They searched for unholy things that lived amongst the trees. They were born from the very trees they’d be strung up on. A sin birthed smelling of a flower. The mob marched, holding lanterns and axes. They were not people of sin.
The magistrates stopped to make a fire. Deep into the forest by now, some of the older men traveled with the need for rest. The younger men needed to eat to fuel their rapidly growing bodies. A witch hunt used up a lot of energy, like the crackling of a fire long run and burnt out.
George Putnam pulled out his list of names and read it once over. Elizabeth Rowley, Doraty Rodgers, Sarah Blythe, Abigail Osbourne. The list went on for two-hundred and thirty-nine names. It was an exhausting list, but one that needed to be purged for the sake of souls. It was for the sake of eternity.
The group was out in search of witch meetings. Naked women frolicking around a fire to their divinely wicked worship. The men listened for chanting, looked up to the sky in search of flying women.
“What have you, George?” Mr. Hobbs asked by his side, offering a piece of bread.
“I hunger not. Only for this ambition,” George said.
Mr. Hobs took a bite of bread. “Haven’t seen the sluts all night. I have the mind to think they’re all behind bars.”
George shook his head. “The children still shiver and bruise. They are tormented. Their earthly evil lingers. I know it.”
George glanced across the fire to the group of men discussing over a map. There were young men, eyes wide with mania. They were fueled by the desire to hunt, to rid the world of everything wrong. They were hungry to be the saviors. George’s eyes lifted to the scene and caught a glimpse of gray eyes looking back at him. Charles Becker was looking at him through a conversation of two old men. When George caught his gaze, Charles looked down. It was as if he hadn’t looked at all.
The group engaged in a prayer before splitting up into pairs. Eight men would go, two in every direction while the rest stayed back to sleep. Fatigue plagued George’s body, one that hadn’t been the same after surviving smallpox. He could not be vain because his face was now covered in scars. He could not walk assuredly because his sickness did so much to his muscles that he now used a cane. Forty-one, and he moved as if he were an old man.
He walked by Charles Becker’s side. The forest was dark, only illuminated by the lanterns they held. For a long while they didn’t speak. Every now and then Charles asked George to check the compass to make sure they were still going East.
It had been some time since he’d seen Charles, at least this close. He’d seen him at church and a few times in the market. He didn’t come to city hall meetings, so his seat was empty.
He was older than George remembered. His hair, once obsidian, was now thinning and stricken with gray. His body curved slightly in a hunch. His eyes were a lighter shade of gray, less vibrant than it had been when he was a young man. Charles caught George looking at him.
“I was sorry to hear about Jane. She was a pleasant woman,” Charles said.
George turned his gaze forward. His wife had died of an infection three months prior.
“‘Tis God’s plan,” George said, and he himself was unsure what he meant by it.
To die was to be forsaken, depending on the circumstance. Puritans believed in evil just as deeply as they believed in good. If you fell to begging, you had forsaken God in some way. A child who died days after entering the world was taken by the will of God. The child was to grow and commit evil. Everything was already written; it just needed to be read.
They continued walking silently until Charles spoke.
“Dost thou hold true in this belief? We… we will find witches yonder?”
“Aye,” George said quickly.
“I must ask a query that has been heavy on me. Speak true,” Charles said. “In this… task God has given you. There is a risk of harming the innocent in the name of finding the guilty. ‘Tis a risk worth taking?”
George stopped walking and turned to face Charles. “Of course.”
“I sayest speak true, George.”
“I do.”
“I will offer thou this.” Charles took a breath. “In a situation where we hang three witches, there is the chance that one is not. She is pious and good and God favors her. Would thou still take such a chance?”
George opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He hadn’t directly looked at Charles in a long time. It made his throat go taut.
“I must confess something thine mind might object, but thine soul will understand,” Charles said. “Six hanged so far. Six, George. I haven’t felt right about a single one. George… I do not believe there is wickedness in Salem. I truly in my soul do not feel it.”
Charles met his eyes in height, a stark contrast to how it had been when they were fourteen in the bell tower. Every day at noon they would climb the creaky staircase high above the church to ring the bell. It wasn’t a two-person job, but they had made it so. The reverend tasked them with the chores that required more sprightly bodies. They’d carry the large wooden cross up and down the altar and hammer down nails that stuck out at pews. But every day at noon, they stood above the world, isolated from it.
Now they stood on the ground, cocooned in darkness. The wind that brushed through the trees allowed for the peering gaze of nature to avert itself.
“Evil torments,” George said quietly. “I’ve seen it.”
He had. He had witnessed those girls in front of his eyes. They convulsed and were thrown into walls. They bruised from apparitions and were raw with claw marks.
“And Goody Burnell confessed. He confessed that he was compelled by evil to commit wickedness. He said it from his very lips,” George said. “Same goes for Goody Abbott. Everyone is confessing their sins.”
“Then how true is the matter? It is beginning to sound of a guise to lift the weight from one’s chest,” Charles spat out.
It was convenient. One could be absolved of all faults to their sin if they confessed to being tempted by dark magic. The old farmer confessed to seeing the specter of a nude woman at night, touching him whilst his wife slept by his side. Lust was a sin, dreaming of it was worse. It showed what your soul yearned for without the guidance of your conscious mind. Corrupted. It was good that the old man confessed, even better that his soul was saved by being the victim of evil torment.
“Thou dare question the church?” George asked.
“No, I dare question man.”
They stared in silence for a moment.
“It is a greater sin to act as God than to question judgment,” Charles said. “I have not felt God’s presence on this ground amongst these wretched people. Prideful people. I haven’t felt God since the bell tower.”
It was as if at that moment George could feel the ringing of a monstrous bell, biting through his body. He remembered the bell tower. He remembered the threads of white they were made to wear. He’d watch Charles’ hands as they wrapped around the thick rope. It brought the young George to turn to the window in search of wind to cool him off. He looked down at the village and its people. Small people in a small world. The sound of the bell as Charles yanked was booming. George became sound. He could exist inside of vibrations and nothing else.
When Charles was done ringing, he took to one of the windows, sticking his head out. He then turned backwards, letting his dark hair hang.
“Thou wilt surely fall,” George said.
“I fear not,” Charles proclaimed.
George stood and made his way over to Charles as he hung backward out the window.
“What sayest thou?” George taunted. Then, he grabbed at Charles’ shoulders, causing him to jump. Charles sat up quickly, and their bodies were pressed against each other. George still held his shoulders and they both laughed.
“You fear not and yet yelp like a girl,” George said.
Charles’ laugh faded to a smile as he stared at George.
“What is it?” George asked.
Charles did not look away, and it brought George to realize he was still holding his shoulders, keeping them pressed close. George released him and stepped back just a bit. Charles grabbed his sleeve to stop him. They both were frozen.
“You’ve got a spec on your cheek,” Charles said.
George rolled his eyes. “I know your tricks, Charlie.”
Usually, Charles would pinch George’s cheek after saying such a thing, causing George to smack at him.
“I am true.” Charles stepped closer to him. He brought his face to his, staring at his cheek in deep concentration. George studied him as he brought his thumb to his cheek, wiping away dirt. George’s chest thumped uncomfortably at their proximity, at seeing him so close. In shame, George’s memory does not bid him to recall what happened after the fact. He was a grown man now, standing in a dark forest.
“What can we make of sin, George?” Charles asked.
Charles stepped closer and brought a tender hand to George’s cheek. George looked away, ashamed of his scarred appearance.
“I know you have not changed. I see you, do not think me indifferent,” Charles said. “This face still yearns for the touch of good.”
George pulled away. “Do not! Thou entertain an evil I cannot. I will not! What do I make of sin? Good does not sin without the temptation and corruption of evil!”
Feeling is the most discrepant ambition. People fear it. In legend and religion, everything beautiful is evil. Beautiful women are satanic creatures in disguise, made to lure and corrupt. This is because of the inherent fear of being vulnerable. Beauty elicits lust. Lust makes reason blurry. It opens one up to being hurt. It cannot be charted and planned. It cannot be read in a book. It cannot be destroyed with prayer. Feeling is the age-old villain.
George felt that way then. Shoving everything he felt down in his belly, making him sick and angry.
“You… you…” George tried to find the words.
Looking at Charles, he knew what he meant about God; about feeling God. George knew that in the bell tower he had kissed Charles. It wasn’t because he consciously thought to do it, but because his body made him lean in and do it. It was a sloppy, unsure kiss, the kiss of someone who had never kissed anyone before. They didn’t mention it after the fact. Even when it happened three more times by the time they turned twenty-three. But when George married, he refused to further the “madness” that it was.
George stepped away from Charles to stop his heart from thumping so aggressively.
“Thine heart knows all of Salem is corrupt. Not by wickedness, but by the malice of man. You must see it,” Charles said.
“It does not matter what I think!”
“I know you have questioned it! Even for a mere moment, reason has gotten to you! We are becoming common animals!” Charles shouted. “How dare thou look down on the corrupt when your distance is propped up by thine sins!”
George’s hand struck Charles across his face, causing a loud slap.
The sound reminded him of the bell tower. The vibration in his ears made him a child again, staring at a boy who held his cheek, now gone red.
“Charlie, I–”
Charles put his hand up to stop him from speaking. George held still. Charles slowly stood up straight, staring with a stern expression.
George went to speak. “I’m s–”
“Let us continue on,” Charles said. “Perhaps then you’ll find the source of your every sin.”
Photo by Eugenia Cheskidova on Unsplash
