Alison flushed. “Sorry, Lucian,” she said. “You know Ward and I have never been much for formal religion. We’re like Aunt Bo.”
“And a pity,” he mourned. “You and Ward are basically such good people. I pray that I may bring you to Jesus while there’s still time. It was a day of rejoicing when I brought Brother and Sister Carrier into the fold,” he added.
“Damon and Charity?” I’d never thought of them as religious.
“Yes, they’ve been born again, Submit.”
I stiffened. “Where did you hear that name? Everyone here calls me Mitti, as do all my—friends.” Had he gotten the name from my anonymous phone caller?
His brow puckered. “I don’t remember, but I think it’s a lovely name. ‘Submit unto the Lord!’ Have you given yourself unto the Lord?” He spread his hands on the table—narrow palms sprouting thin, crooked fingers with tufts of black hair between the knuckles. “Have you truly, Submit?”
“My father was a clergyman,” I replied. This man had no right to conduct an inquisition.
“You evade me,” he said. “Being a minister’s daughter doesn’t exempt you from making your own decision. I sincerely hope you have.” There was a distinct threat in his tone.
“My father preached a loving God,” I declared. “He said if there is a hell, it’ll be one of mental anguish.”
Something flickered in those haunted eyes, as though a door had opened and shut. “And that would be the worst hell of all,” he said.
“Agreed. But surely a God of Love would give the soul a chance to redeem itself.”
“You can’t mean you believe in reincarnation!”
Dana, who had been sitting there, remote and withdrawn, suddenly leaned forward, listening intently.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “It’s a tempting theory, although when I try to believe in it, it evades me, and when I try not to, there it is—luring me with its utter logic.”
“Your father would be shocked to hear you say that.”
“No,” I replied, squaring off. “I don’t think he would. I can’t see anything unchristian about a concept in which the individual soul can work toward perfection during the course of various lives—whether on this planet or others, or on different planes of existence. One lifetime is too short to work out our karma.”
“Karma? I hope you haven’t been influenced by this recent interest in the occult and witchcraft, Sub—uh—Mitti,” he said, staring at Dana. “That’s satanic.”
“I must see to Caper,” Dana excused herself abruptly.
“The thing that always perturbs me,” said Dr. Brun after she’d gone, “is the potency ascribed to Satan. He is not a creator God, he’s a negative quantity. Without us to do his works he is nothing. You just said that anything in the supernatural realm is satanic. Let me remind you that the most supernatural force of all is God. May I suggest, sir, that you reread the twelfth chapter of First Corinthians?”
Lucian rose. “It is also written, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” he quoted, putting down his empty glass.
“More lemonade?” Alison asked sweetly.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I have other calls to make.”
As his car scraped on the gravel outside, she muttered, “He has a burr under his saddle because Aunt Bo had Dr. Brun preach the funeral sermon. And besides,” she laughed, “I don’t think he likes to linger with publicans and sinners.”
Dr. Brun sighed. “And this is Peacehaven!”
“Salem means peace,” I observed unnecessarily.
“My grandfather,” Alison said, “told me Salem was originally named ‘Naumkeag’ after the Indians who lived there. The Puritans, who thought the natives were the lost tribes of Israel, believed ‘Naumkeag’ was Hebrew for ‘comfort haven.’ Hence, ‘Peacehaven.’”
The phone rang. I took it off its hook, my throat tightening.
“Hello? Submit?” came the taunting, sing-song whisper. “Submit, why did you return? We hate you. Move away, Submit…”
“Someone has a poor idea of a joke,” I mumbled.
“Submit—move away. We warn you. Take your daughters and go. We are many. Did you cut yourself today? We willed it—and that is only the beginning—”
I slammed the receiver down and sat staring at the cut on my thumb.
Chapter Four
With the help of Dana and Alison I was able to get things into fair shape before the invasion began. Unpacked boxes were either shoved into the back hall or stashed in unoccupied bedrooms. One of the first things I did was to strip the heavy plush velvet drapes from the huge picture windows to bring the lush panorama of the countryside indoors.
Rowan came in carrying a large dress box, her eyes shining. Charity had taken her to the Patch and bought her a long denim skirt with fringed hem and a gauze blouse, which she insisted on wearing to the party. In spite of the ninety-degree weather, I shuddered when my daughter said, “It’s a really neat store! Iris says she knows you. She read my palm this afternoon.”
“Oh?” I tried to keep my voice calm. “And what did she say?”
“She said I’m going to be a movie star and marry a rich man, but that a woman with dark brown hair is my enemy.” Rowan stood in front of the pier glass in my bedroom, holding up the new skirt to her slight figure. Without turning her head she said, “You have dark brown hair, Mother.”
* * * *
They came, bearing casseroles and salads and cakes and cookies, Ward and Alison first.
“I’ll be right behind you to cue you on names,” she had promised before she went home to change. Time had been kind to Ward. Only a slight sprinkling of gray dusted his dark hair, and the squint at the corners of his hazel eyes was more a gift of the sun than aging. He held me at arm’s length, scanning me with the same quizzical, fond look he’d always had for me. Did he remember the adventures that he and Gareth and I used to have?
Aunt Jenny Pudeator arrived next, with her daughters—Gladys and her sister Muriel, and Muriel’s husband, Caleb Toothaker. “Mitti, child, it’s a treat to see you. My, how you’ve grown!” Aunt Jenny squeezed my hands between her two plump ones. Everyone kissed me warmly except Caleb, who stood glumly to one side—long, gaunt hands thrust into his pockets. Muriel had once been almost a beauty, but now her hair hung in yellow strings and her skin was drawn into fine pleats around her mouth and chin. Life with Caleb couldn’t have been easy. He was a ruthless man, who, with his half-brother Tyler Bishop, the bank president, was known for making some very sharp deals.
Damon Carrier’s greeting was to reach for my lips. His wife’s lids narrowed, and I offered him my cheek instead.
“We don’t often see such beauty in Peacehaven,” he said, scanning my gold crepe pants and low-cut top. “But you always were a heartbreaker.”
I pushed him away. “You never had eyes for anyone but your wife, Damon.”
She shot me a grateful look, then turned to greet Rowan, who was pirouetting in front of her.
“See? I wore them, Aunt Charity. They’re cool!”
My cousin’s face flushed with pleasure as Rowan wound her arm around her waist. Doll-like Charity, already shorter than my daughter. I might have envied her Rowan’s warmth if I hadn’t remembered about Mark and the baby. Still, a warning bell sounded in my mind. There may be enemies among your guests tonight, Dana had told me before the party.
“And here are Elspeth and Melvin Osburn,” Alison broke in. “You remember them—she was Elspeth Bishop.” I did—just barely. The town’s mortician, he now looked like one of his own customers. Elspeth, Caleb’s half-sister, was as colorless as her husband, but her high-gabled nose, sunken cheeks and close-set eyes gave her face more character.
“It’s a pleasure to see you two again,” I murmured.
�
��You must come over soon!” Elspeth gushed. “I want Junior and Cissie to get acquainted with Rowan.”
Junior, the torturer!
“Excuse me,” I said as the doorbell rang again.
Ward returned with a tall, blond, studious-looking man who had to stoop slightly as he entered.
“Mitti, I want you to meet Gregory Towne, editor of our newspaper.”
His fingers gripping my hand were long and well-shaped. Brown eyes smiled through heavy-rimmed glasses, sending the blood pounding in my ears. I had never seen this man before, but there was something about him—I pushed the thought away, hardly aware my hand had lingered in his. For the first time since Owen’s death, I was seeing a man as a man, yet no two could have been more dissimilar. There was a slight movement at the other end of the room—Rowan was staring at our joined hands. I quickly withdrew mine.
“Owner of the paper now as well,” Damon broke in. “That’s one thing Aunt Bo didn’t leave you, Mitti.”
“I’m sure Aunt Bo knew the better thing to do with The Puritan,” I said quickly, trying to cover the newcomer’s embarrassment.
“Your aunt was very generous,” he said. “I want to do a series of features about her—how she campaigned for suffrage, helped unwed mothers, worked among the mentally retarded—I hope you’ll be willing to help me, Mitti.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
“Now don’t get Mitti involved in any crusades,” Charity cautioned sharply. “Aunt Bo caused enough trouble—almost got herself arrested more than once.”
I felt a twinge of annoyance at her disloyalty.
“Suffrage!” Caleb sniffed. “We can thank meddling women like Bo Severance for laying the foundation for this goddam women’s lib.”
“We have been wondering, Mitti—” Damon said, helping himself to a handful of nuts, “you were always so fond of Aunt Bo—you’re not going to go around stirring things up, are you?”
“Don’t worry, Damon.” There was a dangerous quiver in my voice. “I’m not for women’s lib—I’m for man’s enslavement.”
Ward and Alison’s laughter died as the others sat there uncomfortably. Gregory Towne came to my rescue.
“In that case we men are doomed. I, for one, surrender.”
Smooth, I thought, wondering how a man of his caliber could make an adequate living out of so small a newspaper as the Peacehaven Puritan.
Ward answered my unspoken question. “Greg has a fellowship from Harvard for a study of the descendants of Salem victims—he happens to be descended from one himself, and,” with the old familiar, teasing smile, “since we are just about the most concentrated and isolated group of witch progeny in existence, he chose us as a test case.”
Greg frowned. “I liked your term ‘victim’ better,” he said. “The real witches were their accusers.” How intense he was!
“You honestly think they were practicing witchcraft?” I asked in amazement, settling onto the sofa.
“It depends on what you mean by witchcraft,” he replied. He seated himself on the inglenook. “It varies from age to age. To the Puritans, witchcraft was a contractual affair. To curry the Devil’s favor, you signed his black book and performed his evil works. In that sense I think there was witchcraft—I don’t mean anyone actually signed such a book, but I believe certain people did dedicate themselves to mischief. The indigent, undesirables, incapacitated and elderly posed a financial burden on society. It would have been to the advantage of the ruling class—magistrates, government officials, clergy, and large property holders—to sift out those elements in the population. The crime of witchcraft, which carried the death penalty, provided the means.”
Ward pulled his pipe from his pocket. “Not all the victims were poor or burdensome.”
“As heretics they were considered burdensome,” Greg argued. “And anyone with enemies ran the risk of being accused of heresy.”
“But why only Salem?” Ward countered.
“Historians have never come up with a satisfactory answer to that,” Greg replied. “They cite ill will between neighbors, fear of the Crown, fear of the Indians, of disease, of Satan, mass hysteria, and antipathy between various church congregations—but these were common to every community. There had to be another factor—a catalyst—but what that was we may never know. I’m hoping to find a clue here.”
“Were any of the accused really guilty?” I asked.
“Yes. Dorcas Hoar probably was,” Greg said. “She saved her life with an eleventh hour confession, incriminating others. She had a previous reputation for sorcery. Today we’d call her an extortionist—a Massachusetts Fagin, you might say. She read palms and told fortunes, mostly among servants and children, predicting dire fates for them if they didn’t bring her stolen goods. She should have been hanged. But most, I believe, were innocent.”
“Oh, come on, Greg!” This from Alison, who entered with a steaming percolator, followed by Dana trundling a teacart. “It’s intriguing to think one has witch ancestors. I just wish I could use some witchcraft on my housework!”
Only Ward and I laughed, although Greg smiled. The others were clearly shocked.
“Really, Alison!” her sister-in-law scolded. “How can you be so flippant? If you’d felt the Evil Eye like I—”
“Careful, Char,” Damon warned her.
“—like they said they did,” she corrected herself. “Damn it, Alison, you’ve got me arguing on the wrong side.” Her hand shook as she brought the lighter to her cigarette.
“But why were the founders of Peacehaven, who were separated from the Salem tragedy by at least a century and a half, still so bitter?” I asked, trying to cover Charity’s confusion.
“You say that because you’re really not one of us, Mitti,” she reminded me ungratefully.
“Legal murder isn’t easily forgotten,” Greg explained. “Did you know that the bill of attainder stands to this day against seven of the twenty who were executed? The Massachusetts legislature passed a resolution in 1957 condemning the legal proceedings at the trials, but that did nothing to reverse the convictions.”
“But why harbor old resentments?” I persisted. “You can’t unhang those unfortunates.”
“We can clear their names,” he pointed out.
“Who believes them guilty now?”
“The world does,” Damon blurted out. “The name of Salem is still synonymous with witchcraft and Satanism.”
“And Salem profits handsomely from its reputation,” Ward commented sardonically. “Why’re you so vehement, Damon? I never heard you talk that way before.”
“I admit I never thought much about it until lately, but Lucian’s made me see things differently. Witchcraft—that is, satanism—is coming to the surface again after lying low for centuries.”
“Oh, come on, Damon,” Ward snorted, “you certainly don’t believe there’s anything to that hocus-pocus.”
His brother-in-law forked into his food impatiently. “The thing that concerns me is that criminals can operate in the guise of witches or satanists—and we may’ve had a taste of that right here in Peacehaven.”
Behind me, Muriel gasped.
“I agree with Mitti,” Alison said hastily. “It’s about time this town got over its hang-ups.”
“Forget our heritage? Never!” Damon said. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to make an announcement. Lucian has suggested we put on a pageant about Salem. Greg’s writing the script. We’ll all wear period costumes—like they do in Williamsburg—and those of us in the pageant will rehearse until we’re so professional people will come from all over to see it. It’ll be Peacehaven’s passion play!”
“The young girls will have the best parts,” Charity volunteered. “If Rowan’s like her father, she’ll play the lead among the girls.”
�
�Oh, that would be great!” Rowan embraced her.
I observed them wistfully and turned away, accidentally knocking the spoon off my plate. Greg and I bent over simultaneously, our hands closing over it. I straightened to see Rowan looking at me strangely.
“Just a minute, Aunt Charity!” she blurted out. “I’ve got something upstairs I want to bring down for you to hear.”
Greg brought us back to the pageant. “I hear you were a commercial artist in New York, Mitti. Would you do the scenery?”
How could I resist those clear brown eyes? “I’d love to. It would take study, of course.”
“Oh, I’ll help you.” His tone was intimate now, as though we were the only ones in the room. “I’ll drop off material for you and we can go over it together.”
“That would be fi—”
I checked myself as the strains of “Frenzy” intruded. Rowan came in carrying her tape recorder, a strange smile on her face, as Owen’s voice filled the room, bringing back unendurable memories of our violent arguments over his last role—the one that drove him to his cocaine addiction—and that one, awful night…
“Rowan, dear,” I said between clenched teeth, “please turn that off. This is not the proper time.”
She turned up the volume.
“Turn it off!” I was on my feet now.
She switched off the cassette. “That was my Daddy,” she said. “Mother doesn’t like me to play it. She wants to forget him, but I won’t—and I don’t want anyone else to. My daddy was a superstar.”
“Rowan!” I cried out, swaying slightly. Greg’s hand at my elbow steadied me.
“You’re very young, my dear,” Alison told her gently. “Someday you will understand that—after a great loss—certain songs make us very sad.”
“But it’s natural for Rowan to be proud of her father,” Charity defended her.
The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users Page 11