by D C Young
After mass, Erika and Jade were escorted back to the car by George, the chauffeur. There was a strange look on his face as he held the door open and invited Jade to enter the car ahead of Erika. George took Jade by the hand and guided her into the roomy cabin then turned to the other sister in his care. He retrieved a sleek, black tablet from the roof of the car and handed it to Erika.
“Miss Blackwood,” he said, “There’s an urgent call for you from the ‘Hanged One’.”
“Oh, dear!” Erika replied shocked. “I wonder what she wants.”
Chapter Two
American Witch
Los Angeles, California.
Bridget Bishop had been uneasy for days. The level of magical activity in the region was at an all time high and she had been stumped as to the reasons why. Over the past few months, they had seen a beastly cambion ruthlessly claw his way south through the east coast murdering young prostitutes and female hitchhikers. A ‘dead-witch’ had come to California and made a target of one of the Immortal Council’s dearest friends and most recently, an over eager coven of young crafters lead by a crazed ancient witch had sought to use the dark entity inside Samantha Moon to resurrect the malevolent spirit of Himiko, witch queen of Wa. Enough was enough as far as Bridget was concerned. One of the most attractive things about the Immortal Council for her had been the emphasis on secrecy and keeping the mortal population as oblivious to the existence of supernatural beings as possible.
Of course, that mission always seemed to be an uphill battle especially in Southern California; where Mani and Carni battled each other in the open, disillusioned ancient vampires attacked innocent, oblivious soccer moms jogging in the park, men banded together determined to assassinate random supernaturals and rogue huntress blood drinkers exterminated the trash of that underground community.
Despite the struggle, which was very real as the kids these days love to say, the Western Council of Elder Watchers, aka The Immortal Council, somehow managed to keep things somewhat in order. At least the paparazzi had never been perched on the doorsteps of Elysium House and the FBI, or any other government agency for that matter, had never found any reason to take special interest in any particular supernatural phenomena. So, mission accomplished… in some sort of way.
For Bridget however, the tension had only served to remind her of the events that surrounded her first death and the turmoil it had caused in her community. A community she had loved and called home during her human existence. History had recorded it as the work of religious over-zealousness and heightened superstition, but she knew the Salem Witch Trials and everything that had led up to them for what it was. They had been the work of much more sinister forces.
No ‘New World’ witch had the need to dance in the moonlight, make blood sacrifices or afflict their neighbor’s children and livestock with mysterious ailments. Though they had a real ability to do harm to others and their property, the witches who had escaped to America knew the value of keeping a low profile. In fact, as Bridget remembered it, out of all the people accused of witchcraft at the time only three were actually witches and only one of them was executed… and that was her. Tituba had been a seasoned voodoo priestess and Sarah Osbourne was well versed in the ancestral magic of the Welsh moorlands. There had been a full coven of thirteen witches residing in and around Salem in 1692.
Bridget sat down in a huff and let her memories of the time wash over her. She had been fighting them back for days and now it was plain that if she didn’t just allow them to surface, her melancholy mood was likely to persist for days longer, weeks even.
She remembered the day they had arrested her. She had been having a discussion over tea with Elizabeth Proctor.
***
“True or not,” Elizabeth began, her eyes wide as she stirred her tea and placed the spoon on the china saucer. “They are getting well out of hand with these trials.”
“I’m a healer,” Bridget replied. “What do I have to worry about?”
“But you are not a properly trained physician,” Elizabeth replied, raising the cup to her lips and sipping delicately.
“What difference does it make how or where I was trained?”
“To me, it doesn’t matter, but the court might see things differently.”
“Are you saying that I’ve been accused?”
“There has been talk,” Elizabeth replied.
“People talk,” Bridget countered. “Especially those two gossips Ann Putnam and Abigail Williams. They look down their long, crooked snouts at everyone. Talk about witches.”
“But they are well connected and the court believes their stories, Bridget,” Elizabeth responded.
Bridget raised the cup to her lips, took a sip of the tea, decided that it needed just a touch more sugar and placed the cup back in the saucer. Measuring out a half of a teaspoon of sugar and stirred it into the steaming brew, she considered the situation. Elizabeth was right, in a way. The natural remedies that she used for healing might not be considered typical, but they did what they were meant to do. She’d been trained by her grandmother on her mother’s side, a healer from the Celtic tradition or the Scottish Highlands. She’d made enemies with Ann and Abigail because she didn’t play along with their adolescent games. The fact that the two, plus Mary Walcott and Marcy Lewis were being taken seriously was disturbing at best.
“It’s gotten to the point that anyone who is angry with anyone else can accuse them of being a witch, just to get even,” Bridget groused. “It’s not right and certainly isn't justice.”
“Justice or not,” Elizabeth responded, putting her cup down on the platter and leaning toward Bridget. She placed her hand on top of that of her friend and spoke in a low tone. “They’ve already sent out an arrest warrant for Sarah Good and she’s no more a witch than Sarah Osborne, well, unless you believe what that Indian slave of Sam Parris.”
“The idea that there is a community of witches is absurd,” Bridget answered. A slave of Samuel Parris, Tituba had made a cake of rye mixed with the urine of Parris’ daughter, Betty, who had gotten ill. The woman had fed the cake to a dog, believing that the dog would reveal the identity of whoever afflicted the young girl. “Tituba only confessed to avoid being beaten to death.”
“But that confession has touched off a widespread belief that witchcraft is alive and well here in Essex County. All that coupled with the smallpox running rampant and the to-do in the congregation.” Elizabeth took a longer sip of her tea and looked across the rim of the cup toward Bridget. She sighed heavily and set the cup back in its saucer. “It is, indeed, a troublesome time.”
It was certainly a troublesome time, but they wouldn’t come after her, would they? She’d done a lot of good in the community, just like her grandmother. People trusted her, didn’t they? Bridget was no longer certain of that. She was no longer certain of anything. She’d read that piece of garbage that Cotton Mather had published. There was nothing akin to the art of healing that she practiced in Memorable Providences. The book was being used to inflame the accusations and was being used as something of a guide on witchcraft. It was hogwash; nothing more.
“The garbage that Mather put out is being believed by the magistrates. Surely they must see that it is a book made up mostly of falsehoods and imagined satanic connections. There is not an ounce of it that applies to the healing arts,” Bridget responded, she was growing more and more frustrated as the two discussed the events. “Perhaps we ought to change the subject.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Elizabeth said, again reaching across to cover her friend’s hand with her own. “But I did want to warn you that I’ve heard some talk. Perhaps it is best if you cut back on your practice or go visit your Aunt Winifred until this all blows over.”
“You think I’m a witch?” Bridget replied, pulling her hand away. She did need the sort of comfort that a Doubting Thomas might give.
“I didn’t say that, nor even think it,” Elizabeth responded in a hurtful tone. She drew back h
er hand as though she’d been bitten. “But it doesn’t matter what either of us believe, as long as the accusation is put forth and the magistrates choose to believe it, you’ll be tried and executed just like the others. Please, listen to me, Bridget. I can’t bear the thought of you being put on trial and most certainly not bear seeing you put to death.”
“Why would I be put to death? I’m not a witch!” Bridget lost all interest in the tea. She stood, went to the oven and took out the biscuits that she’d started baking just a little too late for tea. She’d hoped that they’d be finished in time to spread some butter and thick maple syrup on them while she and Elizabeth enjoyed their tea. She placed the pan on the apron of the stove and didn’t bother to extract its contents; she no longer had a taste for them.
“Speaking of Samuel Parris,” Elizabeth began after a long pause. “I have learned that he is going to be prosecuting the case against Sarah Good.”
“A minister and now a prosecutor? This is getting out of hand,” Bridget replied.
“Before that, he made loans,” Elizabeth responded leaning forward and speaking in a low tone. “And from what I understand, there wasn’t a great deal of Christian charity involved in those transactions.”
“Just the man our community needs as the prosecutor during a trial that is fed by hysteria,” Bridget snorted. Elizabeth hadn’t drifted far from the subject, but it was enough of a change to cause Bridget to regain interest in the biscuits. She drew two out of the pan with a spatula, took down a plate, placed them on it and then set the plate on the table beside the butter and syrup.
“Is this that syrup that John Timmons brought you from Quebec that you’ve been raving about?” Elizabeth asked, truly changing the subject as she took the jar in her hand and turned it to examine its rich contents.
“Actually,” Bridget said with a straight face. “I made that from toad’s blood, mule urine and sugar ants to add the sweetness.”
Elizabeth studied Bridget’s face with her mouth wide open, trying to determine if her friend was serious or only making fun. When she saw the twinkle in Bridget’s eyes and saw a smile begin to grow on her face she dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “You had me going for a moment.”
“Well, you know how our community of witches is,” Bridget giggled. Bridget waiting for Elizabeth to finish spreading butter on her biscuit before she did the same to the one that she’d opened up and left steaming on her plate. Elizabeth took a dip of the syrup and put only a touch of its sugary goodness on one edge of the biscuit for a taste. Her eyes widened and then rolled back in her head as she took a bite.
“Oh, Bridget,” she cooed. “This is heavenly.”
Bridget opened her mouth to respond when there was heavy handed knock on the door. With a puzzled look on her face, Bridget excused herself and went toward the door. Who would be out and about during tea time? She pulled the door open and was surprised to see Marshall George Herrick standing on the stoop.
“Marshall Herrick,” she smiled. “What a surprise! Elizabeth and I were just having tea and biscuits. We’ve got some delicious syrup from Quebec to put on them if you’d like to join…”
“I’m here in an official capacity,” Marshall Herrick interrupted.
“What sort of official capacity?” Bridget asked.
“I think it is best if I read the warrant to you aloud, so there will be no confusion of my purpose,” Marshall Herrick responded in a strict tone.
“A warrant?”
Marshall Herrick did not respond to her question, he simply began reading from the paper that he held in his hand.
“There Being Complaint this day made before us by Capt. Jonat Walcott, and Lt. Natheniell Ingersull both of Salem Village, in behalfe of theire Majesties for themselfes and also for several of their neighbours against Bridget Bishop, the wife of Edward Bishop; and Elizabeth Proctor, the wife of John Proctor of Salem farmes for high suspition of sundry acts of witchcraft donne or committed by them upon the bodys of Abigail Williams, and John Indian both of Mr. Sam Parris, his family of Salem Village and Mary Walcott, daughter of the above said complainants, and Ann Putnam and Marcy Lewis, of the family of Thomas Putnam of Salem Village, whereby great hurt and dammage hath beene donne to the bodys of said persons above named therefore craved justice.
“You are therefore in theire Majesty's names hereby required to apprehend and bring before us Bridget Bishop, the wife of Edward Bishop of Salem Village and Elizabeth Proctor, the wife of John Procter of Salem Farmes; on Tuesday afternoon next being the nineteenth day of this Instant Aprill aboute three of the clock, at the publike meeting house in the Towne, in order to theire examination relateing to the premesis above mentioned and here of you are not to faile.
Dated Salem Aprill 15'th 1692. ”
The order was signed by the honorable John Hathorne.
“But I don’t understand?” Bridget asked. Elizabeth, hearing her name read within the warrant, had come to the door to stand beside her.
“You’re arresting both of us on charges of witchcraft?” Elizabeth asked.
“I am,” Marshall Herrick replied. “Would you both come with me please?”
***
The fact was that witches and witchcraft were real but the witches in Salem at the time were smarter than to be caught in any of the shenanigans which the foolish young girls of the town and its surrounding villages had accused them of. They had escaped the persecution of King James the first’s England and mainland Europe before that to escape the Spanish Inquisition. It had always been curious to her how executions conducted as a sentence for the crime of witchcraft were primarily meted out on women.
Thinking about it, Bridget shook her head in silent reverie. “Gutless, simply gutless.”
“What did you say, dear?” a motherly voice asked from behind her. It was Julia Agrippina, of course, or as Bridget often called her, the Greek. Bridget found it amazing how centuries after the era of her human existence; Julia had somehow managed to transplant her Greek style and deportment into the present in a completely acceptable way. Her dresses were light, billowy and draped in the old style, yet modern, relaxed and exquisitely elegant and stylish. Her hair was either delicately coiffed and sported the favored curls and braids popular in the time of Christ, or left long and flowing to the small of her back. Incredible. There was no way to pull off the black and white penguin suit of pilgrim times in twenty-first century California.
Bridget smiled and turned to face her. “I said that their gutless.”
“Who? Who’s gutless, Bridget?”
“Men.”
“Well, that’s a broad comment,” Julia replied, smiling as well. She had caught the unmistakable scent of a debate and there was nothing that Julia loved more than a good debate. “Care to elaborate?”
Bridget was titillated by the prospect of a conversation. She needed something to divert her mind. “I’d love to actually,” she replied, as she poured them both a glass of warm blood from a carafe on the bar.
Chapter Three
Family Time
Fullerton, California.
I need to remember to set the DVR, Sam thought as she went through her mental checklist. No way I’m going to trust the ‘On Demand’ with that Judge Judy marathon on Thursday. It would be just my luck to find it isn’t available when we get back next week.
The vacation had been long in the planning and Sam had almost bailed on the plans several times over the last three weeks. So much had happened recently; she couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed. One thing she did know was that the kids and Mary Lou deserved the time away… and maybe, just maybe, so did she.
The two weeks on Tybee Island near Savannah, Georgia was going to do them all some good and Sam knew that the further away from the West Coast they could get, the more relaxed she was likely to feel.
It was supposed to be nice and cool in Savannah that time of year and that would be a welcome break from the California heat. Mary Lou had all kinds of things plan
ned for them to do especially since it was the off season on Tybee and the beaches would likely be closed a few days after they arrived. The brochures had been piling up on her desk for weeks; Old Fort Jackson would be running the last of their cannon firing programs, The Tri-Centennial museum was a must see and, of course, they would take one of those famous trolley tours through the city as well.
Some friends of Veronica Melbourne’s, Roberta, Ricki and Riley, the Vaughan sisters of R3 recovery had arranged a lovely evening for them on River Street a week into the trip to experience the Final Friday festivities. It was supposed to include fireworks over the river, outdoor live music and local seafood dishes at a well-known restaurant and finish up with pralines and other delectable sweets at River Street Sweets. The colorful trio would serve as their River Street guides for the evening. Samantha only hoped that none of the usual excitement that followed the Vaughan Sisters would impeach on her family’s getaway; they had a penchant for attracting mischief and mystery and she was ready to just do nothing but tourist stuff and relax for a couple of weeks.
It would be her first real vacation since she’d become a vampire; Hawaiian cruises and third-degree burns just didn’t seem to go hand in hand but now, she didn’t have to worry about the sun anymore. Suddenly, the thought of spending some quality time with her kids, her sister and her sister’s family made a smile spread across Sam’s face.
