He drove wordlessly, a dour expression on his face, the girls beside him, their caps and blouses recently laundered and scrubbed in the river and left out in the bleaching sun to look their brightest. They dared not utter a word unless Thomas addressed them. There was a breeze, but the sun was sweet against the girls’ cheeks as the wheels rolled and squeaked over stones in the road. They crossed a creaky bridge over a river, planks groaning under the wheels as they reached their destination.
The meetinghouse was packed with plaintiffs and defendants, although there were many who came just for the entertainment, squeezed into the pews and galleries or standing in the back. A year ago, Goodwife Diffidence Brown had bought ten pounds of plums from Goodwife Faith Perkins. Goody Brown made pies with the plums and sold the pies at the market. The following week, Goody Brown claimed her customers returned to her stall to complain that the plum pies had been inedible, tasting as “putrid as rotten fish.” Brown alleged that every customer who had bought a plum pie clamored for a refund, which she promptly gave. The allegedly bad plums had caused Goody Brown “tremendous grief and financial loss.”
When Goody Brown complained to Goody Perkins about it, Goody Perkins refused to make restitution on such hearsay. “I gave you fat, juicy, sweet ones. There is nothing wrong with my plums and, as everyone in Salem Village knows, you are a lying hag, Goody Brown.” She didn’t believe Goody Brown’s story one bit. Most likely Goody Brown was hard up and trying to make a few extra pence. It was not beneath her. A scuffle and some pulling of hair ensued.
Goody Perkins then claimed that when Goody Brown left her doorstep, Goody Brown “fell to muttering and scolding extremely,” and Goody Perkins heard Goody Brown clearly say, “I will give you something, you fat-looking hog!” Goody Perkins claimed Goody Brown had cursed her, and that she was a wench and a witch. For almost immediately after, Goody Perkins’s baby stopped nursing and fell ill, and she almost lost the infant. Then one of her sows “was taken with strange fits, jumping up and down and knocking her head against the fence, and appeared blind and deaf,” and died in a “strange and unusual manner.” This spring the trees in her plum orchard had not bloomed, and she feared she would have no plums to harvest.
The magistrate, a spice merchant whose loud sighs made it clear he had better things to do, harrumphed and quieted both plaintiff and defendant, who had begun bickering at each other again. “Order in the court! You goodwives are giving me a headache.” The people in the meetinghouse tittered. “Order!” he called again, then requested the bailiff usher in the first deponent: Mercy Lewis.
The magistrate glanced up at Mercy and in a bored voice said, “What saith the deponent?”
“I do not know what I saith, Sir Magistrate. Is there a question?” asked Mercy. More laughter from the galleries. Mercy glanced at Freya, who smiled encouragingly back at her.
“Well,” said the spice merchant, flashing his gold tooth. “Has the deponent witnessed the defendant, Goodwife Brown, do anything unusual? Maleficium? Did she ever do any harm to you while you worked for her? Is she a cunning woman?” He frowned in a way that looked as if he were trying not to laugh. Then his face went solemn, and he glared questioningly at Mercy.
“Maleficium?” she asked.
“Latin for mischief, wrongdoing, witchcraft!”
“Goody Brown—she does possess unusual strength,” said Mercy. “She can carry many sacks of flour at once.”
The gentlefolk in the meetinghouse laughed again.
The magistrate sneered. “Anything else?”
“Once, with the other servant of the Putnam household—where I now work—Freya, we visited Goody Brown, and she lied to us. She tried to cheat us when we bartered for flour, adding stones for weight, she did. She can be greedy. I saw much of this firsthand when I worked—”
“Next witness!” yelled the magistrate, cutting Mercy off as he looked back down at his papers.
Mercy was ushered away, Freya brought forth. Unlike Mercy, Freya did not want to make any accusations. There were enough cantankerous relations in the village as it were, and she certainly did not want to get herself into trouble or cause bad blood between herself and other villagers. Yes, it was her opinion that Goody Brown was lying about the plums. But Freya also knew for certain that Goody Brown was no witch, a very grave and dangerous accusation—the penalty being the noose. If anyone here were a witch, it was Freya herself, and this made her cheeks burn as she was sworn in, remembering what had happened with the butter churn and then the broom.
“What hath this deponent to provide as evidence?” asked the magistrate.
Freya shrugged, her cheeks now a similar tint to her strawberry curls that fell from beneath her cap. The sun shone through the windows now and Freya felt overheated. The meetinghouse, crammed as it was, had grown pungent, rank with odor. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
“Anything that could point to Goody Brown employing witchcraft? Have you seen her collude with the devil, perhaps?” asked the magistrate.
“I have seen no such thing,” she said.
Thomas lowered his head in the front row, feeling embarrassed by his servants. Bringing them here had been a waste of everyone’s time. Clearly his girls were not much help in moving this case along.
The magistrate, a pragmatic and forward-thinking man, was not entirely disengaged from the proceedings and did derive a certain amount of pleasure from debunking the phantasmagorical imaginings of country folk. “I would like to call forth my own witness,” he declared as Freya was accompanied to her seat. “Mr. Nathaniel Brooks, please rise and step forward.”
A din rose in the meetinghouse as a tall youth came forward. He strode with ease and confidence to the front, hat in hand, standing in a relaxed and guileless manner before the magistrate. His ebony hair fell just above his shoulders, and his emerald eyes caught the light.
“Please tell the court where you live,” said the spice merchant.
“Presently, I live in Salem Village with my uncle, a widower, who needs a hand on his farm,” said the youth. “I haven’t been in the village very long.” He smiled, taking his time, glancing around the meetinghouse. For a fleeting moment, the youth caught Freya’s eyes. She felt a jolt from his stare. But just as quickly, the lad looked to the magistrate.
“Now, Mr. Brooks, where were you on the afternoon of Wednesday the twenty-sixth of June, 1691. Do you remember?”