Vox Meditantis

The morning mist clung to Salem Village like a shroud on this second day of June, in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and ninety-two. I stood at my cottage window, watching the grey tendrils rise from the marshland beyond, and felt the familiar knot of dread tighten in my chest. The trials had consumed our community for months now, turning neighbour against neighbour, friend against friend, until trust itself had become as scarce as mercy.

My name is Mercy Bradbury, and I am seven-and-twenty years of age, a spinster by choice rather than circumstance. I had witnessed what marriage could bring—my own mother’s spirit crushed beneath my father’s heavy hand—and I’d resolved long ago that I would rather face the world’s scorn than surrender my freedom. Little did I know that this very independence would soon mark me as suspect in the eyes of my neighbours.

The knock upon my door came as I was breaking my fast. Three sharp raps that seemed to echo through my very bones. I opened it to find young Goody Williams standing upon my threshold, her face pale as winter snow, her hands trembling like autumn leaves.

“Mercy,” she whispered, glancing about as though the very air might be listening. “They’ve taken Bridget.”

My heart lurched. Bridget Bishop—the tavern keeper with her quick wit and quicker tongue—had been arrested on suspicion of witchcraft. We all knew it was coming; the accusers had been circling her like vultures for weeks, whispering of her colourful past, her thrice-married status, her tendency to speak her mind when lesser women might hold their tongues.

“When?” I managed to ask, though my mouth had gone dry as dust.

“This morning, before dawn. They dragged her from her bed whilst her husband watched helpless.” Sarah’s voice broke. “Mercy, they’re saying she’s already been examined. That the afflicted girls showed signs in her presence.”

I closed my eyes, remembering the spectacle I’d witnessed at the meetinghouse just days prior. Young Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam, writhing and screaming, claiming invisible hands were pinching them, invisible teeth biting them. The magistrates had nodded gravely, accepting their testimony as though it were carved in stone rather than spun from air and imagination.

“There’s more,” Sarah continued, stepping closer. “They’re asking questions about you now. About why you live alone, why you’ve never wed, why you’re often seen gathering herbs in the woods at dawn.”

The fear I’d been holding at bay crashed over me like a winter tide. For months, I’d told myself that if I kept my head down, said my prayers loudly enough, attended meeting faithfully, I might escape notice. But I’d forgotten that in Salem Village, being different was crime enough.

“What would you have me do?” I asked, though I already knew her answer.

“Leave. Tonight, whilst you still can. My cousin in Providence would take you in, ask no questions.”

I looked past her to the village beyond, where smoke was already rising from a dozen chimneys. Somewhere among those houses, Bridget Bishop sat in chains, accused of crimes that existed only in the fevered imaginations of young girls drunk on their own power. And here was I, offered escape, while she had none.

“I cannot,” I said quietly.

“Mercy, you must! They’ll come for you next, sure as sunrise follows night.”

But I was already shaking my head. “Running would confirm their suspicions. Besides, Bridget… she’s innocent, Sarah. You know it, I know it, half the village knows it, though they haven’t the courage to say so.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “You cannot be thinking of speaking for her. They’ll name you as her familiar, claim you’re in league with her. You’ll both hang.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps speaking out would only see two innocents dead instead of one. But as I stood there in my doorway, I found myself thinking of my mother, who’d died with her spirit broken, never having spoken a word in her own defence. I thought of all the women throughout history who’d been silenced by fear, by the terrible weight of others’ expectations.

“I’ve spent my whole life afraid,” I said, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice. “Afraid of my father’s anger, afraid of my neighbours’ judgment, afraid of speaking too loudly or standing too tall. I’ve made myself small and quiet, thinking it would keep me safe. But there is no safety in silence, not when evil masquerades as righteousness.”

That afternoon, I made my way to the meetinghouse where the examinations were being held. The crowd parted before me like the Red Sea, whispers following in my wake. I could feel their eyes upon me, could almost hear their thoughts: There goes Mercy Bradbury, the strange one, the unmarried one. What business has she here?

Inside, the air was thick with tension and the smell of unwashed bodies pressed too close together. At the front of the room, Bridget Bishop stood before the magistrates, her head held high despite the chains that bound her wrists. Even now, facing accusations that could see her dead within days, she maintained her dignity.

“Bridget Bishop,” intoned Judge Hathorne, his voice carrying the weight of supposed divine authority, “the afflicted girls claim you have tormented them with your specter. What say you to this charge?”

“I say it is false,” Bridget replied, her voice clear and strong. “I know nothing of witchcraft. I am as innocent as the child unborn.”

“Yet the afflicted show signs even now in your presence.”

I looked to where the girls sat, and my heart sank. Abigail Williams was already beginning to writhe, her eyes rolling back, her voice rising in a keening wail. “She’s pinching me! The Black Man stands beside her, whispering in her ear!”

The crowd murmured, some in sympathy for the girl, others in condemnation of the accused. And in that moment, I saw how easily truth could be twisted, how fear could be weaponised, how the innocent could be condemned by nothing more than theatre and suggestion.

Before I could lose my courage, I stood.

“Your Honours,” I called out, my voice carrying despite its tremor. “I would speak on behalf of Goodwife Bishop.”

The meetinghouse fell silent. Even the afflicted girls ceased their writhing to stare at me in astonishment.

Judge Hathorne’s cold eyes fixed upon me. “And who might you be to interrupt these proceedings?”

“I am Mercy Bradbury, a neighbour to the accused. I have known Bridget Bishop these ten years past, and I can attest to her good character. She has shown nothing but kindness to her neighbours, generosity to those in need, and faithfulness in her attendance at meeting.”

“You would stake your own reputation on that of an accused witch?”

The question hung in the air like a blade. I could feel the weight of every gaze in the room, could sense the shift in the crowd’s mood. By speaking for Bridget, I was painting myself with the same brush of suspicion.

But as I looked at her—this woman who’d dared to live her life on her own terms, who’d refused to bow and scrape before those who would crush her spirit—I found a strength I hadn’t known I possessed.

“I would stake my life upon it,” I said clearly. “For I have seen true evil in this world, Your Honour, and it does not reside in Bridget Bishop. It resides in those who would use fear and superstition to destroy the innocent, who would sacrifice truth upon the altar of their own ambition.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I had crossed a line from which there could be no return. But as I met Bridget’s eyes and saw the gratitude there, I felt something I had never experienced before: the absence of fear.

They came for me three days later, as Sarah had predicted. But I faced them with my head high, knowing I had finally found the courage my mother never possessed. In speaking truth to power, in refusing to let fear silence me, I had overcome the greatest enemy of all: the terror of my own voice.

Whether I would hang or not remained to be seen. But I would die—if die I must—with my integrity intact and my conscience clear. And perhaps, in my small act of defiance, others might find the courage to speak their own truths.

For in the end, I had learned that the greatest fear to overcome was not death itself, but the fear of living without honour.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.

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