Entranced

by Marion Clarke

  Ellen shrugged. "Well, I have some very fine ointments. Often they have helped ailments of the skin." She gazed thoughtfully at Grace's blotched and reddened face.

  "Aunt Ellen," Grace burst out, "could they help me?"

  "Grace," Aunt Mercy snapped. "No foreign drugs are going to be used on me or mine."

  Grace threw her mother a rebellious glance, but then she could not pass up the chance to sneer. "Ointments from strange herbs are what all witches use. Everyone knows that."

  Fiona gritted her teeth. That Grace was enough to make a person wish they really had the powers of a witch. Just enough to change Grace into a mouse when the black cat was around.

  Chapter 7

  Fiona did not see Giles until dusky shadows stretched across the yard. She was washing supper dishes at the big stone sink and had nearly finished when, through the casement window, she spied Giles coming along the path.

  With a quick glance toward Grace, who was kneading bread at the corner sideboard, Fiona picked up her basin. "I'll just throw this dirty water in the yard."

  "Well, don't waste it, ninny, put it on the vegetables," Grace snapped.

  Fiona jerked off her damp apron, tucked loose strands of hair beneath her cap, and, opening the door, threw the water on some struggling plants. Then she sped down the path just as Giles came toward her.

  He caught her hands with a quick smile and gave her a searching glance. "Fiona, how are you? I was on my way to see you."

  "I'm fine. Did you enjoy your trip?"

  "I accomplished quite a lot." He tucked her arm beneath his own as they started walking away from Mercy Prescott's house.

  "What did you do in Boston? Did you buy a lot of things? Did you see William Phips, by any chance?"

  "I heard Sir William had gone north to investigate an Indian uprising, but I would not have imposed a visit on him at any rate. Shipboard comradeships are oft-times forgotten once you are on land—unless you are thrown together afterward, as you and I have been." His deep voice lowered softly. "And for that I am very grateful. Our time together on the sea meant much to me, Fiona, and I would hate to have it all forgotten."

  Fiona glanced at him with a quick smile. "So would I. You were right. I cannot forget those days."

  "Soon there will be the annual berrying party. Will you come as my partner?"

  "Why—why, yes, of course." She beamed at him, but then she laughed. "What is it?"

  "Well, every spring the young men and women pair off and go to a certain area in the woods where they collect berries to be stewed, dried, preserved, or whatever. They are very plentiful this year: blueberries, strawberries, rasp berries… The girls pack lunches to share with their partners. Even with the troubles here, I believe a goodly number of couples will find time to attend. The berries form a big part of our winter diet."

  "Will the possessed girls be there?" Fiona cautiously asked.

  "I do not know. Most of them are too young to be paired with young men. The older ones… perhaps."

  Fiona swallowed before she spoke again. "Well, what about Grace? She seems to have a possessive air around you."

  "There is nothing between us and never would be. We've been neighbors a long time and when we were young we were companions. Never more."

  But Fiona thought there was a great deal more in Grace's mind.

  After they had walked a little way, Giles halted and with one hand, pushed back the curly red tendrils from her brow. "You are the only one I am interested in. I think about you even when I am gone. I cannot forget you, Fiona."

  In the next instant, he hungrily pressed his lips to hers. Blissfully, Fiona closed her eyes, opening her mouth to the piercing, hot invasion. For long moments, there was nothing in the world except the wild sweetness of his deep kiss.

  Suddenly, in the whirling vortex of emotions, she heard the sound of horses' hooves and cartwheels coming down the road. Abruptly, Giles drew away.

  "Oh, God. Here comes Sally's husband, Oliver Woods," Giles said huskily, clearing his throat and straightening his hat.

  Feeling as though she had wakened from a dream, Fiona's fingers shook as she straightened her gown and turned around. The driver of the wagon stepped down and wrung Giles's hand. He was very big, heavy-shouldered, and heavy-featured, with an almost brutal cast to his lips and pugnacious chin. As he welcomed Giles's return, his voice was a deep male growl.

  After Giles had introduced her, Oliver eyed Fiona, but if he noticed of her dishevelment, there was no telling. "Sally said she met you and soon you'll be having a meal with us. Welcome."

  "Yes, indeed." Fiona gave a nervous laugh. Oliver's appearance shocked her. This big brute of a man… and… the dainty Sally?

  However, there was something in the black depths of his eyes, something frank and honest, though Fiona doubted he gave his trust and friendship freely.

  "Good, but I'd best be getting home. 'Twill soon be dark. I'll see you both, come Saturday." He touched the wide brim of his hat and drove off in his wagon.

  When the dust had settled in the road, Giles and Fiona started to retrace their steps. "I must go home now, too," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. There is grave danger in this witch hunt. Be very careful, Fiona, if I'm not with you."

  "Oh. Yes." What did it mean? Giles's passionate kisses one minute—then the stern control. Was he afraid of her innocent response? Maybe when the witch hunt ended, they could explore this strange, exciting thing between them.

  Turning to go back, Fiona suddenly saw Grace run from the house and cross the field to intercept Giles. In another minute, she would see Fiona and know she had been meeting him. That would not set well with the demanding, suspicious girl, who might be in love with Giles or at least was pushing for his complete attention.

  In order to avoid being seen, Fiona decided to take a short walk in the woods. Moving quickly, she turned off the main road and saw a grass-edged path starred with daisies and blue violets. The gathering of a bouquet would furnish an excuse for being outdoors, since Mercy cultivated no flowers, nor many other plants.

  As she broke off fragile stems, Fiona pondered the idea of starting a vegetable garden. It could provide their food and she would feel she was making a contribution to the household. Giles might know where she could find seeds or seedlings to set out, as she had done in Ireland. Both she and her mother had enjoyed gardening, and it would be a more pleasant occupation than the drudgery demanded under Grace or Mercy's nagging supervision.

  She also looked forward to the berrying, as it would provide material for jams and jellies, at which task her mother was quite proficient. Thoughts of the coming outing gave Fiona a quick glow of happiness. What fun, to spend a whole day picking fruit with Giles, then sharing a picnic basket with him. Sally and Oliver might be there, and Charles Harmon, as well as other young people.

  But the main attraction would be Giles. She gave a little laugh of pure excitement, remembering their recent encounter. Underneath his serious outlook and sober dedication to his profession, Giles certainly could be quite romantic.

  She frowned as she started walking along the dusky path. Maybe it was his skillful passion that made him so attractive. Yes, that was part of his appeal, but she also liked and admired him, longed to please him, to see him smile at her. She yearned to be with him… dreamed about him in the night.

  Was she in love with Giles?

  Then came another thought, more sobering: he had never said he loved her. He had said only that she was bewitching, lovely… sweet… but never had he mentioned love. Perhaps he was too cautious, too self-contained, maybe even too uncertain of his own feelings at this point. Or, a wicked voice whispered, perhaps he just wanted to satisfy his clamoring male desires.

  Her mother's warnings surged into her mind, the firm advice about a maiden's conduct when strong passions tried to work their wiles upon virginity. Alas, each time Giles caressed her, a tingling sensation swept through every part of her body, making her yearn for mo
re.

  Occupied with her thoughts, she hadn't noticed that the night had fallen and she had come a far piece inside the rustling woods, much farther than she had intended.

  She stopped and looked around uneasily. The path was swallowed up in darkness. Which way should she go?

  As she hesitated, a keening howl suddenly smote her ears. Was that a dog? Then she saw eyes—slitted, yellow, shining through the trees. She heard the pad of paws on dried leaves, and a low, deep-throated growl of menace.

  The creature moved and now she saw him clearer: the tilted eyes, the brindle coat covering gauntness, the alert, pointed ears. No dog; it was a wolf! What should she do? A scream, sudden flight, or an attempted blow—all might trigger an attack. She was the enemy, and she had entered his domain.

  Stand still; do not threaten him, she told herself. Moments passed while she stood frozen on the path, the animal waiting for her to move. But then a lantern light appeared, shining through the trees, and Fiona heard a lilting voice call, "Here, Gray, here's food. Come on, boy."

  It was Sally! Fiona shook so much she couldn't find her voice or move while the emaciated creature loped with a whine to Sally's feet and gobbled up the meat she had tossed on the ground.

  At last Fiona moved into the ring of light. "Good evening, Sally," she said in a shaken voice. "Do you know that animal?"

  "Why, Fiona, hello. Yes, Gray and I are good friends. I cured this old fellow after some boys trapped him and left him wounded in the forest. Come closer, Fiona, and I will make you known to him."

  "Are you certain he will not attack me?" Fiona asked weakly.

  "Not while I am here. Take deep breaths and expel your fear so he won't sense it. He's just a poor old wolf, deserted by the younger pack, who moved on and forced him to steal his food. He's afraid and hungry all the time, although I try to feed him when I can."

  Drawing a deep breath, Fiona came closer while still shaking in every limb. "A poor old wolf," she repeated to herself. A wolf? Dear heaven, what was she doing, moving closer to this natural enemy of mankind?

  Finishing his meat, the animal fawned on Sally's shoes, then raised his head, regarding Fiona curiously.

  Sally knelt down. "This is a friend, Gray. Never harm her. Fiona, let him sniff your fist. Not an open hand; that is threatening."

  The introduction was accomplished. There ensued no wagging tail, only a long, cool look. Then he dipped his head in submission, and with a last lick at Sally's shoe, slunk off into the darkness, fed, peaceful, another contact made with a human being. Though his wild instincts were lulled for the time being, Fiona did not think she would want him for a pet; the gulf was too wide between her and this foraging creature of the forest.

  "Do you think he will remember me?" she asked.

  "Oh, yes. You will now be a friend in his mind, someone associated with me, and I am a person who gives him food."

  Fiona inhaled deeply. "I am certainly glad you came along. Perhaps you saved my life. What are you doing in the woods so late?"

  "Gathering mushrooms for Oliver's breakfast tomorrow. And you?"

  "Just walking. I met Giles and then Oliver on his way home."

  "Yes, he told me. Well, take some mushrooms to your aunt."

  Fiona accepted them gladly. This would make a better excuse for being out so late than gathering flowers.

  "Can you find your way back?" Sally asked.

  "The moon's up now and I can see the path. Do you think the wolf would have attacked me?"

  Sally shook her head. "Not unless you made a threatening gesture. However, one cannot forget that he is a wild animal, and unpredictable when aroused."

  "Like some people," Fiona said. Strangely, the image of Judge Blaize's face swam before her.

  Sally nodded and drew her shawl tighter to her throat. "Sometime I may tell you about such a person right here in Salem." In the moonlight, her face suddenly looked white and pinched. While Fiona stared at her, Sally turned abruptly and vanished among the trees.

  Chapter 8

  During the next few days, Fiona had little time to ponder Giles, Sally, or the wolf. Grace plunged her into an orgy of housework, almost as though she challenged Fiona's powers of endurance or wished to keep her too busy to visit with Giles. Grimly, Fiona kept pace with the strenuous work, knowing that she and her mother were dependent on Aunt Mercy for their very livelihood. There seemed to be no work for them in the village, but there was plenty at the Prescotts' home. Today it was soap making. The big iron pot had been set up outside in the yard over a fire of twigs, and Fiona and Grace took turns stirring it in one direction only.

  "Slowly, slowly, you ninny," Grace exhorted constantly. "We want a fine, clear jelly, not a lumpy mess."

  Fiona turned her head aside from the stifling fumes of lye and grease. "I've made soap before. I would rather do most anything than make soap."

  "The job I hate is listening to those dame school brats. 'Tis monstrous boring," Grace growled. "Say, why don't you take the little darlings today? Ma can help me best out here. I don't have to tell her everything a dozen times."

  "I'd be glad to." Fiona wiped her watering eyes on her apron and hurried to switch jobs with Aunt Mercy, who had just ushered the children in the door. Unusually subdued when they heard there was a new teacher, the little ones placed their hornbooks in front of them on the kitchen table while ten pairs of round eyes studied Fiona.

  "Children, look up at this alphabet sheet," she said, remembering a game her village teacher had once taught. "There is a picture by each letter with a word telling what it is. Can you all see that?"

  Heads bobbed solemnly.

  "A, apple. B, bull," young Master Tommy piped up, his snapping eyes giving every indication that he was eager to say the whole lesson. "C—"

  "All right, now wait. Today we are going to play a new game. We are going to make up rhymes for the words like this: A is an apple that fell from a tree. B is a bull that— what? Who can make up a word to rhyme with tree?"

  Tommy frowned at the fierce-looking woodcut. "B is a bull who looks angry at me."

  The children all shouted with laughter.

  "Very good." Fiona clapped her hands.

  The game continued merrily through the alphabet until it came to little Charity's turn. Unable to read the pictured word, Fiona helped her out. "J is a judge that—what? What does a judge do?"

  Since the rhyme just before had been "I is for ice that turns into hail," Charity's rhyme was good, although sobering: "I is a judge who sends witches to jail." Charity's baby face suddenly looked very unchildlike and worried.

  Silence fell and an uneasy breath seemed to stir throughout the room.

  "No more talk about witches," Fiona ordered, but the next letter showed that the children's thoughts were still on the forbidden subject.

  "K is a king—uh—holding prisoners for trial," a small girl whispered.

  Fiona winced. Poor little poppets. Salem was no place for children these days. Most of the time, they must be frightened out of their wits.

  When the reading session ended, Fiona drew Charity aside. "How is your grandmama feeling?"

  Charity's rosy mouth turned down. "She eats a little better, but she doesn't play with me anymore. Big men came to talk with her and then she cried."

  "Perhaps she wasn't feeling well," Fiona said, trying to sound comforting. She gnawed her lip. Had the hints of witchcraft about Rebecca Nurse grown worse? When school ended, she took Charity by the hand and went into the yard where her mother was hanging the wash. "Mistress Nurse is upset and worried. I think I'll go along with Charity and pay her a visit."

  "A good idea that is. When I spoke with Giles, he said she was improved, but by no means well."

  Fiona lowered her voice. "I think she is worried about matters in town."

  Her mother shook her head. "I cannot blame her. When will this nightmare ever end?"

  Charity tugged at Fiona's hand. "You said you were going to Grandmama's."

  "
Yes, dear. Let's go."

  Out on the road, the air blew sweetly across green stalks of ripening corn and wheat. Every day, more wildflowers appeared by the roadside: great yellow daisies and Queen Anne's lace, purple violets with incredible perfume, and perky, spicy pinks. The red fruit of peaches and cherries peeked invitingly between the thickly leaved trees of neighboring orchards. Soon they should be harvested, Fiona thought, wishing she could pick some for herself, but as usual, no one was in sight for her to ask.

  She lifted her face to the warm sunshine. Such a big, beautiful, fertile land. Why couldn't the people just enjoy it, instead of stirring up trouble? With a shudder, she remembered Reverend Parris's hate-filled sermon. "Seek, find, destroy!" His words had seemed to fall on very receptive ears in the frightened, vindictive audience.

  The wind blew with a sudden chill as Charity grabbed at Fiona's skirt. "Ooo, look! There are The Girls!"

  Seven young girls stood together, talking and laughing, occasionally glancing up and down the road. Quite ordinary-looking children, dressed in sober Puritan garb, their ages seemed to range between eleven and the latter teens. Abigail Williams, the niece of Reverend Parris, paced restlessly back and forth, her eyes burning with a barely leashed excitement.

  Fiona halted out of sight, her heart leaping against her ribs. She had no desire to face these girls, but her curiosity to observe the instigators of the witch hunt was overwhelming.

  She pulled Charity beneath the branches of a willow tree and whispered," Be quiet, now. Do not make a sound." But Charity did not need the warning. She stood frozen, a statue of fear, her blue eyes round and staring.

  The group appeared to be waiting for something, and soon their vigilance was rewarded. Two wagons containing passengers came rumbling along the road followed by several riders on horseback. Immediately a change swept over the young girls. Cloaks and shawls were straightened, laughter ceased abruptly as they composed their faces into stern, serious expressions.

  The driver of the first wagon stopped his horse and addressed the group. "Good morning, young ladies, we have come clear from Marblehead to see the poor maids possessed by witches. Do you know where we can observe them?"