Love in Salem: Wings & Wolfsong

1692, 14th September

My Devoted Samuel,

The Harvest Moon is big and full tonight, my love. The feather of my quill doth brush my lips, and my words do glow like stars as I write them.

My prison cell is otherwise a lightless hollow, I fear.

Oh—I do miss the way thou maketh mine heart flutter, my love. I yearn for thee to cradle me against thy warm chest—to hear thee call me thy dove.

I had a dream about us, my darling. We were in our old, secret place—the hidden lavender field behind the Bridge at North River. Dost thou remember it? We were there, as in our youth, tumbling around like lust-ridden rabbits—our skin swaddled in mere morning mist and desire. Oh, what fools we were to defy the Church. What unbridled teens!

I do admit, my dear Sam, that I remain childishly besotted for thee.

Tell me that after all this, thou dost still love me, Samuel. Tell me thou yearnest for me, too—that thou achest for each leaf and petal of mine existence. What wouldst thou sacrifice, my brave wolf, to see our bodies be sewn once more by the wild milkweed vines to the soft, damp Earth?

They dragged me here bare, my darling. They threw me into the cold, dark street, clutching my places of womanhood like an animal. Six other women stood with me, each of us made to be ashamed. We were so frightened, Samuel. We were treated like whores and spat on. I fear I cannot unsee the onlookers' frowns flickering in the candlelight.

The other women are here somewhere. They will not allow us to speak. Sometimes I hear them though, Samuel. I hear their screams in the deadened night—their desperate souls insisting their innocence.

Dost thou believe I am a witch, my love? Say thou dost not. Say I am no more than a dove—thy dove—that dreams of peace. Say I am no more than a caged bird who seeks to be free.

Doth this make me a witch?

Promise me, Samuel, that whatever my fate may be, thou wilt protect my Peter. My dear, sweet lamb. He witnessed it all. He watched them cast me out, my dignity stripped away by those sanctimonious serpents. Please, Samuel—Peter must be protected.

I am thine, Samuel, if thou still doth love me. I shall await thy response by the Harvest Moon’s glow—evanescent as it may be.

And I shall dream of thee, Samuel—no matter thy answer.

Ever thy dove,


Abigail

This 21st of September, 1692


My Beloved Dove, Abigail,

I rode to town the moment upon receiving thy letter. The jailers, however—cursed be they—would not let me pass. By my troth, that was the one time I shall spare their souls.

I swear it—the Devil himself shan't stand in my way. I will see thee uncaged, mine innocent dove. Doing so among ravens of ill-guided vehemence shall prove difficult, however. Murmurs of thine allegations now caw upon tongues and dance amid Salem's grim air. Trials are certain, and even thy beauty shall not suffice to evade these self-righteous tyrants. I fear for thee, Abigail—for the fate of those poor maidens in Boston doth plague me. I must be wise. I must move swiftly, like a wolf.

I know thou art no witch, mine angel. I know this certain as my fervour for thee. Do amuse me, however—couldst thou not have been more discreet? Oh, my playful sprite—thou wert spotted gathering herbs by moonlight. Whatever shall I do with thee?

The moment I have thee back in mine arms, Abigail, we shall revisit that old lavender field. There, thou canst teach me all thou knowest of herbs, and I shall have us press them into the velvet moss of the Earth as we once did.

Rest assured, my love, that there is no herb nor witching moon that could make me believe thee anything but innocent.

As for Peter, I have visited him, and he remains unaware of thy peril. He doth miss thee, of course. Thou shouldst write to him—he doth enjoy stories. Indeed, he reveled in listening to tales of mine own boyhood whilst seeking out fox burrows. He hath a keen eye, Abigail, and an adventurous heart.

I must go now, my love. The coming of Autumn hath many a creature scurrying, and I must make haste to set my snares. The wolf must always be quicker and wiser than his prey, my darling—and his adversaries. Those who have wronged thee must be sought out and made to be fools. I intend to use every shilling I gain from these pelts to barter for favors—favors that shall bring me closer to thee.

I promise thee this, Abigail: I need not the light of the Harvest Moon to avenge thee. For thee, I will hunt by its dark side, and on any starless night, for that matter. I will venture to the ends of the Earth to hold thee again, my love.

Ever thy wolf,

Samuel

My Darling Lamb, Peter—

If a mother’s love could bind souls, mine for thee would be steadfast, sweet boy. It would sweep thee up in a cloak of moon’s dust and stars, nestle thee in mine arms, and I would never let go.

Oh, Peter, I do miss thee more than mine heart can endure. Is Auntie Tabitha treating thee well? Art thou eating all thy root vegetables? 

Samuel tells me thou loveth adventure—quite the hunter, aye? While thou wilt always be mine own little lamb, perchance thou dost bear the spirit of a wolf indeed! Very well—catch me a rabbit upon my return, Peter, and I shall prepare thy favorite stew.

Sorrow is a troublesome pest, my love—a restless, cruel one. Do not amuse it for long. Instead, when sorrow visits and thou missest me, make thy way to our secret place and look for the robin. Dost thou remember the tale of the robin, Peter—the red-breasted bird?

There was once a young maiden—bright as a rose—who loved, among many things, to wear red. Her spirit was blissful and ever-blooming. So much so, she sang and danced in her garden whilst gathering sweet-smelling herbs. Though exceptionally kind, she did have enemies—the villagefolk, who envied her merriness. Thou seest, my darling, they despised her light-heartedness and defiance of their rules.

So thou knowest what the young maiden did, Peter? She cast her soul into a bird—a red-breasted bird with the most beautiful song—to escape condemnation. She can now be spotted in the morning, gathering fragrant sticks for her nest, where she tends to her beloved hatchling.

When thou seest the robin, Peter, thinkest of me. And if thou shouldst hear odd words spoken about my doings, remember I was only gathering sweet-smelling vines.

Oh Peter, on this 27th of September, I weep for missing thy birthday. I promise to bake thee a fine fruit tart upon my return. 

I must go now, Peter. Write to me. The schoolmistress sayeth thy spelling doth progress, and that thy art is divine.

With more love than a cloak of stars hath light,

thy Mother

11Octobr1692

Deer Mammy,

I miss thee. It is boryng here. I don’t much like Aunt Tabby’s cookin.Wen wilt thou come back?

Samuel came. I like him.Can he come mor? He sayeth he is thy verry good frend. I want him to be my verry good frend, too. I like our huntin days. He tot me how to ketch foxes. I cot one with the most butiful coat,Mammy. Samuel sayeth I can hav the pelt. Mite thou make me a cloke from it?

I have yet to see a robbin, Mammy.I did see another women gret dragd to the street. She was crying, as thou wert. Why must the charch men be so crool?

The precher stoped me in the street. He told me to pray for thy sool. I don’t like him much—the precher.

I must go, Mammy.Aunt Tabitha is colling. I promis to keep looking for that robbin. My birthday was most sad without thee. I drew this pictur of us eating. a tart.

Luv,

Peter

19October 1692

MmMammy,

Ware art thou? How com thou dost not rite me back?

Papa is mad that Samuel keepeth comin by, but I care not.I cot mor foxes.

I’m lookin for the robbin, Mammy. Com home soon. Plese Mammy.

I love thee and miss thee verry much,


Peter

1692, 3031st October

My Steadfasthearted Samuel,

I have not long—I must write with haste.

I am frightened, Sam. The autumn days grow dark, and my prison cell darker still. Darkest yet are the eyes of the two women sentenced to the noose this day—wide with dread, black as Hell’s gaping maw—as if their very souls had leapt from their still-living bodies.

By the time thou dost receive this, perchance they shall already hang.

The trials are dreadful, my love. They are full of young maids seized by fits, claiming they see spirits. The villagefolk point with trembling fingers, blaming ailing hens on those of us who dare gather sage or bare a birthmark—calling it a Devil’s kiss.

I continue to dream, Sam—still of us, yes, but of other visions as well. I see vines—the same vines that sewed our fervent bodies to the soft, mossed Earth. They’re now taut around my cold neck, and my feet dance in mid air until they fall still.

Where are my wings, Sam? Where art thou to call me thy dove? I believe I see my fate as it may be now.

Oh Sam, if I am to fall, let it be with a sprig of lavender in my palm, and thy name the last sweet thing on my lips.

Let mine eternal love for thee glow by the moon’s light, and I pray thee—protect my Peter.

Ever thine,

Abigail

This 5th of November, 1962

My Innocent Abigail,

Dear God. Relief doth fill me upon hearing from thee, though I know thou art frightened.

With mine own eyes did I witness the hangings, my love. Rebecca Hartwell and Goody Mary-Ester were fettered at the neck in a manner that would make even the most calloused hunter cringe. Mercy! To think it could have been thee, Abigail… is more than mine heart can bear.

I shall veil nothing—peril doth loom like a wraith here, mine angel. Those maids whom I know thou dost consider friends now turn away when thy plight is mentioned, fearing for their own fates. Cursed be they. Do promise me, Abigail, that thou wilt rid thyself of them upon thy return.

Yes—thy return. Keep thy faith, my love—as thou dost trust the moon will once again swell—for thy wolf hath been fortunate. The forest hath smiled upon me, thou seest, and the quality of the pelts hath proven prime. A traveling peddler was keen for one, and I gave him my finest mink in exchange for some overheard whispers. Knowest thou what I have found out? There is to be a transfer of cages. One little bird in particular—my little bird—shall be placed in a new one quite soon, just before her trial is to take place.

No more may I reveal, my love—only what every wolf knoweth: a chickling is easiest caught when astray from the coop.

Fret not, Abigail. Soon shall I catch my bird and press her close—I shall give her the uplift she craveth.

With a love that welds wings and wolfsong,

thy Samuel

18 November 1692

Mammy,

I still havn’t herd from thee. Art thee ok? I’m scard, Mammy. Plese answer me.

Luv,

Peter

26November 1692

Mammy,

I saw a robbin today.

Then Samuel came by and told me a story of a wolf and dov. He said the dove fled her cage but.But had to hide in the forrest till the storm passed. Wen the spring came, she flew home.

Com home now, Mammy. Samuel saith he’ll leave this letter where the lavendr groweth. He thinketh thou’ll find it ther.

Luv,

Peter