by Aaron Galvin
Dr. Campbell and I rode off together with he leading me toward the nearby wood. There, I saw two torches burning inside a glade. I should have turned back then had I not heard my name called and beckoned come hither by Dr. Griggs. I soon learned Reverend Parris there also.
What secret council is this, I demanded of them. And why must it be held in the black of night?
Dr. Campbell mentioned then he discovered not only both my daughter and my servant in the woods that night, but with several friends also. Griggs’s niece, Elizabeth Hubbard, and both Reverend Parris’s daughter, Betty, and his niece, Abigail Williams.
Dr. Campbell mentioned he saw others also, but made especial note of these five. He next claimed he watched the girls pretend at witchcraft.
Parris and I nearly came to blows with him for such a remark.
Thank Heaven we did not.
Dr. Campbell mentioned he will say naught to anyone of his findings in the woods, he not wishing trouble upon us. We each thanked him for his silence, yet questioned why bring us together now. Dr. Campbell next asked if we could be trusted.
An ignorant question, to my mind. Why should we answer anything but aye? Only after we agreed did he inquire if ever we had heard tell of Goody Glover.
Aye, I said. Three years ago they hanged her for a witch in Boston for afflicting children.
Dr. Campbell then inquired if we believed in witchcraft and Goody Glover guilty of being one.
The hailed Reverend Cotton Mather said she were, I recall Parris saying. And those four children afflicted too. What else could she be, but a witch?
Dr. Campbell smiled at us in an arrogant manner. Then he revealed the plan he has devised. A more dastardly one I have ne’er heard.
Indeed, though he affronted we three at the first, now I have determined this Dr. Campbell speaks with a silver tongue.
Each of us have trouble with our neighbors. We have done naught but squabble until now...
This newcomer brings a dark solution.
When we asked of him why his plan required our girls to unfold, Dr. Campbell quoted Psalms, chapter eight, verse two: Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.
I see now, Griggs spoke true when first he mentioned Dr. Campbell; a brilliant mind this young man truly has. A grim plan he brings, I admit it freely, yet one that could finally deliver the vengeance I have longed for.
Aye. And that which rightly belongs to me but were stolen.
***
The sound of mewing bids me look up from the journal. Cats throng about the milk pails, lapping at the treasure I have neglected. I slide the journal back into my apron and shoo them away. All but one—a fluffy orange tabby—scatter before me. I kick at it.
The tabby dodges then turns to growl at me.
Its defiance takes me aback. I have oft heard tell of familiars, those who can send their spirits into animals. The thought makes me hesitant to kick at the beast again. Something leery in its green eyes reminds me too much of Hecate.
“What’s this? My daughter, frightened by a cat?”
Father stands in the doorway, his gaze steady upon me. Several pheasants and two doves are slung over his shoulder. Day-old whiskers darken his cheeks with more than a bit of silver spiced amidst the brown.
My brother, George, is with him; a miniature version of Father in all ways, but he lacks the years of seriousness to burden him.
Father hands his flintlock to George. He strides ahead. His grin belies the stern demeanor typically reserved for my brother. Father reaches for the cat without hesitation.
The tabby hisses and swipes at him.
Father does not shrink away. He grabs it by the nape. Lifts it like a mother would her kitten. The tabby’s body goes limp with its paws draped over its belly. A low growl escapes from deep within it. Father flings it high and away. I hear it land amongst the straw pallets meant for our cows. Then, the quick patter of feet as it scurries away.
“You mustn’t show fear to any of God’s creatures, Sarah,” Father says.
My sight lowers to the four scratches down his forearm where the cat drew blood. Father seems oblivious to them.
“Sarah,” he says.
I look up into his leathery face. “Aye, Father.”
“And why not?”
“Satan has many tools to beguile us.” I give the answer he seeks. “Yet no one with God on their side has cause to fear.”
Father nods. His deeply set brown eyes drift to the milk pails. “What brings you to work your sister’s chore?”
“A small kindness.” I lie. “The pails are nigh too heavy for me to lift, let alone for one so young as she.”
Father lifts the pails with two fingers, never once sloshing the milk. “Only by carrying them will she grow stronger.” His brow wrinkles as if weighting my words. “If it be as you say, perhaps we should find another chore for her. Henceforth, you will milk the cows until she is strong enough to do so.”
“Aye, Father,” I say humbly, shutting out the sound of my brother’s immediate snort.
Father squeezes my shoulder. He unslings his quarry and hands them over to me. “Come then. We must break our fast, and then to church.”
Even now, laden by the pails he carries for me, his gait is quick and sure. Mother oft says Father has never been one for idle walks. Doing so saps the time he might better spend elsewhere.
George tries to match him step-for-step. He has not yet come of an age to have the growth in his limbs, though, and falls behind with me.
I take in the sight of our home as we walk. My friends oft reiterate how fortunate I am. Our diamond-paned casement windows especially keep out the cold. So many others in Winford rely only on wooden shutters.
Emma’s family is poorer still. They have naught to cover their windows.
I frown at the thought.
Father would be angry with me for pitying her. It be little secret he harbors no love for Emma’s father. Indeed, Father says any man who cannot provide for his family is no man at all.
I think an unfair comparison; Emma’s father to my own. Hers is but a spindly scarecrow. Father is strong as our prized bull, Samson.
I wonder if that is why she is ever afeared of Indian raids. She knows her father could do naught to keep the savages at bay if they came. I have never shared such fears. It would take five braves to come for me with Father around. Of those, at least three would not live to try again.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply of the fall air. October is my favorite month. I love the mixings of cold and warm and watching the summer bounty harvested and tucked away. It is also the time for butchery. Even now, outside in the yard, I can smell fresh bacon and roasting ham over the hearth waft its way toward me. The scents spur me faster.
I see Rebecca’s frame through the windows as she busies about the table in placing dishes for our meal. George pauses at the doorstep to remove his hat and hang it. He unslings his flintlock, and places it barrel-up beside Father’s.
I catch Rebecca watching me as I wait for him to move. She yawns in amusement, knowing full well I must be tired for I never did return to bed. I scrape clean any filth upon my shoes onto the stone ledge of the doorway. Continuing to the table, I drop one of the dead pheasants over Rebecca’s shoulder when Mother is not watching.
She screams as the bird lands in her lap.
“Oh, Rebecca!” I cry. “Forgive me.”
Mother swoops in to take it from her. Thrusting the bird back into my hands, she then sits to calm my sister.
George chuckles.
Father does not. He had not been there a moment ago. Gone to wash up, I had wrongly supposed. He stands there now though. Watches me in the way he often looks at George, one speaking of a strapping to come. Father clears his throat as he takes his seat at the head of our table. “Do that again, Sarah, and you shall eat the bird whole, feathers and all.”
“Aye, Father,” I answer quie
tly. I string his quarry near the hearth to clean and boil later. Then I take my seat beside Rebecca.
Father bows his head. “Bless us, O Lord, and this food of which we are about to partake. We thank You for this bounty and ask You let it nourish our bodies.”
I open my eyes.
George grins at me from the opposite side of the table. He quickly checks to ensure Father is not watching him.
Silly. If Father’s eyes were open, George would have been clapped upside the head by now.
“Help us to be mindful of the many gifts you have provided—”
George imitates milking a cow. He grins wider.
“—to give willingly, and be an example unto others of how those in your service should act,” Father continues. “All these things, dear Lord, we ask in Christ’s name. Amen.”
I kick George’s left shin under the table. “Amen,” I say upon connecting.
My brother winces, but does not cry out. He knows the pain I gave him is nothing liken to what Father would, especially if he found us sporting at prayer.
Father motions us to give him our plates, and spoons the corn mash upon them.
George leans down. No doubt to rub at the bruise I hopefully left upon his shin. “We saw a queer sight this morn, did we not, Father?”
“Aye,” Father answers.
Mother takes a few strips of bacon to drape across Rebecca’s plate. “Pray, what sight?”
“There be a small clearing deep in the woods not there before,” Father says. “Formed in a circle with a fire pit in the middle and the ashes still warm. Small footprints went round it, then vanished into the forest.”
“Oh…” Mother sets the plate upon the table harder than I believe she aimed.
“I believe it were witches!”
“George!” Mother scolds. “You should not speak of such—”
George stabs a slab of ham. “I have oft heard tell of witches hiding in the woods. Some say those who escaped the gallows of Salem ventured south to our territory and yet lurk about.”
Mother shakes her head and passes me the meat. “The trials were nineteen years ago, George. And Salem near five hundred miles away too! What makes you take up such stories?”
Father, chewing his mash quietly throughout their exchange, swallows before he speaks. “I will hear no more talk of witchcraft in this home. Nor the evils of Salem.” He takes George in with his eyes. “And you will speak nothing of what we discovered to your friends at church. I’ll not hear it said my son spread rumors.”
“Aye, Father,” George says.
I watch disgustedly as he shoves a bit of ham in his greedy mouth. He even swallows without chewing.
“What do you fear it might be, husband?” Mother asks.
I hear a touch of fear in her voice, though she does her best to quell it. Her tone suggests savages. Mother is a hard woman, but any mention of Indians makes her prone to fits.
Father sits back in his chair. He strokes his whiskers. “It would not be the first time someone has ventured near our homestead. The circle aligned in such a way it might well have been they danced around the fire. A tribal gathering, mayhap.”
“We found stalks broken in the field also,” George adds.
“No Indian braves did such a thing,” Father says quickly. He gazes across the table at me.
I meet it. Fearful he will know me for a liar if I do not.
“Children, mayhap,” Father says to avoid frightening Mother further. “But no braves, nor squaws. They do not leave trails so easily followed.”
“Then whom?” Mother asks.
Father shrugs. “I know not. They have departed for now, and I am glad of it. Let them stay gone. They are of no nuisance to me yet.” He looks at me again before forking his meat. “But henceforth, I shall be more vigilant.”
-3-
The crisp in the air is gone as we ride to church, banished by the sun’s rays. A reminder the late summer has not yet abandoned us. I had thought to read more of Thomas Putnam’s journal along the way.
Father’s speech of vigilance put a quick end to any notion of it. It would be difficult even so to concentrate with our wagon rattling along the dirt path plagued with rocks. Every so often, Father hits one and we jolt upward.
Rebecca seems to think it a game. She laughs at every bounce.
We pass others walking along the road. A reminder I should be thankful we have a wagon to ride in.
Rebecca asks Father several times to stop and offer those less fortunate a ride.
He will not do it. Not even for her.
I, too, asked him when younger in years, but he claimed it would wound their pride to take favors such as he would offer. Perhaps I am too young, but I cannot understand this. I would gladly accept a ride if made to walk.
Ahead, I see a wooden cross on our approach. Placed high atop the white-washed steeple for all to see, by no coincidence is the church nearly as tall as our barn. Father directed the planning and raising of both. My legs tingle at the thought of him dangling off the side to hang the cross.
Other wagons arrive as we do. Most decided to take in the bright, clear day without their coverings to shield them from the elements. Always one prepared, Father has tucked and folded ours under his seat in case the day gives way to rain. He pulls gently on the reins, slowing our draft horses, and our wagon comes to a halt.
George immediately leaps over the edge to take the reins from Father and tie off the horses. I am surprised he is not scolded for doing so. Two Sundays past he did not land so well and dirtied his best clothing.
Father climbs down from the wagon as easily as he might descend a flight of steps. I gather from his stern gaze George will receive his scolding later, in private, rather than here for all the church to witness. His anger gives way when Rebecca jumps into his arms.
Both George and I know Father has always favored her most. Perhaps because she looks so much like Mother. Both have the same high cheekbones, equally straight noses, and hardy physique. It is plain for all to see Rebecca will be far prettier than I when she is older.
Like George, my features favor Father more; brown hair with tints of yellow when dyed by the sun, a round face that often bears an accusing frown, and a squat nose. The only small portion of Mother I share is the cloudy grey color of her eyes. I remind myself to envy is to sin before continuing with my family toward church.
The double doors have been swung open to let in the air more than to welcome us. Indeed, even as I step through the entryway, my pores sweat rivers. Not for fear of the Almighty, but rather that Mother and the ladies of Winford insist we dress in our best woolen skirts. I oft wonder if it be God’s will we are made to suffer so, another unjust punishment for Eve’s transgressions, to my mind. The heat on such a day is unbearable, let alone we be dressed in such attire. Is it any wonder my friends and I prefer the cool air of the moon dance rather than the heated sermons of day?
Father leads us toward the front, as befits his high esteem in our community. I see Emma near the back. Even now, at sixteen years of age, her mother still coddles her. I search out my other friends, and think it odd when I find neither Ruth nor Charlotte amidst the crowd.
We reach the front pews. Father and George turn to take their seats at the left side of the pulpit. We women do so on the right.
I watch Reverend Corwin displace himself from the pew. When our previous reverend, old and ragged as a worn-out nag, passed on, our community desired someone more experienced, but younger; one to lead us in these dark times with furious vigor.
Father says they failed at both.
Reverend Corwin speaks when he should listen, Father oft says, and the only thing Corwin will lead us to is starvation, both spiritually and physically. Indeed, I think he looks as one who eats the fatted calf whole rather than preaches of it.
Reverend Corwin takes the pulpit to lead us in a hymn of The Lord Is My Shepherd. His high tenor voice rings out above all the rest. Even louder than the woman seated b
ehind me, Mrs. Bradbury, she who believes singing is the same as shouting.
I glance to the men’s section. Two rows back from Father sits Wesley Greene. Most other girls in Winford claim if God made Adam in his own image, He markedly improved His draft with Wesley. His shoulders seem to widen every week, and I swear he has grown two feet since last year.
Charlotte told my fortunes once and deemed Wesley and I should be married. Ruth claimed she did not hold with such nonsense and scattered the runes. The next week after, I saw her cozy up to him. To his credit, Wesley kindly turned away Ruth’s advances. He has ever been one of the more dutiful young men in Winford. Gazing at him now, I see more than a little of why my friends fawn over him so.
Wesley catches me watching him. He smiles, and turns his attention back to Reverend Corwin and singing.
I wish that I could be so compliant. Staying in tune is a near impossible task with Mrs. Bradbury staining the melody. I mouth the words rather than add to the ruin of what little harmony remains.
Finishing the hymn, Reverend Corwin bids us take our seats.
I sit between Mother and Rebecca. The hard-backed pew reminds me to sit straight and not slouch. I raise my hand to fan myself of the sweat.
Mother halts me. She gives me a reproachful look ere returning her gaze to Reverend Corwin.
“Brothers and sisters,” he begins, his voice booming from the deepest recesses of his giant belly. “I welcome you on this glorious day the Lord has seen fit to bestow upon us. I heard tell of troubling news that seeps into our good community from our neighbors to the north. Rumors of—I hesitate to say—witchcraft.”
I believe the gusto with which he speaks belies his early words.
Reverend Corwin, however, seems pleased to hear the discomfort among some of his flock. I too hear the sounds of shifting pews. Reverend Corwin may believe many do so under the threat of Satan’s minions working their dark magic amongst us.
I think the heat is more likely to blame.
“And evil that need not be further mentioned. In such times as these, we need only turn to the Lord.” He lifts his Bible in the air, and points to it ere he licks a stubby finger to open it. “And the Lord gives us an example in Deuteronomy, chapter eighteen, verses ten through thirteen. It reads: There shall not be found among you anyone that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch—”
