Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem

by Vera Jane Cook

  The old man came toward me as if he might strike me, but I must have frightened him because he thought better of it, and retreated.

  “What the hell is the matter? You want the little whore? Go on, take her.”

  Ebenezer shrugged his shoulders and walked back into the parlor. I looked at Beth Ann, who was still pacing. “You will obey me, daughter,” I said, “You are not to come for this child or send anyone for her. Is that understood?”

  I noticed that she nodded and only ceased her pacing when she picked up Malcolm’s shoes and shoved them in my hand. She slammed the door behind me and began to scream out what a good man Ebenezer was. I could hear her screaming it over and over again, even after I was halfway down the block with the child. I walked quickly, until all I heard was the wind spinning around, causing bracelets of leaves to jingle in a sweet beckoning dance above me, and Beth Ann’s screaming was finally lost to distance.

  The storm had retreated back to heaven, as if leaving atonement for the violence. There was now a gentle calm upon the earth. The night was cool and alive with the sparkle of stars. I took the night air deep into my lungs.

  The child lay limp in my arms and looked at me with terrifying mistrust.

  “Don’t worry, precious girl. I am taking you as far out of hell as I can,” I told her, and tenderly kissed her forehead.

  * * * *

  “What have we here?” Meredith Mae asked as she took the child from my arms.

  “Put her to sleep. I have taken her, though I haven’t a clue as to what I will do with her now.”

  I leaned my hands on the banister for support. I was exhausted and realized I hadn’t slept in days. I wanted to question Meredith Mae about Father Jacques and why on earth she had ever allowed him to refurbish our home, but I could barely stand. I followed my granddaughter upstairs with the child and stopped briefly at the door while she tucked Rachel under the covers.

  “I wish to question you about Father Jacques but I cannot stay awake another minute. We must talk, though.”

  “Of course, Grandmamma. Sleep now. I’ll be here when you awaken.”

  I kissed her good night and retired to my room. I barely remember getting out of my clothes, but I must have managed, for when I awoke the next morning I was in my nightdress and had slept quite comfortably for over twelve hours. I did not remember my visit with Emie right away. It was not until I opened my eyes and lay there staring at the ceiling for several moments that I recalled it. I suddenly remembered that I had been awakened by a gentle shaking at least an hour before dawn. When I opened my eyes, I could barely make her out in the darkness, but then, she leaned down close to my ear and spoke to me.

  * * * *

  “Mommy. It is Emie. Don’t be frightened.”

  “Emie?” I sat straight up in bed and hugged her tightly. “Where are the others?” I whispered.

  “They are not with me. I’m afraid I will be going back. I just wanted you to know that we are fine. As fine as we can be under the circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked as I took her hands.

  “Oh, Mommy, it is unbearably hot where we are and the oppressive stench of blood is everywhere. It is so crowded that I must sleep on the floor,” she said sadly.

  “That war?” I asked her. “The one you mentioned?”

  “Yes, it is the War Between the States. I wear the old clothes of a soldier who died just as I arrived, for my dress became soiled after I assisted in the amputation of a man’s arm, despite violent protests from the soldiers who would not trust a Negro with such a task. How strange to travel the barriers of space and not find paradise at the end of my journey. How brutal to know the outcome of history and have no power to prevent its misfortunes.”

  I looked at her sadly. “A war on our land?” I asked incredulously.

  Again she nodded. “I’m afraid so. It is 1865, and the War Between the States has been killing our soldiers for over four years. I studied this war in history class, Mommy. It was a noble war to abolish slavery, and yet, no war is ever really noble. How can it be? It was a war fought for a human cause, yet these dead men will never know their victory.”

  “Philippe?” I asked.

  “Philippe is in great pain. There are several wounded men here. We are trying to heal them so that they can be sent back to the battlefields, though I regret to see them regain their strength, knowing their fate. They are bitter and frightened, and many of them will die before the war’s end. Philippe has a bad head wound. The soldiers assume he is a runaway and he is kept downstairs beyond that door you saw during your meditation.”

  “And Matthew?” I asked. “My son?”

  “He has learned to be a doctor. At least, that’s what the men believe he is, and he is doing a fine job assisting the others,” she told me.

  “Why is he there?”

  “I don’t think even he knows the answer to that. He wound up in a pastor’s house in Virginia, in the year 1860, when he passed through time and space to follow Elizabeth, but she is not here, and if she is, we cannot find her.”

  “Then why not come back?” I asked her.

  “Matthew will not leave Philippe’s side and his wound prevents him from moving his soul.”

  I sighed deeply as Emie snuggled beside me in the bed and held me. I noticed that she carried the foul odor of death and blood on her clothes.

  “The men are kept upstairs in the bedrooms, and the pastor’s living room is used for operations,” she told me. “Philippe appeared in 1861. He was mistaken for a runaway slave and was shot in the leg. After the war started, he remained with Matthew to help the pastor with the wounded soldiers and whatever doctors could be brought from Richmond.”

  “How many years have they been in that place?” I cried out.

  “Matthew has been there almost five years. Philippe was shot a second time when an irate soldier claimed that he was responsible for the death of his friend and tried to kill him. Philippe’s wound was to the head and much more severe than his first wound. He is lucky to be alive, but he is very weak and certainly does not have the strength to move his body through space. But neither he nor Matthew would leave this place if they could, not until the war has ended and the last soldier has been tended to.”

  “And when will that be?” I turned to her quickly.

  “Philippe and I know that the war will end soon at Appomattox and we have told them to expect the Union victory.”

  I ran my hands through my hair. “What of Elizabeth?” I whispered.

  “Matthew says he has no idea where she is, for her soul does not respond to his call. He tells me he was drawn to this time and place in chronology, but he doesn’t know why, since Elizabeth seems so absent. He is distraught and has thrown his grief into saving these men. He openly protests slavery. Before the battles began, he and the pastor set up a route to help the runaways. Many people are sensitive to the cause and have offered shelter to the bondsmen. The pastor’s house is now used as a hospital for it is not far from Petersburg, where a gruesome battle is being fought. Though slavery is rapidly losing its appeal, the Confederates still feel they will be redeemed for this war because they believe that God sanctions slavery. How can I tell them, Mommy, that God is not the white man’s dominion? So many of them will die like slaughtered beasts believing that it is somehow noble to go to war and kill so that dignity can remain only with the white and the wealthy. What maniac created it so? The only nobility I see is in their blindness.”

  I took her hand, for I felt her pain as if it were my own.

  “And what of my ancestors, Mommy? Did they rejoice in this war? The condition of slavery has made it inevitable that we fight this atrocity, but what fatal act of cruelty ever acknowledged slavery as the right of property for these fine Southern families to begin with?”

  She clenched her fists, and I knew that whatever she had seen had left its scar across her vision. I put my arms around her and tried to comfort her, but I knew my white flesh had incorporat
ed the delusion of superiority, taught and administered by fools but nonetheless instilled for centuries in the collective consciousness of Caucasian descents.

  Almost, as if she read my mind, she continued.

  “White people often show some genteel kindness to people of other colors, but sometimes, I think that it is only a sense of superiority that allows this kindness. I am consumed with anger, but it is not greater than my despair. If we can lay this all at Satan’s feet, I will feel more inclined to forgive my white brothers and sisters for this shameful violation of human dignity. If only I was protected from history, by the illusion of death, but I am not. The misery of this war has scared our souls before God even though the most precious sacrifice lay at our feet. Man’s inhumanity and the karmic retribution of that inhumanity, never ceases. If we do not honor life, we will die in the fires of war. I have seen the future, Mommy, and there is nothing to protect it from the past. God will not seek vengeance but certainly must cry out in shame at our atrocities.”

  With that, she held me tightly and vanished before I could hold her. Before I could tell her that we are all foolish souls, adrift in our own delusions, before I could tell her how very much I loved her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next morning, I relayed Emie’s visit to Meredith Mae and we sat together in silence and held each other’s hands. I knew that we were both saying a prayer for their safety.

  “Emie said the end was near. The final battle at Appomattox, I believe she said, was approaching.” I turned to Meredith Mae.

  “How horrifying. A war on our own soil, how absolutely horrifying,” she said.

  In the meanwhile, I insisted we meditate that evening and search infinity, if need be, for Elizabeth’s whereabouts. I could feel my son’s grief, and I knew that if he could call out to me it would be in a plea for Elizabeth’s safety. He would want me to use this great power that he believes I have to find his beloved. I sent a promise, from the depths of my existence, that I would attempt to call upon this illusive power to command her presence. I hoped, somehow, that he heard my words.

  * * * *

  Rachel sat in the very same chair that Emie had used during our meditation and listened, somewhat distractedly, to our conversation. I noticed that Meredith Mae had come up with some new clothes for her during my slumber and the child looked quite beautiful perched upon the pillows, clutching a new doll that seemed almost a replica, with large round eyes that stared at nothing in particular but seemed aware of everything.

  “How are you this morning, Rachel?” I asked her.

  “Fine,” she answered to the doll that she held before her and danced on her lap.

  I had no idea how on earth I would be able to protect her and wondered if she had any magic of her own.

  “Rachel…” I began as I walked to the chair, as gracefully as possible considering the flesh I inhabited. I knelt before her. “How do I look to you?”

  She continued to dance the doll on her lap and did not respond.

  “Am I pretty, Rachel?”

  The child nodded but I could not be sure if she were answering to the doll or to me.

  Gently, I took the doll away from her. She looked into my eyes with a horrible scowl on her face and pressed her lips so tightly together that I feared she would crack a tooth. Still, I pursued. I had to know if this power from God had been passed in the bloodline. It took only a sip of opium before Maebelle saw the face of Annabel Horton. I had to know if her grandchild had at least as much power. I knew that I would never be able to leave her behind should we ever have to move our souls through to another dimension.

  “Rachel, describe my face. I want you to do that.”

  She held out the doll to me and stuck out her tongue. I sighed and returned to my chair.

  “It is obvious she sees me as Malcolm,” I said to Meredith Mae, “She clearly hates me.”

  “She is only a child and she has been through a lot.” Meredith Mae gently touched my shoulder as she got up and took the girl to the kitchen where I presumed she would make her some toast and cereal.

  I sat and waited for them to return to the parlor. I felt restless, and I noticed that I craved the cigar that sat nonchalantly on the table upon which I rested my arm.

  “How unusual,” I said.

  I picked up the cigar and put the end of it to my lips. I noticed how enjoyable it felt to hold the thing in my mouth and taste the sweet tobacco. I found myself reaching for a match. I was in the process of lighting the cigar when Meredith Mae walked back into the room.

  “Grandmother!” she screamed at me. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Smoking.” I laughed as I tossed the match in the glass tray and puffed the smoke out before me. Meredith Mae sat aghast and stared at me without closing her mouth.

  “Aaah,” I sighed. “Very pleasurable.”

  “Grandmamma, you’ll develop a habit.”

  “Nonsense,” I quipped, and continued to puff and run my tongue over the wet paper as I held it between my lips. “Now, tell me about Father Jacques. Why did you permit him the luxury of decorating our home?”

  “This house belonged to his family. Did you know that, Grandmamma?”

  I took the cigar from my mouth, though I already missed it. “Meredith Mae, this house was built in 1806 by Michele Guyon, or at least someone posing to be your grandfather. The bastard left the house to me. The deed says ‘Guyon,’ not Grandier or Father Jacques.”

  “But he seemed so adamant. He insisted that the house had been in his family for years and his brother was the last to live in it. He practically broke out in tears when he relayed how his brother was killed abroad, just before his plans to refurbish it. He asked me if he could please honor his brother’s memory and restore it to the specifications left in several drawings that he produced for me. They were very beautiful. How could I refuse? He begged me, Grandmamma. And he is a priest.”

  “Why didn’t Father Jacques inherit the house?”

  “Perhaps it felt too grand for a priest, and he sold it to Grandfather.”

  “What was his brother’s name?” I asked her.

  “He never said.”

  “Who paid for the restorations?”

  “He insisted on using his own money, though I offered to share the cost. He said the church would never allow him to spend his money in that fashion and he asked if it could be our secret.”

  “How very generous of him. And you agreed?”

  “I agreed and promised to let him come and spend time there. He’s a kind man, Grandmamma.”

  “You do not recognize evil, do you, child?” I asked her.

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “I do not believe that Father Jacques is evil,” she said sternly. “When Malcolm produced that new will and took the house over, it was Father Jacques that offered me shelter.”

  “Father Jacques’s real name is Urbain Grandier, and he is the devil’s disciple, not God’s,” I said softly.

  “I love you, Grandmamma. You know that, but I do not accept everything you say as the gospel.”

  “Urbain Grandier is probably responsible for all of our grief. He is only using your naïveté to take back his due, for I assume we lie in the lap of luxury because he has willed it. But the devil has a price, Meredith Mae.”

  She stared at me as if she did not understand where I could get such thoughts.

  “I see no similarity between Urbain and Father Jacques,” she said to me.

  “Have you ever seen Urbain?” I asked her.

  “No, I have not, but you have never seen Father Jacques.”

  “That is not entirely true,” I said, just as the doorbell chimed. We looked at each other for a brief moment. I could see the pain in her eyes, for she hated disagreeing with me, but I knew she was unrelenting in her trust of this priest. She kissed me briefly before answering the door.

  * * * *

  Louis Boussidan entered our foyer with a large folder tucked under his arm.


  “Mademoiselle Guyon, your stepfather? He is here?”

  “Oh yes. Right this way,” she said and led him into the parlor.

  Louis entered the room quickly. I noticed there was an unusual effeminacy about his walk and wondered if it were a French characteristic. He took Meredith Mae’s hand and brought it to his lips after he acknowledged my presence. He then made a grand and eloquent bow.

  “I am honored to see you again, Miss Guyon,” he said in his most charming French dialect. He turned to me and extended his hand. He immediately noticed the cigar burning in the ashtray and looked around.

  “Have you company?” he asked me.

  “Oh no,” I told him quickly. “Have a seat, Louis.”

  He sat opposite Meredith Mae and I noticed the way his eyes traveled over her face, as if startled by the grace of the sun’s shadow on a mountain. Finally, he smiled.

  “Pardon me, Mademoiselle Guyon, for staring, but your beauty often takes me by surprise.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said demurely.

  “It is a fine summer day, is it not, Mademoiselle Guyon?” he said with a smile.

  “Please, sir, call me, Meredith Mae.”

  He smiled at her once more, and sat more comfortably back in his chair. “And you will call me Louis?”

  I brought the cigar to my lips once again and felt quite drugged by the aroma of the smoke as it hit my nostrils. The two of them appeared to be flirting, as they engaged in a chase of long, legato glances. I puffed until I was blowing a good deal of smoke into the room, and at one point, I coughed badly. Louis eyed me oddly.

  “Is something wrong, Louis?” I asked him.

  “No, no nothing, Monsieur Northrup. It is nothing. I have brought the papers.”

  He opened his folder quickly and got out some documents.

  “I have set up the estate as it was intended for Meredith Mae and…”

  “The value?” I interrupted.