Free Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill Page A

eyes focus on the doors
    like she herself feels chained
    and examined and awaits her moment
    to run.
    I exhale.
    This feels nothing
    like a court examination
    but as though
    one might next see
    a three-headed horse
    parade round the pulpit.

LESSONS TO BE LEARNED
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    â€œThey be needing aid at the Wilkins home,”
    Uncle Thomas says to Ann and me
    and stinking Mercy.
    â€œBray Wilkins suffers and they believe
    â€™tis witchcraft what causes his grief.
    You girls must visit and tell all
    what ye can see of the Invisible World.”
    Mercy look at Ann, and I know
    Mercy been deviling with Ann’s mind.
    Ann clutches her father’s arm.
    â€œLet Mercy travel on first.
    I have a lesson to finish
    and so does Margaret.
    Ye shall check our pages
    and when they are correct
    send us forth to join Mercy.”
    I contain my grumble,
    the stove of my anger
    so hot I got fever.
    Mercy grins at me out of
    the side of her lips.
    â€œI’ll set a carriage for Mercy
    and ye girls shall follow,” Uncle says.
    Aunt Ann swells with a new baby,
    but none in the house dare speak
    about it, for Aunt fears it will curse the birthing.
    Aunt says, “I do not think ’tis wise—”
    Ann stares at her and she stops
    talking like she lost her throat.
    Ann tugs my arm.
    â€œCome quickly. I must finish my copy
    so I can join her,” she says.
    â€œI don’t want to do that healing
    to none anyway. ’Tis work of heathens
    and slaves.” I yank away my arm.
    After Ann leaves
    I rip my paper into dust.
    I pound my fist so all them pieces
    shower round me, hiding the rain
    of my tears. How can I lose
    both Ann and Isaac to Mercy?

HEALERS
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    Benjamin Wilkins’s eyes cling
    to me. I toss my cloak
    so that it covers his head,
    and the room laughs.
    Poor old Bray Wilkins
    sits in his armchair,
    his legs elevated,
    his face a place of pain.
    His water stopped for over
    a week now, and like a stream
    clogged by a fallen tree,
    his river swells.
    His face’s red
    and bloated enough to burst.
    Goody Wilkins asks,
    â€œMercy, can ye tell us
    what happens here?”
    I hush the room
    with a lift of my hands
    and close my eyes.
    When I open my lids
    I say, “I see the Invisible World.
    John Willard jumps upon
    the belly of his grandfather, Bray Wilkins.
    The same man I am told tended
    Missus Putnam as a child.
    He presses down on old Bray Wilkins
    hard enough to crack ribs.”
    I begin to faint,
    draw my backhand
    across my forehead,
    and my legs go limp.
    Benjamin catches me.
    His eyes no longer paw.
    He looks at me now
    as though I am a spirit.
    Ann blusters through the door.
    â€œYes, John Willard,
    whose specter I saw whip
    my baby sister Sarah to death.
    I see him too.”
    Ann’s uncle, the Constable,
    punches the air where we point
    the invisible witches to be.
    My legs jerk and my arms spasm
    each time he strikes a witch.
    They lift Ann and me out
    of the Wilkins home,
    nestle us in the horse cart
    as my feet are too weak
    to hold up my body.
    Benjamin bounds toward me.
    â€œGrandfather, he looked not pained.
    He smiled, teeth and all,
    and said his aches were released
    for a spell when Constable Putnam
    hit those witches. Thank you.”
    I nod at him, wave him well.
    Parched now
    and tired beyond sleep,
    I look out at Salem Village
    and feel like this place
    calls me its own.

TOWN UNREST
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    Outside the Proctors’ gutted tavern
    a silver-whiskered man balances himself
    on his tangled branch cane and hollers,
    â€œGood folk cannot all be witches.
    Think ye.”
    A crowd gathers round the yelling
    like wasps fly to spilled ale.
    â€œYea,” most of them agree.
    Me and Ann and Mercy would
    but duck away, except we stroll
    with Uncle and Aunt.
    They hold us to eye level.
    Uncle says, “How know ye, sir?
    Speak ye with the Devil?”
    The wasps quiet their clamor.
    â€œThese girls be a