Freya laughed, taking the fan. “Most kind of you,” she said. She was glad for the distraction. They chatted pleasantly for a while, and Freya noticed some of the goodwives—even Mercy—giving them the eye.
She knew they were thinking it was not befitting for her to talk to a slave, let alone one who was considered a savage, the devil’s servants themselves. Most of the villagers already thought it strange that the reverend had not just one but two slaves: Tituba and her husband, John Indian. Servants, even indentured ones, were standard—but slaves! The villagers accepted the reverend’s eccentricities because, after all, Thomas Putnam had seen to having him ordained as the village minister.
Freya ignored the watchful stares. She was laughing at something Tituba had said, happy to have made a new friend. She showed Tituba the array of bread she had baked, fat ones with golden crusts, pieces of bacon and corn inside, rosemary ryes, and loaves made with oats and herbs.
The men began to raise the structure, and the women moved away from the tables to gather around the barn and cheer.
Tituba and Freya remained at the tables. The Caribbean maid reached out for Freya’s hand and studied her palm. “You have a way with the hearth, with creating. Your hands possess magic,” she said.
Freya smiled but said nothing.
Mercy appeared and Tituba quickly dropped Freya’s hand.
“What are you doing?” Mercy said, pulling Freya away. She glared at Tituba, who lowered her eyes.
“I am sorry, miss,” the slave apologized.
“Mercy!” chastised Freya. “Neither she nor I have done any harm!”
“What is this?” Mercy demanded as she reached for the fan made of leaves Tituba had given her, plucked it out of Freya’s grasp, bunched it up, and threw it to the ground.
Freya stared at the crumpled fan in the grass. The village folk had begun to chant as the men heaved the structure upright. Until now, Freya and Mercy had never quarreled. Freya’s face turned red and she quaked all over, from anger or hurt she wasn’t sure.
“I best take my leave,” said Tituba, who left them alone.
“I’m very sorry,” Freya called to her as Mercy continued to glower at the slave’s back.
Mercy tugged at Freya’s arm. “A word with you!” They took a path into the woods, whispering hurriedly back and forth as they trudged along the path.
“Those are the people who slaughtered my family!” said Mercy.
“Mercy, Tituba is from the Caribbean… she is not Indian,” Freya pointed out.
“They are all savages! They are evil! They consort with the prince of sin and darkness.”
“Tituba and her people did not slaughter your family!” said Freya. She’d had enough. They stopped in the path. The light spilled through the trees, dancing on their dresses. “I care about you greatly, Mercy. You are like a sister, and I understand how you feel. What happened to you and your family was an atrocity, but that has nothing to do with Tituba. She is just like us, a servant.”
Mercy laughed at this. “You are naïve, my friend.”
Freya knew there would be no persuading the stubborn girl. She sighed, dropping her head, and when she spoke her voice was full of compassion. She knew Mercy would never recover from the horror she had seen. It was etched on her body, with the scars on her face and mangled hand. “Forgive me,” she said. “I am sorry I hurt you.”
Mercy apologized, and they hugged, proclaiming their love for each other once more. Freya said she needed to be alone to gather herself, and Mercy agreed to cover for her. They separated, Freya strolling deeper into the woods as Mercy returned to the barn raising.
Clouds blanketed the sun, and the forest was shrouded in shadow as Freya walked through the tall pines. She sensed a presence and turned to look back, hoping Nate might have followed her. She spun in a circle, scanning the woods, but saw no one. It must have been a wild hog or a deer.
She took a path she recognized. It wound through the trees coming around to the side of the Putnam farm. She stopped in her tracks. There was the knock of a woodpecker against a hollow trunk, but it had stopped abruptly. The wind picked up. She looked up through the trees at the sky, which had turned metal gray. Again, she spun around.
This time, a tall man stepped out from behind an oak tree large enough to have obscured him. He wore a black steeple-crowned hat with a buckle, a black cape over a red shirt, and black knee-length breeches with ocher socks. The silver buckles on his long black pointy shoes shone. Freya looked inquisitively into his small dark eyes. He had a grizzled mustache and a pointy goatee. She could hear his wheezy breath rattle in his chest. She recognized him from the meetinghouse.
“Why, hello,” he said, reaching out an infinitely long arm from the folds of his cape. He stood in the middle of the path, cutting off her way. “Allow me to introduce myself. Mr. Brooks at your service. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance…” He smiled, his hand still hanging in the air, waiting for Freya to take it.
Freya tried not to laugh. There was something ridiculous about the man, overblown, with the foppish attire and comportment. Mr. Brooks… this must be the uncle Nate lives with, she realized, and to be polite, she gave him her hand. “Freya Beauchamp,” she said.
The man took it, bringing it reverentially to his lips, pushing his cape back while bowing slightly. His dry lips made her grimace with repugnance, and she took her hand back as quickly as possible without being impolite. She curtsied. “A pleasure.”
He sighed, smiling. “It is all mine. I was escaping the barn raising just now, taking a shortcut home.” He placed a spindly finger to his lips to show this was their little secret. “How stupendous to meet such a lovely young maid along the way!”
Thunder roared. She heard the cries of the villagers. Most likely they were running for shelter before the rain came. She could feel that heaviness in the air that preceded a virulent downpour.
“Goodness,” said Freya, looking up at the sky. “I must take my leave!”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Brooks. “Go, child, go, get back to the farm before the tempest strikes and until next we meet!”
Freya curtsied once more, then ran as fast as she could the other way. She couldn’t get away from Nate’s slithery goat of a relative fast enough.
chapter twenty-one
Thank Heaven for Little Girls?
A few days later, Thomas Putnam sent Freya, Mercy, and his daughter Annie on the two-mile walk to the parsonage to deliver provisions the pastor had requested during his last sermon. The pastor had a habit of working in what he needed for his house in his railings against the devil. Stepping inside from the bright sunlight, Freya was momentarily blinded by the darkness as she and the girls entered the parsonage. The shutters had been closed to trap the nighttime cool, but the air felt thick and stifling in the middle of the day. A single candle flickered on the large wooden table.
As Freya’s eyes adjusted, she saw little Betty Parris on her hands and knees, scrubbing the flagstone floor with a brush, a bucket nearby. Abigail Williams, her older cousin, had been standing over her, as if supervising the younger girl’s work. Now Abby was striding toward Freya as Betty rose to her knees. The reverend’s girls beamed as if the visit were divine providence itself.
“Sister Beauchamp!” cried Abby, placing a hand on Freya’s shoulder. Abby was very fond of Freya. This was a source of discomfort for her because she sometimes sensed Mercy’s jealousy whenever she and Abby conversed outside the meetinghouse.
“Sister Lewis and Sister Putnam!” said Betty.
The girls joyfully greeted one another.
“Is the pastor in?” asked Freya. “We have brought meal, corn, soap, and candles!”
“Oh, no, he isn’t here,” said Betty. “He is out making his spiritual rounds with Mother and little Sister and Brother. They are to return at dinnertime. For now, we are all alone.” She was a delicate, frail-looking girl of nine, blond with sharp, foxlike features and pale hazel eyes. There was a smudge o
n her forehead, soot from the chimney. The hearth, Freya saw, had been scrubbed clean. The hall was spotless, precisely ordered, and smelled of orange blossom and myrrh. Freya gently rubbed the smudge from Betty’s forehead as the little girl smiled up at her for the kindness—a sweet little face with ruddy cheeks, Freya thought.
Mercy squinted, peering into the hall. “Are your Indian man and woman here?”
Abby knew of her fellow orphan’s story. “Worry not, Mercy. John is out in the garden. Tituba has just now wrung the necks of two chickens and is plucking them for dinner in the back. I will not let them in until you are gone if that will make you rest easier.”
“Yes, thank you, Abby,” replied Mercy, curtsying.
It still irked Freya that Mercy could not see that the servants were gentle, harmless folk. Abby offered the girls a seat. She said they must be weary and thirsty after such a long walk in the hot sun. Betty took the provisions from them and put them away while Abby lit candles.
“We do not want to keep you from your employment!” Freya said nervously.
“No, we must not,” agreed Annie.
“We know how the reverend is!” added Mercy.
Abby laughed. “Come now! You have brought provisions. The reverend would not mind if you sat for a while and had tea.” She went to retrieve glasses, a pitcher of tea from a cupboard, and some hard biscuits that smelled rancid. “We can have ourselves a trifle of mischief so long as it remains betwixt us!”
“Yes!” exclaimed Annie, who sat beside Betty at the table. The older girls laughed at the childlike enthusiasm.
Scarcely had they all sat when Mercy began rambling about James Brewster. Apparently, there was much to say about the youth’s looks and how she wished she could marry him and that she believed he shared her feelings. The girls listened, but Freya noticed how Abby kept glancing at her.
Finally, Freya let her gaze meet Abby’s; they smiled at each other amicably. Abby’s big brown penetrating eyes stared back, glinting as dark as coals in the candlelight. Abby was an extremely self-possessed girl, tall for her twelve years, busty already. Her glossy black hair fell out of her cap and her lips looked almost crimson in contrast to her pallor. One always noticed Sister Williams in the meetinghouse.
“How wonderful that Mr. Brewster has made his affection known,” Abby said with a droll tone.
“Oh, he has not!” Mercy protested.
“Then how do you know he shares your fondness?”
“I don’t,” Mercy had to admit. “Not for certain.”
Abby’s smile was slightly mocking at that. “What about you, Sister Beauchamp? Has anyone caught your fancy? Or has anyone fancied you?”
Freya demurred.
“Nonsense, of course you have an admirer! You are such a beautiful maid! I would not be surprised if someone has already spoken for you!” Abby clearly meant to make Mercy feel less worthy. It was unkind.
Mercy lowered her eyes and placed her scarred hand at her face, elbow on the table, looking questioningly at Freya, waiting for her to answer.
Embarrassed, Freya stared down at her hands in her lap. This was exactly the kind of situation she sought to avoid. She laughed, making light of it all. “I’d rather not say for fear I hex it!”
“Oh, she said ‘hex’!” exclaimed Betty. “We are not to say such words in this house!”
“Oh!” said Annie, clapping a hand to her mouth.
They all looked at one another with alarm, but then Abby tittered, and they all laughed.
“What about you, Abby?” asked Mercy. “Do you have a paramour? Pray tell.”
Abby smiled. “Not all of us are so lucky to find handsome young men in the woods.” She smirked. It made Freya very uneasy. What was the girl trying to tell her? That she had seen her and Nate in the woods the other day? Little girls, she thought, they are so very lonely at this age. She sensed a profound longing, a restless hunger in Abigail Williams.
Abby leaned in and whispered, “While we are on the subject of hexes, there is something someone brought the minister from Boston a few weeks prior that Betty and I are exquisitely curious about.”
Mercy and Annie widened their eyes. They desperately wanted to know what it was. But Abby’s words had sent a chill up Freya’s spine. It was as if Abby had been waiting for this moment all along. Abby sent Betty upstairs to the minister’s study to retrieve the mystery item in question. When the young girl descended the stairs, she held up a slim volume and brought it to Freya.
“Neither of us knows how to read,” said Abby. “Would you read to us a little, Sister Beauchamp? We would like that very much!”
“Father will only read the Bible to us. He says this pamphlet’s content is not for little girls,” added Betty plaintively. “But it was written by a minister, so we do not see how it could be harmful. These are religious writings. And a very nice man came to drop it off. A friend of Uncle’s, a tall man with a white hat.”
Abby straightened her cap. “I overheard the reverend say to Mrs. Parris that the pamphlet is all the rage in Boston. Everyone has read it there. Why can’t we?”
“All right,” said Freya, staring at the pamphlet before her on the table. She ran a hand over the fine, swirling black-and-gold lettering on the cover and read it aloud: “An Essay on Remarkable, Illustrious, and Invisible Occurrences Relating to Bewitchments and Possessions, by Reverend Continence Hooker.”
chapter twenty-two
Whish Witch
“That very same year, as providence would have it,” Freya read aloud. “I had been summoned to the home of a most sober and pious man, a tailor by trade, and his wife, Robert and Sarah Barker, who lived in the north part of Boston. The couple had four offspring and, save for the youngest, an infant still feeding and mewling at its mother’s breast, the children had been recently seized by odd fits, and it was believed they were under the dreadful influence and astonishing effects of witchcrafts.”
The girls sitting around the table gasped, the younger ones clapping hands over their opened mouths. Freya continued.
“The three children (the oldest being thirteen and youngest eight) had always been remarkably pious and obedient, having received a strong and stringent religious education. These good God-fearing children and model Christians until then had possessed such docile temperaments and excellent carriage (several godly neighbors testified as to the virtues of their persons), it would have been impossible to believe they had any design to dissemble the strange fits with which they had been seized. So amazed were the scores of spectators by the children’s contortions, they, too, could only conclude the fits preternatural and not simulated.
“Here, let us pause, whilst I return a few steps back in time to tell how it all began, the very cacodemonic incident giving rise to these innocent children’s direful afflictions.
“Tailor Barker had sent his eldest, Helen, to purchase fabric from a local weaver, a Goodwife Mary Hopkins. No sooner had Helen stepped away from Hopkins’s door with the newly acquired cloth did she see that it possessed an unsightly large brown stain. Immediately, Helen returned to the home of weaver Goody Hopkins to show her the stain and trade it for a new clean piece of fabric for her father. Upon these actions, weaver woman Hopkins, a most scandalous and loathsome old Irish hag (whose own husband had brought her to court for placing a curse on him and turning his favorite cat into a dog), proceeded to give the young, prepossessing Helen a tongue lashing so vile the girl at once fell ill.”
The girls laughed, but Freya only blinked and went on reading.
“Upon the young Helen Barker’s return home, with not a stitch of fabric nor the money her father had given her to purchase it, for the snarl-toothed Irish hag had kept both, the girl was seized by fits so severe they resembled the quaking that accompanies a catalepsy. Within a couple of weeks, one after the other, the Barker children were fell into fits, tortured in so grievous a manner as to break the most immovable heart.
“These fits would not cease and only grew p
rogressively worse, no matter how much parents and neighbors fasted and prayed. By then I, Reverend Continence Hooker, had been called upon to visit and see for myself. Perhaps I could offer a sage word or efficacious reading and prayer. What I saw in the house of the Barkers was most unusual and unnatural, and it moved me to my very core. There, I witnessed the children in fits at their most extreme and exquisite: trembling, shaking, contorting, babbling incoherently. They hid beneath furniture; they stretched out and writhed on the floor, twisting their heads and pulling their tongues to an unnatural degree; they went deaf, dumb, and blind; they crawled whilst barking like dogs or purring like cats. Once did Helen take to running to and fro about the hall, flapping her arms and crying out, ‘Whish, whish, whish!’ The two smaller ones followed behind her, behaving like chicks, then Helen threw a hot firebrand from the hearth across the hall, nearly striking a neighbor. Finally, the oldest attempted to dash into the fire and up the chimney.
“It wasn’t until the evening when I visited that the children calmed—as it happened, right before dinnertime. They ate most tranquilly and heartily, and at night they appeared to sleep peacefully. In fact, one might have thought them angels in their slumber, never possessed by such demonic contrivances as would seize them again upon awaking at dawn.”
The girls listened, eyes glazed over and mouths agape. They were transfixed by the story, and Freya could see they enjoyed—even needed—this break from their humdrum and difficult little lives. She stopped worrying about whether it was right or wrong to read them this tale and immersed herself in the story.
Eventually, word of the strange happenings in the Barker home fell upon the ears of Boston magistrates, who with “great promptness looked into the matter.” As soon as Goodwife Mary Hopkins was placed in the jailer’s custody, the children were given some relief from their agonies. Then Goodwife Hopkins, along with the afflicted children, was brought before a tribunal.