Reincarnation (16 page)

them as a keepsake. He is long gone, never to return."

They heard someone open the front door. Charles's eyes darted toward the sound, but he

didn't move.

"If he is gone, then this token of his love should be gone as well." He put the earrings in his inside jacket pocket. "I will go out tonight and dispose of them for you."

"No. You cannot. They are mine!" Elizabeth May protested. As she spoke the words, they

had an echo in her head. She heard herself shrieking:
Mine! Mine!

She did not know where this other voice came from but she knew it was now her own.

The room swirled around her.

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"Mine!" she screamed. It arose from somewhere so deep within. All reason and restraint left her.

She sprang from her chair. Miss Pritchard's books clattered to the floor from under her

cloak.

Lunging at him, she raked his face with her nails. "Give them to me. They're mine!"

Stunned, he staggered backward.

The earrings dropped from his hands and she fell upon them, scooping them into the

neckline of her dress.

Abby raced into the kitchen, pointing to Elizabeth May. Two men were right behind her.

"See her! She's a witch! This proves it! Look what she's done to him!"

Elizabeth May sat crouched there, her hair loosened, blood dripping from her fingers.

The men grabbed her at each arm, dragging her to her feet.

"She ... she attacked me," Charles stammered.

Abby crossed to the books, opening one of them to the first page. Miss Pritchard's name

was written there on a book plate. "As if any further proof were needed, here it is," she announced to the men, presenting the open book triumphantly. "She's apprenticed herself

to the old witch and her servant, the ones you just arrested. It's fortunate that I was there to

alert you to the third member of their wicked party."

"Is this true, sir?" one of the men asked. "Do you believe your wife to be a witch ? "

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Charles touched his face and then gazed at the blood that smeared his hand. His eyes cut to

Abby holding the books.

Elizabeth May saw what was about to happen. In a flash of understanding, she realized the

maid's part in it all. "I am no witch!" she protested. "This woman wants me out of the way so she can marry my husband."

The men looked to Abby. "That's a lie," she said. "A lie told by a witch."

"Who is lying, sir?" the man asked.

Elizabeth May's black cat jumped onto the kitchen table. With one leap, it sprang into her

arms, stretching up to lick her cheek.

Abby sat on the stairs, listening to the ticking grandfather clock. She wore her best dress.

Her hair was neatly curled and pinned back.

Helen approached, her face swollen from crying. "I can't believe they will really burn that

poor girl. They've never burned anyone for being a witch before."

"She brought it on herself," Abby said dully.

"But to be burned alive!"

Abby sniffed. "She's not the first. She won't be the last."

"How could Mr. Wheldon be there to watch?"

"He set his heart against her because she was an unfaithful witch."

"She was not!"

"Who am I to say she was not when Mr. Wheldon, a

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lawyer, says otherwise? That is what he told the judge at her trial, and so it must be," Abby replied. "She fell under the sway of that Miss Pritchard and her witch slave who will burned

alongside her. That's why witches must be gotten rid of, they harm and corrupt the

innocent. You should have seen her that night in the kitchen. She was wild with the witchery

in her."

"I can't picture it," Helen insisted.

"I saw it myself."

The door opened and Charles entered, appearing ashen and exhausted. Abby sprang to her

feet as Helen retreated to the kitchen. "Let me take your coat, sir," Abby said, sliding it from his back. "Shall I bring you tea in your study?"

"Yes, please."

She made the tea, serving it to him on a silver tray. "How did it go, sir?" she asked.

His head dropped into his hands and he began to sob. "There, there," Abby soothed,

putting her hands on his shoulders.

"I am so filled with guilt," he sobbed.

"You did the right thing."

"Did I?" he asked, suddenly lifting his head to her. "Or did I simply want to be rid of her?"

"No. You're an honorable man," Abby insisted. "Was it very horrible?"

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He nodded. "I almost couldn't bear it. Just before they were to light the fire, I nearly came forward and said I was mistaken, that I was wrong about everything."

"What stopped you?" Abby asked.

"I realized that she was wearing those earrings. It was remarkable how they gleamed in the

firelight."

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Before they lit the fire, as I stood at the stake beside Miss Pritchard and Lily, I believed Brian would come for me. He would spring from the crowd, untie my bonds, and off we would go

on a white horse. Miss Pritchard's card reading had foretold that I would see him again. I

wore the earrings to show him that my love was still alive, so he would know. He did not

appear.

When they lit the fire, something snapped in my mind, cracked.

It remains broken.

My death. I do not want to talk about it.

I am smoke now, perpetually escaping from the flame.

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(On the Wheel of Rebirth) Salem, Massachusetts, 1750:

Here lies Abigail Wheldon 1670-1750

Died of smallpox in the 80th year of her life

"As I am now, so shall ye be."

Widow of Charles Wheldon of Salem, Massachusetts

Mrs. Wheldon was the proprietor of the Wheldon tobacco plantation. Though she comes

home to Salem for her final rest, she is no doubt mourned by her many slaves back in

Virginia.

Dublin, Ireland, 1695:

from the diary of Mrs. Brian Kelly

The baby was born while my husband was away on yet another long sea voyage, she had

her father's hazel green eyes. I named her Maureen. All seemed line with her until I lit a peat

life to keep her warm. The poor babe began to scream hysterically. I nursed her and rocked

her and did all in my power to soothe

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the pathetic wailing creature but she would have none of it. I was so distracted that I

forgot to attend the fire and let it die down. Only then did little Maureen stop crying.

After that she slept a great deal and was a good baby, except when I lit the fire. Each time

she would fall into a fit of pitiful crying. I could not keep the fire unlit as it is the dead of

winter and we would freeze without it, though now I wish I had done without and taken my

chances under woolen blankets. One night it was so cold everywhere in our thatched

cottage that I sat beside the fire, rocking the wee babe in my arms, enduring her nerve-

racking screams.

I fell asleep and when I awoke, the baby was dead in my arms. The doctor says she most

likely died of smoke fumes. I believe she died of fear and I blame myself for leaving her near

the flame for so long. For the life of me, I can't imagine why a child should be born with a

wild terror of flames such as that, but that she had it, I am certain.

My heart is broken. Her father, Brian, comes home from sea today. I don't know how I will

tell him his baby girl is gone.

Rosetta, Egypt, July 1799:

To My Rosalie,

As you know, since we first set sail on 19 April 1798 under the command of the great

Napoleon Bonaparte so much has happened. The city of Alexandria, which we successfully

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conquered in the name of France during the Battle of the Pyramids last July, has seen great

improvements under French rule. Streetlights have been installed, hospitals have been

established, and the lawless citizens have been disarmed, among many other improvements.

These things, however, are not what I want to tell you. In other letters I have imparted the

sensations that have come over me since arriving in this exotic country. Things that should

be wholly unfamiliar are strangely known to me. when we fought against the troops of the

Egyptian governor last year, I could hardly fire my gun, so overcome was I with the feeling

that I had been there before. At first, the old headaches returned, so frightening and

unexplainable were these sensations.

And now, just yesterday, the most bizarre of all occurrences happened. In a city known to us

as Rosetta, though the natives call it Rashid, on the west bank of the formidable Nile River,

my company was working under the direction of Captain Pierre Francois Xavier Bouchard,

an able leader. We were engaged in the task of knocking down an old

wall to extend Fort Julien, our base of operation. I was about to demolish a wall with a

sledgehammer when I noticed that there was writing inscribed on the wall. It was a text

etched in three different languages. You know I speak and write only one language, French,

but this is the curious part: I could read most of this ancient inscription.

It was written in Greek, and in Egyptian hieroglyphics, and

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I could read them both. The third script, below the other two, I could not read, although it

appeared to be Egyptian of some kind. The hieroglyphics and the Greek said the same

thing. They were thanking one of the ptolemies, who I am told were Greek pharaohs of

Egypt, for something.

I called over Captain Bouchard to tell him what I had discovered. "That is impossible," he said. "No one can understand the meaning behind this ancient picture language of the

Egyptians. How do you know this?"

I confessed that I was as bewildered by it as he; nonetheless, I was certain my reading was

accurate. Still skeptical, the captain preserved the piece of writing and had it presented to

the scholars who have accompanied Napoleon here to Egypt. They are studying it now.

After this, my dreams have been filled with strange imagery. I see myself shooting arrows

and a pulsing green eye hovers in a black, star-flecked sky. Last night I dreamed I rowed up

the Nile in an ancient boat with many other men. Whips snapped over our heads.

I suppose these fevered dreams are to be expected here in this foreign land. Though I long

to see you again, part of me will always belong to Egypt.

Sincerely, Jacques

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Bedlam Hospital, London, September 1810: Case 781

By order of the asylum administrator, Mr. Phineas Smith, the unfortunate Marianna dark will

heretofore be bound by hand and foot and strapped to a chair during the waking hours.

This has been deemed necessary because Miss Clark remains under a delusion that has

been with her since birth: she believes that she is on fire.

Until last week, this condition would arise only under stressful situation calling for

short-term confinement. The condition appeared to be worsening with the result that Miss

Clark believed she was ablaze at almost every waking hour.

Under these dire conditions I recommended that Miss Clark be administered the potent

opium derivative known as laudanum in order to calm her. However, in this sedated state,

Miss dark claims with utmost certainty to be someone called the Mother Abbess Maria

Regina, continually insisting, "This is my abbey. I know this building but someone has

moved my room! Where is my room?" This claim would simply seem to be the further

ravings of an unfortunate lunatic but it has an uncanny dimension to it. This very hospital

building where the miserable Miss dark is now incarcerated had its beginnings in the Middle

Ages as a priory for the Catholic brothers and sisters of the Order of the Star of Bethlehem.

In all likelihood, Miss Clark read this information during more

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lucid moments between her stays here and recalls it now in
her
delirium.

It is my considered opinion that it is in everyone's best interest for Miss Clark, in addition to

being bound hand and foot, to be given daily a greatly increased dosage of laudanum. This

will calm her and reduce her shrieking and the demented claims, which greatly unnerve the

staff.

New York City, 1863

Dear George,

How are you? I hope things have been calm down there in Gettysburg. Guess what? A man

offered me three hundred dollars to take his place in the army and I took it. Now you won't

be the only soldier!

Jane yelled for an hour when I came home and told her. She was glad for the three hundred

dollars, and simmered down when I showed it to her.

When I came out of the foundling home at sixteen, she was the only one I knew, since we

grew up in the home together. She was like a sister to me and I always liked her beautiful

red curls. Marrying her seemed like the sensible thing to do. She told me it was, though now

I deeply regret it.

So that was part of the reason I needed to get away. She was driving me crazy. I hear Mr.

Lincoln also has a tiresome,

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crazy wife, so I guess it's not just the poor who are afflicted with such.

The other reason I needed to get out was that these tenements are near to driving me

insane. Every other day there's a fire in one of them. These old wooden buildings go up in a

second. They're so overcrowded that someone is always accidentally knocking over a lamp

or leaving a stove flame on, not to mention the drunkards who pass out with lit cigarettes

still burning.

As if all this isn't bad enough, it's part of my duties to fire up that new kiln in Pfeiffer's