The Patriot Witch

by C. C. Finlay

  “Please leave a few moments for contemplation between contributions,” Deborah said.

  Cecily squeezed Elizabeth's arm sympathetically. “But of course, forgive me.” She waited a brief moment, and when she spoke it was in a softer voice. “I, for one, am grateful that it wasn't worse.” She looked around at their faces. “I mean, it's terrible that Jedediah was killed, he was a good man, a very noble man. But God was watching out for us.”

  Elizabeth tried to speak and couldn't. Clouds passed in front of the sun. Proctor shivered.

  “I'll miss him,” Deborah said. “He sacrificed himself for something he believed in, trying to protect us.”

  A spattering of raindrops pelted out of the sky. Elizabeth said, “May the Light guide the souls of these two strangers, who also died for a cause they believed in.”

  Proctor shook his head at that. He figured their true cause was cash and whiskey.

  The rain came down harder. Cecily and Magdalena began to glance to the shelter of the house. Lydia stood with her hands folded in front of her. Alexandra fidgeted, twirling her long red curls around her fingers. No one else seemed inclined to speak. Proctor cleared his throat.

  “Jedediah was a good man to work with. He labored without rest, never expecting anything in return.” His hands began to shake. “On the night he died, he only expected to be able to delay his attackers long enough so that all of you could escape. I suspect that he didn't have the smoothest intercourse with all of you”—he knew the words were wrong even before Lydia hid a smile and Deborah glared at him—“but he didn't think twice about giving his life to save you. I hope that someday, if I have to, I can be as brave.”

  After a moment's silence, Deborah said, “I think that's enough, Mother. Let's go inside before we're all soaked.”

  The women stepped away from the grave in a slow pro cession back toward the house. Elizabeth stopped when she reached Proctor, and patted his arm. “That was very moving, dear boy. Do come inside and join us once thou art done.”

  “When I'm done with what?”

  “When thou art done filling the graves,” she sniffled, as if he should have known. “They can't stay uncovered.”

  Of course. He should've known. He was their hired help now. Their Jedediah.

  “Do thou want us to stay and help thee? We can stay and help thee,” she said.

  Cecily shielded her face against the sky. “Maybe it would be better if he left it until tomorrow.”

  “No, I'll take care of it now,” he said.

  He filled the graves quickly, packing the mud into Jedediah's first. The second he filled with loose soil. The rain was pouring again by the time he turned to the shallow grave. He tossed a few shovelfuls across it, just enough to cover the body, and then went to clean up.

  Deborah pressed a warm mug of coffee into his hand as soon as he went inside. Food sat uneaten on the table. The women were discussing their attackers, wondering who had sent them and what they wanted.

  “Why don't you ask them?” Proctor asked.

  The conversation stopped. Cecily stared at him, and said, “Are you touched in the head? They're not alive to question.”

  “Didn't you say that witches can speak to the dead? Necrosomething.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “It's not that easy.”

  “It's in the Bible,” Proctor said. “Saul and the witch of Endor, speaking to the dead. If you want to find out why those men wanted to kill you, summon them up and ask them.”

  Chapter 15

  The women debated the rest of the day, trying to reach a consensus on Proctor's proposal.

  “Necromancy is evil,” Magdalena insisted. “Ve should have no part of it.”

  “No one is suggesting necromancy,” Deborah insisted. “No one wants to raise the dead, or ask the spirits to foretell the future. We only wish to speak to them about the past.”

  Magdalena spewed sentences in German, ending with, “Totenbeschwörung, necromancy, vhatever—it is all the same. It is evil, the verk of Satan.”

  “No, it isn't,” Deborah said patiently. “We are only going to ask them for information.”

  “I don't understand how we can do that spell,” Cecily said. “Not that I know as much as Elizabeth or you, I'm not claiming that. But I thought, at the very least, you needed to know someone's name to summon them. We have no idea who those terrible men are.”

  “One of them was named Dick,” Proctor said, recalling the name he heard during the fight. “He's the one who killed Nimrod.”

  “And we have their things still,” Alexandra interjected. “Their clothes, the weapons they were carrying—that should help.”

  Deborah nodded. “Those are exactly what we need. All we want to do is find out their purpose in coming to kill us. Who were they working for? Is it the British governor or one of the generals or—”

  She stopped in mid-sentence. That was the part that bothered Proctor the most. Who wanted to kill these women and why? With the militiamen strangling the Redcoats in Boston, it made no sense at all for British officers to care about a few women outside Salem.

  “They knew how to see past the enchantment,” he said. “So whoever sent the widow also sent them.”

  That wasn't a very comforting thought, and the others glided right past it.

  “Their disguises link them to the attack,” Deborah said. “That's the important thing, because that's all we wish to ask them about.”

  “But Magdalena makes an excellent point too,” Cecily said, and the older woman nodded agreement. “We should consider how dangerous it may be. We all want answers. I want answers. But if we summon the spirits of the dead, especially dead men burning in hell, where they ought to be if there is any justice at all, then we draw the undesirable eye of Lucifer himself—”

  “Aie, don't mention his name,” Magdalena shouted, smacking her hands on the table and making a hex sign to ward herself as she rose.

  At the end of the day, Deborah and Alexandra were in favor of Proctor's plan, Magdalena was vehemently opposed, and Cecily alternately affirmed that it was a good idea then sowed caution and doubt. Lydia remained silent, whether because she had no opinion or did not feel free to speak, Proctor wasn't sure. Elizabeth also said nothing, but you could see her weighing the opinions for and against. Finally, after dark, she rose wearily. “Let us sleep on it and pray for a clearer path tomorrow.”

  The debate resumed the next day. Proctor, having already made his decision about what was right, escaped to do the work of the farm. He tended to the animals and split firewood. When he returned to the house around noon, Deborah met him at the well. “It's decided,” he said. “We all agreed to try to talk to them.”

  “Even Magdalena?”

  “Elizabeth persuaded her that it would be safe, if it even worked at all, since we don't know their names. We agreed that we would not call Jedediah, since he can't tell us anything that he didn't know in life.”

  He noticed how Mother and Father two days ago, when they were digging graves, had been transformed back to Elizabeth and Jedediah. “And Cecily too?”

  “She was the last to be convinced. She is more afraid than she lets on, but I think it is mostly for Elizabeth's sake. She thinks we will not find out anything useful, and it will only make Elizabeth sadder, even if it doesn't bring any direct harm.”

  He nodded thoughtfully at that. Cecily was smarter than she sometimes seemed. “So are they doing it now?” It was his idea—it seemed too much to expect that they would give him a chance to see it done.

  “No, we need to wait for twilight,” Deborah said.

  “Why?”

  “The spirits are most accessible at dusk. At twilight, the world is caught between day and night, just as the spirits are caught between life and death.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  “No.”

  They both fell silent. Proctor hauled up a bucket of water and offered a ladle to Deborah. She shook her head.

  “Will I
be allowed to watch?” he asked. His voice was tight, sharper than he intended.

  “Yes, positively.” Her voice was uncertain. “I convinced Elizabeth that your presence is essential, simply for the role you played.”

  He supposed that he should thank her. But the words that came out of his mouth had a different edge. “Essential because I killed them, you mean?”

  “However you wish to have it.” She turned and walked away a second before he would have done the same.

  That afternoon, he cleaned tools, straightened up the barn, and hiked the fences. He avoided the graves, although he knew he'd have to finish filling them tomorrow. He was having second thoughts about calling up the dead. This was exactly the kind of witchcraft his mother would oppose. The kind that made ordinary people so afraid of witches they were willing to kill them.

  Elizabeth came looking for him late in the afternoon. “Can thou help us gather any of the items the dead men left behind?”

  He showed her the items in the barn. “It's mostly their weapons.”

  “That'll do fine, since we mean to ask them about their intention to kill us. Can thou sort out anything that belonged to the one called Dick?”

  “I think these are his boots. This is his hatchet, I'm sure, and the bloody pistol belonged to him.”

  “Keep them separate, and bring it all inside.”

  A space had been cleared in front of the hearth for the trestle table and plank benches. Five candles had been arranged on the table at the points of a star, but they were unlit. The room smelled of soap and herbs, the floors and walls scrubbed clean.

  Elizabeth directed him to place the dead men's items on the table. “Dick's stuff on this side of the candles,” she said, “and the other one's over there.”

  At first he piled the items randomly, but on reflection he rearranged them, laying them out the way he would if he were going to get dressed. He didn't explain that to anyone, because he didn't want to feel foolish. But he thought the spirits would be more likely to recognize them that way.

  Cecily hovered around the table, fidgeting, touching things. “I think this is the right thing to do,” she told Elizabeth. “But we shouldn't do it to night. You're not ready. Let's sleep on it another night. We can still try tomorrow.”

  “No, to night is the night to do it,” Elizabeth said. She sat down and massaged her crippled arm. “These men are not well known to us—no more than half of one's name, and it might not be his real name at that—nor are they bound to this piece of land. Their spirits will want to wander back to more familiar places. This will be the third night since their death. I fear if we do not attempt it to night, we will have no chance at all for it to work.”

  “But look at you, dear heart—you haven't eaten for several days, much less slept.” She frowned at the table and rearranged items, putting weapons together on one side, clothes on the other. “Your hands are shaking even now as we speak. What difference will one more day make?”

  “I am also vorried,” Magdalena said. “Ve could pray on it for anudder day.”

  “We all agreed this morning that we would try,” Elizabeth insisted. “We were led to believe it was the right thing.”

  “I want to know why people are trying to kill us,” Alexandra said sulkily. “Frankly, I would feel safer back home with my kin, even if folks there did want to burn me for a witch.”

  They fell into uncomfortable silence. Elizabeth rose and left the room, followed by Cecily. As soon as she was gone, Proctor quietly moved all the dead men's items back to their original positions.

  A moment later Elizabeth bustled back into the room as if she were trying to escape conflict by outrunning it. “Do thou not want to know who's trying to kill us?”

  “Of course I do,” Cecily said. “But don't you see, we need you, Elizabeth, to guide us and help protect us. What good can you do us if you're completely drained?”

  “The power should flow through the circle to me, not away from me. I won't be drained.”

  Cecily's hands moved, sketching possibilities in the air. “What if something bad happens and you're so tired, you can't react fast enough to protect us the next time?”

  “I thank thee for thy confidence, but if thou art all so helpless without me, then I have done a poor job indeed.”

  “Oh, my dear Elizabeth, perish such thoughts. None of us would have near the skill we have without you. But could anyone else here capture fire and channel it the way you did when the widow attacked?”

  Elizabeth looked at Deborah.

  “The hour is upon us,” Deborah said. “If we are in agreement to do this thing, let us begin now.”

  Her mother nodded. She took Cecily's hand and chose seats on one side of the table. Deborah and Alexandra took seats on the other side.

  Elizabeth looked at Magdalena. “I cannot do this without thee. In the name of the God we both love, I beg thine assistance. If it does not work, I will forgo the attempt and not try again.”

  Magdalena's jaw worked as if she were chewing over some unpleasant phrase. Finally, she went and sat at Elizabeth's right hand.

  “Ya, I vill help you this vunce,” she said. “But I vill do no more than join the circle. I have seen the dead summoned back before and do not vish to see it again.”

  “That will be enough. I thank thee. Lydia, Proctor?”

  The two of them were standing to one side. “Yes?” Lydia said, and Proctor said, “Yes, ma'am?”

  “A circle of seven is stronger than a circle of five. Both are in the sequence of holy numbers. Join us, please.”

  Proctor's heart pounded. They took seats across from one another on the ends of the benches, Lydia next to Cecily, Proctor next to Deborah. The circle was formed with Magdalena, Elizabeth, Cecily, and Lydia on one side of the table, with Proctor, Deborah, and Alexandra going up the other.

  “Let us join hands,” Elizabeth said. Deborah's hand felt smaller than he expected. He tried to hold it gently. He reached across the table and took Lydia's hand, finding it large, and rough, and callused. Cecily rested her hand on Elizabeth's crippled arm.

  “May the Light lead us to do Thy will, O God,” Elizabeth said. After a moment of silence, she said, “Girl, if thou please?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Deborah answered. She slipped her hand from Proctor's grasp and fetched a taper from the coals, returning to light the five candles. She sat, holding out her hand for him.

  He looked at it a moment before taking it.

  “A really powerful witch can draw on another's power by proximity,” she said. “But we require touch.”

  “Shhh!” Elizabeth said. “The time for lessons will be later.”

  Proctor took her hand. He felt a tingle moving through him clockwise, through his right arm and out his left. Then it faded and disappeared.

  “Ah,” Elizabeth said softly. “Yes.”

  The light of sunset through the windows slowly matched the glow from the candles. When the quality of the lights seemed indistinguishable, Elizabeth spoke.

  “We are ready. Proctor, call the name of the one thou heard addressed.”

  He pulled back. “I don't know what to do. Shouldn't there be a, a prayer, or a ritual, or something?”

  “Let the Light flow into thy heart and guide thee,” Elizabeth said. “All miracles are performed by the grace of God. Open thy heart to God and call the name of the man who attacked us.”

  Proctor sat quietly for a moment. He felt too self-conscious to speak aloud, but to himself he recited the prayer his mother had taught him for scrying, asking the Father for guidance and knowledge. He was no calmer or surer when he was done.

  “Dick?” he asked uncertainly, looking around to see if something happened.

  They waited a moment, and nothing did.

  “Which items are his?” Elizabeth asked.

  Proctor nodded toward the pile in front of him. “Hold his items in your mind as you call him,” Deborah said. “Let the power flow through you to the rest of us, to Eli
zabeth. We'll do the work.”

  “I don't know how to do this,” he whispered.

  “Maybe we should wait until tomorrow,” Cecily whispered to Elizabeth.

  Deborah squeezed his hand. “You can do this. First, close your eyes, as if in prayer.” He did. “Now feel the pulse in your right hand, your pulse. When you sense it, feel the life pulse of the other person, beating in your palm.”

  He slowed his breathing and relaxed until he thought he felt it. He opened his mouth to say so, but she interrupted him first.

  “Now feel it pulse out of your left hand,” she said in a low, soothing tone. “Like the double beat of your heart, in, then out, in, then out.”

  As her sentence dropped to a murmur, he felt both hearts pulsing. A light burst inside him, like the heat from a flame. It coursed into his right arm, through his chest, and out his left, the next wave starting as soon as the first one was gone. He opened his mouth in delight, but Deborah interrupted him again.

  “Call to him now,” she said softly.

  “Dick, are you out there?” Proctor said, waiting for a response. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. “Dick?”

  Again, nothing.

  Deborah squeezed his hand more firmly. “You could always try calling as though you actually expected him to answer.”

  He recalled the phrase the man had used. “‘Help me out, Dick, the dog's mauling my arm!’”

  Quit your whining. We'll bind it up after we kill the witches up at the house.

  The candles flared, and smoke twined up from all five of them, forming the torso and head of a man. The smoke seemed to capture the light and reflect it, giving the shape a glow from within. Proctor forgot to feel the pulse going through him and a bolt of ice shot up his arm through his shoulder. But Deborah gave a tug on his hand that drew the next pulse through, and he felt the spirit flowing freely again.

  “Who sent thee, Dick?” Elizabeth asked. The candlelight on her face in the dark gave her a similarly ghostly appearance. “Dick, answer me, who sent thee?”

  Old Nance sent us, the ghost shape said. Wait, who are you? You're not Billy.