Children of Salem

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.