Abigail screamed and fell back, away from the communion table, blood streaming from her cheek and forehead. She flailed her arms wildly at the bird as it withdrew and attacked, withdrew and attacked, again and again and again. The bird tore clumps of flesh from her face and arms, and its yellow claws were red with blood. Abigail managed to grab hold of the crow and throw it from her, and in that moment—before the crow was able to right itself, fly upward, and attack again—she crouched and jumped up at the rafters of the church. In an instant there was a raven circling the room, flapping its wings madly as it rose above the rafters and then attacked the crow. The crow flew to a higher position in the air and, still flapping its wings, raised its talons to meet the raven's attack.
The heavy thud which resonated from the rafters mingled with the cawing of the crow and the croaking of the raven as the birds slammed into each other, as their talons raked each other's wings, as their sharp, cruel beaks sought to tear at each other's shiny black breasts. They tumbled through the air, locked in combat, separating only to fly again into the heights and then resume the battle. Bloodstained feathers drifted gently down toward the floor as the birds stabbed and bit each other.
And then the crow managed to grab the raven's head in its talons and tore at it, sending the raven spiraling downward to the floor. It landed on its side, and its right wing broke with an audible snap. It tried to drag itself away from the incessant attack by scrabbling upon the wooden floor with its claws and one good wing, but it could not escape the determined crow. The raven crawled beneath a pew and then reassumed a human form. Abigail crawled out, her face torn and bloody, her right arm hanging useless from her side, a large section of hair torn from her head. The crow dived at her again and again and again, and Abigail tried to protect her face with her one good arm. At length she retreated on her knees into the corner and stayed there, battered, bloody, her wounded face contorted in fury.
The crow hovered near her and then seemed to expand downward without actually moving. It was as if the crow were dripping Mary's body down from its belly. In an instant the crow was gone and Mary, bloodied and breathing hard, stood there in its stead. "It is over, Abby," she panted. "It is ended."
"No!" Abigail screamed. "I shall have my vengeance!"
Mary shook her head. "No, not now, not ever."
Abigail turned her frenzied eyes to the three dead men whose bodies were leaning against the wall. "Seize her!" she shrieked. "Kill her!"
The limbs of the dead men began to move spasmodically, but Mary raised her hand and commanded, "Be at rest. Remain at rest." The bodies of Strube, Mahoney, and Herricks seemed for a moment to be shuddering, as if torn between two contending forces, and then each in turn fell forward and lay motionless upon the floor.
"Arise!" Abigail screamed. "Arise! Obey me! Obey me!" They did not move.
"Stop it, Abby," Mary said. "It is ended. Accept it."
"Never!" she shouted as she raised her left hand above her head. It looked to Simon and Rowena as if she were grasping at something behind her, but there was nothing there to grasp. And then Abigail thrust her hand forward as if to throw something at Mary. A fireball appeared out of nowhere and hurtled toward the other woman, who stood calmly in place, awaiting it.
Mary Warren raised her hands before her and held their palms outward. When the flaming missile struck her hands, it dissipated, it disappeared, leaving nothing but a smoky wake and a faint scent of fire. Mary shook her head. "It is useless, Abby. We are the same, you and I. You cannot destroy me."
"Nor you me," Abigail replied. "I can wait, Mary Warren. I have waited for centuries. I can wait longer. I shall have my revenge!"
"Never, Abigail," Mary said quietly. "It is ended. No more evil must be allowed to issue forth from us. We must surrender these new lives. We must return to—we must return to—" She could not bring herself to say the word. She simply sighed and said, "We must return."
"Not I, Mary Warren!" Abigail said. "I have another life to live, and I intend to live it—"
"And to do more harm to innocent people?" Mary asked. "To commit more murders? To continue to do Satan's bidding?" She shook her head. "No. I cannot permit it."
"You cannot permit it! You cannot permit it!" Abigail laughed incredulously. "You think that you have such power, Mary Warren? Why, you stupid little fool!"
Mary ignored her. She closed her eyes and spread her arms outward. Her body tensed as if she were bracing herself, and then she cried out "Send us back whence we came! Our time is ended! Send us back whence we came!"
"Stop it, Mary!" Abigail shouted. "Stop it this instant!"
"Let it end here, let it end now! Send us back to the pit!"
"Mary Warren! Stop it!" Abigail struggled to her feet, wincing from the pain of her broken arm. "Stop it, damn you!"
"I surrender my life, I surrender her life. Our time is ended. Send us back whence we came!"
Simon Proctor had been sitting in silence as the strange conflict had progressed, his attention riveted upon the two witches. But a sound coming from the open door of the old church caused him to look away from them. He saw what was making the sound, and he screamed.
Two figures were slowly, stiffly approaching them from the door of the dark church, moving forward awkwardly but with determination. Simon blinked, fearing that the candles were playing a trick on his eyes. They were not. The approaching figures were precisely who he thought they were.
Karyn Johannson moved with an ungainly swaying motion up the aisle upon her broken legs. The baby was still hanging from her hair and the gouge in her flesh from belly to breast had been pulled even more horribly open by the movement of her shattered body. Her face was still frozen into the last shriek of agony which she had emitted before she died. Her dead eyes stared wildly, lifelessly, ahead of her.
Behind her, a black cleft in the forehead of his decayed and putrescent face, trailing ripped strands of rope from his wrists and ankles, his mouth still open and still covered with cold earth, was the Reverend Frederick Wilkes.
The dead approached slowly. They ignored Simon as they passed him, they ignored Rowena as they drew close to the corner near the pulpit where Abigail was cowering. Wilkes moved with a steady, stiffened gait. Karyn seemed to be stumbling from side to side but never faltered.
The two corpses came to a stop in front of Abigail, and then the body of Karyn reached out its cold hand and grasped her by the wrist of her broken arm. Abigail screamed in pain as Karyn pulled her out of the corner, into the open space in front of the communion table.
"This is your doing, Mary Warren!" she screamed through her tears. "I'll not forget this, I'll not forgive this!"
Mary sighed. "Oh, Abby, don't you understand? I cannot allow you to do further harm, so our pact is void. We must return. We'll not be doing Satan's work upon earth, and so our second lives are forfeit. These poor things," and she waved her hand at the two walking dead, "are but escorts."
"It isn't too late, Mary!" Abigail screamed. "You and I can still—"
She shook her head. "It was too late for me centuries ago, Abigail. It was too late for me when I first became your friend."
Abigail tried to break free from Karyn's grip, but the mangled corpse seemed to be made of stone. It stood immovable, a statue holding Abigail tightly in its granite-like grip. Abigail soon ceased her struggle and stood, trembling, frightened, confused, staring at the frozen mask of agony which held her and returned her gaze with lifeless eyes. There was a profound silence in the old church.
And then, very softly and indistinctly, a voice could be heard drifting through the large, silent room. Abigail looked around her, attempting to locate the source of the voice; but saw no one speaking. Abigail looked to her right and blanched as she realized that the voice was drifting upward from deep within the body of Reverend Wilkes. But it was not his voice which spoke so softly and distantly, no words were being formed by his dead lips, no breath was being passed from the decaying lungs to the rotting voc
al cords. The voice came from elsewhere, even though it drifted out from the open, speechless, dirt-encrusted mouth.
"A . . . bi . . . gail," the voice said.
Abigail Williams gasped, and a mighty shudder smote her frame. She looked around madly, seeking some other, any other source for the voice which addressed her, but she found none. The voice was most definitely coming from the body of the dead minister.
"A . . . bi . . . gail," the voice repeated, a bit stronger now.
"No," she said, "no, it can't be it can't—"
"Abigail,"' the voice said, quite clearly and distinctly, though echoing slightly as if it were reverberating in the empty vessel of dead flesh.
"J—John?" she whimpered "Is that you, John?"
"It is I, Abby," said the voice of John Proctor. "I am here." She struggled to smile as she felt her heart rise up into her throat. "John, my dear, my love!"
"Nay," the voice said, "never that, Abby. A sinner and a fool, a weakling and a blind, silly man, but never your love."
"But you are here, you are come to me in some manner," she said hopefully. "The Master has released you to me!" The corpse moved its head slowly, awkwardly, from side to side, in pathetic imitation of a living man shaking his head. The putrid skin ripped and cracked upon its neck as it moved. "We serve different masters, Abby. I speak to you from this body because my Master forbids the eyes of the damned to behold the forms of the blessed."
"Wh—what are you—? I don't understand," she stammered.
"Mary has been heard, Abigail," said the voice of John Proctor. "You must return whence you came. Mary has surrendered your life."
Abigail renewed her struggles against the relentless grip of the dead girl. "No! No! 'Tis not true! I have another life, another chance! The Master promised! Mary cannot break the Master's word!"
The cold, dead, lifeless eyes stared blankly at her as the voice replied, "There is a balance between the two worlds, Abigail, between the world of eternity and the world of time. You and Mary left eternity together. If she returns to eternity you cannot remain in time."
"But the Master gave his word!" she screamed. "It isn't fair! It isn't fair!"
"Mary has been heard," the voice of John Proctor repeated. "She has surrendered her life. Yours is now forfeit."
A strange smell began to permeate the room, and Simon, who had been watching the strange scene wordlessly, his eyes wide with fear and wonder, crinkled his nose. It smells like something. . . . I can't quite place it. . .
Then he recognized the odor.
It was sulfur.
A reddish glow was becoming visible, a ruddy circle beneath the spot upon which Abigail stood in Karyn's relentless grasp. The wood of the old church floor seemed to fade into nothing, not to burn up but merely to fade, as the glowing circle became a platform of flame which rose up around the knees of the two women, the one living and the other dead. "No!"
Abigail cried as the flames licked up at her. "No, wait! It isn't fair!" She and Karyn seemed to be sinking into the sulfurous circle, descending slowly into the flames. "NO! NO! I HAVE I LIFE TO LIVE! I HAVE A LIFE TO LIVE!!!" She and the corpse sank downward inch by inch and Abigail felt the sulfurous atmosphere of the depths crawl up and tear into her flesh, burning and blistering her. "HE PROMISED ME!" she shrieked. "HE PROMISED ME ANOTHER LIFE!"
"Even as you surrendered Mary Warren's life to Satan three hundred years ago, so today has she surrendered your life to him." The voice of John Proctor paused. "And so the circle is closed."
"BUT HE PROMISED ME ANOTHER LIFE!!!" The flames burned into her terrified face. "HE PROMISED ME ANOTHER LIFE!!! HE PROMISED ME!!! HE PROMISED ME!!!"
"The Devil," the voice reminded her, "is the father of lies."
Abigail Williams emitted an ear-rending scream of incredible agony as she sank out of sight into the billowing flames, and then the flames seemed to fall in upon her, away from the surface. The glowing circle began to fade and the wood floor began to reappear. In a moment, the glow was gone, the odor had dissipated, and the old church was filled with silence.
Mary Warren felt her knees weaken, for she knew that what she had just seen happen to Abigail was going to happen to her. She sank to the floor and began to weep as the body of Reverend Wilkes walked over to Rowena and snapped the thick ropes which were still binding her to the communion table. He tore the ropes free with one quick motion of his dead hand and then repeated the movement to free her ankles. The corpse turned and approached Simon, staring above his seated form with dead, empty eyes, and then the cold hands reached out and snapped his bonds. Simon knew that he should rush to his daughter and care for her, but he was too terrified to move.
The dead man turned to Mary and inclined his head toward her huddled form. There was an audible cracking sound as the bones of the dead man's neck bent forward. "Mary Warren," he said.
She looked up at the corpse's face through her tears. "I know, Mr. Proctor. I must return also. But I have stopped Abigail and I have saved Rowena. It is fair, it is just. I am ready to go."
And then the corpse of Reverend Wilkes began to glow brightly. Mary gasped and threw her arms over her eyes, expecting a reappearance of the flaming gateway to the inferno, but the glow was not sulfurous. As the glow intensified, she looked up with dread at the face of the dead man. Rowena slipped off from the communion table onto the floor and watched in stunned fascination as the glow grew brighter. Simon, finding enough strength to move his legs, stumbled forth from the pew and crawled to his daughter. He enveloped her in his arms, and they watched wordlessly as the glow became almost blindingly intense.
The corpse fell backward onto the wooden floor. In its place stood a glowing phantasm, a rippling, translucent human form. Simon gasped. It was an image of himself.
His ancestor, John Proctor, smiled down at the frightened, weeping girl. The ghost asked softly, "Do you remember, Mary, when you were a child and read the Bible, what the Lord said about the greatest love?"
Mary Warren's memory searched back over the years, over the centuries, to her childhood in Salem. "I cannot," she said sadly. "I cannot. . . . I cannot remember . . ."
"It was something Jesus said to His disciples shortly before He was crucified," the ghost reminded her. "'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' " He paused, allowing the words to penetrate her fear and sorrow. "And do you remember the parable of the man who hired workers for his fields and paid those who worked but a little time the same wage as those who had worked the entire day?"
Mary Warren began to weep even more bitterly. "Do not play with me, Mr. Proctor," she cried. "I do not understand you."
The ghost knelt down and took her hand in his. His touch was cool and soothing. "You chose to do what was right, Mary Warren, with no hope for forgiveness, no hope for reward. Though you were convinced that you were eternally lost and abandoned by God, you made a moral choice." John Proctor smiled at the frightened, confused girl. "You made the right choice." He was silent for a moment. And then he spoke again.
"You are absolved."
He stood up and opened his arms to her. Mary gazed up at him with disbelief and then, a cry of joy bursting through her tears, she jumped to her feet and threw herself into the spirit's embrace. He hugged her tightly to his bosom and looked over at Simon and Rowena. "Are you too old to learn lessons, my descendant?" he asked.
Simon tried to say something, but no words came from his lips. Rowena answered for him. "He isn't too old to learn."
"Then learn," the ghost warned him. "He who has ears to hear, let him hear." He hugged Mary more tightly and they both faded away into nothing, dissolved into the silent emptiness of the old church.
Simon and Rowena did not move for a long while. They remained huddled in an embrace upon the floor in front of the communion table as the first rays of the morning sun drifted in through the cloudy windows of the church. They wept and did not speak. Simon wrapped Rowena in his coat, and together they stumb
led out onto the still-empty street of the still-sleeping town, making their way wearily and painfully back toward the old inn.
Once inside they went into the sitting room, too exhausted and too numbed to attempt the stairs, and fell into a deep sleep, Simon on the floor and Rowena on the sofa. They slept through the morning, through the afternoon, into the night, through the night. Rowena was the first to awaken the following morning, the morning of February, 2, as the sunlight streamed through the large window and bathed her face in warmth. Simon awoke also, moments later. They looked at each other wordlessly and then embraced again, and wept again.
It was February 2, which the church calendar names the Feast of Candlemas.
It is the festival of purification.
EPILOGUE
Harry Schroeder coughed nervously as he sat on the waiting room sofa beside Rowena. He had been attempting to make light conversation with her all day and had found her chillingly unresponsive. He knew that she bore him no ill will, knew full well that anyone who had gone through what she had gone through would not be in the mood to discuss television shows, records, movies, or any of the other neutral topics which he had attempted to raise with her. He also knew that she was not cold toward him as a matter of conscious decision. She was distracted, understandably, and her distraction expressed itself in perfunctory smiles and curt, brusque responses to his meaningless prattle.
Schroeder looked up at the clock on the hospital wall. Three o’clock already, he thought morosely. I sure wish somebody else was around to ferry the kid back and forth.
He knew that there was not, of course. The details of the events which had transpired in Bradford were not clear to him, were not clear to anyone, really, but he understood enough to know that her boyfriend was dead, her brother and his girlfriend were missing and presumed dead, her grandfather was dead, the old minister was dead, the members of the band were dead. No one was left other than the girl and her father, and with her father being held here in the hospital, under court-ordered psychiatric observation, that left no one other than him to see to the poor girl's needs.
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