One arm around each,
he shows them off like they are sons
wounded and home from war.
Doctor Griggs shoves forth Elizabeth.
She joins the Reverend’s small troop of seers.
Elizabeth twists down her sleeve,
tottering on her boots as though
she be not sure she belongs.
Missus says, “Ann, step now
and take thy place among them.”
Ann stares up at me and I shrug.
I understand why her foot
sticks in the snow.
The other girls hunch
tattered and wan,
unsteady and unready
for all the eyes
which fall upon them.
“Go on, stand ye by the Reverend,
and tell all what thou hast seen.”
Mister Putnam’s voice disavows
hesitant feet. Ann scurries forth.
Missus looks to join her,
but Thomas Putnam raises his hand
and shakes his head. “Little Ann
will sit aside me in meeting today.”
He hands Missus his cloak,
whistles Wilson to his side
and clasps the hand of his daughter.
Missus gasps as though a door
be shut upon her breath.
She tosses Mister’s cape to me
without a glance my direction.
Out the corner of my eye
I see Margaret snicker.
Ann stands before the parsonage
held steady by her father,
and all look on her, amazed.
Margaret plods toward the others,
unarmed, without her father at her side.
“Maaaargaret,” her step-mother crows
loud as a pestered gull.
“Thou art not a seer.”
I be nearly tempted to pity
Margaret when turned eyes
shame her face red.
In the diversion, Ann’s panicked
brow raises to me,
as if I should tell her what to do.
I shake my head
as she is swallowed
into the church.
MOTHER TELLS WHAT I SEE
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
“An old woman rocks
in my grandmother’s chair,
knitting black baby’s stockings.
I know this old woman
but don’t remember her name,”
I say quickly to avoid interrogation.
Mother squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go.
“Ann, dear.” She locks eyes with me.
“Is it Rebecca Nurse who torments you?”
Mother smiles and nods her head. Her eyes swirl.
The name Nurse is not to be whispered
in my house, for that family stole land
from my mother’s father before I was born.
I stretch to seek Mercy.
But Mother blocks her from view.
My fingers turn metal cold with pain.
“Yes. Goodwife Nurse.
That is who sits in Grandmother’s chair,”
I say. Mother releases my hand.
BEWITCHED
Margaret Walcott, 17
“That bonnet be right smart.”
I turn and look,
but none is on the trail,
except a red-chest sparrow
high-stepping his pin legs
in the dirt.
“Margaret.”
“Art thou bewitched?”
I point a twig at the feathered one,
and he flies away.
Laughter bubbles like notes out of a flute
and the chuckling can’t belong but to one.
“Isaac?” I say his name so quiet
only the leaves know I speak.
He pulls the string under my chin,
and my bonnet falls to the ground.
I feel all the hair sprout
horrid and toadlike from my head.
My one hand quick smooths it down,
the other fastens my cap back in place.
But he undoes it with more speed.
This time I yank the cloth over my ears
and hold tight. With less than a tug
he snatches my bonnet high above my reach.
My face heats. “Pray, let me have it back!”
My fists wish to beat his chest.
Why and how could he
carry that wood for any but me,
not to say a servant,
not to speak for that lowly wench?
“Margaret, what be?” Isaac dabs
one finger under my eye
as it starts to spill its sadness.
“Isaac.” His father calls his name
from not twenty paces away.
Isaac hands back my bonnet
and with a fast wave good-bye,
he makes his leave of me.
A NEW WITCH ACCUSED
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Uncle Edward asks, “Ann, what clothes
doth Goodwife Corey wear when she attacks ye?”
My breath quickens, and I gasp like I be drowning.
I cannot see what clothes Goody Corey wears.
“I cannot see the Invisible World,” I say.
“I feel Goody Corey choke and prick me.
She tells me it is her who torments me so.
She says my sight will not return until evening
and then she will pay me off for daring
to name her to you.” I collapse under my words.
Uncle and Deacon seem satisfied
with my explanation, satisfied
as one feels after a hearty meal.
The men journey off to Martha Corey.
Only Mercy’s eyes contain questions.
HEARSAY
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Mercy looks up at me as she lifts the baby.
I feel tall. She motions for me
to press my ear against her lips.
“Who is Martha Corey?” she asks.
“Father and Reverend Parris say
Goody Corey speaks against
the existence of witches in our village.”
“Ann, dear.” Mother stands behind me.
“Whisper not in Mercy’s ear.
I can hear plain what you say.”
She sits on the ottoman.
“Goody Corey also gave birth to a child
out of wedlock with one of her slaves,
or maybe ’twas just a servant,
but the baby was not only Puritan white.”
“So then all believe her to be a witch,”
Mercy says.
“Not all, for Martha Corey be pious
and a church member,” Mother says,
and smooths the hair off my forehead.
“But she will be judged a witch.”
FIRST SIGHT
Mercy Lewis, 17
Master Putnam tests his daughter
like a cruel schoolmaster.
He walks her tormentor, Martha Corey,
into the house. Ann bends and shrivels,
and when she claims Goody Corey
is the cause, her tongue shoots
from her mouth and her teeth
clench down on it until blood comes.
When I bend to aid her,
Ann whispers to my ear alone,
“Do you not see a man on a spit,
Goody Corey roasting him like a boar?”
She squeezes my hand,
but I yank it away. I feel a pang of pity
for her, but ’tis not my place to bear
her father’s investigation.
Ann says, “I see the Invisible World.
There,” and she points to the left.
“A man skewered on a stick
turns roasting like a boar.
And Goody Corey turns the spit.”
“Come, Mercy.” Ann’s whisper to my ear
is a plea and a command. “Come with me, now.”
I shake my head at Ann.
Hot as the man roasting on the stick
I feel the eyes of the Putnam men
scathe my skin.
I wish for twelve shawls
to burrow beneath,
for my own dress feels ripped apart.
I split and chasm—Ann’s voice calls,
“Here, Mercy.” She offers me a place
the others cannot touch,
a place I can crawl inside and wear as home.
I blink my eyes. Mister Putnam
and the other men blur to a low hum.
But will any believe the servant girl
sees the Invisible World?
Ann’s moaning and writhing envelop me.
I let myself slip into the cavern.
I fathom Goody Corey’s specter
strikes me swift with an iron rod.
I fall in pain worse than a whipping,
and gasp, “I see it too! I see it too!”
Ann points at the real Goody Corey.
“Make her go.”
Master Putnam sends Goody Corey away.
My limbs twist and shake
even more violently than Ann’s,
for I am bigger than she.
It takes three men to hold me down,
though none seem unhappy for the task.
The night cools and howls
near midnight.
But only Wilson dares
close his eyes.
The wooden chair
I rest upon trembles, then rocks
back and forth on its legs.
All believe ’tis the witches
who tremor my chair.
The men study my every movement,
but this staring be reverent.
WHAT IS GOOD, WHAT IS GREAT AND WHAT IS AMAZING
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
What is good about witches
is that when I call out “Mother,”
Mother listens and replies,
“Yes, dear Ann.”
And when I do say
I see the Invisible World
Father doth bend an ear
and hold me upon his lap.
But what is most amazing
about Affliction
is that Mercy is come along now
as my sister.
She eats beside me at the table.
We sit in meeting and examination as kin.
BETROTHED
Margaret Walcott, 17
Isaac and his father shake off their hats
and shake hands with my father
fore they sit at the table
and swallow five mugs of cider
and whisper for two and a half hours.
I crouch down, as my legs
ache from standing and spying.
“Peer not round the corner,
Maaaaargaret.” Step-Mother shakes
my shoulders and I nearly wail
like a boat entering harbor.
My heart breaks in fast waves
against my skin.
“You frightened me,” I whisper
through grinded teeth.
She thrusts me back
so she can best see.
“Looks as though Isaac will marry you
after all.” Step-Mother shrugs.
“Though I cannot know why.”
“How do you know we will be wed?”
I ask her.
“Well, there be no brawl and your father
just patted Isaac’s back.”
I run toward the front room,
but Step-Mother catches my skirt
and winds me back into her
like I be a spool of thread.
“Oh, no. That be affairs of men,”
she says.
“But I just want to rejoice
with Isaac a moment.”
“Rejoice,” she snorts.
“Go and pray now
you make him happy enough.”
I sulk down the hall.
Dear Lord, I pray that Mercy
may find torment so great
she recovers not
and then Isaac shall be happy
with only me.
BECAUSE I CALL HER WITCH
Mercy Lewis, 17
They bind Goody Corey’s hands
in front of her
like a mock prayer.
She bows down her head.
The night wind
slices her back in a cross
shoulder to shoulder,
and I hold the blade.
The stain of red is upon my hands.
I point “Witch, witch”—
and they cart her away.
Creaking wheels cut the snow.
Goody Corey’s face softens
from its haggard knot
into my mother’s freckled cheek.
I fall to knees,
beg, “Forgive me.
I will take the lash and chain,
just set her free.”
Wilson licks my fingers,
and I wake.
The sun already half-mast
and yet none calls my name
to fetch or serve,
but they take me now
more like one of their own.
Be this the Lord’s way?
OUR PLACE
Inside Ingersoll’s ordinary,
the tavern owned by Margaret’s uncle
with food and housing for travelers,
my place aside Ann, Elizabeth,
Betty and Abigail awaits me.
Margaret also sits at our table.
All nod “Good day” to us seers
as though we are menfolk,
not maids or children.
Ears perk and lean
toward our table.
The town asks
what have we seen
of the Invisible World?
Elizabeth’s eyes a royal purple,
her face filled with scratches
like she wrestled a wild boar.
“Martha Corey did torment me
last night,” Elizabeth whispers to us
as though she means it.
Her sleeves stretched over her hands
like mittens.
Margaret yanks Elizabeth to her feet
so all can observe the girl’s swollen face.
“Martha Corey did beat Elizabeth,”
Margaret brags to the crowd, and yet
she be the only girl at the table,
still, without the vision
to see.
Margaret brushes my arm
as she takes her seat. She jumps back
as though she might catch pox
should her skin fall on mine.
“What be, Margaret?” I ask her.
She swallows as in disgust.
“How could any believe
the words of a serving girl?”
Ann grabs Margaret’s arm.
“You will speak to Mercy with respect
or leave this table, Margaret.”
Silence clamps tight the bench.
The other girls pick
at the bread crumbs dusting their plates.
Margaret nods at Ann.
She looks not on me.
Abigail reveals a bruise upon her arm
and announces with the volume of an angry reverend,
“Rebecca Nurse pinched and pricked me.”
The crowd gasps. All lose their breath
at the same moment.
“Rebecca Nurse is a Gospel woman,”
someone whispers.
Abigail shakes her arm.
“Aye, but the evidence be right here.”
Ann says, “Rebecca Nurse visited me too.”
The noise nears rowdy.
Elizabeth huddles us roun
d.
She speaks just above the clamor,
“We are called. The Lord sends us
to find the devils among us.
We must follow only the Lord.”
The little girls nod.
I slowly nod too.
But Margaret acts is if she hears nothing,
as though she were as deaf
as the plate before her.
She straightens her dress
and adjusts her bonnet’s bow.
THE BITE THAT TURNS YOU
Margaret Walcott, 17
I scan Ingersoll’s.
There’s only a smattering
of folk in from the rain,
which sounds like fingers
drumming ’pon the roof.
I turn to sally home.
I scream liken the angels
might hear me,
and hold up my wrist.
Visiting Reverend Lawson
and Uncle Ingersoll catch me
fore I hit the earthen floor.
They settle me at a table
and examine my arm.
By candlelight all see
that I been bit.
The Lord adds me
to the group
of those who see.
I am not left behind.
My eyes bloom wide
and pretty as the rest
of the flowers
growing wild
in the witches’ garden.
A GARDEN TOGETHER LAYS ROOT
April 1692
The mayflowers
bloom now.