by Aaron Galvin
I hear a pew creak far to the back. Emma, I warrant, wrestling with her conscience.
“Or a charmer,” the Reverend’s voice rises to keep us engaged. “Or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord! And because of these abominations, the Lord thy God doth drive them out before thee!”
Reverend Corwin pauses to catch his breath. “You understand then, brethren,” he says in a softer tone. “These…witches…these necromancers, they are an abomination our Lord will drive out with a furious vengeance as He did far away in Salem those nineteen years ago. That scripture and knowledge alone we should take solace in—”
I tire of the familiar sermon of brimstone and hellfire he has given before. Trying not to twist my head and receive another reproach from Mother, I turn my eyes to the window. Most Sundays, I stare at the mountains in the far distance. Make-believe what lies beyond their peaks. More wilderness, I suppose, and certainly laden with savages, yet to venture there must be an adventure liken to those I have only read about.
Today is different from any other Sunday.
This morn, I see a pair of mounted figures on the horizon line. I estimate they ride fast toward church. For a moment, I fear them natives come to raid us at last. But there are only two. Hardly a raiding party of any note to strike fear in our hearts when there be so many men at church to defend us.
I vaguely hear Reverend Corwin continue. “But still the Lord goes on. He gives us further hope of freedom from these abominations.”
I am not alone in having seen the pair of riders. More pews creak. And there be whispers now that do not go unnoticed by Reverend Corwin.
“In the same book and chapter”—his voice rises to a near shout—“He says, ‘I will raise them up a Prophet from among their brethren, like unto thee, And will put My words in his mouth; and he shall speak unto them all that I command him.’”
The two riders halt near the circle of wagons. Both remain mounted. The windows blur their visages. They do not appear to be Indians, or at least not how I picture savages to look. Both wear clothing for one, and neither has styled their hair in Mohawk fashion like George claims all savages do.
Why do they not come in?
Reverend Corwin clears his throat. “Understand then, brethren,” he says. “We have but to listen when the Lord speaks to us.”
A sense of nervousness, urgency even, for him to finish his sermon storms over the congregation. Despite it all, he does not end his sermon any earlier than his usual hour and a half of speaking.
And all the while, the two strangers wait outside.
The moment after Reverend Corwin gives the closing prayer, Father stands. He turns down the aisle to lead the Winford men outside. On any other Sunday, I know they would take their leisure in vacating the premises. Talk with one another. Shake hands. Now, they resemble a gang of boys come across a pair of wild dogs they mean to chase off.
I watch through the window as Father and the others surround the two riders. Though I cannot ascertain whether the strangers be friendly or hostile, I gather from the raising of arms the men of Winford are not welcoming.
Mother ushers me out of the pew after a seeming eternity. I do my best to act dignified, but all I truly desire is to inspect these new strangers to our community at a closer distance.
The other women seek the same. None gossip per their usual Sunday routine, nor pay any mind to us as we make our way down the aisle. They crane their necks over and around one another like a flock of geese searching for crumbs to fetch up.
I exit the church. Edging through the crowd, I find it easy to spot Father. He is near a head taller than the other men. His grim face makes me worry for the strangers to run afoul of him.
I feel Mother’s hand clamp upon my collarbone as she guides me away from the gathering. She cannot shut my ears, however. I hear a man speak loudly to the crowd. His voice is foreign—rhythmical, and not one of malice.
The wall of men will not permit me to see his face though, nor can I rightly hear what the stranger speaks of. Their argument drowns both the words the stranger speaks as well as their own.
The second stranger I see well, however.
Mounted bareback atop a red stallion, his tanned skin and long black hair might easily trick one to believe him a native in the wrong light. There is an inherent wildness about him that equally intrigues and frightens me. His disengaged demeanor is unsettling; either he cares naught of the commotion his friend stirs amongst the Winford men, or he is unafraid of the consequences. His dark eyes, hollow at first, flicker when locked with mine.
I cast my eyes to the ground. Hurry to join Mother and the other women nearby. Silly. I know he caught me staring.
Mother’s eyes shift to the seedy stranger atop his mount. She must think him an Indian too, or at least that he has a bit of their savage blood running in his veins. “Sarah,” she says, her voice quivering. “Find your sister and bring her. I like it not she be gone with these strangers so nearby.”
“Aye, Mother.”
All about the area, older women cluster together. A group of boys hide under wagons near the gathering of men. Ruth’s brother, Andrew Martin, and George are among them. I gather all attempt to listen in on the conversation of men and learn the strangers’ intentions.
Shielding my eyes, I find the young stranger again.
He sits so still he almost looks a bronzed statue dressed in black rags. Only when he nods at me is the ruse broken.
“Sarah!”
I turn to see Emma skipping toward me.
“You look for Wesley Greene, do you not?” she asks.
“I—”
She playfully slaps my shoulder. “Do not deny it! I know you fancy him!”
“But I—”
She looks at the crowd of men and blushes. “He is handsome.”
I had not noticed before Wesley stood with them. Nearly eighteen, his presence there speaks to our community viewing him as a man.
Emma grins. “I know it is wrong to gossip, but I would like to share a secret with you. Promise not to tell?”
“Aye, I prom—”
“I think he fancies you too!” Emma says. “I hear he will soon be looking to take a wife. Isn’t that grand? You will be so blessed if he chooses you! Every girl in Winford hopes to earn his favor.”
My thoughts go then to Mother and the other women waiting on the men to finish their business with the strangers. My gaze turns back upon the younger newcomer without my meaning to.
He watches me still. Unlike Wesley, however, the stranger is not so keen to break his gaze from mine.
“Or…” Emma’s voice wavers as she follows my stare. “Or do you not fancy him because you desire another?”
“I don’t—”
“It is Benjamin King you want, isn’t it?” Her voice breaks as she looks at the young man beside Wesley. “Tell me true…you desire him.”
“Emma…”
“You desire him, and you shall win him because you are beautiful and I am plain.” Her head hung low, she walks away from me brooding.
I go to her. Take her hands in mine. “Hear me, Emma,” I say in earnest. “I do not fancy Benjamin King.”
“Truly?” She sniffs.
I shake my head.
She casts a fearful look at Benjamin. “Well…but why not? Is there something wrong with him?”
“No, the—”
“Psst! Sarah,” a scratchy voice interrupts me.
Emma gasps.
A seeming corpse, risen from beyond the grave, stands behind the church, removed from the sight of all but Emma and me. Her once fine dress is tattered. Dark circles make her eyes appear shrunken, their whites lined with pink. Her left shoulder twitches unnaturally, liken to a horse’s haunch will do. She seems not pained by it. In fact, I gather she is not to have noticed it at all.
“Ruth?” I make my way over to her. Pull Emma to join me.
&nb
sp; “Aye,” Ruth answers in a voice not her own.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
Ruth winces at the sunlight, and raises a hand to shield her face from its light. “I experienced the night! You both shall come to dance this eve, won’t you, sisters?”
Emma shifts uneasily beside me. “I shall not…no.” She shakes her head. “Ne’er again will I attend a gathering.”
Ruth scoffs. Her fingers reach for me. “But you…” She suddenly pulls her hand back like it is on fire. “You will join, won’t you, Sarah?”
“I think no. My father suspects—”
“You must!”
I look around the area to see if others heard Ruth’s outburst. All are engrossed in their own affairs…all save for the stranger astride his horse. He has urged his mount aside to keep me in his sights. Yet now I reckon his stony stare is no longer meant for me. It is firmly poised upon Ruth.
“You must come,” Ruth says. She scratches at her face, and not for the first time either. I see faint lines where she has continually done so, picking at her skin like one with the pox.
“Ruth, I cannot.”
She clutches at me. “Please, Sarah…” her voice deepens. “You must come!”
I back away. “But why must it be me?”
Ruth’s face begins a new series of ticks. Her eyes dart around, never focusing. “I…I…I need a witness.” She nods several times. “They will not let me join if I have no one to witness.”
“But what of Charlotte?” I suggest. “Where is she? Can she not—”
Ruth kneels to the ground. She reaches for the back of her head, pulls at her hair, and rocks on her heels as one attacked by invisible harpies. “No…no…no!” Ruth paws at the hem of my dress. “Charlotte joins also. W-we both need you to witness. You are the only one who can…”
I glance away, nervous Mother or Father might come around the church side at any moment and see Ruth in such a state. My fears are unwarranted. I see all still engrossed by the arguments between the Winford men and the newcomers.
“Please, Sarah.” Ruth calls my attention.
“Don’t…” Emma whispers.
Ruth ignores her. “Please…” she begs. “Say you will witness.”
I stare into this poor girl’s eyes. This one I formerly called friend. I pity her. “Aye. I will come. I will witness for you both.”
Ruth releases me. Howls with what I can only assume is happiness. She stops to scratch at her shoulder.
My gut warns she did not mean to.
Ruth takes my clammy hand in hers that feels aflame. “You are a true sister. I shall tell Charlotte.”
Ruth scrambles away from us, bound for the woods. It is not lost on me she is careful to stay clear of any parishioners and the church itself. She runs at a dead sprint, never once turning to glance back at us.
“What devilry happened to them last eve?” Emma asks.
I watch Ruth vanish inside the tree line.
“I wish I knew,” I say. “Perhaps I shall discover it when I witness for them.”
“Sarah! You cannot mean to!”
“I promised her I would, Em—”
A shrill whistle pierces the air.
I turn.
Father has already boarded Mother and Rebecca into our wagon. He whistles again.
I must hurry back. A patient man he may be with many aspects of his life. Disobedience from his children is not one of them.
I run for my family with Emma trailing close behind. No doubt she fears to remain so near the woods alone. I bid her farewell as I reach the wagon and jump in the back. It once made Father laugh that I, a girl, could do it so easily. It tempts not even the smallest of smiles from him now.
I nearly tumble into the belly of our wagon when Father yanks on the reins. He climbs out and hands the reins over to George. “Take your mother and sisters home. I want the horses fed, watered, and stabled ere I return.”
“But, husband,” Mother calls. “Why do you not come with us?”
“I would hear more of what these men have to say without inquiring ears.” Father answers brusquely. Then, he makes the walk back to church alone.
Our wagon lurches forward as George heeds Father’s command quicker than I expected. He sits proudly at the driver’s seat. Almost like Father bestowed some rite of passage upon him.
With so few men left to block my view, I notice the stranger I could not see before. He is old, ancient even, and walks with a limp. I do not for a moment think him frail, however. He moves and speaks with a conviction Reverend Corwin could only begin to pray God for. I wish I could hear his words. By the tone of it, I gather his speech would be far more interesting than any sermon I have yet heard.
Most of the Winford men do not share my view. Many ride away, shaking their heads. I see not a few wives catch their husband’s ear once out of range. No doubt they hope to learn what news the stranger brought. Soon their gossip will spread amidst Winford. It will then be nigh impossible to discern what were truly said and that dreamed up for the sake of telling.
And throughout it all, I notice the younger stranger remains a statue. His gaze fixed on the point where Ruth entered the woods.
-4-
I lie awake with thoughts of Ruth running in my mind. If I do not go to the gathering, I am both liar and oath-breaker. That it is written God damns all liars is not lost on me. My conscience reminds me of Reverend Corwin’s sermon, and that God damns witches also.
But I am no witch. Not truly. The love of night and dancing beneath the moon is all I ever wanted. I cannot recall any punishment in the Good Book for those. I shut my mind of hellfire torment, and turn my thoughts to the question I have asked myself a hundred times already.
Why did Father send us home without his protection?
My brother had no such questions. I lost count of the times George mentioned his want to bravely take on any who might bear us ill will, whether savages or some other foul creature. Upon our arrival, he even went so far as to carry Father’s best rifle with him to and from the barn.
One mention from me that Father oft checked the barn of an evening with no weapons to safeguard him unseated my brother. I further shamed his claims with the reminder if Father truly thought him a man, he would have been asked to stay behind, like Wesley Greene and Benjamin King.
George had little to say after. Less still once Mother shooed him to bed.
She allowed me to stay up but a while longer. I think she wished to not wait alone for Father.
Later, I found Rebecca snoring when I entered our room. She lay there still, sound in her deep, peaceful sleep. And why should she not? There be no further chore she can press me into now Father gave me the worst of hers.
I reach for a small candle and flint near me then strike a flame to the wick. I scoot to the wall to sit with my back against the chimney stones, warmed by the hearth directly below, and then reach for my apron. I drape it over a chair to keep it from wrinkling. Then I retrieve Thomas Putnam’s journal. My fingers linger on the leather. Dare I read more? Is that a damnable punishment too?
I open the journal to my placeholder, look upon the page, and take up my reading again.
***
18th day of January, 1692
Our plot begins this eve.
I met with Dr. Campbell earlier today with my wife away. Once I welcomed him inside, he produced from his satchel a flask of sherry, several vials, and a package containing a blackish substance I first believed gunpowder.
***
My hand claps over my mouth to stifle my gasp. I reread the entry to ensure I did not imagine it. Only a description, but nearly identical to what I saw last eve.
A silly notion. I remind myself on the second reading. He mentioned a blackish powder. Not one with purple flecks.
Still, the thought disconcerts me, albeit not enough to bar me from further reading.
***
He poured the powder and sherry inside the vials, and then shook the mix
ture to resemble a watered down, blackberry jam. Dr. Campbell mentioned the concoction would conjure spirits and lend credence to our cause.
I asked him then how he came by such knowledge. Were he a witch? A wizard?
Neither, sir, came his reply. A man of science only.
Then, he took his leave to visit Reverend Parris and Dr. Griggs. I write this letter now even as I wrestle with my decision. Aye, and my soul.
Do I give the doctor’s potion to my child when I know naught what the results may be? I confess, no small portion of me desires to taste it and see for my own self what spirits the lad claims it will conjure. After all, he did not claim the spirits would be evil. What must it be like to peer into the invisible world?
Yet would doing so cast the spoils owed me aside?
I must think more on it.
24th day of January, 1692
God, what have I done?
This morn I awoke to Ann’s cries of pain. I ran to her side, but my daughter seemed not to recognize me. She convulsed in grievous fits and shrieked of bewitchment. I sent my wife to fetch Dr. Campbell. Upon her return, she mentioned others said he left for Philadelphia yesterday afternoon with Dr. Griggs. 'Tis rumored they shall not return until next month.
Curse both of them. Neither mentioned such travels to me. My good wife also heard tell Betty Parris and Abigail Williams suffer in the same manner. Even now their cries of pain echo throughout Salem, casting fear upon those who hear. She said nothing of Elizabeth Hubbard though. Mayhap Griggs did not give her the potion.
I should have listened to my conscience and not given it to Ann.
For now, we attempt to quiet her until I learn how others in the village react to the other girls’ afflictions.
My wife mentioned also she heard it said the girls danced in the wood at night.
The rumors and gossip have begun, as Dr. Campbell predicted. How did he foresee as much? I must discover the answer.
