Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  A black and white cat bounded across the lawn. Susannah held the door open until her pet was inside, then closed it behind her.

  Maggie's head ached. Carefully, she turned the key in the ignition and pulled out on to the road hoping to make it home before the pain made it impossible to drive. Taking side streets, she gritted her teeth at the stop signs, gradually finding her way to the tree-lined street that was home. Light exploded behind her eyes. She left the car parked outside and, fumbling for her keys, she let herself in. Muffin rubbed against her legs.

  Ignoring the cat, she sank down on the couch and leaned back against the cushions, one hand covering her forehead, the other reaching out for whatever stabilizer was nearby, settling on the spindle of the wheel she'd inherited from Annie.

  Immediately, she heard voices. They were louder this time, more intelligible, demanding and harsh. Torchlight flickered, illuminating the shadows.

  For the first time she saw them clearly, faces, grim and forbidding, frightening and purposeful, male and female, black hats, white caps, dark cloaks. She fought against them, resisting. Not now. Not yet. Not until she had the tools to understand. She was cold, the chill beginning behind her ribs, seeping upward throughout her chest and down below her belly. Her fingers burned, then numbed giving up their last vestiges of heat, the color turning from pink to white to pearly blue. Tremors shook her body. Wait, wait, her mind screamed.

  Somewhere, outside in the chill of a New England winter, snow fell softly, blanketing the ground in a sea of white, weighting down skeleton trees, burying porch steps, rimming car windows in frost, muffling the sounds of Salem in late afternoon.

  But Maggie, caught up in a world of cold and shadow and flickering torchlight, heard and saw none of it.

  Chapter 9

  Salem, Massachusetts, 1692

  Time had run out for Abigail March. The pounding on the door destroyed her last vestige of hope.

  Her hand pressed against her mouth, she looked helplessly at the hearth where a cauldron simmered with herbs and crystal, witch hazel for protection and wormwood for safe travel, at the rose quartz, horehound and mugwort swirling dizzily in the boiling saltwater. She'd worked feverishly. Acrid fumes burned her eyes and the palms of her hands were blistered and raw. But it was too late. They were here. Her efforts would come to nothing. At the final hour she'd been thwarted by the Reverend Parris's unseemly haste. She needed two more days, only two, to stir the awesome powers of the elements, Guardians of the Watchtower: air, water, earth and fire. Manning the four corners of the magick circle, they would watch and protect and diffuse the horror that Abigail had brought upon herself. They would send out the combined forces of the hurricane, the storm, the awakened volcano, and the raging fire to wrest her children from the madness of the Inquisitors. Her breath caught on a sob. There must be a way, some way she hadn't thought of, to divert the evil awaiting her.

  Slowly, she moved toward the door. With shaking hands, she pushed it open. A gathering of six men and two women stood before her. Reverend Parris and Goodwife Turner held torches above their heads. The others were strangers. Her mouth twisted. No wonder. Only a brave man or a fool would muster the courage to accuse John March's wife and children of witchcraft.

  They were eerily silent, their expressions grim in the flickering torchlight. Reverend Parris spoke first. "'T'is time, Mistress."

  Abigail wet her lips. "Will the Inquisition take place tonight?"

  "Nay," he replied. "Reverend Mather has traveled many miles today. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

  "It will be soon enough for us as well," she flared. "I have not tried to flee Salem. We are here, in this house, with no thoughts of escape."

  Goody Turner spoke up. "My barn will be good enough for Satan's spawn."

  Abigail straightened her back. She wasn't a tall woman but when she turned the full force of her unusual eyes, one eerily light, the other dark, on the thin-lipped woman, she appeared much taller. "They are my spawn, Rachel Turner, mine and John's. This is blasphemy and you know it. The girls are falsely accused."

  "You forget what Reverend Hawthorne saw, Abigail," said Parris.

  "I forget nothing."

  "The barn will keep you safe for the night."

  Abigail's hands clenched. "If John were here, you wouldn't do this."

  "John March is one of them." The voice was feminine, venomous.

  Reverend Parris turned. "Be silent, woman. John March is a deacon of the Lord's Assembly, a God-fearing man. 'T'is slanderous to speak of him so."

  Abigail strained her ears. She heard voices that had nothing to do with those at her door. Sure enough, the sound of conversation gathered in volume. Once again hope flared in her breast. The gathering at her door turned, lifting their torches.

  Out of the darkness stepped John March and the sea captain, Nathaniel Burke. Abigail nearly fainted. A low moan escaped her lips. Breaking through the evil crowd, she threw herself into her husband's arms. They closed around her.

  John's eyes moved over the six men and two women. He spoke softly, dangerously. "Explain yourself, Reverend."

  Reverend Parris gestured toward the man beside him. "This is Constable Samuel Miller. The others are here to bear witness. They cry out against Abigail and the girls."

  John March laughed. "'T'is madness. Since you have come to Salem Village, there have been witchcraft sightings behind every tree, Reverend Parris."

  Abigail pressed her face against her husband's shoulder.

  "I know you don't hold with witchcraft, John, but no human could do such a thing."

  "What did they do?"

  Goodwife Turner stepped forward. "Three children in this town have died. They sickened after that black cat of yours passed them by."

  John spoke scornfully. "That black cat is the best mouser we've ever had. She's no familiar."

  "Laugh if you wish, John," the Reverend warned him, "but there is more."

  One of the men stepped into the circle of light thrown by the torches. Abigail lifted her head, surprised. It was Robert Crane, husband to Elizabeth, the woman who bought her thread.

  He cleared his throat. "My wife was struck down with fever not an hour past the time Mistress March visited her last."

  "That's no proof," John scoffed.

  "The cows give no milk," he insisted stubbornly. "Explain that."

  "Since when do we arrest people on such paltry evidence? There isn't a shred of proof amongst you."

  Despite the cold October night, Reverend Parris was visibly sweating. "Explain the animals, John. Tell us how two children, one a mere babe, can tame the power of a hawk so that it sits on one shoulder while a sparrow rests on the other. Tell us how these children understand the language of rabbits and squirrels, or do you call Reverend Hawthorne of Salem Town a liar?"

  Not a whisper broke the thick silence. Abigail's heart pounded and her own breath sounded like a roar in her ears. The night air was filled with the smells of burning wood, seaweed and salt. A ripe moon rode high in the sky. She took comfort in that.

  Until now Nathaniel Burke had minded his place waiting in the shadows. He stepped forward into the light to stand beside John and Abigail, a tall, wide-shouldered man with sun-bleached hair and steady gray eyes. "I would say the Reverend Hawthorne has been sampling spirits. No child could do such a thing, not even a witch."

  A collective gasp rose from the group. "How dare you?" hissed Goody Turner.

  "I would dare a great deal in the face of such slander." He took their measure, each of them, his gaze dismissing them one by one. "Your mischief will come to naught," he said at last.

  Reverend Parris passed his hand over his face. "We cannot leave without the accused. There is a complaint against Abigail, signed according to law."

  "Who dares to sign such a charge?" John demanded.

  "I do," declared Goodman Crane. "My wife is ill. Three children have died. Justice must be served."

  "Where will you take them?" asked Captain Burke
.

  "To the Reverend's barn."

  John's face whitened. "No. You shall not take them tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

  "How do we know you won't run away?" demanded Goody Turner.

  "You have my word," John said stiffly. "I am a Deacon of the Assembly."

  "You consort with witches."

  He spoke through clenched teeth. "My wife is no witch."

  The woman's eyes glittered. "We shall see, John March. Tomorrow will tell all."

  Reverend Parris looked defeated. "Very well, John. Your word is good with me. Tomorrow we will summon you, and then Reverend Mather will conduct his inquiry."

  Without another word, John led Abigail into the house. Nathaniel followed and closed the door behind them.

  Abigail sank into a chair. Resting her elbows on the scrubbed oaken table, she dropped her head into her hands.

  John's voice was tight with strain. "Tell me what happened, Abigail."

  She shook her head.

  He tried again. "I must know in order to establish a defense."

  She raised haunted eyes to his face. "They hate me, John. What have I done to deserve such hatred?"

  He sat down beside her and gripped her arms. "Tell me how this came about."

  She stared at him, this strong, gentle farmer for whom she'd given up her world. What measure of man was he? Once, she thought she knew. But, now... She broke from his gaze and looked around the room, warm with heat from a generous fire and the beloved possessions they'd crafted together, a rag rug on the wood floor, her spinning wheel, the gleam of pewter, lace curtains, the artful arrangement of gorse, wild mustard and cranberries. John had brought her to this house ten years ago. Never before had she regretted it. For that alone, he deserved the truth.

  "There is no defense." She spoke wearily. "Reverend Parris speaks truth. Our girls have the gift... my gift. As they grow older more will come. Call it witchcraft if you must. It is nothing more than a greater wisdom than most."

  He drew back, shock and horror warring with themselves on his face. "What are you telling me? You dare to admit such a thing? No. This cannot be. I won't believe it. I would have known."

  "'T'is true."

  He stared at her for a long minute. Proudly, she held his gaze. When he spoke again, he sounded nothing like himself. "Who are you, Abigail, or shall I ask, what are you?"

  "Ask what you will, John," she said steadily.

  He rubbed his chin, opened his mouth only to close it again and shake his head. Pushing his chair back abruptly, he strode across the room to stand before the fire, hands clasped behind his back. "Are you in league with Satan?"

  "No."

  "I ask you once again, Abigail. Do you consort with the Devil? Do you practice black magic?"

  Nathaniel Burke contained himself no longer. "For the love of God, John!"

  Abigail answered her husband. "Once again, my answer is, no."

  John released his breath and turned. Color had returned to his face. "Thank God."

  "For me, there is no God to thank." She felt calm for the first time since this nightmare began. "For me and for our daughters there is only tomorrow."

  He sat beside her again. "It will come to naught. You will explain yourself. They will find you innocent."

  She shook her head. "Nay. They will torture us, John." She took comfort in saying his name, as if in that small intimacy the bond of husband and wife prevailed. "They will probe our children with needles. They will march us until our feet bleed and, when we are near dead with exhaustion, they will bind us and throw us into the lake. We will die, the children first, and then I." Her voice broke. "If I do not, I shall pray that I do."

  "Have faith, Abigail. It will not come to that."

  "Enough," growled Nathaniel. "We can leave this place tonight, all of us. The tide is out. The Sealark will sail at first light."

  John frowned. "You would have us run away, Nat? Only the guilty run away. We will face these charges."

  "It will not be you facing them," Nathaniel pointed out. "T'is for Abigail to decide."

  "Abigail is my wife. I will decide for her and the children."

  Nathaniel Burke's mouth tightened. "'T'is a poor choice you made, Abigail, when you married your John. I would have died before handing you over to the likes of Reverend Parris."

  "You forget yourself, Nathaniel." John spoke quietly. "Out of respect for our friendship, I forgive you your words, but I think it best if you take your leave."

  The sea captain strode to the door. "I shall be at the Meeting House tomorrow, John. Make no mistake of my intentions. Hell will freeze over before I allow them to harm Abigail."

  The cozy room seemed strangely bereft after he'd gone. John avoided his wife's eyes. "It appears you have a champion in the good captain. I'll go up to bed now," he announced. "Dawn comes soon enough."

  Abigail stared at his retreating back. Anger surged through her. Once they would have walked together, arms entwined, and taken their pleasure in the feather bed upstairs. She watched him stumble and catch himself before continuing to their room. She waited until his footsteps died away, then she walked to the fire and looked into the cauldron. Despite Nathaniel Burke's reassuring words, she must search inward to save herself and her children. Her forehead wrinkled. Something was missing, but what?

  * * *

  The day dawned leaden and cold. They walked silently into town, past a row of houses. John carried his younger daughter in his arms. Abigail, clutching her cloak tightly about her, held her firstborn's hand. All around them glowed the colors of a New England fall, scarlet, orange, gold and bronze. Beneath their feet dry leaves crackled and the smoky, spiced scent of change whirled about their heads. Up High Street to the Meeting House, an unpainted square building, their feet carried them. No one, not even the children, spoke.

  Inside, every bench along the wall was taken. At a long table in front, sat the magistrate, the six selectmen of Salem, and a small man with a fanatical glitter in his eyes. Abigail shuddered. The Inquisitor needed no introduction. Increase Mather was back from the English court. His mission, to restore the Charter, had come to naught. The Reverend Hawthorne, minister of Salem Town, was noticeably absent.

  Reverend Parris spoke first: "Good folk, we are gathered here to pass judgment on the matter of Abigail March and her children who have been charged by witnesses of the practice of witchcraft." He nodded at Abigail. "Come forward Mistress March and bring your daughters."

  John transferred the baby into her mother's arms. Abigail stepped forward with Judith at her side.

  "Mistress March, thou art accused of familiarity with Satan, with teaching your children to have familiarity with Satan, the enemy of God, and with his help thou hast done harm to the bodies and estates of His Majesty's subjects, for which by the law of God and the laws of this colony, thou deserveth to die.

  "You have heard the charges. We will now proceed with the accusations. Is it true that you visited Goodwife Crane on Thursday last?"

  "It is."

  "Is it true that you hexed her so that she fell ill?"

  "It is not."

  "Is it true that you conjured a spell upon Goodman Crane's cows so they gave no milk?"

  "I did not."

  "Goodman Crane, will you repeat your accusation before this meeting?"

  The farmer stood and professed his charge. When he finished, one after another took his turn, complaining of lost crops and sick cows, thread that would not spin, sick children and trysts in the woods. One woman swore she had seen Abigail and her daughters, naked, dancing in the moonlight, when a great cloven-hoofed creature materialized and fornicated with each of them. And then the worst accusation of all. Goody Jacobs told of her lying in, of the stillbirth of her son, of how tiny Margaret grabbed his foot, of how the life force flooded through him.

  John's voice, hoarse with rage, quelled the murmurs in the room. "This is an abomination. Not a single word of this can be proven. Abigail is a God-fearing wom
an and these are innocent children, one merely two years of age."

  The Inquisitor spoke. "Are you saying that you had knowledge of your wife's whereabouts at all times?"

  "Of course not," John exploded.

  "Then these proceedings will continue. What have you to say to these charges, Mistress March?"

  "They are false, all of them. I have done no harm to these people."

  Reverend Parris stood facing her and the assembly. "What of the animals, Abigail? Explain that."

  She lifted her chin and once again Nathaniel Burke, in his place at the back of the room, was reminded of the day she first stepped onto the deck of the Skylark bound for Salem. From the beginning she stood out from the others the way a falcon stands from a flock of crows. It wasn't her clothing that set her apart. She wore the same gray wool, white cap and collar of all Roundhead women. It was her demeanor. Her shoulders were back and her head up. She met a man's gaze as truly and honestly as would any nobleman. And she was beautiful. Over and over he'd been drawn to her face, to her eyes, so strikingly different, one a vivid blue, the other so deep a brown it appeared almost black. It was as if the good Lord, presented with the perfection of her features, couldn't decide how best to adorn them. She was speaking now, her voice low and pure.

  "My children have a gift," she admitted, "as I do. Animals do not fear us. We mean no harm to anyone. Indeed, 'T'is the opposite. Many times have I brewed herbs and possets to cure ailments for the people of this township."

  "Where were you taught such things?"

  Abigail looked confused. "I don't remember. I believe I was born knowing them."

  Again, murmurs filled the room.

  "Silence!" The Inquisitor lifted his hand. "Do you refuse to reveal your teacher?"

  "I have no teacher."

  "Very well, woman. The matter is serious and the evidence sound. This assembly has no choice but to proceed." He stood. "Bring the child forward."