The Putnams of Salem, page 17
The old man, still wearing his harsh grimace, would likely have had difficulty saying anything, given the positioning of the pallet upon his cheek. But he says nothing at all, almost as if he has not even heard the sheriff’s question.
“Let it be known,” Sheriff Corwin bellows after a few seconds of silence, “that the defendant has not entered a plea. Therefore, Captain Gardner, please proceed with your duties!”
The captain immediately springs into action. With the assistance of two other men, he heaves one of the large boulders forward from its resting place, rolling it. Then—with the effort of all three men at once—they lift it onto the pallet, where it settles just above Giles Corey’s stomach.
The old man lets out a deep breath as the stone’s weight settles upon him, but he makes no other sound. After a few seconds of silence, Sheriff Corwin asks again how Corey chooses to plea.
The old man holds his tongue.
“He will not give in, Thomas. You know how Corey is.” I am surprised by Edward’s sudden and urgent whispers into my ear, and annoyed that he has chosen to engage with me at this moment. Despite my irritation, I fear my brother’s assessment may be correct. Corey is as stubborn a man as God has ever made. He does not wish to yield his property, which he will be compelled to do upon entering a plea. It seems he is likely to hold out as long as he can.
“He will give in,” I say to my brother, in spite of my own skepticism. “It is only a matter of time.”
Sheriff Corwin orders Captain Gardner and his men to add two additional boulders to the pallet, which they do with remarkable efficiency. Once again, Corey does not emit a single sound, save for a brief sigh, as his burden increases. Instead, he remains stoically stretched out as the wooden pallet above him pushes harshly against his frail body. His eyes are closed and his face worn by strain.
“He cannot hold out much longer,” my brother says, seemingly fearful about what is to come and anxious about the thought of witnessing the unthinkable.
“He will yield soon,” I say, attempting to sound certain. “I have no doubt it will be so. And if he does not, he will have none to blame but himself.”
Sheriff Corwin asks Corey again how he chooses to plea, and once again, the old man remains silent.
“Gentlemen,” the sheriff announces to the gathering, “the time has come to leave the prisoner to his fate. Captain Gardner will keep us abreast of the situation.” Because Corey has shown himself to be uncooperative, Sheriff Corwin has no intention of being humiliated by his continued silence.
“Is this what Christians do to one another, Thomas?” my brother whispers. He sounds angry now.
“It is what justice demands,” I say, annoyed. “Corey can end this punishment right now by simply uttering his plea as any man in his position must. He is a fool.”
As we prepare to leave the field, and Corey to his devices, I take one final look at the old man, his body now trembling under the enormous strain of the heavy weight of the boulders stacked atop him. He may be a fool, but I cannot help but admire his strength. As I am about to turn to catch up with Edward, who has already left the scene in disgust, I hear the words. They are like heavy breaths of air being awkwardly exhaled, weak, but still mighty in their own way, their meaning as clear as day in my ears.
“More weight,” Giles Corey utters as he stares straight into my eyes. “More weight.”
“How could he have been so stubborn?”
“That is not for us to say, Anna,” my father responds. “We will never know why Giles Corey chose to do what he has done. He had been living in the devil’s grasp for so long. He was controlled by him. His thinking was warped by the underworld. We cannot be certain that he was even aware of what he was doing.”
It is the manner of Goodman Corey’s death that strikes me like a gale. I can hardly imagine it. How many stones did it take to manage the task? And why would he encourage such a demise?
“It could not have been an easy death,” I say to my father. “Especially for such an old man.”
He does not respond, and I am silent as well, lost in my own dreadful thoughts. Still, Father remains by my side, seemingly wishing to provide me with some measure of comfort, if that is possible.
“His stubbornness should be a lesson for us all,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Satan can take control of a man’s life—of a man’s body, even—and make him do the most unspeakable things. You have heard what Reverend Parris has said on this matter.”
I can barely hear Father’s words now. They are snuffed out by a constant murmur of which I cannot rid myself.
“The sheriff was only doing his duty,” my father seems to be saying. “He could not have expected such an outcome. The result is entirely Corey’s own doing. He has done this to himself.”
To think of what men can do to their fellow man. Human beings seem to be able to draw from a limitless pool of degradation. While we celebrate our mercy and grace as the hallmarks of our service to Christ, we remain wholly capable of engaging in the most brutal savagery when it conveniently suits our needs to do so. Have we become savage because of the world in which we live? Or is this who we have always been?
Part 3
The Reckoning
Chapter 26
Do not be overcome by evil but overcome evil with good.
—Romans 12:21
September 30, 1692
Dear Dr. Bateman,
I hope this letter finds you well.
As you have no doubt heard by now, we have been managing a fiercely difficult matter in Salem these past months. I can assure you, sir, as a prominent member in good standing within this community, that we now have the situation well in hand. You can be certain, thank God, that these wicked happenings will soon be behind us.
I am writing to you, however, about a circumstance that is less sanguine. Unfortunately, my eldest daughter, Ann, has, by all indications, been afflicted by the devil’s hand these several months past. I am most grateful that God has blessed her with exceptional piety and a sturdy disposition. She is not given to weakness of mind, body, or spirit in the least.
It is my understanding that I have the honor of addressing a man of medicine who is among the few who regularly treats such maladies. As I understand it—and do not hesitate to correct me if I am misrepresenting your experience—you have had some success in your efforts to attenuate such conditions. If I am indeed correct in my beliefs on these matters, my dear doctor, then I humbly beseech you regarding my daughter’s condition.
Might you be willing to travel to Salem to examine Ann at your earliest convenience? Of course, I will be most willing to remunerate you for your efforts. I am most anxious to gain your knowledgeable opinion on her condition and to be enlightened as to what remedies might be available as a means for a cure.
I will eagerly await your reply, sir, and pray that you will have good news to offer.
I am your most obedient servant,
Sergeant Thomas Putnam
Salem Village, Mass.
I have forgotten what it feels like to be alone, to be by myself with my own thoughts. A tangle of specters constantly floats nearby now, night and day. Some remain on the periphery and others are impossible to ignore. I suppose I have learned how to abide them now.
“It is me, Anna.”
Father has come into my room again. He believes I am sleeping, but I find it difficult to sleep now. I am only able to do so in fits and starts. I am awake, as I often am when he comes to me, but I am resting as quietly as I can with my eyes closed. In truth, there is little difference for me now between consciousness and sleep.
My father sits on a small chair positioned next to my bed. He seems to appreciate this time with me. Perhaps he even looks forward to it. He often brings me bread and tea, knowing that I will consume them when I wake. He speaks to me in a surprisingly tender voice. Sometimes he will even stroke my hair gently as he talks, bushing it away from my face with a careful hand. It is one of the few pleasures that remain for me.
“How are you, my dear?” he asks rhetorically. “I hope you are at ease.”
I keep my eyes closed tightly as he speaks, not daring to move even an inch. I pretend I cannot hear him because I know he will speak more freely that way. He will say kind words that he would never say if he knew I could hear them.
“I have written to the doctor I told you about,” he tells me. “He is in Boston. Dr. Griggs informed me about him. Griggs says this doctor might be able to help you.”
I am surprised to hear this news, given that most doctors shun those in my condition. I am also aware of Father’s ill feelings toward doctors. I am all the more grateful to him for not giving up on me.
“They say you are in God’s hands, Anna,” Father says. “Even Reverend Parris tells me that now. I have been surprised by his demeanor. He seems to be beaten. But I am not giving up on my daughter.” His voice seems to have a quivering tone. “You have your life ahead of you, my dear, and it is my duty to ensure that you will live it well.”
We know that God, in His infinite wisdom, is capable of the greatest miracles. But we also know He does not always answer our prayers. He did not answer our prayers for Sarah. One can never know, but it is difficult for me to imagine being released from this madness now. It seems to be a part of me.
“You are strong, Anna,” Father continues, caressing my hair with his soft touch.
There are some here who do not believe me. Their sympathy drains away as my condition lingers. Father has told me so during his nocturnal visits, although I doubt he would have said anything if he had known I could hear him. He says they have accused me of being affected, of telling lies. They say that I and the other girls are engaged in some great fantastical performance. But why, I ask, would I choose such a difficult path? If only they knew the pain and horror I have endured, they would not question my feelings.
When I am well enough, Father likes me to go to court so that I may testify against the accused. I do not like being in court. It is filled with spectators whom we do not know, people who do not live in Salem. They are here to see me and the other girls who have been afflicted. Our story has traveled far and wide now, and we have become a form of entertainment. These people do not seem to have a shred of concern for the justice we are seeking in God’s name. When I look into their eyes, I can see only bitterness.
“What is it you see, Anna?” my father will sometimes ask me in a pleading whisper. “What is inside your consciousness?” Yet I know he does not expect an answer from me. I suspect he would not even want to know the answer if I could give him one.
I had once thought it impossible, but I seem to have become accustomed to this existence now. The specters are not as they once were. They do not harm me, at least not in a physical manner. I am witness to a great many fanciful things. Collections of verdant plants and exotic animals in rich colors present themselves before me with regularity. Their only desire, it seems, is to be seen.
There is a clever little fox who wears a coat of bright green fur. There are the most vibrant dandelions, resplendent in their reds and blues and purples. There is a vast rainbow of fiery colors that shines brightly above me. Playful little birds and insects dance about and sometimes sing me to sleep. There are countless bewilderments before me now. I am grateful for each one of them.
“I cannot lose you, too, Anna,” my father says, in a quiet whisper now, almost to himself. “You are the best of us, my dear.”
I often see Mother in this strange world, too. Yet the vision I see of her is not how she is today, but as she once was, when I was a small child. I see my mother as she was when she was free and light and full of promise. When she comes to me in this world of vivid colors, I am taken aback, overcome with emotion and unable to speak. It seems Mother feels the same way. We admire each other from a distance, through our smiles and our eyes drenched with tears. I can feel her emotions, even without words, even from a great distance. When she leaves, I pine to see her again. I vow that next time, I will approach her. I will speak to her. I will tell her how much I love her and how much I have always loved her. Yet I know I will not have the courage to do so when the time comes. I know I will smile through my tears again and pray that she hears me, pray that she knows I love her, and that I have always loved her.
“I am sorry, Anna,” my father says. “You do not deserve this, my daughter.”
“I am strong, Father,” I tell him without speaking, hoping my silent words might somehow release him from his anguish.
Chapter 27
But whoever has doubts is condemned if he eats, because the eating is not from faith. For whatever does not proceed from faith is sin.
—Romans 14:23
I am in an impossibly dense forest, the midday sun obscured by a thick canopy of trees. I am being pursued by a fierce, painted warrior out for blood. His face is fixed with a look of stoic determination as he relentlessly hunts me down. I am resting, for a moment, by a stream, trying to catch my breath. I know I am outmatched.
Suddenly, he is upon me again, breaking into an impossibly fast sprint in my direction. I set off as quickly as I can, running through a dense thicket of foliage and felled trees. Upon taking a step, my foot suddenly sinks deeply into the mud. In my struggle to break free, my other foot becomes trapped in the mud as well. Now, with both of my legs firmly locked up to my knees in the thick mud, I am entirely immobilized. The warrior closes in, his knife ready to slit my throat. His eyes are piercing through me as he runs toward me, closer, closer, closer . . .
“Thomas!” I hear my wife say as she shakes my shoulder roughly.
I open my eyes with a start and a quick, deep breath. It takes a moment for me to recognize that I am in my bed.
“What is the matter, Thomas?” Ann asks with great concern. “You were calling out loudly in your sleep, so I woke you. Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” I reply, my mind still obscured by drowsiness and tension. “It was only a dream.”
“Father,” I say in a calm voice from my chair near the hearth.
“Yes, Anna?”
“I have seen something,” I tell him, knowing he will take my meaning.
“Tell me what it is,” he says wearily.
“It was . . .” I hesitate for a moment before continuing. “It was . . . Reverend Parris.”
“The reverend?” Father asks with surprise in his voice.
“Yes, Father. Reverend Parris.”
“I see,” he says in a flat and impassioned tone, his mind clearly turning. “And what did you see?”
“It was not his specter, Father,” I reassure him quickly. “It was . . . it was, more like a dream. I saw him in a dream, but he was as clear to me as you are now. My vision was so vivid.”
My father nods without a word, and I continue.
“He was standing at his pulpit, in the meetinghouse. He was preaching as he always does, telling us that we must do our duty for God. He was particularly impassioned. But suddenly he stopped. The reverend stopped speaking to us and looked up to the heavens, as if God were speaking to him directly. He was listening very intently to whatever it was that he was hearing.”
My father looks pained now, as if he is anticipating what is to come.
“After a few moments, Reverend Parris looked down at us again. He looked out across the meetinghouse at the gathering of people, and he broke into a wide smile.”
“He smiled?” my father asks.
“Yes, Father. He smiled a big, wide smile and told us that he was sorry.”
“He was sorry?”
“Yes. His exact words were ‘I am sorry, my children. I have been wrong. I am sorry.’”
“He has been wrong? What does that mean?” Father asks.
“Reverend Parris then said that the Lord had spoken to him, in that very moment, when he was looking up into the heavens. The reverend said God had told him that we are wrong—that he has been all wrong. Everything we think we know about God and his kingdom is untrue.”
“Anna, what are you saying?”
“I am only telling you what I have seen,” I respond. “As I always do.”
“Of course,” my father says with a sigh. “Did Reverend Parris say anything else in this dream?”
“Yes,” I reply quickly. “He told us that whoever has doubts is condemned if he eats, because the eating is not from faith, for whatever does not proceed from faith is sin. It seemed to be a verse from the Bible. He then told us again, more firmly, that he had been wrong, that he had always been wrong, and that he has guided us incorrectly as a result. Then he said he is a lost sheep and we must not listen to him.”
“This was not real, Anna,” my father says in a stern voice, sounding almost as if he is trying to reassure himself. “It was but a dream. You had a dream. That is all that it was.”
“Yes, Father,” I reply. “That is what I told you. But there was more to the dream.”
“There was more?”
“Reverend Parris broke into tears, Father. He was inconsolable, and those gathered in the meetinghouse began to leave. As they did, they gave the reverend scornful looks. Some even struck him as they walked by, slapping him in the face and striking his arm with their fists. Reverend Parris absorbed their abuse without a word. He fell to his knees, wailing loudly in a heap of tears.”
