by Lara Parker
Now Judge Hathorne leaned forward on his chair. “Why have you only now come to us with this news, Miranda? Wittingly or unwittingly you have done Satan’s bidding.”
“This is a true thing. I have kept silent wittingly.”
“And what excuse have you? The penalty for your sins is death.”
“I have been under his dominance, sir. He is a despicable wizard, a disciple of Lucifer, and he has fiendish powers to possess and destroy. He is the leader of a coven that has rendezvous with the Devil.”
The tumult in the courtroom had now reached a crescendo and Amadeus spoke, his voice a sibilant screech, “And that one book, the one where those who sell their souls are obliged to sign away their lives for all eternity. Is that book in his closet as well, Miranda?”
Now it was Miranda’s turn to approach the judge’s bench. She stepped forward until her hands rested on the polished wood, and said in a voice filled with rancor. “Aye. It is there.” The courtroom exploded in consternation. Mary Walcott and Abigail Williams screamed and fell to the floor spouting gibberish, but they were paid no attention.
“And have you signed that dreadful book?”
“He forced me to do it.”
The hubbub grew and Miranda lifted her voice above the bewildered cries. “And one more thing will you find, this the most damning of all. In a box at the back of the closet, under the switches, he has hidden the Devil’s mask!”
“A mask?” cried the astonished Reverend.
“A mask of gold, encrusted with jewels.”
This revelation released the greatest reaction of all, and the meetinghouse rang with hysterical shouts as Sheriff Corwin was sent for, and he and several men of the town went forth to search Judah Zachery’s secret closet. Amadeus alone still sat in the judge’s seat and looked down on Miranda. He was not pleased with these new revelations, any more than he was pleased to see the rightful owner of his son’s new farm standing before him alive and determined. She could read the aggravation in his eyes.
“Will you testify before this Court against this man? And will you swear that he has abused you in these ways?”
Miranda took a deep breath and said, “I cannot.”
Amadeus rose up incensed, but she thought, secretly pleased as well. “Then it is you who will be in the dock. For books and masks and stones do not a witch make. Only the testimony of the poor victim who is afflicted.”
“If I look into his eyes, he will render me helpless.”
“The tribunal shall forbid him to look at you,” said Cotton Mather.
“But he will hurt me grievously.”
“It is your Christian duty. You have nothing to fear. You stand in the protective cloak of the Almighty. Have you signed Judah Zachery’s book?”
“Yes—”
“Then you will testify,” said Amadeus, “or rot in Hell.”
She saw that he was now fully contentious and she said one more time. “If he look at me, I will go blind.”
“Then we shall cover his eyes.”
Cotton Mather spoke to her in a calm voice. “For there shall arise false Christs, and false Prophets, and shall show great signs and wonders, they shall deceive the very elect. You must testify, Miranda, for the sake of us all.”
THE GIBBET THAT WAS ERECTED outside the prison door was so clumsy and ill-made, Miranda wondered whether it would serve. The blade was but a beaten plowshare, hardened and sharpened in the coals. She forced herself to disassemble the contraption in her mind rather than to look upon the prisoner, for she feared his evil eye. Instead she observed there was a sole beam holding the contraption erect, very much as an easel would hold a painting. To this beam the rope to loose the blade was tied. Two upright posts held the axe, and on top of the plate was a mass of lead weighing at the very least one hundred pounds.
This being the first beheading anywhere near Salem, there was a great crowd gathered, some sober, some fearful, and others festive as though making their way to a fair. Entertainment was a scarce commodity. Two young boys standing beside Miranda jested with one another.
“Do you wish to see if the eyes blink? Stand near the basket.”
“It bodes life lingering in the head after the body is severed.”
“I will watch the legs, to see whether they make to run away. My father killed a chicken with an axe, and it ran headless around the hen yard, the neck spurting blood.” And they all laughed until they saw her staring at them, and they withdrew in shame.
“Wish I were at the rope,” whispered one. “ ’Tis a mighty axe.”
“I heard of a time when the severed head bounced into the basket and out again whereupon it clapped its teeth upon a woman’s apron and would not leave go.”
“Was it the apron of his accuser?”
“Aye, and the teeth were like a trap.”
With this horrible image alive in her mind, Miranda moved away. The memory of her testimony was a fresh recollection. The Sheriff had placed a hood over Judah’s face, but she was still able to see the rounded shape of his bald head under the knitted wool and his contemptible chin protruding, the cords of his neck sprung tight. He was padlocked to the bar with chains on both hands, but he shook the courtroom when he roared like a lion, “She lies! She lies!”
Judah’s head was not covered when he was led from the prison door. His hands were bound, but he swiveled about searching the crowd for Miranda. When he saw her, his face grew black with rage and he sent a shaft from his eye that seared her like a brand. A dark cloud hung on his brow, his jowls were deeply creased; and his pugnacious nose and turned up chin, his bald pate glistening in the sun, his tangled black mane about his neck, all gave his countenance a furious demeanor. But it was the cast of his eye that was like a poisoned arrow to her flesh.
The crowd pressed forward the better to witness the act, and some muttered complaint at being thrust aside. Judah was pushed and jostled to the gibbet and forced to kneel. Miranda placed a hand on her belly and felt the child move.
Reverend Hathorne read the sentence. “Judah Zachery, thou art here accused and found guilty of not having the fear of God before thine eyes, of having entertained familiarity with Satan, the great enemy of God and mankind, and by his help hast acted, and also hast come to the knowledge of secrets in a preternatural way, beyond the ordinary course of nature, to the grief and great affliction of several members of this commonwealth, for which, according to the law of God and the established law of this colony, thou deservest to die.”
Miranda shuddered at the words, which also had been read out before the hanging of eleven innocent souls. She wanted it to be over and done with. Judah glared at her and shouted, “Do what you will. You are miserly hypocrites who would not know the truth if it stood blushing before you.”
Judge Hathorne droned on. “Let it be a solemn warning and awakening to all of us that are before the Lord at this time, of these direful operations of Satan which the holy God hath permitted in the midst of us. The Lord doth terrible things amongst us, by lengthening the chain of the roaring lion in an extraordinary manner, so the Devil is come down in great wrath, endeavoring to set up his kingdom and wreaking torments on the bodies and minds among us.”
“God is dead!” cried Judah. The Reverend raised his voice.
“Let us then return and repent, tear our hearts not our garments. Who can tell if the Lord will return in mercy unto us? Let us repent of every sin that hath been committed, and labor to practice every duty which hath been neglected.”
“Sinners!” cried Judah. “The greatest sinner stands in your midst.” Once again he glared at Miranda.
“And when we are humbled, then we shall assuredly find that the kingly power of our Lord and Savior shall be magnified in delivering his poor sheep and lambs out of the jaws, and paws, of the roaring lion. And the Lord sayeth to Satan”—he turned to Judah with wrath and condemnation in his gaze—“the Lord rebuke thee!”
The masked executioner took hold of Judah’s hair at the back
and pulled it up, the better to expose the neck, and drew his head to the block. Judah struggled, and before he was in position, rose up again in fury and sang out, “You cannot kill me. My death will not last! Take heed! Take heed! You will live to regret this day!”
The Sheriff jerked him forward and he slumped over the block, his bound wrists springing up behind his back in one last supplication, and he drew one final breath through his shuddering limbs even as the rope was sprung and the axe plummeted. Blood spurted and coated the blade. The head toppled into the basket. There was a moment of silence before a shout went up and the inquisitive boys leaned in to see what life remained there. But no sooner had they looked, than they drew back.
“It blinks!” cried one. “It speaks!” wailed another. Sheriff Corwin thrust them aside in disgust and reached for Judah’s black locks. He lifted the face to the crowd to display the grisly mass, and as they all stared, confounded and transfixed, Miranda’s worst fears came to pass. The face grimaced and the eyes opened and fixed on her. The mouth moved, and although no sound came out, the lips clearly shaped her name for all to see. Sheriff Corwin leaned in to listen to its whisper and then his eyes fell on her, as did the crowd’s, who one by one turned to look in her direction. Amadeus Collins mounted the platform and stood towering over the populace. His hands were clasped in front of his hassock, and his face was grim.
“What did the head say?” cried a man from the back of the crowd. “Tell us what it said.”
Amadeus pointed an accusing finger. “The head hath spoken after death, a miraculous and pitiful damnation. It said, ‘She lies!’ and again, ‘She lies!’ She is the witch! And now an angry God will descend upon us all!”
EIGHTEEN
Collinwood—1971
THAT AFTERNOON AT COLLINWOOD, Barnabas became aware of how much he missed David. Nothing afforded him more pleasure than the young man’s company. He climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to David’s room. The door was closed and he knocked, but there being no answer, he turned the knob and looked inside. There was a blast of cool air, and he was surprised to see the boy sitting on his window ledge. Barnabas knew, from David’s vantage point, he could see the vast lawn and the great oaks that marched to the cliffs. Beyond that lay the sea.
“David?”
The boy turned and revealed a face contorted in anguish. His features were drawn like those of a very old man, and the flesh was puffy around his bloodshot eyes.
“Oh, my dear boy, what is it?” Barnabas said. David shook his head and turned again toward the sea. Barnabas stopped before he drew too close. “Come, David,” he said. “Come down from there.”
David gripped both sides of the casement and looked down.
“Why?”
“Why? Because you could fall, and die before you have lived.” He hoped his tone was lighthearted, but he felt a wave of compassion. David had no one to turn to if he were in despair. His father was unsympathetic, his aunt out of touch, and his poor mother gone, probably dead.
“Maybe I want to fall,” said David. Barnabas suppressed a desire to laugh. But David leaned further out. The window was thirty feet above the ground, and Barnabas remembered a silly tradition: boys were given rooms in towers to make them more virile.
“David, come back inside and tell me what is troubling you.” Still, the boy did not respond. Stealthily Barnabas moved to where he too could look down to the paving of the courtyard.
David made a choking sound in his throat. “Barnabas,” he said, “have you ever been in love?”
“Yes, of course, I have been in love. Is that what has you so upset?” The girl he was kissing in the woods, thought Barnabas in amazement.
“Was it so painful?” Hot tears fell on Barnabas’s hand where it rested on the sill next to David’s.
Barnabas considered the question. “It is that. Yes. Usually.”
“I love her so much, and she told me she did too.”
“Then, what is the problem?”
“Now she won’t have anything to do with me. She won’t even speak to me.” David shuddered again and leaned forward. His body swayed out.
Barnabas glanced down again, and feeling dizzy, took hold of David’s hand. “That sounds serious,” he said.
“Why did she change?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you, or anything you did. Where did you meet this girl?”
After a long sigh, David said in a whisper, “At the camp.”
Ah, thought Barnabas, one of the hippie girls has seduced a young man for the fun of it. It seemed a cruel trick.
“Two nights ago,” David continued, “she fed me soup in her tent. She’s so beautiful. She said it was a potion to steal my heart, but it looked like some kind of broth. She said it was made from roots and dew and, I don’t know, ferns and flower petals. I drank it, and it tasted like soup. It was pretty good. Barnabas is there such a thing as a love potion?”
“Of course not.” The pavement beneath them whirled.
“Well, something has happened to me. She sang songs to me, funny songs I’d never heard, about knights and kings, and girls whose lovers murdered them, and then she—” David stumbled on his words, “and then we went for a walk, and lay down by the stream and—and she—she let me kiss her.”
She certainly did, thought Barnabas, but he said gently, “What is wrong with a kiss or two? It seems harmless enough.”
“The next morning she wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
“La Belle Dame sans Merci,” Barnabas said softly, almost to himself.
David turned to him. “What’s that?”
“A girl in a famous poem by Keats. You are not the first man to be so misused. Nor will you be the last.” Gently he held the boy’s arm and tried to draw him back from the ledge. But David clung to the window frame.
“How does the poem go?”
Barnabas thought a minute. “ ‘I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful, a fairy’s child; her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild.
“That’s her,” said David.
“Then you must realize these feelings are not uncommon. Young girls can be heartless. You must not let it make you so unhappy. Please David, come back inside and I will tell you the rest of the story. You are frightening me, sitting out here like this.” Reluctantly, David crawled in and went to his bed. The boy was still in pajamas, and his sleep odor filled the room. He lay down while Barnabas closed the window and settled in a chair, blocking the way back outside.
“Tell it,” said David.
“I can’t remember it all,” said Barnabas. “ ‘And there I shut her wild wild eyes—so kissed to sleep.
“I kissed her a lot,” said David. “What else? Say some more.”
“Oh, I don’t remember,” said Barnabas. “The poet has a dream that all the warriors come with starving eyes and gaping mouths, all the others who have loved her, and . . . ‘death-pale were they all. They cried—“La belle Dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!” ’ ”
David lay still, thinking, and Barnabas mused on the tenderness of young love, those rare moments which never return again in a lifetime.
“Is this girl one of the hippies?” he asked.
“No.” David sighed again, then looked over at Barnabas with an expression so pitiful that he instantly regretted having taken David’s misery so lightly.
The hollows of the boy’s face were drawn against his skull. He spoke slowly. “Remember when we went to the Old House to deliver that rug?”
“Of course.”
“And I went upstairs to look in a room that was locked, right before I saw that weird man who looked like he was dead?”
“Yes. You said a girl lived there.”
“I had already met her at the camp.”
“You saw her clothes.”
“And I read from her journal. I shouldn’t have. I was prying.”
“What did it say? Do you remember?”
“Th
at this was not her time. That she had lived before, in the New England colonies, in the seventeenth century. That she really belonged there.”
“Interesting.”
“That’s not all. She said she had a child, and that she was tried as a witch and hung.”
“Perhaps she wants to become a writer.”
“I know, that’s what I thought too, at first. You’ve guessed who she is, haven’t you?”
“No—”
“Toni’s daughter. Jacqueline.”
Barnabas rose to his feet and began to pace the room. He was surprised at the feeling of unease that stirred in his stomach. “Hasn’t she been in Windcliff?” he said.
“Yeah. She took a lot of drugs. Messed herself up.”
“Well, that explains her hallucinations, doesn’t it?”
David sat up and wrapped his arms around his chest. Again, he moaned. “Oh, God. Barnabas, I don’t know what to do.”
“David it’s difficult for you to believe, but this suffering will pass.”
“I told you. I love her. More than anything in the world. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t think of anything else but her. I hardly know her and I don’t understand why I feel this way. It’s like she put a spell on me. And she’s cruel. No one in my life has ever treated me like this. She’s cold as ice, won’t let me near her. Won’t let me touch her. She looks at me like I’m some kind of worm.”
“She’ll come back around.”
“No. She said she never wanted to see me again.”
Barnabas closed his eyes and pictured the scene. The fairy child leaning over David, feeding him, singing to him. His heart ached for his nephew more than it ever had for himself. He sat on the bed, and placing a comforting arm around David’s shoulders, drew the boy to him.
“She’s young,” he said. “She doesn’t know herself yet. You’re a fine boy. She’ll come to love you again, I feel certain. And you must try to be a man. Don’t let her see you weeping in this manner. She might abuse the power she has over you.”
