Witch Hunt (4 page)

Leigh stemmed its flow with her linen napkin. Adrian began to cry, and she tousled his hair playfully. “‘Sokay.”

Melanie glared at her.

Leigh sighed and sopped up the rest of the flood with Adrian’s napkin.

Helena served strawberry ice, garnished with fresh mint sprigs.

“You’re a doctor now,” Glynis said.

Craig nodded.

“Good work for someone like you.”

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

“What about your children?” Vivian asked. “What kind of special gifts do they have?”

“Kammi’s going to take after me and be a healer.” He paused and looked at Leigh. “And it seems that Slugger’s got the Sight.”

Vivian looked pleased. “Is that true?” she asked Kamelia.

“I’m going to be a doctor just like Dad.”

A special gift. Maybe he’s not mad after all
, Leigh thought.

“So, how did you two meet?” Glynis asked Leigh.

“I was one of his first patients.”

“Kinky,” Melanie commented.

“Isn’t that sort of unethical or something?” Jason asked.

“Hippocrates be damned,” Craig said.

Leigh was glad Helena chose that moment to serve the plates of quiche and melon wedges.

As she ate, Leigh studied Melanie and Jason. The teenagers’ eyes weren’t reddened from tears, and they didn’t appear particularly sad. It seemed odd for children to be so unaffected by their father’s death.

Melanie caught Leigh looking at her. “What’s your problem?”

“I was thinking how sorry I am for your loss,” Leigh said.

Melanie shrugged. “We’re used to it.” Her voice was dull.

“That’s too bad,” Leigh said.

“Now that your father and brother have passed over, I assume you’ll move back home, Craig,” Vivian said.

Craig shook his head. “No way.”

“But you’re the man of the family now. You must come back. We need you.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

“But — ”

Craig stood, knocking his chair over. His anger was more evident in his trembling finger as he pointed at her than in his tightly controlled voice. “Stay out of my life, Mother. I claimed it, it’s mine, and you can’t have it.” He righted his chair and left the room.

Seemingly unmoved, Vivian took a sip of coffee and looked at Leigh. “I’m sure you’re very sweet, dear, but you must understand that you’re never going to be a part of this family.”

Leigh was stunned. She wasn’t good at assertiveness, but for the sake of Kamelia and Adrian — who were staring at her — she managed to say, “It’s a little late for that now, Vivian. Like it or not.”

The Hawthorne family finished their breakfast in silence.

It was a hot day to be wearing black, Leigh thought as she stood beneath the white glare of the sun.

There had been no air-conditioned funeral home reserved for family and friends of the deceased to pay their final respects. Instead, they gathered together under the open sky in the local cemetery for a graveside service.

The graveyard was packed with guests, curious townspeople, and local reporters. The deaths of such wealthy and important men had attracted a lot of attention.

After most of the notable guests arrived, Vivian nodded toward Ray. Standing at a small podium, he gave the eulogy. He spoke for half an hour, beginning with the tale of the Hawthorne family’s arrival in Montvue in the 1800s, and ending with praise about the many contributions Alan and Curtis had made to the community.

Afterward, the family threw flowers into the open graves, and then arranged themselves into a receiving line. Despite a disapproving look from Vivian, Leigh took her place beside Craig and their children.

Dozens of people filed past them, offering kind words and occasional tears. Leigh felt strange accepting condolences for two men she had never met, but she tried to handle herself as gracefully as possible.

Helena and her family moved down the line. Leigh was pleased to see a friendly, familiar face.

“How are you this afternoon?” Helena asked Leigh.

“Better than this morning.”

“I don’t envy you.” Helena put her arm around the ruggedly handsome man at her side. “This is my husband, Marek Janowski. He works for the Hawthornes, too, as groundsman.”

“Hello, Marek. I’m Leigh.” She offered him her hand.

He surprised her by kissing it.

“And these are my sons, Frank and Gil,” Helena said, introducing the two teenage boys fidgeting next to her.

“You have a good-looking family.”

“I know.” Helena gave Leigh a gentle chuck under her chin. “Keep it up, okay?”

Leigh nodded. “Thank you.”

The Janowskis moved on and were replaced in line by a distinguished elderly woman with silver-gray hair.

She gave Vivian a curt nod. “Vivian.” Her mask of grief rivaled Vivian’s own.

“Katherine.”

Leigh was shocked by the hostility in the women’s voices.

“I’m surprised you came,” Vivian said.

“I didn’t come for you. I came for him … and for me.” Her voice broke, but she recovered herself. “I share in your sorrow.”

“Well, I’m touched.” Vivian’s sarcasm was thick.

“Romantic rivals,” Craig whispered in Leigh’s ear. “The witch won.”

Katherine dropped her head and began to leave. Leigh grasped her arm as she walked by, and Katherine looked up at her, startled.

“Please accept my condolences,” Leigh said.

Katherine’s bright blue eyes welled with tears. “Thank you.” With head raised a little higher, she walked away.

“I’m surprised they were romantic rivals,” Leigh whispered to Craig. “She looks so much older than your mother.”

“Yeah, well my family’s genes march to the heartbeat of a different drummer.”

The screech of the microphone startled Leigh. She looked up to see that a familiar-looking man had ascended the podium and was adjusting the microphone.

“Attention! May I please have your attention?”

“Mom,” Kamelia said, a breathy tone to her voice, and Leigh instantly knew who the stranger was. Kamelia and her girlfriends called him, “The Incredible Hunk.”

The crowd quieted, and the people who had been preparing to leave stopped.

“I’m Preacher Cody, and there are a few things I want to say.”

“What the hell is he doing?” Vivian asked.

Craig shrugged.

“I want to point out something to you good people of Montvue. Did you notice someone missing here today at this funeral?” Cody asked. “God. It is God who is missing. I heard no prayers and noticed no clergy participating in this burial. I find that strange, don’t you?” He paused, and the reporters began to move forward. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me that there were no religious aspects to this burial, because the Hawthornes are not a religious family. As a matter of fact, there is no history of this illustrious family ever, in their hundred-year reign in Montvue,
ever
having attended a single religious service of any kind. For members of a God-fearing, Christian society, I find that strange. Don’t you?”

“Craig?” Vivian’s voice betrayed her fear.

Craig stepped forward. “Hey, preacher man, you’re out of line!”

Cody laughed. “Me? Out of line? No, I’d say it’s you and your entire Devil-worshiping family who’s out of line.”

A startled gasp passed through the crowd.

Cody held up a copy of his bestselling book,
Doomsday
. “In here I spoke about devil worshippers, but when I wrote it I didn’t know my own townspeople were members of the cult.”

“I think you’ve let that Hollywood stuff go to your head and you’ve rocketed straight into fantasyland,” Craig said.

“I was there,” Cody whispered, and the crowd hushed. “I was there!” he shouted, and the crowd started. “I was on the plane that crashed, and I survived. I survived because God wanted me to live and tell the truth about what happened on that plane. I sat across from the men who now lie in those coffins. I heard them chant their spells. In their moment of panic, in a desperate act to stay alive, their respectable façades vanished and they called out to Satan. I heard them. So did Rachel.” He pointed to the beautiful young woman who stood next to the podium. He lowered his voice. “And — knowing I was God’s servant — they cast their spell on me, and for a moment, I forgot God and was afraid. For that, I am truly repentant. But I am here today to tell the truth — tell God’s truth. These people whom you so revere are witches and Satan worshipers, and we cannot tolerate that in our midst.” He paused, and with final dramatic flair he yelled, “We will not tolerate that in our midst!”

A moment of stunned silence filled the graveyard.

“Diane Fox, with the
Post-Dispatch
,” a reporter said, announcing herself to Cody. “I tend to agree with Dr. Hawthorne. Don’t you think that your actions here today are somewhat out of line, Preacher Cody?”

“I am being bold, that’s true. But one must stand on conviction, not convention.”

“If something significant happened during that plane crash, I’d be interested in the details,” Diane Fox said. “But this is neither the time nor the place.”

Cody nodded. “You’ll have your wish, Miss Fox. In the meantime, I want you Hawthornes to stand ready to be exposed for what you really are. Our American forefathers had the faith and courage to deal with those of your kind. And, as it happens, so do I.”

“Adrian was right,” Craig whispered to Leigh. His hand trembled as he clutched hers. “It’s begun again.”

Chapter Two

1692

Salem Village, Massachusetts

The early morning light was dim when Margaret and William Hawthorne walked through the fields of their farm looking for the first sign of spring. They found it in the green buds of a lilac bush. Margaret felt a rush of delight; the earth’s body was awakening from the long sleep, and her own body trembled in response. She fell to the ground, pulling her husband down to join her, and they lay together on the cold earth in tight embrace. Burying her face in the crook of his neck, she breathed deeply, enjoying his musky smell. His heart beat hard against her chest, and it caused her own heart to perform a wild dance. When her need for union grew too intense to ignore, she disentangled herself from William’s arms and gently pushed him onto his back. Then, beneath the privacy of her long skirt, she mounted him and began to ride. Closing her eyes, she allowed the definitions of her personal consciousness to fade. She knew he had done the same, because soon their minds were flying together on the wind of chaos, their direction led by no will, their pleasure beyond any control. Their bodies coupled of their own volition while their souls celebrated the joy of union.

The thunder of their blood and the lightning of their consummate lust returned them to earth.

Later Margaret reached inside herself and claimed the mingled creative essence of their two beings. She used the clear fluid to draw a crescent moon on William’s forehead. He, in turn, reached inside her, took the elixir, and blessed her. Then Margaret sat for a time bare to the earth and offered it libation directly from her body.

It was in such a manner that the Hawthornes of Salem Village performed their Spring Rite.

Margaret removed the small basket from storage. The “spring basket” had been prepared in September for the family’s celebration of spring’s first morning.

The basket contained dried apples, pears, and plums, as well as a wax-sealed earthenware crock filled with berries — strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries — preserved in a light sugar syrup. She served the treats as breakfast to her children, along with their customary pewter bowls filled with hasty pudding and molasses.

Margaret was thirty years old, a year younger than her husband. She was a big, strong country woman, filled with an honest and open lust for life. Her handsome face was creased with lines which were a testament to easy laughter. Her blue eyes reflected humor, and she carried herself with an air of confidence that was uncommon among the women of her village. But she served the women as midwife, so avoided the resentment her free spirit might have otherwise provoked. She and William ran a successful farm on the outskirts of the village, and because of the relative privacy of their lives, were able to maintain the secret practices of their family religion. Margaret and William Hawthorne were loyal to the old religion of their ancient English ancestors.

Twelve-year-old Bridget produced a book from the bench on which she sat and handed it to Margaret. “Sarah Bradford gave me this yesterday. She said that with all the witches appearing in the village, I had better repent and save my soul or they — the witches — might capture it.”

The book was a leather-bound volume of
Day of Doom
by the Reverend Michael Wigglesworth. It had been circulating among the colonists who could read, and Margaret had heard about it. She flipped through its pages. “So, the Kingdom of God is at hand and we should all repent and be saved, I see.” Margaret’s contempt was undisguised. “I don’t believe in living in fear and I don’t consider myself,” she paused, reached across the breakfast feast, and gently pinched Bridget’s cheek, “or you, either, a sinner in need of salvation. We love each other, the earth, and our fellows. That’s all any God could expect from us.”

“So, what do I do with the book?”

Margaret glanced at the exuberant fire in the massive fireplace and thought about what she’d like to do with it. “Return the book to Sarah and thank her very much for her concern over your soul.”

“Are we witches, Mother?” four-year-old Phip asked.

Margaret choked on her cornmeal mush and was unable to catch her breath. William gave her back a helpful beating.

Priscilla, only two years older than Phip but a great deal wiser, shook her finger at her brother. “Don’t ever say anything like that again.”

“Why?” Phip asked.

“Because,” Priscilla explained, her tone superior.

“The witches those teenage girls have called out upon do bad things, like torture and murder children, and share communion with the Devil,” William said, still pounding on Margaret. “We don’t do things like that, and we don’t want people to think we do. Do you understand?”

Phip nodded. “What’s the Devil?”

William shrugged his shoulders. “Some invention of Christianity, best I can figure.”

“Why?” Phip asked.

Margaret stopped choking and forced the answer from her raspy throat. “Because they need something besides themselves to blame their faults on. Their horned and cloven-hoofed Devil is their scapegoat.”

“Are there witches like they say?” Phip asked.

Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know. For the most part, I think that the girls who claim to be having all these visions ate some kind of poison herb — there are some that will make a person see things and suffer fits — and that’s the source of all the trouble.”

“Well, there’s Tituba, too,” William said. Tituba was the local minister’s Barbados slave who had entertained his children with harmless voodoo tricks and thus inspired their imaginations. It was the minister’s daughter and niece who instigated the frenzy that was spreading throughout the village.

“Yes, and there’s Tituba. She hasn’t helped matters. If she hadn’t confessed to everything they accused her of, and embellished it all to make herself seem important, I believe the whole matter would be over.” Margaret downed a cup of cider to soothe her throat. “But she claimed that she read nine names in the Devil’s book, and so now the magistrates are determined to ferret out each and every one of ‘God’s offenders.’”

“I heard that Tituba confessed because Reverend Parris thrashed her until she did,” Bridget said.

An uncomfortable silence fell over those at the table.

“If that’s so, I’m sorry for her,” Margaret said at last.

Catch, the family’s dog, padded up to the table in search of treats.

“Can I give him something?” Phip asked.

William nodded.

Phip scrambled off the bench, added a splash of berry syrup and the rest of his milk to the remainder of the hasty pudding, then set it on the floor. The dog lapped it up, his brown eyes shining with joy.

Margaret studied the shaggy mutt. “What a sorry sight that dog is. I think we should find ourselves one more handsome.”

William shook his head. “Catch helps me hunt.”

“He’s a good dog,” Bridget said.

Priscilla stuck out her lower lip. “But, I love him.”

Phip threw his arms around Catch’s neck.

Margaret grinned. “Just wanted to get your blood flowing.”

“You’re an evil one, Margaret Hawthorne,” William said. “Are you sure your name isn’t in the bad old Devil’s book?”

The birth was a hard one. Blood and sweat flowed, and Margaret felt a pang of helplessness when she saw the dim light with which the child was born. She could tell it was one of those babies not destined to live long. She had seen it before, but it was something no one else could see, so she was unable to warn the mother. Instead, she offered a hearty smile to Susanna Weston and said, “You have a beautiful daughter.”

The pain in Susanna’s eyes was replaced with relief. “She’s well?”

“All fingers and toes in place.”

The pale and exhausted mother reached out to claim her child.

Margaret lightly sponged blood off the crying baby, wrapped her in a tiny blanket, and handed her to the waiting arms.

“Have you chosen a name?” Margaret asked.

“Grace. She’s God’s grace to me. I thought I’d never have a child.”

Margaret’s sorrow grew. Her mind raced for the possibility of something, anything, that might help Grace survive; always before she had just accepted the observance of a newborn’s dim light as an irreversible death sentence. She fumbled in her satchel of herbs.

“It was a hard birth, Susanna, and both you and Grace are weak from it. I’m going to prepare a blend of herbs I want you to brew. Drink a cupful of the tisane every morning yourself, and give the baby a spoonful as well. It’ll make you both strong.”

Susanna frowned. “The baby, too?”

“It won’t hurt.”

Susanna nodded. “Whatever you say. All the women in the village say you’re the best midwife in all of Massachusetts.”

Margaret frowned. “Only in Massachusetts? I’m offended.”

Susanna laughed and placed Grace’s mouth to her already dripping breast.

Margaret’s home was a fine dwelling. She and William had built it themselves when the newlyweds moved to Salem Village from their home in England. The oak building was constructed around a massive brick fireplace. Downstairs were two rooms: the kitchen and the parlor. Up a short staircase were two bedchambers. The pine floors were always swept clean, and the small windowpanes were covered with colorful woolen curtains. Cooking pots hung from the andirons in the central fireplace, and breads were usually baking in the brick oven, which was attached to the chimney. The house constantly smelled of simmering stew, beans or succotash, baking rye and Injun bread or meat pies, and roasting pork, beef, mutton, or wild game. The family’s fields kept them rich in vegetables, and their cows provided milk and butter. Margaret loved her kitchen. She enjoyed cooking for her family, tending the small indoor herb garden, spinning thread and weaving cloth with her daughters next to the warmth of the fire, and teaching her children the sacred knowledge of their ancestors.

It would be another year before she could give Phip instruction — he was still too young to be trusted to silence — but Bridget and Priscilla were already apt students.

Knowledge of herbs was an ongoing lesson with the girls, but that morning Margaret chose to teach them about magical protection. It seemed a dangerous time to be without protection.

William, Phip, and Catch were out plowing the fields for the spring planting, and the women were alone. Bridget and Priscilla sat at the kitchen table while Margaret drew curtains over the windows to shut out the light of day. She lit a tallow candle and placed it on the table, then removed a tiny box of deadly nightshade from behind a loose brick in the chimney. She took two dried berries from the box and ground them with her mortar and pestle to a fine powder. After mixing the powder with a cup of hard cider, Margaret administered the concoction to the girls by spoonfuls until she was convinced each had received the proper amount. Finally, she placed a few drops of scented oil — a mixture of lilac and violet — in the flame of the candle to scent the air with a pleasant aroma. All the while, she hummed an old English lullaby. Before too long, the drug took effect and the girls — their eyes darkened and their lips curved in crooked grins — visibly relaxed.