Historical Fiction

THE DAUGHTERS OF SALEM

Written by Camille Mussman

SUMMARY

In the winter of 1692, as hysteria grips Salem Village and accusations of witchcraft spread through Massachusetts, Annabelle Sullivan walks a dangerous line between silence and defiance. A thoughtful young woman with a fierce sense of justice, Annabelle watches in growing horror as her neighbors, women she has known her entire life, are dragged from their homes and imprisoned on the flimsiest of charges.

Living on a modest farm with her iron-willed sister Elizabeth and their devoted mother Jane, Annabelle has always understood that women in the colonies must tread carefully. But as the trials intensify and the accusations draw ever closer to those she loves, Annabelle must decide how much she is willing to risk to protect the innocent. With Elizabeth's fearless spirit pushing them toward danger and Jane's quiet strength holding them together, the Sullivan women find themselves at the heart of a community tearing itself apart.

The Daughters of Salem is a story of courage in the face of persecution, of the unbreakable bonds between mothers and daughters, and of women who refused to be silenced even when speaking out could cost them everything.

CHAPTER I: The Weight of Whispers

The chickens were restless that morning, and Annabelle Sullivan took it as an omen.

She stood in the doorway of the small barn watching as the hens clucked and scratched with unusual agitation. Behind her, she could hear Elizabeth sweet-talking the goats, her voice light and unbothered by the cold that had settled into Annabelle's bones.

"They know something we don't," Annabelle murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

"They're chickens, Anna." Elizabeth emerged from the goat pen, her long black curls escaping from beneath her cap in wild tendrils. Only two years apart, the sisters looked remarkably alike, both with long black curly hair and sapphire eyes. But where Annabelle moved through the world with careful consideration, Elizabeth barreled through it with the confidence of someone who had never been taught to fear. "They're rattled because Jezebel tried to herd them again."

Summoned by name, Jezebel, a large, shaggy dog with more enthusiasm than sense, bounded through the barn door, nearly knocking Annabelle off her feet. Close behind came Ruth and Abel, the two older dogs who seemed to exist primarily to manage Jezebel's chaos.

"Down, Bella," Annabelle said firmly, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as she scratched behind the dog's ears. The dogs were a comfort, especially with their father away on business in Boston these past six months. When Jezebel looked at her with those bright blue eyes, so unusual for a dog, Annabelle felt a little less alone in the world.

"Girls!" Their mother's voice carried across the yard from the house, and both Annabelle and Elizabeth turned. Jane stood on the small porch, wiping her hands on her apron, her face difficult to read in the early morning light. "Come inside. There's news."

Elizabeth and Annabelle exchanged glances. Their mother was not given to dramatics; when Jane Sullivan called them in, it was worth listening to. They crossed the yard quickly, the dogs trailing behind them, and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. The fire was already blazing, and the smell of porridge filled the small room.

Their mother had been up for hours. She always was. Jane worked herself to the bone to keep their small farm running while her husband was away, ensuring her daughters had food and shelter. They knew they were protected by a mother who would move heaven and earth, or burn it down, to keep them safe.

Her mother was not known to display soft emotion, but her love was demonstrated in every scar on her hands, every boundary she defended, every threat she faced down. Annabelle had inherited her mother's determination and sense of justice, though she sometimes wondered if she had inherited enough of either.

"Sit," Jane said, gesturing to the rough-hewn table that dominated the room. Her face was drawn, and Annabelle noticed for the first time the dark circles beneath her mother's eyes.

"What's happened?" Annabelle asked, sliding onto the bench. Elizabeth sat beside her, their shoulders touching as they had when they were small children, sharing secrets. Jane sank across from them, her work-roughened hands folded on the table. For a moment, she said nothing, and in that silence, Annabelle felt her earlier unease sharpen.

"Mary Walcott came by before dawn," Jane finally said. "She was on her way to the Proctors' house, but she stopped here first. She wanted to warn us."

"Warn us about what?" Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest rather than fear. This was so like her sister, Annabelle thought. Always ready to meet trouble head-on.

"The afflicted girls." Jane's voice was careful, measured. "Their fits have worsened. They've begun naming names."

Annabelle's blood ran cold. The girls. Everyone in Salem Village had heard about them by now. It had started in January with Reverend Parris's daughter Betty and his niece Abigail, strange fits and unexplained illnesses that the doctors couldn't remedy. Then other girls had begun exhibiting the same symptoms: Mary Walcott, Mercy Lewis, Ann Putnam. They cried out that they were being tormented by specters, by witches who visited them in the night and pinched and prodded them with invisible hands.

At first, Annabelle had felt only pity for the girls. Illness was common enough, and the harsh winter had been difficult on everyone. But as the weeks passed and the accusations began, that pity had turned to ash on her tongue. Three women had already been arrested just days ago: Sarah Good, a beggar woman who wandered the village with her young daughter; Sarah Osborne, an elderly woman who rarely attended meetings; and Tituba, Reverend Parris's Indian slave. All of them were women on the margins, women without protection or power.

Women, Annabelle had noticed, whom it was easy to accuse and difficult to defend.

"Who have they named?" Annabelle asked, though part of her didn't want to know.

"Rebecca Nurse."

The name hit Annabelle like a physical blow. Rebecca Nurse was seventy-one years old, a respected member of the church, a woman who had brought half the children in Salem Village into the world and tended the sick without thought of payment. If she could be accused, then no one was safe.

"That's insane," Elizabeth said flatly. "Rebecca Nurse is a saint. Everyone knows it."

"Everyone knows Sarah Good wasn't a witch either," Jane replied quietly. "And yet she sits in chains in Boston, awaiting trial."

Annabelle stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Outside, the world looked peaceful, unchanged. The yard lay quiet and still. The chickens had settled. The sun continued its climb into a clear winter sky. But the ground beneath their feet had shifted, some invisible boundary had been crossed, and Annabelle could feel it in her very bones.

"Mary said the girls are claiming that Rebecca's specter visited them in the night," Jane continued. "That she tormented them, tried to force them to sign the Devil's book."

"It's madness," Annabelle said, her voice harder than she intended. "The whole village has gone mad."

"Anna." Her mother's voice was sharp, commanding. "You must be careful what you say and where you say it. These are dangerous times for women who speak too freely."

Annabelle whirled back from the window to face her mother. Jane's jaw was set, her eyes blazing with a protective fury the sisters knew well. Their mother was not a woman who cowered or bent, but she was a woman who knew which battles to fight and how to win them.

"So we say nothing?" Annabelle asked. "We watch them drag Rebecca Nurse from her home, and we say nothing?"

"We say nothing that will bring the accusers to our door," Jane said, her voice like steel. "I will not lose my daughters to this hysteria, Annabelle."

Elizabeth reached out and took Annabelle's hand, pulling her back to the table. "Mother's right," she said, though her narrowed eyes suggested she liked it no more than Annabelle did. "We have to be smart about this."

Annabelle sat, but everything in her rebelled against the idea of silence. She thought of Rebecca Nurse, who had brought them preserves and checked on them regularly, who had made sure Jane wasn't carrying the burden of the farm alone. She thought of Sarah Good's little daughter, Dorothy, who was barely four years old and had watched her mother be taken away. She thought of all the women in Salem Village, going about their daily work with fear now as their constant companion, never knowing when a child's accusation might shatter their lives beyond repair.

They sat in quiet for a moment, the three of them, the fire crackling and the dogs settling at their feet. Annabelle felt Elizabeth's hand squeeze hers, felt her mother's gaze upon her, steady and anchoring.

But as Annabelle looked at her mother and sister, she made a silent vow. She would not be silent. Not entirely. There had to be a way to help without bringing destruction upon her own family. There had to be a way to stand up for what was right in a world that had forgotten the meaning of justice.

She just had to find it.

"I need to go to the village today," Annabelle said after a moment. "We need flour, and I promised Martha Corey I would help her with the mending."

Jane studied her daughter's face, and Annabelle met her gaze steadily. Finally, her mother nodded. "Take Elizabeth with you. And Anna..."

"I'll be careful, Mother. I promise."

Jane reached across the table and gripped both her daughters' hands in hers, her calloused fingers strong and unyielding. In that grip, Annabelle felt everything her mother couldn't say: the raw animal fear of a woman who had already lost too much, who had clawed and fought to keep her daughters fed and safe, who would not survive if the accusations turned toward this house.

Annabelle's throat tightened. She had never seen her mother afraid before, not truly, and the knowledge of it settled in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold and impossible to ignore.

Later, as Annabelle and Elizabeth prepared to walk to the village, bundling themselves in their heaviest cloaks and wrapping scarves around their faces against the cold, Annabelle looked back at their small house. Through the window, she could see her mother moving about the kitchen, already back to her tasks.

They would be careful, Annabelle thought. But she could not shake the feeling that everything familiar was becoming strange in ways they couldn't yet see or understand.

Elizabeth nudged her with an elbow as they stepped into the rutted road. "You're plotting something. I can always tell."

Annabelle said nothing, but she felt the weight of her sister's knowing gaze. Ahead of them, Salem Village waited, its chimneys breathing foreboding smoke into the grey winter sky. Standing idle while innocent women were destroyed was not something she could live with. Elizabeth seemed to sense this and asked no more questions, falling into step beside her, two shadows moving as one across the frozen ground.

The chickens had been right to be restless.

-END OF CHAPTER I-