by C. C. Finlay
His hands darted out and squeezed her fingers shut, extinguishing the flame. “Never do that near the barn.”
“I’m not in the barn,” she said, pointing at the door to indicate that she was a few steps outside.
“I said near the barn, not in it.”
She jerked her hand away and cradled it against her chest. “You’re just like my father. And yes, I’ll never do it near the barn or in a house or anything like that. I just wanted to show you.”
He sighed, realizing that he was reacting to his memory of the widow Nance, the Covenant agent responsible for, among other things, the scars on his arms. “I’m sorry, Zoe. That just reminded me of a very bad witch who could make fire appear that way. She used it to hurt Deborah’s mother and father. I was scared for a moment, and I reacted too strongly.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” she said. “I’m not a bad witch.”
That brought a smile to his lips. “No, you’re not,” he said. He reached out and mussed her hair. She leaned into his hand, almost like a cat.
“Can I pet Singer?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “How about I put you in the saddle for a minute? Then when you get down, you can help me take off her saddle and brush her.”
She nodded eagerly, and he grinned. He lifted her onto the mare, who bore this further delay with a toss of her head and a nip at Proctor’s hand. Capture the young witches and kill the old ones. He didn’t know what the Covenant wanted with witches, but if Alexandra was young enough at fifteen or sixteen, then Bootzamon’s master would be even more eager to have someone like Zoe. Proctor wouldn’t let that happen.
“Who’s giving you your lessons today?” he asked.
“Ugh. They all fuss over me, telling me what to do,” Zoe said. She sat perfectly still, her hands braced on the pommel. “Can I ride her in the pasture?”
“Not right now. But tomorrow or the day after, I promise. None of them have children of their own, you know.”
“Neither did the sailors, but they didn’t fuss so much.” Zoe’s father was Captain Mak, a merchant engaged in the China trade; once her mother died, he had taken her aboard his ship to look after her. When Mak discovered that she had a talent like Ezra’s, he entrusted her to the carpenter’s care and sent her to The Farm to learn how to control her gift. Zoe shifted in her seat, leaning forward to brush Singer’s mane. “Miss Walcott, she—”
“Zoe Mak.”
Deborah stood at the front of the house, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Zoe slipped off the horse and dodged behind Proctor.
“Come on, I’ll go with you,” he said. He took Zoe’s hand, and they walked over to Deborah. “She came out to see Singer,” he explained. “I told her it was all right.”
Zoe let go of Proctor’s hand and ran around Deborah, slipping through the door without a word. Deborah stared at Proctor for a moment, then lowered her arms and sighed, following Zoe inside.
Proctor went back to the barn, walking as if he still had a horse beneath him. It would be a while before his legs straightened out again, he thought. He took off Singer’s saddle and gave her a thorough rubdown, then put her in the stall. As he filled her feed bag with oats, she lifted her muzzle and slobbered on his cheek. He scratched her ears then went to store her tack.
His work was interrupted by an odd thump. He glanced around, taking it for one of the cats, then went back to rubbing oil into the leather.
Another thump was followed by the sharp knock of metal on wood. He lifted his head. “Hello? Ezra, is that you?”
He stepped away from the saddle and froze.
A sickle lay on the ground, several feet from the spot on the wall where he kept it stored. There was a line through the straw, too much like the line Bootzamon’s tomahawk had drawn through the blood at the Walker house. The sharp, curved blade caught a piece of light from outside, almost seeming to wink at him.
The constant buzz of summer insects fell silent, just like the crickets in Virginia.
His hands started to sweat and shake.
Then something pushed up against his leg and he spun, tense, ready to strike. It was one of the barn cats, the rangy black one with white spots. It lifted its head and meowed at him, and all the sounds came rushing back at once: the insects buzzing outside, the bleating of sheep out in the pasture, the cries of birds in the orchard.
The encounter with Bootzamon had him spooked, constantly braced for another attack. He would be fine as soon as he realized he was safe here on The Farm. As safe as he could be anywhere. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his breeches and petted the cat’s head.
“You knock that off the wall?” he asked.
He retrieved the sickle and hung it back in its place, then finished storing the tack. Then he cleaned his weapons and left them on the workbench while he walked to the well to wash up. He was drawing up a bucket of water when the warning chimes tinkled. He let go and the bucket splashed into the water below. Nothing was visible down by the gate—the same charm that disguised their location made the land beyond the boundary blurry.
The door banged open, and Deborah ran out to the porch.
“Somebody’s here,” he said.
“And they didn’t set off my outer warning,” she said. Her face looked worried.
“That’s not possible, is it?”
“It shouldn’t be.”
The rest of the students poured onto the porch. Magdalena, the old witch from Pennsylvania, hobbled to the front, steadying herself with her cane. She came from one of the Pennsylvania Dutch religious groups who dressed so plainly they made Quakers look as sumptuous as a French royal court.
“You won’t keep me in the dark this time,” she said in the singsong German accent so many Americans had. You von’ keep me in der dark dis time.
“The dark has no place here,” Deborah answered. “Proctor and I were just going down to see who has come by.”
“Then I am coming you with,” Magdalena said, lifting her cane in a gesture of exclamation. She had been a student of Deborah’s grandmother and a friend of Deborah’s mother, who had helped her hide witches and move them to safety along the Quaker Highway. In her mind, she was the person best suited to run The Farm; she distrusted Deborah’s youth and opposed many of the changes Deborah had made, especially the decision to recruit witches and bring them together instead of helping them escape and hide.
She was also still weak from injuries suffered during the Covenant’s attack on them a year ago. Lifting her cane un-steadied her, and she began a slow but inevitable topple to one side.
Ezra, who, at sixty, was closest to Magdalena’s age, hopped forward to steady her. He moved with that peculiar rolling gait that Proctor had seen on other men who’d spent most of their life at sea.
“But of course you’re welcome to come,” Deborah said as Ezra caught the old woman. Then she turned and left, walking away at a speed that Magdalena couldn’t possibly match.
Proctor sprinted to catch up.
“So you two are still fighting?” he murmured under his breath as he reached Deborah’s side.
“We are not fighting,” she said firmly. “And no one is holding her here against her will. If she does not approve of the way I do things, she is welcome to leave at any time.”
The view beyond their gate grew clearer as they approached. The dark, blurry shape of the oak tree resolved into sharper detail, as did the post beneath it. But the entrance in the wall was empty, as was the road beyond it. No one was there.
“This isn’t right,” Deborah said.
“Maybe it was a stray animal, or—”
“The spell on the post only works at the touch of human skin.”
Proctor knew that, but he was disinclined to be shaken again the way he had let himself get spooked by the sickle at the barn. “So maybe a traveler came down the road, leaned on the post to rest, and was startled away by what he saw,” he suggested.
“Then why didn’t he trip my outer spell?”
<
br /> A good question. “There’s got to be an explanation.”
Zoe appeared beside them. “What’s that?” she asked.
“What?” they said simultaneously.
Magdalena, with Ezra at her elbow to help her, hobbled up as fast as she could move, the other students clustered behind her. “Right there, on the post,” Zoe said.
Proctor had been expecting to see a person, so he had glanced past the bit of dark rag draped over the gatepost. Now that his attention had been drawn to it, he saw that a small envelope was also attached. He jumped through the gate before anyone else could react, intending to grab both items for inspection. His hand was stretched out to take them when the breeze ruffled the fine auburn threads attached to the rags, and he recognized them for what they were.
“What’s the matter?” Deborah asked, stepping forward.
He flung out an arm to stop her. “Don’t pass the gate. We aren’t safe out here, beyond the wall.”
“What? Why?”
“Get back behind the gate,” he said, scanning the road, the tree line, everywhere for any sign of danger. The tone of voice made her step back at once, before she had come all the way through.
He grabbed the envelope and touched the post well clear of the other items, which he left behind as he stepped back through to the safety of their sanctuary again.
“What is it?” Deborah asked.
He lowered his voice, turning his body away from the others so they couldn’t hear. “Scalps. The Walkers.”
His attempt to be discreet was for naught. Zoe, hanging at his side where he didn’t see her, blurted out, “It’s scalps! Can I see?”
“No,” Proctor said. He put a hand on her back and moved her away from the wall.
“Was it Indians?”
“No.”
“Well, who was it?”
He didn’t answer, because his attention was turned to their border. He castigated himself for coming to the gate without a weapon—no musket, no knife, not even a stout club.
The others were already shaken. Deborah had grown pale, lost in thought as she stared at the scalps. Magdalena stomped over to him and snatched the envelope from his hand. She tore it open, unfolded the letter, and read it. Angrily, she shook it in Proctor’s face. “What is the meaning of this?”
He took the letter from her. In elegant script, the letter read:
Dear Mr. Brown,
As a token of our memorable encounter, I deliver these items, which, due to the press of time or your hasty departure, you neglected to collect on your recent trip to Virginia.
I look forward with some relish to the occasion when we meet again.
With warmest feeling,
Yr. Indian Friend
P.S. Please remember me to the dear ladies.
“So it was an Indian?” Zoe asked, reading over his shoulder. “You said it wasn’t an Indian.”
“No,” he said, turning the letter away from her only to have Deborah snatch it from his hand.
Magdalena glared at him. “You two,” she said, jabbing her cane at Proctor and Deborah, “have been keeping secrets. Why does your friend call himself an Indian? Who is he?”
“He’s no friend. He said his name was Bootzamon—”
“Proctor,” Deborah said warningly.
Magdalena snorted. “Bootzamon? Surely that is some kind of joke, a very bad joke.”
“That’s what he said men called him. Why is it a joke?”
The color drained out of Magdalena’s face and she took a step backward, leaning into Ezra’s arms to steady herself. “No, I can see, you are joking me not.” She used her cane as a focus for her spells, and now she held it in front of her, scanning the road and the trees around them. “Back in the old country, my people had a tradition, the bootzamon. He was a, what do you call them, a scarebird—”
“Scarecrow?” suggested Zoe.
A chill ran through Proctor.
“Ya, that is it, a scarecrow. But not just a scarecrow. The spirit of a dead witch is captured in the bootzamon. Bootzamon is a man witch. A woman witch captured that way would be called the bootzafrau.”
“What do they do with the captured witches?” he asked.
“The spirits are slaves to whoever captured them. In the old country, the bootzamon and bootzafrau would protect a village from evil, and then be released from this world when their duty had been done.” She drew a deep breath and looked at the scalps. “But I do not think this is a protective spirit.”
“No,” Proctor admitted grimly. “Bootzamon killed Mister and Missus Walker, Alexandra’s parents.” He stole a glance at Deborah, who had crossed her arms and would not meet his eye.
“But not the girl?” Magdalena asked.
“No,” Proctor said. “I could find no sign of her, but it appeared that she had been gone for some time. All her brothers too.”
The old Pennsylvania Dutch woman digested this information. She watched Deborah out of the corner of her eye for a moment before she spoke. “We must have a meeting. You will tell everything that happened on your trip to Virginia.”
“Yes,” Proctor said. “I’ll tell you all the whole story, everything that happened. But let’s do it up at the house.”
“Ya, that is wise,” Magdalena said. Beckoning the others to follow her, she turned to go.
“I’ll be along in a moment,” Proctor said, and the old woman paused. “First I want to give some decent burial to the last remains of the Walkers.”
She nodded agreement and continued on her way. Zoe bounced at his side. “Can I help?”
“No. Now scoot,” he said, shooing her after the others. She trudged away with the hangdog look of the perpetually disappointed.
The last to go was Deborah. “I know you had to tell them,” she said. “But I’m the one who has to protect them here, make them feel safe, on the same ground where my own mother and father were murdered. Just keep that in mind when you tell them the whole story up at the house.”
“We don’t even know what the Covenant’s new plans are yet,” he said.
“Is that supposed to make us less afraid, or more?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned away and followed the others. He watched her back dwindle toward the house before he steeled himself to step out and collect Bootzamon’s horrific trophies.
Proctor buried what was left of the Walkers in a tiny hole next to Deborah’s mother and father at the edge of the orchard. As he carried the shovel back to the barn, he realized he was tired of digging graves. And he didn’t feel like waiting in one spot while the Covenant kept killing his friends and their families.
He went to join the others, who had crowded around the hearth in the main room of the farmhouse. Deborah handed him a serving of chicken potpie.
“Did you make this?” he asked, surprised.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “The sisters cooked it.”
Deborah’s mastery of spells did not extend to cooking. Luckily, the others were willing to help. Proctor waved his thanks to the “sisters,” two middle-aged women from western Massachusetts who were actually cousins. Sukey Ballard was a stork-faced widow, while Esther Pettingal was an old maid, pale as a cracker and shaped a bit more like a cracker barrel every day. Along with Abby, another young woman, they formed the rest of Deborah’s students. He broke off a piece of the flaky crust, letting it melt on his tongue before he said his grace and sat with the others at the long table.
Magdalena interrupted his last spoonfuls of gravy. “You must tell us what happened in Virginia.”
Proctor wiped his mouth and told the story again, just as he had told it to Deborah. They had questions—Magdalena had the most—but there was little that he could add to his original version.
“Bootzamon’s master, whoever he is, that’s our real enemy,” he said. “If this Bootzamon creature is from the old country, one of the German provinces, then maybe the master is too.”
“I thought it was the British what wanted
to stop the rebellion,” Ezra said.
“They do,” Proctor answered. “But the Covenant has different goals from the Crown. The widow Nance made it clear that they consider themselves better than the rest of humanity. She said their powers—”
“Our powers,” corrected Deborah.
“She said our powers came because we are the offspring of angels and men. I don’t know if that’s true, but I think divine birth trumps divine right in their minds.”
The group fell silent, more thoughtful than scared, he hoped. Either the meeting exhausted him, or three weeks of travel finally caught up with him, but when they were done he went out to the porch and tilted his head back. The first stars had already appeared in the sky. A yawn split his face and he lifted his hand to cover it as Deborah came out and stood beside him.
“I’ll go fix the fence in the pasture,” he said.
“Magdalena and I will set extra wards around the buildings tonight,” she said. “It’ll be enough until tomorrow.”
“I’ll get my musket and take first watch then.”
“Ezra will take care of that. Just like standing watch on a ship, he said. Maybe you should get some sleep.”
“But—”
“You’ll be of more use to us tomorrow if you get some sleep tonight.”
“I do feel like I could use a week’s worth of sleep,” he admitted. Or a week and a half. He hadn’t slept well the whole journey back, startled awake by every rustle in the grass or set on edge every time he smelled pipe tobacco. So he said his good nights and retired to his room in the barn, where he fell onto the mattress still half dressed.
He jerked awake, grabbing for a weapon, just as he had every night since Virginia, but this time, at least, it was morning. By the time he had his tomahawk in hand, ready to strike, he remembered where he was. The pounding sound that he had taken for Bootzamon’s fist on the door was only Ezra, hammering on the new addition to the house.
He felt more groggy than awake, more stiff and sore than when he’d lain down, so it took him a moment to pick the straw out of his hair and notice the double serving of breakfast that had been left beside his blankets. Thank you, Deborah. He spooned the boiled oats into his mouth, savoring the molasses. The coffee was cold and weak, but nothing could be done about that. They had to water it down; everything was in short supply because of the war.