Children of Salem

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: