Crossroads

by Wendy Saunders

  She reached the entrance to the room and could see debris scattered across the floor from the earthquake. Counters and plastic pieces of board games were scattered across the floor, mixed in with scrabble tiles and dominoes. The walls were still the same bright happy sunshine yellow and the paintings hung on the wall had not moved, not really a surprise as they had been screwed to the wall in the first place. She headed further into the room and stopped abruptly as her heart leapt into her throat and thudded there dully.

  Theo sat to the side of the room on a green plastic chair, with an artist’s easel in front of him. He was surrounded by scattered pieces of paper, some crumpled up, others covered with pencil and charcoal sketches. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows revealing the winding blue, black and silver lines of the supernatural tattoo etched deeply into the skin of his arm. His dark hair fell forward partly obscuring his face, but as he moved, frantically swiping the brush over the canvas, she caught a glimpse of his dark eyes fixed on the painting he was working on in fierce concentration.

  ‘Theo,’ she whispered.

  He couldn’t hear her from the doorway. She stepped further into the room, moving towards him slowly almost afraid of moving too quickly in case he disappeared and she was once again alone. As she neared him she paused, frowning as she caught sight of one of his sketches which had been swept across the floor. She bent down and picked it up with shaky fingers. It was a pencil sketch of something she’d seen him draw before, something he’d tried to keep her from seeing, something that obviously plagued him greatly. She took a step closer and picked up another drawing and then another, soon she had a small pile in her trembling hand and she sucked in a shaky breath. They were all the same, a huge gnarled tree beneath a storm laden sky. From its thick twisted branch swung several nooses and from one of them hung a limp female body, dangling as if it were caught in the sway of an unseen wind.

  Her fist clenched involuntarily, crushing the pictures in her hand. Dropping them to the ground where she’d found them she straightened and looked back towards Theo. Her heart broke for him, he had carried the pain and guilt for so long he didn’t know how to let it go.

  ‘Theo,’ she spoke a little louder this time.

  He didn’t acknowledge her but kept painting, the muscles of his forearm corded tightly as he swiped angrily at the canvas as if he were trying to exorcise some sort of personal demon. She kept walking slowly, approaching him as if she were afraid of startling him.

  ‘Theo?’ she called to him loudly this time but still he didn’t answer.

  She crossed the distance and stopped next to him but he didn’t even so much as look up. Olivia’s face creased into a scowl of confusion, what was wrong with him? It was like he wasn’t even aware of her presence.

  ‘Theo?’

  She dropped down next to the chair he was sitting in, crouching beside him so she was almost his eye level. She reached out tentatively and laid her hand gently on his forearm in an attempt to still his frantic movements but he didn’t even acknowledge her.

  ‘Theo?’

  ‘He can’t hear you, you know,’ a cool female voice spoke from across the room.

  Olivia’s head snapped up and her eyes widened as she saw the person who had spoken. She shot to her feet, her hands bursting into silver Spirit fire before she’d even consciously summoned it. Placing herself protectively in front of Theo her eyes blazed angrily.

  ‘Mary,’ Olivia hissed.

  Mary Alcott-Beckett sat on one of the tables by the window overlooking the gardens, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her feet resting on one of the plastic chairs. She watched Olivia with calm detachment, her gaze wandering slowly down to the silver fire burning in Olivia’s hands.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she replied tiredly. ‘Go ahead, trust me, it would be a kindness.’

  Olivia’s forehead creased in confusion as she slowly relaxed her hands, letting the tension in her body ease a fraction. She took in Mary’s appearance noticing that she no longer resembled the angry spirit who had attacked herself and Theo back at her house. Gone were the red eyes lost to madness, the rotting teeth, the matted wild hair and the dirty 17th century smock and apron she’d worn. Instead Olivia now saw a young woman with serious blue eyes and hair the color of a corn field, her smooth flawless skin had lost the sickly chalky pallor and was once again a pale fine porcelain. Her feet were bare but clean and she wore a pale blue summery dress, which stopped just above her knee. If Olivia had only just been meeting her for the first time now, she would never have guessed she was from the 17th century but more from her own time.

  Curious but still suspicious her fire banked and she looked to Mary cautiously.

  ‘What are you doing here Mary?’

  ‘I can’t leave,’ she sighed softly as she gazed back at Theo.

  Olivia followed her eye line back to Theo who was still painting obliviously.

  ‘What did you mean when you said he can’t hear me?’

  ‘He’s trapped,’ Mary replied quietly, her attention turning back to Olivia. ‘His guilt is keeping him imprisoned within his own mind, he’s stuck. He can’t move past it and he can’t let it go. It is slowly consuming him and eventually he will be lost to the madness, just as I was.’

  ‘No,’ Olivia whispered.

  ‘I can’t reach him; believe me I’ve tried.’

  ‘Why are you still here Mary? Why can’t you leave?’

  ‘Because he won’t let me,’ she whispered, her gaze tracking across to the man she’d once called husband.

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘He blames himself for what happened to me’ she replied, ‘his guilt is keeping me bound to him.’

  Her eyes dropped down as she raised her ankle and as Olivia’s eyes followed hers she saw for the first time a thin silver chain, delicate and intricate, shimmering in the dim light. It wound around Mary’s ankle and then dropped down to the ground, running along the tiled floor to Theo where, Olivia realized with a start, it was attached to Theo’s wrist.

  ‘He doesn’t even realize he is doing it,’ she breathed in frustration, ‘but he has been dragging me through time with him like an anchor. Until he lets me go, until he forgives himself and moves on I am trapped here with him, watching him slowly going mad.’

  Her eyes filled with tears and suddenly Mary seemed so much younger.

  ‘I want to go home,’ her voice broke with grief, ‘maybe this is my punishment. As he bore witness to my madness maybe I must now suffer through his. We are damned, both of us.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Olivia replied quietly.

  Silent tears slid down Mary’s face. Unable to speak anymore she turned back to the window and gazed out into the garden longingly.

  Olivia watched, unsure what to do. She had been so consumed, with only one thought in her mind since the first moment she’d set foot in the Otherworld. Find Theo, that was her only purpose and yet she had never expected to find him like this. Her heart sank as the joyful reunion she had envisaged evaporated before her eyes. How the hell was she supposed to reach him? He was incapable of even acknowledging her presence.

  ‘Mary?’

  The young woman turned back with watery eyes.

  ‘Have you tried to talk to him?’

  ‘For longer than you can imagine,’ she sighed brokenly, ‘he just doesn’t want to hear me.’

  ‘Have you forgiven him?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive’ she frowned, ‘what happened to me in Salem was not his doing.’

  ‘But he thinks it was, maybe he needs your forgiveness.’

  Mary regarded Olivia thoughtfully.

  ‘Maybe,’ she murmured.

  She slipped from the table and padded slowly over to Theo on bare feet.

  ‘Theo?’ Mary spoke softly next to him.

  He growled and tossed the paint splattered canvas aside retrieving another one before once again slashing jagged swipes
of paint angrily across the surface.

  ‘Theo,’ she tried again, kneeling down next to him much as Olivia had. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, or that you just don’t want to hear me but this has to stop. Hurting yourself won’t change what happened. You think you know what happened but you are remembering it wrong.’ She touched his forehead lightly, laying her fingertips across his skin and closed her eyes, ‘think back to that moment Theo. Think back to Salem and see the truth.’

  Theo was drowning, surrounded by darkness. He could feel the icy slash of rain against his burning skin like thousands of tiny needles piecing his tender flesh, as the fever ravaged his weak body. He could smell the stormy scent of ozone and the stink of horse sweat beneath him as he clung desperately to his mount, his fingers tangled in its drenched mane. Jagged spears of lightning split the heavy storm laden sky causing the dark grey clouds to swirl and boil like a witch’s brew. Darkness shrouded his path as he urged his horse on through the trees and across fields. He was lucky it was his own horse, Kane, whom he’d trained from foal. Kane could read his master’s slightest movement and intent. He’d also made the journey from Salem Village to Salem Town so often he barely had to direct the horse at all. It was fortunate, for even now he could feel the fever burning through his veins, his mind felt as if it were bundled with hay. He fought to focus through the haze, he had failed Temperance, she was gone. His heart clenched painfully and he bit his lip to keep the animal like howl of agony contain deep inside of him. There would be time enough for grieving later. He should never have left her; he should never have left Mary. He could not fail her; not like he had failed Temperance. They’d taken her in the night. They’d come to his home and dragged her from the house screaming while his body was racked by painful chills and consumed with fever, too weak to stop them. Even now she was chained in Salem Jail. She would not survive it, he had to reach her before they killed her.

  He swayed in the saddle as another wave of dizziness swamped him. Grasping onto Kane he sucked in a deep shaky breath and fought down a wave of nausea. He could not stop now; he was so close. He urged Kane on, through the deep darkness and into the storm.

  Mary curled onto her side in the filthy straw of the cold damp smelling floor. Her eyes were glazed and her hair matted and stuck to the side of her face which lay against the foul straw. Her arms rested numbly in front of her bound together brutally, the cord biting mercilessly into the torn skin of her wrists as she absently traced circles against the ground with dirty cracked nails.

  ‘Little child, little child sing unto God, praise his name when you wake, little child little child glory unto God, lest the devil your soul to take.’

  She murmured the child's rhyme over and over, her voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

  She could feel the little demons surrounding her, breathing over her skin with their hot breath and picking at her flesh with tiny needle pointed fingers. Digging, digging, digging with eyes like fire and tiny goat’s horns jutting from their temples. She hissed loudly as one danced across her eye line, baring its razor sharp teeth in a malicious grin.

  ‘You’re next,’ it whispered gleefully as it nipped at her skin.

  She let loose a scream, burning her dry throat as it tore painfully from her mouth. Scrambling across the dirty floor she clawed and clawed at her skin, drawing blood.

  The door crashed open and two men entered. She looked up at them imploringly then she screamed again. In her delirium all she could see were masks of disfigured red flesh, their mouths hanging open, drooping as if the flesh were melting from their jaws, their eyes were missing, displaying nothing more than fleshy hollow caverns.

  ‘Demons!’ she screamed scurrying across the floor trying to get away from them. ‘Demons!’

  Logan looked down at her, the pitiful creature squirming in the filth of human excrement and rotting hay and yet he felt no pity, only blind hatred and disgust.

  ‘Take her,’ he spoke quietly to the man next to him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Stephen turned back to him. ‘They say her father is on his way and she is still a preacher’s daughter, he can make life very difficult for us if he chooses.’

  ‘Look at her.’ Logan’s dark eyes fell on her clawing at the ground her eyes wild and almost feral, ‘she has condemned herself. She is in league with the devil.’

  ‘He will require proof,’ Stephen replied.

  ‘And he shall have it,’ Logan answered coldly, ‘pick her up.’

  Stephen hauled her off the floor, pinning her in his arms as she fought him wildly. With her back pinned to his chest she faced Logan as he slowly approached. His fingers moved to her bodice and began to unlace it deftly, exposing her soft white breasts. She growled and struggled against them, but Stephen’s arms tightened around her and his eyes widened in arousal. Logan reached out with cold hands and pinched the soft flesh of her breast, his fingers digging in so viciously the blood vessels beneath her skin burst and bruised. She howled in pain but Stephen kept her immobile in his vice-like grip, the evidence of his excitement digging into her buttocks through her dress.

  When Logan finally let go and withdrew his hand an ugly red welt marred the snowy flesh of her breast. He quickly and efficiently re-laced her bodice.

  The sound of horses outside split the tension filled air.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he growled, ‘watch her.’

  Logan disappeared and closed the door behind him. Stephen licked his lips, grinding his hips against her and leering.

  ‘You know,’ he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and foul, ‘under all that filth you’re a pretty girl. Lucky for you I don’t mind the dirt.’

  Mary struggled as his hand fumbled roughly beneath her skirt and between her thighs as he pinched her savagely. She screamed again and tried to pull away from the torment of his fingers. She threw her head back and felt the sickening crunch as the back of her head collided with his nose. He howled in pain and threw her to the hard ground. With her hands bound she couldn’t break her fall and as she crashed to the ground she hit the side of her face painfully, causing her lip to split.

  ‘You bitch,’ Stephen hissed, bright blood spilling from between his fingers as he cupped his nose. Growling dangerously, he dived down on top of her, punching her hard and rolling her over onto her stomach, dazed and unable to defend herself as he ripped up her skirt and fumbled with his belt.

  ‘What the hell are you doing!’ Logan roared as he pulled Stephen off her and threw him across the tiny room.

  ‘She’s a whore!’ he hissed, the blood bubbling from between his lips.

  Logan reached out and struck Stephen hard across the face causing him to howl in pain at the pressure on his obviously broken nose.

  ‘That may be true but she is a devil’s whore!’ Logan ground out from between clenched teeth. ‘No man of God should be touching her.’

  Logan hauled her to her feet in disgust and dragged her from the room.

  ‘What is going on!’ the enraged voice of George Alcott thundered down the narrow passageway, ‘where are you taking my daughter?’

  Logan nodded in greeting as he approached the preacher, his hand wrapped in a death like grip around Mary’s upper arm.

  ‘She is guilty of witchcraft and is in league with the devil himself. She will hang for her sins.’

  ‘No!’ his face reddened and his lips thinned, ‘she will be examined by the authorities fully.’

  ‘She has been examined,’ Logan told him coldly, ‘the evidence against her is sound.’

  ‘I have seen no such proof,’ he hissed.

  ‘Then look for yourself,’ Logan tore open her bodice revealing the ugly welt marring her naked breast.

  George tried to avert his gaze from his daughter’s bared chest but it was too late, he had seen the mark and sucked in a sharp breath.

  ‘Behold the teat with which she feeds the devil,’ Logan hissed, ‘we have all witnessed her speaking with h
er familiars, demons we cannot see.’

  Mary looked down and saw one of the small spindly creature clawing at her skirt trying to climb up her body.

  She screamed and began to struggle against Logan’s grip.

  ‘Get it off it will bite me,’ she cried tearing at her skin once again, not caring that her body was exposed to the small crowd of people appearing around them.

  Stephen had reappeared behind Logan scowling murderously at the back of Mary’s head. Behind George stood Cotton Mather, having just taken over as Minister for Boston’s North Church from his father Increase Mather. He had been visiting George and Margaret Alcott when word of their daughter’s arrest had reached them.

  ‘Witchcraft you say?’ Cotton’s eyes lit with curiosity as he stepped closer staring at the mark on Mary’s breast. ‘What other evidence is there?’

  ‘She murdered my sister,’ Logan replied flatly, his eyes dark with hatred. ‘She burned her body upon the instruction of her devil master.’

  ‘Is this true girl?’ Cotton asked.

  ‘Burning, burning, burning bright, or devil catch you by morning’s light,’ she began to laugh hysterically. ‘She is free, he freed her.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The man with dark hair,’ she cackled, ‘he disappeared…he made her disappear.’

  ‘Well it seems quite clear the girl has been driven mad by the devil she chose to serve,’ Cotton replied piously.

  ‘Forgive me for interrupting,’ a smooth cool voice spoke up from behind Cotton.

  Cotton stepped to the side and a tall man with burning dark eyes and dark hair stepped forwards, his collar crisp and white against the stark black of his coat as he clutched a thick book to his chest.

  ‘Ah Nathaniel,’ Cotton nodded, ‘I wondered where you were. Well speak up, you know I value your council.’