Maggie struggled to listen, to understand the meaning of the sounds coming from deep within the woman's throat. Fascinated she stared at Susannah's hands, moving swiftly, surely, over the roving. She couldn't bear her inactivity any longer. Reaching out she touched her fingers to the fiber.
"Not yet," Susannah cautioned her. "All in good time. Look at me, Maggie. Don't look at the wheel. It holds tremendous power. We'll use it, but first it must be controlled. Look at me."
Pulling her gaze from the mesmerizing rotation, Maggie forced herself to meet the dark, unblinking eyes of her mentor.
Susannah's voice was low and compelling. "We'll start together. As long as my foot stays on the treadle and your hand stays behind mine, I'm able to control the speed and the distance of your journey. Eventually, you'll move forward on your own, but not today. It's imperative that you do as I ask. At no time, until we both agree that you're ready, are you to venture forward on your own. You must not attempt to spin until that time. Do you understand?"
"What will happen?"
"I don't know," Susannah admitted. "Your potential is very strong. Where it will take you is still an unknown. It could be dangerous. I'd rather you have the experience and the skill to manage whatever it will bring. Your promise must be the condition under which I continue with your progress. Is that agreed?"
"Yes, of course."
Susannah fixed her dark, exotic gaze on Maggie's face for a long minute, then she nodded. "Good. Now, let's begin. Take a fiber length and pull it out." She demonstrated.
Maggie leaned forward and watching, did the same, noting that their hands were similar in shape and skin tone, small and strong. The notion was quickly replaced by a tingling sensation, a mild electric shock and a rush of energy. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the older woman's voice and the feel of the yarn smoothing out beneath her fingers.
Bits of memory rushed at her, some very familiar, some vague; the recent past appeared first, Annie's confession, her own job in Long Beach. There she was, Maggie, the teenager, arranging her belongings in yet another strange room, and then as a little girl in shiny shoes, watching the postman bypass their address. Then there was Annie again, a younger Annie, a look of perpetual worry pinching the space between her brows holding a child with wine-red hair. Annie's husband, Tom, was there, too, followed by a plethora of strangers. Who were they? Should she know them?
The scenes flew by now, faster and faster. Maggie could no longer make out the details of feature and figure. All she knew were light and dark, colors and voices. Her head spun. She was thirsty, terribly thirsty. It was hot. Her waist and chest felt confined, her throat constricted. Sweat beaded on her forehead and eyelids, the salty moisture leaking into her eyes, stinging, dripping down between her breasts. She wet her lips, tasted salt and licked them again. Conscious that she was no longer moving, Maggie forced her eyes open and looked around a room lit by the leaping flames of a generous fire.
A man and woman sat in chairs facing each other, their profiles back-lit by the hearth fire. The man was good-looking and sincere, still very young, his features blurred slightly, not yet hardened into the man he would become. The wide collar sitting on his shoulders was milk-white and crisp.
It was the woman who drew Maggie's eyes. She was lovely and delicate. The dark red hair under her white cap framed a face dominated by a thin arched nose, dramatic cheekbones and... Maggie gasped, her heart leaping from her chest as the woman turned briefly in her direction, eyes of two different colors, one brown eye, the other blue.
Maggie knew she'd seen the room before, a cozy room, warm with heat from a generous fire, a rag rug on the wood floor, a spinning wheel hugging the hearth, the dull gleam of pewter, lace-edged curtains, artistic arrangements of wildflowers, buttery gorse and blood red berries.
* * *
Salem, Massachusetts, 1692
John and Abigail March faced each other across a scrubbed wood table, their faces in profile, back-lit by the fire's blue-tipped flames. Her words were measured, worried, fear-laced. "I'm afraid for us, John. They've cried out against a child of only four years. She's detained in that unspeakable prison, a mere babe. Who next will they accuse?"
He was silent, brooding, his thoughts his own.
"Where will it end?" she repeated. The firelight played on her face, austere, chiseled, the bones sharply evident beneath the fair skin.
"You worry too much, Abigail. This has nothing to do with us. Those women are sacrilegious. They have not been to worship in over a year. Sarah Good mutters to herself and Goody Osborne is a loose woman. God only knows who she communes with."
"What of Rebecca Nurse, John? She is goodness herself. She brought our children into the world. Have you forgotten?"
"Of course not." His voice reflected his exasperation.
"Hysterical children are determining whether innocent women live or die?"
"How do you now they are innocent?" John demanded. "Witchcraft exists. Perhaps it exists here in Salem. How else do you explain our unfortunate circumstances?"
"Unfortunate circumstances." Abigail fairly spit out the words. "You have two sound children, a fine house and healthy crops in the fields. I curse the day Reverend Parris came to this ministry. Were it not for he and his wayward niece, we would not be in this state. Crawling on hands and knees, barking like a dog, insisting innocent people asleep in their beds come to her at night in her dreams. What defense is there against such nonsense."
"The Williams girl is a child. We cannot blame her for what afflicts her. We are at the mercy of heathens, harbingers of Satan. You have no idea of the atrocities English men and women have suffered while attempting to colonize the wilderness. We carve our way out of the darkness only to be butchered in our beds and then there is this absurd quarrel between the village and the town."
She stood, a frown marring the space between her brows. "Many of the afflicted girls are orphans from the Indian raids you describe. Is it not possible that their claims arise from what they have seen?"
John sighed. "It is possible."
"Your kind knew all of this before you arrived. Why did you not stay in England?"
"A moot point. I was a child when my family sailed to these colonies."
She lifted a hand to her forehead. "This arguing serves no purpose."
He frowned, stood and pulled her into his arms. "Why does this affect you, so? You are near tears."
She pressed her face against the wall of his chest and bit her lip hard. "Don't you see?" she said softly. "First Sarah Osborne, her only crime was to fall in love, then Rebecca Nurse who commits no crime at all. Who next, John? No one is safe from the rantings of these children. Whomever they take a disliking to is accused. What of me, a stranger from a heathen island? She did not add the obvious, the mark of the unusual, her eyes. Nor did she bring up Hannah Woodcock, her enemy, the woman John would have married.
John squeezed her hand. "Is that what torments you? I swear by my faith, Abigail, no one will dare accuse you. You are my wife. I am a selectman of the village. You are Abigail March. My name protects you."
"Must you go to the Meeting House tomorrow?"
"Aye. Martha Corey will give her statement. It is necessary for me to take down her confession."
Abigail shuddered. "Now Martha Corey. Who accuses her?"
"The same as Rebecca Nurse. 'T'is Anne Putnam."
Abigail pulled away angrily. "Does no one see that the Putnams hold a grudge against Martha Corey because of a land dispute?"
John frowned. "The taint of witchcraft comes with the potential for death. No one would cry out against a woman for such a paltry excuse as a land dispute."
"You think not? And what of you, John? You speak of Martha Corey's confession. Is she already judged?"
John stared at her. "How can you accuse me? Do you know me at all, Abigail?"
She bit her lip and looked away. The moment called for an apology, hers, for a softening, his, followed by the inevitable forgive
ness that John could never long withhold. It was the pattern they'd fallen into over the course of their ten-year marriage, a pattern to which Abigail had contributed equally. She opened her mouth to speak the words that would restore them to each other once again. Her fingers curled into the linen of her apron, bunching it in her lap. Her cheeks burned. Awkward seconds slipped by. She willed the words from her mouth, conciliatory words that would resurrect the balance between them, but they wouldn't come. Her tongue wouldn't cooperate, not here, not in the home she'd created out of the wilderness with this man she'd agreed to walk beside for life, a stranger, really, to whom she'd thrown in her lot. What choice did a woman have when it came to choosing how she would live? What else was there but marriage and children and the giving up of everything that set her apart? She was fortunate in her John. He was honest and gentle, respected by young and old alike. Perhaps, it would be as he said, because of him, they would be safe. "I'll go up to bed now," she said, her voice low.
He nodded. "As you will."
She climbed halfway to the landing and stopped. It was important that he understand. She must attempt to reach him one more time. "Blood will be on our hands, John. If we allow the Inquisitors to come, innocent women and children will hang. It is happening throughout the colony. Someone must stand up. Someone strong. Someone the people will follow."
He looked at her steadily. "Do you have a name in mind?"
She smiled at him, a sad, disappointed smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You know best, John, as always."
* * *
Maggie moaned. Her throat was on fire. The room was terribly warm and the scarf she'd wrapped around her neck scratched her skin. Slowly, with great effort, she managed to open her eyes. She was gripping Susannah's hands. Carefully, she extricated herself. Ignoring her body's desperate thirst, she moved from the stool to the couch and leaned back against the cushions. She watched Susannah leave the room and return with a glass of cold water. Gratefully, Maggie accepted the older woman's offering and drank until the parched feeling had lessened. She set the empty glass on the table. "Where was I?"
"Don't you know?"
"Not really. Not for sure." She frowned. "Do you?"
"I don't have the sight, Maggie," Susannah explained. "I don't see what you see. I can help you reach your destination. I can even direct you, but I can't go there myself." She hesitated, as if about to say more, then decided against it. "My powers are limited in a way yours are not." She smiled. "It makes sense, really. I'm older than you. I've used up a great deal of my potential."
"I didn't realize that potential can be used up?"
"Of course. Like anything, each of us has a prime. Mine is long past."
Maggie picked up her tea cup and sipped the now cold contents. "I believe what I experienced was a scene from the past, here in Salem, at the beginning of the witch hysteria," she began. "Two people, Abigail and John March, were speaking. They're married. I've seen them before, but not as clearly. This time everything was very sharp. It was as if I were sitting beside them at their table. Abigail was frightened. She's concerned there will be a witch hunt and she'll be one of its victims. He assures her it won't happen because of his connections." She shrugged. "That's it, in a nutshell. Nothing was resolved one way or another. It was just a scene, a very real one." For now, she would keep the single detail that made all the difference.
Susannah studied her for a long minute. Finally she spoke. "You've done well. That's enough for a start, I think."
"I'd like to do more."
"You will," Susannah promised, "but not now. Meanwhile I'll think about how to go about this. We can't do it all at once. That much is clear."
"Why not?"
Again Susannah smiled. "It isn't physically possible."
"I don't understand."
How did you feel when you were coming out of it?"
"I'm not sure."
"Think back. When you consciously returned to the present, what sensations did you experience?"
"I felt tired," Maggie began. Her eyes settled on the empty water glass. "And thirsty. Very thirsty."
"Multiply those sensations by a hundred. Add hunger and heat, stiffness, pain and bitter cold." She shook her head. "Moving any faster poses a serious risk. We need to progress slowly in order for your body to acclimate."
"What about you?" Maggie countered.
"I told you before. I'm not experiencing what you are. When your mind settles into seventeenth century Salem, you're really there. It isn't the same for me."
"I still don't understand."
"At this point you don't have to. Just accept that, for now, I'll set the pace. When you're ready, you'll move forward alone."
"That sounds ominous."
"Ominous?" Sarah thought a minute. "I suppose that depends on your perspective. It's where you want to be. Exciting would be a better word, or fulfilling. It's not everyone who can find out what her purpose on this planet is."
"That might be going a bit far."
"I don't think so."
"Does everyone have a purpose?"
"Yes, but not everyone has the desire to figure out what it is."
"Do you think I'll figure out mine?"
Susannah knelt down to caress the cat rubbing against her shin. "Why not?"
"Why not indeed?" Maggie asked herself later that evening after Susannah left without once mentioning a fee. Experimentally, Maggie hooked her finger around the spoke of her spinning wheel and gave it a gentle push through a complete revolution.
Muffin rubbed her chin against Maggie's leg, a hopeful expression behind the feline whiskers. Maggie ignored her. Concentrating on her experience, she tried to figure out the link between her Salem roots, her vivid hallucinations and Annie's confession. They must be connected. She felt restless, out of place, exposed. If only everything didn't take so long. Patience had never been one of her virtues. She turned the wheel, experimentally, clockwise, her hand settling on the drafted roving. Her foot found the treadle. She pressed and pulled, pressed and pulled. The yarn clumped. Instinctively, she loosened the tension. Her stomach felt strange, empty and slightly queasy. She was conscious of a dipping motion, a rising and falling, the smell of salt and fish, dampness, gray skies and the unmistakable, rancid odor of unwashed bodies. She gripped the wheel tightly with one hand and with the other rubbed her eyes. Was that a ship she saw and a single figure leaning against the railing?
Chapter 12
Salem, Massachusetts, 1681
Abigail Blair looked up at the leaden sky and the sails straining against the westerly squalls and wondered if somewhere in the forbidding heavens there really was a God and, if there was, what she could have done to offend Him. That she had done something, she had no doubt. The series of afflictions that had rained down upon her since her mother's illness and subsequent death could only have been dealt by a hand practiced in testing her will to survive. And, like Job, Abigail was determined to survive.
At first she believed she would not. But, as the weeks passed and the pain of her loss lifted, she realized she had no desire to give up on the world of the living, no matter how bleak her circumstances might seem. Even now, after the only home she'd ever known, her grandfather's entailed estate in Barbados, had been taken over by the usurper, a distant cousin who, by accident of birth and gender, had greater claim to the gracious manor house and its acres of sugarcane fields than she could ever have, Abigail's will triumphed. She would go on, no matter how dear the price. And the price had proved to be very dear indeed.
The flapping of white sailcloth pulled taut by the wind caught her attention. It was cold here on the wooden deck of the schooner, much colder than the clear, blue waters and balmy temperatures of the sea surrounding Barbados. This water was neither clear nor blue, but rather gray and thick, ominous, a mirror image of the forbidding sky. She shivered, linked the fingers of both hands together, and pressed them against her belly attempting to glean warmth from the cheap wool that served as her garm
ent, regretting the sale of her clothing, beautiful clothing, satin and velvet trimmed with ribbon and lace, delicate slippers, leather riding boots, lawn chemises, fur-lined cloaks and the softest of ermine muffs. All gone. All taken for granted. Her lip curled bitterly. How quickly life changed. In the blink of an eye it was over, her world lost, her chances gone, her future decided by those who had no interest in her well-being other than to keep her strong that she might serve them.
They expected her to be grateful, the Reverend Hawthorne and her cousin. Her cousin who looked the other way when the question of her future arose. Her cousin who refused even to finance her passage on The Sealark, a sailing vessel bound for Salem, Massachusetts, that would remove her from his sight and his obligation.
In the end, the sale of her gowns was not enough for passage. She'd signed away seven years of her life for the privilege of travel to the Americas in the company of the Reverend Hawthorne, a dour Roundhead minister who, in Abigail's opinion, stuck his thin, long nose into places it did not belong. It was the Reverend who, without so much as a by your leave, had volunteered her services to the March family with their acres of onion fields and their ten children. What did she know of onion fields or children for pity's sake? What did she know of Massachusetts or Roundheads? Her grandfather had been a Royalist, loyal to the English crown. The swaying palms of Barbados, the jewel-bright seas, the balmy winds and the graceful elegance of the plantation house, she was quite sure, bore no resemblance to Salem.
Sighing, she pushed the thoughts away. What was done, was done. Better to keep her wits sharp, her mother would say. Life had a way of righting itself.
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