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I RAN MY FINGERS OVER the velvety soft leaves of the mullein plant, selecting several perfect specimens and clipping them close, careful not to take too much and damage the mother plant. I added them to my basket, already overflowing with the bright orange flower heads of the calendula plant amid bright pink and white clusters of yarrow. Sweet grass created the bed at the bottom upon which they lay. The lazy drift of clouds above my head cast shadows that danced over the meadow as I made my way along, eyes searching and wandering along the forest edge before I moved deeper, in search of the shade loving herbs growing there. I had nearly filled mama’s wish list of necessary herbs. She would take them and perform her own brand of magic to transform them into her famous tinctures, teas and salves. The yarrow and sweet grass would become an herbal oil to ward off mosquitos. The sweet citrus scent of her last batch wafted up from my skin, keeping the pesky nuisances at bay. Just a few more and I was done. In an opening in the heavily forest area I collected plantain; the broad rounded leaves close to the ground. They would become a soothing salve to offer relief from the itching of poison ivy.
An enormous shadow covered me from above in a fleeting pass. I narrowed my eyes and ignored it, pursing my lips in irritation. I had one more herb to collect. A smile split my face as I spied the tall stalks, partially hidden by a large black maple next to Marrow Pond. I used small scissors, shearing the tender growth neatly to cause the least damage. I was always selective in what I took, as Mama had taught me from the time I could walk.
The shadow drifted overhead one more time. Disgruntled, I straightened away and looked up in time to see wicked claws coming straight for my eyes.
I gave a startled scream, and dropped the basket, scissors falling from my hands and fresh herbs tumbling into the dirt. Sharp talons snagged my shoulders and lifted me high before I could scream a second time. The grip was sure as my feet dangled and twisted in the long skirts and serviceable boots I wore to muck around the woods in.
I wasn’t afraid. I looked up into the mischievous eyes of my oldest brother Aidan. Against the reflection of sun on the dappled woods, his ghostly silver scales shimmered, rippling beneath the movement of powerful leathery wings that lifted me high and headed for the pond. He dipped low over the stagnant water, blowing out a shivery snort of warm air that sounded an awful lot like laughter as he skimmed my kicking feet along the surface.
My temper spiked. “Aidan Walsh! You put me down this instant and it better not be in that pond. Da will strap your hide if you ruin me boots!” Another huff of air and he opened his jaw wide, showing long rows of perfect sharp teeth. The idiot was grinning like a fool at me.
“If you’ve ruined the herbs for mom’s apothecary, she won’t be happy. Neither will I. They took hours to collect. You are not funny.” He ignored me. Another shadow emerged beside him and I sighed, clenching my fists and settling in for the ride with a mutinous scowl. My brother’s best friend Douglas O’Neill swooped alongside him. They’d ganged up on me, as was their habit. The brush of wind through my hair tangled it about my face as I lifted my feet to avoid the pond skimming over my heels. There was no talking to my brother when he played. Best to just wait it out and enjoy the scenery as it flew past in a blur.
I hadn’t hit my change yet, though there were signs it was coming in the itchy skin and the hot-spells. I’d awakened several mornings to shed scales over the length of my bed. Another indicator of my maturing dragon. I couldn’t wait to do what my brother’s and father did with such joy. My mother, Moira, didn’t transform like they did. Some Dragon shifters never changed or only partially embraced their Celtic heritage. I settled back and relaxed. Might as well enjoy it. Next to taking to the air myself, a ride from my crazy oldest brother Aidan was the next best thing.
No more than fifteen minutes passed and he was taking me down. He misjudged his landing and sent me tumbling end over end in the dead pine needles of a small stand of lodgepole pines.
I sat up with a groan and an evil glare in my brother’s direction, dusting my skirts and checking for snags. My brother and his best friend had landed a scant distance off. They remained in their dragon forms, reptilian eyes staring me down in disdain. I was beyond relieved that they didn’t change back. I had no desire to see my brother in such a state of undress. And though I suspected Douglas secretly had a thing for me, I was not interested back in anything he might have to offer.
“Brother, Douglas, don’t you both have chores to do? If you worked half as hard as you played we’d all be a might richer.” I grumbled, walking back to collect my basket and pick up any tender herbs and roots that might have fallen out.
Straightening up, I eased a kink in the middle of my back with a hand to the middle as I arched. I eyed my brother’s dragon. He was the larger of the two, and more splendid in my opinion. His dragon was richly adorned in a sea of bronze scales that reflected every bit of the light. His well-shaped head angled in my direction, the reptilian eyes winking with mirth. Douglas’s dragon was smaller and darker. His eyes hopped too when they looked at me, but there was a fresh look about them that made me uncomfortable with its directness. His nostrils flared and he chuffed as he scented the air.
I scowled. He’d better not be sniffing me. A dragon’s sense of smell was incredible. I turned back to my brother. “Look, ma’s waiting for these.” I tapped my basket. “I have to get back home with them and help with supper. Don’t be late or I’m telling Da where you snuck off to. I know you’re supposed to be out hunting for meat to cure and replace our dwindling cellar larder.
Aidan blew out an expansive breath of air, coating me in its heat and the smell of garlic.
“Ew! That’s just nasty. Get away from me.” The roar behind me as I turned and hurried down the path towards home sounded an awful lot like laughter.
I emerged into the open yard of our homestead, carved big enough from the wilderness to hold a substantial cabin and barn for our livestock, with enough space to grow the garden we relied on to grow the herbs and market vegetables that were our mainstay and cash crop. Our farm set on a massive ley line, the energy it held running beneath our feet and ensuring our garden was always lush. I gave the lettuce and chard an evil glare as I passed. They needed picking, along with the beets, already at harvest size in the third planting of the summer. They weren’t the only plant ready for picking. The weeds grew healthy there too. It seemed my work was never done.
I entered the cabin to the aroma of fresh venison stew bubbling in the pot over the hearth and sourdough starter. Ma worked a soft dough for fresh bread on the rough wooden table in the center of the kitchen. She took in my shoddy appearance and her ready smile slipped sideways.
“What’s that on your skirt? Is that dirt and grass stains? Did you take a tumble?”
“Not exactly. I had some help. Those two, Douglas and Aidan. Do they ever take anything serious?”
Moira Walsh resumed kneading our bread. “They’re boys. Are they supposed to?”
I gave an eye roll to show my opinion of that and moved to the sink to wash and sort the herbs into bunches for Mama to use. She used fine twine to separate the rooted herbs. They’d join the others, hanging above in the rafters in the kitchen to dry until needed, or ground to powder and stored in glass jars.
The door closing made me turn in time to watch my father, Duncan, and youngest brother, Finn, come through the door. Both were dusty but smiling. Duncan bussed his wife’s cheek with a kiss nuzzling her chin and making her squeal and push him away. Water sparkled over thick beards and ran down their throats from the creek behind the house where they’d washed to dust off the dirt of the day. Fin reached out and tried to ruffle my hair, but with a threatening glare and a lift of my elbow in his direction, he changed his mind. I caught a whiff of the fresh mountain stream and pulled the fresh smell deeper. We all had an exceptional sense of smell.
Moira looked up. “Supper is near ready, just got to pop these rolls, give it twenty and it will be on the table. Plenty of time for you to change into something clean,” she added with a glare in Finn’s direction.
“Sure Ma.” He shrugged.
“Where’s Fergus and Aidan?” Duncan asked, unlacing his boots and setting them by the door.
I looked up and shared a look with my mother. I wasn’t sure why she always covered for my lazy brother. But I let it go. “Both are still out on the hunt. I’m hoping one of them will bring something back or we’re going to be fishing in the creek tomorrow.”
Finn grimaced. “Not a fan of fish!” He grumbled, heading for the back and his room to change.
A shout of laughter beyond the door on the front porch grabbed our attention. Duncan nodded and went to join his youngest to change. Fergus and Aidan were back.
#
RICH STEW AND BISCUITS disappeared in short order. Ma had added some of her precious mint to a handful of raspberry leaves, steeping them in boiling water. The resulting treat was refreshing.
Duncan smiled at his wife. “Delicious. Compliments to the cook, as always.”
“I’ll be up first thing in the morning to collect what’s ready in the garden and get it ready to go. Any idea what time you guys will be ready?” Moira responded, inclining her head in his direction.
Duncan shrugged, buttering another roll. “By ten I’d say, I’ll have the team hitched and ready. We need a few things from the Smithy. Hoping to get a new hatchet head to replace the old one.”
I observed the interchange, realizing what I’d had missed earlier. Father’s affable smile was missing.
“Da, is there something wrong?” He slanted a pained look in my direction.
“You are way too sharp, daughter.” His eyes met those of his wife and a certain look passed between them.
He included us all when he spoke. “We need to be careful. I don’t like what I’m seeing in town, lately. The dutiful citizens of Salem must be mighty bored is all I can say. The rules and laws are getting crazier all the time. It seems the distance between those who have and those who have not is growing, along with the imbalance of power. Last week while I was in town I heard the magistrate was interrogating three girls that were having ‘fits’ is what they called it, shaking and shivering and what not. When they were grilled about it by the magistrate, Jonathan Corbin, they accused some old woman, another young girl, and some Caribbean slave by the name of Ti tuba of casting spells on them. Now the entire town is in an uproar. I’m worried about what they’re going to do to the accused. Ridiculous is what it all is. Another way for the rich to try to keep the poor right where they want them. I didn’t stick around to see what happened next.” As he spoke, his eyes moved down the table and landed on his oldest son.
“Which brings me to another point. We need to be especially vigilant in these times. That means taking necessary precautions. We don’t go shifting willy nilly and flying around the forest where anyone from town out hunting my happen by and see us, right Aidan?”
Aidan squirmed, looking guilty. I tried to hide my smirk beneath the brush of several escaping tendrils of hair as I bent over my bowl, scraping up the last drop of gravy.
His solemn gaze moved around the table, landing on each of us and pausing on his wife’s grave expression. “We’ve grown complacent here, in this home we’ve made for ourselves in these woods with others of our kind; but times are changing. The Puritans are becoming tyrannical in their pursuit of control as they further impose their religious beliefs on the settlers of Salem. They are looking for excuses, and when they don’t find them they are making them up. Our families came from the South of Wales years ago to make a better life and start fresh. It seems the same persecution we fled in England may have followed us here. I don’t want to give the citizens of Salem any excuse to look our way with suspicion. Am I clear?” His eyes lit with a hellish blue flame, his brows dark and drawn as he looked around the table with quiet authority.
I realized he was afraid, and that scared me most of all. My father was the bravest man I knew. A niggling unease shivered along my spine and I sat up straighter, the last bits of bread and stew sticking in my throat like a ball of lead. I wondered if he was right to be worried, if maybe we all should.
#
IT WAS THE TENTH OF June and already summer was heating. Though still early, the blistering heat of the day bore down, thick and oppressive as I loaded the last of the fresh vegetables with Mama into the back of the buckboard to go to town. I glanced at the early strawberries in their woven containers to make sure the rough roads wouldn’t bounce them around too much. The strawberries would be an early summer treat and should bring a decent price. Maybe even enough to purchase a remnant of muslin at the mercantile to go with the linen for the boy’s trousers. I glanced down at the frayed ends of my skirt. The length skimmed the tops of my boots and I bit my lip. They were shorter than was proper, though so far no one had mentioned that fact. With luck, there would be enough to add an extra five inches to the bottom of my skirts. Puritan customs decreed that skirts should dust the ground as we walked. And the colors were to be plain and unassuming. Grey, white and black were the norm and I hated it. My heart rebelled against the rigid rules that some staunch old biddy with too much free time had dreamed up as proper. Idiotic is what it was.
Inside the cool interior of the cabin I grabbed a dab of beeswax infused with lavender and worked it into my work-roughened hands, sighing in relief as the smooth oil sank in and soothed the ache. Mama stood at the counter, sweat beading her brow, her blond tresses the same color as mine pulled high in a bun but uncovered, in direct flaunt of the conventional cap some fool had decreed proper attire for a woman in the oppressive heat. Mama was putting together a tincture of ground burdock root and dried yarrow. It was in demand in town lately. It helped with stomach ailments though the quack of an English Dr. had deemed it ineffective. He favored blood-letting to let the poison out over everything else. I trusted my mother’s healing skills and knowledge over anyone else’s. I’d have to be dead before I allowed that English quack to touch me, with his beady eyes that watched the swish of a woman’s skirts more than was proper whenever he thought no one was looking.
“We won’t be back too much before dark, Ma. Do you need anything else from town? We’ll be gone most of the day.” Though I knew we’d be returning as soon as we finished. With all the unrest and persecutions by the ‘law’ in town, our family and most everyone else in our clan wasn’t spending any more time there than was necessary.
Moira looked up with a frown of concentration, her nimble fingers holding the heated pan with a heavy mitt and pouring the tincture into prepared jars, sterilized cork stoppers lined up to cap them with when she finished.
“No, we’ll be good. I’d take a bit of thread if we can afford it with what’s left over. You kids are growing so fast and the boys are so rough on their clothes. The darning basket is near overflowing.”
Nodding, I headed through the door. Climbing into the back of the wagon with Finn, I leaned back against the rails to look out the back and monitor the vegetables to make sure they didn’t take a tumble if we hit a nasty bump. Duncan and my brother’s Fergus and Aidan rode up front. The wagon gave a jerk as it pulled out of the yard and I winced as my head banged into the rough boards from the abrupt movement.
#
WE PULLED INTO SALEM, behind another buckboard ahead of us. Along with the fresh produce, I was being dropped at the Market to run our vegetable stand. Da and my brothers would help me unload and set up before leaving to run the rest of their errands before we went home.
Looking at the sidewalks and along the streets, I felt a tingle of unease. It was only a Monday morning and already it seemed crowded as more people than usual seemed to mill about, going on about their daily business. “Da, does it seem like there are more people in town today?” I wondered aloud.
He took so long to answer; I figured maybe he hadn’t heard.
“Yeah, makes me wonder what’s going on. We can’t leave yet though. We have to sell the produce and we need other supplies that can’t wait for the next trip.”
I heard the nervous tension in his voice. He was worried. “I’ll be careful, Da. You do the same and let’s get what we need. The sooner I get these unloaded the quicker people will buy them and we can get our stuff and git. I have to visit the mercantile before we leave, too. I’ll store the baskets in the buckboard and wander there when I’m done and meet you when you’re finished.”
He gave a grim nod as we pulled up alongside the large open barn that doubled as an open market and a holding pen for livestock and such when the need arose. Still, it was shaded and high enough in the middle of town to stir up a pleasant breeze if there was one. I appreciated the fact that we weren’t in the direct sun. I watched my brother’s leave with ground eating strides.
I was still arranging things on my stand when the first customer walked up, eying the baskets of early strawberries I’d brought. Salem seemed busier than usual to me that afternoon, but it turned out to be good for sales. By 3:00 p.m. I’d sold out of everything but the last of the radishes. I frowned as I loaded them back up. They weren’t my favorite either, but the hogs would eat whatever we didn’t. I patted my pocket, feeling the weight of the handful of shillings I’d made. I’d taken in a small barrel in barter from the Cooper in town as well. I brushed my fingers over the smooth polished wood. Mama would make the sour dill pickles in it we all favored. The coins would do well enough to fill mama’s list. I stored the rest of the baskets in the buckboard and turned towards the mercantile.
#
I GAVE CHARLIE THOMPSON a smile when I entered. He looked up from the counter as I came in. I’d always liked Mr. Thompson, the owner of the mercantile. He ran the store alongside his prune-faced wife, Isla, and his daughter, Olivia. “Hello, and how are you doing today, Mr. Thompson?”
He gave me a worn smile, fine lines bracketing his mouth. Always a quiet man given to deep introspection, today he seemed more preoccupied than usual. “I’m doing well. It’s a pleasure to see you well. What can I get for you?”
I set the scrap of linen on the scarred wooden counter next to a jar of horehound candy. My mouth watered at the sight of the sweet confection, but I was here for more important things than sugary treats. “We need extra honey. We used all the last you gave us up. Mama’s making mullein and elderflower cough syrup and uses it to cut the bitter taste.”
Charlie nodded and took the list. Flour, sugar, cornmeal and rice. “Speaking of which. When you see your mama can you get her to send a jar of that into town with you the next time you come. The last batch worked like a charm. I felt better in a matter of days.”
“Sure Mr. Thompson, I can do that.” Charlie Thompson was among the townsfolk that appreciated the natural medicine’s that my mother created.
“Will do. While you put that together, I’m going to look at some of that muslin you have in the corner. Probably some thread as well.” I moved towards the bolts of cloth in the corner as Isla Thompson came out from the back stockroom of the store.
#
ISLA THOMPSON’S EYES narrowed on the brief flash of stockings as Elspeth whirled and walked away. Scandalous, that’s what. The way young ladies were allowed to dress. Blasphemy is what it was. Girl’s skirt was at least two inches too short. She huffed, snatching the list from her husband who looked at her in surprise. “I’ve got this. There’s stock in back needs unloading. It’s heavy for me.” She allowed, giving her husband a pointed look. With a forced sigh, he left.
Isla turned and wedged herself onto the too tall stool behind the counter, ample parts of her hanging off each side. Her feet were killing her. She eyed the beautiful young woman across the store with suspicion. Poor mountain trash. Couldn’t be trusted not to rob an honest, hard-working businessman—or woman—blind. Not on my watch she won’t!
#
I RAN MY FINGERS OVER the rough bolts of linen, my lips twisting. I could feel Mrs. Thompson’s eyes boring through me from clear across the room. She’d always seemed to have something against me, though I’d never been able to fathom what. I stared in dismay at the wide variety of color choices. The white was blinding. A folded remnant of that went into my basket for a new apron. There were bolts of gray and black as well. What I wouldn’t have given for a dash of blue or green. But the plainer the better to the Puritans. I chose a charcoal gray. It would hide the dirt well and there was enough for several pairs of breeches and a skirt each, maybe for myself and Mama. I turned back towards the counter to pick up thread and pay for my purchases.
My eyes narrowed on Isla Thompson, her hefty self straining against the pull of gravity towards the floor beneath the flat-backed stool she sat on. Her daughter Olivia had come from the back and stood at her side. I hadn’t met Olivia but once or twice. She seemed to have taken more after her father, unlike her mother who was bitter as they came.
I lay my purchases on the counter and waited for Mrs. Thompson to ring them up. I watched as she counted it all in her head, taking a running tally myself at the same time.
“Is that all Miss Walsh?” She stared down the thin blade of her nose over the top of her glasses. I swallowed, nervous under her hawk like stare. My eyes met Olivia’s.
“Yes, please,” I answered, politely.
“That will be seventy-eight cents.” She stated, eyes daring me to argue.
I sighed. “Are you sure? I had a slightly different number.”
Isla Thompson pulled herself up to her full five feet and still made me feel small at a shade over five foot four. “Are you calling me a liar, Miss Walsh?”
“Not at all. Anyone can make a mistake. Perhaps it was me. Could you recount it, please?” she persisted with a determined smile.
Isla’s face heated to a dull red and her eyes went hard. She began adding again, this time out loud. She got to the end and hesitated, her eyes feigning shock. “Oh dear, it seems I made a slight error. As you say, it could happen to anyone. Sixty-Eight cents please.”
I carefully counted the coins out on the counter. It was a weekly ritual we went through. I wondered how customers simply took her word for what they owed and overpaid the Thompson coffers. Or maybe it was only me she tried to cheat.
While Isla wrapped my purchases, I turned to Olivia, who was struggling to contain her amusement. She appeared unsurprised at her mother’s penchant for trying to rip off the customers. Her eyes fell to the delicate tatting that ran along the sides and bottom of my apron, the thread the lightest of gray and contrasting with the starkness of the white apron and giving it appeal.
Olivia nodded at my apron. “That’s lovely. Did you do it yourself?” she asked.
I returned her smile. “I did. Mama’s stitches, she’s been teaching me. Her mother taught her in Wales before she hopped a ship with my Da and set off for the New World and adventure.”
“Well, they do the trick. I don’t suppose you might teach me a few of them sometime? I’m so tired of plain gray and black. That’s small enough I don’t think any of the other matrons could complain about the excess of frills.”
Isla sniffed beside me. “We are humble and Godly. We have no need for fancy frills and lace. It’s a waste.” She decided, her voice self-important.
I shared a telling look of commiseration with Olivia. It appeared neither of us was fond of what we called the garment police. The committee of ladies about town that seemed to make it their life goal to determine what was proper and Godly in all things, including the clothes we wore.
Isla thrust my packages at me and I grabbed them, lest they end up on the floor. “Next time you grace us with your presence, can you see that you are properly attired. That skirt is so high your stockings show when you walk. Any man walking by gets a show when he looks.” She finished, her voice haughty with disdain. It was Isla Thompson that headed the committee in question. She left them both to check on her husband in the back.
The moment she disappeared from sight, Olivia slapped a hand over her mouth and we both dissolved in giggles. She rolled her eyes. “Ignore her. She drives papa nuts over that committee of hers. He says she has nothing better to do than to make us miserable. I’m still trying to figure out whether he was joking.”
A sudden flurry of movement at the windows caught our attention. We moved closer, pausing next to the casements, sprung wide to catch the breeze. Frowning, we moved to the doorway. People on both sides of the street moved toward Gallows hill. So named because that was where those who received a capital sentence were hung. We moved through the door and onto the boarded sidewalk, following the gathering crowd. There was an excitement in the air that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. We didn’t have to go far. They’d positioned the mercantile just right for a decent view of the hill from where we stood.
“What’s going on?” I murmured, glancing at Olivia’s grim face.”
“It’s June 10. I forgot. They are hanging the witch, Bridget Bishop.” As we watched, the magistrate and several officials stood to the side. A middle-aged woman attired in a simple black shift stumbled and then righted herself as if the journey were a hardship. I supposed walking to one’s own death qualified. I assumed she was none other than Ms. Bishop as they led her up the steps especially erected for that purpose. We couldn’t see her expression well from the distance, but they had to half drag her up the steps. At the top of the rickety platform they said something to her. I imagined that they’d asked her if she wanted to repent and make peace with the Lord. Her head lifted and she spoke in a voice that should have been difficult to hear for, instead the words seemed to resonate and grow, drifting over the heads of the crowd that had gathered to watch.
“... innocent. I am a God fearing woman, and no servant of the devil.” A black hood appeared in the hands of one man that had drug her along and was placed over her head. A moan emitted from beneath the black cloak and both men stepped smartly back, alarmed. Time seemed to slow down for me as I gasped in horror, wanting to look away, but frozen in place. A quick motion and the lever pulled and she was falling.
I did jerk my head sideways then. I didn’t want to see when Bridget’s neck stretched the rope taut. But the creak of the weight on the poorly constructed timber told the truth. My eyes met Olivia’s. She hadn’t looked away. Her eyes were filled with the same shock and horror I experienced, and something else I was loath to put a name to.
“They say that during the trial they asked her if she committed the crimes for which she was accused. She told them, ‘I am as innocent as the child unborn’.” Olivia stared at the swinging figure with disdain. “At least the jury was smart enough to know she had to be lying. Witches do that, they’re in league with the devil you know. They do scandalous things with him beneath the moonlight.” Olivia continued, a frisson of excitement tingeing her words as she warmed to her subject.
I tried to conceal my distaste. “You’ve known many of them then? Witches?” I added.
Olivia started and looked at her askance. “Of course not! I don’t associate with blasphemy.” I blinked. She’d missed the point entirely.
My eyes shifted to focus on my Da and brother’s over Olivia’s shoulder as they approached along the boardwalk. My father’s eyes were hard, matching the grim line of his mouth. They reached me and nodded to Olivia, who smiled politely and turned to go. Duncan took the supplies from me and stored them in the back of the buckboard.
I caught Olivia’s eyes as she turned away. “I’ll see you later. I would be happy to show you those stitches if you’d like,” I added.
Olivia paused and looked back at me. “I’d like that. I get little opportunity to talk with anyone my age.”
#
I CLIMBED INTO THE wagon, riding in front with father on the way back, my mind trying to concentrate on anything but what I’d witnessed.
As we left the outskirts of Salem and turned along the road that led to our homestead, father spoke up, speaking to Aidan who was uncharacteristically silent and brooding.
“And that, son, is why we must be careful.”