by C. C. Finlay
“Deborah?” he said.
“I'm fine,” the Quaker woman replied, more calm now than she had been moments ago. “But she must be stopped until we know what she intended.”
Emerson nodded. “This is Mister Brown, one of the local minutemen …”
Deborah said, “You know him?”
“I do. He's no British spy, but served well at the battle—his wound there came from a British gun.”
“It did,” Proctor said, and then Jedediah called for Emerson. The Reverend ran off after the older man while Deborah placed herself squarely in Proctor's path.
The anger had faded from her face, erasing the line in her brow and at the corners of her mouth, giving her face, with its strong cheekbones and narrow nose, a more pleasant appearance.
“Are you a witch?” she asked.
The air disappeared from Proctor's throat. After a second, he said, “No, of course not.”
“No, of course not,” she mimicked, and anger wrote new lines across her face in an instant. She reached out to touch the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers. A shiver rippled up his spine, but there seemed to be nothing left in him, like a pitcher that had been poured until it was empty.
She withdrew her hand and turned away. “Stay back, and keep out of the way,” she said as she walked, not even pausing to look at him. “And forget you saw anything you think you saw today.”
“What? But that woman—”
She spun on him, scowling. “But that woman what? She's an old lady, suffering from infirmities, who we are helping on her way to visit relatives.”
“What about—?”
“What about what? Go ahead and tell people that you saw an old woman transformed into a catamount, or a bear, tell them that she was carried away by crows.” She paused, her eyes moving from side to side, as if she were reading his expression like a page. “Tell people what ever you wish. But it was entirely an illusion, just a fanciful daydream, a waking vision. No one but you will ever admit to having seen it.”
He stood there with his mouth agape. This was the second time he had witnessed a stranger's witchcraft. In Boston, Pitcairn, an enemy, had commanded him to spread what he had seen; here, among those he considered allies, he was commanded to stay silent. When he found his tongue, he said, “But you saw it too.”
“Go home,” she said. “Go off to your militia. Or just … just go off to China.”
In the distance, the tiny figure of the widow tripped, allowing Jedediah to close on her, with Emerson near behind. Jedediah called out, “Deborah.”
“If you'll excuse me,” she said. “I have work to do.” She hurried over to the cart. Off in the woods, the two men pinned the arms of the widow.
Proctor sniffed the air and caught the lingering scent of burned hemp and seared flesh. He looked over Deborah's shoulder into the back of the cart and saw a rope with charred ends.
“Not entirely an illusion,” he said.
Chapter 8
Deborah withdrew a small bag from her pocket and circled the cart, leaning over the sideboards to sprinkle something around the perimeter of the floorboards. Her lips moved, as though she prayed beneath her breath.
Proctor watched her, puzzled. He pressed his finger against the grainy trail that trickled from her fist and touched it to his tongue. Salt.
She saw him and her face went red with anger. “What do you think you're doing?”
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his breeches. “Why are you sprinkling salt?”
“You really don't know?”
“No.”
“Then stay back and don't interfere again,” she said, spreading a fresh line of salt over the spot he'd touched.
The quiet anger suffusing her voice convinced him to step back. He glanced over his shoulder to see what Jedediah or Emerson thought. Jedediah was leading the widow back toward the road, bound at her wrists and this time also gagged. His arm was hooked through her elbow, and her body bent against his hip, so that he was practically carrying her. Emerson walked at her side, silent and thoughtful, making no entreaties to her to repent her sins. Both wore the same grim expression as Deborah.
She circled the cart two more times, spilling her thin trail of salt. When she finished her third circuit, there was so little left that she was forced to brush it from the palm of her hand. She murmured intently the entire time; Proctor could not tell what she was saying, only that every third word or so seemed to be “light.”
“Art thou ready?” Jedediah called, his voice strained.
“Not yet,” she said, bending over a corner of the cart.
Four large iron nails protruded from the corners of the cart's frame. Proctor hadn't noticed them before. He approached one opposite Deborah and saw that it had been tied with a piece of white ribbon. The knot in the ribbon was burned through as surely as the ropes had been.
“Do you have any ribbon?” Deborah asked over the edge of the cart.
Proctor held a hand to his chest. “Me?”
“No, the more helpful fellow standing next to you.”
He reached in his pocket for the yellow ribbon that Emily had given him; he was thinking that he would keep it rather than give it to this surly young woman when he realized it was no longer there, but had been tattered to threads by the same shot that had ripped apart his father's canteen. “I'm sorry, but I don't,” he said, more puzzled than ever.
“I'm not surprised.” She tugged up the hem of her skirt and ripped it, tearing off thread after thread.
“What are you doing?” Proctor asked.
“You need to step away, much farther away, before they bring her close,” Deborah said. She put a string in her teeth and tore it in two, then began knotting it around the first nail.
“Sure,” Proctor said to mollify her, but he leaned in close for a better look at what she was doing. The knots seemed perfectly ordinary, even a little rushed.
“Deborah?” Jedediah's voice sounded strained. The skin on the side of his face was red and blistered from the burn.
“I'm hurrying as fast as I can,” she said.
Emerson took a few hesitant steps forward, his face pale and his eyes still wide. “Can I help in any way?”
Deborah's glance fell on Proctor. “Your little toy soldier won't get out of my way. If all your patriots are like him, it's a marvel they did any harm to the British.”
“Mister Brown,” Emerson said firmly, drawing himself up into formal posture. “Be so good as to obey this young woman.”
“Sir,” Proctor answered and looked to Deborah for instructions.
“Over there.” She indicated with a jerk of her head as she hurried to the second corner and began tying another set of knots around the next iron nail.
With his hands still hooked in his waistband, he took a few casual steps away. She continued to pray as she tied the strings. She seemed to be repeating the same phrases she had used when sprinkling the salt. Hold in the light, by the light, and with the light. What ever that meant.
“You can bring her now,” she called out as she finished the fourth set of knots, lifted her tattered hem, and hurried away from the cart. Proctor stepped closer to see again.
The old woman, who had been limp in Jedediah's grip, suddenly lifted her head and stared at Proctor. Her eyes were distant, almost milky like cataracts, with the same absence he saw in his father's gaze, as if they were looking at something far away, over the horizon of the spirit. He felt himself picked up and carried with the gaze, like a bird in the wind, thrown over the landscape to his home, and in through the window: his father sat in his chair, staring back, his eyes clear and focused. His mother lifted her head from the table where she worked, and his vision closed on her face, eyes full of fear and worry. Her face became the widow's face, the two blurred together.
His knees buckled. He staggered back and leaned against a tree for support, never taking his eyes off the widow until he felt a sharp pinch on the back of his hand. His blood raced
with anger as he jerked his hand away, but relief followed a second later. Deborah stood beside him, her fingers poised where his hand had been a second before.
“That hurt,” he said.
“No, not a witch,” she murmured sarcastically.
The widow started to laugh through her gag. Deborah grabbed Proctor's arm and pulled him along the path ahead of the cart. “Come with me,” she said.
“Why should I?” he said, bracing his legs and stopping.
Deborah yanked Proctor's arm hard enough to pull him off-balance. “Because I don't want you to get us killed.”
“Go with her, Brown,” Emerson snapped.
She put her body between Proctor and the cart, and pushed him down the trail. He allowed her to only because of the fear in Emerson's voice.
Jedediah and Emerson lifted the widow into the tip cart. As she crossed the tailboard, she lashed out with her feet at the line of salt.
“Don't let her break the circle,” Deborah shouted over her shoulder.
“I know,” Jedediah grunted.
The widow kicked and struggled like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, but both men were strong, and Emerson quite tall as well. As soon as they lifted her clear of the edge, she fell limp, whimpering, into the bottom of the cart, where she lay suddenly still atop the bits of old straw and manure.
A shiver iced through Proctor. “What did I just see?”
“If you're smarter than I take you to be, then you didn't see anything,” Deborah said. She continued to push him down the trail away from the cart.
“What kind of witchcraft is this?” he asked.
“There's no—” Deborah started, and then a grunt from Jedediah interrupted them.
The old man stood in the path beside the cart, hands on his knees, breathing deliberately while his body shook. Emerson leaned over him. Proctor started back down the trail toward them.
Deborah grabbed two handfuls of his jacket. “Stop!”
“He needs help!”
“Don't you understand? You're helping her.”
Proctor twisted, pulling his coat free. His voice wavered as he said, “No, I'm not. I'm not helping her.”
“If you didn't help her, I don't know how she escaped my original binding spell.”
“That's madness,” he said, but he glanced over his shoulder. “What's a binding spell?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You don't need to know.”
“I need to know.” The voice belonged to Jedediah. His face was a grimace, his neck and cheek covered with blisters. He stood upright and approached her. “What happened back there?”
“She escaped,” Deborah snapped.
“I saw that. But how did she break the spell?”
“Why don't you ask Elizabeth?” Deborah asked.
Proctor shook his head. Who was Elizabeth?
“Oh, wait, you can't ask her because she was nearly killed,” Deborah said. “And she's the only one of us powerful enough to understand this woman.”
“What did thou do wrong?” he asked, stomping toward her.
“What did I do wrong?” Deborah said, his voice rising sharply. “What did you do at all? You stood by and did nothing until it was too late, the way you always do.”
“Deborah,” Emerson said, addressing her like a child.
“No, it's fine,” Jedediah said, raising his hand to stop Emerson from saying anything further. “Stay thine anger. She has the right to speak her mind, however she truly feels.”
“Those burns look painful,” Deborah said instantly, more softly, reaching her hand halfway to his cheek.
He turned his head away, then, a second later, his whole body. “I'll go get the cart.”
Emerson bristled at Deborah. “I'll treat him as soon as we get to your house,” she said.
“I'll have Sarah bring you everything you need,” he said sharply before turning away.
“How did she escape?” Proctor said.
“You know as much as I do,” Deborah said, pulling him ahead. Jedediah had retrieved his hat and musket, and had taken the bridle in hand again. He was rubbing the muzzle of the horse and speaking to it before leading it on.
Proctor had thought he knew more about magic than nearly anyone, all because he could glimpse the future in the death of an egg or recognize the charmed medallion worn by Major Pitcairn. That was nothing compared with the things he had witnessed in the last half an hour.
“But I don't know anything,” he said.
“Then that is the one thing we share in common,” Deborah grumbled.
“But what were you doing on the cart? What was with the salt and the knots?”
“As if I would tell you,” Deborah said. “What if you are helping her on purpose?”
“I swear I'm not.”
She frowned, an expression that looked unnatural on her face, though it seemed that she did it often enough and with enough ease that it might someday become her permanent mask. “I don't trust anyone who swears,” she said finally. “The Bible teaches us not to take oaths.”
“The Bible also says to suffer not a witch to live.”
“Do you make no distinction between how we're born and what we choose to do?”
He opened his mouth, but there were no words to come out of it.
“If we have special talents, it's only because God gave them to us, and He expects us to use them to His glory. Were you given one talent that you've buried, or many talents that you wisely invest?”
Proctor recognized arguments that he had made to himself. “Just like the parable of the talents …”
“Exactly,” she said, as if surprised that he wasn't as stupid as she'd thought him. “Jesus also commands us to swear not at all.”
His head was spinning. “What's that then? Is that also part of some spell?”
“What?”
“That flower in your buttonhole.”
“The flower—?” She regarded the blossom in surprise, as if she'd forgotten it. Up close, it appeared as much red as purple, a shade somewhere between blood and bruise. She frowned at herself. “This is a vanity, a distraction from my duty.”
“Ah,” Proctor said. “My mother calls it truelove.”
Deborah sneered. “And I bet she uses it to treat nosebleeds and help with childbirths.”
“Nosebleeds,” Proctor admitted. “She says that each of the threes in it—the three leaves, three petals, and so on—is for the Trinity.”
“I call it stinking benjamin,” Deborah said, ripping it from her shawl and leaving the torn stem behind.
“My mother calls it that too,” Proctor said. “And wake-robin.”
“Three names for everything. It sounds like she and my mother would get along very well.” She crumpled the blossom in her fist. He noticed that her pale, slender fingers were bare of adornment. She threw the flower down in the trail, trampling it on purpose. “There's Emerson's house.” Over her shoulder, she called out, “I'll go ahead to find Sarah.”
Proctor blinked in the light as the old trees opened up on the young orchard. Emerson's house sat near the river below them. Deborah hurried away. What a contrary and unpleasant young woman, Proctor thought. No wonder she was still unmarried at her age. He was glad Emily was nothing like her. Well, except for a certain sharpness of tongue.
Jedediah led the cart toward the isolated workshed where Proctor had met with Emerson. Emerson took Proctor aside, leading him away from the shed and back toward the main road.
“So are you still worried about Miss Rucke's accusations of witchcraft?” Emerson asked.
“What did I see?” Proctor demanded. “How did she do those things?”
“Magic is mostly lies, but lies told to our eyes instead of our ears. If you report the lies as fact, you may do great harm, and bring innocent people to an unfortunate end, like the situation witnessed by our forefathers at Salem. Is that what you want?”
“I just want to understand what I saw.”
“Which is i
t?”
Proctor shook his head. “What do you mean?”
Emerson had shaken off what ever fear had marked him on the trail. “Do you want to shake off Miss Rucke's accusation and find a wife and build your cattle farm, or do you want to pursue forbidden magic and bring the scrutiny and approbation of the community upon you?”
“I—”
“You must choose, Mister Brown.” He placed a hand on Proctor's shoulder. “I strongly encourage you to forget everything you saw. Treat it as but a dream that fades as the day progresses, so that by nightfall no memory of it remains. Go home. Do your duty to your parents, and to your country. Become the man you want to become.”
Proctor couldn't believe what he was hearing. “But how did she start that fire? That fire was no illusion. That Jedediah fellow is burned, all over his face and shoulder.”
Emerson cleared his throat. “Perhaps a bit of gunpowder, and a flint, hidden in her sleeve for such a circumstance. A mere trick.”
A laugh formed on Proctor's lips and evaporated just as quickly.
“Do you wish to help us?” Emerson asked.
“Yes, sir,” Proctor said. “Of course I do.”
“Then run ahead to Amos Lathrop's home,” Emerson said. “Tell him to call on me, that it's for the patriot cause.”
“Anything Amos can do to help you, I can do as well.”
Emerson tilted his head forward and glared down his nose. “Did you mean your offer to help or no?”
Proctor hesitated. Maybe Emerson didn't trust him after all. Maybe he knew somehow that Proctor was also a witch. Maybe, like Deborah, he blamed Proctor for helping the widow nearly escape.
“I meant it,” Proctor said.
“Then run to the Lathrop farm and tell Amos to come straightaway to the shed at the back of the property. I'll need him to stay all night.”
“Yes, sir.” He took a few steps backward before turning to leave.
“Mister Brown?”
“Yes?”
“You've been injured recently. You may be a little lightheaded still. It might be best for you to go straight home after the Lathrop farm and rest until you are well.”