The Putnams of Salem

Words by Greg Houle

Art by Sandra Eckert

The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou at my right hand, untill I make thine enemies thy footstool.

-From the sermon notebook of Samuel Parris, January 3, 1691 

It came to me fully formed during that drenching, perilous ride to Salem in the middle of that raging tempest. It was a clear sign of God’s mercy. I have no doubt about that. Perhaps I should not be so sure of myself but, alas, it is so. I vowed then, during that arduous journey, that if I made it to Salem, to the magistrates, if I did not fall from my horse in a soaking heap—maimed, shivering in the gloom—that it was God’s will. 

It wasn’t about me. It was never about me. Some might not believe this but, as God is my witness, I will say it once more: none of what I am retelling was ever about only me. I engaged in these noble pursuits to strengthen our covenant with God, to ensure that our Homeland—our Fathers had risked so much to establish it—would not be eviscerated by those who so clearly wish us ruin. Why? Why do they wish us to fail in our arduous and Godly pursuit? I have no answer. That shameless itinerant and her incessant begging. That Heathen slave, always a bit too clever and conniving. And most especially, that contemptible Osborne. Who would ever stand in favor of such an unspeakably shameful hag? Good riddance!

Besides, it wasn’t me alone. Others too sought justice in their own way. Edward, Hutcheson, Preston. Each made the same onerous journey to Ingersoll’s, to the magistrates, each with the same, strong conviction: to cleanse Salem of the scourge that these women had been so cruelly nurturing.    

Indeed, my conviction (shall I say) struck me on my journey that dark day like a lightning bolt from Zeus (if I may reference such a thing). The others—Edward, Hutcheson, Preston—had a raw and powerful vengeance as their driving force; they remained on their mounts, despite such peril, to ensure that justice be done, that witchcraft be avenged. Noble, certainly. But not exactly what I had in mind. To be sure, I sought justice too. But my justice transcended the feral and base desires of my comrades. My aims were higher-minded (if I may be so bold). 

* * *

I want to hide. I want to tuck myself into a cupboard or a corner or some other dark and desolate spot like a cat, wrapping my limbs around myself in a comforting cocoon to hide myself further still. But there is no comfort from my shame. No matter what I do there is no relief, save for these fleeting moments of clarity and calm. I would do anything to take away the incessant ache that encompasses my body. I know that I brought this on myself, but why can’t I—despite being a sinner of sinners—be spared a moment or two of relief? I would give anything for it! Can even the most depraved of us get a reprieve from this torment? Reverend Parris—such a learned and pure servant of God; his powerful messages had compelled me to listen closely on meeting days instead drifting into my usual daze—has made clear that those of us who do not live as God had intended (by the Scriptures, of course) will surely sink our cherished community, as would a heavy anchor to a tiny vessel. Reverend Parris made it clear—clearer than any Man of God who has come to Salem before him (and there have been many in my dozen years)—that we are all capable of the most devious depravity. That we are all susceptible to the most vile temptation. Even those in his own home have been inflicted. The Reverend’s home! But unfortunately the devil has saved the worst of his depravity for me.

I do take some small comfort in the fact that I am not alone in this degradation—even if it is unkind for me to say so. While others may be inflicted, I feel so very alone when I am having one of my spells: writhing, scratching my burning skin without the least bit of relief, screaming at the top of my voice and whatever other unspeakable actions I unknowingly take. If I could bury myself in a deep hole or fly away to the Heavens to make it stop I would do that and more. Anything to save my poor family from the endless shame my sinfulness has brought to them. Have I any chance of making it into the Kingdom of God? Doubtful, but one never really knows, does he?   

* * *

My Father was a great man. Yes, everybody says this about their father. At least more say it than mean it. Their father and their father’s father were great men, they tell us. But in my case, these words are as true as any that have been spoken. Indeed, it is prideful for me to say this but I ask: does that make it any less true? He was a Founder of this Godly land: A pillar who commanded respect from all who met him. He earned it through his pious ways and hard work, a combination of attributes that far too few possess today. And I say this with not a little bit of regret. Yet all men are sinners, and because of this, envy is never far behind most men. Many have happily done the devil’s work to ensure that my Father’s legacy will be cut down. But he will not be brought asunder.

* * *

I do not know how I have become bewitched but it probably happened because I was not pious enough. I’m sure Reverend Parris would agree if I could ask him. I have not lived by the Scripture closely enough. I am a weak and feeble girl who allowed the devil in all his cleverness to deceive me through his devious servants. I have disgraced my family and my community and my only recourse, Father says to me in my moments of lucidity, is to renounce those who have inflicted me (the devil’s helpers) to ensure that they will be brought to justice and do no further harm to our Godly community. I will do my best. Though I am not sure it will be good enough.

* * *

Among his many talents, Father was knowledgeable about the land. As knowledgeable, many said and I believe, as the Heathen Indians. He had a way with the land that few other civilized men possessed—plants, herbs, medicines were all at his mercy—it was certainly a gift from God. Some, though not all, of this knowledge was passed on to me and I have used it with care and benevolence. My dear Father, God rest his soul, entrusted me to carry on his greatness in this way (if not in every way). Yes, I have disappointed him, no doubt. But I take his sacred trust in me with a seriousness that cannot be cast aside.

* * *

Tituba started it but she wasn’t alone. There were others. Too many for me to know about for sure. But none of that matters now because all I can do is wrap my arms and legs around my body and scream. I want to jump in the fire but Mother will not let me. Mother, I beg you, let me get relief! Let me cast away the shame that I have wrought forever! I want to fly away like a bird. The Black man keeps tormenting me. Appearing over and over, haunting me as the devil himself. The yellow bird is pecking the tender skin between my fingers. Pecking and pecking and pecking and pecking.

* * *

I’ve seen the bewitched before. We all have. The devil and his consorts are all around us, of course. We all know that. And we all stay vigilant. Like Edward, Hutcheson, Preston and others. The evil-doers tempt us and try to steer us off our beloved, Godly path of righteousness. Like those who have tried to avenge the success of my great Father by preventing me from building on his greatness for the benefit of our God-fearing community. It is sorcery that they use. They harness the unknowable power of the underworld to avenge the glory of God and his Kingdom. So I fight them (as we all must; as Edward, Hutcheson, Preston and others do) with my own cunning weapons. 

* * *

Father is most saddened by my infliction. When I am lucid, I see it in the creases of his face, darkly outlined by the fire light. Mother has her own troubles but Father—oh my dear Father, so strong, so pious—grieves for the embarrassment that I have become in a way that is Godly and Good. I am so very ashamed but I know that I must try to make him proud as best as I can. How is that possible after falling so far? Yet I will do whatever my feeble and weakened mind and body allows me to do to wash this shame clean. It would be easier if Father allowed me to die. Abandoned me to my fate. But life is not meant to be easy. Instead, he patiently feeds me bread to keep my strength from waning further. He tells me (I think) that I will be well soon if I eat more. He tells me to focus my energy on those who have done this great and grievous harm to me in the name of the devil. I don’t believe him when he says I will get well (how could I when I am tormented so!) but his insistence sustains me further. 

* * *

The bread is all that Annie will eat. Even if I wanted to give her some other sustenance, she wouldn’t take it. The rye (she says in her moments of clarity) seems to give her the strength that she needs to keep going. Of course, I know (thanks to the wisdom of my Great Father and the mercy of God) that the rye has been provided to us to do much more than give nourishment. Annie is reacting well to this strange brew and if I can get the magistrates to act swiftly, her torment shall not last long.    

* * *

The bread gives me life, even if the life that I live is worse than death. But I want to do the work that Father asks me to do. He speaks to me so tenderly while feeding me; his words swirl around in my addled mind, mixing with the visions and colors and embers of hell that I see before me. Are they real? I will avenge the shame I have brought to my father. 

* * *

Annie was the only one who could do it. For a girl of twelve she is strong of mind and body. She is strong of conviction too (God bless her!). I am giving her the proper amount of rye only, as Father had shown me to do years ago—enough to elucidate her torment but not destroy her mind and body in their entirety. It is a strange and powerful skill but it is exactly what Annie needed in order to be a true servant of God and to be able to show the magistrates, the Great men of our land, the wicked deeds that these Godless women have done. I hope that they will soon see the light. 

Perhaps I am the witch? Could it be so that some witches are doing God’s work and not the devil’s? Alas, now I am trodding a blasphemous path. It is not for me to say what is the work of witches.

About the author

Greg Houle is a writer and communications professional living in Los Angeles, who enjoys writing about people from the past and present, real or imagined. Follow him on Twitter @greghoule and visit greghoule.info to learn more about his work.  

About the artist

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi.  Additional works are available here.