefully counted the coins out on the counter. It was a weekly ritual we went through. I wondered how customers simply took her word for what they owed and overpaid the Thompson coffers. Or maybe it was only me she tried to cheat.

  While Isla wrapped my purchases, I turned to Olivia, who was struggling to contain her amusement. She appeared unsurprised at her mother’s penchant for trying to rip off the customers. Her eyes fell to the delicate tatting that ran along the sides and bottom of my apron, the thread the lightest of gray and contrasting with the starkness of the white apron and giving it appeal.

  Olivia nodded at my apron. “That’s lovely. Did you do it yourself?” she asked.

  I returned her smile. “I did. Mama’s stitches, she’s been teaching me. Her mother taught her in Wales before she hopped a ship with my Da and set off for the New World and adventure.”

  “Well, they do the trick. I don’t suppose you might teach me a few of them sometime? I’m so tired of plain gray and black. That’s small enough I don’t think any of the other matrons could complain about the excess of frills.”

  Isla sniffed beside me. “We are humble and Godly. We have no need for fancy frills and lace. It’s a waste.” She decided, her voice self-important.

  I shared a telling look of commiseration with Olivia. It appeared neither of us was fond of what we called the garment police. The committee of ladies about town that seemed to make it their life goal to determine what was proper and Godly in all things, including the clothes we wore.

  Isla thrust my packages at me and I grabbed them, lest they end up on the floor. “Next time you grace us with your presence, can you see that you are properly attired. That skirt is so high your stockings show when you walk. Any man walking by gets a show when he looks.” She finished, her voice haughty with disdain. It was Isla Thompson that headed the committee in question. She left them both to check on her husband in the back.

  The moment she disappeared from sight, Olivia slapped a hand over her mouth and we both dissolved in giggles. She rolled her eyes. “Ignore her. She drives papa nuts over that committee of hers. He says she has nothing better to do than to make us miserable. I’m still trying to figure out whether he was joking.”

  A sudden flurry of movement at the windows caught our attention. We moved closer, pausing next to the casements, sprung wide to catch the breeze. Frowning, we moved to the doorway. People on both sides of the street moved toward Gallows hill. So named because that was where those who received a capital sentence were hung. We moved through the door and onto the boarded sidewalk, following the gathering crowd. There was an excitement in the air that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. We didn’t have to go far. They’d positioned the mercantile just right for a decent view of the hill from where we stood.

  “What’s going on?” I murmured, glancing at Olivia�
��s grim face.”

  “It’s June 10. I forgot. They are hanging the witch, Bridget Bishop.” As we watched, the magistrate and several officials stood to the side. A middle-aged woman attired in a simple black shift stumbled and then righted herself as if the journey were a hardship. I supposed walking to one’s own death qualified. I assumed she was none other than Ms. Bishop as they led her up the steps especially erected for that purpose. We couldn’t see her expression well from the distance, but they had to half drag her up the steps. At the top of the rickety platform they said something to her. I imagined that they’d asked her if she wanted to repent and make peace with the Lord. Her head lifted and she spoke in a voice that should have been difficult to hear for, instead the words seemed to resonate and grow, drifting over the heads of the crowd that had gathered to watch.

  “... innocent. I am a God fearing woman, and no servant of the devil.” A black hood appeared in the hands of one man that had drug her along and was placed over her head. A moan emitted from beneath the black cloak and both men stepped smartly back, alarmed. Time seemed to slow down for me as I gasped in horror, wanting to look away, but frozen in place. A quick motion and the lever pulled and she was falling.

  I did jerk my head sideways then. I didn’t want to see when Bridget’s neck stretched the rope taut. But the creak of the weight on the poorly constructed timber told the truth. My eyes met Olivia’s. She hadn’t looked away. Her eyes were filled with the same shock and horror I experienced, and something else I was loath to put a name to.

  “They say that during the trial they asked her if she committed the crimes for which she was accused. She told them, ‘I am as innocent as the child unborn’.” Olivia stared at the swinging figure with disdain. “At least the jury was smart enough to know she had to be lying. Witches do that, they’re in league with the devil you know. They do scandalous things with him beneath the moonlight.” Olivia continued, a frisson of excitement tingeing her words as she warmed to her subject.

  I tried to conceal my distaste. “You’ve known many of them then? Witches?” I added.

  Olivia started and looked at her askance. “Of course not! I don’t associate with blasphemy.” I blinked. She’d missed the point entirely.

  My eyes shifted to focus on my Da and brother’s over Olivia’s shoulder as they approached along the boardwalk. My father’s eyes were hard, matching the grim line of his mouth. They reached me and nodded to Olivia, who smiled politely and turned to go. Duncan took the supplies from me and stored them in the back of the buckboard.

  I caught Olivia’s eyes as she turned away. “I’ll see you later. I would be happy to show you those stitches if you’d like,” I added.

  Olivia paused and looked back at me. “I’d like that. I get little opportunity to talk with anyone my age.”

  I CLIMBED INTO THE wagon, riding in front with father on the way back, my mind trying to concentrate on anything but what I’d witnessed.

  As we left the outskirts of Salem and turned along the road that led to our homestead, father spoke up, speaking to Aidan who was uncharacteristically silent and brooding.

  “And that, son, is why we must be careful.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I GLANCED OUT THE WINDOW. The cloudless July morning had the heat of the day already creeping into the room to surround me with its stickiness. I swept my hair back and up, trying to catch the stray wisps of blond that frizzed in any kind of warm weather. I stood back from the mirror and adjusted my apron, the one with the clever tatting along the edges that Olivia admired and wanted to know how to create. I had plans to meet the older girl after market today. Maybe I’d be able to go that long without wilting as badly as a bouquet of fresh daisies left cut in the sun. I grabbed my satchel and headed for the front door. Both Finn and Aidan had yelled for me twice already. They were ready and impatient, baking in the sun and waiting for me. Not that I felt bad about it. Usually I was the one wondering where they were at.

  I came out to sweaty glares. Served them right. I smirked and hopped into the back of the wagon. At least they’d loaded things for me while they waited. The wagon gave a lurch as it took off and little butterflies wiggled in my tummy. I looked forward to spending time with someone besides my family. Our remote location and my natural tendency towards shyness had prevented me from making much in the way of friends my age. I patted the extra thread and needles in my satchel, reassured I had everything I might need to show the pattern and stitches to Olivia.

  Adornment and frills were frowned on. The puritans had escaped the fancy debauchery of the English elite for a simpler life? But just because her mother wanted plain, didn’t mean Olivia didn’t want more. Every bit was welcome.

  An odd tension hung in the air as we entered town. Nervous whispers and quiet words spoken in hushed voices made me equally nervous. I spent the morning at market taking money, packaging produce for travel, and trying to not hear all the excited comments about hangings and trials and witchcraft from the matrons that visited my stand and haggled over prices with me even as they gossiped with their companions. A few tried to pull me into their conversation, gossiping in regards to the guilt and evidence presented against the doomed. I wondered how hearsay and speculation could be construed as any kind of believable knowledge, but maybe mass hysteria and panic were all the proof they needed.

  I packed up what was left into the buckboard by 1:00 and used a dampened cloth to wipe the sweat and accumulated dust free from my face and neck. I tidied my hair and looked at my now filthy apron in disgust. Several spots of dirt and grime showed and nothing was going to get them out. Evidence of the time I’d spent ironing the heavy muslin of my skirt and apron were gone. I supposed Olivia was just going to have to take me as I was.

  Hurrying down the wooded boardwalk, I dipped my head shyly at the gentlemen as they passed and blushed furiously when a couple of them grinned at my discomfort. It relieved me to reach the mercantile. I fingered the list and coins in my pocket. I’d give the list to Charlie Thompson so he could fill it for me and so it would be ready when I was ready to leave.

  Olivia was behind the counter when I entered, grinning from ear to ear. Her dress still looked as fresh as if she’d just put it on, I noted with self-recrimination. Charlie nodded in my direction, smiling when I handed over the list.

  “Wonderful afternoon, Mr. Thompson. Real scorcher out there today, I have to tell you. I should be grateful the market has shade after a fashion.”

  “I think that’s half the reason nobody ever misses it. The Produce stays a lot fresher that way, though. Did you have much left? I’m thinking of setting up a small cart with the day old stuff at a discount. The items that will fare in the heat for a few days? If you have some items left I might look at them and offer you say, half fair market? Since you are taking them back home, anyway.”

  I knew that was an impressive deal for Mr. Thompson as he would sell the items for more than I got for them at market. Still, he was correct, they’d only be going home and into the stew pot for the next several days anyhow until they were gone.

  “Sounds good. The buckboards out front. If you want to take any of what’s left, then maybe we can settle up when I’m ready to leave. I need what’s on that list as well, so maybe we can discount it by the cost for what you end up taking?”

  Charlie Thompson smiled, satisfied he’d driven a bargain and maybe the wife would favor him with more than her razor sharp tongue later in the evening. “Thanks, I’ll get this put together for you. We are having an early supper around 4:00 this afternoon. Would you be interested in eating with us? We don’t have many opportunities for company.”

  I started and looked down at my worn clothing and grime covered boots. My eyes flashed to Olivia, who nodded eagerly. “I don’t know. I’m dusty from market, I’m afraid...”

  “Nonsense. There’s nothing that can be done for that. Say yes, we’d love the company.”

  A tentative smile stretched my face. “I think that sounds deli
ghtful. If Mrs. Thompson would like to use any of the perishable vegetables left over for lunch, have her help herself on me. Consider it my contribution to a delightful meal.”

  “Thank you, I will let her know,” he agreed, looking up as another customer entered.

  “Would you like to see my room?” Olivia asked, coming out from behind the counter?

  The Thompson’s owned the mercantile. It was a two story building. The front lower half formed the storefront and storage rooms. The back and entire second floor were their living quarters. Olivia led me through the back room. The back half formed a sitting room, kitchen and led to a small back porch that was shaded by a rather large Maple and provided a welcome respite from the sun’s heat that had been beating down all morning long. Olivia led me up the steep narrow stairs to the two bedrooms.

  Olivia’s room was not big but compared to my own cramped space in our loft, it seemed huge. A four-poster bed sat in the center with a quilted down comforter and more than one pillow. I’d never seen a canopied bed before and I stared in wonder at the gauzy material that swept down from the ceiling over the bed. It would keep all the mosquitoes out, I thought with envy. There was also a large vanity covered in small pots and boxes. It was a lovely room, but despite the opulence, I struggled to breathe in the oppressive heat that pressed down on us from all sides.

  “This is beautiful Olivia, but maybe we could sit on the porch while we work on your stitches. It’s nice and cool there.”

  Olivia grinned, wiping at her sweaty forehead. “No kidding, I’ll be glad when this heat breaks for sure. Just let me grab my sampler basket and we’ll get some cool tea from the cellar.”

  Two hours later, beneath the shaded porch, Olivia sat back with a smile, showing off her latest work. The stitches were small and uniform and almost as good as what I, myself, had created. “Those are perfect. You picked it up real quick.”