Bewitching Familiar

by Caroline Burnes

  All of that space for a woman who lived alone.

  He shifted his weight and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. She was as much a mystery to the town as he was. She lived and worked, minding her own affairs. It should be enough to guarantee her safety from her peers.

  The sun was sinking rapidly, and he knew he should walk back to the Graysons’. Sarah would be putting food on the table, and Silas Grayson did not like to wait to eat.

  Especially not after a day spent in the arduous pursuit of justice.

  At that thought Samuel winced. Silas Grayson was deeply involved in the witch trials. To the total neglect of his farm, he had maneuvered himself into an almost-official capacity, attending the questioning of the accused, sitting at the table where the magistrate, the corpulent Jonathan Appleton, made his decision, whispering his questions and recommendations to the prosecutor, Caleb Hawthorne, and the other men who decided the fate of some hapless victim. Silas Grayson performed his voluntary duties with great energy. If he tended his farm with such zeal perhaps he wouldn’t always be unfavorably comparing his lot to others.

  Samuel watched a moment longer, hoping that Abigail would step outside her door for some small errand. As he waited, the golden scythe of a new moon edged over the dark trees, casting a beautiful, glittering light on the road.

  There was much of beauty in the new frontier of Salem Village. The land could be hard, but it could also be breathtaking. With the proper leadership, it could be a land of opportunity, not of persecution. But as June of 1692 eased to a close, Samuel was not certain which path the small village would take.

  A movement at the window caught his eye, and he thought for a second he could see Abigail leaning her forehead against the wavery glass. Perhaps it was he who was imagining now. Again he smiled, and as he started to turn he heard the crackle of a limb in the deep underbrush across the road.

  Though he had spent time in London learning the law, he had not forgotten the hard lessons of the wilderness. Instantly he moved to cling more closely to the protection of the big tree while his gaze pierced the darkness.

  Someone was in the bushes. Someone was watching Abigail’s house.

  The knife of fear touched his heart. He knew from past testimony that it was often the word of spies, those who took everyday movements and twisted them into suspicious behavior, that brought ruin down on those accused of witchcraft. Who was watching Abigail?

  The creak of hinges made him turn back to the house.

  Abigail West, without benefit of her cloak, had stepped into the doorway. “Halt!” she called into the night. Then she started forward, running as fast as her multitude of skirts would allow.

  “Holy Christ!” Samuel muttered to himself as he started forward, then stopped. His behavior and his language shocked him. Where had he learned such a blasphemous phrase? And what would he do—grab the woman and prevent her from entering the woods? How would he explain his presence there? Was he not spying, as well?

  The questions worked as an effective hamstring, giving the watcher the time to flee. Samuel heard the crackle of branches and the sound of a body moving rapidly through the underbrush. Though his impulse was to give pursuit, he lingered in the protection of the tree. Clenching his fists in frustration, he reminded himself that it would do Abigail no good for him to rush out of her yard in the dead of the night. In fact, that could prove extremely damaging—to them both. Conduct between the sexes was severely regulated.

  His attention was focused on the figure of the woman standing in the road when another noise caught his attention.

  The black cat appeared beside Abigail.

  Unable to look away, he saw the creature swell and puff to twice its normal size. It stopped right at Abigail’s feet and stared into the woods. The most incredible sound—that of an angry snake—came from its distended throat.

  Samuel watched as Abigail, ignorant of his presence, stood in the road, her chest heaving with exertion and anger. “Damn idiots,” she whispered. “Stupid, moronic asses.” She bent down to the cat. “I wonder what they hoped to see?”

  “Meow.” The cat started toward the woods and Abigail scooped him into her arms. “Not so fast, my little Familiar. You’ve got to stay in the house.”

  From behind the tree, Samuel could clearly hear her words. The shock was numbing. In the three torturous days of witch trials, he’d never head anything that sounded one-tenth as guilty as the words coming from Abigail West’s mouth. And her behavior with the cat. She was cuddling him as if he were a human baby. The sight made his blood run cold.

  “How about some goat’s milk?” Abigail asked the cat.

  “Meow.” Familiar’s purr echoed in the still night.

  “That’s your reward for guarding me.” Abigail turned back toward her open door.

  Samuel held his breath, hoping she would return inside without seeing him. He watched as she stepped under the branches of the tree. Suddenly the cat stiffened.

  “What?” Abigail asked.

  Before she could tighten her hold, the cat jumped from her arms and ran straight for the tree—and Samuel.

  “Meow!” Familiar’s greeting was distinct.

  Abigail followed the cat, stopping when she saw the outline of a tall man beside the tree trunk. “Who are you?”

  Samuel admired the fact that her voice lacked fear. He stepped out. “Samuel Truesdale, Mistress West.”

  “You’ve come to borrow a cup of sugar, no doubt?”

  Abigail’s strange talk confused him, but it was easy to read the sarcasm in her voice. “No, I came to visit you.”

  “Visit or spy?”

  He hesitated. “Both.” Once again he was struck by a terrible desire to reach across the night and touch her cheek, perhaps the corner of her mouth, which was held in such an angry frown.

  “Explain yourself.” Abigail mustered her anger around her. The handsome man standing in her yard was unsettling. There was a calmness about him, touched with sadness. He was not like the other men of the community, the ones who stared after her with ugly interest and a greedy desire.

  “I came to spy on you because I was worried about you. But I wanted to visit. I was watching, hoping for a glimpse of you.” He realized how that sounded and hurried on. “A glimpse to make certain that you were safe. That no one was trying to injure you.”

  “And do you anticipate that someone will try to harm me?” Fear made her breath short but she fought against showing it. Deep in her bones she also felt that sense of impending doom. The black cat’s arrival had been an omen, but she’d felt tragedy headed her way even before then.

  “Yes,” he answered softly. “Your conduct begs examination.”

  “Because I’m not a stupid fool who’s afraid of every shadow and cat. Because I manage my property with competency. Because I am a woman who chooses to live alone.”

  “All of those things, and because you are so very beautiful.”

  His statement startled her, defusing the head of anger she had begun to build at the unfairness of the villagers.

  “You must be more careful.” He pressed his advantage. “I heard you talking—to the cat.” He couldn’t help the shudder of apprehension that touched him at the memory. “You speak to it as if it can understand you. That alone is enough to make you hang.”

  Abigail knew true fear at that moment. She recalled perfectly what she’d said. “Yes, if the court hears of my behavior, they’ll certainly charge me with witchcraft. Someone is already spying on me.”

  Samuel nodded. “I came to warn you.”

  “Why?” Abigail let the question slip.

  Samuel considered his answer. “I don’t know. You…don’t belong here. You’re in danger because of that. Watch yourself.” He turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Abigail and the cat alone beneath the tree.

  “He’s a strange one, isn’t he?” Abigail spoke to the cat despite Samuel’s warning.

  “Meow.”

  She felt the prick
le of a hundred eyes watching her from the darkness. Unfriendly eyes. “Let’s get inside, fast.” The cat at her heels, she hurried back to the safety of her house.

  Once inside, Abigail prepared the bowl of goat’s milk, which Familiar approached with some trepidation. Abigail took her place on a stool and picked up the yarn that was wound in a basket at her feet. The idea of making something was amusingly quaint. But then she dropped the yarn, got up, and went to examine a small stack of books she’d seen in the drawing room.

  Worn, but still in good shape, was a Bible. Beside it was a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress and a slender volume of stories. “Beowulf, every graduate student’s nightmare.” At the sound of her own voice her skin prickled. What had she said? What did the words mean? How did she know the story contained in the book—she’d never seen that book before, to her knowledge. And what was a graduate student?

  Easing the book onto the table, she stepped back, moving clumsily to the kitchen where the light of the fire gave her some sense of comfort. Just as she passed the door there was a loud, rapid knock. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she had to grab the wall for support.

  “Abigail, will you open the door for us? Please.”

  The woman’s voice was frightened.

  Responding to the need she heard, Abigail pulled the door open. The woman who stood in front of her was covered from head to toe in a dark cloak. Beside her was a little girl, an elfin creature with curls and dark, questioning eyes. The woman looked down and pulled the child against her leg. “Abigail?” She spoke with uncertainty. “What’s wrong? Won’t you allow us to enter?”

  Abigail felt her senses reel. She knew this woman, and yet it was not possible.

  “Abby, are you ill?” The woman stepped forward into the house and gently brushed Abigail’s cheek with her cool hand. “Don’t you know me?”

  “Hester, what are you doing here?” Abigail cast a look out into the night to make certain no one was still watching her, then closed and braced the door.

  “I’ve come to…I’m leaving Massachusetts Colony. Pearl and I wanted to say goodbye. We can no longer stay here.”

  Abigail motioned them into the kitchen where she grabbed the back of a chair for support. Her knees were weak, her head spinning. The woman who stood in front of her was Hester Prynne. There was no doubt about it. And she was a friend.

  Almost defiantly Hester removed her cloak and draped it over a chair. When she turned back to face Abigail, the light from the fire caught the gleaming red threads of the scarlet A she wore emblazoned on her chest.

  “Where will you go?”

  Hester tossed her head, shaking her hair free of the white cap. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been such a fool, taking all of the blame and letting that spineless Arthur Dimmsdale escape. You know, I always thought he’d step forward and say that he was as much to blame as I was.” She slumped into the chair. “But he won’t. The man has no character. He’s perfectly willing to let everyone believe that he was an innocent.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “I was such a fool.”

  Abigail moved to stand behind her, her arms slipping around Hester for a hug. “You believed in him. You cared for him. Now you see him for what he is.”

  “A fake. An impostor.” Hester looked up. “A coward.”

  “That and more,” Abigail agreed. “Just think how lucky you are he didn’t want to marry you. You’d spend the rest of your life trying to shore him up.”

  Hester’s smile transformed her face.

  “And look.” Abigail pointed to the child who was sitting in front of the fireplace and playing with the cat. “You have Pearl. You have the best of anything he could have given you.”

  “And it is for Pearl’s sake that we are leaving. I don’t want her to grow up and be ashamed of me, and the people of Boston will make certain that she is if we stay there.”

  Abigail put a kettle of water on to heat and then slipped into a chair at her table. “It’s a wise move, Hester. I’m happy for you.” She looked at the woman again, still a little unnerved. Hester Prynne. She was a real woman. Sitting right at her table.

  “I came to ask if you want to come with me, Abigail. The witch trials are only going to get worse. I’m afraid for you here. It’s one thing to be branded an adulteress. It’s another to be convicted as a witch.” Hester reached across the table and took Abigail’s hand. “They’ll hang you.”

  Abigail tried to find a laugh deep inside, but it wasn’t there. Hester would have been able to see through her false joviality, anyway.

  “I stopped at the inn in Salem Town. I heard two men talking.” Hester’s dark eyes widened as she bit her lip. “They say that there will be more hangings. Many more. They say that Satan has been seen walking the roads of Salem Village. I was almost too afraid to come here, since it was dark.”

  “Then you must stay the night. Tomorrow I’ll walk you back to the town.”

  “I have to find a ship. I’ve heard exciting stories about the West Indie Islands. One reason I came to Salem Village was to talk to Tituba. She is still with the reverend, isn’t she?”

  “Tituba tells of many wondrous things in her homeland.” Abigail said the black woman’s name with some trepidation. “Of course, she’s in prison now, soon to be tried for witchcraft herself.”

  “Tituba? I had not heard.” Hester’s face registered real concern. “She’s only a slave with a talent for storytelling.”

  “You know that. I know that. But the magistrate is all too eager to believe otherwise.”

  Hester grabbed Abigail’s hands and clutched them firmly. “You must get away from here yourself, Abby. And I should never have come here. I’ve put you in more jeopardy.” She shrugged. “A woman who sins without asking for forgiveness is not the ideal guest.”

  Abigail smiled. “I cannot have the friends of my own choosing? I’ve been told today not to befriend an injured cat. Soon I will not be able to prepare the simple medicines I use to treat the sick. Little by little, my life is being taken from me.”

  “So you’ll come with me and Pearl?” Hester was hopeful.

  The idea was tempting. Abigail looked around the room that was so familiar and yet kindled not a single actual memory. She could walk away from Salem Village without a backward glance. Old man Elika Adams would take her sheep and cows and care for them as best he could. The property could be sold.

  Abigail got up, still without answering her friend, and went to the window to look out into the darkness that was her front yard. It would be so easy to leave. Why wouldn’t she?

  “You will not leave, will you?” Hester turned in her chair but didn’t rise.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? You have no family here. No one to care about and no one to care about you. We could start over together, Abigail. We could go somewhere and find a new life. Maybe one with some love in it.”

  The pull of Hester’s words was almost more than Abigail could bear. Oh, she wanted to go, to leave the coldness and harshness of the coming winter, to frolic on some white, sandy beach where the water was the color of a precious gem. But she couldn’t.

  “It’s hard to explain, but I feel that I have to stay here.”

  “Because you’re afraid to try someplace new.” Hester dared her friend to look at her.

  Still facing the window, Abigail smiled. “No, I relish someplace new. But I sense there is something here I must do before I leave.”

  “Get yourself hanged?”

  Abigail laughed this time, turning to see the anger on her friend’s face. “I hope not. But it is something to do with the trials. They’re wrong, Hester. Very wrong. This whole foolishness has to be stopped.”

  “And what can you, a woman, do to stop it?” Hester threw up her hands. “Why don’t you hang yourself now? At least I’ll be here to see that you’re properly buried.”

  Abigail went to her friend and circled her with her arms. “No, I don’t want to die. I want to stop others from dying.”
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  Hester finally calmed. “How? How will you do this?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail admitted. “I only know that I can’t leave without trying.”

  “Even if it costs your life?” Hester grasped her friend’s shoulders. “Think of the danger, Abby. Think long and hard on it before you commit yourself to a path that leads only to the grave.”

  Chapter Three

  The pounding on the door woke Abigail from a sound sleep. As she started to rise from the bed a large black paw caught her shoulder and held her. She was eye to golden eye with the black cat who’d obviously been sleeping on the pillow beside her. His black fur was bristled in anger, or fear.

  “Okay, I’ll be careful.” She got out from under the covers and found her cloak to wrap around her dressing gown. At the door she paused, her heart hammering. “Who is it?”

  “Open the door,” a gruff male voice ordered.

  “Who is it?” Abigail repeated.

  “On the order of the magistrate, open the door.”

  Paralysis gripped Abigail. When she could finally move, she looked up to see Hester and Pearl cowering on the steep ladder that led to the loft. Motioning them to come down, she took a deep breath. “A moment for me to dress.”

  “Open the door. The magistrate has ordered a search of this house.”

  “When I’m dressed, you’re welcome to search.”

  Motioning frantically, Abigail pulled Hester and Pearl to her side. She went to the fireplace and her fingers searched the stones on the left side. In a moment a narrow section of the wall opened and she pushed Pearl inside, hustling Familiar in with the child. She knelt down to speak to the little girl.

  “Pearl, they’ll kill the cat if they find him. You must stay in here, in the dark, and keep him quiet. His life depends on it. And possibly mine.”