by Brom
The braid was composed of twelve loops of braided hair woven together to form a chain, each loop a slightly different shade of auburn. A simple copper pin in the shape of a serpent tied the two ends together. Her mother had worn it about her neck—a dangling necklace of shimmering auburn hair—but rarely. She’d told Abi she only used it when she needed the help of her mothers, to conjure, to reach out to the spirits, or perhaps for some particularly difficult bit of root medicine.
Abitha would never forget the first time her mother allowed her to hold it. Her mother had tapped the last loop in the line and told Abitha that loop was hers, that the next was her mother’s, then her grandmother’s, great-grandmother’s and so on all the way back twelve generations. She touched the bottom rung and said, “One day, when you’re ready, you will join all your mothers and your hair will be added here.”
Abitha picked it up off the potting bench, and the moment she touched the braids, her mother was there in the shed with her. Abitha couldn’t see her, but the scent of lavender and sage was strong, as though her mother were standing beside her.
“Be brave, Abitha. Listen to your heart. Learn to trust yourself.”
“Mother … Mother?” Abitha clutched the braids to her chest, began to cry. “I miss you, Mother.”
“ABITHA!” Her father stood in the door, his raging eyes burning into her.
Abitha jumped back, crashing into the bench.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
She slid the braid into the back of her skirt, into her undergarments, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“What have you there?” He stormed over to her. “Give it to me now!”
She couldn’t speak, just shook her head.
He grabbed the top of her bodice, tore it open, and the recipe book spilled out, falling onto the ground. His eyes grew even wider and he shoved her away from it like it were a pit viper.
“What have I told you?” he screamed. “There is the very hand of Satan! Your mother has played with the Devil and it has cost her her life, her soul. She has cursed us all!”
He knocked over a shelf of jugs and potted plants, shattering them upon the ground. “Look around you at all this wickedness.”
He snatched up an oil lamp, twisting the wick off, dumping the oil over the recipe book, then the cabinet and the other books.
Abitha watched, terrified, unable to move.
He grabbed Abitha’s candle and set the oil ablaze, the books igniting.
Abitha found her voice. “No!” she shouted, reaching into the flame, trying to save the recipe book.
He snatched hold of her arm, dragged her screaming from the shed, into the yard, held her, his hard fingers biting into her arm as the shed burned.
“The Devil took her! Do you not see?” he cried, and began to weep. “Your mother was a good woman. A good wife … a good mother. Know that, always know that. But the Devil is tricky. He took hold of her through that book, through her little spells and divinations. She opened the door … your poor mother let the Devil in and he took her from us!”
Her father began to bawl, and this frightened Abitha more even than his yelling. She’d never seen the man cry so; it was as though his heart was being torn out.
“How did I not see?” he wailed. “I thought her only doing her medicine. Doing her Christian duty. I were so blind. Now it is too late … for her, for us. We are damned.” He pointed at the flames. “See him there in the fire … the Devil! He has your name, Abitha. It is written in his book. The only chance you have is to pray to God every day … every day, every moment you can spare. Then, only then, mayhap God will erase your name from Satan’s book.”
He fell to his knees, tugged Abitha down with him. “We must start now, this very minute. Put your hands together, child. Pray to God. Beg his forgiveness.”
She did as she was bid.
“Now, Abitha, promise me … swear to me and to God, to Jesus, that you will forsake all of your mother’s evil ways. That you shall never tamper with her wicked crafts.”
She didn’t answer, only stared into the fire.
He shook her, twisted her arm so hard she thought he would break it. “Swear it! Swear it to God!”
“I swear it!” she cried.
“Swear it to me! Swear it to God!”
“I swear to you, Father. I swear to you, God, Jesus. I will never again touch such wickedness!”
And then finally, he let her go, left her there staring into the flames as he gathered all her mother’s belongings from the house—her clothes, shoes, combs, even the blankets she’d slept on, anything personal to her—and burned them as well.
It wasn’t over for Abitha, no. Each day thereafter, her father forced her, her brothers, to pray, sometimes for hours depending on how much he’d been drinking, how dark his mood, pray to have their names struck from the Devil’s book, to have the strength to keep their hands from the wicked crafts.
But he never found the woven loops of braids. Abitha slipped them into an old pouch and hid them away. But all his talk of devils, his endless prayer sessions, did their work, and Abitha didn’t open that pouch, didn’t dare.
Abitha opened her eyes, found herself back in the cabin. The Devil is at my door. She walked over and slid out the bag, unbuttoned it, and took out her mother’s pouch. Stared at it.
She’d kept her promise to her father, to God, at least until she’d arrived here, in the New World. Then Edward, or her, needed some small bit of root medicine here or a blessing there. She wasn’t a child, she knew well the difference between ointments and charms, and spells and divinations. Were not prayers blessings? But with the burden of Wallace and his demands, they had so little, and when the opportunity arose to barter a few charms, some fortune-telling, or maybe a small spell, for things they were in desperate need of, it was hard to say no. And by then London, the plague, her father, that life, it seemed a distant dream.
She untied the pouch.
Is my name indeed in the Devil’s book? She glanced toward the door of her cabin. Was Father right? Has Satan been waiting for me this whole time, waiting for me to open the door with my dabbling? Waiting for me to untie this pouch?
She lifted the pouch, shook it. The long chain of braided hair slid out onto the bed.
It was her mother’s words she heard then. “Be brave, Abitha. Listen to your heart. Learn to trust yourself.”
What does my heart say? She stared at the serpent-shaped pin. I’m afraid. But that wasn’t all; she knew her mother was a Godly woman, that she certainly was no pawn of the Devil. No, no soul was ever more at peace with herself, with nature, with God. And I never witnessed her do naught that were wicked. She died of the plague along with thousands of others, that is all. So I ask you, Father, were they, all those stricken, were they then too pawns of the Devil? Nay, I think not, Father. I think not.
A creak came from over by the door.
Abitha started. But that, that thing out there, that is some kind of devil or demon. That I am sure of. And she remembered well her mother telling her of wayward spirits, demons that would plague a soul if given the chance. She also remembered her mother showing her a few tricks to ward them away.
Ash and salt, she thought, but that was just a common folk charm. She knew there was more to the spell, the real spell, other ingredients. I saw it, aye. In the recipe book. If but only I still had it. She tried to recall the details. It was there, so close, but no, she couldn’t see it.
She looked again at the chain of hair. Her mother had used it when she needed the help of her mothers.
Abitha’s hand hovered above it.
“Mother, I need you.”
She touched it, a soft caress, and when she did, a lightness swept over her and she caught a whiff of lavender and sage and with it a flood of memories.
Abitha set the musket and the bible on the table, grabbed her largest skillet, setting it down next to the bible, then quickly rounded up the sack of salt and a knife. There wasn’t
much salt left, but she scooped out two handfuls anyway, tossing them into the skillet. She took the knife and hacked off a chunk of her hair. She spat three times on the hair and dropped it in. Next, she tore out several pages from the bible, touched them to her lips, said a prayer, then tore them to ribbons, crumbling them atop the mix.
She picked up the knife again and hesitated. There was one more ingredient. She held up her finger. Blood, she thought, my blood. Why is it the most powerful spells all seem in need of blood? She pricked her finger, watched as two drops spattered atop the words of God, staining the paper dark crimson.
She carried the skillet over to the hearth. There were still a few embers from the morning fire. She stoked them to flame and set the mix ablaze, repeating her small prayer over and over until the flames burned out. Then she poured the charred mix into the ash pail, stirring it in with the ash.
The dust made her cough and it was her father’s ranting she heard then, felt his eyes burning into her.
“No,” she whispered. “No! I will not listen anymore. I care not what promises I made you, Father. The Devil is upon my step.”
She heard a thump, started, leapt to her feet, her heart drumming.
What was that? But she knew.
The sound grew louder, a soft clumping like hooves in the dirt.
Abitha snatched up the pail, dashed over to the door, sprinkling a line of the salt and ash across the threshold, then to the one small window, closing and locking the thick batten shutter and spreading a thin trail of the mix along the sill. She grabbed the musket, her hands trembling as she watched the door and waited.
“Be gone, Slewfoot,” she whispered. “Be gone.”
The hooves continued, circling the cabin; she caught sight of its shadow through the thin cracks in the shutter as it passed.
The hooves came back around to the front and stopped near the door.
“Hello,” someone called. “Abitha? Are you there?”
A man! Someone from the village! Oh, thank God!
She dashed to the door, propping the musket against the wall, then lifted the heavy bar free. She yanked the door open.
Astride his white stallion, Wallace Williams stared at her.
* * *
Wake.
“No.”
They are here. You must kill them.
“I am dead.”
Smell them.
The beast did, smelled the blood beating in their veins. There were two of them.
You must kill them, Father.
“Father?”
Do you not remember your name?
The beast tried to remember, but all was blackness, then the blackness began to squirm, sprouted legs, so many prickly little legs. “No!” he hissed, seeing that the blackness was alive, that it was a tangled mass of boiling black spiders, millions of them, and they were crawling all over him. He tried to claw them away, only to find he couldn’t move, that he was trapped in their wet webbing.
Father gasped, opened his eyes, and sat up. He glanced frantically about for the spiders—there were no spiders, just an opossum, a raven, and a fish, staring at him, horrified.
“You’re all right, Father. Just a nightmare.”
Father stared at them.
“Do you not know us?”
Father’s head throbbed. “You are Forest … Sky … Creek.”
The wildfolk appeared relieved.
Father heard someone yelling.
“A man is here,” Forest said.
Father winced and rubbed his temples.
“His blood. It will make the pain go away.”
Father nodded, crawled slowly to his feet, swooned, clutched the barn post. He heard voices and slid into the shadows, remembered how not to be seen and was not seen.
He spotted the woman and a man over by the cabin. The woman stepped off the porch and tromped right past the man without hardly looking at him, staring into the barn, her eyes wide with fear. She stopped several paces away. “Did you see them?” she asked the man. “Did you?”
“See who?”
“In the barn, Wallace. Did you see anything when you rode up?”
They were both looking toward Father, but neither could see or hear him, not now, as he didn’t want them to.
“I saw no one,” the Wallace man said. He dismounted. “What happened, Abitha? Pray tell.”
The woman started to say something, then closed her mouth. Father sensed a great distrust between them.
“What happened to you?” the man asked, looking her up and down. “You are a mess. Why, you are bleeding.”
The woman, this Abitha, straightened her clothing, pushed the loose hair from her face, then wiped the blood from her eyes and forehead with her apron.
Something jabbed Father’s leg. “Kill them,” Forest hissed. “Now.”
Sky landed on the rail near Father, and Creek floated up next to the bird. They too didn’t want to be seen or heard by the people, so were not.
“What are you waiting for?” Forest growled.
But Father didn’t move, felt if he tried, he might collapse. He studied the woman. What did she do to me? The vision returned, just a flash—two shadows fighting. Was it real? Was it sorcery? Then he saw the spiders again, brimming about the edges of his vision, thousands of them waiting their chance to pounce, to cover him in their sticky web, to drag him back down into the darkness. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on the man and the woman.
“Were it Indians?” the man asked. “The Pequot?”
Pequot, Father thought. I know that name. Yes, they are one of the people. One of the tribes. He nodded to himself and wondered if the Pequot had been the people in his dream.
“No,” Abitha replied. “It … it were but an accident. Fell and hit my head. I were dizzy, seeing things not there. That is all.”
The man eyed her suspiciously. “That is most troubling … and you must admit it is a good example of how this farm is too dangerous for you to work alone.”
She flashed him a dark look.
Wallace raised his hands and added, “Abitha, it would be dangerous for anyone. The wilds are no place to be alone. Listen, hear me. I did not come to bicker.” He went to a bucket sitting against the well, fished out a cup with a long handle, dipped some water, and brought it to her. “Here, please.”
The woman took the cup and drained it, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Thank you,” she said, but it sounded forced.
“Let us go in the house where we can sit down,” he offered. “Where we can talk.”
“I am in no mind to talk.”
“Very well.” He nodded. “Then at least let me bring you a chair? You appear ready to faint.”
“Wallace, if you have something to say, just say it.” She stared at him, waiting.
Wallace sucked in a deep breath. “In reflection, I will admit that I could’ve handled some of this business better. It is a trying time for all of us, and none but the Lord are perfect. I am hoping for a new start between us.”
She crossed her arms, his words seeming to only put her more on guard.
“The solution to our problems, yours and mine, came to me while Charity was reading scripture to the family last night. It is from Ecclesiastes. ‘Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.’ Do you not see where this is going?”
The woman shook her head.
“It is so very simple.… You and Isaac should wed.”
The woman blinked at him as though struck dumb.
“Now, this is not a decision I came to lightly. I—”
“You mean Isaac? Your son, Isaac?”
He nodded.
“You wish me … to marry Isaac? My nephew by law?”
“I do.”
“The boy’s not but sixteen.”
“He’s seventeen and soon to be eighteen
.”
She shook her head.
“Isaac is young,” he continued. “I know this, but he is very mature for his age. Do not be hasty, Abitha. There is much to consider. If the two of you marry, then all your troubles be gone. You’ll have a strong man to head up the farm and the help of all his family. And here, here is the best part. I have spoken with Lord Mansfield in Hartford. He has agreed to work out reasonable terms so that the farm would eventually be yours.”
“You mean it would be Isaac’s, and in all but name yours.”
“And what is wrong with that? Papa always wished to keep everything in the family, because he knew that there are no bonds like those of family.”
“And what does Isaac have to say to this? Have you talked with him?”
“The boy will abide. Marriage is not only about love. He will see the opportunity and seize it. And I am sure, with time, the two of you will develop a bond.”
“The boy only has eyes for Helen and Helen for him. You know that.”
The man looked away.
“Wallace, are you truly willing to marry away your only son to pay off your debt? And to a woman you profess to dislike so? Would you destroy the love between Isaac and Helen, condemn them to a lifetime of heartbreak, of unfulfilled longing? Look at yourself, Wallace. Is that the kind of man you wish to be?”
Father sensed the man’s growing anger.
The woman let out an unkind laugh. “And there I’d be, no land, no say, beholden to you and your son. No different than a servant … worse off even, as at least a servant can leave should things become too bad. No. No. I’ll not be yours to be kicked around my whole life.”
“Abitha, you’re not hearing me.”
“I will not marry your son, Wallace. I will not do that to him, nor Helen, nor me.”
“You are but a fool then,” the man growled, his face reddening, his embarrassment and humiliation palpable. “You know you cannot bring in that crop alone. Do not let your pride bring ruin to us all. Take a minute. Think very carefully before you reply, as I will not ask this again. Now, what say you, Abitha? Will you at least consider marrying Isaac?”
“If you are so sure that I will fail, then why do this? You need but wait ’til fall and it will be yours. You can give it to Lord Mansfield then. I am sure he will work something out with you. Unless…” She cocked her head, giving the man a quizzical look. “Aye.” Her brows lifted and she laughed. “Why, Wallace, is that worry I see there on your face?” She laughed again, louder. “You’re afraid. Aye, afraid that I will bring in the crop and then you will lose both farms! Well, if you believe I can do this, then so do I. Thank you for this. You have given me a breath of confidence when I am in most need of such. You—”