Children of Salem

“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.