Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (21 page)

“Clean water,” she said. “And I brought out some of my father's old clothes for you to change into. He won't be needing them anymore.”

“As long as they're dry, they could be your clothes for all I care.” He walked stiffly toward the barn.

The first thing he noticed in the barn were the two “Indians,” wrapped in sheets with knots at their heads and feet. Their clothes had been stripped off them and piled outside the door, waiting to be burned to kill the lice. Assuming the lice didn't drown first.

His gaze encompassed all that in a split second and then was drawn to the steam rising from the tub. She'd heated a tub full of water for him, a pot at a time, and carried it out while he was deep in the graves. If he hurried, he might get not only clean but warm.

He stripped to his waist and plunged his face into the water and decided to hold it there for as long as he could keep his breath or stand the heat. The former won out, and he pulled out with a gasp a moment later, shaking the water from his hair. By the time he'd scrubbed clean and changed into the dry clothes—who cared if they were too short in the ankles and sleeves, they were dry!—he noticed the smoked ham and pork puddings and fried potatoes set out for him beside a pint mug of beer.

With his belly full, and his body tired, he didn't think about going any farther than someplace to sleep, at least for the night.

In the morning, beams of light fell through a threadbare curtain of clouds. Proctor walked to the house, his feet squishing in the mud.

The women were all dressed in their daily clothes except for Cecily, who had found a black dress somewhere. Jedediah was wrapped in a sheet that knotted at head and foot, just like the two “Indians” in the barn.

“When's the minister coming?” Proctor asked.

“Our faith makes do without ministers,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh.” Proctor had been planning on asking the other man for help carrying the body. His arms and shoulders were sore from yesterday, but he wasn't willing to admit it. “Well, it's no problem—I'm sure I can carry him by myself.”

As he bent to pick up the body from the floor, Deborah went to the feet and took hold of the knot. “Don't be full of foolish pride. I'll help you.”

Proctor was going to argue, but he saw the look on her face and realized how far it would get him. “That's fine,
thanks.” He hooked hands under Jedediah's shoulders. “Ready? Up.”

She pulled up as he lifted but the knot slipped out of her hand, and her father's feet slammed the floor.

“I'll be glad to help,” Alexandra offered.

“Don't be ridiculous, girl,” Cecily said. “Lydia was born to labor, it's in her nature, isn't that true, Lydia?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the black woman said quietly. She positioned herself opposite of Deborah and said, “Are you ready?”

The three of them carried the body out to the first grave and lowered it as far as they could. It splashed at the bottom, and the sheet immediately began soaking up the mud. Proctor looked to Elizabeth for a reaction, but she only sighed and nodded. Then she said, “Let's show the same respect to the others.”

Deborah had started toward the barn, Lydia in her wake, and Proctor had to stretch his legs to catch up. They took the man with the mauled arm first, lowering him a little less gently into the second grave. The second Indian was dropped at the side of the shallowest grave when Deborah asked to catch her breath. Proctor put his foot on the body and rolled it into the hole, splashing mud and water up around their ankles. Being this close to them, remembering how they'd tried to kill him, made his hands start to shake again.

To Elizabeth, he said, “I'm sorry I didn't dig a separate grave for Nimrod. I'm not sure where you want him.”

“He can go in with Jed,” she said. “He was a good friend to us.”

Her throat was thick by the time she choked out the last words. Proctor went and carried the bloodied dog back, getting mud all over his clean clothes. He gently lowered the animal over his master's feet.

He stood up and stepped back from the grave. Elizabeth stared at her husband's body, while Cecily rested a hand on her crippled arm. The southern woman leaned close and
murmured something into Elizabeth's ear, producing a wan smile. Elizabeth covered the other woman's hand with her own, patting it for reassurance.

Magdalena paced nervously back from the edge of the graves. Lydia placed herself opposite Cecily, standing next to Alexandra, who glanced from face to face looking for clues.

Deborah cleared her throat. “Friends, we are gathered here today to remember Jedediah Walcott, my father, a good friend to all of us here.” She wiped the corner of her eye, quickly, trying to hide the gesture.

“Amen,” Lydia said under her breath.

“We will also remember these two strangers who killed him. We hope they have found a better peace now than they knew when they were living. We should remember that all men are equal in God's eyes, if not our own.” She looked at Proctor and Alexandra. “For those of you not familiar with our ways, we have no set hymns to sing or prayers to say. We begin with silence. Anyone who is moved to speak may do so. You can share a memory or a prayer about any of the men we bury here today.” The longer she spoke, the harder it was to get the words out. She paused to regain her composure.

“May Gott have mercy on us—this whole thing is terrible,” Magdalena said.

Cecily spoke immediately. “Well, I, for one, am grateful—”

“Please leave a few moments for contemplation between contributions,” Deborah said.

Cecily squeezed Elizabeth's arm sympathetically. “But of course, forgive me.” She waited a brief moment, and when she spoke it was in a softer voice. “I, for one, am grateful that it wasn't worse.” She looked around at their faces. “I mean, it's terrible that Jedediah was killed, he was a good man, a very noble man. But God was watching out for us.”

Elizabeth tried to speak and couldn't. Clouds passed in front of the sun. Proctor shivered.

“I'll miss him,” Deborah said. “He sacrificed himself for something he believed in, trying to protect us.”

A spattering of raindrops pelted out of the sky. Elizabeth said, “May the Light guide the souls of these two strangers, who also died for a cause they believed in.”

Proctor shook his head at that. He figured their true cause was cash and whiskey.

The rain came down harder. Cecily and Magdalena began to glance to the shelter of the house. Lydia stood with her hands folded in front of her. Alexandra fidgeted, twirling her long red curls around her fingers. No one else seemed inclined to speak. Proctor cleared his throat.

“Jedediah was a good man to work with. He labored without rest, never expecting anything in return.” His hands began to shake. “On the night he died, he only expected to be able to delay his attackers long enough so that all of you could escape. I suspect that he didn't have the smoothest intercourse with all of you”—he knew the words were wrong even before Lydia hid a smile and Deborah glared at him—“but he didn't think twice about giving his life to save you. I hope that someday, if I have to, I can be as brave.”

After a moment's silence, Deborah said, “I think that's enough, Mother. Let's go inside before we're all soaked.”

The women stepped away from the grave in a slow pro cession back toward the house. Elizabeth stopped when she reached Proctor, and patted his arm. “That was very moving, dear boy. Do come inside and join us once thou art done.”

“When I'm done with what?”

“When thou art done filling the graves,” she sniffled, as if he should have known. “They can't stay uncovered.”

Of course. He should've known. He was their hired help now. Their Jedediah.

“Do thou want us to stay and help thee? We can stay and help thee,” she said.

Cecily shielded her face against the sky. “Maybe it would be better if he left it until tomorrow.”

“No, I'll take care of it now,” he said.

He filled the graves quickly, packing the mud into Jedediah's first. The second he filled with loose soil. The rain was pouring again by the time he turned to the shallow grave. He tossed a few shovelfuls across it, just enough to cover the body, and then went to clean up.

Deborah pressed a warm mug of coffee into his hand as soon as he went inside. Food sat uneaten on the table. The women were discussing their attackers, wondering who had sent them and what they wanted.

“Why don't you ask them?” Proctor asked.

The conversation stopped. Cecily stared at him, and said, “Are you touched in the head? They're not alive to question.”

“Didn't you say that witches can speak to the dead? Necrosomething.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “It's not that easy.”

“It's in the Bible,” Proctor said. “Saul and the witch of Endor, speaking to the dead. If you want to find out why those men wanted to kill you, summon them up and ask them.”

The women debated the rest of the day, trying to reach a consensus on Proctor's proposal.

“Necromancy is evil,” Magdalena insisted. “Ve should have no part of it.”

“No one is suggesting necromancy,” Deborah insisted. “No one wants to raise the dead, or ask the spirits to foretell the future. We only wish to speak to them about the past.”

Magdalena spewed sentences in German, ending with, “
Totenbeschwörung
, necromancy, vhatever—it is all the same. It is evil, the verk of Satan.”

“No, it isn't,” Deborah said patiently. “We are only going to ask them for information.”

“I don't understand how we can do that spell,” Cecily said. “Not that I know as much as Elizabeth or you, I'm not claiming that. But I thought, at the very least, you needed to know someone's name to summon them. We have no idea who those terrible men are.”

“One of them was named Dick,” Proctor said, recalling the name he heard during the fight. “He's the one who killed Nimrod.”

“And we have their things still,” Alexandra interjected. “Their clothes, the weapons they were carrying—that should help.”

Deborah nodded. “Those are exactly what we need. All we want to do is find out their purpose in coming to kill us.
Who were they working for? Is it the British governor or one of the generals or—”

She stopped in mid-sentence. That was the part that bothered Proctor the most. Who wanted to kill these women and why? With the militiamen strangling the Redcoats in Boston, it made no sense at all for British officers to care about a few women outside Salem.

“They knew how to see past the enchantment,” he said. “So whoever sent the widow also sent them.”

That wasn't a very comforting thought, and the others glided right past it.

“Their disguises link them to the attack,” Deborah said. “That's the important thing, because that's all we wish to ask them about.”

“But Magdalena makes an excellent point too,” Cecily said, and the older woman nodded agreement. “We should consider how dangerous it may be. We all want answers. I want answers. But if we summon the spirits of the dead, especially dead men burning in hell, where they ought to be if there is any justice at all, then we draw the undesirable eye of Lucifer himself—”

“Aie, don't mention his name,” Magdalena shouted, smacking her hands on the table and making a hex sign to ward herself as she rose.

At the end of the day, Deborah and Alexandra were in favor of Proctor's plan, Magdalena was vehemently opposed, and Cecily alternately affirmed that it was a good idea then sowed caution and doubt. Lydia remained silent, whether because she had no opinion or did not feel free to speak, Proctor wasn't sure. Elizabeth also said nothing, but you could see her weighing the opinions for and against. Finally, after dark, she rose wearily. “Let us sleep on it and pray for a clearer path tomorrow.”

The debate resumed the next day. Proctor, having already made his decision about what was right, escaped to
do the work of the farm. He tended to the animals and split firewood. When he returned to the house around noon, Deborah met him at the well. “It's decided,” he said. “We all agreed to try to talk to them.”

“Even Magdalena?”

“Elizabeth persuaded her that it would be safe, if it even worked at all, since we don't know their names. We agreed that we would not call Jedediah, since he can't tell us anything that he didn't know in life.”

He noticed how
Mother
and
Father
two days ago, when they were digging graves, had been transformed back to Elizabeth and Jedediah. “And Cecily too?”

“She was the last to be convinced. She is more afraid than she lets on, but I think it is mostly for Elizabeth's sake. She thinks we will not find out anything useful, and it will only make Elizabeth sadder, even if it doesn't bring any direct harm.”

He nodded thoughtfully at that. Cecily was smarter than she sometimes seemed. “So are they doing it now?” It was his idea—it seemed too much to expect that they would give him a chance to see it done.

“No, we need to wait for twilight,” Deborah said.

“Why?”

“The spirits are most accessible at dusk. At twilight, the world is caught between day and night, just as the spirits are caught between life and death.”

“Have you done this before?”

“No.”

They both fell silent. Proctor hauled up a bucket of water and offered a ladle to Deborah. She shook her head.

“Will I be allowed to watch?” he asked. His voice was tight, sharper than he intended.

“Yes, positively.” Her voice was uncertain. “I convinced Elizabeth that your presence is essential, simply for the role you played.”

He supposed that he should thank her. But the words that came out of his mouth had a different edge. “Essential because I killed them, you mean?”

“However you wish to have it.” She turned and walked away a second before he would have done the same.

That afternoon, he cleaned tools, straightened up the barn, and hiked the fences. He avoided the graves, although he knew he'd have to finish filling them tomorrow. He was having second thoughts about calling up the dead. This was exactly the kind of witchcraft his mother would oppose. The kind that made ordinary people so afraid of witches they were willing to kill them.