Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Troy shook the reins but Courage let out a sigh, refusing to go any farther.

  The noise of cicadas began to swell in the trees as it grew warmer. There were three types of mating calls, Ingrid knew. One resembled the sound of a ghost, another a caterwaul, a third a death rattle. This was a strident death rattle. “Come on, boy,” she said to the horse. “Let’s not be scared of a few bugs.”

  Troy jumped down from the wagon and pulled the reins until he finally conceded to trudge along.

  A few farms appeared along the way among the lush meadows and trees. Cows, sheep, goats, and horses grazed in the fields. When they saw houses clustered together, they knew they were closer to the village proper. There were girls everywhere—standing in the fields, grouped along the road, peeking out the windows—girls as young as five and as old as seventeen. Some stared at them blankly, while others hissed like angry monkeys. In the practice field by Ingersoll’s Inn, a few girls crawled and flailed about in the grass. Girls walked desultorily in the square, their arms outstretched, their gaits contorted.

  A few villagers tried to help, while others only watched. Ingrid saw three men wearing tall hats holding one girl down and caressing her chest and limbs to calm her. Ingrid shuddered and looked away.

  Hysteria. Madness. Evil.

  She remembered it all too well.

  But Ingrid noticed most of the villagers carried on with their lives, paying little mind to the girls around them. They fed their chickens and corralled the hogs, inured to it all. They looked up to glimpse at Ingrid and Troy as they passed, but returned their attention back to their chores.

  The hinterland folk had grown used to strangers arriving for the proceedings at the meetinghouse. The sessions had become increasingly crowded, the band of afflicted girls growing so large that only its most famous members—the stars of the show so to speak—the original accusers, Abby, Mercy, and Ann—were admitted inside to take part in the examinations and eventually the oyer and terminer trials. Little Betty Parris had been sent away to stay with relatives in the hopes her fits might abate: her father believed she was too sensitive a child to remain in the mayhem. The other afflicted girls waited outside the meetinghouse during proceedings, mimicking the cries and laments of the girls allowed to testify inside.

  Queen bees and wannabes, Ingrid thought as she observed the girls pulling their faces and spinning in circles. The witch hunt had become a craze, a fad, a teenage trend, and they were all hankering to be victims. Certainly having fits was easier than washing soiled laundry in the cold river.

  A girl of about sixteen years of age, dressed in a vivid green bodice and yellow blouse, stepped in front of the carriage. Troy tugged hard on Courage’s reins. The girl faced them, pulled off her cap, and flung her head to and fro. Her bun came loose and her hair whipped around her face. She stared at them, eyes glinting. “She tells me I must rip off my cap and twirl my head or the devil will cut my throat!” she screamed. After, she skipped away toward the field by the watch house, dangling her cap, looking perfectly merry.

  “And welcome to Salem Village to you, too,” said Troy.

  “They’re running rampant, aren’t they?” Ingrid said, still incredulous. She had forgotten what it was like, for a moment had forgotten that she had lived through it already. She had been a young witch in Salem once and had been hanged for the crime, and here it was again—as terrible and banal as ever. A terrible prank that had started as a lie, a spark whose flames had taken many lives, and now had come for her sister’s once and for all.

  Two girls approached the wagon on Ingrid’s side. Troy tapped her, nodding at them. When she turned, she recognized two of the girls who had been following Bridget Bishop’s cart a few days ago. They seemed perfectly natural and normal, neat and well dressed, although they stared at her with a blatant curiosity. Ingrid noted Abigail Williams’s arresting beauty, the dark brows and eyes, the swath of glossy hair tucked inside of her cap.

  The older one, Mercy Lewis, moved in closer. “Who are you, missus?” she asked. This one was blond and fair, her lashes as pale as her skin. She ran a hand over her forehead, and Ingrid saw that it was scarred and mangled.

  “What is happening here today?” Ingrid returned.

  Mercy cocked her head and crossed her arms, giving Ingrid a thorough once-over. “I asked you first.”

  Ingrid returned a pleasant smile. “Why, if you answer me first, since I am your elder, I would be happy to reply.”

  “Nothing is happening here today,” Mercy said. “Not one examination or trial. A judge has quit, and they are seeking a replacement.” She sounded bored. “Pray tell us, who are you?”

  Impudent girl. Ingrid hid her irritation and smiled. If it were a different century, this girl would be chewing gum or smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke in Ingrid’s face. Abigail hedged in. She stared at Ingrid in a way that made her feel naked and uncomfortable.

  “Thank you for that!” Ingrid acknowledged. “I am Mrs. Overbrook, and this is the great Admiral Overbrook, who fought in England.” Troy smiled, raising his hat, which had obscured his face until now. The girls stared, caught off guard by Troy’s good looks. Ingrid cleared her throat to get their attention.

  “We have come all the way from Boston, where Admiral Overbrook, my husband, is a successful barrister and has his own firm.” She smiled for effect. “We are presently here for my younger sister, who vanished several months ago. We have been terribly worried and searching the country far and wide whenever we can. We fear something terrible might have happened to our dear girl. We are, well… we are well-to-do…” Ingrid coughed, feeling uncomfortable adding this last bit, but she knew that in Puritan eyes if you were successful and rich, it meant God smiled favorably upon you—you were among the elected and a seat in heaven waited for you with your name on it. “And we’re willing to spend whatever it takes to find her,” Ingrid continued. That should spark their interest.

  “What is the missing maid’s name?” asked Abigail, widening her eyes.

  “Why don’t you tell me yours first,” replied Ingrid.

  “Why, I am Abigail Williams but you may call me Abby.” Just as Ingrid had guessed. Abigail smiled nervously, then bit her raspberry lips.

  “Delighted!” Ingrid reached a hand out of the carriage, which Abby shook.

  The other girl, appearing envious, butted in. “I’m Mercy Lewis.”

  Ingrid shook Mercy’s hand while Troy minded his own business, keeping a somber face. Ingrid was grateful to him for letting her handle this. “My sister’s name is Freya Beauchamp.”

  The girls gasped at the name, and Ingrid gasped in response, bringing a hand to her mouth. “What is wrong? What do you know of Freya? Is she…?”

  “Oh, no, nothing bad has happened to Sister Beauchamp, Mrs. Overbrook!” said Abigail, blushing. “Not yet!”

  “Not yet! What on earth do you mean?”

  Mercy leaned against the side of the carriage. “Why, Freya is a rich little widow now!” She laughed. “She doesn’t even know it because—well, it is said—she ran off with Mr. Brewster.” She raised her eyebrows. “The old, ailing Mr. Brooks was so distraught upon learning of her flight, he died on the spot!”

  Ingrid shook her head in wonder. This was confusing but hopeful. The girls explained more clearly, albeit in a rush. They glanced around distractedly and peered down the road as if they were expecting others to enter the village as well. Some of the girls in their fits wandered by, eavesdropping on their conversation, and when they did, they nodded at Mercy and Abigail with deference, or perhaps fear. Mercy and Abigail were clearly their leaders—and the ambassadors.

  From the two, Ingrid learned that Freya had shown up in the village without memory save her name and age a year ago. She had been employed in the Putnam household where Mercy also worked, and Mr. Thomas Putnam had arranged Freya’s marriage to the wealthy widower Mr. Brooks. Freya disappeared shortly after, and when Mr. Putnam apprised the older Brooks of his bride’s abscondin
g, he had died from shock.

  Ingrid pressed the girls further as to her sister’s whereabouts. But at that moment, a group of men solemnly exited the parsonage, and the girls turned mum. Ingrid recognized the pastor, Mr. Parris, in his collar, who nodded at the girls. She did not see Mr. Putnam among the group. The men, perhaps magistrates—they looked self-important—seemed anxious. They peered at Ingrid and Troy suspiciously, but they did not, surprisingly, summon the girls.

  Ingrid continued. “We will be here for a little while. We would like to look into all you have told us and plan to stay at Ingersoll’s Inn for a few days. We would very much like an interview with Mr. Putnam.” She addressed Mercy. “Do you think you could arrange that?”

  “Mr. Putnam is a busy man. Certainly not today,” replied Mercy. “However, I do suppose I can tell him you would like to see him.”

  As the men talked outside the parsonage, they continued to glance over at Ingrid and Troy conversing with the girls. The reverend then made a gesture to call the youngsters.

  “We must go!” said Abigail, curtsying. “My uncle needs us. I believe it would be best if you were on your way. Sister Freya is not here. She is not in Salem Village.”

  Troy tilted his hat. “Oh, we plan to stay!”

  “Do you know where she might be? Where she could have gone?”

  Mercy smirked. “They say she is hiding in the woods with the young James Brewster—although some say she was also seen with his friend Nate Brooks. Or perhaps she is with the two of them, together.” The girl sneered and Ingrid felt a chill. James Brewster. Nate Brooks. These were the other two new names from the book. They had been hanged with Freya.

  Oh, Freya, Ingrid thought. What happened here? Who were those boys?

  Abigail tugged at Mercy’s sleeve, and they both lowered their heads and briskly walked off to join the pastor and the men.

  Ingrid and Troy watched from the carriage as Parris and the men questioned the girls. They obviously hadn’t been schooled in subtlety and kept staring outright. It was exactly what Ingrid wanted. The girls were probably repeating verbatim what she had told them. She wanted to instill a little fear in them—let them know that they must turn Freya over to her wealthy family.

  “I think it worked,” said Troy.

  “Yes, we stirred the pot. Let’s hope they take care before they think to lay a hand on her head.”

  “Shall we search the woods?”

  Ingrid nodded. Freya, where are you?

  chapter forty-nine

  Nemesis

  Limbo had an institutional look, like a boarding-school dorm or a vaguely stylish Swedish prison. Freddie and the pixies tiptoed down the brightly lit hallways that smelled of TV dinners. The blond wood floors gleamed. Identical Ikea closets—to store the obligatory white clothing worn on the level—lined the walls between each cell. The sameness of it all was what became so utterly mind-numbing over time, Freddie remembered.

  They knocked softly at the closed cell doors to ask who might be inside and came upon the brave Sigurd, a gifted trumpet player whose father died in battle at Odin’s hands, in one, then Brock, a mischievous long-nosed, crooked-bodied dwarf, in another. There wasn’t time for conversation as much as these two wanted to chat, so they moved on.

  No one had seen the trident.

  The place resounded with silence, most of the cells vacant, the doors swung wide open. Inside each, furniture could be reconfigured to express individuality but only in limited variations: a single bed, a blond desk, a halogen lamp, and a modish white plastic chair.

  On each landing, Freddie found the laundry nook and shower room—narrow stalls with no doors for privacy and a row of small steel sinks—empty. Even the quarters for the wardens appeared unoccupied.

  They made their way to the remaining floor in the groaning elevator but found it deserted. Freddie’s cell looked pretty much as he had left it: his deck of cards laid out in an unfinished game of solitaire on the desk, the bed unmade, a rabbit-ear television flickering with black-and-white static.

  Nothing. No trident. No Killian either.

  “Well, then I suppose we must go lower. All the way to the bottom of the universe, if we must,” said Sven.

  “Guess so!” returned Freddie.

  “No!” yelped Nyph, but the other pixies shut her down with a look.

  They hopped into the elevator and pressed B for bottom. The doors shut ominously, and Freddie immediately began to sweat, enclosed in what he couldn’t help but think resembled a hermetically sealed steel coffin. He pushed off his hood and tugged at the neck of his sweatshirt to breathe better. When he tried pressing the buttons that corresponded to the floors before the bottom level, none worked, which was all the more disconcerting.

  The elevator creaked downward and his ears popped. The ride went on forever, growing hot, claustrophobic, terrifying, especially when they came to a sudden dead halt and the lights went out, leaving them in complete darkness. This happened more than once, and even so it didn’t make Freddie feel any more optimistic that they would continue descending. It seemed an eternity each time, during which Freddie mused about how they would suffocate and perish here. But he was too afraid to mention it for fear he might jinx the ride altogether. Then the lights would flicker back on, the suspended metal box groaning from above, and it would begin to move down again.

  As they descended farther into the bowels of the universe, Nyph and Kelda, huddled together, fell asleep in a corner. Freddie, Sven, and Irdick solemnly stared up at the numbers above the door, waiting for the next to illuminate with a ding, which took forever given the great distance between each floor. Finally, the doors opened onto B.

  As Freddie watched Sven and Irdick yank Nyph and Kelda, he thought the girls’ reluctance to get out of the elevator odd given the nightmarish ride they had just endured. Once all were out, the doors shut, and the elevator traveled back upward, and Freddie pressed the return button, hoping Hell’s handbasket would be back by the time they located Killian.

  The very bottom of the universe was one long white room connected to another long white room. It was bare and smelled of disinfectant. Behind him, the pixies whispered, in the midst of an argument. He turned around, scowling at them.

  “What’s gotten into you two?” he said to Kelda and Nyph. They looked on the verge of tears.

  “We’re so sorry Freddie… he made us do it,” said Nyph.

  Irdick began trying to quiet her, a hand over her mouth as she squirmed and widened her eyes.

  Freddie shook his head. “What are you talking about?” He had an awful feeling. There had been something nagging at him ever since they had entered the abyss, but he had been avoiding giving it credence. “Guys, leave them alone! What is wrong with you?” Still, Irdick continued holding a hand over Nyph’s mouth.

  “Hmmph!” she said, horror in her eyes.

  Meanwhile, Kelda was struggling to wriggle out of Sven’s grasp. “We’re really sorry, Freddie! We didn’t have a choice!” She finally succeeded in extracting her arm from Sven’s hold and seemed to be pointing at something above Freddie’s shoulder.

  “Welcome home, Fryr,” a velvety and sinister voice rumbled behind him.

  chapter fifty

  Freya’s Diary

  When Ingrid and Troy returned from the woods an hour later, the village had turned eerily silent. All the afflicted girls wandering outside had vanished, doors and windows shut tight. They checked into the inn. Mrs. Ingersoll was elusive and taciturn when Ingrid questioned the quiet. The woman said the village was observing a day of silence and prayer.

  Troy gave Ingrid a look. “It wasn’t silent before, an hour ago when we arrived!”

  At that Mrs. Ingersoll decided to observe the silence. She frowned, left the room, and returned with the bread, fruit, and cheese they had requested, gesturing for them to bring it to their room.

  “I vote for a nap,” said Troy from the bed, hands clasped behind his neck as he watched Ingrid pace the floor.


  She was tired, but the bed was too small, and there was so much of Troy in the room.

  “Mrs. Overbrook,” he said. “You must rest.” He patted the spot beside him.

  She came over and sat down. She lay on her side, her back to his, careful not to touch him, awkward and uncomfortable in her tight and cumbersome clothes. The bed creaked as Troy turned toward her. “Aren’t you going to take that heavy thing off?”

  “No. It’s a nap. Just loosen the laces for me, would you?”

  When he finished pulling at the laces, he rested a hand on her back, an invitation, a question. “It’s been a long time, Erda,” he whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

  She inhaled and turned to him, and put a hand on his face, as if seeing her friend for the first time. They had a history, she had told Hudson, and so they did. The god of thunder had been her first suitor, and she had spurned him, but she had kissed him once before sending him away, and she remembered that kiss a little too well at the moment. “I can’t,” she said. “I love Matt.”

  “I knew if I didn’t find you soon you would find a love of your own.” Troy sighed. “You lied to me, you know, when you sent me away you said you would never marry.”

  “I am still unmarried,” she said gently.

  “You’ll marry him, that mortal,” Troy said, a petulant tone in his voice. “I know you will. I can see it. You’ll marry him and make little half gods, and he will die and you will mourn him forever and still you will not have me.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Are you sure you want that?” he said bluntly. “Mortals…”

  She remained silent. Everything he was saying was right. Loving Matt would only lead to an immortal lifetime of pain. Was that what she wanted? To choose love and pain? She saw herself standing at Matt’s funeral. He would be old and gray and she would be the same, only a few gray hairs to fool the mortals, when in truth she would be ageless and heartbroken forever.