by Mark Taylor
WITCHES
Tea Party
Mark Taylor
Witches: Tea Party
Mark Taylor
Copyright © 2017 Mark Taylor
All rights reserved.
Edited by Eden Royce
http://edenroyce.com/
Cover by Mark Taylor
http://www.authormarktaylor.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Previously published by European Geeks Publishing 2015.
I
Salem, Massachusetts
March 1692
Marie-Anne sat at the rear of the court, watching the trial of Sarah Good. It was one of the witch trials. They had been ongoing now for months. Marie-Anne had seen many a friend stand at the front of the court house answering to the charge of being one of the cunning folk. It wouldn’t have been so bad but for two things: the first was that every woman who had sat there had been tried and convicted without argument or defense; the other was more complicated. But to cut a long story short, Marie-Anne knew Sarah wasn’t a witch…she knew, well, because it takes one to know one.
The Worshipful Assistant—Harthorn—stepped forward. “So I ask you again: You have made no contract with the Devil?”
“No, Sir,” Sarah replied.
Harthorn strode in front of the seated woman with his hands folded firmly behind his back. “Then who I ask, has tormented the children…the children who have boldly and bravely stated that you, Sarah Good, has been the tormentor?”
“I know not, Sir.”
Harthorn stopped in front of her. “Do you believe in God?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Are you God fearing?” he asked.
“I am, Sir.”
“Which God is it that you follow?” He asked the question so quietly that the court could barely hear.
“The God that created everything…Sir.”
Harthorn turned and faced the court. His face was twisted with anger. At the very top of his voice, he boomed, “Which God is it that you follow?”
Sarah’s voice became raised, “The one true God…Sir.”
He spun back to face her, away from the court, “Is your one true God, Satan?”
Sarah’s resilience failed. “Damn you, Sir! I have answered your questions.”
Harthorn turned back to the court, quite calm. “You see?” This time he spoke not to the accused, but to the court. “This woman—and I wish not to use the term of the fairer sex on…” he waved his hand dismissively behind him, “…this—wishes to see me damned in Hell.” His voice rose as he spoke. “Surely the wish of a minion of the Devil, would you not say?”
Those at the front of the audience started calling for justice, for the disposal of the witch…for the death of Sarah Good. They stood, they screamed, cheered even. Marie-Anne stood just to try and see over them. Harthorn was waving them back to sit.
“I think,” he began, “that the court has spoken. I would like for the records to show that Sarah Good has responded to the questions of the court with spite and malice. That she has failed to provide sufficient answers to the most simple of questions. That she has not responded to the allegation of tormenting children with anything more than denial. This, I suggest, proves that Sarah Good is nothing more, nor nothing less, than a witch.”
Harthorn’s comments were met with a rapturous reply from the patrons of the court.
***
July 1692
Standing at the edge of the town square, Marie-Anne watched the town folk gather around the gallows. It was the day of the hanging of Sarah Good. She watched the hordes surround the square, she listened to the excited babble of the people…some had even brought their children.
About three years ago Marie-Anne had met and befriended Sarah, they were two likeminded people, interested only in protecting what was theirs. Sarah had more to protect than Marie-Anne. She already had two small children when they met and a hard working husband, a carpenter by trade, and the five of them had become firm friends, with Marie-Anne taking the role of guardian to the children on many occasions.
Over time, they had become like family, and since the arrest and incarceration of Sarah, James—her husband—had become withdrawn, more from Marie-Anne than society in general. Marie-Anne believed that James blamed her—at least in part—for the conviction of his wife. She looked around for the family, expecting them—or at least James—to arrive to see the lawful demise of their matriarch.
“I hate you.”
The voice had come from behind her. As she turned, she faced James Good—alone—having arrived at the gallows, to possibly stand at the back, away from the watchful eyes of the crowds…the hateful eyes of judgment. “James…” She stepped toward him, to give him comfort, hold him, to show him that she cared. He pulled away.
He looked at her through stony eyes. “You have given my Sarah a true death. If not for you she’d be here, with her family, where she belongs.”
“Oh, James…I surely had no part in it.”
“Little Jen and Caleb, they have no mother now, because of you, your wicked ways, not that my Sarah would ever say anything. She believes that life—no matter whose—is precious beyond her own.” He looked over the square to the gallows. “Now she’s about to be brought out to that.” His gaze returned to Mary. “Would you stand there, without a doubt that what you were doing was right? Without a thought for yourself? With honor?” James shook his head. “I would doubt it.” He pushed past her and started through the crowd.
Marie-Anne watched him heave through the crowd, to get to the front of them, and the further he got, the louder the jeers were. They were laughing at him, and taunting him.
Damn them.
As the sun got closer to the center of the sky, the crowds deepened and they seemed to forget about James, as they waited for the attraction to start.
The town bell was rung. It signified the middle of the day…and the time to bring out the accused, those deemed unworthy to live among the living; those losing the right…to live.
As Sarah Good was brought out of the court house the crowd screamed for death. They asked only for the town’s law to be tightened around the neck of the accused. They bayed for blood.
From Marie-Anne’s vantage—well out of the pushing crowd—she could see Sarah clearly. She was thin and gaunt, sickly after so much time had passed. The crowd started to part, to allow the entertainment to be led to the steps, and Sarah was dragged—and by the look of it, her legs wouldn’t have held her weight even if she could walk—through the dirt and dust towards the steps to the gallows.
The crowds fell silent.
Sarah Good was pulled without objection to the top of the steps. She was clearly without the fortitude to argue, struggle, or even spit in the faces of those that forced her.
“Sarah!” James called out, breaking the silence.
The sound of his voice immediately snapped her from her waking sleep. She looked out, into the crowd, “James? Where are you?”
“I’m here.” He waved, causing the crowd to hiss their disapproval at him.
“I love you,” she
called.
“I love you, too.”
The hangman stepped forward, took Sarah by the arm and dragged her back to the center of the platform. “Sarah Good has been charged and convicted with the crime of witchcraft and the bare that goes with it. Today, on this July day, Sarah Good will be punished for her deeds against the sanctimony of man. These charges have been brought by justice, fair and true.” He dragged Sarah behind to the noose and slung it roughly around her neck. Once there, he pulled it tight.
As he stood by the release crank of the platform, he looked to the crowd. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
He pulled the lever.
Sarah dropped.
The crowd hushed.
From the distance away that Marie-Anne was standing, she still heard the bones of her friend’s neck snap.
That night Marie-Anne packed her things. She left Salem, never to return. She vowed to never speak of her practices again to anyone—no matter how close—she would keep her life to herself.
II
Wichita, Kansas
Present Day
Mary Anson stood in the kitchen of her Wichita loft apartment, stirring a large pot on the hob. “Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” she giggled to herself. She had always liked Will’s writings. When she’d met him she was still going under the name Marie-Anne of course, but that was times past. In the last few hundred years she had changed her name many times to avoid suspicion; she’d moved from state to state, country to country even. My, how quickly the world had changed.
She dropped a garlic clove into the mix and smelled the brewing liquid. On a cold evening, there was nothing like a good stew—she’d gotten the recipe from Henri Charpentier around eighty years ago, and to this day hadn’t found another to rival it. It was sure to impress Ethan.
She’d met him at one of the local bars and they’d hit it off almost immediately. It wasn’t a surprise. After many, many years honing her skills, Mary had perfected the art of seduction to the point of getting a man to come to her apartment with ease. It had helped of course that she had the ability to change a variety of parts of her body to match those that were in fashion at the time—make these a bit bigger, that a bit smaller—and she still wore the face of a woman in her early twenties. Once she had him here the rest would be easy. It only took a moment to cast an incantation, and he would be hers for the night. She knew she was messing with free-will and the like…but after all, all women have needs, don’t they?
She looked at the clock. It was twenty to five. Ethan would arrive at six (and she was sure that her flirtations had guaranteed his promptness), which didn’t leave her long to prepare herself in the correct dress, prepare her hair, and prepare the apartment. For most, this would be a daunting task, but for Mary, well, she would have time for a relaxing drink before he arrived.
In the bedroom, Mary looked at herself in the mirror. Okay, not bad…hair first. She closed her eyes and thought, thought of the way she wanted to look—in this case, a bit vampy—and then started speaking under her breath.
“Planto meus saeta amo a mulier of votum…planto meus saeta amo a mulier of votum…” She continued for only a moment and then opened her eyes. Not bad at all. Her hair looked like a cross between Cleopatra’s and Madonna’s. A siren…in a classy sort of way.
Next she looked at her body…a dress, something revealing—but not too obvious—but nothing too frumpy.
“Vestio a decorus mulier…” Again, as she opened her eyes, she was pleased with the result. The dress was white, a sultry low cut, backless…and perfect. She glanced at her watch—still over an hour to sort out the apartment.
She left the bedroom and returned to the kitchen and living space. She doubted they would leave here and reach the bedroom…he was going to do her bidding, at her pleasure.
“Aufero es purgamentum…” With her eyes closed the apartment restored itself to the natural surroundings of a twenty-something year old lady with an agenda of romance. Mary looked at her watch. Still an hour needed to pass before he would arrive.
Dinner going, hair done, dress on…what more does a girl need?
Mary strolled into the kitchen, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, “Planto es voluptarius.” She took the champagne to the couch and slid the cork out. It behaved well, not spilling a drop, and she poured some into a long necked glass. Sitting back, she sipped from the glass, enjoying the bubbles as they slipped into her mouth, and waited for Ethan.
She was feeling quite nice by the time the doorbell rang.
“Hello, Ethan.” She smiled at him.
“Hey.”
She gestured him in and watched him walk past. He was dressed in a similar fashion to the way he had been when they’d met. This is why she needed a sprinkle of magic. Men like him were good looking, fit, usually well groomed, but the problem was, was that they knew it. Mary wanted to be pleased and pleasured…and men like this wanted only the same. It didn’t work—not from her point of view anyway.
She closed the door, asked him to sit, poured him champagne, and then joined him on the couch. “Good day?”
Ethan sipped from the glass. “Look, Babe, dinner smells great and all, but let’s just get to the point,” he shuffled towards her, “I’m a man…you’re a woman…”
Pig. You see? This is why I have to do these things. If you think I’m going to sit here in half an hour, after you’ve left, having a messed up couch, eating the best damned stew in the world…Mary took a breath and calmed herself. It would do no good getting knotted up now.
“Ethan, be patient.” Mary stood and glided over to the kitchen. “Operor meus bidding,” she whispered under her breath.
Ethan stood. “Is there anything that I can do to help?” he asked.
Mary’s work for the night was suddenly gone. “No. Thank you, Ethan, I’ll just serve dinner and return.”
When she was done with him, he would remember little apart from how good an evening it was, how beautiful she was, how good the food was and, as a little bonus for him, how spectacular he was. It would serve as a reminder for him in the future that women needed as much pleasing as men, and that was the reward in itself…
…and under the influence of Mary…how good he was.
***
Mary sat on her couch staring at the rune stones hung decoratively on the wall. Sadly, without them, she was lost. Yes, of course, she still had her incantations, her words…her power…but it wasn’t strong enough. Within the confines of her apartment, she felt as if she could conjure any miracle required. But it wasn’t enough. She needed to be able to do it elsewhere as well. She’d been trying for many years, learning new words, increasing her repertoire, but now was the time to move forward to the next level. She needed help to bring people back—as it couldn’t be done here—so she needed more like her…a coven to work with.
She had tried to use the internet to contact those like her, but didn’t have the necessary contacts to start with, or the know-how to begin to find them. There was an obvious answer—one she didn’t like—the one person who could answer the question for her and, just maybe, do most of the work for her.
Mary knew how to contact him—or her (it depended)—but had never liked to do so. In fact, over time, she had only ever spoken to him (a he on two occasions) three times.
She continued to stare at the runes as if they may suddenly present an answer, which they didn’t.
He’ll want payment, and unless the rules have changed, that means harvesting a soul. I hate doing that. Still, at least my lessons have been learned.
She had almost persuaded herself that this was the best—the only—course of action. The thought of speaking to the Devil again still filled her with trepidation, but if another idea was there, it was hiding from her mind…and hiding well. This only left her with one question: Whose soul should be harvested?
Mary slumped back into the couch. It couldn’t be hers—she was immune to the temptations of the Devil, and as such, the deal—
and she didn’t really know anyone else. Like last time, she needed to find someone whose life would be bettered for the period of the deal—24 years—and who wouldn’t have the benefit of those years without the deal; someone who would likely die without it. She needed a name, and a picture. Her thoughts had overcome her reasoning…and she had decided.
There was no time like the present.
Mary gathered up her coat, closed the door behind her as she left, and headed out onto the streets of downtown Wichita.
***
Mary wasn’t surprised at how busy the streets were, even as it approached midnight, but this was certainly the time to hunt for an urchin, a miserable human devoid of potential, someone who would leap at the chance of half a lifetime of happiness.
The same as all neighborhoods she had encountered over her years, this one had its seedier side. Street walkers stood on the side of the roads touting their wares, their skirts too short and their skin unkempt. Mary wanted someone different however; someone she felt deserved the blessing the deal would give, even if it were for only the shortest of times. She looked down the alleyways, looked for a child maybe.
She passed the homeless shelter, those inside wouldn’t be of any use, and besides, if someone young enough for her idea were to come in they would simply move them along to Child Services. However, down the alleys in the same block, she would likely find those that had been refused entry, or were too scared to go in, in the first place.
Turning into the second alley from the shelter, Mary picked her way carefully between the rubbish and the soils, heading towards a burning brazier half way down. Encompassing it were two men, their hands held up to the burning embers, keeping the cold night air away. She ignored them and scoured the surrounding trash cans and dumpsters.
“Can we be of any assistance, young lady?” The voice came from behind the ragged beard of one of the old men.
