Dark Shadows 2: The Salem Branch

by Lara Parker

  It was annoying to see her treat his remarks as a joke. So that was to be her game. She had her own wiles, that was certain.

  “How can I help but think about you, as you say?”

  She smiled as though he had complimented her, and shrugged, “It’s only that I would have expected more genteel behavior from an . . . uh . . . English Gentleman.” She placed the epithet in verbal italics, her tone sardonic.

  At last he recognized the Angelique he knew, a woman who teased to be cruel. He felt his head swim, and he reached for the table to steady himself. A wave of profound irritation swept over him. He had approached her for only one reason: to discuss the sale of the Old House, to entreat her to leave, to abandon her plans, however fiendish, to once again give him peace. But now he stood helplessly on the other side of the cherry table, looking into her azure eyes, aware of a heavy line of black mascara on her lids. She tilted her head to one side, her expression amused.

  “I’m afraid,” she was saying, “as attractive as you are, I need a little more time. Not that I’m not intrigued—” and she laid her hand on his. A shot of blood rushed to his face. “But,” and she was almost coy, “you have to admit we hardly know each other.”

  “How can you say that?” His voice was harsh and something in his tone made her smile vanish.

  “How can I say that? Because I have met you only once, in the drawing room at Collinwood.”

  “You know, of course, I am not speaking of this life. Not this life where it is true we have only met once, but of the past, the past where you and I—”

  She laughed, and her laughter gave him a sudden chill, so familiar were its scales. “That’s terrific,” she said, her voice brimming with amusement. “Très bon, monsieur! That’s the best one I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “Angelique—”

  “Who?”

  “I call you that because I know who you are and why you are here.”

  Her eyes grew serious as they focused on his. “You know, Barnabas, you’ve got me completely confused.”

  “Why have you come here?” he said.

  “What? To Salem?”

  “Yes, to begin with.” She was exasperating.

  “Well . . . I am doing research on medicinal practices of the late seventeenth century. This is a very unusual library. Most of the books are so rare they can’t be removed from this room.”

  “And why are you studying the history of my family?”

  For the first time something betraying uneasiness flickered across her face, and she looked away. Still, as she moved to close the books and gather up her notes, her voice was controlled.

  “Look, I bought that old house and it belonged to these Collins people, you know, your family. So I’m curious about them. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I would think you already know all you need to know.”

  She laughed. “Okay, I’ve gotten carried away—I’ll admit it—with the reconstruction. It’s become an obsession.” She shuffled notes into a limp velvet sack that was from some Middle-Eastern country, perhaps Afghanistan. It was heavily appliquéd with bells and sparkling beads embroidered over silken birds and flowers, and it jingled as she shifted it to accommodate her papers. He could feel her warm to her topic as though she had discussed this all before. “I’ve hunted all over for the materials and fabrics, the furniture . . . antique stores, junk shops. I want it to be just like it was.”

  “But, why?”

  “Why?”

  “It seems such a waste to recreate the crack in the mantel, the twenty layers of paint, the mold on the porch, and really my dear, let’s be sensible, the coffin in the basement?”

  “The what?”

  Again he thought he caught something flicker across her face, if only for an instant, and her eyelashes fluttered in that old way before she regained composure.

  “What are you talking about?” She was suddenly much more sober, and now he was certain she was lying.

  “Let’s end this charade. I know perfectly well why you came. And what’s more, you know I know. I am not confounded by your cunning pretenses, your hippie disguise. I see through your painstaking efforts to delude my family, and I know you have rebuilt the Old House as a trap.”

  She spoke softly, with hesitation. “All right. I will tell you the truth. I am here because of my daughter—”

  “Your daughter? A daughter no one has seen? Oh, come let us draw away this curtain of deceit and at least acknowledge what we both know. You have returned to Collinwood to torture me once again, and if you remain here, my life will be a living hell—”

  “You know what? You’re nuts.” Her face hardened and all her warmth faded in an instant. She turned and, jerking her books together in a pile, gathered them to her breast. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I do know I don’t want to stand here any more and listen to this shit.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Who do you think you are? You don’t know a thing about me or my daughter. You have no idea.”

  “My dear, I know you well. Have you forgotten we were once lovers?”

  Her face reddened and she flared. “Okay. This . . . joke has gone on long enough. Stay away from me.” She turned and walked quickly towards the landing.

  Helplessness gripped him, and he struggled to find a way to stop her.

  “Angelique, wait—”

  “Don’t call me that! And don’t come near me. Stay back or I’ll scream for the cops.” She raced for the stairs.

  Barnabas stood looking after her, rigid, as though he had been slapped. He wanted to call her back, to go after her, but he was unable to move from the spot. Over and over again in his mind he saw her flee towards the balcony, her blue cape over her arm, her long skirt skimming the polished floor, her figure disappearing down the stairs. He was in a state of utter confusion. How could this have been the interview he had anticipated for months, the confrontation he had played over and over again in his mind in endless rehearsals and revisions?

  Deep in his body the heat began to build. His hands quivered and trembled with tingling spasms, and the rush of blood bloomed in his limbs and flooded his face. He collapsed into a chair while his thoughts spun in slow swimming circles, and his eyes grew dim. What a dolt he was! What a blundering idiot! He had finally found a way to confront her and confound her with his logic, his knowledge of her secrets, his compelling threats. But he had only managed to antagonize her.

  Slowly, the heat began to subside. He was stung by her rejection, that was true, and she had left him red-faced and embarrassed. But beneath the surface something else was stirring, something far more basic and terrifying. Angelique was his mortal enemy. There could be no one in the world towards whom he felt greater enmity. The sound of her voice, the cut of her gaze, her quick gestures, her volatile nature—all he hated and feared. But after looking into her eyes, he could only remember thinking two things: that this woman could not be the Angelique he knew, and that once again he was caught in her spell.

  ELEVEN

  Salem—1692

  FIVE MAGISTRATES SAT behind the bench in the meetinghouse and looked down at Miranda, who was so filled with loathing she shook the veil off her eyes and saw them for what they were. Five lace collars gleamed, and five white jabots hung stiff like knives against black robes. Five cruel faces leered at her, and at first glance she made out John Hathorne, the feared judge of witches, Bartholomew Gedney, Samuel Sewall, Jonathan Corwin and Amadeus Collins, the father of her benefactor. The second time she looked at them, she saw snakes curling at their lips and sliding through their long hair. Bartholomew Gedney had green snakes with forked tongues slithering from his mouth, and Samuel Sewall had eyes like baby snakes still in the egg, glossy and quivering. She took heart when Amadeus Collins placed his large soft hands upon the record book. But a huge snake slid out of it to the floor and began to move silently toward Miranda. She watched it crawl beneath her skirt.

  Magistrate Gedney spoke first. “Miranda du Val, you are here be
fore the General Court of Salem City, charged in the name of this commonwealth of not having the fear of God before your eyes nor in your heart, being seduced by the Devil and yielding to his instigations; and, to the wickedness of your own nature, about the beginning of October last in Salem Village, near the house of Reverend Whaples, that you did willfully murder his daughter by bewitching her, causing her to fall to her death, against the word of God and the laws of this jurisdiction, long since made published. What say you?”

  “I am an innocent person,” she replied. “I never had to do with witchcraft since I was born.”

  “Miranda du Val, you are now in the hands of Authority. Tell me now why you hurt this child.”

  “I have never hurt anyone.”

  “Who did?”

  “I do not know sir. Pray give me leave to go to prayer.”

  The magistrates murmured among themselves, nodding after this remark. Then John Hathorne spoke, the twitching red serpent quivering on his tongue.

  “Who is your God?”

  “The God that made me.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Jehovah.”

  “Do you know any other name?”

  “God Almighty.”

  “Doth he tell you, that you pray to, that He is God Almighty?”

  “What mean you sir? I do worship but the God who made me.”

  Now Attorney General Thomas Newton, an ancient man with a full beard of pus white lizards, leaned forward and spoke. “Can you read the scripture, child?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Step forward and read this verse.” He opened the great Bible and Miranda looked down at the page where his bony newt finger pointed and squirmed. She felt her heart thumping in her temples, but she spoke in a clear voice.

  “If there arise among you a prophet, or a dreamer of dreams, and giveth a sign or a wonder—put to death, be it son, daughter, or wife of thy bosom.”

  “Art thou a dreamer of dreams, Miranda?”

  “I am a servant girl, sir.”

  “Why did you frolic with the children in the woods?”

  “We went with Tituba, sir.”

  “Tituba has confessed to witchcraft and repented. And the evidence reveals that if after quarreling or threatening a person, mischief do follow, or death thereof, there is great presumption against them that do quarrel. Do you not see these complain of you?”

  Miranda turned and looked at the three evil-eyed girls: Betty, with her arm in a cloth sling, Abigail, and Mary. They had all testified against her to save themselves a whipping. On a bench behind the girls sat the ministers: the bereaved Reverend Whaples, father of the dead girl; Cotton Mather, son of Increase Mather; the unordained Deodat Larson; and Benajah Collins, who looked at her and shook his head sadly.

  “The Lord shows his power to discover the guilty,” she said.

  “Did you not dance with these children and delight in ecstasies?” said John Hathorne. “And did not these delights invoke spirits which pushed these children toward the cliff? Confess now and you will be spared.”

  “I followed these children into the woods because I knew Tituba had promised them they would fly. I thought to save them from falling, but I could not.”

  “How might you save them? As God saves them?”

  “As I might by blocking their fall.”

  “Did you not dance with these children? Give an answer. They say there was a man whispering in your ear. What did he say to you?”

  “I saw nobody.”

  “But did you not hear?”

  “We must not believe all these distracted children say.”

  “Do you think to find mercy by aggravating your sins?”

  “I have not sinned.”

  The magistrates gasped at this presumption and once more moved together in conference like black slugs on a piece of rotten squash. Then Magistrate Gedney spoke. “Miranda du Val you are suspected of having the Devil’s mark, for it is thought when the Devil maketh his covenant he always leaves his mark behind him to know them for his own.”

  “A true thing. I have not a mark.”

  “Let the accused be examined for a Devil’s mark or some sort of teat whereon the incubus might feed.”

  Miranda felt a hot flush rise from her stomach that reddened her face and neck.

  “Goodwife Broughton and Goodwife Cable, come forward and perform the examination for the benefit of this Court.”

  As the women approached, Miranda grew panicked and cried out. “I have no mark, sir.”

  “Give glory to God and confess then.”

  “But I have naught to confess.”

  “Do you believe these children are bewitched?”

  “They may for ought I know. I have no hand in it.” She faltered, and then said, “It may be the Devil appeared in my form without my knowledge.”

  “Then the Devil will surely show himself. Proceed.”

  Sarah Cable was a mean-spirited young woman with no children. She hesitated before she came close. “Please sir, bind her hands, for when she moves them about, I feel I am pinched.”

  “Do you fear the witness, Goody Cable?”

  “Aye sir.”

  “Know you that we can find no way to both bind her hands and remove her clothes. Be courageous, woman, and we will protect you.”

  Deodat Larson, a younger man with a gentler nature, grimaced at the thought of Miranda’s humiliation. “Would it not be sensible to await the dunking? That shows the greater proof,” he said.

  Hathorne answered, “There be no more perfect evidence than the Devil’s sign.” He turned to the women, who pulled Miranda’s cap from her hair. His eyes glittered. “Recall sometimes it’s like a teat, sometimes but a blemish spot, sometimes where the flesh has sunken.”

  Miranda felt her skirt loosen and fall, her woolen petticoat and her pantaloons. Shame flowed over her like a fever as Goody Cable unrolled the dark stockings from her legs, and she stood before them in her cotton shift and shivered as they began their search. She despised them all so deeply it gave her strength. The men watched with their serpent eyes, and she could smell lust like the stench from a chamber pot rising off them. At last the women looked to the Court.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Search further,” said John Hathorne, and a newt leapt from his mouth. “The Devil intends nothing but our utter confusion, the reason being his malice towards all men.” He paused, and added in a lower voice, “And his insatiable desire to have witches as his own.” Miranda, who was now bared to him, held his gaze with a defiance she could not suppress, though centipedes coiled in his cheeks. Then he said, “Let the record show the accused sheds no tears.”

  “I only find the dirt and rough scratches on her hands and face from having languished in prison,” said Goody Broughton. “Her body shows no unnatural marks.”

  “Have you searched everywhere?” Jonathan Corwins voice was hoarse. The women looked at one another and then cast down their eyes.

  “Search further.”

  They lifted her arms and peered at her armpits, behind her ears, beneath her breasts, into the crack of her behind; and Goody Broughton knelt on the floor and, first checking to make certain that Miranda would not smite her, gazed upwards between her legs. As Miranda endured it all, a warm mist settled over her body, while John Hathorne’s breath came in milky puffs. She could see creamy maggots oozing from his lips and wriggling on his jabot, and she smiled to herself to think of his lascivious dreams that night.

  NOW IN THE PIT OF THE JAIL, she allowed herself to reflect on these things. After first telling her that she would be expected to pay for her trial, her food, and even the chains that bound her, and that the cost of these things would ensure her indenture for another year, were she to confess and be pardoned, they led her to the reeking dungeon and locked her in with the other disgraced and defenseless women accused of witchcraft. Emma Williams was there with a newborn babe, now grown sickly from the foul stench. Sarah Dorset had been jailed with
her child of five years, a girl with terrified eyes.

  “What shall you do?” they whispered.

  “’Tis a fiendish ordeal, to be sure.”

  “Art thou the Devil’s handmaiden, Miranda?”

  “Have you carnal knowledge of his secret parts? Do they differ from other men’s?”

  “Hush, woman, this is a girl without a husband. What knows she of a man’s parts?”

  “What wilt thou do, Miranda? Wilt thou swim?”

  “Yea, swim, that be best. Rise like a cork and let them think thee a witch. Then confess, and beg forgiveness.”

  Her voice was low. “If I confess, they will take my farm.”

  “Aye. But ‘tis better than dying.”

  “There you are most grievously wrong,” she said. “My life and my farm are one and the same.”

  “What will you do? If you sink, then surely you drown.”

  “How can one drown and live? One cannot.”

  “Can you not place rocks in your pockets?”

  “Hide in the brambles.”

  “The water will be cold.”

  “’Tis painful to breathe in water. I believe the chest swells and bursts.”

  “Hush. You will frighten the child. Is it not difficult enough?”

  “What will you do, Miranda?”

  She did not answer them, but her heart held fast to a feeble, reckless plan, a plan she whispered to Andrew Merriweather when he was allowed one last visit before her ordeal. It was felt by the magistrates that he alone might convince her to confess.

  THE DAY WAS COLD and the sun was dim behind streaks of clouds. All the color had drifted off the trees and their withering leaves hung limp and motionless. Miranda stood by the side of the pond and heard the words of the magistrate.

  “I adjure thee, O vessel of water, by the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, and by the holy resurrection and by the tremendous day of judgment, and by the four evangelists, that if this woman is guilty of this crime, either by deed or by consent, let the water cast her out to float upon the stream, violently, and do thou O vessel, rid thyself of her evil forever more. For in a contract with the Devil she hath renounced her baptism. Hence the natural antipathy between her and holy water.”