Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel Read online

  Freya reminded Mercy that there was no time for idle pastimes such as picking flowers. There was much to do still: the rooms swept and scrubbed, the butter churned, the ale checked, the kindling gathered, supper cooked. “Not to mention we must make more soap and those golden candles Reverend Parris bid for his altar. We need—”

  Mercy laughed and put a finger over Freya’s mouth to shush her and pulled her down to join her on the grass. She was tired of hearing about their endless chores.

  Freya laughed as well, but covered her mouth with a fist, worried that someone might hear them. Her bright green eyes glinted at Mercy. “What on God’s green earth is a violet war anyway?” she asked as she placed her basket next to her friend’s.

  Mercy smiled. “Choose your violet, and I’ll show you, cunning girl!”

  Freya blushed. Mercy knew all about Freya and her talent with herbs—it was their closely guarded secret. But then the mistress knew, too, and she hadn’t sent Freya away. When Freya had first arrived, she had heard Mrs. Putnam complain of headaches, so she had gone into the woods and picked peppermint, lavender, and rosemary to make a potent brew that instantly eased her discomfort.

  The mistress was grateful, but she warned Freya that Thomas mustn’t know of her gift. Mr. Putnam was a devoutly pious man, and he might mistake Freya’s talent for making physics as the devil working through the girl. Not that it had stopped Ann from asking for another and another. “I miss my dear departed sister and those poor dead children,” she would say. “Girl, could you make something for the pain?” Freya always obliged.

  Ann also frequently asked Freya if she could see into her and Thomas’s future. Would there be more land, more money?

  Freya had heard from Mercy that their master and mistress had both been cheated out of shares of their inheritances from their fathers. Ann wanted to know if anything would change in this regard. Freya tried hard to please her, but she could not glimpse into the future, just as she could not glimpse into her own past.

  As Mercy watched, Freya chose a perfect violet with dark, rich purple petals, plucking it at the base of its stem. Mercy did the same with her fire-scarred fingers.

  “Hold up your violet and make a wish,” Mercy instructed. “Perhaps we shall wish for two other girls to do our work,” she said with a naughty smile.

  Freya chuckled as she closed her eyes, contemplating a wish. Truly she did not mind having so much to do. It was folly to wish their lives otherwise. Work was important to the community and to their household. No, there was something else. Something else that she knew would not easily be wished away, and she was not entirely convinced she would desire its removal either.

  The other day, Freya had discovered she could make objects move without touching them. She had made the butter churn itself just by thinking that she had to do so. When she saw the handle turning on its own, she almost screamed. Later that afternoon the same thing happened with the broom, sweeping the room as if possessed by a spirit. Freya tried to stop it but could not help but feel thrilled at the sight.

  What was wrong with her? Could it be that the devil had possessed her like the Revered Parris warned from the pulpit? She was a good girl, devout, like all the girls in the Putnam household. Why had she suddenly been invested with such power? This gift? Did she even want to wish it away?

  “Silly girl, have you made your wish yet?” asked Mercy, staring curiously at Freya, who had opened her eyes.

  She hadn’t made a wish at all, but now she did: she wished that she and Mercy would be like this always, the best of friends, and that nothing would ever come between them. “I’m ready.”

  Mercy instructed her to wrap the stem of the violet, where it curled beneath the petals like a bent neck, around the part of her own stem that curled the same. The girls interlocked their flowers.

  “Now pull,” said Mercy, “and whoever lops off the other’s head—the flower—will have her wish.”

  The girls pulled at the stems of their interlocked violets, moving the flowers this way and that. It was Freya’s violet’s head that went flying off.

  Mercy raised her victorious violet with her scarred hand. “I got my wish!” she cried.

  Freya was glad for her friend but felt wistful just the same. “Come on now, let’s go.”

  Mercy rolled onto her side, staring dreamily up at Freya, as she pressed her violet into the cleavage of her bodice. “All right. But first, I must tell you a secret.”

  “A secret!” said Freya. “I do love our secrets.”

  Mercy grinned. “There is a new young man in town. I saw him training with the militia in the field by Ingersoll’s Inn on Thursday.”

  Freya batted her pale red lashes at her friend. “And?”

  “A dashing youth with dark hair and green eyes,” Mercy added. “I can’t wait for you to see him! For aught I know, he is already promised to another maid, but you must see how very handsome he is.”

  Freya thrilled at the description. “Do you think he will visit the Putnams?” she asked.

  “Maybe, but we will most likely see him in church.”

  With that pleasant thought, they both rose and followed the path to the river.

  Later that evening, after dinner and prayers, after the bread had been made for the morning and placed in the oven door by the hearth for the night, and the little children put to sleep, the girls lowered their rope beds in the hall, their work finally done for the day. The beds hung about a foot apart. They shook out their blankets and lay in the flickering light of the fire.

  Mercy reached out her hand, and Freya interlocked her fingers with her friend’s. They should know better. What if the master awoke and saw them holding hands? He would not approve of such a display of affection. He might misinterpret it. But they interlaced fingers nevertheless, the way they had hooked their violets together earlier, until slumber seized them, and their hands fell apart.

  chapter two

  Of Plums and Pie

  Early the next morning, Thomas Putnam drove the girls to the meetinghouse in Salem Town, traveling a good way across hillocks, rivers, inlets, and rocky terrain. Legal proceedings involving villagers still had to take place in Salem Town, as the village was not yet fully independent, to his continuing annoyance.

  Freya and Mercy had been summoned as witnesses in a case between two quarreling goodwives. The whole affair had been the talk of the village for an entire year now. The girls would be providing evidence against Goody Brown, the defendant, who lived near the Putnam farm. Mercy had once been in Goody Brown’s employ, while Freya often went to the Brown household to buy or trade baked goods for the Putnam house. It was Mercy who had volunteered their services to Mr. Putnam, as she surmised that he was weary of the bothersome talk between the women and eager to bring it all to an end. He had seen to it that Mercy and Freya would be called as deponents. Mercy was thrilled; the clever girl knew the trip would mean some time off from work and the opportunity to visit the town, which Freya had not yet had occasion to see. Freya felt rather guilty about Mercy’s machinations, although she knew the girl meant well.

  They sat meekly next to their master on top of the carriage as it wobbled along the pebbly road. Thomas was tall, good-looking, and broad shouldered, with a commanding, booming voice. He ruled Salem Village as he ruled his household, but he disliked going into Salem Town for it was somewhat outside his jurisdiction. The new families who had land by the port were becoming increasingly more prosperous than older farmers like himself, and they had been abandoning the old Puritan ways, to his disapproval. The very thought of Salem Town alone filled him with bitterness. It was there that his father had lived with his second wife, Mary Veren, the wealthy widow of a ship captain, marrying her while his own mother’s dead body had barely grown cold. Mary soon gave birth to his loathsome half brother, Joseph, who eventually reaped much too much of the property that was rightfully Thomas’s.

  He comforted himself with the thought that at least he had secured the appointment
of the reverend. Mr. Samuel Parris was finally ordained, which meant the village could at last have its own church with a minister who could give communion and preach to covenanted members rather than just a congregation. With their very own church in the meetinghouse, the villagers no longer had to travel twice a week—a good three-hour walk—to the port town to worship, as missing church was a punishable offense.

  He drove wordlessly, a dour expression on his face, the girls beside him, their caps and blouses recently laundered and scrubbed in the river and left out in the bleaching sun to look their brightest. They dared not utter a word unless Thomas addressed them. There was a breeze, but the sun was sweet against the girls’ cheeks as the wheels rolled and squeaked over stones in the road. They crossed a creaky bridge over a river, planks groaning under the wheels as they reached their destination.

  The meetinghouse was packed with plaintiffs and defendants, although there were many who came just for the entertainment, squeezed into the pews and galleries or standing in the back. A year ago, Goodwife Diffidence Brown had bought ten pounds of plums from Goodwife Faith Perkins. Goody Brown made pies with the plums and sold the pies at the market. The following week, Goody Brown claimed her customers returned to her stall to complain that the plum pies had been inedible, tasting as “putrid as rotten fish.” Brown alleged that every customer who had bought a plum pie clamored for a refund, which she promptly gave. The allegedly bad plums had caused Goody Brown “tremendous grief and financial loss.”

  When Goody Brown complained to Goody Perkins about it, Goody Perkins refused to make restitution on such hearsay. “I gave you fat, juicy, sweet ones. There is nothing wrong with my plums and, as everyone in Salem Village knows, you are a lying hag, Goody Brown.” She didn’t believe Goody Brown’s story one bit. Most likely Goody Brown was hard up and trying to make a few extra pence. It was not beneath her. A scuffle and some pulling of hair ensued.

  Goody Perkins then claimed that when Goody Brown left her doorstep, Goody Brown “fell to muttering and scolding extremely,” and Goody Perkins heard Goody Brown clearly say, “I will give you something, you fat-looking hog!” Goody Perkins claimed Goody Brown had cursed her, and that she was a wench and a witch. For almost immediately after, Goody Perkins’s baby stopped nursing and fell ill, and she almost lost the infant. Then one of her sows “was taken with strange fits, jumping up and down and knocking her head against the fence, and appeared blind and deaf,” and died in a “strange and unusual manner.” This spring the trees in her plum orchard had not bloomed, and she feared she would have no plums to harvest.

  The magistrate, a spice merchant whose loud sighs made it clear he had better things to do, harrumphed and quieted both plaintiff and defendant, who had begun bickering at each other again. “Order in the court! You goodwives are giving me a headache.” The people in the meetinghouse tittered. “Order!” he called again, then requested the bailiff usher in the first deponent: Mercy Lewis.

  The magistrate glanced up at Mercy and in a bored voice said, “What saith the deponent?”

  “I do not know what I saith, Sir Magistrate. Is there a question?” asked Mercy. More laughter from the galleries. Mercy glanced at Freya, who smiled encouragingly back at her.

  “Well,” said the spice merchant, flashing his gold tooth. “Has the deponent witnessed the defendant, Goodwife Brown, do anything unusual? Maleficium? Did she ever do any harm to you while you worked for her? Is she a cunning woman?” He frowned in a way that looked as if he were trying not to laugh. Then his face went solemn, and he glared questioningly at Mercy.

  “Maleficium?” she asked.

  “Latin for mischief, wrongdoing, witchcraft!”

  “Goody Brown—she does possess unusual strength,” said Mercy. “She can carry many sacks of flour at once.”

  The gentlefolk in the meetinghouse laughed again.

  The magistrate sneered. “Anything else?”

  “Once, with the other servant of the Putnam household—where I now work—Freya, we visited Goody Brown, and she lied to us. She tried to cheat us when we bartered for flour, adding stones for weight, she did. She can be greedy. I saw much of this firsthand when I worked—”

  “Next witness!” yelled the magistrate, cutting Mercy off as he looked back down at his papers.

  Mercy was ushered away, Freya brought forth. Unlike Mercy, Freya did not want to make any accusations. There were enough cantankerous relations in the village as it were, and she certainly did not want to get herself into trouble or cause bad blood between herself and other villagers. Yes, it was her opinion that Goody Brown was lying about the plums. But Freya also knew for certain that Goody Brown was no witch, a very grave and dangerous accusation—the penalty being the noose. If anyone here were a witch, it was Freya herself, and this made her cheeks burn as she was sworn in, remembering what had happened with the butter churn and then the broom.

  “What hath this deponent to provide as evidence?” asked the magistrate.

  Freya shrugged, her cheeks now a similar tint to her strawberry curls that fell from beneath her cap. The sun shone through the windows now and Freya felt overheated. The meetinghouse, crammed as it was, had grown pungent, rank with odor. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  “Anything that could point to Goody Brown employing witchcraft? Have you seen her collude with the devil, perhaps?” asked the magistrate.

  “I have seen no such thing,” she said.

  Thomas lowered his head in the front row, feeling embarrassed by his servants. Bringing them here had been a waste of everyone’s time. Clearly his girls were not much help in moving this case along.

  The magistrate, a pragmatic and forward-thinking man, was not entirely disengaged from the proceedings and did derive a certain amount of pleasure from debunking the phantasmagorical imaginings of country folk. “I would like to call forth my own witness,” he declared as Freya was accompanied to her seat. “Mr. Nathaniel Brooks, please rise and step forward.”

  A din rose in the meetinghouse as a tall youth came forward. He strode with ease and confidence to the front, hat in hand, standing in a relaxed and guileless manner before the magistrate. His ebony hair fell just above his shoulders, and his emerald eyes caught the light.

  “Please tell the court where you live,” said the spice merchant.

  “Presently, I live in Salem Village with my uncle, a widower, who needs a hand on his farm,” said the youth. “I haven’t been in the village very long.” He smiled, taking his time, glancing around the meetinghouse. For a fleeting moment, the youth caught Freya’s eyes. She felt a jolt from his stare. But just as quickly, the lad looked to the magistrate.

  “Now, Mr. Brooks, where were you on the afternoon of Wednesday the twenty-sixth of June, 1691. Do you remember?”

  “Why, yes, I do. I was at the market, purchasing a plum pie.”

  The spectators took in a collective gasp.

  “I very much like plum pie and wanted one for dinner,” continued the youth.

  The people in the meetinghouse laughed.

  “And does the witness see the maid from whom he purchased said plum pie in the meetinghouse? Is she present?”

  “She is,” said the youth. He pointed to Goody Brown. “There she is. It was her plum pie I bought.”

  The spectators leaned forward, whispering, anxiously awaiting what might come next. The magistrate waited, relishing creating suspense. Finally, he spoke. “And did you, Mr. Brooks, eat said plum pie?”

  “Yes,” said the youth with a smile. “Yes, sir, I had the pie for dessert that very evening.”

  The spectators leaned farther forward.

  “And how would you, Nathaniel Brooks, describe this plum pie?”

  Nathaniel looked out at the people in the pews and galleries, taking his time. His gaze met Freya’s and their eyes locked again. He smiled. She smiled and her cheeks flushed.

  The magistrate cleared his throat. “Nathaniel Brooks? Will you please answer the question carefu
lly? How did you find this plum pie?”

  Holding Freya’s gaze, as if the remark were directed at her, Mr. Brooks replied, “Quite sublime, Sir Magistrate! In fact, Goody Brown mentioned that the pies were made with the best plums of Salem Village.”

  Again came a loud collective gasp, and afterward everyone began to chatter.

  “Order!” called the magistrate. The room silenced.

  Goodwife Faith Perkins was smiling, feeling somewhat vindicated. Goody Brown was indeed a liar but perhaps that didn’t exactly make her a witch, either. After all, she herself had exaggerated a bit about her baby and the sow.

  The magistrate gave his verdict, chastising both women. The only crimes here, he summarized, were lack of neighborliness, greed, and wasting his time. The case was dismissed, and he was done for the day. The meetinghouse adjourned.

  As Freya followed the crowd outside to the fresh, briny air of the harbor, her heart beat hard in her chest as she recalled young Mr. Brooks daringly making eye contact with her. She had been instantly struck—smitten, as if every sense in her body came alive at his glance. She spotted Mr. Putnam by the carriage, speaking to Mr. Brooks and another young man. Something flashed in her memory and for a moment she saw Mr. Brooks in his bright linen shirt, opened at the neck, revealing a tanned swath of skin—and his hands were wrapped about her waist, pulling her toward him—then it was gone.