“No, I haven’t seen them. Why don’t you call Iris at home? It’s her day off.”
I flipped to the F’s in the Peacehaven section of the county telephone book…Faulkner, Iris. The letters blurred and I leaned dizzily against Aunt Bo’s desk as the tower spun, catapulting me into another room and another time, when I stood before…
* * * *
Dour-faced men in leather doublets gathered around a table at the end of a long hall. One, more formally clad in black, hammered on the rough-hewn oak table with a pine knot gavel, glaring balefully at a woman in a floor-length gown of linsey woolsey who stood a few paces from me. I seemed to know her, but couldn’t remember where. This was not my time nor my place and I struggled to free myself of it—to get back to where I belonged as there was something I must do.
But Time had turned counterclockwise and I with it. There was no escape.
“Goodwife,” the magistrate leveled his gavel at her, “this woman,” turning the gavel in my direction, “has made serious allegations against you. How do you plead, Goodwife…?” I nearly laughed out loud. Was it whore he’d called her?
‘Struth, that were fitting, for I remembered her now. She still had a stylish cut to her figure and the coarse cloth of her bodice was stretched across still firm breasts. Her sandy hair was gathered into a lace cap—far too fine to be worn by one o’ her means.
“How do you plead, Goody Hoar?” the magistrate asked again.
“Not guilty, your honor,” with a demure bow of her head.
“Will you repeat the charge, Goody Esty?” he ordered.
No one spoke.
“Goody Esty, I asked ye, will you repeat the charge?” The man was looking at me! Was Esty my name?
“Aye, your honor,” the person I seemed to be stammered. “I charge this woman with corrupting children and servants by intimidation. I know some have accused her of being a witch—”
“And that she be!” a woman called out from among the spectators. “Everyone knows she said she ’ud live poorly as long as her husband William were alive, but after he died she should live better. An’ didn’t he die the very day she said he would? And hasn’t she lived better ever since?”
The gavel pounded. “Silence woman! You were not asked to testify.”
But Sarah Bibber o’ the prattling tongue was not to be quieted. “Have ye forgotten that ye held an autopsy when poor William died?”
The magistrate made the mistake of replying. “And have ye forgotten that nought came o’ that?”
“Humph!” she snorted. “Whoever heard o’ the Devil’s minions leavin’ traces o’ their sorcery—less’n they wanted to?”
The gavel made dents in the table. “Constable, remove that woman! Goody Esty, will you continue?”
“I know nought o’ her bein’ a witch,” I testified, “albeit I think it has suited her fancy to pose as one. In sooth, she has lived better since her husband died, but I trow ’tis not magic that’s done it. She tells fortunes and reads palms to cozen her clients into stealing for her—for they fear they will share William’s fate—and she’s made her own children her accomplices. I know this to be so because”—my voice trembled—“my daughter Sarah was one o’ her victims, as was Rebecca, daughter of the Reverend Mr. Hale. That very kerchief she wears about her neck and her bonny lace cap were mine, traded by a ship captain to my husband for barrels he’d made. Sarah confessed she had taken them and some o’ my linen and my good piece o’ plate and given them to this Dorcas Hoar, who, I doubt not, sold these last, for she told Sarah she would be cursed and die if she didn’t obey her.”
“She lies, Your Honor,” the other shrieked. “This kerchief is me own, given me by an admirer. ’Tis no sin for a widow woman to have an admirer, now is’t?”
The magistrate ignored the last remark and turned to me. “Do you accuse this woman of witchcraft?”
“Nay, not witchcraft—thievery! And corrupting children.”
“What have you to say for yourself, Goody Hoar?”
“I need say nought for meself,” she attested. “The Reverend Mr. Hale will do that. As for her,” she smirked at me, “thievery, she claims! She’d not dare accuse me o’ witchcraft when everyone knows her own mother was one…”
* * * *
…I was riding through a forest glen on my mare. It had been several months since Dorcas had paid for her crimes—one morning in the stocks and seizure of what stolen goods could be found. Most never were. All too light a punishment in my mind, but the gentle, naive Reverend Hale, as she predicted, had interceded for her. Suddenly my horse whinnied and reared, nearly unseating me. I thought ’twas a bee stung her, but then a leather thong wrapped around my neck and jerked me from the saddle. The mare bolted. As I was getting to my feet, Dorcas strode into the path, reeling in a great bull whip.
“Are ye daft?” I cried.
“Daft is’t you’d call me? When you’ve been nought but a thorn in me arse all my life. First you took my William—”
“William!” I exclaimed. “I hardly knew your husband.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “Will Hoar? You think I’d’ve cared a farthing if you’d taken him from me? Don’t try to gull me. ’Twas the other William I meant.”
“He was never your William. He swore it.”
“A man’s swearing is e’er to be taken lightly—as ye know well! You wed no better than I, but ships need barrels and your man throve. Still, you’re nought but a cooper’s wife wi’ no more right to silks and laces and silverplate than I. Is’t my fault your daughter loved me enow to bring me gifts? An’ was’t your right to hold me up to public shame? Me, a poor widow wi’ young ’uns to support?”
“From what I’ve heard, Dorcas, your day in the stocks has spread your fame. ’Tisn’t only thievery fills your pockets, Goody Whore!”
She knew what name I’d called her. Her eyes blazed like marsh fire as she drew back the whip. To run would be useless; I could only stand and stare her down, praying silently. She hesitated, then unleashed the whip, but that one second had been just enough to break the force of the rawhide. I grasped it, feeling the sting of its coils about my arm, but I held on, drawing her to me until our faces were almost touching. Toe to toe, we struggled for control of the whip, although she, having hold of the handle, had the advantage. I know not how it would have ended had not a brown arm encircled her neck and pulled her back.
“No hurt Yawataw’s friend!” The point of the squaw’s knife was at Dorcas’ throat. Yawataw, who’d been my friend from childhood!
Dorcas released the handle, which fell to my side, dangling from the leather still wound around my arm. As Yawataw put away her knife, the marsh fire rekindled. “Someday I’ll have my revenge,” she snarled, “when there’s no filthy, stinking salvage around to help you. If I have to wait all my life—nay, if it be that we meet in another life, I’ll get you for this! Your Sarah loves me. Blood does not a daughter make!”
* * * *
The phone book refocused in my vision, with the name IRIS FAULKNER standing out as though printed in boldface. What tricks had terror been playing on me that I should have had such fancies? Was I becoming psychotic?
No, it could be explained easily enough, I thought. My mind had taken similarly shaped pieces from different jigsaw puzzles and put them together, but I could sort them out and put them back in proper order. First of all, there was the unmistakable similarity between Dorcas and Iris. As for the name Mary Esty, I would have gotten that from Greg. Wasn’t she the ancestress who’d died at Salem? And with all the talk of a pageant, maybe I was acquiring an obsession about Salem. The squaw was easy to explain, too—Dana and her knife had somehow wandered into my dream—if that was what it was.
But it hadn’t been, had it? A glance at my wristwatch told me that barely any time had elapsed. I
put my finger in the dial to call Iris, but instantly thought better of it. How would I know if she lied? Rowan and Cari might be there, held against their wishes, unable to call out—I must get hold of myself! What was the last thing Dorcas had said? “Blood does not a daughter make!” It was time to face Iris Faulkner on her own ground.
* * * *
The north half of the Faulkner house actually bridged the narrow channel between a spur of solid rock and the short peninsula that jutted out from the river bank at that point. One long street bisecting the peninsula led to the driveway and garage. After parking my car I followed a wooden sidewalk along the upriver side of the garage until my footsteps rang hollowly on the span of walk that was supported by pilings over the water. Underneath, the water swirled into sort of a millrace that flowed through portcullis-like gratings on either side of the building. Few people in Peacehaven had ever been inside—with the exception of Iris’ lovers. The Faulkners had guarded their privacy well, but it was said the judge had had the channel constructed so he and his daughter could swim there.
Gray wooden steps with white latticework risers led to a wide veranda surrounding the river side of the house like the deck of a sternwheeler. The upper deck was another veranda and both were decorated with white wooden lacework of the river-steamer era. Finding no doorbell, I lifted the brass gargoyle knocker and rapped on the door, which gave unexpectedly to my touch.
The entrance hall was empty. Iris’ home was as traditional as her shop was trendy. Farther in was a hall table on which a silver calling card tray—shaped like a cherub holding an artist’s palette—was reflected in a tall mirror with lights on either side. Ahead was a broad staircase. A gigantic philodendron in a massive jardinière at the foot of the newel post had climbed to the second floor level.
“Come in!” Iris’ voice sounded through the heavy dark gold portieres to my left. I pushed them aside and entered a room which at first glance seemed untenanted. I had expected to find a magnificent view of the river, but the stained glass windows above the wainscoting were tightly closed. A tawny Oriental rug on the floor was largely obscured by heavy, ornate furniture upholstered in tufted mauve and amber velvet.
“You’re early, lover,” the voice said from the depths of a huge wing-back chair. “I hadn’t expected you so soon.”
My first instinct was to back out hastily, but the urgency of my errand held me. “I’m sorry to intrude, Iris,” I began.
She rose, struggling with the last hook on a flowing green silk caftan.
“What are you doing here?” Her wide mouth softened into a smile. “What a nice surprise!” she exclaimed. “I never thought you’d deign to visit me. Sit down and let me get you a drink.”
I declined both offers. “I was looking for my daughters.”
“Have you lost them? Dear me, how awkward!” She went over to the bar and poured herself a drink. “Sure you won’t join me?” She leaned against the bar, letting the caftan fall back from her bare thighs.
I was fuming inwardly. “No, thank you. I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you were expecting someone.”
Confused and embarrassed, I started back through the velvet-hung archway, but her next question spun me around: “Did you think you’d find your daughters here?”
“I didn’t know. I’d called just about everywhere else.” Who was “lover,” I wondered—Greg?
She sipped her drink. “Why didn’t you just call me?”
I fumbled for an answer. Why did I always feel so defenseless against her? “Perhaps I thought it a good chance to see this fabulous house I’ve been hearing about all my life.”
“Now you’re here, let me show you around,” she said, replacing her glass on the bar. She didn’t believe me, I was certain.
“No—some other time. I must look for Rowan and Cari.”
“Oh, come now, how do you know I don’t have them chained somewhere?” she asked softly.
“Really, Iris, I’m in no mood for joking. May I use your phone? I want to call Jim Willard.”
“The police!” Her pale lashes flicked. “Oh, Mitti, I am sorry!” She was all solicitude. “I’ve been teasing you. Charity came by here on her way to Richland Center to pick up…something I’d ordered for her. She had your girls in the car with her.”
“But Charity went to Mineral Point with her bridge club today,” I said suspiciously.
“It was canceled at the last minute.”
I was still unconvinced. “Why didn’t Rowan leave a note?”
She shrugged. “Oh, you know kids. Besides, you two aren’t very close, are you?”
I clenched my teeth, not daring to speak.
“Anyway,” she hurried on, “she probably thought she’d get home first. She said you’d called from the Hobbs farm.”
Weak with relief, I slumped down in a chair to fight off a wave of dizziness.
“Poor Mitti, you were frightened, weren’t you? I had no idea,” she purred. She was letting me run a few steps before her claws sank into me again. “Here, drink this! You need it.”
I drank the brandy gratefully, feeling it unravel knots all the way down to my toes.
“Now you must let me show you something,” she said as I handed back the glass. “Something you inspired.” Warmed with brandy and curiosity, I followed her across the hall and through the dining room into a large butler’s pantry.
“We’re in the ‘bridge’ part of the house,” she said. “Now, watch!” She opened a double trapdoor, revealing a circular metal staircase leading down into the space beneath the house. Light filtered through the crossbars of the gratings and made a checkered pattern on the high concrete walkways on either side of a swift running channel. An aluminum ladder led down into the water.
“Remember the story you once told me about the city in the sea?” she asked after we’d descended.
How could I ever forget that day?
She stretched herself full-length on the edge of the channel, letting her hand dabble in the current. “I used to wish I was that princess,” she mused, her eyes reflecting the black-green water ribboning through the basement. “I’d dream of drowning Peacehaven just as she did Ys.”
“Did you hate Peacehaven so much?”
“Do you have to hate something to want to destroy it? When you see an untrampled field of snow, what do you want to do? Wade through it and destroy its perfection, isn’t that so? Besides, I would have made Peacehaven famous. If it hadn’t been for Ahes, who would ever have heard of Ys? Salem would be another grubby Massachusetts seaport if it hadn’t been for the witch trials.” She turned over on her back and pillowed her head in her hands. “At one time the river ran through here unchecked. After you told me about the city of Ys, I suggested to Father that if we dug a deeper channel and installed gratings that could be raised and lowered electrically, we could swim here.” Her mouth curved. “I liked to pretend this would be a trysting place for me and the river, and a dumping off place for tiresome lovers. Don’t kids get strange notions?”
“Doesn’t this ice up in the winter?”
“No, there are hot water pipes and heating elements submerged there. I take a plunge nearly every day except in zero weather.”
“Do you let the kids swim here?” I asked apprehensively.
“No, I wouldn’t want the responsibility. There’s a bad eddy a few yards down from the house. If the grate were raised and someone unaware of the hazard were to try swimming out, he might get sucked into the whirlpool.” Was she really that conscientious or was she veiling a threat?
“When I swim around the rock I always hold onto the pilings until I’m out of the undertow,” she continued, giving me a curious look. “I’m really not like your princess after all. If I were, I suppose I’d let the bores drown, but eligible men in Peacehaven are too scarce to be expendable.”
<
br /> Except Mark? flashed through my mind. No, that was unreasonably suspicious of me. Mark would have been much too young for her. But who had been down here? Greg? Lucian?
“Why don’t you just swim between the grates?” I wondered.
“In winter I do, but that’s tedious. I don’t like being trapped behind bars.”
“Aren’t you afraid a flood might wash your house away?”
“The house is high enough and the rock is solid, unlike the sandstone along the rest of the shore. The only nuisance is the driftwood and loose boats and other things that come floating downriver. I have to hire boys to clear them away. But most things pass by in midstream.” She looked pointedly at her wristwatch. “Well, now you’ve seen it, I won’t keep you any longer.”
“I might invite Rowan to swim with me sometime,” she remarked after we’d returned to the main floor.
Again that hint of menace. “I’d rather you wouldn’t, Iris.”
“Oh, only between the grates,” she assured me.
“I thought you didn’t want the responsibility of kids swimming down there,” I reminded her.
“But Rowan isn’t just another kid,” she said, opening the front door. “She and I are very close. Sometimes I think she’s more my daughter than yours, Mitti. What’s wrong between you two? I hope she’ll tell me someday.”
“That’s hardly your business, is it, Iris?” I snapped.
“I suppose you’re right.” She placed an icy hand on my shoulder. “I only want to help, Mitti. I think she’s afraid of you. Something happened to cause that. I’ve seen it in her hand.”
I thought she was reaching for my hand to bid farewell, but instead she turned it over and began to examine it. “Aha! It’s there in yours, too!” she exclaimed. “See that cross? Oh, Mitti, you do have to be careful. I don’t have time to do a reading now, but sometime I’ll be glad to give you one.”
The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users Page 19
