“How nice of you to mention that again.” Marta smiled at Emily, then turned to Callie. “Even though they were related to one of the hanging judges, under the circumstances, my family thought it best to create a bit of distance from the center of town.”
“The same way my family did,” Finn said.
“But Whiting’s wife and Hathorne’s widow ended up accusing each other,” Paul said. “And they both landed in jail.”
“The Salem courts were willing to hear an accusation by a Catholic?” McCauley sounded shocked.
“By then, everyone was accusing everyone, and no one was safe. The Puritans thought the devil could be anywhere. Things were out of control and everyone knew it. But it was the end of the trials, so no one was hanged. The Court of Oyer and Terminer had been dissolved, and spectral evidence was being questioned. It all came to a close when the governor’s wife was accused.”
Callie was becoming more and more uncomfortable. The talk of exhumation had triggered the darkness from her past; her deepest fears were curling around her and trying to join her at the table: the murders, the nightmares, that ever-present thing…She took another gulp of the wine a waiter had just refilled.
“What about banshees? Aren’t they agents of the devil, too?” Mink Woman asked.
“And we’re back to this,” Emily said, frustrated.
“According to Church history, banshees originated as paid mourners,” Archbishop McCauley explained. “A leftover from the Pagan religions. The more mourners a family could afford, the higher their stature. When the early priests went to Ireland, they banned the practice. The mourners were mostly women; they wore their hair long and uncovered, which was forbidden at the time. And the keening was otherworldly. The banshee myth originally comes from those women. The priests outlawed keening, making beggars of the mourners.”
“They let them starve?” Mink Woman had the grace to sound horrified.
“No, but the women had to rely on the charity of the Church to survive.”
A shadow crossed Marta’s face. “Lovely.”
“It made for easy converts. And that was the point,” McCauley said. “I’m not condoning the behavior any more than I do the proselytizing missionary programs of any organized religion.”
“And that’s all there is to the banshee legend? Some ostracized women who were converted?” Mink Woman was clearly disappointed.
“The story I’ve heard is that they were part of the pantheon of Celtic goddesses, diminished by the early Christian clergy,” Paul said.
It was very similar to the story Rose had told Callie just this afternoon.
“Well, that might be true,” acknowledged the archbishop. “The priests certainly wanted to rid the Celts of their Pagan practices. I do know that some of the original families who hired the mourners claim they still exist. The Church might have tried to erase or even absorb early beliefs, but they often persisted, or reemerged as something else. In this case, a portent; the banshee became something from the spirit world predicting death.”
“But they’ve never been considered human, have they?” Towner asked, repeating something Rafferty had said earlier.
“Not that I know of,” the archbishop said.
“I’ve heard them referred to as spirits who predict death,” Mink Woman said, making a moaning sound.
The baseball player followed with Twilight Zone music.
Towner glanced at Rafferty as if he might have something to add, but he said nothing.
“But surely, human or spirit, no one believes they’re killers,” Towner said.
“Do you think, inside, every one of us is a killer?” All eyes turned toward Callie as she spoke.
“What?” Towner asked.
Callie was unaware she had spoken the words aloud, and they shocked her. She had no idea where they came from or what they meant, but she could feel Rafferty’s eyes on her, staring. Great, now I’ve got the chief of police suspicious of me. “Nothing,” she said. “Sorry.”
It was almost midnight by the time they finished dinner. Finn herded everyone back to the library for port and cheese. Callie found herself at the rear of the group and stumbled at the threshold. “You’re tired,” Towner said. “I don’t think anyone would mind if you skipped the port.”
“I am tired,” Callie said, catching Towner’s subtext immediately.
“I assure you, I won’t be far behind,” Emily said, joining them. “It’s lovely having you in our home, Callie. We’ll meet in the morning.” She smiled. “Not too early, though. We girls need our beauty sleep.” She sounded sincere enough, but her expression and her words seemed at odds.
“I’m heading home,” Marta said.
“Do you need Paul to walk you through the woods?” Emily asked, just as her husband came back to round up stragglers.
“I can walk you,” Finn said.
“No one needs to walk me home.” Marta’s tone was clipped. “My car is still right outside.”
Callie excused herself, thanking everyone and saying good night. She was vaguely aware of the eyes on her as she started up the stairs. She tried to walk without holding the railing, but it was difficult. She hoped she hadn’t embarrassed herself too much during dinner. Towner had been right to give her an excuse to leave the group.
She made her way back to her room. It was warm and softly lit, her bedclothes were laid out, and a fluffy robe had been placed next to them. She wasn’t just tired. She was exhausted. And drunk. She undressed and put on her nightgown, thinking of how she had promised to meet Emily for their session the next morning. She hoped she wouldn’t have a hangover. As she was putting her dress in the closet, she knocked her jacket off the hanger, and something tumbled to the floor: the parchment envelope Ann had given her. “Put these herbs under your pillow each night to stop the evil spirits from invading your dreams.” Callie scoffed out loud.
Not bloody likely.
She glanced out the window in time to see Paul’s car pull out, and she watched as he went down the driveway, stopping just momentarily before turning left toward Salem. Off to see Ann Chase, she assumed.
She sat on the bed and exhaled, reclining onto the pillows and staring at the packet. The room was warm. She shook the herbs and then brought the envelope to her nose and sniffed it. It smelled like hemp. How appropriate. And something else. Anise. It wouldn’t help her sleep. Nothing ever did.
At least meditation would relax her. She sat on the bed and leaned back against the pillows, letting herself sink into a trance. It was something she did every morning and again every night. But tonight it wasn’t working. The smell of the herbs was too strong.
Callie tossed the envelope into the fireplace and watched it begin to burn, gasping when it suddenly exploded into flames. A bolt of pure light shot across the room, barely missing her as it grazed the couch across from her bed without leaving a mark. It extinguished itself as quickly as it had flared, putting out the fire as well, leaving the room in total darkness. The sound of the wind screaming down the chimney sounded like Rose’s banshee. In the distance, Callie swore she could hear the bells from St. James’s Church ringing…
No one had come back for her. All night long, she had done as Rose had told her to do. She did not open her eyes, and she didn’t come out of her hiding place. Her fingers were clenched around the rosary, hurting her palm, making it bleed and sting. But now she felt the late fall sun warm through the leaves of the hedge, and she could hear the church bells ringing, carried on the wind. Slowly, she pushed through the bushes and made her way downward through the tangle of trees, following the gravel path until she came to the crevasse.
At first, she believed they were alive. The movement of the trees, as the wind played their branches, created a hypnotic rhythm, and, for a moment, their stilled bodies seemed to dance, the blood from their wounds pulsing with the rhythm of her own heart. The scent of impending weather was on the east wind. The music of the spheres played a mournful requiem through the tangled branc
hes, and, finally, it was the music that made her understand what she was seeing.
It was her mother and the goddesses. And all who had come before. Salem’s accused and executed. This was a blood grave.
Those hanged never admitted to witchcraft. Those who confessed were spared.
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
The gift certificate Towner had created was propped up on the glass table of the orangerie where Callie had agreed to meet Emily this morning. It was a room of glass, full of light and ocean breeze. Potted citrus trees lined south-facing windows, their scents perfuming the ocean air. “I’m sorry my son is being so rude this morning.”
“How so?” Callie asked. She was exhausted from her nightmares; still, she noticed how yellow Emily’s skin looked in the morning light.
“He appears to have spent last night in Salem.” Emily glanced out the window at the expanse of unseasonably green lawn, and Callie followed her gaze. “He’s not a very good host, I’m afraid. He invited you; he should be entertaining you.”
“He’s been quite entertaining so far,” Callie said, cutting the line of conversation short. She suspected Emily didn’t like her any better than she liked Ann Chase. The reminder that Paul had spent the night with Ann made Callie remember part of her dream: the bells, the hypnotic rhythm of the trees—and that packet of herbs bursting into flames. Or was that part real?
“You don’t have to do this,” Emily said, indicating the gift certificate. “This…music thing.”
“I understand you’ve tried traditional music therapy before?”
“After one of my surgeries.”
“And did it help?”
Emily shrugged. “Not a great deal.”
Callie took a long look at Emily in the natural light. “Your color looks off.”
“My liver is failing. Which means they’ll take me off the chemo. And my husband won’t rest until he finds yet another treatment I don’t want to endure.”
“Do you meditate?”
“I can’t do yoga,” Emily said, raising her brows. “My bones are too brittle.”
“I was thinking less of yoga postures and more of a seated relaxation exercise, if you’re open to it.”
“I guess so.” Emily shrugged.
“Let’s have you sit there,” Callie said, pointing to an overstuffed chair in the corner.
Emily walked over and sat primly on the edge of the chair. She had the air of someone who was humoring a fool.
Callie put on some soft music: Bach cello solos.
“Yo-Yo Ma,” Emily said.
“Good choice?”
“We shall see.”
“I’ve had some favorable results with it.” The cello was the perfect balance of odd and even harmonics. Bach’s compositions had the opposite effect, with the music spaced at even intervals, something that never occurred in nature. But Callie liked Bach. His key changes often served to highlight particular energy blockages in a patient. And, in Callie’s opinion, there was no better expression of Bach’s cello music than Yo-Yo Ma’s. Callie adjusted the sound levels, turning up the bass slightly. She pulled a small pillow off the couch, gently placing it behind Emily’s head while encouraging her to sit back. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“Any pain or discomfort anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Okay then. Close your eyes and listen for a few minutes.” The piece always reminded Callie of water. “Let it wash over you.”
She’d recently heard Yo-Yo Ma interviewed. He said the Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major was all about flow. She took Emily’s hands and placed one on her lap and the other on the arm of the chair, palm up. Then she stepped back and watched. After a few minutes, Emily settled back into the chair. Instead of speaking, Callie began singing harmonic sounds: a third, a fifth. Then she closed her eyes and began to sing random tones, trying to find the home note that would vibrate at the core of Emily’s being. Unlike Rose’s home note, Callie could easily determine Emily’s; it was still very strong. But people need a balance of all frequencies to ground them. As with many people who’ve become ill, it was clear to Callie that Emily was missing some of them. By singing different notes, using an open vowel sound, Callie was able to fill in the missing tones.
The effect on Emily was subtle but immediate. Callie watched her muscles loosen, saw her sink even deeper into the chair.
“How do you feel?” Callie asked.
“All right,” Emily said.
“Good. Let’s stay with this, then.”
Yo-Yo Ma continued playing Bach, and Callie stopped singing as the notes descended. She watched the music take Emily with it. As the cello notes began to climb again, Callie harmonized with them a second time, visualizing the song carrying Emily over water. Emily’s breathing slowed, and Callie could see her truly relax into the chair. Outside the room, the waves broke rhythmically on the granite ledge below, creating their own counterpoint.
Callie sat in the chair opposite and quickly fell into her trance state, resting there for just a moment before letting her breathing sync up with Emily’s. The scent of oranges deepened, and Callie recognized the falling feeling that often accompanied the merging; she let herself go with it. She searched for the cancer, sought the inevitable catch in her breath where the music skipped, snagging itself on the rougher edges of illness. The chest was clear. If there had been cancer there before, it was gone now. She moved through Emily’s body once, then again. It might not be cancer she was feeling but it was something, and it was in the liver. Two patches. One was green, the same green as the lawn just outside the window, and the same texture. Centered in the green was a patch of brown, and beyond it a much darker object she couldn’t make out. As Callie tried to decipher its meaning, the music shifted from the Bach to a melody that was dissonant and much louder. Organ music? It reminded her of church. No—the opposite of church. The sound jolted her out of her trance, her eyes snapping open. The organ music disappeared, and Bach was back.
What the hell had just happened?
She was relieved to see that, whatever it was, it had not affected Emily, who still sat with her eyes closed and her hands where Callie had placed them. Her muscles were slack, and her face seemed to have softened. Callie turned off the music and opened the window wider to the ocean below, taking a few deep breaths to compose herself. It was a warm day, and the sun filled the room with light. The only sound for quite some time was the waves moving against the rocks.
Finally, Emily opened her eyes.
“How do you feel?” Callie asked. The color had come back to Emily’s cheeks, and her expression was far more relaxed.
“The same,” Emily said. “No change at all. How long have we been here?”
“Not too long,” Callie said. “A little over an hour.”
Emily looked surprised. “Well, at least the music was lovely.”
It was fine with Callie that Emily wouldn’t acknowledge the improvement. It wasn’t uncommon for a patient not to notice subtle change. “You should rest now,” Callie said. She needed to rest, too. She often picked up released energy during healing sessions, and usually she could shake it. But this session had been weird. What was it she’d seen? Or heard, for that matter? “Do you want me to close the window?”
“No,” Emily said, dismissing Callie. “Leave it open. I like the fresh air.”
“Oh, good,” Paul said, coming in the front door as Callie was getting ready to head up the staircase to her room. “I’ve been looking for you. Towner and Rafferty had to leave early. Something about Yellow Dog Island.”
Callie was surprised by the change of plans. “Are they okay?”
“I think so. They just wanted me to let you know.”
“Oh,” she said, wondering what she was supposed to do now. Was she still supposed to stay for the weekend? Were they coming back?
“Let’s go for a ride.”
She frowned. She really needed time to herself. “I’m tired.”
<
br /> He looked skeptical. “You can’t be tired. It’s only noon.”
“I need rest after a session.”
“You look quite rested to me.”
“Wish I could say the same,” Callie said, looking him over. “Rough night?”
“What?” He feigned an innocent look.
“Your mother thinks you’re rude.”
He laughed dismissively. “My mother thinks I’m perfect.”
Callie shook her head, smirking at him. “That’s not what she said behind your back.”
“Come on. Let me redeem myself.” He smiled.
That smile!
“And there’s something I want you to see.”
“What?” she asked, suspicious.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, taking her arm and leading her toward the still-open door. The old MG was parked outside the house.
She stopped at the door. Maybe getting out for a ride would clear her head. She’d been seeing odd images ever since she arrived at this house. And hearing even odder sounds. The sound of the wind last night…She shivered to remember. It would be good to get away. She’d go for that reason, no other.
Paul opened the passenger door for Callie, then walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
At the end of the long gravel driveway, he turned right onto Route 127, taking the road that hugged the shore north toward Gloucester. It was a beautiful ride, alternating between woodland and ocean expanse and dotted with the biggest houses Callie had ever seen. It seemed so familiar. Had she taken this ride with her mother when she was a child? Doubtful. Her mother hadn’t owned a car, at least not that Callie remembered, although she did have a brief memory of someone driving. Still, the shore road was familiar in a way that surprised her, each curve revealing a framed glimpse of something she had never seen before yet somehow knew would be there.
They passed through Pride’s Crossing, Beverly Farms, and Manchester-by-the-Sea. After Magnolia, with its wooded canopy, they crossed into Gloucester. Paul turned right, down a side road that hugged the shore, then took a left into an empty parking lot. He pulled the car to the far side under a large oak tree and turned off the engine.
The Fifth Petal Page 18