Slewfoot

by Brom

  Samson groaned.

  “Now, tell me, is that what you truly want? To be set loose again? For me to hand you back over to these wildfolk, these devils? Have you not had enough of murder and blood? Do you wish to be their slave forever? To have to watch as they drive you to kill and kill and kill? What of this woman? The one on the farm. Do you not care for her? Love her? If you do, why would you do this to her?”

  The screams intensified. And Samson saw a vision of Abitha lying on the ground covered in blood, clutching a great wound on her chest. “No, not Abitha … I would never—”

  “You would never, but your demons surely will, come their first chance. You know this. How will it end? Not well for her. And it will not stop with her. Once you begin, once the demons have full possession of you, you are very good at being Hobomok.”

  “I am not Hobomok,” Samson moaned.

  “There is another path, an escape. I saved you before, remember?”

  Samson’s vision twisted and he found himself lying on his back, his eyes blurry with smoke and tears. The smell of blood and wailing in the air. Mamunappeht was there, kneeling beside him, his hand on his chest, chanting while the huts burned. Then they came, the spiders, and with them a great wave of relief. “Yes,” Samson whispered. “I remember. You brought the sleep.”

  The shadows began to flitter within the skull, his skull, to roll in, and he saw the spiders again, crawling all around him, all over him. The screams slowly faded; the world within the skull dimmed until all was darkness.

  “Yes,” the shaman said in a low lulling tone. “Back into the arms of sleep. You would be there now, if not for your little imp friends waking you and setting you upon the world once more. But this time your sleep will not be disturbed. This I promise you.”

  “Is there no other choice?”

  “Only the spiders can keep the demons at bay. I am sorry.”

  Samson heard voices flitting about in the dark with him. It was the demons, they were calling him, but the spiders had created a wall, a barrier between them, and they sounded far away.

  “I cannot keep you here against your will, not for long, your demons are too strong. So, you must make a choice. You can shut your eyes, shut it all out, sleep and find peace, or leave this sanctuary and return to murder and strife. Which will it be?”

  The spiders began to retreat, and little by little the screams returned, building. The moans of the demons grew louder, closer.

  “I can make it all go away,” the shaman said. “Just ask.”

  The screams intensified and Samson felt them, the demons, right behind him in the skull, felt their breath on the nape of his neck.

  “Sleep,” Samson whispered.

  “Ask me. You must ask or the spell will not bind.”

  “Yes … yes! Please. Give me sleep. I beg you!”

  The spiders rushed in, and this time Samson didn’t resist but welcomed them, and the shaman spoke true as their embrace took him away, floating off into silence and darkness. He felt the demons withdrawing, fading, until they were gone, completely gone.

  Samson smiled, and from somewhere far, far off, he heard Mamunappeht laughing.

  Samson’s eyes grew heavy. He shut them and let himself drift into that utter and complete blackness.

  Peace. Peace at last.

  CHAPTER 11

  Abitha awoke to the sound of men’s voices. She found herself in darkness so it took her a moment to remember that she was in the sheriff’s cellar—the cellar often seconding as a holding cell, as Sutton didn’t have a real jail. The sharp pain in her leg brought it all back to her. This is real, she thought, no dream, no nightmare to awake from. I will be tried as a witch and hung as a witch, and that is all that is left for me now. She closed her eyes, wanting to go back to sleep, wanting to wake up again someplace else.

  She slipped her hand into her apron pocket, found the chain of braids, clasping it as though it were her mother’s very hand. She started to slide it out, wanting to feel its soft touch against her face, when a knock came from the door, and she quickly shoved it back down into the pocket.

  There came the clank of a key in the lock and the thick door opened. Soft morning light spilled into the dank cellar. Sheriff Pitkin stood in the entrance, a bandage wrapped around his ear. “Abitha,” he called in a kindly voice. “Come. Let’s get some breakfast in you.”

  Abitha tried to stand but fell back, the pain in her leg too much.

  Sheriff Pitkin put an arm around her and gently lifted her up. “All right, we’ll take this slow. Now, keep your weight off that leg.” He all but carried her up the short run of steps into his kitchen, seating her at the table, where a biscuit and a cup of tea awaited her.

  Deputy Harlow stood by the back door, his posture tense, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Abitha met his eye. “What are you so afraid of, Sam? Think I might turn you into a toad?”

  Samuel’s face went pale as though he was thinking just that.

  The sheriff poured himself a cup of tea and took a seat across the table from her. He nodded to the biscuit. “I fixed that myself. Tastes better than it looks.”

  Abitha poked the biscuit. “This is kind of you, Sheriff. But my stomach is not in the mood for food for some reason.”

  “You should try,” Sheriff Pitkin coaxed. “It will be a long day.”

  Abitha nodded, picked up the biscuit, and took a bite, chewing without tasting, trying not to think of what lay ahead. While she ate, Sheriff Pitkin sipped his tea and stared out the window. The sheriff appeared tired, weary, as though wanting nothing to do with this mess. Abitha thought how Sheriff Pitkin had always been kindly to her, had always made her feel welcome since she’d first arrived in Sutton. He seemed to live outside the righteous nature of so many of the sect. The kind of man who only wanted to get along. She guessed that might be one of the reasons Reverend Carter had assigned him to the post. She noticed a fresh spot of blood on the bandage. “I am sorry about your ear,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I am just glad you are not a better shot.”

  “What do you mean? I were aiming for your ear.”

  He mustered a small smile and sighed.

  When she’d finished her breakfast, he helped her up and led her to the door. He removed a set of manacles from a hook on the wall. “I am sorry, Abitha, but I am required to put these on you.”

  She extended her wrists, and he clasped on the cuffs. He slipped his pistol into his belt, then helped her down the steps and to the street, where his two deputies awaited them by a wagon.

  “Do we really need the wagon?” Samuel asked. “Not going very far.”

  “Yes, we do,” the sheriff said. “I’ll not have her suffer the pain of walking on that leg of hers, nor having to hobble through that group of leering loons.… Someone might get it in their head to do her harm.”

  “She’s a witch. What does it matter?”

  “It matters because I say it matters.”

  Samuel shrugged.

  They loaded Abitha and rode the few short blocks to the meetinghouse. A crowd awaited them; they were indeed leering, several coming forward to meet them. Abitha saw many carried sticks or held rocks.

  The sheriff pulled out his pistol, cocked it, held it where all could see. “I will shoot the first person who throws stick or stone. You know me to be a man of my word. So, who will be the first?”

  There were many hard looks exchanged, but it seemed none wished to be the first, and the sheriff steered the wagon right up to the entrance, parting the crowd.

  People stared at her as though she had sprouted horns. Many carried bibles, clutching them to their chests like a shield to ward away her wickedness. Abitha felt like screeching at them, vexing them all, and if she had a little more spirit left, perhaps she would’ve just to see the terror on their faces.

  * * *

  Abitha was brought into the meetinghouse. The pulpit had been replaced by two tables; behind one were three chairs that Abitha assumed awa
ited the magistrate. Twelve chairs lined the far wall on one side of the magistrate’s table; on the other side, a lone chair. Sheriff Pitkin led Abitha to this chair and seated her, then nodded to his deputies and they opened the meetinghouse doors.

  Twelve men filed in, all ranking members of the village, taking their seats in the chairs across from Abitha. Several gave her curious glances, but none would hold her eye for long.

  Ansel and Wallace came in together, Ansel carrying a large satchel and a sack, the two in deep discussion. Wallace’s family, his wife, son, and daughter, followed along behind them. Ansel went to one of the tables, set down the satchel, and began unloading a few papers.

  Wallace and his family took a seat on the front bench. Abitha thought nothing of this until several more women and girls trickled in and also took seats in the front row. She understood then, a chill pricking her arms: these women, these girls, they’d all solicited spells and charms from her in the past.

  The rest of the benches quickly filled up as more and more people entered. Apparently, the usual seating arrangement not applying, as people sat where they wanted, regardless to standing, even men and women together.

  Reverend Carter, his wife, Sarah, and their daughter, Martha, came in and sat a few rows back. Reverend Carter and his wife appeared nervous and upset; they both cast sympathetic eyes Abitha’s way.

  Those without seats stood in the back. People talked in hushed voices, but their faces betrayed their excitement as they waited for the magistrate to arrive. And it was the waiting, the sitting there before this mass of callous onlookers, that ate at Abitha, their endless staring and whispering behind hands becoming more than she could bare. She dropped her eyes to the floor, trying not to hear them, and there, amongst the entire village, Abitha found she felt completely alone, more alone than ever in her life. So much so that it actually came as some relief when Deputy Harlow stepped in and announced the arrival of the magistrate.

  All heads turned to the door.

  There came some clamor outside and five soldiers armed with swords, pistols, and pikes marched into the room, their heavy boots clomping loudly as they took up positions along each wall. A moment later two men entered carrying an ornate chair. This was set behind the larger of the tables.

  A tall, wiry man entered, dressed all in black like a minister, only he was armed, wearing a thick leather belt cinched high on the waist, from which hung a sword and pistol. His dark, piercing eyes darted about the room, quickly taking it all in, coming to rest on Abitha. His intense glare seemed to take her measure in a heartbeat and dismiss her as fast. He cleared his throat loudly. “I am Captain John Moore, appointed first council to the magistrate,” he announced to all in a commanding voice. He glanced back out the door. “All rise for Magistrate Lord Cornelius Watson.”

  Everyone stood with the exception of Abitha as a middle-aged, doughy-looking man of average height entered the building. He marched directly up the center aisle, glancing neither left nor right. It was obvious the man was bald beneath his white powdered wig, as the wig had slid to one side, revealing his shiny pate. Abitha was struck by how clean and crisp his cloak and hat appeared, as though just fresh from the tailor, making the village folk look shabby by comparison.

  The magistrate tossed his richly oiled satchel upon the large table, and one of the guards helped him remove his cloak, revealing a long billowy robe. Magistrate Watson pulled a cap from a pocket, straightened his wig, and placed it on top.

  The guard slid out the ornate chair, and the magistrate took a seat and began rummaging through his satchel. He first pulled out a gavel, then a pair of spectacles, placing them on his bulbous nose. He picked up a piece of parchment and began to read it over.

  “Captain,” Magistrate Watson called, and the tall man came to his side. Together they examined the parchment. After a moment, the captain waved Wallace up. Wallace shared a warm handshake with both men, quickly falling into confidential conversation, and it became apparent to Abitha that they were all well acquainted. Captain Moore then called Ansel over, and again warm handshakes all around. At one point all four of them looked at Reverend Carter as though taking his measure. Ansel said something behind his hand and the men’s eyes shifted to Reverend Smith. There came a round of agreeable nods.

  “Reverend Smith,” the captain called. “Would you come here, please.”

  Reverend Smith came forward.

  “We would like you to serve as second council to the magistrate. Is there any reason you need excuse yourself?”

  Reverend Smith appeared surprised, started to reply when Reverend Carter stood up. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You are well aware that I am head minister in Sutton, and as such, it is my place to serve as second council.”

  Magistrate Watson smiled as though he’d been looking forward to this. “Yes, it would be your place … if not for the fact that suspicions have been cast on your role in this mischief. Thus, the court has deemed you unsuitable.”

  Gasps shot round the room.

  Reverend Carter appeared a man struck a weighty blow; his face turned ashen and he seemed unable to speak. Finally he uttered, “By the court you mean you, you have deemed it so, Cornelius.” There seemed to be more he wanted to say, but instead he shook his head bitterly and sat back down. The two men glared at one another, neither making the least effort to hide his disdain for the other.

  “Now,” the magistrate continued. “Reverend Smith, please, is there any reason you need excuse yourself from serving on the council?”

  Reverend Smith shook his head. “No, sir.” He stole an uneasy glance to Reverend Carter. “I am agreeable to help as I best can.”

  “Good,” Captain Moore said. “Take a seat here.” The captain indicated one of the chairs next to the magistrate.

  Reverend Smith nodded and took the chair.

  “We are ready then?” the magistrate asked the captain.

  Captain Moore nodded.

  Magistrate Watson struck his gavel twice, and the murmuring died away.

  “Reverend Smith,” the magistrate said. “Would you please open the proceedings with a prayer.”

  Again Reverend Smith appeared taken aback, again he cast Reverend Carter an uneasy glance as this was an obvious snub, but he quickly composed himself, stood, and led the congregation in a short prayer. Once the prayer was concluded, Captain Moore took a piece of parchment from Magistrate Watson and walked round the table to stand before the room. He faced Abitha and cleared his throat. “Abitha Williams, widow of Edward Williams, please stand.”

  Abitha sucked in a breath. Lord, here we go, she thought, and pushed herself up, bracing herself against her chair, being mindful of her injured leg.

  “You stand here before the Lord,” Captain Moore stated loudly. “Charged with consorting with the Devil … the grand enemy of God and mankind … consulting with a familiar spirit and … affliction with black magic and witchcraft.”

  The charges came as no surprise, but hearing them announced so forcefully before all cut Abitha to her marrow. She clutched the chair and struggled not to let her knees buckle.

  “Abitha Williams, how do you plead to these charges?”

  Abitha closed her eyes for a moment, sucked in a deep breath, opened her eyes, and locked them on the captain, meeting his fierce gaze with that of her own. “I am innocent to all. I have not now, nor ever, consorted with Satan.”

  “Very well,” Captain Moore said, sounding unsurprised. “You may be seated.”

  Abitha sat back down.

  “The court calls forth Ansel Fitch to present evidence.”

  Ansel nodded, shuffled a few pieces of parchment back and forth until he found the one he was seeking. He cleared his throat and stood. “It is well known amongst all that Abitha peddles in the Devil’s wares. Potions, charms, spells. I have a list here.” He held the parchment up. “Sworn to by over a dozen members of this congregation, as to witnessing such insidious behavior. And that, sir, is just the
beginning. Only the tip of the blade. For it is attested to, and seen by my own eye, that Abitha Williams did and does consort with familiar spirits of the Devil.”

  A murmur drifted through the crowd.

  “If it pleases his magistrate, I would call forth my first two witnesses.”

  Magistrate Watson nodded.

  “Wallace and Isaac Williams, please rise.”

  Wallace and his son stood. The swelling had gone down on Wallace’s face, but numerous bumps and scabs still stood out prominently on his pasty skin.

  “Wallace Williams,” Ansel said. “Will you, in your own words, tell the court that which you, young Isaac, and myself did witness there at Abitha’s home?”

  “I will,” Wallace stated. “Well … it is pretty simple. Having knowledge of Abitha’s deviltry and her grievances against myself and my family, I felt it necessary to bring witnesses to her homestead. And it is to the good of all that I did, for what we saw was beyond that of my worst fear. She, Abitha, was upon the porch whispering and conspiring with an … with an imp … her familiar, the very minion of Satan. And what we saw … why, it were the two of them, together, making a crown. Not any crown, but a witch’s crown.”

  “It is a lie!” Abitha shouted. “They are trying to—”

  “Silence, woman!” Captain Moore commanded, striding over to her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You shall not speak unless asked to. Is that clear?”

  Abitha glared at the man but held her tongue as she struggled to calm herself, reminding herself nothing she said would matter, that this was all for show. But it was just more than she could bear, and she began to tremble.

  “Wallace, a moment,” Ansel said, and proceeded to don a glove. He reached into the sack he’d left on the table, withdrawing the circlet Abitha had been working on and holding it up for all to see.

  Again, the crowd murmured.

  “Is this the crown, Wallace?”

  “It is.”

  “Is this it, Isaac?”

  “It is,” Isaac said.