Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Hannah squinted. “I don’t recall that.” Her brow knit. “No,” she said slowly, “I don’t recall that at all.”

  “I do, Mama,” Charity said quickly. She still looked terrible. “Every time we received Aunt Prudence’s letters, Papa said he wished you could meet her.” This was true.

  “And visit the family home,” Bristol added. This was not true. She looked away, hating to take advantage of Hannah’s confused mental state, but convinced the trip was Hannah’s only chance for survival. “I’m surprised you don’t recall...” Her words hung in the air, a gentle reproach.

  Hannah’s faded eyes sharpened. “Well, now that you bring it to mind, perhaps I do remember.” Her pride rose to ease the deception of her daughters.

  “Aye.” Bristol immediately strengthened the suggestion in her mother’s mind, remembering aloud conversations that never occurred.

  Hannah frowned, her efforts to remember painful to watch. “Aye, I suppose so, I don’t recall exactly, but if you say so, I guess...” It didn’t enter Hannah’s mind that either of the girls lied. Lying cast the soul into eternal fire. In Hannah’s mind, no one lied. It was inconceivable.

  “Perhaps in the spring...” she murmured reluctantly. Bristol and Charity exchanged glances. Then Bristol patted her mother’s work-red hands and withdrew to the kitchen, glad she didn’t have to be present for the next part. What they were doing to Hannah left Bristol feeling sullied and dirty.

  Part two of the plan was up to Charity. Charity was to strongly hint that Hannah was a burden on the household. Neither girl had the slightest doubt this terrible suggestion would impel Hannah to depart immediately. The methods they were using would be difficult to live with.

  But the plan worked. Hannah lifted a quivering chin and agreed to sail within the week. A long, heartbreaking week for all.

  Thinking she was unwelcome in Bristol’s house aged Hannah overnight. It was an old woman they put aboard the Dutch trader Bredene. A frightened old woman who never had sailed before and who was thrown off balance by Bristol’s news that the Prudence Adams Hannah had always thought of as a spinster of modest means was in reality married and wealthy. A deceptive stranger. Hannah boarded the Bredene wearing a crisscross of fear and confusion on her weathered face.

  She didn’t understand any of this. Not Prudence Adams, who was suddenly Prudence Hathaway (Bristol refused to answer questions, just smiled and said, “You’ll see”), not the rush, not the strain in the Wainwright household. Despite Charity’s hints that Hannah burdened the house, Bristol had been heartbroken to release Hannah instead of relieved to be rid of a burden.

  Hannah suspected there was more to her trip than met the eye. But she felt too old, too exhausted, to sort it all out. She’d go to England. What else could she do? Besides, her Noah had wished it; both Charity and Bristol said so.

  Bristol and Charity waved from the docks, not looking at each other, ignoring the sparkle of tears on their lashes. “I feel terrible!” Bristol whispered when the Bredene swung toward the harbor mouth and dropped sail. One glance at Charity’s face stopped the words on her lips. She placed an arm around her sister’s heaving shoulders.

  “I’ll never see Mama again!” Charity sobbed.

  “Nonsense.” Bristol smoothed Charity’s orange curls. “Mama will come home. And the visit will be good for her. Aunt Pru is the best thing we could hope for Mama.” In her heart, Bristol believed this utterly.

  She helped Charity onto the wagon seat and turned the horses toward Salem Village. Charity wept hysterically, giving vent to the pent-up emotions of a difficult week. Each time a knock sounded, or a horse passed in the lane, Charity had started violently, and her face turned to white stone. She expected an enraged population to mob the house and drag her out. Salem smoldered with fear and frustration, and no one held any illusions that all that was required was one spark to ignite an eruption of violence. Charity and Bristol both walked in fear, knowing a handful of foolish girls might well provide that spark.

  Glancing at Charity’s tear-streaked face, Bristol sighed. She was deeply worried. Twice Charity had ridden in to the reverend’s house for a hurried secret conference with the other girls involved. Each time Charity had returned home on the verge of nervous collapse. All the girls hung at the fringes of hysteria, terrified and cowering under hideous speculations of what would happen when the reverend denounced them. That he would, none of them doubted. Soon his conscience would compel him to root out the evil in Salem... and in his own house. It seemed a miracle that he’d delayed this long. Frowning, Bristol wondered if Samuel Parris had actually seen what the girls did. But of course he had—they were all so certain. Hadn’t he?

  “Abigail will think of something,” Charity promised Bristol. Her teeth chattered in fright and desperation. She wrapped icy hands about her ribs and shivered. “Abigail will think of something!” Charity clung to this thought with savage hope. Abigail was strong; Abigail was clever. Abigail would think of something.

  Abigail did.

  28

  By February 1, everyone in Salem knew of a strange affliction bringing down the village girls. It began in Reverend Parris’s house. Little Betty Parris took to her bed and cowered there nearly comatose with fear. Villagers flocked to see, and reported the child shivered and cried out constantly: “No! Oh, no! See the coffin!... Oh, no!... He saw us! He saw us! The punishment... oh, it hurts, it hurts!” Everyone tried without success to penetrate the girl’s ravings, tried to coax an explanation for the odd phrases. But no one reached that small frightened mind, not even her parents. In fact, it was noted the reverend especially seemed to drive the girl deeper into her terror instead of bringing her relief.

  Immediately after seeing Betty’s torment and the attention it brought her, Abigail Williams developed the same symptoms. She too writhed on her quilts and ranted about coffins and someone seeing and someone practicing painful punishment on her flesh. If anyone noticed the slight alteration in phrasing, no one attached any importance to it. That “he” became “someone” wasn’t nearly as noteworthy as Abigail’s behavior. Everyone agreed Abigail’s symptoms were more serious and far more interesting than Betty’s.

  As a curious audience swelled in number, Abigail’s erratic actions increased in intensity and frequency. Often she jumped from her bed, red and white weals covering her face, arms, and neck, and she jerked about the parlor like a puppet on a string, knocking over furniture, smashing into walls, and attempting to throw herself into the fireplace.

  Fortunately, someone was always near the hearth to prevent a tragic injury to the poor demented girl. That she was demented, no one could question. People in their right minds did not dance or lift their skirts to an indecent height. And once Abigail rubbed lewdly against two of the men. Demented behavior for certain. Occasionally she flew about the room like a dervish, and some observers swore her feet didn’t touch the floor. She made gargoyle faces at the audience and spoke streams of nonsense words, and sometimes doubled over in pain, screaming, “Someone is hitting me! Someone is tormenting me!”

  Speculation ran high as to the cause of the girls’ strange illness. Some believed both had mysteriously gone insane; others maintained it must be a new disease; still others hinted at darker suspicions.

  Martha Cory carefully observed the phenomenon and pronounced it a fake. “The girl makes a fool of herself to get attention,” Martha announced flatly. “This is just a new sport for her.” Martha Cory washed her hands of the spectacle and went home, unaware that Abigail overheard the unflattering remarks.

  But fakery and insanity were quickly ruled out as the affliction spread. Ann Putnam Junior next fell prey to the strange disorder. She twisted across her bed in a feverish sweat of obvious terror. Her blue eyes rolled back in her head, and she tightened into a fetal curl. Occasionally she jerked into other strange positions, her limbs drawing into rigid, awkward configurations. While neighbors gaped, Thomas Putnam tried to straighten his daughter’s arms and
legs, but had to quit for fear he’d break bones as stiff and unyielding as iron. Ann Senior tended the girl, beside herself at this new calamity to strike the Putnam household. “Who does this to you?” Ann Senior begged. “Tell us the names of those who torment you!” But Ann Junior only wept and groaned, and flaring hives erupted on her rigid limbs. Ann Senior frantically scanned the arriving crowds, searching faces for any trace of guilt or satisfaction. Whoever worked this evil on her poor little Ann would surely show something in their expressions. Of course she found what she sought.

  Next, the Putnams’ maid, Mercy Lewes, began similar ravings, and after her, Elizabeth Hubbard, the niece of Goodwife Griggs.

  When Mary Warren fell into a fit in the midst of John Proctor’s tavern, the villagers’ attitudes changed abruptly from curiosity to cold fear. What was happening? Where would it end? They stared at their own children and hugged them close, feeling a chill tighten around their hearts. Abigail, Betty, Ann Junior, Mercy, Elizabeth, and now Mary Warren. Mary had taken one look at Reverend Parris stepping through the pub door and begun frothing at the mouth and throwing herself about the tavern much as Abigail was doing in the parsonage. Mary, too, like all the rest, shouted of coffins and men trapped in water glasses and a painful punishment. Observers stared. Similarities impossible to ignore were emerging from the girls’ howling mouths. The same affliction attacked them all. John and Elizabeth Proctor carried Mary in to bed, and Elizabeth Proctor took on Mary’s chores. “I don’t mind,” she said tartly. “I’ve been doing that lazy jade’s chores all along.” But Elizabeth didn’t look pleased, nor did John as his customers silently slipped away.

  Finally, Charity Adams collapsed, falling into bed with chills and fever and glassy-eyed terror. Sometimes she shouted and raved, other times she lay like a corpse, staring white-faced at a point near the ceiling. That she experienced pain, no observer doubted. Painful rashes spread across her face and body, her limbs froze in rigid, contorted postures or melted limp and rubbery. Mysterious marks flared upon her flesh, and Charity doubled over in cramping groans. Not even Bristol could penetrate Charity’s disconnected ravings. When Bristol tried, she felt as if she talked to a wall.

  “I’m at my wits’ end,” Bristol admitted to Caleb, pushing a spill of hair under her dust cap. “I can’t reach her!”

  Caleb stamped snow from his boots and sat at the table. Accepting a mug of steaming beer, he took a swallow and stared into the fireplace. “I’m worried,” he said quietly. “Do you know what they’re saying in the village?”

  “Aye. Rebecca Nurse stopped in to ask if there was anything she could do to help. She told me... Rebecca said they’re talking about witchcraft.” Bristol’s eyes strayed to the cloves of garlic hung in her windows. She shuddered. “Do you think...?”

  Caleb glanced at her briefly; they seldom exchanged a direct look. “I don’t know what to think,” he said, his square face sober and troubled. “I laughed when your mother hung the garlic in the windows and nailed the horseshoes over the doors. But now...” He drained his mug and set it on the table. “Now, I just don’t know.”

  In the following silence, they heard Charity sobbing in her bedroom. “It hurts! Oh, it hurts!” Caleb ran a shaking hand through a shock of thick sandy hair.

  Shyly Bristol touched his wrist. It was the first physical contact they’d had in weeks. Distracted, Caleb smiled absently and withdrew his fingers, pouring a fresh beer. “Did William Griggs come here today?”

  “Aye.” Embarrassed. Bristol busily stirred a stew bubbling over the fire. She didn’t mind their lack of touching, welcomed it in fact, but to offer sympathy and be rebuffed brought a flush of color to her cheeks. Even though she knew he wasn’t aware of what he’d done. Part of Bristol’s mind was glad of the problems in the village, even those with Charity. It took her mind from the dismal marriage she’d made, from taunting thoughts Of Jean Pierre’s freedom and her own lack of it. Bristol kept her mind firmly on the problems at hand; if she dwelt on Jean Pierre, Bristol thought her despair would drive her mad.

  “Well? What did Griggs say?”

  “What? Oh.” Bristol shrugged wearily. “What is there to say? Goodman Griggs is as baffled as anyone.”

  Perhaps William Griggs was more puzzled than most. He called on all the girls daily, trying everything modern medicine had to offer. Nothing helped. Not tonics, not plasters, not prayer. In fact, when Reverend Parris prayed over the afflicted girls, everyone present had to cover his ears at the resultant howling. All agreed the reverend’s presence made an impossible situation worse. The reverend—who had forgotten the girls sitting over glasses in his kitchen, if he’d ever noticed them at all—grew more frantic by the hour. Only one thing shrank from the holy word of God. Evil. Satan. And those afflicted by Satan’s touch.

  And it had all begun in the reverend’s own house. For Samuel Parris, life assumed a ghastly hue. Answers hovered in his mind, answers he didn’t dare examine too closely. There had to be other explanations. There had to be!

  The town council called a special meeting, demanding a full report on the situation from William Griggs. Reluctantly William Griggs admitted he knew of nothing in the field of medicine to account for the girls’ affliction.

  “Exactly what does that mean?” an angry voice shouted. William Griggs exchanged a worried glance with Reverend Parris. He shifted uneasily. “It means... I think this is a problem for the clergy, not the medical profession.” His eyes slid from Samuel Parris as he passed the ball into the reverend’s court. The men stared and waited. William Griggs shrugged and looked over a room filled with tense, anxious faces. “In my opinion, what we have here is multiple malefic witchcraft ... the evil hand.”

  The crowd sucked in their breath, and for a moment no one spoke. An expert had finally uttered aloud the thoughts of many. The meeting room exploded. It required a full twenty minutes before Reverend Parris was able to establish a loose order. “Wait!” he cried. “Wait! Before we lose our heads, let me assure you, the clergy has not been idle! We are already taking steps!”

  An angry voice rose above the others. “More prayer? No more words, Parris! I don’t give a piss for more words!”

  “This all started in your house! That’s what prayer gets you!” another accused. “We want action!”

  The anti-Parris faction roared to their feet, and only John Walcot’s militia prevented Samuel Parris from being rushed. Tonight the fears and frustrations of the village centered on Samuel Parris, regardless of political leanings. The trouble had started in his house; he must somehow be responsible.

  Shaken, Samuel Parris continued, surrounded by a ring of Commander Walcot’s men, “I’ve met with the ministers of Salem Town, Andover, and Beverly. These are learned men, leaders of the community,” he pleaded. “They know what we’re facing, and they all counsel patience. Before we leap to conclusions, let us wait and see how the afflictions develop!”

  “We’ve seen enough already! Why should we listen to ye?”

  A note of desperation crept into the reverend’s tone and expression. “We’ll pray and fast and—”

  “If yer prayers don’t protect yer own house from Satan, how will them prayers protect us?” The man waved his fist. “Step aside, ye insignificant fart, and let us handle this our own way! We know what the cause is, we don’t need no waiting!”

  “Aye!” the crowd roared.

  “We’ll find the witches!”

  “Aye!” came an affirming shout.

  “And we don’t need some pompous crap bag telling us what to do! Not when his own household offers fertile ground for Satan’s stroke!”

  “Aye!” the crowd screamed.

  “Please,” Reverend Parris shouted, watching his career disappear in smoke. “Let us use reason! Show caution in this matter! William Griggs admits he doesn’t know for certain! He only offered an opinion. An opinion, not a fact! We must tread carefully!” His words of restraint came too late; his sermons had not prepared the ground for pa
tience.

  The last of the reverend’s words drowned in hoots and catcalls. Only when Thomas Putnam stood, did the room quiet. His daughter was one of the afflicted, as was his maid; he had a right to be heard. Thomas Putnam had slept little in the last days; his eyes were shadowed, his ruddy face tired and worried. “As you all know, I keep a godly house.” Murmurs of assent greeted his opening words. “And you also know, my house has suffered more than most.”

  “Aye,” the crowd agreed. With both a daughter and a serving wench down, and a nervous wife, Thomas Putnam did indeed have his hands full.

  Slowly Thomas glanced over the room, meeting the eyes of friends, neighbors, enemies, and political opponents—all united for once in a terrible cause. He nodded to Caleb Wainwright, Giles Cory, John Proctor, Francis Nurse, Abel Gardner, Nathaniel Ingersoll, and many others. “Right or wrong, I’ve been a Parris supporter—though I am no longer.” Deep silence met his words; no voice interrupted. “Whether or not you believe Samuel Parris qualifies to be our leader, in this instance his advice is sound. Witchcraft is a serious allegation. With serious consequences. If Satan stalks the village, godly folk will find and vanquish him—”

  “Aye!” a hundred voices shouted.

  “—but if we make a mistake... Thomas looked about the room, and eyes dropped under his sober, steady gaze. “Then we ourselves become the tool of Satan. We must act rationally. Think on that, neighbors.”

  They did. And a few heated brains cooled.

  “We must act with restraint and caution. Listen to our chosen leaders. Let them discuss and watch and decide what happens here. John Hale of Beverly and John Higginson and Nicholas Noyes of Salem Town are good men. No one here will dispute that.” No one did. Only Reverend Parris looked grieved at the respect and admiration in Putnam’s voice. “Let those men have their say.”

  Someone spit. “Put two ministers together and they’ll not agree on the time of day!”