Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  They listened dutifully, her little girls, Judith's dark head bent over Margaret's wine-red curls. They were good children, too good, she often thought, quick and eager to learn, accepting the harsh, unforgiving life of the Puritan colony as easily as Abigail had the lush colors and easy comfort of her childhood in Barbados. How she would have loved to walk with her children across the white silk beaches of her island home, teach them to swim in the blue water warmed by a benevolent sun, offer them the sweet fruit juices and soft rolls that effortlessly appeared on a white, cloth-covered table in the garden every morning. Instead, they worked like slaves. In bare feet when the weather was barely warm, children as young as Margaret weeded the flax fields. In August when the seed bolls ripened, her children toiled in the hot sun, blistering their hands and feet, pulling up the plants by their roots. Then the dirt was tapped off and the stalks tied at the top in bunches. Flax was the staple for cloth in the colonies. Without linen, a family was bereft.

  Abigail's eyes filled. She'd taken so much for granted, the warmth, the freedom, the colors, the food, the sensual, throbbing African music that beat across the fields on hot summer nights, the feel of soft cloth against her skin, the indolent, graceful planters' way of life she would never see again.

  Margaret's eyes, marked like her own and no less disturbing, were sharp on her face. She seemed older than her years, her second daughter, with reserves of patience and a rare understanding that equaled Judith's born three years sooner. It was because of Margaret and her quickness that Abigail decided to instruct them in the old ways, in the healing powers of roots and berries and how to spot the restorative petals and mix the powders that brought relief for the inevitable ailments of humankind. If she left out the rest of it, the chants, the spells and stones that reflected the harmony and balance of the universe, if she omitted the role of the parallel worlds that coexisted beside their own and the forces of nature and the channeling of energy that the likes of Reverend Parris called magick, it was only because she was afraid that the knowledge would separate them, acknowledge their differences, make them unfit for the world into which they were born, this cold place, this dark, fear-based, life-draining way of life that demanded much from its men and even more from its women.

  Quickly, Abigail wiped the moisture from her eyes and picked a stalk of gorse growing golden on the rise of the hill.

  "What is that for?" asked Judith.

  "Nothing," replied her mother. "Nothing at all, except that 'T'is a thing of beauty. Sometimes, value can be found only in the pleasure of the beauty we see."

  Margaret laughed and pointed to a pair of squirrels squabbling at the base of an aspen tree. She ran ahead, arms outstretched.

  "Be careful," Abigail warned. "You'll frighten them away."

  Without slowing her pace, the little girl reached the arguing squirrels. Squatting down, she made no attempt to do more than observe their antics.

  Curious, Abigail watched, holding Judith against her side. Why didn't they move? Her first instinct was fear. Diseased animals behaved strangely, often having no fear of humans. But these squirrels appeared perfectly normal, other than their tolerance for a small child so close as to reach out and touch them. Impossible though it was, it seemed as if the three of them were conversing with each other.

  A shadow darkened the sky directly overhead. Abigail looked up. An eagle soared on the updraft, flapped its wings, circling again, its intent obvious. She looked back at the squirrels. Margaret's small frame shielded the rodents. They were oblivious to the danger above them. A knot of fear took root in her chest. Deprived of its prey, would the eagle chance carrying away a child? Margaret was very small. Dropping the basket, Abigail lifted her skirts and began to run. "Margaret," she shouted, "come here. Come here at once."

  Against the summer blue sky, the giant bird positioned itself, neck arched, wings spread, talons outstretched.

  Margaret shaded her eyes and looked up. Then she rose, dropping her arms, straightening to her full height assuming an adult pose, and fearlessly faced the bird.

  For Abigail, all sound disappeared. The squirrels no longer chattered. The wind stopped. Leaves stilled. A scream rose in her chest. She felt the rawness of her throat, the tightness in her cheeks, but she heard nothing except the determined descent of the bird, its giant wings parting the air. She ran faster, willing a miracle, knowing she would never reach Margaret in time, listening for the final screech that indicated the bird's successful kill.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, without warning, everything changed. Under the tree, the squirrels sat silently. Margaret hadn't moved. The bird, so deadly in its intent only seconds before, floated to a nearby tree limb, and settled its wings.

  Abigail slowed to a stop. The compelling need to rescue her child disappeared. She pressed her fingers against the stitch in her side and watched her daughter purse her lips and mimic the shrill, haunting call of the bald eagle.

  The bird cocked its head, waiting, listening. Then Margaret knelt on the ground and reached out to the squirrels.

  Abigail's hand covered her mouth, herbs and Judith forgotten, as the small animals crept toward the little girl, tentatively at first and then, as the eagle made no move, with growing confidence.

  Margaret kept perfectly still, allowing the small animals their curiosity, their darting movements, their twitching noses and the flouncing of their full, bushy tails. All the while the bird watched the squirrels scamper across the child's skirts, up her arms, across her neck and down her small, straight back. Long minutes passed.

  Finally, as if by some unspoken agreement, the squirrels, simultaneously, stood on their hind legs, swayed to and fro before Margaret and then disappeared into a nearby tree.

  Abigail's stitch subsided. She could breathe again. The meadow sang with sound. The eagle soared overhead. Could she have imagined such a scene, the squirrels, an eagle and Margaret? Margaret. She looked at the little girl sheltered by the aspen branches, at her thin face and strange eyes, at the copper-rich hair, tear-drowned eyes, at the flushed cheeks and trembling limbs that spoke of fear and triumph. She held out her arms and Margaret ran into them. Abigail knelt on the ground cradling her daughter, making soothing sounds against her hair. "Hush, poppet. All is well. You are safe now. We are all safe. You were magnificent."

  Judith caught up with them and knelt beside her mother and sister. Wrapping both arms around her children, Abigail curled them against her, rocking and clucking, caressing, crying and kissing until exhaustion claimed the children and they dozed while the sun began its descent in the West.

  Finally, sense intruded and Abigail woke them. Abigail held her daughters away from her, searching their faces. "I must ask you this," she began. "You must answer truthfully. Will you do this?"

  Both children stared at her. They had no experience with deception.

  "Will you?" Abigail repeated, desperation in her voice.

  Solemnly, the girls nodded.

  "Has this happened before?"

  No answer.

  "Have you power over animals, Margaret? Can you affect their behavior?" She gripped the small girl's shoulders and shook her slightly. "Meg, can you make them do as you wish?"

  The child began to whimper. Her thumb worked its way into her mouth. With round eyes she stared at her mother.

  Abigail turned to her older daughter, struggling for patience. "Judith, tell me what you know. T'is of great importance."

  "We mean no harm," she whispered. "T'is only a game."

  "What of the poppet?"

  Judith looked confused. She shook her head.

  "Do you remember when Mistress Woodcock visited and took ill? She saw a poppet float through the air."

  "I don't remember."

  Abigail gave up. They were only children after all. "Has anyone else seen you play this game with animals?"

  "No."

  Abigail searched her daughter's face, checking for fear, for deception. She saw none and sighed with relief. "This must never
happen again."

  "Why?" asked Judith.

  "There are people, evil people, who do not understand these things. They will take you away and harm you. You must never play your game again. Do you understand?"

  Judith frowned. "Who are the evil people?"

  "What does it matter, Judith?" Abigail answered impatiently. "There are many, too many to name. To be safe, you must suspect everyone."

  "Except you and Father."

  Abigail hesitated. John would cut out his heart for his children, but he wouldn't countenance the practice of magick. "Your father is your protector," she replied, hoping the words she chose would be enough. "You need not fear him, but he would not approve of your animal games."

  "Margaret saved the squirrels," said the child wisely. "The eagle would have taken them."

  "Eagles need food, too, Judith. We must not interfere in God's plan."

  "Does God know everything?"

  "He does."

  "Then he knows about Margaret and me and the animals. How can it be wrong?"

  "T'is not wrong. But people do not have the same understanding as God. Be ruled by me in this. T'is dangerous to play your game. Swear to me that it will stop. Swear it now, Judith."

  "I swear," she whispered.

  "Margaret? Do you swear as well?"

  She nodded.

  "Say it. Say, I swear."

  The child's lip trembled. "I swear."

  Abigail stood, taking her daughters by the hand. "We will speak no more of this. 'T'is time to go home. I think there are enough herbs to serve for now." She looked around. "Where did I leave the basket?"

  Judith pointed to a brown lump some distance from them with scattered flowers surrounding it. "You spilled the herbs."

  "I did," her mother admitted. Then she smiled. "But I have two strong girls to fill it again." She tapped them lightly on their backsides. "Go on, now. Run quickly and fill the basket to the top."

  Grinning, the children raced to the clearing and began piling the discarded flowers into the basket.

  Abigail watched them, the smile disappearing from her face. She felt the chill of foreboding creep into her bones. They were only children and could not be expected to keep this powerful gift to themselves. 'T'was only natural that they use it to experiment with the potential they'd inherited.

  Her fear hardened into a fierce resolve. She was their mother, their protector. It was thoughtless and short-sighted to push away the very thing that might save them. She would begin again, recalling the potions and spells, the sacred words and rituals that might make all the difference. It would not be easy. Years had passed since she'd practiced. She had much to remember and nowhere to turn for help.

  Chapter 22

  The following morning Maggie stepped outside to turn over the welcome sign on her shop door when she noticed the police cruiser and what could only be unmarked cars in front of the Hillyard's house. She frowned and watched two people step off the porch, confer at the gate and then split up, the woman walking east, the man heading directly toward Maggie. Breathing deeply, she braced herself and nodded briefly when he stopped in front of her door. He was of medium height with an inconspicuous haircut. She would have recognized him anywhere. The gray slacks, blue shirt, neutral jacket ad thick-soled shoes, were the calling cards of a police detective.

  Pulling his badge from inside his jacket, the man held it out. "I'm Detective Costello, Boston Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

  Maggie flipped the sign backwards and held the door open. "Come in." He passed in front of her and turned around.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  Pulling a picture out of his jacket pocket, he held it up for Maggie to see. "Do you recognize her?"

  Maggie didn't need to examine the photo. "Of course. It's Holly Hillyard."

  "The mother claims she dropped her off at home, yesterday at four o'clock. The dad called at midnight to report her missing. I'm investigating her whereabouts. Any strange cars or people in the neighborhood around that time?"

  "Are you saying that Holly has been missing since four o'clock yesterday afternoon?" Maggie's voice cracked.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She sat down on the couch. "Good God. That's eighteen hours ago." She looked at him. "Eighteen hours is a long time in a kidnapping case, Detective Costello."

  "In all fairness, we got a late start. Dr. Hillyard didn't call until midnight. What do you know about kidnappers, Ms. McBride?"

  Maggie's mouth turned down. "If you know my name, you don't really need an answer to that question, do you?"

  He moved his mouth in what she assumed was intended for a grin. "I'm following protocol, ma'am. Just answer the question."

  "I know that if they've got a twenty-four hour start, you've lost all advantage."

  "That depends on who it is. You're not discounting the family connection, are you?"

  She thought of Penny who'd lost her son. "I don't think that's possible in this case."

  "It's always possible. Mom wants her kid. Dad has her."

  "These people are different."

  "That's what they all say."

  Maggie crossed her arms against her chest. "What can I do for you, Detective?"

  "Keep an eye out. Report anything that looks suspicious. We've done a background check on you and your neighbors. We could use your help if you're interested."

  "I'll do what I can."

  "How about coming down to the station and working up a profile?"

  Maggie hesitated. "It wouldn't be a good idea."

  Costello raised his eyebrows. "Care to tell me why?"

  "It's a personal matter."

  "Well, Ms. McBride." His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Whenever you feel you can put aside your personal scruples to help us rescue a nine-year-old girl, be sure to speak up. Meanwhile, let me remind you that every hour is crucial in a kidnapping case. If we don't find her by the end of the day, we probably won't."

  He opened the door and closed it behind him. Maggie heard the melodic ring of her door chimes, watched the nondescript beige-blue-gray of him pass her window, smelled the faint carbon taint of muffins charring in her oven and still she didn't move. Holly Hillyard was missing. Gone since yesterday afternoon. A minute. Sixty seconds. That's all that it took, every time. One quick stop into a public restroom. One dash into the post office. One short walk to school, alone. One brief nap on the beach, one quick pose and snap of the camera and life, the old life, comfortably predictable, was over. For Penny and Scott Hillyard, the scope of their loss would be more brutal than most. Two children lost would send any parent over the brink of insanity.

  Not for a minute did Maggie consider the detective's suggestion that Holly's mother was responsible. She didn't know Penny Hillyard well, but there was nothing sinister or dark about her. Visitation was structured but not so inflexible that she couldn't see her daughter whenever she wanted. In fact, it was Holly who often dictated the day and time she visited her mother. To their credit, neither parent had the heart or the inclination to deny her the company of the other. No, Maggie decided. This time the relative theory didn't hold up.

  She knew the routine. Polygraphs would be set up and precious time wasted ruling out both parents. Not until then would they look to the community, spreading out to everyone, friends, coaches, teachers, clergy, anyone who had occasion to come into contact with Holly even in the smallest way. Not until then, when all options had been exhausted, would they assume the kidnapper was a stranger, a convicted child molester, newly released, living in the community. The protocol made sense. Ninety-eight percent of all kidnappings were committed by friends and family members. Sixty thousand non-family kidnappings occurred each year. One-hundred fifteen of those were committed by strangers. Half of the victims were sexually abused, nearly half were murdered and four percent of the cases were never solved. But the rest, sixty-four victims, were found. The statistics were grim. Of the few that were located, most were returned years later, dama
ged strangers with no recollection of their former lives.

  Maggie pressed her hand against the pain rising in her chest. Her eyes burned. Poor Holly. Poor little girl. She must be terrified. If she could be anything at all. Against her will the heinous thought flickered through her consciousness. It would be naïve to ignore the possibility. And yet, she still felt Holly's presence. The little girl was alive.

  Maggie left the Closed sign on the door, walked back into the house and pulled the charred muffins from the oven. Picking up the phone, she pushed the first three digits of Scott's phone number, hesitated and then carefully replaced the receiver back in its cradle. She was not a mother but she knew enough to realize that if this horror had descended upon her, everything else, especially a tentative relationship with a new neighbor, would be nothing more than an annoyance. Every phone call, unless it was the phone call, would be an exercise to be endured and eliminated as quickly as possible. No. She would wait until Scott remembered her again.

  She looked at her watch. The store could wait for another few hours. The other issue, nowhere in the same league, but still disturbing, she would address. She picked up the phone and dialed Susannah's number.

  * * *

  Deborah Summers had just poured coffee into her favorite mug and sat down at the kitchen table when the phone rang. Recognizing her husband's personal tone, she frowned and answered immediately. "Hello, Wayne. Is something wrong?"

  "When I left this morning there were police cars in front of Scott's house. Penny's car was there, too, and Holly didn't show up for school."

  She was conscious of a mild sense of annoyance. As usual, he hadn't bothered with a greeting, just dove right into the message. No, How's your morning going, Deb? I know you had a restless night. Just the stripped-to-the-bone basics, get the message out before bowing out, so he could return as quickly as possible to what she knew he considered to be his real life.