Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  Deborah nodded. "It's always good to know these things ahead of time. I would have invited him."

  "Go ahead, but encourage him to bring a friend. I'm not interested in blind dates."

  "Message received. Goodbye, Maggie."

  The rest of the morning passed quickly. As the lunch hour approached, foot traffic picked up on the street. When a customer or two ventured into the shop, more followed. Maggie made mental notes, tallying her best-selling herbs, vitamins, salves and notions. By noon she could accurately say that business had been brisk and her daily expenses met. Everything that followed would put her in the black. Turning over the Closed for Lunch sign to face the street, she considered, for the first time, the possibility of hiring part time help.

  Upstairs in the large, old-fashioned bathroom, Maggie felt a bubble of happiness well up in her chest. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. She was doing it, beginning the adventure, earning a living, taking a stab at permanence for the first time. "Well done, Maggie," she said out loud to her reflection. Where this would lead was a subject too immense to tackle at this early stage. So far, it was enough to exist in the present, this day, this hour, planning the placement of herbs in her spring garden, deciding on next week's order, sitting at her spinning wheel attempting to create something recognizable. For right now, this was fine, this was right, this contentment she was experiencing for the first time. If she lacked the closeness of a partner, of children, the bone and blood closeness that comes from a genetic connection, then so be it. She would make the best of it, such as it was, continuing to pursue the root of her odd dreams and the woman Annie was so sure would come back.

  The stream of warm water coursed over her hands. She reached for a hand towel, attempting to pull her gaze away from the reflected one in the mirror. She couldn't.

  Drawing a deep breath, she stared at herself, at her narrow features, pale skin and dark red hair, at the odd deviation of her irises, one clearly blue, the other so dark it slanted the left side of her face into something foreign, slightly exotic. She continued to stare, her gaze penetrating the superficial, past the coloring, the skin tones, the bone structure, into a place behind them all, somewhere within the heart of flesh and blood and cells, deep into the place of stored memory. She was no longer the Maggie McBride in the mirror, but someone outside, an observer, omniscient, inhabiting this place, and yet another, too, a place somewhere between dimensions, between space and time, allowing her to step aside and view more, much more than her limited human mind could normally decode and accept.

  Downstairs, in its place by the fire, the spinning wheel, polished and primed, called to her. Maggie answered it. Seated on the low stool, she ran her hands over the rich grain, resting her hands on the wheel. Tentatively, she turned it.

  * * *

  Salem, Massachusetts, 1682

  A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Those words, emblazoned in Abigail's mind by her late mother, were never far from her consciousness, particularly now. She was alone in Mistress March's fine parlor with John, oldest son and heir of the prosperous March family of Salem, Massachusetts and he, having just proposed marriage, was on his knees before her. Abigail was conscious of a profound embarrassment and the fervent hope that no member of the family, specifically Mistress March, would take it into her head to visit the parlor at this moment.

  "Please, stand, John," she said, her voice tense and low. "There is no need for such demonstration."

  He stayed on his knees. "I love you, Abigail. I'll wait here, like this, until you accept my offer."

  "What will your family say?" Abigail was a woman raised in the English system of strict class separation. Servants did not marry their employers. She had known of John's interest for some time now, but had never seriously considered him as a future husband. She had no family, no dowry. Surely, Benjamin March wouldn't allow his son to marry a bound woman, especially when that son was a coveted prize dreamed of by every single woman in the village, particularly Hannah Woodcock. At Sunday Meeting Abigail had seen the woman's venomous glances directed at her and wondered about them. Prudence March had enlightened her. The young woman was sweet on John. Abigail was a threat.

  "They consider you one of us," John assured her. "I've told them of my intentions. They will welcome you into our family."

  She held her breath. "Your mother dislikes me."

  "She respects you."

  "She thinks I am useless."

  "She knows your upbringing has been unusual. She accepts you as you are."

  Abigail wasn't convinced of the worth of Mistress March's acceptance. "What of Hannah Woodcock? She believes you are promised to her."

  He colored. "I made no promises to Hannah Woodcock. Your coming has made no difference in my feelings toward her. I would never have asked her to be my wife."

  "Truly, John?"

  "I give you my word, Abigail."

  He was standing now, a tall man with fine blue eyes and too little flesh on his long, jutting bones. What was it about these New Englanders who considered the simple act of eating for pleasure to be the invention of the devil? Why was a dour life a Godly life?

  John was speaking again. She forced herself to listen.

  "Consider this. You would be mistress in your own house, your obligation served. I would make it comfortable for you. T'is' not Barbados, but your life would be a satisfactory one."

  She held her breath. To be free of the incessant needs of the March children. To be her own mistress, away from the sharp, disapproving eyes of Jerusha March. Weighed against the six remaining years still to be served before her debt was fulfilled, there was little choice. She studied her suitor. He was a handsome man in the cold, gray Puritan way and, more importantly, a good one. With John March her future would be settled. She would have a fine house and respectability in the community. Perhaps she could talk him into a servant or two. There would be children, of course. Abigail didn't know how she felt about children. Perhaps she wouldn't conceive immediately. Perhaps they would have time to come to an understanding between them before the children came.

  She lifted her chin. Her voice shook. She was only sixteen years old after all, but a woman fully grown according to the standards of her time. "Your suit does me great honor, John March. I will marry you."

  Chapter 15

  Maggie surfaced to the sound of someone pounding on the door. Groggily she stood, found her balance and started for the door, "I'm coming," she called. "Hold on a minute." She opened the door to Susannah Davies.

  "Thank goodness," the woman said. "I knew you wouldn't have forgotten. I've been knocking and knocking. Where have you been?"

  "Here, I think," Maggie replied. "Come into the kitchen and I'll tell you about it." Susannah sat at the table while Maggie brewed a pot of tea and pulled out her homemade maple bars from the cupboard. "I touched the spinning wheel. I didn't intend to." She thought a minute. "It was as if I couldn't help myself. And then I dreamed."

  "What did you dream?"

  "Another scene from the past. It wasn't a very long dream but Abigail was there and John, too. He proposed to her and she accepted."

  Something dark and elemental leaped to life in Susannah's eyes and then it was gone. "Dreams last less than forty seconds," she said carefully. "Were you thinking about spinning?"

  Maggie thought a minute. "Actually, I was. I wanted to sit down at the wheel and spin without effort. I imagined myself doing it."

  "Then what happened?"

  "I was upstairs washing my face, looking into the mirror and then suddenly I was downstairs in front of the spinning wheel. It was quite an intimate scene. I feel like a peeping Tom."

  "Hardly that."

  Maggie shook her head. "Who are those people? Why am I seeing them?"

  "I was under the impression that the reason you hired me was to help you find your own answers to those very questions."

  "I'd like this to move a little faster."

  Susannah smiled. "Speed
depends upon your resistance. Are you quite sure that you actually believe these visions, or scenes as you call them, are real?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean by real. They're real in my mind. I know that. Whether they actually happened at some point in the past, I'm not sure."

  Susannah looked at her thoughtfully. "I see."

  "What's wrong?"

  Susannah didn't pretend to misunderstand. "You're the most unusual psychic I've ever met."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Skepticism isn't something normally found in people like you."

  "Are there many of us?"

  "More than you think." She finished her maple bar. "Are you ready to begin?"

  Maggie looked startled. "I suppose so. It's just that—"

  Susannah tilted her head, waiting. "Reservations are for the uncommitted. Are you uncommitted, Margaret?"

  "Maybe," Maggie answered honestly. "I'm feeling the sting of whoever said be careful what you wish for."

  "Which brings us to an interesting question. What is it that you're wishing for?"

  Maggie didn't have to think. "Answers that will bring me peace."

  "Have you not been at peace, Maggie?"

  There it was again, that odd intonation in her voice, the one that separated her from the natives of Salem, Massachusetts. "No," Maggie replied. "I can't say that I have. We moved quite often. I never seemed to really fit in. I was always alone. After a while it seemed normal."

  Susannah stared at her intently, her brow creased, her eyes bright. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

  Maggie looked down at her hands, embarrassed. What possessed her to go on like this? She hardly knew the woman.

  "How do you feel when you witness these visions you seem to have?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Is anything familiar to you?"

  "I recognize Abigail but I don't know from where. But maybe that's just because of her mutation."

  "Her mutation?"

  "She has eyes like mine."

  Susannah looked at her. "How long have you known that?"

  Maggie reddened. "Since your first visit."

  "I see." Susannah stood. "Let's try out your spinning wheel. I'll show you what I'd like you to do and then you can practice on your own." Her voice lowered, the tone intensifying. "I'd rather you not attempt anything else until you're ready."

  "I don't understand. How will I know what it is I can't do?"

  Susannah's dark eyes rested on her face. "Do exactly as I show you, no more than that. We don't really know what you're capable of, Maggie. Until we do, until you can control when you begin and end your visions, there's the slightest possibility that you won't be able to find your way back. That's as clear as I can make it."

  Maggie was conscious of a sudden lack of noise outside, no cars, no foot traffic, no cawing of crows or shouts of construction workers remodeling the house on the opposite corner. The woman standing before her, so small and vibrant in her scarlet shawl, assumed a desperate quality that Maggie could only define as dangerous. She cleared her throat, the words coming out hushed and slightly hoarse in the banked silence of the room. "I won't do anything without you."

  Susannah nodded and sat down in front of the spinning wheel. "Shall we begin? This time sit in front of me and hold the roving in whichever hand feels more natural."

  With a reluctance she had never felt before, Maggie took a position in front of the spinning wheel, and lifted the fiber with her left hand. Without instruction, she eased her foot down on the treadle, drafting and relaxing, drafting and relaxing so the fiber slipped easily through her fingers. Her eyes closed.

  Susannah, watching the play of fingers and machine, nodded. Her smile was bittersweet. It was happening so quickly with very little interference. Maggie McBride was born to the breed.

  * * *

  Salem, Massachusetts, 1689

  Abigail moved slowly across the hard-packed earth toward the cauldron simmering on the fire. She was nine months gone with her second child and her stomach heaved at the smell of soap root. It was a miserably hot summer in Salem. Still, her family needed clean clothing and, no matter what the season, no one, young nor old, spared themselves when it came to hard physical labor.

  She picked up John's linen shirt and wrinkled her nose at the stench of sweat emanating from the folds. Pushing it quickly into the boiling water with a paddle, she added several more garments, table and bed linens and the pieces she'd finished spinning for Goody Turner the day before. With one hand on the small of her back she stretched her aching muscles and looked toward the green trees at the edge of the woods. They tempted her with their color, their cool promise and their privacy. Who would know if she took Judith with her to replenish her supply of herbs? Soon, with another child, it would be difficult to leave home at all. She glanced back at the house. Judith, just three years old, still slept in the afternoons, but perhaps she would wake her. Dropping the paddle she walked back to the house. The heat was stifling. Condensation appeared on her forehead, forming tiny flame-red curls around her hairline. Her wool clothing scratched her skin. There was no relief. In Barbados she would have slipped out of her clothes and waded into the turquoise sea, swimming and floating with the porpoises. No one in Salem swam. To stay afloat was considered to be a sign of possession. Godly people did not float. Normally, Abigail had no desire to swim in the arctic, muddy waters of New England, but today was an exception. Today all the powers of Hell had gathered to torture the settlers of this miserable place.

  The child was still asleep, her brown hair wild on the pillow, her cheeks rosy from the heat. Abigail considered her options, suppressed her guilt and laid her hand on her daughter's arm. "Judith," she whispered, "t'is time to wake." She shook her gently. "Come, love, we'll have an outing in the woods. Come and help me pick flowers."

  Obediently, the little girl roused herself, her lashes flickering against her cheeks, her eyes slowly opening. Judith was a happy child, sturdy and healthy. Abigail hoped she would be so fortunate a second time. Picking her up, she cradled her for a moment against her body, stroking her hair whispering endearments. Then she set her on the floor. "T'is very hot, but I know a cool place."

  The child's eyes, blue like her father's, fixed themselves on Abigail's face. "I'm thirsty. May I have a drink of water?"

  "Of course, you shall." Abigail dipped a cup into the water basin and offered it to the little girl.

  Judith drank greedily until the cup was empty. She passed it back to her mother. "I'm ready now."

  Hand in hand, the two walked across the garden, ripe with yellow squash, green pumpkins, onions, carrots, beans and potatoes, past the barn and the silo, past the corn rows and cranberry bogs, the pig pens and chicken coops to the edge of the forest heavy with the smell of pine. Abigail instructed as she walked, stopping often to explain to the child the purpose of the herbs she collected. "This is woundwart," she said, pointing to a plant with large green leaves and delicate purple blooms, "for bandaging." She broke off several leaves and added them to her basket. "And these rosettes that look like cabbages with their white hairs like babies all around them are hens and chickens. They cure warts. Some people plant them on their rooftops to ward off thunder."

  "What are those?" Judith pointed toward a knee-high bush with gray-green leaves and pink flowers with hooked thorns.

  "Rosehips," her mother replied. "We use them for medicine and perfume. Be careful. The thorns are sharp."

  Judith nodded, leaning in to smell the blooms. She spotted a gray squirrel observing them from the branch of a maple tree and dropped her mother's hand to run ahead into the woods.

  "Don't go far," Abigail called out. The ache in her back had returned. "There are red men about." Despite her bulk, she forced herself to move faster. "Wait for me, Judith."

  Obediently, the little girl turned back, waiting for her mother to catch up. Giggling she pointed to the squirrel and its mate passing an acorn between them.

  Abiga
il laughed. She was in the shade now and the difference in temperature was palpable. She could breathe and her burden felt lighter. Sweeping the cap from her head she lifted her chin and closed her eyes, willing the hint of a breeze to cool her cheeks. When she opened them again Judith had ventured further into the woods after the squirrels. Setting her basket on the ground, she followed her daughter into the cool darkness. The stillness seeped into Abigail's skin, the thick canopy of leaves blocking the sun, the trill and warble of birds, the deep croaking of frogs, the smells and shadows. The heartbeat of the green world surrounding her was so far removed from the life she knew that it could have been a million leagues from Salem Town.

  Where once she had seen her daughter, the white of her shift and blouse, the brown hair alive with golden lights, now she saw nothing. Her heartbeat accelerated. "Judith," she called out. "Judith, wait for me. Where are you?"

  Silence surrounded her, a thick, shrouding silence that sapped the breath from her lungs. "Judith?" The word came out no more than a whisper. Panic rose in her throat. Lifting her head she pursed her lips, forcing the air through, sending into the sounds of the forest a loud, piercing whistle.

  Then she heard it. A laugh, a child's laugh, worked its way through the thick vegetation.

  Abigail turned toward the sound. At first her eyes couldn't distinguish the details. When finally they could, her heart leaped into her throat strangling all hope of speech or prayer. There, on the trunk of a fallen tree, sat her daughter, surrounded by deer, the squirrels at her feet. Not more than a stone's throw from them, behind a silver birch was a human face, hideously painted, the head shaved so that only a tuft of hair rose from the middle. As Abigail watched, the head rose revealing a torso, arms and legs and a raised tomahawk. Another, similarly painted, rose from behind a boulder and still another from across the clearing.

  Her breath froze, suffocating the scream in her chest. They would be split open, scalped! What were the words? She couldn't remember? A plague on this abstinence. Never again would she be foolish enough to forget the spells she knew. The pain in her back was unbearable. Warm liquid gushed from between her thighs. "Help," she cried out. "Help me." Arms lifted to the heavens, her last conscious memory was of Judith, her eyes round with curiosity.