The Fifth Petal

by Brunonia Barry

  Something stopped her. She didn’t step away, nor did she turn to face him. Instead, she kept her eyes on the horizon for several minutes until the sun finally disappeared.

  “They’ll be looking for us,” Paul said, finally, breaking the spell.

  There were no lights on the stairway, and as they descended they moved into complete darkness. “Wait here,” he said.

  His footsteps echoed on the metal stairway, dulling as he walked across the wooden floor. Finally, Callie heard a pop and a rush of sound and saw old gas lamps flicker to life. He came back and took her hand for the final few darkened steps. The gaslight filled the main room with a warm glow. As she moved into the space, she noticed the desk in the corner; his laptop was open, his books and papers spread all over. Above the desk was the painting of Minerva he’d bought at the auction.

  “Oh, this is where she ended up,” Callie said.

  “Goddess of Wisdom. I figured she’d help me in my work. She’s also the Roman goddess of music,” Paul said. “Which should interest you.”

  “And medicine, I remember. Wisdom, medicine, and music?” Callie said, recalling the auctioneer’s description. “That’s quite a workload. I hope the owl is helping.” She squinted at the painting. “He looks a bit sinister up close.”

  “In many cultures, the owl is the portent of death.”

  “Like the banshee?”

  “Kind of. The name for owl in Scottish Gaelic is Cailleach, the crone aspect of the triple goddess, which is sometimes thought to be connected to the banshee. But that’s Celtic mythology,” he said, “not Roman.”

  Callie took another look at the owl. “I wouldn’t want those eyes staring down at me every day.”

  “The owl gets a bad rap. She’s really a creature who can see what others miss. Some may be deceived, but she never is.”

  “She?”

  “Oh yeah.” Paul nodded. “The owl is definitely female.”

  Callie could see the bedroom through the French doors, his unmade bed. He noticed her looking at it. His cell phone rang. He removed it from his pocket, glanced at the number, and turned off the ringer. She could see the Salem phone number, Ann’s name flashing. The house phone rang next.

  My, she is persistent!

  This time Paul picked up.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Emily said something, and he answered, “Absolutely.”

  He hung up. “We’ve been summoned.” Then, doing his best impression of an English butler, “Dinner is served.”

  Outside, a blanket of fog fell on the cooling water and settled in for the night.

  Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.

  —KARL MARX

  The cavernous dining room was illuminated only by candlelight, casting a halcyon glow on every dark wood surface. Sterling silver sconces circled the perimeter, taking Callie back instead of forward in time, from the gaslight of Paul’s boathouse to the tapers of an even earlier period. Candlestick holders of gold, silver, and bronze dotted every available surface, a hundred tiny flames casting overlapping circles of gilded light. Soft music played—strings, both violin and harp—and muted the accompaniment of the foghorns from the distant harbor.

  As soon as everyone was settled at the table, three strapping young waiters appeared and stood silent, a magical presence ready to anticipate everyone’s needs. Just as Marta had predicted, Callie found her place card next to Paul’s. If Emily objected, she showed no sign. She smiled across the table at her son.

  Archbishop McCauley said the blessing. It was not a biblical verse but a traditional Thanksgiving poem, “Fire Dreams” by Carl Sandburg.

  “I remember here by the fire,

  In the flickering reds and saffrons,

  They came in a ramshackle tub,

  Pilgrims in tall hats,

  Pilgrims of iron jaws,

  Drifting by weeks on beaten seas,

  And the random chapters say

  They were glad and sang to God.”

  Callie could see that the poem summoned the ghosts of memory for her hosts. Suddenly, she saw what they were remembering as she surveyed the table, and, for a moment, there were more people in the room than the guests and silent waiters. Callie stared as time shifted and history revealed itself: Finn’s eyes were cast down and looking to his left. Next to him sat his dead father, now young again. He had the same dimpled chin and a mischievous grin. The scene altered and Callie saw Finn’s father’s part in the early, shadier family business, collecting money from bars in Dorchester.

  Another shift, and they were back at the table. She smelled the pleasant doggy odor before she spotted the beloved dog, not Jasper from this afternoon but one they had loved and lost, a black and white springer spaniel, lying underneath the table, at his master’s feet, and another sitting next to him, a golden retriever. Finn sat at the head of the table, looking every bit as regal as the Celtic gods Callie had seen in Ann’s gallery. In the space between Finn and Emily was Paul’s paternal grandmother. Callie turned to Emily, and her history was as clear as if it had been written: DAR aunties, cotillions, and then college and a hasty marriage that came with Catholicism, a religion she’d never embraced. She also felt Emily’s illness, lurking in shadows the candlelight couldn’t reach.

  Callie looked at Marta, and another portrait emerged. Her face was softer. Her eyes sparkled with innocence and youth. She was much younger, a teenager, sitting on the pier in front of the boathouse, dangling her feet in the water. A young man sat facing her, his back to Callie. Was it Finn? His hair was lighter but had the same thickness and wavy texture.

  “Excuse me,” Paul said to Callie, pulling her out of her visions. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”

  “Nothing,” Callie said, waving him away, unaware that she had spoken aloud. What had she said?

  She glanced around the table, seeing everyone as they were—no one was staring at her. Good. Then the waiters approached bearing oysters and caviar and began serving.

  “All right, now that everyone is here,” Emily said to her son, “tell our guests what you’ve been doing in Matera.” Her speech was more animated than Callie had noticed before, but her eyes were a bit bloodshot. “We’re lucky. We have him home until February because they have to do some work on the rock church he’s been restoring. Some water damage or something they have to clean up before he can go back to Italy.”

  Paul smiled, waiting for her to finish.

  “As most of you know, Paul is doing his Ph.D. dissertation on his work restoring the ancient churches in Matera,” she said to her guests, then proudly turned to her son. “Go ahead, tell them what your team is finding over there.”

  “It’s a joint venture between my adviser at Harvard and the Vatican, with grants from the Italian government. Basically, we’re restoring the frescoes in some of the rock churches,” Paul said, addressing the table. “So far we’ve discovered several ancient paintings of Jesus, one of Mary, and a number of symbols common to many religions around the world.”

  “Have you switched your focus to archaeology, Paul?” the Mink Woman asked.

  “I’m still focusing on art history and comparative religion, but I’m specializing in ancient religious symbols and relics. I work with archaeologists to interpret what they uncover.”

  “That sounds fascinating,” Mink Woman said. “Your mother said these were rock churches, right?”

  “I’ve heard about those rock churches,” Rafferty said. “Aren’t they actually caves? There are supposedly hundreds of them.”

  “There are,” Paul said. “All hand carved out of tufo stone. They say St. Peter preached in those caves.”

  “Really,” Rafferty said. “They date back that far?”

  Paul nodded. “Matera dates back even further. The Sassi distr
ict was the site of a prehistoric troglodyte settlement. It’s one of the oldest continually occupied spots on earth.”

  “The tufo dries tears,” the archbishop said. “Isn’t that the phrase?”

  “It is,” Paul said, sounding excited. “They think it has other healing properties as well; it’s rumored that the early Christians performed ceremonies there using methods taught by Jesus himself.”

  “What kind of healing?” the Mink Woman asked. “The laying on of hands?”

  “Sound mostly,” Paul said. “Different tonalities and durations. Chanting was probably a big part of it.”

  “That sounds like what you do, Callie,” Towner commented.

  Everyone at the table turned to look at Callie as the archbishop asked, “What is it you do?”

  “Callie practices sound healing,” Towner explained.

  “As in ‘Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast’?” McCauley asked, taking a spoonful of soup.

  “I’m trained as a music therapist,” Callie said. “But sound healing is a little different. It removes the therapist from the equation. The sound works directly on the patient. I often use singing bowls in my practice.”

  “The bowls are better for healing than for salad.” Towner winked at Callie.

  Paul said, “You use salad bowls to heal people?”

  “Ignore her.” Callie laughed. “I use bowls made of quartz crystal. I have one for each chakra. They vary in size and tone.”

  The archbishop looked confused. “I don’t understand. They make music of some kind?”

  “Are they like the small brass ones used in Tibet for meditation? You rub a wand around the perimeter to get the tone?” Paul asked.

  “Exactly,” Callie said, more pleased than she’d admit. Then he grinned and she knew: It was the smile. Not the perfect blue eyes or the sandy brown hair. The smile—just a bit crooked on the right side—was what got him the girls.

  “One of them brought Rose Whelan back from a catatonic state,” Towner offered.

  “We don’t really know what brought Rose back,” Callie said quickly.

  “I’m afraid I’m still not following,” the archbishop said.

  The waiters took the soup bowls and replaced them with nuts, celery, and olives.

  Paul dipped his index finger in his water glass, and then drew it around the rim of his wineglass until it created a vibrational tone. “Like this?”

  The Mink Woman gasped. “Don’t hurt that beautiful glass.”

  Paul hesitated.

  Emily dismissed her concern. “Don’t worry. That crystal is almost unbreakable. It’s been in my family forever.” She motioned for Paul to continue.

  Once again, he drew his finger around the rim until the tone became clear and strong.

  “That’s a G note,” Callie said. She looked at the archbishop. “It’s associated with the throat chakra; the tones are thought to have a soothing effect on the corresponding energy center of the body. So, if you had bronchitis, for example, I might use the G, and also an F to treat the heart chakra, which rules the lungs.”

  “And this isn’t normally part of music therapy?” Marta asked.

  “Not traditionally, no. Sound healing is a new approach.”

  “Not so new if St. Paul used it in the caves of Matera,” Emily said.

  “St. Peter,” Finn corrected.

  “What’d I say?”

  “St. Paul,” he said, smiling at her slip.

  There was goose, and venison, and every food that might have been offered in New England during the first Thanksgiving feast. And Paul had been right about the pace of the alcohol. There was endless wine, a different vintage with each course. Callie followed his lead and sipped slowly.

  Eventually, though, the talk turned to Rose.

  “Rafferty, got any inside information about that Halloween murder up on Gallows Hill? I’ve been seeing quite a bit online about it,” Finn asked the police chief.

  “Talk about the stuff of fiction…the woman who killed him claims to be a banshee,” the author said.

  “She didn’t kill him,” Rafferty said quickly. “The kid died of a cerebral hemorrhage brought on by a drug overdose.”

  “Still,” Finn said. “It’s got the Salem websites going crazy. The comments sections are really heating up. They’re calling for exhumation of the bodies of the girls who were killed decades ago. Seems like they’re dying to finally pin it on that woman.”

  “What?” Callie said. She’d heard there was a petition going around requesting DNA testing. She’d seen it in the paper. But she had no idea people hated Rose quite so much. She could feel Towner watching her reaction.

  Rafferty looked as if he were about to take Finn down, but Towner shot him a look and interjected, “There’s no evidence Rose had anything to do with those murders. There never has been.”

  “Why not do DNA testing on them? It’s the only way to know for sure,” Mink Woman said.

  “Not necessarily,” Towner answered. “They could find DNA on the bodies from anyone with whom they came into close contact, before or during the murders. Isn’t that right?” She turned to Rafferty. From his scowl, it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “How can they find any DNA twenty-five years after the fact?” the archbishop asked. “Won’t the bodies have decomposed?”

  “Some physical evidence could survive,” the author chimed in. “Their hair, for instance. And if the murderer left a hair or something like that…”

  “I heard they were buried in their Halloween costumes,” Mink Woman said. “That no one paid to embalm the bodies. Wouldn’t some of the clothing have survived? There could be DNA found there…”

  “They weren’t buried in their costumes,” Rafferty said.

  “Well, there wouldn’t be much left if they didn’t embalm them.”

  Rafferty didn’t take the bait, but he held up his hand to stop the conversation.

  “Dear God!” Emily said. “Let’s drop the subject. And find something less gruesome to talk about.”

  Not for the first time, Callie was grateful for Emily’s rescue. Her hand shook as she reached for her fork. How could this be happening? The thought of the town digging up the bodies of her mother and the others filled her with a panic she couldn’t rid herself of. Why hadn’t Rafferty told her they were seriously thinking of exhuming them? She could feel his eyes on her, as well as Towner’s. She reached for her wine and took a deep swig.

  There was a long silence, and finally Finn acted on Emily’s cue. “What’s the other news from across the bridge? I heard that my friend Mickey Doherty has opened two more haunted houses,” he offered.

  “Oh, I love Mickey Doherty,” Emily said, encouraged by the new subject. “He’s such a funny man.”

  “Anyone who makes a living as a pirate reenactor is okay by me. It’s the creative economy at work,” Finn said.

  “I hear he opened a new side business tracing tourists’ ancestry back to the Salem Witch Trials,” Towner said.

  “He’s made that a business?” Emily seemed surprised.

  “Sure. Six degrees of separation and all that. I’d bet a good number of tourists can find a connection if they look back far enough. The same way anyone whose family has been around here long enough does,” Paul said, turning to Callie to explain.

  Finn nodded agreement, adding for Callie’s benefit, “Many people whose families have been here for generations have accused witches in their families.”

  “Some who’ve been here for generations have both accusers and accused,” Marta said, looking directly at Finn.

  “Marta has both,” Emily explained. “Goodwife Hathorne was both at various points during the hysteria. She’s related to Rebecca Nurse, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Callie looked at Marta. Rafferty, too.

  “No, not Rebecca Nurse,” Marta said. “But there were others on our family tree as well as on the Whitings’. Take it back far enough, and we could all be accused of
communing with the devil.”

  “You’re not clinging to that erroneous mythology,” Finn said to Marta. “You still think the devil was raised in Salem?”

  “Not personally, no,” Marta said. “But even most of the accusers came to believe that they were wrong about the accused, though they still believed that the devil had been raised. They came to think the entire episode was a ‘delusion of Satan.’ A misdirection of sorts.”

  “What does that mean?” Paul asked.

  “The devil is a known trickster,” the archbishop offered.

  “Be careful what you say, Father,” Finn warned, turning back to Marta. “You Protestants are pretty free with your labels. We are Catholics, and Catholics were the devil to these people. Catholics and Native Americans. And don’t forget the poor Quakers. They used to hang them on sight as agents of the devil.”

  Marta shrugged. “This isn’t my belief system, Callie. I’m just telling you that they thought he was on the loose. Only not in the places they had searched.

  “The stage had been set with the Catholics for a long time,” Marta said. “Back in England, Catholics did the persecuting and executing, mostly of Puritans. So deep hatred and a desire for revenge was carried with the Puritans on their ships to the New World.”

  “After the Reformation, England wasn’t the best place for Catholics, either,” Finn said. “Mistakenly convinced that the New World was the place to avoid religious persecution, my Catholic family headed over on the third voyage of the Mayflower. We landed in Salem to find it populated by Puritans, the people who hated us most. The Whitings quickly hightailed it out of Salem Town and over to what is now Pride’s Crossing. Even so, they had to practice their religion in secret. There weren’t any clergy nearby, as preaching Catholicism was a hanging offense.”

  “Pride’s Crossing was where all the outcasts ended up,” Emily said.

  “Still is,” Paul joked.

  “But you said your family was Puritan,” Callie said to Marta.

  “But Marta’s family had been suspected of witchcraft once before,” Emily said. “Isn’t that right, Marta?”