Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  Judith shook her head. "Listen. They speak of us."

  Margaret listened. The voices were loud, accusing, uncomfortable. Never in her short life could she remember her parents' voices raised in anger. She couldn't understand the words. Too many spoke at once. Even Captain Burke was angry. Her father's voice broke through, silencing the others. The room emptied until only the three, Abigail, John and Nathanial, remained. She rested her head against Judith's back. Her eyelids drooped. "I want to go to bed, Judith," she whispered. "My eyes hurt."

  Judith ignored her, her focus on the room downstairs. Margaret sighed, stood and padded back to the small room she shared with her sister. There was too much she didn't understand. Climbing into bed, she fell asleep instantly.

  * * *

  Morning dawned, the crisp cold morning of a New England fall. Scents of burning wood, mold, forest moss, damp leaves and wet wool rode high on the wind, swirling through the air, lingering on leaves stained russet and gold and deep red with the close of October.

  Muffled from the cold by the heat of her father's arms and chest, Margaret looked down at her mother and sister. Judith, too big to be carried, walked beside Abigail, her hand tucked safely inside her mother's. No one spoke. The mood was forbidding. Margaret knew they were walking to the Meeting House, their place of worship. The day didn't feel right, but she couldn't be sure why not. Families passing her own looked away, their faces grim and unyielding.

  Burying her head in her father's shoulder, she breathed in the scent of his skin under the woolen coat. He was away often and she felt as if she could not get enough of him. Reveling in the sheer presence of his person, she gave herself up to his nearness, closing her eyes, blocking out the coldness of her neighbors and the fear stamped on her mother's face.

  The Meeting House was filled with people. Every bench was full. In the front, seated behind a long table, were men Margaret recognized. They had come to her home to talk with her father many times. One of men, smaller than the others with a pinched, angry face, was a stranger to her.

  Reverend Parris spoke first. Margaret, secure in her father's arms began to drift off to sleep. She was jolted into wakefulness when her father transferred her to her mother's arms. Together, with Judith, they stepped forward to the front of the room. Margaret, shy around so many people, hid her face in her mother's neck. She felt reassured by the familiar, floral smell.

  The reverend was speaking to Abigail. Margaret heard her answers. She could sense her fear.

  People stood and spoke. First Goodman Crane said his cows gave no milk because of her mother. Then someone else spoke of lost crops and sick cows, thread that would not spin, children who did not heal and trysts in the woods. Margaret gave up trying to understand. She was too warm in the overheated room and wanted to go home.

  Suddenly her father strode to the table, shouted and pounded his fist. Margaret tightened her grip around her mother's neck. She had never seen him so angry.

  The small man spoke again and then it was her mother's turn. But this time Abigail was not afraid. Margaret could feel the change in her. She spoke clearly, fearlessly, truthfully, daring them to contradict her. The room was silent, every ear tuned to her words.

  The small man stood and issued an order. Hannah Woodcock stepped forward and wrested Margaret from Abigail's arms, setting her on the table.

  Margaret, the object of a room full of hostile stares, pointing fingers and hissing whispers began to whimper. When her appeal brought no solace, she held out her arms to her mother and wailed in earnest. She watched her mother step back and tear off her cap. Her hair, red as flame, spilled down over her shoulders, down her back, past her knees.

  Somewhere, on the edge of her vision, Margaret saw her father leap forward, saw two men restrain him, heard the despair in his voice as he pleaded with Nathanial Burke to save them, but her eyes and mind were on her mother.

  She understood that the woman in her field of vision was her mother. She recognized her features, her hair, and the slender, capable hands that had soothed and healed so many. But never, in her short life, had Margaret seen her mother like this.

  Abigail shouted angry words, powerful words that rose above the gathered crowd hovering above them until they moaned as if in pain. Then she turned on the assembly and held up something pointed and shining in her arms. A roaring wind swept through the room, swirling her black cloak, revealing the lining, a flash of flame-colored silk. With one hand she tore the laces at her throat and the cloak dropped to the floor. She stood naked before them, her hair wild and swirling, while an eerie mist curled up her thighs, swallowing her in wet grayness.

  Terrified, Margaret strained for sight of her mother. Her wails had subsided into a fear so acute she could barely breathe. Where was her mother? Suddenly she heard it, a strange singing, high and shrill and frightening. She clapped her hands over her ears and fought to breathe.

  Small streaks of light darted throughout the room, singling out their targets, Reverend Parris's collar, Hannah Woodcock's skirt, Goodman Crane's cloak. Margaret watched, awestruck, as the flames leaped to life, consuming their victims. She heard horrified screams resonate throughout the room, smelled the foul, acrid smell of scorched flesh, watched people climb over each other to escape through the doors, felt a searing heat that had no place in a New England autumn and then an icy blast of cold, a darkness and a roaring wind, a spinning, spinning, over and over, no sense of up or down, or dark and light, only a strange weightlessness, a sick, tight feeling in her stomach, and then she knew nothing at all.

  * * *

  Margaret woke slowly, resisting the pull of awareness, conscious of incredible cold and a stiffness so absolute it was beyond pain. Her eyelids felt pasted to her cheeks. Twisting her neck to the right and then to the left, she tried stretching her arms, crying out from the effort. Carefully, she massaged one eyelid and then the other, working them loose from her eyes. With effort she opened them and looked around. Her eyes widened? All around were large stones, larger than herself, covered with markings. She sat on a bench and the bench rested on something that looked like meadow grass only shorter and very even. There were a great many trees and dirt paths twisted upon each other, leading nowhere. In the distance in front of long buildings, great iron gates stood open. The sky was a strange green color. Where was she? Where was her mother? She rubbed her eyes and began to weep.

  Fog, much like the one that had consumed Abigail, crept in from the sea. The cold was desperate. Her tears spent, Margaret sucked on her fingers and waited, for what she didn't know. The air was very still, the fog muffling all sound. Still, she waited. Time passed. She slept and woke and slept again. Hunger bit into her stomach. Bile rose in her throat and she retched. She tried to move her legs, but the pain was too great. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. She was very tired. A twig snapped. Footsteps sounded on the path. Someone was walking toward her. Margaret struggled to stand, to move, to run, but then it was too late. The woman was upon her, a large woman with pale hair and pale eyes, a woman with strange clothes and a look of surprise that transformed her face. Then the surprise faded and the woman's features resumed their normal expression.

  Margaret relaxed, offering no resistance when she was picked up, slipped inside the woman's coat and buttoned up. Gratefully, she soaked up the warmth of her rescuer's body. There was something about her, the kind face, the crooning noises from her mouth, the warmth of her large hands that inspired confidence.

  Exhausted, Margaret lost the struggle to keep her eyes open on the journey back to the woman's house. She slept until she felt the air change. A blessed warmth such as she'd never felt before seeped into her frozen limbs. It came from no specific place but seemed to surround her the minute the door closed behind them.

  The food was most unusual as well, soft and sweet and delicious. The woman was very kind and gentle despite her size. She leaned over a large basin and suddenly water gushed into it. Margaret stiffened. Before she could digest anything else, th
e woman placed her in the basin of water. Once again, warmth surrounded her. Slowly, her aching muscles responded to the heat. Cramps seized her legs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She heard the woman's voice, soft and soothing, felt her hands smooth the scented soap over her skin followed by the rinsing cloth. The pain faded. Margaret stretched her legs. Her eyes closed and she slept to dream of a long journey and a woman with hair the color of autumn leaves. She was dressed in clean clothes, given a feather pillow for her head and a soft mattress. But she was oblivious. Little Margaret had reached her limit. She slept and she dreamed but when she woke her memory of recent events had disappeared. Years and years would pass before she would remember again.

  * * *

  Maggie stirred and stretched her legs, wincing with the pain. She tried to stretch but cramps claimed her. Slowly, slowly she opened her eyes. She was in her bedroom, lying on her bed, curled into the fetal position, her hands under her cheek. Tentatively, she unfolded her arms and sat up, her mind clear. There was no longer any doubt. Everything had come together. Her head was clear. She remembered it all.

  Inching off the bed, she turned up the heat and, carefully, minding each step, made her way downstairs. She was oddly calm and thoroughly drained, the perfect combination to think objectively.

  Maggie sat down at the table with a cup of tea and a piece of toast spread with marmalade and considered her alternatives. The natural skepticism with which she normally approached an enigma had been completely swept away with her revelation. She was Margaret March, born in Salem, Massachusetts in the year sixteen hundred and eighty-nine. Through the talents and will of her mother, Abigail March, and by some leap of the continuum, she had been temporarily transported from her own time and place to a co-existing world. Now, through those same talents, she was being offered a chance to return to the life for which she'd been intended. The question was, should she take it.

  Leaving aside the unbelievable aspect and sheer improbability of such a dilemma, Maggie focused on the personal. She, an orphan, without family, was wanted, wanted so desperately, that her mother had crossed time and space, searching for years, living a solitary and secretive life in order to find her daughter and bring her back. Somewhere, going back hundreds of years in time, Maggie had a family, a family who shared her gene pool, a family who wanted to welcome her back to the fold, seductive business for a woman alone. The belonging, the promise of acceptance and love, the desire to live every day seeing her father, her mother and sister were nearly enough. But was it enough to give up antibiotics, clean water, paved roads and the prospect of a lifespan that surpassed seventy-five years? She'd grown up with music, free speech, science and air travel. What would life in Salem be like for her? Would she remember where she'd spent the last three decades? And, if so, wouldn't she be just as isolated there as she was here, only with less recourse?

  Suddenly she was angry at her mother. What mother would put her child through this? What mother would send a little girl hundreds of years into the future all alone only to face this sort of dilemma when all was said and done? She wasn't through with Abigail March, alias Susannah Davies. The woman should know what she'd done. She should understand what her spells, her manipulation and her playing with fire had cost.

  Chapter 28

  Warmed by a hot shower and flannel pajamas, Maggie turned down her bed and slid between the sheets. She was pleasantly tired, committed to her direction and no longer confused. Tomorrow she would see Abigail, her mother, the woman who'd sent her through time to save her and in so doing had removed all possibility of her return. She could no more transport herself back to a primitive world than she could leap into the future. Her place was here and, hopefully, she could come up with a convincing enough argument to keep Abigail here as well. Maggie had spent a lifetime without her birth mother. It was only fair that Abigail spend the remainder of her years here with her, making it up to the daughter she'd sent away.

  Maggie was tired and looking forward to a restorative, dream-free sleep. She had no expectations of anything otherwise. Abigail's story was finished, the reason for her dreams explained.

  Her optimism was premature. Dream-free was not to be. Holly's face appeared over and over, anguished, smudged with dirt and tears. She was in a small windowless room, so dark that even the insufficient lamp barely lifted the gloom. Maggie could see concrete walls and a floor, and the narrow steps leading up... to what? Where was she?

  She woke with a start, looked at the clock and groaned. It was six o'clock. The sky was black as night and the brilliance of a full moon overpowered any hope of starlight. She would have liked starlight. Pushing back her quilt, Maggie swung her legs over the side of the bed, pushed her hair back and staggered down to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.

  The mug warming her hands, she sat on the couch in the dim light of dawn and evaluated her dream. Holly Hillyard was alive. Maggie was sure of it, and the little girl was alone in a dark, windowless room, so dark it could only be below the ground. But where? And who was responsible for putting her there?

  Holly had been taken by someone she knew. That was obvious. Even Mike Costello, pathetic as he was, knew that. Her lie to her mother was evidence enough. What did Holly want that her parents wouldn't approve of and who would be in a position of trust to offer it to her? Something clicked in the back of Maggie's mind, something hazy and unformed, but definitely there. This had nothing to do with pornography or pedophilia. Holly's abductor wanted something else, something just as dangerous. But what? Maggie clenched her fists. Why couldn't she come up with a profile? Why couldn't she see his face? She needed more information as well as something that belonged to Holly, something tangible. As soon as was decently possible, she would go to see Scott, whether he wanted her there or not.

  * * *

  The man who opened the back door to her knock at nine a.m. was gaunt and unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, his expression bleak. His clothes looked as if they had been slept in for more than one night and blood dripped from a jagged cut in his forefinger.

  Maggie was horrified. "Good grief, Scott. What happened?"

  He stared at her as if she was demented. "My daughter was kidnapped. I thought everyone knew."

  She stepped past him, heading for the kitchen sink. "I know that," she said, opening drawers until she found the dishtowels. Pulling one out, she held it under the tap. "I meant your finger."

  He looked at his wound as if seeing it for the first time. "I opened a can. The lid wouldn't lift so I tried pulling it out with my finger."

  "This certainly isn't your finest hour," she muttered under her breath. Wringing out the dish towel, she wrapped it tightly around his hand.

  He stared at the red stain seeping through the white terry cloth. "It doesn't seem to matter. Nothing matters. I've put my practice on hold, followed every lead." His dull gaze focused on her face. "It's hopeless."

  Maggie pushed him down into a chair and took the one beside him. "It's not hopeless," she said gently. "Holly is alive, Scott. I know she is."

  He stared at her, a flicker of life in the vacant eyes. "How do you know?"

  "I just do. I know it's hard to believe. It's hard for me to—"

  His hand crashed down on the table, exposing the bloody wound. The towel fell to the floor. "I don't want to hear any hocus pocus, Maggie. I'm not up for it right now. If you have any solid evidence, tell me. Otherwise, I just want you to shut your mouth. This is too hard. It's too hard on all of us. Don't hold out any hope unless you're absolutely sure. Because when they call me down to the morgue to identify my daughter, I want to be prepared. I don't want anything to be left in here." He pointed to his chest.

  She spoke carefully. "I've been doing this for a long time and I haven't been wrong often."

  "But you have been wrong. What is it, once, twice?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You don't remember?" His voice cracked. What kind of person doesn't remember when she's told a grief-stricken parent that his chil
d is alive and it turns out she isn't? Do you have any idea what this is like? It isn't a game. We're talking about Holly. I have no idea if, at this very moment, my nine-year-old daughter is enduring gross brutality, sexual perversion, or unspeakable pain, and you can't remember?"

  Tears welled up in her eyes. "That isn't what I meant."

  "What did you mean?"

  "There are details I've missed, but I've never been wrong about whether someone is dead or alive, or even where they are. I've been wrong about timing and I've certainly been wrong about motive, but I've never mixed up identity or location. Please, Scott. You have to trust me."

  "Who are you, Maggie, or shall I ask what are you? No. Don't tell me." He shook his head. "I trusted Penny and it nearly cost me my sanity. I don't have to trust you. This time I'll go with my instincts and my judgment and right now they both say you're out of line. Go home. This isn't your business. I don't want your help. In fact, I want nothing at all to do with you. Our association was a mistake. I have a habit of doing that, you know, associating with volageous women. But I'm through with all that."

  She stared at him, struggling to digest the cruel, diamond-sharp words. He reminded her of someone, someone who danced on the edges of her memory. He even sounded the same. The effort of trying to recall who it was buffered some of the pain, but not all of it. She hadn't thought she would hurt so much. She felt betrayed, abandoned even, almost as if their relationship had progressed far beyond morning jogs, casual conversation and one dinner date, almost as if they had a history beyond the short time she'd lived in Salem. His question came back to her. Who are you, Maggie, or shall I ask, what are you?

  She stood. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I'll leave you alone." Who are you, Maggie, or shall I ask, what are you? The words stuck in her mind and followed her out the door. Where had she heard them before? They were the same and yet they weren't. Why was she still so crippled? She'd finished with Abigail and the whole witch thing. What was blocking her? Who are you, Abigail, or shall I ask, what are you?