Wicked Girls
Authors: Stephanie Hemphill
Tags: #Trials (Witchcraft), #Juvenile Nonfiction, #Girls & Women, #Witchcraft, #Juvenile Fiction, #Poetry, #Fantasy & Magic, #General, #United States, #Salem (Mass.), #Historical, #Occult fiction, #People & Places, #Fiction, #Salem (Mass.) - History - Colonial period; ca. 1600-1775, #Novels in verse
Wicked Girls
A Novel of the Salem Witch Trials
For Alessandra
in order of appearance
MERCY LEWIS
(age 17)
is an orphan of the French and Indian War. She is a new servant in Thomas Putnam's house.
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MARGARET WALCOTT
(age 17)
is Ann Putnam Jr.'s step-cousin (because Margaret's father married Thomas Putnam's sister, Deliverance, after Margaret's mother died). She comes from a lower social status than her younger cousin.
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ANN PUTNAM JR.
(age 12)
is Thomas Putnam's eldest child and therefore a young lady with stature in Salem Village.
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BETTY PARRIS
(age 8)
is the daughter of Reverend Samuel Parris and Abigail Williams's cousin. She is the youngest of the accusers.
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ABIGAIL WILLIAMS
(age 12)
is a niece of Reverend Samuel Parris and a cousin to Betty Parris. She lives at the parsonage with the Reverend and his family. She is one of the first seers.
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ELIZABETH HUBBARD
(age 17)
is another new girl in Salem Village who has been sent to live with Doctor Griggs and his wife. She is a distant niece of the Doctor. Doctor Griggs is her grandparents' age.
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SUSANNAH SHELDON
(age 18)
is the only girl not from Salem Village, but from Salem Town instead. She serves in William Shaw's house. She joins the group last.
January 1692
Silent, not even the twitter
of insects. The wind stills
against a distant sky of clouds.
The cold is gray and fierce,
bitter as a widow at the grave.
The trees' bare bony fingers
point crookedly
toward Heaven or Hell
or worse than that, toward nowhere.
Winter days
wear long as the ocean shore,
governed by a god
harsher than windstorm hail
and more punishing than the waves
that break ships in two.
There are rules to follow here,
one righteous path
thrashed down through the woods.
Mercy Lewis, 17
Before the orange of dawn
before the hearth fire's lit
when the kitchen floor
will feel as ice under my boots
and I would rather keep under quilt,
my eyelids sealed,
my nightclothes neck-tight;
he slobbers kisses on my cheek,
his gritty tongue
swabs my chin
like a wet woolen stocking.
“Wilson.” I whisper and try not to giggle.
With two paws on the bed
he licks my hand.
“Down, boy. Don't wake the baby.”
Wilson bobs his head,
sits silent as the dark.
I splash water, button clothes,
and slip quickly into the black of day.
Like I be blind, Wilson guides me
to the place where he can be fed.
“Go on then, eat,”
I say, and point at the bowl.
He just grins his five teeth.
He hangs his front paws on my shoulders.
My arms wrap around him.
I ruffle his gold, dank fur.
The sun flashes through the window.
“Come, boy!” Mister Putnam calls.
Wilson's ears perk and he is off
as after a doe, down the hall heavy
and loud-pawed. The baby cries.
“Girl!”
The voice commands
like a great fist
pounding the wall.
