Entranced

by Marion Clarke

  Thomas now called that he was ready, and Fiona helped her mother onto the wooden seat behind him. The wagon lurched forward through the deeply rutted streets while fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen, as well as ragged urchins and beggars, moved indifferently out of their way. The dirt-paved lanes were thronged with traffic and lined with crowded shops and narrow wooden houses. However, the crooked streets soon gave way to cobblestoned thoroughfares winding between imposing churches and large brick buildings.

  She noticed several schools for young ladies, one sign stating "Proper Deportment and Elegance of Carriage Taught Here." On grassy squares, children raced with hoops, threw balls, swung rackets in games of shuttlecock and battledore. Wealth, abundance, jollity… all such a change from the hard, primitive life aboard ship that Fiona felt almost dizzy.

  When their driver bawled, "This be the corner of Beacon Hill and George Streets," Fiona gasped. "Cousin Samantha lives up here? She must be rich!" Everywhere she saw two- and three-story houses set back amid beautiful well-tended gardens and lawns.

  Her mother consulted the address once again, then nodded. "That house on the corner must be hers. Goodness, I knew Samantha married well, but this… I had no idea!"

  "Just look at her beautiful white house," Fiona breathed. "The fruit orchard, flowerbeds, the gazebo covered with honeysuckle, the little pond—"

  "The thing I'm seeing is that all the curtains are closed," Ellen Prescott said. "Fiona, run up to the door and make certain this is the right place. Perhaps Samantha is not awake as yet."

  It proved to be worse than that. When Fiona lifted the brass eagle on the front door and clanged it twice, the door opened a mere crack. "Begging your pardon, but is this the home of Mrs. Samantha Flaherty?" Fiona asked the elderly aproned maid.

  "Aye, that it is, but she's not here." She eyed Fiona's travel-stained homespun gown and worn black cloak and attempted to shut the door.

  Fiona grasped the knob. "Oh, wait, please. We are her kin from Ireland. My mother, Ellen Prescott, is her cousin. She is waiting with a carter by the gate—"

  "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Flaherty has traveled to New Haven to attend the birthing of her first grandchild."

  Fiona's heart sank. "Oh. When will she return?"

  "I cannot say exactly," the maid replied tersely. "Not for several days, a week at least."

  Fiona had to swallow her disappointment. She knew her cousin Samantha had long been a widow and had just one married child living in another town, so there was no hope of any other relative near by.

  "Then, will you please tell your mistress that her kin have arrived from Ireland safely and we are going to live in Salem—"

  "Salem!" With a horrified gasp, the maid slammed the door in Fiona's face.

  Startled, Fiona stood on the door step, hoping the maid would re-open the door. When there was no movement, she turned away. There was nothing else to do but convey the bad news to her weary mother. Fiona knew she had hoped for a night or two on solid ground in a real bed with real food so they could fortify themselves for the uncertain trek to Salem and the new home based on charity.

  After hearing Fiona's message, her mother sagged for a few minutes, then straightened her back. "Well, then, Thomas, it looks as though you'll have to drive us on to Salem, and that's the sober truth of it." He looked alarmed, then crafty. " 'Twill cost you a deal more and two extra shillings to cross the River Charles."

  With tight lips, Mrs. Prescott dug into her reticule.

  He still held out a grubby paw. "We also need some dinner. There be no inns along the way, but I know a place in Boston what sells meat pasties, cheap and good."

  Fiona brightened. "Oh, I am so hungry for fresh meat. Buy some fruit, also, Thomas. Perhaps we can eat beside the road somewhere."

  Later on, the picnic made a pleasant break in the jouncing, hard-planked wagon trip. The pies were filled with beef and onions, and the plums and berries tasted wonderful after weeks of salted meats, hardened, moldy cheese, and dried-out biscuits.

  When they resumed their journey, the sun shone high and hot overhead, and while her mother dozed, Fiona watched the scenery, too interested in this new land for sleep to claim her. Her head turned from side to side as the horse clip-clopped along the leaf-dappled, dusty road. But after a while there was nothing to see, only miles of woods, not a house, not a person, not even an animal. As the hours dragged, the seat grew harder by the minute, and Fiona wished over and over that they could have taken the boat. Every bone in her body seemed to ache.

  Finally, her eyes closed drowsily and her head began to nod. A long time later, she became aware that the wagon had stopped and she heard Thomas say loudly, "This be as far as I go, ladies."

  With a jerk, Fiona straightened up and blinked. The afternoon sun had faded into twilight and now deepening violet shadows stretched across the deserted road. She rubbed her eyes. "Where is the town? Where is Salem? I see nothing but woods…"

  Thomas shifted his bulky weight, not looking at her. "Ye can walk the rest of the way, miss. 'Tisn't far, I swear."

  "Oh, no, you must drive on to our destination, my good man! You agreed to take us right to Salem."

  His thick lips firmed. "I won't go anywhere near Salem at this time of night. The trip took longer than I thought. Here, I'll give y'back a coin or two."

  "And why won't you take us on to Salem, I would like to know?" Fiona cried indignantly.

  Thomas hunched his shoulders, glancing at the gathering darkness, and dropped his voice. "The town's accursed, that's why. There's a witch hunt on in Salem. Have ye not heard? A hundred witches 'a been named already."

  Fiona began to laugh but stopped at Thomas's stern expression. "What! How could one village hold a hundred witches?"

  "Nay, 'tis true. All manner of evil things go on in Salem now. The courts can't keep up with all the witchcraft cases, and some are sent to other towns. The jails be fairly bulging."

  Fiona's mouth felt dry. Was it true? What kind of place were they going to? Her voice shook as she asked, "But how will we find our way? 'Tis almost dark."

  "Just take the footpath through the woods and then ye come to fields. The town lies right beyond, not far, I swear." He gave her a pitying glance. "Have ye nowhere else to stay? I would still drive ye on to another place tonight."

  Fiona shook her head. "My aunt and uncle live in Salem. We have no choice."

  Mrs. Prescott woke up then and heard the driver's last remark. "You will not take us on to Salem?" When he didn't answer but only shook his head, she continued bravely, "Very well, then walk we must. Will you at least place our boxes beside the road?"

  Thomas did as she requested, looking both ashamed and frightened. "Take my advice, ladies, walk softly and say little in that accursed town. And find another place to live as quick as ye can." He jumped back in the wagon, looking as though all the devils of Salem were approaching, then vanished down the road in a cloud of dust.

  Fiona watched him drive away, unable to control the wave of uneasiness that engulfed her. Now they were truly alone in this dark, strange place with its frightening tales of witch hunts.

  "Faith, what shall we do with our boxes?" her mother asked, looking askance at their battered, rope-tied luggage which held all their worldly goods. "These things are far and away too heavy for us to carry."

  "We must hide them in the underbrush and get them another day. We have no choke." Fiona discovered a thick pine tree standing by itself with a clustering ring of seedlings. It would have to do . They dragged their baggage back as far as possible and did their best to cover everything with branches.

  "Now, then, Mother, we had better hurry. It will soon be too dark to find our way. A plague on that cowardly driver," Fiona muttered.

  "I wonder why he would not go any farther?" her mother said. "And telling us to walk softly and say little in Salem?"

  Fiona decided this was not the time to enlighten her. "He is just a superstitious lout, fearful of the dark. Now, let us go. He
said the village was not far."

  Ellen Prescott sighed as they set off. "I'm wishing we could have seen Samantha for a day or two. We were so close as children and when she moved away, she begged me to visit her. I thought 'twould be a fine joke to surprise her when we arrived in Boston. Alas, the joke turned out to be on us."

  "Well, we surprised the maid," Fiona answered. She did not add that they had also terrified the maid at the mention of their destination. Could all they had heard about the place be true? Perhaps it would be a good idea to take the advice of Thomas and "walk softly," at least until they understood the situation in town.

  It was entirely possible that they would need all the wits and courage at their command in order to survive.

  Chapter 3

  It soon became quite difficult to make out the path winding through the crowding trees. A wind moaned in the branches and underfoot the dead leaves of the past winter crackled ominously as Fiona and her mother trudged along, clinging silently together. No light shone anywhere when the scudding clouds obscured the moon. There was not a single sign of habitation.

  Unlike her usual optimism, Fiona now found herself prey to ever-increasing nervousness. She devoutly hoped any animals nearby would keep their distance. She said nothing of this to her mother. They had enough to worry about as they neared Salem. What unknown terrors might lurk in a strange town cursed by a swarm of witches? Despite herself, she could believe that evil spirits were abroad this dark and lonely night.

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, Fiona heard a sound that made her breath catch in her throat: a long, drawn-out wail that died, then started up again. She clutched her mother's hand and they stood still, listening.

  "Wh-what is that?" Fiona whispered hoarsely.

  "I do not know, daughter," her mother gasped, "but I think we'd better hurry."

  As they sped forward, the moaning sound increased. But now the trees had thinned, and all at once Fiona left her mother's side to run forward. "Oh, thank goodness-lights and houses! That must be the town."

  Just then, a loud shriek rent the air and Fiona almost collided with a man and girl driving a cow before them out of the woods.

  Fiona felt a wild desire to laugh. A cow! That had been the source of the strange wailing sound. Why hadn't she recognized it? Was it because she had been expecting to hear something not of the known world?

  Before Fiona could call out a greeting, the girl gave another scream, louder than the first, and pointed a shaking finger at Fiona. "Look, Giles! Witches—witches! Oh, Giles!" She flung herself on the tall man beside her, whom Fiona now saw clearly.

  "Giles!" In her relief, Fiona would have grabbed his arm, hand, anything, but he was wrapped in the clutches of the shrieking girl. Fiona had to shout in order to be heard. "Giles, it is me—Fiona Prescott!" Everything in their last encounter was swept away. Nothing mattered now except the joy of finding someone familiar, strong, and dependable in this dark and frightening place.

  Giles stared back in astonishment. When Fiona's mother stepped into the spotty moonlight, he exclaimed, "Mrs. Prescott—and Fiona! I can hardly believe my eyes. I did not expect to see you here so soon. Grace, will you stop yelling?" He tried to pry the girl's arms away, but without success. "You cannot see that these are not witches? Instead they are your kin from Ireland, Mrs. Prescott and her daughter, Fiona."

  Still holding onto Giles, the girl raised a plump, mottled face. Her wide eyes swept over Fiona and instantly her brow turned into a frown.

  Mrs. Prescott tried to speak to her in a soothing tone. "Why, then, you must be Grace, Matthew's stepdaughter. Look, my dear, 'tis Aunt Ellen, come all the way from Ireland, and this is your cousin Fiona. Have you no word of welcome for us? Can you escort us to your mother?"

  Still unconvinced, Grace muttered darkly, "How do I know you both aren't witches, swooping out of the woods."

  Fiona gave a short, exasperated sigh. "Good heavens, Giles Harmon knows us. He replaced the doctor on our ship from England."

  Grace frowned but slowly dropped her arms from around Giles's neck.

  He turned to Fiona and a warm smile lit his face. "Indeed, yes, we were all good friends on the long sea voyage. But Fiona, you arrived at Salem sooner than I expected. What are you and your mother doing in these woods so late at night?"

  Fiona burst out laughing. "Do you also think we might be witches?"

  "Of course not, but I thought you were going to remain in Boston for a while."

  "Our cousin was away on a visit," Mrs. Prescott put in, "so we hired a carter to drive us here. Alas, when night fell, the man refused to travel any closer to Salem and we had to take a footpath through the woods."

  "He showed good sense," Grace proclaimed loudly.

  "Let's not continue standing about in the cornfield," Giles said impatiently. "These travelers must be very weary, Grace. Suppose you go ahead and show Mrs. Prescott to your home while I lead in the cow."

  Mrs. Prescott took Grace's arm and began talking in her soothing, pleasant voice, leaving Fiona to fall back with Giles.

  His steps slowed and he spoke softly. "I was afraid of this, Fiona. Already suspicion and jealousy have touched you. This is not a good beginning. My father has told me things about the witch hunt that are appalling. You must be extremely careful here." He said no more, but took her hand and pressed it tightly, then dropped it as they approached the house.

  Fiona felt an apprehensive shudder sweep her. No, it was not a good beginning, but how glad she was to have friendship restored with Giles and know that he was concerned for her.

  Grace stopped and turned around, her small black eyes darting suspiciously from Giles to Fiona. "Why are you two dawdling so? Put the cow in the barn, will you, Giles? And tomorrow we will need some eggs." She then mounted the steps of a two-story clapboard house and flung open the door. "Ma," she bawled, "strangers have come t' see us."

  As lamplight spilled into the darkness, an older version of Grace appeared in the doorway and gaped at them. Short and plump, she wore a long white apron and a white cap tied beneath her double chin.

  "Who—who are you?" she stuttered fearfully.

  Ellen Prescott advanced and clasped the woman's pale, limp hand. "Faith now, you must be Mercy, Matthew's wife. How wonderful to meet you at last. I am Ellen Prescott, and this is my daughter Fiona, about the same age as your girl, I'm thinking."

  "I am nearly twenty," Grace said. "Ma, they say they came from Ireland, but I don't know—"

  "What—what? Ellen Prescott a-and Fiona? From Ireland? How on earth did you get here? Why would you go abroad at night in times like these?" Mercy peered into the darkness, looking up and down as though searching for their conveyance.

  "We left our broomsticks in the woods," Fiona said loudly and heard Grace suck in her breath.

  "My daughter jests," Ellen excused before she explained the reasons for their unusual arrival. "We walked the last part." She sent a warning glance toward Fiona, who realized too late that certain jests might prove dangerous in this time and place.

  "Well, well, come in," Mercy fluttered, leading the way into a narrow hallway from which a flight of stairs climbed steeply upward. A second door took them into a large kitchen where a fire smoldered in the hearth and threw shadows on white washed walls.

  Aunt Mercy faced them, her eyes still wide. "I can hardly believe you're here. You say you've come all the way from Ireland? Whatever for?"

  Ellen Prescott looked bewildered. "Why—why, to live here with you. My dear brother-in-law invited us after my husband, David, died. Where is Matthew? 'Tis that anxious I am to meet him."

  "Oh… oh, yes," Mercy said slowly, "I recall now he said something of the sort." Her fat face puckered and her voice dropped to a doleful whisper. "But—but he's gone. Matthew died last month of a fever."

  "Ohhhh, no!" Fiona's mother sank down upon a chair as though unable to withstand another blow. She reached for Fiona's hand and wiped her eyes on a corner of her cloak. "How—how ver
y dreadful! I'm so terribly sorry, Mercy. The brothers were looking forward eagerly to a reunion. Now, within a year of each other, they are both dead. What a tragedy!"

  "I sent you a letter when Matthew died," Mercy said. "Didn't you receive it?"

  "We must have already been at sea." Fiona quavered, her throat tight with tears. She felt a stabbing sense of loss. Her father's older brother, gone! She had wanted so much to meet him. It would have been like seeing a part of her beloved father.

  Then another frightening thought crossed her mind: now that her uncle was dead, did this mean they wouldn't have a home here?

  " 'Twas most sudden." Mercy sighed. "I'm a widow for the second time. Life is very difficult these days, and now there's only Grace to help me."

  Grace shot the travelers a baleful glance. "I work monstrous hard, and now I suppose there will be more to do around here than ever."

  Fiona's mother raised her chin, her thin face flushed. "If you're not having any place for us, we shall leave tomorrow."

  "No, no." Mercy's plump hands fanned the air. "We can work out something. I remember that Matthew wished for you to come after David died and you were so hard pressed. I must honor his wishes in this matter. Now, he planned to offer you the room under the eaves. Grace, light them up the stairs and fetch bedding from the cupboard while I warm some food."

  With a grim expression, Grace picked up a candle and led the way upstairs to a narrow room. The attic had a bare planked floor, two wooden stools beside a small table, a row of wall pegs on which to hang their clothes, and a bed near one uncurtained window. Grace tossed in a mattress of chicken feathers, two pillows, and a patchwork quilt. Then, without a word, she clumped off down the stairs, leaving the weary travelers alone.

  Fiona's mother sank down on a corner of the bed, her shoulders drooping. "Alas, Mercy did not receive my letter, just as I did not receive word of Matthew's death. Ah, what a blow that was, in truth!"