They were chanting in a mixture of English, West Indian, and African, of which I understood little. The tall, turbaned woman with a feather mask whose rich, deep voice dominated their litany was Tituba—no mistake—and that was her husband, the loutish John Indian, lumbering behind her. The drum slowed to a deadly beat as Tituba advanced toward the leader, carrying a bowl and a squawking chicken. He took the fowl from her, drew out a knife, and slit its breast in a manner that death would be slow. Tituba held out the bowl to catch the blood, while the worshippers responded with a chorus of sighs and grunts as the life slowly drained out of the bird. When the head hung limp, the leader tore out a handful of feathers and tossed them into the circle. There was a scramble for them, then he threw the carcass into the fire.
“Obayah Man—Obayah Man,” they intoned.
“Not Obayah Man—Obayah God!” he shrilled. ’Twas not a voice I knew, but belike the goat-mask, which I could now see he was wearing, distorted it. This was no slave, this was an Englishman talking—mayhap a sailor or ship captain out of the West Indian trade.
Tituba thrust the bowl into his hands. Lifting it high, he cried, “Behold in me your Jesus-Lucifer-God!”
“Obayah God, have mercy-o!” they moaned. “Lawd, we come fo help he-o! Save us fum de duppy-o! Guard us fum de sunsum-o!”
I knew I should ride for the town watch. Heathenish rituals were strictly forbidden, yet I couldn’t find it in my heart to do so. These poor souls were so miserable and forlorn in their bondage. To be discovered at this would mean harsh floggings at the least.
Now the Obayah Man was walking among them, smearing their faces with chicken blood, murmuring a parody of Christian communion.
My mare neighed. At once the fire was kicked out and they dispersed, running hither and thither in the dark. I was only seconds ahead of them as I remounted and spurred my horse into flight. She vaulted a ditch, but missed her footing on the other side and I was flung over her head…
…my next recollection was being pinioned against the ground by several masked figures. The Black Man knelt, straddling me, his cloak cast aside, his face still hidden behind the hideous goatish mask. In my struggle to free myself I noticed a woman’s white hand wrench my right arm back down on the ground. So all of his disciples weren’t slaves!
Only a few of the assembly were still here. Most of them had fled. The Obayah Man loomed over me, his thighs white in the pale moonlight.
“’Tis said they ha’ commerce wi’ the Devil at their meetings,” my mother had told me. “But they get no pleasure from it, for his member be cold as ice.”
I turned my head to the side. Hands forced it back into position. I cannot remember if my mother was right about the coldness—I only remember a snarl of rage and pain as I bit down hard and the Obayah Man doubled up and rolled on the ground, clutching himself and groaning. I swam in and out of consciousness as my captors struck up a death chant. The next thing I knew the Black Man was standing over me again, fully clothed now, his knife poised. Then it was snatched away from him as more masked figures leaped from the bushes and drove my attackers away. By their guttural speech I knew my rescuers to be Indians. I wondered if Yawataw might be among them. They helped me to mount my horse, which one of them had caught for me, and I was on my way home once more.
‘Twere no use, I knew, to report this night to the town watch. All evidence would have been removed by now, of that I was certain. Nor could I confide in Isaac. He’d think me an abandoned woman. No one would believe me. I’d only bring shame upon my family. Besides, as the cold air cleared my head, I myself began to wonder if the last part hadn’t been a dream brought on by striking my head when I was thrown—or by the evil spirits everyone knew to be about on Hallowe’en. I dug my heels into the horse’s flanks and…
* * * *
…woke to the shrill of the telephone. I wouldn’t answer! But my hand was already reaching for it.
“Mitti?” Esther Redd was crying. “Is Nancy over there?”
“No. Didn’t Homer pick her up?”
Between sobs she got out her story. Homer had fallen asleep and missed his rendezvous with the girls, so they’d taken Nancy along. She’d gotten separated from them in the woods and when they couldn’t find her they’d all gone home.
I’d hardly hung up when the doorbell rang. Greg had already heard that Nancy was missing. While Dana stayed with Rowan and Cari, Greg, Dr. Brun, and I thrashed through the woods, calling Nancy’s name, our flashlights flushing nothing more substantial than shadows. Inevitably we came to the cave. What if she’d fallen down the crevice? Or been dragged inside? My heart thudded while Dr. Brun and Greg trained their flashlights down the drop-off: nothing, thank God!
Then a search of the upper chambers. I could hardly hold my flashlight for trembling. After an hour of futile searching we gave up. As I started away from the entrance something leaped out of the bushes and ran past me. I gave a slight scream, then realized what it had been. Frightened by a rabbit! Really, my dreams were getting the better of me!
Chapter Twenty
The hunt for Nancy continued through the next day, until by nightfall all but the law officers gave up and went home. It must have been nearly three in the morning when Macduff leaped off my bed, barking furiously at a swirling red light flashing in the windows.
Half into my robe, I answered a pounding at the back door.
“Have you found her?” My hands trembled as I tried to knot the cord at my waist, reading disaster in the sheriff’s grim face. Jonah loomed in the shadows behind his father. “She—she’s all right?” I quavered, trying to push it away from me, as if by doing so the truth could be reversed.
“We found her,” Irv Good said harshly, “dead—in your cave.”
“In my cave!” I reached for the door jamb to steady myself. “It couldn’t be! Dr. Brun and I searched it thoroughly.”
“You didn’t go back far enough. She was in the second chamber. I’ve closed the cave off now, pending investigation.”
I started to protest that we had been in the rear chamber, but something warned me not to.
“Have you seen Quentin Jackson?” he asked abruptly.
“No. Why?”
“He was in town today, but he’s not at home now and they claim they don’t know where he is. We’ve got evidence he’s our man.”
“I can’t believe that!”
“Yeah? We found some of his hair clutched in her hand.”
“How do you know it’s his?”
His eyes narrowed. “Lady, if you’d been in police work as long as I have—oh, forget it. We’ve got a lot of territory to cover. If you see him or hear anything, be sure to give us a call. It’s for his good, too. There’s a mob forming in town.”
He staggered back against the door as a great brute of a dog pushed past him and tried to force his way in. Jonah uttered a cry of sheer terror and bolted. Only a chain leash held by a deputy restrained the massive bull terrier. Saliva dripped from his mouth and a network of ugly scars stood out on his white flanks. He lunged for Macduff, his jaws working, but no sound issuing from them. Good seized the leash and jerked him back while I clung to Macduff’s collar. The animal cringed at the sheriff’s touch, then sprang again. The man aimed a vicious kick at the dog, which whimpered and crouched at his feet, hate red in its eyes. I felt a twinge of pity.
“Why is he mute?” I asked.
“I had his vocal cords removed. Do that with all our dogs.”
“Why?” I inquired, appalled.
“They make better trackers. The quarry can’t hear ’em coming.”
“But how can you hear to follow?”
“Don’t let ’em off the leash. Too dangerous. Might hurt somebody.” He kicked the beast again as it started to rise.
“Don’t—please!” Impulsiv
ely I reached out to pet the animal. The sheriff slapped my hand away.
“Don’t do that, ma’am. This dog is a trained killer.”
“What do you need a killer for?” Manhunts around Peacehaven?
“This is the second murder we’ve had in little over a year. And these are wild hills. Escaped criminals sometimes hide in them. I gotta be goin’. That nigger’s out there somewhere.”
Macduff bounded after the squad blinking down the hill, all legs and feathered tail. He was growing fast.
I leaned against the open door. Was this the twentieth century? A mob gathering in town, a man condemned without trial, dogs mutilated to make them better man-hunters! As if in answer, an owl hooted a mournful augury nearby in the woods. Time doesn’t change.
I waited until Macduff trotted back up the hill, then turned and went into the house, locking the door. The dog stiffened and growled, the puppy gone out of him.
Quentin Jackson was standing in the dark hall.
“Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Llewellyn,” he said, still lingering in the shadows. He held open palms to Macduff, who hesitated, then went to him, tail wagging. This was better proof of innocence than a lie detector test. No dog, not even a puppy, would have been that friendly to someone with blood on him.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said simply.
“H-how did you get in here?” I asked weakly.
“You forgot to lock your patio doors.”
“Then you heard what the sheriff said.”
He nodded. “This fellow,” patting Macduff’s head, “saved me. They thought their dog was after him, but he was really after me.” His eyes were those of an animal at bay, begging mercy but expecting none. “Will you help me or are you like all the rest?”
Impressions flashed through my mind—the hard muscle of Irv Good’s jaws, his miserable, worn little wife, the big dog cringing from those powerful scarred hands. Then I saw Quentin gently lifting Freya…
“You can trust me,” I said simply.
“Lady,” he breathed, his dark eyes still wary, “I hope you mean what you say.” He shrank back into the closet as the door behind me opened and Dana walked in.
“I thought he’d be here. A county deputy questioned me, too.”
“Where can we hide him? In your secret room?”
She gave a short laugh. “Not there—that’s the most publicized secret in Peacehaven! I’ve a better idea.”
“First let me check on the children,” I said, as she started down the basement steps. “I want to make sure they’re asleep.”
Was I a little less than trusting? How long had Quentin been here? A child was dead. Why did Irv suspect him so readily? I hurried up to the bedroom level. They were both sleeping quietly.
I joined Quentin and Dana in the cellar, which was the egg out of which the Phoenix had risen, and with its lime-washed walls it was egg-like in texture, if not in shape. The original hard-packed earth had been paved. Some of the old beams remained, blackened and time-glossed; interspersed among them were the heat ducts and plumbing for the present house, so low Quentin had to stoop to get under them. Miscellaneous pieces of equipment and tools had been wedged into the rafters and forgotten, and old crocks and barrels and other junk were piled in remote corners. Lining the walls were the canned goods, preserves and pickles Dana and I had labored over in summer and fall. One tier of shelves was filled with turpentine, linseed oil, old paints, varnishes and stains—things that collect and stay forever. Dana and Quentin were already removing them.
“I’ve been meaning to look that stuff over and see if any of it’s still good,” I apologized. “Careful! You don’t want to wake Rowan! Sounds travel through the registers.”
“Good thing you didn’t move them. This is one secret the town doesn’t know,” Dana said. “Okay, Quentin, help me.”
The shelves slid aside to reveal a door where I’d thought it was just wall. Dana grasped a lever and the counterweighted door swung open slowly to reveal a dark tunnel. “This leads to my house,” she explained, switching on a light in the passage. “They’re not luxury accommodations, Quentin, but the room’s equipped with electricity and a shower—when it rains.” She smiled. “I mean—there’s a vent that leads up to a grill in the lawn.”
“The drain near the high bush cranberries?” I asked.
“Yes, it doubles as that. There’s another drain in the floor with a catch basin underneath so the basements won’t flood during a heavy rain.” She shoved Quentin into the tunnel. “You’ll have to stay there until we figure out what to do with you—be sure to switch off the light if you hear anyone outside.”
He turned back to us as Dana started to close the door. “Will you tell my parents I’m all right? Don’t use the phone—someone might listen in. Tell Mother to clean my combs and brushes and burn any hair she finds. I doubt if Good has the evidence he claims he has. He may get a search warrant and he’s not above tampering with evidence if he can hang something on me.”
“What does he have against you?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you now, but if it works out I’ll have his hide someday.” He hesitated. “Was that you I saw coming away from the Faulkner house not long ago?”
I nodded, but my eyes asked more.
A shadow came into his. “I had an appointment with her, but not for what you think. I hadn’t expected her to—” he stopped in embarrassment. “She’s a piranha!”
“All right, all right!” Dana interrupted nervously. “We must close you in before anyone comes.” We rolled the shelves back and had nearly all the goods in place when something was dislodged from the rafters and fell at my feet.
“What a strange doll!” I exclaimed curiously, picking it up. Dana dropped the candles she was about to set on the shelf. She reached for it with a trembling hand, but I held on, my hand and arm prickling from some unknown energy bombarding me. “What is it?” I whispered, both repelled and intrigued. Its long, dark hair was pulled back in a chignon like mine. The body and head were crafted of white wax and it was clothed in slacks and sweater. About its neck was a crude tinfoil facsimile of my amulet, and the thumb and middle finger of the right hand were each impaled by a pin.
“Voodoo?” I gasped.
“Not necessarily,” she replied. “They had poppets like this in Salem. This is bad medicine.” She snatched it away from me just as I had the furnace door open and was about to toss it into the fire chamber. “No, you mustn’t! Don’t you see? That’s what they want you to do—destroy yourself. See? There’s a long hair imbedded in the wax here. Could that be yours?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Dana pulled out the pins and threw them into the furnace. “These we destroy, but the poppet is you, so I will keep it safe and send its evil back to those who made it.”
“Oh, really, Dana,” I laughed shakily, “you don’t honestly believe in such things, do you?” I tried to take it from her, but she resisted. The upstairs door opened. Rowan stared astonished as we stood there in frozen tableau, clutching the poppet, candles spilled halfway across the cellar floor.
“Wh—what are you doing?”
“We’ve been throwing trash away,” I said quickly. “Into the furnace? You told me never to do that.”
“You’re so right, Rowan,” I agreed. “I was careless and Dana luckily stopped me.”
She pointed to the poppet. “What’s that?”
“Just a dirty old doll,” Dana answered, putting it behind her. “You wouldn’t want it. I’ll burn it outside.”
“Why are you hiding it, Dana? Why can’t I… Brakes squealed outside. “What’s happening?”
There was no sense sparing her. “I hear Cari crying,” I said after I’d told her. “You wouldn’t want to leave her alone right now, would you?”
I was str
uggling with Macduff as I faced the sheriff again.
“Shut that damn dog up!” the lawman demanded.
“Not a chance!” I exclaimed. “If there’s a criminal at large I want my dog right here. Didn’t you find him?”
“No, ma’am, that nigger’s somewhere around here for sure. The dogs are havin’ a fit outside. I got the whole pack now.”
“And a pack of people from the sound of it.”
“I didn’t bring them—they just came. It’ll get out of hand if we don’t find him.”
In the evaporating night I made out Homer Redd carrying a shotgun. Most of the others were indistinguishable, but for Jim Willard who towered above the crowd as he tried to shove them back. Greg, who’d been jotting down notes, put away his notebook and went to assist him. A car jimmied itself into a vacant space and Lucian got out.
“What do you want?” I turned back to the sheriff.
“I want to search your house.”
I feigned indignation. “Do you think I’d harbor a criminal?”
The pockmarks in his face deepened. “Ma’am I know nothin’ except there’s a murderer at large. And as for her—” he pointed at Dana, “I wouldn’t trust her as far as you could throw a tomahawk.”
He’d given me the edge I needed. “You’ve insulted my friend. You’ve no right here. I must ask you to leave.”
The scars on his fists whitened. “Listen, lady,” he snapped, “are you or are you not going to let me search this house?”
“Do you have a warrant?” I asked, bracing myself.
His jaw hardened. “So you’re obstructing the law!”
“Not at all. I’m demanding it! Do you have a warrant?”
“Not yet.” He tried another tack. “I was certain you’d cooperate. A little girl’s been murdered. Carved up like the other one.”
My grip tightened on Macduff’s collar as I fought back a wave of nausea. “I assure you, the man you’re looking for is not in this house,” which was technically the truth. “I insist on a warrant on principle.”
The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users Page 28
