Suffer a Witch

by Claudia Hall Christian

  “Why would I want to do that?” Em asked.

  “Because I know who you are,” Detective Donnell said.

  “Who am I?” Em asked.

  “Martha Rich Corey,” Detective Donnell said.

  “From Salem Farms?” Em asked with a grin. “Tried as a witch and hanged on Gallows Hill on September 22. We’re having a sale for the anniversary of her hanging. We have sales once a month in the summer to celebrate each of the hangings. And Giles Corey’s death by pressing, of course.”

  Em grinned. The detective gave her an even look.

  “You can’t be serious,” Em said.

  “You don’t deny it,” Detective Donnell said. “Your man is Reverend George Burroughs, isn’t he?”

  “His name is George Burroughs,” Em said with practiced ease. “You do know that the good Reverend had a lot of children, all of whom lived here in the Boston area.”

  “But you don’t deny it,” Detective Donnell said.

  “I’m beginning to believe you’ve lost your mental faculties,” Em said. “What do you want?”

  The detective looked Em full in the face. His eyes seemed to draw in her features.

  “You don’t look like your pictures,” he said.

  “My driver’s license?” Em asked.

  “No, the drawings of you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Em said. “I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Detective Donnell nodded.

  “Maybe if you walk me through it?” Em asked.

  “When I spoke with George, he said that he knew what death looked like from his experience at war and in the winters here,” Detective Donnell said. “I got curious and wondered what war George Burroughs had been involved in.”

  “Okay,” Em shrugged.

  “He’s fought in almost every war as far back as the Indian wars,” Detective Donnell said.

  “You mean that someone named George Burroughs fought in every war,” Em said. “If I had to hazard a guess, there are probably more than one George Burroughs who has fought in wars throughout history. It’s a very common name.”

  “This George Burroughs,” Detective Donnell said. “The man who was standing in your office just a moment ago.”

  “And you know this. . .” Em scowled. “How?”

  The detective gave a vague nod.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Em asked. “Is there someone I should call?”

  Shaking her head, Em looked at the man. Every fifty years or so, someone put the pieces together and confronted her about being Martha Corey. Half of the time, they had to pack up and head to the island. The other half of the time, Em was able to convince the person that they were imagining things. She had a sense that the detective was leading up to something. She let him talk.

  “I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here to talk to me about George and wars or Martha Corey or anything else,” Em said. “Please, speak plainly to me — what is it that I can do for you, Detective Donnell?”

  He looked at her and squinted.

  “Detective?” Em asked.

  “I can prove that you are the person who built this building,” Detective Donnell said.

  “Okay,” Em said.

  “I can prove that you and George and the rest of your friends are immortal!” Detective Donnell said with growing fervor.

  “And?” Em asked. “Is there a law against any of this?”

  “No, but. . .”

  “There is a law against slander, Detective,” Em said.

  The detective’s face flushed with frustration. He shook his head.

  “Out with it!” Em ordered.

  “Do you know who Lydia Dustin is?” the detective asked. “Remember — for you, I’d guess it would be remember. Do you remember Lydia Dustin?”

  The image of the Boston Jail flashed before her eyes. Lydia Dustin had arrived at the Boston Jail on the same day as George. Prison life was hard on Lydia. The constant torture and abuse broke her will to live. She was deeply humiliated by the spectators. She’d barely survived to Em’s hanging day. The next year, Lydia was released, but she was unable to pay her board for the time she was in prison. Em had been on her way to pay Lydia and her granddaughter Sarah’s fees when she learned that Lydia had died. She covered her sorrow at the memory with a confused look.

  “Who?” Em asked.

  “Lydia Dustin,” Detective Donnell asked.

  “Uh. . .” Em shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Fine,” Detective Donnell said. “I am a descendant of Sarah Dustin. You probably remember her from the Boston Prison. . .”

  “Okay,” Em said in an even tone.

  “. . . she was my ancestor,” Detective Donnell said. “You probably know that Lydia and Sarah were found not guilty in January 1693, after a new trial.”

  Detective Donnell raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m not all that familiar with the specifics.” Em repeated the script she’d spent decades practicing. “As I said, we use the Salem Witch Trial hanging dates as an excuse for a sale. We are a mystic store, after all.”

  The detective shook his head and started digging around in his pockets. He checked his pants pockets and the one in his shirt. Then he checked his suit pockets. Finally, he leaned to his left to get to the bottom of his right overcoat pocket.

  He pulled a silver pictish cross from his pocket. The cross was thin and showed obvious hammer marks. A classic pict serpent was carved into the cross itself. It was hung on a thin, sixteen-inch silver chain with two paired circles of silver interlinked with each other. Grasping it by the chain, he held the cross out to Em.

  Em’s fingers itched to snatch the cross away from him. She forced them to stay still.

  “According to family legend, Martha Corey gave this cross to Lydia Dustin the day she was hanged,” Detective Donnell said. “After her grandmother died, Sarah used the cross to pay off her and her mother’s debts. Sarah used it to get out of prison.”

  “How do you have it?” Em asked.

  “Sarah married one of the prison guards,” Detective Donnell said. “He got it back for her as a wedding gift.”

  Em tucked her hands into her pockets to keep from reaching for the cross. Her father had found the cross in one of the ancient burial sites on Rousay. He’d given it to her on her tenth birthday. She’d secretly worn it under her garments the entire time she had been a Puritan. Because this kind of ornamentation was forbidden, no one, not even her husband Henry or George, knew that she wore this cross every day.

  Detective Donnell let the cross swing in front of her. She bit back her rising desperation that this man had her cross. But there was no way she was going to let him see her desire. She had learned her lesson from the Salem Witch Trial examiners. Silence and restraint were the best policy with the police. She braced her very being against showing any interest in the cross and chain.

  “The family rule is that if any of us ever finds Martha Corey, we are obligated to give this cross back to her,” Detective Donnell said. He leaned over Em’s desk and let the cross fall onto the center of her desk blotter. “You see, Sarah saw you long after the witch trials were over. You and Alice were walking together down a street in Charleston. Sarah knew you were immortal.”

  “Okay,” Em said. She didn’t dare move.

  “There’s a whole bunch of thank-you’s and stuff we’re supposed to say to Martha of Truth. I won’t bore you with it,” Detective Donnell said. “We’re supposed to also say, ‘Only you know what’s true.’”

  “What did you say?” Em asked. Em was stunned to hear Detective Donnell say the same words Martha the ghost had said on Gallows Hill.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” Detective Donnell said. He mistook her shock for indignation. “I had to get this from my great-aunt Florence. She made me repeat it after her and write it down. It’s something Lydia learned and wanted Martha Corey to know.”

  He held up the notebook. Em was too stunned to do any
thing but nod. He got up from his seat and walked to the door. At the door, he turned around to look at her.

  “I don’t care if you’re immortal,” Detective Donnell said. “As you said, it’s not illegal. I don’t care if you and George and John Willard and whoever else are witches. I don’t even care if you fly around on brooms. The broom thing might be illegal, but I’m not in traffic. What do I care?”

  Detective Donnell nodded and turned to leave. Em reached for the cross. He turned at the door. Her hand hung in the air.

  “You don’t have to run off,” Detective Donnell said. “You can trust me.”

  Em nodded.

  “I want to be able to ask if I need some help,” Detective Donnell said.

  “Why would you need my help?” Em asked.

  “Something’s coming,” Detective Donnell said. He gave a curt nod of his head. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know why, but I know in my gut that something’s coming. I may need a group of witches on my side.”

  “If I can be of service, detective, I’m happy to help,” Em said.

  He nodded.

  “I can’t promise witches or immortality,” Em said. She smiled as if she’d made a joke.

  He waved away her words and continued down the hallway to George’s office. She didn’t dare touch the cross until she heard him call to Detective Alvarez. She listened with witch’s ears until they left the building.

  With a sigh, her fingers stretched out to touch the cross. She felt a pulse of love run through her. She was standing at her desk with her hand over the cross when Bridget came into her office.

  “Em?” Bridget’s voice edged with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” Em looked up. She tucked the cross into the watch pocket of her jeans. “Why?”

  “You were just standing there, like you’re in a trance,” Bridget said. “I said your name from the door.”

  Em nodded.

  “What is it?” Bridget asked.

  Em pulled the cross from her pocket. She held it out for Bridget to see.

  “It’s something my father gave me when I was little,” Em said. “I wore it all the time. I gave it to Lydia the night before I was hanged.”

  “You dirty girl!” Bridget brightened with delight. “And here I thought I was the only one who liked to wear pretty things. Where’d you get it?”

  “That Boston Police detective.”

  “Wow,” Bridget said.

  Em smiled and tucked the cross back into her pocket. She looked up when Bridget closed Em’s office door.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something,” Bridget said.

  “Okay,” Em said.

  “You know about Giles and me?” Bridget asked.

  “Giles’s young bride came into the store a while ago,” Em said. “She told me that Giles was all mine. She was leaving town with some young stud. He seemed like a moron to me, which I told her. She got angry and left.”

  Em raised an accusing eyebrow at Bridget.

  “She reeked of magic,” Em said. “Someone cast a spell on the poor girl.”

  “I. . .” Bridget started.

  “Then, of course, you two made those lovely bouquets for Susannah, Elizabeth, and Rebecca’s hanging. You had one for Martha on her hanging as well.” Em smiled, and Bridget blushed. “Will you make one for me next week?”

  “Em!” Bridget gave a little stamp of her feet.

  “Why don’t you tell me about you and Giles?” Em asked.

  “When you were dead, we were all at Sam’s house,” Bridget said.

  “Uh-huh,” Em said with a grin.

  “Then, I got to show everyone around and. . .” Bridget nodded. “You have no idea what a profound effect that had on me. I realized that I wasn’t just some fluffly little girl who men need to take care of, and. . .”

  Bridget swallowed hard.

  “Giles, he. . .” Bridget said.

  “I’m just giving you a hard time,” Em said. “Giles told me all about it at our weekly breakfast.”

  “Oh,” Bridget said. “What did he say?”

  “He said that he realized how much he enjoyed your company,” Em said. “Over the last few months, he’s found you to be smart and fun. The sex is really good. He’s sorry he waited so long to spend time with you.”

  Em nodded.

  “He’s smitten,” Em said.

  “I am, too!” Bridget said with a smile. “I mean, he was always your curmudgeon husband who everyone had to put up with. Now, I see that he can be very kind and steadfast. I guess I value his steadiness more now that I’m almost four hundred years old. I have my own fortune, so we’re on equal footing, which he says he likes.”

  “I’m happy for you both,” Em said.

  “I am, too,” Bridget said. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay,” Em said.

  “We want to get married,” Bridget said. “Really married, by George, with everyone around us.”

  “Giles told me,” Em said.

  “I’m wondering if you would divorce him,” Bridget said.

  “I’m sorry, Bridget. That’s simply something I cannot do,” Em said.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Bridget was so surprised by Em’s words that she took a step back.

  “What?” Bridget asked.

  “I cannot divorce Giles,” Em said. “I’m sorry.”

  “But you don’t love him!” Bridget said. “You have George, and. . .”

  Bridget crossed her arms, and her head moved forward.

  “You don’t even love him,” Bridget said.

  “Not romantically,” Em said.

  “I love him,” Bridget said. “I want to spend the rest of my eternity with him. We are so happy together.”

  “I know,” Em said. “I am thrilled to see that you two have found your way to each other. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “But you won’t divorce him?” Bridget asked.

  “I can’t,” Em said. “Does Giles know you’re here?”

  “No,” Bridget said.

  “What did he say when you asked him to divorce me?” Em asked.

  “I. . . uh. . .” Bridget’s cheeks flushed red. Her eyes welled with unshed tears. “I thought he’d want to divorce you to be with me!”

  Em gave Bridget a soft smile.

  “Why?” Bridget asked. “Why won’t you divorce him?”

  Em bit her lip and looked away from Bridget.

  “It’s not a sin!” Bridget said. “It’s not like what we said it was when we lived in Salem. It’s just a fond parting of the ways! You’ve already done that. This would make it official.”

  Em winced and looked down at her desk.

  “Please,” Bridget reached across Em’s desk and took her wrist. “Tell me why.”

  Em looked into Bridget’s desperate face. She closed her eyes against the sight and then nodded. Opening her eyes, she gestured for Bridget to take one of the chairs in front of her desk. She went around her desk and sat in the other.

  “We hadn’t met until we were in the Boston Jail,” Em said.

  Bridget nodded.

  “What did you know of me?” Em asked.

  “I knew about you and the Reverend,” Bridget said. “Very salacious stuff, but then everyone wanted to be his lover. We were all just jealous that he was so very in love with you.”

  Em nodded. She took a breath to speak, but Bridget interrupted her.

  “You had that son,” Bridget said. “Everyone said you had ‘questionable’ morals. But my friend Clara said that you had been attacked by Indians. She said your husband was sick so you had to do everything for your family, and that meant you were vulnerable.”

  Bridget nodded. Em opened her mouth again to speak. Bridget leaned forward.

  “Which was it?” Bridget asked.

  “None of your business,” Em said with a shake of her head. “Plus, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Giles.”

  “You can tell me, Em,
” Bridget said with an ardent nod.

  Em scowled.

  “Fine,” Bridget said.

  “After Henry died, I was left with two young sons — Thomas and Benoni,” Em said. “Thomas was almost of age, but Benoni was a young child.”

  “Benoni,” Bridget said with a nod. “That was his name. He was wonderful after we were hanged. He used to bring food to the barn. He was our rock that first year.”

  “Ever wonder why he did that?” Em asked.

  “No,” Bridget said. “I never did.”

  Em grinned because, of course, Bridget never thought to question the good fortune that had come her way.

  “He and George really hit it off,” Bridget said. “Is he George’s?”

  “Bridget!” Em said. “Stay on track here.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Bridget did her best to pretend to be contrite. “What does this have to do with you not divorcing Giles?”

  “Giles came to me after Henry died,” Em said. “He was nearly eighty years old. His daughters and their husbands had taken responsibility for the farm. He needed someone to care for him, someone who wouldn’t tattle to the world that he was ill.”

  “Giles was ill?” Bridget asked.

  “He was old and a little loopy,” Em said. “He’d spent his life breaking the land and fighting the Indians. His body was sore, broken, and his mind going. He kept getting confused and a couple of times stole items he was sure were his own. He didn’t want his family to know that he was losing his faculties. He saw merchants and business-people moving into our sleepy town. He feared that his weakness would destroy his children’s chances at life in the new world.”

  Caught in the memory, Em looked away.

  “He asked if I would care for him as I had Henry,” Em said. “In return, he would allow Benoni to live with us and find him an apprenticeship when he was of age. He also would pay for Thomas to go to Harvard.”

  “Your sons,” Bridget said in a tone of dawning understanding.

  “He kept his word,” Em said. “Benoni helped you and all the witches because Giles had been such a great father to him. And the pressing. . .”

  “He allowed himself to be pressed to death for you,” Bridget said.

  “He wouldn’t have lasted the year,” Em said. “Especially without me to take care of him. Most people believe he refused to participate in the trials to save his land from being seized, but his children had already taken ownership of the land. It was never in question, but. . .”