Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill Read Free Book Online

Abigail in the cheek:
    again she acts without my instruction.
    If only Reverend Parris had sent away
    both his daughter and his niece.

AN INNOCENT RIDE
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    A young man with shoulders broad as a lake
    trails Mister Putnam round the stables.
    â€œFine mare,” he says, his voice
    deep earth brown.
    â€œShe’ll produce fine foal, I believe.
    I’ll not be trading her if that be
    what ye desire, Isaac Farrar.”
    Mister shakes his head.
    â€œNo, sir,” Isaac says.
    â€œBut might I take her for a ride?”
    Mister nods, and Isaac mounts
    the spotted mare.
    As he grabs hold the reins
    his eyes saddle upon me.
    I shade red to be caught watching him
    for I never do care to observe anyone,
    and I ought be slopping the pigs.
    Mister Putnam notes my presence with a smile
    and calls, “Mercy, come yonder
    and fetch a cup of water.
    I hand Mister Putnam the tin,
    and he squeezes his arm around me.
    â€œMercy doth see the Invisible World.
    She and my daughter Ann,
    the Lord has called them.”
    Mister ruffles Wilson’s head,
    but calls not his dog away from me.
    Isaac fixes upon me
    without cessation or flinch.
    â€œI be acquainted with Mercy,” he says.
    â€œBeg your pardon, but I do not recall—”
    â€œDo you ride?” he asks like a gunshot,
    before I can finish my speech.
    Mister twists his face, such that I cannot
    tell if it be in anger or pleasure.
    â€œâ€™Tis not proper for a servant—” I begin.
    â€œDo you ride?” Isaac insists, and leads
    his own horse over to me.
    â€œYes, I ride,” I say, and hold fast
    the reins of Isaac’s gaze. I remember
    him now—he helped me carry my firewood.
    I nearly wish to smile at him, but I cannot say why.
    â€œShe cannot ride.” Mister grinds his teeth.
    â€œShe might find fit and fall.
    It be too dangerous. It be not proper.”
    Mister turns me round and pushes
    me toward the house.
    I hear him say to Isaac,
    â€œI think it best if I rest
    Beatrice this afternoon.
    She was rode hard this morning.
    And she does not take well
    to strangers.”

THE PROCTORS’ MAID RECANTS HER AFFLICTION
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    The note Ruth Warren
    nails to the meetinghouse door
    Ann reads to us:
    â€œThank ye in public
    for my condition did but improve.
    I do rightly believe the Devil deceived,
    and we girls did but speak falsely.
    The magistrates might as well
    listen to someone insane
    and believe what she said
    as any of the afflicted persons,
    for I submit there be as much truth in madness
    as in any of the girls’ claims.
    Our fits and pains may be put to end
    by the Lord’s will and concentration of mind.
    I humbly ask ye all to forgive
    my weakness against the Devil.
    Your gracious servant, Ruth Warren.”
    â€œI’ve a mind to whip
    that Ruth Warren
    same as Goodman Proctor did,” I say.
    Ann flicks my arm.
    â€œQuiet your tongue.
    Cause not disturbance, Margaret.”
    I want to say, Or else what?
    What’ll ye do? Who crowned
    thee queen? But I hold in
    them words for now.
    â€œDo you suppose Ruth be beat
    into writing all that?”
    I whisper to Elizabeth.
    Inside the meetinghouse
    all the eyes of the church
    lock on us Afflicted
    tighter than a bridle.
    The question whirling
    o’er the rafters, gathering
    fast as storm clouds—
    If Ruth Warren
    recants that she was tormented,
    if she can stop her fits,
    why then do we other girls
    not quit ours?
    I stare straight at the pulpit,
    try not to let the fire
    of their eyes burn my cheeks.
    I glance over at Isaac,
    want to wave up my hand
    and have him lead me out of
    this stomach-churning church.
    But he never looks my way.
    After meeting the sky’s
    still and gray as a dead fish.
    We girls gather in a cluster.
    Uncle Thomas speaks loud, so many hear,
    â€œI believe Ruth Warren must have signed
    or at least placed her hand upon the Devil’s book.”
    The crowd gasps and