Enough names on a petition had worked in times past with the magistrates and the ministers in their church courts. They petitioned primarily on behalf of Mother Nurse, to revoke her excommunication and her arrest as an impossible wrong done this saintly wife, mother, and neighbor who’d lived all her life under the rule of her Bible and the teachings of Christ. They also petitioned on behalf of Elizabeth Proctor who’d been determined pregnant and sitting in the same damnably awful dungeon as Mother Nurse, the Salem Village jailhouse operated by Weed Gatter to whom they must pay a daily growing tax for his part in taking care of their daily needs.

However, so far as anyone could tell, the petitions were failing to reach anyone who supported Nurse and his family in this their hour of need. Those courageous enough to sign were among the well-defined ‘dissenters’—enemies of Parris.

Young Benjamin Nurse worked to control his anger and frustration by shouting at the other Nurse men that these petitions proved useless against what they’d begun to call the Village Madness. Ben was right, but worse yet, some of the names on these petitions were next targeted—seen as being a wee bit too helpful to the accused.

Those signers seen as anxious to help out the accused were being viewed as if they might be in covenant with the accused rather than simply related or lifetime friends. In fact, blood relation to an accused proved enough for a person to fall under suspicion. After suspicion came accusation, followed by an arrest warrant, followed by yet another imprisonment.

Daily now, Serena insisted on going down to the jail to give support and food through the bars to her mother, and Jeremiah stood watch and took the measure of the prison Mother Nurse found herself in. It would take little to storm the place, overpower Gatter, free Mother Nurse and anyone else within, but it would require a plan of escape, a plan of flight to a whole new place, as far from Salem as one could get—perhaps a ship in the harbor bound for the Netherlands.

Discussions of how to accomplish such a feat had begun at the Nurse home, and just when these discussions were taking root and men emboldened, news came that Reverend George Burroughs had been dragged back to Salem to stand trial before the judges for his leading these witches in their sinister attack on the village children where he, Burroughs, had once ‘ministered’—or rather used a guise as minister to recruit Satanists.

“A familiarity there to you, Jeremy,” said Ben, staring a hole through him.

“I admit, it’s too close for comfort.”

“You could be the subject of a warrant any day.”

“As could you, Ben—as could any one of us.”

Ben stood eye to eye with Jeremy. He’d been a small boy when Jeremy had left ten years before, but now he was a young man full of passion and anger for those who’d wronged his father and maligned his mother. The young man had intense, smoldering eyes, and what seemed a perpetual snarl took turns with a frown and a pout.

“Leave Jeremy alone, Ben,” scolded Francis. “He’s risked himself for your mother more than once.”

“Risked himself? How? By hiding out in Boston, while we, who have no skills in the law must face these outrages?”

“Ben, I’m afraid with Mr. Higginson’s passing,” Jeremy began as he stared into the fire, “and with Reverend Increase Mather the other side of the Atlantic, reason and sanity has left the colony, and no amount of good sense and counter argument will do.”

“Then perhaps it is time to put an end to talk.”

Serena, her father, and several of Ben’s brothers and brothers-in-law all took turns to calm Ben.

“Time to take action, and put an end to Mother’s suffering!”

“Shut up, Ben!” shouted Francis. “I’ve told y’all what I promised Rebecca!”

The others looked on in silent counsel, save for Serena. “He’s right, Ben is, Father! No promise is worth this pain and suffering!”

“You’ll not go against your mother’s wishes. She wishes to—“

“Salvage the land, I know. We all know that!” Serena’s tears came freely. “You all’ve had such thoughts. Believe me, I know, because I have too.”

“If you’re too old for this, Tarbell, Cloyse, just stay out of our way,” Ben shouted at his uncles.

“You think you know what’s on our minds, Ben, Serena?” shouted Tarbell, standing to his full height. “Then I’ll tell you. To end this matter, bloodshed is inevitable.”

“Someone’s finally said it,” added Jeremy. “I hadn’t wanted to be the one, being an outsider. But it may be our only way.”

“We’ll discuss it, come to a consensus, and possibly a plan of action, then,” said Francis who felt his hold on his sons and brothers-in-law slipping. He added, “Then and only then do we take action that might bring about blood.”

# # # # #

From out her window, Anne Putnam Senior watched the home fires burning out at the Nurse compound; the torches and lamps had burned late into the night since the Nurse witch, Rebecca, had been arrested, put through the ordeal of excommunication, and bound over for trial. Anne had been certain to have her daughter witness the woman’s humiliation and downfall. She’d prayed for it for years. The property nowadays referred to as Nurse-Towne Farms ought to have gone to Thomas—her husband—and would have had Towne not remarried after Thomas’ grandmother had died.

Another suspicious death.

Rebecca Nurse’s father, Jacob Towne, had been Thomas’ stepfather, but late in life, he’d remarried, become a Goodman to that Easty woman. This marriage secured the land for three daughters borne of the Towne-Easty union. One had been Rebecca Towne, who’d become Rebecca Nurse when the witch had taken Francis Nurse as her husband.

And now? To learn from the spirits afflicting her—for some twenty years—that their message, however garbled, translated into the murder of her every child, save the one—Anne Junior. How terribly coincidental, as none of the midwives of that Towne-Nurse-Easty crowd had overseen Anne Junior’s birth, yet they’d been among the concerned hot-water brigade during the deaths of the other children. They had been on hand with hidden deadly weapons—as Anne had been told by Henry.

She looked from the lights out at the Nurse home to the sky with its onrush of storm clouds to the small black-haired head of her daughter knitting quietly away across the room. She still wondered if her only daughter left would live to marriageable age, if she would bear her grandchildren to replace the lost ones. She wondered if the child had inherited the cursed womb.

She’d been giving more thought to it all, not the least being that her own womb had brought into the world children who’d withered and died like unnourished flowers. She wondered if she and little Anne would ever know any happiness in this world.

She’d heard the news of Serena Nurse’s having married that imposter Jeremiah Wakely. She trembled when recalling how that man, a liar, cheat, and a thief had stood right here in her home alongside the noble, caring Reverend Parris, all the while involved in a charade.

Perhaps he’s a disciple of Burroughs. If so, then a disciple of Satan. If so, then the Nurse’s youngest daughter, was now locked in matrimony to a follower of Satan. With mother a witch and husband a Satanist, what must Serena herself be? Her pleasant smile notwithstanding?

Why didn’t my dead brother’s ghost tell me the truth sooner? Why, indeed, she wondered, glancing anew at the expanse of land deeded over to the clan she’d instinctively hated all these years—and now I know the reason why. She looked again on her sweet if feeble Anne, and she saw that Anne placed an arm around Mercy’s neck and hugged the now cleansed and gifted Mercy who’d been returned to their home since bravely exposing that Bishop woman for what she was.

Anne saw that her daughter exhibited a small measure of happiness tonight, perhaps for the first time in her life. Anne Senior exhibited a newfound pride in both her daughter and herself—and even for Mercy Lewis. And why not?

Why not feel pride indeed? After all, she’d given birth to a child capable of seeing into the Invisible World . . . and for that matter, although she’d never thought of her night terrors as either a blessing or a gift, they were indeed just that now that they’d become so clearly interpreted. Once the language of her spectral visitors—brother Henry and the stillborn children—had finally come clear, that they were pointing their dead fingers at their killers, Mrs. Putnam realized she, too, had been seeing into the Invisible World. She too was gifted, a seer like her child who’d led her to this conclusion. What was the line in the Bible? And the children shall lead them.

Anne and Mercy joined Mrs. Putnam at the window, all three staring out at the Nurse lights. “Looks like a witch gathering out there,” Mercy muttered.

“Prob’ly so.” Little Anne clutched Mercy’s arm.

Mrs. Putnam placed a motherly arm around both her daughter and maidservant. “Come away now, children. There’s your evening Bible lesson to get before bed.”

“We don’t want need no lesson tonight.” Little Anne’s eyes looked sternly through her mother.

“Hold your tongue, child.”

The girl repeated it: “We don’t need any lesson.”

Mercy added, “What Anne’s trying to say, Goodwife Putnam, is that we’re beyond lessons now.”

Little Anne shouted, “We’re under the blood of Christ.”

“We’ve done talked about it, Mrs. Putnam,” Mercy put in, “and Anne’s right. There’s nothing more we can learn.”