Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  * * * *

  One afternoon, Elizabeth grabbed me fiercely in the field after two long hours of meditation and forced me to the ground beside her. She then shook uncontrollably in my arms.

  “What is it, child?” I asked.

  “Oh, Annie. I feel such darkness that I have not been able to sleep. My dreams disturb me. I am afraid but I do not know why I am afraid.”

  I shunned the possibility of a premonition, and yet, I knew that Elizabeth was not without sight. Though I resisted, I consumed her fear that day, as if her dreams had been my own dark premonition all along. I was no longer able to walk in the light of the sun without a great darkness shadowing my soul. The sight of Ezra Cloyce caused my heart to race, and chills penetrated my borrowed flesh like injections of ice. I wondered what part in the foreboding dreams the nasty fool would play but I had no crystal ball to enlighten me, just a darkness that taunted me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Soon after my return to the seventeenth century, I learned from my son that he had actually abandoned his desire for “his Annabel” during that period in Brooklyn when we had all been so happy. He told me that he had become content to think of his experiences as a romantic misguidance, and he planned to devote himself completely as a father and husband to Maebelle. He assured me that he had been welcoming the birth of his daughter with more joy than he had ever dreamed possible. He admitted even falling in love with Maebelle.

  “I swear, Mother,” he whispered. “If it were not for the man at the Fulton Street ferry that day, we would all be sipping brandy before the fire in our grand parlor or listening to Mozart at that little square by the river. God, how I miss it.” He sighed.

  “What man?”

  It was then he told me that he had been approached at the landing that day by a man of great height, with hair of gold and eyes that turned like a gray angry sea. The man told him that Annabel Horton had sent him. Would he please come? She was in great danger.

  Matthew said he was distressed by the man’s message but he did not make up his mind immediately. He thought for quite some time while the man with the steely eyes begged him profusely.

  “Who is Annabel to you?” Matthew had asked him.

  “My daughter,” said the man. “Please. I know who you are. Go to her. She needs you.”

  “And what of my family here?” My son had asked, his heart torn and his hands shaking.

  “No prison of earth can hold us. I know your power. Return in time and claim what you will. My Annabel will die. Return then.”

  Matthew said he stared in the man’s eyes and saw large tears fall upon the strong cheekbones.

  “I beg you. Annabel will die. Her last wish is to see you.”

  “All right. I will move my soul to see if I can save her,” my son had said.

  “Bless you,” said the imposing stranger.

  Matthew reached in his breast pocket and handed his watch to Urbain.

  “Give this to my stepfather. He stands there at the water’s edge and waits for me. Have him bring it to my mother and tell her that I will return before the small hand passes the stroke of midnight twelve times.”

  Urbain looked toward Seth and smiled.

  “Will you do that, sir? Please.”

  “Of course,” assured the demonic Urbain.

  Matthew then told me he went into a small clearing across from the pier. He did not say good-bye to Seth but he could see Urbain approach him. He sat in the warm light of the sun, and in a matter of moments, he moved through eternity like a whisper of wind.

  “Why did you not return when the small hand of the watch turned around twelve times?”

  “When I arrived in Salem, I was told that my Annabel was in prison. She was to be hanged in nine days. None would let me see her.” He took my hand and continued after a long and sorrowful sigh. “I went to Joshua’s house and told him of my feelings for his daughter. Of course, by this time, I knew the stranger on the pier had lied to me and he was not Annabel’s father, but too much was happening around me to concern myself with this lie. I told her real father that I was a widower from Boston and that Annabel and I had met at the meetinghouse before the town went mad. I said that we fell in love and had spoken of marriage. ‘Are you the one that leaves her those notes?’ he asked me. I knew nothing of notes, but I said it was I who had left them. He was surprised that his daughter never mentioned my name but he felt my sincerity and together we shared our grief.”

  My son looked at me with a pensive frown and continued.

  “It was terrible for us, for there was nothing we could do to prevent the hanging. On the ninth day, we remained in the chapel until we knew the time of her death had passed and her body had been thrown in the shallow grave they dug for the witches’ corpses. We planned to go in the evening and steal the body so that we could bury her properly. My eyes were blind with tears as I reached down to enfold this woman I loved. But then, I leaped back quickly and grabbed Joshua’s hand. ‘Dear God, she is not dead!’” I told him.

  “Joshua sank to his knees and wept so loudly that I had to cover his mouth. I reached in the crude dark hole to lift the body. Her flesh was warm to my touch. I placed my ear on her bosom and heard the beat of her heart. We rushed her back to the house and told no one, not even James and Jeremiah. We did not know whether or not she would live much longer, but I begged for her hand in marriage. Mother, forgive me, but I could not leave my Annabel then. Not while she clung to life. Not while my prayers might save her.”

  “You married her before she gained full consciousness?” I asked and wondered what minister would perform such a ceremony. “You married her though Maebelle was pregnant with your child?”

  “Yes. I married her before God and the Reverend Porter’s blessing. He did Joshua the favor. The reverend is a man of great compassion. He prayed with us often. For fourteen months we fed Annabel and walked her around her room. We showed her the moonlight and raised the curtains to let in the morning sun. She did not seem to see or care for me at all, but I would not give up. She had not spoken a word and seemed completely dazed. Then, a miracle occurred: in the fourteenth month she opened her eyes and spoke. ‘Who goes there?’ she said. It was enough. God heard us. This woman was the wife given to me by God. Be her name Elizabeth, or Annabel…she is my love, not Maebelle. When the Lord answered my prayers, I knew it clearly. So you see, Mother. I could not leave. My life is here. It will always be wherever she is.”

  I smiled and kissed his slender, delicate hand now marred by cuts and dirty nails. “I understand,” I whispered. Then I told Matthew that Seth’s body had been washed up in the waters off Fulton Street that day, and he had been lured by the devil’s lackey, the bastard, Urbain Grandier. His jaw tightened and his eyes filled with tears.

  “Why? Why would he kill Seth?”

  I did not have an answer for my son. But I will tell you this about the act of murder. It is an act of evil so heinous that all humanity is crushed under the weight of it. Oh yes, I am certain that Urbain killed Seth Cummings for the sport of it. Only those that serve the devil are capable of plunging a sword into the heart of another, for a millisecond of mastery achieved at the cost of salvation.

  How the act of murder offends me, and yet how perilously close I came to fusing my soul with the devil’s heart.

  * * * *

  It was during this period that Philippe informed me that he was receiving distress signals from his sister. We had passed ten of your chronological years in Salem, and Meredith Mae was just about to approach her twenty-first birthday. It was decided that she would return to Brooklyn, and I would remain behind with Philippe until we could train Elizabeth to follow us through time. It might take the passing of several more years, but I could not leave my son to rot among the provincial tyrants of Salem.

  “Yes, it is time for Meredith Mae to return home and take over the house, claim her fortune. It will put all our minds at rest,” I said.

  My son took Elizabeth’s hand. “
Yes,” he began with a smile. “We will all join her once my wife has learned to master her soul’s journey through time. Do you think you can master it, darling?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, Matthew, I will work hard. I know I will travel soon.”

  Of course, I had my doubts that Elizabeth would ever rise an inch in spirit to leave her flesh, and I did not like to send my Meredith Mae through the dimensions alone, but I was not yet ready to leave. I knew that I could not yet feel secure in successfully training Elizabeth without Philippe’s great power to guide us, so I could not spare him just yet either.

  “Emie will help Meredith Mae resolve any financial problems that may have arisen in our absence,” Philippe assured me.

  * * * *

  So we said a sad farewell near the great willow trees on Birch Plain. I marveled at my beautiful granddaughter, who had become a woman so gracious that even my own lost image paled beside her. Her face was a sweet, soft blossom that caused one to smile. Her lips were full and mischievous, and her almond eyes were enchantingly shy and heavy-lidded. I knew, despite such feminine beauty, that she was strong enough to face any misfortune.

  We embraced on the plain that day. We held Meredith Mae in a circle and Matthew wept like a small boy.

  “God, go with you, Daughter.”

  “And with you, Father.”

  It was the last thing we heard her say before the late spring breeze released her. No sound existed for just a second, and then, the three of us prayed into the quiet stillness, into the glorious miracle of this great earth. Oh, if only we could hold this thing called time and rattle the order we have given it, then we all could have followed behind her, but we could not leave Elizabeth. We simply could not. We had to remain and live in the illusion of years and months and seconds and confront grief like any mortal soul. And it was grief that awaited us back at my father’s farm. A grief so dark and dangerous that the shadow of the devil came out of the darkness and whipped across the earth in a thundering barrage of lightning that fell across our path like swords.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rain fell heavy on our backs and the night was black and empty of stars. Thunder raged above us. Razor-sharp streaks of light cut through the darkness as we ran toward my father’s land. We heard loud shouting as we approached the brook, agitated shouting that tainted the warmth of the tiny house and caused this hybrid flesh of mine to chill.

  “No!” I whispered and grabbed my son’s hand. “Do not go there. Something is wrong.”

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “Shish! Stay very quiet,” I told them.

  We paused beside the barn and strained to listen. Elizabeth’s screams cut through the night and Matthew began to run toward the house. I swiftly followed and pulled him back.

  “Do not move,” I demanded as my body shook and the beat of my borrowed heart raced wildly. Philippe’s eyes were wide with fear. Again we heard the screaming and the shouts of men that called out in the night. They seemed to be calling for Matthew. I turned to Philippe frantically. “‘Brother Guyon,’ they seem to say. Do you hear the same?”

  Philippe reached out for Matthew’s arm. “You must hide. I feel we’re in danger.”

  Shivers overtook me, and I could barely stand. Suddenly, I heard Ezra Cloyce’s great, bellowing voice. It was filled with rage. “Murderer! Murderer!” he shouted. “You will hang by your neck! Murderer! Come out of the night, coward!”

  “Good God.” I whispered. “What shall we do?”

  But there was not time for an answer. A great bolt of lightning fell on the roof of the barn and the large planks of wood that we thought shielded us could not conceal us from the brilliant shawl of light that revealed our huddled shadows to the men who hunted us.

  “There! There he is!” one called in the night.

  “Let us get him!” yelled back the other.

  Elizabeth’s screams could be heard coming toward us as she ran. We stood still and quiet. We could see them all stampeding toward us, a great charge of people running like angry bulls while we stood perplexed and frightened. The night was so thick with the storm that we had to strain our eyes to see. Suddenly, out of the darkness of this unyielding torrent of rain, the huge hands of Ezra Cloyce reached out for my son’s neck and threw him to the ground.

  “Murderer!” he kept shouting as he hit my son’s face. My screams echoed Elizabeth’s as I pleaded with him to stop. But Ezra Cloyce kept punching my son. I could hear the fist upon his bone as it was struck. Someone grabbed me and threw a coat over me and carried me back to the house. I screamed for one of them to help Matthew. I watched as Elizabeth ran inside the barn and returned with a large shovel. I could see her beating Ezra Cloyce on the back with it until one of the men picked her up and carried her away. She was brought kicking and screaming into the kitchen where they had taken me. They sat me by the fire. My father sat with his head in his hands. He lifted his face to me sadly as I spoke.

  “What is going on here?” I demanded.

  “What are you doing with these people, Annie Putnam?” asked Brother Osburn, one of the neighbors to the Putnam farm.

  Before I could answer, my father interjected.

  “You are not welcomed here, Sister,” he said.

  “Please.” I searched his eyes earnestly. “I am a friend. Have I not apologized and have I not done it publicly? Please, sir. I beg your forgiveness.” My father sighed and put his head back in his hands. I turned back to Brother Osburn. “What is happening here, Brother?”

  At just that moment my son was brought into the house. Brother Jacobs and Brother Small were holding him. Elizabeth ran to him and began to weep uncontrollably. Matthew’s face was covered in blood, and his lip and his eye appeared cut. I gasped loudly and began to moisten a cloth.

  “Please,” I implored. “I want to wash his cut.”

  “Why are you here, Sister? Does Brother Putnam know of this?” Brother Small asked. I proceeded to ignore him and washed my son’s face. But my answer was not pressed because Ezra Cloyce had entered like a great gust of wind. The door was thrown back loudly and something fell from a shelf. John Darling and Daniel Rea, two more neighbors of the Putnam land, were restraining him.

  “You are to be arrested for the murder of Peter Cloyce, Brother Guyon,” said Brother Rea.

  Elizabeth began to shout. “No! No! That cannot be so. He would never do such a thing.”

  “Peter Cloyce is dead?” I turned to John Darling. He nodded his head and stared at my son.

  Matthew asked slowly, and yet, indignantly, “What proof have you of such a crime? I had no argument with the man. Why would I kill him?”

  “Your pistol was found on the floor by his body. We have reason to believe he owed you money, and when he did not pay you became enraged and shot him,” said John Darling.

  Matthew began to laugh quietly, and as best as he could with his lip so full and sore. He glared at Ezra Cloyce. “So that’s it, Brother Cloyce? You force me to carry my pistol so that you can steal it when my back is turned?”

  Ezra Cloyce stood so quickly that the chair he had been sitting on flew against the wall and fell on its side. I screamed as the man leaped once more toward my son. But both Joshua Rea and Alexander Osburn restrained him and ordered him to desist from further outbreaks.

  “The truth will be uncovered in the court, Brother Cloyce,” said Daniel Rea.

  “He killed my brother for the money. Look here and then at us. He is desperate because he cannot farm. The other one is old. This daffy one can do nothing.”

  “I said the truth will be known in the court, Brother.” Daniel Rea then turned to Matthew and said they would be taking him to the town, to Brother Corwin, the High Sheriff, and the rest was up to God.

  I looked at the faces of the men who had left my own fate up to God and who believed that God’s will was done in the ignorance of the punishment they bestowed on the witches of Salem. “Fools,” I uttered. “Bastardly, sanctimonious fools,” I whispered
under my breath.

  “Sister Putnam?” Brother Darling turned to me. “I will take you home.”

  * * * *

  My son was taken to the county jail in Salem Town on May 15th, 1704. The following day, I sent Philippe to toss a note that I had written, tied with a stone, into his cell. Father and Elizabeth were able to visit Matthew, but the prominent Ann Putnam, who had condemned his wife to the gallows, could not. It had been eleven of your years since the town learned that Patience Annabel Horton had survived the rope. Ever since then, poor Elizabeth had become a curiosity, and even children came to the edge of our land to stare at the house, hoping to glimpse the great witch of Salem. My father and brothers were still treated with respect, but Matthew was considered an odd man who did not fit in, and his daughter, Meredith Mae, was often compared to Martha Corey, for she often let her hair fall about her shoulders, and some had even spied her swimming in the great pond near our house. Poor Martha Corey and her husband had always been two of the town’s most unusual people, but capriciousness was not a valued commodity among the people of my village in the late 1600s. The couple had been undauntedly arrogant in their intelligence and audacious with their wit. Martha had a great flair for color, and Giles had an uncanny ability with carpentry. He made things of extraordinary beauty for the time. You must understand the Puritans of my day. They were not gentle people, and they mistrusted creativity. Martha and Giles Corey were doomed by the will of mistrust and confusion that dominated their society. They were handsome people who were blessed by God with a passion for joy. But handsome people unnerve the plain and dull of spirit. Joyous people are often called fools, their intentions questioned by those who are not as blessed.