After a while she commented, “You know, I read that when they were doing the excavations they found a lot of redware, made locally.”
“Doesn’t the glaze have a lot of lead in it? Did you look at lead poisoning?”
“It does and I did. Again, it didn’t quite fit, although I suppose it’s still a possibility. The symptoms included abdominal and joint pains, muscle pains, numbness or tingling in the arms and legs, headache, and mood disorders, but none of the sources mentioned hallucinations. But most people in the village would have been using the same kind of redware, which was cheap and plentiful. One of the earliest potters mentioned by name in New England was John Pride, and he worked in Salem as early as 1640.”
“So why did you reject the idea of lead poisoning as a cause?”
“As I said, everybody would have suffered from it, not just a handful. And the result seems kind of passive, not active—it doesn’t lead you to do crazy things. I know—it would be a nice, simple theory. But nothing about this whole thing seems either nice or simple.” Abby walked away a few steps and shut her eyes, feeling a bit stupid. She was standing in the midst of a middle-class neighborhood—did she expect the Parris family to be hanging around now?
Ned let her alone for a few minutes, for which she was grateful, and eventually she opened her eyes and rejoined him. “Nothing,” she said, before he could ask. “There’s no one here, or at least no one I can see.”
“It’s early days yet. You want to go look for the other buildings in Danvers?”
“I suppose, although as I said, they’re scattered all over the place. You don’t mind weaving your way through neighborhoods?”
“Not a problem.”
Maybe Ned thought it was easy, but Abby found herself having trouble trying to keep an image of the 1692 map in her head while navigating much more modern streets. Did everybody who ever spent time in a place leave some of their energy behind them? Maybe an infinitesimal amount each, but add it to all the other contributions over a few centuries and it could become overwhelming. Since it wasn’t, that suggested that she wasn’t picking up something from everyone, just a select few, starting with her relatives. And people in great distress as well? The jury was still out on that one.
As they drove, Abby said, “You know, I’m not sure I’m doing this right. Either I should get really serious and dig into all the available information, or I should just drift around wearing a lot of scarves looking for ‘feelings.’”
“That I’d like to see.”
“Well, I could track down each and every person who made an accusation or was accused—people have covered that ground and made maps. It would take time, but I have time, if I choose to use it that way.”
“But?” Ned said, watching for the next turn.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just frustrated. I mean, I know that some ancestor of mine is not suddenly going to pop up in front of me and introduce himself—that’s silly. But honestly, the idea of trudging around from site to site—where there is no sign of what was there in 1692, in most cases—just sounds boring. I know, I said this was just an exploratory trip. I don’t have to decide this minute.”
“Have you defined what you’re looking for? What your goal is?”
“To see if I have any witch blood? No, seriously—to see if I can pick up even an inkling of anything from that time, and if that tells me anything about what happened. I don’t have to prove anything, or tell anyone except you, but I want to know.”
“What about where the trials were held? Lots of people, both accused and accusers, all crammed together in one place.”
“Okay, that makes sense. Where?”
“Is there a Salem courthouse?”
“Not anymore. There’s a plaque, I think.”
“Is that enough?”
“Let’s find out.”
16
Abby pulled out her cell phone and called up Google. “I’ve read that the courthouse at the time was at the intersection of Essex and Washington streets, in the middle of town. Some of the early examinations were held at the First Church, at the same location. Both are gone now, although there were several later First Churches on the site, and then it became a jewelry store. Now there’s a restaurant in the building, but at least the latest church building is still there.”
“Lo how the mighty are fallen!” Ned said. “How do you want to handle it?”
“Well, I could use some lunch, so let’s find a restaurant—not the one in the former church—and then walk around a bit, and then home in on where the examinations happened. Does that work?”
“This is your excursion, so your call, but that makes sense to me.”
Ned found a parking garage from which they could see the water of the harbor, and then they went into an unassuming place that served sandwiches. Once they were settled with their food, Ned said, between bites, “This place goes crazy in October, as you can probably imagine.”
“Well, given that we’ve seen a couple of magic shops between the garage and here, I’m not surprised. Why is that, do you think?”
“People like to dress up? And also hide their identity so they can let loose. Masks play a part.”
“Okay, I can see that. But why here in Salem?”
“Because of its history, I’m guessing,” Ned replied, before munching on a handful of potato chips. “It’s convenient. It’s a place for like-minded people to gather, and everybody knows where to find it.”
Abby sighed. “I suppose what we’re doing here isn’t that much different, although I prefer to do it alone instead of with a crowd of crazies.”
“I understand. You ready to go?”
“I guess.”
They tossed their trash and left the restaurant, then meandered north and east, toward what was now the town center, although Abby knew from her last trip that the town in 1700 had not extended much beyond the modern Essex Street. Along the way, Abby said, “You know, I read The House of Seven Gables, but it was a while ago. I didn’t really make the connection to the witch trials then. I certainly didn’t know that one of Hawthorne’s ancestors was a judge at the trials—the only one who never apologized, which is why Nathaniel added the w to his surname. Funny how much of New England history kind of ties together, over time.”
“Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it? Kind of like Six Degrees of Separation, only played out over time.”
“I’m not related to either of them, as far as I know. I wonder, if this ability is genetic, is it binary?” When Ned looked confused, Abby tried to explain. “I mean, if this is linked to a gene, can I sense a fifth cousin four times removed? Would the signal strength, if you will, be weaker than if I was sensing a fifth great-grandmother?”
Ned laughed. “Abby, I have no idea, and right now, I can’t think of a way to test it, unless you could line up a slew of the people all at once and test them one at a time. Since the ones you meet seem to be tied to places, that could be difficult. You just keep reporting back whatever you see, and someday maybe we’ll put it all together.”
“Big help you are,” Abby grumbled. “I want answers now.”
“Ah, but you are young and impetuous,” Ned said with mock formality.
Abby blew a raspberry at him. “Well, impetuous me wants to go find where the action was in 1692. From what I’ve read, the courthouse and the First Church lie pretty much due west of here. The prison was off that way.” She waved vaguely off to the right. “Nothing’s left of any of them, except historical plaques. I suppose nobody thought they deserved to be preserved, so they fell down from neglect or were replaced.”
“Happens in any city or town, so don’t read too much into it,” Ned said. “Let’s go.”
Holding hands, they wandered along Essex Street toward the historic district, passing a large museum, for which Abby made a mental bookmark. Not today, but later, maybe. Not because it had anything to do with her family or ghosts, but because it was an interesting place: she really did need to hang on
to a few outside interests that didn’t involve her dead ancestors, or now witches. A block or so beyond the museum, they came to the intersection that Abby had identified as the site of the First Church. She stopped and studied the corner: it was definitely modern, and busy, with cars passing and pedestrian malls and shoppers. How was she supposed to plug into anything from the past here, in the midst of all this?
She pivoted around and recognized what had been the nineteenth-century church, which sat on the site of the First Church. It still bore the Daniel Low and Company sign that had been added when it was a jewelry store. Conveniently there was a pedestrian plaza running alongside it, with tables and awnings. “I think that’s where the church was. Mind if we sit?”
“No, not at all. You want a soda or something?” Ned asked.
“Sure, that sounds good. I’ll snag a table.” As Ned strolled off in search of something to drink, Abby found a table and sat down. Luckily at mid-afternoon there weren’t a lot of people around to see her acting like a flake. How was she supposed to do this? Call up the ghosts of the past? She felt like a fraud. Well, a quick scan of the passersby didn’t yield anybody wearing clothes a century or three out of date. She closed her eyes.
And the world changed. Part of her knew she was still sitting in the sunshine in modern Salem, but what she saw was a dark room, crowded with both men and women, and it looked to her as though it was a trial. No! How? It was impossible, but she could hear people speaking. A panel of what could only be judges were seated at one side of the room, and a man about her own age stood before them. He looked ordinary: his clothes were clean but not fancy. He didn’t seem nervous, just determined. Another man sat at the far end of the table, pen poised over paper—the court reporter of the day?
“Your name?” one of the judges addressed the standing man.
“Samuel Barton, sir.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-eight years, sir.”
“Why come you here before us?”
“To speak for Goody Proctor, who is accused of being a witch.”
“What do you have to tell us?”
The young man stood up straighter and looked squarely at the judges. “In March of this year I was at the house of Thomas Putnam. They got to talking about who was afflicted, and who the children had complained of. One of them there was Mercy Lewes, and they said she had cried out against Goody Proctor. And Mercy Lewes she did deny it, said she had never cried out against Goody Proctor nor anyone else. She said all she did was point and say, ‘There she is,’ but she was not pointing at Goody Proctor. But Thomas Putnam and his wife said she did. And Mercy Lewes said that if she did that, she did it when she was out of her head, because she had seen nobody.”
There fell a silence, broken only by the scratching of the clerk’s quill pen. Then a judge said, “Thank you, sir. That is all we require from you, and you may stand down. We now call John Houghton before us.”
The room dissolved when Abby felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Ned, watching her with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Barton,” she said more strongly. “He said his name was Samuel Barton, and he was testifying on behalf of Elizabeth Proctor.”
Need took a deep breath and sat down, pushing a bottle of iced tea toward Abby. “Abby, I . . . I’m not sure what to say. You’re telling me you just saw a part of the Salem witch trials?”
“Yes. What else could it be? It was right here. Someone was recording it—writing it down. The court records are all available online and in print, so it’s easy to check.”
“Are you sure that you haven’t already read about this particular episode and you’re just fantasizing it?”
“Ned, there are hundreds of pages of court records and testimony! I haven’t had the time to read all of them. You don’t believe me?” She was beginning to feel angry—or was that just the residue from the tense scene she had witnessed?
“No, I didn’t mean that, Abby. I’m just asking. All right, if it’s true, why this particular event out of all of them? Or at least, why first? It’s possible that if you sat here for long, you might see a lot more.”
“Why Samuel Barton, you mean? Because when I started pushing back one of my family lines, I found a Barton—this was only last week. I haven’t had time to follow it back, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would I see him, rather than someone else? But there are no Bartons on the list of either accused or accusers—I would have noticed that.”
Ned took a drink from his own bottle and gave Abby a small smile. “If it was anyone else talking, I’d think you were just looking to make yourself more important. Like, ‘wouldn’t it be cool to have an ancestor at Salem during the witch trials?’ But I have to believe you, Abby.”
“Thank you.” Abby reached out to touch his hand, and then thought better of it. Maybe joining hands would amplify her own perceptions, but she wasn’t sure if she could handle any more right now without overloading. Had she really just seen something that happened over three hundred years earlier?
“Have you had enough for one day?” Ned asked.
“I think so. I hate to waste the opportunity, since we’re here, but I’m afraid I might short-circuit or something, and you’d have to carry me home. And of course, now I want to get to my laptop and plot out the line from the Eliza Barton I found to Samuel, which I assume exists. Oh, unless you’d like to sit here for a bit and see if you can pick up anything? It’s possible you had people here, you know.”
“I don’t think I’m up for it right now,” Ned said, looking uncomfortable. “One big hit per day between us is plenty, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” Abby wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. Maybe she would be more help to him once she sorted out her own impressions. Or was that just a rationalization? “I’ll let you know if I find anyone who I think connects to you.”
“Fine. You ready to go? You don’t want to go look for the prison site?”
Abby stood up. “No, not now. I don’t know if this Samuel was ever there—all I saw of him was when he was a witness—but there must have been a lot of emotional pain at the prison, and I’d rather not find out today. Let’s go home.”
They walked back to the parking garage and drove out of town. Abby was silent for most of the ride, trying to retain and also understand what she had seen. It wasn’t like she was starry-eyed. She knew she’d seen plenty of engravings of the trial sites (or maybe seen the same two or three many times), so she could have projected those into a fantasy. A pretty elaborate fantasy, she admitted. But she questioned everything she learned or saw; she wasn’t just looking for attention, or for the bragging rights for future parties. “Oh, yes, I’m descended from a witch.” Great conversation starter, but she didn’t go to that kind of party. She’d be much more likely to launch into an impassioned discussion about how generations had gotten it wrong about Salem, which probably would have driven away anybody at a party.
“You’ve been quiet,” Ned commented as he pulled into their driveway.
“Just thinking. And thank you for not interrupting. We’re both lousy at making small talk, aren’t we?”
“Kind of. Any conclusions?”
“Just that I need to know a lot more, but at least I know where to look.”
Then she realized there was something she had missed in her excitement. “Ned, there might be more.”
He turned off the engine and faced her. “Why do you say that?”
“You know in the past, sometimes I see these people through someone else? Not always, not since I’ve gotten more tuned in to the whole thing. But sometimes. This may be one of them. I was seeing Samuel, and the rest of the room and the people in it, very clearly. Which means I wasn’t seeing it from Samuel’s point of view. So maybe I’m connected to someone else who was there.”
Ned nodded. “Okay. So right now you need to follow your Barton line back to this Samuel and track down this s
pecific event, and then see who else shows up.” He hesitated before adding, “Are you all right with this? I mean, you looked pretty shaken up when I came back to the table.”
“I was, I have to admit. But it kind of proves my point, doesn’t it? The trials inspired a lot of strong emotions in the people—the accused, the accusers, the witnesses. That’s what I was looking for, what I hoped to find. So I can’t complain when I do find it. And of course, now more than ever I want to know what was going on. So now I have Samuel’s name, and no doubt he’s somewhere in the records, so I can trace him. That’s what I’ll do next.”
But who was the other person, the one who was watching Samuel?
“Let’s go inside—unless you’re up for looking at wallpaper?” Ned said.
“Sure, why not?” She still needed to calm down a bit before trying to do any computer research. It would be a good distraction. Samuel wasn’t going anywhere, and he’d be waiting for her later.
17
“I like that one,” Abby said, pointing to a roll of wallpaper, one of half a dozen lined up along the foot of the wall in the front parlor. Too bad the store wouldn’t give out samples, so each could be spread out to show the overall pattern, but at least they had let her bring home sample rolls, so she could study them where they were going to go, by daylight.
Defending the Dead (Relatively Dead Mysteries Book 3) Page 13