Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (14 page)

“Come back, I'll tell you something.”

The door bulged and cracked at the edge as she pressed against it. He checked the latch to make sure it was secure. Then he looked to the nails, and saw the ends of the knotted ribbons fluttering in the light breeze.

“You know someone like me, maybe your grandmother, or your maiden aunt,” she said. The steam of her breath came out through the crack in the door. “Perhaps it's your mother? No matter. Whoever she is, you know what the mobs do at the first hint of even harmless sorcery. So you know that women like your grandmother or your aunt and myself, we have to lie to protect ourselves.”

His jaw clenched and he took a step back toward the shed. “How do you know what I know?”

“I've met young men just like you once or twice before. Where did your mother tell you witches came from?”

“She didn't.”

A pause, smug in its silence. “So it is your mother, then.”

“Maybe not,” Proctor said quickly. He had a sensation of ants crawling all over his skin—he looked down to brush them away, but saw none.

“Do you know your Bible?” she asked.

“Are you going to tell me the ‘suffer not a witch to live’ passage?”

That won a wry laugh. “Why waste my breath in asking? This is Massachusetts—you know the Bible better than the current news. Do you recall the passage, that ‘there were giants on the earth in those days, when the sons of God came unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, and the same became mighty men, men of renown’?”

He paused. “What's that to do with anything?”

“Where do you think witches come from? The sons of God slept with the daughters of men, and we are their grandchildren. Some part of the angels lives on in us, giving us the power of angels, the ability to do small miracles.”

He gripped the musket with his hands.

“Why are you angry?” she said softly, so muffled by the door that he had to lean closer to hear it.

“That's blasphemy.”

“Is it? Do you not know your own talent? Where else could it come from, but from the seed of the angels?”

He slammed the butt-end of the musket against the door.

She swallowed a gasp of pain and moved away from the door. “See now why witches must lie? We have powers that make us giants among ordinary mortals, and they call us blasphemers. They hunt us down and hang us and burn us,
because they are afraid of us. Even those who share our talent.”

“Is that what they're going to do with you?”

“They are afraid of you too. These people lied to you, didn't they? Give them a reason and they will kill you also.”

His neck throbbed. The scab itched; his whole body itched. He didn't want to believe what she said. He didn't know if he dared to disbelieve it. “They don't want to kill me.”

“Not yet, they don't. But wait, give them time. Our powers—your powers—are a gift from God. God has made us giants. And every man longs to be like David. Open the door, and set me free, and I will teach you anything you wish.”

He took another step back. She was pushing him too hard, reminding him of the traveling huckster who'd come through Lincoln the past summer. “Do you have a familiar?” he asked.

“No,” she cried instantly. “What kind of nonsense do they teach you in these colonies? I'm as harmless as your mother. I'm just an old widow that people fear because I'm a stranger.”

“I thought they feared you because you were like the angels, because you did magic.”

“I have powers, little things,” she said. “What does it matter if I do them? I should be able to do what ever I wish, so long as I harm no others.”

“You harmed that man you set on fire today.”

“An accident. I was just trying to burn through the ropes. Please, you have to set me free.”

The darkest part of night had settled around them, thick and cold and heavy, like a winter snow. “I don't think so.”

“Just look into my eyes,” she pleaded, weak and helpless like a frightened old woman. “Open the door a crack and
look into my eyes. You'll see that I'm telling the truth. I just want to go my own way, go far away from here, and I promise I won't ever return.”

“I'm sorry I woke you,” he said, tipping his hat.

Fingertips appeared on the edge of the door, her bound hands frantically trying to pry it open. The door banged against its latch as she struggled desperately to break out. “You can't leave me here,” she begged, close to tears. “They'll kill me, they'll burn me alive, just like a pack of savage Indians. You must help me—you must.”

He looked over his shoulder toward the house, afraid the noise would wake someone. A candle appeared in one of the windows. “You have to stop that,” he said in a hushed tone. He lifted the musket threateningly. “I said stop.”

“Shoot me, please, I beg you,” she said, increasing her frantic efforts to break open the door. “I'd rather die quickly than to feel my own flesh on fire. Just open the door and shoot me.”

“Nobody's going to shoot you or burn you,” he said.

She began to sob pathetically. She sagged to the ground, her hands sliding down to the base of the door, where she pulled back the corner plank. The candle in the mansion window had bloomed into the light of a lantern. He went to the door, bending down to pull loose her hands.

Her fingernails dug into his hand the moment he touched her, and she let out an almost delighted gasp. At the same instant, the powder flashed in his musket, misfiring. The sudden glare blinded him all the same.

He would have pulled away, rubbing the smoke and powder from his eyes, but he felt drained. For a second he wondered if he'd torn his wound open again, and was faint from loss of blood as he had been on the battlefield at Lexington. He felt cold, bone-shaking cold, and empty, and although he wanted to pull away, to rip his hand from the
widow's grasp, he collapsed instead. His head banged the side of the shed, his shoulder slammed into the ground, and his mouth filled with dirt.

He twisted weakly to the side, gagging, as she let go of his hand. With a small pop, the latch burst off the door.

Proctor sprawled on the ground, blinking the way his father blinked, drooling the way his father drooled, as the widow pushed the door open.

She paused in the entrance, as if pressed against an invisible fence. She murmured words in an unfamiliar language, and ribbons fluttered to the ground, unwound from their nails. She crossed the threshold.

He could only follow her with his eyes as she stepped over him. She appeared so small and harmless. She tugged her black shawl about her shoulders, pulled it over her head, and took several steps toward the road before turning toward him.

“If I had my familiar,” she said, “then I wouldn't have needed you now, would I?”

He rolled over, trying to rise, but it only made him dizzy. He passed in and out of consciousness, too weak to cry for help, so he had no way of knowing how long it had been when she returned and stood above him, holding a lantern.

“Help me,” he wheezed.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” she murmured.

His eyes were blurred so that he only saw her as a vague and murky shape. The odd thing was her voice sounded just like Deborah's. Her hands tore open his shirt, searching for wounds. Then as she said something to him, her fingers pinched the skin below his breast and twisted.

That snatched a cry from his throat, and then he blacked out completely.

When he felt water splash on his face and opened his eyes again, it was early morning, with the daylight warming his skin. He was sitting inside the shed, though the door was propped open. The old man, Jedediah, stood above him, face framed by the broad brim of his old-fashioned hat. The burns on his cheek and ear glistened with a greasy ointment.

Emerson stood there also, his hat in his hand. He reached down and touched the sore spot beneath Proctor's breast. It stabbed down into Proctor like an icicle.

“Ah, Mister Brown,” he said sadly. “I was mistaken. I see that you do have the witch's mark on you, after all.”

Proctor blinked at him and tried unsuccessfully to rise. “My mother will be worried sick.”

“Thou art the one who should be worried,” Jedediah said.

Emerson placed a hand on Jedediah's good shoulder. “I will go and meet our friend, and give him the bad news. Will you stay here?”

“I will.”

“Thank you.” Emerson took one last look at Proctor. “I think I shall meditate on my message for this Sabbath. The story of Judas is instructive.”

He turned and walked away, stepping over a line just outside the door. Jedediah did the same. Proctor pushed himself on his hands and knees, rising to his feet with the intention to follow; but as he came to the threshold, light landed on his face like a lash, blinding him and knocking him back from the door.

Emerson's long strides were already carrying him away past the house. Jedediah squatted down on his haunches. He looked at Proctor and shook his head in disappointment.

Proctor winced and dug his heels in the dirt, pushing himself into a sitting position, with his back against the wall so he could still see through the door. The effort, or the attempt to pass through the door, combined with the smell of cider soaked into wood behind him, made him
nauseous. He twisted sideways, propped his head against the wall, and vomited.

“Art thou all right?”

Proctor scrubbed his hand across his mouth. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“How long have thou been in league with the widow?”

“I'm not in league with anyone. Why do you call her the widow?”

“We don't know her name, but she dresses like a widow, so that's what we call her. Twice she was able to escape, both times thou were present. The second time thou lied to gain access to her. Do thou deny this?”

“Yes. I mean, no—” He clamped his mouth shut. Jedediah waited until Proctor grew uncomfortable with the silence. “I came back because I wanted to understand how she did those things in the forest.”

“Because thou wanted to learn witchcraft also.”

“No.” After a moment, he said, “Yes.”

“Thou do not seem to know thine own meaning.”

“That's God's truth,” Proctor said, shifting his position against the wall to be more comfortable. He looked at Jedediah. Stubble showed on his heavy chin where he had failed to shave. The rim of his ear, not covered by the paste, was bright red and blistered. He still wore the long, plain jacket with the fresh scorch marks. The hands that rested across the musket showed the scrapes and scars of years of labor. “At first, I took you for a Quaker,” Proctor said.

Jedediah waited a moment, then nodded, a bit reluctantly. “Which would be taking me for what I am. Though we prefer to be called friends.”

“I never heard of Quakers carrying muskets or shooting at people.”

“There is a time for every purpose under heaven. Some of us feel called to fight back when evil takes up arms first. So thou dost not know the widow?”

“I swear—”

“Do not swear, but answer yes for yes, no with no.”

“No, I don't know her.” He scooted away from the acid-sweet odor from his thin pool of vomit. “I followed the Reverend Emerson, because I thought I heard you say the word
witch
and I wanted to see. Then I saw what she did, changing shapes and setting fires. I wanted to know how she could do that.”

“Why did thou help her escape if thou knows her not?”

“I didn't mean to help her. I was talking to her, she grabbed me, everything went topsy-turvy, and I woke to this.”

Jedediah grunted, sitting down and bending his legs in front of him. He rested the musket at his right hand, the barrel aimed through the door at Proctor.

“How do you explain that?” he asked.

“What?”

“The witch's mark.” He pointed at Proctor's open shirt.

A loose tab of flesh hung from his ribs. The memory came back to him, sharp and clear. “It was Deborah. She found me, after the widow attacked me. She pinched me, and called me stupid.”

Jedediah grunted. “She called thee stupid?”

“Actually, she called me a ‘stupid boy.’”

“That has the ring of truth to it.” He rubbed his face and sighed. “So thou denies thou art a witch?”

Proctor opened his mouth, snapped it shut again. His hands were balled into fists.

“No, don't deny it,” Jedediah said. “I can see thou art a poor liar in the best of times, which is a credit to thee and no shame. In any case now is not the best time to be lying. Thou art a witch, as sure as I'm a farmer's son. What's thy talent?”

He buttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers. So his secret was known. Which would be worse, that they knew the truth about him, or that they thought he was capable of changing shapes and setting fires? When the top button slipped through its hole, he said, softly, “Scrying.”

“Scrying, is it?” Jedediah laughed, long and heartily. “Thou must not be very good at it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if thou could see the future, the widow would not have bested thee and thou would not have ended up in here.”

He hadn't even considered scrying before his visit to the widow. What harm could it do to talk? That perspective seemed naïve now. “Why was she your prisoner?”

His voice rasped, dry from the vomiting and his overnight fast. Jedediah had a waterskin. He lifted the strap over his head and tossed the skin to Proctor, who fumbled the stopper free and swallowed a drink.

“We believe her to be a British spy,” Jedediah said. “But we don't know. She attacked us, injured one of us very badly. While she thought she still had the advantage, she asked a lot of questions about how we had broken one of her charms in the battle on the Concord Road.”

Proctor felt his mouth go dry despite the water.

“Deborah is more powerful than she admits, and was able to surprise her. She used every binding spell she knew to hold her, once she was our prisoner, but …” His words trailed off.

“A British spy?” Proctor asked.

“She was aiding them, but whether to their purposes or her own, I cannot say.”

The jangle of a cowbell sounded from pastures beyond the orchard. The thought of his chores waiting for him, of the fence he needed to build along the eastern side of the pasture before he bought a breeding cow later this year, stirred Proctor to stand again. Bracing himself against the wall, he took a step toward the door.