The Necromancer (3 page)

Susanna kissed Phoebe’s hand and rose to her feet. As she left the room, Roger added,

“And after the service, go to town, to the apothecary, and ask Mr. Hanford if any medicine for Phoebe has yet arrived.”

*****

The Meeting House wasn’t fi lled to full capacity, as had once always been the case. Several people were sick and dying of the smallpox epidemic that plowed its way through the heart of New England, and many others were bedridden from the general ailments that often affl ict people during the winter months.

The mood of the congregation was a somber one. The church was cold and uncomfortable, and many of the people present weren’t all that well themselves. There was very little talk other than a few hushed whispers and solemn mumblings.

People coughed and sneezed and sniffl ed as they awaited the reverend to approach the altar and deliver his sermon. Word had been circulating for some time now among the villagers of some strange happenings around the Parris household—

possibly even diabolism—and the people were curious and wanted to know what the clergy intended to do.

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The Necromancer

Martha and Susanna were just seating themselves

when the reverend entered the church armed with his Bible.

Heads turned and people murmured through cupped hands as he made his way sullenly down the aisle. Susanna had her eyes trained on him as he passed her. Then her gaze was drawn beyond the reverend, a few pews down from her on the other side of the aisle, to where she locked eyes with Bernard Martin.

He looked quite handsome this morning, she thought.

His long dark hair was brushed neatly back over his ears, allowing a better-than-usual view of his chiseled features and sky-blue eyes. She had liked him for the longest time, but ever since puberty she was shy and uncomfortable with her body and the way she looked, and she couldn’t talk to him for more than a minute without feeling as if she was going to burst out of her skin. All she could do was have fantasies about what married life would be like with him. Fantasies were safe. In fantasies, anything you wanted could happen, all your wishes could come true, and no one got hurt. But fantasies weren’t real, and somehow when they ended she felt even emptier than before.

But this was real. This was happening now. To her.

It was magic.

And she knew by the way he was looking at her that her feelings—her desires—were reciprocated.

This was the longest time she had ever stared at any boy, and it was Bernard. He wasn’t simply any boy. He was
The
Boy. He was the one she had wanted her whole life, and he was looking at her.

Her belly felt loose, like it was hollowed out and fi lled with cold water. Her face tickled and burned as she felt his eyes slide subtly over her cheeks, her mouth, her neck.

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The Sermon

She felt as if she was going to scream. She couldn’t stand it any longer, and she turned her head away and looked down.

She panted lightly, almost imperceptibly, fl ustered.

When she looked up again she caught fourteen-year-old Johnny Bromidge leering at her with a most peculiar expression decorating his pimply face. His eyes were glazed over with indecent heat. His upper lip glistened with clear snot that oozed from his nose onto the fi ne brown hairs of his nascent moustache. The boy’s mouth hung open slackly in a manner that bespoke of dementia or depravity, Susanna did not know which. His tongue lolled slightly out of his mouth, dripping pearly strings of saliva onto his chin as he continued to scowl at her.

Sickened, Susanna broke her stare and turned away, feeling utterly terrifi ed. A ball of nauseating heat rose up the back of her head and into her face, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand hotly on end and turning her face bright red. Her ears buzzed. She felt faint and didn’t think she would be able to remain standing until the reverend asked everyone to be seated, but somehow she managed.

Martha noticed her daughter’s sudden weakness and placed one arm around Susanna’s waist to support her as the other grasped her above the elbow.

“Susanna,” she whispered closely. “Are you well?”

Susanna, still swooning a bit, took a deep breath and began to feel some degree of relief.

“Mother, I felt somewhat faint but have since

recovered. I am much better now.”

She thought for a moment of telling her mother the cause of the fainting spell but was too embarrassed.

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The Necromancer

Somehow, she was able to raise enough courage to glance back in Johnny Bromidge’s direction, but now he was compliantly facing the pulpit, appearing completely innocent, almost angelic. Seeing him this way made her doubt herself.

She looked at Bernard and saw him standing beside his mother.

He, too, was looking at the pulpit now.

Am I, too, becoming touched?
She wondered.

“Shall I fetch Dr. Griggs for you, my dear child?”

Martha asked.

Susanna looked back at Johnny. He still faced the altar...and still looked angelic.

“I am much better now, Mother, truly. Please, let us stay and say a prayer for Phoebe, so that she will be well again.”

Reverend Parris stood before the altar now. He

genufl ected, crossing himself, and rose to the lectern.

“You may all be seated,” he said.

The congregation sat.

“Yes,” Martha whispered in Susanna’s ear as they sat down. “And a prayer for you that you remain fi t and resistant to the smallpox, which your poor sister has been so unfortunate to be stricken by.”

A hush spread over the congregation as the reverend cleared his throat and prepared to address the people.

“I shall commence our Sunday Mass anon,” he said gravely, “but fi rst I feel it necessary to speak of that which many of you have heard already. Less than two fortnights ago my beloved daughter, Elizabeth, and her cousin, Abigail, took ill with fi ts. Not long thereafter, other young ladies were also similarly affl icted. Dr. Griggs has performed the most extensive examinations of these tormented souls and found 24

The Sermon

no natural cause for said affl iction, thereby concluding the likelihood of demonic intervention.”

Several women, upon hearing this, gasped and cried out; a few others fainted. But Parris continued nonetheless.

“—it grieves me verily that such is our lot to have the very Devil himself in our midst. We have endured much suffering as of late, and this new information seems most discomfi ting, but we must bear ourselves up as a community to oppose the evil the Lord has deemed well to pit us against! Our faith must continue to hold fast in the Lord, our God, that He may deliver us with speed and strength from His most fervent adversary—”

As the volume of Parris’s voice rose, he shook his Bible at the congregation with a sense of purpose he hadn’t had in many months. He had felt the reigns of his authority slipping from him during that time because of the property disputes and his less-than-honest part in them, but now, seeing the terror on his fl ock’s faces and the impact each cleverly and enthusiastically infl ected word had on them, he felt his grip on those reigns strengthening once again. He felt stronger.

“—and our inquisitions of those affl icted, which I mentioned, have produced the names of their alleged tormentors. It is the intention of the clergy to arrest said tormentors so that they may be brought before His Majesty’s tribunal and tried for the crimes of practicing witchcraft and those damnable black arts of which the Devil gives license; and also sedition against the Lord and the people of Salem. These heathens must be cast out!”

He punctuated every rising syllable with a sweeping arm, a shaking fi st, a clutching hand, until he could see the fear pouring out of their eyes, feel them clinging to every word he uttered...and to him, their link to God. He knew they were his.

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The Necromancer

“—it is my most sincere endeavor to see that the clergy and the people of Salem wrest all of Evil’s agents from our midst like so many worms. For, by means of knowing the cause, we may have the cure. In this, we shall not be passive victims. We shall join together, as one people, as one holy fi st of God, and be strong! And with the Lord’s aid we shall beat Satan’s legions back into the infernal pit of hellfi re that is their rightful domain from whence they spawned! Amen.”

To this, the reverend received great applause. He had worked himself up with indignation, and despite the cold, had broken a sweat. He trembled slightly from the excitement he experienced as a result of delivering his arm-fl ailing, Bible-pounding sermon. It was well received, much more so than he had hoped it would be. With the will of the whole village behind him, he suddenly felt invincible. They would appreciate him more now, knowing that without him and the church they would be subject to the same fates that befell his own daughter and the other girls. Now their very souls were at risk of being damned, and they were scared. He could sense that, and that was good. They were scared, and the only place they could turn was to the church—to God.

*****

A few days later, Melissa Bromidge, Johnny’s big sister, left her room and went out back to the outhouse to relieve herself. It was an unusually warm and sunny morning. There were even a few sparrows warbling in the barren treetops.

Intimations of spring. It would be good to see the trees full and green again.

The latch on the inside of the outhouse’s door had been broken a week now and everyone who wanted to use it was supposed to knock fi rst before entering; but Melissa had to go desperately, and she forgot to knock today.

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The Sermon

She threw the door open and caught Johnny sitting down on the commode with his trousers around his ankles and his hand locked hard to his erect penis with a fi stful of lard. The same demented expression that Susanna Harrington saw when she looked at him in meeting was there again. His hand had been sliding furiously up and down the shaft of his member as he chanted Susanna’s name softly when the door opened. Now it stopped.

Melissa hadn’t heard him chanting Susanna’s name until she opened the door, but when she did hear it she knew immediately to whom he was referring, and that made her feel the horror all the more. Melissa and Susanna had been playmates growing up—best friends. They weren’t that close now, nor did she expect they would be in the future, but they were still friends. They had merely drifted apart over the years.

She knew that was unusual for people living in a small village like Salem, but it seemed natural enough to them...until now.

Now, with all the talk of demons and witches, she wondered if Susanna might have taken a darker path than herself. Melissa shuddered at the thought, and her bladder voided itself down her legs, warming them.

Johnny froze, looked up guiltily, then glared at his sister. She screamed, slammed the door shut, and ran into the house to tell her father.

27

The Necromancer

28

CHAPTER THREE
Witch-Hunt

Roger Harrington’s Journal—

25 February 1692—Phoebe exhibits no signs of

improvement, and I fear the pox that has cropped over the whole of her body has spread now to Martha, as she is dreadfully stricken with fever and aching. O, how I beseech the Lord many a dreary night to be merciful and spare my family, but alas, there is no respite. The blight has been severe this winter past with no sign of abatement. The food supply is greatly diminished; several of the livestock are dead or dying of disease and are not fit for consumption. The smallpox continues to plague New England and seems to strike a new

victim with the passing of each day. I sense most of the good people of Salem are greatly distraught by this prolonged state of privation, and I suspect the worst has not yet befallen us as there have been rumours of witchcraft.

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The Necromancer

A small assembly of townspeople had already gathered in front of Salem Prison, having heard of the previous night’s arrests. It was Tuesday, the fi rst of March, but the severe winter weather was still strong and showed no signs of abatement. The sky remained ashen and bland with overcast. The wind howled and whistled chronically through the naked boughs of elms and sycamores, down Prison Lane to the large wooden building where three women were held on accusations of witchcraft.

The gathering of people before the prison consisted mostly of bearded men clad in severe dark garments and black, steeple-crowned hats; and a few women, dressed in similarly drab vestments, but wearing bonnets or hoods. All were bundled-up in several layers of clothing. Most shivered, fi dgeted, or paced to keep warm.

Reverend Parris walked solemnly down the street

toward the prison accompanied by Judge Hathorne, Sheriff Corwin, and the Reverend Ambrose Blayne, who had only arrived in Salem the previous autumn and was reputably well versed in demonology, witchcraft, and witch-hunting, having read the
Malleus Malefi carum
and other such treatises. It was rumored that he was notoriously successful in his application of their teachings.

As the four men approached the building—Judge

Hathorne, limping slightly with the aid of a polished oak cane; Reverend Parris, pressing a Bible close to his chest; Reverend Blayne, holding a much larger, much older looking tome—the assembly fell silent and broke up into two groups, clearing a path to the prison.

No one spoke. The silence unearthed the grave sounds of their shoes grinding pebbles into the road, then clopping onto the wooden planks as they mounted the stairs, unlocked the iron-clamped door, and entered the building.

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Witch-Hunt

They proceeded downstairs to the dungeon. The guard was slumped in a chair, sleeping next to a rusting potbelly stove that contained a dying fi re. Corwin gave the man’s shoulder a shove, almost pushing him off his seat.