They came to her and she was bound to help them, as Hannah had, but who was she to go to?
Cadin was outside tapping at the window. He was relentless and frantic. All the same, Maria didn’t let him in. She knew what he would tell her. Burn mandrake in a brass bowl. Write his name on a candle and throw it far into the sea. Repeat three times: Fly away as fast as you can.
She thought of the way her mother had looked at her father, as if nothing else mattered. It was dangerous for a woman to give up her power. Under her breath, Maria uttered the first verse of an invocation she had learned from Hannah as she sat by the fire in a place she might have felt she had only dreamed, had she not had Cadin to remind her of who she was and who she would always be. She was the woman who couldn’t be drowned, who had fled from fires and the country where a woman couldn’t be free. It was an ancient conjure Hannah had found in a book of Agrippa’s Occult Philosophy, perhaps part of a powerful manuscript called The Fourth Book. It was among the most potent charms and incantations Maria had copied into her Grimoire.
You are not mine, I am not yours, you have no power, I walk where I wish, my heart is protected.
“You are not mine,” Maria said under her breath. But she had no pins, no red thread dyed with madder root, no rosemary, no St. John’s wort, no mandrake torn from the ground, no myrrh oil, no will of her own, and she stopped the chant before it was complete, in mid-sentence, leaving herself defenseless. That was when he turned to her.
I will never love you, she should have said—it was the last line of the invocation—but instead she stood there like a fool, not unlike the women who came to her at night, their faces damp with tears, their minds made up, convinced they would walk through a door they knew full well should be kept bolted shut.
Maria told Mrs. Jansen she grew rue in the garden to keep away flies, without mentioning that it also checked lust, something her clients often wanted to feed to their men, along with a tincture of wild lettuce to reduce longings. Perhaps Maria should drink such a mixture herself, perhaps she should bathe in lettuce water, as she had suggested to others in dire situations, for the pale green water was helpful in extinguishing desire. Instead she stood where she was, and that was how she came to tie her life to John Hathorne’s, despite the fact that she had sworn she would never belong to any man. Love begins in curious ways, in daylight or in darkness, when you are in search of it or when you least expect to find it. You may think it is one thing, when in fact it is something else entirely: infatuation, loneliness, seduction.
John Hathorne had been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed her presence until he turned to see her. At first he believed he might have conjured her, for there were people who said a dream could be brought to life in the waking world. He had faith in the goodness of God, but he was also certain that life was a mystery and that one must fight against the forces that opposed mankind. All the same he was a man of thirty-seven, with a man’s flaws and weaknesses. He had never seen a young woman who was as captivating as Maria, and what was even more charming, it was clear she didn’t even know she possessed the power to enchant.
“I’ve acted in error,” Hathorne murmured. It was something he would say forever after; he would say it in his sleep, in his own bed at home, and on his last day on earth.
He was more than twenty years older than Maria, but that made no difference. He was tall, quite handsome, with distinctive features and an intense gaze. She saw the person he was at that very moment, the one he’d become ever since he stepped onto the dock here in Curaçao. He’d let go of the darkness that was always pooled inside him in his Massachusetts life, and along with it the burden of being his father’s son, for William Hathorne had come to the new world in 1630 and was one of the first men to establish the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The elder Hathorne was a well-known, respected magistrate and trader, an assistant to the governor and a deputy representing the town of Salem for many years, a fierce persecutor of the more freethinking Quakers, a man who owned most of Salem Village. Everything John had done was to please William Hathorne, but the upright man John had forced himself to become had flown away like a night bird upon his arrival on the island and left him to return to the person he’d been as a boy, before he, too, had become a magistrate trained to judge others, before he’d taken over the family shipping business in which every cent must be accounted for, and every bargain must be in his favor.
He’d come to the house to take coffee with Mr. Jansen before they continued on to the Jansens’ warehouse, where they were to discuss their trade, but the courtyard had confused him, and he’d found his way to the dining room rather than the study and had entirely missed Jansen, who by now, annoyed to have been kept waiting, had already left for the docks. Jansen wasn’t the only one who was frustrated. Hathorne himself felt the trip would likely be a waste, and it had been, until he saw Maria Owens, who was wearing a blue ribbon in her hair for protection and luck.
Hathorne was a man from a county north of Boston, who often traveled into the White Mountains, so called because they were said to have snow all year round. He had a house in Newburyport and another in Salem. His ships brought iron ore and lumber from Massachusetts to trade for tobacco and sugar and coffee in Curaçao and Jamaica. He had undertaken this trip to better know his business and understand how it might further prosper. He thought of the Antilles as places to be tolerated, full of uneducated, superstitious people, but as soon as he stepped off the ship he felt a sort of enchantment. The blistering heat had overwhelmed him, and the palette of endless blues was blinding in the stark light. The charm and heat of the island brought up a welter of emotions that Hathorne was unused to experiencing. New England was a place of darkness and, in the evenings, of fear. Wild beasts roamed the mossy woods, and the native people were angry at how much land had been stolen and settled. Where he came from, every moment must be accounted for, in the meetinghouse and at home, and punishments were fierce. There were the stocks for those who were known to commit crimes concerning both legal matters and matters of faith. There were rules that were never to be broken. But here on Curaçao, he felt himself to be a different man, and that was the man Maria stumbled upon in the dining room.
She saw him not as he had been, or would be, but as he was at that very minute. He had been listening to the birds outside the window, and he stood in a block of yellow sunlight when she first spied him. Now that they were face-to-face, he ran a hand through his dark hair, confused by his own strange emotions. Hathorne looked younger than his age and he felt as if he was no more than twenty. He was not a man who easily let his appetites arise, and now he supposed it was joy he was experiencing; perhaps it was a gift to feel this way. Certainly, it was a feeling that was most uncommon. He came from Essex County in Massachusetts, named after the very place from which Maria fled in England, an omen she would not fully understand until much later, when she stood in a green field outside his house, a cold ocean away, a place where the ferns turned black in the winter, and evil was seen by those who lived their lives with fear and intolerance.
“I’ve somehow made a mistake. I’ve missed your father and I should be at the warehouse. If you could direct me, miss, I’ll be on my way.”
Clearly, he had made yet another mistake, taking her for a member of the family.
“I’m happy to guide you there,” Maria offered. She had laundry to see to in the huge pots in the courtyard, and Juni would be waiting in the kitchen so they might set preparations under way for that evening’s dinner, but instead she went back out through the garden, the man from Massachusetts following closely, drawn by what he would later swear was pure enchantment. He’d been warned that black magic was invoked in the caves by the sea on this island and that pirates were welcome in the city of Willemstad, especially if they spent gold stolen from Spanish ships. Yet as they walked under the inkberry trees, on their way to the harbor, he forgot the life he’d led. He forgot his house with its fine pottery brought from England, and the people who live
d in that house in rooms that were continually gloomy throughout the year. In summer, the air was filled with flies and gnats. In winter, darkness fell at four in the afternoon. But that was there, a world away. He squinted in the sunlight and stayed close to the girl. She smelled of lavender and salt. Once or twice she gestured to chase away a black crow that seemed to follow her, wheeling through a slice of the sky, then careening down toward Hathorne, so that he might have believed it was his enemy, if birds could think and feel and plan such things. He didn’t yet know the girl’s name, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. This is how it felt to be free of everything you had been trained to do. Be cautious, be sure of yourself, be careful of outsiders, beware of women who have the nerve to meet your eyes, who think they’re your equals, who do as they please, who please you as well, who will never do as they’re told.
Maria glanced behind her when they reached the sea. The water was blue-green and clear enough to see the shadows of large, lumbering shapes cast onto the white sand by the creatures that swam beneath the waves. John stopped to kneel so he might better see them. He was wearing leather boots made in London that cost more than what most people on the island earned in a year.
“A monster,” he said of the huge sea animal that came nearer the shore.
Maria crouched beside him. He saw that she was barefoot, and that the skirt of the dress she wore was hemmed with blue thread.
“Sir, I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she told him. “That is no monster. It’s a turtle.”
Hathorne grinned at her, then pulled off his boots. “We’ll see about that.”
He must have been enchanted, for he leapt into the sea fully clothed, wearing his loose linen shirt and his trousers and even his coat. Only a man possessed would do such a thing. He was so far from the darkness of Massachusetts anything seemed possible. The water was warm and the current helped him along. He remembered feeling this way when he was a boy, at the sea in August. He approached the turtle, for that was what it was, and ran his hands over its bumpy shell, then swam beside it, gliding through the flat water, then floating on his back, his eyes half-closed, a smile on his lips. Hathorne had large, handsome features and a smile that changed his expression so thoroughly he might have been another man entirely. He was inside of a dream, not thinking how he would explain his drenched appearance to Mr. Jansen, not thinking of anything at all other than this island, this woman, this moment he was in.
“Now I see what it is,” he called, joyous. “It is a miracle.”
Maria knew what was happening. She tried to recite a spell backwards, but the words dissolved in her mouth. She remembered that Hannah had said it was difficult to set a spell upon oneself. And now, if she wasn’t mistaken, it was already too late.
After his swim, Hathorne climbed up a ladder to the dock, soaking wet, but laughing. “I think I look to be the monster now.”
Perhaps he was, for a man tells you who he is the instant you meet him, all you have to do is listen, but when he leaned in close to kiss her, she stopped thinking altogether. When a man kisses a witch, all the coins in his pockets turn black, but Hathorne didn’t notice until later, and he thought the salt air had been the thing to turn the coins, and he frankly didn’t care after that kiss. As for Maria, she was surprised that his kiss had burned her mouth. Hannah would have warned her to be careful, had she been there.
What burns is best left to turn to cinders. Be wise and stay away.
* * *
There were eight guests at the dinner party that evening, too big an undertaking for Maria and Juni to handle. Two cooks had been brought in; one of them was Sybil, a servant who lived down the lane, and the other was Adrie, for the family had always said she was the best cook on the island. Indeed, she was lauded for her arepa, a dough made of ground maize, and for her red snapper, as well as her delicious keshi yena, a slave dish now favored on the tables of the wealthiest merchants, though it had been originated by the poorest residents of the island, using rinds of cheese and table scraps, and was now made of fine cheese and spiced meat.
“This is the perfect time for us to poison them.” Adrie laughed as she kneaded the dough in which she would wrap the fish. She worked so quickly her fingers seemed to fly.
“Not tonight,” Maria said, knowing that whatever you put into the world came back to you threefold. “There’s a man at the table who doesn’t deserve poison.”
“And there’s one who does.” Much to Maria’s surprise Adrie added, “You know why Mr. Jansen never lets Juni go? Look at her face and you’ll see.” It was true that Juni resembled their master more than any of his three daughters. “Open your eyes, girl. Look at the guests you serve tonight and you’ll know that man who owns this house isn’t the only bad man at the table.” Adrie didn’t look up, but merely salted the fish. “I knew it the minute he walked by. You’ve got the sight, you should use it.”
* * *
Maria served dinner, carrying a blue-and-white tureen from Amsterdam, wearing her best silk dress, one that had belonged to the Jansens’ youngest daughter. It was a pale sky-blue, the same shade as the walls, so that she appeared to be more shadow than woman. A maid should not be seen. Indeed, none of the guests paid the slightest attention to her, and when the visiting daughters and their husbands wanted a drink or a plate of food they gestured to her as they would to a dog. She was embarrassed that Mr. Hathorne would now know she wasn’t a member of the household and would see her true circumstances. Tonight she had refused to go barefoot, but instead wore her red boots. Let him see who she truly was. Let him back away from her if that’s what he wished to do.
Cadin was tapping at the window, but Maria was forced to ignore him. She was in service, and if the family knew she kept a black bird under their roof they would be furious. There were no crows on the island and black animals of all sorts were considered unlucky. Besides, Cadin had taken an instant dislike to John. Perhaps he was jealous, as familiars often were, for they wished to be closer to their human companion than anyone else. Maria wagged her finger at the window. Go away, she thought, although the farthest the bird went was to the branch of a nearby tree.
When Maria brought the platter of fish to present to John, he most certainly knew she was there. Clearly, she was not a daughter, but a housemaid, not that this seemed to bother him. He quietly said, “Is this turtle?”—a sly reference meant for her alone. He glanced at her and there it was, the connection between them, a thread that pulled them close.
“No, sir, but if you’d prefer turtle, I’ll see what I can do.”
Hathorne laughed and shook his head. “This is fine. But I forgot to thank you for showing me to the docks.”
“When I was ‘miss.’ ”
“You’re still ‘miss.’ ” No one was listening to them. “You will always be that to me.” He spoke softly and in earnest when he asked her to meet him in the courtyard. He pleaded, saying “You must, you must,” which was not at all like him. He himself seemed surprised by his ardor. But on this night he was so outspoken, he quickly turned to observe the others around the table, and was relieved when he saw they hadn’t noticed his behavior. “Please, miss, meet me there.”
When Maria could get away, she did so. She blushed to think of what she had conjured up, the first man to be in love with her. She was fifteen, the same age Rebecca had been when she first spied Thomas Lockland. Maria left her apron on the counter next to the pile of dishes in the kitchen, and she didn’t respond to Adrie’s disapproving expression. Men went to war and women fell in love, heedless and for reasons they might never understand. She could stop this and put it to rest right now. She could make an amulet for protection and speak the words that would keep him away; she could fashion an image of him and bury it in the earth outside her window where the centipedes nested, and he would never return. Instead, she ran a comb through her hair, and found her way to the courtyard. Turn back, something inside her said, but there was an element of defiance in her soul ever since the fire
. Rebecca had told her that life was short and she should do as she pleased.
They met beneath the Jamaican apple trees, which bore pear-shaped fruit with red skin and white flesh. Cadin was perched in one of the boughs, and he created such a racket that Maria waved him away. But before he obeyed her, he dove at the stranger in a flutter of feathers, knocking the hat from Hathorne’s head.
“That’s a foul creature,” John declared.
“No more than I am,” Maria said, hurt by his estimation.
“If you believe so, then I’m mistaken.” By then the bird had flown from the garden and was no threat to him. “He must be another miracle.”
“He is, as a matter of fact.”
“If this is your opinion, I will agree.”
“Will you?” Maria was pleased.
He might have agreed to anything at that moment, for he received a kiss for agreeing with her, and then many more. Juni was asleep, her face to the wall, when Maria finally came to bed. The Jansens were in their chambers, sprawled out on newly pressed sheets woven in Amsterdam. Maria sat at the window when she returned to her room, her hair undone, her mind racing. She knew nothing about this man and yet she had given herself to him. This was what had befallen her, a madness of sorts, powerful and potent, brought on without a potion, without a spell. She did not wish to understand her mother’s actions, which had always seemed foolhardy and irresponsible, and yet she did.
Magic Lessons Page 8
