At first Abigail couldn’t make out the details, so she crept closer. Her heart pounded and she thought she’d faint from the fear and excitement, but she wasn’t about to leave without getting a closer look. The people who ringed the fire were chanting and moving slowly around it in a circle. Their faces were turned up to the sky—to the full moon.
Abigail crept closer. She could feel Familiar tugging at the hem of her dress, but she ignored the cat.
The rhythm of the chanting became faster. It was a monotone, but as Abigail moved closer still, she thought she could detect Latin words mixed in. The sound was mesmerizing. Not soothing, but compelling. Behind her, Familiar hissed, but she kept inching closer.
The full skirt of her dress hung on a limb, and there was the loud crack of the branch snapping. To Abigail it sounded like a gunshot, but the people around the fire ignored it. They were moving faster around the circle, as if they’d begun a slow dance to the chanting. Visually, it was hypnotizing, the dark figures passing in front of the bright fire. A force stronger than her own will seemed to pull her toward the flames.
The pain in her left hand was intense, and she looked down, astounded, to find Familiar’s claws sunk deep into her skin. As soon as he had her attention, he retracted his claws, then moved to block her way to the fire.
“You have a point,” she whispered. She’d been about to step out into the clearing. At the thought, she felt a shudder of fear. Who were those people? And what were they doing?
She snuggled down behind a dense bush with Familiar in her arms. She didn’t want to be stupid, but neither did she want to leave without finding out who the chanters were. Their behavior—and more important, the effect it had had on her—was sinister.
The movement and the darkness worked against her, but she concentrated all her energy on seeing. Suddenly one of the dancers dipped low and turned to the fire. Abigail caught the scream in her throat just before she released it.
The figure had the face of a goat!
Abigail fell over backward and released her grip on Familiar. The cat took off through the dense undergrowth and Abigail followed, on her hands and knees, crawling as fast as she could away from the frightening scene.
When she was a short distance away, she turned back. The dance had increased in speed and the chanting was louder. She knew now what it was. A ritual of some kind. In the flickering firelight the dancers moved with a sensuous energy that brought their faces low to the fire. Each had the face of an animal.
Abigail forced herself to watch, to memorize each detail of the grotesque scene playing out in front of her. She knew what the people were. Worshipers of evil. But the dancers and chanters around the woodland fire were not witches. Not by a long shot. They were something far more dangerous…. No wonder the witch hysteria had taken over Salem Village.
“Let’s go,” Abigail whispered to the cat. She crawled backward, her gaze constantly on the fire. If the people ever caught her spying on them, they’d kill her in a split second. When she could no longer make out the dancing figures or distinguish the chanting from a low whisper of evil in the woods, she got up and ran, the black cat leading the way home.
Once inside her house Abigail barred the door and then leaned against it. Without regard, she ripped her dress open, stepped out of it and began shedding her petticoats. She was exhausted from running and the tight confines of her undergarments were suffocating her. She’d had enough of the conventions of 1692. And more than enough of the stupidity.
While the town was busy hanging poor elderly women whose only sin was to mind their own business and prosper, a band of truly evil people were cavorting in the woods.
It was more than a sane woman could bear.
Abigail paced. What was she to do? She knew about as much about Satanism as she did about the history of the witch trials. Which was next to nothing. How could she fight something she didn’t fully understand?
And Samuel would not be much help. She wasn’t certain what he’d been in the future, but she had the keen feeling he wasn’t a historian or an anthropologist. Nope, they’d have to depend solely on their own wits. No future knowledge was available to help them.
Who had been dancing in the woods? Now that she was safe behind her own door, she tried to bring forth the visual details. She realized there had only been three people, a small number, but Salem Village was a small community. They had been average-size people, as best as she could tell by the cloaks. At least none had been extra-large members. Men or women? The cloaks had hidden such detail, and she couldn’t make a determination by their movements. Certainly the animal masks had protected their identities.
The masks themselves were interesting. They had been crafted with some skill. Another shudder took her as she thought of the expertise that had gone into making the masks. She’d seen public television shows on African tribes that still used masks made from the skulls of dead animals. No doubt that was the medium this craftsman had employed. Plastic hadn’t been invented yet.
She paced more while Familiar watched her with a wary eye.
“Let’s go find Samuel,” she said. It had been fifteen minutes since she’d arrived home. Sleep was impossible.
“Meow!” Familiar went and stood to block the door.
“Oh, don’t be such an old fraidycat. He said he was sleeping in the loft. We can throw rocks against the window. He’ll wake up and we can tell him. Maybe, if he’ll go with us, we can return and identify the people.” She was still sore with herself for not having gotten more and better information. Reviewing all she’d seen, she realized she’d discovered nothing that would lead to the identities of the dancers. If she and Samuel went back, they could at least follow two of them home and learn that much.
Familiar growled as he blocked the door.
“I’m going, cat,” she warned him. “Stay, or come along, but I’m going.” She picked up the broom and brandished it at him. When he held his ground, she brushed him aside, then opened the door. Suddenly she realized she had to put her dress back on. “Damn it all to hell and back!” She picked up the petticoat, then threw it down in a fit of rebellion. She’d found some trousers and a worn cotton shirt, along with suspenders. She’d wear that and be comfortable while she crawled around in the woods at night.
“After all, if they catch me spying, it won’t matter whether I have on a dress or pants.” She looked away from the scowl Familiar gave her and put on the boy’s clothes.
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, she was out the door, Familiar shadowing her, his displeasure apparent in the way he carried himself.
She took the back path to the Grayson house. Though she searched the night for the sound of the chanting and the flicker of the fire, she couldn’t see it. She had to get a little deeper into the woods, but first she had to get Samuel.
The closer she got to the Grayson house, the slower she walked, until she found herself standing beneath a giant elm tree. Something was nagging at her, but she wasn’t certain what.
Once she stopped, she heard it. The sound of footsteps was coming from behind her. They’d been almost perfectly matched to hers. Familiar had heard them long before, and tried to warn her, but she’d ignored him. She was going to have to learn to listen to that darn cat.
She ducked behind the tree, Familiar beside her. The steps were louder. Was it someone from the ritual in the woods? For the first time in her life she knew what it meant to say her blood ran cold. She pressed against the tree so hard the bark cut into her palms, but she needed the tree to steady herself.
The figure appeared on the road as if by magic. At first he wasn’t there, then he was, striding out of the light of the moon.
He was a tall man, well-built, and he carried a cloak under his arm. He walked with a confident, self-assured stride, a man in a hurry to get home.
Abigail held herself still until he passed. He was too far away to identify, but she felt he must have come from the ritual in the woods. Why else the cloak on a June
evening? When he was safely past, she fell into step behind him.
She didn’t have far to go. The tall man went directly to the Silas Grayson house where a lamp still burned inside. The man passed in front of the window, silhouetting himself in the lamplight.
“It’s Silas! He’s behind the Satan cult, and that’s why he’s persecuting the witches, to draw attention away from his own evil.” She understood at once. It was a devious, but brilliant, camouflage maneuver.
Just as she was ready to look for a rock to throw at Samuel’s window, the returning figure opened the door. For a second he stood in the doorway, then entered.
It wasn’t long, but it was long enough for Abigail to be certain that it was not Silas Grayson returning home.
It was Samuel.
Chapter Eight
The long hours of the day finally passed. At three-thirty, Abigail took the note she’d written at least twenty times, thrown away and rewritten again. Her head pounded from trying to make rational sense of a situation that was irrational, and her eyes burned from the sleepless night she’d had.
She went to the loft of the barn and pinned the note to the top step of the ladder. She’d finally decided on something nonspecific, nonaccusatory. Her first drafts had been outraged accusations against Samuel. She’d seen him, cloak in hand, returning from the woods. She knew what he was about. She wanted to bludgeon him with the facts.
But common sense—and Familiar—had intervened. So she’d opted for a note that simply stated she was unable to make their rendezvous. Something had come up.
No way in 1692—or 1995 for that matter—was she going to be caught alone with a man who could prance around a campfire with an animal skull over his face.
Not when she suspected where those rituals were leading. Damn, but she should have spent more time listening to Maury, Montel and Sally Jessy. They were always having something about Satan worshipers on their talk shows, but she’d never had time to pay it much attention. And who said daytime television was a void? Well, let those critics wake up in 1692 and figure out which things from the future were useful and which weren’t.
She knew she was expending her mental energy on foolishness, but she had to think about anything to keep her mind off the pain that came with every thought of Samuel. It was the betrayal that hurt the worst. She’d trusted him. Believed in him. And she’d needed to believe in someone so badly.
Her only saving grace was that each jolt of pain was followed by an equally burning fork of anger. In all her long hours of worrying about the situation, she’d still not been able to come up with a reason for Samuel’s conduct. Why would he befriend her? Like everything else surrounding the witch trials, there wasn’t a sensible answer.
Back in the house Abigail picked up the heavy basket she’d loaded with food. While Samuel was poking around the barn looking for her, she intended to get the food down to the dungeons. She didn’t know how she was going to do it, but she was. As a preparation—and to pass the hours of the lonely night—she’d sewn pockets into the lining of her petticoat. It wasn’t a good method, but it might work. If she could get the guards to allow her into the prison in the first place.
That was the problem.
Well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
She looked at Familiar, who was sitting innocently on a chair, preparing for a nap. It wasn’t like the cat to mind his own business. He was up to something, too. Well, he’d just have to follow his own plans, like her.
She carried the heavy basket of cheese and pork, bread and jam, out the door. It was awkward, but she could manage. She secured her door. Of course, Silas, or Samuel, could break in anytime they wanted, so it was pointless to lock it.
Lugging the heavy basket, she set off to make her first trip into the village. Her inclination was to keep walking all the way to Salem Town and book passage on the first ship out, no matter where it was going. If she didn’t have this driving sense of purpose, she would do it, too.
Although she had no actual memory of ever having walked the road to the village, Abigail knew each landmark along the way. It was eerie, but she was growing accustomed to her sense of knowing. As she came over the crest of the hill she saw the cluster of buildings that made up the village. Salem Town, hugging the natural harbor, was not visible, but she knew it wasn’t far. She stood a moment, calculating her odds. As a precaution, she hid the food and decided to explore the building where the prison was located.
She had the peculiar feeling that someone was following her, but each time she turned around, the path was clear. Familiar had been left in the house. The last thing she needed if she was to succeed in this errand of mercy was to have a black cat accompanying her.
She straightened her cap and collar and started down to the village. She kept her eyes downcast in a modest fashion, more to avoid eye contact and questions than in acquiescence to the “rules” of conduct for women. The village and its wares were as drab as the clothes everyone wore. Still, it was interesting to see the men and women going about their daily lives.
She came to the stone building that now served as a jail. The legal proceedings—they certainly weren’t trials by any standards she knew—were over for the day, but there were still people standing around discussing the day’s testimony. The tall figure of her neighbor, Georgianna March, caught her eye. Georgianna’s face was pulled into a frown and she hurried down the steps with a confidence that few women dared show in Salem. It was the one ray of hope in Abigail’s observations. Georgianna disappeared, but two other women caught Abigail’s attention.
Edging closer, she eavesdropped without any guilt.
“Aye, ’tis a hard one to swallow, even when little Mary pointed her finger and fell onto the floor. Had I not seen the bite marks with my own eyes, I would not have believed it possible.”
The woman who was talking was middle-aged, her full face worn by a hard life and unhappy emotions. She spoke with another woman, one who also showed shock and dismay.
“I’ve known Ann all of my life. I saw the bite marks on Mary Wadsworth myself, but I’ll not believe Ann made them.”
“Then, who?”
“Answer that riddle and ye’ll answer the entire web of this foolishness.” The first woman’s face had grown red with anger, but she looked warily over her shoulder to be sure she wasn’t being overheard. She cast a hard look at Abigail, who bent as if to remove a rock from her shoe. The two women drew closer together and lowered their voices as they spoke.
“Then you believe all of these accusations against witches to be false?” The second woman was alarmed.
“I do.” The first woman lowered her voice. “My son has been forced to clean the prisons. He rightly pointed out to me that if the accused were indeed witches, why wouldn’t they fly out of those horrible cells and escape? If they had these powers, why would they not use them?”
The second woman’s mouth opened. “Why, he’s found the bone of truth in the stew. The boy has made a point.”
“Except no one listens. And he’s been told that he, too, is displaying signs of being under a spell. I told him to clean the cells and keep mum.”
“Good advice,” the second woman said. She looked around. “Any of us could be accused, at any moment.”
“Just like Ann.” The first had a more defiant look in her eye as she scanned the vicinity. They were the only two spectators from the trial left. Abigail had hidden behind a large sycamore tree.
“What can we do?” the second woman asked.
“Obey our husbands. That will give them no reason to complain.”
“Aye.” The woman spoke with some bitterness.
“And I am going to present the magistrate with two of my fattest sheep.”
“No! Your family needs those sheep. Winter will be here.”
“More than sheep, my family needs their mother, and their father.”
“You’ll try to bribe the justice?”
The first woman made a derisive
noise. “I will do whatever it takes to keep the label of witch from my name.”
“Lucinda, that is dangerous talk.”
“These are dangerous times. There is evil afoot, but it does not come from witches.” The woman named Lucinda cast a furtive glance around to make sure she was not being overheard. Then she straightened her posture and composed her face. “Now, the cows need milking and the sheep must be fed. I’ll not be back tomorrow, or ever again. These people are innocent, and I cannot watch while they are tortured and sentenced to die.”
“Nor I. Mind you, keep your thoughts to yourself.”
Exchanging knowing glances, they hurried off in different directions.
So, there were sensible people in Salem Village, but they were afraid to speak out. From the little Samuel had told her, Abigail understood why. Every person who had made an attempt to defend someone accused of witchcraft had been singled out for prosecution themselves.
But she had learned something interesting. Lucinda’s son worked in the prison, and he was sympathetic to the accused. Sticking close to the sides of the building, Abigail walked around it, casing it to determine how she would enter with the food.
A stocky, dour man stood at the front door. He wasn’t an official guard, but it was apparent he was guarding the entrance. The windows were not accessible. Abigail found the back entrance, but it was locked, with the added measure of a wooden bar on the outside.
She was about to give in to her frustration when a harsh hand clamped over her face.
“Mistress Abigail, hush!”
She allowed herself to be dragged into the recess by the back door.
“Don’t scream. It’s me, Walter.”
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