See No Evil

by B. A. Shapiro

  Todd sat on the edge of the bed and cried while Lauren held him. She began to cry too, and they cried until, after a few minutes, they both began to laugh. Eyes red-rimmed and cheeks streaked with tears, they laughed until Lauren’s side hurt and Todd started to hiccup.

  “I-I guess this is hysterical relief,” Lauren finally managed to say. Todd started to speak and then hiccuped again, sending them into renewed gales of laughter. When Lauren regained her composure, she placed her hands on Todd’s cheeks and kissed him. It was a kiss full of love and gratitude and passion. If there was one thing the last couple of days had taught her, it was that family was all that mattered, that being with the people you loved was the most important thing in the world.

  When they pulled apart, Lauren looked into Todd’s eyes. All was right with the world. They were a family again. “I’ve been thinking about little baby girls,” she said, a shy smile playing on her lips.

  Todd pressed her to him and then stood abruptly. He walked to the window, keeping his back to her, and said nothing.

  “What?” Lauren asked, her passion chilled to fear. “Don’t you want to try again?”

  He turned slowly and faced her. His eyes were dark and troubled, the web of lines surrounding them suddenly deep and visible. “I-I do,” he said, his voice gravelly with emotion and confusion. “Or I’m pretty sure I do. But something’s come up.” He threw his hands in the air. “Something I never expected to happen. And, and I’m torn.”

  “There’s somebody else,” Lauren guessed.

  “Yes,” Todd said miserably. “Yes, there is.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s only been a few weeks, but you know how it is at the beginning, when everything is clicking, when you think you’ve found the perfect person and—” He stopped abruptly, apparently realizing how much his words must be hurting Lauren. He stepped toward her, but she backed toward the door. “I’m sorry, Laurie. You, you just can’t control these things. I wish it hadn’t happened—but it did.”

  Deborah was furious. In all of her lifetimes she had never been filled with such a boiling rage. She saw her own aura swirling around her: It was red and orange and white hot. Someone—or something—was trying to keep Lauren from the Immortalis, trying to keep Deborah from reaching her destiny.

  It was just before midnight and Deborah was sitting in the darkness in the back room of RavenWing, waiting for the coven to gather. Everyone was there except Alva, but nobody spoke. Deborah’s rages were legendary, and there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Deborah was more angry than ever before.

  After Lauren’s phone call earlier in the evening, Deborah had almost believed the sages did not want her, that Lauren’s call was their way of telling her the Immortalis should not take place. But Deborah knew better. She had had visions and dreams and messages from the raven. The coven was to ascend to the sages at the last waxing crescent of the year 1995, of this she was certain. This was not the work of the sages. This was the interference of a human. Deborah slammed her fist down on the altar. This she would not allow.

  As Alva slipped into the room, Deborah pulled the chronicle from beneath the altar. “It is two days until the great Immortalis and, as planned, we shall read the final—the first—book of Mahala. Then you shall all disperse and I shall contact the sages for their final instructions.”

  “But, Mahala,” Cassandra interrupted, “the energy drain so close to the Immortalis. The—”

  “Silence!” Deborah roared, her anger inflamed by her fear that Cassandra was right. “I shall not be questioned! I shall do what needs to be done.”

  “I’m, I’m so sorry, Mahala,” Cassandra stuttered. “I was just so surprised—”

  Deborah silenced the woman with a fierce look. She opened the chronicle and began to read.

  Rebeka Hibbens had been privy to the tales. She had heard tell of what had transpired in Salem Village, and knew it would soon come to pass in Cambridge. Once the ferreting out of witches began, these superstitious humans, believing they had come to a land ruled by the devil, would hang many of their own in the name of their God. Rebeka could not allow this to happen, for it was she, and those whom she loved best, who would be among the first to be executed.

  Rebeka mixed her herbs and cast her spells and spoke with the sages who ruled the afterlife. But, as she was well aware, the sages never intervened directly in human events, and, as always, they would not intercede now. They did, however, guide her in the devising of a magical ritual to save her coven from the hangman’s noose. On the night of the next waxing crescent moon, with the aid of heliotrope, malaxis, and christianwort, the seven would ascend to summerland, home of the sages, leaving the realm of the human for all of eternity. Rebeka named her ritual the Immortalis, and when the others heard of it, they began to call her Mahala, the wise one.

  Things did not go well in the town. Young girls began experiencing unexplained fits, which were seen as evidence that the devil was near. “The evil hand is upon us!” the townspeople cried. “It surely be witchcraft.”

  And indeed, when the girls were asked to name their tormentors, they claimed they saw shapes flying in the night that bit and pinched them. They named the old woman who lived alone down by the river and the Negro slave who, it was said, practiced the black arts. And when the girls named Martha Cory, a respectable matron, and her slow-witted husband, Giles, Rebeka knew she and her coven would surely be arrested before the next waxing crescent moon.

  So Rebeka went to visit her cousin, Faith Osborne, who was married to Oliver Osborne, one of the most influential magistrates in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Rebeka had a deep and abiding love for her much younger cousin, but with the birth of Faith’s daughter, Dorcas, the most powerful soul Rebeka had ever encountered, their bond had grown.

  Faith was a sweet and rather timid woman, but her new husband was as ambitious and self-obsessed as he was powerful. If Oliver Osborne could be convinced it was in his best interest to allow the witchcraft accusations to die down, Oliver Osborne would do what was best for Oliver Osborne. It was well-known that Osborne was mad for Faith, his hale and well-looking third wife, and Rebeka hoped a few soft words spoken by Faith into his ear in the darkness and privacy of their marital bed would go far.

  “There’s talk that this smallpox is a sign that the Lord has turned away from the unworthy,” Rebeka told Faith as they sat in the front hall of Oliver Osborne’s house. “The inquests and warrants grow closer to us.”

  “Do you really think it be so?’ Faith asked, her blue eyes widening in fear. “Is Dorcas in danger? Are you?”

  “It is a great possibility,” Rebeka said. “Which is why I come to warn you never to speak of Glover barn and to beg you to intercede with your husband on our behalf—and on behalf of all that is right.”

  Faith’s face was pale and the teacup in her hand trembled. “I shall do all I can, dear cousin. Rest assured, I shall do what I can.”

  Rebeka thanked Faith and pressed her to her breast as she took her leave. But despite Faith’s words, Rebeka was filled with dread.

  And it came to pass just as Rebeka had feared. For the next evening, Dorcas slipped into Rebeka’s farmhouse. “My mama, my mama …” the girl said as she sobbed in Rebeka’s arms.

  “What is it, child?’ Rebeka asked, apprehension clutching her heart. “Is your mama hurt?”

  Dorcas shook her head vigorously. “I-I heard through the floorboards,” she stuttered. “Mama told him. She told him. about you and Goody Glover and Mercy and Dr. Lacy.”

  “She told your stepfather?” Rebeka asked softly, so as not to let the child know of her terror.

  “And he plans to arrest Goody Glover and you and everyone else as soon as he is able!” Dorcas began to cry even harder.

  After she had calmed the child, Rebeka called the other five members of her coven together. The sages had helped her devise a powerful magic elixir to ensure the coven’s safety until the Immortali
s, and she wanted the seven to partake of the potion immediately. She knew Dorcas had spoken the truth. They had little time.

  The coven crept to Millicent Glover’s barn under cover of darkness. Rebeka quickly cast the circle. As they stood, linked by held hands, heads bowed to receive the liquid in Rebeka’s crucible, Rebeka called to the sages to protect them. But before the sages could respond, the doors of the barn were thrown open and a deep voice roared in outrage.

  Oliver Osborne stood there, full of righteous fury, a band of goodmen on horseback behind him. “Give glory to God!” he cried, ripping the crucible from Rebeka’s hand and pouring its contents into the dirt. “Arrest these witches before they do any more of the devil’s work!”

  It mattered not a whit to Oliver Osborne that his stepdaughter was one of witches.

  There was a deep silence as Deborah closed the chronicle.

  “It was so horrible,” Bram whispered.

  “They threw me in the dirt and stepped on my hand.” Tamar wiped a tear from her cheek. “Horrid, horrible men.”

  “If only Faith hadn’t told him,” Robin said. “If she had kept her mouth shut everything would have been different.”

  Deborah looked at Robin and nodded. “I make this promise to all of you now: What happened in 1692 shall not happen again. In two days, we will celebrate the final Immortalis. In forty-eight hours, the soul of Faith Osborne will finally be destroyed and we will all be free!”

  One by one, each touched the crescent-shaped scar at the base of his or her neck and left the store.

  After locking the door behind them, Deborah returned to the back room and pulled a grass mat from between two bags of bulgur wheat. Laying the matbefore the altar, she slipped to the floor in preparation for a message.

  She arranged her body in a receiving position—legs straight and open, hands resting palm up on her knees—closed her eyes and concentrated on contacting the sages. Speak to me, she demanded. Tell me. Empower me so that I may overcome those who attempt to stand in my way. She focused all her anger and fury until she felt it fuse together. It became smaller and yet more powerful than it had been before, like a dying star collapsing in on itself to form a black hole. She cried out in triumph as thunder rolled overhead and forks of lightning lit up the room. The veil between the worlds parted, and she slipped through.

  Deborah flashed through darkness and through light and into darkness again. Borne by a fierce, fiery wind, she was whipped above a rocky shoreline and then hurtled inland. Beneath her, she saw herself scrambling up a steep mountain, the chronicle clutched to her breast. The sages were waiting at the peak. They had a message for her. But when Deborah reached the crest, she found Lauren instead of the sages. Infuriated by the sight of the human, she opened the chronicle, ripped out a handful of pages, and shoved them at Lauren. As soon as Lauren took the pages, she vanished and the wind became soft and warm and quiet. Deborah heard Summerland’s sweet song swirling around her.

  Deborah glided in the twilight, along a meandering river that snaked through an evergreen forest studded with startling white pines. All was right with her world. When the trees fell behind her, she slid into the light of a wide, open beach and saw herself again. It was the night of the last waxing crescent moon. Cassandra, Bram, Tamar, Robin, and Alva were all with her. The six of them were gathered in a circle around a towering bonfire. Waves crashed on the sand.

  Suddenly, Deborah’s view was obstructed by the black raven. He was bigger and blacker and shinier than ever before, and when he saw her, he opened his mouth. But before he could tell her anything, his body exploded and he broke into half a dozen ravens, all of whom plummeted into the ocean and disappeared without a splash.

  With the raven gone, Deborah’s view was clear once again, and she saw Lauren step from a break in the trees and approach the circle. Lauren was winded and disheveled, and her expression reflected both fear and excitement. As Lauren surrendered herself to the circle, Deborah felt the heft of Rebeka’s lancet in her hand. She flashed the blades in the moonlight and smiled. The message was clear: Lauren would come and destiny would be fulfilled.

  Twenty-Six

  LAUREN WANDERED AROUND THE APARTMENT, RUNNING her finger along dusty bookshelves and staring out at the bare trees. She looked at the piles of books and folders and notes scattered on her desk. She knew she should be ecstatic, that yesterday at this time she would have given her life to have Drew back safely. She glanced at his school picture sitting crookedly on a bookshelf and felt a bit better, but she couldn’t help wondering if she had done the right thing in sending him back to school so soon.

  Ms. Maher and Dr. Berg had both insisted. “He needs to get back into his normal routine as soon as possible,” Ms. Maher had advised. “That’s what’s going to make him—and you—begin to feel safe again.” And even though Lauren had walked him to school and checked to make sure the policeman was on duty outside his classroom, she wasn’t so sure. She didn’t feel safe. She felt jumpy and nervous and exhausted. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel safe again.

  She reminded herself that in a remarkably short time she had done everything in her power to assure Drew’s safety, including keeping almost all the promises she had made in the depth of her despair. In less than twenty-four hours, she had called Nat to cancel her book contract, informed Paul Conklin that her dissertation was dead, and told Deborah to spread the word that she would have no more contact with witches.

  Dropping onto the couch, Lauren stared up at the ceiling. Although she knew she had done the right things, she couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by the consequences. What now? she wondered. No dissertation, no husband, no money—worse than no money; she was now deeply in debt to Boylston. And although she knew it was the least of her worries, the idea of turning her back on the seventeenth century left her desolate and forlorn.

  Both Paul and Nat had been understanding. Nat assured her he supported whatever decision she wanted to make, although he was clearly disappointed. And Paul offered to brainstorm new dissertation topics with her. “I don’t think I’m quite at that point yet,” Lauren had told him, wondering if she would ever be, if maybe it was best to drop out of the PhD program and come up with an entirely new career plan. “But I’ll hold you to your offer when I’m ready,” she had added just in case.

  Staring at the paint peeling off the cornice above the bay window, Lauren considered taking Drew and moving to Florida to be with her parents. Todd wouldn’t like it and might even try to fight her in court, but custody law heavily favored the mother and she figured she could pull it off. It would serve Todd right anyway. Another woman, she thought, punching a throw pillow. Probably Melissa, the “meaningless mistake” that had ended her marriage the first time around.

  When the phone rang, Lauren threw the pillow to the floor and went to her desk. It was Terri, the department secretary, calling to say Gabe wanted Lauren to come over to talk with him as soon as possible.

  “You mean now?” Lauren asked, filled with hope at the idea that she might have somewhere to go, something on which to focus.

  “Mondays are one of his ‘writing days,’ so the calendar’s clear until he goes into high gear for the conference. He’s got a few luminaries to escort around late this afternoon and I think he’s planning on taking the six o’clock shuttle to New York.”

  “For ‘The Today Show’?” Lauren asked. Everyone knew Gabe was to be the keynote speaker at the annual conference of the American Historical Association, which was being held in Cambridge this year and started tomorrow—and that he was being interviewed in the morning by Bryant Gumbel.

  “Yes,” Terri gushed. “Isn’t it just the most exciting thing? Isn’t Gabe just fabulous?”

  Gabe was pretty fabulous, Lauren thought, her face flushing as she remembered that night in her bedroom. But if Terri was calling, Gabe’s interest wasn’t personal this time. “What’s up?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light. “Why does he want to talk to me?”

 
“Let’s just say it would probably be in your best interests to hear what the great leader has to offer,” Terri said mysteriously.

  So Lauren went straight to school. Gabe ushered her into his office with a chivalrous bow. After she was seated across from him, he offered her a part-time job as principal investigator on a grant to the Lexington Historical Society to study the contribution of Colonial women to the winning of the Revolutionary War. A job that would pay her enough to live and allow her to begin reimbursing Boylston for her advance. It would also give her a dissertation topic that was in the eighteenth, not the seventeenth, century.

  “So what do you think?” he asked when he finished presenting the offer. “Is this perfect, or what?”

  Lauren stared at him across the littered expanse of his desk. She ran her fingers through her hair, overwhelmed by his offer. “I, ah, I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re perfect for it and it’s perfect for you—even down to the fact that there’s very little public speaking involved.” Gabe stood and walked around his desk, dropping into the chair next to her. “I’ve been searching for months for the right person for this position. I thought of you for it, of course, but with Rebeka Hibbens and all, I knew you wouldn’t be interested. But now that’s all changed.” He reached over and touched her knee. “At least say you’ll meet the board of directors.”

  “I’d love to,” Lauren stuttered, overwhelmed by Gabe’s generosity and very aware of his close proximity. “But I don’t understand—how do you even know about this job, let alone happen to be in the position to offer it to anyone?”

  Gabe leaned back in his chair and let out a full-bodied laugh. Lauren was glad to see he was his old self again now that the NEH lawsuit had been dropped. “Oh, you know me, I get around,” he said. “When I was first married, we lived in Lexington and I got involved with the society—and I guess I just never got uninvolved. My friend Pat has kept me on the board of directors, and she twisted my arm into helping them write this grant. She’s also the one who put me in charge of the PI search committee.”