“Milking, buckets, firewood, water. This isn’t an easy life.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, first on the back, then on the palm. “You’re too warm to be immortal,” he said. “Too warm and too delightfully human.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” But there was no regret in her voice. “You know, Samuel, for all of the horrors around us, I’ve never been more glad in my entire life to be human. The time that I have with you may be as close to paradise as I ever come.”
Abigail rose as she talked and went to him. Easing down onto his lap, she rested her arms on his shoulders. “If I’m here because of heritage, then you’re here because you’re the man I need to be with me.”
The kiss she gave him was long and sweet, building in intensity until both knew that no matter what the cost, they would share the night.
Familiar watched them as they stood, hands clasped, and went into the bedroom. Blinking his green eyes once, he curled on the warm, hand-hooked rug in front the fireplace and closed his eyes.
I DON’T necessarily believe in premonitions, but I have a very bad feeling about this situation. Samuel is right about Abigail. She’ll forfeit her life trying to stop these atrocities. I, too, feel that we’ve been sent back here to do something to help, but we have to have a better understanding of what’s behind the accusations here. Abigail is too impatient. And yes, each day, more and more innocent people are being hanged. But I don’t want to see Madame Mysterious standing on the gallows with Pilgrim Man beside her. That won’t help matters at all.
The problem is that I have such a clear image of that—the two of them standing against the sky. I can see the rope, the wooden gallows, the tree and the people standing around, waiting to see Abigail drop. My only consolation is that many of the witches here have been hanged from trees, not gallows. So maybe it’s just an overactive kitty imagination. Only, every time I close my eyes to sleep, I see it again in such clear detail. I hear sirens in my head and “Danger! Danger! Danger!” fires off in my brain like a twenty-one-gun salute.
I wish Abigail would stay out of that dungeon. She persists in going back to be sure the prisoners have some food, and I find her compassion to be almost saintly. But there is danger there. Grave danger. I feel it in my bones.
I’m going to curl up here and dream about cheeseburgers, shrimp and salmon mousse. The diet here in old Salem Village is enough to bore the horns off a billy goat. There’s lobster, lobster, lobster. I mean, I’d even settle for some McNuggets—anything except lobster. Jeez! I’ll be glad to get back to the last few years of the twentieth century where fast foods, fat and television are the order of the day. What I wouldn’t give for thirty minutes of “Wheel of Fortune.” That’s the ticket! I’ll dream of Vanna White with a platter of sizzling burgers just for me. Big money, Vanna, big money!
SAMUEL OPENED his eyes to the first glow of daylight caught in the beautiful disarray of Abigail’s hair. He knew if he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the time they shared in a corn-shuck bed between clean, linen sheets. Modern conveniences didn’t matter. The only thing that was important was having her beside him. Curling around her, he captured her in his arms and kissed her awake.
“The day has begun,” he whispered.
Abigail groaned and turned to hide her face against his chest. “Let’s pretend it didn’t. My arms ache. My back is sore. I’m not cut out for this kind of life.”
“Of course you are.” He patted her bottom. “Cut by a fine design, I might add.”
Abigail gave a false groan. “It’s too early and that’s a terrible line.”
Samuel kissed the top of her head, his hands moving over the contours of her body as if he intended to memorize each inch of her flesh. “It’s early, but too late to linger. I have to be at the court.”
“And I have to prepare some food and get about my chores.” She tilted her head up so she could smile at him. “But I need a promise from you.”
“What’s that?”
“Tonight, right here, as soon as we finish our duties.”
“That’s a request I’m more than delighted to honor.”
As they began the routine of dressing, Abigail paused. “What will you tell Silas about last night? He’ll know you didn’t come home.”
“That’s one reason I have to get to the magistrate’s building. I have to tell him that I worked all night.” He looked at his clothes. “It appears to be a true statement. But I don’t want him to suspect what I actually did.”
“Maybe you should simply tell him that you’re moving here, as my boarder. That my rates are…cheaper, and the service much improved.”
Samuel buttoned his coat and gave her a grin. “You are a wicked wench.”
“You love it,” she answered, giving him a kiss before he hurried out into the gray light of dawn.
Abigail took care of her livestock and filled her wicker basket with food. She was sick of the salted meat, the hard cheese, and dry, crusty bread, but for the prisoners it was a rare treat. She decided to check at the market for apples or some fruit and fresh vegetables. She had no doubt that after weeks of incarceration and starvation many of the prisoners were suffering from scurvy or rickets or whatever the nutritional diseases of the 1600s were.
As she hurried along she saw the tall, erect figure of Georgianna March headed toward her. The woman wore a grim expression, and Abigail felt a twinge of fear for her. No doubt Silas Grayson was already making trouble for her. At least she was still free.
“G’day, Mistress March,” she mumbled as she passed her.
“Good day, boy,” Georgianna answered in an abstracted way.
Clutching the basket, Abigail hurried on. With the dire prospect of the dungeon ahead of her, Abigail still found that her heart was lighter than the day before when she’d thought that her potion had killed a man. The guard had obviously died of natural causes. Now, the closer she got to the jail, the more excited she became at the prospect of talking with Tituba. Hester had told her that Tituba had been brought from the West Indies as a slave. She’d become the property of Reverend Waters, whose daughter, Emily, had accused the African-American woman of witchcraft.
The story rang a bell in Abigail’s memory, but her grasp of history was so scratchy that she couldn’t remember the specifics. No matter, she thought as she neared the outside steps that led down to the dungeon, she could satisfy her lack of history with answers directly from the horse’s mouth.
The guard gave her little notice as she clanged and banged her pans and brooms, sweeping down the corridor as she doled out food to eager hands.
“Tituba,” she whispered at each cell.
There was no answer.
“Tituba,” she called, as she wormed her way deeper and deeper into the heart of the old dungeon. The passage was so dark, she had to lean against the harsh stone walls, feeling her way with tentative steps because the floor was so uneven. The damp chill of the place made her heart shrivel and her bones ache. She could only imagine the grim discomfort of the place in the winter. Even the best dressed prisoners would surely freeze.
“Tituba,” she called as she rounded a corner.
“Here, child.” The voice was soft with an accent that spoke of an island filled with sunshine and kissed by blue waves.
“Tituba.” Abigail inched down the corridor, unable to see a thing.
There was the flare of a match and a halo of light escaped from a cell. Tituba had been confined in an area of the prison where there were no other prisoners.
“Come here, girl.” Tituba spoke softly.
Abigail went to the bars on the heavy wooden door and peered inside. In the glow of the candle she saw a black woman, her head tied in a white kerchief, staring silently back at her. “I’ve come to help you, but I need some answers.”
“Questions, questions, questions. Dat is all I hear, but none of the answers I tell are good. They want to hear tales of the Dark One.” She shook her head. “I
know of no such t’ings.”
Her accent was that of some faraway exotic place, and Abigail felt a rush of sympathy for the woman. She’d left behind sea and sand and sunshine to come to a land of stark elements, and now she was in prison.
“Tituba, how did all of this witchcraft mess begin?”
Still holding the candle in one hand, Tituba came to the bars of the cell. She grasped the bars with her free hand. “Those little girls begged me for the story. They cry and beg until I gather them beside the fire and spin the tales. We make the cocoa and tell the old stories. But one day the master comes home and hears. He is so angry that I talk of trees that sing and turtles that dance in the moonlight.” A tear started down her cheek. “He say I am to be sold, but my husband cannot go. He say Emily is to be spanked and sent to her room without food for a week. He say we are all possessed by the devil to talk of magic. But it was only the story of my land. It has been passed down from the old ones, from mother to daughter, for many years. There is no harm.”
Abigail grasped the woman’s hand on the bars. “There is no harm,” she agreed.
“Little Emily was afraid of her father. She say I made her listen. She say I cast a spell on her and made her listen. Then she fall on the floor and begin to scream.” Tituba’s voice began to shake. “She scream and say I send demons to pinch her, and they tie my hands behind my back and bring me here.”
Abigail remembered the story of Tituba at last. It was just as the island woman had told it. Several hysterical girls had charged her with witchcraft to save their own hides from disciplinary action.
Tituba took a deep breath. “Now they cannot stop the accusations. Those girls…” She shook her head. “To avoid the spanking, they have accused innocent people of terrible, terrible t’ings.”
“You will not hang,” Abigail told her. She remembered that much. “You will be set free.”
“Mistress! Beware!” Tituba tried to warn her. “Behind you!”
Abigail ducked, but she was too slow. A big hand clamped down on her neck and held her tight. “So, at last, Mistress West, we discover that you are here, talking with the villagers you have corrupted to your evil ways.”
The jolt of fear was so extreme, Abigail thought her heart had stopped. When she realized what had happened, she started to fight, but the grip on her neck was paralyzing. The pain shooting through her was so intense she couldn’t even manage a cry.
“She means no harm,” Tituba pleaded. “Please, master, she was doing not’ing wrong.”
“Tie her hands.” Silas Grayson’s voice was gleeful. His grip on Abigail still held as another man stepped forward to tie her hands behind her back. With a shove Silas finally released her, pushing her into the wall.
“So, you predict the future, do you?” Silas asked her in the dim light of Tituba’s single candle. “Tituba won’t hang. Which is more than I can say for you, Abigail West.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Run!” Tituba commanded as she held the candle through the bars, the flame catching the sleeve of Silas Grayson’s shirt.
Abigail twisted and jerked as Silas released his grip. Without thinking about what she was doing, she lowered her head and rammed into Silas’s midriff and then leapt past him on her way down the corridor. Her hands had not been tied securely, and she shook the bonds free as she ran.
Silas careened into the wall, screaming as the flames caught a firm hold on his shirt. From inside the cell, Tituba found her jar of water and threw it on the dancing man.
Abigail didn’t bother to look behind her, she simply ran for her life. She ran with no thought other than bursting forth from the dungeon into the crystal air of day.
Propped back in a chair, the guard blocked the final corridor, but Abigail didn’t stop to ponder the problem. She ran straight at him, knocking the chair as hard as she could. When the guard went down in a sprawl, she jumped over him and took the steps three at a time.
Wheezing, she pushed open the back door, nearly knocking Walter Edgarton down, and fled into the street.
“Hey!” Walter called after her.
But Abigail didn’t stop. She ran as fast as her burning lungs would allow her until she was clear of the village.
At the top of the hill she took cover behind a rock and peeked out to look at the village below. A crowd had begun to gather in front of the magistrate’s building, and she could tell by their jerky motions that they were excited. In a moment she saw one of the women lift an arm and point at her. From far below the sound of excited cries came to her as the gathering of people began to move in her direction.
“Damn, damn, double damn!” Abigail panted. She turned away and began to run toward her home. The most she could hope to do was grab Familiar, let the cow and sheep out into the pastures and then beat a hasty retreat into the woods and pray that Sanshu would somehow find her. She couldn’t allow herself to think of Samuel. She couldn’t warn him—to go near him might jeopardize his life. And she couldn’t even tell him goodbye!
The added pressure of emotion only made her lungs burn more, so she turned her mind to other things. Sanshu, Hester, and the fading hope that the governor of Massachusetts would somehow intervene. If worse came to worst, she’d find her way through the woods to Boston on foot! Then the mighty governor had better beware!
She ran into her home and nudged a startled Familiar from his nap beside the fire. In her room she gathered her meager clothes, including the hated dress, and snatched a handful of hard cheese and bread. She also took time to get the ownership map and list of the accused. Those were things she didn’t want Silas Grayson to find. There was no time for any other provisions, and she took only a moment for one last look around her home. By the standards of the day, it was extremely elaborate. What would become of it now?
On her way across the pasture to the woods, she opened the barn doors and let the animals out to forage for themselves. As valuable as livestock was, someone would look out for them, and they’d be able to get grass and water until help arrived. It was a bitter thought that Silas Grayson would undoubtedly wind up with Sally and the sheep. “I can only hope she gives him bitter milk,” she told Familiar as they both ran to the woods.
She could hear the crowd coming down the road, and she ran across the open expanse of her pasture and ducked into the dense foliage. She was two hundred yards from the open road, but she shifted deeper into the trees. She wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but she didn’t want to start out through the woods until she could get her bearings. The thick forest could be deceptive. Many an experienced traveler had become lost, never to find their way out again. Her only real hope was Sanshu and Elizabeth.
“Meow.”
“And you, Familiar,” she added. The cat did seem to have a keen sense of direction. His company made her feel immensely better, though it was hard to feel safe at all with a mob of people hunting her with the goal of hanging her if they caught her.
The shouts of anger from the villagers intensified as they searched her house and barn and found them both empty. They came out of her buildings and gathered again on the road, where Silas, his arm in a sling, broke them into smaller groups and sent them out in all directions.
“Here comes trouble,” Abigail whispered as she saw Earl Wadsworth and two other men striding toward the woods where she was hiding. “We’d better go.” She spoke to reinforce her decision. She knew she was leaving Samuel with the very good possibility that she wouldn’t see him for quite a while. It was a long journey to Boston. If they made it alive.
“Let’s go, Familiar.” Abigail stroked the cat’s back. Waiting longer would not change the circumstances. Samuel was not going to magically emerge from the trunk of a tree. There was still good daylight in front of her, and many miles to travel.
Familiar stared out into the road as if he, too, expected to see Samuel appear. After several seconds, he stood and went to Abigail
“Meow.”
“We’ll come back. In triumph,” A
bigail vowed. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she turned and started into the deep shadows of the forest.
SAMUEL STOOD perfectly still as Magistrate Appleton paced the confines of his small office and recounted the morning’s events—especially how Abigail had used her evil powers to start a fire in Silas Grayson’s shirt.
“Fortunately for Silas, his burns were minimal. He was able to smother the flames before he was injured.” Appleton stroked his soft cheek with manicured fingernails. “I believe Silas has finally run aground the high priestess of the coven.” He walked around Samuel as he talked. “Run her aground, but unfortunately she flew out of his clutches.”
“Flew?” Samuel couldn’t help his skepticism.
“Flew. That’s accurate. Silas and the guard both said she flew like a chimney swift, gliding over everything in her path, straight out the door.”
Samuel tried desperately to hide the relief he felt. “Then she escaped?”
Appleton chuckled. “For the moment. But it was all part of our design. She will lead us to the Indians who have induced all of this. They have no true god, so they do not know the dangers of worshiping the Dark One. They have brought this tragedy down on our poor village. It will be as well when every last one of them is dead.”
“The Indians?” Samuel was incredulous. “What have they to do with this?”
“Those vile redskins will do anything to drive us off the shores of this country. It is they who have brought evil powers to Abigail West, and she in turn has infected the entire village. I believed it was Elizabeth Adams, but I see clearly now that Mistress Adams was only a serving wench in the grand plan. Abigail West is the Queen of Witches.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Samuel’s voice crackled with scorn. “Surely you don’t believe this insanity.” But looking into Appleton’s eyes, he wasn’t so certain. The fat, old fool actually looked afraid. “Abigail is no witch. None of these pathetic creatures locked in the dungeon is a witch. If they were, don’t you think they’d fly out of the dungeon as you claim Abigail did?”
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