Rowena Proctor sat by her window, watching the storm. A good night to be home, she thought. A good night to be inside. But a bad night to be reading this book.
She looked down at the dog-eared volume which she had taken from the school library the day before, the old copy, of Deodat Lawson's A Brief and True History of Witchcraft at Salem Village. She had intended to do her social studies term paper on the War of the Roses, but her teacher, attempting to be helpful, suggested that she might be able to distance herself from her father's reputation by reporting objectively and critically on the events in seventeenth-century Salem. She had not decided as yet, but she had taken the book out anyway.
It's so hard to believe that anybody actually took all of this seriously back then, she thought as she allowed her eyes to drift over the yellowing pages. This book had first been published in London shortly after the trials in Salem, and the reprint which the school library had in its stacks seemed almost as old. Such utter foolishness! she thought as she read about the beginning of the hysteria.
In the beginning of the evening I went to give Mr. Parris a visit. When I was there, his kinswoman, Abigail Williams, had a grievous Fit; she was at first hurryed with Violence to and fro in the room (though Goodwife Ingersol endeavoured to hold her), sometimes makeing as if she woulde fly, stretching her arms as high as she could, and crying, "Whish! Whish! Whish!" several times; Presently she said there was Goody Nurse and said "Do you not see her? Why there she stands!" And then she did scream and cry and then she did laugh and clap and then she said Goody Nurse offered her The Book, but she was resolved she would not take it, saying Often, "I won't, I won't, I won't, take it, I do not know what Book it is: I am sure it is none of God's Book, it is the Divels Book, for ought I know." After that she run to the Fire, and begun to throw fire brands about the house; and run against the Back, as if she would run up the Chimney, and, as they say, she had attempted to go into the Fire in other Fits.
It's almost funny, Rowena thought. Some girl with a mental problem starts going crazy, and people end up being hanged for witchcraft. "How could they believe that?" she wondered aloud. She paged through the old book, and her eyes were caught by the sight of her own family name.
And Goodman John Proctor testified that he had beaten Mary Warren out of some of her Fits, and threatened to burn her out of them by firey tongs, and he said that she grew calm when he threatened her, so that this be no True witchcraft, but the sillynesse of a silly girl. Then Mary Warren took a Fit at his words, and he said "If you are afflicted, I wish you were more afflicted," and she said, "Master what makes you say so?" and Proctor said, "Because you go to bring out innocent persons." And Mary Warren answered, "That cannot be so."
Rowena flipped a few pages ahead, looking for further references to her ancestor. Such a superstitious period, she thought. People actually believed in witches and magic and all that. "Incredible," she muttered. She noticed her family name again and read further.
And on April 11th of 1692 Mary Warren was accused in Court of signing the Divel's Book. And she said, "I look up to God and take it to be a Great Mercy of God," and Judge Hathorne said "What, do you take it to be a great mercy to afflict others?" And then came into Court Abigail Williams and Mercy Lewis and Elizabeth Parris and the other afflicted girls, and Mary Warren fell into a Fit and she cryed out "God have mercy on me." And then came into Court Goodwife Corey and John Proctor and his Goodwife Elizabeth, and Mary Warren began to confess, saying it were sillynesse. But then Abigail Williams fell into a Fit, and so did the girls, and Mary Warren continued a good space in a fit so that she did neither see nor hear nor speak. Afterward she started up and said, "I will speak," and cried out, "Oh, I am sorry for it, I am sorry for it," and wringed her, hands, and fell a little while into a Fit again, and then came to speak, but immediately her teeth were set. And then she fell into a violent Fit and cried out "Oh Lord help me, Oh Lord help me!" And then afterward cried again "I will tell, I will tell" and then fell into a dead Fit again. And afterward cried "I will tell, They did It, They did it!" and-then fell into a violent Fit again. After a little recovery she cried "I will tell, They brought me to It" and then fell into a Fit again, after which fits continuing she was ordered to be had out of Court.
She flipped ahead a few more pages and then stopped again to read when she saw her name.
John Proctor and his Wife being in prison, the Sheriff came to his House and seized all the Goods, Provisions and Cattle that he could come at, and sold some of the Cattle at half price, and killed others and put them up for the West Indyes; threw out the beer out of a Barrel, and carried away the Barrel; emptied a Pot of Broath and took away the Pot, and left nothing in the House for the support of the Children; Proctor earnestly requested Mr. Noyes to pray with him and for him, but it was wholly denied, because he would not own himself to be a Witch.
"Barbarians!" Rowena muttered. "Barbarians!" They wouldn't even let a minister pray with him! They wouldn't even leave food for his children, with both their parents in prison. She knew that Elizabeth Proctor eventually was released from prison—otherwise she would not be alive to read this book, not be living in the small New Hampshire town of Bradford to which Elizabeth eventually moved—but she was horrified at the idea of a group of lonely, frightened children being robbed and starved while their parents languished in prison, charged with witchcraft, of all things! "Incredible," she repeated aloud. She turned a few more pages, looking for her name.
On August 19th were executed in Salem Village George Burroughs, John Willard, John Proctor, Martha Carrier and George Jacobs, a very great Number of Spectators being present. Mr. Cotton Mather was there, Mr. Sims, Hale, Chiever, &ct. All of the condemned prisoners said they were Innocent. Mr. Mather said they died by a Righteous Sentence. Mr. Proctor by his Speech, Prayer, protestation of his Innocence, did much move unthinking persons, which occasions their speaking hardly concerning his being executed. So were all executed by hanging except Proctor's Wife, who pleaded Pregnancy, and so was spared until she be delivered. After this a little While and Salem became becalmed, but much was said harshly against the accusers. And Mr. Parris was denied his pulpit and left the Village. Mercy Lewis was soon wed to Samuel Hale, and Abigail Williams and Mary Warren went to the City of Boston.
So the number of persons accused of Witchcraft in Salem was Fifty-Seven; and the number declared Guilty of Witchcraft was Thirty-Two; and the number hanged for Witchcraft was Nineteen. And that be an End to this Doleful Episode.
The wind smote the window with a sudden ferocity, and Rowena started slightly as the snow assaulted the glass. "What a night!" she said aloud. And it's only October! She glanced over at her clock. Well, it'll be November in three more hours, so I guess it isn't too unusual.
She closed the book and left it lying upon her desk. She rose and walked over to her bed, allowing herself to fall down upon it, thinking about the Salem trials, about her father and brother, about Jeremy Sloan, all of her thoughts mixing with each other in her mind. Been a long day, she thought. Must be why I'm so sleepy. Maybe I should turn in. Maybe I should.
Rowena was sound asleep in moments, sinking into her dreams before even removing her clothes and putting on a nightgown, unaware of the growing violence of the blizzard as it cast its frozen burden again and again at the windowpane, not hearing the mournful howl of the wind, free of the oppressive gloom of the early winter storm.
Two rooms down from her, Karyn Johannson was watching eagerly as Lucas Proctor stuffed a small, ornate metal pipe full with hashish. They too had been reading, but while Rowena had been studying historical records, Lucas and Karyn had been reading the old copy of the Caerimoniae Stupri Mortisque which Jeremy had purchased in Manhattan, and which Simon had left in the library downstairs. The book was propped open in Lucas's lap, and he was running his eyes over line after line as he filled the pipe in a slow and leisurely fashion. "Come on, babe, hurry up!" Karyn said peevishly.
"Huh?" Lucas asked.
&nb
sp; "I wanna get loose. Hurry up with the dope."
"Oh, yeah, yeah, right. Sorry" He tamped the powdery hashish down with his forefinger and then placed the pipe between his teeth. He turned to Karyn. "Ooo a-ha att?"
"What?"
He took the pipe from his mouth. "You got a match?"
"Oh, sure. Hold on." She reached down for the purse which lay beside the bed on the floor and rummaged around in it for a moment before drawing forth a lighter. "Here you go, babe."
"Thanks," he muttered. Lucas returned the pipe to his mouth and held the flame over the bowl. Soon curls of pungent smoke began to rise from the pipe as he passed it over to Karyn. He had drawn the intoxicating smoke deep into his lungs, and his eyes watered slightly as he struggled to hold the smoke in. He finally exhaled just as Karyn, having taken a greedy draft herself, passed the pipe back to him. He took another long drag and then said, "You know, we ought to try this stuff;"
"What stuff?" she asked dreamily as the effects of the hashish began to make themselves felt.
"The spells and ceremonies in this book. It'd be a pisser if they worked."
"Yeah, it would," she replied, not the slightest bit interested.
Lucas thought hard for a moment as he sucked on the pipe. "It's nearly Halloween, isn't it? I mean, in a day or two?"
"It is Halloween, babe," she yawned. "Today's the thirty-first."
"Today? Right now? No shit?"
"No shit. Why? What difference does it make?"
Lucas considered this for a moment. Then he said, "Look, let's get Jeremy and break into the old church and do some witchcraft. What do you say?"
Karyn laughed. "Are you serious, Lukie? Have you looked out the window lately? It's a goddamn blizzard out there!"
"So what? The church is just up the street." He hopped up onto his knees and bounced on the bed. "Come on, Karyn, it'd be fun! Maybe we could conjure up a demon or bring back the dead or see the Devil or something!"
She continued laughing. "Oh, Lucas, don't be so stupid. Nobody wants to go out on a night like this!"
"Well, I do," he huffed. "Shit. It's fuckin' Halloween, for Christ's sake! We gotta do somethin'."
She reached over with a languid motion and began to massage his crotch. "Okay. Let's do something."
"No, no, that's not what I meant."
"Look, baby, we're only gonna be able to screw for a few more weeks. I'm getting too big, and pretty soon it's gonna get too damn awkward. Don't you want to make the most of it while we can?"
"Well . . ." Lucas was weakening.
"Come on, baby," she whispered, taking his hand and placing it upon her full breasts. "Warm me up."
Lucas grinned at her and then, tightening his grasp upon her right breast, kissed her lustfully "Okay, you win," he said softly. "But later on, afterward, we're gonna do some spells."
"Sure, honey, sure," she whispered. "Anything you say." She slid down from her sitting position to lie upon her back. Lucas rolled over onto her.
And the snows blew and the wind whipped and the small town of Bradford rested in frozen silence beneath the white pall. The snows covered the roofs and hid the streets and buried the ground. The snows fell upon the church and the Grange hall and the old inn and the parsonage. The snows covered the old cemetery, covered the tombstones, covered the graves, as if seeking further to bury the dead, as if seeking to erect a barrier against their emergence, as if seeking to keep them safely entombed.
And elsewhere, in the ultimate elsewhere, in the eternal nowhere, in the eternal nowhen, a blind, deaf, faceless, formless thing writhed in bitter agony upon the surface of a burning lake.
Chapter Five
Eternity
Pain.
Relentless, unending, excruciating, tearing, searing, rending pain.
The thing crawled across an insubstantial, groundless, bottomless surface of acrid, sulfurous liquid. It had no eyes, it had no ears, it had no skin, no nerve endings, no vocal cords. And yet somehow it could see the billows of red and yellow as the pit vomited forth wave after wave of invisible fire. Somehow it could hear the inaudible screams, the shrieks, the wails, which assaulted it from every direction. Somehow it could feel the flesh which it did not possess sizzle upon the charred bones it lacked, feel the water boil within its absent eyes, feel the very blood which did not course through the illusory veins bubble and steam. Somehow it could feel the stabbing agony rip and rip and rip through its fleshless form, tear it asunder, burn and burn and burn. Somehow in its mute agony it screamed and cried and wept and begged and pleaded and prayed.
Pain.
Relentless, unending, excruciating, tearing, searing, rending pain.
It raised what would have been its head, turned what would have been its eyes, and gazed blindly upon the ice white epicenter of energy which spewed out bolts of bitter agony. It opened what would have been its mouth and croaked what would have been a question.
When? it asked. When?
A wave of soundless, inhuman laughter washed over it, pressing it down into the boiling liquid upon which it floated. The pain grew suddenly more intense, more profound. It always grew more intense and more profound. It never lessened, it never abated. It always grew worse.
It floated in timeless misery upon the burning lake.
Another form approached it unknowingly. The other form was as insubstantial and as agonized as itself, and they became dimly aware of each other in the midst of their misery.
You, said the thing.
You, said the other.
It hurts, said the thing.
Hurts, said the other, and was gone.
There were no days, no minutes, no seconds. Time passed timelessly, without years, without decades, without centuries. Time had no reality. The only reality was pain.
The thing was blindly aware of other tortured forms floating by, other voiceless screams, other cries, other pleas for pity. It had no nostrils with which to smell the burning flesh, but it smelled the burning flesh nevertheless.
When? it begged. When? it wept. When? When? And the thing braced itself for the inevitable onslaught of inhuman laughter from the epicenter of misery.
But the laughter did not come. There was a silence uncommon for the soundless torture chamber, and a sudden, subtle lessening of the pain.
When? a voice echoed. Do you ask when you will be released, when you will walk again upon the earth?
Yes, the thing wept. Yes. When?
Do you know who you were? the voice asked. Do you remember who you were?
No, the thing wept. All it knew was pain.
Do you remember why you hope for release? the voice asked.
No, the thing wept.
You must remember, the voice said. You must remember and understand.
The thing felt itself slowly and inexplicably rising from the boiling surface. It looked down with the eyes it did not have and saw the invisible flames receding from it as it rose slowly and smoothly from the blistering heat into the very gradually increasing cool. Its absent eyes saw the other rising also from the agony into the numbness, from the black into the red into the blue, from the nowhere into the somewhere, from the nowhen into the now.
You, said the thing.
You, said the other. Is it time?
It is time, said the voice. Remember who you were. Remember your lives. Remember and understand.
Memory began very, very slowly to emerge from the dead minds so long dulled by agony and misery and terror and sorrow. They remembered the smell of evergreen trees and the sound of snow crunching beneath leather boots. They remembered the cold wind and wintry silence of New England in November of 1691.
Yes, said the things. Yes. . . . Yes. . .
. . . Mary Warren pulled her scarf tightly around her neck as she walked down the narrow, pitted country road which led from Salem Village to the farms northwest of the town. It was bitterly cold, but the sky was clear enough and it was early in the day, so she had no fears for her safety or survival. It was
clearly not going to snow today, and she would be back home at the Corey farm long before dusk. The Indians also posed no problem, not anymore, not since the skirmishes and the massacres four years ago. Her parents had been among the whites murdered by the savages, and the townspeople visited a horrible vengeance upon the red men, burning their villages, killing the men, enslaving the women and children. It was their own fault, the sturdy Puritans reasoned, for refusing to behave in a civilized manner.
So Mary Warren was not afraid to walk alone down the snow-covered path toward the Proctor farm, carrying the pumpkin pie which Martha Corey in a burst of infrequent and uncharacteristic charity had baked for Goodwife Proctor. She had borne her husband John his second child just last summer, and it had been a hard delivery. Though Elizabeth Proctor had steeled herself to her labor and her tasks, she was weakened and still ailing, and the women of the area expressed their concern by sending her and her family pies and stews, prepared and ready for eating, so as to spare her the labor of cooking more than necessary.
This was not charity, nor did it reflect unkindly upon Goodman John Proctor as a provider. He was a skilled hunter and a willing laborer in the stony New England fields, and he housed and fed and sheltered and cared for his own as well as any man in Salem; but Salem in 1691 was still basically a frontier community, and each family felt dependent upon every other family, felt responsible for every other family. They helped each other out of a feeling which combined self-interest with Christian obligation, and when food was sent to the weak and frail Elizabeth, it was with full knowledge that when her health returned, as all prayed that it would, she would be baking pies and simmering stews for other ailing wives in the town and on the surrounding farms.
Candlemas Eve Page 9
