Constable Putnam
is almost too large
for his chair at the table.
Big as a bear
but mild as an old hound,
they call him Giant,
for he has to bend his head
to cross through the doorway.
“Mercy, sit ye near the stove
by the children.”
The Giant’s wife
tucks me onto the bench
so I sit many persons away
from her husband.
“The new governor established
a Court of Oyer and Terminer,
likes of which you’ll be testifying in.”
Constable’s overgrown teeth stick
with food as he chews.
“Pardon, sir,” I say.
“But where will the court
be held—in the meetinghouse
or Ingersoll’s ordinary?
“Not a one,” he says.
“It be held in Salem Town
in the courtroom of the Townhouse.
A jury will hear the trial
and decide if the witches hang.”
Hanging. I cannot carry the spoon
to my mouth. Everything
in my bowl suddenly reeks
of fish scales and rotted meat.
I look at Missus.
“I am not well. Might I
please go and lie down?”
First time she smiles at me,
her words fast and excitable,
“See you a specter?”
“No, my stomach has unrest.”
Her face sags downward.
She purses her lips.
“Fine, then, off you to bed.”
The room where I board is darker
than my old servant’s quarters;
and without Wilson’s two eyes as tapers
this chamber’s black devours me.
Out the window an owl,
the king of the night,
blinks his gray-green eyes.
He cries plaintive hoots,
then spreads his wings
and twists his sorrowful neck,
as though he might dive
from his perch
and bury himself
once and for all
in the underbrush.
WITHOUT MERCY
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Margaret slumps on the bed,
her unhappy lips pursed like my mother’s.
“I miss Isaac,” she whines.
“I miss Mercy,” I say.
I pick at the wool on the spindle,
remove the sharp iron from the spinning wheel,
and hold it up in the afternoon light.
“What are ye doing?” Margaret asks me.
“Would smart to have the spindle
plunged into your chest,” I say.
“Aye. One could murder with a spindle.”
I bite the wool so the spindle
dissects from the wheel.
Margaret lies down on the bed,
hides her head under the pillow.
I creep toward her, sit silently beside her
and aim the spindle’s point at her bony back,
just to see if I can.
What a bad soldier she’d make—
the Indians would be upon her
and she’d never know. I pat her back.
“There, there,” I say. “I have an idea.”
Margaret flips round; her eyes ignite.
“You’ve a plan to sneak and see Isaac!”
“No,” I say. “Let’s visit Mercy.”
Margaret sticks out her tongue.
She hollers after me,
but I be set on my path to Mercy’s.
“Come, Wilson,” I call,
and know Mercy will let me in.
LET HIM IN
Margaret Walcott, 17
I unlatch the gate
and rush to meet him,
but he whoas me stop
just like a horse.
“Be anyone at home?”
Isaac’s eyes dart round the yard
and toward the house.
“No, Mister and Missus be in town.
And Mercy, at the Constable’s,” I say.
Isaac’s eyes grow darker
and more intense when I mention
that serving girl’s name.
“Mercy be gone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper it against
his broad chest.
“We be alone.”
“Why have ye not been speaking
to me?” I begin.
But Isaac covers my mouth
with his hand.
He creeps hesitant steps
to the house like he be a watchman,
but once we be inside he grabs
me by the waist.
“Where do you sleep,
Margaret Walcott?
Where rest ye your head?”
I be unsure ’tis proper
or a lady thing to show him,
but no servant or parent
or even little cousin
be round to see that I usher
my Isaac straight into the room
Ann and me do share.
When he closes the door
with a click, I start and sweat
beneath my chin.
“Margaret.” Isaac sweeps
the hair off my cheek
and kisses me where it did lie.
I jitter and suppose it be a sin to do so.
Isaac’s finger covers my lips
and his other hand reach down
under my skirt. I don’t halt him.
He tickles my thigh and another rush
of blood jingles through my spine.
“Be this not for the night of
our marriage?” I say.
I try and shake away from him,
but he do hold me fast,
almost as in a trap.
I whisper again in his ear,
“Be this not a sin?”
“Sins need be discovered
or confessed, dear Margaret.”
His voice sounds direct
as does the arrow what kills the doe.
I stare on him and begin at trembling.
He softens to a smile and rubs
his hand against my cheek.
He holds my chin up to his eyes.
“Do you not feel the nature between us?”
I look down on my boots and nod.
“Do you not care for me,
Margaret Walcott?” he asks.
I gaze quickly upward
and nod my head right eager.
“Then show me justly you do,” he says.
WITH TEMPERATURE
Margaret Walcott, 17
’Tis late in the night
I wake in waters like a child.
Ann snores breezy
while I change my blankets.
In the morn I lie
still in my bedclothes.
“I cannot go to meeting today,”
I say.
Aunt Ann touches my forehead.
“You feel not hot,” she says.
“I did vomit ’pon myself
while I slept.”
Aunt backs away from the bed.
“Well, then you best remain here.”
“Ann.” I grab my cousin’s arm
after her mother leaves.
“Do tell Isaac to come and visit me.”
Ann nods and eyes me oddly.
“Do this.” My voice be stern.
She shakes loose of my grip. “Fine.”
I wait all afternoon pacing
the floor, peering out the window.
I listen for the pat of his boots,
but Isaac comes not.
I nearly scream at her,
“Did ye forget to tell Isaac
I was not well?”
Ann snipes back, “
Aye, I told him.”
“And what did he say? Tell me all.”
I soften my sound and pat the bed.
I plead with Ann to sit down.
Ann crosses her arms,
but she lights on the edge of my bed.
“Isaac did nod and then talked to Mercy.”
First I got no voice to talk,
then it comes out yelling at Ann,
“About what!?”
“I know not.” Ann stands and nearly
takes leave of the room.
I fall to my knees. “Please, I am sorry.
Tell me what they did say?” I bite my lip.
“They spoke of riding and what a fine day
it be. I but stood there. It be rather dull.”
The tears river down my neck.
Ann says, “Margaret, you be flushed.
Shall I call Mother?”
“No,” I say. I turn my head away.
“Leave me. Just leave me be alone.”
SHADOWS IN THE SUN
July 1692
Hot, stuffed in skirts
and screaming “Witch!”
some of us girls point fingers
from positions of sunlight,
others of us hide
under a parasol of leaves.
Sirens all, we choir a cacophony
of caws together.
None in the Village dare step
on the shadows we forge,
lest their name
be next proclaimed.
For as evening approaches
and heat subsides
our elders shrivel and shrink,
and we girls
grow spine tall.
THE POWER TO JAIL THE MAN WHO SOLD GUNS TO THE INDIANS AND THE FRENCH
Mercy Lewis, 17
I have seen him,
not in countenance
but in the blackest part
of night, in the stolen
part of my heart.
He wears the skin of man,
but his soul belongs to the Devil.
I hear his name, Alden,
as a curse.
He stands in the Village courtroom,
but I cannot tell where.
I clasp Susannah’s hand,
which sweats like a horse’s back.
“Soon we will be in Salem’s Townhouse
facing the new court. After testimony
in the Village today we shall look
in on that new room, you and I,” I say to her.
She squints at me. “Will Miss Ann come too?”
“No.” My words are short.
“You and I.” I let go her hand
and wipe my own upon my skirt.
I motion over Constable Putnam,
my voice raspy and pleading,
warm, so it tingles against his cheek.
“See you John Alden? Tell me,
where does he stand?”
Constable swallows, squeezes my hand
as he aids me onto the bench
and whispers, “He sits to the left
of the door. His cloak is gray
and he just now scratches his ear.”
I cry out “Alden!”
The magistrates position
all of us girls in a circle
outside the courtroom.
The sun beats fierce
as a firebrand upon our backs.
Ten men are ferried out
inside our ring
and Magistrate Corwin asks,
“Name ye John Alden.
Point to us who he be.”
I step forward.
“There stands Alden.”
The tall man shrivels.
I net him like a prize fish.
“He sells powder
to the Indians and French
and lies down with Indian squaws
and has Indian papooses.”
Alden draws his sword on me,
and the officers wrangle it
out of his grasp.
He is bound
hands and then feet,
shoved into the cart
with the other witches.
He will be examined
by the court now,
and they’ll decide
if they try him
as the witch he be.
I flash on my father’s face.
If only Father could know
that I have jailed the man
who sold weapons to the Indians
who slaughtered our family.
OVERBEARING
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Susannah knocks on the frame
of my window. She tries to lift her leg
over the sill and hurdle into my bedroom,
but she can’t heave herself up onto the ledge.
Margaret shakes her head.
“Tell her go to the front door,” she says.
I point Susannah to the front and open the door.
“What a magnificent palace ye
do abide within!” she gushes.
Her voice echoes up the halls.
“Shhhh! Mother sleeps. Best not to wake her,”
I say, and pull Susannah into my bedroom.
Margaret crosses her arms
and scrunches her nose. “What be that smell?”
We all look down.
Susannah lifts her boot.
Dog waste plastered upon it.
Margaret covers her mouth and nose
with her hand and demands,
“What do you want, anyway?”
“Miss Ann, I brought ye these.”
Susannah shoves at me a basket of strawberries,
plump enough to burst.
Margaret scowls at Susannah.
“Ye are far from home and no trial today?”
I take the basket. “Thanks.
But Margaret is right.
Thou best return to thy master’s.”
After Susannah leaves, Margaret cackles,
“That girl is a fool. A smelly, dirty fool.”
I offer Margaret a berry.
“No. I’ll not eat anything she did pluck.
It be unclean.”
I sniff the berries.
Perhaps they do smell a bit too ripe.
I dump the lot out my window.
Margaret smiles at me.
“Good riddance.”
CAN IT BE SEEN?
Margaret Walcott, 17
Look I different?
I can’t wash my hands
to be clean enough.
To eat the bread they set
on the table curls my stomach
now that my body tells a lie.
I sit straight back in my chair
as a virgin, but fall ’pon the bed
a girl unwed.
How could he lie me down?
Under my petticoats
my skin bubbles
as a hot broth.
One of them we first accused,
Goody Osborne, were known
to be a witch
for bearing child out of wedlock.
I sinned sure as she.
I dress careful in front of Ann.
Would Isaac stand the stocks with me,
should we be found out?
Why visits he not?
I want to go to him,
but if I do then surely all will know
exactly what sins of flesh we done.
For once skin be fused,
shows it not the print?
I shake. They think ’tis the witches
torment me.
If I grow not the Devil’s child
within me, Lord,
I promise ne’er to move
in the ways of the sheets again.
NECK AND HEELS
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
With Mother away at her sister’s
I unlatch the door
and sneak Mercy inside.
Wilson sli
des to her ankles,
and she kisses him.
I never wished to be a dog before.
“Where be the little ones?”
She peers around the foyer.
Mercy sports a new frock
of blue and gold
that fits her like an apple
wears its peel. Her hair
pulls off her face
as curtains draw back.
“With the neighbors,” I stutter.
Margaret emerges from the bedroom.
“You look thin as a stick bug,”
Mercy says to her.
“She refuses supper,” I say.
Margaret punches my arm.
Mercy opens the cloth
covering her basket.
“Come eat muffins
from the Constable’s wife,” she says,
and kicks off her boots.
Mercy lies down on the divan
just as Mother does.
“Pray, Margaret, fetch us some water,” Mercy says.
Margaret shakes her snout at Mercy’s muffins.
She plants herself on the ground.
She stares at Mercy and says,
“Pray, Ann, fetch us some water.”
I move to find us cups and a pitcher.
“Neck and heels,” Margaret says.
Wicked Girls Page 11
