by C. C. Finlay
“It’s humble,” Proctor said. “Not too ostentatious.”
“You make joke,” the prince-bishop said, spitting out the words. “But I despise this rude country of hovels and barns. Even the best men here—if such a phrase has any meaning at all—live like animals, sleeping with their hounds in wooden shacks and wearing a perfume made of piss and Scheiße.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Proctor said. He pulled a fistful of sand from the bag in his pocket and cast it into the room in the shape of an inverted V. “Let your house be built on foundations of sand.”
He hoped to weaken or deflect any spell that the prince-bishop cast at him. And maybe purchase enough time to come up with another plan.
The prince-bishop chuckled, his big chest shaking as he sat in his chair. “If that’s all the skill you have to offer, I have to wonder how you ever caused me so much trouble.”
“Run,” Zoe whispered. Her eyes were large and dark and wet. The prince-bishop gave almost a disinterested tug on her chain and her tongue clove to her mouth. The boy, his hair a wild mess and his eyes desperate, strained against invisible fetters to touch his hand to hers.
Proctor wondered if the prince-bishop, like all men seduced by power, relied too much on his servants. Jolly was dead, Cecily was trapped, Rotenhahn was released, and Nance was made useless for a time. Maybe he could just grab the children and run. “Give them to me,” Proctor said.
“Come and get them,” the prince-bishop said indifferently.
Proctor stepped across the threshold into the room.
As he passed the boundary, the archers in the tapestries came to life. Their tiny bows twanged and miniature darts flew at him from both sides. Proctor flinched, but when the arrows reached his lines of sand they dropped to the floor.
The prince-bishop’s amused chuckle stopped and the smile at the corners of his mouth folded downward. His fat fingers stopped drumming on the arm of his chair. Before he could lift his hand, Proctor stretched out his arms.
“Bring to light the hidden things of darkness,” he said.
The candlesticks flew to his hands, one to each. There was no reason for them to be lit, not with the fire burning, so Proctor reasoned that they formed part of the German’s protective spells. As soon as the heavy gold slammed into each palm, he blew out the flame, wrinkling his nose at the fatty stench of the wax.
He dropped the snuffed candlesticks. When they hit the floor, the tapestries crashed with them. Tiny arms and the legs of horses protruded from the folds of cloth. The arrows were only the first wave of their attack, but now nothing moved.
The prince-bishop frowned. His hand turned into a fist.
“The only good thing about this country,” he said, “is that so many young talents may be plucked from it, like an orchard full of low-hanging fruit. When your little rebellion is over, I shall go about the country gathering baskets of them. In five years, I’ll have more power than I had before. If only you were a few years younger, I might try to break your will too. I could teach you the sort of power over other men that you only dream of.” He stroked Zoe’s head, like a hungry man polishing an apple. She cringed but was helpless to move.
Proctor took a step forward, his toe touching the line of sand. “I don’t dream of power over other men.”
“How sad,” the German said. His fist thumped on the arm of his chair, and the carpet sprang instantly to life. Vines swirled up from the floor, twining around Proctor’s ankles, lashing at his hands and face.
Panicked, Proctor jumped back toward the door. A vine snapped at him, snaking around his leg and dragging him down to a knee. Proctor pulled his knife and slashed at the vines, but more of them wrapped around his arm, holding it in the air while a dozen viny fingers tried to pry it from his hand. He jammed the other hand in his pocket for the salt, ransacking his memory for a verse about salting the land.
Hope leapt to his throat ahead of the words—the first vines that came at his second hand shied from the salt as it spilled from his fist. Then one shifted direction, winding around his head like a gag, covering his mouth so he couldn’t speak. The vines dragged him down, both knees on the floor like a penitent, one arm staked out wide, his head pulled back. With the last effort of his free hand, he flung the salt across the room at the prince-bishop’s face.
The children ducked and the prince-bishop turned his head aside. The salt scattered harmlessly. Then vines shot up Proctor’s free arm. He was pinned to his knees, his arms staked out to either side, his head pulled back, and his mouth gagged by the vines.
He could see the light glisten on the tears welling in Zoe’s eyes.
“You’re somewhat resourceful,” the prince-bishop murmured. He rose slowly, moving his great bulk with care and deliberation. When he stood, he looped the silver leashes around a nail in the wall and then calmly walked over to Proctor. He paused on the way to scatter the sand with the toe of his polished leather boot. He did nothing in a hurry, as if living centuries had taught him there was no need to rush. He was studying Proctor when a cannon boomed outside.
The prince-bishop turned his head.
Cannons roared again, one volley and then a second in quick succession, from the lower end of town. From the other direction came the shouts of the army and the crack of musket fire. The army was coming.
Proctor hoped they came quickly enough.
The Prince-Bishop’s face registered disbelief. He walked over to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Close at hand, the Hessian kettledrums beat out the warning. There were shouts in German as the soldiers poured into the streets.
Still in no hurry, the prince-bishop watched events unfold for a few moments. Proctor finally dared eye contact with Zoe and the boy. Zoe sat very still, her shoulders folded forward, but the boy struggled, jerking his hands from side to side to loosen the invisible bonds that held him. No words passed between the children and Proctor, but he understood that they were begging for his help. And that he, by coming there, had made a promise that he would rescue them.
The prince-bishop turned away from the window and, without warning, slammed his fist into Proctor’s head, knocking him dizzy. “Damn you and damn your countrymen.”
Proctor shook it off. The blow had loosened the vines gagging his mouth. “You already tried that, and it failed,” he said back, spitting out bits of leaves.
But the prince-bishop was done with him. He went to his box, carefully sweeping the broken glass aside and removing the bottles. Lifting the lid, he set them inside. The last one was black glass, a New York globe bottle. A figure seemed to swirl in the liquid inside.
Proctor struggled against the vines as the sounds of battle intensified. Cannons fired in the street just outside their door. Men shouted in several languages. A musket ball shattered the window and thumped into the plaster just above Proctor’s head.
Through it all, the prince-bishop moved with calm deliberation. He was ready to seal the box when he glanced at Proctor with a gleam in his eye. With a small, empty bottle in one hand, he approached. He stooped to pick up Proctor’s knife on the way. Taking Proctor’s right hand in his fist, he jammed the tip of the blade into the second joint of Proctor’s pinkie. Proctor was too stunned to scream, but he turned his head away, gritting his teeth until his jaw ached.
“Ordinarily, I prefer the forefinger,” the prince-bishop said. “But your hands are rather large and I have only this small bottle left.”
Then he sawed through the joint with a practiced motion. Proctor’s finger popped off and fell to the floor, rolling among the unnatural vines. The prince-bishop dropped the knife and bent to retrieve the finger. He squeezed it through the tight neck of the little bottle. Then he placed the bottle in his box, closed the box, and tucked it under one massive arm.
“After I step out the door a musket ball or cannon shot will come through the wall and strike you,” the prince-bishop said to Proctor. “But if it doesn’t happen today, it will happen someday. You may expect to see
me again.”
His smile returned, and with it his disturbing chuckle. He shifted the box of bottles under his arm for balance, then took the silver leashes from the nail in the wall and jerked the children to their feet. He led them toward the rear door, away from the fighting.
“Don’t go with him, Zoe,” Proctor said through the pain. “You have to fight him—you have to get away.”
Zoe dug in her heels, refusing to go. “Fight him, William,” she said. “We have to fight him.”
“Enough of this foolishness,” the prince-bishop said. “It is time for us to leave.”
He tugged on the chains, and they were pulled off their feet. But the boy raged, screaming until his face was red, one loud, continuous, inchoate No.
Objects rose from the floor. First one candlestick flew at the prince-bishop, followed instantly by the other. He brushed them out of the air with a toss of his head, and yanked the chains impatiently. Which is how he came to miss the knife. It lodged in his leg with a meaty whack.
The boy yelled in triumph.
The pain broke the prince-bishop’s focus. The vines retreated, melting back into the rug like ordinary images. Proctor shoved his bleeding hand into his shirt, squeezing it tight against his chest. The prince-bishop reached for the knife protruding from his leg, and Zoe yanked the chains out of his hand. Both children scrambled across the floor toward Proctor.
The prince-bishop yanked the knife out of his leg. “I’ll take what’s mine now.”
He held out his hand, covered with blood that might have been either Proctor’s or his own. The children were drawn across the floor toward him like iron filings toward a magnet.
Proctor grabbed them, one in each hand. Zoe held on to his left hand, and William the right. Whether it was slick with blood or weak from the loss of his finger, the boy slipped out of his grip. His little hands reached out to Proctor for a second chance.
Zoe was being torn from his other hand.
Proctor hesitated.
He could grab for the boy and lose them both …
He wrapped both arms tight around Zoe and rolled to the floor, pinning her there.
“Zoe!” the boy screamed. He was dragged across the floor and into the prince-bishop’s hand.
A cannonball smashed through the wall, flying through the spot Proctor had just been. The prince-bishop had Proctor’s finger and William with him. Proctor started to rise to chase after him, but another ball smashed through the house.
Suddenly all the prince-bishop’s possessions—the tapestries, the rug, the chair, and the tables—began to writhe and crackle, like parchment fed to the flames. Zoe screamed, and maybe Proctor screamed too. He covered her protectively, dragging her through the doorway.
When they looked back, the room had been reduced to bare floors, plaster dust, and broken glass. The prince-bishop and the boy were gone.
“We have to save William,” Zoe said.
Proctor’s teeth were clenched in pain, too much pain to answer. But he staggered to his feet, hand jammed under his arm to stop the bleeding. He and Zoe ran outside. And then, with their feet slipping out from under them, they skidded to a stop.
Hessian corpses littered the ground. The rain had frozen on top of the snow: blood flowed over its glassy surface, forming a thin, translucent film of red that covered the streets and yards. Lieutenant Monroe lay on the ground by the Hessian cannons, blood-soaked at throat and chest. Doctor Riker straddled him, with clamps shoved into Monroe’s slashed neck. Gunfire still sounded off to the east. General Washington rode through on his horse, yelling for the men to follow him. Men who’d been awake all night, who’d crossed a river choked with ice, who’d marched through miles of sleet and snow, ran breakneck after Washington and toward the light of a new dawn.
But there was no sign of the prince-bishop or William anywhere. They had disappeared.
“Come on,” Zoe said, tugging at his sleeve. Tears welled in her eyes. But she made no effort to move. Even she could see there was no way to follow the missing pair.
“Proctor!”
He turned at his name and saw Alex on the back of Singer. She rode up to them and reined in the horse.
“When she came back alone, I feared the worst,” she said, jumping off the horse. “You’re injured.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. He spoke the words through a grimace and collapsed to his knees. “The German escaped.”
Alex tore a strip of cloth from her red shirt, pinioned his arm, and started binding his bleeding hand. Zoe dodged behind Alex and watched with wide eyes. New pain spiked all the way to Proctor’s shoulder, but all he could think about was whether or not he was doomed to become a slave to the will of the prince-bishop just as Rotenhahn had been.
Musket fire rattled the air east of town, and officers called to men to continue the fight. As Alex tied off the bandage, a group of American soldiers surged past, following Washington as he pursued the retreating Hessians. A voice sounded from the crowd. “Alex!”
Her brothers—free of the curse and free from harm—emerged from the group.
“Thank God you’re safe,” she said, throwing herself at them.
Seeing that she was covered with blood, they spun her around, looking for the injury. “No, I’m fine,” she said, pointing to Proctor. “It’s his blood.”
The biggest brother, the one who’d punched Proctor, said, “Don’t you know there are places to cut him that’ll make him bleed a lot more.”
She started to explain, but another soldier ran into the street and cheered. “We’ve won,” he shouted. “The Hessians are routed. We’ve won!”
Elation spread like the early sunlight spilling over the rooftops. Even Proctor, who struggled to rise to his feet, felt joy rising in him. This was better than the curse being lifted, the sense of a burden set aside: this was a feeling of triumph, of overcoming some impossible obstacle.
“We’ve won!” Alex cried, shaking Proctor by the arm. Alex and her brothers, the soldiers in the street with their wounded comrades, a company running toward the fighting—they all raised their fists at the news and cheered. When they cheered again, Proctor let the feeling sink in. The curse was broken and the army had its first victory in months, just days before enlistments were up. Now men would be willing to sign on for another year and keep fighting the British. More important, the Covenant had been stopped and the prince-bishop had lost Bootzamon’s services forever.
The soldiers cheered a third time, and Proctor added his raw voice to their jubilant chorus.
A small voice sounded at Proctor’s side. “We’ve won?” Zoe asked. Her face was a wreck of worry and tears. She kept glancing back to the house as if she expected to see William emerge at any moment.
Proctor turned toward the river, toward Deborah and the others, and prayed quickly that they were safe. He rested his good hand on Zoe’s shoulder and cradled the other against his chest.
“We aren’t done yet,” he told her, suddenly sobered. “But yes, we’ve won. For now.”
May 1777
Proctor sat in the main room of the new addition to The Farm in his new suit of clothes. A fire burned in the hearth, although the wall wasn’t completely plastered. Proctor leaned forward in his chair and stirred the coals with an iron.
He looked up when Deborah entered. She was beautiful, wearing a white dress that set off the flowers that she had woven into her hair.
“Let me see it,” she said.
He held out his injured hand for her to examine. She cupped it in her own smooth, small palms, turning it over, running her fingertips over the scar of his missing finger. The joint hadn’t become infected, and had healed better than he expected.
“How’s the strength?” she asked.
He pulled his hand back and shifted the iron to it. He bounced it a few times, showing the power of his grip.
“It looks better,” she said.
“It is.” He propped the iron up in its place by the hearth. “Still no word
on the prince-bishop or the boy?”
A rider had come in that morning. Proctor heard the warning chimes, but didn’t go to answer them. He assumed there was a message.
“General Washington has his spies searching for them,” Deborah said. “But he sends word that they haven’t been seen. We still have no idea of where he’s from, or what he’s the prince-bishop of.”
“Did Washington say anything about Cecily?”
Deborah frowned, an expression he didn’t want to see on her face today, and he immediately regretted the question. He could tell from Deborah’s expression that there was no news about her either.
“There was no reply from your mother,” Deborah said, changing the subject.
“I am dead to her,” Proctor said. She would never forgive him for pursuing his talent. But that was all right. “I accept that’s how it is.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
He saw the worn-out pair of shoes where she had set them. He reached down and picked up his own old pair, sitting by the chair. The heels were cracked and the soles were peeling off. The leather had been rubbed through in places.
“Entirely certain,” he said, making his voice as cheerful as it could be. “These carried me all the way to Alex’s farm and back, and then from here to Gravesend and back again.”
“Then why are we waiting?” she said.
Together they lifted their shoes up to a hole in the plaster and dropped them into the wall. Bowing their heads, they each said a silent prayer in the Quaker fashion. Proctor held an image in his head, of anyone coming to do Deborah harm being kicked away by shoes. In truth, they had already done all their other preparations and had just been waiting for today to finish the spell.
After a moment’s silence, Proctor said, “Once we patch that up, The Farm should have stronger protections than ever.”