The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  Mr. Black also readied his men for battle. “People like the feeling they get when they think they’ve stumbled upon something miraculous. It’s a proven fact.”

  Adelaide arrived at the park with a stack of notices tucked under her arm. She’d decided to get there early so she could claim a spot near Lady Liberty’s torch and size up the crowd. It was only two o’clock, yet the square was already crowded with politicians, preachers and protesters, as well as a variety of vendors selling everything from roasted peanuts and steamed oysters to a multitude of obelisk-related souvenirs. One enterprising confectioner had even set up shop near the fountain, selling chocolate-covered dates in obelisk-shaped boxes complete with gold-leaf glyphs.

  As Adelaide perused the wares in a nearby cart—bracelet charms made from Egyptian coins, figures of Anubis, Osiris and Horus cast in coloured wax—she thought how glad she was that she’d seized upon the idea of Beatrice becoming the Egyptian Sibyl. The city was abuzz with Egyptomania. Why shouldn’t they make the most of it? The crowd filling the sidewalks to watch the parade was growing by the minute. She couldn’t remember seeing such a crowd in her life, except for the day President Lincoln’s funeral procession had passed through the streets. Back then she was nothing but a curly-headed imp at her mother’s hip, but the sombre affair had made an indelible impression. She hoped today would turn out to be equally unforgettable, yet in a far more festive way.

  “How much for this?” Adelaide asked the woman who owned the cart, pointing to a silver propelling pencil shaped like the obelisk. It was mechanical, practical, novel. She thought she might give it to Quinn as a gift, if the price was right.

  “Four dollars,” the woman answered with a squint.

  “That’s too much.” Adelaide shook her head.

  “It’s a steal,” the woman argued. “I’m practically giving it to you. It’s an exact replica. Look close and you’ll see it’s accurate down to the last glyph.”

  Adelaide had no way of knowing if the markings were authentic or mere chicken scratches. “Two dollars,” she countered.

  “Three dollars and I’ll throw in a programme from the big to-do they’re having at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I hear they’ve got a girl on tonight who calls herself the ‘’Gyptian Sorceress’ or some such. Should be something to see.”

  “You don’t say,” Adelaide said, handing over the asking price. Her enthusiasm alone was worth the extra dollar. “I’ll take them both.”

  Gift in hand, Adelaide turned to leave.

  “Wait, wait, wait, miss,” the woman called. “Would you like to see something really special? I’ll bring it out, only for you.”

  “All right,” Adelaide said, “let’s have a look.”

  The woman bent behind her cart then reappeared with a lacklustre piece of stone the size of a lump of coal. “It’s from Cleopatra’s Needle,” she whispered. “The genuine article. The only one I got.”

  Guessing that the sad little piece of rubble probably came from a stonecutter’s trash heap, Adelaide waved it away. She knew a gaff when she saw one. No doubt the woman had at least a dozen more such “relics” hidden behind her cart. “Good luck to you,” she said. “All the best.”

  “Hurry back if you change your mind,” the woman called after her. “I’ll try to hold on to it, but I can’t say how long it will last.”

  Making her way to the base of the torch, Adelaide passed between two groups of women who were clearly at odds with each other.

  Several members of the National Woman Suffrage Association had gathered near the fountain with their colourful VOTES FOR WOMEN banners prominently on display. Distributing the latest issue of the Ballot Box they chanted, “Men, their rights and nothing more. Women, their rights and nothing less!” Across from them, the Ladies’ Bible League from the Church of the Good Shepherd countered the suffragists’ efforts by handing out literature of their own titled, “Votes for Women: Against God’s Order.”

  One of the women from the Bible League waved a tract at Adelaide. “Repent, dear sister, and change your sinful ways!”

  Adelaide recognized her by her sour expression. Over the past few weeks the woman had taken up the habit of standing outside the teashop and peering through the window. Only once had she bothered to come through the door, and, sadly, Adelaide hadn’t been there to greet her. She’d scared poor Beatrice half to death when she’d accused her of serving Satan and leading women astray.

  “Repent, I say!” the woman cried in Adelaide’s face. “Repent and be saved!”

  Grabbing the tract and tossing it to the ground, Adelaide lifted her veil, faced the woman and snarled until she backed away. This was indeed turning out to be a memorable day.

  “Pretzels! Get yer fresh pretzels!” a boy’s voice rang out above the crowd. “One for a nickel! Three for a dime!” Isaac Markowitz, son of the man who ran the bakery next door to the teashop, was coming down the path with a basket of salty treats strapped to his front, a sign for his father’s store hanging down his back. “Pretzels! Fresh pretzels!” he shouted again, as he came towards Adelaide.

  “I’ll take one,” she called to the boy.

  “Here you go, Miss Thom,” Isaac said, sliding her pretzel into a small paper sack.

  Tucking a quarter in Isaac’s front pocket Adelaide said, “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thom,” Isaac said, smiling broadly.

  Settling on a bench at the foot of the torch, Adelaide bit off a hunk of the pretzel as she waited for Beatrice. There were plenty of society folk out and about, gentlemen reading Frank Leslie’s Illustrated, ladies promenading with parasols on their shoulders. The people that held Adelaide’s interest, however, were those whom the rest of the crowd mostly chose to ignore—the young pickpocket lifting a watch from a distracted sap, the flower girl admiring a rich girl’s smart dress, the Bird Lady singing songs to herself one after another. Just as Adelaide was about to take the last bite of her pretzel, a stray dog came towards her through the maze of skirts and suits. Black and tan with blazes of white on its muzzle and chest, it reminded her of the pair of Swissys that’d pulled the rag lady’s cart through the neighbourhood where she’d lived when she’d served as a lady’s maid. The woman had owned next to nothing but she’d always made sure her dogs were well fed. Each hound had a collar decked with bells that jingled as they walked. This poor dog didn’t have a collar, its ribs showed every which way, and it had the hunch and tremble of a creature that had been beaten. Taking pity on the hound, Adelaide tossed the remaining hunk of pretzel to the ground at her feet. She understood what it was like to have loyalty rewarded with a kick in the ass.

  Tail between its legs, the dog snatched the bread and wolfed it down.

  Pointing towards Isaac, Adelaide told the dog, “Follow that boy.”

  The dog obeyed and slunk away.

  Adelaide hoped that’s not what she’d become, a pitiful used-up stray trailing after Beatrice and Quinn in hopes of licking up their scraps. She truly had an interest in what they were trying to accomplish and was more than happy to play a part, but what would happen once they figured out they didn’t need her? She’d hardly spent any time alone with Quinn; whenever they’d had a few spare moments to themselves they’d spent them talking about Beatrice. What might Beatrice become? What should we do to encourage her, educate her, protect her? Admittedly, much of Quinn’s obsession with Beatrice was of her own making, she’d pushed so hard to shine the light squarely on the girl. Until now it’d seemed the best course of action, one that would inevitably lead to recognition, perhaps even fame and fortune. That was the path she’d always taken—choosing limelight over lamplight, lust over love.

  Why couldn’t she read Quinn better? Was she losing her touch? Maybe the trouble was she’d come to care too much for him. (If that was the case, she really had to put a stop to it.) She could see the interest in his face, so why didn’t he see fit to act on it? Was it her disfigurement? Was he planning to cut her loose “out of respect
” once he’d had his fill of Beatrice’s abilities? Men frequently used that word as an excuse to shy away from topics they didn’t want to discuss. Plenty of women had come into the shop weeping over a gentleman’s respect. “He broke it off with me, out of respect.” “He respected me too much to let it go on any longer.” “He said he couldn’t respect himself if he held me back from something greater.” Bollocks. If Quinn didn’t act on his attraction to her soon, she’d be the one to end it. Not out of respect, but because she had no room in her life for games of the heart.

  Perhaps he’d decided he’d rather have Beatrice. She wouldn’t blame him. The girl had lots she couldn’t offer—beauty, cheerfulness, naïveté, and an unparalleled rapport with ghosts. (Though she hadn’t seen any signs that Quinn was drawn to Beatrice so far.) Oh how she hated herself for feeling jealous! Was jealousy also destined to go hand in hand with love? If so, she didn’t want any part of either. She’d seen where love could lead by watching her mother stand on the porch of a boarding house cursing at a young whore to give her back her husband. If her mother had ever held any witchery in her blood, the pathetic wretch had lost the better part of it the moment her heart had been broken by a man. She’d given whatever power she’d had away—to love, to drink, to laudanum and, eventually, to the river.

  —

  Pulled forth by her daughter’s thoughts, the spirit of Adelaide’s mother rose from the bubbling waters of the park fountain. After shaking a penny loose from her ear, she took her skirts between her hands and attempted to wring them dry. Chrissakes, she was sore and damp and groggy from being stuck in the fountain’s rusty bladder. What time is it? What day is it? Noticing the bustling crowds she wondered whether another president had died. Or was she stuck in a ghostly dream, sent back in time to Lincoln’s funeral procession?

  It was that damn fairy’s fault, she was sure of it. Everything had been a jumbled mess since she’d been tricked into leaving the teashop. She wasn’t sure what the foul pixie had done, but she knew it wasn’t good. Dizzy and confused, she hadn’t been able to make her way back to where she’d been. It was as if the teashop had up and disappeared. Every time she flew down the block, the sign, the door, the whole storefront went missing. She couldn’t remember the number of the building. The confusion she felt was akin to waking up after a night of drinking and fucking to find spunk stuck between her legs and her head filled with nothing.

  Spitting out three snails, a handful of watery worms and a plug nickel, her memories began to stir, but not in any particular order. Last week, last month, last year, some time ago, she’d gone to the park in search of her daughter. In a strange turn she’d seen not one Adelaide, but two. One was the young woman her daughter had become—the nattily dressed one-eyed seer who called herself Adelaide Thom. The other was the child she had abandoned—the slim, shining, smart-mouthed waif her lost husband had named Moth. She’d chosen to follow the little one through the confines of the park. Over the course of the next while (minutes, hours, days, weeks), she’d trailed after the child, who had a terrible habit of hiding in places even ghosts couldn’t see. Was she real? Was she a memory? Was she a spirit, like her? She’d seen the girl fall prey to a terrible man, a man who meant to harm her, and even though she’d tried everything in her power to warn her, the girl wouldn’t listen. She’d shouted in the Bird Lady’s ear, but the die had already been cast. Some dark force below the pavers had been determined to hold her there, not allowing her to follow the child to her fate. Where was she now? Where was her daughter?

  As she searched the park for the little girl, she spotted Adelaide. She’s here! Safe and sound! All grown up again. Hovering to Adelaide’s right, she swooned over her daughter’s beauty. Look here! That’s my girl! So elegant and lovely! Circling to Adelaide’s left, she cringed. How hideous! How sickening! What’s happened to her? Look at my child, the poor, pathetic wretch!

  Rising high above the crowd, she spotted the man who’d led the sweet little girl away. “Watch out!” she cried. “He’s here! He means to catch a witch!”

  —

  Beatrice rushed across the avenue from the hotel to the park. It was almost three o’clock: she was nearly late. She’d been held up by the session put on by the Followers of the Needle, enthralled by one of the members’ accounts of having her rheumatism cured after visiting the obelisk aboard the Dessoug. The woman spoke so fervently about her miraculous healing, it’d been all Beatrice could do to hold herself back and not share her experience with the room. But remembering Adelaide’s strict instructions not to speak of her connection to the Needle until the symposium, she’d kept her thoughts to herself.

  Moving towards the spot where she and Adelaide had agreed to meet, she began to feel uncomfortable amongst the crush of strangers, overwhelmed by the persistent shouts of vendors, the startling racket of gunshots and the swell of brass bands as the parade marched ever closer. She was sad the obelisk itself wasn’t going to be part of the celebrations, but the latest report in the papers had said that Mr. Gorringe was now predicting that it might take until the New Year for it to reach Central Park. She supposed the man she’d met the day the Needle came ashore wouldn’t be attending today’s festivities, either. He’d seemed to take his guardianship of the stone quite seriously and she couldn’t imagine him leaving his post.

  Beatrice could sense a contingent of spirits drawing near. The sound of drums in the distance, the sea of uniformed men, the clomp of horses’ hooves had brought a ghostly parade of soldiers (five Union, two Confederate) to her side. The scent of gunpowder filled her nose while the strains of a melancholy tune rang in her ear. Me, oh my, I love her so. Broke my heart I had to go. Only time will heal my woe. Johnny has gone for a soldier. “Move along,” she whispered, waving the ghosts away. “I can’t speak with you now.” Thankfully, they relented, and no one among the living had noticed her odd behaviour.

  Ahead of her, she spotted a young woman who looked for all the world like Joan of Arc. Dressed in armour from the waist up, with her chestnut hair and scarlet skirts flowing, she appeared more vision than human, shrouded by the invisible waves of heat that were rising from the stone path. Could this out-of-place Joan be a spectre too? Tracking the young woman with her eyes, Beatrice hastened after her. She needed to find out for herself whether or not the girl was real.

  When she finally caught up to her, she discovered it was all a good-natured ruse. Joan, sword strapped to her side, was standing with the suffragists, cigarette holder in one hand, the standard of the NWSA in the other. “Blazing hot today,” she exclaimed as she chatted with her sisters.

  “Better than being on the stake,” one of the women teased.

  “I get enough of that,” Joan retorted, “eight shows a week.”

  Beatrice guessed she must be the actress who was starring in Joan’s Lament on Broadway near Union Square. She’d seen broadsheets for the play plastered on brick walls around the square. Although she was flesh and blood, she was still a wonder to behold. She hoped Adelaide had gotten a chance to see the girl. No doubt she’d approve of the suffragist’s flair for the dramatic.

  Thinking she might send some of the NWSA literature to Lydia, she started to approach the women to ask for a copy of their paper.

  Before she could reach them, a man drew near. “Miss?” he said, his voice hoarse, his dark imperial beard nearly hiding his mouth. “Might I trouble you for a moment?” From the tailored cut of his suit to the gaudy signet ring that glinted on his finger, it was clear he was a man of considerable wealth. Even the handle of his walking stick was a cut above, a silver ram’s head with two gleaming emeralds for eyes.

  Not wishing to be rude, Beatrice stopped to hear what he had to say.

  “I am Mr. Gideon Palsham,” the man said, giving Beatrice a polite bow.

  “Miss Dunn,” Beatrice replied with a wary nod.

  “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Dunn.”

  “Likewise,” Beatrice replied, wishing she knew where Ad
elaide was and how long this might take. The torch was just up ahead, but they’d stepped off the path, close to a group of women who were standing in a circle reciting psalms.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Mr. Palsham said, “but didn’t I see you at the hotel a short while ago, at the meeting of the Followers of the Needle?”

  “Yes, I was there,” Beatrice answered.

  “I knew it!” Mr. Palsham exclaimed, placing his hand on Beatrice’s arm. “I was seated in the same row, only a few seats over.”

  Not liking the thought that he’d taken notice of her, Beatrice flashed a nervous smile. “I’m afraid I really must go.”

  Gripping her arm so she couldn’t leave, he smiled and spoke with pleasant ease. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being forward, but I couldn’t help but notice your reaction when that lovely woman told her remarkable tale of her miraculous recovery after being in the presence of the Needle. The expression on your face was simply sublime. Angelic. Transcendent.”

  Beatrice held her breath, not knowing what to do or say.

  “Something tells me that you have a tale of your own to tell. I can only assume that perhaps you’ve had a similar experience? Have you also been in the presence of the Needle?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice admitted, immediately regretting her answer. “I mean, no,” she said, shaking her head, as she tried again to pull away from Mr. Palsham. His gaze was uncomfortably intense, his grip powerful, unyielding. For a moment she swore his eyes glowed bright, as if there was fire within them. Her belly lurched. She thought she might be sick.

  “Which is it, Miss Dunn?” Mr. Palsham pressed. “Yes or no?”

  The bells from a nearby church tolled the hour, one, two, three. Dogs barked from all corners of the square as the parade came closer.

  “I have to go,” Beatrice insisted, looking around for help.

  “You seem confused,” Mr. Palsham said, grabbing her around the waist. Lips pressed against her ear he hissed, “I saw you the day the obelisk crossed the tracks. I saw you touch it.”