“It’s a vile custom, and when it comes time for our Betty?”

“Then she goes to another home!”

Betty, hearing this, raced up the stairs to her room, crying hysterically.”

Jeremy tried to look invisible, having found a corner. Parris gritted his teeth. “It’s not just custom here, Mother! Listen to reason, Goodwife, it’s religion and it’s law.” Parris turned and waved a hand at Jeremy. “Tell her, Jeremy.”

Jeremiah knew of the practice of taking children at age twelve and thirteen out of their parental homes to circulate in other houses—girls to be taught kitchen arts and wifely duites, while boys learned under harsh masters—not parents—a trade or at least how to muck out a barn. But Jeremy had never heard it referred to as law. “It is our way, Mrs. Parris, for better or worse.” Worse being the operative word, he said to himself.

Parris glared at him, his eyes encouraging a stronger remark, but when it did not come, he firmly said, “Elizabeth, a child coming on his or her child-bearing years must be placed under a roof run by those other than a doting mother and father.”

“To keep them in strict discipline,” added Jeremy.

Mary Wolcott shrugged at this and as if harping what she’d heard all her life, added, “It’s what’s best. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

“That child, Dorcas, was a pack mule for that old woman,” added Parris. “And on that note, we are away, Goodwife. Come along, Mr. Wakely!”

But Mrs. Parris persisted, following them a few steps out into the snow-laden yard. “Every time you have dealings with those Putnams, Samuel . . . each time you go into their house, you return in a melancholia.”

“Such comes with the job, dear. We all must persevere.”

“I hate to see it—how those relatives of yours affect you so.”

“Mercy Lewis will be of great comfort to Thomas and Anne, I’m sure, and a great boon to them.”

“Not if she misbehaves, she won’t.”

“She’s learned her lesson well, and she knows what all of us expect of her.”

“She’s had a hard time of it—orphaned so cruelly.”

“God works in mysterious ways…and so we must believe her parents taken from her for good reason—even if by fire at the hand of the pagans.”

“Her parents were killed by Indians?” asked Jeremy.

“They ventured too far westward, settled in an unsavory place,” explained Parris. “Years ago—ten maybe twelve. Time the child got over it.”

“Putting her out, Samuel,” Mrs. Parris began, “you know I believe it was wrong but to place her in that sad home, that may be the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Enough, woman!”

“I loved that child as if she were my own.”

Parris’ jaw quivered as if she’d slapped him. “We must show Christian charity and patience to our kith and kin, and the Putnams were closer to the Lewises, and Mercy and Thomas’ family will—by God—prosper together, as will we all in time.”

Jeremy wondered what this last meant. Wondered more about what hadn’t been said as what had been said, but Parris tugged at his arm. “Away.” The minister wanted no more words with his wife on the subject of either Mercy Lewis or the Putnam household.

They tramped off together, lifting boots through snow for a house that Elizabeth Parris obviously wanted her husband to avoid as he might the plague.


Chapter Five

“So we go on our rounds, Reverend?” asked Jeremy as the two men in black strode the village path between the parsonage and the Putnam home.

“We go to Deacon Putnam’s, yes.”

“Ahhh, a Deacon is he?”

“That and a Captain.”

“Militiaman? Impressive.”

Jeremy waited for more to come out of the parson’s mouth.

“Mrs. Putnam sends word. She’s a woman with . . . well let us say much grieves her.”

“I can imagine.” He’d gotten as much from Mrs. Parris’ words, but he also foggily recalled the rumors surrounding Mrs. Thomas Putnam and how her womb had killed so many unborn children.

“I doubt you have the least conception.”

“I suppose, sir, you are right on that score.”

“You say, Mr. Wakely, that you’re from Maine?”

“I said so, yes.”

“However, you sound like one of these Salem bumpkins in your speech. Why’s that?”

“Of late from Maine, sir, and besides no one sounds more the bumpkin than those from Maine.”

“Ah-yes. That’s Wells, Maine? Anywhere near Casco Bay?”

“In fact, quite near. But I did not give out Wells.”

“There’s but two colonies there. Listen, young man, had you ever come across my predecessor, a Reverend George Burroughs? Understand he’s preaching in Casco Bay.”

“Predecessor? Burroughs . . . Burroughs. I think not.” It wasn’t technically a lie, as Jeremy, the former citizen of the village had known Burroughs but Jeremy the apprentice did not, so far as Parris needed to know. “Afraid our paths never crossed.”

“He is strangely my undoing here in Salem.”

Jeremy inwardly gasped at this bit of revelation. “Sir?”

“Even before I arrived.”

“But how is that?”

Parris had stopped their progress at the town green where they stood below a huge chestnut tree, its giant gnarled limbs serpentine in their chaotic pattern as if some god had unleashed elephant-sized snakes to run in every direction.

Jeremy had to repeat his question. “Sir, how can this previous minister here be your undoing?” He silently prayed for an answer.

Parris leaned in against the tree as if fatigued, and for certain he’d been up half or more of the night. “Why…why none of his own doing, I suppose . . . not directly I’m sure. I’ve no reason to believe Burroughs wished me any sort of harm.”

“Indirectly then, you think?”

“Yes, indirectly.”

It took another ten seconds of silence before Parris chose to continue. “Indirectly, I should hope, as those who ran him from the parish are my support, you see, while—”

“—While those who’d voted to keep Burroughs here are now your enemies, I presume?”

“Are you in the habit of finishing the sentences of your elders, Mr. Wakely?”

Have to be compliant,” Jeremy reminded himself, and the man is twenty years my senior. “Sorry, sir.”

“Still…astute of you to realize it, Jeremiah,” continued Parris.” No matter who may’ve come along after this Burroughs fellow to take up duties here, he’d have surely faced the same sort of ah…wrath as I’ve felt.”

“Then you’re a victim of misdirected wrath, is it, sir?”

“That’s it in a word, victim of unwarranted wrath.” Parris scanned the movements of people as he spoke, his eyes never on Jeremy but rather studying his parishioners as they went about their morning, most involved in some industry.

“Unwarranted wrath, sir? It must weigh heavily then. I mean . . . it’s a sad state of affairs if it is so.”

“Of course, it is so.”

“I mean to characterize your flock as against you.”

“Trust me, you’ll see it and feel it on yourself soon enough, having chosen to stand so near me.”

Jeremy nodded and kept silent. Parris muttered. “You’ll see their venom soon enough.”

“I should hope not.”

“I should hope so.”

Jeremy gritted his teeth as they made the Putnam doorway. “But why, sir, would you wish it?”

“Mr. Wakely, I do not wish what I have endured on a dog. However, as it is the case, I want you to feel their spite and poison as I do.”

“But to call it up like some…incantation is—”

“I want you, young man, to pass it along to Reverend Mather in that . . . that book you keep.”

Jeremy stared at his new ‘master’ and bowed dutifully, and even as he formed his reply was thinking: Betty’s drawing. She’d shown it to her father, and he’d noted the unusual paper ripped from somewhere. Observant of the minister. “I only keep a record of my inmost feelings and perceptions sir. A learning tool.”

“I see, a diary, eh?”

“A personal, day-to-day reckoning with myself, Mr. Parris.”

“Yes, self-evaluation. I am told tis a good thing!”

“Some believe it so and I among them, yes.”

“Reverend Higginson of the Town certainly harps on it.”

“I’ve not met the gentleman.” The lie hung in the air.

Parris said, “Still, you’ll no doubt also be making reports to Boston, I presume.”

“I am required to give progress reports—ahhh reports of my progress, that is.”

“Of course. Isn’t that one purpose of your being sent to me after all?” Parris actually sounded hopeful that Jeremy would indeed be informing the authorities in Boston of the dire situation poor Mr. Parris found himself faced with. “After all, they’ve not paid my rate, Jeremy, for several months now.”

“I should be happy to report your side of the story, sir, if it’s your wish, but in truth, I only meant to inform only in so far as my growth and progress goes, sir.”

“Hmmm . . . but perhaps you will be persuaded to make amendments to your personal reports—perhaps even attach a sermon I am preparing for next meeting day.”

“Amendments…sermons, sir?”

“Attachments!” Parris caught himself. “Must I spell out everything to you, Mr. Wakely?”

Jeremy gave him a coy schoolboy look. “Are . . . are you saying there’s ah . . . something in it for me, Mr. Parris?”

“I merely mean, Jeremiah—I can call you Jeremiah, can’t I?” The man had been doing so all morning. “While privately addressing you, I mean?”

“Surely you may.”

“I mean once you, too, are a victim of such utter disrespect and heartless actions as I’ve endured since my tenure here, that you will want to report the slander, the double dealing, the back-stabbing, and the venom.”

“The Burroughs contingent, you mean?”

“They set the example, yes. But others follow.”

A jet black raven with blue shimmering about its wings landed on a nearby limb where they stood, curiously looking as if eavesdropping.

“But I was given to believe—told that is—that the previous minister here left this parish a broken convict, a man pitied as much as despised, his family lost to the fever, and he a debtor and broken man.”

“All too true.” Irritated by the staring raven, Parris showed it off.

“I heard talk of the other minister before Burroughs, too, that his family also died while he served in this parish. Of course, I don’t believe in curses, but some in Boston’ve called it a parish cur—”

“Don’t say it! It’s nonsense.” Parris then shouted for anyone caring to hear, “Only hex on this place is human gullibility, greed, jealousy, and sin.”

Parris began to cross the green to finish their walk to the Putnam home. Jeremy rushed to keep up. The other side of the green, Jeremy goose-stepped over sludge that ran down the middle of the village’s main thoroughfare in a foot-wide canal cut for delivering human waste and other foul matter away from the settlement.

They’d stopped in the middle of a cow path, their discussion so intense that neither of them saw the gathering crowd growing around them.

“I was given to understand that a great deal of piety, love, and humane actions had been taken on behalf of both Bailey and Burroughs,” said Jeremy, shaking his head. “That some took pity on these poor ministers, paid their bills, even jail fees in Mr. Burroughs’ case.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told . . . and that they sent him off with the clothes on his—”

“Same with the man before these two, Deodat Lawson.”

Suddenly Parris’ face went white. “How much of the parsonage history do you know, Mr. Wakely?” Parris looked and sounded again like the suspicious creature that Jeremy had encountered the night before.

“I know Salem’s history, especially its theological history, well sir.”

“Aye . . . before coming here.” Parris had retreated tenfold due to thoughts rumbling inside now. Jeremy could see the confusion on his face. “Did much study then before arriving, did you, Mr. Wakely? But never knew Burroughs, despite spending time in Maine, eh?”

“Maine is a large place, and truth be told, sir, I was never one for study, not in truth.”

Frustration made the man stomp, sending a cascade of mud over Jeremy’s boots. “Then how in the name of Jehovah do you know so much about our affairs in Salem?”

“I suspect, Mr. Parris, you knew nothing of the so-called curse when the Select Committee hired you without full consent of the parish.”