“How do you feel about the memorial? Or do you remember when it wasn’t here?” Rocky asked Devin.
“Yes, I remember,” she told him, grinning. “You’re not that much older than I am.” She’d been very young when it had been erected for the tricentennial of the trials, but it had been a big deal in town, the kind of thing that stuck in your memory.
There was always controversy when the powers that be made a big change in town, but Devin personally liked the little area—adjacent to the cemetery—where twenty individual stone benches were each engraved with the name of one of those who was executed during the witch craze, nineteen of them hanged and Giles Corey pressed to death. Most tours began here, but she particularly liked the way Brent began his tours at this spot, with the real history of the time and an explanation of the situation.
The memorial was atmospheric at night; the moon and city lights cast a glow over the graveyard—closed at dusk, but easily visible over the low stone fence. None of the victims was buried there in the Old Burying Point Cemetery, but Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ancestor—John Hathorne, the only witch trial judge never to repent of his actions—was interred near the memorial. Sometimes a low fog would roll in, which made the stories especially poignant and a bit eerie.
“Hey! You two made it. And on time,” Brent said, smiling, as he found them in the crowd.
“I’m always on time, Brent,” Devin said.
“That’s right—Beth is the one who never seems to know what time it is,” Brent said. “I’m glad you’re here,” he told Rocky. Suddenly he turned around and started coughing.
“Brent, are you sick?” Devin asked him.
“Allergy. And I don’t even know to what,” Brent said with disgust. “But if I yell for help, you take over, okay? And you might as well have a seat while I do my intro.”
Devin sat with Rocky on the bench dedicated to Bridget Bishop. She’d always felt empathy for Bridget—she’d actually worn a color other than black at times and had some sass in her. It had proved to be her undoing.
Brent stepped forward, welcoming the crowd, checking his watch—and moving right into his first speech.
“If we’re going to think about the deaths of people, first we have to think about the lives they were living. So think about Salem back then—a divided place, one town loosely divided into Salem and Salem Village. The first was near the coast—more urban. The second was made up mainly of farmland. The farmers closest to town didn’t want to break away. They were economically tied to the seaport. Others wanted to separate and make Salem Village an official town of its own.
“The Putnam family—one of the most affluent in the area—wanted to separate. To that end they hired Reverend Samuel Parris to come and lead services near them. If that didn’t make relations with those in town bad enough, they gave Parris a house and grounds to go with the stipend and firewood they provided. That seemed outrageous to people who felt a minister shouldn’t be compensated to such an unheard-of degree. So even before the claims of witchcraft and pacts with the devil began, the community was at odds.
“On top of that, remember that it was winter. If you’ve been here for a Massachusetts winter, you know it can be brutal. Imagine winter with no electricity and only a fire for warmth. Such darkness and cold. Not so long ago they had been at war with the Indians, and many still found the woods a terrifying place. There was a devil out there, the strict Puritans believed, and he was ready to seize those who showed signs of moral weakness. And anything fun was a sure sign of sin. I’ve got to say, I’m awfully glad there aren’t any Puritans still living in the area today.”
Laughter followed Brent’s last statement. He grinned and looked at Devin. “Pipe in here for a minute, will you?”
She was surprised. Brent loved to tell his stories. She started to demur, but then, as he pointed to his throat and reached for a bottle of water, she remembered what he’d said earlier about helping out. By then, the crowd had turned to her, and Brent, coughing, had turned away.