Many of the congregants shouted and yelled in anger. Mary could see the minister’s form now: his black robe, a mane of silvery hair. She moved closer.
“Hear me, my friends. Though we lay rightful claim to this bountiful land, the low heathens mean to drive us out. And they will not stop at mere violence. Do not doubt that the Indians will call up their allies from the spirit world and send them among us, turning us against one another to aid their evil designs.”
The minister had them whipped into a frenzy. The congregation cursed the tribes and prayed to the Lord for protection. Mary could almost make out his face, but in her heart she knew who it was, though it defied logic.
“Surely we must defend ourselves against these agents of the Devil,” he continued. “Look you into the hearts of your fellow man, your neighbors, your friends.”
Mary was now close enough to see the hard features, the intense eyes. A cold dread gripped her.
“Think on any strange, bewildering behavior. Perhaps they have sent out their spirit upon you and done you ill. If they are truly your friends, they will be grateful to stand before the Church and renounce the Devil so they may return to the Light of Heaven.”
Mary stared, not quite believing. It was Henry Danforth, the high magistrate who had presided over the court in Salem over forty years ago, whose signature was on the death warrant of every man and woman who had hanged. He had been in his sixties back then and he looked exactly the same now. In a flash, Mary relived her most painful memory. She saw herself standing before Mr. Danforth in the Salem court, trying at last to do right and recant her testimony, only to falter and collapse, too weak to withstand his relentless questioning and Abby’s merciless cruelty.
“And if they will not confess and turn away from the heathen spirits that have given them their dark powers,” he continued, his voice shaking the very rafters, “then they shall be revealed in their wickedness. And they who do not repent shall pay for their crimes against the Almighty and His children. And to that, good people, I say a most fervent amen.”
The congregants exploded in response, shouting “amen” over and over with a wild, vengeful look in their eyes. Mary felt ill, like she was about to vomit, but she wanted to know one thing. She reached out a trembling hand to touch the arm of a woman who looked as if she were tallying up all those who might have wronged her at some time. It was a look shared by many in the room.
The woman turned. Mary asked, “Excuse me, what is the name of that minister?”
“Why, that’s Pastor Ezekiel MacInnis,” the woman replied.
“Thank you, dear.”
Mary staggered away, bursting out of the door into the cooler air. She was shaking, and the tightness had returned, constricting her chest like a vice. Mary gasped for air, breathing deep until the blood in her veins slowed from a wild thunderhead to its more regular, methodical pulse. She straightened her back and began walking toward her grandniece’s home again. This was no coincidence. Abigail Williams and Henry Danforth, the two most powerful forces behind the Salem witch trials, were here in present-day Doylestown, Pennsylvania. And from the looks of things, this town was headed down the same, dark path.
That evening, Mary dined with her grandniece’s family. Elizabeth was a charming, though impressionable girl who had married a tinsmith, Patrick, who as far as Mary was concerned was a pompous fool. His finest settings adorned the table, and after prayers were said, they all set to eating a delicious repast of turkey with chestnut pudding that Mary had helped Elizabeth prepare. Young Thomas sat with them, next to his older sister Isabelle.
“You know,” Mary said during the meal. “I happened to hear your Father MacInnis this morning. He seems a most excitable sort.”
Patrick looked affronted. “He is a most revered messenger of the Lord,” he said. “And he gives good reason for the many strange happenings in recent days.”
Mary ignored his reaction, cocking her head to the side. “Strange happenings? Pray tell, what has occurred?”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “They say that Owen Barton has put a curse on his neighbor’s farm so that every calf that is born should wither and die, which has occurred to the last three in a row.” Elizabeth’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And that Rebecca Pendergast laid her hand on the Leighton’s youngest girl, and she has been ill ever since.”
Mary kept her face impassive, watching Isabelle out of the corner of her eye. “And these events are ascribed to what cause?” Mary asked.
“It is said that they have trafficked with the heathen spirits,” Elizabeth said.
“Indeed?” Mary noticed Isabelle fidgeting in her seat, as if uncomfortable. She was a few years younger than Abby, just as Mary had been at one time.
“They have not been named outright.” Patrick’s voice was somber. “But there is talk of setting up a proper court here in Doylestown.” Mary did not miss the calculating gleam in Patrick’s eye. She did not doubt he would be among the first to cast suspicion on a neighbor.
Mary noticed Isabelle becoming even more restless. “These are grave times, then,” Mary said. “No doubt your Father MacInnis is rightfully concerned.”
She changed the subject, turning to young Thomas. “And how were your lessons today, dear?”
“Oh, very good, Aunt Mary,” the youngster replied. “We’ve been practicing our numbers and our figuring.”
Mary smiled, commenting to Elizabeth and Patrick, “The schoolteacher, Miss Jamison, seems a most pleasant sort.”
“Oh, yes, the children all adore her,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “Isabelle and her friends have been most helpful, too, what with her being new to the town. They’ve become thick as thieves.” She turned to her daughter. “Isn’t that so, Isabelle?”
Isabelle nodded, her eyes downcast. “Yes, Mother.”
“And where does she hail from?” Mary asked her.
Isabelle gave a small frown. “I can’t think of it now,” she said. “I’m sure she must have told me. I just can’t remember, I’m afraid.”
“That’s alright, Isabelle. I’m sure there are more interesting things for young girls to talk about,” Mary said with a wink.
Mary ceased her questions. There would be a full moon tonight, and if she was right, there would be more to confirm her suspicions. She let the conversation wander to more innocent subjects for the rest of the evening, cheerfully helping Elizabeth with the dishes afterward. But inside, she seethed.
That night, Mary lay in her bed, bitter tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Memories and emotions she had worked for years to bury scrabbled to the surface -
shame and humiliation for the part she had played, rage at the townsfolk who had turned all too easily against her. Finally, above all, regret, not only for what she had done, but in a sliver of her heart that could not be denied, for what she had lost after that brief, crazed time when her slightest word meant life or death. She shuddered. Though she cursed those memories, nothing was ever again as bright as those days had been.
Mary sobbed. For now it seemed the only real witches had been Abby and Mr. Danforth. They were the ones who had orchestrated everything, just as they were doing here. Mary ground her teeth. She had always wondered at how the particular madness that had ruled her and the other girls seemed to have vanished after Abby left. Surely she was a sorceress who cast her spell over the innocent, using them, using her, for her own dark purposes. The betrayal stung. She and the others had practically worshipped Abby, had wanted to be her.
The hellspawn must pay, for what she and Danforth had done to Salem, for what they would do to Doylestown, for what they had done to her.
Amidst the background tapestry of natural creaks and whispers in the house, a discordant note sounded. Someone stirred.
Mary quietly rose, already dressed in her darkest clothes. She eased open the door to her room and waited until she heard faint footsteps make their way through the kitchen and out the back door. Mary floated down the steps, careful to make no n
oise. She passed through the kitchen, pausing only to slide open a drawer and remove the wide carving knife Patrick had used earlier to prepare the turkey. Then she eased out the back door into the night.
The full moon hung like a great pearl in the dark sky, casting cool light over the sleeping town. Only not all were asleep. Mary stayed hidden in the shadows, watching Isabelle’s form move off down a dirt path, away from the center of town. Isabelle paused, and Mary saw several others join her. They bent close together and Mary heard their nervous titterings carried on the breeze.
Mary followed, keeping them just in sight, crouching low whenever they paused to look back. Soon they entered patches of tall grass and copses of birch and elm, enabling Mary to move more easily from shadow to shadow. Then they were in the forest proper, thick with trees and brush. Mary’s solitary life had bred a certain toughness in her. With muscles hardened through countless repetitions of her own household chores from dawn to dusk, she kept pace without difficulty amongst the dense foliage.
Nevertheless, she was unused to traveling in the dark, and as the trees started to thin, she tripped and fell, crashing to the ground. The carving knife fell from her hand and there was a great commotion of leaves and fallen branches. Mary kept perfectly still where she lay, gritting her teeth against the pain as she prayed that the girls hadn’t noticed the noise. After several moments, during which she heard nothing save the rapid thrum of her own heartbeat, Mary rose and took a few more careful steps, peering from behind a tree down a gentle slope into a clearing.
She saw them, Isabelle and several other girls, dancing around a fire, their clothing discarded upon the ground. Abigail, or Emily as she was called now, led them, her movements graceful and erotic, almost feline. Mary stared, hypnotized. She had almost forgotten what it was like to be in that dance: the freedom, the intoxicating thrill. Mary’s breath came heavy as she felt drawn toward it, compelled. The naked silhouettes framed by flickering tongues of fire beckoned to her. At last, Mary bit her lip so hard the sharp pain broke the spell. She shook herself loose from the mesmerizing scene.
The dance stopped, and Abby, her body perfect and supple despite the years Mary knew she possessed, stretched forth her arm. From the other side of the fire a short, squat form appeared. She was dressed in servants’ clothes and from the color of her skin, Mary knew she was Indian. Probably a maid or washer woman, much the same as the black woman Abby had used for this very purpose back in Salem. From the sullen look she cast toward Abby, the Indian woman did not wish to be here. Abby had no doubt promised to tell all sorts of lies about her if she failed to perform her assigned task, same as forty years ago.
The Indian woman raised her arms. In one hand she held a rabbit, limp and lifeless. In the other she held a knife. In one swift motion the woman slit the rabbit’s throat, held it high and caught the dripping blood in her open mouth. Then she extended the dead animal out to the girls, her eyes challenging them. Abby, of course, was the first to accept. She knelt demurely, closing her eyes and feigning fear as the blood ran down her throat. The other girls all followed her example.
Once finished, the woman threw the carcass into the fire and began chanting words Mary did not understand, swaying back and forth as she invoked the spirit world. The girls all stared, transfixed, just as Mary remembered staring herself once before. But this time she watched Abby, who was muttering rapidly and peering into the fire. And when the flames suddenly roared and surged upward like a living thing, Abby was the only one who did not jump back, startled and afraid. Even the Indian woman showed fear.
“It was her, always her,” Mary muttered to herself.
Once the flames receded a bit, Abby pointed to one of the girls. A plump, nervous girl stepped forward. She looked into the fire, screwing up her courage.
“I call upon the spirit of Philip Bergen,” she said, her voice quavering.
The girls all looked into the fire, the Indian woman, too. Mary watched as Abby muttered some more and made subtle hand gestures. A darkness formed inside the fire, coalescing into the rough shape of a child.
“Who summons me?” the high, spectral voice issued from the shadow.
“I do,” the girl replied. “Haley Marcus.”
“Why have you called me?”
“I wish to know how you died.”
“A sickness, a wasting disease,” the shade replied. “This you know, Haley Marcus.”
“But you were healthy, the doctor could find no cause for your ailment,” Haley protested. “Where did the sickness come from?”
There was a pause as everyone in the circle held their breath. Mary watched Abby, her hands carefully shielded from the other girls, maintain control over the shadow.
The eerie voice rang out, its anger filling the clearing. “It was Beth Anne Parson. She put a curse upon my soul.”
Several of the girls gasped, others muttered to each other. Haley pressed on.
“But how could she do such a thing?”
“She has powers given to her by the heathen spirits,” the shade replied. “She does their bidding now. I have answered your questions. Now I return to my rest.”
The shadow faded, leaving only the rustling fire.
The girls were exclaiming to each other in a rising chorus. Mary heard phrases that echoed in her mind from years past: words of accusation, condemnation. This was the turning point, she knew; once the girls banded together, bewitched by Abby’s sorcery and guile, their allegations would be given weight. And in a town with a foundation of suspicion and fear already laid by Henry Danforth, or Father MacInnis, it wouldn’t be long before the hangings started.
Mary’s mouth pressed in a grim line. She would not let these poor girls fall prey to that she-devil, to have their lives destroyed by shame and guilt. Mary remembered she had dropped the carving knife when she fell. She turned to look for it, but instead saw a great shadow looming over her. She felt a moment of panic before her head exploded in pain. And then there was only darkness.
For a long time Mary floated in a foggy haze. But the pounding ache in her head forced her awake at last. Bleary-eyed, she saw the smoldering fire, much smaller than before. She tried to sit up but found her hands bound behind her. Her feet were tied as well, forcing her to remain on her side.
She could tell she lay within the clearing, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw it was empty save for two figures. One was Abigail, clothed now, and the other was Danforth. Despite the warmth of the fire, their smiles chilled her.
Abigail broke the silence. “I thought we might have company tonight, so I asked the good pastor to see to any guests who might stop by.” Her eyes shone with dark merriment. “But where are my manners?” She stepped forward and grasped Mary’s shoulders, sitting her up with her back against a tree stump. As she did, she leaned close to Mary’s ear, her whispered words taunting. “After all, it is a rare and special occasion when we get to see old friends, isn’t it, Mary my dear?”
Mary stiffened on hearing her name, shocked at having her suspicions confirmed.
“Abigail, so it is you,” she said, each word a harsh accusation.
“Indeed, but please don’t forget my dear colleague.” She turned her head. “What were you called back then? The names all seem to run together.”
“Danforth,” he said, amused. “Henry Danforth.” He turned to Mary, his tone light and mocking. “And who could forget you, Mary Warren? You were such a contrite little girl, a shame you had to be dissuaded for the greater good.”
Mary’s face twisted. “Greater good? ‘Twas not the greater good of Salem you two worked for.”
“I suppose it depends on one’s point of view,” Abigail said. “But we had our roles to play, and our Master so dislikes being disappointed.”
Mary’s wits began to return to her. She felt gravel and stones on the ground behind her, the rough bark of the tree stump against her hands. She started rubbing her bonds against it, back and forth, saw-like.
“And your Master wo
uld be Lucifer himself, then?”
Danforth chuckled. “He goes by many names, some more familiar than others.”
Mary kept rubbing.
“And is this the work you do for the Devil?” Mary spat the words out. “Destroying the lives of good people? Accusing honest folk of witchcraft?”
“It is true that discord and acrimony are as sustenance to our Master, but he prizes something even more.” Abigail crouched down to Mary’s eye level. “Dear Mary, we collect souls for our Master.”
Mary’s breath stuck in her throat, her eyes widening in horror. “You mean … those who hang…”
Abigail’s trilling laughter drowned out any words that would have followed. “No, silly. The souls of those who hang are not our Master’s concern, they do not fall under his dominion.”
Danforth spoke. “It is the souls of the accusers who are condemned to fill our Master’s halls. The myriad hypocrites who denounce their neighbors out of spite, out of avarice over some past quarrel, coveting their land or wealth. We merely provide the forge within which their true natures are put to the test. If they falter, their souls are forever marked. But the choice is always theirs.”
Mary swallowed. She couldn’t deny his words. She had seen it in Salem; too many people eager to step forward and make the wildest accusations against other townsfolk, often out of greed or anger. She thought immediately of Patrick.
Mary realized she had stopped rubbing her bonds. She continued as she spoke again. “Yes, I suppose Salem should thank you for your kind service.”
Abigail shook her head. “Oh, Mary. You are so utterly naïve. Do you think Salem some heavenly paradise that we corrupted? The places we visit are already ripe on the vine.”
“Just how many places have you visited?” Mary struggled to keep her breathing regular as she worked at her bonds, the effort soaking her garments with sweat. A few strands frayed and snapped, but she resisted the urge to hurry, keeping her movements slow and even, concealing what she did.
Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One Page 16