1850.
"Let's stop here. We can continue tomorrow. For now, we need to rest."
"You're not serious, are you, Levi? The road is clear, and we have plenty of lamps! Please, let's keep going. We're almost there."
"We'd have to cross the forest to get to the town, which is too risky to do at night, Eli. Besides, we've been riding all day. The smart thing would be to stop and wait for dawn."
Elias made a face, but didn't protest. The four boys dismounted and began to set up their small camp at the edge of a grove. The moonlight was immediately eclipsed by the flames of the campfire, which cast the silhouettes of the pine trees on the green grass as the wind made them dance. Isaac sat on a log in front of the fire waiting for the rest of his friends, if he could even call them that. He'd known them since childhood. Their families had lived in Plymouth for generations. Levi's father was friends with Elias's father, who was friends with Joseph's father, who were all friends with Isaac's father, and so on with the rest of the boys in town who frequented the Calvinist church in Boston. They'd all known each other since birth. They went to the same school, attended the same church, and were destined to marry a woman from the same town in Boston. Unless their luck changed in Salem.
All four were baptized on the same day, the year they turned sixteen, and had since become something like "friends," though Isaac struggled to see them that way. His mother said it took time for him to open his heart to new people, but that he would eventually. Since they were moving to the Trade Coast to make a better life, and since they would be the only people he knew in Salem, perhaps it was time to "open his heart" to them, though Isaac had no idea how to do that.
He could begin with something. From his leather satchel, he pulled out a can of lentil soup and a bag of dried meat. After tying up the horses and making their beds on the grass, the boys settled around the fire and celebrated the meal right in front of them after long hours of fasting. Levi took a loaf of sourdough from his bag, and they broke it into pieces to dip in the soup.
"God forgive my gluttony, but the first thing I want to do in Salem is try some good lobster soup," Joe remarked, his mouth full of bread and soup.
That brought a smile to Isaac's face. Beside him, Elias roared with laughter.
"My dear friend, the first thing I'll do as soon as I set foot on the coast is meet my future wife," he said, his smile dripping with grease and breadcrumbs.
Isaac resisted the urge to roll his eyes and continued eating. They had considered starting work in Salem because Elias's father ran errands there occasionally throughout the year and got along very well with his employer. On his last trip, he had taken his son along to negotiate the possibility of him working alongside him at the coastal trading center, and the man offered him a permanent position under his supervision. On that trip, however, Elias met his employer's daughter and fell in love with her, "immediately." Isaac was tired of hearing him talk about it, and he was sure the rest of them were too.
"At least show a shred of shame for your promiscuity," Levi hissed.
"Promiscuity? This isn't promiscuity! It's natural and holy! There's nothing holier than the union between a man and a woman."
"Boasting it so proudly isn't holy at all. And do you even know if she's a Christian?"
"Enough, Levi, Elias. Eat your dinner in peace,” Isaac burst in.
The two obeyed the order without a word. There were a few minutes of silence as they finished their dinner. It was an unusually cold night for that time of year, but the wind was a welcome relief after so much heat, and a constant reminder of how close they were to the sea.
Isaac looked up, almost instinctively, and discovered that Joseph was watching him. His empty bowl rested in his lap, chewing the last remnants of his sourdough.
Perhaps there was something behind him? Isaac glanced over his shoulder. On the edge of the forest stood a large bush with blue flowers.
Joe put his things aside and straightened up in his seat.
“Those flowers remind me of a story,” he began, licking his lips. “Something that happened around here almost a hundred years ago.”
“Here he goes again with his nonsense,” Levi muttered.
“I want to hear it.” Eli said, setting his utensils aside.
“Me too,” Isaac agreed, earning a smile from Joseph.
A story was just what they needed to lift the group's spirits. A silly tale to remind them of their childhoods while at the edge of manhood.
From his leather satchel, he pulled out several papers organized in a modest cardboard folder.
"All this information," he said. "I brought it from my father's archive. If he finds out—if he hasn't already—he'll be furious." Joseph's father was a historian. Isaac liked him for that reason. He knew his father better than Joseph himself, from their varied conversations. The man kept a record of the entire history of Massachusetts Bay, from its beginnings to the present. He especially liked to focus on the paranormal folklore surrounding it. Witches, demons, cults, black and white magic… that's what he most enjoyed investigating. He had, in his possession and that of the state museum, copies of the transcripts of all the witch trials that took place in Salem in 1692 and 1693. That, and several documents reporting witchcraft that the colonists had brought from England.
"This here," Joe continued. "It's an extensive file on a single person. Trial transcripts, police reports, testimonies, prayers, and diary entries all dedicated to the same boy. The boy who never grows old.”
Joe cleared his throat and began his tale.
March, Anno Domini 1608
Upon the Friday morn, whilst we did treat with a Sachem of the Wampanoag, he that dwelleth just without our Settlement, he unfold a tale to Peter and to me. Peter straightway burst forth in laughter at the Indian's recounting—and, I confess, I did partake somewhat of that mirth. Yet is it now impossible for me to feel e'en a whit of humor, considering the events that transpire after I had given ear to such a strange history.
The Indian's account was as follows, and I will attempt to replicate the cadence with which the interpreter translated:
“A month ago, during the morning, Iyannough, Sonkanuchoo's son, wandered away from Sakonnet and ran down into the valley. Sonkanuchoo and his wife begged for the help of the others to find him, so some set aside their work and began a small search. They found him playing with a white boy. He was blond with blue eyes and was carrying a baby hare in his hands. To avoid any trouble, Sonkanuchoo and his wife considered taking him to the settlement, but the boy spoke our language perfectly and didn't seem to know any English.
Sonkanuchoo and his wife brought him to Sakonnet. I was introduced to him. I asked him his name, and he said he didn't know. I asked him about his parents, and he said he had none. We gave him food, clothes, and a bed to sleep on at night. The boy did whatever he pleased. He woke up earlier than everyone else and he would go deep into the woods to do things I don't know about. The first surprise he gave us was when the men took him away to teach him and the rest of our children how to hunt. They stalked a meadow full of bison. The men killed them with arrows. This seemed to amuse him, or so one of the men reported. But what followed was truly extraordinary. The boy chased one of the beasts with the speed of a hawk and lifted it above his head as if it weighed no more than a river stone. The men brought back what they had hunted and reported what they had seen to me. The boy looked at me with large, curious, and fearful eyes, like a rabbit on the edge of an arrow. That made me feel sorry for him, so I wasn't afraid of the weight of his intentions. If they could fit in such a small body, inside a heart that knew fear, how could I judge him the same way I would a grown man?
The indian's accompt wast as follows, and i shall assay to replicate the cadence withal which the interpreter translated:
“A month ago, during the morning, Lyannough, Sonkanuchoo's son, wandered aroint from Sakonnet and ran down into the valley. Sonkanuchoo and his wife begged for the help o' the others to find him, so some set aside their work and began a small search. They found him playing withal a white bairn. He wast blond withal blue eyne and wast carrying a baby hare in his hands. To forbear any trouble, sonkanuchoo and his wife advised taking him to the settlement, but the babe spake our tongue perfectly and didn't seem to speak of english tongue.
Sonkanuchoo and his wife brought him to sakonnet. I wast introduced to him. I asked him his name, and he quoth he didn't wot. I asked him about his parents, and he quoth he had none. We gave him food, abiliment, and a bed to sleep on at night. The lad did whatever he pleased. He woke up earlier than everyone else and he would'st'st'st go deep into the woods to do things i don't wot about. The first surprise he gave us wast when the men took him aroint to teach him and the quietus o' our children how to hunt. They stalked a meadow full o' bison. The men dispatch'd them withal arrows. This seemed to amuse him, or so one o' the men reported. But what followed wast marry extraordinary. The child chased one o' the beasts withal the speed o' a hawk and lifted it above his pate as an it weighed nay more than a river stone. The men brought back what they had hunted and reported what they had seen to me. The babe looked at me withal large, curious, and fearful eyne, like a rabbit on the edge o' an arrow. That made me feel sorry for him, so i wasn't afear'd o' the weight o' his intentions. An they could fit in such a small body, inside a heart that knew fear, how could i judge him the same way i would'st'st'st a grown man?
To this day, i don't wot an I fully understand the mistake o' mine own indulgence. But its weight still crusheth on mine own shoulders.
One morning, the white bairn took mine own son to the edge o' the forest. I knew not they were friends, but that child had been so helpful to us that i didn't question it. Suddenly, i heard screams, and mine own son fell into mine arms withal an erratic fever. The last time i saw the sirrah, he looked at me withal fear and ran into the forest. The healers o' sokannet surrounded mine babe overnight as he moaned and cried. The next day, he woke up vomiting an entire sepoy and died. When they opened his body for a closer examination, the doctors saw that his organs had been replaced by rotten fruits and vegetableth.
i haven't seen that knave sith, but thither's definitely something strange about him, and he must have had something to do withal thee. I don't understand how or wherefore he knew our tongue, but the last thing i want is to cause conflict betwixt our two peopleth. Be more prudent and take care o' thy kin's babes. I, for the time being, shall continue to mourn mine. ”
Thus ends his anecdote.
Peter and i thought 'twas utterly absurd, but we attended until we were out o' thither to laugh. A white lad who knew the indian accent? supernatural strength? how ridiculous!
however, last week, peter encountered a kid on the edge o' the woods behind the church. The child wast wearing a white shirt and had a affray'd expression on his face. Peter asked him about his parents, and the babe quoth he wast looking for them. I saith adieu to peter, as i had to work after the service, and i quoth adieu to the young boy, who looked at me withal large, anxious blue eyne.
The next time i saw peter, that afternoon, he wast trembling and writhing feverishly. Hannah and i let him stay at our house while he recovered—Peter was single and an orphan, so he cometh to us oft. He wast crying, babbling, and shouting. Hannah bled him, and we both prayed for him until he calmed down. The following days he spent in a coma, alternating betwixt complete unconsciousness and panic. He babbled things like, “the creature o' the forest!”, “that horrible monster!”, “kill it! dispatch it!” and so on. Hannah and i wert extremely worried. This very morning, however, his suffering ended. He woke us early withal his unpleasant screams and howls as he writhed in bed, sweating profusely. Then he died. The doctor couldn't determine the cause o' death. Hannah hasn't stopped crying. I can't put a name to what betid, but what betid to peter wast quite similar to what betid to the chief's son.
BEWARE OF THE CHILD OF
UNORTHODOX ORIGINS!
HE IS THE WORK OF SATAN PERVERTING INNOCENCE!
DANGER! DANGER!
J. W. 1608
(Warrant for Arrest in the Matter of Elizabeth Wells v. Robert Good)
[February, 1636]
Salem, February 17, 1635/6
Whereas Robert Good, Edward Preston, and Henry Alwright, Gentlemen, of Salem Village, in the County of Essex, have this day appeared before Us, making complaint in Their Majesties' names against Elizabeth Wells, Widow of Jonathan Wells, late of Salem Village, and servant to the said Master Robert Good; for that she is suspected of Witchcraft, exercised by her, whereby grievous harm hath befallen Martha Good, Faith Preston, and Katherine Allwright, all of Salem Village aforesaid, at sundry times these past two months, and of late also within Salem Village; against the peace and the laws of Our Sovereign Lord and Lady Charles the First and Henrietta, King and Queen of England,
These are therefore to be commanded, in Their Majesties' names, to take into custody the body of the aforementioned Elizabeth Wells, and forthwith, or as soon as may be, bring her before Us at the house of William Hathorne in the said place; and, if it be possible, tomorrow about the hour of ten in the forenoon, there to be examined touching the premises. And further, to bring at the same time Martha Good, Faith Preston, and Katherine Allwright, or any other person or persons that may give evidence in the matter. Fail not herein.
Given at Salem, this seventeenth day of February, Anno Domini 1635/6 *Roger Wilson] Assistant
*Jeremiah Herrick] Assistant
To Agent Elijah Lawrence, Agent in Salem (Reverse)
(Reverse) According to this warrant, I have apprehended the person named and brought them forth as commanded, and have made diligent search for images and such like, but have found none.
Salem, this nineteenth day of February, Anno Domini 1635/36
By me *Elijah Lawrence, Agent
(Summary of the examination of one elizabeth wells, as recorded by roger wilson)
[february 19, 1636]
salem village, february 19, 1635/6
Elizabeth Wells, widow of Jonathan Wells, wast brought ere us by alderman elijah lawrence of salem on suspicion of witchcraft, committed according to the denunciation of Rob. Good and Ed. Preston, etc. , of salem village, as stated in the warrant issued in Salem on february 17, 1635/6. Upon questioning, Elizabeth Wells denied the chargeth. However, according to her testimony, she shall be presented in more detail. She appeal'd a young man named Alfred of all the chargeth brought against her.
(reverse) Salem village
february 19, 1635/6
elizabeth wells of salem village wast brought ere us this day on suspicion o' witchcraft, etc. , and her verdict is in doubt. Wells continueth to deny her crimes; thus, further trials shall be conducted. And to continue the questioning, all indictments wert sent to the judgeth o' essex county.
Salem, february 20: Elizabeth Wells wast questioned again as recorded in her interrogatorieth filed at.
Wells denied the chargeth again and appeal'd the young Alfred.
Salem, february 21: Elizabeth Wells was questioned again. The interrogatorieth now filed at—
Wells quoth the same thing again, refusing to confess and accusing the young man named Alfred.
according to us, *roger wilson, assistant.
*jeremiah herrick
Salem, february 25, 1635/6
Elizabeth Wells, widow of Jonathan Wells and servant to Robert Good, wast sent to the porter in boston, according to their respective emissarieth. She wast then sent to his majesty's goale.
(Examination of Elizabeth wells, as recorded by Abraham Howland)
[february 21, 1636]
the interrogation o' elizabeth wells.
[W] withal what evil dost thou fraternize?
[E] none.
[W] wherefore didst thou harm the children?
[E] i did them nay harm.
[W] then who?
[E] the devil, as i ought wot.
[W] hast thou seen the devil?
[E] ay, several timeth. He taketh various forms. Sometimeth that o' a hog, sometimeth that o' a buffalo, sometimeth that o' a hare, and very oft that o' a little knave. He runs and goeth about, frightening the child o' [me master] good and [the quietus o' the gentlemen].
[W] what doth he look like when he taketh the form o' a hog?
[E] a fat, black boar that chaseth the piglets on [mr. Rob. Good's] farm.
[W] ay? and when it looks like a buffalo?
[E] a tall, hairy one that affrays [mr. Rob. Good's] horseth.
[W] and when it's a hare?
[E] a slippery little hare that harasseth the wenches.
[W] and when it's a lad?
[E] about eight years old, dressed in a shirt, trousers, and jacket. Blond, messy hair. Blue eyne. Slippery. Restless, shy, and persuasive. He preys on women's maternal instincts and trieth to corrupt our sanctity through the holiest and most innocent image.
[W] when didst thou first see it?
[E] a week ago. It asked me for bread. It told me its name wast alfred, that it had nay father or mother, and that 'twas very hungry. I gave him bread and meat and let the wenches play withal it under mine own supervision.
[W] and then?
[E] i lost sight o' them. I looked everywhere for them and couldn't find them. I went into the woods, heard a strange singing, and when i returned to the house they were vomiting chicken feathers all o'er the yard. Their parents came back and pointed me out. That's wherefore i'm hither then.
[W] but sure it wast not thee?
[E] i absolutely say so.
[W] and dost thou wot where this devil is?
[E] nay, atall. It got lost in the woods, which seems to be its land.
(Accusation No. 1 of Elizabeth Wells for afflicting Martha Good)
[february 17, 1636]
Anno: regis et reginae Charleth I. et Henrietta Maria nunc angliae &c: undecimus
essex ss.
the jurors o' our sovereign lord and lady the king and queen: do hereby state that elizabeth wells, widow of jonathan wells, o' the Salem village in the county of Essex, on the seventeenth day of February in the eleventh year of the reign of our sovereign lord and lady charleth i and henrietta, by the grace of god of england, scotland, france, and ireland, king and queen, defenders of the faith, etc. : and various other days and times, both ere and after, have wickedly and vilely used, practiced, and exercised in and within the township of salem in the aforementioned county o' essex against a absolute martha good, daughter of robert good o' salem, by which quoth wicked arts: she, the quoth Martha Good, on the quoth seventeenth day o' february in the aforementioned eleventh year, is tortured, afflicted, deteriorated, confounded, cast out, and tormented, and also by various other acts of witchcraft committed by one Elizabeth Wells, presumably ere and after that date, against the peace of our sovereign lord and lady the king and queen, their crown and dignity, and against the form of the statute established in that case.
witnesseth
martha good, juror
faith preston, juror
katherine allrwright, juror
Rob. Good --- juror
(reverse) nay. 1, ind. o' elizabeth wells
young Martha Good wast unable to continue her testimony because she died of strange—presumably satanic—causeth on the morning of february 22, in the eleventh year o' the reign of our sovereign lords king Charleth I and Henrietta Maria. The other victims and accusers died in the same manner ere testifying.
(Warrant of Execution of Elizabeth Wells)
April 10, 1636]
To Alexander Endicott, Sir, High Sheriff of Essex County. Greetings.
Whereas Elizabeth Wells, widow of Jonathan Wells, of Salem Village, Essex County, Province of Massachusetts Bay, New England, in a trial held by adjournment for our sovereign lords, King Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria, of the aforementioned Essex County, in Salem, Essex County, on March 22 [last], was prosecuted on various charges of the horrible crime of witchcraft, practiced and committed against various persons, and, pleading innocent, submitted to the justice of God and country. She was found guilty by the jury, which pronounced sentence according to her respective charges, and was sentenced to death according to the law, the execution of which is still pending.
Therefore, in the name of Their Majesties, Charles I and Henrietta Maria, now King and Queen of England and Canada, I order that next Tuesday, April 10th of this year, between eight o'clock and morning of the same day, [Elizabeth Wells] be brought safely from Her Majesty's place in Salem, aforesaid, to the place of execution, and that she be hanged there until she is dead. Return this here exposed to the Clerk of the Court, and do not fail to comply with this order at your own peril, and this shall be your order sufficient, given under my signature and seal in Boston. April 7th, in the eleventh year of the Reign of Our Sovereign Lords Charles I and Henrietta Maria, King and Queen, etc.: Annoq Dom. 1636 --
*Wm Stoughton
(Reverse) Salem, April 10, 1636
I ordered the execution of Elizabeth Wells, according to the tenor of the warrant.
*Alexander Endicott Sheriff.
[Diary entries of a Plymouth man record a cult dedicated to the “Holy Child”]
[Month(s) unknown. 1657]
**Anno Domini 1657**
This yeare of our Lord 1657.
The Messias is return’d againe unto this Earth, and in ye likenesse of a little Childe most tender & faire.
Glorie be unto Him who lifteth great Bison above His head as though it were but a lamb. Aye, I did behold it with mine owne eyes.
Glorie unto Him who reapeth from barren soile, making ye dust to bring forth wheate & Indian corne for [the] People of God. The field which was as death now quickeneth at His bidding.
Blessed are they which discerne His Divinitie.
Blessed are they who wash themselvs in His light & grace, which shineth more bright than ye noone Sunne.
Glorie be to ye Holy Childe.
—
1657.
To Him who scattereth our Enimies as chaffe before ye winde.
To Him who filleth our storehouses with ye riches of ye Earth, though our hands be weake.
To Him who openeth Heaven as a doore unlatched.
Glorie to ye Holy Childe, now walking amongst us in small feete.
—
1657.
The Holy Childe did shew unto us Heaven it selfe. He poynted upward & named ye starres as though they were sheepe of His pasture. The Planets obey His fingers.
He graspeth them upon His tips, aye, with but two fingers, & lifteth them above His head with no labour nor strain. Then casteth them forth like play-balles across ye clearing beyond ye wood.
The People did weep sore.
They wept for Joy unspeakable.
We shall ascend.
We shall behold God upon His Throne.
We shall be first to see Paradise, & our eyes shall not melt nor be consumed.
Glorie to ye Holy Childe.
—
1657.
He hath return’d in ye most innocent & pure frame of Man, being but a Childe of few yeares.
Yet He be merrie & full of sport, frisking as a little coney in ye grasse. He runneth, & laugheth, & His teeth shine white.
He eateth much, as one growing fast in flesh.
All victuals are set aside for Him, for none must deny His hunger.
Glorie, glorie to ye Holy Childe.
—
1657.
The Holy Childe spake this day that He would shew unto us His true Forme, which no man hath yet endured to see.
We must goe deep into ye forest, where ye trees stand thick & ancient.
We are readie.
We are readie to embrace God with ye tips of our fleshy fingers, though they be sinfull.
Readie to cast off these mundane garments of clay.
Readie.
Readie for Him.
—
**The diary ends here
*This document is connected to another series of written testimonies dedicated to this child. Apparently, they were from separatists who renounced Puritan doctrine and were seeking something much clearer, which appeared to them in the woods demanding food. None of the documents mentions the name, but it can be easily linked to Alfred F. Jones by comparing the description in a poem dedicated to the “holy child” written by an anonymous woman who belonged to the cult: “O Mother againe—/corne be his haire, wind-tost & yellow’d bright;/and in his eies doth Heaven lye/the skie therein reflected cleare,/as Eden glass’d in mortal sight.” The cult is seen as an extension of the Christian faith with a new neo-Protestant doctrine, now extinct because all its members committed suicide after the last entry, as reported by one Samuel Carter to Sheriff William Abbott of Plymouth County on August 16, 1657. Unfortunately, I was unable to obtain a copy of the report, and it remains in the archives of the Plymouth County Historical Archives in Brockton.
[Warrant for apprehension of Alfred Kirkland, & Officer's Return (Copy)]
[May 20, 1692]
To: The Sherriffe of the County of Essex or dep'ts of Constable in Andover
You are in theire Majests. names hereby required to apprehend and forthwith bring before us, Alfred Kirkland, who Stands Charged on behalfe of theire Maj'es with haveing Committed Sundry acts of Witchcraft on. Caleb Packett of Andover. to his great hurt and that in order to his Examination Relateing to the abovesayed premises faile not Dated Salem May 20th. 1692
*Bartho. Gedney
You are likewise required *John Hathorne
to search deligently in the house *Jonathan. Corwin
& aboute it for popetts &c *John Higginson
Justs Peace
In obedience unto this warant I have Seased the body of the above Riton person: and brought him to the place apoynted: & delivered him: I found him in a house made of stone at the bottom of the forest, surrounded by various animals and some human bones and brought them to you honers:: this 21: of May 1692 Per *Ephriam Foster
Constable of Andovr
[The Examination of one Alfred Franklin Kirkland, taken at Salem in the Massachusets Bay Colony, Anno Domini 1692, before Magistrate John Hathorne (Copy)]
[May 21st 1692]
[H] Hathorne: What be thy full Name, young lad?
[A]: Alfred Franklin Kirkland, Sir.
[H]: And what Age art thou of?
[A]: I know it not rightly. Many yeares, I thinke.
[H]: Who be thy Father & Mother?
[A]: I have none. I dwell with mine elder Brother.
[H]: What is the Name of this elder Brother?
[A]: Arthur Kirkland.
[H]: And where doth he make his abode?
[Here the Boy pauseth long, casting his Eyes about the Roome as one afeard]
[A]: I cannot tell it certain. Yet he be in London at this present.
[H]: Knowest thou for what Cause thou standest in this Court, little Alfred?
[A]: Nay, Sir. Is it for that Gentleman?
[H]: That Gentleman, Caleb Packett of Andover, a man much esteem’d amongst the People of Essex, was found in grievous Fits, convulsing mightily & rending at his own Flesh. And when he came again to his Senses, he forthwith did point at thee, saying thou hadst bewitched him.
[A]: Bewitched, Sir?
[H]: Yea, bewitched by the Black Art. Yet thou seemest but a Child. Too young to be a Warlock.
[A]: I know not how a Body should bewitch another.
[H]: Then thou sayest thou hast not bewitched him?
[A]: I say I know not how such a Thing be done.
[H]: But hast thou done it, yea or nay?
[A]: I know not. How doth one bewitch a Man?
[At this the Magistrate look’d about in some Disquiet, stroking his Beard, then fixing his stern Countenance once more upon the Child]
[H]: First must thou set thy Hand to the Devil’s Book, & swear thy Allegiance unto him, the Prince of Darkness. Hast thou so set thy Hand?
[A]: I remember no such Deed. Therefore, no.
Magistrate: But art thou the Cause of Mr. Packett his grievous Fits & Assaults upon his own Flesh?
[A]: I know not. We were in Discourse together, and sudden he fell to trembling & convulsing sorely.
Magistrate: How sayest thee?
[At this the Boy rose up from his Chair, and did cast his Eyes upon all that were assembled in the Meeting-House.]
[A]: I mean no Hurt unto any here. I give Answer to no Evill, nor unto the Devill, nor yet unto God Himself. I be not Man, nor yet Beast. I know not what I be, nor do ye. My Bloud be red as any other’s. I walk upright & I draw Breath. I desire not to kill. I desire not to wound nor afflict. I would but discover what Place I hold upon this Earth. Yet I have no Rule over mine Actions nor over my Motions. I am sorry. I am sorry. I knew not that Men were so frail. I knew not they were so apt unto Death.
He wept. Magistrate Hathorne decided to end the tryall.
Isaac felt a sharp tingling beneath his skin. His legs and arms were restless. It was even harder to stay calm with Joe’s piercing gaze fixed upon him.
They had spent the last two and a half hours listening to Joseph narrate every document he had brought with him regarding that boy.
Elias’s voice broke the silence.
“The good thing is that he’s dead now, right?”
“He must have been some kind of demon,” Levi remarked. “Lucky for us the Church put an end to him.”
“It’s not that simple,” Joseph explained, turning his gaze back to Isaac. “Is it, Isaac?”
A burning rage surged through Isaac’s body like the heat from glowing embers. He stood up and slapped Joe, eliciting two gasps of surprise from his other companions.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Why had he even bothered trying to get them to like him if this was how they repaid the effort?
At least Joseph. Because, of course, Joseph would do something like this to him. Because Joseph was a son of a bitch with no regard for anyone, a man who reveled in the suffering of others. Just like now—staring at Isaac with smiling eyes and a reddened cheek.
Levi stood up to try and restrain him, to quell his fury. Neither he nor Elias was to blame, yet Isaac couldn’t help feeling angry at them both. So he wrenched himself free from Levi’s grip and stood his ground before Joe, who was now regarding him with an air of deep amusement. Isaac wanted to slap him again.
“That’s why you brought all those documents with you! Isn’t it?! That’s why you were looking at me like that! That’s why you’re laughing at me—as if you knew a joke you couldn’t share! This was the joke! Do you find this funny?! Do you find this funny, Joseph?!”
“Guys, I’m not following any of this—is everything okay...?” Elias stammered. Isaac squeezed his eyes shut and sighed shakily, trying to find the right words in his head.
"There is a curse that has haunted my family for generations," Isaac confessed.
Levi and Elias frowned in bewilderment. Isaac took another deep breath and continued.
"Joseph knew. And he knew it was connected to that damned child. And yet he still decided to bring those papers with him! Because he knew how humiliating it would be!"
"But—wait, I don't understand..." Elias said in a trembling voice. "How...? How did he do that? How could he...? Didn't he die?"
Isaac clicked his tongue. He should have expected that would be the response he’d get. Before he could say anything, Joseph held out a notebook to him. It was small, brown, tattered, and looked both ancient and handmade.
Bewildered, Isaac looked up; there was no trace of amusement or insolence on Joseph’s face. His mouth wasn't twisted in a smirk. He simply looked back with eyes that almost seemed to be apologizing.
"What is this?"
"It’s the diary of a man from your family. Josiah Jones. The last document I could find regarding the matter," he explained. "I found it myself. It belonged to your grandfather, who kept it all these years—just as your relatives did before him. He was searching for an explanation for his fate, and a way to avoid it. He didn't find one—or perhaps it was already too late."
Isaac frowned as he gazed at the notebook held out before him.
The fury had drained from his body, replaced by a tingling sensation he couldn't explain, coursing through him down to his very fingertips. His heart pounded in his chest. He stared at Joseph with disbelieving eyes. Could it be...?
Isaac took the book with trembling hands and opened it.
In Sacred Memory of Mr. David Jones. Father of Josiah Jones and the late Hope Jones. A good Christian and citizen of Essex County in Salem Village. A pious and God-fearing man, whom God now keeps in His holy glory.
…
May, 1730
Chastity tells me all the time that my face is buried too deep in my writings—and perhaps it is true—but for me, it is impossible not to write down my thoughts when they reverberate so powerfully inside my head. So, I decided to bind a new journal and keep a record of the new boy Chastity and I are looking after.
The other day, during my father’s funeral, we found a boy standing beside Sam, gazing raptly at my father’s peaceful face. In his hands, he held a small handful of forget-me-nots. We asked him his name, and he looked at us with fear, but he did not speak. When we asked Sam if the boy was a friend of his, he told us he had only just met him; the boy had been asking after his grandfather, and Sam had given him some flowers, which the boy then used to adorn the center of my father’s motionless chest. Utterly bewildered, I tried to ask him more questions, but the boy merely looked at me with those large, blue eyes—eyes so… full. So inhabited. I had never before seen such eyes adorning such a small face.
We spent the rest of the day asking the brothers and sisters of the church if they recognized the boy. Not a single one had the faintest idea—not even the pastor. And so, he was left in our care.
I could tell that Chastity wasn’t entirely convinced that this was a good idea. And I understand her. But I believe it will help us cope with our grief. I hope that, eventually, she will be able to see it that way, too.
…
June 1730
We have had the boy with us for a month now. He is quiet. Shy. He barely told us his name—Alfred. He does not speak, not even to Sam, but how he eats!
He watches us when we pray before meals. When we hold our morning and evening devotionals. Even during our Sundays of rest. It seems he wants to understand it; was he, perhaps, raised in a religion other than Christianity? For in this house, we are all Christians, so I hope those looks are born of curiosity, not disdain.
…
June 1730
As I say, this boy has an insatiable appetite. Consequently, what he does most is eat—even well past lunchtime. Otherwise, he spends his time in the woods, venturing deep inside. We do not know what he does there. We ask him to help us with the chores, but he refuses. He says nothing aloud. He simply eats, chases after the dog, and heads into the woods.
Chastity is slightly displeased with me, and she has the courtesy to let me know in silence—with those looks filled with judgment, shaking her head.
He is just a boy; at this point, he seems to have no one. What am I to do?
...
July 1720
We have progress, and many questions.
Alfred approached me silently while I was doing my morning devotions, even while Chastity and Sam were still sleeping, and he heard me praying after my studies.
"What’s wrong, boy? Do you want to read with me?" I asked him.
His eyes were wide open, and I thought I wouldn't get an answer after he shook his head, but he said:
"No. I don't know how to read."
"Oh, it's never too late. Come," I pointed to the space beside me, "sit down. Let's read a bit of the Word."
I read a chapter from the book I was studying that morning. Job, chapter twenty-three. Alfred listened in silence. He waited until I finished to ask his question.
"Do you believe I'm a child of God?"
Ah, the question moved me. It was common for children to doubt in that way, full of innocence.
"Of course you are, Alfie. We are all children of God. You, me, Chastity, and Sam."
There was a pause before he asked the next question. "Do you believe He hears me when I pray to Him? When I ask Him questions?"
I couldn't imagine such a child asking questions to anyone. I was surprised he was talking so much to begin with.
"Of course, it's just that He acts in silence, and in ways we cannot understand."
He paused for a longer period of time. I thought this time he would truly go quiet and go back to doing whatever he wanted in the yard, with the dog, or lost in the woods. However, to my surprise, he spoke again.
"Did Job die?"
"Yes," I affirmed, "of old age."
"Of old age?"
"Indeed. You see, we people tend to die at a certain age in our lives. It will happen to all of us, even you."
"And how much time has to pass?"
"Huh?"
"To die, I mean."
"Well, it's different for every man, but it can be anywhere from eighty to a hundred years."
He had an expression on his face that I could neither describe nor explain. There was bewilderment mixed with something like pain, but what pain could such a small child suffer?
"How old was Davie?"
The question caught me off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Davie..." He stammered, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. "Davie is your father, right?"
"How do you know who my father was...?"
He pressed his lips together, eyes on the ground, and without saying a word, he ran off.
How could he know about my father? How could he know his name?
…
August 1730
In my spare time, I have set about rummaging through my father’s things—his books, his journals, his clothes, his tools. I want to see if I can find anything that connects him to this boy, but I meet with no success.
Alfred has started helping Chastity with the chores: preparing meals, washing dishes, making tallow candles, and sweeping—all in silence. My wife is pleased with the help; I, however, find it suspicious. I have tried speaking to Alfred, but all the progress we had made with him has been lost. I find myself sinking into a sea of frustration.
If Hope were here, perhaps she would have the answer. I wasn’t very close to old Davie—not the way she was. But she was taken from us even before he passed away.
I do recall something, however—an afternoon many years ago. We were gathered together as a family, and she asked our father if he remembered the boy who had visited them when she was little. He had come running up onto their porch, calling out his name with great enthusiasm.
"I was frightened," Hope had said, "and he wouldn't stop talking about some flowers. You asked him about his parents, and he got frustrated and left. He was small, with blond hair and a mischievous little cowlick on his head. Do you really not remember, Papa?"
Old Davie shook his head. "No, my child. I don't remember very well. My mind plays tricks on me lately, you see."
… It couldn't be the same boy, could it? There’s no way!
…
August 1730
I haven’t taken my eyes off this "Alfred"—if, indeed, I can even call him that. I have no way of proving that he is the same boy Hope spoke of.
He spent the entire day talking with Sam, murmuring things. I tried asking Sam what he was saying to him, but he claimed he had forgotten. I don’t know if he’s plotting something with that boy…
…
August 1730
I found my father’s old botanical journal. It contains a collection of flowers from both the New World and the Old—complete with descriptions and illustrations.
It was a journal he kept during his childhood; that much, at least, I remember. He doesn’t recall many of the details regarding how he gathered the information on most of the flowers. There were several blank, unfinished pages—a chaotic mess that underscored the childishness of the entire volume.
Within the journal, I came across an illustration beside one of those blank pages: an image of tiny blue flowers gathered in small bouquets, painted in watercolors. In handwriting remarkably neat for a child, it read: "Forget-me-nots."
That is the name of those flowers, yes: Forget-me-nots. A fitting name for such small, defenseless little creatures. Yet, I remembered instantly…
Weren’t those the very same flowers Alfred left atop old Davie’s body…?
… It is a coincidence—or is it…?
…
August 1730
Well, all my plans to advance my research vanished in a single second.
This morning, Alfred took Sam into the woods, and they have not returned.
Chastity hasn’t stopped weeping.
I am clinging to what little sanity I have left through this pen.
I do not know if this is my fault—for allowing it to happen. I do not know if there was any way to prevent it at all. But I refuse to jump to conclusions and declare that all is lost just like that. There must be something. I simply have to keep looking for it.
I just have to put down this notebook and go look…
…
It is night, and I cannot sleep. Samuel has still not appeared. Chastity is furious with me, and I cannot blame her. It was my fault for letting him into our home, for letting him eat our food, for letting him lurk at the edge of our garden, and for letting him do whatever it was he was doing deep within that place where all civilization and divine order vanish.
I would have liked to conduct a more extensive study of this creature, but I fear I do not know its whereabouts. And, even if I did, I would not allow it to come anywhere near me or any member of my family.
What have you done, Davie? What have you gotten yourself into? And with what?
…
Father, You who reign over the heavens—You who are all-powerful and all-seeing—remember my son Samuel, who has always served You; protect him with Your hand, that he may return home safe and sound to his parents, who love and miss him so dearly.
Amen.
…
Son, son, my son. Had I known this would come to pass, I never would have left you unprotected. I would have shielded you with every ounce of my strength.
…
September 1730
… Samuel is here—he returned a few days later.
He collapsed at the edge of the woods, just as he was making his way back home, but he recovered quickly. Chastity and I are profoundly grateful. Our prayers were answered. We were able to rid ourselves of that evil.
We never saw that boy again. That… abomination. Creature. Demon. Whatever it was. All I know is that it was not divine, and therefore, it was malevolent. To think that I actually invited it to partake of my food!
I shall let my mind rest now. I will write no more. I bid farewell to this journal; I shall spend the remainder of my days alongside my family, giving thanks for their lives with every new dawn.
…
1770
In Sacred Memory of Samuel Jones. Father of Jeremiah Jones and Margarite ‘Peggy’ Jones. A family man, scholar, and writer—a pious man who feared God, who now awaits him in His holy glory.
…
Mr. Jones died of very strange causes. Over the years, his body deteriorated to an incalculable degree. In his mid-forties, he began coughing up blue flowers, and by the end of his life, he was found completely enveloped in them. Upon performing the autopsy, we found neither organs, nor blood, nor arteries—only these small blue flowers, growing from his decaying body. A macabre spectacle that screams, "Forget me not.”
Isaac closed the book and inhaled deeply.
“My father started showing those symptoms,” Isaac explained in a whisper, clutching the notebook beneath his hands. “He coughs… petals. He chokes on roots and leaves. We give him until he’s fifty—or maybe seventy—before they’ve taken over his entire body and he stops breathing… Before they start sprouting from his mouth and his eye sockets. ‘Forget-me-not.’”
The others remained silent for a few seconds, taking it all in. Isaac, too, needed to process all the information. The description of his ancestor’s death had made him reflect on his own fate—and on how he might set it right.
Elias was the first to speak.
“So… that means you…”
“Yes,” he replied. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Saying it out loud was difficult. Having his days numbered in such a way was soul-crushing, and making peace with his imminent, cruel death was even harder. But there was nothing else he could do. It was his destiny. It was written in the earth. Perhaps that was what he was meant to discover: that he had a destiny, and there was little he could do to change it.
But he could do something to set everything right.
His gaze met Joseph’s. There was no longer any room for anger or resentment between the two of them. Isaac felt seen—and understood—by him. Now, he understood everything.
Going to sleep with so much information to process was difficult for all of them, but they would be grateful for the rest once they had to hit the trail again in the morning.
“Where do you guys think he is now?”
“Eli, drop it.”
“I mean,” Elias continued, “if he’s immortal, he must still be wandering around out there, right? Do you think he’s still a kid, or has he grown up by now?”
Reaching Salem proved less arduous than they had anticipated, but they needed a way to clear their heads, and riding horseback was a highly effective one. Isaac had always believed that the truth about his family would serve as the perfect tool to humiliate him and alienate him from kids his own age—to ensure he never stood a chance of making friends. Yet those boys, surprisingly, treated him just the same. With even greater familiarity than before, in fact. That early morning encounter had bonded them like never before, and Isaac was gratified to have people who—even knowing his deepest secret—still wanted to be his inseparable friends.
Salem was a noisy place in the mornings. There was a constant bustle to and fro, driven by the trading ships and the marketplace. Fishermen, travelers, and merchants went about their business, setting up their small stalls along the waterfront. Various buildings rose into the sky, and people hurried back and forth, attending to their daily duties.
He kept his gaze fixed ahead, one hand resting on his sorrel horse.
Levi frowned. “How could he have grown up if he’s immortal?”
“Do you know how immortals work?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
Isaac couldn’t help but let out an exasperated chuckle at his two friends’ conversation. Joe had the same reaction.
“I hope he died—somehow,” Isaac remarked, observing the people around him: hardworking men and mischievous youths.
“Whatever happened,” Joe said—just as Isaac’s gaze suddenly landed on a figure standing behind him—“I hope he’s doing okay.” The figure was tall, dressed in a suit, and engaged in conversation with a merchant. “There haven’t been any further reports of strange occurrences like that in Massachusetts since then.” Blond hair, square-rimmed glasses. Isaac felt strange. He watched him with wide eyes, and an unpleasant tingling sensation came over him. “So, I hope he’s doing well—wherever he may be—and that he has learned to live with his immortality.” He had a mischievous cowlick on his head. A cowlick!
The gaze of the boy—of the man, now fully grown—crossed with Isaac’s as he walked away. Isaac’s heart pounded; he almost felt like throwing up. The man wore a smile on his face and gave a little wave, as if he knew him.
“It must have been difficult to deal with all of that, right? He was just a child.”
1770
The image of poor Samuel—now an old man—was etched into his mind like a ghastly brand. A body once so full of life, reduced to a mere husk of its former self to make room for branches, soil, flowers, and insects. Why did none of his attempts ever succeed?
He lifted his gaze from his lap. Across the room, Arthur—England—was shedding his waistcoat and cravat to make himself more comfortable. He let out a heavy sigh and spoke:
"You have to stop with those attempts," he said—"that business of... trying to make them immortal. It’s never going to work; you know that, don't you?"
"I know. I haven't tried again in forty years."
"Ah, but look where your attempts have led," he chided him. "How many lives have been lost? Do you grasp the gravity of the situation? Humans are not—and never will be—like us. Get that through your thick skull."
Alfred clicked his tongue. "I know, I know. It was made abundantly clear to me."
"No, I don't think it was clear to you, because you keep making idiotic mistakes." Arthur took a seat opposite him. "You have to be discreet, America. Do you realize what would happen if they discovered what you are?"
He didn't answer. He pressed his lips together tightly. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the times that very thing had happened. The chieftain's son... the people from that cult...
Arthur noticed his reaction and smiled.
"Ah, but you do know, don't you?"
"By what right do you scold me like this when all of this is your fault?"
England had the audacity to look annoyed.
"Is that how it is now?"
"Of course it is! Do you think I asked to exist?"
"For God's sake, America, don't be such a child..."
"But I was a child! Wasn't I?!" He croaked, hands clenching tightly in his lap. “I was a baby! I didn’t understand anything that was happening to me! And you expected me to act normal?”
“You were quite intelligent when I found you. You even knew you were a territory.”
“Yes, I knew that,” he admitted, “but everything else? The immortality? The supernatural nature? The consequences of contact with humans? How could I have known all that? And you would leave for months at a time! I was alone! I had no one to explain what was happening to me! I listened to my people. I sought God multiple times, but the heavens are empty. No one answers my prayers. And—how? How does God explain an abomination like me?”
England offered no reply. He averted his gaze, as if in shame. Alfred felt a sense of satisfaction—at least he acknowledged the error of his past actions, if only a little.
"So now you come here demanding submission and control? What am I, England? What am I made of? How can I fix this?"
Arthur cleared his throat. "Giving a group of humans your blood to drink won't fix a thing—if you want my opinion."
Alfred looked away, abashed. Not blood, nor hair, nor a shard of his bones—not feeding them his heart, nor attempting any sort of blood exchange—none of it worked. They would end up convulsing, screaming, vomiting strange substances, and the like. No one was prepared to fully assimilate his nature.
But Alfred kept trying. Because, when he wasn't a territory, he was just a lonely boy.
"I just wanted to make friends like me..." he explained. "I was so lonely in that house; you would leave for months at a time, and I never knew what you were doing, and I needed someone who would be there forever..."
It sounded ridiculously childish in that moment, yet he still harbored that feeling. When he wasn't England's colony, he was Alfred F. Jones. He was a boy who yearned for companionship. He envied the mortality of others. Why was he condemned to live a life of eternal misery?
Arthur sighed.
"If I had the answer to how we exist—what we are made of, and why—Alfred, I would have given it to you already," he confessed in a soft, quiet tone. Far gentler than his previous one, at least. "If only I could... God, Al, you have no idea how hard I've tried, too. You can ask Francis how many times I’ve begged him to kill me. To cut off my head, to tear me limb from limb. This semi-eternal life is an agony; I never know if I might vanish just as suddenly as I appeared—or for how long. But the only thing I know is that, while I’m here, I have no choice but to live—and to learn how to control my impulses and abilities. Sounds good? Does that answer work for you?"
Alfred narrowed his eyes as he looked at Arthur. "Did you go through the same thing, too?"
"Of course," he affirmed, "ever since I was very small. Magic, monsters, fairies, goblins, and trolls. The Catholic Church was constantly breathing down my neck. They tried to kill me many times, but they failed; so, instead, they decided to look after me—and control me. That’s why I’m so protective of you. Because here, humans still rule the roost, and I don’t want them to learn to hate you or resent you."
Alfred stared fixedly at a blank spot on the wall, lost in memories of buffalo, elk, lynx, and hares—of the many companions he’d had during those years of solitude. The only ones who had offered him warmth, companionship, and affection. He felt such fear, confusion, and disdain throbbing deep inside him that it terrified him. He was terrified by those emotions—and by the fact that he didn’t know where they came from.
Arthur noticed.
"You can feel it, can’t you?" he asked. "What they feel. What they think. That’s why..."
America looked at him with a frown. England wore a look of confusion on his face—a look of fear and bewilderment. As if the next ten or twenty years had just flashed before his eyes.
"That’s why you hate me now, isn't it?"
