My father liked to tell the future. He said it was only allowed on dark, stormy nights while neighbors were asleep or kept away by the strong breezes from the sea and were unable to hear over the pounding rain on all of our roofs.

He would take out his battered set of fortune cards and read our future by the light of the flames that lit our kitchen and slightly warmed the main living area of the home that he had built for us on the periphery of the square in Salem Town, Massachusetts.

“This is what kept me alive,” he would say with a slight grin, the shadows of the fire dancing across his amused face, “when I was merely a boy, back in Boston.”

“Oh, Samuel,” my mother would say from the kitchen table, where she sat doing needlepoint or knitting, trying to appear disinterested while in reality she was just as amazed every time this happened as the seven of the children. “Stop being so melodramatic.”

He would only smile and further lay out his cards in the correct formation on the wooden floor boards. Oftentimes, he would read each of our fortunes and as the fire dwindled down, my mother would carry the younger children to bed one by one and the oldest of us--my sister, Mercy and I--would stay awake with her at the kitchen table as my father put away his cards.

One night in particular, however, as Mother was away with the kids, he said,

“Mercy, come.” My oldest sister stood from the table and knelt by his side in the firelight, “Practice what you have learned. On me.”

“Are you certain?” she asked.

He nodded and she sighed. Mercy adjusted her skirt, sat properly, and pulled the stack of cards in her direction. She sat up straight and closed her eyes.

“Clear your mind.” Father whispered. Mercy nodded.

Slowly and carefully, she shuffled the deck of cards and laid them meticulously between she and Father—five in a straight line, just as he always had with us and, apparently, just as he had taught her.

Mercy opened her eyes and began to reveal the faces of the cards one by one, reading the names aloud as she went.

“Judgment, The Emperor, The Hierophant, The Wheel of Fortune,” her whisper became shakier with each name and our father’s look of anxiety increased. Until she reached the final card. She turned it over and, with a shriek, stood and fell against the table as she backed up.

“It can’t be!” Mercy exclaimed. She was ashen.

“The cards never lie.” Father said.

“What has happened?” Mother called, rushing from the children’s bedroom. She stopped when she saw the terrified look on Mercy’s face and the fortune cards strewn about in front of the flames. “Samuel, how could you?”

“I--,”

“You knew that Mercy wasn’t ready. She wasn’t prepared to handle the future on her own. You knew that.” Mother hissed quietly. “How dare you do this to your daughter?”

She rushed to the cards to collect them. Her angry tone vanished, replaced with a look of fear, as soon as the photos on the cards registered.

“No.” She whispered, then raised her voice. “Whose future have you seen, Mercy?”

“Father’s.” My sister said.

“Samuel, no.” Our mother’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But this…this last card is--,”

“I know, dear,” Father stooped to compile the cards back into a single stack, “Death.”


The following morning, a loud banging sounded on the front door. It was too early for visitations, too early even for the workforce to have left for the day. My mother answered the door warily and I watched cautiously from the shadows.

She answered the door to two men standing on the front step.

“Yes?” she asked gently.

“Is Samuel Wardwell available, madam?” One of the men asked roughly.

“Yes, sir.” She opened the door wider, “Please do come in.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” the other remarked, “Please, just retrieve your husband.”

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded; my mother turned around, “Elizabeth, please go get your father, yes?”

I followed her instructions and Father obliged, most likely assuming he had some work set up for the future, or it was a visitation from the church—anything besides what it truly was.

“Good morning, fellows.” My Father said cheerily when he approached the men.

“Samuel Wardwell. You are among one of the accused. You are known to practice Dark Magic and have thus inflicted the preacher’s girl. Whatever you have done will come to an end.” The first man said, “Come.”

“No!” Mother shrieked, clinging to Father. “Samuel, you mustn’t go.”

“I won’t go, darling,” he said gently, then louder, for the men to hear as well, “because I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I haven’t practiced any Magic, dark or otherwise. You must have me confused with someone else, sirs.”

“Samuel Wardwell, a carpenter of Salem Town. I don’t believe I’m mistaken. Please come with me now. It will make things easier for you later.”

My father sighed.

“Yes,”

My mother cried.

“Dearest, I will be back. I have done nothing wrong. Of this, you are aware.” He kissed her forehead gently, “Until then, my love.”


My Father’s trial was held a few days later, in the court house on the square.

“Here, you see Samuel Wardwell, an alleged witch,” the judge stated. Mercy sat beside me on the bench.

“It was him!” a young girl across the room shrieked, “Yes! I would recognize those eyes anywhere!” She proceeded to flail on the bench; the other girls surrounding her followed, all murmuring that he was the one. All claiming that my Father had, in one way or another, bewitched them.

“Yes.” Father said calmly, “It was I. I bewitched you.”

“Aha! A confession!” the judge said. “Samuel Wardwell, you are to be hanged on the public square, on this fine afternoon, September the twenty-second.”

My mother was overcome by tears and Mercy tensed, yet stared straight ahead, emotionless. The other children were too young to be even vaguely aware of the events taking place around them.

Father was handled roughly and walked to the gallows outside of the court house.

“Samuel!” Mother yelled, “You can’t!”

“It’s too late, my dear.” He said softly, yet loudly enough for her at least to hear.

No one said another word as he was led to the post, a noose hanging lightly in the breeze, ready to take the life that wasn’t ready to end.

He was offered a last word, but he declined, compelled instead to stand calmly as the rope was tightened around his neck. He stepped down when instructed.

Beside me, Mercy held back a strangled scream. Mother fell to the ground, tears running down her cheeks.

“Mother,” Mercy whispered, kneeling by her side, “the cards never lie.”