Tags:
United States,
Fiction,
General,
Historical,
Juvenile Nonfiction,
People & Places,
Juvenile Fiction,
Fantasy & Magic,
Occult fiction,
Girls & Women,
Witchcraft,
Poetry,
Novels in Verse,
Trials (Witchcraft),
Salem (Mass.),
Salem (Mass.) - History - Colonial period; ca. 1600-1775
straightens his back.
Goodman Farrar, Isaacâs father,
a small man with a fair face
and the manners of a ministerâs wife,
sits aside Mister Putnam.
He nods at Missus Putnam.
âThank ye for the fine meal.â
Missus cooked not a crumb on the table.
âThou art quite welcome, dear sir,â she says.
The baby wails from the nursery.
All mugs beg filling.
And the plates ought be cleared.
I rise to tend the child.
Isaac and his father stand when I do
as though I am the lady
I was born to be.
Margaret clenches her fork.
Ann follows me, and Missus
nearly slaps her back to seating.
âLet Mercy attend to matters alone.â
Only Wilson be permitted to trail me now.
I tramp down the hall
and lean over the babyâs cradle.
âShhhh,â I say until his storming settles.
I clear the plates, refresh the mugs
and set to wash the pots.
âMercy,â Isaac says from a foot behind me.
âThomas asks that you sit
and take cider and tea with the family.â
Even though he just supped,
Isaac looks at me as though
he has not eaten in weeks
and would lick
my palms to taste me,
I smell to him so sweet.
Wilson begins a growl,
but I muzzle his snout.
How lovely would it be to witness
Margaret the Mean, the bloomer thief, churn
because of my doings for once?
I flick my curls behind my shoulder
and bloom my eyes as petals
at Margaretâs beau.
I drop the cloth in my hands.
Isaac bends to pick it up,
and I stoop too.
Isaac breathes upon my neck.
âYe areââ he begins.
âYour father calls you!â
Margaretâs voice severs our air.
But Isaac does not cut his stare from me.
Margaret quivers in her speech.
âI shall stay and help Mercy.â
I scrub the pan to rid it
of grease and burn.
Margaret clamps my arm.
âDo not speak to him,â she threatens.
âI did not,â I say.
I wipe my hands, turn from her
and swirl into my place
aside Mister Putnam.
Isaacâs eyes fasten on me
tighter than the collar at my neck.
Margaret ruptures in fit.
âGoody Hobbs pinches me!â
Isaac greens. He shakes his head.
His father, who has offered
not an impolite word the night long,
says, âWe shall be off,â
and leaves without finishing his tea,
without a âthank youâ or âgood evening.â
âBut Deliverance Hobbs
admitted to being a witch!â
Margaretâs fists pound the floor
until her hands bleed.
Tears wash her face.
Though Margaretâs speech turns gibberish,
I distinctly hear her say, âIsaac,â
but I repeat this not
for I know she does not mean
to name him witch.
DIVISION
Margaret Walcott, 17
Papers stack the courtroom.
Signatures Isaac gathers
enough to empty an ink pot,
all saying the accused
be not the Devilâs kin.
The Village divides
like a gash sawed through
the center of the church.
Reverend Parris and us girls
and those believing
in the witches we name
and them what donât.
My Isaac stands square
on the other side of the church
from me.
I try and straddle
the hole between us
but it be growing wide.
MY MOTHER
Ann Putnam Jr., 12
Mother says,
âRemain in thy room
at lesson today.â
Mother says, âSee that Margaret
has the covers she requires for her bed.â
Mother says, âMy head doth ache.
And my stomach has unrest.
Fetch me a cloth.â Mother says,
âAnn, pick not at thy skirt.
Hold thy shoulders straight.â
Mother demands, âThe next to be
accused will be one who watched
me as a child, John Willard.
One who was too ready with his whip.â
Mother says, âThat Mercy speaks
too often for a servant.â
Mercy feels not well,
and still Mother loads Mercyâs basket
with mending and all the needlework
Margaret ought do, and when I lift
one finger to aid or accompany Mercy,
Mother says, âDo see what thy cousin
is about.â
âBut my
William Webb
Jill Baguchinsky
Monica Mccarty
Denise Hunter
Charlaine Harris
Raymond L. Atkins
Mark Tilbury
Blayne Cooper
Gregg Hurwitz
M. L. Woolley