Wicked Girls (4 page)

“Neither Abigail nor Betty

was in meeting. They never

were absent from lecture before.

Why are they not here?”

I look into Margaret's eyes as I talk,

but it is like I speak to the wind.

“Does Isaac not seem dizzy

on his feet?” she says.

“Isaac? Isaac who? Margaret,

hearest thou what I say?

Betty and Abigail, where are the girls?

Do you suppose they have the fever?”

But Margaret just stares without response.

So like snow blown by God's breath,

I drift over to Mercy.

And Mercy whispers, “Curious

the Minister's daughter and niece

were not in church.”

Mercy and I press

against the doorframe

to hear our elders speak.

Betty and Abigail are still sick,

and if it isn't fever

it is a disease of the soul,

an evil hand upon them.

Could I be to blame?

Did we girls summon

the Devil's magic

telling those fortunes?

I have to reveal

our little egg trick

to Mercy. “Mercy?”

“Hush,” she says.

“I want to hear

what they say.”

No sun shines on this rainy morn,

but with Missus off to help

with the weaver's wife's afterbirth

my day should be bright.

Except little Ann shadows me wherever I go.

“What did your mother look like?”

she asks me, her eyes big as biscuits.

God's honest truth is it is hard

to picture my mother's face some days.

“She had eyes green as clover

and could spot trouble

coming half a day away.”

“I mean was she pretty like you?”

Ann says. A blush flares across her face.

“Yea, she was handsome.

Our servant Rosaline said her skin

was softer than a babe's

and fairer than the Queen's.”

“And she is dead? All your family is dead?”

I nod. “They thought my father's aunt

might be living, but—”

I pause and wonder where I hid that letter.

My eyes feel heavy.

“I don't care to talk of this anymore.

I want to rest now. Pray go see

what your sister is about.”

Ann looks like I have

called her a cross name or stomped

her favorite doll.

She tugs my sleeve. “Have you heard

the latest tell about the Minister's

daughter and niece?”

“Are they not ill?” I ask.

Ann shakes her head.

“Father said Betty and Abigail

been having terrible fits,

screeching under the table like wild dogs.

Talking words that none understands.

They contort into eights and levitate

above their sheets such as none

can believe their eyes.”

Ann pauses for a breath.

“There be more.”

“Do tell,” I say, and grasp her hand.

“Father says the girls shout as hobgoblins,

like they were Satan's kin.

And ministers from many miles spread

pray all hours by their bedside,

but to no aid.

Reverend Parris even tried the folk remedies:

parsnip seeds in wine,

a draft of soot with heartshorn,

spirits of castor with oil of amber.

Nothing works, no amount of prayer

and fasting ends their spells.”

I look up at Mercy.

She drinks in my words,

and they seem to light her

from the inside out.

I want to touch the glow

of her hair. I sit on my hands.

“Father says Reverend Parris

kneeled aside his daughter and niece

and named them possessed.

But this was falsely diagnosed,

for the girls fare too well and right

when not afflicted

to be taken of the Devil.”

I fall back onto the bed,

out of my breath.

“There is something more.”

Mercy clasps my hand. “Tell me.”

I look direct into her eyes.

“Father says

somebody in our village

must be doing

witchcraft.”

Up on Ipswich Road

a girl
my age, not
a servant,

boards with Doctor Griggs.

Uncle Ingersoll says

the girl's so quiet you can hear

snowflakes falling 'pon her cheek.

“Elizabeth,” I call

when I pass her on the road

back from Uncle's tavern.

She spins her head,

searching for another with her name.

“Good to meet you,” I say.

“I'm Margaret Walcott.”

She clutches her parcel to her chest.

“Cold today,” I say, and she says nothing.

“How fare ye?” I ask her, but still

Elizabeth gives no response.

Is she mute, be she a simple girl?

I try once more. “Have you heard

what goes on at the Minister's?”

She nods, opens her mouth,

but then covers it with her hand

as if she would be slapped for her speech.

I pull her hand away.

“Pray, be not feared to speak.

I shall be your friend, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth shifts her weight side and side.

I whisper, “There may be witches

in this village. Know ye about the craft?”

“'Tis Satan's work,” she says.

Her eyes swell and ignite.

“I knew a witch hanged for her poppets

and spells. For the Bible says,

‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'

Exodus chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen.”

“Do tell me, friend, all ye know

and hear,” I say.

Even Margaret of the vacant stare

asks, “Do you know further tell

of the Minister's girls?”

She stretches across my bed

and picks up my comb.

She drags it through her hair

rough enough I fear it might break.

“No,” I say, though I perfectly well

know what they have been about

at the Minister's house.

“Well, Abigail and Betty

are all folk can talk about,”

Margaret says, and locks her eyes on me

as though she be wishing to stir my pot

and test what ingredients I hold.

I keep my lid closed.

Ann grabs her comb from my hands

such that she slices my finger.

I suck up the blood bubbling

at the surface of my skin.

“You don't suppose that folk magic

game of yours what called up that coffin—”

Ann's anger smokes from her nostrils.

She grasps my wrist and whispers,

“'Twas thou who wanted to play fortunes.”

I wrest free of her and say,

“Ye taught me to read egg whites.”

Ann shakes her head.

“No, cousin. Thou art wrong.

If anyone, 'twas Betty and Abigail.”

She hugs me against her chest.

“Promise never to tell

we played that game,

else we might be accused

of witchcraft.”

I clutch her little hand and whisper,

“No, never.”

The basin steams

and Elizabeth reaches

to dunk her hands in the water.

“You'll scorch yourself!

Use that cup.”

I tip my head back.

“Aaagghh!” I holler

when she pours

fire on my scalp.

Elizabeth jumps back,

then lowers her head to say,

“Sorry, Margaret. I only meant to…

The Doctor likes hot water.

He says it purifies the skin.”

She lathers soap in my locks,

then carefully rinses me clean.

She squeezes off the drips,

rubs in aloe,

and dries me with rags—

much better than our maid.

I smile as Lizzie untangles

my gnarls. It feels like my head

be a loom she's unthreading.

“Your turn,” I say,

and Elizabeth looks

as stunned as a frozen bird.

Did she think I invited her over

to wash my hair alone?

I unlace the woolen top

of her dress and dunk her hair

in the soapy water. I tug

my pewter comb

through her curls, but never

does she yelp or moan.

I tie her hair up in frayed blue ribbon.

“Come, we'll draft wool

while we dry our hair by the hearth,”

I say, and look for Step-Mother.

When I be sure the beast be hidden,

I take Lizzie's hand and whisper,

“Isaac Farrar kissed me.”

Elizabeth gasps, and her eyes

jump like buttons coming loose.

“You never been kissed?”

She rattles her head back and forth.

“Well, it be like sweetest jam.

And Isaac knew quite well

how to spread it,” I say.

Elizabeth coughs to signal

that Step-Mother enters the room.

I wink her my gratitude.

I sneak Ann into my room.

We crouch down by my bed

and whisper like sisters ear to ear

so not a sound escapes the air.

“Did your father truly see the bruises

appear upon Betty and Abigail?”

“Yes, and the girls called out

Tituba, their slave, saying she did teach them

folk magic. The girls also named

the beggar woman Goody Good.

Tituba and Sarah Good are the witches

who've been tormenting the girls.”

“Who be Sarah Good?” I ask.

“Sarah Good says unholy words.

She frightens even the Reverend.

She has been accused before.”

Ann smiles.

Wilson barks.

I quiet his mouth with my hand.

“And all did believe them?” I ask.

“All that Betty and Abigail say in fit

is listened to like it comes from the town council.”

Ann's eyes double their size.

“It was not like this where I came from before.”

I pace my room.

“When the children were bewitched, the preachers

tried always to stop them from fitting.”

Ann bends to pet Wilson,

but he pulls back his head

like a riled tortoise.

“Not so with Betty and Abigail.

Father stays at the parsonage late

into the night watching them.

Many church members do.

They have chained Tituba up in jail.”

I scratch my head.

“Men listening to the words of girls?

Are you certain, Ann?”

“Yes, 'tis true.”

“If only ye could visit the parsonage

and see the girls.”

“Oh, but I have seen Abigail

this very day. I saw exactly

how she does twitch and shake.

I know what the witches do to torture her.”

Ann twists her torso tight as a rope,

then juts her bones inside out.

Much as I might like to cover my eyes

as Ann cripples her body into a sailor's knot,

my arms hang at my sides.

My mouth droops open.

“They call it Affliction,” Ann says.

“All are in awe of it.”

A flash of mischief crosses Ann's eyes

as she watches me watching her,

like the torch that smokes

heaven's white edge.

Someone makes my legs

whip about like sheets in the wind.

Someone curls and bends

my arms behind my neck.

All turns black and cold.

“Who goes there?” I cry.

I scream until the room comes lit,

and then I see witches

the same as the Minister's girls—

Tituba, the Parrises' slave, and Goody Good.

I swear to Father 'tis the witches

who twist my limbs and cause me ache.

I blink my eyes and the witches disappear,

but I saw them stand before me,

felt them pinch my arm,

I know that I did.