The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Start dreaming then,” I said, offering him lemon. “You have tremendous influence over these people.”

  A flush of pleasure erased the distress in his face. “I’m delighted you think so, Mitti.”

  “You’ve polarized the whole town,” I led him on. “They tell me the church nearly fell apart under your predecessor. You’ve made it thrive. Now your idea to revive the pageant may benefit the entire community.”

  “Especially if Brother Carrier’s and Brother Bishop’s plans are implemented,” he murmured, helping himself to a doughnut.

  So now I knew where he stood. “The people here will do anything you ask them to,” I said.

  He reached across the table to take my hand. “I didn’t know you felt that way, Mitti.”

  “But it’s true!” I let my fingers go limp as he squeezed them. “Your power over them is almost godlike. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Whose emissary are you, Lucian—God’s or Satan’s?”

  His dark brows fused and he pulled his hand away. “What do you mean?”

  “You’d have done well in Salem, Lucian. You give us a choice between a vengeful, egotistical Christ and a wicked, but heroic and fascinating Satan. That’s no choice at all.”

  He rose, trailing powdered sugar down his black coat. “You’ve been listening to apostates,” he said stiffly.

  “My apostates don’t instigate blood sacrifices,” I retorted. “Sit down, Lucian—you did brave a storm to apologize to me.”

  “I told you once how beautiful you are when you’re angry, Mitti,” he replied. “I came to ask a favor of you. It’s Lucy. She needs a woman to talk to—besides Mrs. Soames.”

  “What about Iris Faulkner?” I said, an edge in my tone.

  “There’s always too much of a crowd around her. Lucy needs someone more like her own mother.”

  I was touched. “She must have died very young.”

  “She’s still alive. She suffered a brain injury in an accident and is in a sanatorium.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “No one does here. They think I’m a widower.”

  Poor Gladys!

  His fingers crawled up my arm. “You and I are much alike. We’ve lost our mates; we understand each other.”

  I reached up to pull his hand away, but instead his hand caught mine and refused to let go. “I hadn’t thought we shared much under… I broke off. His fingernail was rasping my palm. I jerked it away. “It’s getting late,” I said. “I must get some work done on the pageant scenery.”

  After he’d gone I went to the kitchen and scrubbed my hand.

  * * * *

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in the tower, working on thumbnail sketches of pageant scenery. As I started to lay out the Gallows Hill scene, I discovered my ruler was missing. Rowan must have borrowed it. Too lazy to go downstairs to look for it, I burrowed in the drawers to see if Aunt Bo might have had one. They were crammed with papers, some typewritten, others in manuscript. Someday I must go through these—Aunt Bo, I knew, had written articles for historical publications. In the last drawer a book on Salem I’d never seen before lay on top. Several sheets of yellow copy paper had been folded and inserted into the book. I might have shoved it back into the drawer, but a note scrawled on the top of the paper caught my eye: “Mitti, read this.”

  My skin began to prickle as I unfolded the sheets with trembling hands. It was as if Aunt Bo was sending me a message from the grave, although, as I scanned the blotched and X’d out typing, I realized this was a rough draft of one of her articles:

  Considering the widespread persecutions against witchcraft in England and Europe, the wonder is that, with the exception of a few isolated incidents, witchcraft hysteria in New England was confined to the Salem area. What triggering factor in Salem was missing elsewhere? All the colonists believed in and feared witchcraft. They all suffered privations and disease, and shared a fear of Indians lurking in the forests, oppressions by the king, and the ever-present specter of early death.

  “But Salem had Tituba,” historians write. “Tituba started it with her voodoo tales from Barbados!” Nonsense! The colonies were full of slaves. Surely Tituba was not the only story-teller among them. No, we have to look further. I have just read with interest Salem Possessed, by Paul Boyer and Stephen Nissenbaum (Harvard University Press). Boyer-Nissenbaum attribute the witchcraft hysteria to already existing internal factions in Salem Village society and especially the church, of which Samuel Parris was pastor. On p. 184 there is a chart of the anti-Parris network in the Salem Village congregation, of which faction eighteen members were accused witches and a third of those executed. On the other hand, the supporters of the witchcraft trials were overwhelmingly pro-Parris.

  Still, to Messrs. Boyer and Nissenbaum, Parris was only the final straw that broke a pre-existent camel’s back. They point to longstanding rivalries and jealousies, land squabbles, and class struggles. The trouble with that hypothesis is that such conditions were in no way unique to Salem.

  The Reverend Samuel Parris of the Salem Village church was unique, however, and I respectfully suggest that he may have been the missing ingredient historians have been seeking. I’m well aware that this will cause howls in history circles, but here is my argument:

  Samuel Parris came to the Salem Village congregation—a backwater church known for its quarrels with its ministers—not out of choice, but because he could get no better without a theological degree. He was a Harvard dropout. When he inherited property in Barbados, he moved there and established a mercantile business between the island and the colonies. Sixteen years later, after nothing but failure, he turned to the ministry. After considerable haggling, learned as a trader no doubt, he negotiated an unusually favorable contract with the Salem Village church that included his salary, increments, bonuses, provisions, and firewood. An anti-Parris faction developed and the new minister was constantly embroiled in arguments, trying to make his parishioners live up to the contract.

  Here was a man with an anti-Midas touch in all he endeavored, who was thus frustrated and bitter. Add to that the fact that there may have been a streak of insanity in his family—his son was to die a hopeless lunatic—and the conjecture that he personally took revenge on his opponents becomes entirely plausible.

  Now let me digress a moment. Slavery was a fact of life in colonial Massachusetts. The colonists had brought with them an abundance of witchcraft superstitions from their homeland. It would make an interesting study, however, to assess what new dimensions had been added to their superstitions by African and West Indian beliefs. For instance, in the West Indies there are many tales of houses being pelted by stones of supernatural origin, often quite well substantiated. Nearly identical phenomena in New England are recorded by Increase Mather in his Lithobolia.

  Samuel Parris had lived in Barbados. Is it not probable that he observed and absorbed some of the native voodoo and obeah religion—an overlay of Indian and African beliefs with European Christianity and satanism? When Parris came to Salem Village he brought two Barbadian slaves, through whom he would have had a means of communication with other slaves in the area. In his most recent frustration, this proud, egotistical man may have turned to those other unfortunates, who often had good reason to hate their owners. What better vengeance than for the slaves to work their native magic on their masters and then make it seem that they were the witches?

  Confessing witches in the Salem trials babbled about coven meetings in Parris’ pasture. Now that could have meant any of several tracts of land which Parris acquired, either by purchase or gift prior to 1692. Historians have generally dismissed these tales of occult activities in Parris’ meadow as flights of fancy by neurotic women, or downright lying. Have historians overlooked an obvious clue? Is it not possible that these “neurotic women” were telling the truth after all? />
  My eyes traveled to a note at the bottom of the last page written in her shaky hand—“Peacehaven has another Parris. Heaven help us!”

  What wouldn’t I have given to have Greg there at that moment! I doubted he’d seen this for it certainly contradicted his theory. Hers seemed the better of the two to me. It took some of the onus off William Stoughton—Greg would hate that… I could see a black-hooded figure conducting arcane rites by firelight. Mary Esty had never guessed who he was. Ha! I knew something she hadn’t! The pageant needed rewriting. That last scribble of Aunt Bo’s—strange…

  Just then my groping hand found a ruler in the drawer. Good, I could go back to my work! Let’s see—Gallows Hill—should I depict the sea in the background? It must surely have been high enough to afford a view of the salt marshes lining the shores…with white-crested waves shattering on the sand and gulls soaring overhead in the lowering sky, their eerie cries sounding in my ears as I ran over the expanse of sand into my old dream…

  * * * *

  …and into his arms. His buckled hat had blown from his dark curls and lay on the ground. He folded his cape about me and we clung to each other in the wild wet wind.

  “Thou munna go, my love,” I pleaded. “They bring news o’ smallpox in London.”

  “Alas, Harvard has no more degrees to offer me, sweeting. Come away with me to London, Mary.”

  “Would that I could,” I moaned, “but wi’ Mother gone, I mun care for Bered and Sarah. And thy brother’d never consent. Thou’rt not yet of age and master o’ thy fortune. But bide here a year until thou art and then, God willing, I will go with thee.”

  “Nay, I cannot. The colony needs leaders. ’Tis my duty.”

  “A fine leader thou’dst make if thou shouldst sicken wi’ the pox.” I fingered a tiny case in my pocket which I had fashioned out of two scallop shells bound together.

  “Such things are in the hands of the Almighty,” he replied.

  Not quite, my love! I thought.

  He guided me over the dark sand to a salt encrusted rock where we would be sheltered from the wind and from sight. A ripple of flame throbbed through my body as his hand unlaced my bodice and his fingers sought my hardened nipples. Nay! I munna! I mun hold back so that, unsatisfied, he ’ud lie awake nights in London dreaming of me. With a wrench, I rolled away from him.

  “What ails thee, Mary? Have I offended thee?” He reached for me to pull me back. “Before God we are man and wife.”

  “Nay, not yet, Will,” I demurred.

  “Then let us have this thing between us—let us mingle…

  “Our bloods,” I finished his sentence as I re-laced my bodice. “I’ll not be thy harlot, Will. Thy wife I’ll be or naught.” Holding out my mother’s knife, “Thy blood in my veins and mine in thine.”

  He pulled back his sleeve. I carved a small cross over the vein in his wrist, then did the same with mine. Our wrists bound together, our bloods mingling, we lay side by side, looking up at the gray sky and listening to the roar of the ocean that would soon lie between us. Stealthily I drew the shell case from my pocket and had it ready when at last I unbound our wrists. Before he could stop me I had daubed his wound with the smelly yellow pus I had not more than two hours gone taken from sores on my sister Sarah’s hands.

  “What art thou doing?” he demanded.

  “Putting salve on thy wrist so ’twill mend.”

  “And why not on thine? Thou has left none for thyself.”

  “I but forgot,” I lied. Nay, this was sinful. To lie would forever damn my immortal soul. “I munna trifle wi’ ye, Will. ’Tis a remedy to keep thee safe from the smallpox—a thing I learned from my mother.”

  With a cry of horror and disgust, he plunged his arm into the sand. “By my faith, ’tis witchcraft!” he swore. “I’ve heard about thy mother, but I ne’er believed it. Thou has placed the mark o’ the Devil upon me! I should kill thee here and now, but I cannot, for I loved thee. May God have mercy on me for my weakness! I thank thee, O Heavenly Father, for saving me from fornicating with this woman of Babylon!”

  I might have reminded him that it was I, rather than God, who’d saved him from that particular sin, but I only cried,

  “’Struth, Will, I know no witchery but love!”

  “Thou art the Devil’s own!”

  “Nay!” I knelt before him, winding my arms about his legs, but he pushed me roughly away, his face full of loathing. “Confess, Mary, for thy soul’s sake!”

  “I cannot. I dare not belie myself, Will, lest I be damned.”

  “Nay, but thou art damned…

  A whirlwind caught him up and spun him round and round until he was sucked through a hole in space. I stumbled after, calling “Will—Will Stoughton—Greg!” He was gone, but his voice trailed behind him in the echo chamber: “Damned—damned—damned…

  * * * *

  I came to at the ringing of the telephone. “Mitti, why haven’t you listened to us?” came the whisper. “We are many. Susie first—Nancy second—and then—Cariad?” Cariad? I spiraled down the steps to the nursery. Cari lay on the floor, her head cradled on Macduff’s shaggy flank and Loki nestled in the lee of her elbow. If I hadn’t feared I’d frighten her, I would have snatched her up and hugged her frantically. Instead I sat down quietly on the floor beside the trio.

  I must take her away from here. I’d sell the Phoenix—let Damon and the others have their way…but—of course! That was it! They must be behind the phone calls! I’d be doing the very thing they wanted. With this realization came relief. Damon and Charity weren’t murderers, but they mightn’t be above trying to frighten me away. If so, then this was only a cheap trick with no real threat. If I left they’d have won their point and I would have betrayed Dana and my own principles. If I were to run now, I’d keep running the rest of my life, uprooting my children time after time whenever something went wrong. And if my dreams and visions had any truth whatsoever, our karma was bound up in Peacehaven and no amount of running would save us.

  Cari stirred and opened her liquid brown eyes. Her little arms reached out to me. I picked her up and held her tight while tiny fingernails explored my face, pattering over the bridge of my nose and down to my mouth.

  With a peal of laughter she bounced out of my grasp and began running around the room, patting the baseboards.

  “House! Cari’s house!” she babbled over and over. She had made the final decision.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… I found myself repeating tonight—verses I’d been taught to say when I was afraid of the dark, a fear I’d never conquered. More than ever I deplored my widowhood. Each night when I was most vulnerable I must come the moment when I had to face life alone in all my weakness. Why had I quarreled with Greg? Where was he now? With Iris? I kept thinking of those moments in the cave and then Christmas Eve—the gentle strength in his long, shapely hands, the warmth of him, the shy seriousness in his brown eyes. He was a complex man, outgoing at times, withdrawn into some internal conflict at others, and I longed to work it out with him, no matter how difficult.

  I felt overcome with loneliness and longing. Tears overflowed my lids—sleep seemed hopeless. I threw off the bed covers and went down to the living room, busying myself with building up the lire, then sitting, to muse, in the big chair that faced it.

  I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew, my heart was hammering as the doorbell rang. Macduff whined upstairs in Can’s room and scratched on her door.

  “Lucian! What are you doing here at this hour?” I exclaimed, clutching my robe. It had been quite a while since our last encounter.

  “I could see your lights from my house so I knew you must be awake,” he said as he entered. “I was worried something might be wrong. Good
Lord, Mitti, it’s freezing in here! You’re blue.” As he heaped fresh wood into the grate and rekindled the fire, I huddled on the sofa with my knees drawn up. It was nice to have someone show concern, to drive the shadows away. The irritation he always roused began to ebb. Right now I didn’t want argument, I wanted solicitude.

  “There, that’s better,” he said when the flames were licking the logs. He put his arm around me, letting the warmth flow from his body into mine. I made no resistance, but let my head droop wearily against his shoulder.

  “Why were you down here in the cold? Another crank call?”

  Did everybody know? “Not tonight, thank heaven. I just couldn’t sleep, but then I dozed off in spite of myself. I’d been thinking unhappy thoughts, I’m afraid—I just don’t feel very well-liked here. It’s not only the calls, it’s—”

  He sighed. “You’ve hardly conformed to Peacehaven standards, Mitti. It’s not easy for them to accept an outsider, particularly when she stands in the way of progress.”

  “But I have to be true to my beliefs, Lucian,” I said stubbornly.

  He pulled me closer to him. “We’ll talk about those another time,” he said. “How is your work with the pageant coming? Are your girls ready for the twenty-first?”

  The twenty-first of March had been chosen for the first general rehearsal and was to be a town holiday. The girls had been looking forward to working with the adults.

  “I hope the weather cooperates,” he went on. “I’ve been talking with Greg—”

  “Greg?” I could feel the adrenalin pumping in my veins and I moved slightly away.

  “Yes, he came back yesterday—so did Iris.”

  “Oh.” I sat there listless as he outlined his plans for the pageant. The gallows scene, he said, should be staged up on Bishop’s Bluff instead of in the park bandshell where the rest would be played. The logistics of transferring a whole audience from the park to the bluff mystified me, but Lucian felt the people could move during the intermission and that would give time for the sale of refreshments.