The Tao of the Viper: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 2)

by Linda Watkins

  But I couldn’t.

  Sighing, I went back to the desk and sat down. I stared at my pager for a moment and prayed it stayed silent. Then, I pulled the little diary from my backpack and began…

  41

  The Diary Of Maude Prichard

  A Simple Plan

  IN THE YEAR of Our Lord 1698 I was about to set off, with my husband and daughter, to reclaim my stepson, Samuel, from that evil whoreson, Ian Morrison. We had just survived the scourge of Storm Island and the unlawful deaths of many of our friends. My husband, Micah, and daughter, Sarah, had been about to be sold into slavery when I, with the help of my friend and benefactor, Imelda, managed to help them escape.

  We were, now, together again as a family but were missing one member. During the rout of the island, that old conjurer, Morrison, had apparently bribed Zachariah Palmer, leader of the Puritan brigade, into handing over my stepson, Samuel, who was only twelve years old. What Morrison’s plans for Sam entailed I did not know for sure, but I had my suspicions.

  We had spent the night after the escape at an inn outside of the Village of Falmouth. The evening before, we’d said goodbye to the other survivors of the Storm Island massacre. Now, Micah, Sarah and I sat at the breakfast table, planning our course of action.

  “We have very little silver left,” said Micah. “We gave most away to the others to help them begin their lives anew. I fear we cannot make it to the Carolinas on what we have now.”

  I nodded. “You are right, Husband. But we must leave. It is not safe here.”

  “I know, I know. If that cur Palmer gets wind that you still live, there will be hell to pay. Perhaps we can work our way down south. You know, stop here and there and hire on for wages. I’m a decent farrier and you, my love, can sell your remedies.”

  “But time is of the essence. Every day our Samuel stays with that old bastard, he’ll grow distant from us. That old man has a way about him and he will steal sweet Sammy’s soul.”

  “Yes, my love, and we will make haste. But we also need to have coin for food and other intangibles. What good will we do Sam if we die of starvation on the way to save him? Be logical, Maude. We must work.”

  I sighed, acknowledging the wisdom in his words. “As usual, you are right, Husband, and your words make sense. Dost thou think the innkeeper might have a map that we could look at to plan our route? We must at all costs avoid the Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

  “You are right. Palmer’s work here in Maine is done. He will be returning to Boston soon. We don’t want to run into him.”

  I nodded then glanced over at our daughter, who had been strangely silent during our exchange.

  “Sarah,” I asked. “What say you? Should we make haste or take our time, working our way south?”

  Sarah’s big brown eyes locked with mine. “For now, Sammy is safe. I would know if he wasn’t.”

  Micah frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean, Sarah?”

  “Sammy has been my brother since the day I was born. We love each other. I don’t know why, but I feel it in my heart that God would let me know if he were in peril.”

  Micah smiled, reached over, and tousled her hair. “Yes, I believe God would let you know. Then, is it decided? We work our way south?”

  “Aye,” I answered. “Now, what about that map?”

  The innkeeper did indeed have a map of the colonies and, while it was a bit out of date, it was sufficient for our purposes.

  “We go south through New Hampshire,” explained Micah, “and then ride along the border between the Massachusetts Bay Colony and New York. That is the fastest and safest route. There is a possibility we might be stopped by militia along the way, but we will have to chance it.”

  “Are there settlements where we might find work?” I asked.

  “Nothing large. But we will be all right. Don’t worry.”

  “What happens after we get to the Province of New York?”

  “We head to the city of New York. I have cousins there. Distant, to be sure, but I am confident they will give us a roof over our heads as we plan our next move.”

  “And what will that be, Papa?” Sarah asked.

  “A ship,” Micah answered with a smile. “We will book passage on a ship to take us to Charles Town, South Carolina. It is in that southernmost colony that Ian Morrison makes his home.”

  “And, how long will this take, Papa? A fortnight?”

  Micah laughed. “No, sweetheart, longer than that. Let’s see. Today is the fifteenth of June. I would expect, if all goes well, we will be in South Carolina by the middle of August.”

  “That’s a long time, Papa,” Sarah replied.

  “Yes, it is. And you, with your special connection to Samuel, will have to keep us apprised of his condition. If things become urgent, we’ll find a way to get there faster.”

  This seemed to satisfy Sarah and she left us to go play with the innkeeper’s puppies.

  “She’s an amazing child,” said Micah, watching her run to the door.

  “Yes,” I concurred. “I’m afraid that some of what that old conjurer passed on to me was again passed on to her in my womb. I only hope it’s for the better and not for the worst.”

  “She’s a good girl. Takes after her mother, praise the Lord, not her father.”

  I reached across the table and took his hand in mine. “She could not have a better father nor I a better husband. We are blessed to have you.”

  Micah smiled and squeezed my hand. “And I am doubly blessed to have you two. Now, we need supplies. We have the wagon and oxen courtesy of your benefactor, Imelda, but we also need foodstuffs and a horse.”

  As he spoke, Micah reached into his pocket and placed a small pile of shillings on the table.

  “Not enough for what we need,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll have to see if anyone here needs a day laborer.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of coins and added them to his. “I’ll ask the innkeeper if there is anyone nearby who is in need of a healer. Perhaps I can coax some shillings from a grateful patient.”

  “Good. Then we’d best get cracking. I’ll ask the innkeeper if it is all right for Sarah to stay here. She can help him with the dishes and serving and, with her smile, she may bring in more money than the two of us combined!”

  And, so, we stayed with the kindly innkeeper until we earned enough money to purchase a horse for Micah, a bag of potatoes, and a pound or two of dried fish. We also purchased a water barrel, which Micah lashed to the side of our wagon.

  Thus equipped, on the twenty-eighth of June, the Year of Our Lord 1698, we set off to find and free my stepson, Samuel, from the grip of that old enchanter, Ian Morrison.

  42

  Kate

  I SAT BACK in the chair, the diary in my lap, marveling at the courage it took for this woman, whom I was descended from, and her family to travel such a distance to save a child.

  I checked my watch. It was four-thirty. I shook my head, smiling. I didn’t feel the least bit tired, but my legs were a little cramped. Needing to stretch, I got up walked over to the window.

  The moon was now half-hidden by clouds, but the wind was calm. Looking at the pristine snow that covered the forest floor, I remembered making snow angels with my mother up in Tahoe when I was just a little girl. That was a good memory and I let myself be surrounded by it for a few minutes.

  But thinking of myself as a child brought my mind back to Maude’s little girl, Sarah. I assumed that this remarkable child was my ancestor.

  I tried to picture the young girl in my mind. She was, I believed, about seven years old when this adventure began and resembled physically her mother.

  Smiling at the thought that I was related to her, I returned to the desk, took a sip of the never-ending tea, and sat back down. I glanced at my pager. All was quiet at the clinic. Taking a deep breath, I picked up the diary and, once again, began to read…

  43

  The Diary Of Maud Prichard

&
nbsp; The Journey

  WE SET OUT at the crack of dawn. Micah sat up front driving the oxen whilst Sarah and I remained in the back of the wagon. Our horse, who I am afraid to say had seen better days, was tied at the rear.

  As we traveled, Sarah and I amused ourselves playing games or wrapping up the numerous dried herbs that I planned to sell at markets scattered along our route.

  We stopped often. Micah invariably found work either at a smithy’s or as a day laborer. I, of course, offered my services as a healer and sold my herbs. We were not shy about telling those we met about our plight. Of course, we left out the parts about witches or the burning at Storm Island. Instead, we told a tale of being attacked by brigands who stole our son and that, now, we were on a quest to find him.

  Most people we met were of a generous nature and, hearing our story, were quick to find us work where there was none.

  We traveled almost two weeks before we came to the border that divided the Massachusetts Bay Colony from that of the Province of New York. We journeyed close to what we believed was the dividing line, making sure we stayed on the New York side.

  This part of our journey was an adventure. The country was still fairly wild and from time to time we met up with groups of natives who lived and hunted on this land. Micah, being ever curious about these indigenous peoples, tried to make friends with them and, invariably, they saw the goodness in his nature. On several occasions, they became our traveling companions and provided much-needed protection from highwaymen and the wildlife that lived on this land. Micah would often sit up late into the night with them around the fire, smoking and talking. He’d picked up some of their language whilst in Maine and now endeavored to learn more.

  “They are a fascinating people, Maude,” he would say. “They revere nature in a way much like we Europeans revere God. Nothing is wasted with these people and every day is cherished.”

  On this part of our journey my husband and I found little time for intimacy. Most nights we slept together in the back of our wagon with little Sarah wedged between us.

  But on some evenings, when we felt safe, Micah and I would sneak off into the woods and lie together on a blanket of soft grass. Oh, these nights were so magical – resting in his arms with a canopy of stars above, winking merrily at us as we joined as man and wife.

  Despite our bliss, a dark cloud hung over us. The fate of Samuel, the sweet boy I raised from a babe, lay unknown to me. Whilst I hoped for the best and took comfort in the fact that Sarah showed no distress, I still feared the worst. What was it Imelda had called that old man? A body thief? Was his plan to steal my boy’s physical being and, in doing so, destroy his soul? These thoughts plagued my mind and I wished I had wings so that I could fly to my child and carry him away to safety. But I had to content myself with a wagon drawn by oxen and guided by the man I loved.

  We had been traveling for some days, making our way east. Sarah and I were in the back of the wagon playing a game whilst Micah drove our team.

  Suddenly, my husband pulled the oxen to a halt.

  “Why are we stopping?” I asked.

  “Shush, Wife,” Micah responded, sharply. “Listen.”

  I gazed out onto the path ahead of us, straining to hear whatever it was Micah was referring to.

  Faintly, I picked up sound of hoof beats coming our way.

  “Riders,” whispered Micah. “Maude, you and Sarah lie down and cover yourselves with the blanket. Be still and quiet as the grave.”

  We did as my husband commanded. I lay on my stomach in the back of the wagon, my arm around Sarah. Lying this way, I could still see what was happening ahead of us through the slats under the driver’s seat.

  I held my breath, waiting.

  The sound of horses became louder and, in a cloud of dust, a group of six or seven riders approached our wagon.

  The man in the lead slowed his pace when he caught sight of us, signaling the others to do likewise. The riders were all men and they were heavily armed. By the looks of them I assumed they were militia patrolling the border.

  “Good day, kind sir,” said the lead militiaman. “What is your business here on the border?”

  “Good day to you, sir,” responded Micah amiably. “I am traveling to the Province of New York to stay with relatives in the city.”

  “All by yourself?” the rider asked.

  “Yes, I am a bachelor, although I hope to remedy that when I get to New York.”

  The rider laughed. “Aye, a man needs a good woman to warm his bed.”

  I relaxed slightly. It appeared everything was going well and, hopefully, the riders would simply tell Micah to be on his way.

  But that was not to be.

  One of the men, who had been in the back of the pack, suddenly pushed his way to the front.

  I stared at him. He was a man I’d known since I had been a young girl.

  Zachariah Palmer.

  His face was painted with an angry scowl and I knew he carried a deep-seeded hatred of me because I had once spurned him when we were only in our teens. He was also the man who had burned and pillaged my friends on Storm Island and who had sold my boy, Samuel, to Ian Morrison.

  Palmer stared at Micah, a sneer on his face. “Micah Levine, the Jew. Where’s your wife, Jew? Where’s the witch?”

  At the sound of the word ‘witch,’ the band of riders, as one, made the sign of the cross.

  Micah, anger flashing in his eyes, responded fiercely. “My wife, who was a good Christian woman, is dead. You should know of this since it was you who led the army that murdered her.”

  As he spoke, I saw Micah’s hand stray to the pistol he kept in his waistband and I feared what might happen next. But his hand was stayed by another one of the riders who raised his musket and pointed it at my husband’s face.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, sir,” the rider said solemnly.

  I heard Micah inhale and then saw him move his hand away from the gun. He then raised up both his hands, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender.

  “That’s better,” the rider said, lowering his musket.

  Zachariah Palmer now circled the wagon on horseback, his eyes staring at the place where I lay hidden with my daughter.

  Returning to a spot in front of Micah, he stopped. “I did not kill your wife, though killing she surely deserves. She escaped by means of witchery and I suspect is not far from where we now stand.”

  He guided his horse once again to the side of the wagon where I could no longer see him. I heard, however, the sound of a saber being pulled from its scabbard.

  “Perhaps I should skewer whatever lies beneath this blanket to see if it squeals!”

  I could take it no more. I would not let that cur harm one hair on my daughter’s head. I pushed the blanket aside and, pulling Sarah up beside me, stood in the wagon and faced my nemesis.

  Zachariah brandished his sword in front of my face, laughing. I tightened my hold on Sarah and stared at him. I could feel my anger rising and knew I could smite this man dead with but a crook of my little finger.

  And I wanted to do it, too, with every fiber of my being. But my eye caught sight of my husband who shook his head slightly, advising me to hold my temper.

  With great effort, I tamped down my fury knowing that Micah was right. Whilst I might destroy this man who had taken so much from me and mine, the others in his party would do the same to my husband and daughter. I would be left alone with the guilt of their deaths on my soul.

  “Witch!” screamed Zachariah. “Step down here so I may bind you and return you for trial in Boston.”

  I did not move. But, surprisingly, my daughter pulled away from my grasp and stepped in front of me.

  Sarah stared at Zachariah, her face grave.

  “Aren’t you the one, sir,” she asked, “who sold my brother into servitude? A young boy of only twelve years? How much coin did you get for him, Mr. Palmer?”

  Shocked by her accusation, Zachariah leaned forward on his hor
se. He stared at her for a minute, then he laughed.

  “That boy was the son of a witch and, as such, was worthless in my opinion. Whatever I got for him was but a pittance.”

  My daughter was not cowed. “I fear you are mistaken, sir. My step-brother, Samuel, is not my mother’s blood child. No, he is the son of Mr. Josiah Abbott of Boston and his first wife who died in childbirth. My mother, when she married Mr. Abbott, took Samuel and raised him as her own. Do you admit to selling Josiah Abbott’s only son and heir into servitude?”

  Sarah’s voice rang out sharply and I began to hear murmurs from the other members of the militia.

  One man spoke up, “My father was friends with Mr. Abbott. The girl speaks truth. His first wife did die in childbirth.”

  The man next to him nodded and answered, “I heard Josiah Abbott was a God-fearing man, well-respected in the church.”

  And yet still another’s voice rang out, “It is said that Mr. Abbott died in a terrible accident. Fell from his wagon and was dragged by his horse.”

  The murmurs grew louder and more numerous and I could see Zachariah’s bravado turning to fear.

  Suddenly, a man from the back of the group came forward, parting the others down the middle. He was older than the rest, his horse larger and more magnificent. He stopped in front of our oxen.

  “Mr. Palmer!” he commanded. “Get yourself back to ranks and do it now! When we return to our barracks, you will have some explaining to do!”

  Zachariah opened his mouth to object, but seeing the stern expression on the face of the older man, meekly bowed his head, turned his horse, and obeyed.