Entranced

by Marion Clarke

  A band of militia came striding into view and behind them marched several stern-faced men wearing long, billowing black robes and high-crowned hats. One turned his head and stared straight at Fiona. His footsteps slowed, then almost halted. Middle-aged, tall, and thin, he had a high-bridged nose and piercing eyes. Only his mouth denied the haughty, controlled expression. The lips were thick and red. He smiled as he nodded to Fiona.

  Flushing, Fiona stepped back into the crowd, feeling as though she beheld something evil. The man moved away, without looking back.

  Fiona waited until all the black-robed men had entered the meetinghouse. Now the crowd pressed forward, men, women, and children, pushing, shoving, shouting, all trying to get a place inside.

  No doubt of it, this was the location of the witch trials. What a relentless fever seemed to grip these townspeople as their bodies jammed the door. Fiona turned, revolted by the eager, hot-eyed faces, and tried to keep from being swept inside.

  "Say, mistress, you are going the wrong way," a young man laughed, blocking her escape. "The fun is in the meetinghouse. Come on and see the devil's creatures try their tricks before the hangman does his job."

  Fiona pushed past him and fought her way clear of the mob. At that moment, her mother hailed her from down the street. "Fiona, lass, what is going on?"

  Fiona hurried toward her and clasped her mother's arm. "They are having the witch trials in that building. Come, let us go home." She gave a shudder. "This town of Salem frightens me. I cannot help wondering if Satan is not really here."

  "Oh, I feel uneasy, too," her mother admitted. "And I fear there will be no work for me here. I was greeted with a most suspicious eye. Alas, witches also deal in herbs and potions. In addition the shop owners cut me short so they could attend the trials." She sighed. " 'Tis very little business goes forward in Salem, I'll be bound."

  Fiona bit her lip. "I am worried, Mother. Aunt Mercy seems to have such a struggle to make ends meet now that Uncle Matthew is dead. How can we stay here if we cannot find work?"

  "Sure, and I'm wondering that myself. Mercy told me that Matthew made good wages as a fisherman, but all that ended with his death. 'Tis a most unwelcome burden, we may be."

  After that, they walked home in a troubled silence.

  Chapter 5

  The gray dawn had barely lit the sky when Fiona and her mother made their way to the breakfast table.

  "It's Sunday." Grace plunked down mugs of apple cider and plates of thin pancakes swimming in butter. "Eat hearty."

  Fiona's spirits lifted at this change from the usual morning porridge. But the next words sent them plummeting.

  "We have to keep up our strength today. The service lasts three hours this morning," Aunt Mercy explained, adding a thick brown syrup to her plateful of cakes. "Everybody will attend."

  "Th-three hours?" Fiona sent her mother a stricken glance. "But we're not Puritans, Aunt."

  "I know." Mercy's eyes darted agitatedly across the table. "Ellen, I know that most Irish folk are Papists. Are—are you?"

  Fiona's mother shook her head. "That we aren't. Ireland contains Protestants as well. But since we have never been inside a Puritan church, I believe we will accompany you this morning."

  Fiona smothered a groan. Three hours! No wonder they were eating heartily. She began to shovel in a second helping, dousing it with the brown maple syrup.

  "I'm glad you're coming with us, Ellen," Aunt Mercy said. "Some folks have been wondering about your religion. This should keep their tongues from wagging."

  A little later, they all headed for the meetinghouse. Grace, dressed in dark linen trimmed with white cuffs and collar, looked better than Fiona had ever seen her, especially with her reddened face beneath the shadow of a deep bonnet. Aunt Mercy, in dark gray, trotted along on her little feet like a sleek pouter pigeon. Fiona and her mother followed in their long black cloaks as they had been warned that the building would be cold.

  As the church bell rang, people thronged the road on their way to worship. Some rode, some walked, but all appeared to be dressed in Sunday best. The women wore sober homespun garments in a gray or rust or brown.

  "The Reverend Parris will be speaking. He's the uncle and also the father of two of the first afflicted girls," Grace said importantly over her shoulder. "He's new in Salem and trying very hard to be accepted. He became like a wild man when the doctors said his niece and daughter were possessed. Now, every Sabbath, he commands us all to join him in routing the evil spirits that infest our town."

  "I wonder about the horror to have someone in your family possessed by Satan." Fiona gave a shudder.

  "Faith, it must be terrifying," her mother answered gravely.

  When they reached the common, Aunt Mercy stopped and said, "Here is our place of worship."

  "Why, this is the meetinghouse!" Fiona exclaimed. "Where the witch trials are held!"

  "Yes, Niece, 'tis the only place that's large enough to accommodate the crowds. Many people come from nearby towns since Salem's fame has spread. Come now, let us go inside."

  The Puritans' hall was bare and plain with hard benches. The men sat on one side of the room, women on the other. A high wooden pulpit, painted white, stood in front of the hall. At the rear, the younger boys jammed together on the steps leading to the gallery. A man bearing a long rod with a knob at one end seemed to be on constant watch for signs of restlessness among them or any disturbance needing discipline.

  As the bell ceased tolling, one of the deacons called for a psalm and the whole congregation rose to repeat the long verses after him. When they sat down, an expectant hush descended as a tall, thin-faced man mounted the pulpit steps.

  Reverend Parris's fierce eyes raked the room for a full minute. When he spoke, his voice had the impact of a thunderbolt. "There are witches in Salem! Right here among us. Even in this very house!"

  His bony finger stabbed the air. "What sayeth the scriptures: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' And again: 'A man also or a woman that hath a familiar spirit or that is a wizard shall surely be put to death'."

  "Witches are an abomination unto the Lord! And they are here, in Salem!"

  The congregation drew in its suspended breath and fear-filled eyes darted around the room. Some people huddled closer to each other. Some faces held a fierce, determined anger.

  "Friends," the minister continued, lowering his voice and leaning across the pulpit, "the scripture says: 'Take heed lest any man deceive you… a man's foes may be that of his own household.' "

  His voice rose to a shriek. "Watch for the signs. Find the witches before they destroy you. I say unto you these words: seek, find, destroy!"

  Fiona's icy, shivering hand crept into her mother's. The people stared at the minister as if spellbound, silently repeating the minister's words.

  Fiona's eyes darted feverishly around until on the other side of the room she noticed Giles. He sat next to a dark-haired man, probably his father. As though he felt her eyes on him, Giles turned his head and looked straight at her with a reassuring message in his clear, level gaze.

  Fiona drew a deep breath, and then made a conscious effort to ignore the fear generated by the ranting man in the pulpit.

  At long last, the minister grew hoarse, the congregation rose for a final prayer, and they all filed outside.

  "Well, the first service is over," Grace explained. "After our midday meal, we all come back again."

  Fiona ignored Grace and turned away, wondering if Giles would come and speak with them. Instead, a man dressed all in black appeared in front of her, a man with piercing eyes and moist red, lips.

  He bowed low, sweeping off a wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat. "We have not met, Mistress Prescott, but I glimpsed you in the village and was so struck by your uncommon beauty that I learned your name and now beg leave to introduce myself. Judge Nicholas Blaize, at your service." His eyes narrowed and went slowly from the red curls peeping from underneath her bonnet to the young round form revealed in t
he opening of her cloak.

  It was a most uncomfortable inspection, but Fiona did not know what to do except endure it as she repeated his name in chilly accents, sketched a curtsey, and drew her cloak together.

  He spoke briefly to the others, including her mother, then turned back to Fiona. His audacity was phenomenal, Fiona thought indignantly, as he moved too close for courtesy and breathed into her face. "I shall expect you and your mother to dine with me in the near future. My servant will apprise you of the time."

  "I think we may be occupied," Fiona told him, haughtily.

  He gave a grating laugh. "We shall see." His penetrating gaze once more swept over her. "Yes, indeed, I can hardly wait to entertain you in my home. You'll see beautiful things there, Mistress. Treasures from around the world."

  He bowed with exaggerated gallantry to them all, then glided off to his waiting carriage. A dwarf in purple velvet opened the door for him and shot a glance of malicious curiosity at Fiona before they drove away.

  "He wants us to come to dinner, my mother and me," Fiona told her gaping aunt. "I have no intention of going."

  "Whyever not?" Ellen Prescott asked, staring after the departing coach. "It might be interesting. He seems well bred enough."

  Grace laughed harshly. "Yes, Cousin, I think that you should go. At least you'll get a wonderful supper, I imagine. He's new in town, but I've heard he is the richest man for miles around and very influential at the witch trials."

  "Has he ever invited your family to his home?" Fiona asked her.

  "No," Grace grunted sullenly.

  That chalks up another mark against me, Fiona thought.

  Suddenly, Grace's expression changed and she gave a squeal of delight. "Hello, Giles. Wasn't that a splendid sermon? So inspiring." She then greeted the rest of his family with equal fawning.

  The father, a dark-haired, rough-hewn man, held the arm of a sweet-faced woman in a gray bonnet. Mercy immediately twittered through the introductions, including Giles's younger brother, Charles, who had a round, cheerful face, curly brown hair, and an appreciative, audacious eye for Fiona.

  "We would be greatly honored," Mrs. Harmon told them, "if you would return to our house for a midday meal with us before the afternoon service."

  Grace and Mercy accepted promptly, but Fiona's mother said, " 'Tis sad I am to decline your most kind offer, Mrs. Harmon. Alas, my health has not been too robust since that long sea voyage, but perhaps my daughter—?"

  "Mother, if you're not well—"

  "Nay, 'tis just a rest I am needing in my room, but you feel free to go."

  Fiona darted a quick glance at Giles, who smiled encouragingly.

  "I'll be glad to come, thank you," she said, thinking it would be interesting to see Giles's home and get acquainted with his family. It was too good an opportunity to be missed, even if it did mean another session with the Reverend Parris.

  Giles beamed. "Come along then." He took his place between Fiona and Grace, offering an arm to each as they all walked along the country road.

  "Fiona, how did you like the sermon?" Giles asked.

  "It—it was most unusual."

  Grace snorted. "My cousin isn't a Puritan. She doesn't understand these things like we do, Giles. No use in asking her opinion."

  "Grace, anyone can understand the Reverend Parris." Giles frowned with annoyance. "He is on a witch hunt."

  "And why shouldn't he be, with two members of his household afflicted?" Grace gave a jerk to Giles's arm.

  "Listen, I want to tell you about the trials yesterday. Did you know the minister himself was there to testify?"

  Grace rattled on and on until they reached the Harmon house. The guests were led into a big, clean kitchen similar to Aunt Mercy's with its fireplace and whitewashed walls. A plain but hearty meal of precooked food was set before them at the long trestle table to which benches and chairs were drawn up.

  Giles's brother, Charles, slid quickly onto the place beside Fiona with a cheeky, disarming grin. "You must taste everything," he said, noting Fiona's hesitation. He took her plate and piled it high, listing each item. "This is sauce made from cranberries, and this is turkey, a wild fowl, but delicious. The orange is pumpkin."

  "An Indian vegetable," Mrs. Harmon put in. "We stew it with water, vinegar, and spices."

  Fiona chewed and nodded. "I like it. And what is this crunchy yellow bread?"

  Grace spoke before filling her mouth. "Cornbread, ninny. I'll have another piece, Charlie."

  Charles leaned across the table, his eyes dancing. "I love to see a person eating heartily. What else can I hand you, Grade?"

  Her mouth too full to speak, she nodded and pointed.

  "How about you, my little Irish beauty?" Charles said in Fiona's ear, sliding an arm behind her back. "What would you like? How about a walk out in the yard?"

  Giles broke in firmly. "No, Charles, I want to show her around the house. Have you eaten enough, Fiona?"

  "Wait for me," Grace said, trying to swallow her mouthful.

  Charles giggled and laid a turkey leg on her plate.

  Giles winked at him. "No hurry, Grace. We will return shortly."

  Taking her arm, Giles led Fiona into a cold, dim room at the end of the hall. "This is the company room, and there's something in here I want to show you. In dangerous times like these, it might be good for you to know about this secret."

  He walked over to the fireplace and pressed a hidden spring beneath the mantel. At once, a crack appeared along the wall. It widened and silently and slowly a narrow door swung outward.

  "Heavens, what is that?" Fiona exclaimed.

  "A secret stairway to an attic room. My ancestors built it for the Indian attacks. No one knows about it but the family. Not even Grace."

  Wonderingly, Fiona thrust her head into the dark opening. Dimly she made out a very narrow staircase curving upward out of sight.

  "It's rather scary," she whispered. "Why are you showing it to me? Do you think that I am in danger?"

  "I certainly hope not, but it might come in handy during a witch hunt. I pray it will not be needed."

  Fiona moved closer to him and drew a long, deep breath. "Giles, sometimes I get so frightened now. I never expected anything like this… that ranting preacher, the congregation so eager to hunt and destroy people, and then Grace—"

  Giles pulled her swiftly into his arms and with a rush of joy, her head dropped against his shoulder as he pressed her close. "Fiona, all we can do is keep to ourselves and watch all our words and actions. Someday it will end when people grow sickened and realize they must return to their trades and farms or starve."

  She was so thrilled to be held in his arms, Fiona barely managed to speak. "You—you are such a comfort, Giles. I am so glad I know you."

  He gave a throaty chuckle. "Even if I persist in kissing you?"

  For answer, Fiona raised herself up higher and pressed her lips to his, feeling the heat sweep in her cheeks and her heartbeat pound. Would he think she was too bold?

  In the next instant, Giles made a muffled sound and tightened his arms around her, kissing her passionately on cheeks, brow, and throat. Fiona gave a whimper of delight and pressed innocently into his body. A shudder swept him, and suddenly she felt his warm tongue probing at her mouth. She gave a startled jerk, then gasped and trembled while he licked her greedily, moving over and over, in and out between her parted lips. Through it all, even with the strange feelings he aroused, she didn't pull away.

  Finally, Giles raised his head. "We better stop this," he muttered hoarsely. "But, you taste like a flower filled with honey. Did—did you like what I did just now, Fiona?"

  She stared at him, shaken, bewildered, excited beyond belief, and somewhat frightened. What did it mean?

  "I—I do not know," she stuttered. "No one's ever done that—that before." She could hardly speak from breathlessness.

  Giles's fingertips stroked gently down her fevered cheek. "Perhaps it was too soon. Smooth your dress,
my sweet. It is time to join the others."

  In a daze, Fiona followed him. All she could think about was the strangeness of his kiss, so unexpected, so intimate. Just the memory made her blush and tremble.

  On the way back to the church a little later, Giles acted as though nothing untoward had passed between them, and soon Fiona was able to reply in kind, their easy friendliness restored.

  However, before they reached the meetinghouse, a young woman called to Giles and he stopped, his face alight with pleasure.

  "Sally! I hear you've married in my absence. How are you faring, dear?"

  "Just fine, Giles. I'm so glad you're back." The winsome face beneath a dark bonnet turned toward Fiona with a frank and friendly curiosity.

  "Oh, Sally, this is a newcomer in our midst, Mistress Fiona Prescott. She and her mother were on the ocean voyage with me."

  "I'm Sally Woods. I am pleased to meet you, Fiona. You are most welcome to our shores," the young woman said. "Giles, perhaps you will bring your new neighbor to dine one night next week. I know Oliver would like to see you. Shall we say, next Saturday?"

  "Thank you." He raised an eyebrow at Fiona, who smiled and nodded her agreement. "Where is Oliver? Didn't he attend the service?" Giles asked Sally.

  "No, Oliver has been ill, but he's much better and will probably be back at his forge tomorrow. It is hard to make him stay abed."

  Giles frowned and placed his hand upon the slender shoulder as Sally gazed up at him. "Is he good to you?" he asked her gruffly.

  To Fiona, there seemed to be a strange undercurrent beneath their words as Sally answered softly, "Yes, Giles. You are not to worry."

  She moved away with a smile for them both. Giles entered the meetinghouse, but before Fiona could follow, Grace appeared at her side and hissed into her ear. "See the girl with Reverend Parris? That's his niece, Abigail Williams, one of the afflicted who seeks out witches. Best not let her become aware of you. She's suspicious of any strangers." She gave a deep, malicious chuckle which Fiona managed to ignore.