Children of Salem

by Robert W. Walker

  “I have no stomach for it any more than does this young man, Samuel. Besides, you’ll have no scarcity of men who’ll do your bidding, like Noyes here.”

  “Noyes?” asked Parris. “Who’s side are you on?”

  “I-I wish to be on the side of righteousness, of course.”

  “And you, Mr. Hale?”

  John Hale, minister at Beverly, had remained silent throughout the evening. “I will need a night to consider these proceedings and what I’ve seen and heard here.”

  “Ah-yes, sleep on it.” Parris slapped Hale on the back. “Not a bad idea.”

  “Exactly.” Hale grabbed his coat and hat and made for the door. Higginson followed, his coachman coming in on orders from Hale, to help the old man into his overcoat and out the door. Jeremy placed his empty brandy glass on the fireplace mantel and followed the parade out the door, but at the threshold, Hathorne’s booming voice stopped him. “Mr. Wakely, we will convene here tomorrow evening, same time, to continue this discussion.”

  “I should hope you gentlemen will take all due precaution in such a matter, sir.”

  “You are, of course, welcomed to join us.”

  Jeremy was surprised by this as his was the single dissenting voice save for Higginson.

  “Your input is important to us, right Mr. Corwin?” Hathorne nudged Corwin, making the other man spill his current drink.

  Corwin burped and said, “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Jeremy nodded. “If there’s the promise of more brandy, yes, count me in.”

  Corwin raised his glass to this. “You may count on that much.”

  Jeremy walked out into the unfriendly rain, imagining a far worse storm to come unless cooler hearts and calmer heads prevailed. He hoped it would end with the public disgrace and possible hangings of only one, and perhaps two so-called witches. Human nature dictated the men in charge must throw some red meat to the wolves when public outcry made it no longer tenable to do otherwise. It might well already be inevitable— this inhospitable time for country hags.

  Sarah Goode seemed certain to be fitted for a noose, and this Osborne woman might follow suit, and if Tituba were not careful, a third noose might be hers. As to this Bridgette Bishop, Jeremy knew little of her save the parish gossip. Since her husband’s death, she’d stop going to the village meetinghouse, and rather than sell the Inn, she chose to run it herself, not even hiring a man to run things in her absence, save for a bartender on occasion. Most of the time, she tended bar, and this did not set well with the community either, and when someone upset her with such petty squabbles as why she’s standing bar, she pulled out a nasty club and attacked—for which she’d been arrested on occasion and fined.

  Jeremy weighed up all that had happened in the last few days, and he feared far too much was swaying in Reverend Samuel Parris’ favor. Jeremy headed back to the parsonage house, tired, feeling somewhat ashamed of his part in all of this churning up of witchcraft in Salem Village—as every Puritan had a hand in it, after all, one way or another. He felt a pang of sincere sympathy for Tituba and pictured her lashed to a chair and interrogated, hardly understanding the finer points of Puritan theology or the laws of these grim white men. In fact, Jeremiah Wakely felt as if he had himself just undergone an ordeal tonight, a trial by fire. As Increase Mather had once told him, “A man does not know what he believes until he sees what he does and says in a moment of crisis, and only then does he know his own heart for better or worse.”

  Jeremy wondered what Serena would think of him at this moment, had she been present in that interrogation room. He wondered too what she might be doing tonight, at this moment, and if she might not be thinking of him, perhaps fearful, perhaps tearful. All he knew for certain at the moment was that he wanted to be with her.

  Going on through the deepening fog, Jeremy wondered how long he had to uncover any further information on Parris when heard a sloshing, sucking pair of riding boots to his left. In an instant, he saw a man fast approaching with something in his hand, possibly a poker or other weapon. Could it be that Parris had sent an assassin in his wake?

  Jeremy caught sight of the stranger in black cloak and hat out the corner of his eye. He whirled and set his feet in a slippery puddle; not the best of footing for the attack he expected, when he recognized Reverend Higginson’s man. The coachman who’d helped Higginson in and out of Corwin’s.

  “Be not frightened, Mr. Wakely,” said the man holding not a poker but a coach whip. “Please follow me.” The coachman rushed ahead of Jeremy, both men searching the fog for anyone who might follow. Jeremy shadowed the other man’s lead through a series of muddy labyrinths until one ended back of Proctor’s Mill with the door of Higginson’s coach looking like a gaping, black pit. From a draped portal, the old man waved and whispered, “Hurry, hurry!” Jeremy quickly obeyed, disappearing from the foggy night.

  Once Jeremy dropped into the cramped seat across from Higginson, the old man said, “From all accounts you’ve failed and failed miserably, Wakely.”

  “No, no sir! I’ve sent several dispatches back to Mather, and he must see the madness of this man and that Parris must be stripped of his duties without hesitation.”

  “I’ve not heard anything of the sort from Mather.” He looked puzzled.

  “But you will, sir, you will. I’ve sent him a copy of one of Parris’ sermons only recently, and the language is staggering—”

  “Staggering?”

  “Astonishingly vile, sir. I’ve also forwarded extensive notes. And I plan to report on his performing a parlor trick and calling it an exorcism.”

  “I must say you stood your ground with Parris and those dotes at Corwin’s, Mr. Wakely, but I fear no word from Mather in all this time as to your progress . . . well it’s a concern for an old man.”

  “I assure you that a great deal of progress had been made, sir.”

  “I apologize for not having met you on your first night at Watch Hill; it could not be prevented. I am afraid my health rules me.”

  “You look fit tonight, Reverend.”

  “And you are a consummate liar for one so young; you will make a great barrister and magistrate some day.” The old man cast his eyes to the floor of the enclosed buggy, the sound of the rain pelting over their heads. “I fear the course that Parris has chosen to follow in this, his latest scheme—involving children and spirits and witches and talk of condemning George Burroughs.”

  “They’re meeting again tomorrow night to discuss it further.”

  “Ah . . . I see and no one bothered to invite me.”

  “Hathorne asked that I be on hand, just after you left.”

  “Meet with them, Jeremy, and fight for reason.”

  “Yes, sir, but I need you to be on hand, too.”

  “You need Cotton Mather. No, you need Increase Mather. Neither of whom are likely to be on hand.”

  “And so I need you the more.”

  “Jeremiah Wakely, son of a dish-turner, I fear the law in Salem is being twisted to suit plans and schemes beyond anything I suspected before.”

  “This work may need a dish-turner,” Jeremy joked.

  The old man smiled briefly at this but then said, “I fear the lot of them—save for Hale. Noyes is a fine example—so damned willing to believe the worst that he will make magic and witchcraft his watchword to raise a standard against spirits of the Invisible World who’ve broken through and into ours at this placed named for peace.”

  “Jerusalem,” said Jeremy.

  “Aye, Salem”

  “For some men, peace is not enough.”

  “Nor reason a worthwhile cause.”

  Jeremy asked Higginson to do his utmost to be on hand for the next go round with Parris and the magistrates, and Higginson promised to do his best to be there. Jeremy then bid him adieu, and he slipped from the carriage as quickly and as quietly as he had entered. In a moment, he continued on alone for his temporary lodgings, somewhat apprehensive of the kind of welcome he might receive f
rom Sam Parris.

  Chapter Twenty

  The following evening in the village

  After Jeremiah Wakely’s surprise rendezvous with Reverend Higginson, he’d spent a restless night filled as it was with fears, misgivings, doubts, and forebodings—not only due to what was being said behind closed doors here in the village, but due to the nonstop suffering, blood-curdling screams, and pained howls emanating from Betty Parris and Mary Wolcott. It came as sound of an animal kennel from behind that closed door. Parris found himself far too busy doling out medicine and encouragement to Betty in particular to get into any confrontation with Jeremy.

  The adults in the parsonage home found themselves helpless to release Betty from her torments. Each time she came out of the catatonic state, she found only more terrors and beasts plaguing her—coming in at her eyes, ears, mouth, and below the covers. If they were hallucinations created of a fevered mind, they were convincing ones. Convincing not only to Betty who obviously saw these invisible phantasms attacking her, but convincing to her father and mother, to Mary Wolcott, to the doctors, and even to Jeremy. And to Jeremy’s surprise, these invisible forces brought about a genuine horror in Samuel Parris’ eyes. If Parris had orchestrated this grim business, perhaps he was having second thoughts now; perhaps he felt like a child dickering with fortunetelling and the occult only to have a nocturnal portal opened that he could not himself close. A portal through which every sort of spectral creature burst forth. And little wonder that little Betty Parris chose a catatonic state to the attacks.

  To his credit, Parris did show a heartfelt, sincere love of his afflicted Betty, while Mary, equally ill now and lying nearby, went without the constant care of the daughter. Mary Wolcott got their attention, however, when she was discovered mysteriously gone. A search of the house turned up nothing. It was as if she’d been quietly pulled into the portal that Parris had dared kick open.

  As Jeremy had become something of a member of the family, he’d thrown himself into the search for Mary, and at one point, he’d found himself alone in Samuel Parris’ room, a room off-limits to all but the invited. He’d found no Mary cringing below the bed, in a corner, below a bed, behind a closet door. However, he couldn’t help noticing loose pages lying over his master’s cramped writing desk – another sermon yet to be spoken. Such a document must reveal what Parris was thinking now, and it could prove helpful.

  Jeremy scanned it, and what he found, he could not believe. It proved to his mind that this man was not only orchestrating and manipulating Salem Village into a witch hunt, but that he had personally decided who would next be arrested and dragged into his church to be put through the ordeal of excommunication. The name made Jeremy shudder and gasp—Rebecca Nurse.

  Had the minister gone mad? Such an accusation would bring him down, yet this direction proved Jeremy’s worst thoughts about the awful possibilities of events here, and his most dire feelings about the so-called minister were equally accurate.

  Then a messenger pounded on the door below, raising a deafening alert. It was Thomas Putnam, shouting for Parris to get to Ingersoll’s Inn now.

  Parris fussed with Putnam. “I’ve no time for anything now, Thomas, and certainly not Ingersoll.

  Jeremy grabbed up the sermon to hide it below his shirt and coat, unsure if it were wise or foolish, but he believed it was time that he act and do so now. Something inside insisted and guided his hand.

  He slipped down the back stair and into the kitchen undetected, hoping to slip out the back door and get the stolen sermon notes into the hands of authorities, but who’d that be? Who could be trusted? With this question swirling about in his mind, Jeremy found himself confronted by Parris who loomed giant-like in the small kitchen.

  For a moment, Jeremy felt certain the man had discovered the missing papers and was about to scream for them, but all he said was, “I’ve knowledge of Mary’s whereabouts.”

  “Ingersoll’s? I overheard.”

  “Please, accompany me to fetch her. Appears she’s making a scene in her delirious state of mind.”

  Jeremy fought for some reasonable excuse, then any excuse, realizing every minute wasted was time running out for Serena’s mother. For all he knew, Parris had already gotten some dupe like Thomas Putnam or other to swear out a warrant for Mother Nurse’s arrest, which meant Williard and other men might be placing on the shackles by nightfall. But Jeremy could not think of a logical out. To maintain his cover, he instead nodded and said, “Of course. I am at your service, sir.”

  “Good, good. If you wish it this Sabbath, Jeremy, you may deliver my sermon in my stead. I believe you’ve earned that right.”

  “Me, sir? Sermon? Though I stood against you the other night?”

  “I completely understand your perspective on the matter, and indeed was glad that you asked for cautious steps ahead.”

  “I . . . see.” But Jeremy didn’t see at all what the sly minister might be up to.

  Parris patted him on the shoulder. “Come, come. I’ll provide you with some words if that is your worry?”

  He nodded, thinking Parris’ remark ironic as Jeremy indeed had the other man’s words tucked deep into his breast pocket. “Thank you, Samuel. I am honored.” Parris wanted to manipulate Jeremy into delivering the sermon that condemned Rebecca Nurse, ending with calling her forth into the meetinghouse for excommunication. The man meant to use Jeremy as he had Putam, Ingersoll, and others. As he hoped to use Hathorne and Corwin.

  With Jeremy shadowing him, Parris rushed for Ingersoll’s where they indeed found Mary. The girl was in the throes of a fight for her life: a horrid, unimaginable fight with a broomstick! Yet no ordinary broom was this. As it was, by all accounts of everyone staring on, including many of the village children, an enchanted dust catcher. Mary struggled with the end of the broom as it jammed itself down her throat so hard as to bloody her gums and loosen her teeth and make her gag and gag. Several loud cracks against the teeth said this was no game, no child’s play, or shenanigans.

  She next lay on the floor on her back, screaming, gagging, pleading repeatedly, “Merciful God, please stop Goodwife Corey from churning me! Like I am butter! Stop hurting me!”

  Until quite recently, when Mercy moved out of her uncle’s place for the Putnam home, Mary had been maidservant to the giant Giles Corey and the hefty Martha Corey at the grist mill. From the shocked look on faces all across the crowded apothecary and inn, Jeremy knew that they shared one fantastic question: How could Marth Corey be directing this broom that continued to attack this child? How as she was not even in the room! And yet the fevered child cried out that the broom making her suffer was controlled by invisible hands—those of an invisible witch, Martha Corey.

  A common belief that a witch who had given over her heart to Satan could step out of her body and make all manner of mischief and attacks on her enemies, and do so in an invisible form.

  No one challenged the notion that the miller’s wife worked the jabbing broom; that she’d somehow come in this terrifying state—as an invisible force by means of satanic assistance—expressly to attack Mary. The bloodied, bruised Mary explained it all in her screaming, yet coherent words: “F-For my unkind disrespect toward you, Goodwife Corey, I know and I confess it! F-For wrongs aplenty, and for bad words used against ye, Goody Corey! Please, I’m beggin’. I’m sorry . . . sorry!”

  But the broom, which Mary tried to wrench free from the invisible one, kept rising and jolting her abdomen now. She was not strong enough as her stiff arms could not keep the broom away no matter her struggle.

  Jeremy thought he recognized Parris’ hand in some of the welts and red markes o the child, and he had no doubt she’d taken a beating. He wondered if there were not a more mundane evil at work here, and not on the part of Martha Corey, and he decided that Mary, not getting the attention of Betty within the walls of the parsonage, had come to find a larger audience when one of the brooms at the broom-stand had leapt out at her and attacked with the ferocity of a
n angry cat.

  Granted, Mary held her teeth, guns, and lips clenched now as the stick slammed desperately into her closed mouth, wanting to return to her throat. Granted, it caused bruising around Mary’s eye and cheek in its effort to strangle her again. Granted that the living broom tore at her, butting, stabbing, pounding with a ferocity no young person could long endure or possibly inflict on herself, and now with her petticoats asunder, the enchanted, angry-as-a-scorpion broom found its way below her dress and petticoats, seeking out another mouth to jam itself into as Mary screamed for help.

  “Is there a man among you!” Mary finally cried out, somehow able to form words, when suddenly the broom came out from below her dress dripping blood to the astonishment of everyone present. Parris gasped with the other onlookers, while Jeremy thought the girl menstruating.

  Suddenly, the broom had gone lifeless. Mary lay in a heap. She’d ostensibly been raped by an invisible hand, some horrid creature of Satan—like the ones she’d been hearing about now for days. Either that or she had masturbated in public just to show the men in the general store that she could do so without impunity, as she was bewitched, which apparently allowed for all manner of freedom.

  After all, it was none of her doing; she was pounced upon by Martha Corey’s invisible other self, the true self, the one sold to the Devil.

  Deacon Ingersoll stood in shock, unable to move, unsure what to do as Mary moaned and moaned in pain at his feet. “She’s your niece, Samuel,” he said. “Please, remove her.”

  “You saw it, all of you!” shouted Thomas Putnam. “The girl’s been attacked by that witch, Martha Corey. First my children, then the minister’s child, then both his nieces, and my Anne. All our children’re under attack, and yours’re next! Mark my word!”

  Parris knelt and lifted Mary Wolcott from Ingersoll’s splintered, dirty floor. “I’ll get her home. The child’s safety is my only object.”

  Jeremy tried to fathom the quiet calm of the minister and the thoughts going on behind the quizzical look in his eye, and the way he held Mary close against him, the way a father might yes, but as he was not her father, Jeremy had a far grimmer thought about the way he held her, one hand about her legs slick with blood. One leg ended about her neck, the other turned back into her, and one arm wrapped round the underarm and breast, the other akimbo. Then it dawned on Jeremy that Parris was aroused, sexually so; not so much by Mary’s half nude form but by the attack of the invisible broom monster. That he realized how wonderfully it displayed reason to listen to him in matters of the Invisible World and how best to deal with such things. Jeremy had no doubt at that moment Parris felt ten feet tall and powerful. Yes, the attack on his niece, whether in her head or a new reality of a bizarre nature, the minister was aroused by his niece’s so called victimization by an invisible power. Such evidence of this, he could take to Hathorne and Corwin tonight.