Magic Lessons

by Alice Hoffman

  In May of that year one of those set to be arrested was a sixteen-year-old girl who had first seen a jail cell when she was a child who accompanied her grandmother, Lydia Colson, visiting Maria Owens after her arrest. When young Elizabeth Colson heard there was a warrant drawn out for her signed by the magistrates, she disappeared into the woods. Her grandmother packed a basket of food and told her to go to New York, where she could find a woman Lydia Colson had once helped who might assist them in return. One could hope that their kindness would be remembered, and perhaps repaid.

  By the time Elizabeth arrived in Manhattan, she was exhausted and terrified. She’d stopped in Cambridge overnight, then made her way to Connecticut, where the witchcraft mania had spread to New Haven. Her cousins there had helped her leave in the middle of the night, but the hired carriage driver had beaten her and stolen what little she had. She made the rest of the way alone, all the while in fear of the large wildcats in the hills of Connecticut. At last she reached Manhattan, taking a ferry that disembarked near the Fly Market. She asked vendors if they might know a woman named Maria Owens. The fruit seller knew such a woman and the fishmonger did as well, although neither knew her address. The fishmonger’s daughter, however, called Elizabeth aside, for she had gone once for a love charm, and she knew exactly where Maria Owens could be found.

  * * *

  When Elizabeth rapped on the door, a suspicious red-haired girl appeared, her black dog at her side. Faith was an unwelcoming figure, glaring at the unexpected guest with narrowed gray eyes, for the sight allowed her to know where the girl had come from. “You’re from Salem,” Faith blurted.

  “I’ve come to see Maria Owens.” Elizabeth lowered her voice. “I fled before the constables could arrest me.”

  “For what crime?” Elizabeth certainly didn’t appear to be a criminal, but then neither had Martha. People could surprise you, each and every time. When Elizabeth hesitated, Faith assured her that she could be trusted. “I’m Maria’s daughter. We have no secrets.”

  It was hardly true, but Elizabeth wished to believe Faith; they were not so far apart in age, and perhaps she imagined she had found a friend in whom she could confide. She glanced over her shoulder to the crowded street. There was a good deal of foot traffic and several carts and wagons, but no one paid the girls the least bit of attention. “Witchcraft.”

  Faith held back a laugh. “You’re not a witch.”

  “True enough. But the truth won’t save me from hanging.”

  Faith took the other girl’s hand and looked into her palm. “I see that you’ll live.”

  “Are you a fortune-teller?” Several of those arrested in Salem had practiced palmistry and other forms of parlor magic in which they promised to divine who future husbands and wives might be.

  “Not at all,” Faith said, drawing the visitor inside. “I just know that if you’re here with us, you’ll be safe.”

  * * *

  They had a dinner of chicken pie closed into a coffin of crust that had been flavored with rosemary, and to celebrate their guest’s determination to make her way to New York, Maria fixed a delicacy called Hedgehog Pudding, consisting of bread and raisins, sweet cream and eggs and butter, which was then decorated with slivers of blanched almonds pointing upward like spikey spines. She was delighted to see Elizabeth so grown up and remembered what a dear child she’d been, but the evening took a turn when Maria heard the details of what was transpiring in Salem. She felt a deep sense of foreboding, and when she asked who was at the heart of the witch mania, she was not surprised when John Hathorne’s name was spoken. He was one of the magistrates hearing the cases of the accused, well known to be the most unforgiving among the judges, badgering the women who were called before him, forcing admissions from prisoners who hadn’t eaten or slept but had been beaten with sticks and leather straps, accepting spectral evidence of the worst sort, pure madness and gossip masquerading as truth.

  Faith noticed that her mother shivered when she heard about this judge and his deeds.

  “Do you know this man?” she asked.

  “I don’t believe I ever truly did.”

  But she certainly knew what he was guilty of: seduction, betrayal, lies, abandonment, pride.

  Despite the Owens’ hospitality, Elizabeth had decided she would not be able to stay. Her Connecticut cousins had confided that when the constables came to arrest her and found her missing, they had taken her grandmother in her place. She realized she had erred in coming to New York.

  “You can’t go back,” Maria told Elizabeth Colson. “It’s far too dangerous.”

  Still, it was clear the girl wouldn’t desert her grandmother in the old woman’s time of need. Elizabeth had an honest heart and was young enough to believe that she was dealing with reasonable men who would release her grandmother when she gave herself up. She stayed a single night and left in the morning. Before they’d gone to bed, Faith had whispered she would leave something for Elizabeth that might be useful, in the rear of the garden. She’d kept her word. There between the neat rows of rosemary and cabbages was an amulet for Elizabeth to wear close to her heart. Inside the velvet pouch was powdered vervain, used in dark acts of magic, and a slip of black rope tied into knots to protect her three times. A note had been written upon black paper with red ink that disappeared as soon as it was read.

  Travel well. Trust no one.

  * * *

  Jack Finney was happily ensconced on Maiden Lane. He’d planned to accept a few days of hospitality, but he’d stayed on for a year, and then another, putting to use his talents of seeing to odd jobs, fixing the roof of the barn and fashioning a room for himself inside the stable, replacing the wooden windowsills so they would close tight against bad weather, setting out a new garden gate. He had traveled for so many years that he still never knew where he was when he opened his eyes in the morning.

  Maria had rewarded him financially for his help, and though he was far from rich, he was no longer poor. He’d spat on the pile of blackened coins he’d been given, shining them up with a handkerchief, grateful to possess what he considered to be a treasure and perhaps even more grateful for a home in Manhattan. He’d had enough of Brooklyn. When he thought of Kings County, he imagined the woman in the gray dress chasing after them across the flatlands, an image that caused him to shiver. In the past he’d always moved on when he wished to escape bad memories, hoping against hope that a different landscape would renew his spirits and help him to forget. But now he felt at home on Maiden Lane and had taken a stand at the Fly Market to sell his wares. He’d seen Faith slinking about near the vendors that dealt in foul merchandise, poisons, dangerous herbs, books hidden in black covers.

  One afternoon, Faith came to sit in the grass while Finney polished his coins, a habit he’d come to enjoy, for counting his money was a new pastime. He grinned and tossed a coin to Faith. As soon as she caught the disc, the silver turned black.

  “Never do that in public,” Finney advised.

  “I’ll do as I please.” She made a face at him and the peddler shook his head.

  “So said the criminal on his hanging day,” Finney said. He worried about Faith for he believed that a man was responsible for whomever he rescued, although sometimes he was confused as to which of them had saved the other.

  “If you insist,” Faith said. “I’ll pretend not to be what I am.”

  “Join the human race. That’s what we all do.”

  Faith had a spot in her cold, dark heart for Finney. She believed she would still be in the attic bedroom in Gravesend with iron bracelets around her wrists if not for his help. He was a man who carried his sorrows close to his heart and never discussed them, who would surely never mention what had happened on the bridge. If he suspected that Martha was still breathing when Faith left her there in the water, he never said so and he never would.

  “You should have something better than silver as your reward,” Faith decided.

  “I’m happy with all I have. Your mothe
r has been very generous.” Jack found Faith to be amusing and intelligent, but at times she was a bit frightening. She looked like a girl, but her thoughts were often those of a grown woman, one who was more canny than most.

  “You should have a wife,” Faith decided. Though he never said so, she knew how lonely Finney was. He talked in his sleep, and when they’d shared nights in the wagon he’d often called out for someone named Lowena, and had wept until morning.

  “I had a wife.” Finney’s mood darkened with this topic of discussion. He didn’t wish to think about all he had lost. Mourning the life he’d once led wouldn’t bring it back and who was he to complain? Every man lost all that he loved in this world by the time his life was through. It happened to some sooner and some later. For now he had his horse, his wagon, his freedom, and a huge pile of silver. He could do as he pleased, as no married man could, even if Finney wasn’t quite sure what good the freedom he’d claimed did him.

  “I don’t see anyone breaking down the door looking for someone like myself,” he informed Faith. “Maybe the old washerwoman down the street would like to have tea with me.”

  “I can find the right woman.” Faith was utterly sure of herself. “Let me try.”

  “Try?” Now Finney had good reason to tease the girl. “Are you saying I’d be the first to benefit from this service?” He was well aware that Faith had talents, he had seen so himself in the flatlands of Brooklyn when she chased away the rabbits and dreamed of crossing hell to find her mother. That didn’t mean he wished to be part of an experiment. If she was a witch, she was a novice, and beginner’s luck was rare. “I don’t think I want you mucking about with my fate. For all I know, I could wind up living in a cave with a bear, or married to a turtle under the sea, or sleeping with the washerwoman, and I’m not sure she would be the best of those bargains.”

  “I’ll find someone who will bring you happiness.” Faith was serious about this matter. “You deserve that. You can’t stay in the barn forever.”

  “You think too highly of me,” Finney responded. “To be honest, I didn’t even want to save you, but it was easier to let you tag along with me rather than leaving you with that old bag.”

  Another man, even a good man, would have left her to fend for herself in Gravesend. Finney was more than decent, and therefore he deserved more than silver. Faith knew he still had dreams of Martha chasing after them, her white bonnet flying into the air. He’d given up salt, for it reminded him of the air that day, which had been so salty and blue.

  “You know I drowned her.” Faith almost sounded like a child, though there was nothing childlike about her admission or the cool expression on her face.

  “Not rescuing her isn’t killing her. Listen to me, girl. You didn’t kill her.”

  Faith had a habit of biting her lips when deep in thought. Her dark red hair was braided and she wore a dress that was the same color as her silvery eyes. She might be beautiful someday, but not yet. “I’ve already decided,” she told her friend. “I intend to pay you back for all you’ve done.” Finney eyed her, uneasy, as she brought out a small bottle. “It’s the Tenth Potion, the strongest there is. We’re told not to make it, but I broke the rules. It can make anyone fall in love with you, and you with them. It’s unbreakable.”

  Finney gazed at her, concerned. “Does your mother know?”

  “This is between you and me.”

  The elixir was set before him. It looked like wine, but the scent was of something that had been burnt. Finney had put up a good fight, but now he relented; he took a sip and considered. He’d had worse.

  “Trust me,” Faith said. Her hands were folded in front of her. She was a very serious girl. Love was not her business, but repaying Finney for all he’d done was.

  “I trust you to bury me if I die,” Finney quipped. Then he grew silent as he thought of his deep loneliness and all he’d lost. He gulped down the elixir. “God help me,” he said.

  Faith ignored him and recited the incantation.

  “Let the one who drinks this wine be granted true love divine.”

  Nothing happened. “Your experiment has failed,” Finney was quick to say.

  “I have to decide on who the right woman will be and she must drink as well. Once she does there is no going back.”

  “That’s not exactly comforting.” Finney patted Faith’s head as if she were a child, then got up to see to Arnold. “I only hope it doesn’t work on horses.”

  Faith laughed and went into the house. She and Keeper set off for the butcher, where she would get a bundle of bones and meat scraps. She had a few women in mind for Finney. The fruit vendor’s daughter at the market, a neighbor who had recently lost her husband, a woman who sold books. She’d planned to take the Tenth with her, but in her hurry she left it on the garden table. Faith was happy to be with her beloved Keeper, forgetting that once magic has begun it cannot so easily be put away.

  * * *

  The Tree of Heaven was blooming with the last of its red flowers when Maria set to work in the herb garden that day. She had been attempting to grow mampuritu, an herb from Curaçao that was accustomed to warmer climates. It was a very stubborn herb. She had tried lighting a fire near it, to warm its roots, to no avail. Perhaps she should rid the garden of the herb, for it made her think of Samuel Dias, even when she didn’t wish to, and she was glad to be interrupted when Catherine Durant arrived at the gate, her little white dog following close behind. Catherine had been using Maria’s black soap, which so refreshed her that she looked ten years younger than her age. “Is this what happens to all of your customers?” she called to Maria, who was down on her knees, weeding between rows of parsley and sage. “Once we use your soap, we can’t live without it?”

  Maria laughed and clapped the soil from her hands. She would always be grateful for the simple pie magic that had brought her daughter home. “For you,” she told Catherine, “the soap is always a gift.”

  Catherine was thirsty from her walk from the Bowery, and when she saw the glass of wine on the table she sat on a metal chair and took a sip. Her dog jumped on her lap, barking, but Catherine ignored him, and, intrigued by the taste, she continued to drink. Her mouth began to tingle once she’d drained the elixir, as if she’d eaten nettles. She immediately knew there was an enchantment at work. Ordinarily she would have been indignant, but not on this day. What was meant to be would be, whether or not you approved. The truth was, she was curious to see what would happen next.

  Finney walked out of the barn, smelling of horseflesh and sweat. He intended to tell Faith to stop the spell. There was no point going any further, not in his case. Love was an impossible, ridiculous goal for a person such as himself. What he’d had, he’d lost, and he thought it better to accept his life as it was. Finney would leave Manhattan and the false notion that he had found a home. He would go back on the road, perhaps to Connecticut, unknown territory devoid of memories. He was meant to be alone, and he’d become quite good at a solitary life; his horse was more than enough company. But there in the garden the peddler stopped as if struck. A force went through him, heart and brain, body and soul. The whole world seemed a wonder, the table and the chairs set out in the grass, the red flowers falling to the ground, the beautiful woman before him.

  Catherine could read the man in the yard—a peddler, a widower, a man who was lost—but she viewed him through the power of the Tenth and therefore saw that he was a hero who put others first, who cared more for an old horse than most people cared for their neighbors and friends. She could see the young man he’d been, before his heartaches, when he liked to balance on stone walls and raced through fields on his father’s horses, when the women in his village claimed he was the handsomest man alive. Her little dog ran at Finney, barking protectively, but when the peddler reached down, the dog flopped over on his back, ready to be petted, as if Finney were a long-lost friend.

  * * *

  Faith came home with her purchase from the butcher shop to find Maria w
aiting for her, furious. “You’ve created mayhem, and it’s unbreakable. There’s nothing I can do to amend it. I told you, you aren’t ready to work magic.”

  Faith returned her mother’s gaze and held it. As it turned out they were now the same height. “I am ready.”

  Maria felt a chill go through her. “When I say so.”

  “It’s my fault,” Finney was quick to claim. “She did so on my behalf.”

  “I believe it was on my behalf,” Catherine said.

  Already, Catherine Durant could not be kept from him or he from her. They had an unspoken pact that they would never be parted, two spellbound people who left together for Catherine’s farm on the Bowery without looking back.

  Maria narrowed her eyes. It had been too long since she had really looked at her daughter. Now she saw the edge of darkness inside. “You haven’t enough practice for such things.”

  Faith shrugged. “It’s only love.”

  “You think love is so simple?” Maria thought of the day she saw John Hathorne in the blue dining room in Curaçao and the morning Samuel had brought the magnolia tree to Salem so she thought that snow was falling. “Take my advice,” she told Faith. “Stay away from it.”

  “If that’s how you feel about love, why are you still wearing Gogo’s ring?”

  Maria had tried everything to remove the gold band from her finger, but the wedding ring wouldn’t come off. It was likely the reason she thought of Samuel Dias so often. She wondered if Abraham had known that would happen and why such rings were worn, to make you think of the one who had given it to you.