Walker Robert W.

Children of Salem

CHILDREN OF SALEM

ROBERT W. WALKER

Copyright © 2010 by Robert W. Walker, www.robertwalkerbooks.com

Cover copyright © 2010 by Stephen Walker, www.srwalkerdesigns.com

BOOK ONE

Prologue

Boston, March 5, 1692

“You want me to go into Salem Village Parish disguised as a man of the cloth and that doesn’t offend you?” Jeremiah Wakely hoped the level of his shock didn’t show on his face.

“Not in the least!” Reverend Cotton Mather fired back, registering the surprise on Wakely’s starkly handsome Black Irish features.

“Not in the least,” parroted Jeremiah in a near whisper, pushing aside a shock of raven-black hair.

“Not so long as it provides us with what we need, Brother Wakley.” The two men had walked the length of the public area of the great North Church of Boston from rear pew to altar. “Look here, Jeremiah, my friend, you’ll have no problem ingratiating yourself with this Reverend Samuel Parris.”

“I am not so sure, sir? Not from what I’ve seen of him in the court records your father provided me.”

“Parris has asked for another pair of hands at his troubled meetinghouse, so the man’s expecting us to send someone,” Reverend Cotton Mather assured Jeremiah Wakely as he walked him deeper into the bowels of the First Church of Boston. “And you with your gift of appearing anything but who you are…and with your knowledge of law and theology—who better to pull off this subterfuge?”

“My going into Salem Village Parish disguised as a man of the cloth doesn’t offend you . . . or your father?” Jeremiah asked.

“Not so long as it provides us with what we need, Brother Wakely.”

“I’m just not anxious to go back to the place of my birth as…as an agent for the Boston Church.” It was hardly the only reason Jeremy wished to steer clear of Salem. Bad history for one, and Serenity for another—Serena, he and her brothers called her.

Jeremy had seen Serena’s family name on more than one of the petitions and complaints labeled at the relatively new minister at Salem, this dubious fellow named Parris. Truth be known, Jeremy’s true reluctance to take on this assignment had all to do with Serena Nurse—youngest daughter to Rebecca and Francis Nurse. His plan—if ever to make her his—had not included spying while playing the role of an apprentice minister. Even so, his heart swelled at the thought of finding her after all this time.

He pictured her smile, the radiant blue eyes, sun-dappled hair, and trim body. He recalled their last kiss at the Frost Fish River’s edge, and their first kiss in the great hayloft. He recalled her laughing and running from him. He pictured her swinging down on a knotted rope that her father had made for the children’s sport.

The Nurses had been a large and generous family, and he’d loved Serena. But it had been a decade since he’d left Serena behind without word of why.

“Please, Jeremy,” Mather was speaking in his ear, having to tiptoe to reach Jeremy’s height while holding open the door to the great hall leading to the sanctuary and the library. “Who better for this work than you?”

“There’s Boswell, Connery!” Jeremy held hat in hand and still the doorway must be negotiated carefully for his six-foot frame.

“But you know the terrain and the people—you were once one of them.”

“I was never one of them, sir.”

Jeremiah caught sight of himself and Mather in the great mirror at the end of the polished red corridor. An odd-looking couple ill-fitted to one another. Wakely’s muscular lanky frame beside Mather’s hefty, barrel-chested body created the look of a blackguard highwayman conspiring with a cloaked minister whose tender limp spoke of the gout. Certainly, Mather appeared too young for the disease but in fact, he ate far too well. Jeremiah must slow his own stride to keep from out-pacing the minister who’d placed so much coin in his hands.

“You know what I mean. Father insists you are our man—the best hope in this affair.” Mather’s appeal bounced off the wall and echoed down the corridor. He may as well be shouting.

Jeremiah wondered how effective he could be on this—hopefully—his last assignment on behalf of Increase Mather—Cotton Mather’s father and head of the church in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned to the back rooms of the largest church in all of Boston to do a job for the Mather family. The pay was generous, and the favors and promises real gifts. To have Increase Mather’s respect and gratitude, not to mention the top minister and legal mind in the country indebted to him? These rewards were too good a prize for a young and ambitious man to turn from. Jeremiah had searched for years to find his place in the world, here in the Bay Colony, and to see his way to his fortune and his comfort. He’d long before stopped dreaming of all that he wanted in life, but here was a chance at a gold ring or two.

“Get inside that disturbed parish, Mr. Wakley,” Cotton Mather instructed.

“To be honest, sir—” Jeremiah felt odd calling Cotton, a shorter and even younger man than himself, sir, but Cotton Mather was the heir apparent here—“I’d rather tangle with pagan Indians than face certain Salem villagers.” Returning unannounced and doing the sort of work I do? What might it cost in the end? Any last vestige of hope of making peace with Serena? It’d surely amount to old wounds reopened. Or seeing the ugly truth of it—wounds so well healed over as to give her no discomfort whatsoever?

Mather laughed at Jeremiah’s last remark and showed his guest through an inner door, a magnificent library, something to challenge the library at Harvard College. Jeremiah scanned the room, wishing he could read every book here when his eye fell on an infamous title: General Rules for Excommunication and Witch Craft Proceedings. One tomb he cared not to read.

“You’ve done well keeping us apprised of Indian movements, Jeremy.” Mather indicated a leather chair, but Jeremiah continued scanning book titles instead, mesmerized. “But this matter of that troubled village parish has become a disease, and we must know the facts.”

“So many differing sides from what I’ve seen so far,” Jeremy muttered.

“Exactly! It’s become a hydra of tongues in our courts.”

Mather’s unusual metaphor for the troubles among the parishioners at Salem Village and some in Salem Seaport threw Jeremiah into a reverie. From all the papers that he had read of the cases that had continually plagued the courts, it appeared that since the day Reverend Samuel Parris signed his contract at Salem, discord ruled. The minister himself had become an angry, bitter, and displeased fellow; displeased with a large contingent of his congregation.

“Perhaps the man is angry by nature,” Mather continued, shrugging, “but now he’s angry over this infernal contract.”

“Questions every word and point, it seems,” Jeremy agreed, turning from the books to face Mather. “And he wishes to sue individuals and whole families.”

“Repeatedly!” Mather’s hefty mid-section bounced with his laughter. “And the man’s repeatedly choking the court system. He’s obsessed! Imagine a man using the courts to combat those who’ve employed him.”

Jeremy had seen Parris’ court papers a few days before when Increase Mather asked him for an opinion. It was the first time he’d seen the Nurses named in the suit—Serena’s father, Francis in particular. In fact, his initial reaction to seeing anyone finding any fault with Francis Nurse left Jeremy scratching his head. This man and his wife had been the kindest of people toward Jeremy.

The opposition had tired of Parris’ three-year reign over the village parish, and according to these parishioners, it’d been a tyrannical rule at best. A Puritan meetinghouse held certain democratic principles, at least among the elder male and female adults, but even these freedoms of the ‘freemen’ and ‘freewomen’ in Salem Village, some felt, were under threat of complete loss so long as Parris presided there.

Mather broke into Jeremiah’s thoughts with, “My father and the minister at Salem Town Church—”

“Reverend Nehemiah Higginson, is it? Is he still at the pulpit?”

“Yes, aha! You do know people in Salem.”

“Only in passing as a boy.” Jeremy recalled Higginson’s booming voice filling the meetinghouse in the village on occasions when he’d visit from his seaport parish. He recalled a sturdy, strong, and straight up man in black with graying hair and huge shoulders. Serena Nurse had once said of Higginson that he was a minister whose compassion would put angels to shame, but that was ten years ago, and Serena was, like Jeremy at the time, a fifteen year old.

“At any rate,” continued Mather, “it’s at Reverend Higginson’s behest that we find evidence against Parris.”

“How much evidence—and evidence of what nature?” Jeremiah pressed Cotton Mather.

“Enough to topple him from the parish altogether. Whatever it takes.”

“I shan’t fabricate evidence, sir.”

“No need of crafting it with this man,” countered Mather. “He is his own worst enemy.”

“Then this matter is already decided?” Jeremy sat now.

“My father and Mr. Higginson are old friends and colleagues.” He offered Jeremiah a dram of ale poured from a pewter pitcher. Jeremiah took the offering and drank deeply.

“I understand they go back to Seminary School together at Harvard College.”

Cotton nodded appreciatively. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Harvard, where eventually and for many years after, your father presided as president before taking over as spiritual leader of the First Church here. Little wonder your father is suspicious of this Samuel Parris.”

“Father finds it curious that Mr. Parris claims to’ve been ordained at Harvard when there is no record of his finishing there.”

“It’s not unusual for a minister to complete his ordination elsewhere. And if memory serves, wasn’t there a fire at the Divinity School that wiped out some records?”

Harvard had begun as a Divinity School and to date was the only school of higher learning in the colonies; aside from getting a berth to Europe or England, there was no other place for a man seeking higher learning to go. Jeremiah had put in two years of study of law and history there himself since leaving Salem as a young man.

“Look Jeremy,” Cotton continued, his tone pressing like a knife now, “Reverend Nehemiah Higginson has tried to pin Parris down to exactly what year he was ordained—anywhere!—to no avail. Said and I quote—”

“Never mind, quoting me, Cotton!” came a booming voice and a man with a noisy cane entered through a door where he’d been listening at the keyhole, or so Jeremiah surmised. “Mr. Wakely, I am Higginson.”

They shook hands, and Higginson added, “Young Mr. Mather here is not emphasizing our need hardly enough—and that time is our enemy.”

“But, sir,” countered Mather, “I thought we agreed—”

“Never mind what we agreed. Look here, Wakely, I recall you…”

“You do, sir?” Jeremy was skeptical.

“Recall your father, your birth mother, and your beautiful stepmother, all dead now. And I recall you as a boy in Salem. You tended bell and fire on Watch Hill for Deacon Ingersoll.”

“I am flattered, sir, that you recall it. I remember you as well.” But this man did not look like the strong giant of Jeremy’s memory. This man was ashen with only tufts of snow white hair, sunken eyes, shriveled lips and voice, a scarecrow’s body held up by a rickety cane. The years had battered the minister as if in some cosmic war and on the verge of losing.

“Son, it wasn’t my parish in Salem Town who excommunicated your father.” A pained look came over the weary features. “Rather ’twere those unmerciful souls inhabiting in the village at that time—many who’ve passed on to whatever reward awaited them.”

“Them, yes, that refused my stepmother a seat in the meetinghouse, and later my father a burial plot. Yes, sir. I know the sort well.” Jeremy’s eyes bore into Higginson. No one in authority had intervened on behalf of a poor dish-turner, he thought but held his tongue.

“And so you have scars from that place—a good thing! You must do all you can for this cause, young man. Else…else I’m off to my grace afore seeing the village holdings returned to our control. Wrested free of this misguided Barbados businessman’s control. He must relinquish any fanciful belief in his ownership in perpetuity of our property!”

“But then why did the Select Committee make such a deal in the first place?” Jeremiah lamented the question even as it escaped him. He set aside his empty cup.

“The pact was with only half his congregation.”

“So I am hearing.”

“The half that signed away the parish property and parsonage,” the aged, white-haired minister fired back. “In essence, he and the others’ve stolen property of the First Church—me, man, me! And the entire congregation!”

“Sounds outrageous.”

Higginson remained sharp, picking up on Jeremy’s sarcasm. “See here, Mr. Wakely, you must have some allegiance to your old parish. The parish that molded you.”

“My allegiance is to Reverend Increase Mather, sir.” Whenever dealing with theologians, Jeremy felt as if walking a tightrope. It was a struggle to keep one foot in the real world without insulting such men. Does this old minister really believe that I owe Salem Village a thing? How he wished that Increase hadn’t abandoned him to these two—one officious, the other in his dotage. Among church and statesmen, Increase Mather alone was the exception—as practical as he was intelligent. His son, Cotton, was an empty shadow of his father.

But the covenant tonight was with these two—Higginson and Cotton Mather as Increase was gone—almost as if he’d planned it. Such poor timing, to be away now—two days under sail, months before he might return.

Higginson took Jeremy aside, a palsied hand on his shoulder. “You do understand that the parsonage, even the meetinghouse, and everything on the grounds Parris claims as his.”

“Deeded over to him by his congregation so I’ve read.”

“An unlawful contract!” shouted the old man who fell into a coughing jag. “And being enforced by his deacons.”

Mather added from where he stood, “Even claims the parish apple orchard!”

Higginson seconded this with a pounding cane to the floor. “Yet those lands and buildings rightfully belong to Salem Town Parish!”

Jeremy squinted at this. “Your parish, sir?”

“Created as an offshoot of the main parish, yes!”

Jeremiah nodded appreciatively. “Then any such dealings rightfully go through your council of elders and deacons?”

“Yes, Jeremiah, before you were born that parish village home and meetinghouse was built to create a convenient place of worship for those living in the village.”

It never gave me or mine any comfort, he thought.

“Especially during particularly rough winters,” added Higginson.

Cotton Mather erupted with, “And now they’ve given it—lock, stock, and barrel—to this man Parris!”

What few teeth Higginson still had, Jeremiah feared he’d crack, so hard was he gnashing them now. “And then there’s this claim that he is a Harvard educated minister, ordained—ha!”

“Then you think him a fraud?”

“Parris has no more right to the property than any of the eight or nine ministers who came before him.”

Mather brandished paperwork over his head. “The original grants—same as those offered the minister before Parris, all broken! Every commandment, every contract! Thanks to the party that recruited Parris.”

“Led by men Parris has named as deacons and elders, some of whom are the man’s relatives!” Higginson found a seat, looking faint.

“Outrage . . . untenable,” Jeremiah knew the words to this game. If Increase Mather and such dignitaries as Higginson wanted this man Paris out, they’d find a way to uproot him with or without any dirt that Jeremiah might dig up.

“Porter is his cousin,” sneered Higginson, a bit of uncontrolled spittle escaping his mouth. “He and that fool Thomas Putnam, brother-in-law, went clear to Barbados to entice the devil to come to Salem!”

“These men you name,” began Jeremiah, “they led the delegation to Barbados?”

“Trust me . . . they’re all abed together in all these nefarious affairs.”

Jeremiah asked at this point. “Will you, sirs, and your father, Reverend Mather, will all three of you back me if I am exposed?”

Higginson didn’t hesitate. “If you can prove this hiring of Samuel Parris three years ago was an ill-conceived contract, that there are holes, young man, you have my undying gratitude—which means that of Increase Mather as well.”

“Demonstrate your ability with the law,” added Cotton Mather, “demonstrate that it is an illegal contract. And yes, absolutely, we’ll back you, Wakely. And the more evidence we can bring to bear . . .well…. ”

“We need your experienced eye and ear in that parish, man,” added Higginson. “Meet me at midnight tomorrow night before going into the village.”

“Midnight? Where?”

“At Watch Hill—” he coughed roughly—“before you enter the village for the parish house. When we meet in public, no one can know that we’ve had any contact.”

“Understood but Watch Hill at the witching hour?”

“This fiend, Parris, believes himself the owner of the entire parish and its buildings.” More coughing interrupted the old man. “I will have additional papers, affidavits you should see and read before you go much further.”

“I hope your confidence in me is not misplaced, Reverend Higginson.”

Mather laughed and poured more ale for them all. “Come, come. This is a challenge for a man of your talents, and if you rise to it, Wakely, your star will rise as well. You will’ve finalized your indenture to our family and take up your final education in the law. My father will see to it that you are well rewarded.”

Jeremiah kept his eyes pinned on the elder statesman of the church. Higginson did not flinch or blink. “Increase spoke of a magistrate’s seat opening up…an appointment in a district along the Connecticut, I believe. Once this is over.”

Jeremiah turned to Mather. “I’d like that in writing, sir.”

Again Mather laughed. “That’s why my father likes you, Jeremy! Preparation and reparation. You’re wise enough to cover your backside.”

The powerful Mathers had obviously discussed this matter at length with the patriarch Higginson some time before Reverend Increase Mather had sailed for England in a bid to negotiate a new Charter for the colonies with the new King of England. The Mathers and Higginson believed that an insider was needed, one the powerful ministers, in the end, could control.

Mather now lifted his ale cup and toasted: “Get word back to us, Jeremy.”

Jeremy stayed his hand for any final toast. He feared his coming off as ridiculous in Serena’s eyes—no matter her current situation—when he should show up in that cursed village as a Prodigal Son who’d turned to the clergy. There as an apprentice working toward being ordained a Puritan minister. Far from the promises made to Serena in the letter he’d penned and left behind, that he’d return when he made his way in the world as a man worthy of her. As a result of these careening thoughts, Jeremiah’s ale cup was the last to go up in toast to seal this backroom deal.

The sloshing cup in Higginson’s hand shook like a windblown sheaf of paper. The old man’s other hand, planted firmly on his cane, shook as well, so hard that it sent the cane from side to side. Still, the three men drank to success while Jeremiah thought, but dared not say: Higginson’s one foot is in the grave, the other slipping, while Cotton Mather is the definiton of an opportunist. What private conversations have they had? What do they figure to collect from their schemes? Have I struck a bargain with the devil?

All three men now emptied their cups, but this caused even more ghastly coughing coming from deep within Higginson’s gut. Regardless of Higginson’s difficulty, they all shook hands after Mather, at the last moment, snatched on a white glove.

Then Jeremiah Wakely put aside his cup and said, “I’d best be off…prepare for my trip back to Salem.”

As Jeremiah rushed off, he gave a fleeting thought to Serena Nurse. She represented the only true penitence that’d come of his having left Salem a decade ago. She’d likely be well married by now, perhaps with a toddler if not two, and she’d scarcely give him a glance. As for his giving her a glance, it’d likely be from afar if at all.

She’d be untouchable of course, and she’d surely have forgotten all about him by now. Serena hadn’t been the only reason he’d not wanted this duty, but she remained the only reason he’d not spoken of. To speak of the depth of his pain and longing to such men as Mather and Higginson might well have gotten him a cheery pat on the back and a bit of a chuckle but hardly understanding. At least he imagined as much now as he made his way along the closed-in, dark streets of Boston’s North End, going for his lodgings.

The few lamps that lit his way only made the darker corners and hideaways blacker still: places that cloaked piratical Portuguese sailors waiting for a berth alongside the usual scoundrels and human jetsam. His path took him within speaking and hearing distance of such men lolling about a tavern or locked away in the North End jail. All signs said that a cutthroat might leap out at him at the next footfall. Someone who might as casually kill him for what loose coin jingled in his pouch as say “G’evenin’ gov’ner.”

As he passed ships in the harbor, the rigging beating an ominous sound in a building wind, he thought of how Reverend Mather had meant to keep Reverend Higginson’s presence in Boston their little secret until the old man came storming from behind that door.

Did everyone in the church have a secret passion or something to hide? What did it gain Mather the Younger to align himself with the most powerful churchman in Salem Town, a seaport doing twice the business with England and foreign ports as Boston these days? A seaport destined to become the center of all commerce in the Massachusetts Bay Colony?

Sleep on it, he told himself.

It’d been a long journey to Boston from Casco Bay, Maine, where his last assignment had taken him to another troubled parish. Then the Puritan leadership kept close watch on a former minister of Salem Village, Reverend George Burroughs.

The minister had left Salem in disgrace and under a dark cloud; in fact, he’d left from a jail cell. Nonpayment of debts that’d accrued from two funerals—one for his wife and the other his children, all dead of a plague. Reverend Burroughs had resettled in Maine as a possible heretic. However, Jeremiah’s reports, he believed, vindicated the man, and so he imagined that was one fire he’d doused—and that perhaps his work served a noble purpose after all. But thus far, only Reverend Cotton Mather had read his reports on the matter and no action one way or the other had been taken in the Burroughs affair.

To be sure, George Burroughs proved a colorful character indeed for a man who earned his living from behind a pulpit. Jeremy thought him a minister who might fit in with that colony of misfits—Rhode Island.

By the time Jeremiah found his bed and undressed for sleep, as sleeping naked was his preference, it’d grown quite late. He lay on his rough mattress and pillow in the crowded Red Lion Inn, wakeful yet.

Again he was thinking far more of Serena Nurse than he was of riding off to Salem out of some sense of duty. He worried far more about his first confrontation with her than any eccentric minister or possible heretic, or of Mather’s cow-towing to Higginson, for that matter.

In fact, the image of Serena, ten years younger than today, swept out all other thought. He remembered her golden hair, often flowing loose, always luxurious and framing a heart-shaped, smiling face. He recalled how she smelled as fresh and wonderful as the new morning’s dew that once they rolled about in as foolish and young hearts. He recalled how creamy and smooth her skin was against his, and how sweet her lips to his taste. Her hands so tender and warm, her arms welcoming. All romantic memories that wanted so much to push away the awful reality of the situation.

Bittersweet memories of Serena afforded some comfort, despite his losing her, despite the ache in his heart. It was an image to lull and to anchor a man. Even a man without a home; to lull him into a desire for slumber over drink or gambling or worse vices still. Serena, he asked himself as he dozed off, do you remember or care to remember what we once had?

Chapter One

Swampscott, Essex County, Massachusetts, March 6, 1692 at the midnight hour

At two-score-ten and four, the woman in tattered clothes chewed tobacco, lit a candle, shakily stood alone in the abandoned McTeagh cabin, then waddled straight for her hidden magic needles and the doll.

The doll she’d paid dearly for was fashioned by Sam Wardwell, both blacksmith and cunning man, some openly called the Wizard of Andover. Sarah had made several trips to make payments, and each time Wardwell would display the doll in its progress from wood to realism. Sarah Goode believed the man a magician.

Further, Wardwell asked no questions beyond her specifications. He kept mum, too, and never knew that his creation was in the image of Betty Parris; that it was a doll that’d do harm to Reverend Samuel Parris’ eleven-year-old, little Elizabeth Junior, named for her mother.

The doll, once stuck full with pins—as Parris’s Barbados servant, Tituba Indian, had instructed—would thereby inflict pain on the minister’s daughter; thereby inflicting suffering on the minister himself. But only if Sarah used a lock of the child’s real hair, pinned to a swath of cloth belonging to the child made into a pouch harboring the child’s nail clippings. All items Sarah had bartered from the hands of Tituba, the Barbados witch and servant to the Reverend Samuel Parris. Aside from a few pretty shells and a green bottle, all that Tituba had wanted from the bargain was that Sarah Goode eventually destroy Reverend Parris.

The old woman was unsure if she believed everything that Tituba had told her about Reverend Parris—like the business of his having either stolen or killed Tituba’s infant at birth—and that it was his child—but Goode understood why the black servant hated her master. “Tit’shuba hates ’im ’cause what Parris done to her. Same as me—took her child same as my Dorcas.”

Goode’s candle flickered against a pinched, prune-dried face. The bowlegged Sarah must push and pull her weight on legs reluctant to take her the final step. It was, after all, a grave undertaking she had planned: to strike hard at a minister. A plan that would take her into the dark arts far deeper than ever she had practiced before—to commit witchcraft on a child.

This last reluctance held her; perhaps she ought not to do what her anger dictated. Perhaps she should show a measure of Christian forgiveness, mercy. But when she looked for such things as pardon and clemency, all she found were the vilest of Christian curses to hurl at the Reverend Mr. Parris.

In fact, none of the simple curses would do. Nothing as mundane as ‘may your dog ne’er hunt, may your pig ne’er grunt, may your cow ne’er milk, nor your worms e’er silk; may your lock ne’er latch, the wind take your thatch. Things had gone far beyond such humdrum incantation, and Goode had tried all the more tedious hexes on Parris, but the man’s protection proved strong against the commonplace. Besides, murderous thoughts had come of an old woman’s rage. So murderous and heinous that for days now, her incantations had continued nonstop. She’d gone without sleep.

She stopped in her machinations long enough to mutter another curse—this one the strongest yet directed at the minister’s heart: “May the hot coals of your hearth, Mr. Parris, fall ‘pon your home and burn your heart! May your legs go lame, and your ugly soul perish in flame! May your wife shrivel and die as winter grass, and may your children’s catechism turn to the Devil’s class.”

She ended with an aged tear escaping her left eye.

“No damming curse is ’nough,” the crone muttered. “A curse alone’ll not do. Not for the likes of you. Damn you for stealing wee Dorcas from me.”

She recalled how the minister had handed Dorcas over to a parish family to become a maidservant—used as a wee slave by strangers! “To learn a trade,” the minister had said.

Sarah knew better; it was outright theft of a child from her mother, and the minister had taken coin for placing Dorcas—as addled and sick a child as her. “Old Porter’ll use her badly, sure. But he’ll be cursed next!” She spat the names of villagers she hated. “Parris, Porter, Putnam—all three . . . the Devil take all of thee.”

She placed the candle on the floor at the northeast corner. There she had safely hidden the instruments of her witchcraft. She worked to loosen the board, and from below it, she snatched up the long knitting needles all wrapped in linen. Below these, she located her book of spells, and below the book, the doll exactly where she’d hidden it on her last trek to Swampscott. She stared now at the well-crafted doll, so lifelike…its blue eyes and corn silk hair reflecting in the weak candle glow. One strand the girl’s true hair.

Cackling in delight, Goode came away from her kneeling position with all of her necessities balanced in her arms. Duck-toeing to the center of the room, she placed each item onto a low-standing oaken table. Here the shining, winking needles acknowledged her like an old friend, and why not? She had used them many times before to make an enemy suffer.

But this was the first time she’d set out to harm a child, and a minister’s child at that. It gave her pause. Then Goode lifted her longest needle to her eyes, and it spoke to her, whispering the words: use me.

The gleaming long needle wanted using. The feel of it against her palm said so.

With leathery jowls roiling, Goode’s jaw worked in a habitual circle, her tongue rolling tobacco around her gums. A brown drool escaped from time to time, soup spatter about her chin. Tobacco held healing powers. This her sore gums attested to daily. She would trade her last table scrap for a wedge of ’bacca.

She now opened the tattered little book of spells, leafing through to find just the thing to harm Reverend Mr. Parris, the lying-thieving-bastard. She spied the right page and flattened the yellowed edges, creasing the pamphlet with aged thumbs. She scanned the ancient Latin words she’d memorized as a child from her mother before her, because Sarah could only read a handful of words.

The doll’s ruffled dress moved. A breeze . . . cracks in the old cabin walls accounts for it, Goode decided when the frilly dress stilled. Another strange wind threatened her candle and lifted the book page, flapping it ever so gently as if by an invisible hand or fairy. Now a stronger gust blew into the cracks, threatening to extinguish the candle.

She attempted to save the candle from going out, but the page tore from the book, lifted and wafted off and below the table.

Is Reverend Parris at the window? Is he before his fire, sending forth his familiars to bedevil me even as I mean to bedevil him? Is the man in black a blackhearted wizard himself? Could he be causing me to lose my page and my calm?

“A pox on ye!” she shouted the habitual chant before bending, reaching unsteadily, and finally crawling below the table for the page. The page regained, she groaned with her rising. Upright, a hand on her backside, her eye went from window to door, half-expecting to see it broken in, followed by men and lanterns and dogs come to drag her to the nearest tree. All with Parris overseeing her hanging. She imagined herself squealing, kicking, fighting to no avail until choked to death, her neck broken.

But all remained silent. Just the wind kicking up.

Her hazel eyes went directly to the blue eyes of the doll again. Warm blue pools so like the minister’s daughter, wee but plump Betty Parris.

“Gawd but that clever Andover blacksmith put so much of you into the likeness,” she said to the empty cabin. “He did fashion you well, my Betty. Even got your dimples down. Gaw’d blind me, if you ain’t-a-spittin’ image.”

Trembling in anticipation of her full-blown magic and the results of her witchery, Sarah smiled her toothless grin. The witch held the doll against her breast, sobbing over it, asking its forgiveness, calling it by the child’s name as she did so. “Forgive me, Betty, dear.”

She held it against the table with one hand while her other lifted overhead and sent the longest needle into the doll. The needle deeply and evenly penetrated the soft, balsa wood belly. She brought the likeness, needle and all, up close to her mouth and kissed its lifelike lips, noting how extraordinary the little nostrils appeared, so real in the candle glow. As if breathing on its own…a pained breathing… and those eyes . . . vacant and innocent, had they been painted brown, the doll might be a likeness of her own Dorcas.

Sarah felt the pang of onrushing emotion. She freely cried for the child, Betty, and she cried for her missing Dorcas. “I didn’t ask for this trouble between your father and me, child,” she told the doll. “Twas all his doing! First excommunicating me from that damned church, and then stealing my Dorcas! And cloakin’ it in the goodness of his parish duties! Lying swine. Sold my Dorcas into slavery is what he’s done! Money changed hands!”

She jammed another long needle into Betty’s likeness. Tearfully, Goode cried out, “The sins of the father are visited ’pon the child! Not my rule! Not my sins.”

She heard the doll whisper, I understand, Goodwife Goode.

Goode rammed another needle into the doll.

The doll winked at her under the candle glow as if to add, Father’s left you no choice.

Chapter Two

Watch Hill, outside Salem Village, same time

Jeremiah Wakely in black riding cape reined in his pale horse and brought the gray-speckled mare to a soft trot. He and Dancer rounded the base of the gravelly hill that Jeremy recognized as Watch Hill. Must be careful . . . discreet. He urged the horse now up the gentle slope beneath the moonlight. Must arrive in Salem Village without notice. “Perhaps an impossibility?” he asked the horse, leaning in to pat the animal.

As Jeremiah and his horse Dancer scaled the ancient hill, he wondered if it had not been a mistake to make this pact with Mather. Wondered if he shouldn’t ‘ve told both ministers the previous night—and in no uncertain terms that he was…what? Uncertain? “Hardly strong enough language for what ails ye tonight, eh, Wakely?” he spoke aloud to himself in the cold night air. Any moment now, he expected to see Higginson coming up the other side of this wretched hill, but so far no sign of the man.

In a pace that stirred so much emotion in Jeremy, he wondered if the Mathers, and now Higginson, had not placed their confidence in his ability to remain neutral and above the fray possible. An attitude necessary to accomplish what amounted to a conspiracy against Reverend Parris. Am I the right man for this affair? Suppose the others are wrong? Suppose I’m the worst possible choice for this grim and complicated undertaking? Am I up to it?

Then there was the fear that had welled up and engorged his heart with every hoof beat bringing him closer to Salem and Serena. His mind played over this fear…played over the moment that he’d most assuredly again lay eyes on her.

The feel of the white steed beneath him sent a slow and easy rhythm through Jeremiah. A calm had settled over man and horse after the full gallop from Boston. Nonetheless, Jeremiah could feel the animal’s heart racing still—a kind of chant, reminding Jeremiah of his mission, its gravitas and significance. More rumor than fact but in earlier attempts to unseat Samuel Parris, people had fallen gravely ill and others had died—some said of poison, some pointed to poisoned thoughts, while others cried witchcraft! After all, a minister who practiced magic was not altogether unheard of in Salem as people there recalled Reverend George Burroughs who on occasion had performed magic tricks and displays of so-called superhuman strength at the altar.

Coincidence or not, the latest and most outspoken of Parris’ critics was none other than Rebecca Nurse, Serena’s mother, who—if word could be believed was herself abed with a condition bordering on death. Of course, there might be no connection whatsoever, but it smelled mightily to some, and it raised suspicious minds to a fevered pitch, especially as Serena’s father, Francis, had also been an outspoken member of the group opposing Parris. Odd for certain, yet not surprising that Serena’s family—serious churchgoers—would be in the thick of any parish business. It amounted to yet another reason why Jeremy questioned his ability to pass fair judgment one way or the other.

Regardless here he was, poised to enter the fray himself. And regardless of how he was selected or why, he’d soon enter that cursed village of ill memory; enter it along a dirty cow path west of Ipswich Road.

Man and horse reached the summit of Watch Hill, a place where once, as a boy Jeremiah Wakely worked for the village and room and board at Deacon Nathaniel Ingersoll’s Inn and Apoethcary. As a scrawny boy, Jeremy guarded the entire expanse of what had been called Salem Farms. He stood watch, prepared to torch a bonfire and to ring a huge bell so large it’d been mounted on a heavy oaken frame. Jeremy had been proud in those days—acting as eyes and ears against the then troubling pagans of the bush as Ingersoll, his overseer, had routinely called the native Massachusetts Indians.

Bonfire and bell were long gone now. In their place a scorched area of earth that looked for all the world to be the remnants of a pagan dance altar what with that familiar spike of a boulder squarely in it. Jeremy took in the old place even as he cursed the apparent absence of Nehemia Higginson. He had expected the creaky old minister to have taken the easier approach on the northwest side in a comfortable buggy, but no sign of horse, buggy, or minister. Groaning aloud, he scanned the distance all round from the top of Watch Hill. No sign whatsoever of the aged minister reported back.

It appeared the decrepit minister had broken off their meeting, and he’d so hoped to inform Higginson of the many misgivings bouncing about in his head—to confess his strong ties with the Nurses and Serena, to plead for a postponement, and to bring in another man for this employment. It was as if Higginson feared just this might occur—as if the wiley old gentleman had surmised that Jeremy might question his mission, and so the old man chose to stay away and leave him no counsel.

“Nothing I can prove, mind you,” he said to Dancer, “but it certainly feels we’ve been prematurely abandoned, girl. Perhaps events beyond Higgison’s control’ve taken over.”

He now saw in the distance the whole of Salem Farms—the lands stretching along the Ipswich Road and the valley, the most prominent being the Nurse family compound and homes.

He’d meant to avoid the Nurse family home, but how? It stood between Salem Town and Salem Village, and their land holdings had increased enormously in the decade he’d been away—as he’d kept an eye on the court records. The Nurse family compound had in fact quadrupled, making any effort to go around out of the question. The Ipswich Road would take him to within feet of the front porch of the old homestead, whereas the back road, the cow path, also cut through Nurse property, but it was the lesser of two evils tonight.

Jeremiah stood high in the stirrups now, allowing himself a moment to stare down at the old main house. Beautiful old place really, and it held many memories for him.

The original home sat nestled in the crook of a split forge, roughly the shape of an anvil. It stood sentinel between the Frost Fish and Crane rivers, tributaries of a peninsula stretching from Salem Harbor and the seaport. These waterways made the land rich and easy to work, affording two speedy avenues to harbor trade, even when frozen over. Anyone living along the Ipswich road had that avenue overland. The Nurse-Cloyse clan had the Ipswich road and the waterways, as did Giles and Martha Corey with their nearby gristmill at the terminus of a third tributary of the Woolston River called the Cow House.

Jeremiah recalled playing about the Corey mill with Serena and her brothers; recalled how Serena loved to watch the giant wheel turn with the force of the Cow House current. The memory created a sad refrain in his mind’s eye: the image of children at play on that last day he’d gone splashing in the Frost Fish with Serena, the beautiful, youngest Nurse daughter. He recalled a glorious memory of them canoeing, too, sometimes with one or more of her brothers at hand, and her father or mother watching from shore.

With the breeze tugging at his hat and cape, Jeremy gave a thought to a time when the Nurses had informally made him one of theirs. For years he’d helped them work this land. This after Jeremiah’s excommunicated father, a poor dish turner by trade, had died of consumption—or had it been of a broken heart?

Jeremiah’s father, John Wakely, had died a few years after the loss of his second wife to cholera. Her death came shortly after the villagers voted to shun their family for his father’s having married outside the faith—to a French woman no less. Jeremiah’s birth mother had died in labor, a not uncommon end in the colonies.

“’Twas the Nurse family took me in, Dancer.” Jeremiah spoke to his horse, stroking the mane. “Showed mercy they did. But at the time, I was so damnably angry at the world. I threw it back in their faces.” His memories turned to regret. “Hurt everyone who loved me, especially Serena.”

Even her name caused his heart to stir. People in Salem, and Puritans in general, named their children after desired traits: Piety, Charity, Chastity, Fidelity, Serenity. Men were saddled with Biblical names from Moses to Solomon, Ezekiel to Abraham, but saddled too often with Prosperity, Industry, Honor, Loyalty, Alacrity, Remorse, Steadfast, Wisdom, and Increase—qualities praised in biblical text. Go forth and Increase as certainly Mather had with thirteen children, despite the large percentage who’d not made it to manhood. Mather’s certainly increased around his middle over the years, to be sure! Jeremy laughed aloud at the thought.

The problem with naming an infant such a thing as Redemption was that it asked mere men to live up to such names. With these thoughts and biding time for Higginson’s arrival, Jeremy said to Dancer, “I’m a lucky one, eh girl? No Industry for me! All I need do is spread word of dreadful tidings!” Jeremiah’s reference was to his namesake, a biblical-doomsday-prophet, the man who had foreseen the captivity of the Israelites in Babylon and the fall of Judah and Jerusalem. Salem itself derived from Jerusalem, meaning place of peace. “What an irony there is in that? And why am I talking to you? What does a horse know of irony?

So…here I am alone again. Holding tight to the reins, he dismounted. Dancer snorted and scratched at the ground when suddenly her head came up, ears pricked. What did she hear? Higginson approaching? But just as quickly, the horse settled back to searching the bare earth here for tufts of grass to feed on. Jeremy stroked her neck and back to soothe her jitters. Perhaps the wind had frightened her as it’d begun to whip his cape and burn his exposed skin. A light dusting of gritty, hard snow and sleet had begun to add to his misery as well.

Under the moon, which came and went, he again scanned for the old minister but saw no clue. Instead, his eye fell on the light at the Nurse home, and he imagined the warmth of the once familiar hearth down below in the lush green meadow. A life he’d forfeited. Dancer tugged at his hold, pulling to nibble at grass shoots about her hooves. Jeremy imagined that his horse must be curious as to why they’d held here, in the middle of nowhere with a cold night becoming colder by the minute, and her master staring out across the empty land. Dancer’s forelocks had relaxed, but her skin remained lathered from the long ride and a visible chill rippled through her. Jeremy imagined the horse must think their journey at an end, that they’d remain here, finished for the night.

Growing more and more impatient and dubious of Higginson’s coming, Jeremy thought of how long he’d been working for the Boston authorities—seven years now.

Jeremiah had left Salem to seek out a wider world and a trade, and to become worthy of Serena’s hand, worthy in her parents’ eyes, and not just some ‘foundling’ or stable hand. He kneeled and lifted a handful of dirt in his black glove, allowing it to sift through his fingers. “Home it is…yet it never was.”

Along with his musings, the biting night air began to chill, and a light dusting of feathery snow began to trickle down, large flakes contrasting sharply against the black minister’s cloak he wore.

He let go the reins, rose and clamored high on the altar-shaped pinnacle of stone, his boots slick. From this vantage point, the wind cutting, biting, he stared out at the road, hoping to see movement toward his position. “Nothing. Where the deuce is that man?”

How much longer do I give it before deciding that, for whatever reason, the minister isn’t rendezvousing with the likes of me after all. Perhaps the man was sick and abed. Poison crossed Jeremy’s mind like a shooting dart, followed by another evil of a worse kind. Something had certainly kept him away, but Jeremy didn’t want to believe that Samuel Parris of his agents bright enough to have caught on, at least not yet.

“Perhaps old Nehemiah came earlier and we simply missed him,” he suggested to the horse and leapt back to earth from his stone perch. “Else the man fell asleep over his brandy at the fireplace.” Rumor had it that Higginson enjoyed drink, and why not? He was on his last leg. “Likely be of little help in this stew he’s stirred up!”

The horse snorted as if in answer. Jeremy erupted with a guffaw. “Well we’re fools to sit here any longer,” he muttered and remounted. He then eased Dancer down the slope for the back road into the village, starting out for the home of Reverend Samuel Parris armed with very little information save the rough outline of a family tree that connected Parris’ house with that of the Porters and the Putnams.

Jeremiah had just gotten up to full gallop when suddenly Dancer reared, frightened. As Jeremiah fought to control his animal, he searched for the source of the animal’s fear. He scanned for a slithering snake, but there was none to be seen. He listened for the sound of a night bird—anything. Only the windswept snow reported back. But then out of the dimness and what seemed a reasonless fog, Jeremiah caught snatches of a walking flurry of rags and rattling bells and bottles tied about a woman’s neck; home-made charms to ward off evil. A crone of unspeakable ugliness with a face of pockmarks and welts, some looking to explode with pus so large and pulsating did the pustules appear under the shimmering moonlight.

Showing herself from behind a gnarled bush, the old crone turned and spat at the noisy, rearing horse, unafraid. But on seeing Jeremiah in black cloak astride the horse, she chanted a mantra to save herself. “It’s you! The black one himself! Gawd save me but master, I am yours.” She had gone to her knees, bowing and scraping at the earth.

On hearing the aged voice, Jeremiah recognized the toothless, tobacco-smoking oddity known hereabouts even when he was a child as Salem’s own witch—old Sarah Goode. As close to a living, walking, talking witch as Salem ever had; even as a boy, he’d been warned to steer clear of Goode. But now a grown man and all he’d seen of witch hangings along the Connecticut River Valley and up in Maine, he did not believe in witches. He believed in frightful old crones like this, disease-spreading, walking corpses, yes, but not witches who rode astride magical brooms about the wending clouds.

“Careful, me lady!” But his sarcasm was lost on her. Who travels afoot on a night like this, and at such an hour?

She cursed under her breath, mumbling and climbing up to her feet as if rolling a log. She then stared up at the horse and rider, and finally, raised a tightly balled fist to the horse’s snout. “You’re a horse! And you up there,” she called to Jeremy as if he were a mile distant, “you are only a man!”

“I am indeed!” Jeremy could not hold back a chuckle.

“Arrrgh! A pox on ye then, and ye cursed animal, too!” She’d decided he was human and not satanic after all. Her tone and rancor proved as much.

For a moment, Jeremiah thought he saw a small babe with blonde hair held tightly against Goode’s breast when in the next instant he recognized it as a stiff wooden doll. Next moment, Jeremiah wondered where Goode had gotten off to; she’d simply disappeared as quickly and as quietly as she’d appeared through the grim veil of night.

“From out of nowhere to into nowhere,” he muttered and patted Dancer, trying to soothe the still shaken animal. “Easy girl . . . easy. That Goode, she’s always been an addled one.” At least, he could comfort himself with one certainty: the first person of Salem Village he’d come across knew naught of his past ties to the village, but the old crone and everyone else would know soon enough.

Jeremy set his heels to his mount, and they were off again for the home of one Samuel Parris, the parsonage home that had remained in legal limbo now for three years.

Gratefully, he saw no more of Goode or any other living creature as the moon, like a galleon, slipped behind restless clouds the color of Jeremiah’s cloak just as the Salem Town clock down at the seaport rumbled and struck a single bell: 1AM.

He’d delayed an hour in wait for Higginson and for what? In order to run down a mad woman named Goode? “God works in mysterious ways,” he muttered to the wind.

He and Dancer now followed the north-south confluence of the river—one of several tributaries that spiked like fingers from Salem Harbor all the way to Bridget Bishop’s Inn. And very near the little shack that’d been the Wakely home, which doubled as a dish-turner shop so long ago. Various rivers here created a boggy backwash in winter and a backwater flood in spring and fall. Four tributaries in all ran into the wider, fast-flowing Woolston, which in turn ran past the First Church of Salem Harbor. Finally, the Woolston fed into the salt-water inlet to mingle with the ebb and flow of the Atlantic where lay an exquisite, perfect, natural jetty that made for an unequalled seaport in the New World.

In fact, every whaler and cargo ship arriving at the Crown Colonies stopped here before going on to Boston. Salem was the port-of-call in the Bay Colonies. Salem Harbor thrived. Commerce served in the seaport town inlet well, while God served the distant and dark, tree-ringed Salem Village, which looked surreal to Jeremy now as he entered this historically troubled place.

He walked Dancer now with the horses’ characteristic high step past a bevy of modest cabins and saltbox homes of clapboard siding, past Ingersoll’s Inn and Apothecary, and past the village common to halt before the meetinghouse and nearby parsonage home and outbuildings. What he stared at from horseback represented a plot of land hotly contested. A plot most recently carved out by Samuel Parris as his—a contested parish house and meeting hall, which had split the parish down the middle over what was right and what was wrong. A contest that had for too long tied up the courts and troubled the ecclesiastical authorities in Boston.

With the snow creating see-through ghostly dervishes before him, Jeremy searched for Samuel Parris’ doorstep.

Chapter Three

At the parsonage door in Salem Village, 1:20AM, March 7, 1692

A stocky, short man, nonetheless Reverend Samuel Parris felt the walls of the small parish home—his property by way of contractual agreement with his flock—closing in on him. The stairwell proved so tight that Parris could hardly make it up the narrow passage to his daughter’s room, where he looked in on little Betty, who’d been battling a fever—symptoms of an ague so often seen in little ones. Betty slept fitfully, as if assailed by nightmares, but at least she slept. Her cousin, the Reverend’s niece, slept too but in a separate bed in the corner.

Every inch of space was accounted for and filled.

Parris slammed a balled fist into his palm and muttered, “Damn my bloody dissenting brethren.” He referred to a faction within his flock. People who resented him and begrudged him this ordinary place with its modest yard and orchard, hardly large enough for his family, hardly more than a common Barbados army barracks. Yet many– too many–begrudged him. Nearly half the village parishioners in fact, and they’d taken to withholding tithes and fees and his rate. As a result, he’d had to find other means of support.

If his rage were given full vent it’d keep him pacing all night, so he attempted to calm himself. At least and at last, he’d found a place to finally settle his family—wife, child, niece, and his once exotic black servant, a Barbados acquisition, named Tituba, whose last name was unpronounceable in English, so he’d had her Christianized and given the last name of Indian. After all, she was Indian native to Barbados.

Parris gave some thought to how little he’d accumulated in life; how little he’d accomplished, and how often he’d failed. One venture after another gone bad. Now it was threatening to happen again. At my age, I simply can’t allow it!

His appointment three years earlier as minister in Salem, Massachusetts was to be his last adventure, and the parsonage his last home. He wanted it to work. Wanted it badly . . . worst than any desire he’d ever held. He’d struggled to become a community leader here, an influential voice, and the spiritual guide in Salem Village.

The Select Village Committee had given him the parsonage house and lands in perpetuity. And yet it was being questioned. Suits were being drawn up against him. The courts might soon be arbiter over his life, thanks in large part to a handful of litigious and arrogant landholders—men who had theirs who wished to deny him his! This scrubby little plot—a mere clump of relatively worthless earth.

Tonight he’d wandered the house from top to bottom and from cubicle to crevice, worried. He’d looked in on everyone, especially checking on Tituba who’d been sneaking out of late. But thankfully, everyone was abed, mother, daughter, niece, servant and his usually squawking bird. He felt a pang of relief at having gotten Mercy—his delinquent niece—out of his home, but she’d been replaced with yet another niece, Mary Wolcott, and he feared Mary might be just as useless as Mercy’d been. Still, he’d had no choice. This rotating of young women and boys among the parishioners was part of his duties, and as such, he collected a tithe on each child for his trouble.

Samuel wound up back in his small room, as he no longer slept in the same bed as his wife Elizabeth. He gritted his teeth at the thought of her snoring and sleeplessness. He gritted even harder at the thought of those in his parish who’d decided to do everything in their power to break what he judged a binding legal contract. True none of the other nearby municipalities—Andover, Ipswich, Wenham, Topsfield, Rowley, or Beverly—had ever relinquished their common parish lands to a minister.

True that ministers were viewed as itinerants who didn’t customarily hold title to their parish homes and lands, but this was after all part and parcel of a package of promises made to him. He meant to hold the people who had sent their emissaries to Barbados to recruit him for their troubled parish accountable. Promises were made. A list of them in fact, one he meant to make them adhere to at any cost.

“Those deacons and elders gave their word—Thomas Putnam, Revelation Porter, Bray Wilkins,” he muttered under his breath. “How was I to know they hadn’t the backing of that nuisance Francis Nurse or John Proctor, from whom they’d broken ranks?”

He suspected too that crotchety old Nehemiah Higginson at the First Church of Salem Town was behind the resurgence of interest in his holdings. The old miscreant was a mischief-maker to be sure. Higginson had, early on, fired up a number of his parishioners against the infamous contract, and now he wanted it settled in his favor before he should pass from this life.

He sat on the edge of his bed, muttering, “Perhaps he’ll die before the court acts. Damn him. A contract is a contract.” He stood and wandered the rooms again. Tight doorways and even the small hardwood furnishings made him feel awkward and obese.

He now pulled a chair to the hearth where embers threatened to leap out at him as they began falling all around, as if filled with a life of their own. A noise from the kitchen area where beneath the steps Tituba Indian slept made him snap to his feet. Going toward the steps, he reached and snatched back the mildewed curtain to expose the thin black woman, Parris half expected to catch her with that black servant of Porter’s, the one who’d been hanging about the house. But no, the male named Moses—also of Barbados—dared not come into this house. No, the noises emanated from a fitful sleep. Tituba rolling over and grumbling unintelligible chanting in her pagan language, but he caught a single English word, a name: Betty, his daughter.

The bony black woman looked to be made of hickory limbs. Nowadays their relationship was merely that of master and servant, and if honest with himself, his shame surrounding this woman had him hating her for what she had taken from him. As for any lingering feelings, he had more concern tonight for the bird and the goats in the barn. He’d atoned so far as he was concerned, and he certainly no longer felt tempted by Tituba. The only thing left between them was a mutual residual anger for what’d occurred years before in Barbados.

Little witch had put him into an untenable position, not simply with his wife but with God.

He returned to the hearth and pulled a book from the bookcase. He owned several books, an Old Testament, a New Testament, and a treatise written by Increase Mather on how the godly life must be led. Parris was, in effect, a man of one book, the Holy Bible. All else paled in his eyes. He strove to live by a strict interpretation of Jehovah’s Ten Commandments and the Pentateuch now as never before.

Parris now took a deep breath and opened his bible to Leviticus, about to read himself into weariness, when he heard a sudden rapping at the parsonage door.

What damned oaf comes at such an hour? Parris mentally shouted. He approached the door, shouted aloud, “Who needs what of me now?” They come to me for all their ills and every petty problem, but do they make my salary?

Each villager’s tithe to him had come slower and slower, until some had stopped altogether, while others paid in pumpkins, squash, oysters, and the occasional lobster. Worse than ordinary thieves, he thought, one hand on the doorknob, his ear against the wood.

Who could it be at such an ungodly hour? Another death in the parish? A sick child who’d wandered from the faith? These Salem people want courtesy and hard work from me, yet they fail me in miserable fashion.

Again three quick, strong raps on the door. From the sound of it, a strong man stood on the other side of the stout door.

“Who is it?” Parris shouted.

“Wakely, sir! My name is Jeremiah…”

“What?” The door still separating them.

“My name is Jermiah Wakely—”

“I know no Wakely!” came the muffled response.

Jeremiah wondered if the minister meant to come through the door with a blazing firearm or hot poker.

“I’ve come from Maine, sir.”

“Maine?”

“By way of Boston, sir!”

“Boston?”

“Have a letter of introduction, Mr. Parris, sir!”

“Letter? A post this time of night? Bah!”

“Can you hear me, sir? Through the door?”

“What letter?”

“From Mather, sir, Reverend Increase Mather.”

This brought on a chill silence. Finally, Parris replied, “Mather? Did you say Increase Mather?”

“I did, sir!” Jeremiah cursed the impenetrable door. He wondered if Parris meant for him to sleep on the porch tonight. “I’d like to settle my horse, sir, in your barn.”

But Parris’ breath had caught in his lungs. Can it be true, he wondered, that the greatest theological mind in the colonies has sent me a letter by midnight courier? Has Mather finally answered my repeated requests for intervention on my behalf? Ha, the delinquent parish members will be well fined now.

“Will you open the door, Reverend?” shouted Jeremiah. “Or shall Mr. Mather’s protégé sleep in your barn?”

What if it’s the Devil at my doorstep? Parris asked himself. This man calling himself Wakely could as well be some evil scratching to get in. The Devil would know that a letter from Mather would tempt him to make an invitation to cross his threshold. “Or has God sent this—what’d he call himself? Protégé?” he muttered aloud.

The pounding continued. So loud in the silent night that it sounded demonic.

Parris braced himself, lit a lantern, and pulled the door open just a crack, staring out at Jeremiah Wakely, who managed a smile. Jeremy then extended a letter with a heavy red wax seal reading IM—for Increase Mather.

The lantern glow divided Wakely’s face down the middle; one side lit bright, the other side in total darkness. The image had a strange, hypnotic hold on his reluctant host. “You look like a highwayman, Mr. Wakely.”

“I am sure, sir, but I am after all in my riding cloak and boots.”

“Give me a moment with the letter.” Parris grabbed the sealed note, pulled it inside, slammed the door closed, locked it from within, and left Jeremy in the drizzle.

Jeremy stepped off the porch and rubbed down his horse’s face. “A careful man,” Jeremy said to Dancer, the horse now shivering in the sleet. Dancer snorted, her entire body quaking when a chill ran the length of her.

The door was then pulled wide. Parris stepped onto the porch, and holding the lantern higher, looked Jeremy and Dancer over with more care. “Lovely animal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“If you are truly from Mather . . . why do you come in at such an hour? Under darkness? It’ve been best to come in daylight.”

“A bridge was out,” lied Jeremy.

“I would’ve liked my parishioners to see your coming, to know you are here from Mather, and that Mather backs me against my enaaa . . . those who stand against me here.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir. I’m just an apprentice . . . to be apprenticed to you, Mr. Parris, until which time—”

“Apprentice? I thought you simply a courier?” He waved the sealed note in his hand.

“You haven’t read it, sir?”

“I assumed…I mean, seeing the seal and Mather’s signature…well…” Parris gritted his teeth and read by the lantern now held by Jeremy, his riding boots squeaking and wet on the porch boards.

“I am no commoner to be taken in by a forgery; I happen to know that Mather has set sail for England, so how long has this note been circulating?”

“Circulating? No time at all.”

“How long in your possession?”

“I saw him off at the pier in Boston, and I came there by way of Wells, Maine, sir, Casco Bay area.”

“Wells?”

“Maine, Wells is in Maine, sir.”

“And you saw Mather off yesterday?”

“I did, indeed,” he lied only slightly, having missed Increase Mather by a day.

Parris fell silent. “Strange that I should finally get the man’s ear on the eve of his leaving the colonies.”

“He may be a minister but he’s a politician, too, sir—and has wisely placed his son in charge at the North Church.”

“Cotton Mather? Is that supposed to be humorous, Mr. Ahhh . . .”

“Wakely, sir, late of Wells.”

“The Senior Mather, he will be back, of course?”

“Yes, to be sure.”

There was another daunting silence between them. Finally, Jeremiah cleared his parched throat and said, “Mr. Parris, I am aware of your worldliness, sir.”

“You are?”

“That you were a merchant in the West Indies—”

“Yes, Barbados, but what has that to do with—”

“—and a seaman before that. All before becoming an ordained minister at Harvard College.”

“What is your point, man?

“Why that I am…will be honored to work under your tutelage, sir.” Jeremy worked hard to affect the attitude of a novice scholar.

“Indeed…lucky for both of us,” Parris countered.

“Reverend Mather provided me with a modest outline, sir, of your history.”

“He did?”

“Filled me in, yes. It’s one reason that Mr. Mather has linked us, you and I as minister and mentor.”

“Mentor?”

“Protégé, apprentice, sir.”

Parris’ features took on a menacing look. He had assumed the letter from Mather a confirmation of his land holdings in Salem Village. He now placed a pair of rickety old magnifying glasses on his nose so as to truly look at the note—as if searching for what he’d lost in translation.

Jeremy watched his lips move as he read:

Dear Rev. S. Parris 14th March 1692

Honored Minister at Salem Village Parish –

I present to your care one Jeremiah Wakely prepared to serve as your apprentice and helpmate for a period of six months to a year under your tutelage as favor to the governing body of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and myself, minister, the North Church of Boston.

Mr. Wakley has proven uncommonly sincere, studious, and industrious for one so young. All virtues that will serve well both Salem Village and you, sir. If your independence from the First Church of Salem, Mr. Higginson’s parish, is ever to become a reality, you will require more hands. For Mr. Wakely’s part, he will be working toward his own enlightenment and eventual ordination. Wakely may one day carry the yoke well.

As result, Mr. Parris, you shall both prosper. May your parish continue in peace and tranquility, and may all misunderstandings among your parishoners be resolved.

Your Obedient Servant,

Rev. Increase Mather

Parris heaved the heaviest sigh Jeremy had ever seen before muttering, “Where the deuce’ll you sleep? We have extremely tight quarters here.”

“I can take the stable tonight . . .for now, that is until settled elsewhere.”

Parris hesitated then said, “Don’t be silly.”

“I mean ’till arrangements can be made, I—”

Parris considered this for only a moment before exploding into action, rushing inside, leaving his door swinging open. “Tituba!” he shouted, rushing into the house, leaving the door wide, waking his servant. “Wake up! I want you to prepare a bed in the stable for—”

“For whooo, Massa Reverend?” The dark woman stared hard at the man in black who stood now warming himself at the fire. She looked wide-eyed, frightened of Jeremiah.

“For whom?” replied Parris, correcting her English. “Why for you, for yourself, Tituba.”

It was the first time Jeremiah had heard the woman’s name pronounced, and it was, he thought, rather Shakespearean and melodic: Ti’shuba. The strange, dark woman in shadow repeatedly asked, “What? What I do now? What?”

“You’re to remove yourself tonight to the barn, to sleep out there.” Parris pointed to the door. “Now, out!”

“Out the house? Now?”

“Hold on, sir,” started Jeremy. “I don’t wish to displace anyone.”

“She’s a Barbados black, Mr. Ahhh . . . Wakely, or are you blind and deaf?”

“Even so—”

“My servant. I’ve had her for years.”

“Still, I’m the newcomer here and—”

“Are you questioning my judgment already, young man?”

Samuel Parris had eyes as black as grapes, but no seeds showed in them, not even so much as a twinkle in the lantern light; light which otherwise filled the small rooms here, creating giants of their shadows along with the pinching odor of whale oil.

Tituba did not question her master. After a furtive glance at Jeremiah, and a look of anger flaring up behind the minister’s back, she trundled out, clutching a single woolen blanket and a straw-tick pillow. Parris watched her go down the steps into the drifting snow and icy rain.

“There, Mr. Wakefield, now you have a place below the stairwell.”

Jeremy thought to correct him but decided not now. Instead, he stared at the space below the stairs vacated for him. It looked large enough for a big dog. “Still, I need to stable my horse before retiring, sir.”

“Yes, yes, of course, but steer clear of the servant. She has a dislike for strangers, us ahhh . . . white men in who wear the cloth in particular.”

“Is she not civilized? Christian?”

“Trust me, I’ve done my level best to make her so, however, you can never be sure of the pagan mind. Most inscrutable.”

“I know nothing is harder than to convert a heathen, sir.”

“Clings to her Barbados superstitions.”

“I see. I’ll do then as you suggest.”

“I’ll have the door unlatched for your return. Again, avoid the woman.”

“As you wish.”

“She is a . . . mischief-maker, Mr. Wakely. You are forewarned. Make no small talk with Tituba.”

“As you wish, sir, and as I am fatigued to the bone, all I want is a bed.” Jeremy laughed and stepped back outside and onto the porch knowing that his mandate from Mather dictated that he indeed talk to Tituba. He wondered what, if anything, Tituba knew, overheard, or saw of the comings and goings in the parsonage home, what merchants or ships’ captains she might speak of. Hearing Parris behind him at the door, he repeated the name as it sounded to him, “Ti’shu-ba, yes, to be sure, I’ll not speak with the black woman.”

Chapter Four

The entire time Jeremy spent in the stable unbridling his mare, he felt the cold and icy stare of Tituba Indian square on his neck. She may’ve created a bed of hay, but at least one eye studied him from every angle. He hadn’t a clue what was going through her mind, but he imagined it a complete tale, one he’d like to hear.

After all, this soft-spoken, cat-padding little woman had been around Samuel Parris for more years than most of his flock. She’d come with him and his wife and child from their last known residence, Barbados, where general knowledge had him trading in his sea legs to become a trader, a businessman.

Does Tituba hold the key? She appeared to both fear and hate her master. Not the best of relations.

Jeremy had an enormous task facing him. What had drawn this former merchant of Barbados to Salem? Not the mere promise of the parsonage and its damnably small apple orchard and rickety out buildings? There had to be more.

Jeremy thought of how Parris had ordered the black woman out of her bed as if she were a detested cur. And that look the servant had shot the minister when he turned his back on her—pure, unadulterated hatred and venom.

How that venom came to be, wondered Jeremy.

A great deal could be learned—and thus reported—about a man just in the manner of how he handled those in his care, and those he called his servants, and those he called his congregation.

Jeremy had uncinched and unbridled the horse, and he now placed the saddle on a rail. He used his own bedroll to place across Dancer’s back.

“May I have it?” asked Tituba in a surprisingly resonant, deep voice that filled the small outbuilding.

“May you . . . have what?”

She pointed, her nail like a talon. “Your saddle, Massa . . . ”

“My saddle?”

“For my head rest with pillow.” She lifted her pillow.

“You miss Barbados?” he asked as he placed the saddle where she’d created a bed of hay.

“I do . . . my family all there. My baby, too.”

“You left your baby in Barbados?” Jeremy was incredulous, and he heard Parris’ warning again at the back of his head. “Don’t talk to the woman.” All the more reason to speak to her.

“Dead baby . . . dead an’-an’ buried.”

“I . . . I’m terribly sorry. I can imagine no worse torture on earth than to lose a child.”

“There can be worse.”

“Really?” Jeremiah squinted at her. “Such as?”

Her eyes met his squint. “Not never holding your child, ever.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

“N-Nor seeing it.”

“You never saw the child?”

“Not never no.”

Jeremy tried to decipher this; he had a sense that her cryptic words were fraught with meaning. He was about to inquire when Tituba gasped, and her snake eyes fixed him. “Tell me, are you . . . are you de Black Man who comes in darkness?”

“Black Man?”

“De one we keep hearin’ ‘bout in Massa’s sermons.”

“Ah, yes, I mean no! I mean, I see now…understand your confusion, that is.”

“De one who come invisible outta de forest.”

“No, no, Tituba, I am quite human and no spirit or demon or familiar of Satan.”

“De one who makes you sin, and den makes you put your mark in de book—his black book.”

“No, I assure you—”

“A-And once your mark is there, he has your soul, ’less you confess it to God.”

She’s certainly learned the dark side of the Puritan and Christian catechism. “Trapped for all time,” he said, nodding. “I know the belief.”

“For all eternity. So says Massa.”

“Your Master speaks of Satan when he says the Black Man with the Black Book, I know, but I have no book, and I am not black.”

“Yes, de Devil comes lookin’ like a white minister in black cloak.”

Satan may take a pleasing form. Jeremy realized he was dressed entirely in black, from head to toe. “You can be sure, Tituba, I am not Satan or his emissary.”

“Fool!” shouted Parris, standing now at the door, having eavesdropped on them. “I told you not to pay any heed to the heathen. She can’t be redeemed. I’ve done everything. She’s incorrigible. Learns nothing. Nods and nods and says yes a thousand times but understands nothing of Christ or his mercy.”

“I know Christ,” countered Tituba, spitting. “He don’t help me! He take my baby boy!”

Parris ignored this as if not hearing, or as if hearing it too often. “Wakely, I had hoped you’d demonstrate more sense than to get sucked into a conversation about Heaven and Hell with a slave wench.”

“I am not witch!” Tituba came at him. “I am voodoo woman!”

Parris advanced like a jackal and slapped her hard across the face, shouting, “Wench, I said! Not witch!”

Jeremy reacted instinctively, stilling Parris’ hand from inflicting a second blow. He wanted to strike the man and send him to his knees, but such an act would destroy any chance of success here. Instead, he shouted, “It was entirely my fault, Mr. Parris! I should’ve heeded you.”

Parris’ dark eyes bore into Jeremy’s steely gray pools, searching for any sign of deception. With his jaw quivering, and his eyes traveling now to Tituba, he said, “I quite understand, Mr. Wakefield.” There seemed more unsaid between these two than spoken here tonight. Jeremy wanted to hear the minister apologize to the black woman, but he knew that was unlikely.

Instead, Parris spoke now as if nothing had happened. “Now go to sleep, woman, and you, Mr. Wakefield.”

“Wakely, Mr. Parris.”

“Wakely then…come away. Let us all find sleep, shall we, Mr. Wakely.”

Jeremy glanced back at Tituba who wiped blood from her lip onto her nightshirt. He silently looked back at her and thought he saw a crooked smile. Was Tituba secretly pleased at having upset her master? But realizing that Jeremy was looking, her smile instantly vanished.

# # # # #

Jeremy literally followed in Parris’ snow and mud-sucking footsteps as they trudged through the thickening slush back to the parsonage door. Parris missed the excitement at two windows overhead, but Jeremy saw in one an elderly blonde-headed woman, no doubt Mrs. Parris, and at the other second story window two small faces—one a small caricature of Mrs. Parris, the daughter most likely, the other a scarecrow-faced Mercy Lewis, Jeremy assumed. What few notes he had on Parris’ household told him that Mercy Lewis, an orphaned niece, had been taken into the Parris home. His notes had said nothing about the black servant, Tituba. She’d come as a surprise.

Apparently, Jeremy’s arrival, and the subsequent shouting, had awakened the remaining family members. Parris glanced back at Jeremy, preparing to say something, when he noticed where his apprentice’s eyes were focused. Parris stopped and stared at the upstairs bedroom windows. Immediately, the wife, the daughter, and the orphan scampered from Parris’ sight like mice found in the cupboard.

Is everyone terrified of this man, wondered Jeremy. Be damned if I’m afraid of this petty tyrant.

Tituba had revealed a surprising secret, a stillborn child in Barbados . . . and mother denied a moment with her child. This in itself set Jeremiah’s imagination aflame. What more was there to the story?

He followed Parris inside, both men now chilled to the bone. “I don’t feel right, Mr. Parris, taking a woman’s bed on such a night as—”

“Bah! I’ll hear no more of it, Mr. Wakely, and you’ve got to get control here. You do as I instruct in my house without question or hesitation, do you—”

“I intend to sir, it’s just—”

“No faltering, Mr. Wakely. You are tired…have come a long way.”

“Too true.”

“Get ye then to bed—and I to mine.”

Something about the man and his tone made Jeremy feel like a child being sent off to bed. And fatigued beyond thought, off he went, but before laying down, he closed off the curtain and in the dark, he carefully located his saddlebag and dug into to it. He palmed his inkwell and quill pen, and in difficult circumstances, Jeremy began jotting quick notes to himself in the blank pages of the book he would keep on Reverend Samuel Parris—a book that would eventually find its way back to Mather.

Unable to focus by the weak and flickering candlelight any longer, exhausted from the long day and travel, Jeremy realized his mind and pen were no longer in sync. A quick few words of hope that he was entirely wrong in his first impressions of Parris before he blew out the light, and without knowing it, nodded off and into a fitful sleep.

# # # # #

Jeremy found the cubbyhole below the stairwell dark, dingy, musty, and degrading, a place to keep the house brute, not a place for a man of Jeremy’s stature or frame. In fact, not a place for little Tituba’s frame either. Cramped as a ship’s berth. Part of Parris’ less than subtle method of putting a person ‘in his place’, Jeremy decided. And it did have this affect on the young apprentice.

Given the bed bugs and the odors, he slept fitfully at best.

What little sleep he did accomplish was to the tune of tension pulled taut like a wire, so much that it seemed audible, slicing through Jeremiah’s skull, as this dark house seemed to exhale conflict and breathe in anxiety. Subtle yet present like the distant sound of the ocean waves to shore, or a cradle with an insistent squeak. Most of the night, Jeremy lay stiff, board-like as he played Tituba’s words over in his head so as not to forget, but also in an effort to understand her. When he did come awake entirely, he’d hear a squeak-squeak-squeak. At first he thought it a parrot below a black cloth in its cage walking its floor, pacing on clawed feet.

But after a moment, he realized it was a squeaking floorboard upstairs, one which he assumed Samuel Parris was repeatedly pacing over up in room.

Calming himself, Jeremiah wondered if Parris prayed like other men, or if he prayed differently, or if he prayed privately at all.

Finally, Jeremiah gave up any hope of sleep; instead, he sat up, pulled his saddlebag close, opened it, and located his book. He jotted Tituba’s words down as best he could recall—for the record.

He also jotted down his initial, firsthand reaction to Parris, writing: the man is arrogant, selfish, puffed up beyond his stature, but small in grace and spirit in my humble judgment. I would add….

Jeremy fell asleep over his writing, the quill pen and inkbottle left on the wood floor, his journal lying half under him. He dreamed of his powerful right fist slamming into Parris’ teeth.

The following day, Jeremy opened his eyes on a plump-faced little girl with yellow curls, Parris’ daughter Betty, he assumed. The two stared at one another until she said, “Can I write, too?” She wiped away mucous and her pearl white skin showed blotches of red as if rubbed raw with lye soap, but Jeremy recognized the redness as having done battle with the ague—a fever with coughing enough to turn a child’s insides out.

“You are feeling better?” he asked.

“I am. Can I draw?”

Jeremy realized they were, at the moment, the only two in the house awake. “Oh, oh,” he came to a sitting position. “Your name is Betty?”

“Elizabeth, like my mother I am.”

“Sorry, Elizabeth.” He guessed her at ten or eleven.

“I wanna draw pictures.” She pointed to his pen and ink, her cheeks going wide with her smile. She’s an adorable if chubby doll, he thought.

He tore out a single blank page from the back of his journal. “Draw? Yes, be my guest.”

The little girl took the offering and moved on short legs that pumped fast, taking her to a table where she sat and began work. Jeremy stuffed his journal deep into his bag, stood, stretched, and moved to stand over the girl. Admiring her meaningless markings: Circles within circles, squares, rectangles, and triangles, he softly commented. “Wonderful but what is it?”

“It’s where the witches meet.”

“Really? And where is that?”

“The orchard.”

“Your orchard?”

“Just beyond it, yes.”

In a moment, Betty was mumbling something about having been ill when the second girl from upstairs, perhaps twelve or thirteen, came timidly down to view the newcomer. Once again Jeremy held a staring match.

“You must be Mercy? Mercy Lewis,” he finally said to her.

“Mercy, no!” she shouted. “Mary—my name’s Mary Wolcott. Mercy Lewis’s my cousin like Betty is.”

“Really? And here I thought you Mercy.”

“Mercy’s got sent away,” said Betty over her shoulder. “Father said she was bad.”

“Bad?” he poked at the word.

Mary piped in with, “Uncle beat her, but she stayed bad anyway.”

“And how was she bad?”

“Killed a layin’ hen for no cause,” answered Betty.

“She was sent to live with Mr. Putnam’s family yonder,” added Mary Wolcott, pointing out the parsonage window. “Betty’s father told me she had a devil in her, and if I was bad and didn’t obey, I’d be sent away, too.”

Unsure what to say, Jeremy cleared his throat and muttered, “Another niece, indeed?”

“Oh, yes, he has a passel of us.” Mary’s smile created dimpled balls of her cheeks.

Betty piped in with, “He never claimed Dorcas.”

“Nobody’d claim that brainless child,” countered Mary. “Did you know she eats worms, that one?”

“Dorcas? What happened to her?” asked Jeremy, standing now, stretching in the clothes he’d slept in, uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping in the raw in such close quarters.

“She was put up at the Corey’s place, she was.”

“Corey’s mill on Ipswich road?” he asked.

“At the mill, yes. Maidservant. That’s a laugh. Dorcas is a dummy. She can’t talk right nor hear good neither.”

“I see. Sounds as if Mr. Parris helps out all the village children, eh?”

“He bills ’em out mostly.”

“Bills ’em out?”

“Charges a finder’s fee and a monthly one, too,” explained Mary.

“I see. Rather businesslike of him, I’d say.”

Parris wife and Tituba, as if by magic, appeared in the kitchen along with the sound of pots and pans. Jeremy had no idea how the one got past him from the steps, and the other from the door, until he learned of a back stairwell straight to the kitchen, and a back door opening on the kitchen. The two women sounded amiable enough as they worked to create the morning meal.

Parris was the last to rise, sniffing breakfast. All chatter, all talk, even Betty’s drawing, ended when Samuel Parris entered the living area. He called immediately for everyone to drop to their knees and pray with him, Jeremy included. From a kneeling position, Jeremy saw that Tituba went through the motions, hands raised before her lips as if in supplication.

He determined to do the same. One more thing they had in common.

“Make those who make our lives difficult, God,”—began Parris, his voice like a knife—“make them pay this day with a curse befalling each. They that are sinful. They who withhold my rightful income, my salary, and by extension withhold food from the mouths of all who are present here today, Lord. Smite them all in Thy name . . . amen.”

Finished with the brief, spiteful prayer, Parris broke off the handholding. He rose, saying, “Now let us eat and give thanks for what meager bits we do have, shall we? And then I will formally introduce you all to my young apprentice here, Mr. Wakely, sent by none other than the Reverend Increase Mather himself, children. Sent here to your husband woman, and your father, Betty.”

“And my good uncle,” said Mary with a quick smile.

“Ah . . . and my good Master,” added Tituba, her eyes twinkling at Jeremy as if they shared a secret. It was an almost girlish competing for Parris’ attention, Jeremy felt. He represented a new excitement— something unusual in her day, and he had given her the gift of his saddle for her headrest, and he had shown sympathy for the loss of her only child. Still, she remained as inscrutable as the parsonage door. Although quite a bit more exotic, and handsome for a woman of her age—which he guessed at forty, close to her Master’s and Mistress’ age.

While these thoughts fluttered about Jeremy’s brain, a messenger showed up at the door. Parris grimly received the delivered news and walked back to the dining table. After a dramatic sigh, as yet standing over them, he said, “Jeremy, you’re going to witness for me today—an ordeal.”

“How’s that, sir? An ordeal?”

“I’ve rounds to make. Come along.”

“But where are you going, Goodman?” asked his wife, who till now hadn’t uttered a word.

“The Putnams again.” He held his wife’s gaze for a moment. “In need of me.”

“Nothing good will come of those people,” she muttered, her eyes on the uneaten meal.

“Enough, Goodwife.”

“And that sickly child of theirs, and you putting Mercy in harm’s way by—”

“Enough, woman!”

Tituba dared add, “Curse ’pon dat home, dare is.”

“Quit such talk now, both of you!” Parris’ face had gone red, veins in his neck bulging.

“I’m sorry, Samuel, but there’s some curse on that sad and peculiar family.”

Parris pulled Apprentice Wakely by the arm to end Jeremy’s meal. “We go, now. Duty calls.”

At the same time a flood of words erupted from Elizabeth Parris, directed at her husband. “One or two of her babes lived but a week, others a month, and to end with that sickly yearling, little Anne Junior—just a matter of time before some fever takes her.”

“We must go,” Parris ordered Jeremy. “Now, Mr. Wakely.”

Mrs. Parris followed, pursuing to the door, adding, “And I wish you’d never gotten involved with that Dorcas Goode affair, Samuel.”

He whirled on her, teeth gritting. “I’ve done the Christian thing, Mother, and it’s for the best for—”

“The best? Are you sure?”

“—for the child, yes!”

“No matter how vile old Goode is, Samuel, she’s the child’s mother.”

Parris’ eyes became darts of controlled anger. “Dorcas Goode is of an age now when she rightly apprentices in the domestic arts beneath another roof—as with any of our village children!”

“It’s a vile custom, and when it comes time for our Betty?”

“Then she goes to another home!”

Betty, hearing this, raced up the stairs to her room, crying hysterically.”

Jeremy tried to look invisible, having found a corner. Parris gritted his teeth. “It’s not just custom here, Mother! Listen to reason, Goodwife, it’s religion and it’s law.” Parris turned and waved a hand at Jeremy. “Tell her, Jeremy.”

Jeremiah knew of the practice of taking children at age twelve and thirteen out of their parental homes to circulate in other houses—girls to be taught kitchen arts and wifely duites, while boys learned under harsh masters—not parents—a trade or at least how to muck out a barn. But Jeremy had never heard it referred to as law. “It is our way, Mrs. Parris, for better or worse.” Worse being the operative word, he said to himself.

Parris glared at him, his eyes encouraging a stronger remark, but when it did not come, he firmly said, “Elizabeth, a child coming on his or her child-bearing years must be placed under a roof run by those other than a doting mother and father.”

“To keep them in strict discipline,” added Jeremy.

Mary Wolcott shrugged at this and as if harping what she’d heard all her life, added, “It’s what’s best. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

“That child, Dorcas, was a pack mule for that old woman,” added Parris. “And on that note, we are away, Goodwife. Come along, Mr. Wakely!”

But Mrs. Parris persisted, following them a few steps out into the snow-laden yard. “Every time you have dealings with those Putnams, Samuel . . . each time you go into their house, you return in a melancholia.”

“Such comes with the job, dear. We all must persevere.”

“I hate to see it—how those relatives of yours affect you so.”

“Mercy Lewis will be of great comfort to Thomas and Anne, I’m sure, and a great boon to them.”

“Not if she misbehaves, she won’t.”

“She’s learned her lesson well, and she knows what all of us expect of her.”

“She’s had a hard time of it—orphaned so cruelly.”

“God works in mysterious ways…and so we must believe her parents taken from her for good reason—even if by fire at the hand of the pagans.”

“Her parents were killed by Indians?” asked Jeremy.

“They ventured too far westward, settled in an unsavory place,” explained Parris. “Years ago—ten maybe twelve. Time the child got over it.”

“Putting her out, Samuel,” Mrs. Parris began, “you know I believe it was wrong but to place her in that sad home, that may be the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Enough, woman!”

“I loved that child as if she were my own.”

Parris’ jaw quivered as if she’d slapped him. “We must show Christian charity and patience to our kith and kin, and the Putnams were closer to the Lewises, and Mercy and Thomas’ family will—by God—prosper together, as will we all in time.”

Jeremy wondered what this last meant. Wondered more about what hadn’t been said as what had been said, but Parris tugged at his arm. “Away.” The minister wanted no more words with his wife on the subject of either Mercy Lewis or the Putnam household.

They tramped off together, lifting boots through snow for a house that Elizabeth Parris obviously wanted her husband to avoid as he might the plague.

Chapter Five

“So we go on our rounds, Reverend?” asked Jeremy as the two men in black strode the village path between the parsonage and the Putnam home.

“We go to Deacon Putnam’s, yes.”

“Ahhh, a Deacon is he?”

“That and a Captain.”

“Militiaman? Impressive.”

Jeremy waited for more to come out of the parson’s mouth.

“Mrs. Putnam sends word. She’s a woman with . . . well let us say much grieves her.”

“I can imagine.” He’d gotten as much from Mrs. Parris’ words, but he also foggily recalled the rumors surrounding Mrs. Thomas Putnam and how her womb had killed so many unborn children.

“I doubt you have the least conception.”

“I suppose, sir, you are right on that score.”

“You say, Mr. Wakely, that you’re from Maine?”

“I said so, yes.”

“However, you sound like one of these Salem bumpkins in your speech. Why’s that?”

“Of late from Maine, sir, and besides no one sounds more the bumpkin than those from Maine.”

“Ah-yes. That’s Wells, Maine? Anywhere near Casco Bay?”

“In fact, quite near. But I did not give out Wells.”

“There’s but two colonies there. Listen, young man, had you ever come across my predecessor, a Reverend George Burroughs? Understand he’s preaching in Casco Bay.”

“Predecessor? Burroughs . . . Burroughs. I think not.” It wasn’t technically a lie, as Jeremy, the former citizen of the village had known Burroughs but Jeremy the apprentice did not, so far as Parris needed to know. “Afraid our paths never crossed.”

“He is strangely my undoing here in Salem.”

Jeremy inwardly gasped at this bit of revelation. “Sir?”

“Even before I arrived.”

“But how is that?”

Parris had stopped their progress at the town green where they stood below a huge chestnut tree, its giant gnarled limbs serpentine in their chaotic pattern as if some god had unleashed elephant-sized snakes to run in every direction.

Jeremy had to repeat his question. “Sir, how can this previous minister here be your undoing?” He silently prayed for an answer.

Parris leaned in against the tree as if fatigued, and for certain he’d been up half or more of the night. “Why…why none of his own doing, I suppose . . . not directly I’m sure. I’ve no reason to believe Burroughs wished me any sort of harm.”

“Indirectly then, you think?”

“Yes, indirectly.”

It took another ten seconds of silence before Parris chose to continue. “Indirectly, I should hope, as those who ran him from the parish are my support, you see, while—”

“—While those who’d voted to keep Burroughs here are now your enemies, I presume?”

“Are you in the habit of finishing the sentences of your elders, Mr. Wakely?”

Have to be compliant,” Jeremy reminded himself, and the man is twenty years my senior. “Sorry, sir.”

“Still…astute of you to realize it, Jeremiah,” continued Parris.” No matter who may’ve come along after this Burroughs fellow to take up duties here, he’d have surely faced the same sort of ah…wrath as I’ve felt.”

“Then you’re a victim of misdirected wrath, is it, sir?”

“That’s it in a word, victim of unwarranted wrath.” Parris scanned the movements of people as he spoke, his eyes never on Jeremy but rather studying his parishioners as they went about their morning, most involved in some industry.

“Unwarranted wrath, sir? It must weigh heavily then. I mean . . . it’s a sad state of affairs if it is so.”

“Of course, it is so.”

“I mean to characterize your flock as against you.”

“Trust me, you’ll see it and feel it on yourself soon enough, having chosen to stand so near me.”

Jeremy nodded and kept silent. Parris muttered. “You’ll see their venom soon enough.”

“I should hope not.”

“I should hope so.”

Jeremy gritted his teeth as they made the Putnam doorway. “But why, sir, would you wish it?”

“Mr. Wakely, I do not wish what I have endured on a dog. However, as it is the case, I want you to feel their spite and poison as I do.”

“But to call it up like some…incantation is—”

“I want you, young man, to pass it along to Reverend Mather in that . . . that book you keep.”

Jeremy stared at his new ‘master’ and bowed dutifully, and even as he formed his reply was thinking: Betty’s drawing. She’d shown it to her father, and he’d noted the unusual paper ripped from somewhere. Observant of the minister. “I only keep a record of my inmost feelings and perceptions sir. A learning tool.”

“I see, a diary, eh?”

“A personal, day-to-day reckoning with myself, Mr. Parris.”

“Yes, self-evaluation. I am told tis a good thing!”

“Some believe it so and I among them, yes.”

“Reverend Higginson of the Town certainly harps on it.”

“I’ve not met the gentleman.” The lie hung in the air.

Parris said, “Still, you’ll no doubt also be making reports to Boston, I presume.”

“I am required to give progress reports—ahhh reports of my progress, that is.”

“Of course. Isn’t that one purpose of your being sent to me after all?” Parris actually sounded hopeful that Jeremy would indeed be informing the authorities in Boston of the dire situation poor Mr. Parris found himself faced with. “After all, they’ve not paid my rate, Jeremy, for several months now.”

“I should be happy to report your side of the story, sir, if it’s your wish, but in truth, I only meant to inform only in so far as my growth and progress goes, sir.”

“Hmmm . . . but perhaps you will be persuaded to make amendments to your personal reports—perhaps even attach a sermon I am preparing for next meeting day.”

“Amendments…sermons, sir?”

“Attachments!” Parris caught himself. “Must I spell out everything to you, Mr. Wakely?”

Jeremy gave him a coy schoolboy look. “Are . . . are you saying there’s ah . . . something in it for me, Mr. Parris?”

“I merely mean, Jeremiah—I can call you Jeremiah, can’t I?” The man had been doing so all morning. “While privately addressing you, I mean?”

“Surely you may.”

“I mean once you, too, are a victim of such utter disrespect and heartless actions as I’ve endured since my tenure here, that you will want to report the slander, the double dealing, the back-stabbing, and the venom.”

“The Burroughs contingent, you mean?”

“They set the example, yes. But others follow.”

A jet black raven with blue shimmering about its wings landed on a nearby limb where they stood, curiously looking as if eavesdropping.

“But I was given to believe—told that is—that the previous minister here left this parish a broken convict, a man pitied as much as despised, his family lost to the fever, and he a debtor and broken man.”

“All too true.” Irritated by the staring raven, Parris showed it off.

“I heard talk of the other minister before Burroughs, too, that his family also died while he served in this parish. Of course, I don’t believe in curses, but some in Boston’ve called it a parish cur—”

“Don’t say it! It’s nonsense.” Parris then shouted for anyone caring to hear, “Only hex on this place is human gullibility, greed, jealousy, and sin.”

Parris began to cross the green to finish their walk to the Putnam home. Jeremy rushed to keep up. The other side of the green, Jeremy goose-stepped over sludge that ran down the middle of the village’s main thoroughfare in a foot-wide canal cut for delivering human waste and other foul matter away from the settlement.

They’d stopped in the middle of a cow path, their discussion so intense that neither of them saw the gathering crowd growing around them.

“I was given to understand that a great deal of piety, love, and humane actions had been taken on behalf of both Bailey and Burroughs,” said Jeremy, shaking his head. “That some took pity on these poor ministers, paid their bills, even jail fees in Mr. Burroughs’ case.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told . . . and that they sent him off with the clothes on his—”

“Same with the man before these two, Deodat Lawson.”

Suddenly Parris’ face went white. “How much of the parsonage history do you know, Mr. Wakely?” Parris looked and sounded again like the suspicious creature that Jeremy had encountered the night before.

“I know Salem’s history, especially its theological history, well sir.”

“Aye . . . before coming here.” Parris had retreated tenfold due to thoughts rumbling inside now. Jeremy could see the confusion on his face. “Did much study then before arriving, did you, Mr. Wakely? But never knew Burroughs, despite spending time in Maine, eh?”

“Maine is a large place, and truth be told, sir, I was never one for study, not in truth.”

Frustration made the man stomp, sending a cascade of mud over Jeremy’s boots. “Then how in the name of Jehovah do you know so much about our affairs in Salem?”

“I suspect, Mr. Parris, you knew nothing of the so-called curse when the Select Committee hired you without full consent of the parish.”

Parris blanched. “Verily…next to nothing, in fact—but plenty of gossip since, which is how I’ve always taken it.”

To test the man’s responses further, Jeremy took it a step further. “I thought not; perhaps had you done your homework before accepting—”

“This chat is at end, Mr. Wakely.” He indicated the small crowd in the street gathered around them. Too many prying eyes and ears. But when Parris stepped ahead of Jeremy, the younger man could not help but couch a grin. At the same time, Parris, and to a lesser degree, Jeremy, faced a terrible greeting when the ragged, bottle and rag woman of the village, the crone Sarah Goode blocked their path. She held a crooked old Shillelagh like a wand, and with the walking stick, she punctuated the vile, angry curse spewing from a near toothless mouth. “May your hearth belch fire to burn your house t’ground, Parson!”

“Get from my sight, woman!” shouted Parris, continuing past the obstacle with Jeremy keeping step.

But the wrinkled old woman pursued, chanting. “May your black servant cut your throat as ya sleep! ‘Cause ya stole and sold her baby like you did mine! For pieces of eight!”

Parris grabbed up a huge dirt clod and hurled it at the woman, barely missing.

“May your wife wither and dry up like a diseased cow!”

Parris rushed at her like an angry dog, baring his teeth. “And may God strike you down for the witch you are!”

“If God loves justice, it’ll be you struck down!”

“Your own daughter,” spewed Parris, “Dorcas, she told me of your dark contract with the Devil.”

This did not in the least slow Goode. “And may your child suffer the torments of Hell, till you give my Dorcas back!”

Jeremy feared he’d have to intervene somehow, as the venom between these two threatened to erupt further unless someone broke off. Parris threatened her under his breath. “I swear out a warrant and have you arrested, ye old—”

“Mind my words!” warned Goode. “Return my Dorcas or face my curse on ya and all ya hold dear!”

“The curse of God upon you, hag, bitch!” cried Parris.

“Aha! Swearin’ like a common sailor!” She cackled a sound that filled the street and brought people to their windows and shop doors. “Ya’ll heard ’im . . . swearin’ at a poor old woman now are ya?”

“Foul, filthy creature!” Parris grabbed for her cane, but she snatched it away at the last moment.

“You men in black, all alike.” Goode gave Jeremy a look from head to toe. “Deceivers!” She then pointed her cane at Jeremy and shouted to the maddening crowd, “I seen this one come to the parsonage by cover of night! Him on a white charger, but we all know the Devil does take a pleasin’ form, and that horse looked at me with one eye belongin’ to Beelzebub, or Belial sure ’nough!”

“Shut your ugly hole, you witch!” Parris belted back.

“You may have others fooled—” Goode pointed to her left eye—“but not these eyes.” She ambled off, disappearing between the livery stable and Ingersoll’s Ordinary & Inn. Bottles tied to her, dangling about neck and hips, rattled as she moved off, and yet neither Parris nor Jeremy had earlier heard her approach. Parris remarked on how uncannily the old woman had taken them unawares. Then he waved it off, saying, “Devil take her.”

The battle over, his flushed features softening, Parris waved at someone in the Putnam house at the window on the ground floor. Another window displayed two children’s faces pressed against an attic window.

Jeremy wondered if the children had seen the altercation in the street between Mr. Parris and Witch Goode. But for now, he found himself on the doorstep of Mr. and Mrs. Putnam, where on the inside they could hear faint, whispered yet highly charged argument.

# # # # #

After several raps on the oak door, Parris and Jeremy still stood on the doorstep of the Putnam house—a modest, two-story saltbox-styled cabin home. From all appearances, Jeremy felt that a rather dreary, dark interior awaited within if and when someone opted to open the door and welcome them in. Samuel Parris vigorously knocked on the Putnam door again. “We are come!” he shouted at the door. “Come at your bidding! Hello, inside the house!”

The door creaked in on rusted hinges to reveal a fire at the hearth in the common room, but Jeremy felt only the coldness of this place engulf him. A grim couple stood apart from one another, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Putnam. The man a scarecrow figure with bloodshot eyes, the wife a dried up, frail-looking stick figure herself, her eyes ringed with darkness, and at the center of each—a frightful, unfathomable deadness. How deep can melancholy go, Jeremy silently wondered. How strong can its grip become? He knew it intimately, but gauging by this woman, Anne Carr-Putnam Senior, he’d merely scratched the surface of depression in those darkest hours when he’d given up Serena.

“Welcome, Reverend Parris,” said Thomas Putnam. “Welcome to our humble home.”

Understatement, Jeremy noted, a familiar characteristic of people hereabouts to understate the obvious.

“And do tell,” said Thomas as if the spokesperson here, “who is this young gentleman in your company?”

Suspicion, Jeremy noted in the tone of the otherwise welcoming words and accompanying smile, as the Putnams awaited Parris’ introductions.

Parris formally, stiffly introduced Jeremy as his apprentice, being sure to add that Increase Mather himself had sent Jeremy “to be among us, to be my helpmate, and to apprentice in the Lord’s work under my tutelage. I have a letter signed by Mather to the effect, Thomas, Goodwife Putnam.”

Jeremy bowed dutifully, reminding himself of the role he played here, one of the contrite apprentice to Mr. Parris, his mentor. At the same time, he recognized Captain Thomas Putnam as a key player in current village and church politics, and the likely role he played in fanning the gossip of this current ‘curse’ afflicting the parish. Mather had filled Jeremy in on who stood to gain and who stood to lose by Parris’ continued appointment as minister. While Anne and Thomas Putnam stared stupidly at Jeremy, it took some shrinking for him to appear a mere pawn in village affairs. At the same time, Reverend Parris busily worked to convince the Putnams to allow his apprentice across their humble threshold.

Jeremy only half heard Parris’ words ending with, “The young man is here to observe and learn how I minister to my congregation. That is the extent of his interest.”

“To study in the Word?” Thomas Putnam asked, nodding as if he knew the answer to begin with.

“To one day become an ordained minister.” Jeremy tried to meet Putnam’s eye but found it impossible as the man’s eyes looked everywhere but in Jeremy’s direction.

Putnam pulled Parris inside and closed the door on Jeremy. Through the cracks and crevices, Jeremy caught snatches of conversation inside.

“Mercy can’t stay,” Mrs. Putnam flatly stated.

“She’s corruptin’ little Anne,” added Mr. Putnam in a raised voice.

“Give it time, Thom.”

“She’s caused my wife tears, Sam.”

“These matters take time . . . patience . . . but in time.”

“You talk to the wench. You warned her.”

“I will talk to her, of course.”

Putnam whispered something Jeremy could not make out.

Parris grunted, hemmed, hawed, and muttered, “Would I’ve brought ’im if I thought ’im that?”

Putnam stood back and went to the window where he raised a hand and gave a nod to Jeremy, a gesture meaning everything’s all right. He then cracked the door, saying, “Whatever you say, Mr. Parris.”

Parris stuck out his index finger and curled it in the gesture that said for Jeremy to enter.

Jeremy felt a surge of excitement and a bit of pride that held tight rein on. After all, in the space of hours, he’d won the confidence of the minister and had gotten past a deacon’s threshold. He recalled having told Mather how wrong he was for this assignment, but perhaps the Mathers and old Higginson had been right after all—that in fact, he’d do well in Salem Village…after all.

Jeremy soon met Mercy Lewis who was called and told to come down from the loft room overhead. Little Anne Putnam Junior followed Mercy down, quaking on quill pen legs. Parris made a lecture of it, a sermon directed at Mercy, insisting the girl follow Mrs. Putnam’s teachings and orders without complaint or backtalk. He then blessed both girls and the household, making a rather quick affair of it all. In fact, Jeremy hardly got a look at Mercy or Little Anne, as she was called, save for Anne’s eyes—like two large seedless grapes; no light seemed able to reflect from those eyes.

Chapter Six

They saw other parishioners about the village during the day as well, and Parris took Jeremy to the meetinghouse to show him the place, and by day’s end, they’d returned home to a meal of mostly hot vegetables and rabbit stew. The household remained peaceable all evening, and once again Tituba slept in the barn, despite Mrs. Parris’ offering a corner of her bedroom, but Mr. Parris would not hear of “such an arrangement”, while Mrs. Parris countered with “and you think her sleeping in a cold barn with the livestock is a proper arrangement?”

Again Jeremy offered to take the stall in the barn, but Parris stood adamant about the sleeping arrangements.

The following day felt like an absolute déjà vu sequence for Jeremy, as at breakfast, once again, there came a clamor at the door, yet another message sent by Mrs. Putnam for Parris to come to her aide—again citing Mercy as the cause of her distress.

And so together, Jeremy and Parris again traversed the common for the Putnam home. Along the way, this time, Jeremy decided he must confess something to Parris and he used the term confess.

“Confess? What are you talking about, man?”

“I’m sorry, sir, if it displease you, but you should know something about me, Mr. Parris, about my past.”

This stopped their progress, as Parris, looking perplexed, asked, “Your past?”

“In reference to how I know the history of the parish? You thought me so studious the other day and I confessed not. . . as it will become general knowledge once certain parties recognize my return to Salem—”

Parris right hand shot up to silence Jeremy, and white-faced, he near whispered, “Recognize you, Mr. Wakely?”

“I was previously a citizen here, sir, years ago. It’s why—”

“Citizen? Here?”

“Yes, you see my father’s shop on North Ipswich Road—”

“You have family here?”

“Family, no. History, yes.”

“Riddles I can’t abide, Mr. Wakely. Speak plainly, as plainly as that witch who confronted us t’other day.”

Jeremy planted his feet, causing Parris to halt and meet the younger man’s flame blue eyes as Jeremy spoke firmly, enunciating each word: “I am striving toward clarity, sir, if you will but—”

“Clarity indeed? So you have a history with this parish, and you are just telling the this now?”

“I do. I mean, yes. That is, I did.” Jeremy’s jaw quivered as he bared down on his teeth.

“And from your tone and grimace, it would seem a foul history?”

“Not not unlike your own, sir.”

As if by providence, they wound up at the old chestnut tree again, and both men wondered at the appearance of what appeared the very same raven as before. It seemed either coincidence or sign. “Go on, Jeremy,” urged Parris.

“Reverend Deodat Lawson oversaw my father’s excommunication.”

“My God.”

“And by extension my own, so far as I was concerned.”

“The son is not necessarily heir to the sins of the father,” said Parris thoughtfully.

“He is if he’s in Salem, sir.”

“But you must’ve been a mere boy at the time.”

“Yes, sir . . . a runner for Mr. Ingersoll’s Inn, and I did sit watch a number of times up yonder at—”

“Sit watch?”

“Yonder on Watch Hill with Mr. Ingersoll nights.”

“Aye, I see. The same Ingersoll as is now one of my deacons.”

“Not so at the time, but had he been, I’m sure he’d have opposed what they did to my father and stepmother.”

Parris now stared into Jeremiah’s hard-set eyes, searching the gray orbs. “Your parents then moved off? To the settlements along the Connecticut? Or rather Maine, I suppose.”

“My natural mother died giving me life. My stepmother contracted the fever and died here, but being not of the faith, she was refused burial in the parish cemetery—as was my father for having dared married out of the faith.”

“She was of what faith then?” he asked.

“Catholic…of French decent. Father met her in Salem seaport, saved her from the jailer.”

“Save her, indeed? How romantic.”

“She’d been a stowaway on a Portuguese freighter. They turned her over to the courts. My father, hearing of it, paid her jail fines and took her in as an indentured servant but they fell I love soon after.”

“Married a Catholic. Indeed reason for concern, Jeremy,” Parris paused, patting Jeremy on the shoulder, “but to refuse hollowed ground? To excommunicate a man?”

“Deodat Lawson saw it that way, and so did the congregation, almost every man, woman, and child. I was there. Saw them fired up.”

“I am not a scholarly theologian, Jeremy, and I may not know all the tenets of Puritanism and am perhaps wrong in my condemnation of the wrongs done you, but my God…and in this place…” he waved a sweeping hand to take in the village… “in this hovel, any manner of indignity is possible, Jeremy, and while I might myself balk at having a man in my parish marry a Catholic and presuppose he might sit in my church, I would stop short of excommunication and thereby withhold proper burial to one of my parishioners.”

Jeremiah realized two things on hearing this speech come from Parris. One, the man could convince the bark on a tree to peal itself off, and two, in the single emphasized word ‘hovel’ Parris had given himself away. In that single word, he had revealed his utter contempt for Salem—again calling into question why he’d come here from Barbados if not to, as any business-minded man might, strike a better and more lucrative deal. There had to be a larger motive for his moving his family to Salem than to simply preach here, larger still than his having cut so generous a deal with the parish for lands that were not theirs to deed over to him.

More softly now, Parris said, “Then your birth mother alone is buried in our cemetery?”

“Yes and no.”

“More with the riddles. State it, man! You speak like a poet. Say what you mean outright, please.”

“Both my mothers and my father are buried here but two were outside the churchyard fence originally, but from what I’ve seen, the church yard had to expand the boundaries after ten years. It does appear that now all three of my parents are in your cemetery—sinners or no.”

Parris threw his head back and laughed at this, sending the raven flying from its perch, and for a moment, Jeremy glimpsed the man as he must once have been, a hearty hellion bent on drink and life.

“I see,” Parris coughed out a few words between belly laughs. “I begin to see.”

“She being of the Papal faith, and he being an outcast,” continued Jeremy, knowing that if he weren’t forthcoming that Parris would get the story from another source. “Excommunicated on the heels of burying his wife, my mother.”

“Which makes you what?” Parris did not mean this as any sort of barb, but spoke out of confusion.

“I am my own man, sir.”

“Wakely…Wakely…yes, I’d heard it as Walker or Warfield, but yes, I’ve heard tell of this man, your father. Was he not a dish-turner by trade? Married a Frenchy, yes.”

“And we all know what that portends.”

He gave Jeremy a searching look, trying to determine if his last remark was jest or anger. But Parris said no more on the subject, allowing his dark brown eyes to speak for him. Then he suddenly exploded with more laughter, which drew almost as much curiosity from passers-by as had their run-in with Goode the day before.

“What do you find humorous, sir?”

“Now I understand why you’re here. You in particular, that is.”

“I have no vengeance motive, sir.”

“Sure.” He nodded exaggeratedly. “I am sure.”

# # # # #

With great energy, as if the revelation of Wakely’s having been an ill-treated villager had filled his blood with some strange elixir that fueled this complicated man named Parris, Jeremy watched him march on for the Putnams, to do battle there once again with a little girl causing havoc in his parish—his orphaned niece, Mercy.

Jeremy had to truly rush to keep up, and as he did so, a good fire burned within him as well. Increase Mather had proved a genius, somehow knowing this moment between Jeremy and Parris would occur. For having shared his infuriating past and his anger at the parish with Samuel Parris, Jeremy had forged an instant bond with the maligned minister. Mather had predicted it. While Parris remained suspicious and aloof, he now trusted to a notion that Jeremy’s basest instincts had brought him back to this hovel to minister to these people in the form of some sort of retribution. Something Jeremy imagined that pleased the Reverend Samuel Parris, as if he’d discovered yet another kinsman to stand on his side—Jeremiah Wakely.

And thanks to that false sense of kinship, the man might let his renowned guard down just long enough for me to collect the evidence needed. Evidence that’d perhaps bring Parris to the day of his excommunication from Salem Village. A righteous one, and not the farce that’d devastated the Wakely family.

Again they heard of the abuses Mrs. Putnam had taken from Mercy, and that Little Anne, too, was misbehaving and getting into bad habits, all due to Mercy’s having more and more influence over Anne Junior. Again Parris preached and prayed over the heads of the two little girls who lived beneath the Putnam roof. This time, he called on Jeremy to add his prayer, and having prepared for such moments, Jeremy did not hesitate, asking the children to say the Lord’s Prayer with him. Finally, once more Parris convinced the Putnams to give Mercy more time to adjust to her new master and mistress, and to her new duties and surroundings.

Chapter Seven

The following midnight at the Putnam home

“Your mother is strange, Anne,” said Mercy Lewis from where she lay bundled beneath her woolen blanket atop her straw-tick mattress. Like the younger Anne, she wore a thin and plain linen nightshirt—a feed bag, she called it. Mercy was propped on one elbow where she’d awakened to the noises filtering up to them from below. She felt restless in the small trundle bed here across the attic loft from frail, gaunt Anne Putnam Junior. “I said your ma’s weird, making all those noises in the night.”

“She is not strange nor weird!” Anne replied and sat up, her lips puckering in anger, her own feedbag too large for her tiny frame.

“Then what’s all those nasty sounds coming from her room all night? Gracious! Sounds as much a ruckus as Goody Goode put on my uncle the other day.”

“Don’t call my ma a witch!”

“I didn’t never call her a witch, but I know some who have.”

“Mother . . . she only talks to herself is all.”

“Talks? That’s talk? She screams like. . . like as if your father’s beatin’er!”

“My father don’t beat nobody! You shut up, Mercy! Just shut up!”

“Your father ever come for me, I’ll stab him with this,” replied Mercy, holding up a huge knitting needle.

“Wherever’d you get that?”

“Goody Goode give it to me for protection. Said it had magical powers.”

“That old witch? You’d best steer clear of that hag ‘lest you turn into one.”

“Ah, She’s not so bad as people make her out.”

“Make ’er angry then! See if she don’t put a hex on ya, Mercy.”

“She says your ma’s a witch.”

“She’s a liar. Goode’s a lying witch!”

“Says your ma traffics with the Devil.”

“My ma’s had a horrible life is all, and she’s . . . “

Mercy came to Anne’s bed and sat with her. “She’s what?”

“She’s haunted; that’s what she is. No different than me.”

“You, Anne, haunted? Anne, talk to me.”

“She cries every night for the dead children she brought into this world before me, and—and so do I.”

“All them sisters and brothers, ten, I heard.” Mercy shook here head. “All born dead.”

“Nine, me being number ten, but they didn’t all go at birth. Not all. Some lived for a time.”

“How long?” Thirteen-year-old Mercy Lewis, elder cousin to Betty Parris, had recently discovered her flesh, and her breasts gave her more pleasure than all the sermons her uncle could spew from pulpit and dinner table, but she was always quick to pick up on any gossip and there was plenty at the Parris’ home. “How long did the longest one live?”

“That’d be Thomas the Third. He lived almost six months.”

“I hear you almost died, too.” Mercy studied the younger girl.

“I’m here, ain’t I? I turn’t eleven back in January.”

“And you ain’t dead yet?” Mercy giggled. “So that makes you the longest to live, not Thomas the Third. You beat out your brothers.”

“No, I ain’t, Mercy Lewis! I’m not one of them.”

“Not one of them?”

“The dead brothers and sisters; they’re together. Me . . . I’m alone.”

“Not no more.”

“Whataya mean?”

“You got me. I’ll be your big sister.”

Anne smiled at the notion. “Y-You mean it?”

“My but you look whiter than death. I got to find ways to get you outside in the sun. What little we get here in this dingy place is awful.”

“How? Mother doesn’t let us out of her sight. Work all day in the house.”

Mercy bounced on her knees on Anne’s bed. “That’s what I mean when I say she’s a witch!”

“Shut your mouth!” Anne’s voice traveled through the house.

“Shhh, you want them coming up and yelling again?”

“Then you shush that talk, and quit thinking bad of us!”

“Just saying what I was told.” Mercy sulked while playing with Anne’s hair.

“Then you was told wrong by a mean-spirited old bitch.”

Mercy laughed and covered her mouth with both hands.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your little white face goes all red when you curse.”

Thin, frail, small-boned Anne Putnam Junior dropped her head and wiped away a tear. “My mother and me, we’re both haunted is all. That’s all. You’d be haunted too by your dead fam’ly if . . . ”

“If what? Go on, say it. I hear it behind my back all the time. Say it, Anne!” She squeezed the younger girl’s arm hard.

“If you truly had any heart—Mercy Lewis—but you haven’t any.”

“I got no memory of how my parents died,” Mercy countered, letting Anne go, her eyes flashing anger.

“None? How can that be?”

“Only know what people’ve told me is all.” Mercy pretended sniffles. “So, so it might seem I don’t have no feelings ’bout it, but I do. I surely do.” Mercy worked to imagine it; how horrible her parents had died when hostile Indians had attacked their farmstead eleven years ago, but she might just as well attempt to dredge up ancient Roman soldiers hoisting Christ on the cross for all the good it’d do—as she did not have any feeling for either event, largely due to her having heard these two stories so often and from so many directions for so many years now that she’d become stonily cold to both fairy tales as she considered each.

Mercy had been found below the burned out home, below the floor, and below the bodies. Or so she’d been told so often that it had no meaning any longer. “Your father and mother loved you ’til the end,” Uncle Wilkins, Uncle Revelation, and Uncle Parris had all repeatedly reminded her. “They protected you with the last measure of their blood. They protected you with their very bodies.”

In truth, she had no feelings about her unremembered parents or the incident that they had earned a kind of ‘sainthood’ for in a community that disdained saints. Mercy’s not caring and not remembering, and her disdain for the oft repeated tale had grown into a cancerous guilt within her—one that manifested itself in hurting others in the most devious ways she could manage. And if she should fail in deviousness, she’d make it up in outright theft and lies. She had once told Uncle Samuel that she dared Satan to come near her.

His response was to again tell her how her parents had died so that she might live. All the same, whenever someone reminded her of the defining incident, she could not grasp it. Perhaps I don’t want to, she secretly told herself. Either way, it only nurtured the guilt until she’d become angry toward everyone, because everyone in the village looked at her with curious or pitying eyes. How had she survived?

“Soooo,” Mercy cooed at nine-year-old Anne, “you two—mother and daughter—are-are just haunted, eh?”

“Haunted, yes, Miss Mercy.”

“You mean bewitched, don’t you?”

Anne hesitated. My ma sees ghosts like I do. That’s all.”

Below them in the house, adults continued, voices raised, making a row.

“What’s going on down there?” asked Mercy, standing and going to the trap door, inching it open to eavesdrop on the adults. She started, seeing that her Uncle Samuel was in the house yet again, and again he’d brought the stranger they called Wakely.

Mercy disliked Parris immeasurably. It’d been cruel of her uncle to ceremonially excommunicate Sarah Goode from the church, but doubly cruel then to’ve taken old Goode’s only child, Dorcas, away from her mother. Goode had been hanging about the parsonage too much; in fact, she and Uncle Samuel’s black servant, Tituba, had been exchanging ideas and recipes and incantations.

Worst of all, so far as Mercy was concerned, Uncle Samuel had tired of feeding and housing her—his sullen niece—and he’d refused Mercy’s sharing Betty’s room and bed when he caught them playing beneath the covers. All of this had led to his pushing her off on the Putnams.

Through the crack in the door over the heads of the adults, Mercy saw coins change hands. That stupid Thomas Putnam has purchased me! It’s final now. Thomas Putnam now owned her, lock, stock, and barrel as the woodsman’s ballad said of his livestock, traps, tools, weapons, and women. Mercy felt a pang of terror; she felt like an animal trapped. She’d disliked the look in the middle-aged Putnam’s eye when her uncle had first broached the subject of taking Mercy in as maidservant to Mrs. Putnam. That’d been a month earlier. Apparently, Putnam and Uncle Samuel had settled on an agreeable price, with Putnam having to make payments over time.

Mercy gulped. She slammed the trap door, the noise like a gunshot. She did not intend to let her uncle for a moment think she was as dumb as Dorcas—that she didn’t know what was going on here. She leapt into Anne’s bed, saying, “Did you hear them jump? I made your father and my uncle go off their feet!”

Anne giggled in response.

Mercy pulled the covers over them, and together they laughed at the image of serious grownups, a minister and a deacon, starting with fear at the trap door’s falling. Anne, like Mercy, liked the reaction Mercy had elicited from the adult world.

“Makes me feel good inside to make grown men jump,” Mercy said between laughs.

“Me, too,” added Anne. “Me, too.”

# # # # #

The following night in the Putnam home

Mercy Lewis sat up in bed. She’d awakened to a hot, sweaty hand rising along her leg toward her private parts.

On awaking, she found no one in the attic bedroom aside from Anne, who appeared asleep. If it’d been Anne, Mercy would be more than willing to allow the touching, but if it’d been her father, she wanted nothing to do with it. In fact, the thought made her shiver and want to vomit.

“Anne? Anne? Were you in my bed?”

No response.

“Anne!”

No reply.

“I know you were touching me, Anne, and it’s all right.” Mercy touched herself there. “Do ya hear me?”

No reply.

Mercy sighed and decided to go back to sleep, but once more the crying coming from Anne Senior’s room downstairs kept her awake. Then she heard little Anne’s voice cut through the attic. “It’s my Uncle Henry touched you, Miss Mercy, not me.”

“Your Uncle Henry?” Mercy was aghast at the thought. “What Uncle Henry?”

“I don’t really know him.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know him?”

“He died before I come ’long.”

Mercy swallowed hard. “A ghost? A ghost was touching me?” She really shivered now.

“He comes, my brothers come, my sisters. They all come with the same message.”

“Message? What message?” Mercy sat up at this news.

“They all say they didn’t die properly . . . normally, I mean.”

“You mean naturally?”

“They claim murder.”

“Murdered?” Mercy gasped. This is interesting and strange.

“And they can’t rest in peace cause, cause . . . ”

“Cause why?” Mercy had pulled her legs in tight, gripping her bedclothes.

“Cause they want things righted.”

“They want you to fix things?”

“Me and Mother, yes . . . fix things so’s they can rest in peace.”

“What do ya mean, Anne?”

“Find some justice.”

“Justice in this world? Ha! Vengeance maybe, huh?”

“Like that, yeah—my ma calls it settling of scores.”

“But I never did nothing to your uncle, so—”

“Don’t matter. Neither did me nor my ma.”

“—s-so why’s he got his dead hand on me?”

Anne stuttered, “Ah-ah-h-h . . . ”

“The hand wasn’t cold neither! But ‘twas warm and big like a man’s hand, Anne.”

“C-Can I come over there?” asked Anne.

“Yes, Anne. Yes, you can.”

The moment Anne came into Mercy’s bed, she felt for the first time that it was no longer strange to have a big ‘sister’ other than her two ghosts sisters who’d died ahead of her. Seven brothers, two sisters, all phantoms now, all crying out for reprisal, and Anne the only one of ten infants who’d cheated death. She and Mercy had this in common—guilt at having been spared. Guilt at being alive. But Anne’s guilt was even stronger, far deeper, and Mercy sensed this, and she wondered how she could use this information.

She wondered if she could use it as she had the trap door to frighten the adult world. A world she hated.

And she further wondered how she might use this strange new knowledge to fend off any advances from Anne’s father, and even more urgent advances she felt certain to come.

“Tell me more about Old Goody Goode,” Anne asked, snuggling into the crook of Mercy’s arm. “You’ve made me curious ’bout her.”

“Little liar.”

“Am not.”

“You’ve always been curious of the old witch. Whether she really has any powers or not. Don’t lie.”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll tell ya everything about Goode, if you’ll tell me more about Uncle Henry.”

“Not much to tell.”

“Then the other ghosts haunting this house and your mother. Like why they only haunt her and not your father?”

“Men don’t see ghosts like we women do.”

“I s’pose not.”

Anne snuggled more deeply into her newfound, live older, wiser sister, whose developing breasts jiggled like water beneath Annie’s head.

# # # # #

Anne Putnam Junior felt it wonderful sharing her loft with Mercy Lewis. She hadn’t had a nightmare in all the nights spent with Mercy, and she’d not had one of her paralyzing fits in all the days since Mercy had come to live with her.

The fits were horrible; they turned Anne into a drooling vegetable. She’d bite through her tongue if her mother or father should fail to act quickly and to put the ever present wedge in her mouth. During such fits, she went blank in the head. Her mind seemed to overload and go black, eyes rolling back in their sockets, while limbs uncontrollably quaked. At the same time, her extremities became stone: fingers, toes, feet, and hands like stubby tree branches reaching to the sky.

Anne’s mother had repeatedly explained away the fits as a bewitching, a curse that’d been placed on the Thomas Putnam family from the days when Anne Carr-Putnam, the mother, had made her feelings for the married minister, James Bailey, known. Bad timing as the minister’s wife and children lay dying of a plague on Bailey’s house.

Against her parents’ wishes, Anne had publicly made it known that when the minister’s wife died, that she would marry Bailey, and one night she went to Bailey and bared her soul and body to him even as his family lay in the back rooms coughing their last. Bailey had soundly cursed and rebuked Anne Carr, and in his anger, he had thrown her naked from his home.

Anne, immature and unmarried, was told by her parents that her advances on Bailey had been a sinful display; that she’d be cursed if she did not repent of her foolish passion for the minister, and that she must do so at the meetinghouse before everyone. She refused and she never recanted her love for Bailey.

Today, Anne Senior still suffered for that mistake. And now her only daughter, named for her, suffered for the sins of her mother in the form of quaking fits and an unhealthy body. In fact, all of the mother’s nine other children had paid the ultimate price. Nine dead children before Anne Junior—all lost.

How many times had mother told Anne the story? How could a minister, a man of God, a man Mother professed her love for—how could he place such a terrible curse on the unborn, on all of the issue of Thomas Putnam? Unless . . . unless Bailey was not a man of God after all but an imposter! Else his grief over the sudden end of his own family had turned him to the darkness and the Devil.

Perhaps . . . or worse.

Some word went around that Bailey, being the Devil himself used the parsonage badly, and was punished by an angry God. How else to explain why his entire family was destroyed?

Some went further to say that the next minister, a man named Burroughs, who displayed superhuman strength on more than one occasion, was Bailey returned in a new guise as Salem Village parish minister, again bringing a family with him, and again watching that family wither and die in yet another plague on the parsonage home. A necessary plague brought down upon it by the wrath of God Himself.

Some went further to say that the next minister, Samuel Parris, was again the Devil who’d found yet another family in order to cover his cloven hoof prints, so as to rejoin the battle for the cursed parish and parsonage home, and that this time the Devil had hold of the deed!

Anne now believed, magically enough, that Mercy’s presence had dispelled the decade’s curse, and in Anne’s eyes Mercy had indeed cast off the ghosts bedeviling the Putnam home—and quite possibly the entire parish. Now Anne saw Samuel Parris as just a man with a family and a desire to do right and good in the parish. The Devils—if there were any in the parish—were those who stood against their minister, just as her father and mother had said so often in conversation, and to which Mercy agreed.

For Anne, Mercy proved a godsend. Mercy truly loved Anne, who’d never felt anything approaching unconditional love or even simple affection from anyone, including her parents. The relationship between Anne and her parents had the character of a deathwatch even now after nine years.

Besides, Mercy told fortunes by the sieve and scissors—a proven method. She also told the future by flames on a log, ripples on water, tealeaves even. Mercy knew all about the planets, stars, stones, and plants. She knew something of poisons too. She knew the magical properties needed to make a person fall sick or come well and heal, and she claimed to know how to bake a witch pie.

Again in the middle of the night, the children were awakened by Anne Putnam Senior’s night terrors, or rather the result of these—screams and loud argument. Mercy lifted the trap to hear the details. From below, Anne’s mother shouted, “I’m only one person! A woman at that! What can I do? It’s nothing I can manage alone! Haunt Thom! Strike Thom! Bite and pinch and tear at Thomas as ya do me! Wake him with hot coals and bloody pins and needles!”

Mercy, seeing that Anne had awakened and returned to her bed to sleep alone, asked, “How come these ghosts never go after your father?”

“Never,” mumbled Anne. “He’s blind and deaf to ’em.”

“Afraid of him are they?”

“No, he’s got no eyes for spirits.”

“No eyes for ghosts?”

“Like most men, blind to the Invisible World all round us.”

Every child of Salem Village had the notions of the Invisible World with all its punishments drilled into them.

“You sayin’ it’s a woman’s lot to be haunted?”

“Women being more open to invisible creatures, yes.”

“Women and children like you, you mean?”

“Yeah, women and children.”

“Why do you s’pose it’s so?”

“Dunno.”

“I could ask Goode or Tituba to do some magic that’d stop the curse on your family forever, Anne, if you wish me to.”

“You can?”

“I could.”

“You think it’d stop my mother’s being haunted?”

“Depends on how strong the curse is.”

Anne sat considering this for several silent moments.

Mercy climbed in beside her and took her hand in hers. “You know on dark nights when there’s no moon, that’s when Goode gets past the sheriff and the curfew.”

“Yes? And?”

“And she goes to somewhere in the woods.”

“Woods?”

“Swampscott, it’s called. It’s where she meets with the others.”

“Others?

“Other witches, and together—well together, their magic is stronger. Tituba has met with Goode out at the swamps in the forests.”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Met with Goode in the forest.”

“Me and Betty have, yes.”

“Betty Paris? When?”

“The last night I was in my uncle’s house. Tituba woke us and guided us.”

“Tituba? Did she fly you and Betty on a broomstick?”

Mercy laughed. “No! We walked, but I saw a black wolf following us.”

“A wolf?”

“A wolf who turned into a man, and we all knew a man wearing the black robes who watched everything.”

“A minister? A werewolf?”

“A minister with cloven feet, and he slobbered and drooled.”

“God, a wolf man. W-What’d you do?”

“Danced with ‘im.”

“No!”

“Round a fire, it was.”

“No! A bonfire?” Anne’s eyes went wide. “I’d love it!”

“Was only a small fire. We didn’t want to draw attention.”

“Then Tituba is a witch like Goode?”

“She’s a good witch.”

“But Goode is not?”

“Depends whether she likes you or not.”

Anne scratched her head over this.

Another horrid scream came from Mrs. Putnam’s bedroom. Anne shivered and confessed that since Mercy’s arrival, she’d had no visits from her dead siblings.

“I’m a charm, a good luck charm,” Mercy told her. “Tituba made me a charm.”

Another scream from below and Anne clutched to her newfound charm.

“Easy, my little doll,” said Mercy. “Why’re you so afraid? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

Mercy tightened her hold on Anne. For whatever reason, Mercy pictured the old crone, Goode going about her day in Salem Village. It’d always been Goode’s habit to go door-to-door, begging scraps, begging for tatters of cloth, collecting bottles, tin cups, bells. She liked bells and jars. Mercy would see her at the seashore, collecting shells, pebbles, and periwinkles for periwinkle stew. Mercy always saw little Dorcas with her mother, and she imagined what it must be like to be the child of a witch. Yet it made no sense; if Goode were such a powerful cunning woman, then why couldn’t she fix her own daughter’s addled brain?

And why wasn’t the old woman’s curse on Parris’ house working?

And why’s it seem I have more influence over Anne and her family than that so-called witch, who can’t even regain her own daughter from Uncle Samuel?

In the short span of time that Mercy had been under the Putnam roof, she’d been frightened countless times by the night screams. Shortly after her first night the father attempted to corner her in some private place, obviously wanting to put his hands on her. This followed by Anne’s mother’s beating her with the tattling rod when she dared complain. Add to it all how little Anne now hung on her to forget her dead brothers and sisters, and the entire mix boggled the mind.

Mercy lifted Anne’s frightened little face, tilting it to her lips, and she kissed the younger girl full on the mouth, her tongue exploring. Anne responded to the sensations that Mercy imagined the younger girl had never experienced. Anne hungrily returned the kiss. Mercy then moved Anne’s mouth to her bared breast, offering a nipple, which young Anne grasped with hungry lips and smothered with lapping tongue. “Right . . . right . . . good, my little doll, my little darling. You do this, and I’ll ask Goode to lift the curse on your home.”

Anne’s warm breath and small mouth filled Mercy’s nightshirt, and the two fell asleep in one another’s arms.

Chapter Eight

At the Nurse home the following morning

Twenty-four-year-old Serena Nurse awoke that same morning with the unhappy condition of still living under her father’s roof. Her three sisters, and all of her older brothers had all married and were raising children. They each busied themselves in building their own homes and families while Serena was becoming increasingly referred to as the unfortunate one—a role fate had placed her in since birth, or so it went. A huge invisible S hung about her next like an albatross—S for spinster. She might just as well stitch the word to her dresses and shirts.

Her mother had said only last night, “Your sister Becca’s to have another child.”

Becca’s third. Serena had replied with a pasted on smile: “Sweet, smart, beautiful Becca, how wonderful for her and John Tarbell.”

Becca was the eldest sister, named after her mother, Rebecca. Mary, the younger sister, already had three boys, Elizabeth a boy and a girl. Nephews and nieces to spare for Auntie Serena.

Dressed in a shift-dress and her brother’s white shirt tucked and covered by a cowhide vest, Serena frowned at her reflection and angrily pulled a brush through her hair as if the effort might push unwanted thoughts away. She hoped Mother might later braid her hair, but for now, she tidied it into a ponytail. She was so very tired of having it up in a severe bun in the style of her mother and grandmother; she was even more tired of wearing plain and colorless, baggy clothing—gray, beige, and brown items that hung like a sheet from thick, ugly shoulder straps as big as a harness. To make matters worse, people expected her to then cover this with an equally ugly apron—a symbol of oppression so far as she was concerned. The damnable apron and bonnet. In general, women had one purpose in life—to learn the trade of the good and dutiful wife—the Goodwife or slave to a Goodman! She must conform—as assuredly as all men must learn the frugal and sensible management of resources or husbandry.

She said to her reflection, “Serenity Nurse—despite your name—you’ll never be treated like someone’s herd animal.” She would never be a resource in that sense, but most good men in their society thought of and treated their wives and children as chattel, and their maid servants had it even worse.

She picked up an awful gingham bonnet that her father always pestered her to wear. She flung it across the room. Finished primping, she stepped away from the mirror and out of her bedroom and into the great room to find it empty. Unusual. Where is everyone, she wondered. “Mother? Father?”

No answer.

Stillness. The house felt heavy with emptiness.

The night before they’d celebrated with ale and melon when Mother Nurse had found the strength to climb from her months’ long sickbed. She’d been ill the entire winter. Mrs. Rebecca Nurse had aged over those months, losing much of her hair, her sight weakening, the old strength in her voice and body now a ghost of itself—until last night. Last night she’d spent several hours at the hearth here in the great room in grand spirits and having a dram of spirits as well.

But where was Mama now? And Papa for that matter?

“Can ya do something with your mother, Serena?” Her father poked his head in at the window. He stood out on the porch, waving his arms.

Serena rushed to his side. “What is it?”

Francis Nurse, stooped with age and a head shorter than Serena, nodded in the direction of the three oaks. “Look at her. Fool woman.”

Serena watched her mother walking amid the snow-covered ground where outdoor tables for picnics stood upended against the oaks. While she had a homespun shawl pinned over her shoulders, Rebecca wore a thin sack-cloth dress, socks and shoes. “I don’t understand. What is she doing with that broom?”

“Dusting the snow away. She’s insisting we ready the tables for a meal.”

“What? Now? In this cold? How could you let her, Papa!”

“I tried to stop her! You know how stubborn she is!”

Serena watched her mother, broom in hand, waddling about beneath her three oaks. Her “precious trees” as she called them. The huge oaks adorned their front yard. Rebecca whisked snow from the upturned tables that leaned in against the trunks. Serena leaned into her father and said, “But it’s so cold; it’s only March.”

“Tell her that. I’ve tried.”

“Obviously not hard enough.”

“‘No sitting on cold ground or benches in any month with an R in it’ I told her!”

“Is she out of her head?”

“Stubborn, ornery is what, like I said. Like you, she is.”

Ornery or uncertain, ornery or fearful, Serena wondered. Was her mother afraid if they waited longer for the traditional Easter gathering beneath the oaks that she wouldn’t be on hand? That she would’ve passed on before April or May when the more clement weather prevailed?

Her long illness and convalescence had had the entire family thinking such thoughts, Serena included. But now her mother was putting down the tables, dusting them with broom. “Perhaps you should lend a hand, Father.”

“I thought it’d dissuade her when I refused to help,” Francis said, a year older than Rebecca.

Serena stared a moment at her square-shouldered, short father, his skin as brown the bark on the oaks, a result of years of labor beneath the sun. “Now you’re being stubborn.” Barefoot, Serena rushed to help her mother with the chore.

“Persuade her away from there and back inside,” he shouted after Serena.

“Why’re you still under my roof, child?” Rebecca Nurse asked Serena now alongside her, helping her to bring down a second table to set it upright.

“I’m too tall perhaps? Too thin maybe? Perchance too awkward . . . ”

“Men like women with rumps as soft and round as the bread we bake.”

This made mother and daughter laugh. Then Rebecca added, “I think it’s your mouth, child.”

“But I don’t swear . . . not often.”

“No, but you’ve never learned to hold your tongue. Men can’t abide a woman—”

“—Who talks back! I know, I know.” Serena had heard this now habitual remark so often that it no longer held any hurt. “Little wonder no one will have me, eh, Mother?”

“Indeed. Candlewick.” It was an endearment Rebecca had given Serena when she was a preteen, one that spoke of her thin and sinewy stature then but hardly anymore. She had filled out, her tomboy appearance gone with her curvaceous body.

From beneath her bonnet, Rebecca said,“I sent your brother, Ben, to call everyone here.”

Serena hadn’t heard the nickname, Candlewick, in perhaps six or so years, but here was Mother saying it as if her youngest daughter was still a child and a tomboy at that.

“Men want women who can work a field,” said Serena while taking the broom from her mother’s hand.

“Like a good mule,” joked her mother.

“Work a field by day, deliver sons by night,” Serena said as they swept away snow and ice from the tables they had leveled.

“But you’ve got good teeth and gums! As good as any mule in Salem,” Rebecca joked on.

“First thing Papa looked for when he met you? I’ve heard you say so!”

They laughed so hard snow fell from the leaves overhead.

“Mother!” pleaded Francis from the porch. “Do come in now the tables are dusted, please!”

Serena, her bare toes pinching with cold now, remembered to wipe the sleep from her eyes. “Father worries.”

“Oh, the old fool. Do you think he’d lend a hand? Not so much as a finger!”

“Mother, we’re done here.”

Serena twirled the broom, its bristles gleaming in the morning sun. Neighbors passed by the gate at Ipswich Road, most with bundles of kindling, vegetables, bags of grain, some pushing carts, and all curious at Mother Nurse’s antics in the snow. Most politely waved and shouted their morning greetings. Serena waved for Rebecca who’d remained oblivious of the outsiders. Any who were not family, according to Rebecca’s teachings were suspect and to be considered ‘outsiders’ and quite possibly mischief-makers to boot.

“There’s too much yet to do, Serena,” began her mother. “If we’re to gather the family and bake and cook and set table.”

“Three tables you mean?”

“Yes, enough for the entire clan.”

“Mother, none will come for an outdoor gathering when’s so cold and blustery.” As if to punctuate her words, a chill gust defied the warm sun to swirl about them.

Rebecca placed a hand on Serena’s forearm and looked her in the eye. “You know full well that if I ask it of my brood, they will come.” Calm assurance from both voice and eyes came through. In fact, Serena saw none of the watery, bleariness of her mother’s illness. Instead it’d been replaced by a certainty and a clarity Serena had missed for too long in her mother’s pale blue eyes.

“Have you really sent word round the compound?” asked Francis in the tone of a slap. He’d ventured out to help Rebecca negotiate the stairs.

“Yes. I have.”

“By Benjamin, I suppose.”

“By Bennie, yes.”

“Mother,” interrupted Serena, “you said Joseph too, earlier.”

“Both, yes—I’ve sent both riding off!”

Benjamin remained her baby, youngest of her children; he too lived in the main house, the old Towne home that had belonged to Rebecca’s father. Serena thought Ben conspicuously absent this morning, and now she knew the reason why. Mother had dispatched him to all the surrounding homes filled with little Nurses, little Eastys, little little Cloyses, and little Tarbells—Rebecca’s twenty-seven grandchildren. She meant to have an outdoor gathering with food, drink, children and grandchildren all in one place. A feast, a spring festival.

“We could as well do this indoors, Mother.”

“No, no,” she absently replied. “He told me specifically that it be outside and today. Beneath the new sun.”

“But today is Sunday. Hold . . . wait. Who told you?”

“A voice . . . a voice inside.”

“A voice?”

“All right, my Maker . . . your Maker.”

“Ah-ah . . . I see. But Mother, everyone will be off to church.”

“They’ve been told to forgo Parris’ vile sermons for this one day.”

“How long’ve I told ’em all to do just that?” asked Serena, her features tightening at the mention of Parris’ name. “I heard a rumor that he’s gotten himself an apprentice, oddly, someone named Wakely.”

“Wakely? Be it our lost Jeremiah?”

“No . . . most unlikely.” Serena gave thought again to the possibility—one she had dreamed on since hearing the nasty little rumor. “But if it is Jere Wakely—” Serena gave her broom a strong forward push to punctuate her point—“I’ll, I’ll give him a piece of my mind, I assure you.”

“Whoever the poor man is, he’ll be filled with Parris’ venom soon enough if he’s apprenticed to that man.” Rebecca negotiated the steps with husband on one side and daughter on the other.

Francis replied, “Just galls me to hear that country parson speak.”

“Galls me,” added Serena, “his likening himself and his situation to Christ’s condemnation.”

Rebecca grimaced and shivered with a sudden chill. She clutched her shawl, one that she had knitted during her convalescence, tighter to her. “My sisters tell me he’s now likening his own flock to the money changers and Pilate and swine.”

“I told those sisters of yours to mind what they say and to not to pester your mind with such nonsense as goes on in the village meetinghouse!” Francis erupted.

“No, instead you want to bring me all the nonsensical news sweetened and strained like porridge!” Rebecca laughed as she found her favorite porch rocker. “And if you won’t convey the truth no more, Deacon Nurse—”

He’d plopped into a rocker beside her and instantly defended himself. “Now that’s not true and you know—”

“True enough! Keeping me poor dear old feminine ears from harm…keeping me in the dark!”

“Mother,” interceded Serena.

“So then it will be my faithful sisters—and Serena here! She never sugar-coated a thing in her life.”

“You needn’t be upset by that place,” he promised. “I have it on good authority that our Mr. Parris is not long for Salem.”

“Indeed?” asked Serena, who’d remained standing and towering over her elderly parents.

“I imagine June or July and we’ll have seen the last of the Mr. Parris.”

“So you’ve been to see Mr. Higginson again, have you?” asked Rebecca.”

“I don’t understand the depth of Mr. Parris’ venom toward members of his own congregation,” confessed Serena, pacing the porch, lifting the broom anew and sweeping to quell her restless pacing.

“Why it’s mainly due our withholding his payment.” He searched for a pipe and tobacco in his vest pockets.

“Ne’er thought it a good plan, Francis. And don’t smoke so near me.”

“Just till this matter of the parsonage deed is cleared up, you see. But you know, Mother,” continued Francis, “even some of our brothers and sisters disagree with us on the matter of the parsonage grounds.”

“So?”

“So? So who’s to say if they’ll come to my table?”

“Our table! And they’ll come no matter. Disagreements will be put aside,” Rebecca assured her husband and daughter, and then she cheered on seeing a red-brested robin land atop one of the cleaned tables and step about like a sea captain inspecting the deck. “It’s a wonderful sign that!” she erupted.

Mother Nurse then turned her attention on their large holdings, smoke curling from distant chimneys at other homes on the compound. “They owe me that much,” she spoke of the people in the homes on the compound. “They know I’ll give ’em a righteous sermon, sure, and enough gumption to see us through another harvest.”

Serena snickered. “A righteous sermon.”

“What of it?” asked her mother. “Out with it.”

“Just that it’s become something…well, rare in these parts—a righteous instead of a self-righteous sermon.”

“You mea self-serving,” corrected Francis, who’d clamored to his feet and found the other end of the porch where he puffed on his pipe.

Rebecca had for years preached in the absence of an ordained minister in the area. Many people still came to pray with her at the house, including Serena’s aunts.

Their morning’s conversation had Serena convinced that Mother was as sharp-witted as ever; perhaps it’d been her wit that’d kept her going throughout the long winter’s illness. Certainly, Mother had the measure of Mr. Samuel Parris.

# # # # #

The home of Bray Wilkins at Will’s Hill, Essex County, the following morning

Anne Putnam’s father, Thomas Putnam, had spent the night at the home of a business partner, cousin, and friend—Bray Wilkins. Bray as he brayed like a mule whenever he laughed. So far as Thom Putnam felt, a man could never be counted poor if he should stop to count his friends, though he did not fully believe it himself and would rather be wealthy than befriended by such as Bray.

Bray was a lanky, bull-shouldered man, a gray-bearded grandfather many times over, something Thomas believed he’d never be. He held a strong suspicion that his eleven-year-old daughter, Anne, would not live a long life, and another certainty—that he’d never have a son to carry on his name, nor a grandson for that matter.

Thomas could not imagine any man desperate enough to take Anne Junior for a wife, as everyone in Salem Village knew the Putnam girl was frail of heart and weak-limbed, and rather useless, and nothing much to look at; worst of all, she’d lived a life of sickness and fits from birth, a birth defect, perhaps the same as took the lives of her brothers and sisters before her.

Putnam had slept poorly here on Wilkins’ maidservant’s bed. The sixteen-year-old servant girl, Susana Sheldon, had been ordered to give up her bed to Thomas, that she could as well sleep on the floor at the hearth.

Now with everyone in the cramped house gone to sleep, Thomas inched closer and closer to the servant, and in a moment he aroused the comely young thing. “Why don’t you come back to-yer-bed, honey?”

“No sir, if it please you, I am fine here where ‘tis warm.”

“Would please me to be warm . . . warmed by you, Susana.” He ran his hands over her, but she fought off his advances, nearly catching her nightshirt aflame in the effort. In order not to wake Bray or his family, Thomas let it pass, shushing the girl, who certainly could carry his seed as he guessed her age at seventeen or eighteen.

He’d been drinking heavily with Bray all evening, and this morning, he was paying the piper sure. “Head feels split open by the blunt end of an ax,” he said to Susana, trying to elicit a smile from her, but it was no good. “But the look you’re givin’ your dear uncle now . . . now that’s e’en worse than an ax to the head!”

Still no good. Still no easing of the fear in the girl’s eyes. That look as if she might scream at any moment. The same look that had held him off Mercy Lewis up ’till now.

Neither Mercy then nor Susana now had given him any sign of their having any normal, healthy leanings in that direction. Neither seemed to like being touched even on the most innocent of places, a pat on the head, a hand on the shoulder, nor a kiss on the hand or cheek. At the moment, Susana showed no sign of changing or of suddenly acquiescing to his desire. Instead at this moment, she was crouched like an animal, back against the fire, ready to run yet clutching her covers to her bosom at the same time.

A voice in his head told him it was not worth losing friends and respect over. A voice in his head suggested he give it up, and so he decided he must.

As Thomas fought to his feet, knocking things over, the servant girl now stifled her laughter at his discomfort, doing so by pushing thick strands of her own hair into her mouth—which looked to Thomas a sensuous gesture indeed. His back ached from center to shoulder blades, a stinging, radiating pain like a drumbeat. The straw ticking from the rents in the girl’s mattress clung to his back.

He recalled snatches of what he’d said already to the servant girl, not wishing to repeat himself. But the drink had hold of his memory. He gazed again on the pretty young thing. Scruffy and dirty to be sure, this Susana Sheldon.

He suddenly reached out and pulled her into him, and she twisted away like a large snake. Her features displayed a pure disgust and she pleaded, “Please, sir, if’n you wake Mr. Bray, he’ll tear me up for it.”

“I’ll protect you,” he lied. “Just be quiet, and do’s I say, girl. I mean woman. You are a woman, now aren’t ya?”

But she wouldn’t listen or lay down or obey as he pulled her back to the bed he wished to share with her, and the layers of fear and disdain came out in nails ripping into Putnam’s grip on her. He slapped her hard across the face and under his breath said in her ear, “A word from me, wench, and Bray will flay yer backside in a way only that old brute can. Now me…me, I am gentle with you, love.”

“You’ll wake him and there’ll be hell to pay!”

“Then by all means, we’ll be quiet,” he countered.

“No, sir,” she’d replied and tore away from him, her nightshirt revealing a breast.

“No? Don’t say no to me, Susana. It’s time you were made a woman.” He tried a step toward her, reached out again, but she ducked away.

“Touch me again, sir, and I’ll scream out me lungs . . . sir!”

She was sneering at him now, all fear replaced by hatred. Thomas backed off as again the voices in his head warned him against this foolish action. “I’m…I’m sorry, child. It’s the drink, you see. The devil takes me when I drink too much.”

“Get thee behind me then!” she shouted.

“Shhh…quiet,” he now pleaded and rushed back to her bed and threw the covers over himself.

# # # # #

The following morning, Thomas Putnam’s eyes proved bleary and his head felt like an anvil, but propped on an elbow, he watched Susana going about her morning chores. Putnam had to admire the verve with which she’d delivered that line so memorable even to a man without much memory left: Get thee behind me! He felt there was hope yet, as she had not said Satan in her epitaph.

He roused himself, stood, stretched, intentionally being noisy and hoping she might turn and acknowledge him, say something like “Are you hungry? Can I get you water to wash your hands and face? How are you this morning.” Nothing of the kind came from her, of course. Nothing but a flinch when she felt him step toward her, and now standing near, he muttered I her ear, “You know, child, I’d fight that old bastard—” he pointed to Bray Wilkins’ closed door—“to the death, I would, to keep any harm coming to you. One single hair on your pretty head is harmed, and I—”

“She turned and placed a skillet of hot oil between them. “I’m not afraid of Goodman Wilkins,” she let it be known, her eyes like fire.”

“Nor should you ever fear for a thing, Susana. One day our copper mine will pay us well, your Uncle Bray and me, and we will be well off, all of us. Telll me, child, how old are ye?”

She backed off, trembling before him as he reached out, touching her cheek, despite her threatening him. He backed Susana into a wall beside the hearth. He placed stout hands on each of her shoulders. She seemed to relent, giving no resistance this morning, perhaps afraid of his anger. So he pressed closer, feeling her ample breasts, pushing his hand below the linen dress, not much more than a sack.

“Please, sir, please no.”

He believed her protests translated to ‘Please sir, touch me all over’. Instead, she said, “You’re drunk, Mr. Putnam and dunno what you’re doing. S’pose your wife, your church fellows, your child were to hear of—”

In an instant he kissed her, ignoring the threat. His kiss was rough-bearded, savage. He believed that his touching her must ignite a youthful fire in her she’d be unable to resist.

“How unusual and unlike anyone you smell,” he said in her ear.

“It’s a bath I need,” she confessed. “They don’t give me ‘nough water. I haf’ta go to the river—and it’s—”

“Then your sweat is wonderful,” he countered.

“No it ain’t, and you mustn’t talk this way.”

He sniffed her and inhaled more deeply than before. “Neither sweet nor fresh but a surprising wild, animal scent.”

“Are ya calling me a cur, Mr. Putnam?”

“No, I like it—the scent of your curse. Is it that time for you?”

Susannah’s face reddened that he should ask such a question. Then she overturned the hot grease down his front, dropped the pan on his foot, and was gone.

Putnam screamed, burned and hurting. He caught a glimpse of her running out of the house. The little wench had dared do this to him, a Captain in the Militia, a Deacon at the village church. His pants ruined and his penis afire, he hopped about, searching for some way to relieve himself of the pain, knowing his shouts and groans had awakened the house.

At the master’s bedroom door stood Bray, his eyes wide, his mind in obvious consternation. Bray then asked a single question. “Have you violated my servant girl?”

“I have,” Thomas lied, “and she wanted it; she enticed me.”

Bray then lost all control, and he threw Putnam out, saying, “Liar! That girl is a virgin, and she won’t be undone by the likes ’o you, Thom! Now get out!”

“She enticed me, Bray! You’ve gotta believe that.”

“Out!”

“But-but—”

“Not another word! Out!”

Thomas started for the door, angry, when it suddenly opened inward, hitting him. He stumbled back, still hung over. He and Bray had drunk ale and hard cider until they could no longer think. They’d toasted repeatedly to the three men who’d died in the mine collapse only six hours before; his and Bray’s mine—their future now in ruins.

On his rump at the center of the small room, Thomas looked up to see John Williard had entered the cabin home. Williard, the Sheriff, was also Bray Wilkins’ peculiarly strange son-in-law whose withered right arm made him an unusual pick for Sheriff of Salem Village. At any rate, the taller man now stood over Putnam, frowning and reaching out a hand to help him to his feet.

“What’s happened here to the front of your pants, man?” he asked.

Putnam took the hand offered, stood, and pointed at the still warm, upturned pan on the floor.

Williard’s deformed right arm made it about the length of another man’s forearm, yet he was a crack shot with a blunderbuss or a smaller gun, and he proved a fine hunter and fisherman as well. He could also bring a larger man down with his one good arm. Williard, with his children, ran a thriving timber mill along Ipswich Road northeast of the village. “I told you two fools you’d need twice the buttressing you placed in that damned mine!”

“So you’ve heard the bad news, have ya?” muttered Putnam. “Accidents happen.”

“This one needn’t’ve if you and Bray’d just heeded my word!”

“You don’t know that, John!” shouted Bray Wilkins, still standing in his bedroom doorway—his horse-faced wife beside him now, blinking and trying to shake off sleep. “Sit and take breakfast, John. Putnam here was just on his way.”

Williard dropped into a chair at the table. Mrs. Wilkins shouted in an ear-shattering voice, “Susana! WhereinGod’sname! Good for nothing child!”

Hefting a bucket of water she’d taken from the well, Susana scurried in like a shadow past Putnam and the others. She placed the water onto the hearth rack to boil, and she quickly picked up the fallen skillet and worked to clean the grease-stained floor.

“You listen to me, Putnam, old man,” began Williard, pointing an accusing finger at his father-in-law, Bray, who’d plopped down in a chair across from him. “What’d I tell you two just a fortnight ago? Heh? Didn’t I warn you ‘’bout that damn mine? Those walls? Now two men injured for life, and three lives taken—and for what?”

“Predicted it, you did, John . . . like a witch man, you did, and for all I know,” blustered Bray, “you had something to do with this-this tragedy.”

“You daft fool!” Williard stood and pounded his one good fist on the table. “It’s got nothin’ to do with predictions and magic! It’s all to do with your cheapskate partnership, and that goes for your silent partner as well. Cheap bunch of—”

“Now hold on!” Thom Putnam rushed at Williard, shoving him into a wall that nearly sent the other man’s rifle flying from his shoulder.

“There’ll be no fightin’ under this roof!” shouted Mrs. Wilkins. “Outside with you both if it’s come to that!”

John Williard’s eyes glared at Putnam, and his mustache twitched with his gnashing teeth, but he waved off Mrs. Wilkins with an upturned palm, and he set his long rifle, strapped to his shoulder, down and leaned it against the wall into which he’d been shoved. He turned his attention back to Bray, saying, “You were told to by experts, the bloody ground round here runs like water through a sieve, and you two know it’s true, Bray. It’s no place for a mining venture you got up ’bove your house, man.”

“And no swearin’ in this house neither!” came Mrs. Wilkins next order to her son-in-law.

“It’s God’s will the collapse,” returned Bray, “and so it be done.” He crossed himself where he sat at table.

“Told you it’d take more than God’s will to hold up those walls.”

Thomas Putnam slipped out to the sound of the two kinsmen tearing into one another until Bray’s wife erupted, shouting and pushing John Williard out the door. By this time, Putnam was well away from the fray.

But Williard rode his horse hard, and going in the same general direction for the village, he soon caught up. “And you, Putnam, will you go to tell young Hodnett’s family he’s dead? Or Wiley’s? Or Cornwell’s? Died of swallowing dirt?”

“Look here, neither Bray nor I wished this tragedy!”

“I’d like to take a shovelful of sand and put it against Bray’s pipes. See if he’d call that God’s will.”

“You blaspheme, Williard. All and all that happens is God’s will.”

“Talkin’ with a fool only makes me one!” He kicked his horse to ride on, muttering to himself.

“We gave a lot of thought to the injured!” Putnam shouted after the sheriff. “Toasted them on to eternity!”

“The dead you mean!” Willliard shouted back and was gone as quickly as he’d come to do his duty as he saw it, to serve notice that they were to shut the mine down until it was shored up properly and steps were taken in the name of safety, but Thomas wondered where would the money come from?

# # # # #

As he made the overland journey home to Salem Village by horse, Thomas Putnam tried to shake the incident with Williard, the memory of the great loss to Bray and himself, his hangover, and his failure with Susana. To the silent woods all round him, he shouted loud enough to frighten birds into flight, “That girl of Bray’s should be honored, proud I’ve taken a liking. A man of my standing in Salem.”

The trees did not answer him.

After all, he thought and spoke again to the air, “I rose to rank of lieutenant during the Indian wars, and now I’m a captain with the company, and by God, girl, you can call me Captain Putnam.” At least he’d finally gotten that Mercy Lewis trained to properly address him.

But only the birds in the trees heard him now.

Captain Putnam’s aged horse struggled to keep footing over the rough, boulder-strewn cow path. Still woozy, the rider must be cautious. As he picked his way back to Salem Village and home to Anne and little Anne Jr., and now Mercy, his thoughts went back to Susana, Bray’s so much prettier maidservant. Just as with Mercy Lewis now placed in Putnam’s care, Reverend Parris had placed Susana in Bray’s. They were told to not spare the rod, to bring these girls up in a righteous manner, according to custom and the dictates of Puritanism, so the young person might learn discipline and chores. To be trained to one day easily step into the role of Goodwife. A woman’s trade. Putnam thought it a well-born custom.

Putnam started when first heard and then saw movement out of the corner of his eye, just over his left shoulder. Then he gasped to see that it was young Susana—or a dream of such. She was running like a fawn amid the trees. How’d she get here? It seemed as if she must have flown. She was kneeling at the water’s edge where Will’s Brook played over the stones—distracted and unaware of him, focused it seemed on her reflection in the water. Her shoulders heaved. She was crying.

Putnam turned his horse and carefully moved toward the clearing, and so as to not frighten her off, he cleared his throat and said, “Susana?”

She turned her head and the beautiful features he expected behind the long, loose, yellow hair turned into those of Sarah Goode, the witchy woman. “Can I help you, Goodman Putnam?”

“No, no, no! I mistook you for-for someone else.”

“If it’s a warm shanks you’re needin’ Goodman, it’ll cost ya two shillings.”

“You vile old woman! Wash your mouth while you’re at it!”

“My mouth is not so vile as your mind!” she countered and cackled.

“Steer clear of my hearth and family!”

“If you’ll have a word with Paris, restore my child to me!”

He gritted his teeth. “Someone ought to see you to the hangman!”

Goode had regained her feet, and now she again cackled and leapt into the brook and splashed and danced like a madcap monkey.

Putnam rushed off for village and home and the semblance of safety, realizing that if she was a witch, he could be at mercy of her curse here and now. He turned his horse and kicked. Forgetting the rough terrain, he was taken by surprise when his mare snorted and abruptly balked, throwing him headlong between the nag’s ears to land among fallen tree limbs and stones.

Putnam’s body hit with a horrendous thud to Goode’s cackling delight. He sat up, her awful laughter filling him with a venomous rage when he realized he could not stand, that one ankle was broken. He’d need a crutch; he’d have to go about the village like an old man. And it had all happened the moment old Goode had cast her eye on him.

The crone bewitched my horse, made him throw me, he thought while struggling to remount and move on—twisted ankle, cuts, bruises, and a curse of his own on his busted lip for Goode, and one for Sheriff Williard for good measure for having held him over at Bray’s place. Had Williard not shown up with his self-righteous speechifying, Thom Putnam would not have crossed paths with this despicable witch.

Chapter Nine

Not long afterward, Sarah Goode saw Susana Sheldon at their private meeting place in the woods near Will’s Brook at the bend called Three Forks. With Susana’s grimy face tear-stained and smeared, she spoke between sobs. “I hate them! I hate both of them and their friends!”

“The Wilkinses is ugly people sure.” Goode gave the child a smoking pipe to suck on. “They all calls me ugly, and sure I am on the outside—ha! Given me age, and me spots, and me warts, but they’re uglier’n me by degrees with their black innards and their black hearts.”

“They never let up.”

“But is the bear grease helping, child?”

“Helps when he’s sober, but not when he’s drunk.”

“Never know’d a man with no sense-a-odor like Bray; likely all that tobacco he chews and snorts and smokes.”

“He’s disgusting, and she’s hateful—and now I’ve got that other one after me, too.”

“We’ve got to find of that snake pit, child. We must.”

“You got your own worries now with Dorcas.”

“Aye, I do. But I’ve not forgotten ye! Maybe, if we work things right, dearie, you can come live with Dorcas and me, and I can teach you the arts.”

“The black arts?”

“Them arts, too, but mostly the art of protection.”

“What’d you bring me this time?” asked Susana, hands behind her back, eyes closed, swaying as if a toddler again.

Goode held up a small sack. “Open yer eyes, girl! Put this into his bed.” The sack moved, wriggling with some life within.

“Wh-h-h-at is it? A rat?

“Nay, a poisonous snake.”

“I-I ain’t sure I-I can . . . ”

“Yes you can. Choose which of the two you hate most—Bray or the hag he calls Goodwife, and use the snake. He’s charmed against harmin’ you.”

The wool bag changed hands. “I best get back.” Susana rushed off, going back toward the house, wondering where to hide the snake until she might use it.

“Men’re an ugly, sorry lot, they are!” shouted Goode after Susana.

Susana shouted back, “They ought hang every sorry one of ’em, ’specially those calling themselves reverend and deacon and elder and captain!”

“Reverend, ha! Nothing reverent ’bout Sam Parris. May he rot in hell for his dirty blasphemies. Using the Lord’s own words when he’s got nothing but evil for a heart.”

# # # # #

The following day in Salem Village

Samuel Parris called Jeremiah into his sparse private quarters. He asked Jeremy to sit in a chair in one corner while he straddled a second, nothing between them. “I want to count you more than my apprentice alone, Mr. Wakely,”

“Really, sir? How so? I mean, whatever I can do to be of service, you know—” Jeremy had affected his role as naïve stumbling apprentice well up to this time, and he hoped to continue on with his true nature invisible to the minister and his network of friends, relatives, elders, and deacons.

“I wish to count you, Jeremy, as . . . as a reliable Goodfriend.”

Goodfriend Wakley, Jeremy thought, a nice ring to it. There were Goodmen, Goodwives, and Goodfriends in Puritan life. “Ah . . . Goodfriend, me, sir?”

“I hope in our short acquaintance, Jeremy, that I have earned the title along with your trust and companionship? Jeremiah?”

“Yes. . . yes, Goodfriend Samuel, you have it.” The lie had Jeremy biting his tongue.

“And your backing in all things.”

“I would likewise hope for the same in re-reciprocation, sir . . . ah-ah Goodfriend.” Jeremy had been taken by surprise at this turn of events, and he wondered what he’d done to warrant this declaration of trust from the reverend.

“Good, good!” Parris smiled in a manner Jeremy had never seen from him before except when he played with little Betty, tossing her in the air. “I need to know you are on my side in any fight, Jeremy.”

Jeremy swallowed hard. “I hope you have no fights you cannot win, sir. . . I mean Goodfriend.”

“I like the sound of it, Jeremy. Like the arrangement, and you can dispense with the sir-sir-sir.”

“But in public, sir.”

“Yes, most likely best, and perhaps best that we keep this between us for the time being, not to be too openly aligned. Most of all, I like you, young man! And I will do my utmost to be a good friend to thee.”

“Excellent…excellent.” Jeremy felt a rising sense of guilt. He had always been told that people warmed to him, even strangers; that he had a gift for putting people around him at ease, and that it was not so much what he said and did as what he didn’t say and didn’t do that afforded him the trust of others. It was a trait that Increase Mather had ceased upon early on.

“Now about our talk yesterday?”

“We’ve had many talks, sir.”

“Regarding George Burroughs.”

“Ah, yes, the former minister here.” Parris seemed to have a fixation on this man who had preceded him in the village parish. Time and again, he brought up stories and rumors that had swirled about the name Burroughs for years here.

“Do you know there is talk among my enemies about this man.”

“Talk? What sort of talk?”

“Talk of importing him back here to reinstate him in my position. Can it be believed?”

“Smells of a bad rumor, sir, and you know how people love to talk, but honestly, I’ve heard nothing of it.” This was new information, and Jeremy tried placing it in the scheme of things and in the context of Higginson’s wishes and Mather’s string-pulling. When Parris said no more but fell silent, running both hands through his hair, Jeremy offered, “Why would anyone in his right mind speak of such foolishness? The village parishioners ran this Burroughs fellow off for nonpayment of debts!” Jeremy thought of how Reverend Burroughs’ debts had been incurred. They’d accumulated due to successive funerals for his three children and his wife.”

“There was more to it than simple nonpayment of debt, although that was the charge that placed him in lockup.”

“There were other charges brought against him?” Jeremy had perfected wide-eyed wonder with Parris, who responded well to any facial cues Jeremy sent.

“Not any that could be proven, but the baser people here began rumors to do with Burroughs’ athletic prowess. Or so Thom Putnam tells me.”

“Ah! His reputed superhuman strength, yes! I’ve heard, but the man was a gymnast at Harvard where he studied Divinity and he ran track. I understand you did most of your studies at Harvard? Were you, too, an athlete? Did you know James Burroughs?” Jeremy hoped to hear more about Parris’ time at Harvard and perhaps why the college had no record of his ever having been ordained.

“His name is George, not James. James was Bailey—James Bailey—before him, and no . . . I must’ve been at the college different years.”

“But you were on an athletic team?”

“No, no! I was in the study of Business Practices, but I changed to Divinity a bit later. Look here, worse yet is this business of rumors that this Burroughs fellow . . . that he had some dealings in the dark arts.”

“Witchcraft? Charges brought or was it talk of witchcraft?” Jeremy’s face gave way to horror.

“Some say there was no confusion of his being a necromancer or wizard. In league with the Wizard over all wizards.”

“Satan? Really?” Jeremy had heard such charges leveled at any man others despised or disliked for any number of reasons. In fact, the charge was so common as to be foolish, yet the lower church assize courts collected heavy revenues on trying such cases, and so it went.

“You know as well as I, Jeremy, that any time that a congregation, or half that population wants to rid itself of a man or woman . . . to ban or worse, to excommunicate as in your father’s case, the foul slander of being in league with Satan and his invisible minions is leveled.”

To excommunicate as you did with Sarah Goode, Jeremy thought but said, “You speak the truth, Reverend Parris.”

“In private moments, please, call me Samuel or Goodfriend,” he reiterated.

“Well then, Samuel, as I mentioned, the charge of heresy was leveled at both my parents when it was expedient to dredge up invisible evidence, so I am not convinced of your predecessor’s having used his pulpit badly.”

“Expedient invisible evidence . . . using his pulpit badly,” Parris repeated and laughed. “How politic your are, Jeremy.” Parris continued mulling over Jeremy’s words like a chant. “And now I, Jeremy, I am in line for their poisonous gossip, innuendo, half-truths, rumor and slander—for which they will pay if the courts in these colonies are fair and impartial! God, how I miss London. Even in Barbados a man of my stature could count on speedy redress of slander from the courts.”

“I am sure that’s true, Samuel.”

“They’d love to prove me a heretic and a Satan worshipper, the dissenting ones here!”

They might settle for liar and thief, Jeremy thought. “Some say you’ve slandered them in your sermons.”

Parris’ most dangerous stare drilled into Jeremy.

“I mean . . . this is what I have heard bandied about.”

“Bandied about by whom?”

“No one I know; just overheard bits and pieces, sir—ah Samuel.”

Parris dropped his angry gaze, nodding. “Too true.”

Jeremy was angry with himself, thinking: Should’ve held my tongue. First rule of subterfuge. Allow your target to talk. But then my disguise is a naïve apprentice. “Sir, I am not so naïve as you may take me. I am well acquainted with slander from a young age—”

“As you’ve harped, I know. Don’t give it another thought.”

“It is easy enough to condemn publicly, but not so simple a matter to turn libel into evidence in a courtroom.”

“Too damnably easy in our church assize courts, I can tell you, especially when the wrong element has the ear of the judges.”

“Agreed. Fortunately, the secular courts take a dimmer view of hearsay.”

“And testimony from the addle-brained people who bring such suits,” added Parris, who then laughed. It was the first time Jeremy had heard him utter a mirthful sound in days except, again, while playing with his daughter. While his mirth here and now began lightly enough, it ended dismally, like something dead at the bottom of an ale barrel. Then Parris added, “It’s good that you know something of the law, Goodfriend. I may have need of your counsel soon.”

“My counsel? Soon?” Jeremy tried to get more from the man.

“I didn’t know Burroughs.” Parris sounded thoughtful yet again harping on his predecessor. Parris stood at the window, staring out over the village he meant to set straight. “However, I’ve succeeded him, and now am faced with the bitterness of his supporters, people who allowed his disgrace then, and are bent on my disgrace now.”

The man one moment is repeating awful rumors about Burroughs, and now he is aligning himself with the man? Distance yourself if Burroughs is found guilty of such nonsense, stand beside him if he is found innocent? Jeremy realized he must choose his words with great care. “I have traveled to many of our settlements. Salem is like all others in one respect.”

“And that is?”

“All hamlets have the ill-minded who haven’t the least respect for Christian rule, or for our calling, or for the law.”

Parris smiled. “You’ve certainly a clear eye on the situation here. “

Jeremy translated this in his head as meaning: You understand my side, and that it is a terrible cross to carry. Tiptoeing now, Jeremy said, “I believe it’s come to a war of words and wills.”

Parris stepped away from the window and crossed the small room with a single stride. He snatched up his bible and pulled some loose notes from it. The pages he held at Jeremy’s eyes. “Here . . . read my sermon for the Sabbath.”

Jeremy’s mouth dropped open.

Parris added, “I want your counsel on it. I believe every condemnation I make here is only the truth.”

Jeremy took hold of the papers, Parris hesitating only a moment before completely releasing them. “What do you wish in the way of commentary, Samuel?” Jeremy found it difficult to call him Samuel.

“I want an intelligent man of the cloth to remark on the details, the point, the facts and supporting words from the Bible itself. Afterward, we’ll again talk.”

Parris replaced the chair he’d earlier straddled, and next he shook Jeremy’s hand like a co-conspirator. “We will drive a righteous nail into every black heart in the Meetinghouse this coming meeting day.”

We, Jeremy silently thought, when did Parris and I become we?

# # # # #

Alone with Parris’ absolutely loathsome and dreadful sermon, Jeremy found it threatening and repugnant. The gist of the sermon set Parris up as a modern day Christ on the cross, with his parishioners role as so many Judases and Pilates. Jeremy also gave more thought to the Reverend George Burroughs—a minister whose rate was withheld from him for months by one faction of the parish, and when his family died while in this very house, the debts Burroughs incurred were burial debts. Penniless, he’d left Salem to reemerge as a successful minister in Casco Bay, Maine.

Parris definitely had something in common with Burroughs—as each man had managed to raise the ire of half the congregation against himself. However, each man had the opposing side as it were; those for Parris now had been against Burroughs then, and those for Burroughs then were against Parris now. Curious how the numbers changed and told a tale in and of themselves, that Burroughs’ detractors were Parris’ champions. That a long-standing feud existed among the parishioners was plainly evident. All fodder for his next report that he meant to post to Cotton Mather. Thus far, he’d only had the opportunity to forward his first preliminary findings but this…this next would be a meaty document indeed.

Jeremy had in fact jotted all of the facts he’d gathered thus far into his notes for Mather. As always, when he wrote, he heard his own voice in the words. He worked diligently to be as clear and transparent as India glass. But at the same time, he acknowledged the complexity of both the situation in Salem and the difficulty in conveying that complexity. To put it in a summary for Mather, in the proverbial nutshell, Jeremy’d written:

It amounts to neighbor here being set against neighbor, no matter the parson or the business about the parsonage. However, Mr. Parris has done nothing to quell the furor or tenor of the argument, but rather has fanned the flames—a condemnation leveled at him from Mr. Higginson if memory serves me. Still, with these parochial types, even as one issue is resolved, another is discovered. The frightening aspect of it all is the level of acrimony and poison already set loose among villagers of every stripe. It is a poison in the hearts of men here poured into cups provided by their minister.

However, the villagers are no innocents in this either. Their days and nights have an underlying scaffolding of suspicion, rumor, and doubt that in the end sets neighbor against neighbor. You might ask for what? Why? Barring further discovery, for want of another set of facts coming to light, it would seem a need in people to find and feed on discord and dissolution. I cannot overstate this fact. The grip that rumor and common gossip holds on this place. The poison I speak of is like belladonna, on the surface alluring, yet ready to spew forth if one incident should open the floodgate of this blood-root feud—and that could cone from either side.

Yours in good faith,

Jeremiah Wakely,

Officer of the court

Jeremy put aside his pen and book with far more ease than he did a sense of growing alarm and fear for the people of this troubled place. He was unable to shake off an eerie sensation that somehow he and everyone in Salem were being sucked into a malefic storm. A maelstrom that had made up its own mind, one that wanted to consume them all—and all sides be damned.

It wasn’t a storm easily foretold or prophesied, and Jeremiah Wakely felt no more capable of predicting it or seeing the parameters, front, back, sides than the least self-aware resident here, or those in authority at the various levels: church fathers in Salem Town and Village, the church courts, the true courts, and the Boston hexarchy who ruled by virtue of the Hexateuch—experts on the first six books of the Old Testament. Was there any man among them who might see the full measure of the impending tempest? Increase Mather, perhaps. Cotton, no.

Jeremy recalled sitting at Watch Hill as a child in the employ of Mr. Ingersoll, there to keep an eye out for anything smacking of an Indian incursion into the village. But what he saw that one day on the horizon, he could only see the outer edges of—a massive black cluster of storm clouds, lightning, and wind bearing down on the village. That long ago storm had torn through Salem and lasted an entire night. No one, not Mr. Ingersoll, not the minister, not the judges—none of them could tell the beginning or end of that storm borne of nature. Now here he was, back in Salem as a man with needs of his own, yet fearful of the un-seeable deluge that could well swamp them all, and he feared for the truly innocent ones here—children like Betty Parris and Mary Wolcott, Anne Putnam and even Mercy Lewis, who seemed not at all innocent, and he feared for whole families, among them the Nurse Family, Serena, her mother and father, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles.

Jeremy hesitated naming any individuals other than Parris as instigators, yet he knew the poison existing between the Putnam-Porter clan and the Nurse-Towne clan. He decided to say nothing of their feud dating well before his own birth—as it was well documented in court records for decades now.

Chapter Ten

The following day, Jeremy again worked in the dim light below the stairwell at Tituba’s bed. He feared he’d not have time enough with Parris’ sermon to copy it word for word, so he’d only copied the sections he felt displayed Parris’ most venomous side.

Jeremy had precious small space to work in here below the damnable stairs behind the musty curtain, which could be pulled back at any moment by anyone in the house. But he’d heard Parris leave, taking his wife, daughter, and Mary Wolcott with him, a Thursday ritual walkabout as he’d overheard. Parris made much of trusting Jeremy to be alone in the parsonage, to take care of anyone who might come calling, anyone in spiritual need or in need of paying Parris’ late fees. In order to find time alone, Jeremy had assured Parris, “I love a challenge, and I can take care of any eventuality.”

“Have you had time to read the sermon?” Parris’d asked before leaving.

“I’m sorry, no, but I intend to now.”

“Good, good,” were his last words, taking the pale children and his equally pasty-faced wife off with him.

So Jeremy had furiously copied what he could of the sermon. Jeremy was thinking that Parris was blind to the effect of his own rhetoric when suddenly the curtain tore open with a shocking energy, and Jeremy found himself face to face with Tituba Indian.

Her coral black eyes lit with a strange fire; they bored into him and his journal. “You are the black man with the book?”

“It is my journal.”

“You write the names in it?”

“Just my daily meditations, I assure you.”

“Do you come to harm my master?”

Damn but the ignorant have instincts, he thought. “I only come to help.”

“Yes, young reverend,” she nodded successively. “Young master.”

“You may call me Mr. Wakely.”

Her cold stare spoke volumes. “Yes, Massa Wakely.”

How much do you know, Barbados woman?

Her eyes said, I know everything. Jeremy believed her the keeper of the family secrets.

“If you are not the black man,” Tituba finally said, “then are you a man of the White God, the all-powerful One?”

“Good, yes, now you understand.”

She dropped to her knees and lowered her head nearly into his lap. “I pray to you.”

“No, no,” he pulled her to a standing position. “You pray to God not to any man.”

“I pray to my god and to the White One.”

Pagan, Jeremy thought, but what Barbados black wasn’t a pagan? Jeremiah went to the rug near the hearth, and he suddenly lifted it, and found what he expected. The telltale sign of blood—sacrificial blood?—staining the boards of the parsonage.

“Is only de chicken blood; in winter, I work by de fire. You got blood if you butcher anim-mals.”

Jeremiah nodded but his eyes told her that he knew the truth. Whatever animals were butchered before the parsonage hearth had been sacrificed to the flames and to her lesser gods—the gods of the superstitious voodooists in the name of that ancient religion the Crown appeared unable to eliminate. “Oh, and I suppose, Titutba, that if I search the ashbin outside, I should find no bones?”

“No bones.”

Jeremy watched her eyes as she spoke; they proved as firmly set as they were black. To determine just how much witchery she’d been up to in this house, Jeremy decided to bait Tituba. “I saw a strange woman on the night I arrived here. Almost ran her below my horse’s hooves! Happened near Watch Hill, and I saw you with her.” It was a lie, but he wanted to see her reaction.

Her face blanched. “I only went to help Betty.”

“Betty’s been ill, I know. How did you ah . . . help her?”

“She be more than sick.”

“More than sick?”

“She has curse on.”

“A curse?”

“Goode put curse on dat child.”

“But why?”

“She angry! You know de reason why!”

“Amgry at Betty? A helpless child?”

“Angry at massa.”

“The reverend?”

“Yes.”

Jeremy recalled the awful curses Goode had heaped on Parris in the street that day outside the Putnam home. “So she curses his daughter? What sense does—”

“To get at de fadder through de child.”

Jeremy took in a deep breath. “So how did you ah . . . help the situation?”

“A witch pie.”

“No, really?” Jeremy was familiar with the ridiculous notion and recipe to combat a curse—a pie made from the urine of the innocent and virginal.

“I pay for it.”

“I see.”

“Urine of newborn child.”

Whether it had curative powers or not depended, Jeremy felt, on the faith of its user. It was the height of superstition, but Jeremy had seen superstition solve problems for some, create problems for others. “Powerful medicine, eh?” he asked with a wink.

“Most powerful, yes.”

Jeremy stared at the characterless walls of the parsonage. Over the fireplace, Sam Parris had hung a sword. Earlier, as they’d made the village rounds, Parris had confided that for an entire week that sword had vanished only to return in its rightful place as if by magic. “Or human hands,” he’d added. “I am at an impasse with my black servant, and am busily looking to sell her to the highest bidder. Might you, Jeremy, be interested?”

“I’m sure I could not afford her, sir.”

“Not even in payments?”

“Ah but, well! Selling her to me, wouldn’t rid her from your home.”

“Aye, but it’d rid me of the responsibility.” He had laughed at this.

Jeremy now asked Tituba point-blank, “Do you know, Tituba, why the minister’s sword disappeared from that wall?” He pointed to the long, shining blade.

“Don’t-know-nothing ‘bout dat.” Her black eyes lit with fear at the question. “And if you don’t say nothin’ ‘bout dat witch pie, I give you something special.” She began unbuttoning her linen blouse, preparing to show her ample breasts.

Jeremy raised both hands to her. “That’s not necessary.” At the same time, he heard Betty coughing and her father’s voice just outside. “They’re back,” Jeremy warned her and Tituba rushed into the kitchen, buttoning up and pretending busyness with pots and pans.

Jeremy stashed his journal, ink, and pen. Tituba watched him from the corner of one eye, gauging his fear of being caught with Tituba in a compromising circumstance. He saw a smirk on her lips.

Then she called out across the room to him, saying, “Tituba wash bed linens?”

“Yes,” shouted Parris, “do that for our guest, Tituba. Most thoughtful of you.”

Jeremiah covered his tracks by snatching blanket away, then the sheets and pillow casing himself, but Parris ordered Mary Wolcott to take care of such work, saying to Jeremy, “Being a bachelor, I see you are in the habit of taking care of yourself.”

“My father taught me self-reliance as a virtue, yes.”

Parris frowned at this. “After you’re married, such trivial matters as sheets will fall to your Goodwife.”

“That may be so but for now—” Jeremy shrugged and displayed a crooked grin, just glad that he’d managed to tuck away his journal, inkwell, and pen without arousing too much interest in them.

Parris did not seem suspicious, as all he saw were his proffered sermon pages, and he was distracted, playing father to Betty. He hugged his little Betty to his cheek and asked if she had a fever. “The girl feels warm to me,” he added and asked his wife to decide.

Mrs. Parris had Betty stick out her tongue while feeling her forehead and cheeks. “She’s not quite gotten over her winter chilblains.”

Jeremiah had noticed a red, itchy swelling on Betty’s ears, fingers, and toes, a common ailment caused by exposure to damp, rot, and cold—or so the physicians warned.

“I worry.” Parris continued to examine his only daughter.

“As a father should,” Betty’s mother replied.

Parris tugged at the child’s tiny hands and asked her how she felt.

“I’m not sick no more! Tituba stopped that!”

Parris stared at Tituba, whose back remained to them where she worked at the dry sink.

The little girl seems his only special possession, Jeremy thought, watching Parris with Betty.

“I’m fine, Da,” Betty pulled from her father’s grasp, giggling and running to Tituba, who kneeled and hugged the child and whispered some secret in her ear.

Parris promptly but mildly scolded. “You come away from Tituba, now! She’s got chores and dinner to help with!”

“But I-I’m all better, Dada,” whined Betty all of a sudden. “I wanna play with my dolly and I want Tituba to come!”

“Wishing to get out of any work, aren’t you?” Parris fiercely scolded Tituba all of a sudden. “Whispering in her ear like that!”

“No, no, massa!” countered Tituba, backing into a corner.

“Do you want to turn Betty into a disobedient child?”

Betty really looks flushed and feverish, certainly windblown and red-faced, Jeremy thought and at the back of his mind was Tituba’s witch pie story and the sacrificed chicken when in an instant, Jeremy saw the black woman place a finger to her lips as if to silence the child, Betty, who was again saying that Tituba made her well and could do it anytime.

Parris suddenly flew into a rage at Betty, shouting, “You will not be playing with Tituba! And I won’t have you feigning illness to get out of work!”

“But Father,” interjected Mrs. Parris, “the child has been ill. She’s still weak. Please!”

“Ill is it? Weak? My child, weak? Or is it mere sloth? Simple sloth? Rubbed off from Mercy Lewis and Tituba over there!”

Betty burst into tears and ran for the stairs, trying for her room, but she was caught up by her father who’d in one fluid motion grabbed the spanking rod and tore into the girl’s backside where he held her across his knee. “The Devil will never take thee, child!” Down came the rod again, Betty screaming in response, terrified. “I’ll kill ya afore I let the Devil ha-have ya!” Parris gasped with the last words, spent, his face now red, the veins popping.

“Devil take you!” shouted Mary Wolcott, who rushed in and fought to pull Betty from her uncle’s grasp. But this only enraged Parris further. He shoved Mary hard against the floor and started in anew, spanking Betty.

Betty looked like a kicking doll in Parris’ grip. To his wife’s wailing the word stop, the minister finally set Betty aside like a top spinning on her heels, searching for where to run to and finding her mother’s arms. Parris went now for Mary Wolcott. “You! In the shed out back until I come to tend to your insolence! Now!”

Jeremy stepped in, saying, “Perhaps if we go out on the porch and calm down, Samuel, it might—”

“You, too, Jeremy? Questioning my authority? Haven’t I warned you on that subject?”

Secretly, Jeremy wanted to send a fist into the mouth so near him that the hot breath stank. “We have, sir, but—”

“No buts, Mr. Wakely!” Parris held the rod so tight his knuckles bled white. Mary had also gone to Mrs. Parris’ comforting arms, but he shook the rod at her, and she obeyed, rushing just ahead of the rod, which cut into her twice before she got out of his reach.

Parris returned from the back stair, the tattling rod still in hand. By now Tituba, Mrs. Parris, and Betty had busied themselves with anything they could find in the kitchen. This while Jeremy found the hearth, pretending to warm himself so as to look a great deal less concerned and involved than he felt.

“Sorry, Mr. Wakely,” began a calmer Parris now in his ear.

“Yes, well . . . sorry I said anything.”

“I’m only sorry that you had to witness the . . . altercation. However discipline is one thing I insist upon.”

“I quite understand,” Jeremy lied, as he’d found the scene repugnant, and he’d seen the minister’s eyes the entire time. A kind of delight danced in them the entire time he was charging about and beating the children. One moment doting on his child, the next whipped into a rage at her, and Tituba the catalyst to the minister’s rage? Jeremy realized that he’d stepped into a far more complex web of relationships than he’d at first imagined.

Jeremy, still at the hearth, watched a flaming ember leap out at him, threatening to catch his pants-leg afire. “What the deuce?” He kicked out at the ember, sending fiery sparks up even as his action sent the ember back home to a bed of others. As it happened, a snakelike shiver spread over his brain, but he managed to fight for calm. For reasons he could not fathom, the family incident and the dancing ember recalled a time when Jeremy, as a boy in his father’s grinding shop had caught his hand in the cogs of a machine powered by a small water-wheel outside their cottage. Rather than scream bloody murder for help, young Jeremy had somehow maintained a calm beyond reason—perhaps as much from shame at having made such a stupid error as from any sort of courage. The entire time he was not calling out for help, Jeremy had spent struggling to remove a wooden peg that held the moving parts together. Once he pulled the peg, the cogs came willingly away from his hand. Self-reliance, in his father’s eyes, was more important than all the curtseying that went along with this notion of children being obedient and beaten into obedience.

Am I again caught with a hand inside a crushing machine? Is Parris a shrewder man than I’d earlier thought? Did he give me the written sermon yesterday as a test? Then today leaving me alone in the parsonage again, only to send Tituba in, not to change any sheets but to test a young apprentice’s mettle? To tempt my willpower and flesh? And the final touch: the parental outburst, demonstrating his absolute rule here as yet another test of Jeremy’s being a true Goodfriend? Or worse yet: to prove his twisted idea of parental love before the emissary of one Increase Mather?

Parris hovered as if eavesdropping on Jeremy’s thoughts. He lit a pipe and handed the long stem to Jeremy.

“No thank you, sir. I don’t indulge.” Jeremy eyed the busy women in the kitchen, all shakily and tearfully putting the evening meal together.

Parris eyed him hard, placed the pipe into his own mouth and began puffing away. “Not sure I trust a man who doesn’t indulge in one sin or another, Goodfriend.”

“Gambling, sir.”

“Gambling?” he asked.

“My weakness,” replied Jeremy, pacing the small room now.

“I see. Best then stay out of Ingersoll’s Inn.” He punctuated with pipe in hand, adding, “Men there bet on a glance out a window—on which bird will roost and which will fly from a branch.”

This made Jeremy smile, not because it was clever but because he knew it was true. He recalled it’d been the same at Ingersoll’s when he was a boy, too. Furthermore, Jeremy recalled how quickly Serena Nurse’s brothers bet on the fall of a leaf. “It is a vice for which I’ve paid dearly,” he finally replied, shooing smoke blown in his face from his eyes.

“And so you should dearly work to remain free of the vice, my boy.”

“As well I have since, Samuel.”

“It requires sense, indeed,” joked Parris, whose eyes and face had returned to their normal state.

The man is maddening in his need to dominate and have the last word, Jeremy thought, wondering if this, too, should go into his reports to Mather, and if so, how detailed should it be? Or would it raise the least eyebrow? After all, a man ruled in his home in the colonies as a tyrant over his people, and it was accepted as scripture, and the legal men running the colonies believed it this precept as surely as they believe in Heaven and Hell, God and Satan.

Chapter Eleven

Samuel Parris sat on the edge of his bed, trembling in a mix of giddy excitement and anxious dread. Over him loomed his larger than life shadow from the lantern light at his bedside. Drafts of cold, seeping through the cracks and window frame made the light flicker, despite its canopy—so like a protective cocoon or womb. The flickering gave life to his shapeless shadow in against the splintered log room.

How many times now had he searched the curves and strokes of Increase Mather’s handwritten note to determine any meaning between the lines—any hint, a double entendre, anything in the nature of a coded message, or a single loaded word. But

each time it came out the same: a simple letter of introduction for this fop Wakely. The fools in Boston had now saddled Parris with a know-nothing apprentice, when in all his petitions he’d specifically requested an experienced man—a worldly man who’d handled situations like his before. Situations involving heartless people who dared cause trouble in Salem Village Parish.

“And why now?” he muttered. “Why now after all this time? Three years in a troubled parish, and now this? He’d had big plans when Thomas and the others had talked him into coming here to take hold of the parish property and a share in this upstart mining business of Wilkins-Putnam Mineworks, and to eventually purchase prime land that touched upon the river leading directly to Salem Seaport. In Barbados, for years now, all the talk was of the riches coming and going out of that seaport, and to be in the right position and the right time—that was good, intelligent business. If they could extract ore from the mine and transport it to the sea with ease, if they could have as direct and clear a pathway as some of the millworks and lumber yards and farms in the area, they could all make a fortune several times over. But in the meantime, he must maintain what tenuous holdings he had been awarded. He could not pull this thing off from a distance. He must first establish himself as an upright citizen of Salem and continue to make contacts with the shipmasters and exporters in Salem Town.

It’s been three hard years. Still I’d successfully managed things here— maneuvered is more to the point.

He had gotten his strongest allies placed on the church board in the elections of elders and deacons. Not that he controlled them all, yet. He meant to control every rung in the ladder. Five in all he could count on now. Captain Thomas Putnam, his chief ally, was now parish secretary, while his brother, Captain John Putnam had become Parris’ treasurer. Lieutenants Nathaniel Ingersoll, Bray Wilkins, and Isaiah Wolcott—all men of the local militia company, were in his pocket, as was Porter.

There has been some triumphs, some things to rejoice over.

Parris had marshaled the support of a large segment of the community as well, and he’d gathered damning evidence in the public records bearing the original signatures of all the Select Committeemen agreeing that Thomas and John Putnam visit Barbados to petition Parris, to convince their relative to return to the New England village as their new preacher. He’d also seen the original land grant for the parsonage and its acreage, and nowhere did it say the minister could not hold title to the land, a promise made to him by the Select Committeemen.

Once relocated and in the parish home, Samuel learned of the dissenters, those who’d signed off on his taking charge as their minister but who’d then claimed never to have promised any lands or buildings whatsoever. They had petitioned for clarity from the church assize, then the village assize, next Salem Town church assize, and finally the town court. No one had wanted to settle the issue.

At first, both the village and town magistrates, Corwin and Hathorne, had been in sympathy with the wrong side, but over the years, working slowly behind the scenes, Samuel had won over Judge John Corwin and Judge Jonathan Hathorne, and Hathorne had introduced Parris to the Boston magistrate Judge William Stoughton, who on reviewing the evidence, said that Parris had a case—and a good one at that.

But Judge Stoughton had also warned Samuel to take each Select Committeeman on one at a time. “Do not attempt a lawsuit against the entire group; if you do so, you’ll lose pitifully.”

So Parris had bided his time, and he’d sent off lawsuit after lawsuit to the higher court in Boston, and he waited . . . and waited . . . and waited for his day in court, a day that had as yet to come. Instead comes Mr. Jeremiah Wakely with a letter of introduction from Reverend Increase Mather, former president of Harvard Theological College and present head of state in the colony, presiding over the First Church of Boston, and the courts by extension. So had Stoughton finally done as promised? Had he taken Parris’ case to the top man, Increase Mather? Only to see Mather leaving for England?

Parris stood and paced, the floor boards beneath him squealing from his weight. He and his wife Betty had but one child, and he’d once sired a bastard that he’d gotten rid of. Ill-luck, disaster, black cloud, calamity, ruin, adversity—whatever one called it—tragedy had followed him like a character in a Greek play.

Frustration chilled Samuel Parris more than the cold cutting through the crevasses and cracks of the worthless place he’d fought to own for so long now. Desperation always felt cold. A man seeing himself at the end of days with nothing to show for but a failing business and a failing reputation in Barbados—where copper and other precious ores were in short supply—must act and act now for the good of his child and his wife.

The thought gave him a fresh idea for yet another sermon—one that would outstrip that weakly worded diatribe he had shared with Wakely as a trap. A single word of that sermon gets back to me through his contact with Judge Stoughton, and he would know for certain the purpose of Jeremiah’s being here. It was the only reason he had allowed Postmaster Ingersoll to let Jeremy’s letter up till now go through to Boston.

Parris smiled at his cleverness and contacts that now had tentacles as far away as Boston. He quickly located pen and inkwell and began jotting down notes for the real sermon he meant to deliver at the meetinghouse.

He scribbled and mumbled the words under his breath as he went: “Brethren, when you harm me, you harm my family. When you withhold my rate, you withhold bread from the mouth of my child, nay, my entire family. Look on my wife here; look on my child here (stand Elizabeth, Betty). Look on them. They have pure hearts and have no grievance with you, yet you harm my loved ones in your skullduggery toward your minister in this pitiless plot—your conspiracy—committing shameful sin against a mother and child while you target a man with your gossiping tongue. It’s as sure a curse as any witchcraft, your unchristian stand against your own minister.”

Parris found himself repeating his habit of wetting the quill pen with his tongue before dipping it again in the inkwell as he worked for stronger language to follow. He needed something even more dramatic than displaying his wife and child before the dissenters. He needed something to make them take honest to God notice, but what might that be? He feared he’d be up most of the night contriving it.

# # # # #

The Nurse-Towne Family home same night

“Are you sure, Mother, that this is wise?” asked Serena, helping her mother, Rebecca, prepare food for the next day’s repast beneath the trees.

“Don’t be foolish, Serena! We’ve already put it off a week thanks to everyone’s complaints! Besides, I sent word round to all the family. Everyone will come, and we’ll have a wonderful time.” Rebecca busily cleaned her best pewter dishware.

“But if it is as cold tomorrow as today—”

Mother stopped in her work to stare at her daughter. “Are you worried about the weather, or what our neighbors might say?”

“Both to be honest.”

“Look here, Serena,” began Rebecca, taking her daughter’s hands in hers, guiding her to sit with her a moment. She pointed to her bedroom window. “Dear, I’ve looked out from that upstairs window all winter! Abed—staring at that big tree of ours and those idle tables lined below it.”

“Our family gathering ground for as long as I remember,” Serena said.

“Precisely. All winter long while I fully expected to die of whatever it is the doctor has no idea of—my affliction, as he calls it—”

“That doctor calls anything he can’t diagnose affliction or auge or both!” Serena laughed. “I’ve forgotten more medicine learned from you than that churn-headed butter-brained man ever knew!”

Rebecca could not hold back a giggle at Serena’s colorful characterization of Dr. McLin. “Yes, I fear it’s so, but now listen to me, child.”

“Go on, Mother.” Serena dried each dish as Rebecca rinsed.

“Abed up there for so long, and so I made a promise to myself.”

“A promise? Let me guess.”

Rebecca patted her daughter’s hand in a mock spanking. “How tart your tongue’s become since I’ve not been around.”

“Tart indeed! Growing up with all these boys of yours!”

“Oh, how bright you are, Serena. Now as to my promise to myself and to my Maker, it was a simple enough wish: If I should live long enough, I’d gather my family one and all about me again in a time of happiness . . . like pulling a warm blanket about me.”

“But all we Nurses, Eastys, Cloyses, and Townes do when we get together is fight.”

“I’d love to see a lively family battle!”

Serena laughed, and her mother joined in.

“Promised,” Rebecca said, staring out the window at the dry sink. “Promised before God that if He allowed me this one last spring that—”

“Please, Mother, don’t speak as if—”

“Everyone knows I’m a practical woman.”

“And stubborn.”

“Yes and faithful to God.”

“And without fear of this or the next world.”

Rebecca patted Serena’s cheek with her fingertips. “I’ve done well with my time here, and while acts do not ensure us a seat in His house, well, I have my hope that my heart is pure enough for reward—though I beg none.”

“To be sure, amen.” Serena leaned into her mother, and they hugged warmly.

“The story is all over the village,” said Serena’s father, stepping into the kitchen.

“What story is that?” asked Serena.

“You’d not believe how many lips the story is on.”

“What story is that, Father?” pressed Serena.

“Why the story of you and your mother’s plans for a picnic amid the snow.”

“Blast them!” said Rebecca.

“Mother!” replied Serena, blast being a standin for a curse word.

“I care not for gossips and snipes.”

Francis had grabbed a fistful of freshly baked bread and leaned into his wife, smiling. He whispered into her ear, “So? They’re saying you’re out of your head, Rebecca, but you care not?”

“And on hearing it, did you strike ’em with that blackthorn shillelagh of yours?”

A square-shouldered, short man whose waistcoat and pants always looked too small for him, Francis Nurse smiled and lifted his crooked walking cane. “I threatened a few, but no one’s been battered, no.”

“Whatever do you mean, no one?” persisted Rebecca, a curling grin threatening to take hold.

“I didn’t want jail time or the stocks today, dear.”

“There was a time, Francis Nurse, when you’d’ve risked the stocks for me.”

“You are in fine tune, aren’t you, my lovely harp.” He kissed his wife on the lips.

“Careful now! In front of your daughter.”

“Oh, Mother, shall I leave you two alone?” Serena coyly offered.

“No! We have too much work to do.”

“All the others’ll bring a dish,” countered Serena. “I think we’ll have plenty.”

“Aye, a party,” Francis shouted, “and a fine party it’s to be. All is set for tomorrow noon then?”

“It is.” Serena hugged her father.

“All of the rascals, big and small, have their orders then?” added Francis.

“I want to thank you two dears for making this happen,” replied Rebecca.

“Happen it will,” said Francis, “like a ship come to ground. No stopping it, now.”

“I am fatigued,” announced Rebecca, laboring to her feet with Francis’ help. “Think I’ll take sleep.”

“I’ll help you upstairs,” suggested Serena.

“That’s my job,” countered Francis.

“Neither of you have to bother.”

“What?” asked Serena.

“I’m done with that sick room for a time.”

“Meaning?” asked Francis.

“I’m going to sleep in Benjamin’s old room, right down here. He’s not using it.”

“The stairs’ve gotten difficult for me, too,” commented Francis.

“Has nothing to do with the stairs,” complained Rebecca, swiping at him. “I can

make the stairs!”

“Good, good.”

Rebecca rose and moved through the house, gray-haired, her sunken cheeks crisscrossed with wrinkles from having lost so much weight. She went to the porch and stood in the night air, staring out at the work they’d done. “The circle is in place, lantern’s hung,” she muttered, seeing a strange movement in the nearby wood. Squinting, she saw that it was that addled Sarah Goode, and she was carrying something oddly like a child but too stiff to be a child, yet a child nonetheless—a wooden doll with yellow hair.

“What mischief is that daft old woman up to?” she asked Francis as he joined her, placing a shawl over her shoulders.

“Who’re you talking about? I see no one.”

“I think it was Goode.”

“That odd creature? Did you hear bells, bottles jingling?”

“I thought it a sleigh in the distance, but yes, I did.”

“Every village must have its witch,” he muttered, “as well we know.”

“How else can we faithful hope to measure our goodness if not for such as Sarah Goode?”

He nodded and thought of his responsibilities as Deacon under Samuel Parris’ Meetinghouse. “I daresay you’re right there.”

“No woman was ever so sorely miss-named as Goode, eh?” She laughed and placed an arm around Francis.

Francis nodded appreciatively. “Curses like a sailor. Word has it, she gave Mr. Parris a tongue-lashing of the first order ’bout a week ago.”

“Is that so?” asked Rebecca, curious.

“I’ve only heard ’bout it down at Ingersoll’s.”

“No good can come of that gossip Ingersoll.”

“Goode laid into Sam hard, or so it’s told, right at the commons, middle of the day.”

“I have a bad feeling,” said Serena, joining them, “that Goode is up to no good. I’ve seen her coming and going toward Swampscott, and what’s out there but isolation?”

Francis lit his pipe. “They say she’s spreading as much venom about the parish and Parris as she can.”

“Venom, eh?” Serena helped her mother to the porch swing.

“In the form of cursing Mr. Parris and the parish house.”

“That parish house surely needs no more curse on it than it already has,” replied Rebecca, swinging now with Serena softly pushing.

“Too true! Found out by previous occupants!” She held back a laugh.

“Nothing funny about that, girl!” decried Francis, turning on her. “You’d think the village parish house haunted.” Francis puffed on his pipe. “Burroughs, Bailey before him, and Deodat Lawson—all stricken in one foul measure or another.”

Serena shrugged. “Maybe the parsonage is haunted.”

“And now?” asked Rebecca, “Everyone believes it’s Parris’ turn, I suppose.”

Francis exhaled smoke into the night sky. “I suppose everyone does.”

Serena bit her lip. “He’s not helped his cause with his last several sermons, I can tell you.”

“I can’t believe you continue to go down to hear such self-indulgence as you’ve described—either of you,” said Rebecca. “The man has no shame.”

“I go because I remain a deacon there and Parris has most of the elders and deacons in his pocket.”

“Give it up the, Father!” countered Rebecca.

“I will fight this business ’til—”

“Until Parris manages to replace you, Father?” asked Serena.

“Ah, and he likes calling me stubborn!” Rebecca laughed. “But what about, you, Serena?” Rebecca busied herself with releasing ties from her hair. “Why do you go to hear Parris?”

“I go to support Father, of course! The only deacon left to stand against the man.” Serena had begun to put her mother’s thin hair into a fresh bun. Such activity between them had become so routine that no words were needed.

“Careful, Francis,” began Rebecca, “else some of that village poison will spill in our cups.”

“Careful it is. Steady as she goes.”

“Are you speaking of me now?” Rebecca laughed.

“Yes, and off to bed with you both,” he said, “wherever you choose to lie your head.”

“Not me,” countered Serena, going to the end of the porch and leaping off. Her parents knew where she was off to—the stables. “I’m going for a ride before bed.”

“Why do you wish to worry us so?” asked Francis. “Look at you in Ben’s old chaps and hat. Riding astride a horse like a man!”

“Let her go, old man!” Rebecca scolded so that Serena didn’t have to argue with her father.

“She’s got in this habit of…of wandering the night, Mother. Looks bad.”

“To whom? And why do we care?” Serena burst out, wishing she hadn’t.

“If it’s so proper, young lady, then why not ride in daylight?”

Serena rushed out and shouted over her shoulder from the porch, “I won’t leave the property. Promise.”

Alone now, watching their youngest disappear into the barn, Rebecca asked, “Will you come into my bed tonight, Francis?”

“Ben’s bed?”

“Ben’s room, yes.”

“I will.”

They embraced, neither seeing young Serena watching from the stable where she saddled her horse. She’d gotten into the habit of riding the property each night, weather permitting. She climbed onto her horse, Nightshade, and she soon galloped in the general direction of the river—riding as freely as any man might and in the manner of a man. She meant to follow it for a while, turn and return home and to a bed warmed well by now, what with her having placed the bed coals beneath. The evening ride was her way of finding some peace and beauty in life, and riding beneath the stars and planets on a clear night felt like freedom.

From inside the house, Serena’s aging parents heard the hooves of her thundering horse as she raced off.

Chapter Twelve

The following morning

Jeremiah Wakely walked with a bounce in his step, and he felt the eyes of the villagers on him, step for step, as he made his way across the main thoroughfare for Ingersoll’s Ordinary & Inn. On Sabbath Days long before the village had erected a parsonage and a proper meetinghouse, Ingersoll’s stood in for the official gathering place. Ingersoll’s Inn continued yet as the center of village life, commerce and conversation, news and gossip, and in more than one sense spiritual libation. In 1692 far more imbibing from the keg than from the bible went on here. And it was the place to post a letter, which was Jeremy’s goal.

The exterior hadn’t changed save for a new sign in bold giant letters, reading: Ingersoll’s Ordinary, Apothecary & Inn. As he approached the front doors, Jeremiah recalled that it’d always been a hodgepodge, somewhere between an apothecary (filled with elixirs and rubs from plants to bear grease) and a dry goods and millinery shop sharing space with an alehouse. Some said the place reflected Nathaniel Ingersoll completely.

The first visit to Ingersoll’s that Jeremy had made, when he’d pushed through the creaking, swinging doors, old, heavyset Nathaniel Ingersoll, having heard of a Wakely who’d come to apprentice under Reverend Parris, rushed at Jeremy with open arms. “God blind me if it isn’t you! Jeremiah Wakely in the flesh.” Ingersoll had then lifted Jeremy off his feet with a bone-jarring bear hug. “What a bully young man you are! And you’ve turned to the ministry! Wonderful news!”

And now entering this morning, he got just as warm a welcome as ever. Ingersoll came around the counter and shook his hand and introduced him to some men who seemed disinterested.

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Ingersoll.” A twinge of guilt laced Jeremy’s words. “You’ve hardly changed in all these years.”

“Liar! A kind-hearted boy you always were, but I’m forty pounds more, and me jowls are flab! But you, now, that’s change indeed! What a temperate man you’ve become!”

“Ten years and you don’t look a day older, really, sir.” Ingersoll did seem ageless, a huge round man.

“Harrr! We’re all fortunate for each day God grants us, Jeremiah! Let me pour you a cup of ale.”

“That does sound good, yes.”

Jeremy approached the bar, and as Ingersoll went for the ale, but the big bear stopped in his tracks, turned and with a wide-eyed look of confusion on his bearded face, he lamented, “Oh my, but if you’re ordained a minister, and me a deacon now, I’ll have to call you Mr. Wakely, now won’t I?”

“It’s not come to that yet, sir.”

“Then I’ve leave to call you—”

“Jeremy will do, as always, Mr. Ingersoll.”

Ingersoll smiled from behind a squirrel’s nest of a beard. He threw back his head, the wild shocks of hair flying like Medusa’s curls, and he laughed the laugh of Neptune. He had always been a mainstay in Salem Village, but how wonderful a pirate he’d’ve made, Jeremy recalled thinking as a child. Some things never change.

As Jeremy watched his old overseer pour ale, it seemed time had stood still.

The counter here, which doubled as a bar at one end, a cutting board at the other, remained as always the same. Stools stood at this end, brooms, yardsticks, scissors, and bolts of cloth cluttered the other. The room spread out wide, the rear of it a large affair with ten-foot high dropped beamed ceilings. All of the finest spruce, but the caulking showed age and water seeped in here and there. Mildew collected in corners, and the seeping rainwater on stormy days and nights must be collected in buckets and pails.

The lion's share of the store was turned over to fresh produce, fish and fowl, beaver and marmet pelts, bolts of cloth, as well as carpentry tools and farm and garden instruments. Along one wall traps of every size along with hunting and fishing equipment, as well as buckets and mops, and the most characteristic element Jeremy remembered from his youth—the large stand of brooms all in a circle at the center. Nor had he forgotten the taffy and hard candy jar on the counter alongside the pickled eggs, vegetables, nuts, and berries. And all of it was set aglow by the huge fireplace at the end of the room.

“So it is Deacon Ingersoll these days?” asked Jeremy, taking a dram of ale.

Ingersoll looked stricken. “It’s no easy task, let me tell you.”

“You’re having to referee between Mr. Parris and his flock I imagine.”

“Half or more of his flock, yes.”

Ingersoll was always easy with local news and gossip himself. “Who leads the dissenting faction?”

“Francis Nurse and his wife, Rebecca.”

“Really?” This took Jeremy aback. “I thought it Tarbell, Proctor maybe.”

“More her than Francis, actually, and some say Rebecca’s fallen ill as a result of bedeviling our minister.”

“Ill? How ill?”

“Been abed all winter she has.”

“I see.” Jeremy read the notices on the bulletin board pinned there and forgotten. One was a call to the Militia Company, which was to meet and parade about the village the next day. “Are you still with the militia company, sir?”

“Aye and I’m nowadays Lieutenant Ingersoll.” The man beamed far more at this label than at being called a deacon.

“That’s grand news.” Jeremy knew him as a terrible shot.

“They’ve turned over the artillery to my care. I’m in charge of the unit.”

“Artillery?”

“Yes, we’ve a cannon now.”

“A big one, I hope.”

“A twelve-pounder, Jeremy! Come from Barbados with the new minister.”

Jeremy replied in mock toast, thinking, the man comes with a cannon to barter for the parsonage? “Mr. Parris brought a cannon with him?”

“He’s a wise enough fellow, our new minister.” Ingersoll laughed, picking up on the innuendo. “He was in the metal business in Barbados. Had an interest in a foundry there.”

“Wise, eh? He’s been in the parish for three years, yet everyone calls him the new minister, including you.”

“Ah! Well, only to distinguish him from the old minister. The former that is.”

“Burroughs, yes.”

“Now there was a minister could put away the ale and canary wine. What a fine wake he threw for his dear departed.”

“A wake he paid for behind bars?”

“You’ve kept an ear to our doings then, have you, Jeremy?”

“I have, sir, yes.”

“Morbid curiosity?”

“Simple curiosity, actually. How you jailed your own minister for nonpayment of debts has had wide purchase, sir.”

“There’s no denying we’re an unhappy, sour, melancholy lot here in the village.”

Jeremy lifted his ale to this to Ingersoll’s continued laughter.

“On the whole that is.” Ingersoll dropped the mirth and his gaze for an uncharacteristic moment of sullen thought, eyebrows twitching like black wholly worms.

“All but you, Mr. Ingersoll,” Jeremy attempted to help him from the moment of pain he seemed to be reliving. “I never knew you to be melancholy.”

“Come see me round three in the morning.”

“The Devil’s hour?” Three AM being the inversion of three PM, the traditional time of the trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. As with all Christian ritual, Satan had his twisted and sometimes turned-upside-down version, Satan as Father, Satan’s son, Satan’s own Holy Ghost. Satan mocked every Christian belief and ceremony.

And so troubled minds abounded at 3AM. Jeremy had certainly awakened to the noise resulting at that satanic hour emanating from Parris’ room.

“Aye, we’re all a bit crazy at that hour, e’en more than at the witching hour.”

“The stroke of midnight, yes.”

“Why do you suppose evil spirits and followers of pagan religions and Satan keep to such a rigid time clock, Mr. Wakely?” Ingersoll’s emphasis on Mr. Wakely was said with a wink.

“Ah, a test of my studies, Deacon?”

“Just a question to a budding minister and spiritual guide is all.”

Jeremy smiled at the deacon’s addressing him as a spiritual guide. “Perhaps it’s allowed by our Maker as He allows Satan to roam among us—to drive us into temptation, to test our mettle as they say?”

“By the planets, you’re a minister after all!”

“Not technically so, not yet.”

“But well on your way.” He toasted to Jeremiah’s health.

“And to yours, sir.” Jeremy got the distinct impression that Ingersoll, among other elders and deacons, had been asked to throw theological questions at him, and then to report back to Parris on how well or how poorly Mr. Wakely performed. Perhaps it was not so. Perhaps it was all in his imagination, but it certainly seemed so—for at every turn some elder was picking at some bit of religious quibble intent on a solution out of Jeremy’s mouth.

“And to providence!” declared Ingersoll, who had poured himself a rare dram for this time of day.

“And to the continued health and wellbeing of-of the village and all in it, sir.” Again they toasted and soon their pints were drained.

“Well, I’ve yet to put up today’s notices,” said Ingersoll, his beard glistening with the ale that’d passed over the bristles. He lifted a handful of notices along with hammer and tacks. Jeremy saw the usual notices: births, deaths, and all the minutia in between: taxes, weddings, a newly foaled pony, a calf born with two tails and three legs to Mr. Putnam, an illness befalling Betty Parris having been lifted by the Grace of God, signed by Reverend Parris, and a dog gone mad alongside a small notice of a mine collapse that’d killed two men outright, a third after being dragged out, and several injured. This notice listed the names of the dead alongside the injured. The final notice that caught Jeremy’s gaze had apparently been up for some time—the official notice of excommunication of one Sarah Goode. Staring at the order from the church assize of one Samuel Parris, Jeremy said, “Some things never change, do they?”

“Oh but Jeremiah, if anyone deserved banning and shunning, it’s that wild, mindless, foul-mouthed woman. It’d be a blessing if she’d leave—join all the sinners in Rhode Island.”

“The place for all spiritual lepers, yes, and she deserves it no less than my mother and father?”

Ingersoll looked stricken, but he quickly continued posting the new notices and tearing away the old. Jeremy could let it go, but he instead added, “The subject of Rhode Island came up then, too.”

“Two entirely different situations, Jeremy. You can’t compare the need we have of ridding Salem of this Devil’s whore to-to . . .”

“This is why Reverend Parris took her child from her? The first step in ridding the village of old Goody Goode?”

“No one’s called her Goodwoman for a decade. She once did only white magic, yes, sure. I even partook of her services from time to time, but Jeremiah, nowadays . . . well she’s turned to black magic.”

“The black arts or love, take your pick, either is reason enough to excommunicate a neighbor, eh?”

“Love? Ah, as in the love between your father and step-mum.” Ingersoll banged the last tack into the last notice he’d put up. He turned and with the hammer upraised, stared straight into Jeremy’s eyes and said, “I voted against that sour business, Jeremy. You must know that.”

Jeremy held his gaze. “No . . . no, I never knew that; I assumed everyone was equal to the task of driving my father out.”

“’Twas far from a unanimous decision.”

“News to me.”

“You were young.” The big man shrugged. “The young assume everything.”

“Too bad we didn’t have a cannon back then, eh?”

“You were a good watchman and mate.”

“With a cannon, I might’ve fired one off at the meetinghouse door.”

Ingersoll stood mute at this a moment before bursting out in laughter.

Jeremy slapped him on the arm. “Look here, my calling on you this morning is twofold, Lieutenant Ingerstoll.” Jeremy held out a folded piece of paper to Ingersoll.

“A notice from you, Jeremy?”

“Notices, actually, two from—”

“Say no more. Reverend Parris.” Ingersoll’s wide jaw quivered.

“Are you all right, Mr. Ingersoll?”

The big man frowned and shrugged. “The man has taken up half my board.” He indicated the other notices. “What’s it now?”

“He does strike me as a . . . contentious man.”

“A single word that sums ’im up, sure.” Ingersoll then read the latest notice from Parris.

“A brief announcement of my being his apprentice,” muttered Jeremy. “The other regards his daughter.”

“I’ve already a notice regarding his daughter’s recovery.”

“This is no recovery; Betty’s had a relapse.”

Ingersoll looked stricken, his tongue silenced. “I prayed her illness at an end.” Ingersoll shook his head and his hammer. He stripped away the older notice and tacked up the new one which read:

To All Whom It Concern dated this day of March 11:

Please you everyone in the parish pray for my little Betty as she’s had a relapse and your minister and the physician seeing my child doth fear her under attack by forces of darkness. Dr. Porter has corroborated this diagnosis. The forces of evil are using the child to get at your minister, as they haven’t the nerve to directly attack a man of God. Again I ask for prayers, and those of your families—not for me but on behalf of my beloved daughter, so as to beat back the invisible enemy.

Yours in all sincerity,

Rev. Samuel. Parris

“A lot of sickness going round this winter?” asked Jeremy.

Ingersoll solemnly nodded. “For a time, I feared the plague’d returned.”

“Betty was up and about yesterday, but I looked in on her while her father kneeled and prayed at her bedside. She was flush with a scarlet hue. The family is distraught to say the least.”

“All on the heels of his brave challenge to that witch, Goode.”

“I was with him when she laid on a curse. She was angry,” explained Jeremy, “over his having taken her child from her.”

“Prelude to banning her entirely from our midst. I’d say it’s a clear case of an eye for an eye.”

“Eye for eye?”

“Child for child. He takes hers, she his—” Ingersoll pointed to the notice he’d tacked up as if it perfectly summed up the situation. No need of another word.

“You can’t really believe that?” asked Jeremy.

“Aye, indeed I do, as do many who parade through here. We all thought seeing Mr. Parris walking about with his whole family intact these last few days that . . . well it was taken as a favorable sign indeed! But now this.” He banged a fist into a post, shaking loose some goods.

Jeremy stared at the request for prayers posted by Parris, which somehow seemed more about him than the child. “Perhaps if we all pray for the child?” began Jeremiah, noticing others filing into the Inn and remembering the role he was playing. “Perhaps her condition will then improve.”

“Of course, Mr. Wakely,” replied Ingersoll. “Of course.”

Jeremy handed Ingersoll the pouch of notes he’d come to post to Boston. His understanding was that Increase Mather’s eldest son, Cotton, would be reading and responding to his correspondence. Ingersoll promised to get his packet in the mail and on its way to Boston by afternoon.

Jeremy and the old Watch Hill militiaman shared a hug before Mr. Wakely left, tipping his tri-cornered hat to those entering. Behind him, he could hear the buzz and whispers surrounding his arrival, and the news of young Betty’s having “fallen to an awful curse.”

# # # # #

On the boardwalk outside Ingersoll’s, Jeremy was struck by the lack of growth in the village after all these years. He contemplated the stagnation of the place when an ox drawn cart pulled to within shouting distance, and the man on the seat—a giant of a fellow shouted, “Kindlin’, fire wood!”

The two-wheeled cart had seen better days as had the ox, tired from two decades of pulling the giant. Jeremy recognized the six-foot-four Giles Corey instantly. Who could miss him? He and his wife, Martha, ran a nearby mill on a prosperous stretch of Ipswich Road. Kindling wood was a sideline. The Coreys’ lives, and those of their children, had been turned over to that mill; they literally fed every four-legged beast in both the village and the town with their secret formula meal and grist, said to have discarded, crushed fish heads in the recipe. They also produced rice, corn, and other grains bagged for human consumption. Jeremy recalled a joking Ingersoll ten years before saying, “Them rough Coreys could be grinding anything into their mill sacks!”

“Like what?” Jeremy had asked at the time.

“Dunno . . . seashells maybe . . . maybe glass . . . rat dung for all anyone knows!”

“Ugh! You think so?”

“Who’d know?”

For this reason, any time an animal came up sick, and sometimes when a person came up ill, the Coreys were looked askance at, but the look often followed a price haggle as well.

Ingersoll pointed out who Jeremy was to Giles Corey, repeatedly saying, “You surely remember Jeremiah. But Corey, still sitting on his lumbering cart, scratched his head, shook it, and said in a booming voice, “I know ye not, Mr. Wakely, and I owe no man nothin’ beyond common court’sy, and some aren’t deserving of that.”

“Come now, you must remember Jeremy! He was my boy, my servant for long years, even stood watch on the hill with me some nights.”

“Ah! I do recall a lad . . . somewhat.” He continued scratching his head. Corey’s face was that of a moose, and here was the bear, Ingersoll, talking to the moose, Corey.

“That doesn’t seem to be working,” said Ingersoll. “Try scratching your oxen’s head—maybe that’d jar your mem’ry, Giles!” Ingersoll laughed at his own joke.

Corey climbed down, went to the oxen’s front and did scratch the beast’s head. “Oh yes, now I remember in full, but you know what, Nathaniel . . . and no reflection on you, Mr. Wakely, but what my ox here says is—and I quoth the ox: ‘More of piety and another minister shovelin’ it in this cursed place we don’t need’—or so he says.” He pointed at the ox, its eyes registering a dumb stare.

“I hope to do some good here, Mr. Corey,” said Jeremy as the giant lumbered into Ingersoll’s in search of ale.

“I’ll take my dram now, Nathaniel. Or do I need take my coin up the road to Bridgett Bishop’s Inn?”

Ingersoll shrugged and rushed back to his bar, the swinging doors going in and out behind the men. Jeremy marveled at the fact that Corey made Ingersoll look small.

Meanwhile, the village was filling up, carriages, wagons, and horsemen tying up outside the village meetinghouse. Something’s afoot. Having crossed the street on his way back to the parsonage, Jeremy noticed one of the wagons entering the village carried members of the Nurse and Towne family. In fact, now that he looked with more care, all the people converging on the meetinghouse were Nurse-Towne folk. He recognized many of them as Serena’s brothers, and each had a family of his own in tow.

Others among them were the Cloyse clan, the family that Rebecca Nurse’s sister and some of her children had married into. Each group stopped only momentarily at the meetinghouse, entered, and left as if to offer a prayer, but many a basket was carried in and left for the minister in lieu of monetary payment of his rate. Most of it bushels of nuts and other produce. One Nurse man stopped at Ingersoll’s to place a notice there. Ingersoll met the man outside. They exchanged a few words and the notice was passed to Ingersoll but not immediately put up on the overcrowded board.

A cold wind swept through main street and anyone riding an open cart or wagon was bundled up against the lingering chill air.

Jeremy returned to stand beside Ingersoll who watched the Nurse clan with interest. He’d both dreaded and hoped to see Serena among those coming in for meeting. He assumed she’d have children and a husband, married long before now. He was tempted to ask Ingersoll just to confirm his thoughts, but instead, he asked, “What’s the notice that fellow handed you just now?” Jeremy indicated the note in Nathaniel’s hand.

Ingersoll turned it over to Jeremy who read:

Let it be known throughout the village that Mother Rebecca Nurse has overcome her long illness, and that she wishes to convey her sincere thank you to all in the village who prayed for her health and a return to her former vigor as a woman of God and one who ministers and does the work of a goodwife, mother, and one who puts God before all she loves and holds dear, as without His blessing none of her joys would be in her grasp. However, as age and health does not permit Goodwife Nurse to attend meeting and has kept her away from the parish ministry, she continue to invite any and all who wish to be on hand for Sabbath Day prayers in her home to please continue to visit as before.

With all my heartfelt best to all,

Rebecca Nurse

It was not unusual for people to refer to themselves in the third person when writing. “You seem reluctant to put Mrs. Nurse’s notice up, Mr. Ingersoll.”

“The board is a wee overfull.”

“Still I detect a hesitation on your part for a finer reason.”

“Finer reason?”

“You seem pained to make room for the notice.”

“Mr. Parris will dislike this news.”

“News of a Mother Nurse’s regaining health and heartiness?”

“No, no! Not that, but that the Goodlady still urges villagers to come to her for Sabbath Day prayers.”

“But if she is not well enough to seek the Word here, it stands to reason. Besides, does he—Parris—control the free-flow of information nowadays?”

Ingersoll gritted his teeth. “No, he does not. I am postmaster here.” He then searched the board for items to discard, and he immediately tacked up Rebecca Nurse’s announcement, but the wind turned it into a flapping flag.

“You may’s well post it,” Jeremy said as Ingersoll worked to get a second tack into it. At the same time, the notice flailed wildly with another gust of wind that threatened to whip it from its recently found moorings.

Ingersoll grunted as he drove a third tack into the notice. He then pointed at a notice on the Meetinghouse door. “I may’s well post it, as her boys’ve posted it on the yonder.”

Jeremy squinted and made out a few other notices posted on the meetinghouse door. “I see it. When did they begin posting notices at the door?”

“Since Parris.”

“There’s a lot of new things here since Parris.”

“Jeremy, if you stay long, you’ll learn that there is BP and AP.”

“Sir?” Jeremy’s face could not mask his consternation. “BP, AP?”

“Before Parris and After Parris.”

Jeremy laughed even as he mulled this over. What had life been like for parishioners here before Samuel Parris? But he kept the thought to himself and said to Ingersoll, “Well, Deacon, I bid you adieu.”

“A-Adieu, why yes, of course,” replied Ingersoll waving him off.

Momentarily, he found himself standing on the village green at a communal water pump, a horse tied to a post gently nudging him so that it might reach the grass beneath his feet.

For the hundredth and one time, he wondered, What am I doing here? What’d I get myself into?

When he looked up from his shoes, Serena Nurse came into his vision. A child. She was still somehow ten years old, and for a moment so was he. It was ten years ago. No . . . hold on, his brain corrected him. This can’t be Serena. Despite what my eyes say.

The young girl stared off into space as if her eyes followed some distant bird, and her carefree manner and profile, her carriage and bearing—all Serena. It must be Serena’s daughter. Of course and why not? She had married, had a child—if not more than just this one traveling with her uncles and aunts.

Jeremy felt a well of anger rising in him for what Serena had done to him—or rather what she had failed to do for him. Wait for his return. Sure it was a long time, a decade, but she’d loved him just as surely as he’d loved her—and he had been faithful to her memory. Obviously, she had not.

Jeremy had been walking in a small circle on the village green, where most people seeing him may intuit that he was working on some deep, philosophical question or sermon, give his clothing. He felt eyes on him and came to a halt only to find Serena’s daughter staring at him. Unlike the adults, her stare remained fixed as if she were studying him intently.

She could have been my child, he told himself.

The girl smiled at him now from where she stood in the back of a buckboard. She seemed fascinated and then she waved. Even her small hand was Serena’s hand.

Why should the child be enraptured of me, he wondered and remained flat-footed here as if caught, as if found out. But that was impossible. The child could know nothing of him whatsoever. Perhaps she stared at the uniform–the black garb of his chicanery. After all, it was an outfit children were trained to respect no matter the man wearing it.

Ironic in the extreme, he thought—here with Serena’s little off-spring not fifteen yards away and boring holes into him—that I should be dressed in the cloth of the church in an effort to unmask a man professing to be a minister of God who, in Reverend Increase Mather’s assessment might be a fake.

The girl broke her gaze and was now sitting on the Nurse wagon. Even the way she sat with hands cradling a rag doll in her lap, shoulders arched, her back straight. It left no doubt this spitting image belonged to Serena. She peeked over her shoulder to see if Jeremy was still there, and when she saw that he remained staring at her, she manipulated the doll’s arm and hand to wave at him.

Jeremy pulled away from the evidence of his eyes, his heart feeling the stab of pain and loss he’d so feared. It was true, despite his inmost prayers. Serena was lost to him forever.

He broke away in a near run so fast was his step, going for the dark parsonage where he might hide his emotions behind that awful curtain in that terrible cubbyhole he found himself living in.

Chapter Thirteen

Jeremiah had decided even before making it to the parsonage house to instead saddle his gray-speckled white horse and ride for the Nurse home instead of hiding away like a cur kicked to the street. He muttered as much to Dancer, and even as he worked to saddle the horse, his mind racing with thoughts of Serena’s betrayal, he watched Tituba Indian going about her small corner of the barn. She’d continued to sleep in a stall since Massa Wakley’s arrival. She’d made the stall as comfortable as possible, turning hay bales covered in thick woolen blankets into a bed.

It’s time, Jeremy told himself, time I go to see Serena. The real Serena, and to bite back my anger and to keep a civil tongue, and to wish her every happiness. Had no right to harbor the fantasy that she would be here waiting, pining for me all this time. Still an angry, flare up of a thought bedeviled him and erupted in words: “Judging by the age of her daughter, Serena didn’t pine long.”

“Massa done beat poor Mary ’til her back bleed,” Tituba calmly informed him as if speaking of the weather and without halting in her work. She had picked up a pitchfork taller than she, and she pitched some hay before Dancer who gobbled and crunched on it.

Jeremy stopped cinching Dancer and took the pitchfork from her and sat it aside. “What did you say?”

“Massa drew blood. Made her scream veddy bad. Here! Look.” She led him to a stall beside hers. “Look, look there.” She pointed at the blood splotches in the dirt and hay.

Jeremy could see that they were fresh—from this morning.

He looked to see splatters of blood in the hay and dirt where Tituba pointed. “Tore her dress.” Tituba said in his ear. “Shame her.”

“My God.” Jeremiah returned to Dancer and cinched the saddle tight. He wondered how much was exaggeration, how much truth, but the blood was obvious. Tituba shadowed him.

“And den he beat her b’cause . . . b’cause Massa afraid he wants her—to touch her and lay wid Mary. So he say she, ‘Mary! You got de Devil in you! I gots to beat it outta you for temptin’ me!’”

“Careful of such accusations, Tituba Indian.”

“My real name not Indian. Real name he can’t say, so he call me Indian on de papers.”

“I see. Then what is your real name?”

“Ti’shuba L’englesian.”

“French?”

“French enough; like you.”

The remark made him wonder who’d passed that bit of family history onto her, but he was too busy at the moment to consider the gossips.

“How is Mary now?”

But she slinked away from Jeremy when she saw Parris’ approaching shadow at the door. Knowing she hadn’t time to look properly busy, she began to chant a Barbados song. She twirled in dance as if to entertain Jeremy with anything but gossip and news of Mary’s having been beaten.

Jeremy turned to see that Parris stood in the doorway to the barn.

“Off with you, Tituba!” he shouted. “Now, into the house!”

Tituba stopped cold and rushed past him and out.

“That servant wench’s become my cross to bear,” said Parris. “I warned you about her; she’s not right in the head. Pay no heed to her.”

“She says you beat and shamed Mary mercilessly.” Jeremy pointed to the blood.

“She exaggerates. It’s what Ne’gras with French blood do.”

“You mean lie.”

“Lie, cheat, steal. Warned you about her; she’s not right in the head. Breaks into fits!”

“Are you referring to her song and dance?” Jeremy had seen nothing else from her approximating fits.

Their eyes locked. The senior man asked his apprentice, “Have you been asking about my history among the villagers, Goodfriend Jeremy?” It sounded as if he knew the answer. Ingersoll and others had conveyed the news.

Jeremy knew not to lie. “I am as curious of your history here as any stranger might be, Samuel, my good friend and mentor.” Jeremy hoped that his ruse was not completely undone.

“So your purpose in interrogating the elders is to learn my history with the parish?”

“I have learned it, sir.”

“Ingersoll fill you in?”

“Among others, yes.”

Jeremiah set his foot in the stirrup and lifted onto Dancer, throwing his leg over the horse. He looked down on Parris from this height and realized just how small the other man truly was. “Each day, Samuel, you seem to have new suspicions and doubts over my being here. Perhaps it is not working out; perhaps I should return to Boston and request another parish.”

“I’ll happily tell you when it is no good between us, not you, Jeremy. It’s up to me to say when you can return to Boston.”

Dancer stirred as if she might rear as Parris had hold of her bridle and was yanking hard at it.

“Sir, I am here at the request—no order—of Increase Mather, and my sole purpose is to get an education toward eventual ordination.”

“So you’ve said, but now you’re saddling your horse to follow those Nurses out to their compound?”

“You have been talking to Ingersoll then, haven’t you, Samuel.”

“I have.”

“Then you’ll know the reason why.”

“He suggested something about your affection for the family, and one girl in particular, yes.”

“I gather you know my purpose then.”

“Indeed I know everything that goes on in Salem.”

Jeremy had to control his anger and his quivering jaw. “I got to deal with a private matter that neither concerns you nor the village gossips.”

Parris’ smile was lecherous. “Aha, so you go as an infatuated man, of course … to confront her with your melancholy.”

Jeremy responded with a look of a man checkmated, exactly right for the moment.

Parris relaxed his grip on Dancer. “I am not one to stand in the way of affairs of the heart. I’m not so old and gone as to’ve forgotten.”

“Then you must know this trip has naught to do with you, or my service to Salem, or to—”

“I see! A spur of the moment thing, eh?” Parris actually winked.

“Precisely. My stepmother had a saying.”

“Oh? A French proverb was it?”

Dancer whinnied as if signaling impatience, or was it a warning for Jeremy to cut this short.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Parris laughed lightly. “And the head be damned, eh?”

“It’s true.”

“Wise of your French mother, this saying of hers.” Parris still held up horse and rider. “But Jeremy, my friend, one must never heed the heart in all things.”

Jeremy took the bait. “For instance?”

“Lust.”

“Lust, Samuel?”

He grew thoughtful and patted Dancer about the shoulder and mane. “Lust can destroy a man. Remember that, and perhaps you’ll remain safe from….Well, safe.”

Jeremy wondered if he meant to say safe from Tituba L’englesian, but he decided not to pursue it, not here and not now. “How is Mary now?”

“She is abed beside the little one.”

“And Betty’s fever?”

“Both are in a bad way.”

“Both with fever?”

“Afraid so. Look, Jeremy, I merely caution you to beware of the Nurse clan.”

“Beware?”

“You’re young, easily swayed.”

“You needn’t worry, sir.”

“Watch your back, Jeremy.”

“I will…I will.”

“Standing as close as you are with me, some will treat you badly.”

“Aye, understood.”

“Good man!”

“You needn’t worry on that score.”

“Sometimes…wish I’d stayed a seaman.”

Jeremy was torn. Here Parris stood opening up to him, and yet both Dancer and Jeremy’s inmost desire was to be away now. He kicked at the sides of his horse, and the animal reacted, tearing loose from Parris’ hand.

Parris’ booming voice trailed after Jeremy. “I wish you only the best, Mr. Wakely, and I look for the best from you!”

Jeremy wondered at the remark; wondered if it’d been intended to have more than one meaning. Parris most assuredly hoped that his apprentice might consider the appearance of things here in the parish, and to keep faith with his mentor. The wind hit his face at full gallop for the Nurse home.

Jeremy hoped that getting away from Parris and the village would bring some perspective, but most of all, he looked forward to looking on the face of Serena Nurse—married or not, children on her hip or not, out of his reach and untouchable or not. He simply must look on her face again and hear her voice. He wanted her to tell him that she was content and happy.

Riding hard he saw smoke from fires in the distance ahead. Soon he neared the main house of the Nurse compound and saw the cooking fires of a great feast.

# # # # #

Jeremiah arrived on the heels of all the Townes, Nurses, Eastys, and Cloyses gathered round the circle of tables in a clearing in the snow-littered valley and front yard of Francis and Rebecca Nurse’s home. It did make for an odd setting, and some of the family had bundled themselves for the worst, but with a stillness over the area, without a harsh wind, and with the sun beaming down, many had begun to take off their coats and truly enjoy the repast. It appeared enough food to feed a garrison of soldiers, Jeremy thought, as he came on the Nurse family compound.

The little girl who’d so reminded Jeremy of Serena was first to take notice of him on his speckled white horse. Others soon followed suit as Jeremy searched the faces for her mother—for Serena.

He found her going between the tables, doling out food from a huge bowl, when she took notice of all those staring at the stranger who’d quietly walked his horse the last fifty yards up to the house.

When her staring at Jeremiah had gone on so long that her mouth had fallen open, Mother Nurse pinched Serena. “It’s true then,” she muttered to Serena. “Like a lost sparrow, your Jere’s returned to Salem.”

“He’s not my Jere, Mother, and he’s no sparrow; more like a vulture. Look at him in his minister’s clothes.” She dropped the bowl on the table and rushed for the house, disappearing inside.

Everyone else sat stunned, some going back to their meals, the children gravitating toward Dancer when Serena suddenly emerged again with a huge blunderbuss pointed at him, the wide barrel of the turkey shooter the size of a bugle. This sent the children scurrying for their parents, and Jeremy saw the curious girl who had in a sense led him here leap into the arms of a big man. Was it Serena’s husband?

Serena shouted, “Who invited you here, Mr. Wakely? And on this of all days?”

“I-I came to offset any talk of…” he fought for a rational explanation of his being here in her yard. “That is surprise regarding my having arrived, arriving as I have, you see.” He indicated his minister’s garb.”

“Take yourself off our land!”

“Serena, I didn’t want any gossip reaching you—that is before I should have the opportunity to inform you myself.”

“Such kindness! After ten years, Mister Wakely—or is it Reverend Wakely?”

“I’d hoped to speak in private.”

“Well it’s just too late for that.”

“Too late?”

“It’s all I’ve heard for the past twenty-four hours, Mr. Wakely. How you’ve materialized.”

“I am sorry, Serena.”

“You’ve far more to apologize for than . . . than anyone here has time to hear, sir.”

Jeremy gritted his teeth and looked again at the man he assumed to be Serena’s husband. He was handing their frightened child to a woman Jeremy recognized as Serena’s older sister, Becca. The child curled up in Becca’s arms.

Finally, Ben Nurse stood and shouted, “Any reunion was bound to be rocky.”

“And hello to you, Ben, Goodman Nurse, Mother Nurse.” Jeremy removed his minister’s black hat. “I’d hoped a reunion would go well.”

Foolish thought, said their combined stares. But Ben stepped forward and shook his hand and added, “Welcome home, prodigal. Beautiful horse!”

“You may’ve changed, Jeremy Wakely,” said the elder Nurse, Francis, grinning, indicating Jeremy’s outfit. “But Serena hasn’t. Not a whit.”

“Now if you please,” Serena said, gun still upraised. “I’m asking you to leave.”

“But I wish to speak to you, privately,” he persisted, half expecting her husband to come at him now.

“We-we have spoken,” sputtered Serena, “and-and since you’re now Samuel Parris’ boy—”

“Apprentice, not boy.”

“—y-you might know that there aren’t many of us fond of the village minister.”

“I’ve learned that much, yes.”

“That man is working at being the village puppeteer, and—”

“Puppeteer?”

“—a-and now that you’re in his employ, we are not interested in anything you might care to say, Mr. Wakely.”

“Please, Serena. I just want to talk.”

“Talk? You dare to talk of talk to me? Where was the talk when ten year ago you disappeared without a word?”

“I tried to see you, but the storm prevented—”

“Ahhh, it’s a storm kept you away ten years!”

“The flooding, remember?”

“Your timing hasn’t improved.” She shook her head, the big gun wavering with the movement. “I waited….” Her voice choked off.

“I had to see you, to know you are well and happy.”

She gritted her teeth and fought to gather her poise. “We are having a family gathering, and you, sir, are not welcomed. This is family only, and you are not . . . family, now are you?”

Jeremy glanced again at the young Serena look-a-like and hiking his head toward the child, he muttered, “Obviously, you didn’t wait too awfully long.”

Serena’s features scrunched at this. Confused, she looked at Becca’s daughter, Selene, her niece. It was a family chant how much Selene looked like her Aunt Serena. Serena put it together that Jeremy assumed her married to a Tarbell and that Selene was hers. She finally said, “You have a nerve if you think—oow! If you will, please just go, Jeremiah Wakely, now!” Again the gun came up, its smooth wide bore the size of a tuba.

He’d never heard such bitterness in her voice—not even when he’d accidentally made her slip from a boulder into the Frost Fish at its coldest when they were children. He climbed on his horse to the protests of some in the clan who shouted for charity. Joseph Nurse called out to Serena, saying, “Put that gun down before it goes off!”

Becca Nurse was whispering in Serena’s ear, while Ben cried out, “Stop acting the fool, sister, and talk to ’im.” An aunt called out, “Invite the young man to sit and eat, Serena! After all, he’s still your Jere, and we all know it’s true.”

She turned on her brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles, the blunderbuss coming round like a cannon. Everyone gasped, ducked, and pulled children down again. Serena shouted, “All of you! Keep out of my affairs.”

“Auntie Serena won’t shoot us!” shouted the girl that Jeremy had taken for Serena’s daughter.

Jeremy, astride Dancer again, was stunned on hearing the Serena look-a-like call her Auntie. He raised both hands overhead in the universal gesture of defeat. “I want no family dissension!”

“Then leave our home!” shouted Serena.

Francis, aghast at the treatment of the apprentice, kept moaning, “What’re you doing, child?”

Rebecca was now whispering in Serena’s ear. “This is not any way to get a man.”

“No, no arguing on my part,” Jeremy assured everyone. “So if it pleases you, I take my leave and am sorry to’ve interrupted your feast.” He then whispered to Serena, “I had no idea you were celebrating.”

“How would you know anything about us?” Serena again held the blunderbuss on him.

“I’ll be at the river, Serena.”

She looked as vacuous and stunned as her little niece’s doll.

“The hollowed out tree, where we once played as children.” They’d shared their first and last kiss there as children.

The flash in her green eyes told him he’d finally said something right, something she could respond to. “You’ll get off our land is what you’ll do!” she shouted after Jeremy who turned his horse and loped off. Anger rising, Serena fired off the old turkey blaster into the afternoon sky, providing fireworks for the feast, the blast startling Dancer to rear on hind legs. A handful of dark powder clouds from the gun played now above the feast, the odor snipping at everyone’s nose like the tincture of gossip. Serena knew they’d all be talking about her and Jeremiah Wakely for weeks to come after this. Give the biddies among them something to chew on.

Serena had watched the gray-speckled white horse’s hooves come down running, and the mare carried Jeremy off at a gallop. Raucous laughter erupted from Serena’s brothers, sisters, and brothers-in-law. The entire extended family joined in the laughter, all but the child who looked and acted so much like Serena. This shy one pouted instead, angry with her aunt for chasing off the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

“You’re mean, Auntie Serena!” shouted the little one, racing off to hide her face. “Mean and wrong!”

“From out of the mouths of babes,” quoted Rebecca.

Francis Nurse carefully plucked the oversize firearm from his daughter’s grasp. “You’re not overreacting now are you?”

Rebecca placed an arm around Serena, guiding her off for a private word.

The noise and clatter of dishes continued around the tables as neighbors passed by the gate, some with goods on the way to market, some stopping to stare, and some asking about the gunfire. It was obviously a special day, this Sabbath, for the Nurse family. Still, it made no sense to sensible passers-by why people would be sitting about on a cold day amid the snow at some festival of their own making. Frolicking on a day when they ought to be filling the pews at the meetinghouse.

“Hey, you there! What’re you celebrating?” shouted a man named Israel Porter sitting atop his ox cart, not slowing on his way to the village.

No answer came. No one could hear over the clamor of celebration.

Another man named Fiske, a carpenter by trade, also shouted from the road, the same question only louder.

Young Ben Nurse saw and heard these men. He shouted back, “Life! Health! Sunlight, flowers in spring!” He toasted with ale. “But mostly my mother’s wellbeing!”

# # # # #

The neighbors, Fiske and Porter moved on. “Notice they don’t truck with anyone but their own kind, that bunch,” muttered Porter.

Fiske lit his pipe. He carried wood on his back. He had no ox or cart or horse or cow. “Not unlike the Putnams, the Wilkinses, and you Porters,” he muttered. “Clannish, alla ya.”

“Shut up, Fiske.”

Fiske held hand to ear, a bit deaf. “Whatever did ya say, Mr. Porter? What’d ye say?”

“I said, shut up!”

“Last I looked it was a free road we travel together, Mr. Porter.”

“Free road, aye, but one that bedevils a man. Men like us with nothing, Fiske, we got no freedom from work and sweat—not even on a Sabbath. But look at all them folk o’er your shoulder.”

“Can’t do it—not with this load on me back.”

“Them Nurses and Cloyse folk, neither at meeting nor work. Now that’s being a true freeman!”

“I suppose.”

“It’s by design, sir, but by whom is the design writ up?”

“I’m told they are good at working their fields in teams, these three families.”

“And I am asking who or what blesses their efforts?”

“Who or what do you say, sir?”

“I say naught. I am a simple man without answers.”

“Only questions, eh?”

“ Our lot in life.”

“Aye.”

“I ask who smiles on them so to come to their wealth so handily?”

“Why . . . God, of course.”

“Not necessarily so.”

“But if not God . . . then by whom are they blessed?”

“By whom or what, I say. They make a circle of themselves, food in abundance, build a fire in the snow as if to fly in the face of nature and God—all on a Sabbath Day.”

“Do you think it so? This suspicion of yours?”

“Suspicions. I have many. You tell me, sir.”

“Harrr.” Fiske shivered. A-Are you saying? Nay, can’t-magine it’s true.”

“Imagine it, imagine it. Our minister does.”

“No! It’s Mr. Parris’ belief?”

“Aye, ’tis true. Too true.”

They came to a fork in the road. “I-I take my leave here.” Fiske had let his pipe die.

“You live in the hollow near Topsfiled?”

“I do, why?”

“Tell people there what you saw at the Nurse home. Let people draw their own conclusions, as we have.”

“We have? I’ve drawn none, sir, and I think it best left alone.”

“Precisely what cunning folk ask of us. Leave it alone.”

“Then I am a genius. Leave it be is what I say.”

“Fool!” shouted Porter after the man. “Leave it be until it bites your arse, Fiske! Leave it till it overruns us!”

Fiske rushed back at Porter. “What? Until what overruns us? Speak plain, man! I am no riddler.”

At that instant, one of the cart’s wheels unexpectedly and without fanfare other than a creaking scream, fell off. Fiske came around to look at the damage, and Porter leapt down to assess it as well. Porter pointed at the wheel. “That’s what I’m talking about. Right there, Mr. Fiske.”

“Why, it’s a busted axel.”

“Naught a busted axel so much as witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?”

“Aye! Witchcraft against those like me.”

“Those like you?”

“Men who stand with the minister in Salem Village.”

“Really?”

“Men who bear witnesss.”

“Witness?”

“Dare go near that clan which haf’nough food on their table to feed the whole colony.”

Chapter Fourteen

Twenty minutes passed and Jeremiah climbed from the boulder he’d been sitting on, his horse grazing nearby. She’s not coming, he told himself, going for the horse. He took reins in hand, angry with himself for going to see her when he did—worst possible timing. Should never have barged in that way. It’d been the absolute worst demonstration of bad taste and behavior on his part, putting her on the spot that way. He realized it now and he kicked at the earth to release some of the anger he felt at himself.

Surrounded as she was by family, many of whom no doubt had made her feel ill-at-ease all these years for having fallen in love with the wrong man, and worse, holding on to a false hope that the miscreant might return. A fellow whose history had been sordid at best.

How could she be herself? How could I’ve been so foolish to think it possible with all the naysayers within shouting distance? What bloody chance did we have given my long absence? What kind of fool am I to ride up like that?

He likewise wondered how often had Serena denied any thought of him, denied any love loss over him? How much she surely must’ve worked to repudiate him and disallow any passion for Jeremy? What choice had she but to run him off at the end of a scattergun?

He was about to lift onto his horse, one foot in the stirrup, when a rustle of brush sounded behind him. He turned to see Serena had ridden out to find him. No doubt to have it out with him, this time verbally. He wondered if the blunderbuss might not be preferable.

“God, you’re beautiful!” he cried out to her as she approached on a Roan. She looked quite the equestrian, handling the mare expertly.

She said nothing, slid from her horse, and rushed at him. She threw her arms around him and held firm. “I loved you!” she said in her ear. “I so loved you, and now you’ve come back, and I hate you!” She roughly pushed him away.

He was taken aback, unsure what to say. He reached out, surprised she didn’t back off. He then wrapped his arms about her, saying nothing for a long time. “I have never stopped loving you.”

She again pushed him away as if he carried some horrid disease. “What sort of lie is that?” She lashed out at him, slapping him hard across the face. “Ten years, Jere—oh, my Jere! Ten long years my heart has been imprisoned.”

“What had I to offer you, Serena? I had nothing. I was no one!”

“You were my love!” She began to openly cry, cursing herself for a fool, swiping at her nose with a kerchief and walking in a tight little circle until she settled on staring out at the boulders in the river. “I never asked for more from you than your love.”

“But Salem did.”

“Salem, to hell with Salem! I’d’ve gone with you, Jere!”

“I couldn’t’ve taken you into the wilderness.”

“What wilderness?”

“Maine.”

“I see, so it’s been Maine all this time?”

“I joined the military.”

“Really?”

“Fought in battles against the heathens.”

“How exciting for you.” Her tone of sarcasm wasn’t wasted on him.

“And-And I began to study.”

“For the ministry, I see.”

“Can you keep my secrets?”

She looked queerly at him. “I don’t know. What secrets?”

“I’ve a confession but it must not go beyond us—not even to those in your family, including your mother.” Jeremy knew that a special bond existed between Serena and Rebecca.

“Confession?” she asked.

“Promise?”

“All right, promise.”

“I am no minister.”

“Not yet, but you’re in Parris’ apprenticeship.”

“I am and I am not.” They began circling one another.

“What is this? A riddle?”

“All a ruse, I assure you.”

“A ruse?” She looked him up and down. “You’re staying in Parris’ house, going about the village with him on house calls, studying for the ministry.”

“Nay, I said I went off to Maine to study.”

“Studying what in Maine, war?”

“People.”

“People?”

“And the law of the Commonwealth.”

“Law?”

“Correct. British law.”

Serena took in a long, deep breath. “Then your coming in from Boston as Mather’s man to be apprenticed to—”

“A hoax, but you mustn’t reveal it to anyone.”

“A hoax?”

“Pretense more like.”

“Pretense,” she repeated. “You are not studying for the cloth?”

“I hope to be a barrister one day.”

“A magistrate?”

“A lawyer. A magistrate one day, perhaps.”

“Are you then a-a spy of some sort then? A spy for Increase Mather?”

“Aye, and I still have work to do in the parsonage house.”

He could see that she was trying to understand this news. “They say you were sent from Boston by Reverend Mather.”

“That much is true.”

“Old Reverend Higginson’s likely on his deathbed, and yet he’s somehow got our concerns heard in Boston, is that it?”

“You know more of politics than I would’ve guessed.”

“Then I am right?”

“I was sent here to illuminate the situation for Boston authorities; to clarify the exact nature of the problem in the village parish.”

She stepped away, staring out over the river again. In a moment, she was leaning into the boulder where he’d earlier sat, hoping against hope. This had always been their special place.

“Well?” he began. “Say something.”

“You’re here to ridicule and—”

“Nooo, never.”

“—and shame the villagers—”

“I tell you no, Serena.”

“F-For what they did to you and your father and mother.”

“I’ve not come with spite or vengeance in my—”

“And who’s to blame you?”

“Serena, I came back for you!” He leaned into her and kissed her, passionately and long. She returned his kiss. When they broke away, she blinked and said, “One moment I’m threatening you with a gun, and the next I’m kissing you. Some people might call that enchantment.”

“I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve put you through.” Jeremy stoked her light-dappled blonde hair with a nervous hand, but she did not pull away. “And I wouldn’t blame you for a moment putting shrapnel in me, turning up like this. But Serena, you must have gotten my letter?”

“I did.” Her eyes had filled with tears.

“That’s good. I’d wondered.”

“I read you were coming, but how could I believe it?”

He held her gaze. “And why not?”

She nervously laughed. “After ten years? Besides, my brothers, particularly Ben, are capable of cruel pranks, and . . . well your script has changed so much.”

“It has?”

“I compared it to the note you’d left behind.”

“You’ve kept that note all these years?”

“I took the recent letter for a cruel hoax and burned it. Threw it in the hearth.”

“I see.”

“Afraid to believe it.”

He held her again, unsure what to say and choosing silence. The brook warbled over rocks nearby like a tune. Birds chirped and chased one another about the leaves.

“I beat Ben over the head with it first, thinking it was his stupid prank.”

“Poor Ben.”

“When he wouldn’t confess, I assumed it was someone with far worse intentions.”

“Who’d be so cruel?”

“Plenty here-’bouts’re capable of nastiness, trust me.”

“To be so cruel?”

“Of all people, you ought know how hateful some of our neighbors can be.”

“Yes, but to be evil toward you? Sweet Serena.”

“Some in the village hate anyone with the name Nurse.”

“Hate you?”

“Our entire family.”

“But you’re the finest of neighbors.”

“And the most successful, the most smiled upon, and the wealthiest.”

He nodded, understanding. “Aye, I’ve seen it before—that green-eyed beastie.”

“This goes deeper than mere jealousy, Jeremy. Far deeper. I no longer go into the village for the stares and the gossip.”

“Has it to do with Mr. Parris?”

“It’s old sores and wounds, to be sure, even before Mr. Parris’ tenure, but that vile man knows how to play it like a harp one day and a trump card the next.”

“Thanks to my brief time under his house, I’ve no doubt that’s true.”

“Mother took the measure of him on first meeting.”

“A shrewd woman, your mother. Always a good judge of character.”

“Took the rest of us some time to catch up to her assessment, sure. Even Father, and I can tell you, this rift in the parish over the parsonage and its proper handling and ownership. Well, it’s caused a rift in our family as well.”

“I imagine it has in all the families.”

“Oh, some’re quite together on giving Parris whatever he wants.”

“But you are not?”

“I’m not related to him.”

“And your mother’s assessment’s not changed in three years?”

“She’s of the same mind as Father and I. We’ll never agree to his ownership of the parsonage.”

“Must make for awkwardness on Sabbath days.”

“Not anymore.”

“No?”

“Not since we’ve taken to hearing the word from mother. She conducts prayer out of our home.”

“She’s always been a minister and a midwife.”

“And on her worst day, she does a much finer job of it than Parris on his best day.”

“I believe you. I’ve heard his sermons.”

“Then you know what poison he’s capable spreading from the pulpit.”

“He’s a man filled with venom, sure.”

“You’ve taken his measure then, and in short order. You always were a quick study.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Now you need to find new lodgings.”

“New lodgings?” he didn’t expect this.

“Do you have any idea the number of people he’s infected with his poison?”

“I should simply have come to you for information instead of going into the village that first night I arrived!”

“Yes, you most certainly should have. Now about getting out from under that roof.”

“I will in due time.”

“Nothing good can come of your being in that blaggard’s home.”

“I have no choice. Right now, it’s what I must do. A duty is a duty! Your father, my father before him taught me to honor my contracts.”

She studied his eyes, his every feature, and she saw the answer to her question before she asked it. “To curry favor with Increase Mather?”

“What better way to gain a valuable appointment? I spent four of the last ten years at Harvard College, studying law.”

“Law, religion, magistrate, minister, where is the difference in our colony?”

“I know they are entwined, Serena.”

“Like a two-headed snake coiled round itself.”

“Aptly put.” He realized she was his equal, that she had studied history, science, the law, Latin, theology, mathematics, and literature thanks to the Towne family’s large library. There’s much needs doing in the New World regarding legal issues, and I want to be on hand to disentangle the snake when the time comes.”

“With Increase Mather’s help? Not likely. Have you read the man’s writings?”

“Yes and yes, I have. Mather knows change must come.”

“Have you bothered to read any of his rulings then?”

“I know, I know . . . he’s a minister first, a judge second. But he is also aware of the inherent problem in a theocracy.”

“Government run by theologians serves us poorly. We shall be a miracle to survive in these colonies as is.”

Jeremy continued. “It’ll take generations, but change is coming, and since when did you become so interested in such issues?”

“Since I had ten years on my hands with little else to do but read.”

He took her in his arms again and a dark cloud that’d rolled in from nowhere covered them in deep shadow as their horses nibbled at one another’s heels.

Serena looked skyward, gauging the sudden change in weather. A wind picked up scattered leaves and the leavings of winter snow, blowing these about in whirling dervish fashion. Ripples over the surface of the water had begun to create a pattern of restlessness. Serena and Jeremy watched the rippling, an effect that looked as if God were turning the water’s surface into a giant scaled fish.

“Poor Mother,” she groaned.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The change in weather, Jere, it means a death knell to her coming out party at the house.”

“A bit early in the year for outdoor picnics.”

“She’s so looked forward to it, and we’d already put if off a week.”

“Off? A week?” He shook his head at this and tried a lie. “I’m sure a bit of a breeze’ll not bother the heartiest of the revelers.”

“Perhaps the rain’ll hold till nightfall.” She continued to study the sky.

“Yes, quite possibly right.” The moment he said this, the cloud overhead burst with lightning, thunder, and a downpour of thick, pebble-hard rain pellets.

“Some farmer you’d make!” she shouted over the thunder, then laughed.

He joined her laughter as both horses whinnied their distress. They had to scurry to fetch the frightened horses. Once mounted, she raced off ahead of Jeremy in the direction away from her family home, and Jeremy raced after.

Chapter Fifteen

Jeremiah and Serena located an old cabin on the Nurse property, one long out of use except as emergency shelter and storage. There was also a shelter beside the cabin large enough for the horses. In the storm, they left their mounts tethered and saddled, rushing indoors hand-in-hand. They’d become absolutely soaked and chilled.

“So early for such rains,” she complained, her arms flailing with the wet.

“Haven’t been this wet since . . .” he began.

“Since when?”

“Since that day you pushed me into the Frost Fish.”

“You had it coming, remember? The game was called Even-Stephens!”

“What? For kissing you?”

“You needed a good cooling down that day, Jeremy Wakely.”

“What’re we to do? Stand here and shiver?”

“Build a fire. Surely, in all your worldly travels, by now you’ve learned how?”

“Watch me.” Jeremy went to work at the cobwebbed hearth, starting with kindling and some gunpowder from a pouch he carried. Soon a fire was building, and next roaring, sending most of its heat straight up and out the chimney. Still, the fire glowed bright and cast an orange glow about the old cabin, filling it with a warm feeling but when he looked around, no Serena.

Jeremy could not find her, yet they were in a single-room cabin. She’d disappeared in the manner of a phantom, and for a half moment, he gasped at the trick of light as she stepped from behind a stairwell at the center of the cabin leading to an attic room overhead. “Bit warmer upstairs,” she said. “She’d wrapped a sheet around her like a shroud, tied tightly against her body.

Jeremy had already peeled away his shirt and he stood before the fire in silhouette, his broad shoulders and muscles outlined against the fire behind him. “You should bring down your clothes to dry ar the fire,” he suggested.

“And you,” she countered, tossing him a blanket to use.

“Ah, yes, and I should undress?”

“Yes, by all means. Get those wet clothes off and wrap yourself in the blanket.”

She retreated back up the stairs, her footstep so light as to be near undetectable. Jeremy wondered what was so interesting about upstairs, but he worried now with getting the rest of his drenched clothes off. The blanket tied about him, he grabbed an old chair to drape his shirt, pants, socks, and unmentionables before the fire. “You really should bring down your clothes to dry,” he called up the stairwell now.

“There’s a fine view of the storm from up here,” she replied. “Great bay window to look out.”

It was a clear invitation to join her. Jeremiah cautiously took the stairwell, barefoot, wrapped in the woolen blanket. The warmth had returned to his body, and for that he felt grateful.

When his head came above the floor on the second landing, he found Serena propped on her side, head in hand, supine on an old oaken bed, staring out the window she had spoken of as a crooked sword of lighting streaked the night sky overhead to stab at the earth.

“Come watch the fireworks!” she called out to him on seeing he’d entered the room.

“What use has a man of fireworks in the distance, when all the beauty of the world lies here before me?”

This took her attention from the storm, and she gazed into his longing eyes. “So you are a flatterer. I wonder how many others have you said such words to.”

“I have remained ever faithful to you, Serena. I swear it.”

She sat up, the sheet covering her now sliding sensuously down from her shoulders, exposing her soft breasts and inviting nipples and aureoles. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“S-Sure?” Inwardly, he was shouting the word sure. “Absolutely.”

“No, I don’t mean like that.”

He unconsciously reached out and cupped her breasts in his hands as if mesmerized. “What do you mean?” he absently asked, fondling her, lowering his head into her and passionately kissing her.

“Are you sure, Jeremiah Wakely,” she said while gasping at his touch, “that I’m not just some-some passing fancy for a man passing through on-on his way to elsewhere?”

“I assure you, my love is real.” He kissed her breasts now, one after the other.

His hot breath on her nipples sent her arching into his tongue, and with her head thrown back, her neck now taking the brunt of his kisses, she gasped out more words: “Then I’m not some-some diversion for a rolling s-stone?”

“Never.”

“A trifling you’ve merely . . . stumbled ’pon? Jeremiah Wakely?”

“No, never.” He continued smothering her in kisses.

“Never you say, yet-yet you left me once before.”

“I was a fool.”

“And now?”

“A wiser man.”

She firmly held him at bay now with a stiff arm. “Do you count me wise as well?”

“I do, and Serena, the time away from you has proved me a fool, and tasting you has made me a genius.”

“A genius, eh?”

“It’s proved that I love you.”

Tears formed in her eyes on hearing these words. “Honestly?”

“Honestly, and in honest love there is respect.”

She smiled wide at this. “Respect is it? Is that what you call—”

He cut off her anger. “I love you.”

“I will make love to you, Jeremy, here, now.”

“What?” his confusion appeared complete.

“But I am unsure if either of us know one another well enough anymore to know if we’re still in love.”

“I think I follow that, yet my heart says it is so, that I love you and always have—since childhood!”

“We’re not children any longer, Jere.”

“My feelings haven’t changed. Have yours?”

“What consequences may come of making love cannot be so complicated as being in love.”

“I accept the consequences.” He returned to kissing her on the mouth.

She struggled to find the strength to push him away again. When she did, she said, “Especially now, Jere, you must promise that after all this time—”

“You’re not fearful of breaking with the commandments, so much as afraid of me?”

“I am not afraid of either consequence,” she lied. “But I want this to mark the last time you will leave me.”

“I see. I—”

“I’ve waited ten years to feel your body close to mine, and I’m not waiting ten more—not even for the Ten Commandments—to find out if you are what I want from this life.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he confessed.

“Say nothing more.”

“But—”

“Shut up and come into me.”

Awkwardly, nervously now, his mind swirling with what price she’d placed on their lovemaking, he lowered himself over Serena, taking her in his arms. The warmth and energy coursing through their entwined bodies seemed as blazing and as chaotic as the lightening in the sky outside—or the hearth near the bed as a second hearth cut of the same chimney stones squatted at one end of the attic, and from it additional heat poured forth.

The lovers were soon exchanging a giddiness and joy along with their embrace and passions. Jeremy’s unbridled passion unleashed, Serena felt a wave of ecstasy and a sense of freedom and weightlessness that defied being beneath the only man she had ever loved. All inhibitions had fallen away as easily as her sheet and his blanket.

And it felt right; it felt proper. It felt like the natural bonding that she imagined her parents had felt as young people.

Until a horrendous cackle like that of a banshee trapped in the chimney rose and fell, spiraled and repeated as if some unholy of unholies had entered the chamber. The sound proved terrifying, and it interrupted the lovers.

“What in the name of Hades?” she cried out, for a moment believing that her earlier defiance against the Commandments had come back to roost. She and Jeremy had both started with the screeching traveling up the chimney.

“I know that voice,” he calmly said, “and it’s not God, but Goode.”

“The old bat! Was she asleep in the chimney when you kindled the fire?”

“I think she’s below—”

“Below?” Serena covered herself.

“At the hearth, warming herself.” He pointed to the fireplace across the room, and they both heard the mutterings of the old woman rising with the heat. Something of a cooing chant, the words unintelligible but frightful at once.

“Well chase her out!” pleaded Serena.

“On a night like this?”

“She’s trespassing. Likely on some vile errand!”

“And she’s a disgusting hag, I know.”

“And a witch who may well put a hex on us both or steal our horses if we’re not careful, and oh to have her interrupt our pleasure this way after ten years’ wait?”

“I’ll go down . . . send her packing.”

Jeremy re-wrapped himself and started down the stairs when he heard the door slamming repeatedly, as if in time with the thunder claps. When he wheeled to see the source of the noise, there stood Goode, eyes ablaze with anger and hatred, directed at some object she repeatedly slammed the door closed on. In a moment, Jeremy focused on the blond-headed, pudgy doll, a likeness of nine-year-old Betty Parris.

“Stop with your curses and your witchery against the child!” he shouted at the hag. “Stop it or a curse will befall you the likes of which—”

But she was gone, waddling off into the storm, cackling, screeching, slamming Betty’s doll-image against tree trunks as she went, muttering what sounded like ugly words as she faded away. Jeremy had only gotten a quick glimpse of the doll but he couldn’t miss the needles hanging from it, nor the cuts and scrapes to the face and arms, along with scorched areas.

Jeremy slammed the door and bolted it, turned and took a single step up the stairs, wanting to rush back to Serena’s arms, but she had come down and stood on the step above him, blanket in one hand, the sheet wrapped about her. “Is she gone?”

“Aye, the foul thing is gone, yes.”

“Thank God. That woman unnerves me—has all my life.”

“She has that affect, yes.”

“Are you sure she’s not disturbed the horses?”

“She doesn’t get on with Dancer, I can tell you. Not to worry, she’s gone now. Addled and gone.” He withheld telling her about the old woman’s torturing a likeness of Betty Parris. Instead, he leaned in to her kiss, after which he asked, “Back to bed?”

“No.”

“Moment lost? That damned hag.”

“No, not lost.” She rushed past him, laughing and snatching the blanket from him as she went. While he stood nude and confused, she sent the blanket billowing up and out. Jeremy watched it cascade before the hearth. She’d created a pallet before the flames. “Come back to me here, Jere.” She peeled away the sheet again, revealing firm round breasts and a curvaceous body. She laid down, her arms outstretched to him, inviting him like some Siren of yore, he helplessly thought. But his love was no cruel Siren. He instinctively knew this was right, despite all custom, despite all commandments. This was love.

Jeremy’s hands tightened about hers as he again lowered himself over Serena. In the firelight, which bathed them, she glowed with an aura as if surrounded by some ethereal corona. Serena’s energies were personified in the flames, a kind of metaphor for her desires, his own reflected as well. The red and blue flames entwined one another from the source, comingling with one another in their rise and fall and spiral and eddy as did the limbs of the lovers.

Serena’s body melded with Jeremy’s, and together they felt as if levitating about one another, as if their joy in touch of one another would leave them on the ceiling. “I am enchanted,” he whispered in her ear and kissed her neck, finding her breasts, and moving down along the ravine of her torso, gasping and kissing her everywhere he could in a frenzy now.

“More, more,” she moaned in ecstasy.

Firm now, he forcibly entered her with reckless abandon, rushing his lovemaking, as if fearful she might disappear beneath him, as if this were all just a dream so that if he did not hurry, it would dispel in an instant.

“Slowly, Jeremy. I am not going anywhere,” she promised as if reading his mind.

He slowed his lovemaking, panting as she held him, her nails clawing.

“Yes, yes, Jere, like that, yes.”

“I love you,” he chanted.

“Don’t say it, Jere, unless it be true.”

“It is . . . it is.”

“And in time,” she answered, “I may perhaps . . . again learn to love you.”

# # # # #

As they rode back to Serena’s home, Serena began making plans for their future together. “You know why I took you to my brother Francis Junior’s old place?” she asked at one point, talking nonstop and skipping from subject to subject. “Do you?”

“To get in out of the storm, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated in a mocking tone. “How thick is your skull?”

“What?”

“Typical man.”

“What?” He shrugged beside her where they rode atop horses that bumped one another as they sauntered along.

“We didn’t avoid a storm, silly! More like we leapt into one.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not following you, Serena.”

“Jesus take you! Look here, the old place is lovely but abandoned, sad and-and useless it is, you see, but—”

“I dunno? We made good use of it.” His smile spread wide.

“I mean with Francis gone, it’s been no good to anyone.” She’d earlier explained that the eldest son had gone off to farm in Connecticut. “Sitting up there on that knoll all to its lonesome.”

“The house? You mean the house?”

“Yes, the house! Aren’t you paying attention?”

“It did feel an unhappy house until we entered.”

“Exactly what I am driving at, Jeremy.”

He wondered exactly what she meant.

Serena went on as they cantered. “It ought be a useful place, useful to the Nurse compound, I mean, and what with you back and our feelings for one another unchanged, and-and—”

“Serena, are you proposing we . . . that you and I make a home of the house?”

“Think of the memories we’ll always have there, and besides, it needs a family.”

“Whoa . . . just slow down a moment.”

“Slow down what?”

He grabbed her reins and halted both horses. “Serena, I do love you, but I’m not likely to become a farmer or a father anytime soon.”

“I didn’t propose you become a farmer or a father—anytime soon!”

“If I were to accept the gift of a house on the Nurse property, then I’d be expected to work the land just as the Tarbells and the Cloyse men, and—”

“Well now, is that such a bad thing? I mean, you’re not going into the ministry, and you’re done chasing shadows down in the village, I should hope.”

“Chasing shadows?”

“Shadowing Mr. Parris then.”

“Serena, I have no intention of settling here in Salem, however—”

“However much I want it?” she asked, glaring at him. “As for me, I haven’t any intention of leaving home with the likes of you.”

“And why not come away from this cursed place with me?”

“It’s home, Jeremy. Has been all my life, and there’s mother and father to think of, and such a thing as family. But I suppose your never having had any real family, that family doesn’t mean anything to Jeremiah Wakely, now does it?”

“That’s hardly fair!”

“Your father brought it on himself, Jeremy; his own grief brought him down, not the village.”

Jeremy wasn’t prepared to hear this coming from her. “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

“And my mother?”

“Two things marked her more than her French blood, Jeremy.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Illness marked her and her being an unrepentant Catholic; she would not disavow her Papist past. That’s what my mother told me.”

“What’re you saying? That my father put himself in the grave and pulled over the lid because he loved her?”

“Food was brought to the jail. Mr. Ingersoll, my mother, Reverend Deodat Lawson, and others tried to help him, but your father starved himself to death.”

“In debtors prison, left with a broken heart, and me a boy unable to affect a thing.”

“The food Mother took to him, Jeremy, it rotted beside him.”

“His fast was a protest, Serena!”

“To protest his wife’s treatment, I know.”

“He protested their withholding halowed ground for her burial.”

“That wasn’t your father’s entire protest.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“It was all to denounce Governor Andros, at a time when no one was speaking out against that tyrant.”

“Governor Andros?”

“Yes, for his being a liar and a thief, stealing from the church coiffures.”

“To lay down and die for a belief and for love at once . . . A protest beyond what the villagers did to him? I never knew.”

“Now you know, so perhaps the entire village isn’t to be painted with black tar.”

She reached across the divide between them and took his hand in hers.

Jeremy dropped her reins, returning control of her animal. “Still, Serena, though I love you, the idea of settling down on this land and becoming another farmer under your father’s hand, and in this village, it just isn’t appealing. I have larger plans.”

“I want to hear these larger plans then.”

Jeremy laid out his every movement from the night he met with Cotton Mather and Reverend Higginson until now, but this history only made Serena more adamant in her desire to see him out of such intrigue.

“Come away from that bed beneath Parris’ stairwell and stay at the house with us. Get to know father and mother again.”

“I’d like nothing better, dear one, but I have to finish what I’ve begun. It’s part of my larger plans—and how did you know I was sleeping beneath Parris’ stairs?”

“There is little goes on in the village that isn’t known by all, Jeremy.”

“Except that I am no minister.”

“Come away now, Jeremy, please before you are unmasked and thrown in the stocks as an imposter.”

“Parris hasn’t the power to affect an arrest on such charges! I have Mather’s backing in this affair.”

“Don’t underestimate what that man is capable of,” she warned.

“I’ve no doubt he is of a vile spirit, but, Serena, I have to finish what I’ve begun.”

She gave him a stern look of disapproval.

“I’ve told you how serious my work is.”

“Is it your plan to be Mather’s lackey for the rest of your life?”

“That’s not fair, Serena. When this is over, I’m promised a judgeship in the colonial province of my choosing, perhaps even Boston.”

“The scars of your past are still dictating your life, Jere.”

“That’s not—”

She snatched at her reins, and her horse reared on its hindquarters in response to her expert signals, and she shouted, “Find me then when you’re finished playing games, Jeremy! When you are once again your own man!”

“A man fulfills the contract he signs!” he shouted after her.

But Serena had galloped off toward home, leaving Jeremy alone with the final weak, winking stars before twilight. He feared losing Serena, feared their love could disappear like the night sky if it were not nurtured with care. He’d felt that way even as they were locked in embrace.

God, he thought, Mather must make good on his promises when all is said and done. He must. He must, and I will.

Then a looming fear filled Jeremiah. Suppose he lost his quiet war against Parris? Suppose he lost everything. Mather’s trust, his appointment, and most of all his fair-haired Serena? Losing her a second time, he’d never again have this gift in hand, and he knew it.

Chapter Sixteen

Salem Village, the night of the storm

Reverend Samuel Parris carefully outlined his argument. Unfolding it point by point to the mesmerized senses of one Thomas Putnam who listened in rapt attention. Putnam, although related to Parris, had great admiration for the other man’s obvious learning and worldliness, and Thomas felt proud that Parris had singled him out for this talk of impending doom about to befall their parish. Thomas straightened his stiff, splintered leg toward Parris’s hearth fire, and he accepted yet another cup of the Canary wine the minister plied him with. “Go on, Samuel, go on,” he muttered.

“There is a coven, Thomas, a witch coven operating under our noses.”

“You don’t say?”

“An entire nest of devil-worshipping monsters in our midst.”

“Who? Who are they?”

“I can’t supply you with all their names.”

“No names?”

“I know two for certain.”

“Aha! and they are?”

“Goode and—”

“No surprise there.”

“And my Indian woman, Tituba.”

“A vanguard for worse yet?” Thomas poked.

“Vanguard, yes.”

“These Satanists’re all about us, you say?” Putnam searched every corner of the dark house that’d been so difficult on every minister who’d ever inhabited the parish home. “I see the wisdom of your point.”

Parris paced. “They dare attack me, Thomas, through Betty!”

“My God, no!”

“And you! Are you blind?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Blind to the suffering of your little Anne, and the torments that your wife endures?”

“Of course, not! I see the suffering. Damn it, man, I hear it nightly.”

“But have you given thought to the root cause?”

“Root cause?”

“Think on it, Thom!”

“Do you mean to say . . . ”

“Yes! Nine Putnam children—your progeny—stricken down before they might take hold of life! What else but witchcraft? Murder of the innocent by chicanery.”

“My children . . . murdered by witches?”

“How else do you lose nine innocents, and Little Anne bravely holding on?”

“M-My wife and one living child b-b-bewitched?”

“Bedeviled, your wife and daughter are constantly being attacked in the same manner as my own Betty by-by those who’ve taken your children.”

“No witch can think she can work her magic on you, cousin,” Thomas mused, snatching at his beard. “Yet Goode has made threats against Betty. I heard it.”

“Unable to work her magic on we who are strong, Thom, they attack our women.”

Thomas Putnam’s eyes widened. Every illness, each hardship he’d ever faced had this moment a new light flooding over it. “I see.”

“You need but open your eyes, man.”

“What do we do, Samuel?”

“Women and children they attack, you see, because they’re more easily deceived.”

“Stands to reason.”

“Weaker of mind and body, you see.”

“More easily attacked, yes.”

“And they’re more easily tempted away from the light.”

“So true.”

“Because we are strong in our faith,” continued Parris. “Too strong to be shaken.”

“Agreed but what now? What can we do?”

“There is a great deal we can do? And we will, Thom, we will.”

“May God preserve us.” Thomas crossed himself in the manner of a Papist. Parris frowned at the gesture.

“So far as I’ve been able to ascertain, Thomas, the bewitching began with your children during the time when George Burroughs was minister here.”

“Began with my children? But the curse on the parish came before Burroughs. Dates back to when James Bailey ministered here.”

“Yes, but you miss my meaning. Bailey is Burroughs.”

“What?”

“Burroughs is Bailey.”

“You mean they worked in tandem?”

“I meant they are the same evil in different guises.”

“Before my Anne and I were wed, that Bailey enchanted her . . . made her do foolish and shameful things.”

“And he may well have made her barren.”

“Barren?”

“Do you really think it a coincidence that after he was run off and Burroughs took over that your every child conceived by your wife before and after Burroghs’ time here never came to fruition? Withering on the vine?”

Thomas looked both stricken and like a man who has finally stepped from darkness into light. “By my word, you’re right. All the time Bailey was here, she was sullen, Anne was, and with Burroughs here, my wife lost two sets of twins—four children in all, and another she could not bring to full term.”

“And who were the midwives that Reverend George Burroughs sent to your wife in a show of Christian spirit?”

“Why ’twas always the same ladies of the church.”

“Exactly. I’ve seen the records. Exactly . . . ”

Putnam swallowed hard, picturing each of the midwives who’d ever attended his wife during those dark days, among them Rebecca Nurse and her sister Sara Cloyse. “I-I-I need to tell Anne this.”

“Are you sure she can withstand such news?”

“Yes, she must know all of it.”

“I daresay she does know deep within,” suggested Parris, “but do share my suspicion. Anne has a fighter’s heart, and she’s earned the right to know.”

“Damned witches at her the entire time.”

“Pretending goodness in the guise of midwives.”

“And somehow they slipped up with little Anne Junior, eh?”

“By God,” repeated Parris. “Right again!” A long silence settled in over the minister and deacon. “Don’t you see our path is clear, Thom?”

Putnam’s blank expression proved confusion could be cavernous, yawning, bottomless, and profound.

God the man is thick, thought Parris, but said, “Your daughter’s fits . . . those convulsions she’s given to?”

“Yes?”

“Not unlike those my Betty is enduring now!”

“Fits, yes. Anne’s always had the fits. But now your child? The same?”

“Betty has never had fits of any sort until now.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. My heart drops whenever Anne goes into her fits.”

Another long silence during which Thomas could hear the disturbed sleep of the child in a room overhead. “Tell me, Thomas. Does your daughter speak of a dark, stout man dressed in black broadcloth who comes holding a mockery of our Bible? A black book. A man who bids she sign in his unholy book, and for this he promises an end to her suffering?”

“She’s not said such to me, but perhaps she’s confided in her mother.”

“Betty calls out in her feverish kicking and screaming the words King of Witches—that George is King of Witches.”

“King George?”

“No, fool! Sorry. Forgive me, Thom. George is George Burroughs.”

“A minister for Satan, him?”

“Yes, yes, I say. He is their leader! A real coven requires a male leader, a cunning man, a Pan. Tituba and Goode have both confessed to dealing with this man, and that he is the one who lured them into temptation and into the work of the Devil.”

“But Burroughs is no longer among us.”

“He comes on the night wind! Comes flying from afar to be with his coven.”

“I last heard he had a ministry in Maine.”

“No doubt another one with rot and evil at its core. You still fail to see my main thrust, Thomas.”

“And that being?”

“Burroughs was an appointment according to record.”

“And?”

“Pushed on the village parish by the Town Councilmen!”

“Who at the time were . . . ”

“The parishioners who block me at every turn, beginning with—”

“Francis Nurse.”

“Whose wife and sisters by marriage oversaw the births—or rather deaths—of your children, man.”

The connective tissue began to find glue inside Putnam’s mind. “Hold on! Burroughs’ own family, wife and children, like Bailey’s before him, died of a fever when he was minister here as well, so—”

“So? So what? Don’t you see it? The man did away with his own.”

“Are you so sure of it?

“Am I sure? We are sure of it.”

“We?”

“The doctor, Corwin and Hathorne, and me, yes.”

“The Dr. Porter and the magistrates are in agreement?”

“And so are you, my friend, once you’ve gotten it in your head.”

“You believe the man did away with his own?”

“They could not be converted to his black religion, so pure of heart were they, so he arranged for their deaths.”

“Like my own dead children?”

“Precisely.”

“Have you evidence of it?”

“I have two witches in lock up who will testify to it.”

“You’ve spoken to the judges, have you?”

“I have, yes.”

“And you mean to bring charges against Burroughs?”

“Among others, yes, but I need your and Anne’s help.”

“Help? Which of my Annes?”

“Both, I’m sure.”

“But why?”

“It will not do for me alone to bring charges.” When Parris got a blank stare from Thomas, he stomped the floor, angry. “I want you and your wife to swear out charges so that Sheriff Williard then serves the warrants of arrest.”

“Serve warrants of arrest? To carry out . . . the charges.”

“It is our duty, Thom.”

“But you want me and Anne to swear out the complaints?”

“Yes, it’s crucial that it doesn’t appear all from one party, especially not from me.”

They’d begun their secret meeting in Parris’ kitchen as everyone in the house slept, and since had moved to the hearth. A storm had come up outside, and now Parris heard a noise on the stairwell, and a quick glance caught a nightshirt. Mary, eavesdropping. How much had Mary Wolcott heard? Mary had been tending to Betty, whose fits and screams had kept everyone up late into the night, and then she fell ill with fever. Seeing that Parris had found her out, she scampered back upstairs to the sick room.

“Go home to your wife, Thomas, and not tonight but soon . . . soon break this news to her. Determine if she agrees or disagrees with my conclusions, and when and if you swear out your warrants against those who’ve maimed your family for eternity, keep my name out of it. Understood?”

“Understood.”

At the door, after saying their good nights, the rain slamming into them, Parris added, “All your children who’d be men today like Nurse’s children, all working to a good end for all the Putnams, Thom, bearing you grandchildren, all murdered with needles stabbed into their innocent bodies right here and here.” Parris indicated each of his armpits. “Where no one might think to look. Puncturing the lungs and the heart from this point downward.”

“But why was little Anne spared? How?”

“I believe God saved Anne.”

“T-To bear witness?”

“You say she and her mother are visited by the dead children. What are the dead saying to your women?”

“Anne says they call out that they’ve been murdered, yes, but I never did believe it anything but rantings.”

“Get thee home to your two Annes, Thom, and sleep well this night if you can.”

Thomas wheeled and rushed off in the storm for his house, his mind filled with the images posited there by the minister. As he sloshed home, using a crutch, even in the darkness, he could see smoke curling and rising from a chimney miles away, an old, supposed-abandoned Nurse house, and he wondered whose fire it might be. Could it be a meeting of the coven that Parris had spoken of?

“How do these Nurse and Towne people fair so well?” he asked the night sky as a streak of lighting showered down with the rain and thunder. In his head, he could hear Parris’ considered answer: Through manipulation and cunning.

“Cunning begun with early land grants,” muttered Thomas to himself. How else had they so tricked his aged father into signing over that perfect tract of land to them and theirs? Signed over to Towne, and from Towne to the Nurses, all a put up job from the beginning thanks to that swift-talking Reverend Burroughs as well, but at that time Burroughs was in another guise as Reverend Jedidiah Allen of Boston. It’d all been the work of a warlock, a witch man.

Nearing home, Thomas shouted, “They mock our Sabbath with their black rites.”

He visibly shook with the cold rain and his anger. “Blaspheming and cursing our Lord Jesus with their sacrileges and taking innocent lives!”

Deacon Ingersoll saw and heard Putnam ranting in the storm, which had awakened him at the back of his inn. Ingersoll rushed out to Putnam, asking if he were all right. Putnam snatched his arm away from Ingersoll and shouted, “We must form up the militia company, Nathaniel!”

“Now?”

“Yes. Drill-drill. Prepare for war.”

The overhead storm had grown in intensity. Ingersoll tried to persuade Putnam that he was drunk, adding, “Besides, no one will come if you call ’em in this weather at such an hour unless we’re under attack!”

“We are under attack, sir, and the militia company must be told!”

“Told bloody what?”

“We must take up arms!”

“Indians? You’ve word of an uprising?”

“Witches, man! I’m talking about Satan’s invisible army.”

“Where? Where, man, where?”

Putnam turned in a 380-degree circle, pointing to the darkness. “Everywhere you see dark, there is one called Legion.”

Chapter Seventeen

Later the same night

Mrs. Thomas Putnam tried to sleep amid the uproar of thunder and lightning strikes all round the village. The sound of it tortured her soul as it had the distinct sound of God’s anger toward her, and why not? She’d failed so miserably at all she’d ever touched, beginning with her failed love for the lost James Bailey, a married man and a minister at the time she’d thrown herself at him. A married man whose wife lay dying in the next room. A man who’d just buried his three children, three lovelies who’d succumbed to the disease plaguing the parsonage so many years ago

She’d been pregnant with James’ son, and when James Bailey left Salem immediately after his wife had left this earth, Anne Carr had been left alone with her secret, that she carried Bailey’s child within her. James had not believed her; had not wanted to believe it, and part of his disbelief had been fueled, perhaps, as she looked back on it now, by the sheer obsessive nature of her passion. She’d terrified him with it. She’d run him from the village with her lust for him. A lust so strong it knew no mores, no custom, no rule, no limit, and no decorum. She’d prostrated herself before Bailey, told him she’d do anything for him…just to have him as hers, and for the child’s sake, she’d argued, but she’d lied. It’d all been for her unbridled lust after the Reverend James Bailey.

So strong was her obsession that she’d plotted it even as his family withered and died around him, almost as if she’d willed their sickness and willed their eventual death, so she might have him entirely and without bonds to anyone or any principle or custom.

She dreamed of James for years after, but she’d need a father for the child, and so she had settled for Thomas Putnam at the time. She cast her future in a servile role to this man she could never truly love. Then Bailey’s child died without ever taking a breath outside her womb. At least no one had ever guessed that it’d been James’—not even Thomas.

Putnam was and remained a man who wanted most in life to be important in the village, so he’d immediately set out to right the wrong of his child’s stillbirth by impregnating Anne again. And when the second child died within weeks of birth, again Thomas determined to set it right. And after this one lived but a handful of days, again they tried, and again they failed—she failed, her womb failed until there had been nine failures, and then came Anne Junior. All of it, she reckoned, was by way of God’s curse on her for pride, arrogance, and disobedience.

Cursed, she was. She’d accepted this fact long before Thomas had. Cursed was her womb—bringing forth only the sickly, puny Anne Junior, who lied, cheated, stole, and generally hated her mother, and who was now suspected of engaging in sordid acts beneath the sheets with Mercy Lewis.

“Reverend Parris must come and take that child back or correct her ways,” she’d told Thomas, who needed it explained in detail. “Pluck the devil from his Mercy, as I might every hair on Mercy’s head if something’s not done and done soon.”

The storm roiled and tumbled overhead and all around the dark little village homes. Is it coming for me? Anne Carr Putnam wondered. Or is it come for Little Anne? “Something is coming. Coming for us all,” she spoke to herself and to her sleeping husband, drunk again. He’d come in talking of witchcraft, gibberish mostly. He’d the smell of canary wine on him. He spoke of readying the militia and rallying men to fight the invisible forces of Satan, which he said had laid claim to the parsonage house and to Betty Parris’ little soul. Drunken sot is what the dead children have made of him, she thought, and what’ve they made of me?

Thomas grunted and muttered, “Wh-aaa?” then rolled over, sending up a snore that might as well be Satan’s own grunt, so awful and long and disgusting was it.

“God, God how I hate this life! What it has brought me to. I hate you, Thomas Putnam, and I hate that child we bore together, and I hate the dead.”

Anne Carr Putnam suddenly felt a courageous urge to go out into the storm and shake her fists at the sky, and to dare God strike her down and thereby take her to whatever reward or punishment set down in His book—whatever fate preordained. She wanted it damned well over with. Right now, this night.

But each time she maneuvered to this tentative resolve to end her own life, she couldn’t move as a cold chill entered her bones and her bedroom, and it hovered not over the entire bed, disturbing Thomas not in the least, but hovering just over and around her, and inside her. She felt completely alone. And she knew herself to be haunted, but this was nothing new. She’d been haunted by her dead brother, Henry, for years before the deaths of her children. In Henry’s hoary wake followed a parade of dead children. Sometimes individually they came, sometimes en mass. They never spoke as they had no language. They’d never uttered a single word in life, so why should it be different in death? However, they did accuse her; they accused with their innocent, cherubic grimaces, their flaccid but condemning eyes, their reproachful, pointed fingers. No words came of those gaping mouths, but she knew what they wanted to say; that it was all her fault, all due to what she’d done and said and thought about one James Bailey.

This—her sin of sins—had transformed her womb. What was normally the cradle of life was reconfigured into a poisonous mausoleum.

Even so, this was not the children come to torment her tonight. Nor was it Henry. This was a different presence also well known to her. She imagined James Bailey must have died over the years, as this spirit was James’ ghost, and it wanted in death to claim what he’d in life denied himself and her—his absolute and unconditional love of Anne Carr, the young woman she’d once been.

For James, she could forgo any date with God and being struck by lightning. She instead lay still and allowed the blond-haired spirit to caress her with his spectral body, filling her with emotions and a heat she’d not experienced in all her married life with Thomas.

# # # # #

Anne Carr Putnam came fully awake and bolt upright when her orgasm came rushing from the pelvic regions to her brain. She found herself lying with her nightshirt pulled up, her privates exposed, the covers pulled over—not by Thomas, but by James’s spectral hand. He’d come to her again, and he’d made her feel again, and he’d whispered something as lilting and as fragile as a leaf in wind, something about his child and the others that’d died between her legs. A special message of importance . . . something of forgiveness, something like: don’t blame yourself; not your fault; don’t believe it. But she could hardly focus on his whisper as his touch had driven her to such abandon, and she licked her fingers that’d come wet from her vagina.

She shivered with all that’d happened tonight amid the storm. She snatched down her nightshirt and pulled the covers over her, content for the moment, certain the contentment would quickly fade, and it did. However, she knew James would be back, that he’d return again to her, that he wanted her to have a healthy child with her. As insane as it sounded, he made it clear: Little Anne is my child. The only one of ten to survive from Anne’s womb.

She smiled at the revelation that all her failed pregnancies had come as a result not of the usual complications or her womb, but of Thomas’ bad seed. James told her the man was no stallion, but that he, Bailey had more powerful seed in an astral fashion than Thomas had in a corporeal one! This thanks to James’ powers; powers that extended beyond the grave, as James had died—the news reported about the village several years ago, news that had come with the new minister, Burroughs.

Anne now heard James’ whisper within the coils of her inner ear, as if his spirit had taken up residence inside her: Little Anne, say it.

“Say what?” she asked aloud.

She alone is mine . . . mine and yours.

“Anne is ours!” The revelation sent her heart beating fast.

The others, those who died, they’re come of Thomas’ pitiful seed.

Still she could not make out the part about it not being her fault.

But for the moment, she reveled in what James could do to her and for her, even now after all these years and an entire dimension between them.

“And to feel not one whit of guilt!” she shouted, her voice carrying through the door and the ceiling to the girls upstairs, yet Thomas could sleep through it. She laid still, luxuriating in James’ earlier ethereal touch and the revelations he’d brought with his touch. Her dead brother Henry, all these years, he’d been trying to tell her the same news, sure. Sure. Now it’s come clear why I am haunted.

Laughter erupted from her. Unabashed, unleashed. To others it may well sound like the laughter of the mad. As for Thomas beside her, he continued to snore. He’d become so enamored of her night visitors and her erupting in either screams or laughter that her bedtime antics disturbed him no more than did God’s thunder just outside.

# # # # #

The following day in the village

Jeremiah had gotten back to the parsonage the night before at so late an hour as to have found everyone fast asleep, and not wishing to disturb the house, he’d discovered the stable empty, and bedding down his horse, he decided to sleep here. He had given only slight curiosity to the whereabouts of Tituba, but he had been far too weary to concern himself beyond a thought. The night’s storm had abated somewhat when, shadowing Serena, he’d seen that she’d indeed gotten safely back home. From the Nurse home, he’d ridden back to the village, the euphoria of having made love to Serena crowding out every other thought.

Asleep in the hay this morning, dreaming of Serena and undisturbed by the mewling of animals and chickens clucking about him, Jeremy was rudely awakened by the booting of one Reverend Samuel Parris, insisting that the young apprentice go with him once again to the troubled Putnam home.

Jeremy, eyes still encrusted with sleep, brushing away straw from his clothes as they went, asked in a tone reminiscent of Mrs. Parris on the subject of the Putnams: “What is it this time?”

“Appears a regular demon inside that niece of mine.”

“Mercy or Mary?”

“Mercy. They’ve evidence she’s corrupting their daughter, Anne.”

“Corrupting? How?”

“Please, sir, don’t be naïve. How do you imagine?”

“Ah, I see.” Jeremy knew that corruption was a euphemism for any sexual contact outside of a man’s bearing children with his wife. Something he himself was guilty of now, but if this feeling for what he and Serena had was corrupt, then he privately asked for more corruption.

They arrived at the Putnam doorstep, the trip uneventful—no street altercation between Parris and Goode or any other of his parishioners—and Jeremy, still woozy from lack of sleep and all that’d happened the night before, thanked God for that. Even now set on this grave business at this grim house, all he could think of were the welcoming arms of his love.

At the same time, facing the stout Putnam door before them, Jeremy again wondered at the noticeable absence of Tituba Indian from the barn, and now the seeming disappearance of the old bottle collector, a typical sight about Salem streets this time of day, as it was early mornings that Goode went about trash piles. However, Jeremy believed it wise to not bring up either ‘lady’ at the moment.

Mrs Putnam opened the door this time, dark circles like gray coal sludge deepening her sad eyes. Inside the cramped little Putnam home, Thomas and his wife had the two girls standing at attention and awaiting the ministers. Parris immediately took charge, going to Mercy and pinning her by the ear. He began not a lecture but an exorcism of sorts so far as Jeremy could see.

Parris first made the girl kneel before the fire, then to stare hard into the flames. So close was Mercy’s face to the hearth fire that her skin glowed and reddened.

“The devil loves fire, Mercy! The devil wants to boil all of us in his churning sea of flame and brimestone, and you, child, are well on your way! Confess now of your sins, Mercy, and be done with it!”

“I didn’t do nothin’ to confess!” Mercy defiantly cried out, despite the heat so close to her cheeks and eyes as to make Jeremy fear a cinder might blind her.

“Confess and Satan can do no harm!”

Putnam took this up like a chant. “Confess! Confess and the Devil himself can do you no harm! Parris held her by the neck now, the flames licking closer toward Mercy as if curious and interested in the child. “Through contrition and pleading God’s merciful help, we rid you of this devil plaguing you!”

“Leave her alone!” shouted the scrawny, bird-legged Anne Junior, rushing at Jeremiah and grabbing his hand, pleading, “Don’t hurt Mercy! She’s my only friend! Please don’t let them hurt her!”

This prompted Jeremy to intervene. “Reverend, you’ll blind the child so near to the flames!”

“Then blind she’ll be if necessary!” he shouted back. “Whatever it takes to rid the devil that plays within’er!”

“She’s a child, sir!”

“A possessed child!” He pushed Jeremy out of his way and forced Mercy’s already reddened face back toward the flames. “We have my black servant and old Goode under lock and key for bringing this child and others to Satan! So don’t interfere, Mr. Wakely!”

“Tituba? Goode, locked away?” Jeremy asked. “But I saw Goode only last night wandering about the storm like a mad-hatter.”

“Williard rounded her up. Warrants’ve been sworn out against the two of ’em!”

Mercy’s singed hair filled the room with a bad odor, and Mercy began a horrid screaming as her torso and face felt the flames, even as burning embers from the hearth continued to sizzle her long, red hair. Jeremy rushed back to snatch the crazed Parris off the child when suddenly Mercy began a ratcheting, stuttering growl that came up from deep within, and she suddenly began gasping, her body heaving and convulsing until vomit spewed forth in a rich brown gruel looking like something dredged from an outhouse.

The Putnams and little Anne had jumped back, and Jeremy held himself in check, but Parris grabbed Mercy by the neck and pushed the girl’s face toward her own vomit and shouted, “There! There it is in its raw, ugly form! The demon has leapt into the flames, leaving a vile residue of itself!”

Mercy continued spitting and spewing and attempted to pull away from her uncle’s grasp.

“Enough!” Jeremy shouted.

“Thom! Get the dustbin and sweeper!” Parris’ huge hands flew about his head like two angry birds.

Putnam shouted, “What?”

“Do it! Sweep the vile stuff up and cast it into the flames after the source that your home be rid of it! The smoke will take it up and out the chimney, man!”

Putnam, fearful, stood with dustbin and broom, shaking. Mrs. Putnam grabbed these items from her husband. “For God’s sake, Thomas! I’ll do it.”

Do-as-Parris-says appeared the watchword here, and Jeremiah caught his glare, as he had dared to interfere. Parris still held Mercy in his grasp, and he spoke to Mrs. Putnam as she ‘handled’ the demonic residue, working it into the black dustbin, careful not to come into contact with the brown gruel.

Parris told her, “Leave not a trace of it in your home!”

Parris, triumphant the moment Anne Carr Putnam cast the vile juices of Satan into the flames, finally released Mercy, who, simpering and panting, her face scorched by the fames, crawled into a corner in the manner of a frightened animal. Young Anne took tentative steps toward Mercy, but her mother swiftly lifted the black, wrought iron dustbin like a stout wall between the two children. Mother Putnam then asked, “Reverend Parris, do you think now that it is safe for these two children to hug as normal children might?”

“I do not think so, Goodwife Putnam. I know so. You saw for yourself the result of my exorcism of the demon. Poor Mercy, all this time misunderstood and maligned.” He patted her red head several times, Mercy flinching with each touch.

Thomas straightened as if at attention. “Seen it with our own eyes, even your apprentice can attest to it, right, Mr. Wakely?”

Jeremy sucked in a deep breath of air, frustrated as the superstition of the backwoods people and how adroitly Parris played this instrument. “Yes, yes, Goodman Putnam. We all saw it.”

Something in his tone caught Mrs. Putnam’s ire. “Did you not, Mr. Wakely?”

Back to the wall on the point, Jeremy, knowing he must remain the doting apprentice a little longer, nodded as vigorously as he could muster, but at the same time, he could muster no sincere words of agreement.

“Rest assured, this child is without an evil bone now,” came Parris’ final word on the subject. He then shook Putnam’s hand and bowed to Mrs. Putnam. With a quick glance at Mercy, still in a ball in the corner with Anne holding her, Parris bid the family adieu. Jeremy, too, glanced back at the sad little scene of the two girls in the corner. They had the look of a pair of trapped animals.

On the street and in public view, Samuel Parris lambasted Jeremiah, shouting at the top of his lungs. “You are here to back me up, not to challenge my—”

“I’m sorry, but I feared the girl’s hair afire, sir!”

“Quiet! I’ve not finished.”

“Sorry, sir.” Jeremy fell silent, thinking, how much more cow-towing to this miscreant can I stomach?

“You weren’t sent here to undermine, to question or raise doubt, or—”

“But isn’t it in the nature of theology to ques—”

“Never! Not in my philosophy are you to-to knowingly challenge my word or my procedure, to destabilize, demoralize or dishearten or deflate my efforts, Jer—Mr. Wakely! Is that clear?”

“Sir, I am not one of your servants!”

“You are my apprentice, which by definition makes you my inferior, young man, and if I deem you a servant, then you shall be a servant—”

“I serve only God, sir,” he retaliated, immediately sorry but he could not stop himself. “God and truth! And what I saw inside the Putnam home is—was—hardly truth. More like a parlor trick.”

Parris took him aside and between two buildings for more privacy. “Aye, to some degree, yes, I confess. A parlor trick as you call it, but Jeremy, you see its effectiveness. Its efficacy, my boy! You must see that!”

“Then you agree with me?” asked Jeremy, his jaw set.

Parris frowned at this. Then he gave out with a light, birdlike chuckle. “I suppose I do. That is to say, yes, we do agree on something at last.”

“To use such superstitions, Mr. Parris, it can only, in the long run, perpetuate superstitious notions and misleading beliefs.”

“Damn it man, can you for a fact say that the devil is not the root cause of illness in body, mind, and soul?”

“No, but by the same token—”

“That the Sly One is not behind all corruption?”

“—but in terrifying children—”

“Can you say it is not so?”

“No, but—”

“Not our finest physicians, judges, or theologians know the answer to that—not even Increase Mather. I’ve read his sermons!”

Jeremy gritted his teeth, but to end the friction over this event, he quietly nodded and muttered, “Agreed, sir.”

They continued homeward, Parris slapping Jeremy on the back now. “Just in future, man, always, always back me up.”

“Yes, of course.” Jeremy must maintain his cover, but it tasted like bile.

“Good, good. You’re about to have another opportunity to back me, Goodfriend, sooner than you realize.”

“Oh? Has it to do with the Goode woman and Tituba Indian being arrested?”

“It has all to do with those two conniving wenches and the problems plaguing both this parish and my house.”

“Can you be more precise, sir?”

“I’m afraid somehow—I know not precisely how—they have poisoned Betty.”

“Poisoned?” Now Jeremy stopped Parris, taking hold of his arm.

“Poisoned her small body, her mind, and perhaps her soul.”

“But I thought it just a recurrence of her fever, the ague?”

“The doctor is with her now.”

“Do you really suspect Tituba of harming your child?”

“I do. I do indeed now.”

Even as he asked, Jeremy recalled the likeness of Betty in Goode’s possession. “But to poison a minister’s daughter?”

“Brazen, I know. I fear Tituba, in league with Goode, meant some tainted food for me, but Betty ingested it instead.”

“But I’ve watched Tituba with the child, and she seems to love her.”

“As I said, it was likely an accident, the poison meant for me, but now I fear Tituba’s gone completely over . . . in league with Goode, I tell you. Joined to harm me through the child.”

“I find it so hard to believe.”

“There is ample evidence, and who better than one with access to my morning and evening meal?”

“Evidence? Do you have the tainted food?”

“Better yet, I have Tituba’s confession.”

“She’s confessed to harming the girl?”

“Put up to it by Goode, yes.”

“M’god.” Jeremy hadn’t seen this coming, and yet all the signs were there. The missing sword from over Parris’ hearth mysteriously gone, mysteriously returned, the so-called chicken blood stain on the floor, the witch pie that was meant to solve problems of being bewitched, but which could contain worse things than a ‘witch’s urine’, say like blood, bile, tainted crushed meats. There’d been no reluctance on Tituba’s part to take to the stable, a place where she may or may not have continued her dark plan with Goode.

Jeremy recalled the bloodstained straw. And what about Betty Parris? Had she been lured outside to the barn to witness a ‘blood sacrifice’ and to be told that the Black Man who carried his Black Bible, the minister of Satan himself, had written Betty’s name in his god-awful book, because she had been a bad girl with Mercy?

All supposition on Jeremy’s part. All enough to hang a witch so far as a man like Samuel Parris was concerned. His target was Goode, but he’d take out another, his Barbados servant with Goode, if necessary.

Parris again started toward their destination. He kept fingering some paper folded lengthwise and posited in his inside breast pocket.

As they continued in silence, Jeremy gave a moment’s thought to the rights of an accused witch in New England. Here the law of England prevailed, despite the overthrow of Governor Andros, which had left things in such disarray that Increase Mather must go to the new King of England—himself seated after a revolution coinciding with what had occurred in the colonies, law must prevail. Guilty until proven innocent ruled, but Goode and Tituba did have some rights: the right to face accusers, the right to a speedy trial, the right to a rope rather than being burned at the stake—considered barbarous. After all, witch or no, they remained English citizens, under the law.

“We’ll burn that bitch Goode at the stake,” Parris blurted out as they neared the parish house, but rather than go in the gate, he kept going, Jeremy trying to keep up. Parris’ face had become red. His remark about putting witches to the torch informed Jeremy that Parris knew less of the law than he’d pretended. However, this was no time to correct the man. If Jeremy wished to avoid another lecture on the horrors of disagreement, and the absolute need to concur with one Samuel Parris, he must choose his battles wisely. For the moment, he simply wondered where they were going.

“Tituba will also feel the full brunt of the law,” continued Parris, “but at least she has brains ’nough to’ve confessed.”

“So-ah . . . when were they apprehended?” began Jeremy, slogging onward. “And where’re these wretches being held?”

“Last night, during your strange absence, sir.” They passed the barn where inside Dancer still waited for feed. “As to where they’re being kept? Where do you suppose?”

“Your root cellar? The village jailhouse?”

He wheeled on Jeremy. “Absolutely not. This is no simple civil matter, Jeremy.”

“Salem Town Jail?” A place for pirates, thieves, cutthroats, and murderers, Jeremy thought. He also thought about the sudden, swift progression of things here, and knew that by placing Goode and Tituba into Salem Town Jail that he had automatically upped the ante. There was a village jail where they might have been housed, but to house them at the Town sent the message that they were not simple miscreants who’d be dealt with by the church assize or the village civil court, but rather the criminal court. It made Jeremy wonder how long had Parris been preparing to hatch these complaints and arrests? Which launched a vivid memory of that first night when Parris may well have seized upon the moment of Jeremy’s arrival to encourage Tituba’s contacts with Goode by putting his servant out of the house.

Jeremy recalled how he had protested her treatment at the time, saying that he’d be perfectly willing to take the stable that first night. Tituba Indian had gone from living beneath the stairwell like a cur, to living with the dumb animals in the stable, to living in a filthy, disease-infected jail cell the likes of which was the worst in Jeremy’s experience anywhere—save for the hovel that passed for a jail in the village.

In fact, the quick progression from housekeeper-servant to enemy of the family, and now the colony, had so many levels as to resemble the layers of an onion; Jeremy could not help but wonder just how much of it might be manipulation on the part of Samuel Parris—how to get rid of not one major thorn in his side, Goode, but a second, Tituba with one fell swoop.

Jeremy also wondered about the nature and weight of the so-called evidence against Goode and Tituba might be: a doll in the likeness stuck full with pins? A portion of witch pie? The minister’s sword? What? But Parris had also spoken of a confession. How many bruises, welts, and waves of the whip, had it taken to elicit this confession?

But for now he must keep step with Parris, who did not go toward his barn or orchard but onward toward the center of the village.

“Curious, Samuel, but have you anything beyond the black woman’s confession?”

“I do.” He nodded vigorously as if he’d discovered the secret of youth. “I do.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“You will in due time; in due time, everyone will.”

Jeremy wondered what he meant by everyone? Everyone in the village? Salem Harbor? The entire colony of Massachusetts? He also wondered what Parris meant about revelations yet to come? “What possible revelations, Samuel, can be had in this matter if everyone in the village already accepts that Sarah Goode is a bona-fide witch who works in both white magic and black?”

Parris again stopped but this time he posted a notice on a post outside Ingersoll’s. He’d brought his own small hammer and pocketful of tacks, unseen until now. Jeremy assumed it was a birth notice and paid no attention to the document except to see that Parris had another copy yet in his pocket.

Again they were on the march, this time straight across the street, going back toward the parish house and barn, where Jeremy hoped to feed Dancer and find a quiet moment to weigh all that had happened in so short a time.

“She’s a blackhearted witch, that Goode,” Parris shouted to anyone passing by. “Everyone’s heard her curses on me!”

“But as I say—” Jeremy tugged at his sleeve—“the village knows that Goode is, was, and always will be.”

“A witch, yes!”

“A witch she has always been, sir. No surprise in it. One in every village, accepted as part of village life, sir.”

Parris’ lips curled in an inscrutable smile, and he repeated some of Jeremy’s words. “Always a witch, raised a pagan by her mother.”

“That’s what people say.”

“And raising her child the same—the reason I took the child from her!”

“Everyone knows that as well, sir.”

“Despite a front of her being a Christian by joining the village parish—so long ago no one recalls the event—the woman continues to practice her agnostic, heretical practices.”

Jeremy read the hatred that’d taken root between the lines in Parris’ little speech. “So what do you propose happens to Tituba?”

“She’ll burn, by damn, right alongside Goode!” Parris wheeled in the middle of he street, shouting it for all to hear. “She’s a traitor to me, to my family, and to God ’imself.”

“Witches and convicted traitors get the rope in English law, sir. Besides, you say she’s confessed.”

“Traitors to God are burned at the stake!”

Perhaps in Romania, Germany still, Great Britain hundreds of years before, thought Jeremy, but he didn’t wish to argue. Apparently, no one’s informed Parris that you don’t burn people in modern day Massachusetts, that the King’s colony extended to its citizens the laws of England, and that the days of witch hunts and witch burnings were long over.

Jeremy realized that they hadn’t returned to the parish house but to the meetinghouse where Parris busied himself again with tacks and notice. This time, Jeremy took a moment to read what the minister had prepared. The notice proclaimed two witches had been discovered operating in the Devil’s arts and arrested within the village limits.

Jeremy noticed a gathering crowd around the notice put up at Ingersoll’s now. He realized that the village was filling up with the curious by the minute. How business at Ingersoll’s was suddenly booming. Some congregated about Ingersoll’s steps, while others on the street came for the meetinghouse door, anxious to read the minister’s words. In fact, word had already spread of the warrants sworn out and the arrests of Goodwife Goode and Tituba Indian—the two witches named in the warrants and now publicly posted.

Jeremiah had seen and felt such electrified air once before, in a hamlet along the Connecticut River. The mob had lynched a witch in that instance. No trials, no delays, just a lynching of a perceived threat, and he and every sensible man present, counted on one hand, could do nothing to stop the violence. In fact, Jeremy had suffered a concussion when he had stepped in and tried.

“I’d like to interview Tituba, sir,” he said to Parris who looked stricken at the suggestion. “You say she’s confessed, so I’m sure she’ll not burn at the stake or hang for that matter, and I should like to learn as much from her as I might—about how these dark measures can seep into the thoughts of a servant.”

“You beware, Jeremy, lest she taint you. I suggest you keep your distance. She’s not fully confessed.”

Is this a confession on your part? Jeremy wanted to ask but thought it wise to simply listen.

“I mean, Tituba’s only confessed to an association with Goode whom we know to be guilty beyond question.”

“Tituba confesses only to entering into a covenant with Goode?”

“Thus far, yes.”

“A conspiracy to make your child fall ill?” Jeremy again recalled the strange doll that he’d seen in Goode’s possession not once but twice.

Parris looked off into the distance as if studying the Nurse homes nestled a-ways off. “But that Barbados black knows more, Jeremy . . . far more. And I will break her. Make no mistake about that.”

Chapter Eighteen

April 13, 1692, late evening

Two weeks had passed and tonight at the village home of Judge John Corwin, Jeremiah Wakely sipped brandy where he stood at the hearth fire. Corwin had opened his wine cellar and brandy cabinet to his guests, and none had more spirits in the village than did the judge. Jeremy stared hard at the accused witch, Tituba Indian, who was bound hand and foot to a chair in the middle of the common room. Her back made stiff by the ladder-back chair that’d become a part of her, she quietly wept as the men talked of the weather, the poor crop season, the news from Boston and London, and little Betty Parris’ condition, which had, like a disease, begun to infect other village children, most notably Mary Wolcott and Mercy Lewis, the minister’s nieces, and Anne Putnam Junior, the daughter of a militia lieutenant and deacon in Parris’ church. Furthermore, as Putnam and Parris were related, and so too the children, it appeared on the surface an attack against a single godly family of the village parish.

People were aghast at the notion that bewitchment could be so contagious but somewhat pleased to think it directed at one family and not everyone in the Salem.

“Don’t you see the pattern here?” Parris burst out when Judge Jonathan Hathorne suggested a medical condition and mentioned the lack of proper medical people in the village, and that he’d never had any relief at any time in his own ailments from Dr. Porter.

“But sirs,” continued Parris, palms extended in a plea, “they strike at my daughter, nieces, I tell you, and now my cousin’s daughter!” Parris paced and ranted. “Who’ll be next? Your honor’s grandchildren? Not that I’d wish it ’pon anyone’s child but if they dare strike at a minister, why not a magistrate like yourself?”

Hathorne stricken features at the suggestion spoke of sheer horror.

Parris continued. “I tell you this is Satan transformed, working through the weak-minded Goode and this—” he pointed at the bound Tituba—“this disturbed and misguided servant of mine.”

The sheriff had escorted Tituba to the Judge’s house in chains. The chains remained rattling about the thin woman now as she heaved with fear and whimpering.

“So you see it as a run at us from the Devil himself, Mr. Parris,” said Mr. Noyes, who’d been caring for Reverend Higginson and taking up the slack at the First Church of Salem Town.

“Aye, precisely what it is!” Parris turned on Noyes, who’d come as eyes and ears for the ill and bedridden Reverend Nehemiah Higginson.

Jeremy had carefully watched Noyes, trying to ascertain if he did or did not have Reverend Higginson’s complete trust—if he did or did not support Samuel Parris’ bid for the parsonage deed. If he did or did not know of Jeremy’s ruse.

So far, Jeremy feared Noyes a noisy little man not capable of forming his own opinion on the matter of the threat to Salem either way—be it Parris or the forces of the much-touted forces of the Invisible World. So far, as with Judge Hathorne, Parris handily led the man.

In fact, Noyes—and it seemed both village civil magistrates, Corwin and Hathorne—were all too willing to follow Parris’ twisted logic as he spewed forth his version of events. He even recounted the parlor trick that day at the Putnam hearth when he “exorcised” a pile of vomit from a frightened child.

Not one of these supposed learned men had questioned a single precept or assumption that Parris had laid before them.

Outside yet another drenching winter rain had settled over a sodden gray Salem. Corwin’s home and jurisdiction extended only to the village limits, whereas Hathorne’s bench was in Salem Town, but both courts handled small claims and suits, and whenever a case smacked of a theological matter, the judges bowed to the churches to conduct their own trials, as in the decision to excommunicate Sarah Goode and to divest her of her child. Corwin had signed off on that bit of justice.

If a farmer believed by some means his cart wheel had been sabotaged by a neighbor, if his cows, hens, pigs, or sheep had been bewitched, if his crops had in any manner been tampered with—often the claim being witchcraft or devilish chicanery and curse—again Corwin and Hathorne acted in the best interest of everyone by keeping it a local matter and most often a church assize matter, wherein the church elders and minister made the final ruling on a matter.

At the same time, Jeremy knew that such magistrates earned their living by the number of cases they decided. All quite loose for a ‘system of government’, and Jeremy was often aghast at what provincial judges moved forward with—cases that should never have seen the light of day.

Even so, Jeremiah Wakely hoped and fervently believed that the judges of Salem would nip Parris’ fiery claims in the bud, here and now, tonight. Before this witch-hunt went any further or got out of hand. After all, Corwin and Hathorne were the two wise men in this, Jeremy told himself. But he had misgivings. It seemed everyone was following Parris’ lead like so many puppets on a string, and so he cleared his throat and commented.

“Gentlemen, I have seen this sort of thing in Maine and in Connecticut, and I can tell you that you do not want to turn matter into a spectator sport.”

“Sport? You talk of sport?” countered Parris immediately. “What’re you saying, Mr. Wakely.

“I am saying that to feed fears of witchcraft among us to the general population only breeds the worst kind of chaos, and you might well have lynchings and barn burnings on your hands.”

“Mr. Wakely, you of all people,” shouted Parris, charging toward Jeremy. “You’ve seen my daughter’s affliction. You heard what Dr. Porter and Dr. Swain have diagnosed.”

“True I’ve seen her condition, and I did hear Dr. Swain pronounce her beyond his help.”

“Beyond his help? He said the same as Porter—bewitched—which put her condition beyond them both, beyond medical help.”

Jeremy’s last look at Betty had come only hours ago when Parris insisted he see her condtion at its worst. He had for once not exaggerated the circumstances. While Mary Wolcott suffered from fever and nightmares and talking gibberish, Betty’s body lay twisted in poses impossible to imagine or to be believed without one’s having seen it. The girl had gone into a catatonic state. All the same, Jeremy defended his position in a calm manner.

“I am only suggesting that we have a duty, sir, to seek other answers, other solutions, more experienced medical help perhaps . . . before we begin hanging witches from every tree and turning Salem Village into a-a Goya painting.”

“Sound idea,” said Reverend Joseph Hale of nearby Waverly. Hale had entered from the storm late, removing his wet overcoat just as Jeremiah and Parris had crossed swords. “We must go slowly, carefully, gentlemen.”

“Who is Goya?” asked Corwin, pouring himself another brandy.

Parris had cornered Judge Hathorne now and whispered in his ear while the fire at the hearth invited Hale near, spitting embers and blue flame within the red. Flames were tamped now and again by rainwater seeping down the flue. The flames were welcomed by Hale, a tall, good-looking man below the black uniform of minister as he kept up a noisy appreciation of warming his hands.

Jeremy stood near the hearth as well, but the same flames that warmed Hale only recalled Parris phony exorcism to Jeremy’s mind. He imagined Noyes would have applauded Parris’ performance at the Putnam hearth, but he withheld judgment on Hale for now.

Then everyone was surprised when at the door stood the stooped over Reverend Nehemiah Higginson. Young Reverend Noyes immediately flew to him, helping him with his coat and hat. “What, sir, are you thinking? Coming out in this weather? In your condition? You could catch your death.”

“Quiet Nicholas!” The old man was interrupted by a chronic, gut-wrenching cough. “We both know I’ve already caught my death.” More coughing as the others muttered and mumbled their welcoming words to the elder minister. “What little time I have left, I mean to make the best of, gentlemen. Now, please, shall we dispense with curtseys and courtesies, eh? For the sake of time and an old man who has precious little of it?”

“You know the purpose then of our meeting?” asked Jeremy, who had been fawning as if meeting a saint, saying how much he had heard of Higginson’s good works in Salem Town. Meanwhile, Jeremy was thinking: This is the man who’s pinned his final hopes on me.

“I am well aware of the accusations flying about, Mr. Ah . . .Wakely is it? Mr. Parris, are you at all aware of the demons you’ve already let loose?”

“I’ve let loose? Me?”

“Rumor and gossip already has it down, sir, that the village is rife with bewitched children. The population is no longer content with bewitched mules and cows, now it must be children.”

“There’s no gossip about it!” countered Parris, pacing before them. “My child and others’ve fallen victim to witchcraft.”

“And you’re sure of that?” asked Hale.

Parris pointed to the unfortunate Tituba in her bonds. “As sure as you see this witch before us!”

Higginson found a seat for himself, gaffawing as he did so. “Samuel, your house is not in order.”

“Order? Order? What order can there be in a house that’s long before me become a-a fulcrum for attack?”

“And your parish, all of Salem Village, is it all under attack too?”

“I tell you, sir, it is all true! Not rumor. Invited in is He and not by me!”

Higginson’s eyes bore into Parris. “ By He, you refer to Bael, Lucifer, Loki, Beelzebub?”

“He who has many names, yes.”

It seemed Higginson wanted Parris to say it. “He who calls himself Legion?”

“Satan. Yes, the Devil himself, Mr. Higginson.”

Higginson struggled to his feet, Noyes helping at his side. The old man’s cane tapped out an anthem as he moved toward Tituba and circled her prison chair. “You, Mr. Parris, you look on this servant of yours and you see a devil worshipper?”

“Indeed, I do, sir.”

“What of you other men? Mr. Hale, Corwin, Hathorne?” Hale held his tongue. Corwin sipped his brandy. Hathorne shrugged.

“I know what Mr. Noyes believes, sadly I do. He is among the most superstitious men I have ever encountered, but what about you, Mr. Wakely?” asked Higginson. “What do you see looking on this woman of color?”

Jeremy found all eyes on him. “I see a frightened untutored child without Christ.”

“Is that truly what you see, Mr. Wakely? Can you be sure of your senses?”

“I am sure.”

“Anything you wish to add?” Higginson rounded Tituba like a scientist studying a specimen.

“I have it on good authority that a confession was beaten out of the woman.”

“Good authority? What authority?”

“Her master, here, Mr. Parris.”

Parris leapt in, shouting, “I have labored years trying to educate Tituba to Christ’s teaching, and she was doing well for a time. She sat in God’s house with my children and my wife, but some cruel evil filters through this place, a passion for wickedness fanned by my enemies, and they latched onto poor Tituba here to turn her from Christ and from my teachings.”

Higginson understood the twisting, gnarled roots of Parris’ arguments better than any man present. As a result, Parris’ words left the old man cold. The others in the room waited in rapt attention to Higginson’s rebuttal. It came as a long, halting, ratcheting cough.

Fearing the moment lost, Jeremy leapt in. “What Mr. Higginson is saying strikes me as sound. Caution must be taken. Caution must be our watchword.”

“Good,” said Higginson between coughs. “Goode, the woman Sarah Goode is a vile and dirty person whose soul is likely the devil’s own for many years now. Hang her and be done with it, Hathorne. Sacrifice Goode and send everyone home happy, and do it quickly and efficiently, so as to move on with your real duties.”

It’d worked before, Jeremy thought. Throw one sacrificial lamb to the mob and they often went home and tended their farms and the witch-hunt was over. “It’s perhaps our best and only option,” agreed Hale, which lifted the man in Jeremy’s opinion. Better that one should die than two or three or to see this witch hunt multiply.

“Fools, all of you!” countered Parris. “This is not Goode’s doing alone! That old bat has no power to harm me, and yet she has. I ask you from whence this sudden power comes?”

“Of course, a minister attacked,” challenged Hathorne. “This is no simple case, and certainly no simpleton’s curse!”

“What gall it must take to attack a minister’s daughter with their black arts!” agreed Mr. Noyes, shaken. “It could be any one of us next.”

“There is a war raging, and you men sit sipping brandy and talking as if this nigger here is innocent!” added Parris. “I tell you, she and Goode are but the tip end of this iceberg.”

“Don’t go down that road, Samuel!” warned Higginson.

But Parris raced down it. “There’s an entire coven meeting some nights just beyond my apple orchard in those deep woods, and the coven, not Goode or even Tituba here alone’ve cursed our parsonage and parish, but a bevy of ugly-soul’d, devil-worshipping scum!”

Jeremy saw the smooth-faced, young Noyes shiver as he listened to this news.

Hale’s expression, beyond a widening of the eyes, remained unreadable.

Corwin lifted his glass to lips and continued drinking; his reputation had him doing this a great deal of the time.

Hathorne nodded vigorously and went to Parris, standing beside him in a show of solidarity.

Higginson shook his head in what, if put into words, might mean damn fools are at it again.

Jeremy gnashed his teeth, a growing sense that practical and reasonable argument had all but flown up the chimney.

Judge Hathorne stepped to Tituba’s tied and chained form, standing at her shoulder. “Is this how you repay your master, girl? Harming his child with your ugly friend Goode and her coven?”

“I don’t do voodoo ‘gainst Betty! Not me! Goode! Goode do it.”

“Goode and who else?” interrogated Hathorne, his thinning dark hair streaked with gray, his steely eyes coming round to match her stare, to read her.

“I don’t know none of dem. I don’t go wid dem.”

“Ignorant, eh? Ignorant and innocent?”

“Yes, massa. Innocent.”

The small black woman wore a simple gray cotton dress and sat on the edge of her chair, pulling at her bonds. Anyone could see she was in pain from the scars on her back, scars inflicted by Parris’ whip. Jeremy wondered where the beating had taken place. He imagined it had gone on at the jail, a black dungeon built into the side of a hill away from polite society. Jeremiah had seen jail cells in every community he’d ever been to and nothing compared in depravity to the Salem jails; they were little more than rat holes. The jailkeeper was a rat-faced, filthy man named Weed Gatter and if ever a man looked the devil, this one did.

Hathorne circled Tituba now as he continued to interrogate her, looking down his nose at her as if looking on trash. Jeremy wondered if the judge kept his distance due to her being trash, or the possibility she was a witch.

Tituba tried at first to follow Hathorne with her eyes, but this proved impossible as he circled. Jeremy wondered at the complete loss of her former pride and fire. All gone. Beaten from her. She’d gone from lioness to cowed house cat.

Hathorne came in close behind this submissive Tituba, and he shouted into her ear, making her jump. “We will brook no more lies, girl!”

“I already say hundred time, I don’t do it!”

“Lies! More lies!”

“Goode and her witches do it!”

Higginson slammed his cane across one of Corwin’s tables, the sound like a gunshot. “I was given to understand, Mr. Parris, that this Bermuda Indian woman of yours is a witness, yet you are treating her as a threat? Locked in chains? Educate me, please.”

“That was the original report, sir,” replied Parris, “but the crisis has deepened and changed.”

“Evidence against the woman has increased,” added Hathorne.

It was the first moment that Jeremy was privy to the fact that all these men had met on this matter before tonight. That this night’s meeting was a continuation of suspicion of witchcraft running rampant in the village. Was this the information that old Higginson had wanted to convey to him before he entered the village that first night? The information that had never come?

“What evidence do you have that condemns this woman before us now?” asked Jeremiah, emboldened by Higginson’s example.

“Goode tells a different story,” replied Parris, staring out at the rain-soaked village. “According to the old bat, Tituba here created the conditions necessary to the efficacy of the coven’s curse on my house.”

Jeremy thought of the doll stuck with pins, the sword, the blood at the hearth, and the blood in the barn.

“—And what Mr. Parris calls a deepening of the crisis,” added Hathorne, a hand on his buttons, “refers to a terrifying increase in the number of children in the village suddenly and inexplicably afflicted in the same manner as his daughter.”

“I’ve heard rumors, but who?” asked Hale, going stiff at the fireplace. “Whose children?”

Parris turned from the window and his thoughts. “My niece, Mary Wolcott under my roof, exhibiting signs, and my other niece, Mercy Lewis, in the Putnam household, along with the Putnam girl.”

“Oh, poor woman, that Mrs. Putnam,” moaned Corwin, “to have this put upon her after enduring so much.” Corwin swallowed more Brandy.”

“Thomas Putnam’s child is it?” asked Hale, who has his own flock to worry about in Waverly. “Thank God we’ve had no such troubles in our village.”

“Convulsions and fits she endures, the little one,” continued Parris.

Higginson held a hand up. “Hold, that child’s been afflicted in one manner or another all her life.”

“Not my Mercy and not my Mary but they’re falling prey to the same fits and discontent and disobedience!”

“Mary Wolcott, Mercy Lewis, Anne Putnam, Betty Parris,” Noyes quietly enumerated. “I heard too that Bray Wilkins’ maidservant, the Sheldon girl, that she’s of a sudden down with an awful sickness, too. Perhaps she’s also under attack by invisible forces?”

Parris nodded solemnly. “It is spreading like a disease, I tell you. It is a disease, one spawned of Hades.”

“Attack the children,” mumbled a frightened Noyes.

“It’s what the Fallen Angel does,” declared Parris. “Attack the weakest among us.”

Shaking his head, Noyes added, “Exactly as the books tell us how He will come with his invisible minions.”

Jeremy didn’t like the way this was going.

“How many children must suffer and die before we take action?” cried out Parris.

“By what stretch do you prove death and murder, Mr. Parris?” asked Higginson.

“I point to Thomas Putnam’s nine dead children, and it can’t be long before my own is dead of her contortions and afflictions. Thomas Putnam’s also informs me same as Noyes here of a young girl named Susana Sheldon, also showing signs of it. He has seen her up at Will’s Hill, Wilkins’ place. I am told, she had been seen in the company of Sarah Goode.”

“In all the years no one has ever suspected foul play in the deaths of the Putnam children, so why now?” pressed Higginson, fire in his ancient eyes.

“It has taken an outsider to see it clearly,” countered Parris, going to the old minister and standing over him where he sat. “It took me, sir.”

“I see. So now you can see into the Invisible World of Satan?”

“I have it on authority of those arrested, Goode and Tituba here, that those Putnam infants were murdered by those who midwifed at what should’ve been their birthing.”

“Confessions beaten from an addled hag and a frightened servant?” asked Jeremy, going to Hathorne t plead for logic. “You can’t trust a confession tortured from a man or woman.”

“You stay out of this, Mr. Wakely,” Parris said, rushing at him, their noses nearly touching. “You are not one of us, and you have no stake here.”

“You said yourself it might take an outsider’s eye here, Mr. Parris.” No one challenged this, not even Higginson. Jeremy dared continue. “Your evidence of murder of the Putnam unborn appears as flimsy as blank parchment, sir.”

“I have more evidence. Much more.”

“Then reveal it.” Higginson tapped his cane hard on the floor.

“Very well.” Parris went to a door, opened it and called to someone in an anteroom to come in. “I’d hoped to spare the children this, but you press my hand, Mr. Higginson, you and Wakely. Though I know not why.”

From the anteroom, Thomas Putnam ushered in both his charge—Mercy Lewis—and his daughter, Anne, to stand before the ministers and the magistrates. “We’re here to give in evidence,” said Putnam as if he’d practiced the line.

I’ll bet you are, Jeremy thought but held his tongue.

Higginson shook his head. “These, I suppose, are two of the so-called afflicted girls?”

“Two of the bewitched, sir, yes,” replied Putnam. “Me daughter and Mr. Parris’ niece, Anne and Mercy beseech you, sirs, respectfully so.”

The girls both looked as if they’d not bathed since Mercy had been taught her lesson by Parris at the hearth; in fact, the two girls appeared so disheveled they might’ve been in a fight with one another just before coming here.

Higginson stepped close to the two children, who huddled together. It seemed to Jeremy that they were working hard to not meet Tituba’s eyes even as they stole glances her way. Seeing Tituba in chains and bonds seemed to have a chilling effect on the girls, or so Jeremy secretly prayed. This situation needed a bucket of cold water thrown on it. Perhaps Parris had just overplayed his hand.

“And I thought not to see any Mercy here tonight,” Higginson attempted to lighten the moment, but it could not be done. “And here is Mercy genuflecting and respectfully doing so. Two lovely children, Mr. Putnam, Mr. Parris, and you believe them witches, too?”

“No, no sir. You have it wrong,” complained Putnam. “These girls are victims of cruel witchcraft at its foulest, the sort that’s killed my other children!”

Chapter Nineteen

Both the anemic, frail-boned Anne, and the lusty pink-skinned Mercy Lewis, older, taller, more robust, appeared sheepish among the gathered power brokers of the village and town. The whimpering of Tituba Indian and her rattling chains acted as a counterpoint to what was being said.

“Tell them, Anne,” said her father. “Tell them what your brothers and sisters’ve told both you and your mother.”

“Hold on,” interrupted Jeremy. “I thought the girl’s siblings died at or near birth? How can they’ve told her or her mother anything?”

“They came to us in the night,” said Anne, her voice hardly audible, making Corwin erupt with, “What? What’d she say?”

“She said,” began Mercy, a good deal bolder, “that they’ve haunted her and her mother ever since.”

“Ghosts? Spirit?” asked Noyes, eyes wide.

“Your evidence is the word of a ghost?” said Jeremiah, a startled laugh escaping him. “Your honors, you mustn’t start down that road. It’ll open your courts to every kind of—”

“They told me they was murdered!” Anne suddenly shouted, startling the grownups. Her eruption also caused every man in the room to lean in to hear what else she might say. “Murdered with long knitting needles the midwives hid in their petticoats.”

“Needles jammed into their little brains,” added Mercy, demonstrating with a bony finger, “right back here,” added Mercy, pointing to the base of her skull as she pirouetted so as they might see. “And sometimes here!” She indicated her under arm. “To puncture the hearts.”

Jeremy saw that the back of her neck remained bruised from where Parris had held her head at the fire that day he’d exorcised her demon.

“Some got the needle up under their arms,” agreed Anne. In the armpit . . . sidewise to the heart,” she repeated Mercy’s assessment. Anne then held up a pair of long, sterling knitting needles that shone in the light, reflecting the flames from the hearth.

“And your ghosts, will they come to court to testify?” Jeremy’s question drew a half-snarl from Mercy Lewis and a glare from Anne who erupted. “You don’t believe me? Then talk to Mother. She’s been visited by all my dead lovelies, too.”

“We will speak to your mother,” replied Higginson, giving the girls a stern look that made him look the picture of God casting thunderbolts. “And child, if you are lying about this murder business, you will be severely punished, I can tell you. Severely.”

Parris, a hand on the Mercy’s shoulder, said, “Tell the judges and ministers, Mercy, what you told me about Tituba here and Goode.”

“I-I saw them dancing naked round a fire in the woods, I did.”

“Naked? Not a stitch of clothing between them?” asked Noyes.

“It’s true!” shouted Anne. “I saw it, too.”

“In another dream?” asked Jeremy.

“No, not a dream. When Mercy and me was playing about the apple orchard near the church, we saw a fire, and we went to warm ourselves.”

“That’s when we saw her,” added Mercy, pointing to Tituba, “and-and Goode, and others I could not make out, all dancing and touching one ’nother, and-and taking turns hurting Betty—or a likeness of her.”

“Taking turns hurting Mr. Parris’ child?” asked Hathorne.

“The child’s not been out of bed for several days,” countered Jeremy.

“Not Betty but Betty’s likeness, and-and Goode, she kept stabbing it with needles.”

A long silence followed this ‘expert testimony’. Jeremy realized that there was just enough truth in the story to make believers of these men of Salem.

“Take the children home, Mr. Putnam,” suggested Hale, who’d listened without a word.

After the children and Putnam had left, Jeremy looked around the room at the grim faces of the ministers and magistrates. He pointed and asked, “What’s to become of Tituba, here?”

“She’s to be held until she confesses her part in all this,” replied Parris, “and given her stubborn heart, that may be indefinitely. However, if she but confess, name names of those she and Goode have conspired with, then she will of course be spared and rehabilitated.”

Jeremy imagined Parris’ idea of rehabilitation.

“Confession, contrition is her only recourse,” added Noyes, nodding and downing a second Brandy.

“Osborne,” said Tituba in so low a whisper no one heard it at first.

“What?” asked Corwin. “What’d she say?”

“Osborne,” she repeated in a birdlike voice.

“Of course,” Hathorne shouted, “that crude Sarah Osborne.”

“You know her?” Hale asked of Hathorne.

“The woman’s been in and out of my court so many times, I know her entire history.”

It’d become village history long ago. Sarah Osborne had scandalized Salem Village when suddenly her normally hale and hearty husband, Camden Osborne, fell deathly ill. It’d been a protracted, painful, ugly death as if the man’d been poisoned some said, and perhaps he had been. To add another layer of curiosity to the situation, the widow subsequently married her bondsman, William Osborne, thus wiping out all her debts to Osborne, and he soon after succumbed to a similar end as Osborne’s.

Some supposed Mrs. Osborne got her poison lessons from Goode, and many resented how she’d come by Osborne’s property and holdings as a result. She’d been hauled into Hathorne’s court on this charge of poisoning, but it’d gone unproven. Osborne had also come before Corwin’s court, but as always, there simply was no evidence strong enough to hold her, much less to hang her.

Now they have ‘spectral’ evidence to help out, whispered Jeremy to himself, imagining from Higginson’s twitching expression that he was thinking the same way—that when people used their dead ancestors and relatives as proof that the law must take a stand and say no to such twice-told tales and hearsay from sprites.

“Look here, this is all coming from the fruit of a forbidden tree, gentlemen. Even our books dealing with witchcraft in the courts urges us to pay no attention to the so-called whispers of ghosts and goblins. That we not make spectral words more credible than the word of the living by virtue of a judge’s blessing.”

For a moment, Jeremy was encouraged. The judges were listening even if the ministers were not.

Hale surprised Jeremy, saying, “Mr. Wakely is right; it’s a point well made in cases here and in England.”

“The dead inform us when danger approaches,” countered Noyes.

“Would you please just not allow spectral evidence into your thinking, gentlemen?” added Jeremy. “Keep your deliberations with your feet, planted in this world.”

“Precisely my thoughts,” added Higginson with a resounding bang on the floor of his cane. “Else there is no reason for a hearing, not if you use the word of children dead ten years like some magic wand for Samuel Parris’ purpose in all this.”

“Careful of your accusations here, Nehemiah!” countered Parris, his index finger stretched toward Higginson as if waving a wand.

In fact, the real wand had long before now been waved, and it’d had a profound effect on Noyes, Hathorne, and it would appear, Corwin. Hale remained aloof despite the confusion creeping into his features. Perhaps he, Higginson, and Jeremy might still somehow halt or avert this headlong rush over the cliff.

“My purpose, Nehemiah,” continued Parris after unclenching his teeth, “is to provide relief and comfort to my child, Betty. That is my only hope in this matter.”

“Please, everyone, let us remain calm,” suggested Hathorne. “There is merit in what young Wakely says, and Mr. Higginson as well, and we don’t want to rush into this matter without considering all sides.”

The room fell silent, everyone seeking his own counsel, save Noyes. Noyes was conferring with Hathorne about the woman Osborne and Jeremy heard the young minister say, “I heard she’d been shunned.”

“Parris had her excommunicated after her second husband’s mysterious death, despite our rulings.” Hathorne turned to Corwin. “You recall it, John?”

“Parris was the one brought her up on charges the first time in my court. Yours?”

“Putnam.”

“The woman sounds like a candidate for Satan’s side to me,” answered Noyes.

“Dey steal the fruit from de trees.” Tituba’s mutterings were directed to no one in particular. “I try to stop dem, but dey laugh and spit fruit in my face, and drag me by de hair.”

“Go on, Tituba. Don’t stop now,” urged Parris.

“Dey come into the window and find me ‘neath the stairs, and dey pull me out by de hair into dem woods. I didn’t want dem to get the children, so I go with dem to forest—to save de children.”

“How did you travel?” Noyes’ eyes had grown two sizes.

“Did they-they, that is, c-carry you?” Corwin sounded more tipsy than frightened.

We go on a stick.” Tituba raised her shoulders as if this were evident.

“A stick?

“Broom stick.”

“You flew?”

“Dey carry me on de stick.”

“You flew?” asked a stunned Hathorne.

“We flew.”

“Maybe you were dreaming, Tituba?” suggested Jeremy in as stern a voice as he could muster in an attempt to quell this nonsense and so-called evidence.

“Like a dream but not a dream.” Tituba met Jeremy’s eyes. He saw shame, darkness and hurt lurking there like three invaders.

“Describe to us what you saw once you arrived, child,” pressed Hathorne.

“Many people. Dancing at fire dat burns high wid smoke and fairies come out de fire—”

“Fairies indeed?” Higginson smirked and searched the room for any sign of reason. “Cavorting about a fire!”

“And-And people run and catch de fairies,” Tituba replied, not understanding Higginson’s sarcasm. “But de fairies disappear when I touch dem. Disappear like my baby disappear.”

“This has gone far enough,” Higginson cried out.

“Please, Mr. Higginson,” countered Hathorne. “Go on, Tituba. Tell us everything.”

“Some laugh and fall, and if it be man and woman, when dey fall, dis means dey go into deeper woods together where dey kiss and make baby.”

“Fornication, she’s talking of fornication,” said Noyes, titillated by this revelation.”

“Yes dat, yes.”

“Who were these people?” Hathorne pressed on with the questioning.

“I don’t know no one but Goode and Osborne.”

Parris went to her and opened his hands to her. “Tituba, tell us the name of the leader, the man in black with the book.”

“He is like a shadow and not a man, only in de shape of a man, and he holds a book. A bad, bad book.”

“A black book?” asked Noyes.

The literature on the Antichrist and his followers as described for centuries depicted the Devil’s emissary and advocate, the man-like creature who came in a pleasing form to look like a minister and to dress as one. What better cover? And how ironic, Jeremy thought, eyeing Parris’s black clothing and the outfit he had himself worn since arriving in Salem. Wolves in sheep’s clothing feed on the innocent.

Jeremy saw now that Tituba realized that these important men were hanging on her every word; as result, there came a flood of words from her: “The black book, yes, and dey want me to make my mark in dis book, but I spit at dem and fight dem, but dey tear my dress away and beat me with sticks and kick and jump on me, until I can’t fight no more, and den de black shadow man, he straddle me, and he-he did terrible t’ings to me, until I thought I be killed, so I finally make my mark, but I still in my heart don’t want it. I say no-no-no! a hundred times, but you see dese scars?” She dropped one shoulder and jiggled as best she could to expose red welts across her back.

The room had fallen silent.

“Dey drag me by de hair,” she repeated her innocence in this manner. “And, and say dey’re going to throw me into fire, but still I don’t sign. I fight. Dey promise me t’ings den. Still I yell, no!”

“Sounds like you put up a brave fight,” Jeremy put in.

“Sounds like Ahab and the whale,” added Higginson.

“What sort of things?” pressed Hathorne. “Tituba, what sort of things did they make you do?”

“Promise good t’ings, but still I say no, no, no! Den dey promise I can see my dead baby’s face.”

“W-What’d you say then?” asked Noyes, completely won over by the story.

“I still say no!” She broke down in tears.

“What happened next?” Hathorne had pulled a chair up and sat eye-to-eye with Tituba now. Noyes stood behind her, staring at the red welts visible as if he wished to see her entire backside.

Tituba swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and continued: “Dey come back again. Back every night. S-Same t’ing over and over. Dey steal me from my bed; beat me. Sign, sign, dey scream in my ears. Dey hate me ’cause I won’t sign de book. Den dey say Betty will be sick and die if I don’t sign.”

The room had gone silent with this last remark. Finally, Hathorne asked, “Tituba, what’d you say to this?”

“I still say no. But dey say dey’ll make all de children sick and die, same as Mrs. Putnam’s children. Do like how dey kill dem.”

“They said that?” asked Noyes, near breathless. “My God, there is a coven at work in Salem.”

“Said it was dem who killed de Putnams’ babies, yes.”

“Then what’d you do?” asked Corwin, aghast at the story the black woman told.

“Nothing. I didn’t sign.”

“But you told me, Tituba, that you eventually signed,” countered Parris.

“Only did it as a lie!”

“You lied to your master?” Hathorne leaned toward her, eyes menacing.

“No, I lie to de witches! Dey beat me too hard, too long wid hot pokers, so I sign the name Indian, but that not my name! Aw, see? I fool dem witches! My name is L’englesian. I fool dem good!”

“Who was this black man, Tituba? The man with the book?” Hathorne wanted to know. “Give us his name! You must have heard it—at least once after all!”

Tituba’s eyes scanned the room, going from minister to judge and back to minister, and back to judge. For a moment, her gaze settled on Jeremy, and his stomach sank. Suppose Tituba chose to name him? One word from this wretched prisoner in her chains, and he’d find himself in bars tonight in that god-awful cell below the hills. But Tituba’s gaze moved on to Higginson. “He be older,” she began in a whisper, yet her sultry voice filled the room. “Very old like-like Mr. Higginson, but at same time he be strong like giant. He pick up men and women on his arms, and dey swing from his arms like monkeys.”

“A name, a name,” chanted Hathorne. “We must have a name.”

“Bu-Bur-Burrow,” she blurted out.

“God, I knew it,” shouted Parris. “Knew it in my bones! Said as much to Mrs. Parris days ago. Mentioned my suspicions to a number of people, didn’t I, Jeremy?”

This revelation had silenced all the others in the room as each man contemplated what this meant.

Higginson approached Tituba once again. “You began this night, Tituba, saying they blinded you, yet now you say you saw Burroughs? How could you know it was a man named Burroughs since you’ve never met the man?”

“Heard him called Burrow, yes.”

“And did he have a first name?” asked Jeremy, hoping she’d get this wrong.

“George . . . like King George.”

Jeremy cursed under his breath. He imagined how often she’d heard Parris, obsessed with Burroughs, would have heard his name while doing her chores.

“And you saw him, this George Burroughs, balancing grown men and women on his arms?” Corwin’s gaze had not left Tituba since she used Burroughs’ name.

“Only like black shadows.”

“Burroughs, a former minister in the village,” mused Corwin between sips of brandy, “had been a gymnast at Harvard, or so I was told.”

Noyes added, “Man was known to challenge grown men to hang from his biceps.”

Hathorne stood at the hearth now, outlined against the fire. “Saw this myself up close on Sabbath eve. The man lifted a pew filled entirely with people as a joke in mid-sermon. I was on that pew. Gave the impression he cared little for his work in the parish.”

“I remember his debtor case,” Corwin thoughtfully said. “There seemed a conceit in the man, and a contempt for our procedures.”

“Hold on, please, everyone.” Jeremy went to Tituba and said, “These so-called witches blinded you from seeing them, you said.”

“Yes, they blind me.”

“But now you’re pointing a finger at Reverend Burroughs, who is hundreds of miles away, and somehow you saw Osborne and Goode?”

“How did Burroughs get here nightly?” asked Higginson, dovetailing on Jeremy’s words and attempting to add some logic to the skewed thinking here.

“He flew, of course,” returned Noyes.

“You are a disappointment to me, Nicholas,” Higginson said to his apprentice, the man who, upon Higginson’s passing, would be taking charge of the First Church of Salem—his church.

Noyes looked stricken at the old man’s words, and he shrank into a shadowed corner of the room.

Jeremy again questioned Tituba. “Had you ever heard of Burroughs before that night?”

“Yes, no . . . I ain’t sure.”

“I’ve heard Mr. Parris speak of him in your home—speaking ill of him, as have you, Tituba. Are you sure of your identification when you have confessed to having been made blind by these people?”

Tituba’s back straightened and her eyes bore into Jeremy. Teeth bared, he got a glimpse of the angry lioness. “It is Burrows.”

“All right, what of this dead baby of yours?” Jeremy put it to her. “Do you want to tell us that story?”

Parris stepped in, taking Jeremy by the arm. “I think the prisoner’s had enough for one night.”

“I for one would like to hear her answer,” countered Higginson.

“She is cooperating. She can be questioned at another sitting.” Parris urged Noyes to go to the door and call Williard inside. “Tell him to take this witness back to the jail.”

Noyes did as requested, going to the door, opening it, and saying to Sheriff Williard, “Come in, John, and take charge of your prisoner.”

“Don’t be a fool, Hathorne,” said Higginson. “You can’t send this woman back to the Salem Jail, not after what she’s said.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I assume you have Goode locked up there. That woman is likely to kill her if they’re sharing the same jail.”

Williard, who’d waited on the porch outside below the eaves, had not completely escaped the windblown rain. He dripped on the floor where he stood, asking, “Judge, you want us to place this one in separate quarters?”

“That’ll do just fine, yes.”

When Williard untied Tituba from the chair, she dropped to her knees, grabbing hold of Parris’ leg, her chains rattling, and she pleaded like a child. “Not put me in de jail no more! I confess everything I done, but I did it to help Betty, so dey never gonna hurt dat child.”

Parris looked stricken and tried to pry her loose.

“Den send me back by Barbados den! Please!”

“Take charge of your witness, Sheriff, now!” ordered Hathorne.

“You continue to cooperate with us, Tituba,” Parris promised without looking down at her, “and I’ll see you get back to Barbados.”

“Williard, do your duty, man!” shouted Hathorne again, even as the Sheriff struggled with Tituba, his withered arm about her throat, his other about her middle as he tried his humane best to get her out the door.

“Use the chains, man!” shouted Corwin. “It’s what they’re for!”

Jeremy had seen the light of pity in Sheriff Williard’s eyes as he hefted her to her feet. Saw it in his manner as he led her by her chains for the door. Jeremy could not imagine a sadder looking scene as the two went out into the gray darkness of the overcast evening.

# # # # #

Judge Jonathan Hathorne lit a cigar and began smoking. Corwin poured himself another brandy. Noyes called for a prayer for the safety of all Salem, which Hale thought appropriate, asking that Beverly be included. Higginson coughed throughout the prayer, and Jeremy contemplated the superstitions filling the room, and the mendacity in the mind of Samuel Parris. They both knew that Tituba’s welts and scars had not been inflicted by George Burroughs from hundreds of miles away, but another black man with a black book—Parris himself.

“Gentlemen, I suggest we swear out a warrant for the ar-rest of the Osborne woman,” began Corwin, slurring his words. His nose and cheeks rosey-hued from drink. “Who’d care to sign the complaint alongside my signature?”

“Goode has given up a name as well—Bridget Bishop,” Parris added.

“The innkeeper on North Ipswich Road?” asked Noyes as if he might jump. “I was just in her place for hot broth.” He swallowed with the memory and fear, as if he thought himself possibly poisoned.

“The other one whose husband died under mysterious circumstances,” commented Hathorne. “And then she . . . “

“Became sole proprietor of his holdings,” added Corwin with a little shake of the head. “Fine Inn and a key location that. Does quite a business.”

“That’s the one,” Parris replied.

Corwin shook his head even more. “So who’s to fill out these warrants? We need an accuser’s name on the warrant, gentlemen.”

“Why don’t you sign, Jeremy?” asked Parris, as if baiting his apprentice. “You’ve nothing to lose.”

Jeremy met his eyes. “I have no trust in the nature of the evidence presented here, and I’ll not be a part of a blasted witch-hunt.”

“You’re young, Mr. Wakely. Perhaps when you’ve had more experience with this sort of thing,” returned Parris.

“Perhaps but not tonight, thank you.”

“What about you, Mr. Higginson?” asked Parris who’d become suspect of the two having aligned against him tonight.

“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 from 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 an 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.

Parris was a man who needed to be in control, and he craved power. That’s why Jeremy had been sent here in the first place, to document this man’s bedrock character traits. Had Parris taken advantage of Tituba in her youth? Ownership of another human being gave a man a sense of ultimate power, after all, to do with his livestock as he saw fit. Might the man have taken liberties with his niece, Mary, Mercy as well as his servant years before?

Parris ordered Jeremy to remain behind to help with the clean up, as Mercy had knocked over far more than the broom stand when attacked. She had in fact made a terrible mess of the place. All the same, Jeremy suspected it an excuse to gave Samuel Parris alone time with Mary while in his state of obvious euphoria—either to ply her with more names to shout out or to ply her with something worse—his manhood. Jeremy hoped to give the man enough rope to hang himself if he should attempt to take advantage of Mary. If Jeremy could prove Parris the worst sort of letch and a rapist of his own niece, the man would be jailed, his credibility and reputation shattered so badly that no one would follow his lead in this snowballing witch hunt. It would be a horrible thing for Mary, but it would completely diminish whatever power Parris wielded, and perhaps save lives in the bargain. Lives beyond Goode’s and Osborne’s—two such disreputable miscreants as perhaps were guilty of murderous thoughts and actions for years.

However, when Jeremy returned to the parsonage home, first rushing to the barn, half-expecting to catch Parris in the despicable act, he found no one but Dancer and Parris barnyard animals.

When he did catch up to Parris, the man was sitting alongside Mary in the bed he’d laid her in, smoothing back her sweat-soaked hair, tearful, saying kindly, fatherly words to her, his hands clasping hers as he prayed for her soul.

A big disappointment, he silently decided, and damned hypocritical of Parris to suddenly decide that Mary was worthy of his attention.

Elizabeth Parris, tearful, exhausted, had fallen asleep sitting beside Betty’s bed. Betty sat up and with the widest marble eyes Jeremy had ever seen, she glared at him as if she wished him gone or dead, but she remained silent. She’d been watching her father intently, curious about his sudden concern for Mary. In fact, Betty seemed upset with Jeremy for bursting in on the scene. She also seemed somehow to have matured by several years.

So he backed down the steps, leaving the afflicted family to itself, wondering how much incest characterized these people. Betty had appeared jealous; Mary had gotten the attention she wanted. Tituba was jailed. Mother Parris? Blind?

Instead of catching Parris in a supposed lewd or compromising act with his niece, Jeremy ended these notions with no evidence beyond a vague suspicion, one he felt might find verification in a solid interview with Titutba Indian L’englesian.

Jeremy imagined her heritage—part French, part Barbados, part English. He also imagined that her seeming lack of understanding of English a method of getting by.

At the foot of the stairs in this sad house, Jeremy recalled Judge Corwin’s invitation to return for brandy this evening.

As it was growing late, Jeremy decided Corwin and Hathorne might well be the authorities he needed to see in private. To this end, he walked briskly out of the house and made straight for Judge John Corwin’s village home.

As a student of the law, he truly wanted to know what was going through the minds of the judges now that they’d had time to digest all that had gone on. Perhaps cooler heads would prevail after all, even in light of the performance that a simple scullery girl like Mary Wolcott could bring to bear—or because of it. Word spread through the village of this incident like fire in a butter churn. No doubt by now Mary’s wild accusation against Martha Corey had traversed the village and beyond to Wenham, Topsfield, Beverly, Salem Town, and other settlements. Jeremy suspected if there was anyone in the area who had not as yet heard of a young girl’s having been attacked by invisible hands on a broomstick, that it must be the now accused witch, Martha Corey.

# # # # #

Evening of April 14, 1692

Jeremy was soon warming his hands at Judge Corwin’s hearth. He’d been welcomed to join Judge Hathorne as well, the two magistrates discussing the best course of action to take at this time. They claimed to welcome Jeremiah’s opinion on the matter.

On a table at the center of the room, a small stack of books lay open or marked. Jeremy accepted a brandy, and while sipping, he took a moment to browse the various titles of books lying about, books the magistrates had consulted before his arrival. Guide to Grandjurymen came as no surprise, nor that it’d been opened to the method of dealing with charges of witchcraft. Jeremy knew the text well, written half a century before and based on precepts dating back to the bloody Middle Ages. A pack of nonsense for the most part. “Please tell me that you modern good gentlemen of fine sensibilities are not basing judgment of this matter on outdated texts?” He posed it as a question.

“Mr. Wakely,” erupted Corwin with a bit of fire, “what would you have us consult?”

“This musty book is not the answer.”

“What then?” Corwin snatched at his right ear which seemed to be ailing him as if some insect buzzed within.

Jeremy lifted the tome entitled Trial of Witchcraft, Showing the True and Right Method of Discovery.

Judge Corwin smiled, his powdered wig slightly ajar. “Look, young man, you can’t take issue with Cotta’s methods, now can you?”

Jeremy finished the brandy offered him earlier. He knew he’d need more spirits if he were to deal with these two. “Cotta’s a fool,” he announced. “A bumbling fool.” Jeremy then lifted book after book on the table and slammed each down, seven in total. “These books are littered with superstitions long put away since King James but perpetuated by idiots and men who made their living burning witches at the stake in the last century.”

“The Devil’s Maelstrom? Morgan’s treatise on Witchcraft Dealings?” asked Hathorne.

“This is 1692, gentlemen; we are on the verge of 1700—a new century in eight years! Are we to drag the bloody roots of the Dark Ages into the future with us?”

“But Mr. Wakely, these before you . . .” protested Hathorne, “this is the sum of our combined library on the subject,”.

Jeremy flipped through Demonology, the work penned by King James himself, and then he thumbed through William Perkins’ Damned Art. “So, your intention is to hang these women?” asked Jeremy. “No bonfires to be made of them?”

“It would appear so, if they are found guilt by the duly appointed court of the Crown,” replied Corwin.

“If they do not repent,” added Hathorne. “And I suspect that after a few more days in the holes we have them that they will repent.”

“I understand the number has risen to four now.”

“That is accurate. Four arrested.”

“Doubled in twenty-four hours. Can’t you see how this might spread?”

“Everyone at every level is working to contain it,” countered Corwin.

“We may not be worldly nor wise as some, Mr. Wakely,” added Hathorne, stepping close to Jeremy, “nor as well-traveled as thee; we may even be called parochial by some—”

“Never by me, sir.”

“—but everyone in Salem is doing his duty this day, and for that we hold our heads high.” Hathorne toasted the early successes.

Corwin smirked and said, “There is talk now that those who’ve been suffering are coming round to wellness as a result of actions taken.”

“And as for Bridgett Bishop and Sarah Osborne? They’re to forfeit anything they might own if and when they testify before God that they’ve dabbled in witchcraft?” asked Jeremy.

“Ahhh, so you do know something of the law, Mr. Wakely,” said Corwin, still grinning. “Do ye hear this young man, Jonathan? I’m impressed.”

“These women haven’t any holdings to speak of,” countered Hathorne.

“Osborne has her husband’s holdings in her name,” Jeremy challenged. “Bishop owns an inn on your main thoroughfare.”

Corwin’s eyes went from Jeremy to Hathorne. “Is that right, Jonathan?”

“The key phrase here is her husband’s holdings. True in both cases. In a sense, they never held a thing. They are women, Mr. Wakely, and women do not hold title in the colonies.” Hathorne poured himself another brandy. “The property never properly belonged to these two Goodwives, especially if gained through nefarious means . If you really knew your law . . .”

Corwin nodded approvingly. “Which is the rumor—ah, the common belief, which so often has more than an element of truth to’t.”

“Yes, but common belief is not law,” Jeremy countered.

“Nay, but the law is often common!” Corwin joked.

“And getting commoner by the day in Salem Village,” Jeremy replied, refilled his glass, and raised it to them, seeing that while Corwin laughed at the sparring that Hathorne bristled. Jeremy then asked, “Are you sophisticated men really going to hang Goody Goode for jabbing pins into a wooden doll and cursing Parris on the green?”

“For murder of children! Not for curses or pins,” shouted Hathorne, silencing the room.

After a moment and several sips of his drink, Jeremy muttered, “Then you, sirs, are actually thinking of accepting this spectral evidence from the Parris girl’s fevered brain, and that of the Putnam girl, who we all know has had fits and seizures her entire life?”

“Evidence of a nature, we feel corroborated by Anne Junior’s mother—Anne Putnam.”

Jeremy pictured the grim, bone-thin Mrs. Putnam standing guard at that dark house he’d visited once too often.

“Didn’t Mr. Parris inform you?” asked Corwin, genuinely surprised.

“We interviewed her earlier today,” added Hathorne.

“I’m sure she made a believable witness.” Inwardly, Jeremy knew they’d not understand the irony of this interview with Anne Carr Putnam.

“She was most convincing, I’d say.” Corwin paced, glanced out a window as if expecting someone, and sipped at his drink.

“Does it occur to you men that Mr. Parris is manipulating ahhh—” Jeremy stopped short of suggesting that they were easily manipulated—“Things.”

“Manipulating things?” asked Corwin as if Jeremy had slapped him.

“Orchestrating the whole business, this entire witch hunt.”

Hathorne stared at Jeremy as if he were a witch. “No man can control such events—and certainly not our courts, Mr. Wakely! Such matters are in no one’s hands but God’s. Being a man of God, you most certainly know that.”

“I hadn’t the impression God was with us last night with Tituba chained to that chair.” Jeremy indicated the chair now replaced in a corner.

“Goode has informed us—independently—that Osborne and Bishop are both as much witch as she, but that they hide their mischief behind their aprons,” said Hathorne as if he had struck Jeremy with a thunderbolt.

“Let me understand this,” began Jeremy, setting his empty glass down. “A known witch, known to be practicing witchcraft in Salem, her heart set in stone against Parris, who has sold her soul to Satan to affect her ends, yet you sirs are willing, nay anxious, to take her word against Osborne and Bishop?” Jeremy paused to let this logic sink in. “What sense is in it, gentlemen? How can you trust her implication of another anymore than you can Tituba Indian’s?”

“I saw nothing wrong with our taking Tituba’s confessions last night,” countered Hathorne.

“Coerced confessions are highly questionable, sirs. And where will it stop?”

Hathorne hefted Guide to Grandjurymen in his regal hands and read a section he’d left his marker at: “Those who use, practice or exercise any witchcraft, enchantment, charm or sorcery, whereby any person should be killed or destroyed—”

“But what evidence that anyone has been killed save the word of ghosts supposedly whispered into the ear of a child and her disturbed mother?”

“—such councilors and aides of Satan shall suffer punishment of death!”

“An eye for an eye,” added Corwin.

Jeremy wanted to send a fist into a table, but he controlled his anger. “But no one has died here of witchery or sorcery.”

“Yet Parris daughter is near death, and now his nieces, and this Putnam child, and we are hearing reports of other children being attacked.”

Jeremiah thought, I’m fighting upriver with both hands tied. “Would you have some reckless, poor woman or farmer hang, sir, for-for curing a cow with beetles and bitterroot, or make a protective prayer over roseroot?”

“Nay, nay!”

“For burying a dead cat in a cemetery with tea leaves and rune stones?”

“Of course not, but—”

“For an incantation or curse directed at a neighbor?”

“If she be guilty of bringing on a scourge on an entire community,” began Corwin.

“Or of attacking our children! Throwing them into fits,” finished Hathorne.

“Aye, the children. Recall too the death toll of our every minister in the village before now—Bailey’s family, Burroughs’ family.”

“But it makes poor logic then to point a finger at George Burroughs if his family was also under attack.”

“Mr. Wakely, there are patterns and connections here that you are unaware of,” said Hathorne with a little wave of dismissal.

Corwin toasted. “It’s really all about saving the children from harm, and not allowing our current minister to fall to this village parish curse.”

Jeremy shook his head, paced, found himself at the window. Through the waves in the pane of glass, he saw Parris approaching. He knew he had to talk fast. “These apparitions the children report giving up secrets and pointing fingers at their murderers, sirs, I beseech you. Do not take heed of anything smacking of ethereal evidence, or anything supposedly spoken by spirits! If you do not condone hearsay in your courts, why would you ever consider spectral hearsay? I tell you, it will make a mockery of you both—and history will not be kind to either of you. Think of your reputations, not the land and property holdings of the accused.”

“I resent that, young man!” shouted Hathorne. “We are not after acquiring land and property in this matter but souls!”

Jeremy nodded at this, unable to hide his disdain. “Osborne and Bishop have holdings, and I have it on excellent authority that others who are facing warrants sworn out by Parris, or those he controls, will most assuredly have many contested holdings as a result—holdings that will go to the court for redistribution.”

“Careful, young man,” shouted Hathorne. “You tread on thin ice.”

“This epidemic of fits and seizures among so many girls of the village I’ve seen before in my travels. But here, the finger pointing children are working at Mr. Parris’ behest, whether you know it or not—indeed whether Mr. Parris knows it or not.”

“That’s a bloody awful accusation to make, sir!” Hathorne’s face had become livid, the pale neck throbbing with arteries.

“Which of the two allegations offends you, sir?” countered Jeremy.

Hathorne bristled more, pacing like an angry, rabid dog now in circles about the room as if searching for something to throw at Jeremy. “You are a smar-mouthed fellow, aren’t you, Mr. Wakely.”

“I know human nature, and I know the law, sir. Think how it will look in Boston.”

“How it will look in Boston?” asked Corwin as if he’d not given it a single thought.

“And the rest of the world, if you put spirits coming to children in the night with accusations of murder as witnesses in your box. What’s the implication? That you two are provincial dupes, or that you had much to gain or . . . or too much to drink.”

“This is not just children at games, Mr. Wakely. You’ve seen the condition of the Parris girl.”

“Yes, something has terrified Betty straight out of her little mind,” he agreed, again wondering if it were not her own father who’d triggered her attack. What if her father had threatened her with sending her away? He brokered in children, after all. What if her father were at her with his switch for some slight? How better to deflect her feared father than to convince him she’d been touched by evil, bewitched—and of course, there was no telling what Tituba may’ve conveyed to the child about a likeness stuck full with pins and in the hands of Goode.

Parris rapped at the door.

“Who might that be?” asked Corwin.

“It’s Mr. Parris,” replied Jeremy, “but before you welcome him in, gentlemen, have a look at his upcoming sermon.” This got their attention. Jeremy produced the document and the two men scanned its contents as Parris knocked a second time.

They heard Parris the other side of the door now tapping at the window and peering inside, curious why no one had answered. Finally, Corwin called out the single name Hosanna! This roused his maidservant to open the door for Parris.

Parris came stomping in like a stallion, certain something was being discussed behind his back, or so his expression said. He stared hard at Jeremy. “Gentlemen, your honors, Mr. Wakely, I can only report that things’ve only worsened since last we met.”

“What’s happened?” asked Hathone.

Parris removed his cloak. “We must act quickly, set an example.” He then stopped and stared back at the three men staring at him, realizing Jeremy’s empty brandy glass on the mantel meant he’d been here for some time. “What have your honors been talking about?”

Corwin hemmed and hawed and pointed at the books on the table. “Going over precedent.”

“There is no precedent for this,” said Parris. “This is open warfare.”

“Mr. Hathorne has doubts about accepting the word of spirits in his courtroom—as does Mr. Corwin,” Jeremy boldly spoke for the judges.

“What of the afflictions then? Never mind the word of spirits! Betty’s bruises and burns and puncture marks, these are not invisible.”

“We fear taking this too far, Mr. Parris,” Hathorne said now.

“No matter how many books you consult, you can only stop Satan lovers with execution!”

“Ah-then you have the accused already executed, sir?” asked Jeremy.

Parris glared at his apprentice.

“Do you plan to arrest every old mother who’s lost her teeth or who has cured the giddies or the heaves with a home-made brew? Or are you also after those you call the dissenting brethren?”

“You overstep yourself, Mr. Wakely, and you saw what happened at Ingersoll’s!”

“And you, sir? You create trouble here, wantonly so. Show him the evidence of it, Mr. Hathorne, Mr. Corwin.”

“I say again, Wakely, you overstep your position!” The veins on Parris neck looked as if they were made of ship’s rigging.

“Do I? When there are lives at stake, and the peace and tranquility of the region?”

“I want you out of my home, Mr. Wakely, tonight!” he countered. “Do you understand? I’ll write you up well for Mather, but your time here is over.”

“I am packed and prepared to leave at any time, Goodfriend.”

The use of the term had Parris gritting his teeth. “Tonight, now!”

“Please, please, gentlemen,” began Corwin. “You will wake my ailing wife.”

Jeremy held up a hand to the judge. “Well now. What Mr. Parris proposes is best all round, your honors, but before I take my leave, I will know what you intend to do about that sermon in your hand, Magistrate Hathorne.”

“Sermon?” asked Parris. “What sermon?”

“The sermon and excommunication you’ve planned for Rebecca Nurse.”

Parris looked stricken and trapped for a mere moment. “There is ample reason to believe the woman one of them! She was among those midwives to Mrs. Putnam during several of the murders of Mrs. Putnam’s children!”

“You’re now predicting who next will be called out a witch, sir?” asked Hathorne of Parris, a stern look passing between them.

“Why, sirs, it’s no secret among the knowledgeable!” countered Parris. “The Nurse woman and her sisters all at one time or another attended Mrs. Putnam at child killings disguised as birthings, pretending the goodness of midwives!”

“I know this woman, Mother Nurse, and such an allegation against one so pious as she, well it is an out and out lie!” Jeremy said, crossing the room and standing in Parris’ face.

“It’s no lie, no prediction,” countered Parris, fuming, “but an inevitable conclusion. And that sermon appears to’ve been stolen from my desk! I’ll have it back.”

Hathorne held the sermon pages overhead. “No, no Samuel,” he began, “you’ll not have it back.”

“But it is my personal property.”

Knowing he’d worn out his welcome, Jeremy found his cloak and hat.

“Sorry, Samuel, but it’s no longer personal or private.”

“Whatever do you mean, Jonathan?” replied Parris, stunned.

For a moment, Jeremy thought that he’d won this argument. That the sermon predicting who next to be arrested proved Parris’ manipulating and orchestrating of events.

Hathorne firmly added, “Your notes, too, Mr. Wakely are now a document of the court as you have your wish.”

This froze Jeremy in place until he realized the magistrate was speaking of notes he’d made on the single sermon he had brought to their attention.

“And you, too, Mr. Parris, you have your wish,” continued Hathorne.

“My wish?” asked Parris.

“The witch trials for Tituba Indian, Sarah Goode, and Sara Osborne are on.”

“That pleases me to know, sirs. What of Bishop?”

Corwin replied, “We are unsure of Mrs. Bishop; that there is enough evidence against her to bind her over for trial.”

“Our ruling should please both of you, Mr. Parris, Mr. Wakely—as well as Mr. Higginson and Hale. But, Samuel, this—” he held up the noxious sermon and call to excommunicate Rebecca Nurse overhead—“this notion of slandering the Nurse name, and the Towne name by decree . . . ” Hathorne shook his head. “We must not allow our passions and past petty squabbles and prejudices to get the better of us in this ordeal.”

“Here, here,” added Corwin. “An ordeal that God Himself has set before us, to test us.”

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my fervor against the Nurse woman,” replied Parris.

“And this should please you as well, Mr. Wakely.” Corwin stood and stepped closer to Jeremy, “to know that we mean to contain this thing as you put it. I know Mr. Higginson was pleased to learn it.”

Jeremy pulled his cloak tight, grabbed his hat from a rack that looked like a sceptor, and started away. “I simply hope you men will heed my suggestions, as I am in fact an emissary of the First Church of Boston, the Reverend Increase Mather.”

“An emissary?” asked Corwin, crestfallen.

“Increase Mather?” Hathorne eyed Jeremy more suspiciously than ever. “We were given to understand that you were placed under Mr. Parris’ tutelage with a letter of introduction from Mr. Mather. Now this?”

“I have the letter from Mather right here,” announced Parris who dug the multi-folded parchment from his pocket, “but from the first, I suspected it a forgery—and perhaps my first instinct was right.”

He’s just called me a liar, a forger. “Gentlemen, I can assure you that I am the emissary of Increase Mather.”

“Then Mather sent you to Salem for what reason?”

“To better understand the continued turbulence in the village parish.”

“And here I thought all along the young man was sent to apprentice in the ministery, under my direction, but as you see, Wakely here doesn’t have the stomach for the work.”

“For spying or for ministering to your parish?” asked Hathorne.

“Both I think.” Parris laughed and Corwin tentatively joined in, pouring Parris a drink, while Hathorne remained stern.

“I report only to Mather.”

“You do that, Goodfriend,” said Parris as Jeremy prepared to leave. “But get your facts straight first.”

“I will. I was sent to determine your fitness administer to your flock, Good Reverend, and I fear I’ve find you lacking.” Jeremy stormed out, intent on getting his horse and bags from the parsonage, and to locate new lodgings. Over his shoulder, he was faintly aware of the three faces in the windows watching him go, but when he turned, they’d all dropped the drapes into place and returned to parlay with one another. Jeremy cursed the fact that neither Higginson nor Hale had been on hand to support him. He could only pray that Hathorne, the seemingly stronger of the two judges, would act on his counsel—and perhaps the fear of moving too fast would stay his hand, if only to curry favor with Increase Mather.

Jeremy sloshed through the muck that the spring rains had made of the village walkways and footpaths, a feeling of euphoria coming over him with the relief of telling no more lies—the freedom of not being Parris’ lackey a moment longer when from behind her heard that man’s grating voice.

It came from Jeremy, from Corwin’s door, Parris’ last angry words. “You can count on me, Mr. Wakely, to make my own report! Filled with details of your thievery and conniving!”

Jeremy kept going. When he refused to turn and engage the man in a verbal duel, Paris shouted loud enough for the dead to hear: “Satan strikes the most devout and saintly among us, Jeremiah Wakely! Even as his minions feed and clothe the vile and heretical among us!”

Satan strikes at the most devout and saintly among us, Jeremiah repeated the contention in his mind. “And who among us is chosen?” he muttered under his breath as he continued to march off. He wanted to argue but knew it was hopeless. That a graceful exit was called for.

As he marched in quick step now, anxious to rid himself of Parris and the village, he continued to mutter to himself. “Most devout and saintly in Samuel Parris’ mind is himself! Playing the martyr to his parishioners.”

At the end of the day, he told himself: I must save myself, get as far from his sight as possible, but first I must warn Serena and her family.

Epilogue - Book One

At the Parris home

Jeremiah had returned to the parsonage home when a silvery moon slipped from behind smoldering indigo clouds to rain down a pale pink light over the apple orchard where, without looking for it, he thought he saw an animal scurrying, something large yet quick. A deer perhaps? At the same time, this eerie peripheral movement at the edge of his eye instantly recalled Tituba’s testimony of a coven beyond the orchard—which news Parris or Putnam had scattered, and it had grabbed hold of the public imagination. A tale that’d taken on new, weighty and exaggerated detail. The tale of hundreds of witches now, as it took that many to be so bold as to steal Sam Parris’ sword and fruit, and now his child from him. Details of how these creatures, in league with Satan, had spewed their chewings into Tituba’s face while they’d beaten her with hot pokers as she bravely refused to make her mark.

He squinted and went closer to the tree line and forest, and most certainly saw definite shadows in human shape. This was not the swaying of trees, or mere moonlight reflection against the waving branches and thickly clumped bushes. This wasn’t animal movement either, but human. More than one.

Now they dashed as he stepped into the orchard to have a closer look. Long, thin shadows, but hardly adult. Yes, most of these scurrying people were the size of elves, leprechauns, or children. Despite the length of the shadows they cast, these were village children, girls, he guessed from the giggling and unintelligible chatter getting farther away.

From inside the Parris home, Jeremy heard the continued distinct wailings of two girls behind a second floor window—Betty and Mary. Their wailing momentarily pulled his eyes to the lighted second floor pane. When he returned his gaze to the wood beyond the orchard, he saw nothing, no one. But scanning the ground around the orchard and house, he found the telltale naked foot and shoe prints, and he put two and two together.

Other village children had dared Parris’ wrath to approach the house in an effort to get a look at the afflicted girls through the windowpanes. There was even a ladder left lying at the base of the house. Then, the children hearing and seeing Jeremy’s approach—a black-clad man coming at a quick pace straight for the house—had panicked and ran. He may well have been mistaken for Parris.

“Enough to terrify any child,” he muttered, and then heard a straggler lift from the earth near the barn and strike out across the orchard like a terrified field mouse. “Bugger off!” he shouted to encourage this final mouse to go home and to bed.

“This time of night,” came a feminine voice behind him. It was a harried-looking Mrs. Parris.

“Breaking curfew to dare witches strike them, it would appear,” Jeremy replied.

“Seems, despite what my husband says, the village children are unafraid of the contagion.”

The horrid wailing from inside the house signaled Mrs. Parris to return to her daughter and niece in their sickroom.

Jeremy entered the home to the chorus of suffering above. Jeremy grabbed up his bedroll and saddlebag, which held any notes remaining. He’d posted all of his earlier notes to Reverend Cotton Mather.

He’d wisely prepared for this day, and almost all of his things were packed. Part of him felt he’d failed miserably. He’d not had the tenacity and patience of a spy who must swallow everything thrown at him. At least not in dealing with so intolerable a man as Samuel Parris . . . and not in the face of what was happening here.

Still, another part of Jeremy felt he’d done a remarkable job. After all, he’d begun to understand what drove the man, and he’d gotten self-damning words in the man’s own handwriting placed into the public record now that Judge Hathorne meant to file the man’s lethal sermon and prediction into evidence on the side of reason and logic over superstition and syllogisms during the hearings set for Goode, Tituba, and Osborne. Perhaps it would take three sacrifices at Salem before peace was restored, and perhaps Fate had dictated it be three from the first. Sad that even now men must have their sacrificial lambs.

To be sure Goode had brought this fate down around her own ears, and Tituba was no innocent either. As for Osborne, he knew not except that the woman had, for years, brought suspicion on herself.

Then there was the part of Jeremy that must concern himself with his own sanity and safety, that part of him simply wanting out of this man’s sphere of influence, out of this village of broken and sad people—and out now!

To get back to the arms of his love, to bask in Serena’s love and warmth and kindness. It was what he wanted above all things now that his duty to Mather had been fulfilled. Now that the truth sat square on the proverbial table for all to partake of. He must also race to the Nurse compound for another reason, to warn Serena and her mother and father of the depth of danger her mother and her aunts faced thanks to Parris’ accusations along with those he had, Jeremy believed, nursed out of Little Anne Putnam and her mother—that the midwives attending the Putnam birthings through the years had actually been on hand to slyly kill the very infants they pretended to usher into the world. A diabolical tale if ever there was one.

To a chorus of shrieks that might be cats stuck between the walls of this home, all coming out of Betty Parris and Mary Wolcott’s sickroom, Jeremy rushed from the dark house. He wanted out before Samuel Parris should return. He wanted no more confrontation with the man. To this end, he rushed for the barn and his horse, perhaps the only creature at the moment in this place that he might speak openly and honestly to without fear of retribution. In fact, in the current climate, perhaps the only safe place to unleash pent up emotions and opinions, was the ear of a horse, cow, or family pet.

Jeremy wasted no time saddling Dancer. As quickly as he could effect his escape from the parsonage, Jeremy was in the saddle and racing out the barn door when suddenly, his mare reared back on her haunches at the sight of Samuel Parris, who’d very nearly been run down and killed but had leapt and fallen to safety at the last moment. Jeremy left the minister lying in a hard-frozen pigsty of mud, not slowing, racing toward the Nurse family compound, unaware that he horse’s hooves sent up great gobs of dirt and mud in the wild dash from the Salem Village.

BOOK TWO

Chapter One

Late evening, April 13,, 1692

“A challenge to every Puritan,” said Reverend Parris where he stood drinking ale at Ingersoll’s Inn. He’d come uncharacteristically late to the Inn. Ingersoll was in fact closing, but when he found the minister at his doorstep, he remained in business, his light on. He had poured a pint of ale for Parris, whose bill with Ingersoll had been settled recently with a bushel of beans and potatoes, goods others had paid the minister in. Parris had need of someone’s ear and Ingersoll had been elected. He informed Ingersoll of the truth of Jeremiah Wakely’s identity and his true purpose in the village, and that he’d been sent in to spy on the minister, and all those letters he asked you to post, Nathaniel—I was right to intercept them. He was a fraud from the beginning, and he thought I didn’t know.

Ingersoll solemnly nodded. “He is an arrogant scoundrel, that young pup.”

“It’s the same with the Falllen One.”

“Aye, he’s the ultimate arrogant angel.”

“What angel?” asked the carpenter, Zachariah Fiske, who’d seen the light on and had stopped in for a dram.

“Satan, of course!”

“Aye, indeed.” Fiske put down a coin on the counter, and Ingersoll poured him a pint.

“So how do the judges intend to proceed?” asked Ingersoll, pressing Samuel Parris for information.

“As precisely and as carefully as they should!” continued the uncharacteristically prudent minister.

“And how is that, precisely?” nudged Ingersoll with a wink for Fiske.

“Why, as men of honor,” replied Parris, “courage, and integrity.” He lifted his pewter cup and toasted.

Ingersoll nodded and met the minister’s eye, and all three men drank to this. “I’ve always heard it said, Samuel, that Bridgett Bishop’s a witch if ever there were one, so why was she not kept in jail?”

“A scarcity of evidence there, but they’ve got their eye on her, that one.”

“They’ve found it with the others but not Bishop?”

“The innkeeper on North Ipswich road here?” asked Fiske, his face pinched in confusion.

“The very one,” replied Parris, taking another drink. “If that witch is shut down, Nathaniel, imagine the business you’d have here.”

Ingersoll added, “Aye, but that’s no good reason to cast aspersions.”

“The one whose husband, Malachi Bishop—may he rest in peace— died in the throes of something horrible, Mr. Fiske,” continued Parris, nursing his drink.

“Horrible and mysterious, so far as anyone’s able to determine,” Ingersoll felt compelled to admit with Fiske searching his features.

“I recall it, I do,” replied Fiske, nursing his own ale now. “Happened just before your arrival here, Mr. Parris.”

“Three years,” muttered Parris. “Yet no one thought to bring the woman up on charges back then?”

“Oh, but there was charges made,” Fiske disagreed, “but there weren’t no evidence, so they let her go free, and ever since she’s run Bishop’s Inn.”

“Some say she spins her witchery down below the floor of that inn,” muttered Parris. “Maybe hides the evidence down there.”

“Do you think so, Mr. Parris?” asked Fiske, swallowing hard. “I run afoul of that woman once; she run me outta her place with that club of hers.” Fiske looked about, shaken at the idea a witch might have it in for him.

“I have it on good authority, Mr. Fiske, Nathaniel. Can you keep a secret among us?”

“By my word,” replied Ingersoll.

“You can trust me, Mr. Parris,” added Fiske.

“We’re going to need a good deal of carpentry work done here in Salem.”

“You mean a gallows?” asked Fiske.

“I mean the sheriff and his men will be taking Bishop’s Inn and the woman’s quarters apart for the evidence they need—and soon, very soon.”

“Four for the gallows?” asked Nathaniel.

“If not more.” Parris finished his ale and bid the others goodnight. “I must be at my child’s bedside. She suffers the agony of the bewitched as we speak.”

This same conversation—or one very nearly the same—was taking place in every corner of Salem Village, and the same sort of talk had crept into neighboring villages and towns from Wenham and Topsfield to Beverly and Salem Town Harbor. Every municipality had jailed at least one witch and some two by now. The fever pitch reflected the fear that raged like a fire when news of what had gone on behind closed doors at Mr. Corwin’s home over the past two days had got out.

The Nurse home the same night

Jeremiah Wakely had ridden for the Nurse home to warn Serena and her family of the coming accusation against Mother Nurse and Serena’s aunts, Rebecca’s sisters—the Towne women. Jeremy wished to warn them so that, at very least, the family might have some preparation against the finger pointing. He’d ridden Dancer hard, and when he’d arrived, his steed and he had caused a great stir, disturbing what seemed a perfect peace.

Serena had heard the pounding hooves before the man she loved had halted in the yard, sending up dirt clods as he did so. She met Jeremy at the wide porch as he leapt from his horse. Francis Nurse stood at the open threshold, staring out, calling, “What is this? Who comes racing in at this hour?” He held the shotgun that Serena had not so long before held on Jeremiah. The hour was late evening, the day before the Ides of April.

“I’ve come to warn you all!” shouted Jeremiah, holding onto Serena’s trembling hands and guiding her back inside, nodding at Mr. Nurse, reassuring him. “I’ve important news that affects you all.”

“I knew it,” said Francis Nurse. “I knew it in my heart.”

“Knew, sir?” asked Jeremiah.

“We’ve friends, Jeremy, who’ve warned us against the men in black.”

“The men in black?”

“The magistrates, the ministers, including you!”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me, sir, but I’ve only tonight learned that your wife, and your mother, Serena—and her sisters have come under suspicion of witchcraft—and not of my doing!”

“Then Parris! And you’ve stood with him for all this time!”

“No, Mr. Nurse. This cruel accusation comes thanks of Samuel Parris. However, I believe the accusation will evaporate before it goes any further.”

“Come inside,” said Francis, easing his grip on the short, wide-muzzled blunderbuss used to fire shot with a scattering effect, good for pheasant hunting and close range only.

Jeremy felt Serena trembling under his touch. Once settled inside with Serena, Jeremy and Francis Nurse seated around the hearth fire, Jeremy began explaining. “Your mother’s principle accuser is Parris himself. Outside, an ominous wind whistled about the house. While the New England weather had warmed considerably by day, there remained a significant chill in the night air, a coldness that reached with icy fingers into the bones of men.

“When does your beau, Serena, tell us something we don’t already know?” asked Francis, a hand on Serena’s arm.

“Father, patience.” She nodded at Jeremy. “Please, go on. Tell us precisely what’s happened to send you racing to us, Jeremy.”

“While I’ve left Parris’ home and apprenticeship of my own volition, you could say I was kicked out.” He went on to explain his discovery of the coming Sabbath Day sermon and Parris’ prediction that he would excommunicate Rebecca Nurse for trafficking in the black arts.

“Where is this sermon now?” asked Serena.

“Not to worry,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I’ve seen to it the proper authorities have it, and it’s entered into evidence on the side of reason.”

“What authority do you refer to?” asked Rebecca Nurse, halfway down the stairwell. “The Sheriff, Williard, is in Parris’ pocket.”

“No, not Williard. I took it to the judges, Corwin and Hathorne, and both men were shocked at its intent and meaning. They know you are a virtuous woman of piety and have no doubt—”

“Corwin’s a sot, and both he and Hathorne are easily manipulated, depending which way the wind blows,” replied Francis, going to Rebecca to help her down the final steps.

Continuing down the stairs, Rebecca added, “That man Hathorne, now there is an opportunist. He stood with Andros until it was no longer popular to do so, and he ought be thrown out of office.”

“Both men are due to be voted out with the next elections,” agreed Francis, an arm around Rebecca. “This witchcraft business is precisely what they’ve been waiting for.”

“But I tell you, Corwin was outraged, as was Hathorne.” Jeremy waited for Rebecca to be seated, and meeting her eyes, and taking her hands in his, he assured her that the allegation was absurd. “I cornered both magistrates with a vile sermon that Parris planned for this week’s Sabbath Meeting, demonstrating that he planned both your arrest and your excommunication.”

“Imagine how absurd,” agreed Serena. “That dirty—”

“Watch your tongue, girl!” cautioned Rebbeca. “As far as it being absurd, that they should accuse me of witchcraft, you children are naïve.”

“Naïve?” replied Serena as if slapped. “I hate that man! Calls himself a Christian!”

“Trust me . . . “ began Rebecca, her eyes watering “. . . in the village yonder, there is nothing unimaginable anymore. I have seen the worst in human nature unleashed.”

“Then this comes as no surprise to any of you?” Jeremy asked, standing and pacing.

“It is kind of you, Mr. Wakely,” began Rebecca, accepting a cup of hot tea from Serena, “very kind to come all this way to warn us of conditions and threats coming from that quarter.”

“Mother’s kind name for Mr. Parris—that quarter,” said Serena, a smile breaking out.

“Some say you are his man,” added Rebecca, making Jeremy’s pacing come to an end. He dropped to one knee before the elderly woman.

“I am Increase Mather’s man.”

The reaction he got from Francis and Rebecca instantly told him that Serena had not given him away. “Mather…Boston has finally decided to do something for us?” asked Rebecca. “I cannot tell you how much we have petitioned Mr. Higginson for help from that quarter!”

The commotion having settled somewhat, Serena asked Jeremy if he’d care for hot tea. When Jeremy waved off the suggestion, Francis, explained, “We’ve pleaded with Mr. Higginson for relief from this man for as long as he’s been here.”

“I’m sure Mr. Hathorne and Mr. Corwin will end this thing soon with public hearings. They appear reasonable men, and they scoffed at the suggestion that they might admit the speeches of the dead as evidence in a court of law.”

“We’ve heard the rumors, that the Putnams are saying their many dead children were murdered at the hands of midwives attending Anne Carr Putnam’s birthings,” replied Rebecca.

“Then you are well-informed.” Jeremy looked about the room.

“We are well-informed,” Serena confirmed, “and Mother and Father are not taking it seriously enough, Jeremy. Tell them how serious such nastiness can become.”

“They are good men, the magistrates,” Rebecca said, her voice choking, “but I fear they are not strong men.” Rebecca, sipped at her tea. “Corwin is weak in the faith, one reason why he drinks. As for Hathorne, he is easily swayed if he sees benefit in it.”

“I am confident the magistrates will act in accordance with the law,” countered Jeremy. “That they will err on the side of caution and stir clear of accepting wild allegations coming from another world.”

“The Invisible World,” muttered Francis.

“It is quite real, you know,” added Rebecca.

“But it has no place in a New England courtroom,” said Jeremy.

“They must do right by us,” replied Francis. “They’ll not entertain rumors or rumors of rumors.”

“Or rumors of whispers of the dead,” added Rebeca.

“But if they see advantage in it, Mother, as you say—”

“What advantage in arresting and condemning the innocent?” asked Francis. “We have God on our side.”

It seemed each privately considered this, everyone staring now into the flames at the hearth.

“In the face of all that’s going on in Salem,” began Rebecca, breaking the silence, a little shake of her grayed head punctuating her remarks, “what is the right thing to do, Jeremiah? If you are Mather’s man, what would our Increase Mather have us do?”

Serena agreed, almost nose to nose with Jeremy. “You’re a student of the law. You tell us.”

Jeremy squirmed in his seat at the question. “Honestly, I suspect there will be a hanging—if not two, possibly three.”

“A hanging indeed,” muttered Rebecca. “I dreamt as much, Mr. Wakely.”

“And I predict as much. Possibly Sara Osborne, possibly Tituba Indian, and most assuredly—“

“Sarah Goode.” Rebecca’s eyes glazed over with some long ago memory. “We were children together, she and I. She early on was given to the dark side of life, thanks to her mother, a truly evil woman.”

“With that hag swinging from a tree,” Francis said, warming his wife’s tea, “I suppose some will be appeased.”

“While others will find it lacking,” countered Rebecca, her mind sharp. “This accusation hurled at me is pure nonsense, yet I can imagine all of those who’ve ever held an ill thought of us, Francis, since you took possession of the Towne lands, who believe it the truth.”

“Balderdash, and libelous venom is what it is!” Francis’ eyes flared, his teeth grinding. “I plan to sue!”

“You men are all so anxious to take one another to court,” Rebecca chastised and laughed.

“Are you laughing at me?” asked Francis.

“Such a litigious lot. I tell you, Mr. Wakely, our menfolk will take to court whenever a sow dries up, a crop fails, or hens refuse to lay.”

“This is not about hens and crops, Goodwife Nurse,” countered Jeremy. “They’re saying you and your sisters murdered infants, that you midwives used knitting needles to their brains and hearts.”

“What?” asked Serena, who’d not gotten this news before now.

“At or near birth, aye, with needles to the brain and heart,” added Francis, pacing now.

“Then you’ve heard the details of this terrible accusation?” asked Jeremy.

“As has half the village.” Francis yanked at his beard. “Thanks to our enemies who’ve pounced on it.”

“Oh, my,” began Rebecca, “and I thought I’d only offended Mr. Parris with sermons from my sickbed.” She giggled like a school girl.

“He’s convinced the Putnams,” added Jeremy, “Thomas and his wife Anne, who apparently didn’t need much convincing, and now their daughter and Parris niece—”

“The Wolcott girl,” interrupted Rebecca. “Poor thing.”

“That poor thing stood before the judges and condemned you and your sisters—calling you all murderesses.”

“Mr. Wakely, that child and the Putnam child, they have had horrendous lives and are to be pitied, sir.”

“Mother, those little witches have accused you and my aunts of . . . of murder and witchcraft for the purpose of murder! How can you be so calm and for-forgiving?”

“What possible motive? Other than that which’s been stirred and boiled in the parish for years?” asked Fancis, still pacing until he stumbled.

Serena then made him sit, and she poured more tea for everyone.

Jeremy, hands raised, continued. “Apparently, it’s to do with some vague notion that you and yours’ve faired so well here in Salem, accumulating wealth and land that—”

“But our religion teaches us that if we live well, God’s grace will bathe us and deposit all our needs at our feet,” Rebecca countered.

“Exactly,” added Francis while Serena finished off Jeremy’s cup. Jeremy could see from her features that Serena’s concern had increased, despite her mother’s inner calm and her father’s attempt to understand a rationale for these events that had come back to point a finger at his wife.

“They twist it entirely round to suit their needs!” Serena’s voice shook the others.

“Serena’s right,” agreed Jeremy, going to her, putting an arm about her.

“I’ve heard it all my life,” Serena continued, tears freely coming. “Must be magic! Must be enchantment; work of the Devil! And his invisible minions at our side to make this place work so well!”

“Calm yourself, child,” counseled Rebecca. “No thinking person can possibly— at his core—believe such nonsense of us.”

“But they do, Goodwife . . . ” muttered Francis. “Some want in their bones to believe it. Have you forgotten our quarrels with the Wilkinses? The Putnams? The Porters?

She shushed him. “Old news, trash!”

“No, don’t shush me! Since the day we married, how often’ve we been hauled into court with them that want your father’s land returned to the public trust?” Francis looked keenly at Jeremy when he said this, nodding firmly. “You know it’s true, Mr. Wakely! How many times’ve they attempted to divvy it up? Hathorne and Corwin among them?”

“Hathorne? Corwin?” asked Jeremy. “They’ve wanted the same with respect to your property? I’ve seen the Boston court records, sir, but I didn’t know of any lesser court involvements.”

“Tried desperately they did.”

“To take your land?”

“To create a law against a man or a woman inheriting property originally given out as a land grant.”

“I think the wording I saw,” added Rebecca, “ was that a man’s daughters marrying into other families cannot use land-grant property as part of her dowry.”

“I’ve never in all my studies heard of such an attempt at land theft.” Jeremy’s mouth hung open with a frightening thought. “Parris knows the history of this business?”

“It’s public record and back fence talk!”

“Of course.”

“And you, Jeremiah,” shouted Serena, pulling loose from his touch, “you fool.”

He knew instantly what she meant, as did her father and mother, but Rebecca

scolded her daughter for her lapse in manners.

“Mother, he’s left this sermon that predicts your guilt and orders your excommunication as Goode’s cohort in the hands of our enemies.”

“I admit that I trusted Hathorne. He and Corwin assured me.”

“Aye,” moaned Francis, “as they might, until Samuel Parris whispers in their ears.”

Rebecca sipped at her tea. “Whispers the words land grant retrieval.”

“How? How can we get their land?” Serena paced round the room, taking her turn at it—angry and at one point lifting the blunderbuss that had a place beside the door. “It’s the chief question tumbling through their heads. Well, just let them try to take my mother to use as a pawn in their land grab.”

“This is a witch hunt, not a land hunt,” argued Jeremiah but weakly. “I mean Tituba Indian has nothing to speak of, and Goode has no property but what she carries on her back, and Osborne has a fallen-down shack and a few acres of weed and a bean field.”

“These so-called witches are a smokescreen, don’t you see?” she countered, shaking the gun in her hand. “Them that’ve been arrested so far, they look like witches, act like witches, have history as having delved in the black arts, and frankly, if a person could be hanged for their evil thoughts, the entire village must go to the gallows.”

“Easy, dear! Watch yourself,” pleaded Rebecca.

“And put that blunderbuss away before you hurt someone!” added Francis. “We must do as Mother says by her example—remain calm. In the end, it will go well with us, as it always has. We have faith, and they don’t dare come out here with their damned arrest warrants.”

“But suppose your daughter is right, Mr. Nurse,” asked Jeremy. “Mrs. Nurse?”

Francis looked stricken at the idea, and he searched Rebecca for an answer. When she said nothing, he burst out with, “Then we will fight them with every breath.”

“If they come for Mother Nurse,” warned Jeremy, “they’ll come armed and in numbers.”

“Then we call my sons and the Townes, the Tarbells, and the Cloyeses together,” he defiantly replied, “and not for no picnic; rather for battle.”

“I won’t hear of such!” Rebecca shouted at Francis and threw a brush she’d been clutching at him. “You are not to get Ben or Joseph or any of my boys harmed over this! The grandchildren, all those boys spoiling for a fight! Do you understand?”

Francis frowned and picked up the brush that’s barely missed him.

“Tell me that you understand!”

“I understand your wishes, Mother.” Francis stepped to a window and stared out at the surrounding darkness.

“Do you promise, old man?” she had gotten up and pursued him and said this in his ear.

Francis gritted his teeth and turned to face her. “You expect men to stand aside? Your sons and I to-to stand by and watch them arrest you, place shackles on you, put you in that ugly cart they’ve used to parade Goode, Osborne, and Tituba through the streets?”

“We can’t do that, Mother!” Serena firmly said, the blunderbuss still in hand.

“You can and you will. I will not have any of you harmed, Serena. Besides, this is no surprise, as you say—brewing for many years.”

Jeremy raised a hand to the upset family. “So this witchcraft accusation against Mother Nurse is their latest expedient, but we have cards to play as well. Look, we need to get word to Boston.” He held up a piece of paper. “The authorities in Boston must be informed.”

“You do that, Mr. Wakely,” said Rebecca, sarcasm tingeing her voice.

“What is this you have, Jeremy?” asked Serena of the flurrying parchment in his hand.

“I made a copy, word for word!”

“Parris’ sermon?”

Francis’ eyes lit up. “The one you left with Corwin and Hathorne?”

“The very same.”

“Good man!” exclaimed Francis.

Serena grabbed Jeremy by the arm and tugged him into a kiss on the cheek.

Mother Nurse muttered solemnly, “Then take our sore village news to Boston and plead for better men to come in and take over the courts here, Jeremiah, and challenge Mr. Parris, and throw him from our midst, as you would fulfill a prophetic dream of all in this house.” Rebecca paused over her tea. “It’s a dream I’d love to see bear fruit, but I remain skeptical.”

“What other recourse have we?” he countered while Serena and Francis looked over Parris’ sermon naming Mother Nurse a witch to be excommunicated. “We’ve no time to waste. I’ll ride for Boston tonight.”

“You will do no such thing,” the elderly woman now chastised her guest. “I hear thunder in the distance.”

“I suspect it’s Mr. Putnam and the militia, firing off that damn cannon again.” Francis helplessly watched the good China jump.

“Still, it’s a moonless night.” Rebecca motioned for more tea. “And there’re highwaymen at work on such nights. You go tomorrow with the sun in your face.”

“As always, Mother is right,” said Francis, hugging her to him even as she sat. “She has always been my guide. The brains around here.” He laughed, his wife laughed, Serena tried to laugh, but it fell flat as she returned Jeremy’s copy of the villainous sermon, and then she set aside the gun for the teapot. Jeremy managed a smile at this.

“I suspect we are all safe tonight,” said Francis, now calmed it seemed by his wife’s demeanor. “Can’t see the sheriff and his men coming out at this hour.”

“Not even to please Sam Parris?” Serena half-joked.

“All the same, you must each promise me here and now that if—and when—they come,” began Rebecca, “because they will come as sure as I am before you, that you will not lift a finger to resist them.” This made them all stare at Rebecca. “Promise! You must all promise me now! Serena? Francis? Jeremiah?”

“It’s Ben you need worry about,” countered Francis.

“It’s why I sent him away to Connecticut to buy that fool machine he wants for lumbering.” Ben had long wanted to start his own lumber mill.

“Clever old girl,” muttered Francis.

“Promise me!” she erupted.

Francis, his voice dripping with reluctance, finally said, “I already made promise.”

Serena refused to make any such promise, making it clear that she could not. When her mother insisted, she ran outside and onto the porch, Jeremy pursuing. Under the stars, he held her close. “I’m sorry to bring such news to your home, Serena, to disturb the peace of your lives, but I thought you all must be warned, including your aunts and uncles.”

From inside, they heard Mother Nurse shout, “Jeremiah, Serena! I shall hold you to your word, each of you.”

Again the night fell silent, and Jeremy kissed Serena passionately. She returned his kiss and held him tight. Then they heard the murmurs of her parents inside.

“What are they saying?” Jeremy asked her.

Serena wiped away tears and sniffled. Mother’s praying everyone in Salem, and for the family, for us all, including you.”

“Peace, she’s asking for,” Jeremy said, catching a few words now.

“Peace,” Serena sneered. “When have we ever known peace in this parish?”

“I wish I could make this all go away, Serena; you know that I love you, and I only want the best for you and your family.”

“Nothing to be done tonight,” she muttered, her hands clasped in his.

“Nothing?”

“Hold me.”

“Done.”

Chapter Two

Jeremiah and Serena shared the swing porch, and after a quick glimpse around to be certain no one was peeking out at them, they shared several more passionate kisses. Sometime later, she arranged for him to sleep in Ben’s room as a guest of the Nurse family.

Jeremy spent a fitful night’s rest, certain that Serena had even less sleep, so deep was her fear for her mother’s safety. Samuel Parris had transformed from an awkward, bumbling, rude and obnoxious minister to the earthly embodiment of evil itself. “Satan transformed,” as Serena had put it. An apt summation, even if you didn’t believe Satan capable of walking the earth. Evil certainly did. And evil so often took a pleasing shape, and if not a pleasing form then an everyday, dull, ordinary one, one so mundane as to be ignored or shooed off without being given a thought, and in that lack of interest or thought, it struck like a viper. Too oft ignored for too long—as in this case, Jeremy thought even as he awoke the next day and found himself in young Ben Nurse’s bed. Ben was younger than Serena by a year, but he thought himself a wise old man, taking after his father. Even when they were all children, Ben could not be controlled, and it had been wise to get him out of the vicinity. Surely, Rebecca knew her brood.

Jeremy stood nude, feeling good that he had for the first time since arriving in Salem been comfortable enough to sleep in his skin alone; he’d not once felt comfortable enough in the Parris home to do so. He now stretched and examined his body before a bureau mirror. Fearful of a paunch that seemed to be overtaking him, he did twenty pushups and fifty sit-ups to prepare for the difficult journey ahead by horseback. He did all this quietly in an attempt to wake no one.

He then quickly dressed, feeling better prepared for the hard ride necessary this morning than he had been the night before. He wrote out a note to Serena and her parents, explaining that’d he’d gotten out before dawn to make haste, and that none should worry about him.

So far, so good. The house remained silent, the only noise a simmering ember at the big hearth as Jeremy passed when a loose board reported his heft atop it.

He slipped out and onto the porch, gently closing the door, his saddlebag over his shoulder—the copy of Parris’ sermon that he’d made tucked within. Now more than ever, he must get it to Cotton Mather. But what of Higginson? Should he stop a the First Church of Salem Town to share all that had happened in his absence at Corwin’s the night before? Or should he be better served if Jeremy raced to the doorstep of Cotton Mather?

He felt the chill morning air on his face while trying to decide, and in the distance a dull gray light spread over the seaport in the distance. Morning minus sunlight, he realized. In fact, there were so many grim and dark clouds covering the sky that it looked made of various grades of pewter. Frowning, Jeremy accepted his fate, that the thunder of the night before had been cannon fire down in the village—Putnam, Ingersoll, and others playing at soldier—and that the April storm had come today. Jeremy would be riding under a downpour and would likely not see any sunshine from here to Boston.

He made his way to the stables where the night before he’d bedded down Dancer. Jeremy worked to ready the horse for travel, and the animal sensed they would soon be underway when Jeremy removed his feedbag. After saddling up, Jeremy draped the saddlebag across Dancer’s rump and cinched it tight. “Might be a wet trip,” he said to his horse. “But I trust you’ll get me there, girl.”

“I wish I could go with you,” came Serena’s voice from behind him. She’d stood silent at the barn door watching him bridle and saddle Dancer, not speaking as he snatched hard at the last cinches to his bags.

“I didn’t want to wake the house,” he said to her.

“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye!” She rushed at him and together they leaned into Dancer, exchanging a long kiss that she did not wish to have an end to. He wrapped his arms around her, and Dancer looked on, craning his neck.

“Do you really believe the authorities in Boston will help us, Jeremy? Do you think your going there will change anything?”

He smiled wide. “I will plea for calm and sanity to prevail, as I have in my letters.”

“Letters?”

“I’ve been in correspondence with Cotton Mather since my arrival.”

“All this time?”

“All this time, yes.” Even as he assured Serena, he secretly hoped it was not too late to stem the cankerous tide spreading from the village in every direction save the west where only aboriginals lived. Given the state of affairs in the colony, Jeremy felt grateful there were no hostilities with the native Indians nowadays. But the thought revived an old concern of the villagers, one Ingersoll had drummed into Jeremy when he was a boy working as sentinel at Watch Hill: that Salem Village found itself land-locked and unable to grow. Impossible to grow westward without creating hostilities with the natives, impossible to grow north due to Topsfield’s border, Southward Swampscott—useless land for the most part due to the salty backwaters, and East of the dividing line of Ipwsich Road? The Nurse-Towne family compound hugged those valuable waterways.

“Hold on,” he said to Serena. “Has your father a map of the area?”

“Indeed, he has many.”

“One showing the lay of the land—hills, valleys, rivers?”

“Yes, why?”

“I must have a detailed map with me when I see Mather. Seeing is believing.”

“And what kind of man is he Cotton Mather?”

“A minister like his father, and a man devoted to peace.”

“I’ll get the map, but I want to know what you’re thinking.”

“Come along then.”

They found Francis who’d just roused from sleep, and together they went to his study and pulled forth a detailed map of the entire area. One which illustrated precisely what Jeremiah had thought. The Nurse-Towne properties waved a red flag at the center of the firestorm.

Jeremiah, Serena and Francis together made enough noise in the house to arouse Mother Nurse who’d surprised them at the doorway, curious as to why they were rummaging in over maps. With the Nurses and Serena looking on, Jeremy pointed out how very isolated Salem Village was. “The village parish, not the seaport,” he added. “Hemmed in on all sides, unless it finds a way to grow. I have it on good authority that Samuel Parris has invested in a mineworks operated by Putnam and Wilkins.”

“The one that caved in?” asked Francis, surprised.

“Family business,” Jeremy muttered. “I overheard some remarks passed between Parris and Putnam but thought little of it at the time, but look here. The mine is here at Wills Hill, a short distance to the Frost Fish River but see here?”

“Our land,” muttered Francis.

The map clearly showed the Ipswich Road in bold relief. This road and the lines depicting the borders with other villages and Salem Town, and the myriad of rivers connected up in such a way as to eerily mock the shape of the human heart.

Rebecca pointed this odd fact out to the others, giving them all pause. “Human heart. Where fear and ignorance take root. “The same heart capable of undying love,” she added. “What’re you hatching, Jeremiah Wakely?”

“I’m pointing out to your husband, ma’am, that your lands are worth everything to the village at large—not just Parris.”

“Worth everything?”

“If the village is ever to expand and grown, yes—every material thing.”

“And they’ll do anything to get our land, I fear,” muttered Francis.

“I fear so, sir,” said Jeremiah. “May I have the map?”

“For the fools in Boston?”

“Yes, for one fool in Boston in particular. To more easily demonstrate our cause.”

“Take the map,” said Rebecca, “and Jeremiah . . . ”

“Yes, Mother Nurse?”

“Take Serena with you.”

“What?” asked Serena.

“You’ve never seen Boston,” her mother said, smiling. “Never been beyond Salem Harbor, child.”

“But Mother, my place is—”

“Go and be married there, the two of you!” Rebecca’s voice cracked. “I know how you two feel about one another. Your love is written on your faces.”

“Father?” asked Serena.

He shrugged. “I saw you on the porch swing.” He giggled.

“Married? Boston?” repeated Serena. “Don’t be mad. Jeremy hasn’t proposed—besides, if I’m to be wed, it’s a big wedding I want! Surrounded by—”

“For once, young woman, simply do as I tell you!” Rebecca shouted, causing a pain in her chest that sent a hand to her heart. “Don’t argue, Serena, please. Tell her, Francis!”

Francis rushed to his wife to support her both physically and in word. “It is obvious you two love one another. Mother is right. Elope to Boston, marry, do what you can about this matter here, Jeremiah, and come back to us safe, and you, young woman--return with the name Wakely.”

“So that’s it. You want me no longer a Nurse? To hide behind the name Wakely? Even if it were so, I’m a Nurse!”

“No, child,” said her mother. “We want you away from here at any cost.”

“Like Ben? No, I won’t hide from a fight.”

“No one expects you to,” countered Rebecca, sitting now, catching her breath, “but you do love this man and always have, true? Is it not true?”

Serena felt Jeremy take her hand. “Will you be my wife?” he asked.

“You like this idea of marrying in Boston?”

“You’ll love Boston.”

Serena paced, circling the room. “I don’t know. . . I don’t know.”

“Don’t know about Boston or about me?” Jeremy again pressed her hand in his.

“I love you, Jeremy,” she said, their eyes meeting, everyone and everything else in the room melting away, “and-and I accept your proposal of marriage.”

A cheer went up from Francis and Rebecca, and Jeremy took Serena in his arms. Francis hugged Rebecca to him.

“But we shan’t tarry long in Boston, Jeremy,” Serena remarked. “We must get back as quickly as possible.”

“Is that the only condition of marriage you propose?” he joked but instantly saw that she wasn’t amused, and he guessed she was thinking of the empty house on the compound where they’d made love, the one she hoped one day to turn into a home with him. “Yes, it’s a condition. Yes!”

“I accept your condition. Now we need saddle up another horse.”

“My roan will do best on a long journey.”

“When all this nonsense in Salem settles to a dull roar,” promised Francis, “we will have a wedding feast for you two!” He shook Jeremy’s hand briskly and hugged Serena to him, tears in his eyes. Serena went to her mother and they held tight to one another for a long time.

# # # # #

Salem Village Parish, Sabbath Day, March 30th

From behind his slender pinewood pulpit, the gaunt Samuel Parris stood on a platform that raised him above his people. Parris 6’1 frame was now seven-foot tall, and his hapless expression, nose, chin, even his ears and the veins in his neck had been put into play—now part of the anger and rage he demonstrated against those who’d dare attack a minister’s daughter through channels of witchcraft and demonism.

His eyes, sunken and blackened from days and nights without sleep, seeing to the needs of the congregation while seeing to his bewitched children at home, told the story of a man put upon by the Devil himself.

Parris was disappointed he’d be unable to move to excommunicate Rebecca Nurse and her sisters today. Such action, he’d been advised was premature according to the judges who wished to lay more groundwork and preparation before such accusations as those against the Nurse and Towne women were made official and public. All the same, word got round. Word of what lay in wait on the court docket.

While the magistrates’ hesitation proved upsetting, Parris believed that the judges were leaning in the direction of his view of things. In fact, Parris felt confident that he had convinced Corwin and Hathorne of their duty once he’d ridded himself and his home of that weasel, Jeremiah Wakely. A traitor, whose sole purpose had been to discredit me, no doubt an agent for Mr. Higginson rather than Increase Mather—whose signature was no doubt now a forgery made by the man’s son—Cotton Mather!

Parris had revealed these truths to the Salem judges, but what had truly tipped the scales with the judges had been the matter of the old Towne land grant, which had been contested for years. What with the old man having no male heirs and what with the land falling into the hands of three sisters, all of whom married Nurse, Tarbell, and Cloyse men, and not one of them willing to return so much as an acre back to the common holdings of the village; it all added up to two angry and shrewd judges.

“If any one of these women in that family can be proved a witch . . . ” Parris had led the magistrates to the water.

Hathorne had nodded, saying, “A-And proved a witch at the time of being heir and assign—”

“W-When old Jacob Towne passed on,” added Corwin.

“Then that negates their rights to every bloody acre,” finished Parris the same night as Jeremiah Wakely had knocked him down with his horse—for which he meant to bring charges once he got round to it.

“Careful of foul words on your tongue, Mr. Parris,” Corwin had cautioned at their last meeting. “Such language can invite the devil in, as they say.”

Parris had gone away that night secure in the knowledge that the magistrates had as much to gain as he, as Putnam, as others of his faction if and when Rebecca Nurse and her sisters were formally accused, a warrant made, all three arrested, jailed, and brought to his church for the cleansing needed there. The ritual of excommunication had already been performed today with Goodwife Sarah Osborne. Goode had been put through the ritualized outcasting at the time he’d arranged to have her child, Dorcas Goode, removed from her.

Parris hadn’t brought Tituba into his church for public humiliation, referring to her as a cooperating eyewitness to the demonic reveling going on in Burnham Woods just beyond his apple orchard. He stressed that it was his orchard and not the parish orchard being picked clean by the devils. The previous week he’d stood at the pulpit and denounced those bold felons who filled a bushel basket to bring to his door as paltry payment for his rate. Every parishioner, including his closest allies such as Putnam, owed monies on his rate; every man, woman, and child had routinely paid their tithes to him in goods, often goods he had no need of, and if he saw one more basket of apples on his doorstep with a note attached with the word tithes scribbled across it, he’d publicly read these names at next Sabbath meeting.

“And I need not one more bean, nor potato, nor onion. My woodshed is full even now, my barn full of hay, my animals stocked with grain. What I need is coin.”

After speaking on these church business matters, he delivered his sermon, all the while upset, at the back of his mind thinking how much he’d wanted to deliver the sermon he’d first prepared for today—the one stolen by that miscreant Wakely and now in Hathorne’s hands. While he felt confident that Hathorne would bury the sermon until which time as it was appropriate to give it, and that he would not use Parris’ fervor and enthusiasm, nor his premature judgments against him. “After all,” Hathorne had summed up, “we are all of us going into the battle for souls in Salem.”

Just as Wakely meant for Hathorne and Corwin to condemn Parris for publicly disclaiming a woman not yet arrested, Parris meant to point out that he had a pipeline to the good souls whispering into the ear of his daughter and nieces. On the one count, he wanted to engage the enemy now, today, at this Sabbath Meeting, but on the second, suppose events turned, setting the magistrates against proceeding in the manner that he so hoped that they might? They had hinted at making contact first with authorities in Boston before proceeding. He must be patient and faithful that the judges would act in his favor.

In which case he must curb his tongue and slash his sermon from its present stark, sure prejudice against Francis Nurse and his kith and kin. After which, he hoped to move against his other stubborn, dissenting elder—John Proctor. He’d start with the wife, Goodwife Proctor.

But for the moment, his raw sermon blasting Rebecca Nurse for a heretic, if taken in the same light as Jeremiah Wakely had made of it, could work to his disadvantage; could even ruin a minister and end his hold over these people; could end his hold on the parish property he’d fought to keep now for three bitter years. Years filled with stress and turmoil no man should have to face. Turmoil brought on by people calling themselves his neighbors. People within his own congregation who first chose not to come to meetings, and slowly began having meetings elsewhere—out of their homes.

“I’ve shown the patience of Job . . . endured the pains of hell . . . the suffering yea of Christ himself at your hands!” he’d shouted at his congregation now from the pulpit that lifted him above all gathered before him (an abuse of Puritan belief in itself).

“Yes, at your hands!” he’d continued, his finger pointing and quaking at his flock, many of them children cringing against their mothers, but many another child unable to hold onto their mothers or fathers, as they had been removed from their families and placed into their positions as maid and manservant. Maidservants sat with their adoptive families, and few felt close enough to their foster parents to blubber into their clothing or clutch their hands despite the hell and brimstone the minister administered this morning.

“Do not misunderstand me!” Parris bellowed. “This indictment is not directed at all of you! Many of you have supported me in spirit and wellbeing, and you support me now in my darkest hour while under attack by the most heinous demons and witches ever Hades spawned. And for this, I humbly, humbly thank you who have always supported my family!”

This had sent up a wave of halleluiahs, grunts, and affirmations.

“My brethren . . . my brethren, I wish to relate to you a story…a story of betrayal which will explain to you the sudden absence of one Jeremiah Wakely who no longer resides in my home, no longer deserves my concern or respect, and no longer is—nor in truth ever was an apprentice in the ministry!”

Gasps escaped many in the congregation.

“He lied; his entire charade was a lie, and I being a humble man, untutored in the ways of chicanery and masquerade, only two days ago learned only recently his true nature and identity. The man was put on me to gather in evidence against me in order to find cause in the courts to remove me from you, to take me from my flock, and to set me a-wandering and adrift from you.”

“Who? Who is behind it all?” asked Thomas Putnam, standing and stating his lines rather dumbly and not so well as he’d practiced.

“I’m glad you ask, Deacon Putnam.” Parris followed with a tale of conspiracy against him, tying Jeremiah’s visit to Salem to a “certain element among us whom I have referred to many times at this pulpit to no avail. Say it with me, one and all.”

With Parris leading the congregation, they all said in chanting tone, “The dissenting brethren. The dissenters. Dissenters.”

“Yes, I believe it so,” added Parris. “The dissenting brethren among us.”

Francis Nurse, who’d dared to show for Sabbath Day, stood at this and shouted, “Mr. Parris, there is no one in this congregation who had any indication or knowledge that Mr. Wakely was anything but what he presented himself as.”

“No one, Mr. Nurse?”

“I am still an elder here, sir, and I am not given to lies or conspiracies of any sort. Nor is my wife, or anyone in our family.”

“Does that extend to your sisters-in-law and to the Tarbells, the Cloyses, and the Townes, sir?”

“None of whom had any contact with this man Wakely before his showing up here.”

“Can you say, Mr. Nurse, in all good heart, that no one in your camp asked Reverend Higginson down in the Harbor to arrange for this man Wakely to infiltrate my home like a common thief in the night?”

“I can, sir!”

“That no Nurse, no Cloyse, no Tarbell had any part to play in this spying, conniving man’s coming into my home? My home which is an extension of this church and therefore sacrosanct?”

“I tell you we had no part in any such doings, and with that I am leaving, sir.”

Francis stomped from the meetinghouse, and every son, nephew, niece with him. They left a large hole in the pews they’d occupied. Some were snatched at by other members of the church, and some were scolded.

John Tarbell, a brother-in-law to Francis Nurse, stopped at the meetinghouse door to say, “I’m a simple man. Cut my lumber. Work hard to feed my family, put food on the table. Francis speaks the truth. We are none of us cohorts with this fellow Wakely or Mr. Higginson in any kind of plan to undermine Mr. Parris, although we respect and admire the old minister at Salem Town as we might a grandfather—who by the way lies on his deathbed and is himself no part of this business! That’s all I ’ave to say.”

Parris had shouted after the retreating figures, “You say you’re not in cohorts with these conspirators, yet Wakely has been seeing Francis Nurse’s daughter!”

This sent up a fresh round of grunts, gasps, and a giggle or two from the older children.

“Words got round! It’s true,” added Ingersoll, “but it don’t prove the girl’s family is plotting with Jeremy Wakely.” Ingersoll stood to make his point, and shrugging, he added, “I knew Jeremy was up to something moment I saw him dressed as a minister. He was never comfortable in the role.”

“You didn’t know anymore’n the rest of us about the man,” countered Thomas Putnam.

“You needn’t get belligerent about it,” defended Ingersoll. “I spent more time with him than you. I sensed he was uneasy is all I’m saying.”

“Do you think him the black man spoken of by the witnesses?” asked Mrs. Putnam. “The one who holds the Devil’s book?”

The entire congregation from the oldest man to the youngest child had been raised on the Antichrist, and they all knew that the Antichrist conducted an anti-ritual that mocked the rituals of their church, and the bible he held and marked names in was the antithesis of the Holy Bible.

“No, Wakely is nothing more than a misguided, used man in a badly conceived plot against me,” countered Parris. “No, the Antichrist serving up the Black Sabbath in those woods has been positively identified!”

This sent up a fresh round of gasps and everyone began searching the features of others.

“Wakley is a pawn for the Boston authorities, but this man I will name, he is a pawn for authorities of Hell itself! Our own deputized authorities are on their way to Maine as we speak to arrest this man! To bring him back to face charges here in what once was his own pulpit!” Parris brought a righteous fist down on his pulpit.

“Burroughs?” asked Bray Wilkins from the back of the room.

“Aye, you’ve deciphered it!” Parris replied as if rewarding Wilkins. “Right and we must ever remain in the right, my brethren.”

“Reverend George Burroughs, a cunning man, a warlock?” asked Thomas Putnam, pretending he’d never heard the accusation before.

“He was a strange sort, after all,” added another parishioner.

“I recall his dancing about like a madman while preaching,” said the carpenter, Fiske.

“As if on hot coals even as he used the word of God,” suggested Anne Putnam Senior.

“Remember his doing cartwheels on the green,” said another.

“Back flips and contortions no man could possibly do without—”

“—Without some strength and agility perhaps given him from-from outside forces.”

“Do you recall the strength he displayed?”

Parris came down to the floor and went to the end of the front pew where he had insisted his wife be in attendance with the sick Betty in her arms. “In mid-sermon, this man Burroughs once lifted this very pew and balanced it on one hand—or so Brother Putnam once informed me.

“And the pulpit itself!” added Putnam.

They all contemplated how Burroughs’ behavior mocked the very meetinghouse he preached in, and how he had once lifted an entire pew while people sat in it. He’d done so, ostensibly to demonstrate, he had said, God’s hand in the biblical tale of Samson and Delilah. He had made the suggestion that the women among the villagers were more cunning than Delilah ever hoped to be.

Suddenly his voice raised several octaves higher, Parris said, “The money-changers desecrated the Temple, and only one man—Christ—one brave man—stood up against them, to cry out against their desecration, and now an ugly desecration has returned to stain this land, and why do you suppose? Why this time? And in this remote place, why should the ruler of all Hades come here to Salem, eh?”

The meetinghouse had fallen silent.

“A good question,” Ingersoll mustered a response.

“Why now indeed? Why not now?” asked Parris. “Why, think on it! We are without a Charter. Withheld from us by England since the overthrow of Andros,” continued Parris. “In effect, without rule. We are without rule ourselves! Here where we Puritans have carved out ground for a new Jerusalem, a new and decent place on the face of this scarred old world? A world filled with money-changers and sinners! Why this time and place indeed!”

It was a moving argument. A strange vapor of energy hung in the air above the heads of the assembled people as their minister had rushed up and down the aisles, bringing home his point. An odor of brine, aging oak wood pews, the sand floor, the mud shuffled in on boots and shoes conspired with the perspiration of the hundred or so assembled here.

“Look you all into the eye of your neighbor and determine if he be friend or foe!” Parris continued. “Which of you live a lie among us? Which of you have broken covenant with your faith, with me, and with God?”

Parris had them in silence once again.

The smallest child and babe had frozen. “No amount of deeds or acts can change the course of God’s greater design. We all know this! Those Chosen among us, they’re not selected tomorrow . . . ” He paused to allow this to sink in . . .“nor yesterday, but at the beginning of time, my brethren!”

Halleluiahs punctuated the single voice that now filled the meetinghouse from entry to pulpit, spilling out the windows and doors.

“We all know the faith!” continued Parris, roaming the large space. “Everyone here knows that he or she, whether elder, deacon, husband, Goodwife, child, or maidservant, that one’s fate is sealed. Sealed not by man or dictum or law but by God. Not even the Harbor Town Council can change that.”

This brought about a mix of laughter and groaning agreements among those remaining.

“But we must ever remind ourselves of these facts,” Parris solemnly reminded them, moving up and down the rows, meeting people in the crowd eye-to-eye. “Outward prosperity, outward show whether the richest merchants in our midst with the greatest number of livestock, and yes, children and grandchildren and friends and relatives—these are no indicators of God’s grace! We all know this from birth, correct?”

The elders erupted with a chorus of amens and corrects, punctuated by the sounds of several young girls in the meetinghouse shouting, “True, too true!” Among these was little Anne Putnam and Mercy Lewis.

“What then is an indication that God shines upon us?” asked Mrs. Putnam, surprising everyone. Women seldom voiced a word in meeting, and in a single day, she’d spoken up twice, emboldened by Parris’ words.

As if emboldened by her mother’s question, Anne Junior began barking in the manner of a dog, growling and going onto all fours, crawling down the aisle, where she went into a sudden, uncontrollable fit—limbs suddenly freezing up, turning to wood.

“My God!” cried out Mrs. Putnam, going to her child and falling over her, covering her with her body. “Harm me, take me, not my child!” she pleaded as if to some invisible person. “It’s Mrs. Bailey,” she called out to others. “James Bailey’s poor wife.”

“Why does she attack your, Anne?”

“She’s angry!” cried the child, Anne. “Come back from the grave, angry that none knew she was murdered, too, ’long with her children!”

The crowd shuddered at these words.

Little Anne continued. “Poisoned by her maidservant and husband, ’long with the children.”

“But why? Why?”

“To run off together—her and Bailey! They were lovers, sinners!”

Ingersoll worked hard to recall aloud, “Who was this maidservant? Try as I might, I can’t picture her, nor recall a name.”

“We’ll scour the colonies to find anyone guilty, so as to return the guilty to justice,” Parris assured his frightened congregation, most now on their feet, prepared to bolt yet holding, curious, hoping to catch a glimpse of the spirit, the deceased Mrs. Bailey that little Anne pointed to in the ether over their heads.

Suddenly Mercy Lewis fell to the floor kicking and screaming that some ugly hag was stabbing her with needles, trying to jam one into her brain and another into her heart. She scuttled across the dirt floor like a crab, and she then grabbed hold of Anne, the two hugging one another now in a mimic of how they held one another in private.

At this, the entire congregation became agitated, some rushing for the exit, some knocking others out of the way for a better look at the suffering children. The screams, shouts, and general pandemonium had turned the once peaceful meetinghouse into a snake pit.

Another Nurse man, Joseph, shouted over the din but no one could hear his words: “What uses would you have us make of this sermon, Mr. Parris?”

No one heard but Anne Putnam who looked up at Joseph Nurse with two chilling speckled eyes of coal and hatred. A stark look of loathing that was not lost on young Joseph Nurse, who, among all the Nurse clan, had heard of the false allegations going around about Mother Nurse.

Chapter Three

Two nights later at the Home of Francis and Rebecca Nurse

Francis had come home from Sabbath meeting on the 16th of April and had relayed all that Parris had said, ending with how he and all the other Nurse men, save Joseph, had stormed from the place in sheer disgust. Only later had the others learned from Joseph how the children had fallen and groveled before the remaining congregation, declaring themselves under attack from invisible forces—witches whirling about like dirt devils invisible to the eye, save those eyes of the children who Parris had immediately christened: the Seer Children.

“Now Ingersoll’s isn’t a large enough playground for them, they must do their antics at the meetinghouse!” he angrily relayed to Rebecca.

All the same, a sense of impending doom had settled in over the Nurse home, and Rebecca and Francis had begun to worry and to miss Serena. Other family members had begun to shun them for fear of being named in an indictment. The numbers coming to Rebecca for bible readings in her room had been dwindling, and now she knew the reason why.

“No man knows his time,” Francis was philosophizing and smoking his pipe at the same time where they rocked on the front porch, listening to birds and squirrels that chased about the trees. April had brought warmth and a pleasant breeze tonight.

“Nor any woman,” Rebecca had added to the rhythm of her slowly rocking back and forth. “As with Israel.”

Francis nodded knowingly. The couple knew every biblical story forward and backward.

Rebecca added, “I’m recalling one of Reverend Higginson’s favorite verses.”

“What is that, dear?” He patted her hand.

The stars lit a clear sky overhead. Insects set up a chorus all round them.

“The stork in the heavens.”

“Ah-yes.”

“The stork knows her appointed time; the turtle and the crane and the swallow,” she continued, rocking lightly. “They all know the time of their coming.”

“I think there is more?” he asked, setting his pipe aside, working to recall the words. “Oh, yes, ‘but my people know not the judgment of the Lord’.”

She snorted. “I think Reverend Parris knows not the judgment of the Lord, but he will one day. One day, we all will.”

“Aye to that indeed.” Francis stood and straightened the shawl about her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“I confess one worldly vanity I cannot escape, Goodman Nurse.”

“And what might that be, Goodwife?”

She hesitated a moment, “Aside from my affection for you, old man, I feel deeply for my children and grandchildren, and I have too much loved Sabbath Days.”

“Not the worst of worldly vanities,” he said and chuckled. He had spent time aboard ships at sea before settling down as a young man, and he had seen true cruelty and true vanity side by side.

“I mean that I care so much for the word, and I wish we’d never left Salem Town sometimes; that we had made our lives there—for the reason I would have seen more of Mr. Higginson’s preaching and less of Parris.”

“Tsk-tskk-tskkk, such a horrible sinner you are!” he joked. “A small vanity, Mother,” he repeated.

“Spring. I truly did not expect to see another spring.”

He put his arm about her from behind, shaking her a bit. “Those nightmares you’d had, eh?”

“Wasting away all winter in my bedchamber, I thought my heart would break, and how you and Serena waited on me! As if a child, urgh! I am no child.”

“You were under an affliction but praise God, now you’re cured.”

“By what magic, I know not, save prayer.”

“And time, the healing of night and day.”

“Now I’m tired of letting my ailments dictate. Pain or no, I choose to live. Besides . . . ”

“Besides?” He squeezed her arms.

“I hold conversation with God, Francis, in my heart.”

“I am quite aware of that!”

She shushed him, wishing not to be interrupted.

He came around and faced her.

“I hear no booming voice in my ear or head, Francis . . . nor am I called by name by Him, but I am moved by Him. Do you understand?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Of course? Then will you accept my word when I confide this.”

“What? What is it?”

“I am convinced that I was spared from dying in that little room upstairs for . . . for some coming ordeal?”

“Coming ordeal? You mean this business of an indictment against you and your sisters as witches? Hold on!” He paced the porch now, hands going through what little hair he had left. “You can’t think God wishes this on you, that your neighbors shun you, excommunicate you, cheer and clap at the idea of you in chains and treated like-like . . . well, no better than Sarah Goode?”

She took a long, deep breath. “All I know for certain, Francis, is that I’m spared the one ignoble death for perhaps—”

“Ignoble?”

“There is nothing noble in dying broken-spirited. I once believed there were things in my life . . . things I valued beyond all measure, which, no matter what, could never be taken from me. But I was wrong; vain in the extreme. Francis, there is nothing in this life that cannot be taken from us.”

“To think thus is melancholia, dear. That is all.”

“If God wishes to humble us,” she paused in a long sigh, “then it is by taking the very gifts he’s bestowed.”

“Our land, our home?”

“Francis, no! There are many more precious things than this house. Francis, our best traits He can rob us of—as he robbed Job—to turn us against ourselves. We already see it with our loved ones not coming today.”

“That’s not God’s doing but Parris’.”

“Even Parris is His instrument, as are we, Francis, and still you don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

She worked to stand and he helped her to her feet. When fully erect, she snatched his now unlit pipe from his mouth and held it to his eyes. “Imagine this is your integrity, Francis, and not a piece of clay!”

“All right.”

“Now imagine me God.”

He chuckled at this.

She dropped his favorite pipe and stomped it, crushing it into a rock-strewn dust there on the porch. “Now your God has crushed your integrity. Suppose He next destroys your faith—all your faith in Him, Francis? What then?”

Francis was still staring at his shattered pipe when she added, “Even our faith in Him, Francis, He will test it—and He will do all in his power to tear it from us.”

“Parris?”

“No, God. God will try to take it from us. He alone controls all.”

Francis stared into her eyes, his features a mask of confusion. “What’re you saying, Rebecca?”

“I am saying that I’ve been returned to my faith.”

“But you never lost it.”

“But I did.”

“I never saw it.”

“During my illness.”

“Sure you cursed for your torments, but—”

“I denied Him; denied it all close to the end when I felt He had brought such suffering and loss on me. Do you recall I didn’t know who you were for a time, didn’t recognize Serena, Ben, no one?”

“I know but you are well now.”

“”It was returned to me, Francis. All given back, but it comes now at a price.”

Francis looked even more confused than before.

She clenched his hands in hers. “When they come for me, I will prove my faith and love of Him beyond all things. I will never deny My Father. I love Him . . . even beyond you, Francis, and you must allow it. You must not fight me on this.”

“You are speaking of a divine ordeal, but these fools, liars and thieves--they will come for you with shackles! There is no divinity in this blasphemy of theirs.”

“The divinity is within me, Francis. It’s a test, don’t you see?—the greatest test of my life, and I shall prevail.”

Francis went to his knees before her, unable to answer. Taking her in his arms, the two of them rocking under their combined weight.

“And I will use Him right this time, Francis. I-I have the strength within.”

“That is not in question, my love.”

She lifted his face to hers. “Old man, it’s fated—as surely as Christ sacrificed for us ”

Francis cleared his throat, his voice quaking. “Are you saying you’re somehow chosen? As-as some sort of martyr to this madness in the village?”

“Call it what you will, but it will come to our door.”

“No.”

“We both know it’s true.”

He could not hold back the tears that came freely to him now. She comforted him and said, “My time is approaching, and you must prepare yourself and hold firm to your faith in both Him and in me. Now hold me tighter.”

He was mute before her. He shook with the pain of imagining what might happen, but as in all things, he did what she asked, tightening his hold.

She held him firm for several minutes.

“Stubbornness has always been your way, woman.”

“And how has it served us? My father desperately tried to keep us apart, remember?”

“Stubborn,” he repeated and found a curt laugh.

“Especially in matters of faith and love,” she agreed. “I was stubborn until father finally accepted the idea of us—and you so fresh from the sea, you smelled of brine.”

He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “It must’ve been distressing for the old man—marrying you off to a sailor!”

They laughed together.

Then he solemnly said, “I’m sorry that you faced a loss of faith up in that room alone.”

“It’s a thing a person does alone, but in my heart now, I know I’m never alone. Not completely. At least, that is to say, never again.”

“I love you beyond all reason.” The rocking chair creaked with his weight over her.

“And I you, Francis, but promise me one thing now.”

“Aye and that being?”

“You will not lose the land in any move to bribe them. I will not have myself saved from this madness only to see our children and our grandchildren turned off our farm. No matter what they promise or barter with, including my life.”

“I…I don’t know that I can make that promise. You just said yourself that no house, no property is so important as a man’s integrity.”

“This is true for us, Francis—you and me! And you must do all within reason, within the law, but do not stoop to their level, and do not barter away our children’s futures for what little time I have left in this place, please!”

“You believe then that Jeremiah Wakely is right? That their true interest is in our holdings?”

“You knew it before him, Francis. We both did.”

“That young man is wise beyond his years.”

“But you knew it all along.” She patted his cheek.

“Aye…I suppose so. Suppose I didn’t want to believe human greed could be so bloody awful, not here…not in Salem.”

“Watch that saucy tongue!” She ran her fingers gingerly through his thin hair. “I too denied my intuition.”

“Bastards.” He got to his feet, paced the porch.

“Aye, they are that!” She managed a hearty laugh. “Francis, we may well be dealing with the worst thing ever created in God’s image—a cunning minister.”

In another time and context, this would have made Francis laugh. But he didn’t laugh. Nothing to do with the minister in the village seemed funny anymore.

Chapter Four

On the cow paths between Salem Village and Andover

Thomas Putnam meant to do his duty.

He was the first man in the village to again wear his military uniform about, his cutlass dusted off and dangling from his belt, his flintlock on his arm. Furthermore, he’d contracted with a known cunning man in Andover—a notorious blacksmith with the gift of sight into the invisible world of Satan, a man with ample knowledge and perhaps truck with Witches. It might be risky business in such times as these, seeing a fortuneteller and seer, but Putnam meant to protect himself, his wife, and his child along with Mercy to whom he’d come to care for in the best sense of it. In fact, since her affliction—so similar to his daughter’s suffering—Thomas wished to nurture Mercy as if she were his own.

He certainly wanted nothing more to befall his accursed house. But he must learn the truth. He must have concrete evidence, not merely conjecture on the part of his wife, or his child, or the supposed ghosts who’d informed them that all his previous children had been victims of murder. Not even the faith in these matters held by his relative, Reverend Samuel Parris was enough for a man whose feet were solidly in this world alone.

This errand without benefit of moon or star, below a black sky and a raging wind forcing him to tie down his hat and hold firm to his cape, pressed like an intolerable weight. Thomas breathed deeply. He’d traversed the hills on horseback, his stiff, sore leg still aching whenever mounted. But he would see Samuel Wardwell, who some called the Wizard of Andover, for a second time.

His first visit had netted nothing of substance, only a slew of innuendos and sly nods and agreements from Wardwell, who had a knack for getting a man to relax his tongue. On their first meeting, the blacksmith and cunning man had asked Putnam many questions, and then suddenly ordered him away, telling him to return in seven nights hence, muttering that at the toll of the seventh night that all answers sought would be revealed to him.

Tonight was the seventh, and so here he was on a fool’s errand or a wise man’s journey? He hoped to soon know which it might be.

The wind chilled his bones, making him believe the old texts that declared Satan the Prince of the Power of Air. That God had offered Satan power over one element, and that the Archangel, being a cunning one indeed, selected the wind over water, earth, and even fire. No doubt old Beelzebub had enough of fire already. The thought made him chuckle and then immediately regret it as it felt like a taking of the Devil’s name in vain, a more fearsome error than taking the Lord’s name in vain, for the Lord had pity from time to time, whereas Satan had none. This fearful worry came as accompaniment to a gust of air so strong it threatened to unseat him from his old mare. Then the eerie coincidence of this happening at just this moment raised the hair on the back of his neck.

Even his horse seemed to shiver beneath him at the precise moment as if it sensed the same. Animals know these things. Putnam shivered at both the gust and the thought of the power behind it; shivered for being alone with it . . . alone with the Devil. How long had he been blind to such subtleties as this? For how long had he remained blind to the old fiend’s straddling his rooftop? Cursed all me bloody, blimey life.

How his and Bray’s and Samuel’s business had become a curse began to make sense with all the other areas of his life, all the failure and death following in his wake. The Salem Iron and Copperworks Mine had seemed so very marvelous when he’d first hatched the idea. So certain was he that the scheme would pay in a year, and if not one then two. For a time, everyone connected with it agreed to the point of investing, and none more enthusiastically than Samuel.

Thomas had several other influential backers with ties to mills in England by way of the West Indies thanks to Parris. These included his cousin John Wolcott, Judge Corwin, Judge Hathorne, and more recently young Nicholas Noyes, clergyman at the First Church of Salem Harbor soon to be. Soon as Old Higginson kicks off. All enthusiastic, true enough, until the cave-in. More failure plaguing my house..

“Cursed,” he repeated to hear some sound other than the swirling wind. “I was once destined for great things in Salem, but others have stole’ everything from me.”

He reached for and found his flask of whiskey, gulping deeply. It warmed him. He knew the truth. That his wife had married him after being rebuffed by James Bailey. Marry a Putnam, she was thinking that she’d be marrying a man who’d become a regular squire when he gained his inheritance. But the old man had remarried late in life, and he had left it all to Thomas’ stepmother who in turn had remarried a Tarbell. As a result, Thomas had lost all hope of the property rightfully his.

The horse whinnied, upset with the rain that began to blanket them. In the distance, Thomas made out the light on the outskirts of Andover, Wardwell’s barn and workshop. As if knowing the rutted path and the destination, the horse continued on without urging.

Thomas wondered if his money might not be wasted on this man named Wardwell; wondered if the blacksmith could really do as rumor said; wondered if he’d have any answers as promised tonight. As he neared, he saw Wardwell as if he’d never left, right inside that brightly lit double doorway, pounding on a piece of flaming metal, shaping it, sculpting it into anything the ‘wizard with wrought iron’ might want or imagine.

Wardwell hardly looked up when Putnam, yet astride his horse, came into his view—coming right through the smithy’s door. In fact, the wizard acted as if it weren’t the seventh night since last they met. Still, with that booming voice of his, Wardwell filled the night with a handful of words. “I see you’ve chose to return, Squire Putnam.”

“Squire? How come you to determine me a squire?” Putnam thought it odd as he’d just been thinking he ought to’ve been a squire and would have if not for circumstances created by his father in the old man’s foolish dotage. “I am Deacon Putnam and Lieutenant, sir but no squire, and now ’tis the seventh day we agreed ’pon, Mr. Wardwell, so why should I not be back?”

“Many who come seeking answers of me, once they have gone never return.” He shrugged and dropped a pair of burning red tongs into water, sending up a cloud of smoke and mist to the ceiling rafters.

Thomas got down from his horse. “But I am here, so have you information I seek?”

“I do indeed have information, sir. Indeed I do.”

“No riddles this time. I want facts, truths. Who are those who would harm me?”

“Those you most suspect, of course.”

Putnam thought about this; thought of all those he’d ever suspected of holding grudges or who held him in low esteem. One such man was Sheriff Williard, Bray’s nephew. Another who came immediately to mind was Francis Nurse, followed by John Proctor, but he must remember what Anne and Anne Junior had said of these men’s wives. “How do you know for a certainty, Wardwell? How? Whom do you consult as I consult you?”

“I consult Endor.”

“Endor? The Witch of Endor as in the Bible?”

“No, Endore is she!” He pointed to an old nag in the first stall. After seeing Thomas’ pinched expression, he laughed like a madman. “Come, come, Deacon. I can’t give away my trade secrets, now can I?”

“All right but tell me, these enemies of mine, can I destroy them? Is there a way? What can I do, Wardwell?”

“You need do nothing, Deacon”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“It’s all taken care of.”

“How? How is it taken care of?”

“Trust me.”

“Tell me how.”

Wardwell took a final whack at the red poker of metal he’d been shaping, its tip glowing and smoking. H e held it up to Putnam’s eyes so close that the Salem man feared his eyebrows might singe. “I’ve made a curse for you, Thomas—may I call you Thomas?—made it a general one to guard against all thy enemies.”

“I paid for a lousy curse? A curse to guard me? I want names and I want to swear out warrants against those who harm my child and have murdered others before her.”

“I know full-well what you want, Thomas, but this is no ordinary curse. This one has the ear of Satan himself. This curse will loose Satan on your enemies.” He jammed the poker of blazing metal into a water barrel and the resultant noise and smoke cloud steamed about the barn like a mad banshee.

“You expect me to believe you have the ear of the Devil ’imself?”

“If not, why’re ya be here on the seventh night?”

Thomas slowly nodded. “I must be sure.”

“Understood, Thomas. Come with me.”

Putnam followed Wardwell to a full-length mirror on a wrought iron frame filigreed with leaves and wrought iron black birds. Beside the mirror, smoke rose from pitch fires in pots. “Gaze close into the looking glass, Thomas.”

“I only see my reflection. So?”

“Stare longer, harder. Seek in the looking glass your answer.”

“I see nothing.”

“Close your eyes, man, and think on your suffering, your hardship.”

Putnam did as told.

“Think on all the horrors you’ve shared with me here. Think, man, think.”

Putnam’s eyes were closed, but fearful Wardwell meant him some harm, he peeked from time to time as the blacksmith increased the smoke billowing about the mirror.

“Now open your eyes and see—see into the invisible world to behold the devils let loose to harm you and yours, Thomas, and to see who has brought misery upon ye and ye family.”

Putnam gulped and opened his eyes on the mirror where he saw shadowy figures trying to form into whole from the broken, curling threads of smoke like fog trying to find a hold, trying to find rule and order.

“Drink this,” Wardwell said in his ear. “This may take some time but the tea, it will help. Drink . . . drink up.”

Thomas, thirsty from the trip, eagerly gulped down the warm tea, and then he again began studying the curling smoke and his own reflection in the mirror, and he thought if he concentrated that he saw other faces peeking about in the mirror, one set of eyes on his left shoulder, perched there, but then they dissipated, but other shapes wanted forming. Wardwell refilled his warm, herbal tea as he called the bitter drink.

“Takes time this,” muttered Wardwell. “Be patient and you shall see for yourself.”

Thomas drained the second cup of tea. “What am I looking for? I only see me.”

“Exactly what they want you to see and believe! That you are the root cause of all your own problems, thereby casting off any suspicion that that root stems from another source, you see. Clever are the minions of Satan.”

“I see.”

“Yes, you will with patience, if you will only stare hard enough and long enough in the mirror.”

“I am.”

“I know you are trying but it takes some working of your inner mind, man.”

“I have no imagination for such games and parlor tricks, sir.”

“You will! Will it, man, the faces of your deadliest enemies. Not the ones bent on spitting after your heels but those bent on harming you beyond all reason.”

“Those who would murder my progeny, yes.”

“Exactly. Thomas, you and you alone can bring this about. I cannot.”

“But then why did you have me go and return on this day?”

“You alone can see the images of evil here . . . tonight . . . on this the seventh day of our covenant.”

The word covenant made it clear, that he was in league with Wardwell, and God knows who else by virtue of Wardwell’s unusual covenants. A covenant begot a covenant. Then Thomas began seeing movement in the smoke and mirror, a kind of life there, sometimes spherical, sometimes wormlike but all of it moving, swirling, casting ethereal shadows where there ought not be any.

With the drugged tea and in due time, Wardwell had Thomas Putnam seeing what he—Thomas—wanted to see and believe all along, right here and now inside the smoke and inside the looking glass as Thomas’ features coalesced into those of his enemy in slow, sure succession.

In fact, Thomas Putnam was face to face with those who’d murdered his children, and those who’d put an affliction on his womenfolk today back in Salem.

# # # # #

Thomas set to building a fire, not wishing to wake anyone in the house, as for the first time in recent memory, all was quiet and peaceful on his return from Andover and the wizard. But when he lifted a log from the woodbine, a frog croaked up at him and leapt out at him, its eyes wide and accusing. If the thing had had fingers, it would have been pointing at him. It seemed a demonic, ominous omen, this creature that’d gotten into his home, a possible familiar sent to spy on them, as a familiar’s eyes, read by a witch, could see all and all that the creature, be it frog, mouse, or lice had recorded in its eye.

Putnam stumbled back and fell on his rump, and the frog leapt forward between his stockinged feet.

“My God! Wardwell said they’d send their familiars.” Wardwell had warned of spiders, vermin, such things as flies, centipedes, lizards, or toads. “Any one of which,” Wardwell had insisted, “could be acting as eyes and ears for the evil ones—spying on you and yours.”

The green animal housing a demon certainly acted like a witch’s familiar; it was quite well known and documented that witches not only communicated with such vermin and low forms of life, but that they directed their movements. It was reason enough to stomp a spider, or in this case a frog whose fishy eyes blinked at him a moment before it again croaked as if trying to speak Thomas’s name.

Thomas pulled himself together and crawled to his knees. The log he’d lifted lay beside him. “Too much to drink,” he tried to tell himself, “on top of whatever was in Wardwell’s tea.”

Ever so slowly, gently, he lifted the splintery log, thin enough to get a single hand around, and he brought it into his body. He raised the log overhead, preparing to bring it crashing down on the bulging eyes as the spirit continued to stare as if placing a curse on him. It made him wonder if it were possible for jailed witches such as Goode and Osborne—one of whom he’d helped corner and haul to jail—could do as Goode said to him—take the form of a creature like this and give him the evil eye through a toad.

Thomas let the log fall, and a loud gunshot-like sound replied as it smacked the wood floor. He lifted the log and to his astonishment no smashed green thing lay below it. It was as if the toad had vanished and magically so. He imagined old Goode in her cell at this moment cackling at his fear.

A single candle lit the room, leaving most of it in shadow and sharp-cut, black corners. Where has the evil thing got off to? Where if not back to its conjurer?”

Again it croaked, mocking his efforts. He found it somehow behind him, leaping toward deeper shadow. Putnam moved the candle with it, following the creature’s shadow reflected against one wall, the reflection looking indeed like a crawling shape, like that of a woman the size of Goode. This made Thomas start and his hand holding the log shook for fear of missing yes, but also for fear of hitting his mark.

The frog leapt twice more as if it’d determined a destination. It seemed bent on his wife’s room.

Putnam stalked on hands and knees closely now, and once within range, he bolstered all his courage for Anne’s sake, and he lifted the firewood piece again for the kill. How much drink have I had tonight, he again wondered—wondered if it were all a drunken man’s nightmare. He had crawled beneath the table, his hand on the table leg when the toad leapt back toward him and landed on the table leg at his fingertips so close he felt its warm breath here.

Got you, he thought, and Thomas struck full force. The result was excruciating pain and a yelp out of Thomas as the log smashed into his other hand—fingers flattened between wooden leg and wooden log. He howled more in a scream of terror and pain, waking his wife and the children in the loft.

More light flooded the room, Mrs. Putnam entering with her whale oil lamp. The overhead trap sent light down as well, Mercy holding a second lamp high.

In the middle of the floor, Thomas rocked with the pain in his hand, moaning, tears freely coming.

“What happened?”

“The witch’s familiar came for you!”

“Where, where?” Mother Putnam cried out.

The children joined in, chanting, “Where, where?”

“What familiar?” pressed Mrs. Putnam.

“A toad! A toad with human eyes in the back of its bloody head.”

She examined his hand, saying, “I see no toad, but I smell rot gut whiskey enough.”

Mercy and Anne had come down the stairs, and they made a search for the toad, but none could be found.

Mrs. Putnam wrapped his hand in bandages, as Thomas lamented, “I almost had it. I almost crushed the damnable thing, I tell you—drink or no drink. Anne, it was her, that witch we jailed—Goode, I tell you sent it. Give me the evil eye, it did.”

“Almost killed it, did you?” She finished off the bandage.

“For you, I meant to kill it for you. ’Twas heading for your bedchamber, Goodwife.”

“Yes, dear. I’m sure.”

“Best give your room a thorough search, too,” suggested Mercy.

Anne Junior stood nodding beside Mercy. “Yes, Mother, it wouldn’t do to not be thur-thur—what Mercy said.”

“God blind me, then! Go ahead, children. Give it a look.”

Thomas whispered to his wife where they remained at the table, “I have something to tell you and you alone.”

Anne sensed the urgency in his tone to mean now. For any modicum of privacy, she’d have to send the children back to bed first. When Mercy and Anne Junior could find no sign of the frog, she pointed to a knot hole in the floor and lied. “I saw the fool thing skitter out here. Now the two of you, back up and to bed!”

The children obeyed and Anne remarked to Thomas how dutiful Mercy had become since her and Anne’s recent afflictions. “Somehow these attacks they’ve suffered, I suppose, has taught them that all our teachings and those of the minister are not simple clap-trap and talk from old people. Now . . . what is it on your mind, now that you’ve wakened the house?”

He looked up to see that the trap door was closed tight and that Mercy was not listening in. Although it was closed well, he still ushered his wife into their bedroom and closed the door.

“Why’re you acting so strange?” she asked. “What is it you wish to tell me, Thomas?”

“I have done it.”

“Done what?”

“As I swore I would.”

“You’ve gone to Andover?” Her eyes widened, a half smile forming.

“Yes.”

“To see the wizard?”

“What other reason to go there?”

“What’ve you learned?”

“Only what we already suspected, but it’s now confirmed in my mind, and not just what others have told me is so.”

“Confirmed how?”

Thomas described in detail his two visits to Wardwell and the final results. When he’d finished, she grabbed his hands in hers. “I knew it. How often’ve I told you so? How often?”

“It corroborates your brother Henry’s indictments.”

“If only the dead could indict the living.”

“God forbid!” he said with a gasp. “If so, we’d all be in stocks and chains.”

“Not the righteous among us! No need for them to fear,” she countered.

”But he—Wardwell, he has, and we will act on Henry’s behalf, Henry and the children.”

“Poor Hopestill.” Mrs. Putnam teared up. “I’d so thought she was going to survive long-long-er.”

Hopestill had been their last child before the birth of Anne Junior. There’d been an earlier Anne Junior, but they’d lost her as well and saw no harm in naming their tenth attempt at a child Anne Junior as well. Their combined hope had in fact completely abandoned them after Hopestill’s death, and now what a cruel irony her name had become—Hopestill. Not a stillborn but dead nonetheless before she could learn to properly suckle a teet. And then cruel fate had given them a new hope, a new glimmer of faith as time brought about Anne.

They huddled now together, husband and wife, secure and sure in the knowledge that’d been brought to them by the spirits and corroborated by the wizard and his magic mirror.

Chapter Five

Boston, the following day

Jeremy woke up in the arms of the only woman he ever loved, and rousing, he tried to not wake her, but failed miserably. She didn’t say a word but beckoned him to stay, her arms outstretched where she lay in repose. For the sake of propriety, they had rented two rooms, and Jeremy had made a great show of going to his room, dropping his traveling bags, and loudly stating how tiring the trip had been from Salem. A mistake, as the landlord, a lady who had introduced herself as Mrs. Fannie Fahey, wanted all the juicy gossip coming out of Salem some sixteen miles away. It took some time then for Jeremy to extricate himself from the lady’s interest while Serena laughed at his predicament from behind her closed door at the Fahey House. Once he did so, he had slipped from his room to Serena’s, and they had slept together.

They had also made long, languid love, but they had to do so without benefit of making a sound—not a whoop, not a holler, not a gasp or a sigh to heavy. They feared being found out by other boarders or Mrs. Fahey and possibly thrown out for their distasteful behavior and contempt for the mores of the day. So they had made passionate love in absolute silence, relying on touch and sight and smell and taste alone—no auditory asides, no pounding of the heart even, and surprisingly, they had found the suppression of sound in their lovemaking more than just a challenge as it had somehow become an added spice.

He could not resist her silent plea now for him to return to her and to again make love to her. They were both nude and he eased into her, and now with half the house awake and moving around outside, the game of silent lovemaking was even more of a dare and a spice. It proved near unbearable not to shriek out at moments of greatest passion. Even to keep their kisses quiet proved difficult work. Still as their hands roamed one another’s bodies, as their lips played over one another, they smiled at the game they’d discovered here at the Fahey House. Part of the play that made the touching and lovemaking so powerful was the idea that disapproving citizens just the other side of the walls and doors would be scandalized should they be discovered here like this, unwed yet very much in the throes of love.

“We can’t go on like this, Jeremy,” she whispered—or rather gasped—into his ear before plunging her tongue into his mouth.

“I know . . . must make an honest woman of you.”

“And soon.”

“Absolutely . . . ah! Yes.”

They fell away into one another’s arms, trying desperately to not let their giddiness and joy so overtake them as to send up a howling, which is what each very much wanted to do by this point.

After a long respite and with no more sounds coming in under the door from the hallway, Jeremy again stood and quickly dressed and slipped from the room, blowing her a kiss as he disappeared, and down the hall he went to muss up his own bed to keep the charade alive for Mrs. Fahey, while outside the windows of the boarding house, he heard the rhythmic noise of street hawkers and produce salesmen shouting out their wares and bartering over weights and measures.

# # # # #

Boston bristled with activity. The busiest area in the city proved the North End with the towering clock and bell tower of the North Church looking down over the ships in harbor at the seaport. In essence, Boston appeared a larger scaled Salem Town. While Salem was the port-of-call in the New World for Great Britain and many foreign countries, Boston had begun to rival Salem for the title and to outstrip Salem in permanent growth and population. In fact, there seemed a giddy explosion of activity and expansion and building here. Merchants, bakers, candlestick makers—all in all any business imaginable and some areas of ill repute as grimy and as reprehensible as to rival London some said—but not quite, Jeremy suspected.

As with most second generation New Englanders, Jeremiah Wakely hadn’t ever had the opportunity to see England or London—or any other place off the continent, and would not unless he became a seaman. A highly unlikely prospect, and while like many, he would like to one day see the “old sod” as England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland had come to be known among the colonists, he doubted mightily if he ever would. As a result of such certainty, many a colonist had long ago decided that being a born New Englander was plenty enough to worry a man in the here and now, and that England and London had naught that a man needed that he could not find and attend to on these shores.

Of course, it was a lie men told themselves to help in accepting the rough and primitive world into which their parents and grandparents had deposited them.

Jeremy and Serena married in a quiet ceremony at the North Church, a Reverend Stiles having been pressed into service to do the honors on a weekday. The best man was a deacon of the church, called last minute, along with a lady of the church to act as witness, and Serena still talked about the kindness of these strangers and how they had all cheered and clapped for the young couple.

Jeremy had purchased a pair of gold bands with what amounted to nearly the end of his meager funds, so while in Boston, he’d done some work at the local newspaper office, where he wrote a column under an assumed name, denouncing the witch hunt at Salem as “a fabrication with underlying motives too despicable for polite society to imagine.” Quite soon after the publication of his first “dispatches” from Salem as he called the pieces written under the pseudonym Alastair Cantwell, he was fired and the column running in the pamphlet-sized paper shut down as seditious and libelous.

Jeremy had been enraged by this, and he had fought with his editor, Horatio Sperlunkle, but the pressure from somewhere in a powerful seat proved too great, and so he’d been without sufficient funds now for a few days. But worse than the loss of money was the suppression of truth. Still, funds were a worry as soon, he and Serena would have nothing for the rent.

They continued to board at a Mrs. Fahey’s who charged a reasonable and fair rate. In fact, she stopped them in the hallway and insisted Jeremy take back half the rent she’d charged him before they’d become man and wife. Jeremy put up resistance, thinking it odd until Mrs. Fahey conspiratorially said, “I can’t charge a man for an unused bed. Now you two just take back the half.”

Mrs. Fahey, a stubbornly curious and naturally observant Boston lady had determined a great deal about Jeremy, Serena, and their situation. If Jeremy weren’t sure of her good nature and open heart, he might have believed the woman a spy if not a witch! Conniving busybody she was, yes, but as it turned out in a good way, he’d determined, so he long before now had settled on the term meddler to cover her interest in the newlyweds.

She did not appear to be reporting back to anyone save her small dog, Harry, she called him, after her late husband, who’d died at sea some years before. At breakfast this morning, Mrs. Fahey insisted that the two of them—newly minted husband and wife—go down to the piers and do her marketing for her, claiming that she must make beds and that she felt nauseous and unlike herself, ending with, “Certainly can’t ’spect me to suck in all them fishy odors at the pier? I’d likely vomit in public, a thing a lady must never do, correct, Serena? They take you for a witch, a lady losing her godly graced food.”

The notion was that if the food was graced, then a true witch’s stomach couldn’t abide it and must hurl it back.

“Daft fools that they are!” Mrs. Fahey said of the belief. “Now a man, he might throw up in public all he wants, anytime he wants—and who’s to blame? A witch-man’s entrails? No, indeed! Must be other spirits—Rum!” She cackled with an infectious laugh, Serena and Jeremy joining in while a gruff fellow with the stern look of a good Puritan, a banker by trade, also boarding at Fahey’s, sat stiff and not in the least amused.

Mrs. Fahey lit into the Mr. Stone-gruff-Puritan, saying, “You don’t find that strange or peculiar in the least, Mr. Davenport, eh? Not so much as a snicker or a frown outta ye? Come now, why should a vomitin’ woman not’ve gotten into the rum! Haaa!”

The banker pushed back his chair, stood, said not a word, but disappeared with hat and cane in hand, going on his rounds.

“He goes about saying he’s a banker, but what he truly is? He’s a collector for a banker.”

“He’s got the nature for it,” suggested Serena.

Mrs. Fahey burst into laughter at this. Jeremy didn’t think it so funny, but Mrs. Fahey’s laughter was, and so he joined in again.

“I didn’t mean to disparage the man,” added Serena.

This only made the house owner laugh more.

“Whatever did I say?” Serena looked to Jeremy for help.

“You’ve precisely summed the man up, dear Goodwife.” Jeremy reached across the table and took her hand in his.

“So will the two of you collect up the produce and catch I require for the day?” Mrs. Fahey laid several silver coins on the table—this to make the purchases, and anything left over . . . “ she pulled forth a Boston bill, money minted for city use only.

“We can most certainly do your shopping for you, Mrs. Fahey,” began Serena.

“But we’ll not take your charity,” added Jeremy.

“Charity? Charity is it? To pay an honest wage for honest work?”

“Picking out vegetables, fruits, and fish is hardly work,” countered Jeremy.

“You men!” Mrs. Fahey folded the bill around the coins and pushed it all into Serena’s hand and closed her fist around it. “Show Goodman Wakely here what is work, Serena, and you hold the coin.”

“How shall I determine how much you need from the market?” she asked.

Mrs. Fahey rushed out and returned in an instant with two wicker baskets. “Fill these with enough for dinner and breakfast tomorrow.”

“Consider it done.”

Jeremy and Serena made their way out into a brilliant, lovely morning. Carts, both horse drawn and pulled by men, rattled over cobblestone—many on their way to the seaport marketplace. Life here appeared so much more on kilter than in Salem Village. The sound of horse hooves on stone was joined by the shouting of butchers and fishermen a block away at the piers that extended like giant fingers along the shallows—just as in Salem Town. Here ships from England, Portugal, the Orient, the West Indies, Spain, and France stood creaking about the docks—each under its own flag.

As they entered the crowds going toward the marketplace, Serena asked, “Jeremy, have you had any headway with Mr. Mather and the magistrates?”

“They’ve not entertained me at court, no, and I fear one or more of them behind shutting my column down at the newspaper.”

“So why won’t Cotton Mather see you privately? Secretly if need be?”

“I thought at first simply a matter of his being ill and abed.”

“But now?”

“Now . . . I’m not so sure he’s not been dodging me like the magistrates, Stoughton in particular.”

“But why? If they have your letters and know all that we know, why won’t they look at the sermon you’ve brought?”

“They asked I release it to them, but I would not let it from my sight. I used it to bargain for an audience, but I’m afraid they’ve called my bluff.”

Just then Jeremy saw a bailiff of the court, and he shouted across the street for the man to halt as he rushed toward him, Serena following.

“I’ve missed the magistrates again, haven’t I?” Jeremy asked the thin, frail young man. “What news have you of my petition to see them?”

“Bad news, I fear.”

“What? Say it, man!”

“They are . . .they’ve all gone.”

“Gone? Gone where? On holiday?” Easter was approaching.

“No, gone to Salem.”

“What? They’ve kept me waiting all these many days, only to traipse off to Salem? But why?”

Serena added, “But if they’re in Salem, how can we appeal to them here ?”

The bailiff shrugged, his eyeglasses bobbing with the action. “I am sorry. It was, it would seem, a sudden decision and unanimously held that they go to Salem to see the-the witchcraft firsthand. However, I have something for you, Mr. Wakely.” He snatched out a sealed note. “Was on my way to Mrs. Fahey’s to leave it with you, so this chance meeting is fortuitous.”

“Indeed? What is it, an apology from the magistrates?”

“Oh, no. A note from Reverend Mather.”

“Increase Maher?”

“No, no, no! Reverend Cotton Mather, for your eyes only.” He gave a glance at Serena. “I must make haste now, sir. I’m to join the court in Salem.”

“But why, man, are they moving on Salem Village?”

“Oh, no, sir! They are taking up in Salem Town—better accommodations.”

The bailiff rushed off on seeing Jeremy’s ire rising like a heated poker before him.

Jeremy and Serena examined the note he held now in his hands as if their fate rested within. “Are you going to open it or hope to stare it open?” she asked.

They found a bakery that served coffee and tea, and at a table with the morning sun cascading through a window that faced the eastern shore, Jeremy broke the seal. He read the note—three terse sentences commanding him to come along to the North Church at precisely seven that evening to talk of “dire matters escalating in Salem” and Jeremy’s “failure to avert calamity” there.

Serena read the note and her features became a mask of confusion. “He sounds angry with you.”

“I get that.”

“As if you contributed to the madness back home.”

“He can’t possibly believe that.” Still the cryptic note had him reading between the lines as well. “Nor can you, Serena.”

“I know, I know, but this is no invitation to church, Jeremy. This is an order.”

“God how I wish the man’s father had not left us all in this . . . stew.”

“Do you think his father meant for his son to take on this task? That the elder Mather planned it for his son?”

“I pray not; the son is not ready for it.”

“You’re frightening me, Jeremy.”

He placed his hands over hers and with hot coffee sending up a stream of smoke between them, he said, “I wish I had more foresight. From the beginning, I worried that Higginson and the younger Mather would fail me and leave me with a knife in my back, and I fear it’s coming to pass.”

“But Reverend Higginson could mean you no harm.”

“Not intentionally, perhaps, but through his failing health.”

“And Mather?”

“I don’t know. Will know tonight, however.”

“Let me come with you! I can tell him a thing or two of Parris and the poison he’s spread.”

“It’s all in my letters, and so far as Mather knows, it’s remained confidential, all of it. No, I must face him alone. He’d take great umbrage if I brought you along.”

“Umbrage? Am I some sort of baggage now on your back?”

“I didn’t mean it that way in the least, Serena, please. I must do this alone.”

“What the deuce could he be angry with you about?” she fired back, drawing a disapproving look from others in the bakery. A Goodwife did not speak in such a tone to a Goodman.

“I-I suspect but can’t be sure that it’s my poor handling of the Salem business, the way I walked out of there that night. Like the magistrates, he’s likely heard reports by now from Corwin and Hathorne on how things went . . .perhaps even how I sort of ran down Mr. Parris with my horse. I don’t know, but it’s likely he’s upset that others learned of my association with him and his father. Maybe he blames me for the flurry of arrests in the village, who knows?”

“Then he’s a fool!”

“Unfortunately, he’s not his father, but not for lack of trying.” Jeremy smiled wanly. “God, how I wish Increase Mather hadn’t left us at such an hour,” he reiterated.

“It could be months before he returns from England.”

“Yes, and by then . . .”

“I am so worried about Mother and Father.”

He stood and came around to her, put an arm around her, and immediately drew stares from some who took offense at the show of affection in public. Even so, the shroud of such opinion here in Boston was relaxed compared to that in Salem.

# # # # #

To get to the docks, they could take several avenues; in fact, there was more than a single marketplace. Rather, every dock had a fish market, and around each fish market, a farmer’s stand, as farm families from the surrounding regions brought produce for barter at each pier.

“From atop those trees,” Jeremy began, pointing, “this place must look like a gaggle of geese descended to fight.”

Serena laughed. “But the noise, Jere, it’d chase off any goose.”

They chose a street named Pawtucket where once a park had flourished but had now become a jail site for the indigent and criminal. It was a large facility with windows overlooking the street and from which prisoners reached out for alms from anyone passing by.

Serena hesitated on seeing this sight. “Why’re we here, Jeremy?”

“You read my mind.”

“What motive have you?”

“I’ve read that some of those accused in Salem, due to the overcrowding in the jails there, are here housed until their trials should be called.”

“I see. And you hope to have a word with one or more of the accused before seeing Mather?”

“You have me, yes.”

As they neared the jailhouse, they saw a strange sight—a lady dressed in beautiful clothes, a manservant with her, doling out bread and biscuits to those housed in the jail.

A crowd outside the jail had gathered around the lady, whose hat alone, might feed all the prisoners if cashed in for its florals. Some in the crowd jeered the lady’s Christian gesture of feeding those accused inside the jail, while others cheered her on; however, the nays began to drown out the yeas. The biscuits and breads at an end, the lady and her man returned to a wide carriage draped in black, where the beautifully clothed woman climbed inside and disappeared behind the drapes. The man lifted the stepstool, stowed it, and climbed into the driver’s seat. In a moment, the carriage was parting the crowd.

“Who is she, I wonder?” asked Serena.

“Who is she?” asked Jeremy a bit too sarcastically. “I mean, the Governor’s wife.”

“She shows mercy on the imprisoned. Shows a kind heart.”

“Even toward those accused of witchcraft.”

“A true gentle woman, caring. How much more we need of such people.”

“Wish her husband was as caring. I’ve had no luck seeing him either.”

“You’ve tried to see Governor Phipps?”

“It’s possibly why Mather is upset. I mean if he learned of my going over his head.”

The crowd about the jail dissipated. Jeremy and Serena walked closely by the barred windows, arms outstretched, men, women, and children shouting for a crust of bread, a two pence to pay their jailer, any number of other wishes. One woman called out to ask Serena to post a letter. This while Jeremy studied the grimy faces and disheveled heads behind the bars and in shadow, searching for anyone recognizable. There were thieves, possible cutthroats locked away here with those accused of witchcraft from not only Salem but other towns around Salem as well. It seemed every town touching on Salem had gotten the contagion, and so the number of warrants followed by arrests had increased exponentially.

Serena stepped close to accept the letter the one prisoner extended through the bars, seeing the address had been written on the folded note. As she did so, Jeremy gasped on seeing back of this woman the eyes of Tituba Indian.

Jeremy called out to her. “Is it you, Tituba?”

The jailer, a man in tatters himself who might be more suited inside rather than outside the bars, came around the corner, his arms filled with firewood. “Here now! No audience with the accused, sir, not without paying me first.”

“Just a word, sir.”

“Not without you pay first!”

“Damn it, man, I am an officer of the court!” Jeremy looked to Serena for one of the silver coins, but Serena, seeing Tituba, rushed off ahead of Jeremy, who pursued her.

“I just want a word with her, Serena.”

“It’s not our coin, Jeremy.”

“But Mrs. Fahey said whatever might be left over is our payment.”

“Yes, so she might give us payment for her own rent, don’t you see?”

“That woman’s secrets could help me tonight when I see Mather, if I can get her to talk.”

“You’re not even sure you will see Mather tonight. He has dangled you out this long!”

He took her firmly in hand, turning her to face him. Their eyes met. “Your grip, Jeremy. You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry. Ha, our first fight.”

“Disagreement,” she corrected, “and sad that it has to be over this?”

She rushed on, going for the marketplace, the wicker baskets in each hand. She’d tucked the letter from the prisoner in a pocket in her dress.

“If that jailer had seen you take that letter, he’d’ve fined you. Would you’ve paid him?”

“These confounded jailers are given too much power,” she countered.

“You’ll get no argument from me on that. Now, would you’ve paid him from the money in hand?”

“That’s different. This poor woman locked away. All she wants is to send word to a loved one. It’s evil to think she must pay her jailer to send a note.”

“It’s the law. How else is the man paid but by those jailed—and those who take pity on them?”

“It’s a bad law, and you know it. It gives a jailer the same power over people as-as, well as a captain on a slave ship.”

“Hmmm . . . interesting comparison.”

“It’s true! There’s so much in our laws and customs that are so very unchristian and yet we call ourselves followers of Christ.”

They’d arrived at the marketplace, and Serena began to haggle with a man and a woman selling greens. Serena’s voice became part of the lively babble of the market. Soon, Serena had one basket filled, and still she had most of the money Mrs. Fahey had fronted them. In the next instant, Serena was talking with rough, foul-mouthed sailors who’d shouted down one another on her approach to get her business. She asked the price of a mackerel. She made them laugh as she haggled down the price.

But the entire time, Jeremy kept looking over his shoulder at the habits of the jailer, and he saw that Tituba Indian aka L’englesian, sent here from Salem for her terrible indiscretions stood at the window now, hands wrapped about the bars, staring back at Jeremiah Wakely and his bride.

Forget about the Barbados witch, one part of Jeremy’s brain said. Forget about all the sad, superstition-riddled accusations, ordeals, and court sessions going on in the courts there with Corwin and Hathorne at the helm. Make a life here in Boston with Serena; a life far from that damnable, dark, cursed village. Never go back there. First step in never going back, don’t talk to that Barbados witch.

“Whatever is on your mind, Jeremiah?” asked Serena, breaking his reverie.

He turned to see that she’d filled both baskets, and she held up two silver coins. “We can pay our rent now!”

“I was just giving thought to perhaps staying here in Boston.”

“Staying?”

“Finding gainful employment and living here, yes.”

She shook her head as if the gesture might empty her head of what he’d said. “I don’t think so, Jere.”

“Look around you, Serena. This is the modern world. Boston will one day rival London. This is where American civilization grows, not like . . . ”

“Not like Salem? Where squabbling and vileness thrive?”

“That place, the village in particular, it’s as if . . . as if its very roots are bloody and vile. Here we could flourish if I set up as a barrister.”

“And a fine one you’d make, Jere, but there’re people I love back in Salem, people I want to see again. You speak as if you never want to return for any reason, but we’re here only so as to help those we left behind.”

“I fear the place; I fear your ever going back there.”

“My home is there.”

“Your home may not be there ever again after this.”

“My father and brothers will not allow them to take our lands.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You can go back tomorrow or a year from now, but the place of your childhood—the face of it—has already changed to the degree you won’t recognize it or the people in it.”

“You were gone for ten years, yet you came back, and I had not changed.”

“But you have.”

“I have?’

“In the most beautiful sense, yes, but I fear that place in the last month has gone into a darkness from which it will never lift itself.”

She studied his face as if she he was right. Tears welled up, and she wiped them with a hanky.

They’d started back for their lodgings now, but Jeremy intentionally moved her along a path that would not take them by the jail again. “Forget about Salem; imagine us flourishing here in Boston.”

“Safe from superstitious minds? Liars and thieves?”

“Not entirely, of course, no, but—”

“And strangling notions of right and wrong?”

“Not entirely, no. But things here are better. You can’t argue that.”

“I can always argue. You forget how many brothers I have.”

“Serena.” He took hold of both her shoulders and turned her to face him, staring into her eyes. “I could make you happy here. In time, we could find a plot of land, build a house, have children.”

She nodded, still fighting back tears. “And wash our hands of Salem, eh?”

“It’s a temptation I am willing to give into, yes.”

“And what of the accused, those awaiting trial?”

“In time, this fire storm will pass. It’s tempest in a teapot.”

“You don’t believe that, now do you?”

“It will whistle and brew hot, but-but an end to it will come; just a matter of time.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” she conceded, “but I have to know that my parents, my brothers, my sisters—that they’re all right.”

“Write to them.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that with Goode’s execution, this entire ordeal will burn itself out like the crucible it is. I mean look how they’ve sent Tituba out of the fray. Parris could not see her hung.”

“Do you think it’s so?”

“It appears so.”

“Still, in any crucible, the circumstances subject people to forces that test them.”

“And often make them change, Serena, and we have a right to choose our destiny and make our own changes amid this . . . turmoil.”

She leaned into him as they continued, man and wife, toward Mrs. Fahey’s. “A place of our own,” she whispered in his ear. “Find a place of peace. Is it possible?”

“We will make it so.” Even as he said it, even as he felt her on his arm, even as others stared at the unfamiliar pair, even as Jeremy wanted to believe it himself, he desperately wanted to know the secrets held back by one Tituba L’englesian. In fact, he felt an irresistible urge to seek the Barbados woman out tonight, perhaps on his way to his meeting with Reverend Mather.

However, on his way to Mather’s Jeremy could not get near the jail window to speak to Tituba, and he hadn’t the money to pay the jailer for five minutes with her. He determined to get Mather to have Tituba brought to them, to interrogate her about her time with Parris in Barbados, the true nature of their relationship, and how she had lost her child. But when Jeremy sought Mather, he was confronted by Mather’s apprentice in the ministry at the North Church and told that Mr. Mather had left the city.

“Left the city? For where?”

“For Salem. Eveyone’s gone to Salem.”

“He’s followed Saltonstall and the court to Salem?”

“Now you’ve got it.”

“But we had an appointment.”

“He left me to make his apologies to you, Mr. Wakely.”

“But I have secret papers for him!”

“I would be happy to take anything you’d care to leave for Mr. Mather and keep it in a safe place.”

Jeremy stormed off, angry and upset at the turn of events, and again when he tried to get near Tituba, he saw this, too, was an impossibility.

His head filled with a burning, hot frustration when he saw a discarded copy of the newspaper he’d been thrown off of. Its headline read that Governor Phipps had left Boston as well, and scanning the story, he learned that William Phipps was quoted as saying, “I’d rather fight pagans of this world than any creatures in the Invisible World of Satan.”

Chapter Six

May 2, evening in Salem Village

Magistrates Jonathan Hathorne and John Corwin stood as the stalwart enforcers of the Inferior Court Sessions in Salem Town and Village; together they formed a two-man commission in an area extending to the borders of Essex County. Still the two magistrates who dealt principally with minor offenses, complaints, and misdemeanor seldom to never entertained spirits or supernatural elements in their courtrooms save for the rantings of farmers who believed a broken cart wheel or a dried up cow had to do with a curse. They tried minor cases, and they seldom entertained members of the Superior Court of Assistants of the true seat of power, Boston.

However, tonight was a special occasion indeed as Sir William Stoughton, Chief Justice of the Colonies, had come to Salem to confer with the local magistrates. With him came Judge Richard Addington, and the well-published, popular Judge Samuel Sewell and David Saltonstall. They’d come to confer over the recent discovery of widespread witchcraft in these environs.

The gentlemen from Boston did not come quietly in the night as had Jeremiah Wakely, but rather in fine carriages by day, carriages that effectively blocked the small mud street before Hathorne’s black-shuttered, white house.

Inside, Hathorne was saying, “I have survived as Judge Advocate of Salem Farms longer than any before me. Elected and reelected by the freeman vote. Through the Mason threat, when thieves in Plymouth Bay Company claimed title to all lands between the Kennebec and the Merrimac, gentlemen—and I was instrumental in quelling that nasty bit of business, I can tell you.”

“Massachusetts Bay Company property,” added Judge Corwin, toasting. “Here, here! Mr. Hathorne was in office through King Phillip’s War.”

“Aye. . . . 1675, a difficult time,” muttered Addington, sipping his brandy.

“Yes, indeed,” Hathorne piped back in, a smile on his face. “When that savage who took the title of King and the name Phillip, led his people against us in that unholy war, I was here in the forefront.”

“Metacom,” said Sewell thoughtfully.

“Sir?” asked Corwin.

“King Phillips true name, Metacom.” Saltonstall, the eldest of the group, chewed on sore gums.

“Ahhh, yes, of course.”

“Do you mean to say you took up arms? Went out into the wilderness?” Chief Justice Stoughton’s expression conveyed how this news had hit him. “I’m impressed.”

“No, I didn’t mean to imply . . . that is, I meant.” Hathorne back-peddled

Stoughton frowned. “What did you mean, Mr. Hathorne?”

“During time of war, civil order is even more important.” Hathorne gulped his drink.

Corwin continued to support his colleague. “Scarce a man in all of Salem who doesn’t owe Jonathan some debt of gratitude.”

“Or some debt,” joked Hathorne. “On my books at my Customs House at the Harbor, eh what?”

This drew a mild laughter from the others.

Corwin quickly added, “He’s helped many a drowning man stay aloft through famine and want.”

Addington pointedly asked Hathorne and Corwin, “But where did the two of you stand during the Andros years?”

The question unsettled both the Inferior Court judges. They shrugged, hemmed, hawed for a moment, Hathorne exchanged glances with Reverend Higginson, who’d forced his weary body from his sickbed to be on hand, and beside him, Nicholas Noyes, who, along with Reverend Hale and Samuel Parris had been summoned to meet the Superior Court judges. The lower judges had made a festival of it; all present had consumed food, ale, and canary wine at cost to the Salem judges. Reverend Parris today stood mute, not offering a word, as if he’d been castigated or ordered to remain silent before the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” began Hathorne, “we’re not Boston by any stretch, and we may be small, but our seaport thrives as well as any, and we are a courageous people . . . and-and as for those troubled years, well sirs—”

Reverend Higginson raised his cane and banged it like a gavel. “I knew the great John Winthrop, first governor of our wonderful experiment, this our colony.”

Nicholas Noyes muttered in the old man’s ear that perhaps he should save his strength, which Higginson shook off. “Knew Winthrop, yes, when hardly more than a boy. I’ve studied his life and have found no man’s wisdom greater than his, either as a statesman or a religious leader.”

Hathorne tried to capitalize on this. “I often use Winthrop’s wisdom in my courtroom.”

“You rule by Winthrop’s pronouncements then?” asked the round, balding Sewell.

“And yours, sir,” added Hathorne, holding up Sewell’s sermons.

“I should think you’d rule by God’s pronouncements,” countered Sewell.

“Of course, of course. Both Corwin and I do exactly that. I didn’t mean to imply other—”

“Tempered with Winthrop’s wisdom and that of Solomon?” asked Saltonstall with a quick grin.

Corwin returned the smile. “We do what we can.”

Stoughton corrected his loose powdered wig. Sir William had been knighted and made Chief Justice of the Colonies under Sir Edmund Andros, the Governor who had been literally torn from office and hung before cooler head could prevail as many had argued for his banishment, to have him placed on a ship sailing for England, to allow authorities there to deal with him. How Sir William Stoughton, the now Chief Justice, had achieved knighthood and position no one knew, and even more curious was how he’d weathered the storm when almost every official connected with the infamous Governor Andros had either been hung or tarred, feathred, and chased from the colony. Somehow this man Stoughton had escaped the stonings and the tarrings of those riotous days. And somehow he’d remained in office, untainted and untouched by it all. “Do you utilize the Pentateuch then in your deliberations?” asked Stoughton now.

“It is the law of Moses,” said Corwin, nodding.

“First five books of the Bible,” said Hathorne, sipping at his wine. “Written by Moses to convey the word of our Lord.”

“Good, solid law, solid teachings.”

Everyone agreed, a wave of yeses and nods going about the room.

“Moses was a great man and a great mind,” added Higginson. “His precepts are still applicable today, and if you interpret them correctly, you will not allow the telltale stories of spirits and hobgoblins and rumors of ghosts at bedtime to take the place of testimony of the sort required in a courtroom.” The effort left Higginson sorely coughing and hacking.

“So were you an Andros man, Mr. Hathorne?” asked Stoughton, pressing the point. “You never quite answered the question.”

Nervous laughter erupted from the others. Hathorne gritted his teeth, unsure how to put the truth. “I signed Andros’ oath of allegiance to the King, sir, same as you.”

This froze everyone. An icy silence filled the house until Stoughton said, “Go on, Mr. Hathorne.”

Corwin was visibly shaking, his drink in hand telling the tale.

Higginson wryly smiled, curious how this might go.

“I rule by the dictates of my Maker, sir,” began Hathorne, knowing that Stoughton could have him removed from office at any time. “And . . . and I did so the entire time that Andros was in power, tyrant that he was. If I must work within a system I find fault with, as at that time, that is if there is no recourse, then I ask God’s gracious guiding hand to guide my thoughts in guiding others . . . that is to help . . . ”

“Jonathan and I both followed Winthrop’s dictum,” said Corwin. “When human reason fails and war divides a land, fall to your knees and pray to God, and then do nothing.” Corwin laughed, raised his ale, and tried to lighten the moment.

“A good politician would agree,” said Addington, his pinched, severe features on the verge of a smile but not quite.

Judge Sewell, who’d also managed to remain in office through this difficult period, added, “Doing nothing is an acceptable maneuver in . . . in the face of overwhelming and difficult circumstances, after all.”

“Perhaps we ought to begin a political party and call ourselves the Do Nothings,” finished Stoughton.

A nervous laughter moved about the room.

Stoughton added, “Oh, I know the wait and see attitude is practiced most deftly by everyone in office, gentlemen, from our present Governor down. Do you wish to know what Governor Phipps has to say on your witch problem here in Salem?”

“Indeed . . . indeed we do,” said Higginson. “Here, here and about time he made some stand.”

“He says he’d rather fight Indians and invaders than shadows and spirits, that he wanted his shot and dagger to pierce something when he rode into battle.”

“He is a gallant man on a horse.” It was Nicholas Noyes’ summation of Sir William Phipps.

“The man has ended the Indian problem,” said Hale thoughtfully. “Leastways in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

“He’s gone to Maine to help see to the scourge there,” said Sewell.

Stoughton countered with a raised glass. “And perhaps to run from the scourge here.”

The others laughed.

“Meanwhile the jails in Salem are bulging with the indicted here,” replied Nehemia Higginson, drawing a stare from Addington. Higginson’s mind raced with many concerns. Members of the Superior Court, also called the General Court were trained in both the ministry and the law, as law was based on biblical strictures meant as common belief, custom, and rule. That men might cooperate and combine and grow in community and harmony. New England for the Puritans on these shores was the great purging, the starting over of God’s Eden, his New Jerusalem, a Utopia to be cherished and defended against any attack, perceived or otherwise. At the same time, despite the hold on the colonies by the King of England, most in Massachusetts and perhaps all the colonies found swearing an oath to any earthly king or governor—the king’s man—part and parcel of the old and perverted world across the sea. The contemptible, wicked, shameful, and sinful Old England of the Episcopal Faith. To such men, swearing an Oath to King William was to bend to the will of a tyrant and his petty tyrants sent to the colonies to collect taxes and to chain men for not genuflecting. Tyrants and tax collectors in black cloaks, men like Andros who made people sign in his book.

The Puritans had rejected both the Church of England and the Vatican; they’d run from England, braving all manner of danger to escape a tainted world, to escape the blood and poison of a toxic universe where kings bent the rule of law and the rule of God to their perverse and often greedy and self-serving ends. Some said the taint of England had come with them to the New World; that such things as witches and wizards had also come over right along with the wharf rats and other vermin.

Such men, and the sons of such men as Nehemia Higginson, stood in this room now, come together to fight this new threat to Utopia. “You men of Boston,” said Higginson, “know that we men of Salem agree with your politics. England has failed God, but we will not fail Him.”

This profound remark silenced the others. Higginson got to his feet with great effort, telling his underling, Noyes, to fetch his wrap and coat. He said to the others as he waited, “I can see you are men of learning, knowledge, theology, law—a nd that you are influential. All to the good. All to help us in Salem to heal. I pray you use your offices wisely, knowing you are men with a just cause—to end this damable witch hunt before it goes any further.”

No one responded, and the old minister, looking as thin and gaunt as a buzzard, allowed Noyes to help him on with cape and hat. Noyes helped him out the door as well, but the elder minister stopped at the entry and said pointedly to Stoughton, “Don’t forget what we talked about, Sir William.”

Stoughton cleared his throat and replied, “I will remember, Reverend sir. And thank you for taking such effort to be here.”

With Higginson and Noyes gone, Saltonstalll took center stage. “I think it time we magistrates conferred now in private, gentlemen.”

From the look Stoughton and Addington shared, it was time for the other ministers to follow old Higginson’s example right out the door, to leave them with the magistrates of the lower court to talk statutes and laws and precedent in a situation without precedent on these shores, and so to allow them to talk about the legal aspects of what was going on here.

Once every clergyman had bid adieu, Sir William Stoughton took charge, saying, “At last, gentlemen, we might speak frankly and to the point. We are here to eradicate demons.”

# # # # #

Stoughton firmly took Hathorne by the arm and led him to sit with him before the hearth. “Jonathan . . . may I call you Jonathan?”

“By all means, Sir William.”

Sewell and Addington hung back, glancing at one another.

Corwin kept his distance.

“It appears to me, Jonathan,” continued Stoughton, imbibing between phrases, “appears this next election will be decided along the loyalty issue.”

“A major concern among the mob, I’d say,” replied Hathorne.

“Regardless of your reasoning . . . ” Stoughton shrugged. “However moral it may or may not’ve been to stand with Andros when Governor, now in today’s climate, we may all of us suffer the fate of those who’ve been tossed from office.”

“I understand and it comes with our duties.”

“Held accountable, even me—even Sewell there.”

“But-but—”

“Unless we find a way to keep the voters’ minds’ well distracted.”

“Distracted, yes. I take your point.”

Hathorne’s black maidservant, Callie, entered, asked if anything additional was needed, and Hathorne scolded her for interrupting, finishing with, “Be off to bed, now!” He then apologized to his guests.

His servant’s interrupting them had given him pause; enough to consider what precisely the Boston judges had in mind. Clearly, it had all to do with its being an election year, and the polls would decide all their fates. He said to Stoughton, loud enough for the others in the room to hear, “It’s true the people have been aroused against Corwin and me on the single issue, but in general, we are well respected here.”

“But the single issue will raise its ugly head anew,” countered Addington. “The pamphleteers in Boston are already calling for heads to roll.”

“A foregone conclusion,” added Sewell.

Stoughton leapt back in. “And for what? Doing your duty as you saw fit under duress! Surviving to fight another day—like now, here in Salem against the most vicious attack on our way of life, and how? Through our children, man!”

“Here, here!” cheered Corwin, downing another ale.

“Indeed!” chorused the other men of Boston.

Stoughton paced before the others, clearly the head of the snake here. “Since Increase Mather’s gone abroad for a new Charter of Laws for New England—as if we had none—the populace in Boston seems bent on the Andros issue as never before!”

“Mather left us holding the proverbial pig in a poke,” commented Sewell, the writer. “Sure, we need that charter in place, but it could have waited until after the elections coming in June.

“Mather is the fastest among us!” Addington toasted Increase Mather, a scowl on his face.

“But in the meantime,” began Stoughton, his chest puffed out, pacing yet, “we could all lose our seats before Mather’s return. All rather calculated, if you ask me.”

“Calculated?” asked Hathorne. “How so?”

Corwin gulped.

Stoughton asked Addington to explain it to the lesser judges. “I grow weary of the parochialism in this room.”

Hathorne and Corwin turned their eyes on the thin, gaunt Mr. Addington. “Don’t you see, gentlemen? He—Mather—jaunts off as an emissary, returns a hero with the laws literally in hand, and we, gentlemen, we are growing potatoes on some plot of land perhaps bordering the Connecticut.”

Corwin raised a quaking palm out as if to say stop. “But . . . but we only stood by our office.”

“Obviously, you men of Boston have talked this over among yourselves,” said Hathorne, coming away from his corner. “Do you intend to contest Increase Mather’s appointment as emissary or to question his integrity or motives?”

“No, no! That would not be politic in the current climate,” replied Sewell. “We’re saying he calculated the timing of his trip to coincide with the elections, knowing his popularity would sustain him from an ocean away, while we . . .we in this room are left to face hostilities here.”

“At a time of election when we have no charter, don’t you see?” asked Addington, grimacing, “which the popular mind will read as anarchy, for which we all pay.”

“We all become targets of unrest and sedition,” Stoughton added.

“Can you predict the future with such accuracy?” Hathorne countered, trying to hold onto some shred of himself in this sea men who in essence formed the greatest minds in the colony. Hathorne had inched to the window and he pointed out it now. “Can you read their minds?”

“I once trusted that man, Mather, and now?” muttered Sewell. “I trust his son, Cotton, far more.”

“Makes my days in office bitter ones now, looking back,” choked Addington.

“To answer your question, Mr. Hathorne,” said Stoughton, going to him and putting a hand on his shoulder, “we in this room have a combined wisdom that dictates our prophesy so that yes, we can and must read minds to survive! Right, gentlemen?”

There was some good-natured laughter over this and Stoughton held the floor, adding, “Look, gentlemen, we all share the same fate, unless we do something to turn the heads of the masses pointing in another direction.” Stoughton took a giant step and stood center of the room among them, speaking firmly now, his voice filling the house. “A contingency of malcontents has grown large over this Andros thing. As result, Mr. Corwin, Mr. Hathorne, it seems we have more in common than you might imagine.”

“But Governor Phipps himself named you his Chief Justice, despite your working under Andros,” said Hathorne, confused.

“That bit of cunning on Phipps’ part hardly disguises his audacity. He means to placate us all, and to put me into a quiet sleep before the anvil falls. The man keeps his enemies close, no doubt due to Mather’s influence.”

“Mather was behind your appointment and knighthood?”

“It kept Mather at Phipps side, what to do with me. I know how the man thinks. Make me Sir William before humbling me.”

“We still don’t know what intrigues went on at King’s court to gain Phipps such favor with King Willy,” said Sewell.

A knock at the door made them jump. Corwin stumbled to the window and glanced out from behind the drapes. “My word, it’s Reverend Samuel Parris.”

“I earlier asked Mr. Parris to return at this hour,” confessed Stoughton.

“Let him in,” said Sewell.

Corwin looked to Hathorne for a nod, which came without hesitation.

“Enter, Mr. Parris,” said Corwin, opening the door to the village minister.

“I understand you wish to see me, Sir William, ah, Chief Justice,” said Parris, his nerves shaky, eyes straight ahead as if not wanting to catch Hathorne’s glare.

“Yes, take your cape and hat off,” said Stoughton. “Have a brandy—do we have brandy, Mr. Hathorne? Warm yourself by the fire.”

After Parris performed each step in turn and Hathorne broke out the brandy and poured for everyone, Stoughton sat across from Parris and spoke to him as if they were the only two men in the room. “I understand it is with you, sir, and your home, and your child that this witchcraft business began?”

“My child was the first afflicted, only in a manner of speaking. There were others killed and afflicted here over many years! Years before my arrival, sir.”

“That’s just the kind of information we need, Mr. Parris. Do sit down and lay it out for us as clearly and as quickly as you can for me and my fellow justices, Mr. Saltonstall, Mr. Sewell and Mr. Addington.”

“You see,” said Hathorne to Parris, “we are ahhh . . . considering the issue from all angles, the way one might study a mathematical problem.”

“If you want my honest appraisal,” replied Parris, looking form man to man, “it’s a multiplication problem.”

# # # # #

From a distance outside the Hathorne home, Reverend Hale had done as old Higginson had asked. He’d found a safe location out of view, and he’d watched the Hathorne house for how long they’d remain in conference, and Hale had been shocked to see Reverend Samuel Parris welcomed back inside where the hearth fire glowed up and down at the windows, giving the impression the house was a living entity in itself, staring back at Hale were the creatures eyes, breathing out smoke from the chimney, patient and biding its time and knowing he was here spying on it.

Hale had taken a number of meetings of his own with the world-weary Reverend Higginson, who’d now returned to what must soon become his deathbed. The old minister had much to say on the entire witchcraft crisis, the afflictions of children, the horror of setting neighbor against neighbor, of mob rule. The wisdom in Higginson’s smallest finger rivaled all of that in the heads of the rest of them who seemed bent on fanning the fires of this ever-growing tragedy, which had taken on a life of its own.

In fact, Hale had dug out some of his old books and found the Greek tragedies he had so admired. So much wisdom behind the words, even between the lines; wisdom of how men related and how quickly poison spread among them. He’d told his wife that this Salem Witch Hunt was taking on the look of a Greek tragedy, and when Mrs. Hale asked how was that, he’d replied, “Once begun, it must find a catastrophic and heartrending end.”

And now this. Boston comes to Salem in an entourage around Sir William, and now this—they are entertaining Samuel Parris. “I fear a bad end indeed,” Hale muttered to the night air. “An end which Samuel Parris appears to be orchestrating, whether consciously or not; one that means to deal a terrible blow to the entire colony.” Higginson was right: what must Increase Mather be thinking to abandon us all at such an hour? The one man who might draw the curtain on the first act before the final one might conclude.

Hale waited in the shadows to see how long Parris remained inside; he half expected to see others, like the irritating Nicholas Noyes, show up, perhaps even the deacons of the village, along with the village idiot. But no one else appeared at Hathorne’s, and Hale still waited, now half expecting to freeze to death if he did not move on.

Over an hour passed before Parris emerged, and Hale noted an uncharacteristic lilt in his step as he made his way home—a place likely promised to him by Sir William should all go in their favor—whatever deal or scheme had just been hatched.

Hale imagined that no one else other than Samuel Parris need be called; that Sir William had either turned Parris inside out to see precisely the kind of man he was—which felt unlikely under the circumstances—or Sir William and his flock of crows had found a man they believed trustworthy. And not just trustworthy but helpful to their cause—which Higginson had made clear to Hale earlier in the day: “To remain in office at all cost.”

“Even at the cost of lives due to these mad allegations taken from the dead?” Hale had asked Higginson, shaking his head at the time, not wanting to believe men so base; yet he’d read Greek tragedy, so he knew he could not cling to any naiveté in this world.

“Men like Stoughton, Mr. Hale, are politicians first. Human beings after. What’s happening now is exactly what I’d hoped to avoid when I solicited help from Increase Mather—who dumped his son on me!”

Hale’s face lit up at this news, and he’d asked point blank, “The help that brought Jeremiah Wakely to Salem?”

“I know. Did more harm than good, I fear.”

“It’s a wonder Mr. Wakely hasn’t had a warrant sworn out against him.”

That conversation with the old man had opened Hale’s eyes immeasurably, while Nicholas Noyes was scurrying about the outer door and coming in and out with offerings of tea and biscuits until Nehemia had shouted at Noyes to leave them in peace.

Hale now had seen with his own eyes that Nehemia was perhaps the most astute and wisest theologian among them, but Nehemia through no choice of his own, was leaving them to fend for themselves. Hale had never seen a man standing on two legs so near the grave. Hale silently prayed that God would spare Higginson just long enough to help him weather this coming storm, but he held little hope that his prayer would be answered. But for now, Reverend John Hale beat a hasty retreat home and hearth and wife. In the morning, he’d visit Higginson again to relay what he’d seen transpire at Hathorne’s tonight.

Chapter Seven

Jeremiah and Serena stood together at the gate to her parent’s home, Serena telling him she’d had a wonderful time in Boston as she lifted her ring and admired the gold band he’d purchased for her at the jewelers. Serena had talked the entire way back about how they could take Samuel’s parcel of land and fix up the old cabin that had been his, and in time make additions to it, and plant a garden, and make a family, and make family rituals and generally grow old together.

Boston and Mrs. Fahey’s had grown difficult and was not in their immediate future, but Jeremy still had not resigned himself to becoming a farmer here in Salem. His meeting with Cotton Mather’s apprentice back in Boston, his having been put off by Mather, had embarrassed him. To be sent off, any meeting with Mather postponed without any reason given. He’d been turned away like a beggar there at the church, and each attempt to find Mather at his home netted him more excuses from a manservant there who corroborated the story that Mather had ventured to Salem.

“Careful else you’ll pull that gate from its hinges,” he warned Serena as she swung in and out, the rusted hinges screeching.

“What’re you saying?” Serena asked from the gate she continued to swing on. “That I’m too fat? Me, Candlewick?”

“No! The gate’s too small even for you!” He managed a lopsided grin. Then he saw her smile fade, replaced by a look of utter confusion.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mother.”

“What of her?”

“The house! Look at the house.”

“I see only the house.”

“’Tis dark, and feels . . . empty.”

Just then Francis stumbled out looking a shell of himself. He saw them and cried out for Serena. She raced to him and they embraced. “What’s happened? They’ve taken her, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

“’Tis true.” He had a gash over his left eye where he’d taken a blow.

“They put her in shackles and in that damned cart . . .” He looked dazed, confused.

“In-In shackles?”

“Aye and paraded her through the village!”

Serena’s tears came flooding now.

Jeremy stood over father and daughter, teeth clenched. “I never thought they’d have the nerve, not really.”

“In dark of night . . .” continued Francis, “sent a small army, choosing a time when none of my boys were about. Lit into Williard and his deputy Herrick. Williard showed some sympathy, but I lost my temper and jammed my shotgun into his face. Herrick blindsided me. Least, I think it was Herrick. There were so many of them, and there was Putnam hiding back of ’em.”

Serena could not control her tears. Jeremy did all he could to console her, but nothing helped. She rushed to the room that had been hers, locked the door, and threw herself on the bed, sobbing.

Jeremy and Francis decided to have a dram of ale, the early hour be damned.

# # # # #

Jeremiah stood before the Nurse hearth where no flame warmed the old homestead, where not the slightest ember burned amid the ashes. He marveled at the size of the interior of what most still called the old Towne home, Rebecca’s father’s home. The ceilings here gave Jeremy no concern for his head—so high were they. While at Parris’ home, Jeremy had to constantly stoop to avoid the overhanging studs holding up the roof.

Here the staircase to the second floor stood front and center of the main hall, slicing the house into two sections, a separate fireplace at each end. A narrow, long and high-ceilinged add-on room had been built on the western side, adding a third fireplace and chimney. Great, large black oak beams hung below the ceiling here and traveled the length of the room, extending into the kitchen. The home like the fields had grown and flourished since Francis and Rebecca had taken over stewardship.

Francis returned with two pewter cups filled with ale, drank at room temperature. “That looks good after a long ride.” Jeremy sipped away.

Francis raised his cup. “To seeing you and my sweet Serena again, and to getting my wife back home.”

“To Rebecca, her health and comfort.”

“I fear for her entirely, Mr. Wakely.”

Jeremy nodded. “I still can’t fathom what they can be thinking beyond a rancid passion for your land, sir.”

“The woman is a saint, but they have her sliding needles into the flesh of infants.”

They stepped out onto the porch to the continued sobbing coming from Serena’s room. Once outside, scanning the horizon, azure and orange with dashes of cloud for a beautiful sunrise dappling around and through the tree line.

Francis petted Jeremy’s horse. “Fine animal.”

Speaking of trivial matters felt wrong, as if a sin, in the face of the horror before them. “She’s a witch, my horse.”

“A witch?” Francis was taken aback.

“Knows my mind, I mean. Sorry. But I wish these yokels and fools would point their fingers at a bewitched horse to be put down rather than this notion of putting down people.”

“Rebecca has always known my mind.”

“I’m sure.”

“She’s made me promise, you remember? To hold my tongue and hand.”

“In this matter, yes. I recall.”

“Knew my mind on many matters over the years, she did.”

“Including her arrest?”

“Yes, it’s why she made me swear no interference. She knows so long as the land is held in my name, they can’t take it no matter what they do to her.”

“She knows the law.”

“They come into my home, Jeremy, and shackled her before my eyes. Made a big show of it. Thomas Putnam was grinning like a devil.”

“It’s a wonder you weren’t arrested.”

“It could come at any time. Giles Corey’s been on the run since his wife’s arrest; she gave in testimony against him, that he’s some sort of wizard!”

“Corey—Martha and Gilles. Just as I said. Those with good holdings are now come under fire. Have they taken the mill?”

“Not as yet, but you’re correct. They’ll find Corey, arrest him, and widdle a confession from him, as he holds the deed.”

“Once that’s accomplished . . . “

“Give them whatever they want, Father!” shouted Serena from her window, having listened in.

“It’s your mother’s wish that at no cost do we lose our holdings, child; your mother’s put us all in a difficult situation. She’s made me promise.”

“None of this is her doing!” Serena climbed through the window to come onto the porch and face her father. The two studied one another’s eyes for some time.

“None of it is my doing either, Serena.”

“We must call a meeting of the family.”

“I have. Ben is making the rounds now.”

“We must take a vote. Give them a parcel—that old section of Samuels isn’t being worked.”

“Mother said you had plans for that parcel for you and Jeremiah.”

“I spoke of it with her, yes, but things’ve changed! I give it freely for her! Jeremy?”

“Absolutely, yet—”

“Yet what?”

“I fear it will not satisfy these fiends.”

“Then we give them more!” she scolded Francis, pounding his wide woodsman’s arm with her fists. “Mother in that filthy jail at the village? It’s sinful, unthinkable. She’s not well as is, and that place is a death sentence.”

Jeremy grabbed hold of her and held her until she calmed. “You read my mind,” Jeremy said in her ear.

“One day, Serena will know your mind entirely,” said Francis, his eyes glazing over. “And you hers.”

“I could not wish for more.”

“There’s news that a mine up at Will’s Hill had yet another cave in. Killed two men, maimed another for life, and Thomas Putnam, part owner in the venture escaped with a twisted ankle this time ’round.”

More small talk, Jeremy wondered, or did Francis mean to keep him informed?

Then Francis added, “I’d noticed Putnam’s limp when he and the others took my Rebecca, and I’d silently asked God why he’d not taken Thomas Putnam instead of those boys in that useless mine?”

“God would not have so vile a man!” Serena shouted. “And Parris will learn it one day, too.” Serena paced the porch. “What’s taking Ben and the others so long to get here?”

“We’d hoped you two would not come back,” said Francis, finding a seat. “Hoped you’d remain in Boston at safe distance, Serena.”

“It became untenable,” Jeremy replied, holding Serena’s hands in his, “despite our wishes.”

“So, getting to it, Jeremiah, what success had you in Boston?”

“Little, I fear . . . very little.”

“Little?” Serena gave him an angry scowl.

“I mean aside from our marrying, of course.”

Francis nodded, impatient. “Of course, but did you speak to the magistrates there? The ministers? Mather?”

“They all left Boston before I had an audience.”

“I have heard rumor they are in Salem, the magistrates, but what of Mather?”

“Reverned Cotton Mather,” said Serena through clenched teeth, “may or may not be in Salem; no one seems to know, but rumor has it he’s come to investigate matters personally—or so it’s rumored.”

“Rumored?” asked Francis. “Jeremy, did he tell you this or not?”

Jeremy exchanged a glance with Serena. “A news pamphlet I worked for said it was so.”

“Yes, but did he relate the same to you personally?”

“Tell Father, Jeremy. Tell him!”

“Mather refused to see me.” Jeremy deflated with the confession, finding a seat.

“What? But I thought you two were—”

“One day too busy with colonial affairs,” put in Serena.

“The next he ill and abed, and seeing no one.”

“Hiding, he is,” she grimly said, “like our Governor Phipps.”

The old man considered this news for some time. Once it’d sunk in, he said, “Likely Mather, and perhaps Phipps himself, will follow the others here.”

“The Boston authorities paraded into the village two days ago.”

“Paraded, sir?” asked Jeremy.

“Sir William Stoughton, Sewell, Saltonstall, and Addington.”

“All here, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Then perhaps they did get my appeals. I’d tried to see them all in turn while in Boston, but was told one after the other was gone. I’d assumed they were simply shunning me like Mather. Well, this is wonderful news! These are men of learning. They’ll put a stop to this nonsense.”

“They’ve done nothing so far.”

“It may take time, but these are intelligent men—Harvard graduates all.”

Francis remained skeptical. “Intelligence is no guarantee of integrity, Jeremy.”

“What’re you saying?”

“Saying that my wife’s arrest warrant came a day after their arrival.”

“Their names on the warrant?” Jeremy stared into the old man’s eyes. “Tell me, were their names on—”

“Like you said, they are smart fellows, so no, they do not attach their names to the warrants.”

“They leave it to Corwin and Hathorne, eh?”

“They do. They’re clever men.”

Jeremy tried to absorb this veiled accusation coming from Francis Nurse. “But Francis, surely the Boston judges did not come here to see Mother Nurse placed in shackles.” Jeremy did not believe them capable of this.”

“They have their own motives. Say they are here to establish order, but they’ve only made things worse.”

“How are you so sure?”

“They’re suing for our property as well.”

“What?” Serena shouted. “They’re not even concealing their motives?”

“They’re saying the original deed was in Rebecca’s hands, which is true. It’d been a land grant given her father, Towne, divided among his three daughters, Rebecca the eldest. When we married, Rebecca’s third share of the deed was changed over in my name.”

Jeremy’s eyes had widened at this, his grimace made of anger and confusion.

“Trying to take our land, just as Jeremy predicted,” said Serena.

“They want the entire place, all three shares,” said Jeremy, “which means they will also be coming for your aunts, Serena.”

“Everything we’ve built.” She dropped her gaze and fought back more tears.

“Tell me, Mr. Nurse, sir, were the Boston justices’ names on the suit?”

“No, no! As I’ve said, they’re not fools.”

“Then how do you know they’re behind this?” pressed Jeremy, hoping against hope that Francis was wrong about the justices of the highest court in the land.

“I’ve talked to Higginson and Hale, who both assure me that the judges—all of them—have sided with Parris.”

“All this effected in a matter of days.”

“In our absence,” lamented Serena.

“I can hardly believe it.”

“And why not, Jeremy?” Serena scolded him.

Francis put up a hand to the young ones. “Jeremy, they’re out to supplant the issue of Andros with the frightful issue of—”

“Witchcraft, of course.”

“There is an election coming on, and they are political animals, whatever else they might be called.”

Jeremy swallowed hard as if it hurt to do so. “I should’ve seen this coming.”

“Why? No one else did. Williard passed me the suit papers on the heels of the warrant for Rebecca’s arrest. Their names aren’t on it, no, but their stamp of approval certainly is. They mean to call it Towne land by her being a Towne, and that it’s a disgrace that a government granted land parcel has fallen into the hands of a so-called witch and an old seaman.”

“A scheme that gets Parris and Putnam what they want,” sputtered Serena, her anger rising.

“Access to our acres, the rivers, the timber.” Francis sighed heavily. “I’d give it all for Rebecca, all of it.”

“Have we any other choice, Father? No!”

Jeremy nodded. “They also mean to give the villagers the blood of witches.’

“The land,” muttered Francis. “What they’ve squabbled about since the day I married Rebecca.”

Jeremiah shook his head in disbelief, even as he asked himself, What’s not to believe? “What plans have you? Any?”

“John Proctor’s wife’s been arrested too, and John’s ranted and publicly attacked the ministers and magistrates for their—how’d he say it? Idiocy. I’ve had to calm John as there’s a good chance he could be arrested next, and I need him beside me.”

“Proctor runs a lumber mill, right?”

“He does, and it’s as attractive as Corey’s grain mill, and like I said, Mrs. Corey’s been jailed as a witch, made to implicate her husband, and he is on the run.”

“I begin to see the pattern.”

“Good! But you and I are in the minority. Others see it as God’s will be done at last. Those who’ve long been our enemies in that cursed village yonder!” His hand flew up, a flourish in the general direction of the village.

Jeremy fingered his empty cup. “So what are you doing next, sir?”

“Every legal means I have, I am taking. I’ve a petition got up, and many have willingly signed, giving witness to Rebecca’s goodness, her life, and devotion to God.”

“Has it had any effect?”

“None, but I keep trying to get it into Stoughton’s hands.”

“I see. But lately that has become a near impossible task. I still have that copy of Parris sermon on me.”

“Can’t get it past Hathorne. He and Corwin’ve become the front men here for people like myself who might be an annoyance.”

“So, you’ve joined me as an annoyance?”

“We’re in the minority, Jeremy,” he repeated. “And it is an extreme minority, growing smaller each day.”

“Fear will do that to people,” said Serena. “Where do we go to get Mother back? What do we need to sign?”

“Wish it were that easy, my girl.”

“We must regain Mother at any cost!”

“Don’t you hear me, child? Your mother will not hear of being traded for a single acre!”

“You are the head of the household, the man here, Father, and you have a duty to override her wishes!” The argument had grown heated.

“So, what would you have me do? Break my promises to her? It’s a mistake, your coming back here, you two! You make me more vulnerable than ever. Jeremy, you must please take Serena as far from Salem as you possibly can.”

“Take Serena away from here?” She snapped at her father. “I am not some bundle of hay to be carted off at the first sign of trouble. No, we’re here to help, not to run!”

Serena marched noisily about the porch, collecting their empty ale cups, and she put one foot indoors, going to refills when she stopped in the doorway, “What kind of daughter do you think you raised?”

“It’s what your mother wants—her final wish of us, she calls it; it’s why she sent you to Boston in the first place.”

“I’m here to fight for her,” said Jeremy.

“And so am I,” added Serena. “To get her out of that hole they’ve thrown her into, Father!”

“The two of you will be sucked into this and arrested, and where will that leave any of us!”

“Not if we work cautiously,” countered Jeremy.

“Caution does no good against the kind of insanity in the village.”

Jeremy thought of the scene in the apothecary where Mary Wolcott had ‘danced’ with the devil. “I suspect you’re right, but we can’t just walk away from this, not now, not with Mother Nurse’s life in the balance.”

“Sign the petition and go. It’s all you can accomplish.”

“I intend to talk to the justices from Boston,” countered Jeremy, and to locate Cotton Mather if he is indeed in Salem.

“Questioning them and their methods can only bring down this hell on you and Serena, Jeremy.”

“We’re going nowhere, Father.” Serena’s tone put an end to it. “I’ll make us all some breakfast. It’s far too early for all this drinkin’ you two are doing.” She disappeared inside, the ale cups in her hands clanking.

“Sounds just like her mother,” Francis said with a slight mirth.

“Where’s that petition?”

“Circulating. Ben’s been hell-bent to go down to the village with guns to take Mother by force. He’ll get himself killed, that boy.”

“But you managed to get his attention and put him to work on the petition?”

“Precisely.”

Jeremy stood over the old man now and placed his hands on the stooped shoulders. “I am terribly sorry that this horrible business has come to your doorstep, sir, in this time of your lives, you and Mother Nurse.” In the winter of your lives.

Francis, a tear coming to his eye, patted Jeremy’s left hand with his right where it rested. “If I thought you were capable of it, I’d press you to get my daughter from here, Jeremy.”

“She has a mind of her own.”

“When those madmen fail to get a confession of witchcraft and murder from my Rebecca, and I know they will not, what befalls this family next? They will arrest her sisters, and when that fails.” He glanced over his shoulder to determine if Serena was still nearby. “When that fails, they will come for my children in their effort to get me to agree to their demands.”

“I think you have the lay of their scheme, sir.”

“Then you must get Serena away. You must convince her. You two must stay above the fray at all cost.”

“I will do all in my power to protect your daughter, sir. I love her as you love her, as you love Rebecca.

Chapter Eight

Across the land stretching to the village, at the Thomas Putnam home, Mrs. Putnam, Anne Carr, was trying desperately to find sleep—alone again—and again listening to the voice of her dead brother, Henry.

“I killed myself for her, because of you, Anne,” Henry’s voice held no emotion despite the terrible words he’d left her with on his deathbed that night twenty years ago. Why now? Why return to me now, all these years later? She could not fathom it—unless he meant to warn her of impending doom. Why does he put images of us as children in our father’s house in Salisbury into my head?

“The girl was a witch, Henry!” she shouted at his ghost now again as she had so many years before. “She’d’ve used you up! A witch! And she never loved you, Henry, not like I did.”

She saw snatches of their incestuous affair, images he pressed upon her mind with his renewed vigor and presence here today. Now little Anne up in the loft had been caught doing much the same with the servant girl. Perhaps it ran in the blood, this awful sin of sins. She’d finally convinced Thomas to remove the offending Mercy Lewis from their home despite her daughters rantings and pleadings that she keep Mercy, that Mercy was more ‘mother’ to her than she!

It only sealed the need, her saying that to her own mother. So Mercy was gone, sent off now to the home of Bridget Bishop, and there Mercy had, if rumor were true, fallen into another of her newfound fits and had in a vision seen where that Bishop woman kept her voodoo dolls—dolls stuck full with pins.

The authorities had ransacked Bishop’s Inn and had found the witchcraft makings jammed behind some loose bricks at the hearth in the basement. Exactly where Mercy had sworn they’d be. Thomas had confided the story the night before, and he added how proud he was of Mercy, and that Mercy was heroic to do as he and Reverend Parris had asked—to go into that witch’s lair to unmask her. Bishop was now back in a cell where she belonged. Imagine a woman running a road house like that.

“You were a weak boy, Henry,” she said to the specter standing at the foot of her bed now—not really standing but floating there. In morning light, a shaft of it bathing him in brilliant jeweled life like nothing she’d seen before—as his visits had always been in dead of night before, but now he was being damned insistent, saying, “Anne . . . a-and you were cruel.”

“And you a feeble excuse for a man, like Thomas now! Damn you, I had no hand in your dying. I-I—”

“Death by broken heart, Anne.” She heard his voice inside her head, as if behind her, whispering in her ear. Yet his shape remained in the shaft of light at the foot of the bed.

“Nonsense. You fell sick of the fever.”

“Broken spirit.”

“Nonsense.”

She felt his weight on the bed now, as if a cat had leapt onto it, and the feel of it crept up alongside her, and she shivered. She denied any guilt in her brother’s end. “That Martin girl is still a witch, an old one now, and she give you not one thought! Not like I do!”

“You’re the real witch,” came Henry Carr’s ghostly reply like a whisper of smoke. Coils of his breath wended their way into her ear, just how she’d taught him to lick there. His breath and odor filled the corridors of her mind in search of a home.

“Get out of my head and my bed!” she screamed but somehow her scream came out dull and trapped in her throat.

“I starved myself near to death for her love, not for yours.” She felt him spooned against her body now. “Hung myself for our sins, sister.”

“It was for your own good I kept you from that witch, Henry. I never meant anything but good for you.”

“You mean for you.”

“I loved you.”

Then he was gone. It was all she ever needed to say to Henry’s spectral form to have him leave, to say three simple words—I love you.

Had Thomas been in bed beside her, Henry wouldn’t’ve come, and she’d’ve been safe from yet another visit, but her husband had that fool venture with Bray Wilkins going on again. So he’d taken his cane and bad ankle up that way tonight, despite her pleas. She’d long ago confessed her nightmares were more than mere dream, that her brother Henry paid her regular visits saying the same thing over and over.

Half awake and relieved with Henry’s departure, Mrs. Putnam tried to sleep on a bit more. However, she continued with some difficulty as her breath would catch, and her body would go stiff. So stiff that breathing came hard, and this would simulate death, and she’d find her mind and body inside a coffin, and from within she’d be screaming, “But I’m alive! I’m not dead! You can’t bury me!” She’d scream this at the top of her lungs with no result. No one could hear, and no one came to dig her out.

Then the odors would fill her lungs. Choking, pressing odors of earth and earth worms, spiders, centipedes, vermin, all coming into the coffin with her, sniffing her, and crawling all over, until she screamed even louder.

It was Henry’s doing. Whatever he posited in her ear with his breath brought on the night horrors, until her shakes and screams would finally awaken Thomas, who’d shake her into consciousness and raise her from the coffin and the abyss—but Thomas was tired of the night work, and he was not here now!

She sat bolt upright this time, stiff and sweating from her struggle to regain reality without Thomas’ help or Anne’s help or Mercy’s help. At one time or another all three had shoved, pulled, pushed, hit and screamed at her to awaken her from the night terrors.

Something always crawled into the coffin bed with her, something sitting on her chest, a succubae or incubi, some demon from Hades sure . . . sitting there and stealing her breath, and hoping it could take all of the breath of life she possessed. The creature of night had stayed over in the light. Damn fearless of Henry. Much more courageous as a spirit than he had been in this world. And now he was haunting her daughter as well.

Little Anne raced into the room, looking ever so much like her mother when she was Little Anne’s age where she lived in Salisbury, the last time Anne Carr Putnam had felt any happiness. She bundled her daughter into her, beside her, holding tight. Both were crying now. Mother Putnam shouted to the morning, “How long? How long do I endure this curse!”

# # # # #

Jeremy rode into Salem Town to take the pulse of the harbor people and to hopefully see Reverend Higginson. The town on the ocean bustled with activity and commerce, not unlike Boston. His immediate thought was: you’d never know there was a thing out of kilter or wrong beneath the surface here.

Jeremy stabled his Dancer as the horse needed grooming, and he walked among the people of Salem Town, cautiously listening to the idle conversation among workmen, fishermen, ladies at market, but no one here was talking about the awful business going on in nearby Salem Village—another similarity to Boston.

The only unseemly, untoward indication of the “village problems” appeared the jailhouse—filled beyond its capacity as with Boston and any other community that had so much as a holding pen.

He went across the common where children played at games and climbing trees. No longer wearing the black uniform of the clergy, he was seen as a mere stranger here by most. He crossed the street to Higginson’s church and nearby home, skipping over the trench at mid-street which carried sewage to the ocean.

Carriages and wagons of commerce passed him by, people waving at one another. There was an airy hospitality about Salem Town that he’d never felt in the village, not even years ago as a child. The village temperament had always been summed up in one word in his mind: somber.

That much hadn’t changed in all these years.

At the church, he ran into Reverend Nicholas Noyes, who treated him with cool diffidence, no doubt knowing Jeremiah’s true nature of deceit and deception as summed up by Mr. Parris. “I am in search of Mr. Higginson.”

“He is in meeting with important men of Boston, and I’m sure you were not invited,” replied Noyes, his eyes narrowing into slits that didn’t hide the fact they were rat’s eyes, beady and skulking.

“Where is this meeting?”

“At the Reverend’s home, gathering about his sickbed. The old gentleman is not long for this world.”

“More’s the pity,” replied Jeremy, thinking, More’s the pity that his passing will leave you in charge of the largest congregation in the area.

Jeremy left for Higginson’s residence, and once there, he was barred from entering. Inside the Boston visiting judges, Stoughton, Sewell, Addington, and Saltonstall had the old man cornered—not hard to do. No doubt attempting to have him sign something while in a weakened, perhaps delirious state, Jeremy feared. And most certainly hoping for his blessing on the court they intended to operate out of Salem Town and Village—a special session of the Court of Oyer and Terminer: to hear and determine.

No matter what story he gave, Jeremy could not get past the guard, Sheriff Williard. “Sorry, Mr. Wakely, but I have my orders.”

“Williard, how can you justify arresting Mother Nurse of all people?”

“I don’t make the warrants, Mr. Wakely, I only carry them out.”

“And the warrant against Mother Nurse? Sworn out by whom?”

“Putnam’s name was on it along with several others. Fiske for one as I recall.”

“It’s an evil injustice to have that woman sitting in that pigsty you call a jail.”

“”I agree with you there.”

“I’ve seen root cellars in better order than these jails in Salem Village and Town.”

“I’m not talking about the jails,” said Williard.

Jeremiah looked at the man’s dejected features. “You mean you agree that Mother Nurse is wrongly accused?”

“I do! From the beginning.”

“But you arrested her, and old Francis was struck down in the bargain.”

“I had me orders, and it was Herrick struck the old man.”

“So that absolves you?”

“Look you here, I’m not asking for absolution!”

“You were following orders, and it wasn’t your fault, eh?”

“I can tell you this, I don’t like any of it, and I fear it’s going to eat us all alive. One thing’s sure they’re right about.”

“What’s that?” Jeremy studied the man for any sign of guile but found none.

“That it’s the work of the Antichrist—all of this setting neighbor ’gainst neighbor.”

“And who among us is cause of that?”

“For my money?” He inched closer and whispered, “That blackhearted minister in the village and his lackeys.”

“My sentiments exactly, but he’s now gained the ear of the judges, and they’re now whispering in Mr. Higginson’s ear. I tell you, I must see the judges. I have evidence against Parris.”

“A bit late in the day. All right, Mr. Wakely, what have you?”

Jeremy mentioned the land squabbles, the map, and the Parris sermon.

“Is that it?” Williard was skeptical. “See here, sir, the climate is bad for any man who does not go along with the river that’s plunging forward now in the direction that the judges and—”

“So it is foul, the climate in Salem, don’t I know as does Francis and John Proctor.”

“John Proctor needs follow Nurse’s calm, else isn’t long he’ll lose his freedom.”

“You’ve taken the man’s wife in custody. What do you expect?”

Williard gritted his teeth and whispered, “I tell ya, Proctor’ll be next if he doesn’t stop talking against the ministers and the magistrates. You, too, if you don’t step lightly.”

“Is that a threat, Sheriff?”

“No, ‘’tis the nature of the beast at the moment. Take the advice or ignore it at your peril, sir. Now truly, you should leave these premises.”

“We’re all of us called freemen, citizens of the Crown,” persisted Jeremy, “yet we’re to hold our tongues and to watch where we step?”

“That is the way of it, sir, for now.”

“So you will go on serving warrants?”

Williard looked Jeremy in the eye. “I have little choice. Don’t judge me, Mr. Wakely.”

“I stand in judgment on no man, Mr. Williard. I have had great respect for the law all my days, but not what I see unfolding in Salem. Now as I am going nowhere, will you let me pass?” Jeremy could see movement at one window, which he guessed to be Higginson’s bedroom—else the old man had earlier employed men to remove his bed to a front room.

Williard stood straight and raised his withered arm. “You know I cannot allow you inside.”

“Yes, orders. I see.” Jeremy raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. He turned on his heels and marched off, going for the stables to fetch Dancer. He’d gotten all the answers he expected in Salem Town. He wondered if he dared go into the village.

# # # # #

Jeremiah did indeed ride into the village on his white horse, tethering Dancer outside Ingersoll’s two-story Inn across from the meetinghouse. The numbers of people in the village and inside Ingersoll’s astounded him, as on entering, he saw a jovial-faced Ingersoll too busy pouring ale from kegs for his patrons to notice the arrival of any one man, including the now infamous Jeremiah Wakely. Every table was filled with twosomes and foursomes. “How’s business?” Jeremy asked, stepping to the bar.

Jeremy overheard snippets of conversations in the room.

“A doll in the wall?”

“Stuck full with nails, they say.”

“I heard it was pins.”

“Thank God she’s under lock and key now.”

To Jeremiah’s inquiry about business, Ingersoll laughed loud and raucously and waved a free hand as he poured Jeremy a pint. “You’re not blind. It’s wonderful.”

“Never seen the place so full. Looks downright small in here.”

“Been this way for days.”

Jeremy didn’t recognize all the faces. Obviously, people were flocking into the village and to Ingersoll’s in hope of seeing the bewitched and enchanted children, who could be attacked by any object at any time thanks to the invisible enemy. Then he saw Mercy Lewis darting about from table to table, telling tales of torture and suffering. He overheard the words ghost, spirit, Betty Parris, suffering, and torture repeatedly. Then he saw Mercy lift a man’s pewter cup and drain it in one fell swoop.

“Lil’ scamps got me ale!” shouted the man, whose fellows at the table with him laughed. “Child’s got no right to it, and no manners!”

Still, no one else took Mercy to task for it. In fact, she repeated this at another table between tales of how she’d led authorities to the voodoo doll found behind the brick wall in Bishop’s Inn, and tales of how the dead brothers and sisters of Little Anne Putnam cried out for vengeance.

Ingersoll noticed that Jeremy was taking an interest in this newfound freedom that Mercy Lewis had discovered since her bewitchment. “She’s one of the seers now, Jeremy.”

“Last time I saw the young lady, Sam Parris wrung her neck to get the devil out of her, and now this, and you allow minors your ale?”

Without saying another word to him, Jeremy made Ingersoll uncomfortable, the innkeeper erupting with, “The ale helps them see into the secrets of the witches. It’s a proven fact, it is.”

“Ah, I see, and you believe that? A spirit for a spirit, eh?”

Ingersoll tried to match him with his own lame joke. “They’re not called spirits for nothing. Drink up.”

He frowned at Ingersoll before taking a sip.

“Mr. Parris says a little Canary Island wine simmers the girls, too. Says give ’em what they want.”

“Says that does he?”

“Says it’s for the good of us all that they see clearly and make no false accusations, you see.”

This is like being inside a nightmare, Jeremy thought. “And you believe whatever Sam Parris says?”

Ingersoll gritted his teeth, cracked as they were.

Jeremy raised his voice for others to hear as well, saying, “Tell me, Deacon Ingersoll, how is it the poor little children of the village still suffer attacks from witches who are behind bars and in chains?”

Thomas Putnam, at the bar, shouted, “I’ll tell you, Mr. Wakely, neither bars nor chains stop a witch’s flight if she is in her witch’s attitude.”

“You are telling me that Bridgett Bishop or Tituba Indian all the way from Boston, or Goody Goode can go out of their chains from behind bars and continue to torment children?”

“We all know that they can and they have, repeatedly, while you, sir, have abandoned these parts.”

“Goode, and Osborne are no longer in Salem jail,” said Ingersoll to Jeremy.

“Where then?”

“Removed to Boston after being found guilty by Hathorne and Corwin.”

“Why move them to Boston?”

“The jails here are overfull.”

“Ah, yes, and that doesn’t tell you people something?” Jeremy tried to decipher the real reason the first three accused were sent off to another venue, why not Rebecca and Mrs. Proctor? And other more deserving and recently arrested villagers? Then it dawned on him. Room was being made in order of who had been excommunicated first, second, and so on. Ministers and magistrates working in tandem. He could imagine the bargain struck by Parris: “I excommunicate them first, your honors, and you’ll gain their confessions far easier, and should they remain recalcitrant—a judgment will be that much easier for the people to swallow.” Or something to that effect. Guilty until proven innocent—it was the law.

Some at the bar talked of taking bets on which of the accused found guilty would remain stonehearted and unrepentant, and so be the first to hang.”

Ingersoll belatedly added to what Putnam had earlier said. “The very witches sittin’ in Gatter’s jail, Jeremy, they come each night and torment Betty Parris and some of our other children. They can go invisible, slip from their bodies, and make havoc. They’ve Satan on their side.”

“I had a toad in my house other night with the eyes of woman staring up at me,” added Putnam. This statement sent up a gasp among the others, and it ignited a litany of such eyewitness accounts.

“I saw the ugliest spider that’d built the largest web I’ve ever seen in my barn.”

“We had a mouse in our cellar.”

“We were visited by a centipede, the biggest I ever laid eyes on.”

“Are you men serious?” asked Jeremy. “Do you hear what you say?”

This silenced the others.

Jeremy knew he was stepping dangerously over thin ice. “Look, gentlemen, if a witch is capable of going outside her body, escaping bars and chains, and just as capable of possessing say your body, Mr. Ingersoll—“this made the man visibly tremble –“then why on earth would this same witch return to Gatter’s stink hole?”

It was too logical for them.

Everyone at the bar took another long dram from his pint, and Jeremy thought at least he may’ve gotten one among them thinking more clearly when Thom Putnam shouted, “They must have to return to their own bodies is all—for, for nourishment.”

That settled it for anyone wanting to believe in the seer children and invisible evidence.

The enchanted children, as they were also called, had become little celebrities, scryers with the power everyone else lacked, the eyes to see into the Invisible World of Satan. “People’ve traveled all the way from Boston, Jeremy,” muttered Ingersoll in a near whisper. “It’s rather amazing.”

“Amazing? Really?” Jeremy shook his head in disbelief.

“Whatever do you mean, Jeremiah?”

“You have excommunications each night at the meetinghouse, I am told.”

“We do, yes, to punish the wicked among us.”

“One by one, you take the accused before Parris, correct?”

“Well,” Ingersoll raised his hands as if they were clean.

“So that your minister can banish each alleged witch from the congregation by night, and—”

“The sheriff and his men do the takin’.”

“—and by day, the mad play of these supposed bewitched children, yet you’re surprised it draws people like flies to dung?”

“Hold on, now Jeremy. What else are we to do with witches in our midst but to excommunicate them?”

“This presupposes their guilt, sir.”

“Yes, as the law says, guilty—”

“Until proven innocent. I know the law, Deacon.” The innkeeper was right. English law prevailed on these shores. Jeremy gritted his teeth.

Ingersoll launched in again. “Look here, the judges are convening a Court of Oyer and Terminer right here in Salem.”

Jeremy considered this aloud. “So I’ve heard.; meanwhile, the accused are ridiculed and humiliated through the streets and in ceremony in the meetinghouse.” He imagined how bad it’d gone for Mother Nurse. Her worst nightmare, no doubt, to be banished from the church and shunned by all—the worst ordeal of all.”

“They’re only excommunicated after the ecumenical court finds them guilty, Jeremiah.” Ingersoll looked across his bar at Jeremy as if he were mad.

“These arrested are tried then by Parris in the church assize; they go through this barbarous ritual of banishment. Don’t you have any compunction about putting your neighbors through this hell and—”

“Hold on!” shouted Putnam, suddenly at Jeremy’s side. “These witches killed my progeny.”

Jeremy curtailed his anger. Still, he felt a deep pang of spite and hatred for these backwoods villagers—the same as had excommunicated his father for the sin of love and idealism. “Above all else, gentlemen, I hate to see ignorance flourish, stupidity prevail, and injustice the rule of the day.”

The Inn fell silent and Mercy Lewis sidled up to Jeremy, her beady eyes glaring ratlike at him. “You sound upset with us poor village folk, you false prophet!” The girl then pirouetted away from him as if in a dance and alone in her mind.

Jeremy turned back to the bar and finished his drink, wondering how he’d ever tell Serena about what they’d already put her mother through, and how she’d react. “Gentlemen,” began Jeremy, turning again and raising his empty ale cup overhead. “A toast to Mercy here, and all the afflicted children of Salem Village that they may sober up long enough to point fingers at the truly guilty.”

“Watch yourself, Jeremy,” Ingersoll whispered in his ear.

But Jeremy went on: “A rather unusual and smart generation of children here in the village, them who have found a way to punish their elders.”

The others had lifted their drinks at the first half of his toast, but they lowered their drinks by time the toast was made.

“These poor folk sitting as accused witches,” Jeremy continued with his diatribe, these are your neighbors! Accused and not yet tried, and you’re having them brought in chains and humiliated in your meetinghouse? And worse than you are the ministers and magistrates calling together an illegally appointed court.”

“Illegal!” shouted Thomas Putnam, spewing. “That’s a scandalous assertion!”

Ingersoll came half way over the bar despite his girth. “Careful what you say, here, Jeremy!”

“Without a charter—the charter Increase Mather has gone to secure for us, a Court of Oyer and Terminer cannot be called. That’s the law, and those who disobey it are outside the law.”

“That’s nonsense,” countered Putnam. “The judges know the law better’n all of us together. They know what they’re doing.”

“This is the King’s highest court, and I say again, we are without a charter, and therefore it is illegal for Sir William Stoughton—or even Governor Phipps—to call any such court together, as any result will have no appeal.” Finally, Jeremy was able to speak the language he knew, the law.

Behind him at one table, Jeremy heard a hearty, “Here, here! I guess the King’s permission is too much technicality for a Boston judge.” It was the tall, gaunt John Proctor surrounded by consolers, each with empty ale cup at hand as they’d completed the toast with Jeremiah Wakely.

For a half moment, Ingersoll couldn’t look Jeremy in the eye, but then he glared. “Look, Mr. Wakely, Governor Phipps himself sent Stoughton, Saltonstall and the others to help us out here, and so far as I’m concerned, the King can go to hell with Andros! No sir, I’ll put money on Sir William Phipps’ power in these colonies.”

This sent up a cheer among Putnam and his faction. Putnam then glared at Jeremy and added, “You come in on your white horse and in your minister’s garb a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a walking lie, Mr. Wakely, pretending to be a minister. For all anyone knows, you’re one of them.”

“One of them?”

“A cunning man, a wizard like Andover’s Wardwell.”

“I don’t know anyone named Wardwell, but I assure you, I am no wizard, for if I were—”

“Don’t come into our village and suppose you can tell us what is right and what is wrong.” Putnam stood with fists clenched.

Each man stared down the other.

Ingersoll retook the final ale he’d poured for Jeremy, and he poured it onto his wood floor behind the bar.

The gesture was clear. He was not wanted here.

Another man at the bar, Bray Wilkins, began telling the story of how his maidservant, Susana Sheldon, had been attacked in the night without provocation or warning. “She was chased about the kitchen and the whole house by a carving knife floatin’ in the air—invisible to me.”

“What happened next?” asked another man nearby.

“Why, when it finally was over, the girl fell faint, and I went to her, keeping my wife back, and Susana, she had bloody cuts on her arms, hands, and rents and tears in her clothes—and yet the me wife and me, we never saw no knife.”

The others let out a series of gasps. “Same thing at our house,” said Samuel Fiske, but our girl claimed she’d jammed a knitting needle into the armpit of the witch that gave her torment, and the next day we visited at the jail with authorities to search for the wound to the witch. Made the prisoners strip to display their armpits, and low’n’behold, one screamed out and she had a bloody wound there.”

“How old is magic tricks, man?” asked Jeremy to the man, but before anyone could answer, suddenly and noisily, the handsome John Proctor leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair where he’d been sitting with relatives.

All eyes were on Proctor now, ears pricked.

Proctor, a tall, handsome and imposing fellow came to Jeremiah’s side and defense, and the defense of his wife sitting in Gatter’s jail. “Are you all gone daft? Are you blind men? Do you see any ounce of reason in what you’re doing?” He whirled from man to man as he spoke, as if checking his back for a knife. “Mr. Wakely knows who’s behind this setting neighbor after neighbor like wolves hungry for flesh.”

Proctor settled on an eye-to-eye with Jeremy and said, “You sent dispatches back to Boston—to Mather, correct?” He then suddenly wheeled on Putnam. “When Mather himself comes to this place, and when he deals with the swine here, the fools following Parris’ track, you will find your heads on a stick!”

“Watch what you threaten here, Proctor!” warned Putnam.

Proctor went threateningly to Thomas Putnam. “When my Elizabeth and Francis’ Rebecca Nurse are vindicated, it will be you who will be pointed out for attempted murder.”

“None of the arrested have been cleared by the courts, John,” countered Putnam, glaring at Proctor.

“But you kind neighbors’ve already excommunicated my wife who is pregnant and going through this, and Rebecca, who is ill, and yet you put this madness on her!”

Jeremy saw Deputy Herrick standing now at the other end of the Inn, looking threateningly at Proctor.

Proctor held up a long sheath of paper with names not a third of the way down. “Who among you is man enough to stand with right?” he asked. “If you are, sign my petition for release of Mary Elizabeth Proctor and Rebecca Towne Nurse—to be remanded into the arms of their families now!”

Herrick looked around the room, and the room watched him, and no one signed Proctor’s petition. Jeremiah stepped up, took the pen and petition that Proctor held out and made a slow, exaggerated job of it by asking for Proctor’s back. Proctor turned and Jeremy signed the petition he laid between the other man’s shoulders. “It is the only thing for an enlightened man to do. If there be heretics among us, it is not Rebecca Nurse nor Mary Elizabeth Proctor.”

The noisy, busy place had gone silent. No one followed Jeremiah’s example. Herrick called out, “I will have a copy of that list, Mr. Proctor.”

“When it is filled, Herrick, you and Williard can act as buzzards over it.” Proctor stood his ground.

Herrick came close and said firmly in a near whisper, “I’d tread lightly if I were you.”

“Why don’t you try striking me with the butt of a gun as you did Francis?” This news sent up a gasp among many in the room. “Francis Nurse, one of your elders in the church, and they drag his wife from her home.”

“And they make secret plans behind closed doors with the Boston magistrates,” added Jeremy, “and yet we are called freemen and made unwelcome.”

“That’s enough, Wakely, Proctor,” countered Herrick, a bull-shouldered man with a full beard. “Showing disrespect to my office can earn you an arrest.”

“Disrespect? Your office?” began Proctor, his fists clenched.

Jeremy stepped between them. “Mr. Proctor’s only speaking the truth.”

“You keep out of this, outlander.” Herrick, a man with a tick in one eye and yellowed teeth from tobacco, held a finger in Jeremy’s face.

Jeremy calmly replied, “The Boston authorities are this minute working to rob Francis Nurse and Rebecca of their lands.”

“No one here believes your lies, Wakely!” shouted Putnam.

“Shut up! All of you,” ordered Herrick.

“They’re at Higginson’s moving his hand for him so he can sign the order before he’s dead.”

Jeremiah didn’t see the blow coming as, while he spoke, he’d turned to send his message to the four corners of the large open Inn and Apothecary. Herrick’s gun butt had sent Jeremy into darkness and unconsciousness.

John Proctor swung out in reflex, knocking Deputy Herrick senseless. Proctor then helped a dazed Jeremy to his feet. Jeremy came to just in time to see that Sheriff Williard stood over the scene of his deputy bleeding and sputtering at his feet. Then Williard did the unexpected. He snatched off his Sheriff’s patch and threw the insignia at Herrick’s prone body, shouting, “I’m done with this business and this place. Moving off, maybe to Connecticut . . . anywhere I can find peace, and an end to the guilt.”

“You’re abandoning your post at a time like this?” shouted Ingersoll.

Williard, gun in hand, stopped at the door and turned on Ingersoll. “I’m finished with this ugly matter! I haven’t the stomach to arrest one more of my neighbors.” He marched back toward Herrick, still trying to gain his feet, and he snatched out a warrant for arrest. He held out a new warrant that the judges had hammered out to the dazed Herrick and shoved it into his chest. Herrick took the paper to Williard’s saying, “You’ve a liking for this business, Herrick. Take it and be damned!”

When Herrick, still unsteady on his feet, did not readily take the warrant but let it slip. Mercy Lewis grabbed it up, about to read it, when Williard ripped it from her, balled it up and threw it at Herrick. He the stormed out and past Francis Nurse, giving Nurse a sad look of apology as he did so.

Francis Nurse stood now in the doorway; he’d been watching the final moments of the series of incidents here, and his eye fell on Jeremy’s bruised cheek. He rushed in to help Jeremy, while Proctor’s relatives huddled about the three of them and rushed Francis, Jeremy, and John Proctor from Ingersoll’s.

The fat Nathaniel Ingersoll stood behind the bar with a scattergun raised, his hand shaking so that the wide muzzle imitated a gulping fish, but this fish might explode.

As they exited Ingersoll’s, Jeremy saw Mary Wolcott, and Anne Putnam Jr. had joined Mercy along with several other young girls who were among the crowd—as if just appearing out of thin air, yet they must have been moving among the crowd the entire time. Jeremy saw the anger in their eyes and the glances darting among them as if cueing one another. It said they’d be keeping their eye on him and Proctor and Proctor’s kith and kin as well as old Francis Nurse.

Chapter Nine

Jeremiah was surprised to find so many travelers today along the Ipswich Road; while a main thoroughfare wrapping around Salem Harbor in a wide arch, taking people between Village and Town, it’d never seen so much traffic in all its days. People flocking to the area for a glimpse of the excitement—to sit through excommunications by night, trials by day. The heavy traffic made for an already rutted road becoming near impassable when, after a hard rain and an even harder dry spell, the gutted avenue turned into a series of craters instead of the ribbon it was meant to be.

The condition of the road struck Jeremy as a metaphor for the condition of the population and the spirit prevailing in Salem. With Parris handling the church court, dealing with the ‘moral’ issues surrounding witchcraft, the denouncing of anyone’s lying down with the Devil, the man could call anyone in his parish into question to a public defense of banishment. Before the witchcraft pandemic, Parris had handled charges of misconduct of character, lewd behavior, and the occasional drunken brawl. He leveled fines and warnings, and he had the power to subpoena witnesses to his church court. It’s what kept him busy during a normal week, and it brought in money—a split of the fines taken in for the church—and presumably his pocket.

If a parishioner refused to answer Parris’s summons, the charges went to Mr. Corwin, presiding over the civil court in Salem Village. Higginson had the same arrangement with Hathorne in Salem Town, and now it was back to Salem Town for Jeremiah, although the time had grown late, and soon darkness would overtake him.

But he felt a strong urge to get to Reverend Higginson, and he knew that Williard was not guarding the house for the time being, and perhaps with the Boston men gone from Higginson’s bedside, Jeremy’s way would not be barred.

Jeremy entered from the western edge of town, and as before, he was astounded at the sight Salem Town presented. Ever busy, even at this hour, ever growing and prosperous. Salem deserved its reputation as a great seaport, perhaps the best in all the colonies, even over Boston for more whaling ships called it home than any other.

Jeremy managed a smile as he stepped along the boardwalk of Townhouse Lane, passing the Customs House, Judge Hathorne’s main avenue of wealth. Tall mastheads created a skyline filled with upraised spears blending with the freshly built seaport homes and the towering steeple of the First Church of Salem.

Although darkness neared, Jeremy passed open doors and windows, people shouting from each, blocking doorways, talking, bargaining, disputing weights and measures, haggling over prices. “All’s normal here,” he said to himself, comparing this routine array of life with what was going on at Ingersoll’s and the village.

Jeremy tipped his hat as he passed others, his cheek red and blue yet. He passed shops and windows filled with bakery goods, a shoemaker’s, a dyer’s, a tannery, and smoke houses large as warehouses where fresh meat was dried and salted for outgoing ships. The cooking aromas surrounded him, reminding him of nights in his father’s house when all they had to share had dwindled to a fresh loaf of hot bread. And here too was a stonemason’s shop, and a dish turner’s shop. His father had been a simple dish turner.

Jeremy stopped to stare in at yet another bakery window but was shaken from his thoughts when, in the window, he saw the see-through shadow of a dark and sinister form coalesce. It moved across the window, a reflection that made him turn and stare across the street. Samuel Parris had gone by, Nicholas Noyes on his arm. They’d come down the First Church steps. The two conspirators—for this is what they appeared to be— proceeded on to Higginson’s home ahead of Jeremiah.

Jeremy cursed the luck and himself for having dallied.

He pulled up his courage and made for Higginson’s anyway. On arriving, he heard sobbing as it flowed from the door, which stood ajar. He called out, “Hello! May I come in?”

But no one answered. From inside, he heard only the sounds of grief.

He entered. Everyone had gathered in the front room at the big bay window, and surrounding what Jeremy guessed to be Mr. Higginson’s remains. Higginson’s successor, Noyes, Paris, the manservant who’d doubled as coachman, a maid in her midlife years, and some of the Boston ministers surrounded the bed. Despite the well-lit room, despite the crowd, it was cold and empty tomb—this sight, this knowledge. Salem had lost not just a man but her moral compass, her rudder.

Another door closed to me, Jeremy thought as he backed out of the house, realizing that Noyes had sent for Parris on the occasion of his taking charge now of Salem Town’s spiritual needs, and so far as Jeremy believed, no man was less worthy or capable of filling the old man’s shoes. Even a counterfeit minister like me could do a better job of it. Just another blow to Salem; another nail in the coffin.

All this occurring and the colonies still without a legal charter to exist; in essence, without the rule of law. There’d been an overthrow in England and the colonies almost simultaneously in 1689, nearly three years ago. King Charles was reportedly dead, and King William the Conqueror, as rumor coming off seagoing ships had it, had taken the Crown of England. During the same period, the colonials had risen up against King Charles’s overseers and tax collectors here in Massachusetts, and they’d audaciously hung Governor Andros. They’d followed up by voting in Sir William Phipps as acting governor, but now Phipps had rather fight Indians than phantasmagorias. So the new head of state under a charterless colony had rushed off to conquer the ‘heathen and pagan’ threat. The kind of threat that presented a solid target.

In cold fact, Phipps had posted a public dispatch in Boston and Salem, making clear his point: “I’d rather fight the red devils than the invisible ones. These I can see and wield a weapon against. I have no knowledge of how to fight spirits and demons.”

Like Increase Mather, Phipps was no longer home.

Phipps had made it clear that he placed the Salem problem in the hands of Stoughton, Saltonstall, Addington, Sewell, and the local magistrates and ministers of Salem. He simply wanted the contagion contained, and he didn’t like the idea of housing witches in the cells in Boston. Furthermore, general knowledge had it that he’d forbidden his wife to visit the jails for fear of ‘catching’ the disease of the afflicted children of Salem.

When Jeremiah and Serena had been in Boston, and he’d exhausted every avenue, legal or otherwise to get help for Salem, he’d attempted to get word to the Governor as his last resort; it was then he’d learned that, like Increase Mather, William Phipps had abandoned them.

The most powerful man in the colony, and the brightest man in the colony gone. One to ostensibly fight Indians but clearly to wash his hands of Salem, while the Senior most powerful clergyman, Mather was off to fight for a charter—a constitution agreed upon by the brightest minds in the colonies and written up and taken to King William for ratification.

Wishing to avoid any confrontation with Parris and making his way back to the Nurse home and Serena, Jeremy thought 1692 a cursed year. So much was in flux commingling with so much fear—fear of Indian uprising, fear of the new King of England’s sending troops to hang those who’d dared hang the former king’s man and perhaps worse, failing to pay taxes. Not to mention fear of crop failures, and fear of witches, wizards, demons, and the Antichrist himself and all his minions.

During his night ride home, Jeremy recalled the last time he’d seen Increase Mather, whose son had proved such a disappointment to Jeremy. The elder Mather had assured Jeremy that Cotton, his son, was of the same mind as he on the matter of Reverend Parris and the troubles in Salem Village Parish. Obviously, the man misjudged his son or simply didn’t know the other Mather as well as he’d thought, for it seemed the younger Mather, too, had disappeared so as to wash his hands of the Salem matter.

With the night wind rustling through the trees, Jeremy thought of his original mission to Salem, the deal he’d struck with Increase Mather. He recalled the late afternoon sun in his eyes there on the dock where he’d last spoken to the man before he’d boarded the Undaunted for England. His last words to Jeremy had been about the absolute necessity of his gaining favor with “King Willy” and his court for the continued prosperity if not existence of the Massachusetts Bay Colony and the rule of law. “Without a charter, Jeremy, we are still just a colony of rebels, subject to the whims of whomever might be King of England at any given time.”

With the death of Higginson and Increase Mather’s firm hand to guide the colony, with the temptation to replace the Andros issues for the dread of a witch hunt, Jeremy Wakely felt that things were as out of control as a log skidding down a mountainside.

Glumly, fearfully Jeremy arrived at the gate that Serena had enjoyed swinging on, and he saw her rushing out to meet him. She threw her arms around him, and they held one another for some time. “What new trouble is it, Jeremy.”

“Your father is wise; he warned me that you’d be reading my mind!” He kissed her and held onto her. She felt like the only port in a storm.

She pulled free and with hands on his face, she said, “I see trouble in your eyes.”

“Reverend Higginson is gone from us and to his Maker.”

“Oh, my . . . such a good soul.” She hugged Jeremy to her. “Mother will be saddened to learn it, and Father and Proctor were counting on his good counsel.”

“If I were a suspicious man, I’d say they drove the old man into his grave, the vultures. Wonder if he wasn’t poisoned by Noyes.”

“That’s a terrible accusation! Have you any proof of it?”

“No, none, but Noyes has one strong trait—ambition.”

“Father will take this news badly.”

“From the beginning . . . my first day in Salem, dear, even before arriving, I knew of the factions within Parris’ congregation, but only recently have I had my eyes opened to the fact that Judges Hathorne and Corwin are in the Parris-Putnam camp as well.”

“Those who intend to run against the judges in the next election stand with our side.”

“Our side, eh?” Jeremy considered this for a moment. “The witchcraft scare has changed the face of the elections even before they’ve begun.”

Her laugh was hollow and angry. “You mean who’s going to vote for Francis Nurse or any of his cronies so long as his wife is jailed as a witch?”

He nodded solemnly. “So your father was planning to run for Corwin’s seat?”

“Yes.”

“And even should they come to their senses and release your mother—”

“The taint of having been accused, arrested, excommunicated and humiliated would follow her, and Father, I know.”

“And her family, you and me! No matter the real issues as in where Corwin and Hathorne stood during the Andros years.”

“When will it end, Jeremy? When will they come to their senses?”

He smiled and held her close. They shared a warm kiss and turned to walk to the porch, arms locked.

Finally, Jeremy said, “I’m afraid that fat-headed Governor Andros filled positions of state with clergymen, and this has led to widespread abuse of power. Sir William Stoughton is shaping up as a fine example.”

Overhearing from his rocker on the porch, Francis added, “Andros men used the clergy in shrewd measure. Whenever any person was excommunicated from the church, they were typically prosecuted for some exaggerated real offense simultaneously.”

“Evening to you, sir.” Jeremy took off his hat with a flourish. “Know you that the elder Mather, Increase, like myself—and many another man—wants a safe division of church and state, so that such fiends as Andros must never again wield such power over us.”

“But here it comes again, Jeremiah,” countered Francis. “Andros had declared whole tracts of land his on the basis of bogus trials, overturning original land grants. A circumstance that made many a magistrate and minister wealthy.”

“I see the parallels, yes, but we must believe it can’t occur again.”

“Increase Mather himself rose to prominence and great power and influence in the colonies due to the marriage of church and state,” concluded Francis.

“But he abhors the abuses he’s witnessed, especially those committed during the Andros era. He is a man with foresight, who sees the future cannot sustain a theocracy on these shores.”

“I am a simple man, Jeremiah, but what is happening in Salem with these church excommunications and courtroom trials, this is pure theocracy of the deadliest sort.”

“It may’s well be another Papal State!” cried out Serena. “And we can all become Papists if they can run their own bloody Inquisition here.”

This made the men laugh.

“Why do you find that funny?”

“Because it is so true,” replied Jeremy.

“Because it is either laugh or cry,” added Francis.

“Besides, Serena, you are so beautiful when you’re angry.”

“Remember on your firs return home, Jeremy?” asked Francis. “Serena holding you at bay at gunpoint?”

Again the men laughed. Serena frowned, turned, and stomped inside.

# # # # #

At the meetinghouse, the following Sabbath Day, little Anne Putnam Junior shouted above Mr. Parris’ sermon, “Why does God punish the unborn? Tell me that, Mr. Parris!” Anne’s tone was both authoritative and accusatory.

Parris stared blankly at the sickly, thin child who’d suffered so much harm from the invisible agents of Satan. “Anne,” he finally responded, coming around the podium, “you know the answer to that as well as anyone here.”

Mercy Lewis, as if on cue, stood up and spread her arms wide, pleading, “Mr. Parris, why does God allow Satan to have his own kingdom?”

Parris stammered something unintelligible and was cut off by little Anne’s screaming, “Where are my brothers and sisters who died before being baptized? Where is Hopestill’s soul now? William, Henry Junior, Matthew, Luke, all of them?”

Parris composed himself, but then one of his adult congregation asked, “Why don’t you answer these children?”

Parris stared hard at John Tarbell, a relative of the Nurse family. It was a clear challenge.

“And where is Tituba’s child’s soul?” shouted Mercy Lewis.

Parris’s jaw quivered with rage at this. How does Mercy know about the child in Barbados, he wondered.

“She told me,” continued Mercy, “that she never once saw her dead child, not ever!”

“The child was born deformed and dead!” Parris retreated to his podium. “Tituba was only your age then. She didn’t need to see it; it’d’ve done no good. As to the child’s soul—same as with Anne’s brothers and sisters, same as with any who’re un-baptized— every child knows. So say it with me.”

Several adults shouted at once, “Their souls belong to Perdition!”

“And as such—” continued Parris—“out of our hands!”

A chorus of men and women in the pews shouted, ”Amen.”

Others sat unmoved.

Parris sighed heavily at the unmoved people in particular. He picked up his hourglass and turned it over. “It appears we need another hour’s worth of his wisdom.”

After a few muffled groans, the congregation made up its mind to stay.

“Just as the child is born with the mark of Cain, Original Sin, these facts we have no power to change,” the minister spoke extemporaneously. “So too the unborn child has this mark and cannot escape the sinful condition to which it is born. Death, not even stillborn death, nor death by foul means, or murder by demonic interference can expel the mark of Cain, no!”

Most in the congregation sent up an uproar of amen’s that covered the few groans. The majority these days followed Mr. Parris’ remarks slavishly and silently, save for little Anne Putnam who began a low, growling chant.

“Death does not discount the Book of the Lamb.” Parris leaned heavily into his podium. “Death does not offer an escape unless you are among the chosen!”

More halleluiahs and amen’s.”

“The chosen of God.”

“How do you know they weren’t chosen of God before they were born?” asked Anne Junior. “Which means, they could be in heaven right now?” Anne’s glassy stare stopped the minister from another word.

Finally, Parris replied, “God saves the humble, Anne, and the meek shall inherit the earth. There is no one among us who can know who is chosen and who is not. Not even your minister.”

“What about us?” asked Mercy Lewis, standing beside Anne now. “If we’ve been given this gift of sight . . . if we are now seers into the Invisible World of angels and demons, then mightn’t . . . I mean perhaps we are the chosen!”

Everyone in the meetinghouse silently considered this, none more so than Parris himself.

“Then it was even more glorious than we had thought, Mercy Lewis,” Parris calmly replied, “when on that day under Deacon Putnam’s roof when I banished the devil residing within you. Remember that day.”

“Yes! Yes, sir. I shall never forget it, Uncle.”

“I’m not asking if you remember; I am telling you to always remember.”

She shouted as if on cue, “It truly is a miracle of miracles you’ve performed, Reverend Uncle Parris!”

Parris saw the eyes of his congregation settle on him in wonder. “How long have I been your spiritual leader?” he asked them, coming away from the podium again. He awaited no answer. “And how long have some among you, the dissenting brethren among you, denied my sincerity and denounced my character?”

A general consensus followed as many of the so-called ‘dissenting brethren’ had days before, with the excommunication of Rebecca Nurse, left the congregation. Now the remnants of them had quietly inched from the meetinghouse, never to return.

# # # # #

Some of these final holdouts among the dissenting brethren still going to Parris’ sermons—like John Tarbell—went directly to Francis Nurse’s house, daring to report on Mr. Parris’ new role as leader of the seer children, the afflicted girls who’d become cause for celebrity, and gifts, and attention by adults who days before had treated them as invisible members of society—people to fetch their water, scrub their floors, wipe the noses of their children.

The Eastys, the Cloyses, the Prescotts, the Russells, the Tabells, and many of the Proctors stood as the last remaining adult members of the village who questioned the seer children of Salem Village, and their ability to see into and interpret the Invisible World of Satan. But they had too soon and suddenly found themselves no longer among the silent majority of those who stood by, said and did nothing. They were now in the vocal minority.

A minority finding itself making up the bulk of names on arrest warrants. Warrants now coming at a head-spinning pace, and now being executed by the new Sheriff, Herrick.

Chapter Ten

The following Sabbath Day

Jeremiah, Serena, her brothers, uncles, aunts and many in the families of the ‘dissenting brethren’ went about attempting to appeal to the good judgment and reason of neighbors far and wide, in and around Salem; they carried petitions with them, the acceptable practice of the day.

Enough names on a petition had worked in times past with the magistrates and the ministers in their church courts. They petitioned primarily on behalf of Mother Nurse, to revoke her excommunication and her arrest as an impossible wrong done this saintly wife, mother, and neighbor who’d lived all her life under the rule of her Bible and the teachings of Christ. They also petitioned on behalf of Elizabeth Proctor who’d been determined pregnant and sitting in the same damnably awful dungeon as Mother Nurse, the Salem Village jailhouse operated by Weed Gatter to whom they must pay a daily growing tax for his part in taking care of their daily needs.

However, so far as anyone could tell, the petitions were failing to reach anyone who supported Nurse and his family in this their hour of need. Those courageous enough to sign were among the well-defined ‘dissenters’—enemies of Parris.

Young Benjamin Nurse worked to control his anger and frustration by shouting at the other Nurse men that these petitions proved useless against what they’d begun to call the Village Madness. Ben was right, but worse yet, some of the names on these petitions were next targeted—seen as being a wee bit too helpful to the accused.

Those signers seen as anxious to help out the accused were being viewed as if they might be in covenant with the accused rather than simply related or lifetime friends. In fact, blood relation to an accused proved enough for a person to fall under suspicion. After suspicion came accusation, followed by an arrest warrant, followed by yet another imprisonment.

Daily now, Serena insisted on going down to the jail to give support and food through the bars to her mother, and Jeremiah stood watch and took the measure of the prison Mother Nurse found herself in. It would take little to storm the place, overpower Gatter, free Mother Nurse and anyone else within, but it would require a plan of escape, a plan of flight to a whole new place, as far from Salem as one could get—perhaps a ship in the harbor bound for the Netherlands.

Discussions of how to accomplish such a feat had begun at the Nurse home, and just when these discussions were taking root and men emboldened, news came that Reverend George Burroughs had been dragged back to Salem to stand trial before the judges for his leading these witches in their sinister attack on the village children where he, Burroughs, had once ‘ministered’—or rather used a guise as minister to recruit Satanists.

“A familiarity there to you, Jeremy,” said Ben, staring a hole through him.

“I admit, it’s too close for comfort.”

“You could be the subject of a warrant any day.”

“As could you, Ben—as could any one of us.”

Ben stood eye to eye with Jeremy. He’d been a small boy when Jeremy had left ten years before, but now he was a young man full of passion and anger for those who’d wronged his father and maligned his mother. The young man had intense, smoldering eyes, and what seemed a perpetual snarl took turns with a frown and a pout.

“Leave Jeremy alone, Ben,” scolded Francis. “He’s risked himself for your mother more than once.”

“Risked himself? How? By hiding out in Boston, while we, who have no skills in the law must face these outrages?”

“Ben, I’m afraid with Mr. Higginson’s passing,” Jeremy began as he stared into the fire, “and with Reverend Increase Mather the other side of the Atlantic, reason and sanity has left the colony, and no amount of good sense and counter argument will do.”

“Then perhaps it is time to put an end to talk.”

Serena, her father, and several of Ben’s brothers and brothers-in-law all took turns to calm Ben.

“Time to take action, and put an end to Mother’s suffering!”

“Shut up, Ben!” shouted Francis. “I’ve told y’all what I promised Rebecca!”

The others looked on in silent counsel, save for Serena. “He’s right, Ben is, Father! No promise is worth this pain and suffering!”

“You’ll not go against your mother’s wishes. She wishes to—“

“Salvage the land, I know. We all know that!” Serena’s tears came freely. “You all’ve had such thoughts. Believe me, I know, because I have too.”

“If you’re too old for this, Tarbell, Cloyse, just stay out of our way,” Ben shouted at his uncles.

“You think you know what’s on our minds, Ben, Serena?” shouted Tarbell, standing to his full height. “Then I’ll tell you. To end this matter, bloodshed is inevitable.”

“Someone’s finally said it,” added Jeremy. “I hadn’t wanted to be the one, being an outsider. But it may be our only way.”

“We’ll discuss it, come to a consensus, and possibly a plan of action, then,” said Francis who felt his hold on his sons and brothers-in-law slipping. He added, “Then and only then do we take action that might bring about blood.”

# # # # #

From out her window, Anne Putnam Senior watched the home fires burning out at the Nurse compound; the torches and lamps had burned late into the night since the Nurse witch, Rebecca, had been arrested, put through the ordeal of excommunication, and bound over for trial. Anne had been certain to have her daughter witness the woman’s humiliation and downfall. She’d prayed for it for years. The property nowadays referred to as Nurse-Towne Farms ought to have gone to Thomas—her husband—and would have had Towne not remarried after Thomas’ grandmother had died.

Another suspicious death.

Rebecca Nurse’s father, Jacob Towne, had been Thomas’ stepfather, but late in life, he’d remarried, become a Goodman to that Easty woman. This marriage secured the land for three daughters borne of the Towne-Easty union. One had been Rebecca Towne, who’d become Rebecca Nurse when the witch had taken Francis Nurse as her husband.

And now? To learn from the spirits afflicting her—for some twenty years—that their message, however garbled, translated into the murder of her every child, save the one—Anne Junior. How terribly coincidental, as none of the midwives of that Towne-Nurse-Easty crowd had overseen Anne Junior’s birth, yet they’d been among the concerned hot-water brigade during the deaths of the other children. They had been on hand with hidden deadly weapons—as Anne had been told by Henry.

She looked from the lights out at the Nurse home to the sky with its onrush of storm clouds to the small black-haired head of her daughter knitting quietly away across the room. She still wondered if her only daughter left would live to marriageable age, if she would bear her grandchildren to replace the lost ones. She wondered if the child had inherited the cursed womb.

She’d been giving more thought to it all, not the least being that her own womb had brought into the world children who’d withered and died like unnourished flowers. She wondered if she and little Anne would ever know any happiness in this world.

She’d heard the news of Serena Nurse’s having married that imposter Jeremiah Wakely. She trembled when recalling how that man, a liar, cheat, and a thief had stood right here in her home alongside the noble, caring Reverend Parris, all the while involved in a charade.

Perhaps he’s a disciple of Burroughs. If so, then a disciple of Satan. If so, then the Nurse’s youngest daughter, was now locked in matrimony to a follower of Satan. With mother a witch and husband a Satanist, what must Serena herself be? Her pleasant smile notwithstanding?

Why didn’t my dead brother’s ghost tell me the truth sooner? Why, indeed, she wondered, glancing anew at the expanse of land deeded over to the clan she’d instinctively hated all these years—and now I know the reason why. She looked again on her sweet if feeble Anne, and she saw that Anne placed an arm around Mercy’s neck and hugged the now cleansed and gifted Mercy who’d been returned to their home since bravely exposing that Bishop woman for what she was.

Anne saw that her daughter exhibited a small measure of happiness tonight, perhaps for the first time in her life. Anne Senior exhibited a newfound pride in both her daughter and herself—and even for Mercy Lewis. And why not?

Why not feel pride indeed? After all, she’d given birth to a child capable of seeing into the Invisible World . . . and for that matter, although she’d never thought of her night terrors as either a blessing or a gift, they were indeed just that now that they’d become so clearly interpreted. Once the language of her spectral visitors—brother Henry and the stillborn children—had finally come clear, that they were pointing their dead fingers at their killers, Mrs. Putnam realized she, too, had been seeing into the Invisible World. She too was gifted, a seer like her child who’d led her to this conclusion. What was the line in the Bible? And the children shall lead them.

Anne and Mercy joined Mrs. Putnam at the window, all three staring out at the Nurse lights. “Looks like a witch gathering out there,” Mercy muttered.

“Prob’ly so.” Little Anne clutched Mercy’s arm.

Mrs. Putnam placed a motherly arm around both her daughter and maidservant. “Come away now, children. There’s your evening Bible lesson to get before bed.”

“We don’t want need no lesson tonight.” Little Anne’s eyes looked sternly through her mother.

“Hold your tongue, child.”

The girl repeated it: “We don’t need any lesson.”

Mercy added, “What Anne’s trying to say, Goodwife Putnam, is that we’re beyond lessons now.”

Little Anne shouted, “We’re under the blood of Christ.”

“We’ve done talked about it, Mrs. Putnam,” Mercy put in, “and Anne’s right. There’s nothing more we can learn.”

“Whatever do you mean? You can always learn more—”

“We’ve been touched by the Lamb himself!” Mercy countered.

Anne nodded vigorously. “Mother, we know more than Reverend Parris about it all now.”

Mrs. Putnam breathed deeply and swallowed hard. “Perhaps you do.”

“We do.” Little Anne turned back to stare out toward the Nurse home. “We truly do, Mother.”

Several days later

Jeremiah had received a note from Mrs. Elizabeth Parris, a cryptic message stating that Betty Parris’ illness had taken a horrible turn. She requested that he come at once to the parsonage home, adding that she required his counsel.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate, saddling his horse here in the large barn where Serena’s pleas to pay no heed to the minister’s wife echoed about the rafters. “It’s some sort of trap they hope to spring—”

“A ruse to arrest me along with Reverend Burroughs?” He snatched at cinches.

“Who is now behind bars along with Samuel Wardwell, the blacksmith from Andover.”

“The so-called Wizard of Andover, yes.”

“You’ll be taken! Called a warlock!” She grabbed onto him and held tight.

More men were now being arrested, called witchmen, warlocks, and wizards.

“Mrs. Parris’ note says it is to do with the child, Betty.”

“But it could be a lie.”

“She has remained all this time in a state of horrific illness and pain. Her symptoms are real.”

“Real?”

“Those of the afflicted I have seen in other towns, yes. The very symptoms those other girls in the village mimic so well—each chance they get.”

“Are you saying that Parris’ daughter is bewitched?”

“She is closer to it than any other I’ve seen, yes.”

“What are her symptoms?”

Dancer turned her head as if curious to hear his answer.

Jeremy described the horrid times when Betty would become stiff as cordwood, her limbs immovable, and how at other times she all but climbed the walls as a lizard might, of her cursing like a demon, spitting up foul vomit with her curses, and choking her own mother when Mrs. Parris got too near.

“Does sound horrible. But suppose it is a trap Parris has put his wife up to?”

“She writes that her husband is away, leading the seer children over to Wenham and Beverly as he did with Andover—to seek out victims beyond the village.”

“Any child of Salem has heard of Wardwell, his reputation.”

“As ready a reputation as George Burroughs’?”

She grabbed him by the arm this time, still hoping he would not go. “And now your reputation precedes you, Jeremy. Don’t you see?”

“What reputation?”

“Ha! The locals are just short of writing a ballad about—”

“Ballad? Me?”

“Yes, about your coming in the night down from Watch Hill to Parris’ home in disguise!”

“Should be quite a ditty.”

“Be serious and Jeremy, do be careful in the village. Promise, Jeremy.”

“Be careful? Me? What about you? I think it’s far too dangerous now to visit your mother at the jail.”

Serena had daily taken coins to Weed Gatter and Daniel Gwinn—the jailers. Payoffs for allowing her to return again and again with baked goods for the prisoners at both village jailhouse and Salem Town jailhouse. She did so with Mrs. Hale, the Wavery minister’s wife, reminding Jeremy of Mrs. Phipps’ like generosity in Boston.

In fact, a story circulated of how the governor’s wife had defied her husband’s wishes in order to continue to see to the needs of prisoners at the Boston jailhouse. Rumor, exaggeration or not, Serena had chosen to believe it and emulate it here.

“Father pays Gatter and Gwinn well to allow me to see mother and to get bread to her and the others. It’s the least I can do.”

“And how is your mother?”

“Terrible. Likely to die in that rabbit warren if we don’t soon get her home. You should be helping in that matter and not traipsing off to the village to that . . .that vile home where all this started.”

He mounted and was ready to ride. “I must know what the minister’s wife wants of me.”

“Fine! Fine, but nothing will keep me from seeing Mother, then!” she warned.

“Serena, even Rebecca has pleaded you stay away from there.”

“Nothing will stay my going.”

Seeing she was adamant, he nodded and bent from the saddle and kissed her again. “Perhaps then, my love, I’ll look for you there at the jail—as soon as I’m finished with Mrs. Parris.”

He rode off, leaving Serena fearfully looking after his dust. The rains had stopped some days ago, and the land had become dry and cracked. Few people had planted crops as yet, their fieldwork held up by all the to do in Salem, many now going into the village or the town to witness the trials.

The Nurse men tried to keep to their fields, but the future didn’t look good for any of the wheat, beans, potatoes, and corn, but neither Francis nor Serena could concern themselves now with mundane matters like crops. This morning, she’d baked enough rolls to fill two baskets, and she returned for the goods, found Ben and asked him to harness a pair of horses to the buggy as she was ready to go.

She’d blessed the bread, and she’d prayed with her father for an end to the madness today as they did each day.

When she returned to the barn with her baskets in hand, she found Ben secreting a pair of guns beneath the buggy seat. “What’re those for?”

“Loaded and cocked, in case we run into trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Word is more warrants are being served.”

She placed the bread in the back and climbed up and onto the seat. “Let’s go.”

# # # # #

Jeremy approached the parsonage with a mix of anxiety, dread, and a stomach telling him to turn around and not look back. Even by daylight both village and parsonage had a grim darkness overall, like some ancient shroud had been laid over the place. The parish house in particular reeked of a solemnity that bordered on an unspoken evil; an evil not of the otherworldly or invisible sort, but one all too earthy—like a decaying corpse.

Within the parsonage walls so much had happened, and those two, mother and child, had remained within these many months. Mary Wolcott had been placed in another home, further isolating Mrs. Parris with her afflicted daughter, and no one had seen her or Betty without the minister’s opening the door and parting the curtain. They’d become virtual prisoners to the affliction and to the care of ill-equipped, stupefied doctors and to Reverend Parris and his gambit.

Jeremy thought it best to tie his horse in the barn in the futile hope he would not be seen going in. The place brought back images of Tituba and blood spatters about the place. The little Barbados native most assuredly had been in the habit of sacrificing animals to her own god.

In a moment, he was before the door about to rap when it opened on a sunken-faced, shaken Mrs. Parris. She was entirely ill herself, having been left to deal with her child’s infirmity alone all these weeks. The strain had taken such a toll as to turn her blonde head white. She looked a scarecrow, a shell of her former self.

“Please, inside at once,” she said almost inaudibly, her eyes darting about, as if fearful that any villager might see them together. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“You realize, Mrs. Parris, that I am no minister,” he said, once inside with the door closing on the dark interior, sending both into shadow.

“I am aware of your true calling, but I must have a man of your . . . your worldliness.”

“Worldliness?”

“I understand you have witnessed witchcraft outbreaks before, in other communities?”

“I have seen this before, yes; it’s why I’d thought it’d be over with Goode and Osborne’s convictions, that and your servant’s.”

“My servant? Tituba? She never was that.” From the tone of her voice, Jeremy felt certain that Elizabeth Parris knew of her husband’s indiscretions with the servant that may or may not have led to a child being born, and may or may not have led to a disposal of said child in a most unchristian manner.

“What can you tell me of Tituba?” he asked, helplessly watching her hands shake.

She sent her chin skyward, looking haughty and angry at the question. “I asked you here for your advice, not to give you a knife to place in Samuel’s back.”

“I understand and I’m sorry, but my advice?”

“In the matter of my daughter. She does not get well. She hurts herself daily as the demons within turn her skin to fire. She is my child and yet she is not; she is my child and is dying before my eyes, and I am helpless!” She broke down, crying. Jeremy caught her and helped her to a chair.

Once she had released the pent up tears, Jeremy placed a hand on the woman’s broad shoulders and said, “Take me to her.”

If any child in Salem was possessed of a demon, or set upon by invisible forces, such as witches on spectral brooms or hot pokers and giant knitting needles, it was Betty Parris. As Jeremy looked down on her, she gave vent to howls and barking, and the lifelessness in her eyes recalled a stunned dog below a felled tree. Frozen, glazed eyes, open but registering nothing, and giving off no clue as to anything behind the pupils as if all light and humanity had vanished.

Her small body lay in a twisted, gnarled pose on the bed, nightshirt so wrapped about her as to be cutting off circulation in the lower extremities while choking her throat. Breathing came shallow with unintelligible words in a litany of nonstop gibberish with the occasional ugly word. Jeremy heard a mix of Latin in with the English.

“What is to be done, Mr. Wakely? I beg you if you know anything, anything that might help, please! I’d give my life for it.”

“I have no potions, no medical knowledge, but true, I have seen children in this condition in past.”

“You have!” she grasped at this straw.

“Yes, sad to say. Always seems a girl child. I imagine your Betty has been terrified into believing the power of . . . well, the witches.”

“Believing the power of the witches is what tortures her?”

“Believing in their efficacy, yes. In the power they claim to wield over her. You recall that when Goode was arrested, that they found a bell, a book, a candle on her?”

“Yes, so?”

“They also searched her haunts, and they found a doll. A doll I had seen her with before—a doll very much in Betty’s likeness, which has not been recovered. I suspect it was burned in a fire.”

“A likeness of Betty, yes, I know but it weren’t destroyed by Goode.”

“What do you mean?”

“My husband in his well-intentioned efforts to bring Betty round, he . . . he brought the damnable thing in to our house.”

“He did?”

“He thought it might shock Betty into knowing that the witch could not any longer harm her. He plucked out every nail and needle before her eyes.”

Jeremy gritted his teeth. “To what result?”

“Betty flew into a worse frenzy than ever, and has ever since exhibited this! This you see now.”

“I suspect that Betty, and perhaps other village children, were led into some dark games, thanks to Tituba and Goode, and at one such meeting, Goode presented the very doll, and I suspect Betty fell immediately ill due to the idea that Witch Goode had placed a hex on her.”

“As-as a result of seeing her likeness stuck full with nails and needles.”

“Goode placed a curse on her father, and everyone in the village knew this. Betty could not be immune to fear of Goode and Tituba at that point.”

“That Mary Wolcott was in on it, too. I just know.” Mrs. Parris’ eyes filled with tears. “But what reparation can I do? Nothing works!”

“I have only known one cure for this sort of thing.”

“Name it and name your price, sir.”

“No price.”

“What then?”

“You must pack Betty into a carriage and take her as far from Salem as you can possibly go.”

“Leave?”

“Leave, yes. Remove her from the influence of evil lying over all Salem now.”

“And it will save my Betty?”

“I assure you, it is your and Betty’s only hope, and point out to Betty each time you cross a body of water that witches can’t cross God’s pure water, no matter their other powers.”

“Is that true?”

“Absolutely.”

She nodded and rolled her hands one over the other until she they resolved to spiral skyward as in prayer. “Then it will be done and done now. I have relatives in Connecticut. We’ll have crossed three rivers.”

“A good number, three,” he assured her. “Go there at once. I’ll arrange for a carriage while you pack. The man you sent with the note. Is he trustworthy?”

“He is. He was Tituba’s man but they were not married. He is broken-hearted over what’s happened.”

“Will he accompany you to your relatives?”

“He will.”

“Excellent. Find him, pack, and I’ll fetch the carriage.”

“Then your answer is—”

“Distance, yes, distance and time.”

“Put distance between Betty and the witches.”

Jeremy didn’t split hairs on the matter, but she’d also be putting distance between them and Parris, who had likely acerbated his daughters bewitchment far more than had Goode. Bringing her the doll to gander at while in such terror already? “I’ll be back in an hour with your transport. What monies do you have?”

“I’ve hidden away enough.”

Her words could be taken two ways, Jeremy thought. He then rushed off to make plans to get this sick child and mother away from this cursed parsonage. It was something practical he could do; something to be accomplished that didn’t involve invisible forces or frustration of this Earth. The desire to help Betty and her mother and follow through with getting them away propelled him. But it must be done swiftly and definitely in Samuel Parris’ absence.

Chapter Eleven

In a matter of hours, while Samuel Parris paraded about the countryside with the Salem seers, children who continued to unearth witches at every turn for the judges and the ministers to condemn, Jeremiah Wakely worked to get Mrs. Parris and Betty out of Salem as quietly and efficiently as possible. Among the ten young women of the village atop white horses gone to Beverly today, the village of Reverend John Hale, was Anne Putnam, Mercy Lewis, and Mary Wolcott. The fingers of these three alone had pointed out more witchery and mischief than all the others together—and in fact more witches and warlocks than in the entire history of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

It’d become a weekly ritual to place these children in a wagon and on horseback, take them to Ipswich and other neighboring villages to seek out and identify other offenders remaining at large.

# # # # #

From his Inn doorstep down the street, Deacon Ingersoll, unusually quiet and reticent, watched Jeremiah Wakely purchase a carriage at the livery stable and calmly take carriage and horse the back way to the parsonage. A small crowd had by now gathered to watch as Jeremiah and Ichabod, the Barbados man who’d been seeing Tituba on occasion, bundled Betty Parris into the covered carriage, followed by Mrs. Parris, who climbed onto the seat beside her blanketed daughter. With Ichabod at the reins, the horse started off at a slow processional step, but two houses along, he snapped the whip and the horse whinnied and snatched the carriage into a speedy exit out of the village and onto Ipswich Road, racing away.

Jeremy was pleased to have heard Mrs. Parris, the entire time that she’d held tight to the bundled baby girl, comforting Betty and reassuring her with words like going now, escaping this place, crossing water, better on the other side, Mr. Wakely’s right.

Jeremy felt the cold stare of the crowd upon him. He calmly, resolutely found Dancer in the Parris barn, led her out, stepped into the stirrups, and rode with head held high through the village. Over the heads of the crowd, he noted a slight wave of approval from Nathaniel Ingersoll just before the deacon turned and reentered his Inn and Apothecary.

At the same time, a mixed array of grumbling rose from the crowd, a crowd that had only grown and had become uglier as the minutes ticked by. Jeremiah eased his mare through the crowd, making for Gatter’s jailhouse, a place that had become all too familiar of late.

He felt the mean stares of the people trailing him like so many knives being hurled at his back, and he sensed the mob working up its courage like a single-minded animal. He’d seen mobs before, but he’d never been the object of one till now.

“They at our wake, girl,” he whispered in Dancer’s ear where he leaned into her mane. But Jeremy would not give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them whatsoever, and at the same time, he felt a terrible gratification that none of the accusing, gifted children had been left behind by Parris and his entourage. For even so much as a single one of the little devils would surely have pointed him out a warlock for his actions this day. Removing the minister’s daughter from the village. Removing ‘evidence’ from the venue. He realized that once the seer children heard the story of what’d happened his name would be at or near the top of their lists of who must next be accused.

# # # # #

Jeremiah found Serena precisely where he imagined he would, at the barred window of Gatter’s filthy hole, a jail not fit for the lowliest pirate in all history, a place a rat would feel uncomfortable in.

Serena’s two baskets lay empty at her feet where she stood, hands clasped by her mother, Rebecca. Jeremy’s first glimpse of Mother Nurse tore at his heart. She was in need of bathing, her hair wild and tangled with dirt, sweat, and heat. The jail, overcrowded as it was, had become a giant oven, but Gatter had allowed Rebecca a moment outside as he determined her safely shackled.

“Go now, children! And don’t come back,” Rebecca was saying to Serena and Ben, who stood with the wagon, his face a mask of anguish.

When Jeremiah came closer, the crooked, bent jailer, Gatter, held a hand up to him. “What business ’ave ye here, Mr. Wakely? Come to join in the tears and wailin’, ’ave ya?” He followed with a belly laugh that jangled his large keys before the laugh turned into a consumptive coughing that doubled the stunted, little man over. He disappeared in this condition with Rebecca in tow by her chains, replacing her in the grimy dark interior, unfastening her chains, and locking the door behind him.

Gatter shook his head at the young Nurses and Wakely as if they were all fools to be here this way with people looking on. He then wandered off to the back of the short stone building that looked like an earthen oven. In Gatter’s wake followed a chorus of wheezing, snorting, and hacking.

Jeremy understood why people believed in trolls, for Gatter was just that. Rumor had it that he remained drunk day and night. Which meant he had a bottle hidden somewhere nearby—likely where he was headed now.

Ben took this opportunity to pull Serena away from their mother, where she stood at the barred window, her hands wrapped about Rebecca’s. Ben pressed one of the guns he’d brought with him through the bars to his mother, but Rebecca refused it, shoving it back at Ben, who missed catching it. The thing hit the ground but thankfully did not go off. Ben picked it up and gave his mother a hard stare. “Take it, Mother. If not to use on Gatter then to put yourself from misery.” When Ben forced it a second time, she threw it back at him and angrily muttered, “I am no coward, Ben. I do this in His name. Now take your sister and go from here and neither to return!”

This time Ben had caught the weapon sent back to him.

“Father always said you were more stubborn than Maplewood.”

“I am strong in my faith.”

Gatter’s cough signaled his position, just around the corner of the oven. Jeremy grabbed the gun from Ben to slip it below his coat just as the jailer reappeared.

“Be off with ya, now, all of ye!” Gatter ordered. “Time’s up with mum! ’Less you’ve got more funds for ol’ Gatter.”

Ben snatched out his loaded pistol and put it against Gatter’s forehead. “I’d like to pay you in full, Mr. Gatter.”

Serena grabbed her brother, shouting, “Stop it, Ben! Stop now!”

“Ben,” began Jeremy over the crying of Rebecca at the window, “think what you’re doing, man!”

“Go home, Ben!” shouted Rebecca. “And don’t come back—either of you, Serena, Ben! And you, Jeremiah Wakley! You let me down. You promised to get my girl out of this place, yet you’re here! You all know my wishes! You’ve all disappointed me! Now go, go!” She disappeared from the window as if the darkness inside had swallowed her.

# # # # #

“How then did it fare with Mrs. Parris, Jeremy?” asked Serena.

“Yes?”asked Francis at the table back at the Nurse home. “Tell me some good news.”

“Mrs. Parris wanted my advice.”

“Really?”

“What advice?” asked Serena.

“For her child, and at my urging, she has taken Betty and left the village.”

“Left the village?”

“And the colony for family far from here.”

“Parris’ wrath will come down on you the moment he hears,” replied Serena.

“Aye, I suppose so. Let it come.”

“He gets those trained monkeys of his repeating your name,” said Ben from the hearth where he crouched and poked at embers, “and you will be roommates with my mother instead of Serena.”

Francis pounded the table. “I tell the both of you, Serena, to flee, and what do you do? You stay while telling others to run from this madness.”

“It’s the only hope for Betty Parris I believe,” said Jeremy, “in order to come out of the fits torturing her.” Shading his eyes against the setting sun that streamed through the window, Jeremy added, “How goes it with you and Mr. Proctor’s petition before the court?”

Francis bowed his head. “Badly . . . badly, but we have our faith still, and we do what we can to comfort one another. Though there is to be hanging tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” asked Serena, hearing this for the first time. “Mother said not a word, nor did the jailer.”

“Who’s to be hung?” Jeremiah gritted his teeth, silently praying.

“Goode and four others.”

“Four?” Jeremy’s stomach sank. “Four, the number portends no good.”

“Who are among the four?” pleaded Serena.

“Three I know nothing of save they’re all from surrounding villages.”

“Who are they, Father?” Serena had become annoyed with his obvious stalling tactics.”

“Susannah Martin of Amesbury, who spoke as saucily to the judges as had Bridget Bishop, I can tell you.”

“And?”

“Also a Sarah Wildes of Topsfield had a tongue on her, a vile mouth.”

“Father, please!”

“Elizabeth Howe of Ipswich—a saintly lady to be sure.”

“And the fourth?” Serena shook him.

“It was to be Osborne of Salem, but she’s recanted her plea of innocence and has named others. So it fell to your mother, my Rebecca to be tried next.”

“Tried and . . . ” began Jeremy.

“They can’t be serious!” cried out Serena.

“Oh, they’re serious!” replied Ben.

Jeremy stomped his boot against the floor. “Damn the fools! God, I’ve seen it before, both in Maine and in Connecticut. They want a hanging, they will have a hanging. But five in one day, I’ve never seen the like of, no.”

“Goode yes,” said Francis sadly. “Osborne for sure a witch or maybe, but the others? I’d never have guessed it’d come to five found guilty and hung here in Salem.”

“All in a matter of a few months. Doesn’t make sense; doesn’t sit well.” Serena put her arm around her father, her thoughts obviously with her mother, and what this news heralded.

Jeremy thought of Serena hanging onto her mother’s hands through the grimy little prison window. He then imagined Serena and her family having to watch Mother Nurse’s public execution. The others had fallen silent, contemplating their worst fears coming true. If the authorities carried through with a sextuplet hanging, what would stay their hand from repeating the act? And who would be among the next six marked for death? Jeremiah’s own thoughts rang like the bell of the gravedigger, chiming his work done.

Serena returned to the subject of Betty Parris. “Jeremy, how do suppose distance from Salem will help the Parris child?”

“Distance from her father is enough,” Ben replied, a sneer in his tone.

Jeremiah couldn’t help laughing at this. “True, but ’tis also a matter of the child’s seeing a new surrounding, any new surrounding, telling her she’s out of the situation, away from where the curse against her took place. Gives the victim, and no doubt she is just that, a feeling of safety just to cross a body of water. You know the superstitions; how they work.”

Serena nodded at all he said. “I should think that any geography other than that found beneath her bed could help the child.”

“Her mother, too. Mrs. Parris’ health has suffered greatly in all of this.”

Francis Nurse sighed heavily. “I can well imagine. I recall many nights when Rebecca and I were up with our children. To have one as afflicted as that child, from what I’ve gathered, is beyond me.”

Serena wrung her hands. “Will Mr. Corwin and Mr. Hathorne carry through on the threats of hanging the six?”

“Not Corwin nor Hathorne, not technically, no.”

“What do you mean?”

“They haven’t the authority.”

“But it was in their courtrooms the guilty verdicts were handed down.”

“All the same, they’re courts are for petty crimes, misdemeanors, and suits.”

“They signed the warrants, ordered the arrests,” countered Ben, confused, “initiated warrants.”

“All that Corwin and Hathorne can legally do is collect evidence, run interviews, but decisions of life and death are made by the General Court of Assistants in Boston. It’s why Goode and the others were sent to Boston to stand trial there. The system is wise. Take the trial out of the locals’ hands, away from the borough where emotions and feelings run ahead of fact, and where authorities are often . . . well, inept.”

“Jeremy’s right, Ben,” Francis said while squeezing Serena’s hand in his. “Those facing the rope were found guilty in the local courts, but only the Court of Assistants can bring back an indictment of death. Hell, Hathorne’s court has never handled a case involving more than a claim of fifty pounds.”

“Certainly not charges of witchcraft and murder,” added Jeremy. “But they’ve been doing exactly that with the Boston authorities sitting alongside them. They’ve brought the Boston high court to Salem for what purpose? It’s all in all a sham.”

Serena gritted her teeth. “And yet Corwin and Hathorne are-are daily running interrogations, both in their courts and at the prison, where they do searches of the accused prisoner’s body.”

“It’s all been a show,” Jeremy assured his new bride.

“The real show is with Sir William and the larger court,” Francis added.

“Which is a breaking of the law in itself,” Jeremy insisted. “Convening a Court of Oyer & Terminer without consent or even knowledge on the part of the King. Frankly, all of their convictions are in question.”

“Tell that to the hangman,” muttered Ben. “I hear a hangman’s scaffold is being built by that cursed fool Fiske as we speak.”

“Where at?” asked Francis.

“Aside that giant oak top of Watch Hill.”

It was the same hill where Jeremy had hoped to meet with Mr. Higginson on his arrival in Salem, a goodly distance from the village, situated between the seaport and the village, yet within sight of the prison window. It’d mean a good parade of the accused either by foot or riding that cage, the jail cart. A last opportunity for jeers, curses, eggs, rotten fruit, and stones.

“What I fail to grasp,” said Francis, eyes cast downward still, “is why Magistrates Corwin and Hathorne have involved themselves at all; they could well have stayed above it and out of it, but they didn’t.”

“I believe they’ve been unduly influenced by three—no four—forces, Mr. Nurse.”

“Go on, Jeremiah.”

Jeremy cleared his throat. “Ambition, greed, a man named Parris, and the Boston magistrates who visited them.”

“A tangled web they weave?”

“As tangled a web as you can imagine.”

“I can imagine much.”

“And so how, Jeremy,” pleaded Serena, “how do we use this fact to free my mother?”

“At the moment, I’ve no idea.”

“What’s become of promises from Mather’s son?” asked Francis. “Reverend Cotton Mather?”

“I don’t know. Sorry, but I just don’t know.”

“Are we to wait until . . . until . . . ” began Ben, tears blinding him.

“Ease your mind, Ben,” Francis told his son.” Francis went to Ben, reached out and took his face in both hands, and then hugged him. “We are all in God’s hands. Understand that, accept it, and be at peace. What is the worst they can do to us now? Take Mother’s life? It cannot, it will not happen.”

“Stop it, Father!” Ben pulled away. “You’re a fool not to see where they’re headed!”

“Mind what your mother has said to us all, son!”

“She’s out of her head, Father!” he replied, going around the room, waving arms in the air. “She’s like a child! How can we follow her dictates? We must save her from them and from herself! All this nonsense about God’s will!”

“She believes it firmly!” replied Serena. “Says ‘He may have my life, if it’s God’s will, if He has led me to this end, then so be it.”

Francis agreed. “She keeps telling us all to let it be, but how can we?”

“You can’t listen to her!” Ben pounded about. “You sound as if you want her hung!”

Francis moved faster than he had in all the time Jeremy had known him, and he slapped Ben hard across the face. Ben stared in response and quietly said, “All she need do is lie to them; tell them what they want to hear. She is freed then to come home.”

“Those who’ve chosen that route have had to point a finger at others, Ben,” Jeremy said. “Your mother would never indict another.”

Serena added, “She told me that she’d not ever deny her God by doing as others have, by declaring a lie, Ben, by saying she’s abandoned God for the Antichrist. No, she will not!”

“She’s a brave woman, your mother, Ben.” Jeremy patted his young brother-in-law on the back, but Ben shrugged it off.

“Mother pleaded that we not visit again or attempt to see her again,” Serena told her father. “Says we worry her more with our presence; that she is in the Valley of Death and must walk it alone.”

“She fears we’ll bring the full wrath of the most vicious among the villagers down around us,” added Jeremy. “Giving comfort to the enemy will turn eyes on you—and your mother is wise.”

By the same token, Jeremy had himself gone down to the jail two evenings ago by cover of darkness with a handful of coins given him by Francis to put into the palm of Mr. Gatter, that foul-smelling jailer. Jeremy recalled the night visit and the sounds of the suffering inside that damnable, government-sanctioned oven.

Laying the money into Gatter’s hand, Jeremy had said, “Do all you can to make sure the accused are fed properly, Mr. Gatter, and should I learn you have used these funds badly or in gaming, or for drink, I will come looking for you.”

“Awww, ya kin hurt a man to the quick, sir, but for sure, you kin-count on me, Mr. Wakely, sir. I know she’s your mother in there—whether witch or no.”

Jeremiah could hardly abide the smell of Gatter or his twisted features and hair lip or his gnarled legs. He’d spoken briefly with Rebecca through the window, but Rebecca had only one thing to say, and she repeated it throughout: “Get Serena away from here, and if you can, take Ben with you, please. I’ll not budge. Stubborn is my faith.”

“And the authorities, Mother, they will hold their ‘truths’self-evident—that those among you who won’t confess have hearts turned to stone by Satan’s touch.”

“Self-evident, eh? Blindness is evident in this. Look here, I cannot be saved, but my children can be. Do it for me, Jeremiah Wakely, please!”

“But they are deaf to me and to caution. You’ve raised stubborn, proud children, Mother Nurse.”

“Afraid so.”

“Children who don’t run from a fight.”

“Aye but this is no fair fight. Jeremy, convince Francis. Do all you can to get the young ones, and all my grandchildren to safe harbor.”

Jeremy now wondered what safe harbor might be available to any of them. It felt like some cosmic force at work, testing them all. So many things had gone wrong—Increase Mather’s being called to duty an ocean away, Higginson’s being called to the ultimate shore, the Governor’s march off into the wilderness to fight painted but corporeal savages, coming at such a time of avarice, greed, political ambition—all of it at once in perfect blend with the horror on the public mind of demonic overthrow of the entire world beginning with Salem.

# # # # #

At the Nurse compound, emotions ran high, everyone’s nerves frayed at the seams. The old man, Francis Nurse, had once again called all his sons and sons-in-law, and any in the family old enough to carry a weapon. It was to this meeting of angry Nurse-Towne-Easty-Tarbell men, all related and plotting an armed rebellion against the courts in Salem Village that Serena and Jeremy had returned to after a ride that had taken them back to Samuel’s old place, the rustic home where they had first made love for another and more judicious examination with the idea of homesteading there. But before they were through, again they had made love.

Serena kept seeing the bright side of the idea of making Samuel Nurse’s abandoned place theirs, while Jeremy remained skeptical. She’d grown angry with him after he’d suggested they follow Mrs. Parris to Connecticut or return to Boston to set up house there. “In time, I can find work,” he had insisted, but Serena swore she’d never leave Salem until her mother was free of “that dungeon”. “You find a way to free Mother, and I will go to the ends of the Earth with you,” she challenged him.

As they returned to a summit where the main Nurse home could be seen, they saw the standing wagons and buggies about the gate. “Father’s called another meeting in our absence!” She galloped ahead of Jeremy, leaving him and Dancer in her wake.

At the house, Serena pushed through the gate and burst in on them. “Do nothing rash, Father!”

“This is for men to decide, daughter.”

“But Father, how many times’ve you told us that Mother has pleaded that we do nothing rash.”

“This is our mother they have in irons!” Ben charged and menaced her.

Jeremiah stepped in and put up a warning hand. “Serena’s only reminding you all what Mother Nurse has said a hundred times.”

Francis took Serena aside. “We’ve got to do something, girl. We know your mother’s wishes.”

“She wants us safe. She wants us to think of the children, the grandchildren, those yet to be born.”

“We all understand that,” said John Tarbell, joining them. “She wants it left in God’s hands.”

“That may be true,” added Jeremy, “that she believes it’s an ordeal put upon her and you by God, but it’s equally the work of men—black hearted men and well-meaning men. Yes, she’s made some sort of pact between her and her Maker, but Rebecca is also smart. She is willing to sacrifice herself for the rest of you and your land holdings.”

“I tell you,” returned Ben, pacing, loaded gun in hand, “she will accept matters as the will of God when we rescue her from that pit they call a jail!”

“I have a confession to make,” shouted Jeremiah, again interrupting the family he’d so recently become a member of.

“What confession?” asked Francis.

“Two actually. I want to break Mother Nurse out as much as the rest of you, and second . . . this is more difficult, and I should’ve told you sooner, Father Nurse.”

Serena stared at her husband. “What is it?”

“When in Boston, I did some checking on Parris’ recent activities at the court.”

“At the court in Boston?”

“Aye, where it appears he’s had a lawsuit pending for near two years.”

“Lawsuit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The particulars, Jeremy. Details.”

“The suit is over a section of land.”

“Land?” asked Ben, interested now.

“My land?” asked Father Nurse. “If so, Mother was more right than she knew.”

“A section bordering the Frost Fish and Crane Rivers, sir.” Jeremy exchanged a glance with Serena. “A section once belonging to—”

“Thomas Putnam’s father and sold to Towne forever ago, I know.” Nurse’s words silenced the room.

Jeremiah added, “Parris’ original suit was against the entire Town Council and not simply you. There was no chance of winning such a suit, and from all I can tell, I suspect he got advice.”

“Advice?” Francis paced about the room.

“Of a legal nature, yes . . . say a barrister or a magistrate.”

“Someone in Boston?”

“I suspect so.”

“Do you suspect one of the Boston men who’re now in Salem Village?”

“I do.”

“Bastards!” shouted Ben. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it’s true, isn’t it? It’s been about land from the beginning!”

Francis shook his head, stood, held onto the table a moment, and then paced as Jeremy’s eyes darted among the other men. “From the beginning—” Jeremy continued, his voice filling the silence that had fallen on the room—“land and greed far more than withered old witches and warlocks.”

“My Rebecca sits in that god-awful hole down there because of land alone?”

“Land and politics, yes.”

“A land grab it is,” muttered the imposing Tarbell.

Serena grabbed her father’s arm and embraced him. “How do such men sleep nights?”

“Unfortunately, too easily.” Jeremy raised his hands in exasperation.

“Their hearts are made glad too easily, I think,” added Francis.

“All the more reason to storm the jail tonight and wrest Mother free,” declared Ben, Joseph at his side, agreeing, pounding the table.

“And risk one of you being killed in the bargain?” asked Francis.

Serena now pounded the other end of the table. “Have you not construed Mother’s purpose in all this madness? Look, ye fools! Mother wants her day in court.”

“She’s had it and they’ve declared her a witch!” shouted Ben.

“Nay, nay Ben! That was no true court,” Jeremy insisted. “Your mother wants a real hearing before real judges, not ministers or lower court judges.”

Serena stared into her father’s eyes. “She wants to stand up for God and the Boston authorities to make her appeal.”

“And if she dies of disease before that day comes, Serena?” asked Ben. “Then what, Father?” Ben addressed them all now, waving a hand in the air. “Are you prepared to say later that we let her die in that filthy jail?”

Ben stormed out, but Francis persuaded the others to stay and remain calm. Another round of ale was poured. “Everything must be measured.”

“We wait to see what becomes of the final petition,” agreed Joseph, and Tarbell added, “For the time being.”

Joseph muttered, “And then if they fail to listen to reason?”

Tarbell met Joseph’s eyes. “Then we go young Ben’s route.”

“And in the meantime,” added Serena, “we pray.”

“How much prayer can a single family give up to God?” asked Francis, a tear welling up. “But you’re right, sweet child. We pray on . . . for Mother.”

“And we pray Ben doesn’t get himself shot by Herrick or Williard.” One of the Easty men added.

“It won’t be by John Williard’s hand,” Tarbell shot back.

“What’re ya meaning?” asked Joseph, his brow knitting.

“Word is Williard has quit the court.” Tarbell’s chest swelled. “First sign of discontent in their ranks since this craziness began.”

“So it wasn’t all bluster and show that day at Ingersoll’s?” asked Jeremy. “Williard didn’t take his badge back?”

“The sheriff? Quit?” asked Daniel Easty, who’d remained silent throughout.

“Quit this business entirely, yes,” Tarbell assured the others.

Jeremiah smiled. “Then there’s hope after all.”

“What hope?” asked the Easty. “Williard is only one man.”

Jeremy looked into Easty’s gnarled and sun-burnished features. “If one—just one—on their side can see the lunacy of it all—”

“Then perhaps others will come round, too,” finished Serena. “But when? How long now?”

“If not soon, Mother may not see the day,” added Francis, dropping into his chair, deflated and weary. The toll this matter was taking on him showed terribly. Serena draped her arms about him from above, and Jeremy thought the moment a poignant and beautiful and touching one—like a painting to be hung in a museum.

Chapter Twelve

The elections for seats of power throughout the Massachusetts Bay Colony came and went, and the overwhelming winners were all who held a torch up to the burning issue of witchcraft in Salem. Directly after the elections, two former Towne women, one an Easty, the other a Cloyse—sisters of Rebecca Nurse—saw warrants sworn out against them, thanks to the outcries of the afflicted children, victims of witchcraft torment. The remaining two Nurse sisters were arrested and dragged from their homes by men with guns who’d come in the night. The authorities had also put out a wanted poster for the former sheriff, Williard, who—according to the seer children—had gone over to the ‘other side’.

Increase Mather’s eldest and most successful son, a minister who had his own church in Boston, had come out of hiding himself, and had come into Salem today, riding a white charger that would dwarf Jeremy’s mare, and his arrival was applauded on all sides, a word of his coming had leaked and people lined the main street in Salem Village, turning out for his arrival. Mather reared up on his horse several times, an expert horseman, and he declared to the crowd: “I have come in your hour of need! Come to see first hand the seer children and the nature of this plague of evil that has descended not only on Salem but surrounding hamlets—and now threatening my dear Boston as well!”

When Jeremiah heard the news that Cotton Mather had indeed arrived in the village, having ostensibly come to speak at the First Church of Salem Town, he learned also that Mather had come at the invitation of Reverend Nicholas Noyes. Noyes had asked Mather to give the eulogy for Reverend Nehemia Higginson. Jeremy felt hopeful that at last a person of true education, influence, and intelligence would put an end to the madness—a fitting tribute to the life and death of Reverend Higginson. And now that Mather the younger had come to the area to witness first hand what Jeremiah had described in his letters to the man, something of an official nature would be done for the better. A dictum coming out of the ecumenical side of the two-headed snake of government. Some old fashioned theology ground in logic and rational thought, and a condemnation of the way things had proceeded up till now.

Mather must be the answer to their prayers; he must put an end the accusations and open the cell doors and forbid any further acceptance of ghosts whisperings as evidence of murder in a court of law in Essex County. Never mind why Mather had disappeared or where to, for an end was in sight. Hope ran high at the Nurse compound.

Jeremy immediately sought an audience and to his surprise, it was arranged that he would see Reverend Cotton Mather after his eulogy and the burial. The eulogy was eloquent and not a single mention of the horrors of the witch hunt figured in—a good sign.

They met in the rectory with only Noyes knowing of their meeting. They exchanged kind words about Higginson’s passing.

Then Mather bluntly asked, “Mr. Wakely, exactly what is on your mind?”

“Sir, the Boston judges’ve made a mockery of their offices here.”

“Take care with your tongue, sir.”

“But I tell you, while things looked bad before their arrival, our leaders of the high court have daily rushed headlong into worse territory than ever.”

“Appears a sad state of affairs to be sure, Mr. Wakely, but that’s hardly the fault of Sir William and his judges of the high court.”

“I fear a terrible void’s been left with Reverend Higginson’s passing, a—”

“Indeed, we can agree there, Jeremiah.”

“—a void that will only add to the fear and superstition driving the court proceedings. Strong, decisive action needs be taken, if you ask—”

“Action is being taken, Mr. Wakely, I can assure you.”

“Can you assure me that sanity will be restored? That Parris and Putnam and the judges will be stopped in this land grab?”

“That’s a terrible accusation to lay at the feet of—”

“Is it now? Can you guarantee that my motherin-law, Rebecca Towne, wasn’t targeted to drive the Nurses out? That—”

“There is no evidence of any such—”

“—that Rebecca will not be on the next hangman’s list coming from the high court?”

Mather replied to Jeremiah’s impassioned plea with the same phrase. “Action is being taken.”

“They’ve arrested a pregnant woman, a child touched in the head, Parris’ predecessor—Reverend George Burroughs—a grandmother who’s lived her life as a saint, sir. It is no longer the dregs of society locked up and tortured here!”

“These arrests and excommunications are the work of the clergy; they bring the warrants and the arrests. The judges merely perform their duties relative to the arrests.”

“But the clergy and the judges have stood on the side of the insanity, sir, thanks in large measure to Samuel Parris’ fanning the flames of ignorance and fear and this maniacal search for a Satanist in every shadow!”

The two men stood in the solitude of the rectory, each pacing around the other now like a pair of lions taking the measure of the other. Mather came closer and spoke almost as a conspirator. “You’re aware of Hathorne’s zealousness in this affair. I cannot fathom why over one hundred people have been arrested—and more and more each day! However, it is feasible when you consider what the Indians are capable of—whole tribes of men, women, and children who follow the Devil!”

“Indians? What does the native population have to do with any of this?”

“Consider, Mr. Wakely, how many of our people have been captivated by those pagans and the way they live; how many of our colonists have gone native.”

“Captivated? How many are we talking about?”

“There’re no exact figures.”

Jeremiah’s face pinched. “I don’t follow, but I know a hundred is a low estimate of the number of our citizens sitting in jails all over the colony right now; their only crime having been accused by half-witted children who a few months ago could not get attention from us if they were on fire.”

“I’m not so sure of your point, but yes, so a hundred or more colonists do stand accused.”

“Accused in a mad fashion—pointed out a witch by addled children. Held on the testimony of ghosts and goblins, sir!”

“I am given to understand that whole meetings, filled with eyewitnesses have seen these same addled children, as you call them, under attack by invisible forces. That it’s no longer the gossip of the dead that drives the accusations.”

“I have seen the so-called attacks, and I tell you they are bogus.”

“Come now, Jeremy, it’s not so difficult to understand that no matter if you believe in witches flying across the moon on broomsticks or not, this has become a rather hot coal being passed among the ministers and magistrates—ah, politically speaking.”

Jeremiah stared at the younger Mather, wishing to God that he was his father, that Increase and not Cotton stood here before him. “ Politically, sir?”

“The fact is . . . such indictments are of great political consequence.”

“For those on the side of right, you mean? Reverend Mather?”

“Precisely, Jeremy, precisely.”

“But all the ministers here and the magistrates in Salem, they’re on the side of wrong.”

“Right, wrong . . . it all depends on one’s point of view, doesn’t it, Jeremy?”

Jeremy didn’t like the direction or the tone the conversation had veered toward. He felt a stunned disbelief settling over his mind. Has Mather made his own separate arrangement with the judges since last I saw him?

While lighting a pipe, Mather continued without skipping a beat. “I have it on good authority that the Boston judges believe they are as right as you and those who’ve signed your Nurse and Proctor family petitions.”

“The Boston authorities?”

“Aye.”

“We must be consulting different men in the government, sir.”

Mather ignored this. “My information is accurate. The magistrates in Boston who’ve reviewed the cases at my request are just as certain justice has been done as your petitioners are certain injustices have been done. But in truth, only time might tell.”

“I can’t fathom it, sir. Are you saying that you sent Stoughton, Addington, Saltonstall, and Sewell here? To form this illegally got up Court of Oyer and Terminer?—with the express purpose of . . . of making the witch hunt a political issue?”

“I see nothing illegal about the court.”

Jeremy, exasperated at this limited response, explained the technical reasons why such a court should never have been convened, but from the moment he began, Jeremy sensed that Cotton Mather didn’t wish to hear it.

“We can’t possibly wait for my father to return with a charter to act, Mr. Wakely; by then the demonic forces unleashed here will have won this war of souls!”

“This is no true or holy war, sir, but a twisting of our beliefs—to arrest any who are prosperous among us, to accuse them of making a covenant with Satan for better crops, successful business, healthy children!”

“It brings into question your judgment and your allegiances, Mr. Wakely!”

I’m no longer Jeremy now but Mr. Wakely. “What? You know very well my allegiance is toward the good of the colony and the Crown!”

“Brings into question either your judgment or your allegiance, Wakely--these entanglements you’ve openly had with the villagers, sneaking Mrs. Parris and her child from this place, getting into fights at the local pub, arguing with the duly appointed Sheriff—some say convincing him to be derelict in his duties, for which he now stands arrested, not to mention—”

“Please, don’t hold back any gossip! Is it Parris and Noyes or both who’ve brought you up to date?” Jeremy asked knowing the answer. “I swear by all that his holy and just, sir, that neither my judgment nor allegiance is in question! For that, look to those co-conspirators!”

“Not to mention that you’ve married into a family from whom no less than three witches have been culled—”

“Three innocent women!”

“— while on a mission to help stabilize the parish that has become more unstable than ever, since your arrival? You’ve been a disappointment, Wakely.”

The words stung as they echoed Higginson’s that night he’d met with him in the coach. Jeremy didn’t know what to say to this. Mather added, “A letdown, both to me and my father.”

“You’re hardly being fair, Reverend! I accomplished a great deal. Yes, I admit, to some failures but I won’t apologize for falling in love nor standing with men of conviction and righteousness in the face of ignor—”

“I realize full well, but you’ve managed to fan the flames rather than quell them, Jeremiah!”

“No, that’s been the business of Reverend Parris.”

“You show little aptitude for politics, sir,” Mather countered, pacing and shaking his head and puffing on his long-stemmed pipe like some pagan Indian chief himself. “Look here, Jeremiah, how do you think Judge Stoughton, the defender of Andros’ despicable regime, gained re-election this month?”

“By defeating the supernatural, I suppose.”

“Precisely.”

Jeremy detested the new thread of this discussion and what it portended for Salem and for Rebecca Nurse, her sisters, Elizabeth Proctor, and so many more innocents. And he wondered what Mather wanted him to say or do at this moment?

Finally, Cotton Mather took him by the shoulder and said in his ear, “We must go lightly here, my friend, or we ourselves could be singled out as friends of witches and warlocks. Learning of your marriage to this Nurse woman came as a great shock to me—out of the blue, as it were.”

Jeremy caught the glint in his eye and saw Noyes reflected there, sneakily eavesdropping on their conversation. It’d likely been Noyes who’d clarified the ties of relations between Jeremiah, his bride, and three accused and arrested ‘witches’.

“On the surface of it, you deceived the village minister and people, Jeremiah, and then you aligned yourself in matrimony to the child of a witch.”

Now it came clear. Reverend Cotton Mather wanted nothing to do with taking on William Stoughton and the mob. “Look, Mr. Wakely, whatever happens here, you are a married man now.”

“Married to the daughter of Rebecca Nurse, yes, but that’s got—”

“Take your bride out of here, man.” It was the same advice as Rebecca’s. “Go and take up that property in Connecticut, the land my father signed over for your services there.” He held out a deed to Jeremy. “Go ahead, take it and be gone.”

“He signed it over? When?”

“He insisted I not hand you this until your work here was complete.” Mather shook the land grant at him.

Jeremy opened it to find it all legally signed over to him. It proved that Increase Mather’s influence went beyond the boundary of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Jeremy could only imagine the kind of power the elder Mather wielded. He didn’t know what to say.

“Disappear and begin a life elsewhere. Take your woman and go. It’s my best advice.”

“Are you saying the hangings are going forward?””

Mather breathed deeply. “There is nothing to stop them.”

“But you have power and influence.”

He girded his belly and gritted his teeth. “Nothing can be done. All is in motion.”

Jeremy looked away, looked to the ceiling, to the windows. No answers anywhere. “One favor, no two—two favors, sir.”

“If I can.”

“I’d forfeit my land grant, sir, if you’ll use your influence to free Mother Nurse.”

Mather paced, his jaw set, his hands nervous. “Wakely, I cannot free anyone; I haven’t the influence you believe.”

Jeremy paced in a circle and came back to face him, not allowing Mather to hide his eyes. “This woman is innocent, a woman of God all her days. Yet each day she spends in that hole, her guilt mounts. Those accusing children have made a monster of her, saying even in chains, her shape comes to them in the night and torments them, stabbing them with needles and pins. And it’s all impossible lies.”

“Not all impossible, and not all lies, Jeremy. Enough . . . just enough truth to sway the average mind here. Some of those arrested are guilty of incantations, spiteful hexes, and a love of Satan.”

Jeremy stared at the minister. “That is what you believe?”

“Without a doubt.”

Jeremy muttered, “Without a doubt?”

“No hope for those whose hearts are set in stone against our Lord—as you well know.”

“What of my second request?”

“Which is?”

“To have an audience with the judges, to speak of just how tainted one accuser’s words are—proof of an earlier enmity driving this person.”

“To what end, Jeremy? One accuser proves a liar and is prohibited from speaking?”

“It is a series of straight lines from this single lie to the lies of others. If one major accuser, whose name has appeared on multiple arrest warrants and sworn affidavits is proven a liar, and a wretched one who would use the courts and the officers of the court for personal gain, then how many others? This evil we fight is not in the air or in some invisible place, sir, but here!” Jeremy pounded his chest. “In our blood, in our very hearts.”

“You are certain of this accuser’s usage of us all?”

“I am.”

“Then perhaps she is a witch?”

“No, no—just a pathetic, angry, vengeful heart—as is Parris. I have a copy of a sermon that I made in which he literally predicts Rebecca Nurse’s arrest—weeks before the event.” He produced the document, which Mather examined closely. “I’ve seen the original at Hathorne’s court. It is not enough, Jeremy, to condemn the man or turn the tide. Sadly, you never gave us enough on Parris to turn the tide.”

“But I sent you reams of information.”

Mather gave him a peculiar look, but said, “I will order the court to hear your petition on this suspected witch you have singled out, Jeremiah, behind closed doors. The judges can do with the information what they wish. I hope you have evidence to support your contention, and for my part, I would like nothing better than to see an end to this horrid business.”

“I’m sure you mean that, sir.”

“Contact me tomorrow here for an appointed time to speak to the high court.”

Mather rushed away without another word, pushing through the door and disappearing. As Jeremy watched him go, he wondered at the depth of fear residing in the heart of Reverend Cotton Mather.

In a series of dead ends, for Jeremy, this confrontation with Cotton Mather felt like a brick wall, a final dead end. He folded the land grant and the copy of the Parris sermon, which Mather had mocked as inconsequential and tucked both into his breast pocket. As to accepting the bribe from Mather to get out of Salem, he had little compunction not to do so. I’ve earned it for all the years I’ve done the Mathers’ cloak and dagger work.

# # # # #

Captain Thomas Putnam looked down from his horse at the alternating pattern of light and dark lying across the dusty, pitted, gray roadbed. It’d be dark soon, and he and others would be left in the night . . . on the road, far from Salem, in the company of witches held in custody. To be sure, the witches were shackled and locked away in a caged cart surrounded by the best metals his mine produced, but everyone knew that by darkness, even a chained witch could go out of body to create great havoc, pain, and torture. That a she-devil could turn into a small mouse and slip from shackles and through bars—and nightfall approached.

Thomas Putnam had been named one of several special deputies by the court when Williard had walked away from his duty. Now Thomas was taking orders from John Williard’s deputy of the day before and now the new sheriff—Herrick.

Sadly, criminally, John Williard had gone to the other side, refusing to arrest another accused, saying he’d tired of arresting his neighbors and was done with the work of Satan. Just like that, the man had shirked his duty. As a result, Herrick had been placed in charge. A better man beneath the surface, so far as Putnam was concerned. Never liked that cripple’s arrogance in the first place.

They’d been ordered to Boston to retrieve accused and convicted witches who’d been moved to Boston earlier due to overcrowding in Salem jails. They were now en route to Salem Village where these stonehearted people would face the judges one last time before being hung. Unless their hearts should thaw, and they confessed.

“We should hurry on, Mr. Herrick!” Putnam pointed to the waning sun.

Herrick had already dismounted, and the accused, in chains, shared the covered prison cart. “We’ll rest, Mr. Putnam! If that is all right with you.”

Putnam said no more, getting down from his horse. “Aren’t you concerned about darkness falling, Sheriff?”

“Told you, call me by me given name. Sheriff don’t set well.”

“Well? Aren’t you?”

Herrick pointed to his lathered horse. “This heat is hard on a dumb animal, Thomas. We’ll take a break.”

Herrick allowed the prisoners from the cart to stretch and relieve themselves among the brush here. “Keep your heads high, now! Where I can see you!” he ordered the prisoners.

Thomas asked in his ear, “Have ya give any thought to your fields back in the village?”

“Ya mean the fields I’ve failed to work?”

“Same as I, I know. So busy’ve we become with doing God’s work.”

“Aye.”

“In this witchcraft war.”

“One good thing.”

“What’s that?” Thomas’ features pinched in confusion.

“This war against Satan’s minions allows you deacons to go about in your uniforms—for other than parade days!” Herrick laughed at his own remark. “Aside from that, Thomas, I’m sure you like being needed and made a special deputy.”

Putnam didn’t care for the man’s less than veiled ridicule, and he felt it best to ignore it, but he couldn’t. “Look here, the time and labor of it—working for and taking orders from the likes of you, Herrick— it does wear thin. Neglected fields’ll mean a shortage of food next winter for my family.”

“And mine, and the entire bloody village.”

“You needn’t swear, sir.”

Herrick considered Putnam closely now. “You worried about the gentile ears of the witches or your horse, Mr. Putnam?” Herrick erupted in a hearty laugh.

“What is so funny?”

“You and the others are so sure this witch threat is so horrible, then I guess we’ll all be sacrificing, now won’t we?”

“So many demands on my time,” muttered Thomas. “Worse yet, while away from the village on the King’s work, my poor wife and sickly child continue to be attacked by invisible forces.”

“What kind of forces is that, sir?”

“Imps, dervishes, and succubae! So don’t preach the right or wrong of things to me, Mr. Herrick.”

Herrick released a breath of air that said he carried the weight of an oak tree on his shoulders. “It all seems so damn impossible at times, Mr. Putnam.”

“All impossible things are made possible for those who have Satan’s power. Nothing can hold them.” Putnam pointed to the prisoners. “They might be bound and gagged but the only way to stop their danger is to destroy them.”

“Or save them by breaking them and making them confess to their guilt,” countered Herrick. “Once a witch recants Satan, she goes free.”

“Aye, and many hundreds’ve done just that!” Putnam had raised his voice so the prisoners would take heed. “But many others remain stone-cold Satanists, denying their guilt in the face of eyewitness testimony.”

“Secretly,” Thomas continued, “I don’t believe in the sincerity of many who’ve confessed.”

“Really?”

“I fear their confessions lies.”

“All the same, these people’ve been stripped of their property and voting rights, and already talk has filtered down to men like us, Thomas, that land grant decisions for upstanding Salem citizens do lay on the horizon.”

Putnam looked uncomfortably around as if not wanting those in chains to hear that last bit of conversation. He changed the subject. “So what do you think of John Williard quitting his duty?”

“I have no opinion.” Herrick had taken to using this phrase in response to everything asked him these days.

“A coward or one of them?” pressed Putnam.

“If you please, Captain Putnam, would you please just keep close watch on our prisoners? As I have to relieve meself.”

“Go! These miscreants are going nowhere.”

“Keep a keen eye on ’em.”

Where’re they going?” he joked.

Herrick found a tree to stand behind as he relieved himself.

One of the witches being escorted back to the village was Samuel Wardwell, and he never took his eye off Putnam. “Not so long ago you came to me for help, and I gave you help, Putnam.”

“I’ve memory of it, but then I didn’t know then that it was you who’d fashioned that likeness of Betty Parris recovered from Goode—or the other for Bishop.”

“I’d’ve made one for you, too, but we didn’t get that far, now did we?” Wardwell laughed to himself.

“It was found in her basement. I gave in evidence willingly against the woman.” Putnam picked at his teeth and sore gums.

“Found only because I confessed it, and yet I’m still held prisoner, why?”

“At trial before the Boston judges you’ll have your say.”

Wardwell fell silent, lifting his shackles overhead to the sky.

“What’s it you’re doing there? Stop it now or I will shoot you dead, Wizard.”

“I had a thought to bring down a horrible wind, perhaps to carry you off, Captain!” Wardwell’s laugh came as if from a deep place in Hades. “And congratulations on your promotion. But it’ll do little good when you’re face to face with the Devil, Captain!

Herrick returned and jammed the butt of his rifle into Wardwell’s mid-section, effectively ending the talk and the laughter. Herrick then asked if Putnam needed to take a moment behind his tree.

“Can we just get on toward home, please?”

“Certainly, we can. Everyone back into the cart, now!” shouted Herrick and the prisoners clamored back into the barred cart. Herrick and Putnam remounted. After a moment of rolling onward, Herrick said to Putnam, “Bridget Bishop.”

“What of her?”

“Now if there be witches, she’s my pick. I was in her inn when Jacob Shattuck dragged his sick boy into her place.”

“I’ve heard the tale.”

“No tale. Shattuck called her wicked names that day, terrible names.”

“Claimed she’d bewitched his little boy, did he,” added Wardwell, grinning from behind the bars of the cart.

“Bridget chased Shattuck and his boy out with a terrible club she kept behind her bar,” continued Thomas. “Almost blinded Shattuck with her last blow.”

“Tell ’im what became of the boy,” shouted Wardwell.

“The boy died that same year.”

“Maybe the boy had a deadly illness to begin with,” suggested Wardwell.

“He died of bewitchment!” shouted Herrick and to that one instance, I can bear witness and have in open court.

“Agreed.” Putnam vigorously nodded.

“Your part in all this, both of you,” began Wardwell, “will earn you a seat in hell.”

“Your curses don’t frighten me, Wardwell,” Herrick kicked out with his boot, striking Wardwell’s hands against the bars, causing the other man to howl and fall back onto the other prisoners. Then, rattling his chains, Wardwell added, “No curse, just a fact, you two men of God! Judgment on you from God is no curse, just fact, for doing harm to those you know are guilty of no crime. Those you shower your hatred on!”

“Shut up, Wardwell!” shouted Thomas and peace reigned again, all but the scurrying of vemin and birds about the woods.

Herrick softly said to Putnam, “Aye, I’ve arrested some I thought not guilty.”

“Go on, Captain Putnam, you tell Herrick here how many innocent there are among the accused!” Wardwell shook at the bars, the entire rickety cart swaying with his powerful grip.

“Guilt or innocence, that’s not our decision to make; we just carry out warrants for arrest, right Mr. Herrick?”

“I suppose.”

“And do you really suppose me a wizard, Sheriff Herrick?” asked Wardwell, glaring at Herrick.

“It is our duty to . . . to do our duty.” Herrick wiped his brow with a cloth.

Darkness crept ever closer, but now they could see lights blinking through the trees, the lights of Salem Village coming into view just as a gust of wind swept over them all.

Through the bars of the cart carrying the witches, Samuel Wardwell shouted at Putnam, “So tell me, Putnam. Who among those you arrested did you think innocent?”

Putnam thought it a curious question coming from a wizard. “Giles Corey.”

“Indeed, the old buzzard.”

“An old buzzard, yes.”

“And a fool.”

“Yes, a fool.”

“But you didn’t think him a witch man.”

“No.”

“But I am?”

“Mr. Wardwell, Corey’s too stupid to be a cunning man, but you . . . you are another story. You’ve the devil in you, sure.”

“So you judge a witch can be addled, but that a wizard must be cunning?”

“That’s right. Makes sense.”

“Aha, then it appears your Judge Hathorne has now tried and condemned more witches in New England than any man living or dead, making him cunning, correct? And if a man be cunning . . . eh?” asked Wardwell, pulling at the bars again. “And from all I hear, he’s not found a one of us arrested wrongly . . . not one innocent, despite the lies to the contrary.”

“He is a good man and judge!” shouted Putnam.

“I have heard that Giles Corey is dead,” said Wardwell, his voice calm now.

“Dead? No, arrested . . . but not dead.”

“Crushed to death from punishment, when they tired of his not pleading. He would not plead before the court, neither innocent nor guilty. He stood mute.”

“I know of all that, but he’s not been killed.”

Herrick shouted back from the point position he’d taken, “Wardwell is correct, Mr. Putnam, Corey died of his stupidity. I am told he shouted for his jailers to load on more stones until the weight of it, with his jailers jumping onto the door laid atop him crushed the life from him.”

“Dead of torture,” added Wardwell. “An odd fellow. Friend of yours, Thomas?”

Herrick added, “Died lying prone between two unhinged doors, an interrogation technique approved by the court.”

“Doors?”

“One laid beneath him, the other overtop him.”

“Giles . . . the big oaf? Dead?” Putnam had not believed Corey any sort of witch man. “Sounds as if the fool brought it on himself.”

“Yes but not so dumb, really. He did it to protect his family’s holdings,” explained Wardwell over the noise of the ox cart over the rutted road. “They wanted his mill and land on the river, like they want my shop in Andover and the lands I hold.” He laughed again. “I should be so dumb as Giles. The court’s already seized my holdings on account of my pleading innocent.”

“Corey would not plead one way or t’other,” explained Herrick.

“So they crushed his throat from his head!” shouted Wardwell.

“Shut up, Wardwell!” Herrick rode back. “You want my boot again?”

Wardwell ignored this. “Now if they want Giles’ holdings, they’ll have to start over with his children, arrest them. The fools arrested his wife, but she has no share in his holdings, but ’twas through her torments they got her calling him out a wizard.” Again Wardwell’s laugh filled the darkening woods like a call to Satan. “Looks a bit o’ murder for money, now don’t it?”

“Stop that kind of talk right now, blacksmith!” Putnam lashed out at the bars with a horsewhip. Suddenly, Putnam’s horse missed a step and sent herself and Putnam off the road and into a gulley, Putnam taking a nasty fall, and another powerful gust of wind swept over the scene.

Captain Putnam’s uniform was torn and the man was bleeding as he climbed up out of the ditch long after his horse had recovered the road.

“Didja see that, Herrick? Eh?” called out Putnam.

“Aye, I saw it.”

“Witchcraft e’en from behind bars, enchanting my mare that way! Herrick, did you see it? Did you? Wizard put a hex on my horse, he did!”

Chapter Thirteen

Soon the ‘afflicted’ child celebrities’ began pointing their deadly, accusing fingers at anyone who had ever said an unkind word to them or theirs, or anyone who had used them badly in any manner. The targets being arrested daily now, included shop owners, innkeepers, mill and lumber workers, and one rumor had it that Deacon Nathaniel Ingersoll angered one of the children and was called out at a cunning wizard himself, but somehow this allegation was quashed by officials, and it went no further.

It remained that certain families and folks who owned choice holdings along the Ipswich Road were most in danger of facing a warrant sworn out against them, and in all subsequent arrests, the ‘geography’ of witch accusations began to take on a well-defined appearance. These accusations remained in Jeremy’s eyes an obvious wrong in and of itself, an indicator that greed tainted this holy war and witch hunt. And that it had been driven by the elections. Elections that had overwhelmingly supported the witch hunters, the incumbents.

“It’s the politics of witchcraft that fuels this ugly fire,” he told Serena where he lay in bed beside her, the darkness outside peeking through the drapes in the room that Ben had vacated for them.

She stroked his cheek where they lay under Francis’ roof. “It’s become obvious that the have-nots are pointing at the haves.”

“Yes, afraid so. Seeking answers to the so-called terrible affliction.”

“I’ve seen the terrible affliction put upon the village’s precious, innocent children, and it is an awful sight.”

“If, and I emphasize if anyone is truly possessed of a demon and in need of exorcism, it is—or hopefully was—little Betty Parris. I saw that awful woman, Goode, with a doll one night soon after I arrived, but at the time I had no idea the significance—not until she accosted him in the street that day at the commons. I should have known then what Goode was up to, and had I sworn out a warrant for her arrest at the time—had her thrown in jail for a witch, it would have ingratiated me with Parris, speeding up my work down there, and it may well have ended any further talk of witchcraft and this hunting the countryside for whole covenants might not have gotten underway! I am the fool in all of this.”

“None of this is your fault, Jeremy! Don’t believe what Mather told you, and stop second-guessing yourself. How could you know at the time that—”

“But again I saw Goode with the doll—a second time, at Samuel’s cabin the night she interrupted us, remember? She’d been scorching the likeness at the hearth before she ran screeching out of the place with it. Perhaps if I’d taken action then—gone to Williard and had her arrested . . .”

“Goode has always been a witch; was raised one, and now her daughter, Dorcas is jailed for one as well—a simpleton. None of this madness is on your head! I won’t hear you say so!”

“I did all I could for Betty and her mother, Serena,” Jeremy mused now, “all the while, Parris was busy feeding his only remaining bed-friends.”

“And who might that be?” Serena was momentarily scandalized.

“Hatred, Suspicion, and Greed. Do you know he continues to chronicle his daughter’s condition—as if it remains a fact she is in Salem and still under her affliction.”

“Keeping a chronicle?”

“Believes one day his notes will be useful. Speaks of writing a treatise on the Invisible World; talks of co-authorship with Reverend Cotton Mather.”

They lay in the dark, the moon peeking in at the window, shards of pale gray light filtering through. “I think you were foolish, Jeremy, trusting in any of them save Nehemia Higginson.”

Jeremy had told her every detail now of how Increase Mather had conferred with Higginson and his son with the plan to get Jeremy into a position to spy on Samuel Parris.

“Serena, I have to again ask you to come away with me.”

“Jeremy, you know that I—”

“Serena, we must leave this cursed place.”

She leapt from bed and turned on him. “I’ll not leave Father and Mother in these circumstances, no. I cannot.”

He got up and crossed the room to where he’d hung his coat. “We have land, a place to go to, and I have completed my work here, and have been offered a land grant in a place where I can hang out a shingle as a barrister and one day become a magistrate.”

She thumped her foot at the window where she looked out on the moon. He joined her and held out the signed deed. She accepted the folded paper with the broken seal and quickly glanced at it and tossed onto the bureau top. “What? Now you’ve gained your payment? Now you wish to run for Connecticut?”

“This is earned over ten years of service! This is no payoff.”

“Coming at this time, it smells the same, and-and if you don’t find it odious, then you’ve closed your senses for the sake of ambition like-like some others ’round here.”

“My ambition is to keep you safe, my love—the same ambition as your mother and—”

“I am not running from this place so long as my mother is condemned a witch! We must continue to fight this, and if it comes to it, we use force, just as Ben and John Tarbell’ve decided.”

A terrible rapping at the door startled them both. Jeremy’s first thought was that the fanatics from the village had come for Serena. The authorities had only to get one of the arrested to state a name and a person would be the subject of a warrant the following day.

“It’s me, Ben! I’ve news for you, Jeremy, Serena!”

Jeremy asked they be given a moment to dress, and when she opened the door; Ben rushed in, his face red, hair wild. “You’re a fool, Jeremy!”

“What’s this about?”

“You thought all along you were sending correspondence back to Boston.”

“I did, sir.”

“To influence the great Mather, or whomever he left in charge.”

“The man opening my mail, yes! What of it?”

“And who might that’ve been exactly? The son? The lesser man, Reverend Cotton Mather?”

“I know that my letters, notes, and observations have had no effect on the younger Mather. Your news is old news to me, Ben, but I’d like very much to know how you came by it.”

“How I came by it? Ingersoll confessed to me.”

“Ingersoll?”

“You did entrust him with your mail, correct?”

“He’s the postmaster, so yes!”

“He’s also in Parris’ pocket and has been for years.”

“Are you saying,” began Serena, “that Jeremy’s sealed letters never arrived in Boston? That Mather had no inkling of Jeremy’s opinions until a few days ago?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

“Mather said not a word about this fact, why?” Jeremy paced, chin in hand. “Why would he not inform me of it?”

“Perhaps the son of the great and powerful Increase Mather has had a design of his own from the beginning, maybe?” ranted Ben, pacing. “Don’t you see? He’s the one set the Court of Assistants onto the matter from the beginning!”

“Men in high office, circling about like buzzards.” Jeremy met Serena’s stare.

“It’s all been a conspiracy from the beginning.” Serena saw past Jeremy that her father now stood in the doorway.

“No doubt of it anymore. To win the elections—set up his men!”

“Making the high court his,” Jeremy said, shaking his head and angry with himself. “They’ll all who owe him a debt of gratitude now and forever—like me, well paid off, and—”

“Bastards all.” Ben slammed a fist against the wall.

“—and to grab off the lands and reissue land grants,” muttered Jeremy, his eyes going to the piece of paper on the bureau.

Serena’s glare bore into Jeremy now. “And the first went to you!”

“What?” asked Ben.

Francis’ face could not mask his rising anger, frustration, and sense of betrayal.

“I earned that land in Connecticut! Earned it over years of service!” Jeremy paraded the land grant about the room. “Look at it. This is my chance to rid myself forever of Salem, and you with me, Serena!”

“The sitting judges have all signed it.” Serena stood toe to toe with Jeremy.

“Earned it, I tell you, and-and not by condemning anyone! Certainly not your mother, Ben, Serena! If I’ve condemned anyone in my letters it was Parris.”

“Why did Ingersoll confide this news, Ben?” asked Serena, going to Jeremy and standing with him.

“I’m not sure, save to throw us in to dissension with one another, perhaps, or perhaps—”

“Perhaps he’s seen one too many neighbor thrown in prison,” finished Jeremy.

Francis added, “Nathaniel’s a good man at heart, always has been. Seeing all this madness, being in the middle of it daily has to work on a man’s conscience.”

“And recently one of the seer girls pointed her finger at Deacon Ingersoll.” Ben, a smug look of satisfaction coming over him, let out a snicker.

“I’d heard Nathaniel came under fire when he dared speak up for old Nehemia Abbott,” said Francis, who then lit his pipe.

“Abbott’s been thrown in jail for wizardry,” Ben added. “His two gnarled canes and all.” Abbott was well known for using two walking canes when he ventured out, and for his advanced age of eighty-two. Few men lived to be so old, and this proved yet another ‘blessing’ turned inside out—as proof of his consorting with Satan, to live to such an age. He must surely have struck a deal with the black minister of the Antichrist, his signature in the black book for the price of his eighty-two years.

Serena rushed out and into the living room area. The others followed Serena out of the room and into the main room and kitchen where she put on some tea.

“So Parris learned of my true purpose early on,” Jeremy commented. “He must have had something on Ingersoll to get the man to rob the mail. Who can trust in the mail, if the postmaster is in the business of breaking seals?”

“Imagine it,” agreed Francis. “Seals broken, contents read. Letters unsent. All at the behest of that devil in the pulpit.”

“He’s a cunning man, Parris. I’d thought he’d kicked me out due to my meddling in his family affairs with respect to Betty’s affliction, and the things I’d said at Corwin’s that night.”

“He feared others might begin to listen to your more rational diagnosis of his daughter’s condition, the way you tell it,” Serena added as the tea kettle whistled, shooting steam into the air.

“He thought my diagnosis quaint and hardly exotic enough.”

“The man uses his own daughter to gain his ends,” Serena said, pouring each of the men seated about the table a cup of tea. “He’ll stop at nothing till he’s gotten everything he wants.”

“And those are considerable wants,” added Ben.

Francis nodded. “Far more than simple ownership of the parsonage home and lands.”

“Ingersoll says he’s quite angry with you, Jeremy,” Ben spoke between sips, “for convincing his wife to remove herself and her daughter from the village.”

Jeremy recalled how Ingersoll had watched as that little drama had unfolded.

Francis emptied his cup. “Using a captain in the militia, a deacon in the church, and a postmaster for his ends is—small measure compared to using his wife and child.”

“Tell us now, Jeremy,” asked Ben. “About your diagnosis of Betty Parris’ condition. I’ve not heard it.”

“Anne Putnam Junior has been afflicted with the fits her entire life, correct?”

“Always, yes. General knowledge that.”

“Parris comes to live here; Betty is in the company of Anne, sees such fits. Anne is bewitched, or so many tell Betty. Betty, being even younger and smaller, must build up terrible fears of being bewitched and thusly afflicted.” Jeremy sipped at his tea, allowing these facts to sink in. “Then this poor child is convinced by a series of circumstances controlled, I suspect by Tituba Indian and Sarah Goode—adults—that she is bewitched by Goode, who has Betty’s likeness and shows it to her stuck with pins and needles.”

Francis and Ben considered Jeremy’s take on this in silence. Serena had heard it while sharing Jeremy’s bed. Francis piped up. “So little Betty, what seven, six? She falls to fits because she is in mortal fear of precisely that?”

“On learning Goode has bewitched her, yes.”

“A thing driven home by Tituba.” Serena pulled Jeremy into her, him sitting, she standing. “My Jeremy is a wizard himself in a way. Tell them of your suspicions surrounding the arrest warrant for Susannah Martin of Amesbury.”

Francis insisted on knowing what Jeremy knew of this matter.

“Ingersoll talks a lot of gossip; I spent a good deal of time around his inn and apothecary for just such information. He told me a queer old tale one day when I asked after the mental state of Mrs. Putnam, Anne’s mother.”

“She’s an addled woman; has been all the years I’ve known her,” replied Francis. “Go on.”

“Ingersoll said she was haunted by the ghost of her brother Henry, whose body had never known hallowed ground as he’d committed suicide by hanging.”

“It is a familiar story in the village.”

“We heard little of the details,” added Serena.

“Anne Carr, Mrs. Putnam was known then, was much older than Henry and she wielded some influence, as she’d been mother to him—their mother having died in a fire. At any rate, Anne refused to allow Henry the hand of a young woman in marriage, which led to the young man’s hanging himself in the home.”

“That’s about how I recall events.” Francis sighed heavily. “To the point, man.”

“The young woman who’d stolen Henry’s heart, his sister refused—was none other than one who stands accused today, whose name is—”

“I recall, Anne’s having said the woman had bewitched her brother,” interrupted Francis. “She put up a big fuss over his not being buried in church ground at the village. Said it wasn’t fair, that a man who’s committed suicide due to bewitching wasn’t the same as suicide, as he wasn’t entirely doing his will but that of the witch’s.”

“Interesting argument,” Ben granted.

“Susannah Martin of Amesbury?” asked Francis. “Yes, am I correct?”

“One and the same.”

“How then does it help us to know this?” asked Ben.

“Don’t you see?” asked Jeremy. “This court’s chosen to rely on spectral evidence, clues and facts handed it by spirits like that of Henry Carr. It is insane of the judges and ministers to accept such evidence as untainted, but they have—and have convicted people to die upon it. But this—this is tainted spectral evidence, don’t you see?”

“Ah . . . frankly, no,” replied Ben, shaking his head.

“This is what I want to present to the judges of the high court.”

“What? Present what?”

“Even the mere hint that an old grudge of Anne Carr’s is being played out here—someone she has singled out not just now but years ago—she believed then as now killed her brother utilizing witchcraft, it’s tainted as hell itself.”

“Do you think it strong enough to make a difference?” asked a hopeful Francis.

“It can’t hold, not even with these judges. It’s a vengeance motive, and it will lead to unearthing the rest of her venom and how it has, over the years, poisoned her child and others around her—and it discredits Mrs. Putnam, who is behind all the early warrants.”

“Her name is affixed to Rebecca’s warrant,” added Francis.

“So when do you propose to spring this revelation on Mather, Parris, and their puppets?” Ben stood and paced.

“I have already. They know of the each fact that if taken together must throw cold water and doubt on every case they’ve tried in Salem—that if Anne Putnam Senior can use the court and circumstances to exact a twenty year old vengeance, then how many other warrants sworn against the accused are also thus tainted?”

“It’s sheer brilliance, Father.” Serena hugged Francis. “It will mean Mother’s freedom. They must listen to this petition.”

“I gave an impassioned argument to the men of court. They appeared shaken by the facts. I have every reason to believe they must make changes now to cast out any and all spectral evidence and bar the door to the seer children and the notion they have powers to see into the Invisible World of Angels and Demons.”

A palpable sense of relief filled the Nurse home when Jeremy revealed this.

# # # # #

Rebecca Nurse dreams now and every day of a future when she will rise up in all her former youth, strength, and beauty to the gates of heaven she knows are awaiting her. This is how her nights and days are spent in the cruel cell she’s been kept in, but she also has nightmares. Her repeating nightmare is filled with humiliation and shackles.

She sees herself taken from the cell in shackles. Taken to the meetinghouse where she is forced to walk the center aisle to stand before the congregation to the sound of those shackles and the heckling of men, women, and children—many of whom she’d helped bring into this world. She blinks and sees herself—Mother Nurse, as she’d come to be called by everyone in and around Salem. Mother Nurse under her own will, climbs down the stairs of her own home, her Bible in hand, telling her family, “God will provide,” adding, “I knew some calamity . . . some ordeal was coming. God’s test for me and me alone. Let it be. Do not interfere. Do not act my hero. Allow it to unfold as His wishes dictated for his only begotten son.”

Rebecca blinks again and finds herself back in the meetinghouse, listening to Samuel Parris telling the congregation that she is to be shunned, that she is declared excommunicated from her church as she has been pointed out a deceiver, a liar, a woman in covenant with the Devil, a woman who’d given her body to the Snake of Snakes, a witch and a murderer of children. She repeatedly uses the phrase, “It is God’s will . . . God’s will, what you do to me. I knew it was coming. God tests me, yes, but he tests all of us together en masse.”

Rebecca has not left the jail cell for over a month. Her arrest and excommunication remains in her mind as if yesterday. She sometimes visits the courtroom where Corwin and Hathorne have been joined by three strangers from Boston, calling themselves magistrates—all in black with powdered wigs. She is again humiliated and here again the crowd scorns her, and the tightly knit, highly organized cadre of children spit pins from their mouths, fall and grovel and swear that Rebecca’s invisible shape, though she herself is in the room! These sad children claim that she has placed the pins in their mouths and into their armpits. Some are stabbed with knitting needles, blood discoloring their petticoats. Again Rebecca’s other self—which they claim to see but is invisible—does the stabbing.

Every day of her incarceration, Rebecca replays these ugly moments in her mind in an attempt to read the hidden meaning, to understand what Christ and God want from her. Each time she hears the same words in her ear—Be my instrument; act as Christ himself when he was attacked and condemned.

“No easy thing to do,” she says aloud to the consternation of other prisoners tired of the old woman’s ongoing conversation with God.

She blinks back the pain and anguish, ignores the sweat and horrid odors of her cell and the blank stares of cellmates. At times, she sees her beloved children and their children gathered around her but not here. No, all are at the gathering place around the tables at the great oak. She sees her beloved Francis, his face and eyes pleading with her to come home—to confess and come home. Others have confessed their sins before the court and have been released, she hears him clearly say in her ear.

“Remain out of it, Francis; stay above and apart from the madness descending on Salem. Be patient, and let nothing wrest your faith from me or God.” Others in the cell think she is hearing voices because she has quietly gone mad.

In her daydream, Francis understands and does as she asks. In her nightmare, Francis comes after her with Ben and her other sons, all armed to the teeth with guns, and they are all killed, and their land is forfeit, and their grandchildren leave their home in a sad parade with only what they carry on their backs.

She pleads daily with Francis, but sometimes her words are not argumentative but loving words. “Francis, you are all that I love, you and our family. But now, at this time, I must do this alone and be left to it. Have faith we will be reunited one day.”

But the croup, a cough that racks her body so terribly that it leaves her in pain, interrupts her dreams and nightmares; the keys rattle and the door creaks open and in come the dogs of the court to again shackle her, to take her to yet another humiliation.

Gatter makes his falsetto apologies that are as meaningless as those from Herrick and his men, all of whom treat her with deference. Some think her deserving of respect, while most think her out of her mind.

Herrick reads from a list. The names of each prisoner to be shackled, hand and foot.

“Oh, it’s a vacation,” jokes Wardwell, one of today’s chosen. “Stay close by my side, Mother Nurse.”

Each is led out into the blinding light and led into the prisoner cart, a horrid little rolling cell that tells anyone looking on that those inside are guilty.

Meanwhile more arrests are made daily as the madness in the village grows like a cancer, spreading out, seeking more victims like some sort of satanic root that touches them all. Each person arrested as a witch or wizard is made to implicate others, the disease metastasizes.

# # # # #

June 11th 1692

Francis Nurse cornered Jeremy in the barn. Alone, the old man spoke his mind. “I fear I can no longer control the men, especially Ben and Tarbell, Jeremy. Not since this execution yesterday of that innkeeper, Bridget Bishop.”

“Bishop was executed?”

“Aye, yesterday, the 10th day of June. Some say to test the taste of the public for blood. Otherwise, why hang only one of the recalcitrant guilty as they call those who refuse to indict others and to confess the sin of witchcraft and murder?”

“I’d heard they meant to hang her but—”

“Bishop never broke.”

“—but I didn’t think they’d go through with it. May God have mercy on her soul, and God forgive me for saying so, Francis—it could work in Mother Nurse’s favor.”

“Work in our favor? How?”

“I’ve seen this sort of hysteria to hang witches break out in other parishes, in particular during my time in Connecticut, where the fear from pagan Indians runs even higher than here.”

“What’re you saying, son?”

The old man had taken to calling him son since his and Serena’s return with a wedding band on his daughter’s hand. He’d also expressed sadness that there’d been no proper wedding and party. “Rebecca would have loved to see it, sure,” he’d finished on the day of their return from Boston.

“Often with a witch hung, the bloodlust of the mob is quenched.”

“We can only hope.”

“But as to Ben and Tarbell, I doubt they’d listen to me any more than they’re hearing you, these days, sir.” Jeremy groomed Dancer as they spoke.

“I want you to take Mather up on that land in Connecticut, Jeremy, and to take Serena away from here—out of harm’s way. And do so quickly before . . . before either of you are called out by those awful children.”

“Parris’ puppets, yes. I couldn’t agree with you more, sir.”

“Then will you do it? She’s sure to be the next accused, if not Ben.”

“I want desperately to find a new life for Serena and myself.”

“Then we’re in agreement?”

“We are, up to a point.”

“Up to a point?”

“Serena must come to the same conclusion. If I try to force her, she’ll fight me on it. Sir, not to change the subject, but something nags at me to return to Boston for a talk with—”

“Boston? Talk with whom? Who is left to take our petition to?”

“No one, I’m afraid, but I saw Parris’ Barbados woman in the jail there, and I believe she has a story in her that may bring Samuel Parris down so far that no one here will ever be influenced by him again.”

“Whatever are you talking about? Tituba? What can she possibly—”

“I have no solid proof, but I believe she had a child by Parris.”

“A child? A bastard child?”

“In Barbados, yes—and to protect his good name and reputation, and that of his wife, this child was disposed of.”

“Disposed of how?”

“I suspect in the worst way.”

“You can’t mean killed?”

“Shortly after birth the baby expires or was given away. As for the mother, Tituba, she never once saw the child—alive or dead.”

Serena had been listening at the barn door, and now she said, “That snake of a man! He concocted the entire scenario for how the Putnams’ children died based on a murder he’d himself committed in Barbados before coming here?”

“It’s a theory I have. Not sure he jammed a needle into the child’s brain or heart, but who knows?” Jeremy went to her and wrapped an arm about her.

She pulled away and paced the length of he barn. “He’s put Mother and so many away on the altar of his own bloody hands—and now one woman has been hung to death on the allegations begun in his parish, and my mother is next!”

“It’s why I need to talk directly with Tituba. To confirm my suspicions.”

“But can you be sure she is still in Boston?” asked Serena.

“I fear Parris arranged for her incarceration in Boston in hope of seeing her aboard a ship to leave the colonies altogether.”

“She’s being called an accuser rather than a witch these days. An innocent who tried to save the minister’s daughter.” Serena laughed at the distinction.

“Part of her deal with Parris, perhaps, for pointing the way.”

“Bastards all!” Francis’ fingers turned white with the grip he had round a pitchfork. “Just interested in seeing forfeits of property going back into the commonwealth so’s they can divvy it all anew.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” replied Jeremy. “Behind the scenes, large properties are being prepared to go to the ‘heroes’ of this debacle—Corwin, Hathorne, Porter, Putnam, Wilkins, perhaps Ingersoll, and most assuredly the Boston magistrates and Reverends Noyes and Cotton Mather.”

Serena sighed heavily and nodded. “Ample incentive for getting confessions from the accused.”

“And paying no heed to your fact-finding, Jeremy, with respect to the Martin woman and Anne Putnam.” Francis jammed the pitchfork into a bale of hay.

“Nor petition after petition.”

Jeremiah stopped Serena’s pacing and stared long into her eyes. “Serena, I know you two are as devastated by the failure of the Boston authorities to alleviate the situation as I am. I’ve one final appeal in writing to Major David Saltonstall, the most rational judge on the Court of Oyer & Terminer, and the last man on the court who appears to have doubts over the use of spectral evidence.”

“Alleviate it, ha! The Boston judges of the high and mighty General Court?” Serena seemed to have stopped listening to Jeremy. “Those swine have made it exponentially worse. Have you not heard? Bridget Bishop was hung yesterday.”

“Yes, we’ve all heard, and it’s terrible news,” began Francis, “but Jeremy says there may be a silver lining to it.”

“Silver lining, indeed? Where? At Watch Hill, at the gallows they’ve built there to accommodate six hangings at once?”

Everyone fell silent; the only sound that of the patient breath of horses and cows in the stalls. Jeremy finally broke the silence. “Rather sudden on the part of the judges to hang Bishop now. Their first arrests came in late February or was it early March. Tituba, Goode, followed by Osborne and only then Bishop whom they released for lack of evidence only to make a re-arrest on the say-so of Mercy Lewis who likely planted the so-called Bishop doll in the woman’s basement.”

Serena shoved him. “So tell me, Mr. Expert, why just one of all the accused hung? What’s behind this mystery.” Serena looked into his eyes. “It’s prelude to more hangings, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps not.”

“How can you say that? Are you gone blind, Jeremy?”

“Often a single public display of this nature, as I told your father . . . well it can have a dampening effect on those making the allegations and adding to the fire. One thing to accuse your neighbor, have her jailed, excommunicated even. Quite another to kill her in some sanctimonious public execution.”

“So Jeremy’s told me this was the case in Connecticut,” Francis said to Serena. “One hanging appeased the mob.”

“Aye, true it was.”

“Pray that Bishop as the sacrificial goat fills their need for blood, eh?” Serena shook her head. “Else this bloodlust continues.”

“It may be the best we can do at this point.” The moment he said it, Jeremy realized how lame it sounded.

“The best we can do? The best we can do?” came her mocking chant. “We should get Mother free of their clutches before she is hung next!”

Jeremy watched her march away from him. The strain of events had taken a horrible toll on Francis, on Serena, and on their relations. He feared Bridget Bishop’s hanging would not be enough for the likes of Parris and Putnam or others who stood to gain property, position, and reputation as witch hunters in Salem. That this situation was far, far different than the one he’d faced in the provinces. Still, he held out a glimmer of hope that the key to ending the mayhem and officially sanctioned murder was locked away in a cell in Boston, and the name of that key was Ti’shuba.

BOOK THREE

Chapter One

Circumstances in Salem and its environs moved rapidly during June, far too fast for Jeremy or anyone to make any further proper appeals. Twenty days after the hanging of Bridget Bishop, the cantankerous innkeeper with as foul a mouth as any sailor in Salem Harbor, five more accused, arrested women were judged guilty in the Court of Oyer & Terminer—among them, Rebecca Nurse.

The others on the June 30th list of recalcitrant guilty were Sarah Goode, to no one’s surprise, Susannah Martin of Amesbury, the vixen who’d caused Henry Carr to hang himself twenty years before—or so Anne Carr Putnam said; Elizabeth How of Ipswich, and Sarah Wilde of Topsfield. Along with the accusations of the Salem seers against her, Goode had been condemned on the word of her eight-year-old, mentally distracted child Dorcas. All of the other accused had stood adamant against the court as had Goode—most of them cursing the court, the judges, and their accusers in no uncertain terms.

Rebecca Nurse alone had maintained her calm resolve, and she’d even blessed her accusers and the judges. She had insisted that “This court and the magistrates and ministers, including Mr. Parris, are all misguided, and your deliberations are not guided by the hand of God but those of Satan himself, who, in my opinion, has orchestrated the entire delusion fallen on Salem.”

The judges pounded their gavels and held firm to their seemingly honest values and well-intentioned viewpoints, and superstitious beliefs, and entrenched customs which masked their hidden motives from the mob. At the same time, the official attitude that’d become so entrenched in Salem could not be so well hidden from those Parris called the ‘dissenting brethren’.

Judge and Major Richard Saltonstall voiced the ruling of the court deciding Mother Nurse’s fate along with her four ‘covenant’ sisters. “All of these women whose hearts are turned to stone against us by the Dark One,” he said after gaveling for silence, “all four are guilty of witchery and murder, offenses punishable by death. Sentence of hanging to be carried out on nineteen July, 1692.”

The date was set—less than four months since Rebecca’s arrest, She, along with three others found guilty to be hung at Watch Hill—which the common man had dubbed Witch Hill. For Jeremy and the Nurses present at the trial wherein Jeremiah Wakely had tried again to introduce the history of animosity between Sister Putnam and Susannah Martin as well as the animosity of three years between Reverend Parris and the Nurse family, but he was drowned out by the hue and cry of the afflicted children who had now perfected their act.

An opposing wail and hue and cry against the injustice of it all fell on deaf ears, and it drew the glaring eyes of the seer children, who seemed to be taking names of those who disagreed with the court.

On leaving the courtroom, the meetinghouse converted into a venue for the Boston authorities, the same venue as Rebecca’s excommunication, Jeremy cautioned the others to remain calm.

“Calm? Calm?” asked Ben.

Joseph agreed. “Damn it, man, we have only twenty days between now and Mother Nurse’s being summarily executed by these swine who—a”

“Keep your voices down,” pleaded Jeremy as the seer children, all smiles, passed from the meetinghouse and down the street, all with a lilt in their step. “Tweny days, which means we’ve got a lot of planning to do.”

“I say we uncover the weapons back of the wagon and take her now!” Ben looked from Jeremy to the other Nurse men.

“You’d fail, Ben,” Serena stood with Jeremy.

“Look round us,” added Jeremy to which the others studied the number of armed guards and militia. “Putnam has seen to it we dare not.”

Serena nodded. “There’re too many of them right now.”

The family, Serena and Francis included, watched Mother Nurse being loaded into the jail cart to be returned to her cell. Ben made a move for a weapon, which lay beneath a blanket back of the wagon, but his brother-in-law, John Tarbell, placed his huge paw atop Ben’s. The two stared long into one another’s eyes, and for a moment everyone thought Ben was going to tear the gun from hiding and start firing and making demands, but he hesitated under Tarbell’s firm hand and words: “We all know ’tis time to act, Ben, but Jeremy’s right.”

Jeremy repeated the litany that he’d preached for days now should the verdict go against Rebecca, as most on their side never believed she could be found guilty. “We need a plan, we must act as one, and we must act with great caution.”

“And we do it by cover of night.”

A hundred sets of eyes in the village watched he Nurse contingent leave peacefully for their farms. The accusations had caused warrants and arrests against many of their clan as it had the Parkers, the Proctors, and others who’d stood by and read into evidence their belief in the piety and true heart of Rebecca Nurse, Goodwives Easty and Cloyse, as well as Elizabeth Proctor and others.

Some villagers expected retaliation against those who’d sworn out arrests, those who had carried out arrests, and quite possibly the magistrates themselves, if not Reverend Parris and villagers who supported Mr. Parris. Among them Thomas Putnam, who’d surrounded himself with more and more militiamen, recruiting many young boys in his camp as well. Some as young as fifteen and sixteen joined the standing militia. In fact, not since the Indian Wars of that murderous, marauding King Phillip had the colony seen so many militiamen drilling daily on the green and firing off that damnable cannon, which as the Nurses, Eastys, Cloyses, and Tarbells rode in their wagons and on their horses from the village, was fired off as if in jubilation of the verdicts handed down today.

Jeremy shouted to his new family, “What expedient measures they take—firing cannon and shot at the very invisible enemy they claim no one can see but the children. Next they will have little girls firing muskets and that bloody cannon at flying broomsticks!”

But no amount of rancor or anger from Jeremy roused a word from the others as each was lost in his and her own thoughts, their attention wrapped about the cursed verdict against Rebecca. Finally, Serena said in so quiet a voice as to seem a butterfly—and yet she was heard by all over the sound of the wagon wheels—“If they can condemn our Mother then no one—no one is safe!”

Even so, there would be no retaliation against any enemy today, not from the Nurse men, or from any of those who’d chosen to marry into the now tainted family. Not today. Today old Fancies Nurse, looking as if a tree had caved in on him and having seen his wife condemned and to be publicly hung alongside the likes of Sarah Goode, had gone mute and sad beyond words. He led his sons, sons-in-law, and remaining daughters-in-law homeward, passing Corey’s Mill—now taken by the authorities like Bishop’s Inn, and next they passed Proctor’s well-located establishment.

“If they don’t get Proctor’s place next,” muttered Ben through gritted teeth.

“It’ll be your place, Pa,” finished Joseph.

“Aye, going for the Nurse lands,” agreed Serena.

“Was their first and largest goal from the beginning,” finished Jeremy.

The procession looked like a funeral parade.

Chapter Two

Nurse Home, late evening, July 11, 1692

With Mother Nurse’s execution date set, this determined Jeremiah Wakely on a path to break the law, as every legal means, strategy, and scheme had been exhausted. He and Serena, with the help of her brothers, planned a prison break and an exit strategy. They must move under cover of darkness when they made their way toward the village jailhouse, knowing they could not wait any longer as the moon meant to increase in size and brightness over the next two weeks, and that no night beyond this one would be as good cover.

They also had it on good authority that Mother Nurse had been returned to the village lockup to await hanging on the nineteenth.

At Francis’ home, where he’d been convinced to wait this out, the Nurse men, Jeremy, and an insistent Serena, using topographical maps that Jeremy had finagled from the courthouse, planned Mother Nurse’s rescue.

Jeremy had pleaded that Serena have nothing to do with the dangerous jail break, that she ought to be nowhere near them when it happened. She would not be reasonable, and would not hear of remaining behind. “Mother will need me,” she insisted.

And she said it dressed as a man, and after the laughter of the others, there was nothing more to be said.

Together now, Ben, Joseph, Tarbell, Serena, and Jeremy made their way by wagon toward the village. As Joseph was an expert horseman and could keep an animal quiet during a thunderstorm, he was left with the wagon at a stand of trees, hidden from prying eyes, while the others made their way afoot to the sound of Joseph’s saying, “I should be with you.”

They had studied every gulley, ditch, and outcropping the geography around the jailhouse offered, and with the jailhouse having been smartly placed northeast at some distance from the rest of the village—so as to not be offensive to the eye, the marauders believed they had a good chance of success.

However, the maps were old, and they didn’t indicate just how ruddy and rough the ground back of the jail had become. Pitted would be a kind word for the place. Some of the men lost their footing, slipping, ankles in jeopardy. Rock outcroppings had sprung up with each new spring here—a peculiarity of all New England. Everyone was soon moving a great deal more cautiously, their efforts slowed down. They meant to get in and out before any sign of dawn.

Tarbell and Ben led the way as both knew the area better than the others.

They’d all agreed that no amount of money could persuade the jailer to look the other way, not with so many eyes on the accused and anxious for the upcoming hangings. In fact, Weed Gatter feared showing any kindness whatsoever to the guilty ever again after Williard’s arrest; he feared he’d set the accusers after him, which made perfect sense. If they could bring down a sheriff, a jailkeeper would be child’s play.

Gatter had said when Jeremy had last spoken to him, “I want naught to do with them afflicted children. My god, man, they’re sendin’ Mr. Williard ’imself to the gallows.”

Ben’s information had led them to one conclusion, that Gatter and any deputies with him at the jail must be dispensed with first. However, no one wanted any killings to go on. To this end, they’d brought gags and plenty of rope.

Just ahead of them, Jeremy and Serena heard the thuds and thumps of a scuffle that was over almost as soon as it’d begun. Tarbell tied Gatter fast and dragged his form to the nearby bushes, tossing him unceremoniously into hiding. From the sound of it, Gatter thought himself being attached by a band of witches.

Ben suddenly jumped a second man who’d been hired on to help Gatter. This fellow, Fiske, had been asleep when he heard the first scuffle. Ben, recognizing him as the builder of the hangman’s scaffold began beating Fiske mercilessly. Fist after pummeling fist, releasing his months’ long frustrations to bloody the man so fast and completely as to blind him with his own blood.

Jeremy pulled Ben from the man, fearing he’d kill him. “Tie him up!” Serena found the keys that Gatter had dropped when attacked, and she knew the exact large skeleton key that opened the stout oak door with its barred window.

Serena got the door open as swiftly as she had sworn to the men that she could, but she rushed inside too quickly as the stench of the arrested and the interior of this place made her reel and near faint. Jeremy grabbed her, holding on. “Are ya all right?”

“I-I’m fine, now let’s find Mother.”

They’d argued against using any lanterns for fear lights would bring attention to their jailbreak.

“What’s going on here?” came a male voice from the black interior.

“Is that you, Sheriff Williard?” asked Serena.

“It’s me, yes.”

Ben poked his head in and shouted, “We’re here to free you all. The door stands open. Run! Find the forests! Run for your lives.”

“It’s the Devil’s court himself that’s locked ye up here,” added Tarbell through a window. “Run!”

Part of the plan was to put the authorities to work chasing down escapees who’d gone in every direction, which would give them time to secret Mother Nurse to Connecticut along with Jeremy and Serena.

“Is that you, Serena? Ben?” It was Mother Nurse, struggling to her feet.

Serena and Rebecca embraced.

“There’s no time! We must hurry!” Jeremy pushed them toward the door. Others were shakily making their way out the single door and into the guiding hands of the Nurse men who urged them on. Some fled but slowly, near incapable of walking. Others stepped out but leaned against the exterior walls from so long without proper nourishment or hope. Some just wanted to breathe real air. Williard, one of the more robust of the prisoners, raised his one good hand and shook with Ben and Tarbell in turn, thanking them and apologizing for having played any part in Rebecca’s arrest.

“She speaks highly of you, Mr. Williard,” Serena told him. “Now Mother, come with me and Jeremy.”

Some thirty or more had rushed away for the tree line, but Rebecca balked at the door. Urged on, she stepped through to freedom and fresh air. She took in a deep breath. Still more prisoners came out behind her, some of these men and women making their way in a zigzag fashion toward escape. “Away from the village,” Jeremy had to tell one daft woman. “Go that way. Find the fields of Salem Farms, Swampscott, Back Bay.”

Mother Nurse sat on Gatter’s three-legged stool, which passed for the jailer’s office. “I’ve the King’s throne now, eh?” she jested.

“If we must carry you, Mother,” began Ben, wrapping his arms about her, “you’re coming with us.”

“We’re spiriting you out of Essex County,” added Tarbell.

“It is over with me, Ben, Serena, John, you others. Over and I’ve made my peace with Our Lord to die for this His cause.”

“God has not cause here, Mother!” Serena tugged at her.

“Don’t be foolish!” Ben pulled and pushed.

“Ah but God has all to do with this, and He’s chosen to put it on me. I’ll not run nor humble myself, nor forsake His bidding. If it weren’t true, what has all these months’ suffering been for—for all the incarcerated, excommunicated, and guilty by false accusation? We, the stone hearts?”

“You can’t martyr yourself to this cause, Mother Nurse,” Jeremy’s anguished plea made her smile up at him.

“You’re a good man, Jeremiah Wakely; truly you are! And a fine son. Francis has told me how wonderful you are to my Serena. Ben, John, you all must think not of me but of your own safety and futures. If there’s to be an end to this madness, you men must lead the way. You can’t do that from behind bars.”

“But you can?” shouted Serena, out of patience.

“Enough, Mother!” Ben lost his temper. “Enough of your pious words. The time for words is over. Now get up and come along!” Ben’s tears freely came.

Tarbell approached Rebecca. “I’ll take you over my shoulder if need be.”

Rebecca raised a hand to halt Tarbell. “Hold. You’ll do no such thing, John. I won’t be dragged from my promise to God like a sack of potatoes over your shoulder—by any of you! Hear me? Do You?” She grabbed the keys from Serena, rushed back inside her prison and threw the door closed behind her, locking them all out.

Ben shouted for her to stop, and he tried a grab but too late. Rebecca had successfully locked both herself and the keys within.

“What’re you doing, Mother?” Serena was at the barred door, nose to nose with Rebecca. “Give me those keys.”

“It’s over, and you’ve done your kindness for others. Now go!” Rebecca lifted the keys to their eyes, but she held them away from anyone’s grasp. “I’m staying put.”

“But they’ll hang you certain!” Ben rattled the bars. “In eight days, Mother!”

“A fate delivered to my doorstep by God, Ben, Serena—please accept His will.”

“God would not have you die so, Mother.” Serena’s tears threatened to blind her. “Suppose you’re wrong, Mother?” asked Ben. “Suppose you’re wrong?”

“I tell you it is true.”

“What? What is true?” Serena banged the unforgiving bars.

“In my useless old age—my last days—He has put me to a final test of faith as sure as Abraham and Job. But it is not for you, Serena, nor my sons, nor Jeremiah to suffer this. Go now! You endanger yourselves terribly!”

“And Father? What of Father?” Serena leaned in against the locked, impenetrable door.

Jeremiah put his arms about Serena, her heaving sobs absorbed into his palms. “Rebecca refuses to come away with us.”

“No, Mother, I don’t care what God’s whispered in your ear! You must give yourself up to us, now!”

“To let us decide for me?”

Serena turned to Jeremy, beating his chest with her fists! “Jeremy, she’s out of her mind! Do something!”

Jeremy had watched the woman he loved go back and forth over this issue of whether her mother had a right to her belief and faith and stand, or that Ben was right—that Rebecca was like a child and unable to make sound decisions any longer. The strain had taken an enormous toll on everyone who loved Rebecca but Serena and Ben in particular. The two of them were her babies over whom Rebecca had always doted and had never before said no to.

“She’s clear of mind, Serena,” Jeremy firmly said now, “and it’s a path she clearly wants to take, and she holds the key.”

Serena went to Tarbell. “Why didn’t you grab her up over your shoulder, John? Rather than just talk about it? If you had, she’d be with us now! And we’d be home and boarding for Connecticut.”

“I-I-I’m sorry, Serena.” Tarbell looked like a bear that’d been shot.

“No, John! Sorry’s not enough!” Serena stood a head shorter than the big man. She then turned on Jeremy again. “And you? Why couldn’t you’ve grabbed her before she closed that door?”

“Stop it, daughter! Go from here, all of you. Please, Serena.”

Ben pushed Serena so hard she fell. Jeremy stood toe-to-toe with Ben and Tarbell, who’d together lifted a log cut into a bench. They rammed the thick, metal-belted door once, twice, three times without a dent.

“Hold on, you men.” Jeremy had helped Serena back to her feet. “Mother Nurse’s wishes must be respected, Ben. It’s the last thing your Father told us! That if she refuses to come of her own volition—”

“I won’t let her commit suicide.” Ben stood, eyes ablaze, hands wrapped about the bench.

“Let me go, Ben, John!” Mother Nurse began pounding the other side of the solid door.

“It’s no good, Ben,” said Jeremy. “Your mother’s mind is set on one course alone, and the damnable noise you’re making, and if Fiske comes around, we’re all marked men!”

“You shut up, Wakely! You don’t know a damn thing! Been wrong every sep of the way.”

“Listen to him, Ben!” Rebecca reached through the bars on the door as if trying to touch her youngest son. “This is my fight, Ben! Now you all must leave me to it! You as well, Serena, Jeremy, John! Get yourselves free of this place, all of you!”

They heard men on horses coming toward the jail. It appeared from this distance, to Jeremy, that more prisoners were being escorted, arriving from Boston some seventeen miles away.

“Tell everyone in the family that I am on solid ground, of sound mind, and answering God’s will,” Rebecca continued. “Now, go!”

Ben kissed his mother’s outstretched hand, holding on. She’d dropped the keys in the darkness behind her, and using her other hand, she hit Ben for his trouble. “Go! Now! Remember I love you all.”

“You’re asking us to leave you to certain death.” Ben stood frozen, unable to leave her.

“True Ben, but a death meted out for me by God. It is His will, and His will be done.”

“Damn the God that asks this of you!” Ben shook his mother’s outstretched limbs.

She slapped Ben even harder across the face. “Do not mock my God, Ben.”

Ben cowered. “I’m sorry, Mother, it’s just so hard to-to walk away and leave you here in this hole.”

“Just do it. Be a man for me, son. All of you, go before you’re found out! My worst nightmare is that they’ll have cause to arrest my children. Go now, all of you!”

The men on horseback, a jail cart pulling behind them, were coming in sight of the jail. “We mustn’t be recognized,” Jeremy cautioned the others, pulling Serena off.

Tarbell and the others followed. Ben finally rushed to catch up.

“This way!” Jeremy pointed. “Safest retreat! Follow my lead.” He’d taken Serena by the hand, guiding her off into the night.

Serena looked back at her mother, a sense of guilt and confusion threatening to overwhelm her. “Don’t look back, Serena.” Jeremy tugged her onward thinking of the biblical story of Lot and his wife.

They were followed by Ben and Tarbell, and soon searching again for Joseph who’d been elected to stay with the horse and wagon to keep close watch there and to keep the animal calm. They had emptied out the jail, but they’d failed in their objective—to free Mother Nurse.

No one made another sound save their footfalls as they made their way back to the hidden wagon and Joseph.

By now the men who’d arrived with the new prisoners were reviving Weed Gatter, and his deputy, Fiske, and Gatter could be heard moaning and cursing and assessing the damage and losses at the jail. The words ‘bloody hell’ wafted up to their ears, and Jeremy thought he heard Fiske cursing something about being set upon by a covenant of powerful witches.

When they relocated Joseph, and he saw that they’d returned without his mother, he went a little crazy until Tarbell and Ben sat on him and calmed him to a chorus of his shouting, “I knew I should’ve gone!”

Jeremy shushed them as men were beating the bushes now in search of the escapees, and they were getting near.

The Nurse clan and Jeremy climbed onto the wagon and quietly, sadly the group made its way back toward Francis’s home. “How’re we going to tell the old man?” Ben wanted to know.

Serena didn’t miss a beat. “We tell him the truth.”

“What, that you botched the whole of it?” asked Joseph.

“Look here, Joseph!” shouted Serena. “You weren’t there, so ya dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you’re off the hook,” added Ben. “Ya know nothing of it!”

“Joseph,” began Jeremy, his heart filled with sympathy for them all. “Somehow your mother sees this ordeal as giving meaning to her death.” This made the others look at Jeremy. He shrugged and gave them a look that loudly said—well it’s true. “Mother Nurse knows she’s dying—has since the beginning of this sordid affair.”

“What’re you saying. Wakely?” asked Tarbell as the wagon rolled on, striking a rock but not slowing.

“I’m saying, she thought she might die last winter. She believes—”

“That God saved her for this trial before sending the Reaper.” Serena squeezed Jeremy’s arm where they sat in the rear of the wagon. “I suppose in some way that . . . she has no choice.”

The wagon moved on. Not long after, they heard horses coming in their wake, night riders eating their dust as if after them here on the road. Men with torches and guns suddenly raised up all around them in the darkness, and their leader, Sheriff Herrick, shouted, “You aboard! Pull to and stop!”

Joseph, driving the team, had no choice. Ben’s fingers were on the hidden weapons. Serena held tight to Jeremy’s arm, and Tarbell stood up in the wagon and shouted, “That you, Sheriff? What’s the trouble?”

“Tarbell?”

“Aye, ’tis me and some of my family.”

“And have you come from the jailhouse in the village now?”

Some of the others on horseback grumbled and made remarks, wondering why Herrick wasn’t simply throwing them in irons. But Herrick quelled them with a single blast of his rifle skyward, startling men and beasts. Joseph had to quell the jittery team, getting down from his seat to do so.

Herrick asked of the people in the wagon, “Why’re you out past the court’s curfew, all of you?”

“Curfew?” asked Tarbell.

“Aye, curefew, man!”

“But I don’t think it applies beyond the boundaries of the village, Mr. Herrick,” Jeremy countered.

“Who is that, speaking?” It was Thomas Putnam in his uniform still.

“Why it’s Jeremiah Wakely,” said Bray Wilkins beside Putnam. “That imposter priest. He’s behind this matter at the jailhouse!”

“What matter at the jailhouse?” asked Tarbell. “We know of no such matter?”

“Where’re ya coming from, then?” demanded Putnam, holding a gun on them.

“We’ve just come from the family plot to pay respects to the dead. Went there a bit late but it was on the spur, ya see.”

“Family plot?” asked Herrick.

“Take them under suspicion!” shouted Putnam at Herrick.

“Hold on, all of you! This is a civil matter, and I am in charge, not the militia. So you’ll not be taking orders from Mr. Putnam, not tonight, not here and not now.”

This only calmed the men somewhat. Jeremy could literally feel their enmity and venom as if in waves passing over everyone in the wagon, and he worried terribly for Serena, and he was angry with himself for allowing her out with them. So far, she was being taken for a man and being smart enough to keep silent.

“Okay, I want you men to sound off, and Nigel here will take your names, and if we need speak to you by light of the sun, we’ll come find you then. Now sound off!”

“John Tarbell!”

“Ben Nurse!”

“Joseph Nurse!”

“You know me,” said Jeremy.

Serena cleared her throat and sent up a coughing jag, to which Jeremy said, “Young Killean Wakely, my half brother visiting from Woburn.”

“Put him down, too,” ordered Herrick.

“We only stopped at the cemetery plot,” said Ben. “We’re returning from John’s home to my father’s place.”

“Coming from a birthing party!” added Joseph, returning to the reins and his seat beside John. “Tarbell’s done fathered another one again—or haven’t ye heard?” He slapped Tarbell on the back and the two laughed good-naturedly. “Makes four, right, John?”

Tarbell spoke with a drunken slur. “Plenty of Canary wine!”

“So you mean fellows had naught to do with breaking out prisoners down at the jail?”

“A jailbreak? Tonight?” Ben sounded amazed at the notion.

“You may search our wagon, but you’ll find naught but a few jugs of whiskey,” Joseph added.

“Gotta keep Tarbell happy the way you do a bear!” Ben joked.

When the night riders didn’t laugh with Ben, he shouted, “All right then, do you see any prisoners here? Go ahead, search the wagon! We’ll get down and you can have at it.” Ben leapt off and onto the dirt path.

“If we were to break anyone from jail, it’d be our dear, sainted Mother,” Joseph added. “Do you see Mother Nurse here?”

“Fact is,” replied Herrick, giving the wagon and its occupants a cursory look, “your mother was one of a few who didn’t escape the jail.”

Jeremy had noticed a number of prisoners too sick or too depleted to stand much less run from the jail. He spoke up. “If we’d had any notion there’d been a jailbreak ahhh . . . do you need men to help you, sir?”

The men with Herrick grumbled at this, and there was a brief discussion before Herrick returned with, “We’ve enough men, but thanks for the offer, Mr. Wakely.”

Jeremy and the others instinctively knew the others did not trust them. “Well then if you’re satisfied, Sheriff,” said Joseph, “we’ll be on our way.”

Ben, seeing his bluff had worked, leapt back onto the wagon.

“Yes, be off,” said Herrick.. “But when these escapees are caught, if they should point a finger at you Nurse men, you will be arrested for aiding and abetting fugitives, some of whom have been condemned as witches.”

“And good luck to you.” Jeremy waved Herrick and his men off.

The moment Herrick and his men rode out of earshot, Serena whispered, “You’re the consummate liars Ben, Joe! And you, my husband. So I am now your brother?”

“Half brother!”

She lightly thumped him and laughed.

“I’m sorry about your mother, dear heart. Really I am. I’d hoped that faced with our all of us well intentioned children of hers, putting our lives on the chopping block that . . . well she’d change her mind and come with us.”

“My prayer too. Unanswered.”

“You have to admire her determination and faith.”

“I do. Still it saddens me.”

“She’s dying for her faith,” muttered Ben, who’d gone solemn.

“There’re worse things to die for,” Jeremy assured the others.

Serena dropped her head and her weight against him. Jeremy held her close.

“She’s already dead.” It was Ben, still full of self-recriminations at having failed this night.

The rest of the trip home was uneventful and silent. Each of them had gone to their thoughts, and their thoughts were cast in fear.

Chapter Three

July 19th came like a fast wind. Rebecca and the four others to be executed with her stepped from the jail and clambered up the boards laid over the muck by Gatter, boards leading up and into the jail cart. It’d had a former life as an ox cart, but with modifications, the huge, creaking wooden wheels now carried an entire metal cage forged of wrought iron. Flat bars as thick as a man’s arms. Now the Witch Cart as it was called was filled with the five to be sent to heaven or hell depending on what an onlooker believed. The cart seemed to rattle, but this noise came of the shackles around the ankles and wrists of the accused. A new order since the jailbreak was that prisoners be kept in chains at all times.

And so the noisy, rattling of chains filled the air with each turn of the wheels on the cart pulled by two oxen provided by Judge Corwin. The cart bounced over rough terrain and trundled off toward Watch Hill and the gallows—at times looking as if it might tilt completely over. When the cart would teeter on the verge of tilting, Anne Putnam, Mercy Lewis, Mary Wolcott and other girls who’d joined them in accusing so many people of witchcraft would shout and scream that they saw a crowd of other witches—invisible to the general public—trying desperately to knock over the cart to impede its progress and stop the hangings.

To be sure, the villagers had turned out in droves to witness what might happen next; everyone was curious for one reason or the other. Most curious to see if the accused might not at the last break and shout out their guilt and beg for the milk of human kindness and the olive branch offered by the judges and the ministers: that if the guilty but state their crimes and name names of others equally guilty of bewitchments and murder, that they would be spared. That their stone hearts could be melted, and that they could be rehabilitated to the love of Christ and God, and the hatred of the Antichrist.

Many another in the holding cells across the colony had repented, so why not these facing the rope—minutes now away?

Other villagers came in the hope of seeing the witches hung no matter what they confessed. Still others came to see the result of their handiwork—among them Reverend Samuel Parris, while others came to bid loved ones a final adieu even if from a distance, like the proud and upright Nurse family.

The sky, a brilliant, blinding mix of sunshine, blue, and scattered pure white cloud looked down on the falling-apart ox drawn cart. Children chased alongside the jail cart, some throwing clumps of dirt and rocks at the accused within, and a crowd the likes of which Salem had never seen awaited the cart at its destination below Mr. Fiske’s finely wrought gallows with its equally spaced six platforms of which only five would be put to use today.

Suddenly, Sarah Goode raised a fist to them, cursing the children who dared throw rotten eggs and apples and tomatoes at the bars, splattering ugly juices onto the condemned. The celebrated children capable of seeing into the Invisible World of Satan only shouted back, ridiculing Goode and the others in the cart.

Rebecca Nurse knew of the Invisible World only from her reading about it in books—one of them penned by Increase Mather. She believed the notion had a place in every Puritan text. But at no time in the history of Essex County or the Massachusetts Bay Colony had anyone seen into this world—certainly not to the degree and accuracy of determining that an invisible witch held a knitting needle dripping with blood, one that she plunged into children who then fell into a dead faint.

But for now, Rebecca must concentrate on God’s glorious other world—also invisible to men, also taken on faith alone, that place where she was staring at the entire time where she stood in the cart—skyward. She took in the azure expanse of it, and the inviting clouds that seemed to be opening up and beckoning her within. The crowd around her had faded into nothingness.

People seeing her in a sort of trance began to point and speak of Witch Nurse’s looking so at peace. Hearing this going around, the chief accusing children began to call it not peace but an attempt to contact an army of witches to descend upon them all.

Rebecca heard none of this; she was beyond it, above it. The idea that she was in God’s hands and would soon be in God’s house controlled her entirely now, and it was in this frame of mind that she remained calm and in an attitude of acceptance and prayer, which many in the crowd both recognized and understood. Among these the entire contingent from her large, extended family—many of whom, Serena and Jeremy among them, felt a sense of overwhelming pride in her and peace for her, as if they together all sent up a shared prayer and each word was the same.

Whereas Goode, and to a lesser degree the other women condemned to die this day, presented a picture of hatred and rancor as they engaged the crowd, cursing at them all as if dealing with a single rabid animal they must destroy if by no other words than a dying woman’s curse, Rebecca conveyed as gentle a nature as a lamb led to slaughter but without the innocence; rather in her eye was a knowing look when she did chose to scan the crowd—a look that said, “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.” It was an attitude she’d preached to the others in the cell with her this entire time, and she had given hope and faith beyond the gallows to any number of her converts behind bars, and in fact, she had even converted her jailer, Weed Gatter—or so it was being bandied about. In fact, those who shared the cart to the gallows with her had all taken her teachings as Rebecca, no matter her excommunication and condemnation before the authorities and her accusers remained a teacher of the Good Book. And the only soul that had not been touched by her and converted to the faith that kept Rebecca strong in the face of this horror tale remained Sarah Goode.

The others in the cart now bowed their heads and began to pray with Mother Nurse. They prayed now for a speedy end.

Their accusers got to the foot of the gallows ahead of the cart, awaiting them. The accusing children and many adults who’d accused the condemned continued to scream in torment and agony at the foot of the gallows. Some wallowing in the mud and shouting that the invisible cohorts of the condemned were trying to suffocate them in the mud. It turned into a mud romp and a mud fight, the stuff being slung over the heads of those crowded nearest the afflicted children.

Seeing this from where they stood on a buckboard at a good distance, Jeremy said to Serena, “Blood and mud pies they will have and laugh in private to make fools of us all.”

Serena held an arm around her father, who had insisted on being on hand. As had Joseph and Tarbell. Ben had gotten on a horse and had ridden in the opposite direction, and no one knew where he might end up this day.

“Sad day in New England when nothing short of hanging five women can end this suffering,” Francis said, his eyes raining tears.

“Goodwife Nurse has lived a lie!” shouted Anne Putnam Senior, her eyes wild, her voice giddy, her clothes covered in mud that continued to fly, thanks to her daughter and the others.

“She’s a murderer! Same as Goode!” shouted Thomas Putnam, his uniform splotched from the mud slinging as well.

“She’s flying over the gallows!” screeched Mercy Lewis, pointing overhead and circling. “Do you see? Can you not see her invisible shape!”

“There, there!” They all pointed to the top of the gallows and the treetops and many saw a strange, preternatural wind moving the leaves.

“Evidence it is! “ shouted Mary Wolcott. “Evidence Mother Nurse has sent her invisible demon through the bars to chase after us!”

Mercy Lewis screamed, “Belying the hag’s false serenity!”

“Look you all here!” Anne Putnam Junior held up a knitting needle dripping blood to the sunlight. “She’s stabbed me with it, here!” She held up her underarm, displaying a splotch of blood.

“She done stabbed me in my petticoats!” added Mercy, showing a bloody splotch on her clothes.

The accused by now were ordered from the cart and onto the gallows steps. Soon they lined the gantry, facing the crowd.

Goode shook rattling chains and her fists at the crowd and laid on a terrible curse on them all but in particular, she signaled out Reverend Samuel Parris. “May your life dry up like bone, and may your progeny curse you forever!”

Rebecca raised a single hand and the crowd silenced their booing of Goode to hear her soft words. “I forgive you, one and all. You know not what you do.”

This slowed the cries for blood for half a minute until Anne Putnam Junior fell over in a dead faint. Other of her young colleagues in the business of seeing into the Invisible World of Satan screamed and chanted that Mother Nurse did it. Mercy shouted, “That Nurse witch has struck Anne down by use of her invisible other shape!”

The crowd chose once more to join in the chant to hang the witches.

The nooses had been placed over each of five heads now covered with grain sacks, save for the two most callous of the witches, according to the children—Goode and Nurse, who had both declined the blindfold, each for a different reason. Opposing reasons—Goode so she might face her accusers and continue cursing them with her evil eye and to spit venom at the crowd; Rebecca because as she cried out, “I will meet my Maker as I am.”

Reverend Parris in a show of mercy, pleaded for a final time for the condemned to petition him for mercy, to recant any oaths they’d given George Burroughs and the Antichrist, to save their souls by way of confession. None shouted for Parris’ so-called mercy, and Goode, seeing a bucket of water at her feet kicked out and sent it splashing over Parris’ black coat and face. Goode giggled and shouted, “The water is like my curse on ye, Samuel Paris—a stain on your soul! Reverend!”

The trap below Goode was pulled hard by the hangman as if anxious to shut her up; in that instant, Sarah Goode danced on air, body fell and yanked so hard as to crack her head on the underside of the platform—a crack loud enough to bring a groan to many in the crowd. The crack and subsequent snap of her neck swapped prominence with one another. Her legs didn’t kick long as she was almost instantly killed, but her body continued an eerie twitching to the shouts of the crowd. Clapping rose from the accusers.

This clapping continued as Susannah Martin’s form dropped, and Mrs. Putnam swooned, fainting straightaway to Little Anne’s terrifying revelation that even in death, Susannah Martin’s spectral self had stabbed her mother. She held up a bloody hand to prove it. The hand was discolored with red and the brown of dried mud.

The third trap flew open and Elizabeth How fell kicking, her death rattle drowned out by further clapping and cheering. The fourth trap went and with it Sarah Wildes whose overlarge eyes had always marked her as a witch in Topsfield. Those same eyes now grew as her throat was stretched and she kicked until no more movement was left, and yet some in the crowd said her eyes remained alive and staring and emitting an evil on anyone who stared too long into her gaze.

Only Rebecca remained and some cried out from the crowd, urging her to return to her former pious life, to give up her coven names, and to repent of her evildoing. But it was as if Rebecca could neither see nor hear any of them, including Parris, until her gaze skyward came down on him. For a long, silent moment, with Parris halfway up the gallows stairs, their eyes met. In that moment she seared his soul with a smile, and Samuel Parris had one realization that made him stumble from the gallows.

“What did she say to you?” Putnam asked him.

Deacon Ingersoll grabbed hold of Parris who seemed to have become dazed—perhaps bewitched at the last by Rebecca Nurse. “Did she say something? I could not hear over the crowd and the accusers!”

“No, she said nothing.”

“The eye? She gave you the evil eye?”

“I-I’m all right. None of them can touch me,” he lied. Deep within his soul, Parris had felt a painful truth, that he had just looked into the eyes of one of the chosen among them—someone who from the beginning of time—had her name in God’s book; he realized she was innocent of every single accusation raised against her. He realized that it was the first time he had considered the woman completely without guilt, and that she was bound for the place every Puritan prayed for, and he also realized at the same moment that he was not. That his soul was trapped here and in perdition if not Hades.

# # # # #

From the distance that they chose to safely maintain, the Nurse family watched the inevitable tragedy unfold at the gallows, seeing the condemned summarily killed one after the other while armed militia and guards stood all around to prevent any disturbance of this officially sanctioned murder. And they had seen the moment between Mother Nurse and Samuel Parris, and how disturbed he appeared as he stumbled off. He did not stop but rushed away, going back toward the village in his black uniform, alone. He did not turn back and did not watch when the final platform was dropped, its hinges crying out.

Rebecca had lost a great deal of weight while in prison, and when she fell, her weight was not so taut on the rope as the others, all of whom were heftier. As a result, Rebecca suffered longer—so long, in fact, it was no longer fun for the more sober among the crowd, especially when they watched the blood spilling over her lips and marring her clothing at what seemed the very spot where Christ had been pierced by a Roman spear while he suffered on the cross. In fact, someone shouted, “She is a martyr to this madness! She is closer to God and Christ than any man, woman, or child here!” The voice sounded like some drunkard, but in a moment Serena and Jeremy realized it was Ben! He had come with a wagon, the rear decked out with blankets and a pillow like an oversized coffin. He drove through the crowd, parting them and placing the bed of the wagon as close to his mother’s body as he could. Tarbell and Joseph rushed to join him, and by now Ben had a huge knife in hand, making his way beneath the gallows, and shouting through the drop, “You, bloody hangman! You cut her down or I will!”

For some time the crowd had fallen silent, as they’d been watching Rebecca’s considerably slower death throes. None of them had ever seen five witches hung all in a row, nor anyone take so long to die in this manner as Mother Nurse. Some thought she may have escaped death somehow.

Herrick, Putnam, and a small army of armed men had also moved in on Ben when they saw the knife and understood his intentions. Others held back Tarbell and Joseph at gunpoint. By this time Jeremy had leapt into what was building to a fight.

“The magistrates have ordered the condemned remain here!” Herrick challenged Ben below the gallows, holding a smooth bore gun on him, the men within two feet of one another.

“What do you mean, remain here?”

“They’ll swing here until nightfall. It’s my orders.”

“You filthy barbarians!” he shouted loud enough for all to hear.

“It’s a matter of example,” replied Herrick. “An example to anyone who turns to the dark arts and—”

“My mother is no witch and never was!”

Jeremy had somehow managed to meander and zigzag through the crowed to get to Ben. He stepped between Ben, brandishing the knife while Herrick pointed his deadly weapon on one side, and Ptunam—itchy finger at the ready—on the other side. Jeremy had no weapon and he held both hands in the air. “No one need get hurt here.”

“Tell your kinsman here, Mr. Wakely,” began Herrick, never taking his eyes off Ben, “the bodies of the hanged witches remain swingin’ on the rope the rest of the day.”

“But these are mothers, sisters, aunts here,” Jeremy pleaded. “Haven’t you taken enough of this man’s dignity and soul?” Jeremy pointed to Ben.

“We’ve orders—until dusk.”

“At which time, we can take Mother Nurse’s remains home, Ben,” Jeremy said, trying to defuse this situation.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Wakely,” countered Herrick.

“What? What’re you saying?”

“We cut them down at dusk, but the bodies remain here—as with Bishop’s body.”

Jeremy saw now that a huge, communal hole had been dug back of the scaffolding—a common grave. In fact, he saw the decayed forearm and hand of Bridget Bishop looking at first like the exposed root of a tree. “You can’t be serious!”

“It’s our orders, man!” shouted Putnam from behind Jeremy, making Jeremy wheel around to face Thomas.

“Have you men no heart left?”

“This is not up to us. We just take orders.” Putnam looked as if he might fire at the least provocation. “Now if you two are bent on standing in the way of official business, we in the militia and Mr. Herrick’s office, we cut the ropes, and we guard against the witches coming back to life or being carried off and buried in consecrated ground.”

“What is the point of not turning over the dead to their families?” Jeremy persisted.

“Example,” Herrick repeated.

“A condemned witch—which is what these five are,” added Putnam, “go to Hell together, right here at the foot of Watch Hill.”

“Look, it’s not anything we wanted; it’s what the judges and the ministers have said.”

“Left in shallow graves? You know there’re wolves hereabout, pigs, vultures.”

“Forget about trying any reason with these Christians,” Ben said to Jeremy. He threw the knife with such speed no one realized it until it twanged inches from Putnam’s eyes where it had dug deep into the post beside him. “Come on, Jeremy.” Ben charged from beneath the gallows, climbed behind the reins on the wagon with Jeremy beside him, and pulled away. Joseph caught up and leapt onto the back and extended a hand to Tarbell who, in turn, followed suit.

“The bastards!” Ben shouted, tears freely flowing as they rushed from the throng.

# # # # #

Serena stood far back on a hill watching the charade, her heart crushed by the events, glad only that she’d managed to talk many of her nephews and nieces to stay away from the executions. Francis leaned against her as if he might faint; seeing his beloved executed in this manner was unbearable, and she had done all she could to keep him away even to the extent that she would stay back with him. However, her father insisted as he still held onto the belief that at the last moment, those who had set his wife up in this false business would simply be unable to follow through—not with Rebecca. The others maybe, but not Rebecca.

Serena had watched the incident with Ben racing in for their mother’s body, and she’d feared they might lose Ben as well, and perhaps even Jeremy when she watched him rush down toward the gallows along with Joseph and Tarbell and other Nurse men who’d come to see this horrid injustice unfold. She now breathed a sigh of relief on seeing Ben, Jeremy, and the others race off in the wagon, unharmed and not arrested.

Serena wrapped a blanket around her father, who, despite the heat, was shivering as if with chilled, and sitting him beside her, she tore off in the wagon, rushing from this place and wishing to put the ugly images behind them, but also anxious to reunite with Jeremy and her brothers. They soon did reunite on the road back to Francis’ home, what had been Rebecca’s home. When Jeremy saw Serena racing her team to catch up, he told Ben to slow his horses. In a moment, the two wagons were alongside one another on the wide Ipswich Road.

“Tonight,” Jeremy shouted to the others and stood to shift his weight, and then to leap from the one wagon to the other to rejoin Serena and Francis. “Tonight at first dark, we go in and get our Mother Nurse.”

“You do that, but we’re taking Father home,” Serena told the brothers in the other wagon.

Jeremy kissed and hugged her and said, “I’m going, too.”

“There are three of them, and they hardly need your help.”

“I need to do this, Serena.”

She kissed him. “You frightened me once already today. I thought sure Putnam was going to shoot you.”

“He hadn’t the nerve.”

“If you must do this, Jeremy, and I think you must—come back to me safe, and keep the others safe.”

Jeremy nodded and leapt back onto the other wagon. Without a word, every man aboard knew what they wanted and how they would go about it.”

# # # # #

They waited in a nearby wood for nightfall. When it came, they waited longer still. When they determined everyone was gone from Watch Hill and the gallows, the brothers crept back to that awful place where they had seen their mother perish so horribly for no other reason than her abiding piety.

Without benefit of torches or light beyond the half moon going in and out of clouds like a galleon at sea, they came upon the bodies sprawled and stiff, limbs akimbo in the pitted, stony hole dug below the gallows and poorly covered over. At some point, someone in official authority was supposed to have come along and thrown dirt over the pit, to give the condemned a semblance of a burial. But so far that hadn’t happened. Instead, a handful of shovels had worked here and that was that.

Jeremiah and Serena’s brothers, going amid the bodies, saw first the ungainly, monstrous, gaping, toothless mouth of Sarah Goode as if shouting into eternity. Jeremy practically tripped over her in the dark. Recalling that Goode was first to fall, they followed the trail of body parts and clothing and soon located the others, all easier to pass, as their faces remained obliterated by the grain sack hoods. They made their way over the rocks and the exposed roots, stumbling until all stood over the remains of Rebecca Nurse—horribly contorted.

Shakily, tentatively each man found a hold on Rebecca while Jeremy tore off the remainder of the noose still round her neck like a fallen halo. A distant sound of thunder like drums rose at that moment, and in the sky over the too distant ocean, they watched lightning strikes.

In a solemn, silent processional, the men hefted the surprisingly light Mother Nurse overhead. One of her arms was erect and stiff, her fingers reaching skyward for as if grasping at her eternity. Anyone who saw these four men carrying the silhouetted figure against the lightning strikes must think it strange.

The four brothers took her homeward to be buried in a private plot of land prepared for her in a place they believed no one would ever find, and yet a perfect place for Rebecca. It’d been Serena’s idea as to where to bury their mother—at Rebecca’s favorite tree, her circle. It would become her final resting place, and until the upturned earth offered no clue to outsiders, the grave would be placed under the largest of the picnic tables.

When they arrived at Francis and Rebecca’s home, Francis and Serena raced out to meet Rebecca in her homecoming. Her extremities had relaxed, and she no longer seemed quite so contorted. Francis only concentrated on her features, and with a handkerchief he wiped away dirt from her gray head. Serena dabbed at her face with a wet cloth, and soon the gentle and familiar features returned, and she appeared in a deep and peaceful slumber.

Tarbell, tears in his eyes, excused himself. “We’ve a coffin to make, Joseph, Ben.” The three of them went for the barn and the tools necessary. Jeremy held Serena close and Francis started a conversation, not with them, but with his beloved, and without having to be told that it was private, Serena led Jeremy away to allow Francis time alone with Rebecca.

Before they got to the porch, from behind them, they heard only sobbing.

Before dawn broke, a ceremony over Rebecca’s remains was performed, during which Francis broke down. The same men still fatigued from the previous day’s horrors, and from “robbing” the authorities of one of their murdered ‘witches’, and building a proper coffin sang Rebecca’s favorite three hymns. Serena said the Lord’s Prayer, and with the brothers covering the coffin and arranging the table over it, Serena and Jeremy put Francis to bed. The old man had aged exponentially since this terror had first touched his home.

# # # # #

The following morning, and indeed all the previous night, Jeremiah feared for Serena’s safety, feared that she could be accused, feared that she become the subject of a warrant and arrest, and all that followed. They’d all seen the insanity engulf Francis and Rebecca. Poor Francis had become a shell of himself, occasionally shaking a fist at God and condemning Him for the deeds of the men in the village, adding, “Rebecca said it was all due His plan, a plan so inscrutable that not one of us lowly creatures could possibly understand it.” He laughed. “Perhaps in the distant future He will make it clear to generations to come how we allowed children to dictate life and death in Salem Village.”

It didn’t come as a complete surprise to Serena when Jeremy woke her with bloodshot eyes, with a plea. “Come away with me.”

“Do you really think Connecticut is far enough, Jeremy? Was Maine far enough for Reverend George Burroughs?”

It’d become general knowledge that George Burroughs had been returned to Salem in chains, arrested in Casco Bay, Maine, dragged back here, placed on trial, and found guilty, and that he now merely awaited hanging.

When Jeremy didn’t answer her, Serena climbed from bed and paced their room. “Tell me, Goodman Wakely, where is a safe place?”

He stuttered, unsure what to say. When he did speak, he chose his words carefully. “All I know is that I see the way those deadly frightful girls in the village stare at you, and I want an end to this madness before it takes—” He stopped short.

“Before they take me as they did Mother, and my two aunts?”

“It’s obvious you’re on their death list, and they’ll have to strike me dead to have you the way they got your mother.”

“We can’t just leave. We’ve got Father to think of.”

“We must talk him into going with us.”

She shook her head. “He’ll never leave this land; he’s already told me to be certain to bury him below the same tree as Mother out there. Says after things return to normal that he wanted the boys to build a wrought iron fence around them and to paint that fence white.”

Jeremy again was at a loss for words. He rubbed his hand into the stubble on his face. He’d not shaved in days and a dark beard had begun to form.

“There’s no answer for it, Jeremy. None.”

“Not here, perhaps; perhaps in Boston.”

“Go back there then, Jeremy. Go and learn what you can from that Barbados witch. I know you believe there’s answers there, and I thought you’d have gone before now to seek those answers.”

“I couldn’t leave you alone here, Serena. Last time I left and returned, your mother was arrested and locked away.”

“I will be all right. I’ll stay out of the village.”

“I’d worry the entire time.”

“And if you stay here and do nothing? How worried will you be? And you, like Ben, will likely be shot dead if you’re not more careful.”

“I just don’t feel right leaving you during this awful time.”

“Jeremy, you’ve wanted to question that woman since you saw her in that Boston jail. I wish now I’d encouraged you back then. Listen to me, now! Go and come back to me safely.”

“Promise me then that you’ll not leave your father’s house.”

“I promise! Now it’s early. Go while you have the light. If you get there early enough, you could bribe the guard, have your interrogation, and be back here by morning tomorrow. No one even need know you’re gone.”

“I imagine you’re right.”

“I am generally right, yes. Now go before I change my mind.”

“Or mine.”

“Go, saddle up, Jeremy; I’ll make you a breakfast. Send you off with some biscuits for Dancer.”

Despite the fact her back was to him, Jeremy saw that she was crying. He had held her the entire night. He knew it would take a long time for her wounds to heal.

She was right on one item. Jeremiah had so wanted to have a face-to-face with Tituba Indian. But he wanted to tell Serena that everything was going to be all right, that sensible minds would eventually prevail, but he did not believe it any longer himself. He had no answers. And he doubted he’d find any in Boston either.

Still he wanted to try.

He walked out into the early, busy morning: birds chasing about, squirrels playing tag, butterflies seeking flowers, the sun reflecting off the dewy grass. He went straight for the barn, and once there, alone with Dancer, he allowed himself a wailing moan that came from his gut. Tears followed. He wiped his eyes and bridled Dancer and cinched the saddle, tugging hard. “To Boston then in search of truth,” he spoke to Dancer, who whinnied. “If there be any. Certainly, justice is gone.”

“You’ll find none of it here,” came a voice from behind him. It was Ben in the next stall. He’d been drinking, heavily.

Jeremy went to Ben, recalling him as a tadpole, so much smaller than him and Joseph ten years ago, and now he was bigger than both. Jeremy didn’t know what could be said to soothe how hurt young Ben felt.

Jeremy explained that he needed Ben to look after Serena.”

“Why? Where’re you rushing off to on that charger of yours.”

“She’s a mare, no charger.”

“Where to?”

“Boston.”

“Alone? Why not take Serena with you.”

“She won’t leave your father right now.”

“You’re her husband, man! Just tell her what’s what.”

“Tell me what?” It was Serena with a basket of biscuits and apples in hand.

Chapter Four

In Boston by dusk, Jeremiah tried to find lodgings. The town seemed to have become swollen with people, and he could not find a room with Mrs. Fahey. However, she told him he was welcome to sleep in the barn until he could find something else.

“Why’s it so crowded?”

“Everyone for miles around passing through on the way to Salem.”

“To Salem?”

“To see the trials and executions! Haven’t ye heard? Hey, I thought you and the missus was from those parts.”

“Most awful business for our colonial leaders to have to deal with atop all else,” he replied.

“Wouldn’t you say.”

“Yes, yes! Awful business. And my horse and I, we’ll take that stall in your barn.”

“So where is your lovely wife?”

“I am here on business, and she had to stay behind.”

“I see.”

Leaving for the barn, Jeremy felt badly that he could not feel safe even with a wonderful person as Mrs. Fahey. The colony had become a place where no one could trust anyone it seemed—and for good reason.

Jeremy bedded his horse down, and after a bite to eat, he wandered to the jail. When he neared the place where he had last seen Tituba, he found the jailer. “My name is Wakely, and I take it you are the man in charge here.”

“I am guv’nar. What can I do for ye?”

“You’ve a prisoner inside—”

He burst out laughing. “Aye, I have a few!”

“Ah . . . yes, well,” began Jeremy showing a wide smile to convince the man he actually thought him humorous. “I am interested in one prisoner in particular named Tituba? Tituba Indian? She is a Barbados black.”

“I may have such a prisoner, but tell me, young fella, what business have ye with me prisoner?”

The man looked like a sailor who’d become too old to work aboard a ship any longer; he even had a peg leg. His breath was rum, hair gnarled like hemp. His eyes shone in the dark like those of a younger man, blue-gray with a dancing light there. He was a far cry from Gatter or Gwinn back in Salem.

“I wish to pay her jailer.” This got his attention well. “That is make a payment against what is owed.”

“Well now, that is good business, sir.”

“But for my trouble, I’d like words with the prisoner.”

“Ahhh . . . I’m not supposed to allow it, sir.”

“I see . . . well then I’ve no reason to make a payment against her debt if I can’t speak to her.”

“When you say speak to her, can it happen through the bars, sir?”

“With you looking on?”

“Nay, with me the other side of the wall, sir. It’s just that I’m told no one goes inside, Mr. Wakely. No one but the authorities, you see.”

“But I’m a barrister myself.”

“Aye, perhaps so, but you’re not on me list.”

“I’ll take the barred window then, Mr. Ahhh . . . ” Jeremy held out two Massachusetts Bay silver dollars. “On account.”

The toothless old sailor smiled wide, accepting the silver with eyes lit. “It’s Abraham, and you’re a true patron, sir, a true humanitarian.”

“Find her and send her to the window, then, Abraham.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeremy waited at the window in question, the bars like rusted iron pipes well salted and blasted by the sea air, as it looked out on the ocean—no doubt causing many inside to long for that horizon. Jeremy peered in, and the odor—wafting out to him—caused a coughing jag. Covering his mouth with a handkerchief and nearly doubling over with the stench, the barrister not on the list straightened to come face to face with Tituba. Her features were cut in half by the darkness and fractured by the bars. In the weak light, her features thus sliced presented an appearance of multiple mirrors at work, any one of which might be called skewed.

“Mr. Reverend Wakely? Is it really you?”

“Yes, Tituba. I’ve questions for you.”

“I am no evil witch.” She began crying. “I didn’t hurt the baby.”

“The baby?”

“Betty, Betty Paris. I never hurt the child. It was Goode.”

“But you didn’t stand in Goode’s way; you knew of Goode’s plans for Betty.”

“I didn’t know.”

Jeremy saw that fear had for these many months ruled the woman. The truth was no longer an option. She feared it could get her hung. And why shouldn’t she fear him and his questions? “Do you know that Goode is dead? Hanged?”

“Dey tell us when Bishop be hanged. Dey tell us when Goode, Nurse, and three others be hanged, yes. Dey tell us one day we all be hanged but not burned.”

Jeremy recalled the only case in New England when a so-called witch was burned at the stake. It was some years before right here in Boston, but the woman was not burned to death because of her suspected witchcraft but rather due to the age-old belief in religion and law—may the punishment fit the crime. The Boston servant, a good deal like Tituba as she was a Barbados slave, had set fire to her master’s house. The fire had claimed the entire family—mother and children included. The judges, Saltonstall and Stoughton among them at the time, ruled the woman deserved the fate of her master and his family. Thus the single known burning of a witch on these shores.

“Tituba, tell me about the other baby.”

“Other baby?”

“Yes, your child.”

“My child?”

Jeremy handed her a clean kerchief, which lit up her eyes. She took the prize and wiped at her tears before hiding it in her bosom. “Your child, yes, the one you once hinted at—the one you said your master took from you the way he’d taken Dorcas away from Goode.”

Her features changed visibly. A dark anger painted her brow, and the fulcrum of her anger came glaring out at Jeremy from her black eyes. She squeezed the bars, her mouth frothing from illness and disease. “I die in dis place, wid him out there—” she pointed past his shoulder—“big man who kill witches and Satan men. Him who kill my baby.”

“You hinted as much, but have you any proof of it, Tituba? That Sam Parris murdered your infant?”

“Only my word, worth how much?” She snorted a short burst of nervous giggles. How much before? How much now?”

“Tell me everything you remember—every second, every mother’s instinct and emotion when you asked him about the infant that very first time.”

“I had hard time wid de birthing; hours wid de pain. So much, I faint.”

“Faint?”

“He give me opium.”

“Opium?”

“Like he use all de time in Barbados—and a strange drink.”

“Opium and a strange drink?”

“From de doctor he pay. Doctor make drink.”

“Were you at all aware of your surroundings when the baby was delivered?”

“No, no! I not never see de child.”

“Not even afterward?”

“No, not once.”

“Your child was delivered while you unconscious?”

“Un-con-see-us?”

“While you were asleep?”

“Asleep, yes.”

Jeremy imagined it an abortion. You don’t knock out a pregnant woman with opium and other concoctions if you want to deliver a baby. “Were you sore? Did the doctor cut you?”

“Cuts, yes. Plenty blood. Sore and sick. Long time.”

“You saw no evidence of the child at all?”

“I wake up and doctor gone! And my baby gone! Mr. Parris, he tell me baby dead.”

“Do you recall the doctor’s name?”

“Cabbage. No Cobb. No Cable. Yes, a man named Caball.”

“Had you ever seen this doctor before there in Barbados before?”

“No not never. Mr. Parris say Caball is from de ship.”

Jeremy shook his head. “What ship?”

“It from England, he say, and he say Dr, Caball knows best.”

“I see. Don’t suppose you recall the name of that ship?”

“Elizabeth—like Mrs. Parris.”

“Good, good! Ships’ records could be consulted, but finding this particular ship and doctor could take months if not a year. Still if Parris were confronted with the ship and the doctor’s name, he might just give himself away. The irony of Parris’ having aborted a child hadn’t escaped Jeremy, as the accused had been charged with murdering infants.

“I beg massa,” Tituba went on, “beg him to let me see my baby—dead even—to hold it, but he tell me, ‘No’, and he show me de ugly face like you see he make.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“He-He tell me it not best thing for me to see de baby. Say it be bent here—” she indicated her head, “and it buckled here—“she indicated her body. Tell me he axe de doctor to take it away. Say it for my sake.”

“I see. And it was his child, Tituba?”

“His child, a son.”

“A boy. He told you it was a boy?”

“No, doctor say.”

“When did this doctor tell you this?”

“I hear him first time I wake. I see dem talking.”

“Who?”

“Massa and doctor. Doctor say, ‘It a boy’. But massa yell at him to get rid of it.”

“Don’t make it up as you go, Tituba. I only want the truth.”

“Dis be de truth! I saw and heard like in dream.”

Or a drugged state, Jeremy thought. It has the ring of truth, and Tituba seemed to have no guile about this story. All the same, Jeremy felt paralyzed. It amounted to hearsay. Hearsay from a black woman and a prisoner no less, herself accused of aiding and abetting Goode to attack the minister’s daughter through machinations of witchcraft, one who may or may not soon face the gallows—if she did not die of jail fever first. She looked awful in her unbathed state, and her tattered clothes reflected a shredded will and all her former fiery soul seemed lost.

The story of Anne Carr Putnam’s having a decades-old grudge between her and Susannah Martin had not moved the court or anyone in authority. What good would this information provided by Tituba Indian do?

Jeremy looked again into the bottomless black eyes of the Barbados native. The woman perspired, retched, and grew more tired before his eyes.

“I’d’ve thought Parris would have had you released and placed onboard an outgoing ship for Barbados or anywhere by now.”

“He try but no ship will take a witch on board.”

Sailors were more superstitious than the inhabitants of Salem Village, Jeremy realized, and he pictured Parris attempting to bribe a ship’s captain to stow her away in a hole someplace but unable to come up with the certainly high price that would have been exacted.”

Tituba laughed. “Master forgot another promise.” Jeremy assumed she meant precisely what he was kicking over in his head. “Tituba, if we could find this doctor in Barbados . . . Are you sure of his name?”

“Only one white doctor in Barbados—Noah. Dr. Noah. Dis other man go away.”

“Noah—sounds like a first name. Do you know his full name?”

“I only know name on sign—Dr. North.”

“Noah North?”

“Yes, Noah North.”

“That could be of great help, Tituba. Thank you for speaking with me.” Perhaps North knew something of Parris’ dealings with the mysterious doctor or murderer, who came ashore from the Elizabeth that night.

“Can you help me?” Tituba now asked, her right hand wrapping around Jeremy’s. It pulled a thread of pity from Jeremy. So far as he could see, she was a victim several times over, and likely to die of consumption in this place.

“If I can get the Governor to listen to your story, perhaps you’ve helped yourself. Have faith in God, and hold firm to your innocence.”

“Then I will die here.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to keep that from happening, Tituba.”

She grasped his hand tighter with what little strength she had left. “Thank you, Mr. Wakely. You are good man.”

The entire time she had her hand on him, Jeremy worried he’d catch some awful death-dealing disease from her, and one reason he’d given her the handkerchief was so she’d cover her mouth before coughing on him. He pulled away and kept his hand at his side. Mrs. Fahey had plenty of lye soap back at the barn along with a pale of water. But even as his mind filled with the fear of being ravaged by some nasty disease, his heart went out to the once proud little woman.

Abraham, the jailor, retuned from his smoking and pissing the other end of the jail and said, “I can give ye no more time, ‘’less you have more coin for a crippled old salt, Mr. Wakely.”

“We’re done here, but I have a question for you.”

Abraham instantly presented his palm. “If I can be of service, sure it is.”

Jeremy handed him a half crown that he bit into and pocketed. “What question is it, sir?”

“Has any minister come to you to ask that you seek a berth on an outgoing ship for this black prisoner, Tituba? Perhaps to take her off to Barbados?”

“Well ahh . . . I think that’s two questions.” He again held out his hand like a cup held by a beggar.

Jeremy frowned and slapped a sixpence into the hand this time, making Abraham wince. “So there has been someone here for her, correct?”

“Yes as you seem to already know.”

“A minister who came in the night?”

“Much like yourself, yes.”

“What do you mean like me?”

“Young fella come in the night.”

This didn’t sound like Parris. “Did you catch the man’s name?”

“Said he was from Salem. Let’s see. Overheard the woman insultin’ the reverend before it was over.”

“Insutlting him how?”

“Kept saying it was noise, all noise or something like that.”

“Noyes! Of course. Doing Parris’ dirty work these days.”

“Sir?” Abraham watched Jeremy march off, his steps heavy. Now all he need do is ask around the docks at ships that had made any contact with Barbados to determine if any captain might have any information about a Dr. Noah North in Barbados or a so-called Dr. Caball—a possible ships’ doctor. Most ship doctors were little more than butchers and most hadn’t proper training as medical professionals, and the seagoing men who came and went in such seaports as this talked a good deal about their experiences at sea, and they were a surprisingly tight-knit group. It was not altogether farfetched that someone in Boston, possibly at the nearest pub, might have some knowledge of Caball or North or both.

It wouldn’t prove all elements of her story to determine this fact, that Drs. North and Caball existed and that this Caball fellow would have access to opium and perhaps laudanum—the strange drink. If he could prove enough facts, provide elements of doubt about Parris’ past and present motives, his immorality with respect to his own child, the question of aborting a child in order to hide it from public notice, then who knows, perhaps Governor Phipps might take heed at last to the level of conspiracy and mendacity let loose in Salem.

Jeremy rather doubted that taking Tituba’s story to the judges and magistrates— now so afire with witch-hunt fever—would do a whit of good.

He rushed back to Dancer and the barn and his bed for the night; rushed to the lye soap and water. He concentrated mostly on the hand that Tituba had touched and held onto between the bars. He scrubbed until the skin felt raw. He scrubbed until he felt comfortably sure that he’d stopped any possible spread of her sickness to him. The idea that disease could be stopped or slowed in its tracks by soap and water was as old as the Ten Commandments, precepts ordering cleanliness alongside those that ordered men to consume no uncooked meat.

Dancer watched him, seeming to understand his fear.

When Jeremy’s head hit his cushioned saddle, sleep came quickly to his exhausted mind, sleep orchestrated to the sounds and the odors of the barn, far easier to take than those emanating from the jail. Still, even in his sleep, he missed Serena and hated being away from her, and still he worried first about her safety, then how he could learn more about this mysterious Drs. North and Caball, and thirdly, how he could get an audience with Phipps. Then he recalled how the governor’s wife had gone about the windows of the jailhouse with biscuits and rolls for the prisoners. She’d been banned from doing any further good for the accused, or so he was given to understand.

It might take weeks, possibly months to gain an audience with the governor, but what of the governor’s wife? Just how sympathetic to the cause of the imprisoned on these charges of witchcraft was Mrs. Phipps?

His thoughts and troubled sleep led him from the governor’s mansion back to the jail across the street, where Tituba Indian might die at any time. She had been a chief accuser, pointing at others, and having given herself anew to God by ‘confessing’ her witchcraft and her association with the Black One, Satan, she had been spared the fate that Goode Bishop, Nurse, and the others had found at the end of a rope. Any accused person who did as Tituba had—turned on other prisoners, naming names—was, so far, spared the death sentence, unless the accused publicly recanted the confession and assistance to he court, which had occurred many times over now as well.

Jeremy’s last thought before dozing completely off was of an imaginary Samuel Parris arranging to rush Tituba from her cell to a waiting outbound ship for Barbados. But this swiftly changed to his rushing her off to a waiting grave he’d dug in the woods.

She could go the way of her child, he told himself. A secret, improper burial bought and paid for—no psalms read, no songs sung, no sanctified ground, and no questions asked.

Jeremiah’s sleep settled into a dream about a man who had an unwanted child by his slave, a struggling businessman in a seaport town far from any civilized world, yet the unwanted pregnancy and child would be an embarrassment—even here. The child in the dream was drowned off the end of a dock like an unwanted kitten inside a gurney sack, the body thrown to the kelp bed and the ever-hungry fish.

That was murder even in Barbados.

Chapter Five

In Jeremy’s absence from Salem, from all accounts that he heard—both verbal and written—the lunacy continued at full gallop. More accusations, more warrants sworn out, more arrests, more trials, more hangings in the offing. Including that of Sarah Cloyse, Serena’s aunt and Rebecca’s sister.

Jeremy had a letter posted from Serena, and this news was corroborated by her pained questions: “What did Mother die for? Was it for nothing? Where is God, Jeremy? Where is justice?”

Sarah Towne Cloyse’s name had come up on what had come to be called The Black List, the list of arrest warrants—as did untold numbers of people, men and women, who’d signed one or both petitions that’d circulated on behalf of Rebecca Nurse and Elizabeth Proctor. Those who dared stand up and affix their names to petitions for mercy and attesting to good character were now being systematically accused and arrested.

More jails were being built. The officially sanctioned madness continued without an end in sight.

Serena had signed both those petitions, as had her father and brothers—as had Jeremy. It felt as if the walls of the world, the colonial boundaries, were closing in on them all. It felt as if no one was safe. Serena had been right about that.

I should have thrown Serena across a horse and made her go with me to Connecticut, he told himself on finishing her letter.

As a result, Jeremy stepped up his efforts to gain an audience with the First Lady of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Mrs. Phipps. It was proving difficult. It’d been Governor Phipps who’d signed off on the Court of Oyer & Terminer; it’d been by his edict that Sir William Stoughton, Major Saltonstall and the other Boston judges of the General Court go to Salem to fight the witches, demons, warlocks, and Satan on that ground. He’d been quoted as saying, “Let us take the fight to the monsters in their lair.” And it felt as if Mrs. Phipps had not only been sanctioned by her husband and banned from any show of mercy to the accused and arrested, but that she’d been informed about Jeremiah Wakely—just who he was and how he had called the court sitting at Salem unlawful, and that any attempt on Jeremy’s part to see her must be rebuked. In fact, Wakely was characterized as a crackpot, an imposter, and a larcenous miscreant.

Jeremy imagined all of this maligning of his character had kept Mrs. Phipps from seeing him. Days and nights went by without an answer, and Jeremy feared he’d again fail.

“When are the next executions in Salem?” he asked the newsman he’d worked for on a part time basis.

Mr. Horatio Spurlunkle handed him today’s pamphlet. On the cover the frightening news stared back at Jeremy:

Aug. 5, 1692 – Six more accused of witchcraft found guilty. Execution set for the 19th for George Burroughs, former Salem minister and sometime minister, Casco Bay, Maine; John and Elizabeth Proctor, man and wife of Salem; John Williard, former Salem sheriff; George Jacobs Senior of Salem; Martha Carrier, a goodwife of Andover. These six are condemned by the Court of Oyer & Terminer to die on the gallows.

The rest of the article could be summed up in a phrase that’d become all too common: Brought in guilty and condemned.

“Mr. Sperlunkle, when will this madness end?”

“Not until someone in high office begins to question the sanity of it all, among them the blasted ministers and magistrates themselves! Not to mention the confounded governor!”

“Or Phipps’ wife.”

“Isn’t there anyone in all of Salem with any sense, Jeremy?”

“Perhaps Reverend John Hale of Beverly where the seer children have been taken to root out even more evil and witchery there. I’m sure when all this began, he had no notion they’d be paraded through his town to point out old women with warts on their noses.”

“They are paraded on white horses through communities like God’s chosen, and one finger points at a man or woman, and he is arrested!”

“Yes, well, you see, the seer children can ‘see’ into the Invisible World so that the witches can no longer hide behind respectable aprons!”

“Speak of respectable! Look. It’s her.” Sperlunkle stared out his office window.

“Her who?” Jeremy joined him at the window, looking out over the bold lettering.

“Mrs. Phipps.”

“On the street? Where? I must—”

“No, it’s her carriage, there!” Sperlunkle pointed. “At the jailhouse again.”

“Disobeying her husband?”

“It would appear so, yes.”

“I must see her, speak to her.” Jeremy rushed for the jailhouse. As he made his way toward the beautifully dressed, proud Mrs. Phipps, he saw that her servant held two large baskets stuffed full with sweat meats, and that a pale of clean drinking water with a dipper trailed after in Abraham’s hands. The jailor must be making good money, today, Jeremy thought as he’d made no effort to stand in Mrs. Phipps way, and the lady of mercy—known for her compassion and generosity and kindness, passed rolls and biscuits through the bars to waiting hands and anxious eyes. As Jeremy came near, one of her servants grabbed him.

“Unhand me! Lady Phipps!” Jeremy called out. “I must speak with you, please! It’s urgent!”

Horatio Sperlunkle had joined Jeremy, and he threatened the second coachman with a cane. It appeared there would be a row in the street when Abraham shouted, “Mr. Wakely, it’s you is it?”

On hearing his name, Mrs. Phipps gave Jeremy a second look, staring hard and sizing him up. She was acquainted somewhat with Sperlunkle and his paper as well, and now she shouted, “Jonas! There’ll be no violence! Let Mr. Wakely be.”

Jeremy approached her and bowed. “I am Jeremiah Wakely. You have my petition for an audience, ma’am.”

“I do.”

“Have you read it, my lady?”

“I have.”

“Time is of the essence.”

“Your words were most intriguing and mysterious. You say you have evidence of the motives of Reverend Samuel Parris. I confess, I would like to hear more, but I can’t promise you anything will come of our speaking.” After all, I am not the governor, only his wife went unspoken but understood.

“I understand, but—”

“You might do well to petition to see the Governor himself.”

“I prefer to take my chances with you, Madame.”

She sighed so heavily that her dress rose an inch above her bosom and resettled. “Ride with me. In the coach,” she indicated the opened door that Jonas now held for them, a glare in his eye. She added, “It may be best you impart these dark secrets while in my carriage than at the mansion. The walls have ears there.” She gave a quick glance to Jonas, a bird-beeked, hungry-eyed looking fellow. Shakespeare’s Cassius, Jeremy thought, but without the Senate seat.

“Excellent,” Jeremy said as he settled into the cozy interior. “It is more than I had hoped for.”

She sat across from him, her dress taking up most of the room inside. With the door shut, she lifted a small parasol and tapped the roof. In a moment, the single-horse carriage pulled away from the jail, and through the slit in a drape at the window, Jeremy caught a fleeting glimpse of Abraham and Horatio beside one another with amusement and amazement on their faces.

It was as if once again fate had stepped in.

# # # # #

Inside the carriage, which from what little Jeremy could tell, was on its way back to the Governor’s home, he feared he had but the coach ride to convince Mrs. Phipps of his beliefs. To this end he launch right in. “First, you must know that I do not support the court in Salem.”

“So I have heard.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Then you know I believe they have not only arrested hundreds who are innocent but they’ve hung some who are innocent, principally Rebecca Nurse.”

“To whom you are related, yes?”

It was not an unprecedented moment for her; Mrs. Phipps had entertained a number of previous petitions for leniency and mercy. “I understand your position, Mr. Wakely, and I admire your candor and fervor. Nowadays, it takes a brave man to speak out. Do go on.”

“I spoke with one of the first arrested, who is here in your jail in Boston.”

“Mr. Parris’ black servant, this Tituba Indian you mentioned in your petition to me. I must admit, Mr. Wakely, I was intrigued the moment I saw your name affixed to it.”

“So my ill-gotten reputation precedes me? I am not surprised.”

“Your name has come up on occasion at the mansion.”

“My name?” He noted her half smile.

“You have many enemies among the judges and ministers, Mr. Wakely.”

“Don’t think me after some sort of personal vengeance against Parris, madam. I am only interested in right and the law.”

“Ah, it’s justice you seek?”

“An end to the injustice in Salem, ma’am.”

“And you say you have vital information that might lead to an end to the injustices? And that you found it here in Boston.”

Jeremy nodded. “I’ve written down my allegations against Parris—allegations of deception, murder, and cover up long before he arrived in Salem.”

“Before Salem? Tell me more about this Barbados connection. It’s all rather like a Greek play.”

She was indeed intrigued, and this made Jeremy study her for any guile.

“I have met Samuel Parris on two occasions,” she admitted in a deep whisper, “and I put nothing past the man. But my husband is not such a good judge of character.”

Jeremy nodded. The carriage hit an area of bumpy cobblestones. They would soon be at a standstill at the mansion, and Jeremy knew their interview would be over. He wondered now if she’d disobeyed her husband to feed the prisoners as a cover to see Jeremy for this discussion.

Jeremy told her all that he suspected, and all that Tituba had imparted. He finished with, “I am only sorry that you could not hear it from Tituba herself. She convinced me of her sincerity, and it has the ring of truth.”

Mrs. Phipps had sat stolid, her features unchanging. She hadn’t even flinched when Jeremy spoke of how Tituba’s child had been discarded like so much garbage. “The ring of truth,” she repeated the phrase.

“You’re not convinced?”

“Mr. Wakely, oddly enough Governor Phipps and I spent some time on Barbados.”

“You did?”

“When Parris ran his enterprise there. I always found it odd that he’d become a minister in Salem.”

“And Increase Mather could not find any evidence of his having been ordained a minister at Harvard.”

“I’ve made inquiries regarding this too.”

“Then I have an ally in you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Dr. Noah North is my father, and he would have had nothing to do with aborting a birth and covering it up. Certainly not for Mr. Parris, and certainly not for money.”

Jeremy felt numb. It had come to this, another dead end. As she stepped from the coach, reaching back for his notes, which he surrendered, he said, “Then it was all between Parris and this ships’ doctor, Caball. Have you any knowledge of him?”

She shook her head. “I have not. Now please, this interview is over.” She told the coachman to return Jeremy to the North End at the center of commerce in Boston, “Drop him wherever he wishes.” She then looked back at Jeremy. “I will share all of your suspicions with my husband, Mr. Wakely, but if he disbelieves it . . . it will go no further. After all, it is on the word of a servant woman and a prisoner of the witch hunt. He is not likely to trust her or you.”

“And you, Mrs. Phipps? Do you trust me?”

She slammed the coach door and gave the order to the driver to move off.

Jeremy dropped his head in his hands. “Her father is Dr. North. Damn this tired world for its ironies.”

When Jeremy got down from the carriage and watched it turn around and go back the way it’d come, the jailer rushed to his side. The old sailor whispered under his hand, “Sir, if you want the black woman, I won’t stand in your way. You can take her.”

“Take her?”

“Any friend of the Governor’s can have his will here, sir.”

“You will turn Tituba over to me?”

“I will, yes.”

“How much do you require for her release?”

“Nothing, sir. I’m sure down the line, a reward may come but tonight . . . tonight she is yours.”

Jeremy finally understood the man’s meaning. He thought Jeremy wanted Tituba for the night. “Look here, do you know of any ships making for Barbados tonight?”

“Barbados? Tonight, sir?”

“Yes, tonight . . . tomorrow.”

“That’d be Captain Hypplewaite, sir.”

“Can I find him at the docks?”

“At the Red Lion, likely this time-o-day.”

“I’ll find him. Have a word with him.”

“And the black woman, sir?”

“I’ll be back for her, yes.”

The lecherous look in the old jailer’s eye and his toothless smile said that he’d finally found a pot of gold. “Cleaned up, she’d be my choice, too, Mr. Wakely.” He laughed and slapped Jeremy on the back.

With little hope of changing any minds here in Boston, Jeremy set out to help at least one of the victims in all this insanity—Tituba. He had little trouble locating the loud, heavy-drinking Captain Obadiah Hypplewaite, a garrulous pirate of a man. Jeremy bought passage for one to Barbados, telling the captain he’d bring this ‘cargo’ by cover of night, and that it wouldn’t do for anyone to see the woman.

“And once we land in Barbados?”

“You give her two silver pieces, and she finds the remnants of her family and life, a free woman.”

“So you’ve got religion and wish to free your slave, eh?”

“Yes, and that is all you need to know,” Jeremy lied and placed six pieces of silver before the captain. He then displayed the two silver dollars that belonged to Tituba. “Please, it will be all she has in life; you must see she gets it. I must trust you implicitly, Captain.”

The old sea dog’s eyes lit up. “Well then, you have my word and my blessings, son. It’s a horrid thing, this slavery business people’ve gotten themselves into. Meself, I won’t take slave cargo comin’ in from the Ivory Coast.”

Arrangements were made. Jeremiah got a confused Tituba to Mrs. Fahey’s barn where Mrs. Fahey discovered them, and for a moment thought the worst. When Jeremy confessed his plan, she leapt into the scheme without hesitation, ordering Jeremy out of the barn. She bathed Tituba and found a change of clothes for her before she allowed Jeremy back.

Captain Hypplewaite’s ship came after a hearty meal for Tituba, and when Jeremy told her it the Endurance was bound for Barbados—her childhood home, she wept while hugging Jeremy to her. Jeremy said his final goodbyes, seeing her stowed away below decks in the hands of the sober Captain.

As he made his way back to Mrs. Fahey’s barn, Jeremy wondered at the wisdom or foolishness of his actions. If it came to light, he could face dire consequences—and for all her compassion, Mrs. Fahey was also known for spreading news and gossip, not to mention how upset Abraham was going to be in the coming days. “But I couldn’t’ve done otherwise,” he told himself. He had given up any thought whatsoever of Tituba’s ever becoming a witness against Parris or the witch hunt in general. After all, it appeared he’d failed with the Governor’s wife.

He planned on returning to Serena at first light empty-handed.

Chapter Six

A broken man, Francis Nurse felt he had nothing to live for now that Rebecca was gone. Despite his love for his children, he longed to join Rebecca. He toyed with suicide, but in his heart, more than anything, he wanted to do what Ben had wanted to do all along—put a hole in Samuel Parris.

He put together his small carriage, pulled by a single horse, and unbeknownst to anyone, he drove into Salem Village.

He searched the streets, the steps of Ingersoll’s place, the parsonage, now dark and empty save for Parris somewhere inside. Parris had been unable to locate nor return his wife and child to the village.

Francis pulled to within shouting distance of Parris’ window and door, waved a gun and dared Parris to show his face at the door. Parris did not come out. He was in fact not home.

Sheriff Herrick and several other armed men circled the old man, coaxing him to calm down and go back the way he’d come just as Serena rode in on her mare. She rushed to join her father, talking him into a reasonable posture. “Please, Father, please. I can’t lose you, too, now!”

Francis studied his daughter. “You are so beautiful, my child. You have your mother’s eyes.” He appeared not to know where he was or that he held a weapon in his hands.

Serena took the gun gently from him. Herrick and his men watched with interest as she climbed down, fetched her horse, tied her to the back of the buggy, and then returned to take the reins. She turned the small carriage around and guided it past Ingersoll’s, the Putnam home, and onto Ipswich Road, pointed toward home.

When she arrived back home with her father, she managed to get him into bed on her own. No one else was around. The place had become hauntingly deserted since Mother Nurse’s execution and the secret burial. Ben had been sent away, as his language against the court and the ministers had become so seditious as to put him under suspicion. It’d taken great and long-suffering arguments from Serena and Francis to get Ben to disappear for a while.

After getting her father settled in, Serena stepped out onto the porch, her mind a jumble of fears for Francis. He’d acted as if out of his head. Going down into the village to murder Mr. Parris on sight, and his behavior on the carriage seat. She feared his mind going.

“Some bustling noise rose up from the nearby road that went by the house, but she paid little heed to it. The Ipswich Road was a main thoroughfare between Salem Town and Village, and it was ever restless except in the wee hours. Instead, Serena wandered out toward the huge stand of oaks, the meeting tables set out below them, one covering the fresh earth below where her mother’s remains lay in secret.

She pulled herself onto the table, her feet on the bench, and head in hand, she began to cry. She missed Jeremy terribly and worried about him, too. She’d had nightmares of his being accosted in a dark Boston alleyway, robbed, and left bleeding on the cobblestones.

She recalled the night they sang hymns over Rebecca. Only the most immediate family members and John Tarbell knew her remains were here and not in the pit below the gallows, which’d been covered over. It appeared no one knew of the ‘theft’ carried out by the Nurse men. At least not yet.

When she thought of the last meal they’d all shared here with Mother Nurse still among them, the day Serena had held the blunderbuss trained on Jeremy, she recalled an underlying melancholia that had hold of her mother. Somehow, Rebecca had known that this storm of madness in the village was coming but how? Now and in fact ever since Rebecca’s arrest, their home had become a sad place, and these tables silent. It felt like an eternity ago that the large, extended family had gathered as one. And now Rebecca’s two sisters were behind bars, and one of them condemned to execution.

Serena tried desperately to pray for her sick father, but she felt unsure if she wanted him free of the illness or free of this troubled world; she wondered if his heart could only be lighted again by joining her mother. At the same time, she wanted to hold onto him. Both thoughts made her feel a sense of guilt—guilt coming of two unresolved thoughts, each coming unbidden and colliding.

The noise coming up off the road roared loudly now, loud enough to cause her to look up to determine just who and how many were passing when she saw the awful sight of what had come to be called the witch cart.

It cranked and creaked from side to side, looking as if it might topple and break apart at any time—else remove itself from its wooden wheels. The old oxen pulling it looked disinterested and weary at once. Riding horseback around the empty jail cart, were Herrick, the same men who stood by him in the village, along with Reverend Nicholas Noyes, and trailing alongside rode four of the celebrated ‘seer’ children.

As the ominous parade went by, the children in particular stared long and hard at Serena where she sat below the trees. The young girls all rode white horses, and they whispered among themselves, giggled, and pointed their terrible accusing fingers at first the house and then in Serena’s general direction.

Reverend Noyes, his nose lifted high, noticed the disturbance among the children on white chargers. He reined in his dark mare and gave a stern look to Serena as if following the awful gaze of little Anne Putnam, whose scrawny frame atop such a large horse looked ludicrous to Serena. Get that child a pony, she heard herself thinking.

The entourage continued onward toward the east, toward Salem Town. Serena wondered who might the little brigands be after today. It appeared Mr. Noyes had some enemies in his parish now who needed to be brought down.

Soon after the noise of the witch cart and the band of people around it had subsided entirely, Serena stood and made her way back toward the house. Nowhere safe, she had told Jeremy, and now her home felt like the largest target of the evil in control here, like a bull’s-eye for the accusers. Her father’s rashness this morning had only made it more so.

She feared they’d simply chosen to not stop for her on the way to the harbor, but had every intention of picking her up on their way back—especially if they failed to find any witches in Salem Town. She imagined, and it seemed so, that Herrick carried blank arrest warrants in his britches so that if one of the nasty little prophets should make an accusation on the road, that he’d be prepared. Noyes would be the name on the warrants today. “Proper procedure be damned!” she shouted to the trees. “In the face of immediate danger, in war, action must be taken. Witchcraft must be met with a suspension of basic human rights and laws of normalcy.”

All this while Parris and to some lesser degree, Thomas Putnam had faded into the background, and the law nowadays was based on some notion of an invisible nature. How terrifying, she thought. How barbaric. How far from sane rule have we come?

Serena hadn’t long to learn an answer to her question.

The accusing children returned before dusk, and they sat at Serena’s gate like vultures. Francis brought up the blunderbuss, pointing at the men on horseback and those horrible children pointing their combined fingers at Serena, calling out that she sent needles into their eyes and ears and in private places. Then Sheriff Herrick read the warrant before his men and several ‘witches’ already humbled and squatting behind the bars in the jail cart.

Serena wrested the gun from her father. “They will kill you, Father!”

“I can’t see you taken away a witch!” he cried out. “Not a second time, Herrick! You’ve killed my wife! Now you wish to sanction the murder of my daughter?”

“There is nothing I can do. The warrant is made out. I only follow orders.”

“Parris’ orders? Noyes? Those damned children!”

“Father, go to John’s place, please!” She hugged Francis tightly to her. “I’ll not be the cause of your dying here today.”

“Where is Wakely?” asked the old man. “If he were here and Ben were here, we’d have a turkey shoot sure. They’d not let you be dragged off a witch!” He grabbed his chest, his face stricken with pain, jaw slack. He slid from her grasp, heavy and unable to stand.

“His heart!” Serena looked to Herrick and Noyes and the others for any sign of sympathy or help but none came. “He needs be helped inside! Will you help me get him abed?”

“It’s a trick!” Anne Putnam raised a fist skyward. “A witch’s trick!”

Herrick ordered two men to help get Francis inside and in a bed.

“I can’t leave him alone like this, Mr. Herrick, please.”

“Told you it was a trick!” shouted Anne.

Herrick ordered one of his men to stay with Francis, a second to alert John Tarbell to come to the house to see to him.

“Does that suit you, Good-daughter Nurse . . . ah, Mrs. Wakely?”

“You’ve known me all your life, Mr. Herrick, and I’ve given you no more cause to suspect me a witch than did my mother. Soon they will be asking you to give up your mother, your sister!”

Herrick quietly replied, “I won’t go the way of Williard.”

“And you know him to be an honorable man, and yet he is to be hanged tomorrow along with my aunt!”

“I must obey my orders, ma’am.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do.”

Serena was escorted to the jail cart, the same as had been used to humiliate her mother before her. “You’re all transparent liars, all of you! You won’t be happy until you’ve stolen our lands!”

“Get in there, now!” Herrick’s anger showed on his face. “I’ve collected no lands or buildings, mills or inns, young woman. And I’ve not been paid my rate for two months!”

Inside the cart, the entire world changed. Serena’s home became smaller and smaller, cut into sections by the bars she gazed through. She no longer had to imagine what her mother had faced, what she had gone through; she was now living it.

The other three women in the cart appeared as normal as Serena could imagine. She had no personal contact with any of them in the past, but they looked like housewives, bakers, mothers, sisters, nieces and daughters. None looked or acted like the addled Sarah Goode or the vile-tongued Osborne, or unwashed Martha Carrier—the dregs that her mother’d been jailed alongside. These arrested looked like respectable, kindly, perhaps saintly women like her mother, like herself.

No matter. They were all on the way to Gatter’s ugly black hole in the village as it had been emptied, the prisoners there housed in the newly built Soddy-jail built by those now making a living off the misery of neighbors. Many another prisoner had by now been carted off to other villages and to Boston, all awaiting time on the court docket in Salem Village and Salem Town now.

Serena shared glances with each of the other so-called witches in the cart. What has Jeremy to return to now? Now I am gone the way of Mother. Arrested, thrown into the same jail where Mother spent her last days. That vile place run by that vile man who claimed that he had been saved by her mother but who would not say so publicly.

# # # # #

The following day, August 19th, 1692

From inside her jail cell, Serena heard the village crier’s voice wafting down to her as he called out the names of those condemned to die today: George Burroughs, George Jacobs Senior, John Proctor, John Williard, Martha Carrier, and Samuel Wardwell. She breathed a sign of relief as her Aunt Sarah Cloyse and Mary Easty had not been included on today’s calendar.

“Mrs. Proctor must have won her claim of pregnancy,” Serena told the other prisoners. It had taken her the entire night to get used to the odors in the communal cell.

“We should all be so lucky,” replied Martha Corey—who’d been in the village jail now longer than anyone, and whose ‘confession’ had gotten her husband arrested and dead from torture. She’d also managed to lose control of her land and property, the mill. She’d been one of those who’d escaped the night Serena, Jeremy, Ben and Tarbell had opened the jail, but she’d been run to ground, caught, and returned. She now said unbidden, “Your mother, Serena, is sore missed. She led us all in prayer here.”

Another prisoner added, “A wonderful soul was she.”

“Thank you, Goodwife Corey, Goodwife Nels.”

Giles Corey had laughed at the antics of the accusing children, and he’d publicly joked that if any witch lived in Salem, it was his wife. This had led to Martha’s arrest, and angry, she in turn spoke out against Giles as a witch man. After he had been arrested, he’d sought to keep his mill and lands for his sons. He hit on the little known right of an Englishman faced with accusation could plead innocent, guilty, or put in no plea whatsoever. He would ride it out on a plea of No Plea. If he chose to remain mute, he decided, they could not take his property, and once this witchcraft nonsense passed, he’d be set free having lost nothing.

Unfortunately, the judges ordered the man be made to plea, and to do that, they left the methods to the sheriff and his men. Corey stood mute against the fear of his property’s being confiscated. He’d seen how the goods, provisions, cattle, crops planted, home, and lands of others had been taken by the court. Much of the accused’s cattle and provisions had been sent to auction in the West Indies—Barbados in particular.

Someone, and Serena had a pretty good guess as to whom it might be—Jeremy—had counseled Corey to remain the deed holder to his mill and lands, grain sacks, provisions, and animals that he could refuse to enter a plea of innocence or guilt. For one night, Jeremy had explained to Serena about this an old English tenet that a man had the right to stand mute. For a long time, Giles had done just that. He’d been hauled before the judges several times, and each time he simply refused to enter a plea. This behavior stymied the court and its plans to seize Corey properties.

So when Giles Corey, giant and simple man, refused to state himself guilty or innocent, the judges were thrown into a quandary. They had to consult their dusty law books to determine how to proceed. Meanwhile, they held Giles in one jail, his wife in another—so as to have no opportunity for Martha’s becoming pregnant as had occurred with the Proctors.

One by one, the crackling gunshot noise of the opening traps at the gallows reported back to the jail. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six more executed, bringing the number to twelve condemned ‘witches’ executed by official ceremony.

Over the months of this horror, Serena had seen a brave John Proctor, like her father, speak out and write eloquently for appeal to mercy and forbearance and understanding and time. First for his wife, secondly for Serena’s mother, and finally on his own behalf before going to the gallows in her place. Serena had read some of his writings, and for a country farmer, his language had moved her to tears and to hope. He had made her father believe in hope as well. He’d been a strong voice for reason and time, but those who’d condemned both John and Elizabeth Proctor had condemned his words as evil and twisted in purpose as well. Their chief first accuser among the children had been Mercy Lewis, followed by Mary Wolcott—both of whom had been, at one time or another, maidservants in the Proctor home.

At every turn, Serena saw only frustration and loss.

And where is Jeremiah? Has he made any headway in Boston whatsoever? God help him. God help me.

Chapter Seven

Jeremiah had been held up in Boston when Dancer had shown signs of hobbling rather than trotting. He had pulled up and taken a look at the leg Dancer favored. Blood oozed from her left-front hoof. On close examination, he saw that the horse needed a fresh shoe as stones had gotten under the older shod work. The stones had worked into the flesh.

As it must be done, Jeremy returned to Boston, located a smithy, and decided to have all four hooves shod. It meant another day in Boston, but now he was back in the vicinity of the Nurse home.

He now stood on a high rise overlooking all of Salem Farms, rising up on his stirrups, peering through his spy glass for any signs of life down at the Nurse home, any sign of Serena in particular. But the stillness and darkness of the place even now in early sunlight created an odd, painful fear in his chest, a feeling of déjà vu, as in the time he and Serena had returned only to learn that Rebecca had been taken. Nothing looked normal down there.

His immediate thoughts and fears raced to Serena.

He settled back into the saddle and drove toward the house. Dancer felt good beneath him, as if happy to see home as well.

When he pulled up at the gate and tied Dancer to, he noticed that the gate had been broken off its hinges. He rushed up the stairs only to be met by big John Tarbell, a look of terrible pain coloring his face. “It’s bad news, Wakely. Bad news all round.”

“Serena? Where is she?” He rushed past and inside the dark interior.

“Father Francis is dead.” Tarbell stood behind him.

“I hear no wailing, no one!”

“The house is empty save for me and now you.”

“And Serena? Where is my wife, man!”

“Taken.”

“Taken?”

“She was arrested as a witch yesterday.”

“Yesterday I was supposed to be here! Damn me!”

“You couldn’t’ve stopped them taking her, and Francis died trying. His heart gave out. I think he could not see his daughter done the way of Rebecca.”

Jeremy stood staring at Tarbell, unable to believe all this had come about only in the past twenty-four hours. “Ben?”

“Away.”

“Joseph?”

“Walking around in circles.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s walking a petition for Serena, door to door. And there was another hanging yesterday as well—John Proctor among them, along with Williard.”

“Both the Proctors? And Williard?”

“Mrs. Proctor survived, but John, the others on the list, Martha Carrier, George Burroughs, Old Jacobs, Williard, yes, and a man who bravely stepped forward when they were going to go ahead with the execution of the pregnant Elizabeth Proctor.”

“A brave man who stood in for her?”

“They really wanted to use all six of those traps this time,” Tarbell muttered.

“Who stood in for Mrs. Proctor and her unborn child?”

“Samuel Wardwell.”

“Known since I was a lad as the Wizard of Andover.” Jeremy went back outside, unable to look on the sad sight of Francis Nurse’s corpse any longer where Tarbell and Joseph had laid him in a newly built coffin. From behind him, Jeremy heard Tarbell say, “We intend burying him alongside Rebecca.”

“One secret that has been kept around here,” Jeremy muttered, staring out at the spot where Rebecca lay. “The bastards are decimating our family, John.”

“Not sure what that means, but I can guess.”

Jeremy leaned into the railing here on the front porch. His heart sank as the sun rose higher, realizing how horrible it must be at this moment for Serena. “So side by side they hang a minister and a wizard,” he said and coughed out an angry laugh.

Tarbell stood alongside him. “And they would have killed an innocent babe, had not the wizard stepped forward.”

“Aye. They’ve their own notions of innocence and guilt these days.”

“No doubt the unborn child will make a witch once free of the womb.” Tarbell spat.

“And Serena? Where’ve they taken her? Which of their bloody holes?”

“She sits in the same jail her mother once occupied.”

“Damn them! Damn them all! I’m going for her!”

Tarbell grabbed him and shoved him against a wall. “Not by day, and not alone, brother.”

It was the first time any of the Nurse boys or brothers-by-marriage had called Jeremiah brother. “What do you propose?”

“I propose this time we do what we failed doing last time.”

“Right, good!”

“We carry her out of there, and you, sir, you take her as far from here as you can.”

As Mother and Father had asked me to do, he silently chastised himself. “I shouldn’t’ve gone off to Boston. I should’ve taken Serena and disappeared.”

“Right . . . right. Look, man, she wouldn’t go without Francis in there, and he wouldn’t leave Rebecca out there.” He pointed to the stand of oaks.

“Away to Connecticut then, once we have Serena back.”

“We may follow,” replied Tarbell.

“We’ll take new names, and once there no one will know us.”

“The fools behind this terrible mischief have allowed the children to reach too far in their accusations.”

“Are you saying those in control of the bratty accusers have lost any control they may’ve once had?”

“Most certainly true with this latest mad accusation.”

“Against whom?”

“Against Mrs. Hale of Waverly.”

“Not the minister’s wife!” Jeremy grasped his brother by the arm.

“Yes, the terror at Reverend Hale’s doorstep now.”

“My god, but then perhaps the lunacy will be at an end. I mean if they can call out that dear lady, a minister’s wife . . .”

“All the same, you and Serena must disappear.”

“But imagine it. They’re accusing Mrs. Hale of rank witchcraft? Mrs. Hale? John Hale’s wife?”

“Some are already backing off it as a case of mistaken identity on the astral plane, as things can be confused for those who see into that damnable Invisible World they speak of. How’s that for a laugh?”

“I can’t recall a time when we could laugh, John. But if this is true, then Hale himself must see the error—the horrible error of it all. This acceptance of spectral evidence, the madness of it.”

“We can only pray. But as I said, the adults who stand behind the children —those bloodthirsty children—are recanting this accusation for them.”

“Why would they point a finger at Mrs. Hale of all people?”

“She has taken up the same cause as Mrs. Phipps.”

“The governor’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“What cause is that?” Jeremy wildly imagined Mrs. Hale telling people about an unaccounted for child in Barbados, a child killed by Parris and a mysterious Dr. Caball.

“The cause of feeding the accused—same as Serena did here, and Mrs. Phipps is known for in Boston.”

“I see.”

“Mrs. Hale made a habit of visiting the jails with loaves of bread baked in her own kitchen.”

“Pity and mercy are now cause to accuse others?” Jeremy shook his head and watched as some men made their way toward Salem Town with what few goods they had to barter with today.

“No big surprise, really. Look at how many people who’ve signed petitions have come under arrest.”

“She’s a brave lady then, Mrs. Hale.”

“And a lady of great distinction. But then so is Serena and Rebecca and her sisters.”

The two men found some ale and toasted to Francis. After a time, Tarbell said, “Mr. Hale has gone about denouncing any such notions of his wife—and in doing so—”

“Has himself been called out at warlock?”

“Yes.”

Jeremy thought about this for a moment. “You know, John, this turn of events could work to our advantage. Mr. Hale is widely believed a pious, honest man who is what he is and has no secret life.”

“You mean like that old man in there? John Proctor, Sheriff Williard, and the black smith, Samuel Wardwell? A man who sacrificed his life for that of an unborn child and its mother?”

“Aye, I know,” Jeremy conceded. “I too well know. But it is a hope.”

“I trust to hope no more—nor should you, Jere.”

Jeremy nodded firmly and finished his ale. “Tonight we go for Serena.”

“It will be just the two of us.”

“Ben?”

“Has left the county, and there’s no time to send word.”

“And Joseph?”

“I think he is on the verge of a breakdown. It’s best we keep this simple.”

Jeremy shook hands with Tarbell. “Then we do this together.”

“If I have to kill that damnable Gatter, we will free Serena.”

“I want to see the old man.” Jeremy went for the corpse where he poured a third ale and placed it on a table within arms distance from Francis. “He loved his ale.”

“No reason why he shouldn’t enjoy it in the hereafter,” agreed Tarbell.

Jeremy poured more for John, and the two drank all day, awaiting dusk. “Do you think the old man knows we’ll enter him where he wants to be?” Jeremy asked, standing over the open coffin.

“I think so, and I’ll drink to it.”

Jeremy joined him in the toast. “And do you think Francis knows we go to save Serena and take her to her future tonight?” Everything awaited darkness.

Tarbell raised his ale cup again, “Aye, he must know—and I’ll drink to it!”

# # # # #

After entering Francis Nurse’s remains beside his beloved Rebecca, Jeremy and John armed themselves and started on foot with three horses saddled and walking behind. One horse for Tarbell, Serena’s favorite mare, Star, and Jeremy’s Dancer. They made their way via a backwoods cow path that soon put them within sight of the jail where they peeked through the brush. It felt like familiar ground.

“Whatever it takes, we come away with Serena.” Jeremy recalled having been held up by Dancer the night before. For now he felt glad that he’d had all four shoes replaced. Had he been here when they’d taken Serena, he felt reasonably sure that he’d’ve been shot to death in his struggle with Herrick and his men. He’d be under the earth with Francis and Rebecca by now.

This witchcraft madness had already cost the lives of countless citizens, most of whom lay dead and buried, victims of consumption or one jail fever or another. Serena could contract such a death at any time. Jeremy meant to free her at any cost, and together they’d ride all night if necessary to find a safe harbor in this land.

They tied the horses beneath a stand of trees, leaving them at a safe distance to graze on the grass in a silent hollow, a place where a man might picture gnomes if not hobgoblins stepping in and out of hollowed out trees.

The two men filled with ale, rum, and courage borne of anger followed the contour of the gulley—a regular wash in rain times. The path led to the rear of the jail. As they neared, Jeremy cautioned Tarbell as they heard the voices of men paid to care for the needs of the incarcerated—Gatter for sure, perhaps the younger Will Fiske, the son of the elder Fiske, who’d turned in his badge to sit on the jury judging the accused.

“I hope we don’t have to kill no one,” whispered John, “but if I must . . .”

Jeremy nodded. “Agreed. Whatever it takes, we leave with Serena.”

They inched closer amid the dark shadows, rushing for the back of the jail. With no window this side of the shoddy place, this meant no way to communicate with Serena. The only barred windows were at the front of this oven. Little wonder the stifling odors, the stale air, and the rampant sickness inside. Jeremy’s heart felt ripped and trampled upon just imagining what Serena had endured.

He inched along the back of the jail now, finding the corner at one end while Tarbell went for the other. Their plan was to synchronize the moment each made his move. To this end, Jeremy looked around the corner. He saw no one, but he watched the ups and downs of a flaring fire that burned out front of the jail for light as much as for roasting meat. He took in the cooking odors. Imagined how the odor must affect the poorly fed prisoners who’d been here for months. He also knew that the jailers routinely butchered and fed on livestock belonging to those incarcerated to, in a manner, pay themselves for their efforts.

He moved onward to be in position when the moment came. Soon Jeremy was at the front corner of the square, unadorned mud-hole. He held his pistol to his cheek. He’d counted his steps and imagined that John Tarbell was in position by now.

Jeremy gritted his teeth and stepped out into the light. He was in luck. Gatter and Fiske were indeed enjoying a meal of mutton freshly roasted; their attention remained solely on chomping down on the cheap cut of meat—sheep hocks from what Jeremy could see. Each guard was tearing into his meal when Jeremy and John found themselves simultaneously standing back of them. In sync, the brothers-in-law let fly, using the hilts of their pistols to strike Gatter and Fiske.

Both men went down, Gatter into the fire. Jeremy, who’d struck Gatter, pulled the filthy fat man from the ashes, and seeing that he was coming to, he struck him again. The second blow put Gatter under completely. A look at Fiske, and Jeremy saw that John was tying him hand and foot with thick hemp. Jeremy pulled the rope he’d tied about his waist and did the same with Gatter.

They carefully turned them over to face away from the jail. Thus far, neither Jeremy nor Tarbell could be identified. They’d not spoken a word to this end either.

Jeremy rushed to catch up to Tarbell, now at one of the two windows forming the face of the cell. Jeremy had the keys in hand, the same keys that Rebecca had grabbed and locked inside with her that night Serena begged her to come away with them.

He fought with the keys to locate the big skeleton that opened the huge door while John whispered through the window for Serena to come to the door.

“John!” It was Serena’s voice.

“Shhhh!”

“What’re you doing?”

“Use no names,” he cautioned her.

Jeremy flung the door wide and grabbed Serena in his arms. They held onto one another for some time until Tarbell said in their ears, “You two come along. We must be out of here, now!”

But Serena pulled away and rushed at the unconscious figure of Gatter, and with a swift kick, she bloodied his face. “Bastard!”

“Come away, Serena!” Tarbell handed her over to Jeremy.

“What’s this all about?” Jeremy stared from Gatter’s grimace to Serena.

“Not now!” Tarbell rushed off. “Follow me!”

As they left the jail door standing open, everyone inside able to gather strength began pouring from the gaping black hole. Jeremy noted that all of the escapees went away from the village lights—all save one. A woman he did not know. But busy, Jeremy guided Serena, following in John’s footsteps, back to the horses. Halfway back to the waiting animals, gunshots rang out.

The three of them instinctively ducked and hid away. Looking back through the brush, they saw the fire of muskets. Men had come to the aide of the jailers already, but how? How had they learned of the jailbreak so quickly with both Gatter and Fiske hogtied and unconscious?

Either someone had come to check on them or one of the escaping prisoners had gone directly for help, hoping to curry favor with the authorities. Jeremy realized it might well be the figure he’d seen rushing toward the village, the man or woman who’d informed on them.

If true, Serena, Jeremy, and John were in more trouble than ever; if someone knew they’d come for Serena in particular, this woman may well’ve recognized Tarbell or Jeremy or both—in which case the first place authorities would come looking was the Nurse home.

“We ride all night if necessary,” Jeremy told the other two.

“You two, yes,” replied John. “Not me. I have my family to attend to first.”

“But suppose they go to your place?” Serena grabbed John by the arm. He hugged her tight.

“Go with all due caution then, John.” Jeremy pulled Serena from her brother by marriage. He guided her to her horse. She threw her arms about the horse’s head, moaning, “Oh, Star. It’s so beautiful to see you.”

“Climb on,” Jeremy insisted while he bodily lifted her into the saddle.

“Get on your way, both of you!” Tarbell urged them on. “And tell me nothing of your plans, Jeremy. I will find you in future. Now go!” He slapped Star’s rear and she raced off as Jeremy stepped into his saddle and followed. Their initial direction would send them by the Nurse home. So far as Serena knew, her father waited there, and she’d want to say goodbye.

Jeremy pushed Dancer to catch her, and soon he came alongside, slowing her speed with an upraised hand. “Serena! There is bad news you must hear.”

“Father? How is he?”

“He . . . he is with your mother now.”

She swallowed hard, tears forming. “I want to see him.”

“No, dear. His body is with your mother’s, and so seeing him is no option, and going there could lead to a discovery of the graves. We should not stop at the home at all but take the west road to the territories.”

“Connecticut?” she asked.

“Connecticut, yes. Anyone asking in Boston will be told by Mrs. Fahey, the jailor at the prison, and others, that I booked passage to Barbados. They’ll be looking for us to’ve escaped to the West Indies.”

“Clever ploy.” The West Indies typically meant a stopover en route to Europe.

Jeremy smiled at the compliment. “I only hope that it works. Buys us time. Now we must ride hard.”

“What of money for needs along the way?”

“John found a box of silver coin in your father’s room. Says it’s now your dowry.”

“I was so afraid when you didn’t come; so afraid I’d be stripped, searched by them for the Devil’s mark, excommunicated, found guilty at the court, and hung at the gallows.”

“None of which will ever happen now. I swear to you, no one is taking you from me. Ever again!”

“Ever?”

“Ever, yes.”

They rode for the western black sky ahead of them, a cloud of dust thrown up behind them. They soon passed the once proud Nurse homestead where she pulled up to stare one last time at the stand of trees out front between house and gate where her mother and father lay.

“John says in time they’ll plant flowers, put up a fence and headstones.”

“In time. You mean if this feverish witch hunt is ever at end?”

“Serena. I have it on good authority the accusers have overplayed their parts.”

“What do you mean?

“They recently accused Mrs. Hale of Beverly of the hideous crimes they uttered against your mother and now you.”

“The minister’s wife at Beverly? Madness. There is no more pious and worthy woman in all the colonies together. This persecution is pure hypocrisy! All of it!”

“An hypocrisy from the beginning, agreed!” He turned her gaze from the trees and the tables at her former home and onto his eyes. “I have talked to Mrs. Phipps, have tried to get her to get the governor to intervene, but I fear I’ve failed.”

“I’m sorry, Jeremy. I know you’ve done everything humanly possible.”

“As did your father, John Proctor, your mother in her sacrifice.”

“That filthy jailer offered me freedom if he could touch me.”

That explained her kicking Gatter as she had. “I should have allowed you another kick.”

“And to think the man was going about like a bandy rooster, telling people that Mother had converted him to Christianity.”

“Forget about him—and all of them in the village.”

“And Sarah and Mary? What of my aunts?” Neither Sarah Cloyse or Mary Easty had been in the same jail as Serena.

“I was referring to the evil allowed to go on in the village by the people there. It has always been a place cursed, and never more than now.”

They rode on at a hard pace.

Chapter Eight

The deceased Giles Corey who had died while under torture left three sons and a wife, Martha. Martha Corey learned of her husband’s awful death on the same day she was officially condemned after a court appearance, the day after Giles’ death, September 17th. Martha Corey had the dubious distinction of being at the top of the execution list. On the list of condemned that day with Martha were Margaret Scot of Rowly, Wilmott Redd of Marblehead, Abigail Hobbs of Topsfield, Mary Parker, Abigail Faulkner, Mary Lacy, and Anne Foster all of Andover—said to be followers of Wizard Wardwell.

Very soon after, on September 22nd, seven condemned witches were publicly executed at the Watch Hill gallows, one having to watch the other six before they got round to her, Martha Corey. Among the executed, a sister to Rebecca Nurse, Mary Easty, Alice and Mary Parker, Wilmott Redd, Ann Pudeator, and Margaret Scot. When prisoners became too ill and unable to stand, they lost their place in line at the gallows, and others condemned by the court were set up in their place on the gallows.

Mary Easty, on the stairs to her rope echoed the words of her sister Rebecca. “I dare not belie my on soul by falsely agreeing to your filthy charges! I know my innocence, which means I know you are all in a wrong way. God help you all if the Lord does not step mightily in—and soon.”

The seer children screamed in agony with her every word as if firebrands burned their eyes and bodies, the screams drowning out Mary Easty’s words for all but save those closest to her.

“It’s of no use, Goodwife.” Martha Corey nudged Mary along. “Reverend Burroughs on this gallows said our Lord’s prayer without a single mistake—”

“I heard the story,” added Wilmott Redd.

“—a thing a witch man’s incapable of doing,” continued Martha, “but they hung him all the same.”

“So save your breath,” suggested Ann Pudeator.

In short order, all of the condemned brought to the rope were executed after Mary Easty’s comments to her Maker and to the men and women of Salem, including some in her extended family who thought her guilty.

# # # # #

A Boston news pamphlet with a circulation reaching a third of the population, one which had been keeping Bostonians apprised of all news coming from Salem regarding the arrests, condemnations, and executions surrounding the recent events concerning the dark arts and the search for witches and warlocks had early on warned that such dark proceedings—accusations and arrests for murder by witchery—could, in time, begin anew in Boston. Horatio Sperlunkle, the editor of the paper informed his readers via the dispatches of an itinerant journalist named Silas Smithington that:

On good authority, accusations (not of this paper’s making) have in fact not only reached so far as Boston but the mansion—accusations maligning the character of Mrs. Elizabeth Phipps. The Salem ‘seer children’ of whom we hear so much success in seeing facts of an invisible and spectral nature, have announced against Governor Phipps’ wife, who, like the wife of Waverly’s Reverend John Hale, has been busy at the jails here in Boston showing mercy and offering sweet meats and drink to prisoners. This outrage against Mrs. Elizabeth Phipps is, in the estimation of this paper, the proverbial final straw.

The pamphlet’s message spread throughout Boston, and depending on the reader, this news was either a sensational revelation of truth or a terrible gossip’s lie that had been stretched out of all proportion. But this, of all the accusations, if a lie, then a lie touching on the highest family in the land, and condemning the First Lady of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. What must the people of Essex County think?

The pamphlet went on to say:

Each of these virtuous, Christian women, Mrs. Hale of Beverly, a minister’s wife, and our Mrs. Phipps of Boston, the governor’s wife, have habitually visited those unfortunate and wretched souls jailed on the charge of witchcraft and murder via the dark arts.

While we here in Boston are not so familiar with Minister John Hale and Mrs. Hale of Beverly, we are familiar with William and Mrs. Phipps. We have seen her kneel to extend prayers and bread, feeding the accused—and we know that mere accusation alone has nowadays become the coin of realm in the court system. Now to have Mrs. Phipps accused of these heinous crimes has placed her in the company of degenerates, murderers, thieves, and other lowly types. If some among us have questioned the extremes we see in Salem Farms, what now would authorities have us do with this extreme accusation?

Perhaps at last this insult to him will garner action from our governor, who may well on hearing this nonsense go from being a man of inaction and knowing nothing of witchcraft matters or how accusations have been handled since March to knowing the truth of these matters! For what Goodman in Essex County, indeed the entirety of the present colonies, who knows his wife intimately to be pure of heart can doubt now that many pure of hearts have been arrested, imprisoned, and perhaps executed among the twenty-one thus far hung in Salem? Are we now to imagine Mrs. Phipps at the end of a rope, summarily executed by the state? A state headed by her husband?

Is there any question or doubt in the mind of our governor as to what these recent accusations against his wife mean? We at this ledger do hope that Minister Hale might come to Boston, seek audience with Governor Phipps and compare his Goodwife with Phipps’ own. That the two men might begin with their ladies’ charitable, munificent, and pious natures, which nature precludes any curiosity or interest in the black arts.”

The paper had been quietly speaking out since Jeremiah Wakely’s secret dispatches had begun showing up. The editor however stopped short of printing the libelous theory of how Reverend Samuel Parris of Salem Village not only instigated and fanned the flames of accusations in the witch hunt for personal gain, along with other ministers and magistrates—including Sir William Stoughton and the Court of Oyer & Terminer. The editor also refused to print the horrid theory that a man of the cloth, Parris, may or may not have killed his own half-breed infant in an abortion performed by a ship’s doctor named Caball docked at Barbados some three or four years before removing himself and his family to Salem.

News of Mrs. Hale’s having been accused had come along with testimonials as to her character. Oddly, the postmark on the news was that of Connecticut—a man named Silas Smithington, but the Sperlunkle knew it was an alias of the outlaw Jeremy Wakely.

Whatever the truth of the matter, all of Boston had this news of Mrs. Phipps’ being a witch now on the tongue. It took the place of concerns of weather, crops, fishing nets and catches, and of cargo coming and going in the harbor, and the normal life of trade in weights and measures and working one’s fields, and clearing woods, and building barns and homes. Concerns that, particularly in Salem, had been let go since the witchcraft panic had begun and snowballed downhill until people were seeing witches everywhere. Now the frenzy, like a disease, had spread to other villages and towns until now it gripped Boston in a most dramatic fashion.

In the Governor’s house, Mrs. Phipps sat her busy husband down, and she insisted he listen to a tale told by a so-called witch and now a reported fugitive and outlaw, a man named Jeremiah Wakely alias Silas Smithington.

“How ever does my lady come by these accounts from this rogue Wakely?” demanded William Phipps, pacing their bedroom.

Elizabeth Phipps sat at her mirror, brushing out her long, golden hair. “By a party who came to me while you were fighting Indians in the territories. A reliable source.”

“That Samuel Parris has played us all for fools, the entire General Court? The Salem judges, Corwin and Hathorne? That Parris’ true intent was land holdings and the court seized on the idea along with vote gathering?”

“You know something of the man I speak of,” she calmly replied and resumed brushing. “A man who has done work for you through Increase Mather, secretive work.”

“Jeremiah Wakely? Who has come under suspicion himself? Who has married into one of the witch families down there?”

She wheeled on him and angrily shouted, “Yes, the same as was sent by Increase Mather into Salem, just before all of this witch hunt business began, yes—orders stemming from you, Mister Phipps.”

“One and the same, yes.” He avoided her eyes.

“Increase, your trusted friend, he spoke highly of this Wakely as I recall.”

“He did indeed. Trusted his judgment.”

“As you did, and yet you take the reports of others against him as fact?”

“He is accused of breaking prisoners out of the Salem jailhouse!”

“And when they come to lock me away in the jailhouse here, William? Will you break me free? What I hear is that Mr. Wakely took back what was his, and it’s rather romantic, his facing a loss of everything—his reputation, his very future, his life for his love.”

Sir William Phipps did not miss the innuendo. “I’d do the same for you, Lizbeth! You know I’d give up everything here—” he swept a hand through the air—“to keep you safe.”

“Wakely told me a horror tale about a child aborted in Barbados by a Dr. Caball, a man I have heard my father speak of—a miscreant who has no education and is no doctor at all but a butcher whose services go to anyone with coin.”

“Tell me then the whole story and how Wakely came by it.”

Mrs. Phipps laid out everything she’d learned about Parris, including his connection to her father and this man, Caball, and the fact these two men conspired to hide Parris’ mistake.

“How do you know this information is correct, Elizabeth?”

“When I was a young girl, my father came home with an infant, a child of mixed race.”

“Really? To raise as his own mistake?”

“He made some peace with Mother about the child, and he and my mother raised the child. I asked mother about it once, and she simply said, “Your father saved this child from a certain death. He is a good man.”

“Then there was no murder in Barbados of this Tituba Indian’s child.”

“No, only what appears to be an attempt that my father learned of and stopped. He must have convinced Parris to allow him to take the child. The mother, in a drugged state and afterward assumed the worst.”

“What became of the child?”

“He was trained in the ways of a man servant, and he is still in my father’s service. His name is Reginald.

“How can you know this is—was—the same child?”

“How can you know that it isn’t?”

“And if this confessed witch, Tituba is telling the truth . . . Parris is not the man he pretends.”

“What will you do, William? What will your office make of my being accused a witch? They strip the witches to search for imperfections on their bodies, calling warts by another name—the teet where suckles a demon or familiar! Will you stand by as you have so long now when they strip—”

“By all that is holy! By God and by my hand, no one will dare touch you, Lizbeth!”

“And when they come for me, armed men of your court system?”

Phipps thought of the scenario and it tore at his heart. “I have my own guard, and they are loyal men. Men who have fought with me in the provinces and the territories against the heathen horde. Men who will kill on my word.”

“But suppose these same men are superstitious and believe the accusations and subscribe to the chosen children of Salem who have now accused me?”

“Lizbeth!” he went to her and kneeled, his head in her lap. “What would you have me do?”

“I have several requests, beginning with an immediate decree to open every jailhouse door and release anyone inside accused of murder or mischief by way of witchcraft.”

“Done! It is done.”

“And you need to hand down an edict that will immediately shut down the Court of Oyer & Terminer.”

“Done!”

“And in time, you must summarily replace Sir William Stoughton as the head of the judges, and possibly replace the entire General Court.”

He hesitated a moment. “In time, yes.”

“And immediately strip these two lesser judges of any power whatsoever to oversee any trial of any sort ever again.

“Done, dear.”

“And to remove from Salem Town a man named Noyes, a minister.”

“Remove a minister of—”

“A man who cannot fill the shoes of your old friend, Nehemia Higginson.”

“And I suppose you also want the removal of—”

“A thing you should have done from the beginning of the growing feud in Salem Village.”

“Remove Samuel Parris.”

“Put it to him. He can hang for high crimes and misuse of his office, or he can disappear.”

“Done.”

Chapter Nine

Flyers and town criers went about Boston, Salem, and the colonies declaring the word of the top legal authority in the colony, Governor and Sir William Phipps. He had acted swiftly to quell any possibility of any further defamation of his wife’s character. He also declared a moratorium on arrests for witchcraft, trials for witchcraft, and executions for witchcraft. By carriage, he traveled to Salem, accompanied by Reverend John Hale, their two wives, surrounded by his private armed guard.

Governor William Phipps took a series of meetings with the judges, and especially William Stoughton. He took private meetings with Cotton Mather, Reverend Noyes, Samuel Parris, and he examined letters that rent his heart, letters of appeal for reason and caution both by and on behalf of the executed—Rebecca Nurse, John Proctor, Reverend George Burroughs, Mary Easty, and Sarah Cloyse among them.

Phipps took meetings individually with the seer children only to find himself called out by them as the most clever of all the wizards and warlocks in all of New England, and that he might just be the Antichrist with the Black Bible. In fact, he’d been given the scepter of the Black Minister leading the witches at their black Sabbath, the scepter of the heretic.

Before returning to Boston, Governor Phipps ordered the jails in all of Massachusetts opened and everyone arrested on the say so of the Salem accusers released on the basis of insufficient evidence. This included all those found guilty and condemned to die by the Court of Oyer & Terminer—the very court he’d asked Stoughton to convene. The court he now proclaimed at an end. These decrees were posted on the meetinghouse doors in every hamlet and town, and to be sure, they were posted at Ingersoll’s Inn and Apothecary, and Ingersoll was stripped of his duties as postmaster.

News of Phipps’ finally taking action, while far too late for Rebecca Nurse and nineteen others executed, and one man tortured to death, and some three hundred incarcerated, quickly spread and made the front page of every pamphlet in Essex County. An assessment was ordered to determine precisely how many accused prisoners had died of consumption and disease while in custody, but no exact figure could be established as those accused of witchcraft were numbered in with those arrested on other charges who passed away while in the care of the state.

On the way back to Boston, from behind the curtain within the Phipps carriage, Mrs. Phipps asked, “So what weight do you give, husband, on the documents recovered that Jeremiah Wakely had asked be posted but were never forwarded?”

“So you’ve heard the tale?”

“Not much gets by my attention, as you well know.”

“I’ve seen the vileness behind the parsonage walls, the vileness within this man Parris thanks to Wakely’s meticulous notes. There is this one sermon in particular, and there is a detailed report of a sham exorcism.”

“I should like to see Wakely’s reports some time.”

“They are not comfortable bedtime reading, my dear.”

“All the same, I wish to see them.” The rough road made her slip and slide into him when the wheels hit a particularly bad spot. He took advantage of her being almost in his lap, and he kissed her passionately. She returned his kiss, very much in love with this man. But when she pulled away, she said, “Don’t think you can distract me. I still want to see those reports that should have come to Cotton Mather and then to your hands in the first place.”

“All right,” he conceded to the sound of the creaking coach. “After which the flames will see them.”

“You mean to destroy it all?”

“What good to perpetuate what has happened here. News of what really went on here gets back to England, it will make a mockery of what we’re here to accomplish on these shores, Lizbeth—a horrid mockery.”

“Ah, I see . . . politics?”

“More than politics. It could mean the survival of this-this experiment. We came here to build a New Jerusalem, to glorify God with a paradise on Earth. What will all the enemies of Puritanism make of what’s happened here?”

“Aye, plenty of people want us to fail. Among them my father.”

“The old cussed doctor, yes. He’s never believed in me, has he?”

“Afraid not, and I wish you’d forgive him that. I have.”

“He hasn’t any belief in our dream here in New England, and he has cursed me for taking you away from him.”

It was a sore point in their marriage and had always hung over them. He took her hands in his. “Write to your father in Barbados. Ask him directly about this man Caball and this Reginald’s origins—if you wish to pursue this Parris business any further —which I do not, my lady. Otherwise, it is dropped.”

“What of Parris then—the so-called ordained minister?” The coach again bucked hard and the driver slowed. From above they heard his urgent apologies for the road.

“Parris is done on these shores, Liz. I’ve ordered him out of the jurisdiction of the Bay Colony.”

“But then he will simply go elsewhere and spread his venom in Rhode Island or—”

“Drop it. The man has lost all influence and—”

“Lost his influence? While others’ve lost their lives, William!”

“—and-and any hold he may have had on this parish, including any land holdings he thought he had in Salem.”

“Lost his parish house did he?” She remained sarcastic.

“Including a tract he thought he had that touched on the Frost Fish River, a tract that would have set him up as an ore magnate. Turns out he held an interest in a nearby mine with his relatives here.”

“He should be taken out to those awful gallows we saw on the way in and hung!”

“An eye for an eye? That’s not like you, Liz.”

“If anyone deserves it in all this, if capital punishment means anything—”

“Lizbeth! He fades away quietly from this place.”

“And pays no price?”

“God will repay him in due course.”

“Twenty-one dead that we know of, dead by these witch trials, and he walks away untouched? Is that justice?”

“We are interested in healing at this time.”

“And justice be damned?”

“Justice? There is none to be found here, and-and—twisted justice—is what has got us to this cross.”

She reached out to her husband and with a finger to her lips shushed him for the sake of the carriage driver and gossip. “It’s none of your doing, William. You put your trust in our beloved faith—and in the highest court in the land.”

“I should’ve held faith with you.”

“True but you didn’t; still, recriminations against yourself now are of no use.”

“Should have paid attention to your intuition. Early on you had your suspicions on this matter.”

“Yes, I did, and I predicted it would hurt us all badly in the end.”

“And it has indeed.”

“I will write father in Barbados, but I fear he will not be forthcoming on the subject of his part in hiding the child, but now that so much time has passed, perhaps. Be if true, think how clearly the line is to be drawn from the death or rather near death of an infant by a needle in Barbados to the multiple deaths of infants—so-called by witchcraft and by needle—aborted, here! Coincidence?”

“All the same, any further attack on the ministry and the court can only weaken our government here, Elizabeth.”

“And we can’t have that, now can we?”

He glared at her but was at a loss for words. The coach had maintained a steady pace now as if the driver was being more cautious or curious; it was impossible to tell. All around the carriage uniformed militia—the Governor’s private guard—rode in formation, cheering suddenly. This made both governor and wife look outside where they saw some burly Salem farmers had sent the Watch Hill gallows tumbling down.

Inside the coach, Mrs. Phipps’ expression was of a bittersweet smile. “What of the lands and properties seized by the court?”

“They are in question yet, but I will look them all over with Wilburforce, entertain petitions, attempt to return lands rightfully to those who have lost due to this . . . this—”

“Debacle you may call it.”

He nodded and smiled at her. “That’s a proper word for it.”

She muttered under her breath, “Over three hundred of our citizenry have been jailed in disease-ridden, rat-infested prisons where the numbers of dead have not been kept.”

“Do you know what Sir William Stoughton said to me, Elizabeth?”

“I warned you about that man. I’ve always detested his arrogance and love of power.”

“Do you wish to hear what he had to say then?”

“Of course, I do. I may want to write a book one day.”

“Don’t think of it. A governor’s wife penning a book!”

“So what did he say?”

“He said of his judges, and I quote, ‘We are in one agreement. We have no intention of putting an end to God’s work until every single witch and wizard is found out, confesses—as hundreds have done—or are executed as only a handful have been.”

“So your words to him and the high court fell on deaf ears?”

“Afraid so.”

“Righteous men with a righteous cause are often blinded by their very righteousness. So how will they proceed without a court? If they go against your edict then—”

“Then they will be arrested, and they know it. They have no court overseeing cases of witchcraft no longer.”

“Did you tell them our suspicions against Parris?”

“Only in the most general terms. I didn’t want to cast eyes or aspersions on your father, who some might think this mysterious Dr. Caball.”

She hadn’t considered this and it took her aback, but she dropped it and instead asked, “But you made the point that Parris is an ambitious oaf capable of doing anything to get what he wants?”

“I did; I made that plain enough.” Governor Phipps, a hero of the Indian wars, banged the top of the carriage with his cane, using the signal for speed. The carriage moved faster over the road to Boston and home.

# # # # #

In further public forums, the Governor declared repeatedly that every jail door be opened in a General Amnesty to all prisoners within and specifically anyone accused of witchcraft or murder by means of witchcraft. William Phipps went on to publicly denounce the use of nightmares, ghost stories, or spectral evidence of any sort in any court in the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

It was as if cold water had been thrown over an entire land, as if everyone had awakened from a gruesome shared nightmare. A gut wrenching, sobering of the collective mind spelled the end of the hysteria that’d taken the lives of neighbors.

This light-of-day, cold sobering, which began with the accusation of Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Phipps, replaced the out of control power that’d been handed over to the chosen ones—the ‘seer children’—who suddenly were given no more heed than fools and naves.

# # # # #

Jeremiah and Serena had found temporary lodging in a river village along the Connecticut River that was quite the outpost; in fact, the sound of Indian chants and the smell of Indian fires were within earshot and nostril. But it felt like a place of peace, and it proved a place where Mr. and Mrs. Silas Smithington held up as newlywed Goodman and Goodwife striking out on their own, and not fugitives from the now infamous Salem ordeal.

It’d been from here that Jeremy had sent his dispatches to the Boston editor, Horatio Sperlunkle who might or might not publish the lie that he had not fabricated but had nourished instead—that the Salem accusers, those supposedly capable of seeing into the Invisible World of Satan—had called out the name of Elizabeth Phipps—none other than Governor William Phipps’ wife. This time it was Jeremy who fanned the flame.

It’d been a calculated risk, but the idea was hatched when Jeremy had informed Serena of the accusations leveled at John Hale’s wife and at Phipps’ wife, which so reflected Serena’s own experience—feed the needy prisoners and you become a target. He’d closely watched Serena’s reaction, the depth of her confusion and anger and disbelief that Mrs. Hale of all people and that the kindness she had witnessed in Boston from Mrs. Phipps could be twisted so horribly.

After a brief discussion of the absurdity of Mrs. Hale’s having been accused, likening her to her own mother, Serena suggested, “Those damnable accusers have reached too far now. Their keepers gave them too much rope.”

“I doubt it,” Jeremy had disagreed. “We need to feed this accusation against Mrs. Phipps.”

“What? We need to feed it? This woman’s a saint, Jeremy!”

“Like your mother? Your aunts? You?”

“When I was among the prisoners as one of them, Mrs. Hale brought us bread and water and tea at the jail. Risked disease. Risked being stoned, she did!”

“Like Mrs. Phipps in Boston.” Jeremy agreed. “We must make hay of this.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me. Or rather Silas Smithington, Mrs. Smithington.”

“Right, Silas, but how?” she persisted.

They were staying at a boarding house, ostensibly on their way further west. He located his ink and quill. “By the power of the pen, and this time my words will be published.”

“Jeremy, yes, you know people in Boston—that fellow you worked for at the paper.”

Their eyes met. “Are you suggesting that we start our own bloody lie?”

“A lie to defeat their lies, yes—a foul one at that.”

“But suppose it backfires and Mrs. Phipps is actually arrested?”

“Mrs. Proctor was arrested, followed by her husband; Mrs. Corey arrested, followed by Giles Corey; Parkers the same. Mother and her sisters, and had my father not died, he’d’ve gone the way of Mother—to the gallows. And had you and John not freed me, well? If Mrs. Phipps is arrested, it follows that this do-nothing Governor would be facing arrest as well.”

“Then perhaps he might exert power in the right direction?”

“It’s a chance worth taking.”

Jeremy welcomed Serena’s help on fashioning Silas Smithington’s Reports from Salem. They worked on the details together in the silence of the small room they’d rented. They knew it would be months before any repercussions came of their bold news.

And now today they had received news of the bold edicts posted across Essex County and the Massachusetts Bay Colony that effectively put an end to the Court of Oyer & Terminer, the lesser courts, the accusation fever, and to Samuel Parris.

To celebrate, Jeremy took Serena to dine out and they shared a bottle of wine.

# # # # #

As slow as dripping water from a pump, news of the Governor’s having taken action, that he’d finally stepped in and halted the witch trials, filtered to Connecticut, reaching these outer settlements. Even so, both Jeremy and Serena had misgivings about trusting the news, despite their quiet celebration. Soon, however, the word about Phipps’stepping in had taken on more than the sound and feel of rumor.

All the same, for Serena in particular, the feelings of relief mixed with feelings of anger and loss. Like many, she rightfully wanted to know why had it taken so long? The first arrests had been Sarah Goode and Tituba Indian, and from this the arrest of a single third witch, Bridget Bishop, all this in late February and early March, followed by several more arrests in March, and now it was mid-October and the arrests had turned into countless deaths.

“My parents gone, my home desecrated and for all we know now in the hands of the state,” she complained to Jeremy as they packed to move on, going for the land deeded over to Jeremiah Wakely with the hope no warrant officer was waiting for him there. As to Reverend Cotton Maher, as in all things, he had remained out of sight, his head held low.

Jeremy imagined it would take years for Serena to forgive and forget and to move on. He had no words for her. Instead, he held her.

“Tell me about how Father’s burial went, Jeremy. Was the word read over him?”

“Tarbell and I said the Lord’s Prayer over him.” Jeremy didn’t tell her that they’d slurred their way through it, both having drank too much.

“That’s good,” she replied. “I miss them both so very much.”

Jeremy feared her heart might break. He held onto her while she sobbed. “I wrapped him in a shawl your mother often wore; he’d been clinging to it when he died according to John. The shawl still smelled of her.”

Serena only sobbed more at this news. “Thank you, Jeremy.”

“For what?”

“For too many kindnesses to count.”

“From all I could determine of John Tarbell and Joseph and Ben, your family intends to hold onto their land and continue on in Salem. They may have to petition the new court overseeing the redistributions, but they have a good case now. We can go back some time. See them.”

“You, perhaps! I want nothing more to do with the place.”

“I completely understand your bitterness, I do.”

“Do you think me unforgiving? If so, you will have to accept it in me, husband.”

“I accept you fully—as you are, Candlwick; I love you, always.”

“And I you.”

Epilogue

1702, Greenwich, Connecticut

Ten years later, Serena and Jeremiah are sitting down to evening meal when he opens the Connecticut Dispatch, a newspaper in Greenwich, where they have settled on the property deeded over to them by the high court of the colonies in 1692. Serena is raising and selling horses, and Jeremy is the local magistrate, having the respect of the community.

A letter arrives postmarked from Salem Village, the seal indicating NI—that of Nathaniel Ingersoll. The letter is put aside, unopened. Before long, the unopened communication is disturbing their meal. Finally, Serena shouts, “Jeremy Wakely, if you don’t open it, I will and now!”

“Any word from Ingersoll and Salem can wait on my meal; I want no indigestion.”

Serena realizes he wants no reliving of the events of Salem. Still she insists, “Open it, Jeremy. It may well be important.”

“The damn thing can wait till after dinner.”

They argue until she gets her way, and he opens it to learn a startling fact he is reluctant to share.

Serena, seeing the confused look on his handsome features, wrests the note from his hand. In Ingersoll’s tight little script, he writes:

April 4th 1702

Dear Jeremiah & Serena Wakely,

I thought you should know of this news. That this day, as an adult, Anne Putnam Junior stood unbidden by anyone before all Salem Village parishioners in the meeting house, and the spinster freely confessed to having lied during the entire witchcraft episode. Witchy thing that she is, she begged forgiveness from her fellow villagers. Oddly or perhaps not so oddly, forgiveness was granted Anne. No one else of the accusing girls ever made such a confession, save that time Susannah Sheldon had recanted her accusations against the Wilkinses—but this is the only such recanting after the fact. However, as you recall, during the height of the witch hunt, Mary Wolcott also at one time recanted her accusation in confession, but that she was bullied into recanting her confession at that time.

So I suppose young Miss Putnam did a brave thing in making confession that she wronged so many, and that twenty one died on her and the other girl’s lies—and of course, the behavior of we adults who stood by. I won’t discount that adults were in the thick of it as well.

By the way, Samuel Parris passed away peaceful and content in Sweringen, Ohio where he’d located his family and begun a new life, still preaching to the needy heathens there—his new congregation. We must trust that God has special plans for our Mr. Parris in the next life.

As for myself, I have much forgiveness to seek, and I do so each day here. I wish to apologize to you both for your terrible loses during those darks days. Had we all eyes to see more clearly then, had we purer hearts, the fire that took us over could not have been kindled.

Your friend in all sincerity,

Nathaniel Ingersoll

Jeremy came round and took Serena in his arms as she’d begun to sob with the memories of her mother’s last days, and how her father had died alone. Holding her tight and then tighter, Jeremy thought too of how his own mother and father had died in Salem so many years ago. He thought of the series of ministers whose families had died in that parish, and of how poor George Burroughs had ended his days. He thought of broken paths and crooked turns and gnarled branches, all the fingers of small streams and rivers that had brought him and Serena together here in Greenwich. Here in a life of peace with three children of their own to nourish and protect.

Together in the middle of the room, the lovers gently rocked into one another, until after a moment, they appeared as one.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert W. Walker is the author of more than forty published novels, beginning with SUB-ZERO in 1979. He has millions of books in print. You can visit him at www.robertwalkerbooks.com.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

THE INSTINCT THRILLERS featuring FBI forensic pathologist Dr. Jessica Coran

Killer Instinct

Fatal Instinct

Primal Instinct

Pure Instinct

Darkest Instinct

Extreme Instinct

Blind Instinct

Bitter Instinct

Unnatural Instinct

Grave Instinct

Absolute Instinct

THE EDGE THRILLERS featuring Detective Lucas Stonecoat

Cold Edge

Double Edge

Cutting Edge

Final Edge

THE GRANT THRILLERS featuring Medical Examiner Dean Grant

Floaters

Scalpers

Front Burners

Dying Breath

THE RANSOM MYSTERIES featuring 19th century detective Alastair Ransom

City for Ransom

Shadows in the White City

City of the Absent

THE DECOY THRILLERS featuring Chicago cop Ryne Lanarck

Hunting Lure

Blood Seers

Wind Slayers

Hand-to-Hand

THE BLOODSCREAMS SERIES featuring archeologist Abraham Stroud

Vampire Dreams

Werewolf’s Grief

Zombie Eyes

HORROR NOVELS

Dr. O

Disembodied

Aftershock

Brain Stem

Abaddon

The Serpent Fire

Flesh Wars (the sequel to The Serpent Fire)

Children of Salem

THRILLER NOVELS

Sub-Zero

PSI: Blue

Deja Blue

Cuba Blue (with Lyn Polkabla)

Dead On

Thrice Told Tales (short stories)

YOUNG ADULT

Daniel Webster Jackson & the Wrong Way Railroad

Gideon Tell & the Siege of Vicksburg

NON FICTION

Dead On Writing – Thirty Years of Writerly Advice

Content

Walker Robert W. Children of Salem