by C. C. Finlay
“I’ve heard much about the witchcraft of the Indians in that part of New York,” Deborah said. “Perhaps Emerson can find out something for us.”
“Perhaps,” Revere conceded. “But my point is, our options for communication may become very limited. The war is heating up again, what with Howe landing his troops in New York—”
“Wait a minute,” Proctor said. “Howe did what?”
Revere looked at him as if he were senseless. “Have you not heard? How removed from the world are you here?”
“Like a papist monastery,” Proctor said.
Revere took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his balding forehead. “Admiral Howe has landed his brother’s army on Staten Island. Thirty thousand men.”
“That’s half again as many soldiers as Washington has in the whole army,” Proctor said.
“Do the British hate us so much, that so many of them want to come here to fight us?” Deborah asked.
Revere sat on the edge of the well and splashed water on his face. “They’re not all British,” he said. “Many of them, maybe half, are battle-tested mercenaries from Germany. Mostly Hessians.”
“But we’re safe here, in Boston, and north of Boston?” Deborah asked.
“We’re not safe anywhere if they overrun General Washington,” Proctor said.
Revere nodded his agreement. “As soon as the weather’s right, they’ll attack Long Island or Manhattan. We knew the blow was coming, even before the Declaration of Independence was published. But it takes so much time to move messages, much less men, across the ocean.” He paused, then looked at Proctor and Deborah. “Is there any chance we’ll be able to count on your people for aid?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Proctor said.
Deborah said, “No, no chance at all.”
Revere sipped another ladle of water, looking over the rim of the bowl at the two of them. Finally, he lowered it and said, “Which is it?”
“One army will have to take care of the other,” Deborah said. She glanced over her shoulder at the house. “We’re preparing to face the Covenant, and I can tell you, we’re not ready.”
“None of us is ready,” Revere answered. “But we all do what we can, to the best of our abilities. Do we know any more about our enemy yet?”
“We know that if the Continental army is defeated, then they’ve achieved their goal,” Proctor said, more to answer Deborah than Revere.
Deborah slashed her hand through the air, in firm negation. “The witches we faced last year, the widow and that southern woman”—Deborah never spoke of Cecily by name—“they had incredible power. They could control what we saw, making our own eyes lie to us. They could make thousands sick with a single spell. They could animate the dead.” She looked suddenly lost and fragile, and her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I don’t have that kind of power yet. These others that we’ve gathered for training, they don’t have that kind of power either.”
“And let us hope they never do,” Revere said. “Those are evil powers and should never be used.”
“Exactly,” Deborah said.
“Which is all the more reason we need your defenses,” he said compellingly. “General Washington can find a way to beat the British and their mercenaries, but only if his men are well enough to fight. He can’t defeat another witch’s spell.”
Proctor could see why some men decided it would be easier to kill all witches than sort out the good from the bad. “We’re doing what we can,” he said. “We’ve had trouble gathering even the witches we know. The Covenant is sending its agents to capture or kill all our friends and allies.”
“And still you will not act?” Revere said incredulously.
“We act every day that we stay in safety here, preparing to meet those who wish us harm,” Deborah snapped.
Proctor wasn’t convinced they were doing the right thing. Why stay here in hiding while the Covenant hunted down their friends? Better to go out and find them, destroy them where they were.
Revere, however, decided not to argue the point further. “I’ll give you my bit of news, in hopes that it will help you on several fronts, both in gathering students and finding our secret enemies. There’s an orphan.”
The word froze Deborah, who was an orphan now. Proctor stepped over to her side and let his arm dangle where the edge of his hand grazed hers.
“An apprentice-aged lad, about eleven or twelve,” Revere said. “He’s named William Reed, and strange things have been happening around him. His neighbors call him haunted, but it may be your sort of gift he has.”
“Where?” Proctor asked.
“Down on the western tip of Long Island, southeast of Brooklyn, at a town called Gravesend,” Revere said.
“What sort of strange things?” Deborah asked.
Revere rubbed the back of his neck. “A wagon broke and fell on his neighbor, pinning him to the road, but this boy lifted it by himself, preserving the neighbor’s legs, if not his life. Sometimes lamps go out mysteriously; others flash on with no agency or explanation. Stones have been seen to float around him.”
Proctor leaned on his musket for balance. If the boy was an orphan, he might have no idea what was happening to him or why. He could be terrified.
“That’s hardly proof that it’s his gift,” Deborah said.
“No,” agreed Revere. “But the parties interested in him point in that direction.”
“What do you mean?” Proctor said.
“Less than a week ago, a certain Cecily Sumpter Pinckney was in New York City, asking questions about the boy and looking for someone to lead her to him.”
Deborah’s hand pulled away from Proctor and darted into the pocket where she kept her focus.
“So if you plan to retrieve this boy, you may want to go before General Washington’s troops engage Howe’s army,” Revere continued. “And if she’s planning some kind of witchcraft, it’d be best to take the powder from her gun before she fires.”
Proctor agreed. He didn’t want to see Cecily doing to anyone else what she’d done to Lydia. “Can we invite you inside?” he asked. “It’s a bit early for supper, but we’ll feed you well enough if you’ll wait.”
“Thank you, but no,” Revere said. In one smooth motion, he remounted his horse. “It’s a big war, and I’ve other folks to visit yet this evening, especially if progress here is slower than we hoped. I have to report back to Boston the morning after tomorrow.”
“God speed,” Deborah said.
Revere turned the horse toward the invisible gate, pausing to tug his cap back tightly on his head. “And to you, also, if you go to Long Island.”
With a tap of his heels into the flanks of his horse, he headed away. He was nearly to the gate when he turned and came back.
“I almost hate to mention this,” he said. “But I saw the oddest thing in the woods on my approach here. At first I thought it a scarecrow, but who puts a scarecrow under the trees, away from any crops? So I took him for a beggar.”
Bootzamon. Proctor gripped his musket in both hands and felt his teeth grind together.
“You know who I’m describing?” Revere said.
“We do,” Deborah replied with a forced smile. “And it’s nothing for you to worry about. Thank you again for going out of your way to see us.”
He tipped his hat and rode away. When he passed the gatepost, his image scattered like a reflection in a pool of water shattered by a rain of stones.
Proctor frowned and felt the scab on his cheek crack. He turned to Deborah to ask her what she thought about Bootzamon.
She stared after Revere. “Another orphan,” she growled.
“So who was that?”
Proctor and Deborah spun as they heard the question. Ezra had taken a step off the porch. His voice was tense, and a large mallet dangled from his strong right hand.
“That was Paul—”
“It was a friend,” Deborah interrupted. “A guide on the highway, with some bad news.” Picking up the h
em of her dress, she stomped toward Ezra, who took a step back, startled. She chased him up the porch and back into the house.
The door banged shut before Proctor gathered his wits enough to follow. He still felt weak, but his head had stopped hammering and his balance had returned. He climbed the steps carefully and propped his musket against the house before going inside.
“—don’t just sit there all fish-mouthed,” Deborah said. She stood at the end of the table, her back to Proctor, with her fists on her hips, staring at her students. “We’re not done with the lesson yet.”
The other students lowered their eyes, but Magdalena glared back from the opposite end of the table. Her plain gray cap had come unpinned on one side and sat slightly askew, spilling her thin gray hair. Her hands were clenched in fists on the table in front of her.
“I think you must tell us what is the news,” she said.
“I told you already that it’s nothing we need to talk about this moment,” Deborah said. She tapped her fingers on the table, and the candles, which had been snuffed, twitched back into flames. “Our lives could depend on these skills, now more than ever. So I want to see all of you try again. Use the flame as a focus and raise this stone.”
Sukey reached out to squeeze Esther’s hand, to show that they were united in whatever she was about to say. “That was Mister Paul Revere Junior, the Boston silversmith,” Sukey said, lifting her long, narrow nose with an air of authority. “A fancy new coat can’t hide that man’s smile.”
“Yes, it was Revere,” Deborah admitted. “Now. If we could return to our lesson.”
Seventeen-year-old Abby turned her blunt, square face to Deborah and said, “You want us to raise this stone?”
“If you please,” Deborah said.
Abby snatched it up off the table and held her fist at Deborah. “Here—it’s raised!”
They all froze for a moment. Little Zoe sat wide-eyed and openmouthed, her head pivoting to stare at each person in turn. The others were grim, waiting to see how Deborah reacted. Even Proctor felt a bit stunned. He had never seen them all challenge Deborah’s authority at once before.
Deborah stared straight at Abby, who grimaced back for a long moment. Finally, Abby’s eyes flicked to either side of the table to see what the other women were doing. Her resolve shattered, and she dropped the stone onto the table. Pallid Esther flinched at the sharp sound.
Deborah took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “The Covenant is still out there. They killed my mother and father, they killed Alexandra Walker’s family, and they mean to kill us, if they can. We must develop our skills.”
“See, that’s just it,” Sukey said. Her voice was high, and as thin as her bony arms and hands. “Esther and I have been talking, haven’t we, Esther dear?”
“Yes, oh, yes, we have,” Esther said, her plump cheeks quivering.
“If these people, whoever they are, are hunting for witches,” Sukey said, “then wouldn’t we be better off where we were, in our own communities, unnoticed, instead of someplace they’ve attacked before?”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” Esther said, nodding her round head vigorously.
“If you’re here, then you weren’t exactly unnoticed in your own community,” Deborah said. “Someone accused both of you, correctly, of being witches.”
Esther, always eager to please, said hesitantly, “Yes, yes, they did.”
She winced as Sukey gave a hard squeeze to her hand.
“If they attack me, and I need to defend myself with a rock,” Abby said, “then I’ll pick one up and bash their stupid heads with it. Teach us something useful.”
She pushed back from the table, knocking her chair over as she stood up to leave. Deborah’s back knotted up just like a cat’s, and her hand shot into her pocket. The chair righted itself from the floor and shot forward, knocking Abby back into her seat and scooting her to the table. She sat there, pale and shaken.
Magdalena’s chin trembled in barely suppressed fury.
Proctor understood the point Deborah intended—once you learned how to lift a rock, it was easy to move other things. But all the women in this room were proud of their independence, and with tempers strained at the moment, all Deborah had accomplished was to make them feel insignificant. And afraid. Her point was going to be lost in a flurry of argument and resentment if he didn’t do something fast.
He cleared his throat.
“I’ll go pack my bag while you folks sort this out,” he said, waving good-bye. “I’ll be back in a few days.”
Everyone reacted at once.
Zoe jumped up from her seat. “I’ll go with you!”
Abby slapped the rock, knocking it onto the floor, then sulked back in her chair, arms crossed.
“But, son, I was counting on your help to finish the roof,” Ezra said.
“You can’t leave us here alone,” Sukey said, raising her fist to shake it at Proctor. Her long bony fingers were still clutched tightly around Esther’s plump hand, tugging her halfway over the table.
“Must we all shout?” Esther whimpered, her eyes closed.
“Sopperlut! What is going on?”
Magdalena pounded her fist on the table just like she was using a mortar to crush her potions in a pestle. Proctor knew she was upset—she’d started using that Dutch lingo none of them understood.
“Oh, Deborah will explain it all to you,” he said. “Well, I’ll be going then.”
He turned toward the door, dragging his feet just enough to let Deborah slam it tight with magic before he reached it. He permitted himself a small smile while no one could see him, then wiped it off his face before spinning to face her.
She stalked over to him, tilting her head back to look at him eye-to-eye. She was very angry. The little crease on her forehead was a dead giveaway. “This is no time for wild goose chases,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean this is no time to run off to other states again, away from The Farm for days or weeks, looking for another witch who probably isn’t even there.” Not with Bootzamon out there. But she didn’t say that.
“Not even when we know the Covenant is looking for him too?” Proctor asked.
The room fell silent for a moment while the group digested this new bit of information. Finally, Magdalena broke the silence. “Who or what this wild goose is? Tell us everything.”
“Revere brought word of a young boy, an orphan, on Long Island, who may be a witch,” Proctor said. “He shows the talent. His neighbors have started to fear him.”
Abby was the first to speak. She came from a family of eleven, with both her parents living, and her grandparents not half a mile away; more often than not, she seemed to think that if she didn’t speak first she would never get the chance. “Oh, the poor boy,” she said.
“We don’t need another child here,” Deborah said.
Zoe thumped down in her seat so hard everyone stopped to look at her. She ducked her face behind her bangs, glowering.
“I only mean, he’ll be in danger,” Deborah explained quickly.
“He’s already in danger,” Proctor said. “The British army is on Staten Island, and battle is expected any day. And we know the Covenant wants him. Cecily Sumpter Pinckney has been seen in New York, looking for him, just a few days past.”
“We could use a boy,” Ezra said. “We always had boys on our ships—they’re good for all kinds of work.”
“Chores are nothing,” Abby said, with the attitude of someone who rose before dawn every morning to do the milking. “But that boy must be so frightened. I know how I felt when my talent first started to show. I was surrounded by my family, with my mother and my aunt born with the talent, and them telling me what to expect. But this boy, I’m sure he’s got nobody.”
Her pride in her family showed in her voice. She was the daughter of Margaret Lamb, a friend of Deborah’s mother and a witch who lived up the Hudson River in New York. They were good people, Proctor thought, ev
en if their talent for magic didn’t extend much past easing childbirth and remedying a few common ills. Abby had more talent than the rest of her family combined.
Sukey shook her head. “I have to agree with Deborah this time. If there’s danger here, we have no right to bring a child into it.”
“Oh, that would be so wrong,” Esther squeaked.
“This Sissy person, she’s the one who tried to kill you last year, right?” Abby said.
“Yes, she is,” Proctor said.
“Well, then he’s in danger there,” Abby said, exasperated. “We have to do something.”
Zoe popped out of her chair. “Yeah!”
“Don’t be fools,” Sukey responded. “He could already be dead. It’s a wild goose chase.”
“This orphan boy might not have parents,” Proctor said. “But he’s staying with somebody’s family. I don’t want anyone else to stumble into a scene like the one I found at the Walker farm in Virginia.”
“And you think you’re powerful enough to stop this Bootzamon creature?” Deborah asked. She glanced at the others. “If he’s there with Cecily.”
“I did it once,” Proctor said.
But he was also thinking that he could draw Bootzamon away from The Farm. All he had to do was let the creature know where he was going, and why.
And then survive.
Deborah’s mouth was pursed to argue more when Magdalena, the only person who had yet to voice an opinion, interrupted.
“I think we should call a meeting. We must find the way forward until we come to a unity.”
Deborah’s face went still.
Meeting was a habit that Deborah’s mother had borrowed from the Quakers. When the witches on The Farm needed to decide something, they prayed and discussed it together until they reached a consensus. Deborah had continued the practice, but Proctor could see it was beginning to chafe with the way she wanted to run things herself.
The others were familiar with the practice too. As soon as Magdalena suggested it, tempers began to cool down.
“That’s a good idea,” Proctor said.
“That’s a very good idea,” Sukey said, her long narrow hand absentmindedly patting Esther on the arm. “It’ll be just like a town meeting, dear.”