Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  "T'is a lie," she whispered. "You fancied me. I know it. I remember it well."

  He gritted his teeth. "It is Mercy Walcott I would have courted. She has a lovely laugh and my sisters preferred her to all others." He forced himself to look at her, at the collapsed lines around her mouth, at the frozen misery in her eyes. "You were never considered. I am sorry, Hannah, but I did not think of you beyond friendship. It is past time for me to speak of this. Abigail has borne your hatred for ten years. Let it be finished."

  For a long time he waited while she stared at her hands, motionless in her lap. Finally, he stood. "There is nothing more to be said. In the morning I will escort you home." With that he left the room.

  She heard his footsteps on the stairs. She spoke softly. "Finished, John. I think not. T'is only the beginning."

  * * *

  Maggie woke with a headache, her throat parched and her legs weak. She drank nearly a quart of cold water, crawled into bed and slept the night through without interruption.

  Chapter 20

  The morning rolled in with a strange pearly light Maggie had never seen before in any of her travels. Dark clouds bundled together, changed shapes, stretched out and then disappeared altogether, leaving behind a pale blue sky and the persistent kind of sun that is often found in harbor towns before the weather knows to move forward into the blister blue skies and muggy heat of summer, or to retreat and settle for the muted colors and cooler temperatures of early spring.

  She fed the cat, ate a bowl of oatmeal topped with wheat germ, poured herself a cup of dark roast, turned on the Tiffany lamps and flipped her sign around in the window to indicate she was open.

  Business was brisk and the morning passed quickly. Maggie was waiting for something to happen. She felt it in the unsettled feeling in her chest and in her hands, slower than usual at the computer. It was mid-afternoon when Susannah Davies walked through her door. It wasn't a complete surprise to see her. For reasons unknown, the woman seemed to know when she was needed.

  Maggie didn't mince words. She handed her a cup of herbal tea, waved her toward the couch and, since the store was now empty, sat down beside her. "Why didn't you tell me that you lived here?"

  "I intended to when the time was right."

  "Surely you must have known that someone else would tell me."

  Susannah unwrapped her teal green shawl from around her shoulders and draped it over the back of the couch. "That isn't important, Maggie. Ask me what you really want to know."

  "If you meant to tell me, what were you waiting for?"

  "There is more to my story than this blip of information. I want to tell you all of it. I plan to, but I wanted you to come to certain information on your own. Otherwise, you would have had to accept too much on mere faith alone. Your nature is a skeptical one."

  "And now?"

  Susannah pressed her forefinger against her lips. "I'm not sure."

  "I don't understand you, Susannah. Nothing is making sense."

  Susannah walked to the window and looked up at the sky, at the swirling clouds and the strange, inconsistent light. "I thought I would have more time." She turned to look at Maggie. "Maybe it will be enough. Will you trust me a little longer?"

  "I do trust you. I'm not sure why, but I do. I feel safe with you."

  "The reason for that will become clear to you. Shall we continue your spinning lesson tonight?"

  "Tomorrow would be better. I'm having dinner with Scott Hillyard tonight."

  "Of course. I should have known." Susannah shook her head and laughed.

  "I feel as if I'm always saying I don't understand, but I really don't."

  "Be patient. It will all become clear very soon. I'll fill in the missing parts." Susannah collected her shawl and then did something completely unprecedented. She bent down and kissed Maggie's cheek.

  * * *

  The restaurant Scott chose was a blend of wholesome and elegant. The staff was tolerant and the clientele, also tolerant considering the wait time and the no-reservations policy, wore what was typical for a harbor town, whatever they pleased. Maggie was grateful to see that her instincts, slim white slacks and a green sweater, had proven true.

  She found a bar table facing the sunset while Scott ordered drinks. She watched him walk toward her carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine. He was very easy to look at she decided, not handsome, but sincere and strong, as if he'd tried to please her, but not too hard.

  They sat for a few minutes, without speaking, sipping the excellent wine and enjoying the view. Scott broke the silence. "The sky is unusual today. I don't think I've ever seen clouds move so quickly this time of year."

  Maggie pointed to a large puffy, formation. "That looks like a carriage with six horses."

  Scott shook his head. "It's a castle. See the towers and the moat?"

  "You're blind," Maggie teased him. "It's a carriage. The horses are running and the coachman is brandishing his whip."

  "I don't see it."

  "What about that one over there, the one that looks like a herd of elephants."

  Scott studied the shape. "That's a possibility. I see the tusks and the ears. Are there babies in the group?"

  "Lots of babies."

  "Do you like traveling?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "Actually, I've never done much traveling, as in vacation travel. I have moved a lot. I'd rather not do any more of that."

  "It's hard on kids," Scott agreed. "What did your parents do?"

  "I don't know. It's an unbelievable story." She challenged him. "Are you ready for it?"

  "Shoot."

  "I'm adopted. My mother found me on a bench in The Old Burying Point Cemetery. I was completely naked and probably between two and three years old. She was a wiccan. I didn't know that until I moved here. I don't believe she was practicing, probably because her husband didn't approve."

  "Your birth parents couldn't be found?"

  "I don't think she tried very hard to find them," Maggie admitted. "Annie believed her mission was to raise me, that she was chosen somehow." She shook her head. "I know it sounds bizarre, but it's the truth. She lived in Salem, in the house I live in now. She kept it all those years and willed it to me."

  "Is that why you came back here, to find your parents?"

  "I think so," Maggie said slowly. "There were other factors, too."

  "Such as?"

  "I hated my job."

  "Ah," Scott smiled. "We finally get to the job."

  "I worked for the police department, for several police departments, profiling criminals."

  "Impressive, and interesting."

  "Not for me. I couldn't wait to get out. Annie's house and her trust seemed to be my golden opportunity."

  "Have you changed your mind?"

  "No. I love it here. I love the shop and the house. I feel as if I fit in."

  "And the search for your parents? How is that working out?"

  Maggie frowned. "I'm not too hopeful as far as my actual parents are concerned. Leaving a little girl, naked and alone, in a cemetery doesn't sound like the actions of people I'd want to know. I'm certainly curious, but that's it. What I'm really interested in is finding out who I am. I believe my family roots are here in this town. I'd like to verify that."

  Scott reached across the table and lifted a strand of red-brown hair, separating the strands of variegated color with his fingers. "If your family origins are here in Salem, they shouldn't be difficult to find. Your coloring is unusual and heterochromia iridium is an inherited trait, usually showing up in sequential generations."

  "Are you saying one of my parents had the gene?"

  "Yes and one of their parents. Your variation is particularly striking. We have a genealogical society here in Salem. Why not check it out?"

  Maggie had no intention of telling Scott Hillyard, a man of science with no spiritual inclinations, that she had something much better than a genealogical society. She had already divulged more than she'd intended.
The wine, the company and the lapping of the ocean against the fiberglass hulls of the docked boats had lulled her into a relaxed state. "I'll think about it," she said. "Enough about me. Tell me something about you. I know that you're a native of Salem. Did you ever think of branching out?"

  "I went to school out West, both undergraduate and medical school. After eight years I decided I was a New Englander at heart, and came home. It helped that I was accepted at Tufts to do my residency. I settled into family practice because my family doctor was retiring and asked if I wanted to buy his practice. The rest is history. I married Penny, had two children, lost one, divorced, and here I am, with you."

  The buzzer summoned them to their table. Maggie's food was delicious, buttery lobster, green salad and hot sourdough bread. It took all of her will power not to lick her fingers. "I like Penny," she said, continuing their conversation.

  "She can be likeable."

  Maggie wiped her fingers on the napkin. "May I ask you a personal question?"

  The blue eyes narrowed warily. "Yes."

  "Do you think you would still be married to her if your son had survived?"

  He looked startled. "It's possible," he said slowly. "Divorce isn't something we do in my family. On the other hand, we were both pretty miserable." He played with the handle on his cup of coffee. "The kids were very young. If I hadn't been terrified that she wasn't capable of caring for Holly, I probably would have stayed. I wasn't raised to think that I was entitled to personal happiness at the cost of my children." He smiled grimly. "Does that disappoint you?"

  "Not at all," she said and meant it. "It's a good answer, one I would expect from you. Commitment isn't something to be taken lightly."

  "You're an interesting woman."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "You haven't tried to flirt with me all night and you brought my ex-wife into the conversation."

  "Which one makes me interesting?"

  He laughed. "Both."

  Suddenly she liked him very much. "I don't know how to flirt, Scott," she said honestly. "I grew up without a father and, other than television, I've had no role models."

  He leaned forward and took her hand. "I'm not complaining. I think it's a waste of time."

  "Which one?"

  Again he laughed. "Both. My relationship with Penny seems like it happened to another person in another lifetime, and as for flirting, I think it muddies the waters." He signaled the waitress. "Would you like to take a walk on the pier?"

  "Very much."

  It was cold over the water. Scott tucked her hand under his arm and Maggie was grateful for the warmth. Theirs was a comfortable conversation. They chatted easily of small things, New England in the fall, the benefits of living in a small town, the seesaw of pain and pleasure that comes with the raising of children, drawn butter versus mayonnaise for the dipping of artichoke leaves. It was so comfortable and easy that Maggie was completely unprepared for the breath-stealing swell of emotion that followed the tightening of Scott's arms around her, the brush of his lips, the deepening kiss and the taste of his tongue filling her mouth.

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, Scott paced the floor of his living room, cell phone in hand, fury on his brain. It was 9:30, Sunday night, and Penny hadn't returned Holly. Just as typically, she wasn't answering either her cell or her home phone. He cursed himself for not acceding to Holly's request for her own mobile phone. She was mature for her age, and responsible, more responsible than her mother. He vowed then and there that first thing tomorrow after school, he would take her to pick out her own phone. Once again he glanced at the clock. Holly probably hadn't finished her homework or had anything to eat. He would cook her something. At least it would take his mind off murdering his ex-wife.

  * * *

  Just next door, Maggie wasn't having any luck with her foray into the past. "I'm sorry, Susannah," she said. "I'm not in the mood. It's as if something is in the way, something important."

  "Do you know what it is?"

  Maggie concentrated. Slowly, a cold, familiar clamminess worked its way from her stomach to her chest and out through her extremities. She shivered and rubbed her arms, sat down on the couch and wrapped the afghan around her shoulders. Sweat broke out on her forehead and her cheeks paled. Something was very wrong. Someone was in trouble. No, it was more than that. Someone was in danger. "I think," she began, and shook her head, trying to rid herself of the cold dread. "I don't want this," she whispered. "I'm not doing this anymore."

  Susannah knelt beside her. "What is it? What do you see?"

  "I'm not sure. It's confusing."

  "This is important," Susannah insisted. "You have to concentrate. Time is running out for us, Maggie. Please, one more time."

  "I'm trying. I'm trying." She willed herself to focus. Still nothing. "I can't do this right now." She shrugged. "Maybe I'm just tired. Can you come back tomorrow?"

  Susannah nodded. "I'll come back, but I want you to do something for me. I want you to try spinning on your own."

  "You told me not to do that."

  "We have no choice. Trust me, Maggie."

  "You've been saying that quite a bit, lately."

  "Don't doubt me. Not now. You'll have your answers." Once again she kissed Maggie, this time on the forehead. "Pay attention," she whispered. "Please, pay attention. So much depends on it."

  * * *

  Scott lost count of the times he'd dialed Penny's number with no answer. When she finally picked up, he was startled to hear her voice.

  "Hello," she said, into the silence. "Hello, who is this?"

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Her voice changed. "Scott, is that you?"

  "You were supposed to have Holly home at six o'clock. It's eleven thirty. What are you thinking? Are you completely out of your mind? She has school tomorrow. It's her last week. She has homework, projects. What's the matter with you?"

  "Whoa, Scott. Slow down. Are you saying that Holly isn't there?"

  "Of course she isn't."

  There was deep, profound silence on the other end of the phone line. Then he heard Penny's voice again, thick and confused, sounding nothing like herself. "Dear God, where is she?"

  A cold hard knot settled in Scott's chest. "What are you saying?"

  "I dropped her off hours ago. She said she wanted to be home by four to finish her schoolwork. She ran into the house, just like she always does. I thought you were home. I waited. She came back out to wave to me. It's our signal telling me she's in and everything is okay."

  He wasn't hearing this. It wasn't possible. Seven, nearly eight hours had passed since his daughter walked through the door and disappeared. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. "I'm calling the police," he said. "Come over. Come right now."

  "I'll be right there."

  Chapter 21

  Maggie sat on the stool opposite her spinning wheel. For the first time she was reluctant to touch the warm wood, afraid to call up the story that was consuming her, yet unable to set it aside along with the answers she was becoming desperate to find. She had a strange sense of foreboding. Her fingertips were white, bloodless, and the dull burn in her side wouldn't go away, not even with the licorice tea she'd steeped or the charcoal caplets that evened out acidity in the stomach.

  Stretched out on the carpet close to the fire, Muffin's eyes, alert, pulsing with golden lights, watched her with unusual wariness. "Are you trying to tell me something?" Maggie asked her pet. "Do you think I'm ridiculous?"

  The cat stared at her, feline intelligence evident in the quivering ears and whiskers and the systematic slap of her tail against the floor. Maggie closed her eyes and reached for the wheel. She wouldn't spin just yet. Today it was enough to run her hands over the spokes of the wheel, to touch the spindle, the base and the orifice, to finger the smooth thread already twisted on the bobbin. There was no need to do any more, not this minute, not even the next, maybe not even today. A wave of fati
gue washed over her. She glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. Late, but not terribly so. Certainly not late enough to feel this all-consuming tide of weariness when she'd slept the night through and opened the shop late this morning. She felt unsettled, as if everything she'd accomplished, the store, her spinning, the friendships she'd begun, the garden with its moon vine and angel's trumpet, its star jasmine, flowering tobacco, sweet gardenias and chocolate mint didn't matter. She wanted to look out the window to be reassured, as she often was, by the winking stars and the sliver of the Cinderella moon, that all was well, but her apathy was so great she hadn't the energy or the will to make the effort. She was worried, consumed would be a better word, about Abigail's youngest daughter, Margaret. Maggie felt the connection between them. They were so similar, their eyes and hair. She was sure the child was related to her. What answers did she carry and how could Maggie break through the barrier of hundreds of years?

  The flames threw an arc against the wall dividing it into sections of shadow and light. Muffin's eyes glowed in the firelight. Inside the gold, the vertical pupils expanded, changed shape, reformed themselves. Maggie blinked. The shapes narrowed, settled, assuming recognizable figures. Impossible. Her hand tightened on the wheel, her mind and body resisting the pull of the past. And then it was too late.

  * * *

  Salem, Massachusetts, 1692

  Abigail carried her basket into the meadow, her attention divided between the herbs, so necessary to the community in which she lived, and her daughters skipping ahead, charmed by the crisp breeze and ripe colors of an early New England summer. She called ahead to her children beckoning them to her side, pointing out the roughbind-weed. They wouldn't understand, not when they were still so young, but it was the way she'd learned at her own mother's knee. To hear the words, again and again, to make them as familiar as drawing breath was the only way she knew. "The leaves when pounded, mixed with hog grease and boiled is for the curing of wounds," she told them. Kneeling beside the rough plant, she pulled it from the ground, avoiding the thorns, and deposited it into her basket. She had not expected the rocky soil of new England to produce such a wealth of herbs. "Here is live-for-ever," she explained when they'd walked only a few yards further. "It flourishes in the summer months and heals the cough of the lungs when taken as tobacco. For pain in the head it can be strained and drunk in beer and wine. It also kills worms."