See No Evil

by B. A. Shapiro

  Deborah locked the door behind Lauren. She was not pleased that Lauren was dreaming about Oliver Osborne or Cambridge Prison, and she prayed to the sages that Lauren wasn’t having waking dreams of the past. Waking dreams would indicate that Faith’s memories were breaking into Lauren’s consciousness. If Lauren remembered too much of Faith’s life, it could jeopardize the Immortalis.

  She was also very displeased with the Bellarmine urn and the poppets. Someone was either practicing black magic on Lauren or trying to scare her away from the coven. This too could have a devastating effect on the Immortalis.

  Deborah made her way through the store to the back room, where the coven was waiting for her. When she entered, they all bowed their heads. She felt their curiosity pulsing through the silent room. But Deborah had learned long ago that one of the keys to power lay in withholding information. She would tell them nothing about her conversation with Lauren.

  Deborah knelt in the far corner and retrieved the chronicle from the floor safe. She walked slowly to the altar and opened the book. “From The Chronicle of the Coven,” she said. “‘The Book of Mahala.’ Chapter II.” She began to read.

  Rebeka stood on the edge of a rocky outcropping, her hands pulled painfully behind her back and held fast by a coil of coarse hemp. The sky was steel gray and overcast, the same color as the ocean that lapped at the bottom of the cliff, and the wind cut through her cloak, chilling her in both body and soul. On the rugged hills in the distance, goldenrod and smoky blue asters waved in stark counterpoint to the goings-on of the goodmen of Cambridge.

  Rebeka scanned the angry crowd, searching for the members of her coven. For although she had been informed she was not to be hanged this day, she worried that one of the others might be. According to the magic she and Millicent Glover had contrived, the Immortalis would require the energy of seven powerful souls to create the bridge to the sages. There was no certainty that six would ensure the link. Therefore, if any of the others were put to death before the Immortalis could be consummated, all might be lost.

  But Rebeka saw no prisoners. She saw only the eyes of her neighbors, burning with self-righteous fury, and eight hangman’s nooses dangling from the branches of a great oak tree.

  A man Rebeka did not recognize rose before her. “Repent!” he cried. “Renounce the devil and enter into the Kingdom of God.”

  Rebeka fixed her eyes steadily upon him. ’“Tis thou who must renounce the devil,” she said softly. “Dost thou not see the grievous error that be done here this day?”

  But the man just laughed and continued on.

  Human beings were a piteous, confused lot, Rebeka thought sadly. A lot from whom she and her coven would, sages willing, soon depart.

  She heard sounds approaching and turned to see a cart rise along the steep side of the hill. The cart was hardly larger than a wheelbarrow, yet it was overloaded with suffering: Seven adults and what appeared to be one small child clung to each other as the wagon jerked up the rutted trail. On foot, Oliver Osborne and Daniel Higgenson led the way, their faces full of themselves and the power they held over the poor souls who followed behind them.

  Rebeka squinted as the conveyance drew nearer, hoping against hope that none of her coven was to be found within. Scanning the faces, she was flooded with both horror and relief. For although poor Goody Warren and Tituba and old Giles Cory were huddled there, neither Foster nor Millicent nor Abigail were with them. Then Rebeka’s stomach twisted and she cried out in pain. The child in the wagon was Dorcas Osborne. Dorcas, her precious, sweet Dorcas. Dorcas, whom she had taught all she knew. Dorcas, who could bend the cornstalks with her will and was, aside from Rebeka, the most powerful witch in the coven. Dorcas, whose energy was critical to consummating the Immortalis.

  As the cart crested the hill and came to a stop under the thick spreading limbs of the old oak tree, the crowd screamed, “Death to the witches!” Some threw dirt and rocks.

  Oliver Osborne walked to the front of the wagon and raised his arms. The crowd grew silent. “The evil hand is upon them,” he cried, his face flushed with the importance of the moment, of his place within it. “These eight have been found guilty of consorting with the devil. These eight must die!”

  The crowd roared its approval as, one by one, Daniel Higgenson pulled the scraggly souls from the cart. When Susanna Warren was thrown to the ground, she righted herself and stood tall before Osborne. “A grievous mistake has been made, sir,” she told him in a strong, steady voice. “I am no witch. I know not what a witch is.”

  “Goody Warren,” Osborne bellowed at Susanna, a wide grin filling his complacent face, “how can you know you are not, what you know not?”

  The crowd cheered, and Daniel dragged Susanna to the hanging tree. As Osborne was placing a noose around Susanna’s neck, a slender figure broke from the crowd and threw herself on the sole occupant of the cart. Rebeka knew the woman well. It was her cousin, Faith Osborne, trying to snatch her daughter, Dorcas, from Daniel’s hands. Rebeka’s heart broke as she watched Daniel push the child behind him and kick Faith to the ground.

  “She is but a babe,” Faith cried, grabbing Daniel’s boots.

  “Mama!” Dorcas sobbed. “Mama!”

  Faith lunged at Daniel, but Amy Duny and Mary Sibley grabbed her from behind. One held her arms and the other her feet.

  “If thee interfere with the work of the Lord,” Amy told her, “thou shall be next.”

  Faith wrenched herself free. “I care not if I am next for I am a witch,” she cried, standing before Osborne. ‘“Tis I who did all Dorcas is accused of. ’Tis I who caused Goody Cloyce’s cow to stop giving milk and Goody Sibley’s chimney to fall. My specter who came in the night and did bite and pinch. Dorcas has no power. She knows not the devil. ‘Tis I who am the devil’s consort!”

  The crowd fell silent as Oliver Osborne looked down on his wife. Rebeka held her breath. “If thou be a witch,” Oliver said softly, his head bent in pious sadness, “then your punishment shall be no different from the others. When this deed is done, I shall declare a warrant against you and you shall be tried for witchcraft under the laws of Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

  “And Dorcas shall be allowed to go free?” Faith begged, her face streaked with tears.

  “Mama,” Dorcas bleated in a small voice. “Mama.”

  Rebeka’s heart pounded as they waited for Osborne’s verdict.

  “I cannot allow the devil his consorts,” Osborne cried. ‘“Tis not only cows and chimneys. Dorcas has been found guilty of using dead snakes to break Rose Easty’s leg—of confining a God-fearing woman to her bed, of removing her as an aide to her husband and children. Nay!” he cried even more loudly. “Wife or no wife of mine, stepchild or no stepchild of mine. Justice must be done!” He waved to Daniel. “Take the girl.”

  “No!” Faith screamed, struggling against the many hands that held her. But the many won out over the one, and Faith Osborne was forced to stand and watch the noose being tied around Dorcas’s neck.

  “She’s but a child!” Rebeka yelled. “Can you not see this is madness?” But Rebeka’s voice was drowned by the cheers of the crowd.

  “Take me!” Faith cried. “Take me!”

  “Mama!” Dorcas called again, lifting her arms toward Faith, her eyes huge in her white face. “Ma—” Her last word was cut off as the noose broke her windpipe.

  She shuddered and then was still.

  When Deborah looked up, she saw there were tears streaming down every face in the room. “Don’t be sad,” she said. “We shall avenge the child. It was Faith who caused Dorcas to be killed. So it is Faith whom we shall punish.”

  Nineteen

  LAUREN WALKED QUICKLY TOWARD THE SUBWAY STATION as the sky dripped its cold tears on her head. She was anxious to get to Drew—and away from Deborah. Deborah had been a great disappointment. Not only had her belief in the possible link between the Bellarmine urn and Jackie’s death proved her to be as delusional as Dr. Bluestone had suspected
, but she had also revealed almost nothing to Lauren about the coven. Lauren knew Nat wasn’t going to be happy with her morning’s work.

  She tripped over a raised brick in the sidewalk and swore under her breath. Deborah’s discussion of reincarnation and ghostly sages hadn’t done much to convey an impression of sound mental health. She had talked about magic dwelling in the mind, about a higher part of the brain—a superconscious—that could see and understand beyond the parameters of the physical world.

  When Deborah had launched into a knowledgeable discussion of Carl Jung and his collective unconscious, Lauren had been pleasantly surprised. She had always been fascinated by the Jungian concept of a cosmic folk memory that was genetically transmitted, like the instinct to suckle or the prewired ability to understand the structure of language. But when Deborah had combined Jung with her “ superconscious” to account for reincarnation, Lauren had become skeptical.

  “Each individual soul obtains wisdom and knowledge through her superconscious,” Deborah had explained. “And each bit is added together, person by person, lifetime after lifetime, to form the collective unconscious.”

  Lauren stopped at the corner of Mount Auburn and JFK Street and waited for the traffic to stop. For Jackie’s sake, Lauren had struggled to keep an open mind, but the more Deborah had said, the more unbelievable Lauren had found her arguments.

  “Groups of souls tend to reincarnate together,” Deborah said in an attempt to illustrate how all the members of the coven could be reborn at the same time in each incarnation. “Together, they work out their destiny—debts owed, lessons learned—over the span of many lifetimes.”

  Lauren raced across the street, remembering how Deborah had told her souls were guided by sages, who had great knowledge but no physical bodies, who controlled when and where each soul would live its next life. Deborah’s sages were unsettlingly similar to Brian Weiss’s entities.

  Deborah explained that the Immortalis was a sacrament to receive the favor of the sages, who, if the ritual was correctly reenacted with Rebeka’s lancet, allowed the souls of the seven to reincarnate together, their collected wisdom and powers intact. The 1995 Immortalis was to be the culmination of all the Immortalises. For if all went as planned, each of the coven members would “cycle out of humanness” at the end of this lifetime and begin eternal life among the sages.

  Lauren ducked into the T station and climbed aboard an outbound train that had just arrived. She collapsed on the hard plastic seat and closed her eyes. She believed the coven was going to “cycle out of humanness” about as much as she believed the Bellarmine urn in her shopping bag had caused Jackie’s death.

  The train lurched forward and the man sitting next to her jammed his arm into her side. She opened her eyes and saw the urn sliding out of the bag. Lauren thrust out her leg, stopping the urn from rolling across the car with her foot. As the triple face of the bearded devil stared up at her, Lauren suddenly wasn’t sure what she believed.

  Drew was sitting on the wide concrete steps of the Porter Square Synagogue, playing with a puddle of water that had accumulated on a cracked stair, oblivious to the slight drizzle that misted around him. A few adults chatted under the overhang, and a group of children a couple of years younger than Drew played on the sidewalk.

  Lauren’s heart swelled at the sight of her son. He was such a good-natured child, easily occupying himself with his fantasy games and his Legos and his drawings. Could he really be so troubled? So bad? “Hey there, Mister Boy,” she said, dropping a kiss on Drew’s head.

  Drew looked around to make sure none of his friends were watching. “Hey there, Mister Mommy,” he said when he had determined the coast was clear. He jumped up, then beamed at her and did a little jig around the puddles, a puppyish bundle of energy. It was as if he had never destroyed Bunny.

  “How was Sunday school?” she asked, giving him a quick hug and propelling him down the stairs.

  “Yuckers,” he said. “Mrs. Abel’s the pits.”

  Lauren nodded. She was inclined to agree with him. But Todd felt strongly that the boy should learn about his heritage. “It’s ethnic, not religious,” Todd had argued when she had suggested they skip religious education. “Just think of it as Drew learning about his roots—not about God.” She had reluctantly agreed with the proviso that religious instruction was Todd’s responsibility.

  So, Lauren thought as she took Drew’s hand in hers, where was Todd now? Why was she picking up Drew and listening to him complain?

  “It’s sooo boring, Mom,” Drew was saying. “We did this stupid project where we cut out paper and glued stuff—just like when we were in kindergarten.” He looked up at her and, apparently finding a glimmer of sympathy in her eye, gave her a hug. “Are we meeting Daddy at Friendly’s?”

  “Yup,” Lauren said. “Today’s a Friendly’s day.”

  She and Todd had decided that in order to ease the transition for Drew, the three of them should periodically spend time together. Although she often thought these Sunday lunches were a mistake, Lauren was glad they were meeting today. The episode with Bunny had unnerved her and she needed to discuss it with Todd.

  Lauren and Drew got to the restaurant early and sat down. “If I eat my whole hot dog can I have one of these?” Drew asked, pointing to a glossy full-color print of a huge hot fudge sundae.

  Lauren smiled sadly at Drew and nodded her consent; he appeared to be such a normal seven-year-old.

  “Hi, guys.” Todd slid into the booth beside Drew and tousled his son’s hair. “See,” he said to Lauren, “I’m right on time—snowmen in July.”

  Lauren smiled at his use of one of her mother’s expressions—an expression that had driven her crazy as a child because of its illogic.

  “I paid Mrs. Piccini my share of both the November and December rent,” Todd said quickly.

  Lauren nodded. “Thanks.”

  After wrestling a bit with Drew and finding out that Sunday school was “yuckers,” Todd turned to Lauren. “How’d your meeting go?” he asked. “Did you get your witches’ bible?”

  Lauren shook her head. “I don’t think Deborah’s going to give it to me. Nat’s not going to be happy.”

  “Do the witches have the story in their bible about God creating the world in six days?” Drew asked.

  “No,” Lauren said. “Their bible tells their special story just like our Bible tells ours.”

  “How many bibles are there, Mommy?”

  “There are lots, slugger,” Todd answered for her. “Like the witches’ bible Mommy needs for her book.”

  “Tell me about your witches,” Drew demanded.

  After they ordered, Lauren told Drew the story of the lost coven and the chronicle and Jackie and Deborah and Cassandra, omitting, of course, any mention of black magic or poppets or Bellarmine urns, for both Drew and Todd’s sakes. Todd, although a risk taker when it came to himself, worried incessantly about both Lauren and Drew. He claimed he had inherited the Freeman worry gene from his paternal grandfather, who had worried himself into a heart attack at thirty-six.

  By the time Lauren finished, lunch had arrived. “The whole thing’s incredible, Laurie,” Todd said. “Absolutely incredible. This is going to make one hell of a great book—even if you can’t talk them into giving you their chronicle. People are just going to eat it up.” He popped a French fry into his mouth and pulled a face at Drew. “Yum, yum, good book.”

  Drew giggled. “People don’t eat books, Daddy.”

  “They’re going to eat up Mommy’s.”

  Listening to Todd’s reaction, Lauren began to feel a stirring of excitement. For the first time since Jackie’s death, she was actually beginning to see Rebeka Hibbens in a positive way. She heard Jackie’s voice: “Maybe historical research is about getting people—and ourselves—to think in ways we’ve never thought before.” Maybe it could be a good book. An interesting book. A new and unique approach to the overstudied New England witch trials.

  “Do you real
ly think people will like the book?” Lauren asked Todd.

  “I do.” He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Aren’t you glad I nagged you into going to graduate school?”

  Lauren pulled her hands into her lap, but not before she realized how comfortable—and how nice—they had felt resting in Todd’s. “It does seem to have been a good decision,” she said primly.

  Todd crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her in mock annoyance. “Admit it,” he demanded.

  Lauren burst out laughing, thinking of all the times he had demanded she “admit it.” The camping trip to the Canadian Rockies. The sex video they had ordered by mail. The water bed. Drew. “All right, all right,” she said. “I admit school was a good idea.”

  “Do you really go to school even though you don’t have to?” Drew asked. When Lauren nodded, he shook his head. “I thought you went to school to get smart.”

  Todd raised his glass of Coke. “To Rebeka Hibbens,” he said.

  Remembering that Gabe had made the same toast last night, Lauren felt a stab of guilt. But as she touched Todd’s glass with her own, she wasn’t sure about whom, or what, she felt guilty. She forced the thought aside and popped a nacho in her mouth. “How’s your work going?”

  “Good,” Todd said. “Real good. I think I’ve finally learned I’m a lot better photographer than a businessman—and that that’s where I should concentrate my efforts.”

  Lauren nodded her agreement. “Jeffrey’s been getting you work?” Jeffrey was Todd’s new agent.

  “Wish I’d found him years ago,” Todd said. “I’m still free-lancing for The Minuteman and The Trumpet—and doing a few portrait jobs on the side—but Jeff’s lined me up with some regular accounts that actually pay a decent rate.”

  “That’s great,” Lauren said, impressed and pleased that Todd finally seemed to be getting his life together. Watching Drew, who was playing cops and robbers with his French fries, she felt a twinge of sadness. If Todd had managed this feat a bit earlier, it was possible things might be very different today.