by Brom
Sarah began to weep. Abitha could see her fingers clutching the slats. Abitha looked at her cat, his one bulging eye staring endlessly at nothing. Her own tears began to flow then, and she turned away.
“Samson,” she whispered. “Are you there? Can you hear me?” She slid a hand through the bottom slats, pressing her palm against the ground. “Samson,” she whispered. “Samson, I beg of you, come to me. I’ll give you whatever you want. Whatever you need. Just take me from here.”
She closed her eyes, began to hum softly, trying to make the connection to the earth, to the serpent, to Samson.
“Please hear me.”
She felt no pulse, no magic, no response, not from the earth or from within her own heart, nothing at all. It was as though part of her had died.
She reached into her apron, searching for the chain of braids, and for one horrible moment thought them lost, then—there. She let out a gasp of relief as her fingers found the comforting softness of the hair. She slipped the braids out, clutching them to her chest. “Mother,” she whispered, pressing the braids to her lips and nose. “Mother, hear me. Please hear me. Mother—”
“What have you there?”
Abitha started, bumping her head against the slats.
Garret stood staring in at her.
Abitha tried to slip the braids out of sight, but Garret shoved his hand through the slats and caught her wrist, twisting it painfully, revealing the braids. He grabbed them with his other hand and tried to tear them from her grasp.
“No!” Abitha snarled. “It is mine!” She felt the braids slipping, tearing, and bit him, chomping down as hard as she could into his thumb.
Garret let out a cry but didn’t let go.
Something hard struck Abitha against the side of her head. There came a blinding flash of pain, causing her to swoon, and she felt the braids slip from her grasp. “No!”
“What is that?” Norton asked. He stood beside Garret, a small wooden bludgeon in his hand, the two of them staring at the woven hair.
Garret held up the chain of braids, looking at the serpent pin with utter disgust. “Witchery!”
“Please,” Abitha begged. “It is naught but a weave of hair. It is all I have left in this world. It hurts nothing. Please allow me to keep it. Please!”
Garret wiped the blood from his thumb, spat at her, walked over to the fire, and tossed it in.
“NO!” Abitha screamed. “No! No! No!” Her scream turned into a wail as she watched the braids, that of her mother, of all her mothers, ignite and burn. The fire darkened, a reddish smoke spiraling up from the flames, then a moment later, both the hair and the smoke were no more.
“Mother,” she whispered, between sobs. “Mother.” There came no scent of lavender and sage, no sense of her whatsoever. “Please … do not leave me.”
CHAPTER 12
Forest lay curled into a tight ball within a small crevice amongst the blackened stones of the ancient Pawpaw. He could feel the faint pulse of the sapling through the rocks, feel it growing weaker by the day.
“I am sorry,” he whispered to the sapling. “I have failed.”
He heard a clatter of small stones, knew who it was. “Leave me be,” he growled.
They did not leave him be; instead Sky and Creek began scratching and pawing at the cluster of sticks and stones that Forest had piled up in a sad attempt to barricade the opening of his hideaway.
He could feel their fretting.
Done with them, he thought. Done with all of it. Our time is over. It is the time of the people now.
There came a furious flurry of pecking and scratching. The sticks and stones crumbled inward and daylight flooded in, causing Forest to shield his eyes.
“You’re wasting your…” Forest trailed off as he read the terrible news on their faces.
“No! He did not. The Pequot. Why?” But Forest knew why. “That fool. That thickheaded ass. Why does he not ever listen?”
Forest climbed out from the hole, looked up at the sapling, hoping against hope that he would find a fruit hanging from its branches, even just a bud. Instead, to his horror, the small tree was shriveled, almost all of its leaves now gone. He let out a long groan, the sound of a soul who has given up all hope.
“Yes, I know he’ll find the magic man, or I should say the magic man will find him. Either way, that demon Mamunappeht will see him back in the skull, I’m sure of it.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “It is over, can you two not see that?”
He saw what they were asking of him, knew what they wanted.
“No, we cannot bring him back again.” He pointed at the tree. “We have no fruit. No magic. We’re too weak. You both know this.”
“But there is no other way. What would you have me do? Stroll into Mamunappeht’s very lair and steal Father’s skull?”
And Forest saw that was indeed what they wanted. “No, no, no,” he groaned. “If he has Father now, then he knows about us. He will have traps set everywhere. We would be handing ourselves over to him, to a fate worse than any death. This is no common shaman we are talking about, this is a powerful demon!”
Creek and Sky clacked their teeth angrily.
“So many ifs. And we do not know if Father can even kill Mamunappeht!”
They began darting round and round the sapling, forcing Forest to face the truth, the only one that mattered—the tree, it was dying.
Forest groaned, crawled to his feet, gave the sapling one last wistful look, then headed north, toward the Pequot village, and Sky and Creek followed.
* * *
Someone kicked Abitha’s cage, jolting her from her stupor. She blinked; the guards had lit torches and placed them around the corral. Abitha had no idea what time it might be other than it was night. She kept drifting in and out of consciousness, the intense muscle cramps, ache in her leg, and sweltering humidity keeping her from any actual sleep. Her clothes were soaked with sweat and clinging to her skin, but at the moment, it was her enormous thirst that tormented her most. She’d not had a drink since the sheriff gave her tea the previous morning.
She heard approaching voices, peered out of her cramped cage, saw Captain Moore strolling into the corral. Two guards followed him, carrying a small table and a chair. They placed them in the center of the corral.
The captain carried a bag; he dropped it on the table. The contents clanked, sounding like tools and knives and God knew what else. He removed his jacket and took a seat in the chair. “Garret, bring out Sarah.”
“Aye, sir,” Garret said, and both he and the big guard, Norton, walked over to Sarah’s cage. Garret produced the key, unlocked the chain, and lifted the lid.
“Get out,” Garret ordered.
Sarah slowly stood, wincing as she tried to straighten. She appeared dazed, her face drawn, her lips parched, her clothes dark with sweat. She’d lost her cap and her short cropped blond hair lay matted to her skull. She clutched the lid to keep from falling over as she stepped out of the cage.
The guards prodded her toward the captain, and when she didn’t move fast enough, Garret gave her a shove. Sarah stumbled but managed not to fall, staggered over, and stood before the captain, struggling to stay upright.
Captain Moore poured water into a cup and handed it out to her. She looked at it warily.
“Take it.”
She did, drinking it down greedily.
There was movement over by the fence and Abitha realized several men from the village had followed the captain down. Ansel Fitch and Deputy Harlow were amongst them, their faces leaving little doubt they’d come in hopes of seeing a good show.
“Sarah Carter, you have been accused of aiding a witch and her familiar. There is overwhelming evidence of your guilt. Yet due to your standing in the community, Magistrate Watson has shown you great leniency. He has not condemned you … yet. He has given you time to consider what you have done and to do the right thing for the good folk of Sutton. If you give testimony and confession to your involvement, you will be
set free of this cage … you will be spared an interrogation. Your crime will carry a sentence of one year in Hartford jail, nothing more. If, on the other hand, you choose to lie to the court and thus to align yourself with Satan, then, come tomorrow, you are to be hung alongside the witch. Do you understand this?”
Sarah lifted her head. “I understand that I am innocent of these charges. Guilty only of trying to aid my daughter in her time of need. I understand that my only judge is God, that He sees into my heart and knows I am innocent.”
Captain Moore let out a long, loud sigh. He took a sip of water, then reached into his bag and removed a bundle wrapped in cloth. He set this upon the table and unrolled it, revealing an assortment of serrated knives and long needles.
Sarah’s eyes locked on the knives and she began to shake.
“There are other ways, tried and proven ways, to find out if one is in league with Satan. I would prefer a simple confession, but if one is not forthcoming, then you leave me with little choice.” He walked his fingers across the tools, coming to a stop on a thin blade with a jagged hooked tip. He plucked it up, stood, and walked over to Sarah. He held the instrument out so that Sarah could get a good look at it.
“Sarah, witch-hunters have prescribed searching for a mark upon the body … a devil’s mark. And if any such marks are found, the mark is to be cut and pricked to see if the mark bleeds, to find out if the mark is numb or alive. This can be a very painful procedure. Before I subject you to such suffering, I will ask you again … Sarah Carter, have you aided a witch and her familiar?”
“I am innocent,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Very well. Garret, Norton, you know what to do.”
“Aye, Captain,” Garret replied, a sordid grin pushing at the corner of his mouth.
Norton clutched an arm and held her while Garret came around behind and began unlacing her bodice.
“No,” Sarah protested, tried to turn away. “Please, do not.”
Garret grabbed a handful of her hair, gave it a hard yank, bending her head back. He pressed his lips next to her ear. “You behave and do as you are told and this will go much easier on you. You understand me?”
Sarah closed her eyes and nodded and Garret let go. He removed her bodice, then grabbed her blouse, tugging it over her head, leaving her exposed.
Sarah covered her breasts with her arms. Her eyes cinched tight, as though trying to block out what was happening to her.
“Jacob,” Garret ordered. “Gather those torches there.”
“Aye, sir.”
“There now, hold them so we can best see.”
The younger guard did as he was bid. The flame leaving not a shadow for Sarah to hide her modesty within.
Garret began examining her, starting with her back, jabbing and prodding his thick fingers into her flesh, up her spine, searching for bumps, moles, warts, birthmarks, and any other peculiar marks. He prodded her neck, throat, behind her ears, through her hair. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue, lass.”
Sarah did as she was bid, and he jabbed his dirty fingers into her mouth, under her tongue.
“Lift your arms,” Garret said. “Higher, up above your head.”
Sarah looked at him fearfully. She glanced at all the guards staring at her, over to the faces lining the fence. The fine folks of Sutton weren’t outright leering, but close; there was little doubt that this was just the sort of show they were hoping to see.
When Sarah didn’t lift her arms, Garret jabbed a knuckle sharply into her ribs. She let out a cry.
“Plenty more where that came from,” Garret growled. “Now arms up.”
Captain Moore watched impassively while twiddling the hooked blade between his fingers.
Sarah slowly raised her arms, exposing her breasts to the guards, to the captain, to the good and pious folks of Sutton.
“That’s better,” Garret said, staring at her chest. He grabbed a breast and tugged it roughly upward, then to the left and right, then the other one, searching for any marks. He then prodded under her arms, digging with his fingers, making Sarah wince. Garret snagged the top of her skirt and tugged it down. It slid down her legs, pooling around her ankles, leaving her fully exposed.
Sarah had held back her tears this whole time, but she now began to cry.
“Oh, hush with your blubbering,” Garret said. “We’ve all seen diddle-bits before. Yours are not anything special.” He knelt to one knee and proceeded to examine and probe every inch of her, all the way down to her feet. When he’d finished, he stood and faced the captain.
“Three. She’s got three marks.” He poked the side of her left breast sharply. “See that dark spot. Mayhap the Devil’s teat. Mayhap just a mole. Not for me to decide.” He slapped the inside of her thigh. “A mark of some sort there. And here.” He spun her around and tapped what looked like nothing more than a blotchy birthmark on her back, just beneath her shoulder blade. “This one. This one looks suspicious to me.”
“Yes,” Captain Moore agreed, holding up the jagged blade. “I see. Let’s start with that one then. Hold her.”
Sarah took a step back, horrified. The two guards caught her, pinning her between them. “We got her, Captain.”
Captain Moore took the knife and jabbed it into the center of the birthmark, puncturing well beneath the skin. Sarah let out a cry, but the captain didn’t stop. He twisted the hook this way and that, causing her to scream. Only when a steady flow of blood began to run down her back did he stop.
Sarah slumped and, if not for the guards propping her up, would’ve collapsed.
“Guess not that one, aye, Captain?”
“No. Have to be thorough, in case it is some kind of bewitchment.”
“Of course, Captain.”
Captain Moore worked his way around, from the mole on the side of Sarah’s breast to the mark on her inner thigh. Each mark produced its share of cries and blood. Frustrated, the captain finally quit. He withdrew the blade from Sarah’s flesh and nodded to the guards. “That is enough for now.”
The guards released Sarah and she crumpled to the ground, sobbing.
The captain wiped the blood clean from the blade and laid it back amongst the other instruments. “You can get dressed, Sarah.”
Abitha found herself shaking, clutching hard to the slats of her cage. She glanced to the small group of men at the fence, gawking and exchanging lively whispers as Sarah struggled to put her skirt and blouse back on. And through her rage, Abitha found her voice. “God sees you!” she cried, her voice cracking. She caught their guilty looks. “God sees your leering, sees your lewd thoughts. God is judging you now!”
“Silence, witch!” Ansel shouted. “Who are you to speak of God?”
A few of the men looked away, uneasy, but none left.
“Sarah,” Captain Moore said, “it seems we made no progress this night. A lot of suffering for naught. Please, let us end this torment. Just a word from you. What say you, Sarah? Did you lend hand to the Devil?”
Sarah met the captain’s eyes. “Nay, I am a good Christian woman and serve only God.” She looked to the fence, to the faces there. “Hear me now, all of you. I serve God. Only God!”
The captain nodded to the guards and they dragged her back to her cage, locking her in. He then grabbed his jacket and bag. “Sarah Carter, your life is in your own hands now. You have but until tomorrow to make your confession and to ask for redemption. I bid you all good night.” And with that he left the corral.
* * *
Forest, Sky, and Creek perched on a ledge, peering down on the Pequot village as the sun slowly began to rise. They didn’t wish to be seen, so were not, but they knew such tricks were useless against the shaman.
Creek and Sky pointed to the cliff.
Forest could just make out a cave. He felt a chill and glanced at his companions, tried not to think of their fate should the demon shaman catch them. He didn’t know how many more of the wildfolk were left in the world, hoped there to
be a few clusters of them scattered here and there about the land. They used to call to one another, sending out soft songs, mere whispers on the breeze, the light wind carrying the songs for leagues. But not any longer, as the shaman might hear and come for them.
Mother Earth, I have wronged you and I have wronged Father. But I beg that you do not let my wrongs keep you from helping Father, from saving the wildfolk. Allow me this one chance at redemption. Please, Mother Earth, we are the last, do not abandon us.
Forest looked down at the village, at the Pequot people milling about, and let out a long sigh. “Are you ready?”
Sky and Creek didn’t look ready, but they both nodded.
“All right.”
Sky and Creek let themselves be seen and took off, flying and swimming through the air. They swooped down into the village, began flying around the huts. It didn’t take long for the cries and shouts of the people to echo back up the valley. Forest paid them no mind, his attention fixed on the cave.
Mamunappeht appeared, spotted the spirits, and ducked back into the cave, returning a moment later with a sack and a long stick. There was a net on the end of the stick.
Creek and Sky saw him too and shot away into the woods.
The shaman scrambled down the steep ledge and disappeared into the trees after them.
Forest headed for the cave. He had no idea how long he would have; Mamunappeht might catch the two spirits right away, might not catch them at all. Either way, Forest was under no illusions: he was going into a trap, and if he failed to free Father, he would never come out again.
“You are a clever one, demon,” Forest hissed. “But not as clever as you think. There are still a few tricks you do not know about.” Forest grinned fiercely, showing all his little needlelike teeth.
* * *
The sun slowly rose, bringing the oppressive heat with it, and Abitha drifted in and out of a sweltering daze. The unseasonably hot weather refused to lift, and all was a fever dream of cramps, pain, thirst, and hunger. At times she noticed people staring at her from the fence. At one point Wallace was there, gloating, but it was hard to say if he was real or a dream as she also saw Edward and her mother; even her father made an appearance. But not Samson, never Samson, no matter how many times she whispered his name.