When the Black Roses Grow

by Angela Christina Archer

  Stop, Emmalynn, just stop and quit thy foolish thoughts.

  He shook the hand of the man sauntering in front of me, and as I passed, he reached out too soon for the man behind me, brushing my arm with a soft touch. I caught my breath. A jolt pulsed through me. In my mind, everyone around us vanished, leaving us the only two people in the little white church.

  Suddenly, the outside window shutters slammed shut throughout the building. Women screamed, men flinched, and everyone looked all around them in a flutter of panic.

  I froze.

  “’Tis just the wind, everyone.” Reverend Perris reassured. “’Tis just the wind.”

  Please tell me he speaks the truth. Please. I held my breath and closed my eyes. Yes, ‘tis just the wind. That is all it could be. Just the wind.

  The man behind me cleared his throat a few times. My eyes opened and focused upon James as he gestured toward my arm where he touched me.

  “My apologies, Miss Hawthorne,” he said with a slight smirk across his lips, and he shook the hand of the man behind me.

  His voice played a calmed whisper, the same deep soothing sound from the walk along the village road. A gentle reminder of how comfortable he seemed even though I felt awkward.

  The sun blinded me as I made my way down the old wood church steps. The breeze blew a raven curl from under my bonnet, across my face, as I glanced at the shutters slapping against the outside walls of the church. My lungs exhaled my sighed relief.

  Just the wind.

  “Blessed morning to you, Miss Hawthorne.” Julia Clayton’s, high pitched voice beckoned my attention. “Join us for a moment, will you not?”

  She stood next to John in the shade of the oak tree with her arm hooked around his. Her beaming smile nearly eclipsed his overt pained frown. A portrait of a couple who could not be less perfect for one another, and yet, only one of them knew, and his eyes danced from Julia to Rebecca, who watched the two of them from a distance.

  “John and I were just speaking the other night about extending thee an invitation for evening supper. Were we not, Darling?” Expecting to find his agreement, her smile faded with his frown and furrowed brow. “Um, perhaps next week, maybe, if you would like.”

  In her confusion, she gave me only a fleeting glance before she looked toward John once more. Unknowing of her gaze, he stared at Rebecca, mirroring the heartbreak in her expression.

  Fire blazed in Julia’s eyes. Her shoulders straightened and she cleared her throat, to jerk his attention back toward her.

  “I am not sure of my plans next week.” I said, hoping to distract her attention. “I shall need to see to my prior obligations first. Shall I send word later in the week?”

  “Yes, please do so. I quite miss our evening suppers. We always had such a pleasant time with you . . . and Joseph.” She bit her lip as though she worried she had said something she should not.

  I smiled to ease her comfort, though the mention of Joseph squirmed through my spine. “Yes, he always had such a delightful time, too. He often spoke of it.”

  Her body shifted uncomfortably, and her eyes danced around, not meeting mine. “I am sure you miss him greatly. Losing a loved one is never easy, and I am sure thy grief brings great anguish to the heart.” With the last of her words, her arm tightened around John’s. Her eye twitched with her unspoken thoughts and her jaw line clenched.

  John cleared his throat and dabbed his handkerchief against his forehead—the battle between them obvious, awkward, and none of my business.

  “Yes, it is.” I bit my lip. “You two, hath a blessed day, and I shall send word in a few days about supper.”

  With a quick nod of farewell, I scurried home with the ache of the exhausting afternoon pounding in my head.

  Overgrown weeds obtruded through the hollow flaws of the broken boards along my fence line. While I desired to rip them from their roots, the chore would hath to wait until tomorrow. Chores were forbidden on the Sabbath, although, surely the cow would love them for supper.

  The old wood porch boards creaked and moaned under my weight as I stepped across them. One of the loose ones shifted, tripping me with the lifted corner, and my hand slammed into the outside wall as I caught myself. A shard of bark left in the deep crack of the wood sliced my thumb.

  Ouch.

  “Pssstt,” a voice hissed from behind me.

  I froze.

  “Mis’res Hawthorne,” the voice whispered again.

  I glanced slowly over my shoulder, exhaling my held breath as I spied Jeb, hiding amongst the bushes.

  “What are you doing in the shrub?”

  “She’s here,” he whispered. With widened eyes, he pointed around the corner of the house. “She’s waitin’ for ya near the cow pen.”

  “Who awaits me?”

  He brushed his finger against his lips, hinting me to soften my tone. My voice was obviously too boisterous for his taste.

  “Who awaits me?” I asked again, mirroring his whisper.

  “The ol’ crazy woman from ‘long Ipswich Road.”

  “Adalene McCarven?”

  “She don’t like bein’ told to get off the property, neither.”

  I bit my lip, stifling and fighting my laughter at the imagined vision of Jeb trying to force the old woman off the property. Even with her age, Adalene McCarven was never one to listen to the likes of a slave hand.

  “Thank you, Jeb. I suspect Deacon Goodwin shall arrive home from service before long. Thou should not be missing when he arrives.”

  With a fleeting nod, and several strides of his lengthy gate, he vanished down the road.

  Just as Jeb hinted, Adalene waited in the pen with my cow, stroking the brown coat as she muttered to herself. Her beaded necklaces clanked together with her movement, worn only in privacy, I remembered the first time I laid eyes upon them.

  “Good day, Miss McCarven.”

  She spun around to face me. Her body rocked off balance from her sudden movement. “Good day, Miss Hawthorne. Pleasant sermon this Sabbath, would thee not agree?”

  My eyes locked onto hers—an ice blue shade set in her wrinkled face. They twinkled with her question for she already knew my answer. Almost like a game, she toyed with the amusement in causing me to look into the deepest thoughts on purpose, just as she did with my mother.

  “No, I would not agree. ‘Twas just another sermon preached by a man who is far from the perfection he commands.” My tone rife, my words sharp, and my growl rumbled through my chest. “And, you knew what I would say, so why bother asking?”

  “To prove my point.” Adalene frowned and clasped her hands together, rubbing them as they trembled. “My point, that you hold anger for our reverend.”

  “And, why should I not? Why do you even mention his name to me?”

  “For not his peace, but for thine. I saw the disdain in thy eyes at service. Saw the look of abhorrence and if I bore witness, surely others did as well.”

  I groaned and folded my arms against my chest. The tension of my own body flickered in her eyes as though she sought to mirror it for me, so that I might change my thoughts and feelings.

  “I only mean to caution thee, Miss Hawthorne, not oppose. Like you and thy parents, I despise the man, myself. Thy mother loathed him silently, but thy father did vociferously, which is a road you seem devoted to travel down when thou should not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are a woman, and women do not hath the authority of a man.”

  My eyes met hers once more and I uncrossed my arms. The validity in her words twisted in my stomach.

  Before my father succumbed to the fever, he was one of the first villagers to sign every petition that circulated the village ordering the Perris family from the town. I, too, desired to sign my name upon
the lines of the parchment, however, my father refused.

  ‘Tis not a woman’s place, Emmalynn. I could still remember the warning tone behind his words, the growl in his voice, though not in anger, but in fear.

  “I know why you loathe him,” Adalene said.

  “Please do not say any more.”

  Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

  “I watched from afar that day he pounded on the door of thy home and barged in as thy mother cracked the door open. I watched him grab her as she clutched her throat and screamed.”

  I closed my eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

  Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

  “I heard the crowd as they chanted, heard as he shouted the accusations brought against her. I watched as they tied her arms and drug her down the road.”

  “Stop!” I screamed. “Stop, please, just stop.” I held up my hand to her face to silence her.

  “Thou hath to let the memories go, Miss Hawthorne.”

  “Do you not understand that I cannot do that? Every second spent in his company, I relive that horrible day. His smile, the sound of his voice, the way he orders us to follow him and follow God churns in my stomach. I want him to know my sorrow, the agony he caused, and yet, I do not.”

  “I sincerely believe he would not care.”

  “No, he would not.”

  “But, more importantly, Miss Hawthorne, if someone else were to hear or see you, then surely, you can see the danger you face.”

  “Why should I hold concern for such when Reverend Perris remains in disfavor in Salem? Do you think I do not remember the outcry from all the townspeople regarding his removal from our church? His arrogance and materialistic behavior leaves a trail of disgust.”

  “All doth not concern the persons of Salem any longer. With the absence of a Governor, Sheriff Corwin holds authority and his support lies with Reverend Perris. Not to mention, the reverend’s favor gains with every witch he hunts and hangs.”

  I groaned and folded my arms against my chest, again.

  “Miss Hawthorne, I implore thee to heed my caution. Release thy anger before you fall prey to thy mother’s fate.”

  I drew in a deep breath and weakness bled through my bones. Adalene’s words rang with a truth I did not wish to admit. But, while the notion was not new to me, thoughts of the ring of black roses haunted me.

  I bit my thumbnail, then wrapped my arms around my own body, rubbing my palms over the sleeves of my dress. My eyes danced at the ground, the trees, and the house, all of which closed in upon me.

  “I shall heed thy caution,” I whispered.

  Adalene patted the cow’s neck and sauntered out of the pen, closing the gate behind her. Her short steps, hobbled with her age.

  “Before I leave, could I beseech you for a pail of milk when I am in need?”

  I met her gaze. “Certainly, you may.”

  “I will remember thy kindness.” She flashed another smile and meandered through the garden before disappearing on the path through the tree line behind my home.

  With a deep sigh, I left the cow to the hay laid in front of her, and scaled the porch steps toward the back door. My feet trudged across the boards and my toes dragged as though weighted down as they thumped against the wood.

  The door clicked shut behind me, a lonely hollow sound that mirrored my mood along with the empty house that mirrored my life. My aloneness always haunted me more on certain days than on others and today proved one of them.

  I ambled across the house to my bed and lit a few candles for a little extra light. I untied my apron strings, unbuttoned my black dress, and dropped them both upon the floor. They landed in a heap, and I stared at them for a moment.

  A small part of me desired to leave them where they lay, but of course, such a choice would yield the need for a washing, so I plucked them from the wood, folded them, and laid them upon the others in the dresser drawer.

  I drew the bonnet from my head, allowing my short raven curls their freedom to bounce around my face. After wrapping my house dress around my shoulders, I closed the inside shutters on all the windows—blocking out the light of another Sabbath, and shutting out the world outside.

  A bushel of veggies sat on top of my table next to the ball of unbaked bread dough, rising with the heat of the small fire that still slightly burned in the fireplace.

  My eyes fluttered between the food, the door, and the windows.

  Although sinful to bake or cook on this sacred day, my thoughts, my body, and my very soul growled with hunger.

  Who would know if I prepared supper? The shutters are closed and I am alone. Who would ever know? Besides, Him.

  Casting a prayer of forgiveness toward the heavens, I slipped my arms through the sleeves of my dressing robe and tied the strings tight over my collar bone. The long cotton material dragged across the floor as I strode toward the table, grabbed the ball of dough, formed it into several small rolls, and threw them into the oven box above the hearth.

  I fetched a few vegetables from the bowl on the table, dunked them into a bowl of water, and scrubbed them clean with the palms of my hands before cutting them into small pieces. I poured leftover stew broth into my iron pot, adding in a few chicken bones and the cut vegetables.

  My heartbeat mirrored my guilt and I rushed to complete my task.

  Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.

  Anxiety spread down my neck, spine, and into my legs, and I tapped my foot against the wooden floor.

  No one will know. No one will know. No one will ever know.

  I hooked the handle of the cast iron pot over the fire before my mind changed and then stepped away from the fireplace.

  No one will know. No one will ever know.

  My clammy fingers fidgeted with each other as I bit my lip and I sat at my table watching the fire crack and pop in colors of red, orange, and yellow. My stomach growled again and I retrieved a carrot from the bushel, snapping it in half before taking a bite.

  Suddenly, in the corner of the room, a dark green plant stalk materialized and whispered for my attention. It grew quickly from my floorboards, growing a few inches every passing second. Several vines sprouted from the stem, curling in all directions while leaves grew, popped outward, and bounced from their sudden burst of movement.

  I flung my arms—the sudden jerk of my body sent my rump slamming hard onto the floor. My hand slapped across my mouth to hide my scream as the dark magic fluttered through the air in a teasing and taunting dance, waving its leaves as if to scold me for my sins.

  ‘Tis the soup.

  I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping on the leg of my table, and grabbed the handle of the pot, not caring that the hot piece of wire burned the palm of my hand. My bare foot kicked the back door open, and it collided with the outside wall of the house as I tossed the pot through the doorway. The cast iron flew through the air and plunged to the grass, landing with a loud bong.

  I slammed the door, raced to my chopping block, and grabbed the knife.

  If I cut it, it will wither and die. ‘Tis nothing more than a weed, a simple weed, and if I cut it, it will wither and die.

  My heels dragged lethargically across the floor as though mired in mud. Hesitation stirred in my blood and my hands trembled as I hovered over the vine.

  The familiar green vine I had seen before . . . floating over my mother’s grave.

  In a bold, swift swipe, I slashed the stem. The green color blackened like the dark of night and the vine shriveled then vanished.

  My rump hit the floor with a thud, and I curled my legs up into my chest, drawing them toward my thumping heart. My lungs heaved, and the thought of moving, even an inch, tightened my chest.

  Please do not return. Please do not return.

  I sat upon th
e floor, and pressed my fingertips into my temples, rubbing slowly to calm my breathing. My anxiety crawled and burned, prickling through my skin with an itch I could not scratch, though I desperately tried.

  Please, Lord, do not allow it to return. Please.

  I finally dragged myself up off the floor and onto my knees, then placed one foot on the floor, rose, and placed the other foot down.

  Please, Lord, plea—

  Suddenly, another stem sprouted before my eyes. In contrast, my limbs grew numb.

  Clunk. The knife slipped from my fingers, landed on the floor with a thud, and bounced.

  My mind whirled, lost in a sea of unexplainable reasons and sheer terror, while the green vine curled through the air, and the leaves bounced and waved. Shadows closed in, hunting as they preyed on the panic pulsing through the deepest, fears of my mind.

  A knock gently rapped against by back door. I spun on my heel and my hand slapped against my mouth. Surely, ‘twas nightfall. Surely, the sun had set, giving way to the darkness for its evening slumber. The only expected visitors were the ones invited, and I certainly did not invite anyone over to my home.

  Another knock rapped, this time a little harder than the first.

  “Who is there?” My voice cracked on the last word.

  “James DeKane.”

  FOUR

  “’Tis the Sabbath, Mr. DeKane.”

  “Please, Miss Hawthorne, will you open the door?”

  The sound of my name uttered across his lips shuddered through my body. His perfect voice both calmed me, and yet, left me breathless and sent my mind reeling as I tiptoed to the back door from which he knocked.