The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  Perdu watched from his perch as Eleanor stood on a chair and fixed the charm in place with three brass tacks.

  Sensing the bird’s gaze, Eleanor finished her task, then set the chair aside and fetched a hunk of cheese for him.

  Ruffling his feathers, the raven stretched out his neck and pinched the treat in his beak.

  Eleanor couldn’t stop wondering what her mother had meant when she’d told the bird, “You’ve tricked us all.” What did her mother’s ghost know about Perdu that she didn’t? “Tell me who you are,” she urged as she watched her pet gobble down the morsel.

  The raven replied with a stubborn chortle, shaking his head. She’d asked him the same question every day since the dumb supper, and each time he’d refused to answer. She’d try again tomorrow.

  It bothered Eleanor to think Perdu might be keeping something from her. The raven had been a constant companion, following her through meadow and forest, sleeping by her bedside every night of her life. Together they’d heard knockings, rattlings and voices from the ether; seen feathers, goblets and flaming cauldrons float and dance above the kitchen table.

  On one occasion Perdu had had the misfortune of being (briefly) possessed, his feathered body inhabited by a strange spirit who spoke in a bullying, unearthly voice. “Skip through the graveyard! Ring the coffin bell! Dance beneath the full moon, then follow me to Hell!” Madame St. Clair had chased the entity out of Perdu by spitting in the bird’s face and reciting a series of banishing spells from the Petit Albert. Later she’d explained the incident away, saying, “There’s nothing to worry about, my dear. Perdu’s the same sweet bird as always. One of Old Scratch’s minions just thought he could steal his feathered cloak and not get caught. The pesky imp should’ve known better. When it comes to demons, witches always have the last laugh!” Contrary to her reassuring talk, Madame St. Clair had insisted the bird drink nothing but holy water for nine days straight. Perdu had then proceeded to hack up nine balls of lead shot, one for each day.

  By and large, the other ghostly beings who’d visited their home had come in the form of harmless apparitions—gauzy and transparent, prone to take their leave shortly after they’d appeared. Seeing her mother’s spirit take on such a magnificent form had caused Eleanor to wonder if what she’d witnessed was real. When the dumb supper was over and the gaslights lit, she’d turned to Adelaide and Beatrice and said, “Tell me everything you saw.” In short order the three witches realized that they’d seen and heard much the same things, and pledged not to speak of what’d taken place to anyone outside themselves. Pricking their thumbs with the tip of Madame St. Clair’s dagger, they’d sealed the promise in blood.

  To Eleanor it’d been abundantly clear what should happen next. She and Adelaide were to assist Beatrice in gaining her full powers as a witch. Surprisingly, Adelaide had agreed. “How do we begin?” she’d asked, her eagerness causing Eleanor to wonder exactly which spell had been cast upon the magical pear she’d consumed (and how she might go about learning it). Beatrice, still reeling, was understandably reticent. “I’d like some time to think on it, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Right,” Adelaide had replied.

  “That’s very wise,” Eleanor had said. “Take as long as you need.” The last thing she wanted was for the girl to feel pressured in any way. If everything her mother had said was true, then she wasn’t about to do anything that might keep Beatrice from fulfilling her promise. In the meantime, she’d set Adelaide the task of holding Judith Dashley off until things had settled.

  After a quick visit to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, Adelaide had returned to the shop to report, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Out with it,” Eleanor said.

  “The good news is that Judith has promised she’ll not breathe a word about Beatrice’s gift to anyone without our permission.”

  “And the bad?”

  “The cat’s already out of the bag.”

  “Who did she tell?”

  “Mr. Dashley.”

  “That’s to be expected,” Eleanor said. “Anyone else?”

  “Quinn Brody.”

  “Who?” Eleanor asked, unable to place the name.

  “He’s a mind doctor, an alienist who also dabbles in chasing ghosts.”

  That last remark gave Eleanor pause. “You know him?”

  Cheeks turning pink, Adelaide replied, “We’ve met.”

  “And?”

  “Leave him to me.”

  Eleanor tried to keep her mind on daily business at the shop. Her regular customers came and went, buying tea and sweets and making their usual special requests. Beatrice donned her apron and moved about the store, happy to pretend she hadn’t a care in the world. For the first few nights after the dumb supper, she’d stayed up late re-reading Strange Tales of Gotham and writing letters to Lydia, most of which she didn’t intend to send. On Wednesday, at quarter to midnight, she’d finally gone to Eleanor and said, “I’m ready to learn. I’d like you to teach me all you know.”

  Since then, Beatrice had spent her evenings studying Eleanor’s grimoire while absent-mindedly feeding Perdu hunks of bread. Eleanor had made herself available for any questions the young novice might have, watching with a fair bit of pride as Beatrice wrote page upon page of notes in a small notebook of her own. She’d never thought she’d have someone to teach her craft to, and she only hoped that she’d be able to do everything right. Her mother had been extremely patient and thorough in her teaching, never scolding her for being distracted, or for wandering off to paddle along the river with Perdu, or for sitting for hours in the crook of a weeping willow tree, day-dreaming. If she hadn’t learned all she needed to know in order to be a good tutor, she had no one to blame but herself.

  For Beatrice’s first lesson, Eleanor had given the girl a small gift, a witch’s purse to carry in her pocket or to wear around her neck. She told her, “It’s a place to store sacred herbs, stones and amulets to assist you in your work.” Guiding the girl through choosing the proper herbs to place inside it, she’d explained how different roots, leaves and flowers have the power to enhance certain spells. “There are herbs for luck, herbs for love, herbs for divination, and so on.”

  “Which herbs do you think I should start with?” Beatrice had asked, giving the purse’s strings a nervous tug.

  “Those for protection,” Eleanor had answered straight away. “Horehound, to guard against demons, sorcery and fascination. Caraway for protection against malevolent entities. Toadflax to keep the evil eye at bay. Thistle for strength, and to confuse your enemies.”

  Following Eleanor’s instructions, Beatrice had placed each of the herbs inside the bag, then tucked the purse inside her pocket. She was glad for any help she could get.

  In her effort to discern what, if anything, Dr. Brody had made of Judith’s talk of her encounter with Beatrice, Adelaide had boldly tracked him to where he lived so she might address the subject head on. After an evening’s worth of conversation with the doctor (which she’d quite enjoyed), she’d come to Eleanor with a surprising plan. “I propose Beatrice meet with Dr. Brody.”

  Eleanor asked, “Why on earth would she do that?”

  “He’s already aware of her talent for speaking with ghosts. What harm could it do?”

  “I thought you said you’d take care of things with him.”

  “I have, I swear it. This will only lead to good things, I can feel it. Don’t you trust my good sense?”

  “I do,” Eleanor replied, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not up to something.”

  Adelaide folded her arms. “I say we let Beatrice decide for herself.”

  Eleanor sighed. “I hope for her sake you know what you’re doing.”

  Beatrice had decided to say yes to Adelaide’s plan. Although the dumb supper had led her to be more inclined to believe in magic and less inclined to feel she was out of her mind, she was still left wondering how everything that’d happened to her had transpired. If a man of sci
ence wished to try and shed some light on her situation, then she was willing to give him a few hours of her time. Adelaide had spoken well of Dr. Brody, so she had high hopes for her visit with him. In short order a date and time was set— Saturday, September 25 at ten a.m.

  —

  When the day of her appointment arrived, Beatrice began the morning trying to decide which dress to wear.

  “The red calico,” Adelaide urged.

  “Whichever you like,” Eleanor said with a shrug. “It should be your choice.”

  Reaching for the dress she’d worn her first day in the city, Beatrice inspected the place where the skirt had ripped when she’d fallen near the obelisk. To her surprise, the tear was no longer noticeable. She’d never made such fine, even stitches in her life! It was as if nothing had happened. Had Eleanor repaired it? Pleased, she pulled the dress over her head and buttoned it up the front. She hoped that when the day was done she’d feel just as satisfied about her decision to meet Dr. Brody.

  The previous morning a steamer trunk had arrived with the rest of the things she’d requested from her aunt. Upon receiving it, Beatrice had penned Lydia a note of thanks, making sure to include all the news she thought she’d be expecting—a description of the teashop (“quaint, cheerful, bustling”), a glowing review of her employers (“wise, amiable, independent”) and a light-hearted complaint about the relentless rain (“if it goes on much longer, some enterprising gentleman will have to erect an ark in Central Park”). As she’d done with her previous missive, she’d omitted any and all details of the magic that’d befallen her. Sealing the envelope, Beatrice glued a three-cent stamp to the upper right-hand corner, one that bore the image of George Washington in stately profile.

  Gazing at the envelope, she could swear that General Washington had turned his head ever so slightly to give her a disapproving scowl. (“Why haven’t you told your aunt the truth?”) He was right to question her, of course, but where would he have her begin?

  Whenever something odd had happened in Stony Point (a rare thing indeed), the townsfolk were quick to try to put things into a shape they could understand. One spring, after one of Mr. Wheeler’s nanny goats gave birth to a two-headed kid, the town square soon filled with people exclaiming, “My heavens!” “What a sight!” “Have you seen it?” “What could be the cause?” “Have you ever heard of such a thing in all your life?” By the end of the day, a half-deaf grandmother, a travelling salesman and Mr. Walter Rose, the town apothecary, had come forward with stories that made Mr. Wheeler’s goat seem not so special after all (of a two-headed calf, a six-legged sow, and a dog that could whistle “Dixie” through its teeth). The poor kid died early Easter morning, and the talk between the pews at the First United Presbyterian Church turned more towards sympathy than sensation. “I guess it wasn’t meant to live.” “I suppose it’s just as well.”

  What on earth would the people of Stony Point make of Beatrice now? The closest thing she could think of to match her own odd experiences were the occurrences she’d read about in Lydia’s copy of A Compendium of Miracles. She’d especially enjoyed the accounts of young girls who’d had miraculous visions, and had often imagined herself in their place—something akin to being a mouse caught in a lion’s maw and living to tell the tale. How sad she’d been to discover that more often than not, the girls hadn’t found a happy ending. It’s a risky thing for a girl to admit she’s witnessed a miracle.

  Joan of Arc, witch. Also known as the Maid of Orleans. Burnt at the stake for heresy and witchcraft, at Rouen, in 1431. Joan had her first vision at the age of thirteen while sitting in her father’s garden. The message brought to her by Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret and the Archangel Michael was so beautiful that she cried when it came to an end. By nineteen she was dead.

  Bernadette of Lourdes had fared a bit better. On February 11, 1858, Bernadette Soubirous (fourteen years of age) had a vision while gathering sticks along the banks of a river. It was there, in a small grotto near the water’s edge, that she first saw a lady dressed in white with a long veil covering her head and a perfect rose on each foot. This began a fortnight of visitations by a being who would later identify herself as the Immaculate Conception. At first, Bernadette’s mother thought it was a trick of the Devil. Many people in the girl’s village demanded she be put away in an asylum. In the end, the Lady promised Bernadette she’d make her happy “not in this life, but the next.” Bernadette was sent to a convent where she spent the rest of her days embroidering altar cloths and vestments. “The Virgin used me as a broom to remove the dust. When the work is done, the broom is put behind the door again,” she was supposed to have said. She died at thirty-five.

  Even Brooklyn could boast its own “enigma,” a young woman who never left her room and lived mostly on air. Mollie Fancher, “the Fasting Girl,” fell victim to a terrible accident in 1865 when she was seventeen years of age. After being dragged behind a streetcar, she lost the ability to see, touch, taste and smell, but thereafter was able to go for long periods of time without food or drink. According to several reports, Mollie had also gained the power to read without seeing and to predict future events. Was she still lying in her bed after all these years? Did anyone bother to visit her anymore?

  The spirits Beatrice had seen hadn’t been angels, and she had no idea as to whether or not her “gift” had come from God. Was it temporary or long-lasting? Was she right to pursue it or should she let it go? She supposed there were many instances where people chose to ignore the frightening, curious or miraculous events that’d occurred in their lives, thinking, Who would believe me if I told them? Beatrice wondered what her aunt might advise if she confessed her experiences. She guessed Lydia would say just what she’d always said whenever she’d gone to her with something perplexing. “Let’s be practical about this, Beatrice. Do you know all there is to know about the matter? If not, then perhaps you should take the time to find out.”

  That’s just what Beatrice intended to do. Tying a ribbon around the end of her braid she made a wish: May this day hold more answers than questions.

  Adelaide pinned a spray of pheasant feathers to the hat she planned to wear to accompany Beatrice to Dr. Brody’s house. Setting the velvet bonnet high atop her curls, she turned her head to appraise her work. Not too bold. Not too sweet. Just right. She was anxious to see how Beatrice would perform, pleased to be spending time with Quinn, again. When she’d gone to his house, he’d invited her to call him by his first name. Was that how she should address him today? With Beatrice along she figured she’d better stick with “Dr. Brody.” Inspecting her face in the mirror, she patted the slightest bit of rouge onto her lips. Then she mouthed the words, “You’re looking well today, Dr. Brody.”

  What a brilliant creature he was! With such lovely eyes! Just thinking of him made Adelaide cross her ankles and tighten her thighs. He was endearingly shy, yet she knew he was hungry for her: he had a habit of biting his lip whenever his eyes dropped to her mouth. (Perhaps a little more rouge was in order?) No, today was to be about Beatrice.

  She couldn’t help but think that the something she’d been feeling was about to happen had already begun and it had everything to do with the girl. When the dumb supper was over and their blood oath made, she’d snuck up to her room with what remained of the pear, and carefully plucked the seeds from its core. Then she’d placed the seeds one by one inside a small, slender phial and hung it by a chain around her neck. She’d worn the thing every day since, keeping the seeds close to her heart as if they were a religious relic. From time to time she’d shake the phial so she could hear the seeds rattle. To her, their tiny sounds were like the rumble of thunder, testifying that everything she’d seen, heard, smelled, touched and tasted that night was real. Was this what it was like to be spiritually transformed? If so, then she’d become a True Believer.

  Although she didn’t profess to understand every device Quinn had shown her in his study, she’d learned quite a lot about the nature of his resea
rch, including his hopes of finding a medium who could get his father’s spiritoscope to work. In light of all she’d experienced during the dumb supper, it’d all seemed tremendously compelling and meant to be.

  Too bad Eleanor wasn’t going to come with them for today’s visit, but she’d said an outright no. “You go. I’ll stay. Beatrice doesn’t need an audience watching her every move.” Adelaide had felt the sting of Eleanor’s disapproval, but she was convinced she was in the right. She’d been careful not to push or cajole Beatrice in any way. She was simply opening doors and allowing magic to blossom in an effort to help the girl discover her own path. Although her methods might not be ones that Eleanor preferred, Adelaide had to be true to herself, didn’t she? She had to use her own gifts in her own way, get back to her old self, as it were. Wasn’t that what Madame St. Clair had compelled her to do? Whenever she stopped to consider Beatrice, everything came clear. She could see what the girl needed, sense where she was headed.

  Today could prove to be the way forward, for everyone. Great things were on the horizon!

  Beatrice came downstairs with Adelaide trailing close behind.

  “Your hat’s a little crooked,” Adelaide said when they reached the bottom. “Shall I make it right?”

  “Yes, please,” Beatrice replied, holding still while Adelaide deftly straightened it.

  “There,” Adelaide said, adjusting a hatpin to keep the bonnet in its proper place. Lightly tugging Beatrice’s braid, she coaxed it into lying flat and inspected the ribbon that was tied to its end. “I’ve a wider ribbon in grosgrain that would look quite lovely with your dress. I’m happy to fetch it if you like.”