Wicked Girls
Page 13
kneels before the pulpit.
“Elizabeth.” Her shoulders
rumble as she gasps.
“’Tis only me, Mercy. I, too,
have come to pray.”
I pray, dear Lord, for forgiveness.
I bow my head and tears drip
onto the dusty earthen floor.
I raise my wet face.
I fear this is only begun,
so I pray, dear Lord,
for the strength to persevere.
Guide us to banish the devils
I know exist among us, the men
who harm, the women who sin.
My hands quiver as the old
and bedridden. Give me
the strength to lead,
for I fear otherwise
we may hang
ourselves.
PETITION
Mercy Lewis, 17
He comes right to the Constable’s front door,
crosses through the opening
without a knock.
I want not to gaze at him,
but it is as if the claws of his eyes
collect me.
“Never did get that ride.”
Isaac smiles. He walks close to me,
pretends as he might place a hand
on my neck and kiss me.
How dare he treat me, a seer,
as no more than a girl to be bed?
“Should ye not take a ride with Margaret?”
I say, and walk past Isaac to fetch
some water from the well.
He follows and whispers in my ear,
“I have done that already,
and the ride was not all that worthy.”
I turn to slap him.
He grabs my hand and kisses it.
The Constable stoops under the door frame.
“Isaac, what brings ye to our home?”
Constable smiles at me.
“Mercy, please fetch us some cider.”
“I can’t stay,” Isaac says.
“My father asked that I give ye
this petition to bring to court.”
Isaac hands the Constable a paper.
“Some that are called witch
be upright and good Christians.”
Isaac glares at me.
With the gloat of the hunter
believing he’s shot his doe
both head and heart.
But I run steady on my hooves.
“The Devil disguises his servants well,”
Constable Putnam says as he takes the petition.
“Good day, sir.” Isaac tips his hat
to the Constable, and he leaves.
He kicks up a puff of dirt in his wake,
a little black cloud he leaves behind.
“I must tell Reverend Parris of this,”
the Constable mumbles.
“Fear ye not, Mercy.
There be always ones against
those who work hard for the Lord.
But the righteous do prevail.”
GIRLS WHO SIN
Margaret Walcott, 17
In meeting I can’t look at Reverend.
I feel his eyes ’pon me like I be
the next to stand accused.
Ann nudges me.
“Margaret, straighten up.
Stop looking low.
We are watched.”
I won’t look on Isaac neither.
I feel like I’ll lose my stomach.
I put a hand o’er my mouth
and stand to leave the bench.
The tears stinging my eyes,
“I be a sinner,” I whisper to Ann.
“And the Lord does know it.”
Mercy glares at me and my words.
She wedges tight on the other side of me.
Her and Ann do hold each my wrists
to the pew.
Ann snarls at me.
She whispers so none else but Mercy hears,
“Do not say that we sin.
Not in meeting. Not anywhere.”
She then calls out,
“Witches torment Margaret!”
Abigail and Elizabeth do sit
as wooden toys nodding their heads
like they had strings attached.
Mercy speaks in my ear alone,
“Do you seek repentance, Margaret?”
“Let me go!” I cry.
Reverend Parris can’t quiet the noise now.
All the folk search the air for witches,
but I know that the only witches
in the meetinghouse be holding me down.
Ann fumes under her breath,
“I said not to act tormented
during sermon today.”
But Mercy quickly quits Ann scolding me,
“I told Margaret to act as such.”
I can’t know why Mercy says this.
Ann’s cheeks turn like raspberries,
and she appears about to cry.
“I did not know. I am sorry, Mercy.”
Ann grovels to that servant.
“’Tis but a misunderstanding.
I forgive thee,” Mercy says,
and pats Ann’s shoulder.
Abigail screeches, “The leader
of the witches!” She points,
and all eyes in church follow
her finger to the rafters.
“The wizard George Burroughs!”
Only Mercy and me look still on each
other. “Why—” I start to say.
Mercy smiles at me as she says,
“I know your secret sin, Margaret Walcott.”
I shake my head. “No, you can’t know.”
“Shhhh,” she says, and clutches my hand.
My mouth dries up. She knows not anything—
how could she? I told not a one.
IN HER DEFENSE
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
“I like her,” I say not loud enough.
“She must stuff her mouth plenty
when she be out of our sight.
All her dresses pull their seams.” Margaret laughs.
“Susannah ought pray.”
Elizabeth bows her head.
“I never see her in meeting.”
“She belongs to another church,” I say.
Mercy marches like a captain
before his squadron as we each speak.
She nods. “We are in agreement.”
“Yes,” Abigail says first.
Abigail warbles at Mercy’s feet.
The dirty little pigeon licks
Mercy’s bootlaces to be by her side.
“What do you know?
You do not even know Susannah!” I scream.
Mercy pulls me aside.
“Ann, you are the head of us.”
She speaks so all can hear her.
“Susannah, think ye she be fit
to be part of our group?”
I feel damp and weak-kneed.
I whisper, “I do not know.”
Mercy smiles and quietly says,
“You know. You are a Putnam.
Susannah Sheldon is not fit
to polish your boots.
Tell the other girls.”
I nod. “Susannah be not one of us.”
I wilt into my chair at the table.
My skin feels strangely yellow.
SECONDHAND GIRL
Margaret Walcott, 17
Step-Mother stoops to stoke
the stove fire, the sweat ’pon
her brow so thick it seems a lake
swells her forehead.
“Hear ye not that knocking?
Answer the door, Maaaagaret.”
Mercy in her shiny frock
and wide-tooth grin says,
“Well then, invite me inside.
Be not a heathen.”
I move aside and Mercy swishes
past me, back to my bedroom.
“So
this be where ye lay your head?”
Mercy blinks her eyes. “Has Isaac been—?”
“Speak not his name.”
She puts a finger to my lips.
“Ye shall not again tell me what to do
or say, or I shall tell the Village
of thy sin, fair Margaret.”
“How do you know?” I pull at my hair.
“Isaac, the beast, told me.” She holds my eyes.
I wish to bite her. I wish to punch her
arms till they turn black, but I just
collapse liken a tree slashed down.
I begin at tears. “I can’t but sleep.
I can’t but eat nothing.”
Her eyes swell and I think Mercy
might also cry. But then she says,
“Cease this fussing. We are strong.
You and I, Margaret, we must be strong now.
Things be falling. The air grows colder.”
She crosses her arms.
“You are not the only one
ever touched.”
I rub my sleeve under my eye.
“Have you been with my Isaac?”
I clutch my stomach.
“Don’t be a toadstool,” Mercy says.
“So why does Isaac not speak to me?”
I ask her the question pressing on my chest.
“Trouble not yourself with what does a boy.
He thinks about only himself.”
Mercy offers me her hand of comfort.
I grasp it and she motions me to lie down.
I press my cheek into her lap,
and she strokes my hair. “There, there.
Do as I say, and all will be well.
We must be strong now, very strong.
Promise to do as I ask, and I shall protect you.”
I nod my head, “I promise.”
JOHN PROCTOR SPEAKS OUT AGAINST THE TRIALS
Mercy Lewis, 17
John Proctor stomps the ground.
The heat sticks like honey,
and the dust of his anger
silts the onlookers’ skin.
“These girls need a whipping
like I gave my maid, Ruth Warren.
They be lying like lazy dogs.
Ain’t no witches among us folks.
All the jailed should be set free,
not sent to trial.”
His pregnant wife Rebecca
already in jail, you would think
he had mind not to make such speech.
A crowd of nearly twenty
people cluster around him.
Goodman Farrar and Isaac
stand like watchmen to his right,
holding paper and quills.
“Sign ye the petitions
to release the good Christians.”
Goodman Proctor points to the sheaf.
“I cannot pass Isaac.”
Margaret grabs my arm like a crutch.
“Ye shall do this,” I say.
“Else we shall seem
as liars and sinners.
Ye do not want that, do ye?”
Margaret shakes her head.
I swipe the black from her temple
and tilt up her chin.
When we approach, someone yells,
“The seers,” and a few people slither
away so as not to be recognized.
“Ye girls best keep quiet.”
John Proctor shakes his fancy-cuffed
fist at us. A farmer who made well
for himself in Salem Town,
with coin under his pillow,
one might think he would
keep quiet, but his voice
has been booming against
Reverend Parris and Thomas Putnam
the last several years. And he be now against us.
He stomps more, but I hear
not his words.
I whisper to Margaret,
“He be next.”
WARNING
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Susannah wades into the river,
holds her skirt just above the current.
“Ye should not come to the Village tomorrow,”
I try to warn her.
She kicks in the water and soaks her skirts,
laughs like a baby at the mess she makes.
“Susannah, do you hear?” I say again.
“Ann, ’tis right and warm in here.
And look, I see a witch!”
Susannah giggles and points,
and she drops her dress into the water,
so she is drenched.
“Ye are not listening.” I stomp my foot.
Reverend Parris appears behind Susannah.
“Did someone cry witch?” he demands.
“Yea!” Susannah smiles when she ought frown.
“There!” and she points first behind her
and then to her right and then above the Reverend’s hat.
“Ann, what seest thou of the Invisible World?”
Reverend Parris clutches my arm.
I stand up. “I see nothing today.
There is nothing here to see, Reverend.”
CAST OUT
Mercy Lewis, 17
Abigail and Ann and Margaret and Elizabeth
all walk down the street,
their feet in rhythm
like the soldier’s march.
Margaret nods at me. She smiles
as she approaches Susannah.
“Your apron is lovely,” Margaret says.
Susannah blushes. “Oh, thank ye.”
All the girls, except for me,
crack into laughter. Even Elizabeth smiles.
Susannah peers down upon herself.
Smudges of handprints
in cider and dirt cover her apron,
and it tears at the seam.
Susannah’s eyes fill with water.
She looks away.
Susannah turns to Ann,
spitting out words.
“Where’ve you all been?”
Abigail is quick to say,
“To meal together.”
Margaret and Abigail
walk around Susannah as if she were
a mud puddle in the road.
Margaret says under her breath
as she passes, “Susannah need not eat.
It be best if the witches
allowed her no vittles.”
Margaret grasps Elizabeth’s and Abigail’s hands.
The three girls form as a fence across the path.
Ann tags behind them
like a little pup running
around inside its pen.
Susannah waddles as best as she can
to keep up, but our steps
be too fast. I slow down for her.
She reaches her hand out to me,
now begging me to give her aid.
She smiles like a daisy,
yellow and tender.
I stare on her.
The other girls have stopped
and watch us.
Instead of clasping it,
I wipe my hand upon her dress.
The girls’ laughter
sounds like gaggle of geese.
Susannah covers her ears.
I feel nearly sorry for her.
She yanks my sleeve,
begs like a child, “Please, Mercy.”
Only her strength be greater than those waist high,
another tug and she rips off my cuff.
She snorts a little laugh.
A loose thread tangles round my wrist
as though I stuck my fist into a spider’s web.
Susannah pulls it, and my sleeve
falls onto the path. She holds her belly
as she chortles. None else even smile.
Ann picks up my sleeve.
Elizabeth drapes a shawl
around my shoulder.
Margaret bares her teeth,
and Susannah stumbles back a pace.
“Farewell,” I say,
and we leave Susannah
on the road, alone.
ANOTHER BESIDE ME
Mercy Lewis, 17
Elizabeth and I stride straight by
the meetinghouse,
knock on the door of Goodman Holten.
I clasp Elizabeth’s hand,
and as the door opens
we both erupt to shaking.
Goodman Holten clutches his stomach.
He bends over in pain and asks,
“See thou the Invisible World?”
“Aye, ’tis John Proctor pressing on your belly,
and so his wife, Rebecca,” I say.
Elizabeth acts as if she sees nothing,
and I shake her arm. She flinches
and pulls down her sleeve.
I rattle. Finally Elizabeth rattles too.
Her forehead furrows in pain
and sweat streaks down her back.
“The Proctors do trample ye, Goodman Holten,”
I say, and stare on Elizabeth,
who stands there unmoving.
At long while, she thrashes at the air
as though real demons dart about her head.
Be she losing her wit?
James Holten straightens his back,
lifts his hand from his stomach.