1687: a Blandy maid
We seldom go among the people of Salem, for they are a dour and narrow sort, much given to suspicion and much afraid of that which lies beyond their fences. Yet there are times when need drives us there—some errand of healing, or counsel, or plea for that which the wild alone cannot give. When we go, it is before the light, and we slip from our houses as shadows might fall from the moon. Our garments we fashion after the manner of the native women: short mantles of deerhide, the hair plaited and darkened with walnut and sumac, woven sashes crossed about the waist. We colour our own skin with the juices of herbs and earth, bruised berries and roots, until we seem neither English nor known. Then we pass among them unseen—at worst mistaken for those the townsmen would rather overlook than accuse.
The way itself is trial enough—forty miles or more through narrow paths, tangled with root and stone. The wolves call to one another across the hills, and owls echo them as if in answer. We wade the rivers barefoot, the water biting and fair as judgment. Yet we go still, for these journeys are the price of the small liberties we have carved here with our hands.
We speak little when we reach the town, and gently, for loud words draw untimely notice. Some of us trade simples and ointments, others tidings of crops and weather. A few among us, blessed with knowledge greater than our years, offer such remedies or counsel as the place requires. Salem’s elders—hard men, most of them—give grudging ear, but our chances are best when a certain stone is held between my fingers. It is grey as river mist, yet when the sun touches it, there springs from it a glimmer like breath upon glass. This stone was given into our trust by a wise woman of the People of the Dawn. It is no witchery, only the earth’s own memory—but when it rests in my hand, those men who would deny us falter, quarrel, and lose the thread of their conviction. Thus in their confusion we find our advantage, and secure what we must.
They call what they cannot name “sorcery,” as if ignorance were a virtue to be kept polished and displayed. All that is natural they condemn, and all that is divine they twist into fear. Yet in the deep of the wood, away from their meeting‑houses and their psalms, I have found a holier silence than any they could craft. Here, the breath of the earth is prayer enough, the light through the leaves a benediction.
So we persist and prosper quietly, and the world, unheeding, rolls on. When I return from those secret paths, my hands are stained, my feet chilled, and yet my heart unburdened. If sin it be, then let me be damned for listening to what Heaven placed beneath my very feet.
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