Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  “Let us get out of here,” I said to Meredith Mae. “Let us return to Montague Street.”

  “But Father Jacques. I must tell him good-bye.”

  “No. There is not time.”

  Emie ran to Meredith Mae and forced her to her feet. “Meredith Mae, there is evil here. We must leave quickly.”

  “This is a church, a Catholic church. The devil cannot enter here.” She almost laughed at us.

  “Come quickly,” I said sharply and pulled her out the door.

  * * * *

  I had the carriage stop at Boussidan’s office since it was on our way. I wanted to amend the terrible circumstances and restore the estate to its rightful beneficiary. I told Emie and Meredith Mae to wait for me while I confronted the scoundrel who had gone against my wishes. I also wanted to learn what exactly had happened to William Davenport. I could not imagine my dear friend turning his accounts over to strangers when his own son had been ready to enter a partnership with him. I had trusted his sworn promise to never allow any part of the estate into Malcolm’s hands. I feared he had met with foul play, though I prayed that my instincts deceived me and this Boussidan was simply an honest man who had been taken in by the bastard Malcolm, in whose flesh I lingered like the soul of an pigeon trapped in the body of a hippopotamus.

  I was concerned about this Father Jacques, as well, and kept seeing Urbain in the priest’s collar. Yet, Meredith Mae insisted that Father Jacques was a kind and gentle man who knelt with her every evening in prayer and had come to her rescue like a saint or an angel.

  “Why? Why did he come to your rescue? Who is he? Is he really a priest?” I asked, hoping that my worst fears were not going to be realized.

  “Grandmamma. You are being unfair. Father Jacques is a man of God. Trust me.”

  But I did not trust that my Meredith Mae would recognize the devil if he stood before her carrying a scepter and breathing fire. I had seen how she swooned over that horrible Ursula. I looked at Emie, who seemed to be reading my thoughts. As the carriage approached Boussidan’s office, Emie whispered that she would keep a close eye on Meredith Mae. We both must have feared she might walk back to the church, since we were not far, to thank the dubious Father Jacques. And I preferred that none of us ever set foot in that church again.

  * * * *

  I climbed the two flights of stairs to get to the law offices and had to rest at the top before I entered. I remembered how swift my step had been as Ann Putnam, and even in the flesh of that horrid Patience. I felt the weight that Malcolm carried and was particularly distressed by the way I had to maneuver my thighs to keep them from rubbing. I swore that I would starve this flesh until these pounds were dropped, and yet I found myself craving something to put in this stomach of his. Despite my insufficient sense of smell I could pick up a very faint odor of cheese, and I wondered where it was coming from.

  The old secretary that William had employed was gone and to my great shock, there at the desk sat Malcolm’s oldest daughter, Catherine.

  “Father! What are you doing here? What happened to your beard?” she asked me.

  “I wish to speak to Boussidan. Please tell him I am here.”

  “Why?” She narrowed those small eyes of hers and peered at me.

  “Do as I say, daughter.”

  “He has just arrived back and I’m not sure he will see you.”

  “If you do not tell the man I am here, I will walk in there myself and announce my own presence.”

  She laughed.

  How absolutely disrespectful.

  “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, dear Father, but I told you that he has just returned and may be busy.”

  I was somewhat taken aback and eyed her curiously. It was clear that she and Malcolm were not as close as he appeared to be with Beth Ann. I watched impatiently as she moved some things around her desk before she went in to Boussidan’s office, as if stalling.

  Finally, I heard her tell Boussidan that I wished to see him. After a moment, she came out and motioned for me to enter. I could feel her eyes peering into my back as I passed her by, as though she would sooner toss me into a fire, were one burning.

  Louis Boussidan was sitting behind a large desk with his head bowed. He was engrossed in some papers. He did not pick up his head as I entered. I noticed that his hair was dark and fell to his shoulders, and he appeared slight for a man.

  I began to speak immediately as I sat my body in the chair opposite him. I told him I wished to turn the entire estate back to my stepdaughter, that I had come to my senses and it had all been some terrible mistake that I now wished to rectify. I mentioned something about a fall and how it had affected me. I was speaking so rapidly that I took no notice that he had lifted his head. Finally, my winded monologue came to an end and I asked him to draw up the necessary papers. It was then I brought my attention to his face. He looked at me and smiled; his eyes were a brilliant blue and the bones above his cheek so strong they caused a hollow below. His lips were full, and without a smile, he showed a dimple.

  “Astonishing,” I whispered.

  “Pardon?” he asked in his native tongue. He leaned forward in his chair. His hair was in a man’s cut and his shirt was that of a man’s, as well; above his lip, he touted a fine mustache.

  “You are twins?” I asked quietly.

  He nodded his head and smiled. “Yes.”

  “The resemblance is remarkable,” I said.

  “My sister has persuaded you?” he asked, looking past me, as if straining his neck to see Catherine.

  “Well, actually, no. I have only just met your sister,” I said, as I stared at him intently. He also caused me to trace back through my memory, to wonder why I felt I had known him in some distant future, or woebegone past.

  “Really?” he said with an odd scowl. “Well, then, you know she has been insisting that Meredith Mae is the real beneficiary. As I’m sure you are aware?”

  I said nothing and he continued.

  “Now, you say she is, in fact, your stepdaughter?” Louis stared at me with incredulity, as if I stood before him naked.

  “That is precisely what I am saying.”

  Louis got up and sat on the edge of his desk. I noticed that his legs were long but as thin as Ursula’s had seemed. He lit himself a cigar and stared at me. There was a strange tilt to his brow as he searched my face.

  “Cigar?” He smiled.

  I shook my head. Smoking was a foul habit I detested.

  Louis laughed. “How very odd.” He smirked.

  “What’s that?” I questioned.

  He ignored me and continued. “All right, Malcolm, I’ll play your little game. How much of the estate do you wish to relinquish?”

  “All of it,” I answered quickly.

  “That leaves you penniless.” He sucked deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke at me.

  “Penniless?”

  I leaned back in my chair. I realized that Malcolm Northrup would have to retain a portion of the estate. It would look foolish to cut him off without a dime, and I did not wish to draw attention to my actions. I simply wanted the money back where it belonged.

  “I will retain twenty-five percent of the estate,” I told him.

  Louis got off the desk and went back to his chair. “And my share, I assume, will be left intact? That would leave fifty percent to Meredith Mae, not seventy-five.”

  “William Davenport did not own a share of my estate. He was paid a monthly fee. What is this nonsense?”

  Louis shot up quickly and pointed his dastardly cigar at me like a weapon. “We agreed to this two years ago. Are you mad?”

  I was breathing heavily. I noticed that Louis had a bottle of red Bordeaux on the shelf behind him and a plate of Brie. He saw me staring at it.

  “My lunch,” he said. “I would offer you to share it with me but Catherine and I always take lunch together, and there’s not enough.”

  “Look, Louis,” I stood and rested my hands on the desk. “I will expect compe
ndiousness in this matter. The estate is to be returned to Meredith Mae Guyon with the exception of twenty-five percent, which will remain in my name. Keep your share, for now.”

  “And Catherine?”

  “Catherine?” I quipped. “What about her?”

  Louis looked toward the door that had been left partially opened. I watched as he crossed the room to close it.

  “The walls are still thin,” he whispered.

  “Give her two percent of my share,” I said to him.

  He looked at me as if I had just said something ridiculous, but he said nothing.

  “By the way, what happened to William Davenport?” I asked casually.

  Louis eyed me oddly. “Just how badly has that fall affected you, Malcolm?”

  A chill went down my spine, and yet, I pressed him for answers. “Humor me, Louis. What happened to William?”

  Louis spread the Brie on his finger and sucked it into his mouth. Before he answered me he poured himself a glass of the wine.

  “William Davenport was murdered in this very office on August 10th, 1851. I bought out the practice from his son, Silas.”

  “Silas is a lawyer as well. Why should he turn the practice over to you?”

  Louis met my eyes as he sucked on yet more of the Brie.

  “Silas was arrested for the murder of his father within six weeks of the crime. Have you no memory of that?”

  “On what grounds?” I almost rose from my chair in disbelief. I remembered Silas as a sweet and considerate young man.

  “Well, for one thing, they argued constantly and brutally, and for another, a witness came forward and said that she had seen Silas enter the building only minutes before the shot was heard.”

  “What witness?” It was incredulous to think that Silas could hurt anyone.

  Louis smiled and leaned in close to me. “Why, your own dear daughter, Catherine.”

  I sat there silently taking it in. Something was terribly disconcerting, and I felt sick from the smell of the Brie and even sicker staring at the cheese that had stuck to Louis’s lip and lay there like misbegotten scraps.

  “Call me when the papers are ready.” I stood up to go. Louis rose as well and crossed to me. He stood only inches from my face. The lashes over his eyes were thick and dark and his shoulders so small I might have cracked them with my bare hands. I watched as he licked the cheese off his lips and stared into my eyes so deeply I felt a flush to my skin. To my horror, I felt the flaccid organ between Malcolm’s legs grow until I could feel it touch the material of his trousers. How very odd. How very odd, indeed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Once back at Montague Street I told Emie that our priority was to contact Philippe and discover why he and my son were not with us. Emie told me she would try and reach her brother but for the last two years of chronology communication had become very difficult. “It is the first time in our lives that Philippe is unable to transmute his thoughts or to move through the barriers of space,” she said.

  “Grandmamma’s presence will help us,” Meredith Mae said as she went through the house lowering the lamps. She insisted that Emie lay back in a large chair that she had placed on the bare wood in the parlor.

  “Why did you remove the rug?” I asked her.

  “A circle is needed,” she told me, and took a piece of chalk from the cupboard and drew a circle around the chair. “Lay back,” she told Emie as she placed her in the chair and put her palms up facing the sky. She then laid her head back on a soft pillow.

  “She looks too comfortable,” I whispered. I feared that sleep would take her before Philippe could find her.

  “This is not difficult,” Meredith Mae said confidently. “The will that unites us is greater than the flesh that keeps us parted.”

  My granddaughter sat me down before Emie and turned to take my hands. “Hum, Grandmamma. As we did on the night of the rainstorm, out near the marshlands—and do not be pulled back by the mind.”

  * * * *

  We sat together for what must have been hours. The oil in the lamps burned off. Emie remained in the chair as Meredith Mae and I sat at her feet, holding hands and pushing out long, sonorous sounds with our breath. The candles burned one-quarter inch from their holders and still we hummed. Emie appeared in a deep sleep. I could hear her breathing, soft and steady, lulling me into a mindless darkness that held nothing but random thoughts and images that made no sense at all. I let them come and go, as if they appeared on a slate that was quickly erased and then filled anew with faces and impressions, appearing as negative images, real, but yet, not real. Nothing was familiar. In my distress, I searched for my son.

  “Matthew,” I called. “Where are you?”

  “Do not try so hard, Grandmamma,” Meredith Mae whispered. “Only hum and call upon the soul.”

  “I am sorry,” I said. I had not opened my eyes. I could still hear Emie’s breath and my own voice, so unappealingly masculine, trailing behind Meredith Mae’s gentle sounds with some low vibration I found in the pit of Malcolm’s stomach.

  * * * *

  Hours surely passed. The candles burned to almost nothing. I felt drunk and mildly delirious. My mind wandered aimlessly. The shapes that appeared before me were those I had never seen before, barely human—forms without sense or meaning. Ominous—humorous—they came and went while my ears held nothing more or less than pure sound. Emie’s breathing had long since quieted. I could no longer hear Meredith Mae’s voice. My only reality was a vast, endless, and resounding monotone that I continued to send out in my breath like some wayward chant.

  * * * *

  I do not know how long we sat before the images changed—a blur at first, and then, as sharp as life. To my amazement, I finally saw my son so clearly that I might have touched him. He was putting wood into a fire. I sensed that the barriers around the dimensions had faded, and yet I still had not entirely entered my son’s reality. I could only stare and walk through, like a ghost, if you will. Yes, precisely like a ghost.

  I could see that there were men around him. I did not know them. I wanted to call out but I could not use my voice, and my son did not know that I watched him.

  “I have found Matthew,” I whispered from this vacuum between my son’s perception and my own.

  “Where is he?” I heard Meredith Mae ask.

  “In a room. A room in a house.”

  “Look around the room,” she whispered. “What do you see?”

  I moved my eyes as if in a trance. “Matthew is talking. He is talking to men. Most of them are dark, as dark as Philippe,” I answered.

  “What are they talking about?” she asked me.

  “A tunnel.”

  “A tunnel?”

  “Yes,” I assured her as I looked around. “They are very intense. Their brows are furrowed, and they appear angry. They are very passionate about moving something through the tunnel.”

  “Where is Philippe?” she said.

  “I do not know,” I whispered as I continued to search. I was surprised that they could not see me as I walked among them. I noticed a door at the end of the room. I struggled to open it but I could not. Then I heard something. Someone calling. The voice was close, so very close to me.

  “Who is there?” I asked.

  “Philippe,” the voice answered, but it did not come from my vision. It came from Emie.

  “Philippe?” I said and turned toward Emie.

  “Where are you?” I heard Meredith Mae ask.

  “Petersburg,” she whispered in a voice so strange that I could not tell whose it was. My heart began to pound and I felt as if I would pass out. I looked about the room in my vision and noticed it was very sparse, very similar to my father’s house in Salem.

  “What year are you in?” I uttered.

  “I am Philippe. They think I am a runaway. I am injured,” Emie whispered.

  “Good God!” I exclaimed.

  “Help us find you,” Meredith Mae pleaded. “What year? What year in P
etersburg?”

  I watched as my son spoke to some man he referred to as “Pastor” about moving the bondsmen.

  “They are speaking about moving some men to Vermont,” I told them.

  I kept trying to touch my son but I could not. I could hear Emie moaning and trying to speak. Some man started to talk about the route into Canada that was most difficult to detect when suddenly a great banging could be heard. At first, I thought it came from the vision, but it did not come from my son’s world. It came from mine. Some hideous pounding on the door that shattered my hold on Matthew’s existence and exorcised him like some frenzied priest with holy water on a mission against the devil.

  “Damn!” I shouted. “What is that wretched sound?”

  Meredith Mae ran to the window to look out. I noticed it was morning and we must have been in our trance for over twelve hours. Emie was shaken.

  “Are you all right?” I asked her.

  “There is a great pain in my leg,” she whispered, and reached to touch the spot. “Philippe has been shot. He lies wounded and that must have been why we were unable to connect. The Civil War, have you heard of it? A future war some twelve years from now.”

  I was about to ask her more about it when Meredith Mae turned to us.

  “Catherine is at the door and she seems quite agitated.”

  “And what has she to be agitated about, horrid beast that she is?” I said, standing with great difficulty, for the blood in my legs seemed to be boiling over and I could barely feel them to make them work. “Well, I suppose we must let her in.”

  * * * *

  Catherine was obviously horrified as she walked into our parlor and found Emie comfortably ensconced in the most plush and lavish chair and her stepsister opening the door and offering her a morning coffee as if nothing were unusual.

  “Father, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded as she walked straight to me and locked her eyes with mine like some enraged lover.

  “Whatever is the matter, Daughter?” I asked as I lowered myself into the closest available chair in order to stretch and massage my poor legs. To my horror, Catherine turned from me and grabbed Emie by the throat.