Witch Hunt (30 page)

“Given the circumstances, we don’t really have much choice.”

Marek nodded. “I’ll go prepare the ritual room while you give her the elixir.”

After he left, Helena used a step stool to climb to a high cupboard above the refrigerator. From it she withdrew a jar of herbs. “If we’re going to do this, Leigh, you have to trust us completely.”

“After what I’ve just been though…” She struggled to find the words. “I have to trust someone.”

Helena climbed down, placed a carefully measured amount of the herbs in a teapot, covered them with water from the simmering kettle, and set the timer on the stove. “Once your power has been awakened, it’s awake forever. Through this life and into the next.”

Leigh shook her head. “I won’t pretend to understand.”

“We’re going to help you open channels of energy; your personal power will then be connected with universal power. It’s like you’ll be plugged into an intense electrical current. That electricity will then find a way to manifest that is unique to you.”

Leigh thought about her weaknesses. “Could I, um, short circuit?”

“Possibly. Some go insane. Most don’t.”

Leigh wrestled her doubts.

“With power comes responsibility. Whatever magic is awakened in you must be handled responsibly.”

She had to take the risk.

The timer rang and Helena strained the tea into a cup. She handed it to Leigh. “Drink this and there’s no turning back.”

With a mixture of fear and hope, Leigh drank the elixir.

Leigh dreamed.

She was led into the ritual room, where, like Alice, she stepped through the looking glass. Plants reached out to her with fingers of light, wisps of incense wrapped seductive threads around her, candle flames danced in iridescent splendor, and fountains transformed into mighty waterfalls. Helena’s and Marek’s chanting became a magnificent choir so powerful the atoms of the universe trembled in awe. Resplendent in a veil of ephemeral light, Helena stood before her and summoned the great Earth Goddess Mokosh. Her invocation was lost in the roar of the earthquake that split the earth as the Goddess rose from a cleft in the world and graced them with Her presence.

Terrified, Leigh turned away; she was not worthy to face Her. It was then that she noticed that she was naked and Marek knelt at her feet. Tenderly, his lips kissed each of her feet and he said, “Blessed be your feet that connect your body with the greater body of Mother Earth.”

Strength rose through the soles of her feet, and like sap rising, she experienced renewal.

Then he kissed each of her knees. “Blessed be your knees that kneel at the sacred altar.”

Leigh experienced reverence and wonder at the mystery of life.

His lips moved to kiss the cleft between her legs. “Blessed be your sex, from which life is born.”

Marek’s touch was electric and every cell in Leigh’s body leapt in response.

After he kissed each of her breasts, he whispered, “Blessed be your breasts, which nourish life.”

Leigh was overcome by the need to give of herself, to help sustain the dance of creation.

Finally, his lips met hers. “Blessed be your lips, which shall speak the sacred words of the Goddess.”

His final kiss summoned lightning from the center of the earth. The power of it struck her and spun her around, where she was finally forced to look upon the Goddess. Leigh saw the ethereal vision of a woman in the air a few feet away, and when she realized who it was, her startled gasp echoed through time and space. Waves of unbearable tenderness, compassion, and love engulfed her and spilled over to fill the world. She recognized the Goddess of power and love…and it was herself.

Leigh’s consciousness surfaced and she heard the gentle sounds of a fountain. She opened her eyes and discovered herself to be alone on the altar in the ritual room, her nudity covered by a large afghan. She lay for a time basking in the internal calm of fresh awakening, then her mind began to recall the events of her initiation. It had been an astounding experience.

She sat up and tried to determine if she was now somehow different. Was she a witch? If so, what special powers would she discover herself to possess? Would she become a healer like Craig and Kammi, or a psychic like Adrian? Or something altogether different?

She recalled the vision of the Goddess. Was it a hallucination? She didn’t understand why the Goddess had appeared to her as herself, but she did understand that She had been a goddess of love. And that was a goddess Leigh could feel comfortable worshiping.

As she continued to reflect on the extraordinary events that had transpired, she got up and found her clothes nearby in a neatly folded pile. She dressed and made her way upstairs to the kitchen, where she found Helena standing at the stove stirring a pot of oatmeal. The morning sun was shining through the open window.

Helena greeted her with a smile as bright as the sun.

“Am I a witch now?” Leigh asked.

Helena nodded. “Welcome to the club. We don’t drink champagne before breakfast around here, but would you like to celebrate with a cup of coffee?”

Leigh laughed and poured herself a cup, deciding to drink it black. She sat down at the kitchen table in the same chair where, just a few hours ago, she had sat as an ordinary person. Now she sat in it as a witch. She mentally examined herself to see if anything was different, but was aware only of a peaceful sense of well-being.

Helena stirred in a sprinkle of cinnamon to the simmering pot, then raised the wooden spoon to her lips and tasted. “I imagine you must be hungry.”

As if in response to her observation, Leigh’s stomach made a loud growling noise. “Sounds like it.”

“Yes, I heard. You have a long history of going without. History of trouble with Christians, too.”

Leigh didn’t understand Helena’s meaning. True, she hadn’t always eaten well as a child, but Helena couldn’t have known that. And she had never had a bad encounter with a Christian until Cody. A gnawing pain seized her stomach.
Gods, I’ve never been so ravenous
. She looked around frantically for something to stick in her mouth.

Helena poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her.

“Once someone initiates you, you’re bound together forever in a very special way. However, I want you to know that although I gave my all to you last time, this time I’m not planning to be so selfless, particularly where my husband’s concerned. Hope you’ll understand.”

Leigh was startled by her words. “I’ve got no designs on Marek. I understand — ” She stopped herself short. What had she meant,
gave my all to you last time?
“What — ” Suddenly Helena’s face took on a shadow and darkened, and Leigh blinked her eyes in confusion. Helena’s face came back into focus for just a minute, then once again it was a darker face, one more exotic and beautiful.

“Could I have something to eat, Mirasaya?” Leigh asked, then paused. “What did I call you?”

“I don’t know, Rebekah. What did you call me?” Helena’s voice was deeper in timber, richer than usual. It seemed to match her new sultry appearance.

“What? Who?”

“You tell me, Rebekah. Try to remember.”

Oh, the hunger’s unbearable
. “Don’t you have a piece of fruit or something I can eat? Prissy gave me an apple last time Alida Van Carel brought fruit, and it was a piece of heaven.”
What did I say?

“You always fragile one, Rebekah. But you not anymore, are you?” Helena’s new voice took on a different accent.

Leigh’s cheeks flushed, and panic surged. Was she losing her mind? Had the initiation gone sour and inflicted madness? “What’s happening?”

Helena’s new face smiled its effervescent smile. “You just remembering. You not worry.”

Something clicked, and in a startled moment of comprehension, Leigh remembered. “Mirasaya! You’re alive.”

“Me no die. Nobody ever die for good.”

Leigh lunged across the table to embrace her friend, tipping over both coffee cups in the process. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, I knew somehow you’d get out of jail.”

“I got out of jail when they carry my body away and put in ground.”

“Oh, no. ”

“I choose. It best way. They never stole my spirit. I made them mad, being happy until the end.”

Leigh smiled through her tears. “I bet they were.”

“What happened to little ones?”

“Bridget lived to old age, but she was a spinster. Prissy ran off when she was fourteen and married an Indian. Phip grew up and went into business with Jansen and Peter Van Carel. He married and had two children, but only one lived.” The highlights of those years surfaced in her mind with ease.

“You?”

“I became Jansen’s mistress. His wife was afraid of getting pregnant; she almost died birthing Peter. I had a good life.” She paused. “I owe you.”

“Interesting turn of events, don’t you think?” Helena was back. “Now look at us. This time we really are witches. After what we went through last time, you’d think we’d have known better.”

Leigh studied her friend, amazed at the revelations the past few minutes had brought. “Maybe this time we’ll win.”

“Well, at least we’ll give them a hell of a fight.”

Cody was not happy. Leigh Hawthorne had somehow managed to escape, and in his prayers God had told him to let her go. She had made her choice. It was a shame, but by refusing God she had declared her allegiance.

And now she was destined to meet the same fate as the rest of them.

Chapter Eight

1895

Montvue, Colorado

It was autumn when Denver finally mounted the gold-lettered sign that read
HAWTHORNE MANOR
on the tall wrought-iron fence. It took two years to complete construction of the mansion, and the grounds were yet to be landscaped, but he and his mother were finally moving in.

Denver had mixed emotions about the move. He had been raised in a small frame house just one block off Main Street, and it was a warm, cozy home. It seemed rather silly for just the two of them to be moving into such a large and ostentatious house, and he felt a nagging embarrassment about the whole affair. But it had been Rose’s inspiration, and she expressed her urgent wish that he produce a lot of little Hawthornes in the not too distant future. He was, after all, already thirty-five years old and not getting any younger. He assured her that he would be happy to oblige her, if and when he found the right woman to marry. So, with that motivation, Rose approached the Hunters and the Winthrops — who, along with Rose, had founded the town of Montvue in the late 1860’s — about a new town growth incentive program. Maybe with more young women to choose from, she reasoned, she’d get those grandchildren before it was too late for her to enjoy them.

Rose had always been industrious.

The Hawthornes, whose gold mine had produced great wealth which they invested in farmland, the Hunters, whose dairy was the top producer in the state, and the Winthrops, who owned the sprawling mercantile around which Montvue had been built, decided to encourage development of their town by investing in small local businesses to be run by immigrants. They placed ads in New York City newspapers, and had so far sponsored the relocation of twenty families. Detractors of their plan accused them of megalomaniacal dictatorship, because they were handpicking the new town residents and controlling most of the town’s purse strings. But their motives weren’t entirely self-serving, and the plan was proving to be successful.

More immigrants were scheduled to arrive in town that evening, and Denver was elected to greet them and get them settled into their new homes. Rose had been responsible for choosing this particular group of newcomers and promised Denver that there was a surprise package among the expected goods. He assumed she had finally managed to find a family of old blood among the applicants. The prospect evoked a mild curiosity in him, but for the moment his thoughts kept returning to more familiar — and exciting — territory. By the time he put away his tools, his desire had captured his mind completely. Leaving the rest of his chores incomplete, he headed for Anita’s house.

Sylvan Sanfillipo, lulled into a gentle sleep by the rocking of the train, had yet another dream about the rabbit. The soft, mottled fur was comforting against her bosom as it pressed into her, eager for love and protection. Waves of maternal warmth filled her, and she guided the creature to a nipple, where it began to gently nurse. The pleasure that coursed through her body soon changed into a passion that was hot and incestuous. She felt the transformation come upon her, and it wasn’t long before she changed into a rabbit herself, her fur black and silky. It was then that the mottled rabbit mounted her and they began to mate.

Anita Salazar and her two grown sons lived in a small cabin on the Snyder farm outside of town. The Snyders had recently hired the Salazar boys as farm hands and provided their living quarters. Fresh from Mexico, Ramon and Enrique Salazar could speak only halting English, but Anita knew the language well. As a matter of fact, in Denver’s mind Anita could do everything well.

He first saw her at Winthrop’s Mercantile and was taken by her youth and beauty; he had been shocked to learn that she was old enough to have children his own age. Despite that, he hadn’t been able to resist her for long. He went to her home for the first time to deliver a bushel of sweet corn fresh from his fields and to welcome her and her family to town. He had remained there for more than a week — until his mother came to claim him. Intoxicated by lust and peyote, Denver left Anita’s bed unwillingly, but Rose was formidable and the farm needed him.

But he kept returning. Anita was a
bruja
— a witch — and knew the secrets of peyote and men’s loins. For Denver, it proved an irresistible attraction.

She opened the door and the cleavage of her plump breasts greeted him with a smile.

“I’ve come to eat buttons,” he said.

“My buttons are your buttons.”

He leaned into her and used his teeth to rip away the top button of her blouse.

She ushered him inside and closed the front door, leaving the sunny afternoon outside.

The train pulled into the station at Montvue, and its weary passengers flooded onto the platform. Sylvan helped her blind father from the train and got him settled on a bench. Then she managed to unload all of their luggage by herself. Finally, she stood waiting for Mrs. Hawthorne’s son, who was supposed to welcome them. To every man who passed, she surreptitiously made the hand gesture that was a universal greeting among witches, but none recognized it or responded in kind. Others, who were also newcomers brought to Montvue by the Hawthornes — all out-dwellers, or nonwitches, from what Sylvan had been able to determine — lingered nearby, murmuring nervously among themselves until the train pulled away, the stationmaster closed his doors, and the immigrants alone remained.

After an hour, the sun set behind the western mountains and the cold seized the night. Antonio Sanfillipo shivered and his daughter rummaged through baggage looking for something to wrap him up in.

“Rude, how inconceivably rude,” Sylvan said. “I can’t believe it, especially coming from our own.”

Antonio shrugged. “Maybe there’s a reason. Don’t get worked up. It’s not like you.”

“Well, there’s little about this country so far that brings out the best in me.”

“Is this place beautiful?”

She glanced at the fading purple of mountains. “More beautiful than New York, less beautiful than Italy.”

“That’ll do,” he said.

She wrapped a quilt around him. “You stay here. I’m going to find the Hawthornes and make them honor their agreement with us. I’m not going to tolerate this kind of treatment.”

“But it must be almost dark.”

“Don’t worry. Wherever I go, you know I’ve got friends.” She turned to the other two families nearby. “Stay here with him; I’ll bring back a Hawthorne.”

Under the cover of night, Sylvan, her anger righteous and intense, headed out to put things right. She pulled the hood of her black woolen cloak up over her head. Used to traveling incognito at night to secret coven meetings, she had no problem adjusting to the dark. She walked out of sight of the station and then made the low whistle designed to summon help. Within a few minutes, she heard the telltale rustling in the bushes.

“Come on, it’s all right,” she urged.

Soon a soft glow of eyes appeared, and then a sleek gray cat leaped up into the air and landed at her feet.

Sylvan smiled. “You’re beautiful.”

The cat rubbed itself against her legs — sharing its scent — and allowed her to scratch it behind the ears.

“I need to find the Hawthornes,” Sylvan said. “Can you show me?” All the while scratching and petting, she mentally conveyed her need.

The cat rolled over onto its back and displayed its underside.

“Yes, your belly is exceptionally pretty.”

Finally, when it decided it was ready, the cat leaped back onto its feet and headed into the shadows.

Sylvan followed; she had been born with the gift of communication with animals.

It was a long hike, and more than once Sylvan had to stop to convince the cat to continue guiding her, instead of following its natural instinct of stalking the small game that wandered into their path. But they eventually landed at the gate of Hawthorne Manor.

Sylvan gave the cat an ancient blessing that would ensure its future well-being, then pushed open the gate and made her way to the front door where she pounded with all her might.

The heavy door swung wide, and an old, ugly woman wearing a dress that didn’t quite fit her tall, gawky frame greeted Sylvan.

“May I please speak to your employers?” Sylvan’s English was good, even though her accent was still strong.

Rose laughed. “Speaking.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m Rose Hawthorne. What may I do for you?”

“You can tell me why you’re so rude.”

Rose frowned. “Am I?”

“There are eleven people freezing to death at the train station waiting for someone to claim them.”

“Oh, my. Oh, mercy.” Rose grasped Sylvan’s hand and unceremoniously yanked her inside. “My son was supposed to greet you. Oh, my.” She pushed Sylvan toward the parlor. “Go, sit by the fire. I’ll tell my stable boys to hitch up the wagons and fetch them. I’ll have everyone brought here for the night. I’ll cook supper myself and get them settled in their own places tomorrow morning. Oh, my.” Frantic, Rose scurried from the room.

Sylvan forgave the woman. But her son was another matter.

Rose returned fifteen minutes later. “Come and join me in the kitchen while I fix the food. We’ll get to know each other.”

She followed Rose into the huge kitchen and sat down at the marble-topped table. “I’m Sylvan Sanfillipo.”

Rose paused in her stoking of the cookstove to eye her with a look of penetrating appraisal. “Welcome to my home, Sylvan. It’s always a joy to meet one of our own; the world is so big, and we are so few.”

“I’m glad you recognized the symbols on our letterhead.”

“Symbols are universal.” Rose finished her task, then put a pot of coffee on the stove to reheat. “I’m anxious to meet your brother and sisters. It’ll be a fresh infusion of old blood for all of us. Besides my son, my nephew Brady hasn’t found a spouse, either. My niece, Laura, she went to school in Switzerland and met her husband, but the others are — ”

“My brother and sisters died last month. Dysentery. We weren’t prepared for the dirty conditions in New York. I couldn’t find the herbs I needed.” Sylvan’s voice broke as grief threatened to steal her composure.

“Oh, I’m so sorry … for all of us.”

Rose’s tone alarmed Sylvan. “It’s true that my brother was the gardener and landscape artist, but I learned a lot from him. I’m sure I can do the work you wanted him to do. I’m also a sculptor; I work in wood and stone. My father and I can stay, can’t we?”