Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  * * *

  Nathaniel Burke, captain of the Sealark shouted at the seaman hanging from the mizzen mast, adjusted the rigging so that it would give with the strength of the oncoming storm, turned to survey what he hoped was a battened down ship, and cursed. The young bound woman with the fine, slender hands of the nobility was still on deck, leaning against the railing, prey to the first swell that swept across the planks.

  Schooling his features into a semblance of polite concern, he crossed the deck to stand before her. "Good morning, Mistress Blair."

  She lifted her chin, fixing her extraordinary eyes on his face. "Captain."

  "We've a storm coming. "T'would be safer for you below."

  She frowned. "My cabin stinks, sir. Rather it would make me ill."

  He controlled a surge of temper. His ship was the cleanest on the water. "Better stinking than food for sharks. I'll not be responsible for a lost life. Please go below."

  He wasn't prepared for her flashing smile and the way it changed her face.

  "Is that an order, Captain Burke? Because if it is anything less, I prefer to stay on deck."

  By God, she was playing with him. Something thick and unfamiliar caught in his chest. "It is, Mistress Blair."

  "Very well, then. I shall comply, but reluctantly. 'T'is much more exciting to stay here and witness ones fate than to cower below and have it swoop down upon you. Do you not agree?"

  They were his sentiments exactly, but it shocked him to hear it from a female no more than fifteen years of age and of the Roundhead persuasion. Nathanial Burke, who had never in his life lost his power of speech, lost it now.

  She waited a full minute. Then she smiled again, turned and disappeared through the hatch. Without the distraction of her presence, his annoyance resurrected itself. There were two cabins on The Sealark, one of which Reverend Hawthorne had appropriated for himself. Nathanial had given up his own to the woman. He couldn't, in good conscience, have her bed down with his seaman, although the concept hadn't appeared to concern the good reverend, man of God that he was. Blast him. Nathanial was regretting the loss of his privacy and his comfort. It was obviously unappreciated. She said the cabin stank. Blast her as well. How did a young Roundhead miss come to have such particular preferences?

  Normally, Nathanial didn't mix with Puritans. Theirs was a dour, unpleasant religion, their pious ways so rigid they frowned on every pleasure in life, spirits, dancing, dicing, even laughter on the Sabbath. Their women's lips were pinched with misery, their eyes cast down especially in spring and summer as if to look upon the world's beauty would condemn them to the fiery hell so prevalent in their reverends' sermons. The March family was the only exception. Nathanial was friendly with the Marches, Benjamin, Jerusha and their ten children, particularly their oldest son, John. It was Nathanial's friendship with the Marches that persuaded him to accept Abigail Blair as a passenger on the Sealark. She would have a better time of it with that family rather than any other. Benjamin left housekeeping matters to his wife. Jerusha was a kind matriarch and, although serious about attending Sabbath meetings, she was not above a laugh now and then, although how she would view a bondswoman with the hands of a lady he wouldn't attempt to wager.

  * * *

  Alone and bored in the young captain's cabin, Abigail sat on the bunk and fingered the stone she'd brought with her from Barbados, rubbing the rounded edges, welcoming the strange warmth against her palm. She missed her mother and her grandfather. She missed Tabitha, the black woman who'd looked after her for as long as she could remember. Closing her eyes, she began to whisper the soothing mantra she'd learned at her mother's knee.

  Shining Lady and Consort bright

  Bring to me prophetic sight

  While my conscious mind of slumber

  Reveal the truth unencumbered

  So mote it be

  Elizabeth Blair, cautious in her instruction, had warned her against too public a display of her craft. "Simple spells," she'd explained, "a respect for the magick," were all that was needed in this modern world. Balance was the goal, righteousness and a generosity of spirit kept those who dabbled in the old ways, the ways of herbs and extracts, on their foresworn path, the path of goodness of purpose.

  All that was well and good, Abigail's inner voice intruded, when one was living in the comfort of familiar surroundings in a luxurious home. Did the same lessons apply on a frail ship set for a strange spot on the map, when ones fate was not her own to decide? Tabitha would know. Tabitha would advise her just as she always had. It was Tabitha she'd followed into the thick woods, her short legs barely managing the distance, Tabitha who'd patiently explained the nature of the herbs she collected in her basket, feverfew for headaches, mint for stomach ailments, lavender and thyme to protect against pests, parsley to make the breath sweet and mushrooms to cure spring coughs. It was Tabitha's warm bed and soft arms she'd climbed into when the night was too dark and the dream demons close. But Tabitha had gone the way of everything she loved.

  Pushing aside the painful memories, Abigail stretched out on the narrow mattress and stared out the porthole. White caps tipped the gray waves. Thank God she wasn't prone to seasickness. It had given her a small measure of freedom in the beginning when Reverend Hawthorne was struck down and had taken to his bed. That was weeks ago. Their journey was nearly at an end. Ready or not, Abigail's new life in the colonies was about to begin.

  Salem, Massachusetts was a disappointment. There was no other word to describe it. The dwellings were crudely built and ugly, wooden and square, serving only the most functional of needs. Most were no more than windowless shacks set up along the single icy street. Although the temperature was too cold for odors, Abigail noticed that the privies were dangerously close to the living quarters. Could the March family live in one of these miserable houses, and if so, how could they possibly take in another body under such cramped conditions?

  The captain, obviously relieved that his cabin would once again be his own, grinned at her. "I'll warrant t'is not as you expected."

  She waited, saying nothing, those devil eyes on his face.

  He leaned against the railing. "Still, you'll become accustomed soon enough, if you pull your own weight. The Marches are fine people. They'll treat you kindly if you're worthy enough."

  "Indeed, Captain Burke. What, might I ask, must I do to be deemed worthy enough?"

  There was no mistaking the ice in her voice. She had metal, an uncommon quality in the women he knew. "Harken," he began earnestly wanting to smooth the waters in some small way. "I'll say it plainly. If you go thumbing your nose at simple fare, refusing to eat because the flour has a few weevils, you'll find no friends here. Keep your head down and your thoughts to yourself and you may come out ahead."

  She stared out to sea, as if she could turn the ship around by the sheer force of her will and sail back to the lush island that would always be home. "I'll come out ahead, Captain," she said softly. "I must. There is no other alternative."

  He straightened and cleared his throat. "You have nothing to fear. But if the need should arise, you have a friend in me, Mistress Blair. I give you my word of honor."

  Abigail tore her gaze free of the mesmerizing clutch of the ocean and looked at him. "Thank you. I imagine you will be a very good friend to have."

  Nathanial Burke was not inexperienced when it came to women, but he had never been in love, not the kind of love that made him consider settling into a neat house with a vegetable garden and a porch that looked out over the river. He should not have recognized the emotion that swept over him when Abigail Blair offered him her small gloved hand. But he did. Having been born and raised in the Massachusetts Bay Colony by a fiercely proud father and a sensible mother, he did not consider it unusual for a young man like himself to know his own mind in less time than it took to decide whether he wanted brown bread or porridge to break his fast in the morning. He was as confident that Abigail Blair was his future as he was of the cold wind that predict
ably swept down from the north to fill his sails and move his ketch across the Atlantic. It was his certainty that prevented him from declaring himself at that very moment. Instead, he watched in silence as she moved across the deck and down the gang plank, a small straight figure on the arm of Reverend Hawthorne. Nathanial had another stop to make in Deerfield and a cargo to unload. Abigail was very young. He would give her until next season to acclimate herself to her new situation before speaking. He bit back a grin. More than likely she would have lost some of her haughtiness by then. He would have no difficulty convincing her to separate herself from Goodwife March's brood of ten. He hadn't counted on Abigail's cleverness or her strong sense of self-preservation.

  * * *

  Three weeks later

  Abigail looked with dismay at the gummy mess that, no matter how hard she stirred, refused to give up its lumps. She knew exactly what she had done wrong. Goodwife March had instructed her to add small, steady amounts of the cornmeal into the boiling water, all the while continuing to stir. But the heat and the boredom had been too much and she'd dumped in the entire lot hoping to be finished with the unpleasant task. This gray lump was her reward. Too make it worse, this was breakfast. No soft white rolls, no lush fruit and worst of all, no lovely golden tea to wash it down. The March family wasn't poor, but they were practical New England colonials. Tea was kept in a box which could only be opened with the key Goody March kept on her person, to be used specifically for guests deemed worthy enough to be offered the luxury. Abigail, a mere bound girl, accustomed to the familiar and comforting ritual of afternoon tea, considered this the height of discrimination.

  Prudence, one of the March brood near to Abigail's age, peeked at the sodden mess that would be her breakfast and sighed. "Is there nothing you can do well, Abigail?"

  The bound woman flushed. Prudence was referring to her foray into soap making and bread baking, both as disastrous as her corn cakes. "T'is just that that everything is so new," she began. "With time, I imagine I shall improve."

  Prudence was as fun-loving as she was critical. She chuckled. "I wonder if we shall all starve first." She took the wooden spoon from Abigail's hands. "Perhaps if we fry it, we'll manage to swallow it."

  Abigail watched as the girl added more wood to the fire and expertly began ladling rounds of dough onto a metal sheet. "I want to learn," she assured her instructor, "but there is so much to take in."

  Prudence stoked the charcoal and pushed the long pan into the hearth fire. "I imagine your life was very different on the island."

  Abigail nodded. She would have spoken but the lump in her throat prevented all speech. How could she explain to this girl who knew nothing but the dour simplicity of her New England village, what a planter's life on Barbados was like? Her eyes filled. She blinked back the tears. Better not to think of it. "T'is behind me now. I must learn to please your mother."

  Prudence gazed steadily into the lovely face of the bound girl, at the fine bones and clear skin. Was she really such an innocent? Did she not see what was plain to everyone else, that John was besotted? The strange eyes met hers without guile. Abigail Blair was as intelligent as she was beautiful and she could spin both flax and wool like no other in Salem Town. She could read and write with more skill than most men and when a task was explained to her, she needed no reminder as to ingredients or process. Perhaps because they were of an age, Prudence made a point of observing her. The girl's mistakes surfaced from a lack of interest, not ability.

  Prudence shrugged and turned away. It was wasteful to speculate. There was much of life that could not be explained. Time would tell what Abigail would be to them.

  * * *

  Benjamin March inhaled his corn cake, swallowed his ale and settled his hat on his head, all without comment. He nodded at his wife. "How long?"

  Jerusha quickly looked down one side of the long table and then the other. Her brood of ten, and Abigail, were in various stages of finishing their breakfast. Corn cakes were all they allowed themselves on the Sabbath, just enough to sustain them for their lengthy walk to Meeting. Horses and wagons could not be used on the Lord's Day and the distance was considerable. "Soon," she replied. "I have an errand in the barn."

  Jerusha frowned. "Be mindful of the time, Benjamin."

  He nodded. Her message was clear enough. The Sabbath was a day of complete rest. To break the law meant a day in the stocks. Cows could not be milked. Fields lay unplowed. Eggs went ungathered. Meals were served cold. To be late for Meeting was unheard of. Everyone participated. Everyone, that is, except those odd few who eschewed the protection of the church and the township: slaves, Quakers, Catholics.

  Abigail wished she could forgo the Sabbath Meeting as well. Her initiation into the day's ritual had been an unpleasant shock. First, the long, cold walk to the Meeting House and the interminable sermon by Reverend Parris, the new minister, where he denounced even the simplest of luxuries as temptations sent by the devil to lead the Christian flock astray, followed by endless introductions to sour-faced men and serious, badly-dressed women. Abigail was conscious of eyes following her, not all of them friendly. Then, when she believed the gauntlet was finished and reprieve to be at hand, she learned that, with the exception of a cold luncheon in a flimsily constructed cabin set up for the purpose of providing shelter to those families who couldn't return home for the midday meal, the entire nightmare would be relived that afternoon.

  She'd nearly lost her head and demanded to stay at home, but reason resurrected itself. Her position was clear. She was a bound girl. She had no right to an opinion. The unfairness of her situation simmered in her head, nearly drowning the Reverend's inflammatory words. The experience changed her, hardened her, narrowed her vision and cleared her mind toward one end: an escape route.

  Chapter 13

  Maggie opened her eyes. Her skin felt tight and her throat raw. Carefully, she ran her tongue over cracked lips. The light-headed feeling she associated with lack of food was back in full force. Muffin slept on her lap, a warm weight pinning her to the couch. The fire was out. She rubbed her arms against the cold and looked at the clock. Midnight. She'd done nothing but sleep and dream for more than three hours and yet, strangely, she was exhausted.

  Carrying the cat, she climbed the stairs to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and, bent her head to draw in long, cold gulps of water. After brushing her teeth, she stepped out of her clothes, pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed, grateful for the thick comforter, the double-paned windows and central heating. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to concentrate on the sounds of the present, gusts of wind rattling the shutters, raindrops drumming against the gables, the gentle hum of the wall clock, Muffin's rusty purr against her thigh. Strange, how alone she felt. For most of her life she'd felt isolated, but this was different. Here, snuggled down in the home her foster mother had left her, she felt Annie's loss more acutely. Night with its shadows and silence was difficult. Deliberately, Maggie shut her mind against the thoughts hammering against its doors. She would think of her business, of survival, of the sudden, unexpected influx of customers late in the day, of the shelves that would eventually need restocking, of the ad she would post on the library and supermarket bulletin boards. Then she would sleep. Studies showed that those who slept seven and eight hours a night lived longer healthier, happier lives. That's what it was all about, wasn't it? Good health, happiness and long life.

  * * *

  Just as the first streaks of light crossed the sky, Maggie, determined to return to the exercise schedule she'd begun in California, tugged a woolen cap over her hair, pulled on leggings, a sweatshirt and scarf and struggled into running shoes.

  Stepping out on to the front porch, she glanced at the thermometer posted outside her back door and faltered. Who would know or care whether she finished the three mile trek she'd set for herself? Wouldn't it be much better to slink back into the house, brew herself a cup of coffee and settle in by the fire with the newspaper for another tw
o hours or so?

  She would know. Her body would know. New England's winters weren't a fluke. They hemmed in its population for five months every year. If she planned to stay, she would have to adapt. Resolutely, she grabbed the post with her gloved hands and began to stretch.

  "Good morning," a voice interrupted her mental pep talk.

  Maggie turned.

  Scott Hillyard smiled down at her. "You're early today."

  Maggie stared at him. Dressed in nothing more than sweats and a long-sleeved tee-shirt, he looked perfectly comfortable despite the freezing temperature. "Aren't you cold?" she asked bluntly.

  "A little," he admitted, "but once I get going I'll be warm enough."

  "Are you a runner?"

  "I'd call it jogging."

  "Me, too," she said, then immediately amended. "I mean, I was, but this weather takes getting used to."

  "Come on," he offered. "I'll show you my routine. If you're not warm in less than five minutes, you have something other than blood pumping through your veins."

  She took up the invitation, settling into a comfortable pace beside him on the empty sidewalk. The streets were quiet, sounds muffled by packed snow and the early hour. Soon her numb limbs tingled, energy flooded her core and the uncomfortable cold faded. She quickened her pace and noticed how easily he matched her. "You've slowed down because of me."

  He shrugged. "The benefit is the same and I'd rather have the company."

  She glanced at him. He was completely sincere. "Thank you," she said after a minute.

  He smiled. "How's business?"

  "Actually, it's been very good. I guess people have spread the word. I've had quite a few customers."

  "That's how it goes if you're going to be successful. Good for you."

  Again, he sounded completely sincere. "No more worries that I'm going to steal your patients?" she teased him.

  "Frankly, you're welcome to those patients. Some of them have an insatiable requirement for the impossible."