Wicked Girls by Stephanie Hemphill Page A

stares through Abigail
    as though she were air.
    â€œMargaret, please,” she begs.
    Margaret stands
    and Abigail blocks her way.
    A hard shoulder
    into Abigail’s nose and cheek,
    and Abigail skids to the floor.
    Margaret tramples over
    Abigail’s crumpled body
    without even a glance down.
    The tears fire across Abigail’s cheeks.
    She swipes them away.
    â€œIs this punishment for what I see?
    For what I tell? For my talk
    of Minister Burroughs
    and his commune of witches
    grazing in our pasture
    with their black hoods and red books
    and drinking of Satan’s blood?”
    Abigail now looks on me.
    I wish to set her free, but
    she kneels down before Ann.
    â€œI am sorry. Pray do tell me
    what to say, what to do,
    and I promise to do
    as you command,” Abigail says.
    Ann pats Abigail’s head
    like she rubs the pup
    at her feet, tousles Abigail’s hair
    and pinches her cheek.
    She looks at the rest of us
    and then points at Abigail
    crouched upon the ground.
    â€œStay, girl,” she says.
    â€œDo exactly as I say
    and I might let you
    remain with us.”
    And Abigail does.

THE GRAND CONJURER
    Mercy Lewis, 17
    My vision of the Devil
    be that crooked-teeth grin
    of the man who took me in,
    the one who they say can lift
    six-foot muskets with his little finger.
    He who holds up his book
    to timber little girls with one blow.
    His red, hot hands
    roamed my arms
    and inside my discomforts
    like a pinching burn.
    I found nowhere to run
    and nobody to call for help
    when he called himself
    Reverend and master
    and father of the house
    and I be but an orphan
    of eight.
    â€œWhat witches, wizards and specters
    have you seen in the Invisible World, Mercy?”
    They ask me again today.
    And I think perhaps
    I can recall one bad dream
    I had of a Grand Conjurer
    last night.

WHAT I DO FOR MERCY
    Ann Putnam Jr., 12
    Night crawls across the sky,
    and a trumpet screams
    from the pasture beside the parsonage.
    I twirl around, but no one’s there.
    I say to Father,
    â€œI rub my eyes and appears,
    same as Mercy saw last night,
    a meeting of witches in the clearing
    gathered on their poles,
    drinking Devil’s blood,
    and Reverend Burroughs
    stands at the head.
    He lectures the witches,
    â€˜We will claim New England.
    Begin in Essex County
    and overtake Salem Village.
    One battle, one witch at a time,
    until all the land be ours.’”
    My father nods agreement.
    â€œReverend Burroughs be
    the Village pastor before ye were born.
    He is a thief and a liar.
    Of course, he be a witch.”
    Father straightens his hat
    and sets off to visit
    the magistrates again.

FEELING QUITE RED
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    He come in the tavern sweaty
    from a day in field and barn.
    I wish hard that Isaac will
    trot over to me and demand
    I fetch him a cider,
    but he pretends as though
    he sees me not, and grabs a bench
    aside his mates William and Ben.
    I wave my pinkie at him,
    but Isaac must weary of me,
    as if I be but a fence he must mend
    or a heavy log to haul across the bay.
    So I anchor beside Ann.
    I whisper, “What of Isaac?”
    â€œWe’ve matters to discuss.”
    Ann angers that I even mention Isaac’s name.
    She looks to raise her hand to me.
    And then do my skirts flame.
    I must stand to let the heat
    out from under me.
    â€œCan we talk of nothing but witches?
    Ye all be mad with this,” I say.
    Mercy says, “Go on, Margaret,
    ye need not remain with us.
    Sit with Isaac. Be with thy betrothed .”
    Her eyes shift like shadows of the night.
    I inch over to Isaac timid-footed
    and tap his shoulder. He swats my arm
    away like I be a pesky gnat.
    â€œDo not attend me
    when I be among my mates,”
    he says quickly.
    I look over at the other girls
    staring ’pon us.
    I smile all my teeth
    like Isaac did proclaim
    I be the prettiest fowl in the coop.
    I hurry toward the door.
    Red splotches before my eyes.

REQUEST
    Margaret Walcott, 17
    â€œShe be