by Ami McKay
Taking the pipe in hand, Dr. Brody made his choice. The day would end with more forgetting.
MAY 16, 1879 The New York Times
The lunatics were told that there was to be a dance in the Amusement Hall, a building in which concerts and balls are given to the inmates of the asylum. A merry air was played on the piano, and in a few minutes the lunatics were dancing and capering about in high glee.
The Lunatics’ Ball.
THE AMUSEMENT HALL at the lunatic asylum on Blackwell’s Island was a clean, open room sparsely furnished with an upright piano and half a dozen chairs lined up against the far wall. The light was dim but festive, twinkling from strings of brightly coloured lanterns hanging from the rafters. Several gentlemen who’d come by ferry from Manhattan were milling about the space, waiting for the female inmates to arrive. A small band played in the far corner of the room led by a fiddler who held his ensemble together with great flare, dancing a spirited jig as the viol, bass, guitar and banjo accompanied him.
The women—around thirty altogether, varied in age, race and education—were brought to the hall by a pair of orderlies. Some of them were quite eager to dance, practically running to take their places on the floor. Others reluctantly shuffled into the room, heads bowed. Hand-picked to attend the ball because of their good behaviour during the week, the inmates had been scrubbed and dressed for the occasion, their faces still red from rough rags and harsh soap, their hair tucked into neat braids or buns, their calico gowns unadorned and out of date. They looked like farm girls out to a country dance.
Among them was Sophie Miles—tall and lean, with large hazel eyes and honey-coloured curls. She’d been at the asylum for a year and nine months, and in that time she’d gone from being considered a danger to others to a shining example of recovery. The doctors were impressed with her progress, the nurses were coming around, and her sister inmates (who either feared or adored her) believed her to be a witch. What was the truth? All of it, she guessed. She was willing to do whatever it took to gain her freedom.
She’d been sent to the madhouse for throwing vitriol in a woman’s face. The judge had told her she should be grateful—it was better than being locked up in the Tombs. Neither the cops nor the judge had believed her when she’d told them that she was right to do what she’d done. That smug bitch of a soothsayer had snubbed her, laughed behind her back. Miss Zula Moth had no idea of the kind of witch she’d wronged. The judge had described Miss Moth’s injuries in detail: the agonizing pain; the gruesome scars on her face; the loss of her eye. “Lucky for you the young woman didn’t die,” the judge had grumbled. “Yes sir,” Sophie had replied. Pity she didn’t, she’d thought.
Tonight was Sophie’s third time attending the ball and she had grand plans for the evening, hanging her hopes in the old saying, Three times a charm. Last week she’d spotted a man who’d seemed an ideal candidate to help her get out of the asylum. She’d smiled at him from across the room and she was sure she’d caught his eye, but he’d left before she’d had the chance to speak with him. Tonight he would not get away.
When she spotted him coming in at last, she clutched a small poppet she’d stuck in her pocket, one which she’d fashioned in his likeness, and whispered, “Come to me.”
The well-dressed gentleman looked right at her and she gave him a shy smile and a wave. She’d chosen him because beneath his confident-looking exterior was a man who harboured a fair amount of self-doubt. She could see it in the way he’d taught himself to swagger even though he required the use of a cane. He was afflicted by things that couldn’t be mended, and not just his wooden leg. Even within the walls of a madhouse he was the odd man out. He didn’t possess the agility required for dancing a polka or reel. Hooking arms with a partner to swing her around was completely out of the question. He was a wounded animal. Easy prey.
The man made his way across the room and stopped in front of Sophie. “Mr. Bartholomew Andersen,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Sophie Miles,” she replied, with a soft Southern lilt, taking his hand briefly in return.
“Wonderful music,” Andersen remarked.
“Yes,” Sophie replied. “I like it very much.”
“And where do you hail from, Sophie?” he asked, as if they were at a cotillion rather than an asylum.
“New Orleans, originally. It’s where I was born.”
“I’m from Baltimore myself.”
Sophie swayed a little in time to the music and longingly looked at the dance floor.
“I’d ask you to dance,” Mr. Andersen said at last, raising the cuff of his trouser, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much of a partner.”
Sophie glanced at the wooden leg and shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that.” Daintily picking up her skirt, she dosey-doed around him for the rest of the song, occasionally brushing up against him, shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow.
When the song was over, Sophie took Mr. Andersen’s hand in hers. Pointing to different women in the room, she listed why they had been consigned to the asylum, in an effort to show him that she, too, was out of place. “Intemperance. Hysteria. Jealousy. Nymphomania. Immoral life. Self-abuse. Preventing conception. Religious obsession. Setting fires. Kicked in the head by a horse. Mental excitement. Opium habit. Domestic affliction. Grief. Desertion of husband. Bloody flux. Brain fever. Death of child. Quackery. Uterine derangement. Vicious vices. Over-action of the mind. Syphilis. Greed. Parents were cousins. Rumour that she murdered her husband. Seduction and disappointment.”
“And you?” he asked, just as she’d hoped.
“Superstition,” she said with downcast eyes.
“That certainly doesn’t seem reason enough to be locked away in a madhouse. What sort are you talking of?”
“Belief in witchcraft,” Sophie answered, “and its practices.”
Just then, the bandleader raised his bow and called for quiet. In a booming voice, he announced, “Grab your partners, gents, ’tis the Sweetheart Waltz!”
Another gentleman who’d been eying Sophie from across the room approached. “May I have this dance?”
Blushing, Sophie looked at Andersen. “I believe it’s spoken for.”
Leaning his cane against the wall, Andersen placed an arm around Sophie’s waist and took her hand in his. Together they swayed to the music, their eyes locked. As the last chorus swelled, the former soldier felt as if the leg he’d lost was suddenly whole and perfectly steady. Turning Sophie around with ease he exclaimed, “I do believe you’ve bewitched me!”
Smiling, Sophie said, “Perhaps I have.”
The Dumb Supper is the most respectful way to summon the dead. Although traditionally held on All Hallows’ Eve (the time of year when the veil is thinnest), it can be performed at other times, in other seasons, should the need arise. The rules of the ritual must be strictly obeyed, lest unintended consequences follow. Reverence and respect are required throughout.
—From the grimoire of Eleanor St. Clair
The Song of the Sibyl.
BEATRICE HAD NEARLY paced a hole in the teashop floor while waiting for Eleanor to return. Everything with Mrs. Dashley had ended well, all things considered, but the episode had left the girl terribly unsettled. Worst of all, while Beatrice was still trying to make sense of what had happened with the boy’s ghost, Mrs. Dashley had made it clear that she was eager to try to contact him again as soon as possible. As she was leaving, she’d squeezed Beatrice’s hand and exclaimed, “What an angel! What a gift! You’re the answer to my prayers.”
She didn’t want to be the answer to Mrs. Dashley’s prayers. What she wanted was for someone to answer the questions that were racing around in her brain. How had this come to pass, and why? Was the book she’d found under the counter what she guessed it to be? Did it have anything to do with what was happening to her? Should she pack her things and catch the next train to Stony Point? After her spill at the pier, did she even have enough money to do so?
—
&nbs
p; As soon as Eleanor walked through the door, Beatrice rushed to her. “Might I have a word with you, Miss St. Clair. May we sit?” Perdu waddled behind Beatrice, feathers puffed, chest thrust out, displaying all the confidence the girl lacked.
Eleanor could see the worry in her eyes. “Did everything go all right while I was out?” Taking a seat at the table by the window she asked, “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Beatrice sank into the opposite chair. “I’m not quite sure, but something strange happened while you were away.”
Perdu flew to perch on the back of Beatrice’s chair.
Eleanor could swear he meant to protect the girl.
With her encouragement, Beatrice described all that had gone on as best she could, from Billy’s footsteps running across the shop floor, to his greasy bag of peanuts, to the marble she still clutched in her hand. Presenting it to Eleanor she said, “I need you to know this is no game. The things I’ve been seeing—the Gypsy woman from yesterday and Judith’s son—they’re real to me, in some ways more real than you or Miss Thom. Their thoughts come into my awareness unbidden, without my permission. They aren’t like anything I’ve ever seen. As a child I used to stay awake at night, staring at images of ghosts, ghouls, devils and witches in a book of spectropia until my eyes were so tired they saw things that weren’t there. I can assure you, these encounters were nothing like that. I’ve either gone mad or I’m seeing ghosts, or both.”
“You’re not mad,” Eleanor said. “But I do believe that you can see spirits.”
“How can you be sure?” Beatrice whispered, her hands trembling.
“About which?” Eleanor asked. “The madness or the ghosts?”
“Both.”
Eleanor reached out to the girl and clasped her hand. “Do you trust me?”
Beatrice nodded. Eleanor got up and slipped behind the counter to fetch her grimoire. She carried the heavy book across the room and set it on the table in front of the girl.
“Are you a witch?” Beatrice blurted, unable to hold the question back any longer.
“Yes,” Eleanor answered, placing her palms on top of the book.
Perdu hid behind Beatrice and gently tugged at her braid.
Eyes closed, Eleanor said, “I see you’ve opened the grimoire.”
Beatrice tried to think of an acceptable excuse. Could she blame the bird? Certainly not. Why would she? It wasn’t his fault. “Yes,” she admitted, praying Eleanor didn’t have plans to turn her into a toad or boil her in a cauldron. “But I didn’t mean to.”
Eleanor opened her eyes and smiled. “I’m glad you found it. It’ll make things easier from here on in.”
Remembering her run-in with Adelaide during breakfast Beatrice asked, “Is Miss Thom a witch too?”
“Yes,” Eleanor answered, “I suppose she is.” Staring into Beatrice’s eyes she added, “As are you.”
“Me, a witch?” Beatrice asked. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“No,” Eleanor said. “You’re just afraid.”
Perdu leaned his head against Beatrice’s and made a noise in her ear that sounded for all the world like a purring cat. None of this seemed real. “How can I be a witch?” Beatrice asked. “So far as I know, I haven’t any in my family. I’ve never heard of one in Stony Point. There’s one rumoured to live in Sleepy Hollow, but I’ve never even caught a glimpse of the woman. I crossed the covered bridge near her house once, on a dare, when I was little. I held my breath and walked backwards the whole way. Could that be what caused this?”
“No,” Eleanor laughed. “I don’t believe so.”
Beatrice shook her head in disbelief. “Beg your pardon, but until today, for me witches were the stuff of fairy tales. How can I be one if I don’t believe they’re real?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Perdu hopped into Beatrice’s lap.
“No doubt your thoughts are jumbled,” Eleanor said. “Don’t bother trying to untangle them. That’s not how this works. This isn’t like sums or telegraphy or scientific equations. It isn’t something you can easily figure out.”
Picturing herself with a wart-ridden face and wearing a pointy hat, Beatrice stroked Perdu’s feathers to calm herself. “Why is this happening to me?”
“I believe you opened yourself to magic when you tied your knots and made your wish.”
“Does this happen to everyone who makes a witch’s ladder?”
“No,” Eleanor said. “The magic working within you is more powerful than most. Your desire to discover if magic truly exists in the world is what allowed it to find you.”
“What if I don’t want to be a witch?”
“I suppose you could reject it,” Eleanor replied, “but it can’t be undone without great effort, and I wouldn’t want you to come to any harm.”
Beatrice’s mind was reeling. “How do you know all this? Have I been bewitched?—by you, or Miss Thom, or someone else?”
“I saw you in a dream before you arrived,” Eleanor admitted.
“A good dream?”
“From what I can remember, yes.”
“Tell it to me.”
Eleanor sighed. “Most of it left me the minute I opened my eyes. All I recall is that you and the girl in my dream are one and the same.”
“And she’s a witch?”
“Yes.”
“And that led you to believe that I’m one too?”
“The dream and many other things, including what you experienced today. But if you’d like, I can perform a test to confirm it.”
Visions of dunkings and hangings and burnings at the stake filled Beatrice’s mind. The passage she’d read in Eleanor’s spell book suddenly seemed painfully prescient. “What kind of test?”
“We’ll need to speak with my mother.”
“She’s also a witch?”
“Yes.”
“Is it far for her to come?” Beatrice asked.
“She’s never far,” Eleanor answered. (At least that’s what she’d promised Eleanor when she’d died.)
“How long will it take her to get here?”
Looking to the clock, Eleanor considered the hour, the moon, the day of the week, the direction of the wind, the time of year. “Until tonight,” she said. “Unless she can’t be disturbed.” She opened the grimoire to a page near the middle and said, “Read this. We’ve much to do if we want to be ready by midnight.”
RULES of the DUMB SUPPER
1. Preparations shall be carried out in an orderly fashion—ingredients for dishes gathered, linens set aside, serving utensils and dishes cleaned, candles anointed, the room blessed. Instructions shall be made clear to all participants.
2. The table shall be set backwards—forks on the right, knife and spoon on the left, and so on.
3. A place must be set and a candle lit for each spirit you wish to contact. Their chair shall be shrouded in black. Personal items or tokens may also be included so the spirit feels welcome and at home.
4. All dishes served are meant to honour the dead as well as feed the living, so choose the menu wisely with consideration for the spirit’s preferences and appetites.
5. The meal itself is to be served backwards—tea and sweets first, wine (or spirits) last.
6. A scrying mirror may be set before the place of the spirit.
7. Each participant may choose to bring an offering or write a message for the deceased to bring with them to the dinner.
8. Participants shall enter the room facing backwards, eldest to youngest.
9. A bell shall be rung to begin the rite, and then again to end it.
10. Once the rite begins, the living must remain silent until the rite has ended.
11. The rite shall begin at Midnight.
The two women spent the rest of the day preparing for the ritual. For the sweets, they baked soul cakes filled with honey, spices, raisins and currants. For the tea, Eleanor sent Beatrice back and forth to the pantry to ga
ther the ingredients for “seer’s steep”—star anise, calamus root, wormwood, mugwort, rose petals, lavender, peppermint and chervil. The rest of the meal would consist of her mother’s favourite autumn foods: mashed turnips, sautéed mushrooms, pickled beets, cheese curds, black grapes, stewed apples, pumpkin soup with fresh cream, and noggins of mead.
Eleanor had been pleasantly surprised at how well the girl had taken the news that they were about to call upon another spirit. She’d grown up holding yearly dumb suppers with her mother at l’Hermitage, but she’d never had to organize one herself.
—
After sunset, Eleanor directed Beatrice to walk down the block, past the park, to the monument where General William Jenkins Worth was buried. “Scrape off a few bits of the lichen clinging to the tomb. I need it to make the incense I’ll use to bless the room. Be sure to leave an offering in exchange for what you take.” Giving Beatrice a handful of pennies, she said, “This should be more than enough.”
As she approached the tomb, Beatrice looked all around, hoping she wouldn’t get caught. Lifting her skirts, she stepped over the decorative border and slipped behind the grave, crouching near the edge of the towering obelisk that marked the site. Decorated with symbols and inscriptions lauding the General’s heroics, it wasn’t nearly so large or magnificent as Cleopatra’s Needle. Still, it occurred to Beatrice, as she scraped her knife along the granite, that this was the second such object she’d touched in as many days. Tucking the lichen into a small purse, she carefully placed the pennies along the top edge of the plaque that bore the General’s name.
—
Eleanor sang a tune under her breath as she ground the lichen in her mortar, mixing the powdery orange flakes with bits of sage, yew, cedar, myrrh and a sprinkling of henbane seeds. She’d given Beatrice the task of making hag’s tapers—mullein stalks dipped in melted beeswax. “The smoke from the tapers will help to guide Maman from beyond the veil,” she explained.
