Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  * * * *

  How jealous they were of Meredith Mae! Meredith Mae was the beautiful child to whom strangers stared adoringly. Her sweetness brought her gifts from little boys, and her kindness brought her prayers from those she had touched with her generosity. But my Meredith Mae’s qualities went ignored by her immediate family. Her sisters slapped her when they thought that no one was looking, attempted to trip her down the stairs and stole her favorite toys. Her mother, Maebelle, considered only her usefulness, and Malcolm…that horrid man…leered at her as if she were prize cattle.

  Thank goodness their last child was a boy. They named him Jed. He was a bright child with an honest affection for his sisters. Malcolm adored his son and treated his girls as an afterthought. Maebelle used her daughters to run her errands and keep her house tidy while she spent Malcolm’s money on china and the latest fashions. She took great care of her son, however; perhaps she believed that he was superior to her daughters. Meredith Mae and I dreaded their visits, but we accommodated them so that I might remain sole guardian of my granddaughter. She was my son’s child and did not belong to Maebelle. And she certainly did not belong to Malcolm. It was not until the child was ten years old that I learned how intrinsically connected we really were.

  Chapter Eight

  It was the winter of 1840. I had Philippe light a fire in the library. The snow fell like music from the sky and covered the streets in a white enchanting dance. My darling Meredith Mae sat at the window and traced her name in breath on the glass.

  “Would the misses like cocoa?” Philippe asked as he stoked the wood. The red and yellow embers leaped up the chimney to die a cold death in the February air while the fire cackled and cracked at us, as though it could will us to burn.

  “Oh yes,” cried Meredith Mae. Philippe smiled as the child ran into my arms. “Philippe always makes the fire speak,” she said gleefully.

  “You have to tickle the wood and feed the flame.” He smiled.

  He clearly loved Meredith Mae, and the child loved him in return. I was grateful for Philippe. After Matthew’s disappearance, I so needed the strength of his demeanor and the sad and compassionate smile he gave me when I beckoned him. I sought solace from conversations by the fire and the murmur of his voice. Philippe had been such a strong and refined presence in my life all these years. He had always been an educated man, and I never questioned that. It was terribly unusual to find a servant reading, and I was surprised by the hours he devoted to teaching my granddaughter European history and amusing her with tales of literature. He and my son had been more like brothers and both shared an avid love of poetry and music. Since the moment he had insisted upon remaining with the house, I had become very fond of Philippe. I sensed a bond between us that I did not fully understand. He was my only friend, and he seemed to have a profound understanding of my despair. We spoke often about the complexities of the human spirit. I did not enjoy the developing alienation that I felt as I perceived the years to pass, but Philippe would laugh at me, often succeeding at getting me to laugh at myself.

  “It is not the changing years that create alienation. It is your soul’s response to change,” he would say.

  “This nineteenth century world of manners and beauty makes me feel so unbearably isolated,” I would tell him. “And it only gets worse as the years go by.”

  “Well, yes,” he would laugh. “It’s certainly a century of attitudes, isn’t it?”

  * * * *

  But, in all the years that Philippe and I spoke of so many things, I consistently avoided questioning him about his association with Michele Guyon. When he attempted to broach the subject, I dismissed him. Eventually, he acquiesced to my wishes and muttered some stories that I sensed were only half-truths, told only in some fashion to placate me.

  “I was bought in Virginia,” he told me. “Mr. Guyon said he was traveling east, said he was going to build a house in Brooklyn and import objects of art from his native home in France.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “And do you have any family?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, my sister, Emie.”

  I imagined she had been left behind when he joined the man called Michele Guyon.

  “And this man eventually freed you?” I asked him.

  He nodded and looked off.

  I knew there was more to Philippe’s story, but I did not want to know it. I fought desperately to maintain my own illusion of privacy, while I respected his, as well.

  “And Michele? How do you remember him?” I would ask casually, avoiding any intensity to my question.

  “Not fair,” he said. “But dark.”

  I doubted that Philippe was telling me the whole truth, but he had learned not to offer information unless I specifically asked for it. From the first moment I saw him, I felt he could see beyond the veil. I was convinced that he and I had seen the same Michele Guyon…the same blond demon with the cold and penetrating stare. But, for all these years, I had not been ready to discuss my nature with anyone. Not with Philippe. Not with my own son. It was, after all, my witch’s power that had cost my soul this darkness. But then again, perhaps my fear of this power had cost me my child.

  * * * *

  After Philippe went off to make the cocoa, Meredith Mae insisted on a game of hide-and-seek. We had played it often. I let her hide and then I would run about the house attempting to find her. She usually hid in the same places, under the bed, in the attic or behind my bedroom door. This particular afternoon, however, I could not find her. I looked for at least twenty minutes before I finally summoned Philippe.

  “I cannot find Meredith Mae. Do you think she went outside?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “She would not go outside,” he finally answered.

  “Do you know where she is?” I asked.

  He put his hands across his chest and stood firm, silently staring at me.

  “Philippe, I am becoming concerned,” I said with some agitation.

  He began to mumble something that I could not make out, when I heard a sound on the stairs. A moment later, Meredith Mae was standing in the doorway of our front parlor.

  “Where on earth have you been?” I cried as I ran to her.

  “I went to the tree,” she said.

  “What tree?”

  “The one I always go to.”

  “And just what tree is that?” I questioned.

  “The one by Frost Fish Brook,” she answered.

  I laughed because I did not know what else to do.

  “Frost Fish?”

  “Frost Fish,” she replied.

  The Frost Fish Brook runs right by Leach’s Hill in Salem, Massachusetts. Meredith Mae had never been in Massachusetts. She had not been outside of the state of New York. What an imagination she has. I had often told her stories about a little treasure chest that I had buried under the tall elm tree near the Frost Fish Brook. I told her that the chest contained love letters from my future husband, and that the letters were wrapped in purple cloth and placed inside the chest. I told her that some day I would return for the letters, and that perhaps she would come with me. The child loved the story and made me repeat it often.

  * * * *

  “Well, you have had a long trip. I hope you will not go quite so far away next time,” I said.

  “I only came back for the cocoa.”

  I laughed, despite myself, and then I noticed a small bundle in her hand.

  “What do you have there, Meredith Mae?”

  “Letters,” she answered proudly and held them out to me.

  My hand shook as I reached out for the small and dirty parcel she held. The cloth was familiar, though it looked so old. I blew away the dirt and the vivid purple cloth shone through. As I opened the cloth, old, torn letters fell to the floor. Some of the papers were ripped into several pieces. I reached down and held them in my hands. The all too familiar writing caused my heart to beat like a cannon just fired.

  To my wife, one read, I will protect you. T
o my wife, my beautiful, beautiful Annabel, said another.

  “My God,” I said softly. “These are mine.”

  Philippe came immediately to my side. Meredith Mae stood over me and stroked my hair.

  I turned to my granddaughter and held out the delicate pieces of torn paper. “Where did you get these?”

  “I went to the tree, Grandmamma. The tallest elm…and I found your letters. I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Meredith Mae, I am not pleased. Tell me, child. Did you see anyone?”

  “Only Papa.”

  “Papa?” I asked.

  “Yes, Grandmamma. I saw him. He put his arms around me and told me to tell you that he is safe. He tells me that all the time.”

  I pulled the little girl to me and held on to her arms.

  “Papa?” I asked again.

  It was then that Philippe knelt by the child.

  “Your cocoa is in the kitchen, Meredith Mae. Go on and have it before it gets cold,” he told her as he tenderly rubbed some dirt from her hands.

  She looked at me for a moment, and I smiled briefly.

  “Yes, Meredith Mae, go have your cocoa. I will join you in a bit.”

  I watched as she went and closed the door behind her. After a moment, Philippe came to me.

  “How do I look to you, Philippe?” I demanded as I walked up close to him and stared at his face.

  “Miss Cummings?” he muttered.

  “What do you know of this?” I demanded more furiously.

  He held both of his own hands up to me in what looked like a plea of admonition.

  “I have suspected something for quite some time.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “How do I look to you?”

  “You look fine, just fine, ma’am,” he answered. He seemed to want to put his arms about me for comfort, but dared not.

  “No, Philippe. Be specific! What color are my eyes?”

  He hesitated and turned his head. I looked him squarely in the face. I knew that he would not remember the color of Patience’s eyes. Men barely paid attention to her. He stared back at me.

  “Green, ma’am,” he said finally.

  “Green, you say? Green? Ah ha!”

  Philippe gave me a soft and reassuring smile.

  “The real Patience Guyon had brown eyes,” I told him.

  He avoided a confrontation, yet he did not cease smiling.

  “Only one with power can see me as I am. It is Annabel Horton who has the green eyes…not poor Patience.”

  Philippe remained quiet.

  “We are two of God’s witches, you and I, Philippe. Do not pretend that I am a crazed female and you are a humble servant. Speak to me now!” I demanded.

  “I have wanted to for such a long time,” he finally said. “It is you who has forbidden it.”

  “Why have you not told me that Meredith Mae has the power?” I questioned.

  “You know yourself that you would not listen to me. You sent me on some errand every time I attempted to tell you who I am and what I know.”

  “Who are you, Philippe?” I asked him. “And what do you know?”

  “There will be time enough for that, but for now, we have a more important situation to discuss.”

  I felt the pressure of his fingers on my wrist and noticed, perhaps for the first time, that his one hand was so large it might have covered both of my own.

  “And just what situation is that?” I asked.

  “He wants you back,” he said simply. “That must be it.”

  “Who wants me back?”

  “Urbain.”

  “Urbain? Who is Urbain?” I felt terribly confused, for I had not known the blond demon’s name. I had not any awareness of my connections to Urbain in that moment.

  “The blond demon that possessed Michele’s body, Urbain Grandier, from the caverns of hell. He wants you back in Salem. His curse has been upon you from the moment you were born.”

  “What curse?” I asked sharply.

  “You only recall yourself as Annabel Horton, the witch from Salem, but your spirit was born in Loudon.”

  “Loudon? France? But I am English,” I answered in disbelief.

  “Perhaps so. But your soul was born in Loudon. I believe your great-aunt served God in Loudon.”

  “As a witch?”

  “As a nun,” he answered.

  “I am a Puritan,” I said proudly. “We are not French Catholics.”

  “Look, your great-aunt was a French Catholic nun,” he insisted. “Grandier seduced her. He seduced all the Ursuline nuns. He made a mockery of God. He caused them all hysterical fits. A church full of nuns crawling the walls like animals in heat…screaming for Urbain…as blasphemous as the hysterical children of Salem. It was this great-aunt of yours that finally turned him in to Cardinal Richelieu. The priests had named him a witch and said he put a spell on all the nuns of the Huguenot St. Pierre-du-March Church.”

  “What became of him?” I asked, feeling the stolen flesh on my arm run cold.

  “They crushed his legs and then burned him alive,” he answered me. Then he added, “He was the local curate. Did your mother ever speak of him?”

  “No. I know nothing of what you tell me,” I told him.

  “He put a curse on all the descendants of those that sent him to the stake.” He sighed. “But Claudette was his prize, the beautiful Claudette Moreau. Still, he cursed her soul for eternity and swore vengeance on her descendants.”

  “What does history say became of this nun?” I suddenly felt a strange connection to the tale he told me.

  “No one knows. Some say God let her go for turning away the devil—freed her soul from remembering the shame.”

  “I am not the niece of a nun.”

  “I tell you, Claudette Moreau’s little grandniece stands before me,” he insisted.

  “Nonsense,” I proclaimed loudly. “My mother was Caylus Moreau Horton, and we are English, and my mother never spoke of this nun.”

  He laughed. “In Puritan Salem? Well, I would think not.”

  “Nuns are celibate. They do not know men.” I walked up close to him and searched his eyes. “Urbain could not have violated a nun.”

  “Perhaps you will return to this church and find your ancestry in the stones of that madness. Seek out this Claudette. She can tell you the truth.”

  “What is your real identity?” I demanded of him as if he were still my servant.

  “I am Michele Guyon’s son.”

  I was confused and agitated and began to weep again. “I do not understand,” I cried. “I could get no information on Michele Guyon. He does not exist. And you cannot be the son of a white man.”

  “He exists,” he insisted. “He is born in 1946. And I am his son. I could not reveal that to you for so long. I wanted to, but I could not. You were not willing to hear it and might have sent me away.”

  I rested my head back on the chair and let out a long sigh. Then I began to laugh. I stood up and pointed toward the door that Meredith Mae had closed behind her. “If he is not born until 1946, then how could she be here? Her father was born in 1807; her father is Michele’s son.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Come now…what does the future mean to us? And what of time? There is no time, only one chaotic second upon which humanity has imposed order.”

  “Who fathered my son? Someone put a seed in me. And it was not that bastard Urbain,” I yelled at Philippe, still laughing as if I would lose my mind.

  “Yes. You are correct. One of the nuns gave birth to his only child, centuries ago. A girl. He was still a man then. Now he can only use the bodies of living men to impregnate women. He used Michele’s body to have a wedding night with you, but it was not Urbain’s seed that fathered your son. He cannot father children anymore; he is merely mist. We are all quite sure of that.”

  “Where is my son?” I asked quietly.

  “He exists now in the linear year 1692, in Salem, Massachusetts.”

&nb
sp; My heart pounded against my chest and the thought of holding my son in my arms again almost lifted my feet from the floor. I turned back to Philippe.

  “My son is alive and safe? Why did you not tell me sooner?” I put my head in my hands and began to weep so loudly I feared my granddaughter would hear me. “If you knew all this time, why did you not tell me?”

  “For all these years I have wanted to speak to you, but I felt your soul was buried in fear. I knew that when we finally did speak, time would not be an issue. I did not mean to hurt you, but time has no value to me in this dimension. When I return to my own possession of space, I will have lost only moments.”

  “My son? Swear to me that he is safe.”

  “For now, he is safe. But Meredith Mae has told me that the children are becoming worse. The trials are almost over.”

  “The trials have been over for years. This does not make sense to me!” I screamed. “My son saw the children. Now my granddaughter sees the children. You tell me the trials are still happening? How can this be?”

  “There is only now,” he said. “And now is all there is and all is contained therein.”

  I looked at him as if he were mad.

  “You must return,” he said.

  “I am lost in linear space. I can only go forward,” I told him in despair.

  “Time does not have motion. You are gifted beyond your awareness,” he said to me in a whisper. “You can go anywhere. Return, and take new flesh.”

  “And where is Urbain?” I questioned. “Can he crush my spirit before I steal a new body?”

  Philippe cleared his throat and answered me. “No. Urbain will not crush your spirit. He has already doomed it to darkness, but your power is as great as his. You must accept that.”

  I stared at him. His face was the map of gentility, and yet, I had one more disturbing question.