by Tracy Donley
“A primary source? Jack… What have you found?”
“I can’t believe I’ve been able to keep this from you until now, but I wanted to show you in person,” said Jack excitedly. He went and opened a cabinet beneath a bookshelf, took out a small box, and brought it back to the couch. “We found this when we started to explore the old barn here on our land,” he said, opening the box to reveal another, smaller box which looked to be made of rusted tin of some kind.
“Whoa,” Rosemary breathed. “What’s inside that?”
“Open it,” said Jack, barely able to contain his excitement.
Outside, there was a bright flash of lightening, followed within seconds by a huge clap of thunder. The lights flickered and went out.
“Oh my gosh! No! Not now!” said Rosemary, who had just been reaching for the lid of the little box.
They moved closer to the fire, and between its light and that of the candles, Rosemary could see again. She gingerly opened the lid to reveal a small square of yellowed parchment—a letter, written in careful, scrolling script. Rosemary lifted the parchment out of the box, revealing a tiny key that lay beneath it.
“What does the key go to?”
“No idea,” said Jack. “Probably something that’s long since gone. But read the note.”
Rosemary’s eyes scanned the short missive to the signature at the bottom.
“Are you kidding me?” she said, breathless. “Mercy wrote this? Hortence’s sister actually wrote this?”
“It would appear so. She signed it,” said Jack, pointing to the small but beautiful curling signature. “Like I said, we’ve got Mercy’s old records at the museum. The handwriting is a match. Of course, I’ve alerted the Historical Society about this find, and as soon as I turn it over to the town, it’ll go straight into the museum. But I wanted to show it to you first. The early American script is a bit hard to read, of course, but not too challenging for an expert such as yourself.”
“Or yourself, either,” said Rosemary with a smile. “Isn’t it handy that we’re both academics?” She refocused on the letter. “It’s pretty badly faded, but it’s amazing that it’s in this condition—and even that it survived at all. It was in your old barn?”
“In a cache under the floorboards.”
“But how—"
“Seems our Mercy was one smart cookie,” said Jack. “This metal box was sealed with wax.”
“Seriously? She had the forethought to seal it in the midst of all of that craziness? Brilliant.”
Rosemary leaned closer to examine the scrap of paper. She slowly read the words aloud, deciphering the old English and swirling handwriting as she went:
I pray now for my poor sister’s soul. I had gone to her cell to keep vigil and pray for her through the night. Not arrived in time. Only to see her ruined, running away. I gather our beautiful flower now, the only good to come from it. Proof that flowers can grow up through the mud. We leave tonight. Forced to leave our home. I pray God we return someday to our family lands, to this land which we love so much. Faith the truth will out. I conceal this missive in hope, even now in hope of revelation. The day will come when God will lead some honest soul to find these words of mine. If thou that reads this is that soul, please seek true justice for my dearest. Justice held the only key. Truth and justice no more intertwined. Now set my sister’s restless soul at peace.”
* * *
“What do you make of it?” asked Jack.
“The flower she’s gathering is the baby—Hortence’s baby.”
“Lilly. Yes, that’s my conclusion, too.”
“She says that Lilly is the only good to come from it. From Hortence’s marriage to the awful Jonathan Gallow?”
“Presumably that’s the ‘mud’ she speaks of,” said Jack.
“And Mercy was rightfully afraid. She was trying to say something without saying it. I think she knew who’d had it in for her sister, but was too afraid to come out with it. The answer is in these words somewhere. I believe she’s trying to tell us who murdered Hortence.”
6
“I can’t believe you found this. And I can’t believe you’ve kept it a secret for two months.”
The lights had flickered back on as if on cue, and Jack, Rosemary, and Izzy were snuggled back into the couch, Mercy’s letter carefully laid out on the coffee table in front of them.
“I know! Right?”
“What are the odds that you would move to Paperwick and buy a farm that once belonged to an accused witch, and then decide to renovate the barn and happen upon this treasure?”
“Ah, but if you really think about it, the odds were tipped in my favor,” said Jack. “Number one: I’m in love with early American literature and history and married a man who has the same passion for those things, along with anything spooky or witchy or mysterious—that’s what drew us both to this area in the first place. Number two: We wanted to live in a college town with an excellent liberal arts department—but that town also had to be steeped in early American history to inspire Charlie’s writing. Number three: We heard this farm was up for sale, and once we read about its history—that it had been home to an accused witch—we knew it was the place for us. We saw that old barn and knew it was a relic. We’re here precisely because we wanted to tap into the history of this place. And when we started digging…”
“You hit pay dirt,” said Rosemary.
“Right under our very noses. See, this place was known as Gallow Farm only because Hortence, the eldest of the Clark girls, married a Gallow and her property passed into his hands.”
“So, the farm didn’t originally belong to Jonathan Gallow. It belonged to Hortence and Mercy.”
“To their father, yes. They grew up here. That’s why they didn’t leave the farm when Jonathan died. They wanted to stay on their family land.”
“I get it,” said Rosemary. “That’s why in spite of everything, Mercy was hoping to come back someday. This was her home.”
“Exactly. The only home she’d ever known. But with Hortence dead and Mercy gone, the family next door—the Graves—eventually absorbed this farm into theirs.”
“But didn’t you say that Matthew Graves was the judge who was ready to condemn Hortence? What if he just wanted her land and executing her was his sick way of grabbing it?”
“But remember, he didn’t ever get the chance to execute her. She escaped from the jail the night before her trial.”
“Oh. Right.”
“As the years went by, the farm passed through various hands, and was divided into smaller parcels of land. Our old barn was fortified, and then improved, but then left to fall to ruins. A couple of months ago, when I wanted to get the goats and the chickens, we decided to renovate it, and in the process of removing what was left of the old, rotting floors, we unearthed this little beauty.” Jack took a deep breath.
“Oh, this is good, Jack. This is the best thing ever. It’s a great find on its historical merits alone. But do you realize? If we can solve Mercy’s riddle, we can tell the true story of what happened to Hortence Gallow.”
“Now set my sister’s restless soul at peace,” said Jack, quoting Mercy. “There’s a book in there somewhere, and I think you should write it.”
“What do you say we collaborate?” asked Rosemary with a smile. “We haven’t done that since our senior thesis: When Words—and Worlds—Collide: History and Literature, Two Sides of the Same Coin.”
“And it was brilliant,” said Jack. “Especially that title. Let’s do it!”
Charlie came into the room. “Still coming down like cats and dogs out there,” he said. “Oh—sorry, Rosemary. Just dogs. Not cats. Never cats.”
“Thank you,” said Rosemary, who had the willies from just thinking about cats falling from the sky in great numbers.
“Did Jack show you his prize?” asked Charlie.
“He did,” said Rosemary. “We’re already planning our bestseller.”
“Excellent!” said Charlie. �
��I’ll be the first one standing in line to buy an autographed copy. I’m going to make popcorn.” He headed into the kitchen and Rosemary turned back to Jack.
“And as far as your research goes, did Mercy and the baby just disappear? They never came back?”
“Oh, but they did come back,” said Jack. “Well, Mercy never came back, but Lilly would grow up and have a daughter of her own: Mary. And Mary came back with her family. They lived on the other side of town, though. Not on this farm. But believe it or not, there is still a descendent right here in town—a strange and colorful descendent.”
“Seriously? This is amazing! I can meet this descendent?”
“Oh yeah. You’re going to meet her.”
“I know that those accused of witchcraft were posthumously pardoned by the state of Connecticut in 2006. I bet Hortence’s family appreciated that, even if it was hundreds of years too late.”
“Pardoned. Yes, they were,” said Jack, pouring each of them a fresh cup of coffee. “But not Hortence Gallow.”
“But why not?”
“Because remember, Hortence never made it to trial. She was never formally sentenced. Or officially executed, either. And even though the records from her case do exist, they’re over three hundred years old, and shoddy at best. The point being, Hortence didn’t make the list of those who were pardoned. And this descendent—this great-great-great-whatever granddaughter who lives here in Paperwick now—is none too happy about it. In fact, she’s mad about a lot of things. And also, she’s a nut.”
A sudden crash of thunder rattled the windows and both Jack and Rosemary jumped. It was pitch black dark outside now, although every time the lighting flashed, Rosemary could see the silvery trees thrashing wildly in the wind.
Jack got up and added some wood to the fire.
“That’s the history part of the story as far as I can tell it,” he said, sitting down again. “And tomorrow, while I’m at school, you can poke around the Witch’s Meadow, where you’ll meet someone who can tell you all about the legend. And the curse.”
“Whoa. The curse?”
“Hortence’s curse.”
“She cursed the village? Ooh. Did she curse the judge?”
“I’ll say no more,” said Jack, primly shaking his head. “The rest can wait until your date at the cemetery tomorrow.”
“Hold it. Date?”
“Well…research-date-appointment.”
Before Rosemary could press the matter, Izzy’s ears perked up, and Charlie came back into the room with a huge bowl of buttered popcorn.
“What’s the movie tonight?” he asked, plunking down between Jack and Rosemary and giving Izzy a scratch behind the ears.
“I’m going to gain twenty pounds before I leave here,” groaned Rosemary, but she took a big handful of popcorn anyway. “But you know what? I don’t seem to care. Let’s get this party started.”
7
They’d stayed up so late that Rosemary hadn’t even gotten a good look at her bedroom in the old farmhouse before falling into a deep carb-induced sleep. When she opened her eyes the next morning, she didn’t know where she was for a moment.
Birds were singing in the trees outside. Light was filtering in through sheer linen curtains. The four-poster bed, which she’d literally sunken into, was covered in a white, fluffy, feathery comforter, tossed with numerous luxurious pillows. The walls were painted a peaceful color that was a cross between sage green, tiffany blue, and an eggshell gray, depending on how the light was hitting it.
Against the far wall was a petite fireplace, trimmed in tiny, colorful mosaic tiles—a surprising splash of color against the neutral paint. A generous basket of fatwood sat next to it. There was a desk, stocked with a cup of pens and a fresh pad of paper. Jack knew her well.
Rosemary stood, her feet landing on a fluffy faux fur rug that had been tossed over the old hardwood floors. She slid into her slippers and shrugged on the thick, cozy robe that hung from a hook beside a door that led into an equally well-appointed guest bathroom. She splashed a little cool water on her face, made the bed, and then opened the curtains and looked out at a beautiful, sunny day. The rain had left cold, clean air behind. The trees and damp grass sparkled in the sunlight.
Rosemary followed the smell of freshly brewed coffee down the hall and through the living room, into the kitchen, where Jack sat at the table, sipping from a steaming mug and reading the newspaper.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“Like a rock,” said Rosemary, pouring herself a cup of coffee and taking the chair beside Jack. “Where’s Charlie?”
“Out for a run,” said Jack, shaking his head. “Can you believe I’m married to a person who actually enjoys exercise and gets out and sweats almost every day? By choice?”
Rosemary laughed. “Well, they do say opposites attract.”
“Indeed, they do,” said Jack, standing. “I’m making omelets. How many eggs for you?”
“Two. What time’s your first class?”
“Not until eleven. I thought I’d drop you at the churchyard while I’m in class, and then at twelve-thirty, we can meet for lunch, and I’ll take you to the museum.”
“Sounds great. I can’t wait to get a look at those headstones. There’s so much history in this part of the country.”
A few minutes later, as they enjoyed Jack’s cheesy mushroom and leek omelets and the caffeine finally kicked in, Rosemary could feel her energy returning.
“So, about this curse . . .”
“Nope. I’m not cracking. You’re going to have to wait until we get to the church. I’ve got an expert ready and waiting.”
--
Energized by breakfast and with extra time before she and Jack were to head into town, Rosemary decided to take a brisk turn around the farm, which included a few minutes spent sitting in an Adirondack chair on the dock at the edge of the large pond/small lake that lay just down from the house. The water was shimmering in the morning light, and surrounding its grassy banks were woods that made the whole place feel beautifully secluded. The only other house in view was a snug little cottage which sat about a quarter of the way around the circle of the pond from Jack and Charlie’s house. An old red truck was parked outside, and Rosemary wondered who the neighbor was, but the thought slipped from her mind when she heard the honking of a flock of wild geese flying overhead. This place was breathtaking. In the cool air, Rosemary could smell wood smoke and fallen leaves and a hint of pine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so peaceful or content.
She showered and dressed, and she and Jack made the short drive into town.
Jack dropped her near the old graveyard, not far from the town square, alongside a historic church which ironically, was resplendent in its simplicity. A square saltbox of a structure, its facade had large, arched, clear glass windows on either side of a neatly trimmed wooden door. The graveyard itself formed a rough rectangle, stretching out away from the little church, with trees on three sides, the church on the fourth.
The church bore a historic marker that read “First Church: 1628” and went on to describe the Puritan congregation that had founded the parish, with a small note beneath it announcing that services were still held in the church every Sunday morning at nine and ten-thirty—with a coffee hour in between—and presided over by a Reverend Robert Smith.
Rosemary smiled up at the simple steeple, which, instead of a cross, was topped by a weathervane in the shape of a trumpeting angel. Then she quietly, reverently made her way into the cemetery, and stood at the edge, looking over the old headstones in amazement.
She walked along the little gravel path that wound between the crooked rows of headstones, stopping to take photos here and there, and planning out the path visitors would take at the festival. Today was Tuesday. Only a few days until the festival opened on Friday. In that time, there were costumes to put together, scripts to write, and final plans to make.
That morning over omel
ets, Rosemary and Jack had discussed their list of the five historical figures they’d chosen to tell their tales in the graveyard. Hortence Gallow, in the meadow, would be number six, and then visitors could loop back around the outside of the churchyard from the meadow, to the village square, where the rest of the festival would be in full swing.
There were little lights already lining the paths in the graveyard. In addition, they would add luminarias to cast a festive glow, and Jack had obtained twenty-five small lanterns with realistic-looking flickering flames. These they would hang from the trees to bring just the right amount of eerie light to the scene. Groups of visitors would be ushered through the graveyard from one featured character to another. Each ghost would be standing next to his or her own grave, ready to say a little bit about his or her life, and death, in Paperwick.
The graveyard was a haven to a historian. Some of the names were especially wonderful. There was Creedence Willow, wife of John Willow, who passed away in 1667—a mother to nine, grandmother to thirty-three. And Wilbur Smith, who had lived to be ninety—an amazing feat for the 17th century.
“Here lieth buried the body of Felicity Cummings,” mumbled Rosemary, as she ran her fingers over the letters of a weathered, cracked headstone.
“Happy name,” said a voice from behind her, startling Rosemary.
She turned to see the mayor, Samuel Wright, standing between two old headstones, hands in his pockets, smiling.
“Sorry,” he said, picking his way around various plots to come closer. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”
“That’s okay,” said Rosemary, standing up and tucking her notebook under her arm so that she could shake his hand. “Thought I’d seen a ghost there for a moment.”
“No such luck.” He laughed. “How’s it going? Jack says you’re helping out with the Historical Society’s fundraiser.”
“Yes,” said Rosemary. “He tells me you’re all set to play Elias Wright—an early arrival here in the village. He’s picked out five other colorful characters to bring to life as well.”
