Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (12 page)

“He needs help!”

“Don't you understand? You're helping
her
.”

Proctor twisted, pulling his coat free. His voice wavered as he said, “No, I'm not. I'm not helping her.”

“If you didn't help her, I don't know how she escaped my original binding spell.”

“That's madness,” he said, but he glanced over his shoulder. “What's a binding spell?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You don't need to know.”

“I need to know.” The voice belonged to Jedediah. His face was a grimace, his neck and cheek covered with blisters. He stood upright and approached her. “What happened back there?”

“She escaped,” Deborah snapped.

“I saw that. But how did she break the spell?”

“Why don't you ask Elizabeth?” Deborah asked.

Proctor shook his head. Who was Elizabeth?

“Oh, wait, you can't ask her because she was nearly killed,” Deborah said. “And she's the only one of us powerful enough to understand this woman.”

“What did thou do wrong?” he asked, stomping toward her.

“What did I do wrong?” Deborah said, his voice rising sharply. “What did you do at all? You stood by and did nothing until it was too late, the way you always do.”

“Deborah,” Emerson said, addressing her like a child.

“No, it's fine,” Jedediah said, raising his hand to stop Emerson from saying anything further. “Stay thine anger. She has the right to speak her mind, however she truly feels.”

“Those burns look painful,” Deborah said instantly, more softly, reaching her hand halfway to his cheek.

He turned his head away, then, a second later, his whole body. “I'll go get the cart.”

Emerson bristled at Deborah. “I'll treat him as soon as we get to your house,” she said.

“I'll have Sarah bring you everything you need,” he said sharply before turning away.

“How did she escape?” Proctor said.

“You know as much as I do,” Deborah said, pulling him ahead. Jedediah had retrieved his hat and musket, and had taken the bridle in hand again. He was rubbing the muzzle of the horse and speaking to it before leading it on.

Proctor had thought he knew more about magic than nearly anyone, all because he could glimpse the future in the death of an egg or recognize the charmed medallion worn by Major Pitcairn. That was nothing compared with the things he had witnessed in the last half an hour.

“But I don't know anything,” he said.

“Then that is the one thing we share in common,” Deborah grumbled.

“But what were you doing on the cart? What was with the salt and the knots?”

“As if I would tell you,” Deborah said. “What if you are helping her on purpose?”

“I swear I'm not.”

She frowned, an expression that looked unnatural on her face, though it seemed that she did it often enough and with enough ease that it might someday become her permanent mask. “I don't trust anyone who swears,” she said finally. “The Bible teaches us not to take oaths.”

“The Bible also says to suffer not a witch to live.”

“Do you make no distinction between how we're born and what we choose to do?”

He opened his mouth, but there were no words to come out of it.

“If we have special talents, it's only because God gave them to us, and He expects us to use them to His glory. Were you given one talent that you've buried, or many talents that you wisely invest?”

Proctor recognized arguments that he had made to himself. “Just like the parable of the talents …”

“Exactly,” she said, as if surprised that he wasn't as stupid
as she'd thought him. “Jesus also commands us to swear not at all.”

His head was spinning. “What's that then? Is that also part of some spell?”

“What?”

“That flower in your buttonhole.”

“The flower—?” She regarded the blossom in surprise, as if she'd forgotten it. Up close, it appeared as much red as purple, a shade somewhere between blood and bruise. She frowned at herself. “This is a vanity, a distraction from my duty.”

“Ah,” Proctor said. “My mother calls it truelove.”

Deborah sneered. “And I bet she uses it to treat nosebleeds and help with childbirths.”

“Nosebleeds,” Proctor admitted. “She says that each of the threes in it—the three leaves, three petals, and so on—is for the Trinity.”

“I call it stinking benjamin,” Deborah said, ripping it from her shawl and leaving the torn stem behind.

“My mother calls it that too,” Proctor said. “And wake-robin.”

“Three names for everything. It sounds like she and my mother would get along very well.” She crumpled the blossom in her fist. He noticed that her pale, slender fingers were bare of adornment. She threw the flower down in the trail, trampling it on purpose. “There's Emerson's house.” Over her shoulder, she called out, “I'll go ahead to find Sarah.”

Proctor blinked in the light as the old trees opened up on the young orchard. Emerson's house sat near the river below them. Deborah hurried away. What a contrary and unpleasant young woman, Proctor thought. No wonder she was still unmarried at her age. He was glad Emily was nothing like her. Well, except for a certain sharpness of tongue.

Jedediah led the cart toward the isolated workshed where Proctor had met with Emerson. Emerson took Proctor aside,
leading him away from the shed and back toward the main road.

“So are you still worried about Miss Rucke's accusations of witchcraft?” Emerson asked.

“What did I see?” Proctor demanded. “How did she do those things?”

“Magic is mostly lies, but lies told to our eyes instead of our ears. If you report the lies as fact, you may do great harm, and bring innocent people to an unfortunate end, like the situation witnessed by our forefathers at Salem. Is that what you want?”

“I just want to understand what I saw.”

“Which is it?”

Proctor shook his head. “What do you mean?”

Emerson had shaken off what ever fear had marked him on the trail. “Do you want to shake off Miss Rucke's accusation and find a wife and build your cattle farm, or do you want to pursue forbidden magic and bring the scrutiny and approbation of the community upon you?”

“I—”

“You must choose, Mister Brown.” He placed a hand on Proctor's shoulder. “I strongly encourage you to forget everything you saw. Treat it as but a dream that fades as the day progresses, so that by nightfall no memory of it remains. Go home. Do your duty to your parents, and to your country. Become the man you want to become.”

Proctor couldn't believe what he was hearing. “But how did she start that fire? That fire was no illusion. That Jedediah fellow is burned, all over his face and shoulder.”

Emerson cleared his throat. “Perhaps a bit of gunpowder, and a flint, hidden in her sleeve for such a circumstance. A mere trick.”

A laugh formed on Proctor's lips and evaporated just as quickly.

“Do you wish to help us?” Emerson asked.

“Yes, sir,” Proctor said. “Of course I do.”

“Then run ahead to Amos Lathrop's home,” Emerson said. “Tell him to call on me, that it's for the patriot cause.”

“Anything Amos can do to help you, I can do as well.”

Emerson tilted his head forward and glared down his nose. “Did you mean your offer to help or no?”

Proctor hesitated. Maybe Emerson didn't trust him after all. Maybe he knew somehow that Proctor was also a witch. Maybe, like Deborah, he blamed Proctor for helping the widow nearly escape.

“I meant it,” Proctor said.

“Then run to the Lathrop farm and tell Amos to come straightaway to the shed at the back of the property. I'll need him to stay all night.”

“Yes, sir.” He took a few steps backward before turning to leave.

“Mister Brown?”

“Yes?”

“You've been injured recently. You may be a little lightheaded still. It might be best for you to go straight home after the Lathrop farm and rest until you are well.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, ducking his head, and hurried away.

When his feet hit the main road, he began to wonder if Emerson was right. Did he really have to choose? What if he wanted a life with Emily and also wanted to understand his talent? Why couldn't he have both, one helping the other?

He had to understand his talent better, if only to make Emily understand it. He had to prove to her that his talent was God-given, meant to be used.

These thoughts were still marching through his head when he arrived at the Lathrops' farm. They were glad to see him. Mrs. Lathrop, Amos's mother, wanted to know about Proctor's wound, and then both parents and Amos's two unmarried sisters joined them at the table while he had a cup of cider and listened to them share the same news from Boston he'd already heard from the old farmer. Proctor made agreeable noises around mouthfuls of beans and
pork fat, delivered his message to Amos, and begged to be excused because he still had a long walk home.

Amos followed him out to the porch, which sagged beneath their weight. His sisters stood at the window, smiling and waving at Proctor. The younger one kept trying to pull off the cap of the older one.

“Did the Reverend Emerson say exactly what he wanted me for?” Amos asked.

Proctor rubbed his nose, looked away. “I'm not sure. Best that he tells you himself.”

Amos nodded. “All right. You go get rested up. And Proctor?”

He paused, already half turned to go. “Yes?”

“I heard that Emily Rucke and her father went over to the other side. If you're ready to start looking for another sweetheart, I might know a couple girls who'd return your interest, if you were serious.”

Behind the glass, the older girl covered her mouth and the younger one giggled. Amos winked at them.

“I'm sure it'll work out fine with Miss Rucke,” Proctor said. “We just have to give it a chance. But thanks, Amos.”

Amos grinned. “Things change in ways we don't expect. Just keep an open mind.”

Proctor assured him that he would, but as he headed cross-country for home, he rehearsed the things he planned to say to Emily next time he saw her. To that end, his own ignorance frustrated him again and again. The closer he came to his home, the angrier he grew. How much did his mother really know about witchcraft? What had she been keeping from him all these years?

He climbed over the stone wall and cut across the pasture toward their house. Blankets hung outside on the line to dry, still too heavy to stir with the breeze. Wild ducks milled in the yard with the chickens; they all scattered, quacking and clucking, as he walked through them to the door. He stopped to peer inside before he entered.

His mother must have been cleaning for days. Their normally tidy house was immaculate, every surface clean, every item in its place. His father sat propped by the open window, his face clean-shaven, his hair washed and brushed back to dry, revealing the scar where he'd been scalped.

Proctor went inside and leaned his musket against the wall, hanging up his powder horn and bag. There was something he needed to say, but he was finding himself too choked up. He forced the words out.

“Robert Munroe,” he said. The veteran who had served with his father, and the man who had the misfortune to be standing next to Proctor on Lexington Green when he shot at Pitcairn.

His father continued to rock, eyes unfocused.

“He said, what Munroe said was, he said you were a good man in a fight.”

The door creaked open and his mother entered one step, pausing as soon as she saw Proctor. She looked away from him and carried the bucket of water over to the table, where she splashed some into their brass cooking pot and scrubbed at it, even though it was already so clean it gleamed.

He cleared his throat. “I'm home, Mother.”

His mother stood there, scrubbing the pot even harder than before. “I see that,” she said finally without looking up. “You're home. You're home after running off to play soldier, after being gone for days. After you went all the way to Concord and back, marching right past your own mother's house without stopping. Don't lie or tell me different. Mister Leary saw you on the road this morning.”

“I had to go see the Reverend Emerson. He sends his regards.” When she didn't answer him, he went over to the hearth and tipped lids on the kettles to see if there was any food left. “We have to talk, Mother. About the scrying. About our talent.”

She banged the pot on the table. “We never talk about it! Never! Do you want them to hang me? Do you want them to burn me alive?”

“Of course I don't want anyone to burn—”

She cut off his sentence by banging the pot on the table again. This time his father stirred out of his ordinary half sleep and blinked in vacuous agitation at the room.

“Now see what you've done,” she said. “You've gone and woken your father. Today exhausted him and he needs his rest, but you had to wake him up.”

Instead of moving to comfort her husband, as she usually did when he woke, she put the pot back in its place by the hearth, hung the rag up to dry, and slammed out the door.

Proctor went over to soothe his father, patting the old man's shoulder until he smiled and slurred some sentence
Proctor pretended to comprehend. He explained that he needed to go help his mother, and his father nodded. When his eyes drifted shut again, Proctor followed her outside. He wasn't sure if she was just afraid or if she was deliberately hiding something from him.

Although the light was fading, she was in the garden with the hoe, where she slashed at the heavy soil and turned it over for planting. “What are you doing?” Proctor asked, trying to control the anger he felt.

“Everything,” she said with another slash. “I have to do everything. Your father's too sick to work, and you're running off to wars you have no business with, coming near to getting yourself killed. If I'm going to be here all by myself, I'll have to work twice as hard. Even though I'm at an age where I ought to be mostly taking care of grandchildren.”

“Mother, I'm not going anywhere.”

“You think you aren't, but I can tell differently,” she said, punctuating her sentence with three ferocious slashes of the hoe. She stopped and turned to him. “When you first came to me with your … your talent”—she made the word sound like a curse—“that day your friend was shot by British soldiers, what did I tell you?”