An internship with a local news agency is excellent preparation for this rewarding career.
“I have the internship part pretty much nailed down,” I told O’Ryan, whose eyes were closed and who didn’t appear to be listening. “Maybe the rewarding career will come along eventually.”
He moved his ears forward slightly and gave a quick flick of his tail—which might mean “Good for you,” or “Don’t bother me. I’m sleeping.” Maybe even “Who loves ya, baby?”
I skimmed the pages for a few more minutes, touching on the importance of a global outlook, dogged persistence, and appropriate course work including writing, history, media, and communications. Since I was already more or less gainfully employed teaching some of those subjects, I told myself that I was good to go. “Faith,” Aunt Ibby had said. Faith! I added faith to my mental list of needed attributes and closed the textbook.
I flipped open my laptop and typed in “Crows in Salem,” figuring that I’d get plenty of responses and lots of pictures and videos. I was right. The messages ranged from funny to frightening, from silly to scholarly. But all of the pictures, all of the videos, were definitely creepy, and Alfred Hitchcock and The Birds were each mentioned frequently. The scariest video of all, one that had already gone viral, showed a huge cloud of birds flying in a black circle blotting out the sunlight—around and around over a small area of the city known as Proctor’s Ledge. According to a team of researchers and historians, Proctor’s Ledge has been identified as the probable site of the dreadful executions of 1692.
Do the crows know? How?
I quickly muted the sound. The cawing scream from the crows—that circling murder of crows—had reached an earsplitting crescendo. O’Ryan, whose ears are surely more sensitive than mine, had made a fast escape through the cat door into the third-floor hall. What must the people who lived near Proctor’s Ledge be experiencing? I thought of the crows I’d seen in the trees behind our house, and of the silent row of them who’d perched along the back fence, and breathed a quick prayer that they wouldn’t join in that hideous, screeching song.
I leaned toward the open window, listening. There was some noise, some distant cackling caws, but nothing like the sounds that had issued from the laptop moments before. I closed the cover slowly, gently, hoping that somehow it would keep the damned birds quiet.
CHAPTER 11
Once again I opened the textbook but had difficulty concentrating on the words. I’d read over the same sentence about using a compelling lead three times when my phone rang. I welcomed the interruption. Caller ID read, “River North.”
“Hi, River,” I said. “What’s up?”
At first I thought perhaps it was a wrong number, she sounded so unlike her usual perky self. “Oh my God. Have you seen them?” The voice was a shaky whisper. “There are thousands of them. Everywhere.”
“You mean the crows? Yes,” I said. “There are pictures all over the Internet. Very strange, isn’t it?”
“Thousands,” she whispered.
“River, are you okay? You don’t sound okay. What’s wrong?”
The whisper changed to a strangled-sounding laugh. “Oh, Lee. What’s wrong? I’m what’s wrong. Me. It’s my fault. First the dead witches, now this.”
“You’re not making sense. Slow down and tell me what’s going on.” I took a deep breath and tried to slow down myself. “Does it have something to do with the crows?”
“Something. Everything.” She began to sound more like herself. That was good.
“Let’s talk about it,” I said. “Would you like me to come and pick you up?” It occurred to me that she might not be up to driving. “We can go for a ride and you can tell me what’s made you so upset. Okay?”
“Can we go where there aren’t any crows, please?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering what Aunt Ibby had told me about the neighboring communities being relatively crow free. “I’ll be right over. We’ll go to Gloucester. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “Thanks, Lee. You’re a good friend.”
“So are you,” I told her, meaning it with all my heart. “I hope I can help with . . . whatever this is.”
“So do I. Listen, I’ll wait for you out front.”
River lives with several friends, all coven members, in an old house on Brown Street. I didn’t bother changing clothes, just hurried down the back stairs and out to the garage. There was such urgency in her voice I knew it was important to get there quickly. There were still plenty of crows in the trees and on the fence although the crowd seemed to have thinned out quite a bit, and the cawing had quieted significantly. I backed the Vette out onto Oliver Street with the windows closed. I didn’t want to hear those birds at all.
During the short ride to Brown Street I couldn’t help looking at rows of birds on telephone wires. Were they all crows? It didn’t seem so. Some of the birds were larger than others. Had the crows mobilized some of the other feathered creatures? I suppressed a shudder as once again the memory of a terrified Tippi Hedren flashed in my mind.
I parked in front of River’s house—easy to identify because of the bright orange front door. (River says the color attracts beneficial feng shui.) She was, as promised, waiting outside on the small porch—what old New Englanders call a “stoop.” As soon as she saw me she ran, long black braid flying; pulled the passenger door open; and slid into the seat. “Thanks so much for coming, Lee.” She sounded breathless and nervously peered out the window as we pulled away from the curb. “Let’s get out of here. They’re everywhere, aren’t they?”
“Aunt Ibby says she hasn’t heard reports of any unusual activity in Gloucester,” I told her, avoiding mentioning that bird-watchers in all of the neighboring communities reported the same thing. “We’ll head over there and maybe you can relax a little and tell me why this is bothering you so much. I mean, sure it’s creepy, but I can tell that you’re genuinely frightened.”
“I am. So frightened.” She slid down into the seat, making her tiny frame seem even smaller.
I frowned. I wasn’t used to thinking of River as “frail.” But that’s how she looked just then. Frail. Fragile. Breakable.
“Have you eaten lately?” I was surprised to hear Aunt Ibby’s inflection in my own voice. “What you need is a good meal.”
She blinked, then gave a wan smile. “You sound just like your aunt. And you’re right. I guess I forgot to eat today.” The wide eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been too scared. I don’t know how I’m going to get through tonight’s Tarot Time show.”
“Okay.” I headed for Route 128. “You can tell me all about it. I know where there’s a great vegetarian restaurant in Gloucester. When we get there we’ll talk. You’ll eat. Everything’s going to be all right. The show will be fine. You’ll see.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt, but my friend seemed to brighten just a little bit. I tried for a change of subject. “And it looks like we’ll be working for the same boss pretty soon. I have a proposal all ready for Mr. Doan and I’m pretty sure he’s going to like it.”
“That’s great! What’s it about?”
Oops! This isn’t a good time to speak of crows. River is already scared to death.
“Um . . . I’m going to wait until he sees the idea before I talk about it. Haven’t even told Pete.”
“I understand. Could be bad luck to say anything until you’re sure.” She smiled again, this time a real one. “But he’ll love it. I’m sure. You’re so smart.” A little giggle. “Besides he’s getting you free!”
“True. That always makes points with Mr. Doan.”
We sped along 128, noticing how the temperature dropped a few degrees when we reached Beverly, like it always does. I’ve never figured out why.
Maybe Wanda the Weather Girl knows.
I made a mental note to ask her when I got back to WICH-TV. “It’s going to be kind of fun, being back at the station,” I said. “I like teaching but I’ve really missed the friends
I made there.”
“They miss you too,” River said. “Marty and Rhonda talk about you all the time.”
I nodded, thinking about Marty, the camerawoman on my canceled Nightshades show and Rhonda, the way-smarter-than-she-looks station receptionist. “We had some fun,” I said, “and a few . . . uh, adventures.”
“So I’ve heard.” She seemed to relax a bit. “And I am hungry. I’m glad I called you.” She turned in her seat, facing the open window beside her. “Look. Lots of trees and no crows.”
She was right. I saw a few birds darting in and out of the wayside foliage, but none of the large black variety we’d seen in such numbers in Salem. Aunt Ibby had been right about that, and I was glad she’d been, but all the same, it was creepy. Why were the crows converging on one city and staying away from the surrounding areas?
I shook the bad thought away, hoping River wouldn’t pick up on my doubts, my negativity. She’s intuitive that way—maybe because she’s a witch, or maybe because she reads the tarot.
Time for another subject change.
We rounded the rotary in Gloucester, heading for Holly Street and the good old Willow Rest Restaurant. I could almost taste the blueberry pancakes. We passed Cherry Street and I pointed to the DOGTOWN COMMON sign on the corner.
“Ever been to Dogtown?” I asked, not waiting for an answer. “When I was a kid I used to go horseback riding in there. It’s full of trails and old dirt roads. Fun, but really easy to get confused and lost.”
“I’ve never been,” River said, looking back at the red sign. “Megan told me about it, though. She said witches used to live there a long time ago.”
“Widows,” I said. “Widows of seamen and soldiers who didn’t come back from the War of 1812. They kept dogs for protection—and for company, I suppose. I guess old women living alone in ramshackle houses off in the woods with a bunch of mean dogs might get called witches.” I shrugged. “At least they didn’t kill them, like they did in Salem.”
“Tammy Younger.” River spoke in a positive tone. “Megan said Tammy Younger lived in Dogtown. She was queen of the witches there. Used to put a curse on any team of oxen carrying fish from the harbor unless the driver paid her a toll to cross a little bridge near her house.”
“Poor old lady,” I said.
“No. She was really a witch.” River smiled. “Megan said so.”
I wasn’t about to argue the qualifications of a long-dead witch with a current one, so didn’t comment further on the status of Tammy Younger.
I pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of the restaurant. It’s not a big place, and there were already quite a few cars and several trucks there ahead of us. We hurried inside and were lucky to find a table for two near the fresh-food market section. I’d already decided on the blueberry pancakes—it was well past breakfast time but who cares? River perused the menu, exclaiming in delight over the many vegetarian choices, and decided on a field greens salad with dried cranberries, apples, candied walnuts, and onions.
“First time in Gloucester?” asked the waitress as she delivered our food. Her name tag read, “Dolores.”
“No,” I said, “just a little day trip from Salem. My friend is a vegetarian and I remembered that this place is famous for it.”
“Salem, huh?” She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “What’s up with all the crows over there? My son goes to the college and he texted me about it. Sent pictures too. Want to see?” She reached into her apron pocket.
I held up my hand. “No, that’s okay. We’ve seen them in person.”
Thanks a lot, Dolores. We came here to get away from the damned birds!
I watched River’s face. The fear was back in her eyes. Things got worse. Our waitress was in a mood to chat. “It’s got people around here talking about the Dogtown witches. ’Specially Peg Wesson.”
I frowned, shook my head, rolled my eyes—everything I could think of to get her to stop talking about witches. To go away. It didn’t work. She was just warming up to her subject.
“Yep. Old Peg. Guess you’ve heard about her and the silver button, huh?”
“Thanks anyway,” I said. “I know you’re busy. We’ll just eat this lovely food and be on our way.”
River had put down her fork, eyes wide. “What about her? I’d like to hear the story if you have time.”
Unfortunately, Dolores had time. She glanced around the room. No one even made eye contact with her and no new customers waited at the cash register. I thought for a moment she might pull up a chair and sit down with us.
“Well,” she said, her tone conspiratorial, “the story is that Peg Wesson used to fly around on a broomstick. One time she flew over a soldier’s camp in the form of a big bird. A soldier took a silver button off his sleeve, loaded his musket with it, and shot the bird.” Dolores leaned toward us, whispering, “At that very moment, back in Gloucester, Peg Wesson fell to the ground with a broken leg. When a doctor examined her, out popped a silver button.” She raised her right hand. “True story.”
I faked a laugh.
River’s face had gone pale. “What kind of bird was it?”
“Ohmigosh, didn’t I tell you? It was a crow. A big old black crow.”
CHAPTER 12
I almost put my head right down on my blueberry pancakes and cried. The one topic I’d brought my friend here to escape had caught up with us already. Actually, River took it better than I expected. Still pale, and with the hand holding her fork shaking, she looked down at her salad and kept right on eating. When neither of us responded to her story, Dolores mumbled, “Well, have a nice day,” and—mercifully—left us.
“I’m sorry, River,” I said. “I knew this place was close to Dogtown, and now I remember hearing the silver button story when I was a kid, but it didn’t occur to me that . . .”
She looked up. “It’s okay. Really. I can’t run away from what’s happening. I guess nobody in Salem can. The crows, I mean—and the dead witches.”
“You think there’s some kind of connection? Between the crows and the three deaths?”
“Oh yes. Of course there is. And somebody’s got to pay the toll.”
“The toll?” I put both hands to my temples. “Wait a minute. What toll? What are you talking about?”
“Tammy Younger.” She looked at me as though I wasn’t quite bright. “It’s just like the fisherman. If he didn’t pay Tammy what she wanted before he drove across her bridge, she’d curse his whole team of oxen. So he was just stuck there with his fish until he paid. Now somebody’s got to pay the toll so the crows can leave and the witches can stop dying.” She scooped the last few sugared walnuts from her bowl. “Are you going to eat that last pancake? I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
I was glad to see her eating, and pleased that she’d come to some sort of a satisfying conclusion about the crows and the recent deaths—even though nothing she’d just said made the least bit of sense. I slid my plate over to her side of the table. “So, Tammy collected money whenever someone wanted to use that bridge?”
“Not always money,” River said, pouring maple syrup onto the pancake. “It could be a fish. A basket of clams. His hat. Whatever the fisherman had that the witch wanted. That’s how it works. I get it.” She sounded like herself again, and her smile was genuine.
I’m glad she gets it. I sure don’t.
“Shall we order dessert?” I asked. “The pastries are homemade.”
“Peanut butter cookies and coffee?”
“Sounds good to me.”
After dessert, we left the cozy restaurant with River obviously in a much happier state of mind. I was pleased about that but totally confused as to exactly why it was.
I took the long way home, driving along old Route 127, delaying as long as I could the return to crow-infested Salem. The light was beginning to fade and I hoped maybe the birds would all be asleep by the time we got to River’s place.
There were still a few of the big black birds on
the telephone wires when we got there, but at least they were quiet. “Will you have time for a quick nap before you have to get ready for your show?” I’d worked the same schedule when Nightshades was the station’s late movie program and I knew how much time it took to get costumed, made up, and prepared to comment on the night’s scary film.
“Thanks, Lee. Don’t want a nap. I’m fine. I have some planning to do and I need to have a talk with my roommates about a few things. Plans for Megan’s funeral are coming along great. No worries. Love you!” Still smiling, she climbed out of the Vette and, braid bouncing, ran across the sidewalk, up the stairs, across the stoop, and disappeared through the orange door into the house.
Still wondering how and why my friend’s gloomy mood and tearful pronouncements had somehow turned into a positive attitude and sunny smiles, when all I’d done was feed her a late lunch and a couple of cookies, I headed home.
I put the car into the garage, all the while looking over my shoulder at the treetops. I knew the crows were still there, silent now but were they watching me? I hurried through the yard. O’Ryan met me on the back steps. While I fumbled for my key, he washed his face and groomed his whiskers, seemingly unconcerned, or at least disinterested, in the murder of crows lurking in trees all over Salem.
Opening the door, I waited for the cat to go in first while I glanced around the yard. In the gathering dusk, the back fence was silhouetted against night shine from the streetlights on Winter Street. No birds perched, but one cat, motionless, faced in our direction. I couldn’t tell at first which one of O’Ryan’s friends it might be, but then I caught the glint of a silver buckle on a red collar. Some people think black cats are bad luck, but I remembered when a black cat who looked a lot like this one had helped get me out of some serious trouble. I gave her a little salute and went inside.
I clicked on the hall light and started up the stairs to my apartment. O’Ryan was already comfortably sprawled on the couch when I entered. “Guess it’s just you and me tonight, boy,” I told him. “Aunt Ibby has a meeting of her book club and Pete’s at a hockey tournament.” It was still early, but donning PJs and fixing a bowl of microwave popcorn seemed like a good idea. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I promised the cat.
It Takes a Coven Page 7
