In one of my nostalgic trips through the chamber, I learned that Gillian Guyon was institutionalized after the wild and outrageous tales she told about people who disappeared before her eyes. I also walked past the old house in the chronological year 1937 and learned that Calvin lived out a quiet and productive life on Montague Street. It seems he used his money to adopt African American orphans and he provided shelter for abandoned German shepherds. He died in 1936, somewhat of a local hero.
I am grateful to Julian for giving me this body that will most likely sustain me for some time, and though I still suffer from insufficient hearing and taste, my sight appears to have improved. The body is agile and very much like Jeanne Elemont’s in that I believe it will age slowly.
Oh, I have enjoyed sharing my secrets with you, but I must admit that we have only scratched the surface of my experiences. You see, great witches, like myself, have touched the hand of Jesus and looked past the aftermath of destruction. There are tales worth hearing in that.
* * * *
And through it all, I am still Annabel; I am still just a girl on a hill playing with my brother’s dog and seeking solace in my father’s love. I am still Annabel, a young woman longing for the summer wind off the sea as it catches my hair and causes it to fall on my brow. God! Salem! It will always haunt me, the sound of the water running in Frost Fish Brook, delighting my ears, and the call of the birds over the meadow by Northfields, teasing my senses and beckoning me to follow their song all the way back to my heart’s first joys. How I loved the white winter sun, as it caught the sea like a sheet of glass over the heart of Salem, before the town went mad. Yes, the years before the witch trials, the blessed prayers on the lips of those who graced the church, and chased the pigs behind the barn, and lay on the earth and stole kisses on Gallows Hill—yes, that is what I miss.
I will cross that dimension again, even just for the split of a second. It seems I long for nothing more than that, a time of innocence, perhaps. And I will go home and look, as if looking back, but it is only when I look within that I catch sight of something lost forever. Yes, I will cross to that chronology, I will return and I will lie in the shade of my father’s favorite tree and dream that I am safe forever. I will dream that I do not know the devil’s smile…
* * * *
You must excuse me, for I have to put my pen down for a moment because my daughter Emie has knocked at my door.
“Mother?”
“Yes, my dear?”
She holds out her hand to me. In it is a small music box.
I find her eyes. “What is this?”
“There’s a man downstairs. He wears a cloak that covers his face. He has brought the box to you.”
“A stranger?” I asked and took the box from her hand. “Send him up.”
“Are you sure, Mommy?”
“What do I have to fear anymore? I have conquered the devil.”
“Fine, but I will not leave you alone with him. He will not show his face.”
I watched her leave and brought the box to the light. I saw that it was very old, as it seemed to fall apart in my hand. The wood was badly damaged and as I lifted the lid, a foul odor filled the room. The music it played offended me, horrific loud chords from an organ that hurt my ears, as if a child had banged upon the keys. I dropped the box to the floor and it shattered into pieces.
I turned as I heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Annabel,” he said as he entered.
There in the semisoft light of dusk he stood. It was Julian.
“You are being summoned,” he said. “The Black Witch commands you.”
“Black witch?”
Slowly he took the cloak from his face. He appeared handsome but drawn.
“Julian?” I whispered, though I could not see him clearly. “You are Julian, aren’t you?”
“Only if you wish it so,” he answered, and with that he swiped his hand across the room, and I heard my daughter scream.
“No, Julian,” I shouted, as he choked me in the fabric of his cloak. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“But I’m doing this for you. The box was his, she ripped out his Mozart and danced upon the keys in her bare feet. She wanted you to have it.”
I looked at the broken pieces on the floor. “I don’t want it.”
“I’m taking you to her; it’s where Michele is.”
“Michele? What are you saying, he is her captive?”
Julian laughed softly. “It is the other way around. Go now, and bring him home.”
* * * *
Listen, tales are endless. For me, they never stop. Julian covered my eyes and told me to dream. As I did, my darling Michele came into view. He was shackled in chains.
“Annabel,” he said. “Is it really you?”
I went to touch him and heard her laugher. It is the other way around, he had said. Then what is this?
It would be centuries before I learned of my husband’s fate, before I held the key to free him. Pain was not far off, of course, lingering in the devil’s malcontent, and in the cauldron fumes from the Black Witch of Pau my fate churned. Who is she, you might ask? Exactly who is the Black Witch of Pau? She is everywhere you might think she is not, and she is patiently waiting for my return, her hands around my beloved’s heart, her potions stirred with insidious strokes, her poisons made with one purpose known: to strike Annabel Horton down. But I, Annabel Horton, lost witch of Salem, will not be consumed by the witch’s hand. You saw for yourself that not even the devil could defeat me. But oh, how perilously close I would come to that consumption.
Read on; I will tell you more…
* * * *
Volume II in the trilogy: Annabel Horton and the Black Witch of Pau
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my absolutely careful, sensitive and meticulous editor, Rory Olsen, for her work on my book, her admirable contribution to it.
Thank you, Lisa Dovichi, for “getting” Annabel and designing the best possible book cover.
Many thanks to Coreen Montagna for the interior design. I was so thrilled with how this book was given the beauty I had hoped for it.
Last but not least, thank you Celina Summers for giving this writer a home, for trusting that I have something to say and the gift of gab to say it well. For everyone at Musa who has been so kind and so available, this writer owes you everlasting gratitude.
About the Author
Vera Jane Cook’s first published novel, Dancing Backward in Paradise, was the recipient of the Eric Hoffer Award for publishing excellence and the Indie Excellence Award for notable new fiction, 2007. Jane will have two more novels published with Musa in 2012, The Story of Sassy Sweetwater in January, and Lies a River Deep in March.
Ms. Cook, being somewhat torn between fantasy and reality on a daily basis, is comfortable writing in the paranormal, speculative, southern and women’s fiction genres. Annabel Horton, Lost Witch of Salem, is the first in a trilogy, and her first published paranormal book.
Like Annabel Horton, Jane is known by her middle name and has also written short stories and early childhood curriculum. She resides in New York City
If you would like to communicate with the author please visit her website at:
http://www.verajanecook.com
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