Dark Shadows 2: The Salem Branch

by Lara Parker

One day when rain threatened, he did not go to the forest, and she set an early meal of stewed rabbit before him in a new clay dish. She banked the fire, scraped the last of the roots, and went to the stream for water. She saw the trees had turned the color of blood. They were all one; the brilliant leaves, the bushes and briars, the forest floor, even the light reflected on the trunks was a blazing scarlet. She saw the crimson shimmer in the stream, and she stopped to watch the water change from carmine to silver blue to black, and to listen to the jeering voice of the rapids. The green leaf snake had come unraveled. Time to make another. She climbed to the top of the hill to watch the sun disappear, but it was cheerless behind the haze, like a waning moon.

  She returned to fold the quilts, her heart beating a new rhythm, quick and hard. What do the magistrates fear, she thought, and how does the Reverend chill their bones to the marrow? How to strike back at the quivering air which has taken the form, in their cowardly minds, of imps and demons? Always evil is kept stewing, lies waiting, like a pot simmering on the hearth, and there is nothing that is not cause for fear: the Indian who walks silently, the Indian whose dark skin gleams with sweat, the Indian who possesses his own arrows. One must also fear the cripple, and the clairvoyant child, the orphan, or the woman no longer of child bearing age, the scold, the complainer, the woman who is widowed, or the woman who is too beautiful.

  Fear is a clenched hand around a cold and narrow heart, a poison in the blood, a lethargy in the limbs. What did Metacomet say to her? The day a man turns his back on knowledge, he becomes fear’s fool. For the Puritans, fear demanded they find the truth. But knowledge shows no truths, only the eternal unfolding mystery. He often said of the Puritans, “We wondered how people so inept could ever be a danger to us.”

  Such was the darkness of the day, Miranda hurried to gather the blankets off the rope where she had hung them to air. In the cabin Andrew was lighting the fire while she waited for the sun to drop beneath the rim of the world. At first the wind was only an encumbrance, whipping the sheets on the line, insistent gusts that lifted her skirts as if she were a kite poised to fly. When she felt herself rising, she reached for the sapling where the sheet was tied, but the tree pulled away and she slipped from the earth’s grasp. Loose on an errant breeze, she swayed and looked down, swung on the air, rose up, floated, tethered to the rope of the wind. What had the girls said when they flapped their puny arms? Whist Whist. Hair flying, body arched, she pressed her skirt in front but it flew up in back like a bell, and the air leaf-fluttered beside her cheeks. She was drawn into a vortex, like the deer driven into the pen, coming from a wide place driven into a small place where they could so easily be killed, and the pinpoint of the vortex for her was her farm.

  In minutes she was looking down from a great height at her father’s house—its rosy sides and gray roof, a beaver dam rebuilt stronger than before, the widening pond reflecting the sky, and a lone figure behind the plow in her field of flax. It was Benajah Collins hard at work on her land.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING the stones came. At first they were only a few, falling like hail, a delight to the children who ran to collect them like wild goose eggs out of the grass. But those were only her tears. That afternoon Andrew returned from the town with strange news. Commonly taciturn, he was brimming with talk.

  “Calamity has befallen Salem Village,” he said. “It is raining stones.”

  “Hail, most likely.”

  “No, this is a true thing. Benajah Collins, his wife, Esther, and their three children: the boy Peter, the girl Mercy, and Authority, the baby, guests and servants, all were seated by the fire when they heard a great clattering noise on the roof.”

  “Stars falling . . .”

  “Benajah ran out to investigate and saw nothing other than the bright moonlight; but his new gate was torn from its hinges. When he turned to seek refuge within his own walls, his back was pelted with small boulders.”

  “I can only think his wife served him a poor dinner.”

  “Why will you not listen? Within the house stones flew about, and a hand reached in the window and tossed stones into the room. The children shrieked. Stones fell out of the sky and, flying about, broke the window glass, forcing out the bars, the lead and the harps. Stones pelted down the chimney and fell into the fire, then flew out red hot and struck the pewterware and sent the brass candlesticks crashing to the floor. Esther was screaming. The poor woman snatched up her children and ran down to the cellar where the walls were thick. But that room was infected as well. Stones dislodged themselves from the foundation and flew through the air like birds. Rocks fell from the ceiling and she was struck many times whilst she hovered over her children to protect them.”

  “Is his the only house?”

  “No, the stones are falling in the fields, laying waste the rye. The town is a cauldron of fear. They say ’tis witchcraft.”

  “Then it must be that.”

  Andrew jerked up, his eyes yellow with distrust. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. He rose and paced the cabin, hunched over, his heat filling the air with mist. His bushy hair flew out from his head and his red beard bristled. He had been shamed back into silence, but it was a brooding hush that felt ready to explode. A new fear rose in her heart, and yet she managed to speak gently.

  “The stones are far from here, are they not?”

  “The stones are troubling, but not the worst of it.”

  “What is the worst of it?”

  He paced, and was silent. When he found his voice, it was harsh, and his hazel eyes, when he looked at her, had shrunk to cinders. His face grew dark and he nodded to her thickening waist.

  “At first I believed you were growing plump on apples, Miranda. But your ankles and wrists are thin.”

  She let the air bottled up in her chest escape in a long sigh. “I thought you would never speak of it.”

  “I see you have new life in you,” he said.

  She smiled shyly. “Yes.”

  “Dost thou expect me to raise another man’s child?”

  Her eyes widened. “The child is yours, Andrew. How could you think otherwise?”

  “Nay. It cannot be mine. Do not lay the blame on me.”

  “How can you say such a thing? Five months after that terrible night.”

  “Because I have never touched thee.”

  A hot wave rose up in her. Her words tumbled out. “The night I brought the cake. The night before you left on the raid against the Naumkeag. You followed me into the woods, and there, in the dark—in the storm—”

  “Nay, lass, I never did.” When he stood, he so filled the space with his bulk and his odor of bear grease and leather, she felt squeezed into a corner.

  “It was you, Andrew. And only you.”

  “I did not leave the cabin.”

  “Yes, Andrew. You caught me on the path and pulled me down into the leaves. Don’t deny it. There is no need to be ashamed. I was glad on it. You hurt me but I gave myself to you. I wanted to marry, and I wanted to bind you to me. You were violent, but the fault was not yours. I can only admit this shameful thing to you now. There was a spell in the cake. One you could not have resisted.”

  “There was a spell, that I know. After you left, my body was on fire for you. I thought I would go mad. I told the farmers to leave without me for all I could think was I would search for you in the forest, and find you, and—” He drew in his breath with a hiss. “I bid the youngest boy, Richard Brazier, to hang back since he was too inexperienced to soldier, being but eleven years. By then, I was mad and feverish. I told him I suffered from fits and begged him to tie my hands to the table leg that I might not endanger myself. This he did, and put my coat and musket out of reach, on the other side of my door. All night I bucked on the floor, and suffered the torments of Hell, but I could not loosen the knots. Morning came and I was somewhat recovered. Richard came to release me and I went to fetch my things, only to find my coat missing.”

  “Stolen?”

&
nbsp; “Aye.”

  “By whom?”

  “That secret was revealed to me many weeks later. I found my skins in the bottom of his cart. It was the schoolteacher, Judah Zachery.”

  MIRANDA WASHED HER COLLAR and bonnet and hung them in the sun. She pulled them flat as they dried to press them and give them starch. She brushed the mud from the bottom of her cape and carefully cleaned her shoes. Then, setting her teeth and stiffening her body, she bathed in the stream. Shivering in the cold water, she looked up at her trees, wondering whether she would see them again. The oaks reached out to hold the sky like a great basin in their arms. Their trunks were moss painted, the bark deeply crevassed. Their majesty made her bold; their beauty made her weep. A bird repeated a musical call, over and over, and his fluting brought on deep melancholy. Beside the stream, a fallen monster from the previous year had begun to decay and was now trimmed with ruffles of mushrooms and lace of lichen. Hordes of ants crawled feverishly in and out of the sawdust.

  Drawing on her woolen dress, she cupped her hand over her swollen stomach. There were flutterings now of the vile thing she carried. Were its feet cloven, its face shriveled like a bat’s? She would rid herself of it this very day were it not for the protection it afforded. In Salem Town, a woman with child, though she were condemned, could not be put to death before she delivered. The Puritans valued every child as a gift from God, made in His glorious image. But this one was not one of those.

  Andrew had clung to his sullen ways, but he had not forced her to leave. He still brought her food and allowed her to clean and cook his meals, thereby feeding herself. She thought long and hard over telling him her plan. If he tried to stop her, they would argue, and those tenuous ties they still enjoyed would be broken. If he followed after to protect her, he might come to harm in the village. She waited until the morning she was prepared to depart.

  “Andrew, I mean to go to Salem Town and show myself, proving their trial was a farce. My farm belongs to me. My father cleared the land and built the house. I will appeal to the magistrates for justice, and that my unlawful sentence be annulled.”

  “Nay, lass, they will arrest you. ’Tis hysteria now in Salem Town.”

  “But there must be among the populace some who are still pure of heart. I floated not, and I lived.”

  “There are none left who will not say witchcraft.” His eyes were full of worry for her and she was surprised.

  “That may come to pass. And it may not.”

  He stood for a long moment staring at her. “You are a pretty sight, Miranda,” he said, “with your fresh collar and white cap like wings beside your eyes.” She reached for his arm and laid her hand upon it.

  “Do not think on the child, Andrew. It will not come into the world alive.”

  “I cannot tell you what to do, Miranda.” He loomed over her but did not touch her. “God be with thee.” She stopped and turned back to him.

  “I have been happy here,” she said. And they both went out the door, going their separate ways.

  WHEN SHE WALKED into the town, Miranda saw boulders of all sizes scattered in the barnyards, branches broken from trees, carts smashed, roof beams splintered, even a goat lying dead by the road. At first she was not noticed, as the townsfolk were all enthralled with the cataclysm, clearing out sheds and searching for cattle lost to fright and broken fences. It was the children who believed they were seeing an apparition and cried out and ran to their mothers.

  “Miranda du Val has returned from the dunking!”

  Wives came to their broken windows to look out. Husbands came from their barns. Miranda went first to Goody Collins to look in on her old home. Esther was sweeping glass. Her newframed house listed like a beached ship. When Miranda appeared at her hearth, she too believed she saw a phantom. She stopped her sweeping and stared, a stupid look on her round face. Her children ran to her skirts.

  “Why, girl, is it really you?”

  “Aye, ’tis I.”

  “And are you . . . surely you must be poorly.”

  “No. I am well. Where is the Reverend?” Goody Collins’s face clouded over; she shook off her clinging children, and went to lift the baby although it was not crying.

  “He is away.”

  “Sowing my land?”

  The woman flared with resentment. “Why what else could we do? We thought you were lost, and since we have provided for you all these years, the farm seemed rightly ours.”

  “But it is not. The food you gave me—I worked for it, did I not?”

  “The land lay fallow!”

  “Tell him I have returned to claim what is mine.”

  WHEN MIRANDA REACHED the meetinghouse word had gone before, but they were unbelieving until they saw her walk through the door. The hall was crowded with spectators and another pitiful specimen was in the dock, bewildered and begging for justice. The girls cried out as if in terrible pain and rolled on the floor. The woman—Miranda saw it was poor Sarah Good—wept, wrung her hands, pleaded for mercy. She was a pauper and often begged for food and lodging for herself and her two sickly children. The judges, cold and unmoving as statues, looked up when Miranda made her way through the throng. John Hathorne was the first to speak.

  “Miranda du Val,” he said pleasantly, as if she had appeared at his home as a guest. “What brings you before this tribunal?”

  “I have come to tell you that I have met the Black Man in the forest.” There was a murmur all around, agitated and suspicious. “And I am here to give you his name.”

  The reaction was one of nervous laughter and disdain. Distrustful whispers buzzed and even the naughty girls grew quietly curious. Mercy Lewis sat on the floor where she had been crawling and stared with her mouth hanging open.

  There was a new personage Miranda had not seen who possessed a powerful countenance, and who leaned forward to look at her carefully. This must be Increase Mather, she thought. He wore a thick curly wig of snow white hair brushed to a gloss which betrayed his vanity, as did his fine linens. He had a long nose, an obsequious mouth, and a double chin stuffed into his collar. After studying her with his pink-rimmed eyes, he turned to John Hathorne. “Be this the woman who disappeared after the dunking?” The judge nodded, as mystified as all the rest to see her standing there.

  “An army of devils is horribly broke in upon Salem,” he said. “If you know of this Black Man, say it now.”

  She lowered her head for a moment and waited until the room had quieted. Then she met his eye. “First I must have your pledge. I ask assurance that I will be spared the rigors of examination, and be allowed to go and live on my farm, with no unjust grievances against me, and with my record cleared of guilt.” Another murmur rose up, both horrified and wondrous, that a mere girl could speak with such conviction in the presence of a powerful judiciary. But John Hathorne was not to be deluded. “Tell us what you have to say, Miranda, and we will decide those matters. Witchcraft is a serious change and there must be proof. Come forward and reveal to us what you know. Then, if we are satisfied, you shall have your freedom.”

  “I have heard it has rained stones in Salem Village,” she said.

  “The dwellings of good people are filled with the doleful shrieks of their children and servants.”

  “And inflicted considerable damage on all the houses and fields.”

  “A most dreadful calamity,” said Amadeus Collins.

  “And this rain of stones bodes witchcraft, does it not?”

  “The most despicable sort. We are tormented by invisible hands and torture preternatural.”

  “Is there in the village a house untouched?”

  Again a murmur rose up, and many shook their heads as if to say the storm afflicted them all alike. “Is there a garden spared?”

  All responded in the negative. But a woman in the crowd rose to her feet and shouted out in a raw voice as though her knowledge had bought her considerable grief, “Judah Zachery’s house stands unblemished.”

  There was a gasp from th
e crowd. “Is this a true thing?” asked Amadeus Collins; his eyes protruded, and his mouth puckered in uneasiness. He looked somewhat disappointed to hear this news.

  “Go and see that his window panes be whole and hollyhocks standing in his plot,” said Miranda.

  “No stones?” repeated the stupefied Amadeus to the bleating woman.

  “None. There is a perimeter of stones on all sides as though they had been removed by an unseen hand.” The crowd jostled to get a look at her, and several men in the back of the meetinghouse ran out, determined to investigate.

  Judge Collins leaned forward and said, “If we discover truth in your statements, Miranda, this is damning proof. Have you anything else to reveal?”

  She paused, then spoke in a soft voice. “I hesitate to utter words that will be injurious to the decency of these proceedings.”

  “Go on girl, we will hear it all.”

  “As you know, I have attended the schoolhouse for many years and Judah Zachery has been my teacher. Often he has beat me and misused me, tortured me terribly, and forced me to sit in his dark closet, for his way of punishment was confinement, sometimes for hours at a time.”

  “Perhaps these penalties were deserved.”

  “That may be so. However, in his closet I have seen, stored under clothes and shoes and broken slates, books he brought from England. Required to remain sometimes the entire day in the darkness, I became curious, and as my eyes found some small source of light, I began to examine these books which were both traitorous and blasphemous.”

  Reverend Mather looked horrified. “What sort of books?”

  “Why, books of the most heinous illustrations: human anatomy depicting the parts of bodies, both male and female, drawings of sexual intercourse, pastoral and theatrical scenes of dancing and demonizing the Lord, mathematical treatises theorizing the journeys of the stars and stories disputing the history of Creation, one which determines that we are not the children of God but instead the descendants of jungle creatures, baboons and chimpanzees.” At these words there was a new clamor, and Miranda was obliged to speak above the din. “There is a book you had best keep at the ready, once you have made your search. It displays drawings and designs of mechanical objects: a crossbow, a catapult, a camera obscura, and something you might have special use for: a Halifax Gibbet for severing heads. Judah Zachery is no ordinary witch.”