Salem Village
10 June, 1692
Bridget Bishop danced, though dancing
was forbidden. In death she cared naught for the laws of the Church,
much less for her neighbours’ opinions.
Several people craned their necks, straining to see if Bridget would
turn herself into a black pig. But the witch-woman merely flaunted
her macabre dance, her sway aided by a whistling wind.
During Bridget’s trial, John Gedney had testified that she had
no substance. “I endeavored to clap my hands upon her and said, ‘You
devil, I will kill you,’ but could feel no substance,” John
testified. “Whereupon I struck at her with a stick and broke
the stick but felt no substance.”
Lies, all lies, thought Anne Kittridge. Because Bridget was unquestionably
flesh and blood. If she truly lacked substance, would she not have
vanished into thin air before they tied the rope around her neck?
Anne drew her gaze away from Gallows Hill and focused, instead, upon
a secluded pasture. Four and a half months with child, she had pleaded
a backache, but her ruse proved unsuccessful when the Reverend resolutely
insisted that every woman in his congregation attend the hanging. Men
burdened with chores had been granted leave, the reason why her beloved
John was absent.
Fence shadows had begun to lengthen across a dun-colored road and the
setting sun deepened the adjacent hills to amethyst. Somewhere, a shepherd
piped a homing tune to his flock. A dog joined in, its condemnatory
bark louder than the piper or the bleating sheep.
In close proximity, Anne heard snatches of conversation. Stemming from
three or four different directions, the disjointed sentences converged
upon her ears like claps of distant thunder.
“
Dorcas Good, five years old, has a familiar . . .”
“
Isaac Cummings’ sick mare was ridden all night by witches . .
.”
“
A small snake that sucks at her forefinger . . .”
“
Isaac lit the mare’s fart . . .”
“
Reverend Parris preached on John 6, 70 . . .”
“
Dorcas Good’s finger has a red spot the bigness of a flea bite
. . .”
“
Reverend Parris had in mind Rebecca Nurse . . .”
“
Tituba Indian swore the devil bid her serve him . . .”
“
The child’s mother, Sarah Good, has a cat and a yellow bird and
a thing with wings and two legs and a head like a woman . . .”
“
Is it not difficult to catch a witch? Satan is the Prince of Lies .
. .”
“
Isaac said he’d rather ha’ a dead mare than a burnt barn
. . .”
“
When ye seek a witch, look for evidence of malice . . .”
Anne wished she could stop up her ears, especially when she spied Sally,
her sister’s sluggish maidservant, with two other girls. Their
voices rode the wind.
“
Oi seen a werelion last noight,” Sally said. “Atop the
ridge.”
“
Ye means a werewolf,” said the second girl.
“
Nay. Oi seen a werelion.”
“
Mayhap ‘twas a ghost to witch us off the land.”
“
Forfend ‘twasn’t ould Satan hisself,” said the third
girl.
“
In the ould country,” said the second girl, “oi seen a
man what et children. He’d cotch a poor mite, hang ‘im
on the wall like a strung-up fowl, an plunge a dagger through ‘is
heart. The man done it to please the devil.”
“
After I seen the werelion, me grannie cotched a toad an put ‘im
in a cage an dragged ‘im round the church three toimes an buried ‘im
near the graves . . .”
Sally’s voice trailed off as she drew her companions closer to
the gallows.
Anne grimaced. A werelion? What next? A weresheep? A werespider?
“
Goody Bishop bewitched her first husband to death.”
Anne turned toward Yosef Solom, a stout man whose voice would put a
loon to shame. “‘Tis nothing more than a rumour,” she
said.
“‘
The devil did come bodily unto her,’” Yosef shrilled, “‘and
she was familiar with the devil, and she sat up all night long with
the devil.’ So says Bridget Bishop’s third husband, Edward
Bishop.”
A Dutch woman, Ketzia van Rijn, said, “God allemachtig, Bridget
oft vears a red stomacher! Does that not prove she’s a vitch?”
“
Red is not uncommon,” Anne said, “and stomachers can be
easily dyed.”
“
The dyer, Samuel Shattuck, says Bridget brought him sundry pieces of
lace, so short he could not judge them fit for use. Everyone knows
that a vitch doll is oft clothed in the same materials and colors as
clothing vorn by her victims.”
“
Samuel Shattuck carries a grudge,” Anne said earnestly. “His
son was unaccountably ill of fits. A passing stranger proposed the
boy was bewitched and offered to take him to Bridget and scratch her
face.”
“
Aye. Drawing blood from a vitch’s face can break a spell.”
“
Bridget said she was not a witch and chased the stranger off with a
spade.”
“
And ever since, the child hath been followed with grievous fits, his
head and eyes drawn aside as if they would ne’er come to rights
no more . . .” Yosef paused to sleeve the perspiration from his
forehead. “He’ll fall into fire and water, if he be not
constantly looked to. Bridget Bishop did not have her face scratched,
but she scratched the face of Samuel Shattuck’s son.”
With an effort, Anne kept her hands by her side, sorely tempted to
scratch Yosef’s face. “‘Twas only Samuel’s
word that his son was branded.”
Beneath the three stiff white caps that concealed her hair, Ketzia’s
cheeks glistened and her under lip thrust out. “Nay,” she
said. “‘Tis the judgment of doctors that the boy doth suffer
the evil hand of vitchcraft.”
Anne heard a disappointed murmur hum through the commons. The mob had
honestly believed Bridget Bishop would turn herself into a pig. Or
a monkey with cock’s feet and claws. Anne’s eyes, usually
serene, burned with unshed tears.
Looking toward her sisters, she saw that Chastity’s eyes were
red-streaked and puffy. Mercy had bitten her bottom lip until she drew
blood. Capturing their attention, Anne crossed her second finger over
her first finger, held up seven fingers, pressed her thumbs together,
and waggled her fingers.
Mercy and Chastity nodded. Both understood Anne’s silent signal.
On the morrow, following cock crow, they would convene alongside the
round-tiled roof of the Kittridge dovecote.
Gazing one last time upon the gallows, Anne felt her own throat constrict.
Bridget had been brought to trial on June Second. At her trial, several
girls told how Bridget’s specter had tormented them. Several
men stated that Bridget’s shape had appeared to them in the night
and climbed into bed with them.
Bridget had entered a plea of innocence but the Reverend said: “I
believe she practiseth Witchcraft in the Congregation,” and the
court found her guilty.
Guilty. Sinful. Unholy. Anne felt a chill course through her body.
Admired for her medicinal skill, she had accrued no malicious gossip.
Neither had her sisters, Mercy Birdwell and Chastity Barker. Wed to
proud, prosperous, religious men, they had dodged the accusations leveled
against less favored goodwives.
When household chores were completed, or in Chastity’s situation
bypassed, Anne and her sisters met inside a bell-shaped cave.
There, they practiced witchcraft.
Chapter One
Friday morning
My childhood chum, Tommy Murphy, once said: “Never do anything
you wouldn’t be caught dead doing.”
Friday the Thirteenth was a Murphy’s Law kind of day.
Invisible to everyone except me, Tommy Murphy is the spittin’ image
of Gene Kelly. More often than not, I can feel Tommy’s presence,
or at least hear the echo of his tap shoes. I’ve never told anybody
about Tommy, not even my great-aunt Lillian. She’d say she could
materialize a Gene Kelly look-alike, but she tends to screw up incantations.
In fact, I’m not sure she’s successfully cast a spell since
1960-something. So Gene Kelly might very well come out looking like
Liberace. Or Kermit the Frog.
Supposedly, I’m descended from a long line of witches, some good,
some bad. To my knowledge, none materialized inside a bubble, none
ruled Munchkins, none gave orders to flying monkeys, and none polluted
the air with smoke or broom straw. The majority of my ancestors traveled
from Europe to Massachusetts via conventional means. In other words,
they shipped themselves.
Seventeenth-century men and women didn’t practice birth control.
Therefore, the prolific members of my New World family spawned multiple
progeny, the majority of whom were male. Still, the family allegedly
birthed at least one witch per generation. I’m the nominee for
this generation.
I own Lilly’s Apothecary, and witchy gossip is good for business.
While I don’t believe for one moment that I’m a witch,
if people want to pay big bucks for a spell or medicinal herb why argue
with them? The IRS allows me to deduct eye of newt, magic potions,
and prickly plants steeped in honey, guaranteed to protect against
hostility and drive out all diseases. Those are business expenses.
I wonder if the IRS would be so compliant if they knew I didn’t
believe in magic.
I’ve got to hand it to my great-aunt Lillian, who tried her best
to make me a good little witch. While other kids chanted their ABCs,
I memorized incantations. While other little girls groomed Barbie and
Ken, I stuck pins into nameless rag dolls. I even toted Aunt Lillian’s
black goat, Tituba, to Show and Tell. As I earnestly explained the
history of “familiars,” Tituba suffered stage fright, pooped
all over the classroom floor, and ate our spelling tests. To this day,
I think my teacher’s reaction was unwarranted.
Shortly thereafter, my family (minus Tituba) moved to Colorado and
I learned to keep my mouth shut. Still, rumors surfaced. “Sydney’s
ancestors were wiped out, burned at Salem,” the kids whispered
loudly.
First, if my ancestors had been “wiped out” I wouldn’t
be here. Second, Salem witches were usually hanged, not burned. Third,
it’s common knowledge that no witchcraft was practiced in 1692
Massachusetts, that the behavior of the afflicted, including their
convulsive fits, was fraudulent, and that the witch accusers were encouraged
by the clergy, who used the fear of witchcraft to bolster their power.
My father, Nicholas Nickleby St. Charles III, always said that witchcraft
did exist and was widely practiced in seventeenth-century New England.
However, it worked then, as it works now, through psychogenic rather
than occult means, producing hysterical symptoms. The witch accusers,
Nicholas said, were not fraudulent. They were pathological.
I tend to side with my father. Take Elvis. His fanatics reached a state
of mass hysteria, despite dire warnings from parents and clergy. Elvis
possessed more power than a dozen priests put together, and his pelvis
could generate more hysteria than a whole coven of witches.
Which brings me, in a round-about way, to the murder of Clive Newton.
Chapter Two
Friday morning
Never do anything you wouldn’t
be caught dead doing.
Ignoring Tommy Murphy’s advice, I hurriedly grabbed some rumpled
clothes from my hamper, brushed-off my hairbrush, and shunned all makeup.
My great-aunt Lillian would never step outside the house unless she was
coordinated, and I don’t mean to suggest that her pointy hat matched
her pointy shoes. Except for Disney films, Casper cartoons, and poorly
directed Macbeth productions, witches tend to look like everyone else.
Bewitched is a good example of a normal, everyday witch, if you exclude
the nose-twitching. Witches don’t nose-twitch.
I hadn’t even bothered to shave my legs, which poked out from a
pair of cutoffs that had once been bell-bottoms. Since I’m not
real good with scissors, the faded denim molded my right buttock and
kitty-cornered my left buttock. My rubber flip-flops flip-flopped through
the aisle of a Colorado Springs Safeway. Rapidly stocking my supermarket
cart, I spied Augusta Lowenfeld. She swept by me like the prow on a ship,
then did an about-face. In a voice that made the fillings in my teeth
ache, she said, “Sydney St. Charles, as I live and breathe! Have
you heard the latest news about the murder?”
Gusta talks in exclamation points and question marks. Fifty-six, she
tries to look forty-six. During a power failure she almost succeeds.
“
What murder?” I said, knowing that Gusta writes a gossip column
for the Manitou Falls Monthly and is usually a month behind.
“
Clive Newton, of course! He’s a local boy!”
Well . . . not exactly. Before his untimely demise, Clive lived in Colorado
Springs, next door to Manitou Springs. Manitou Falls is nestled between
Manitou Springs and Green Mountain Falls, so “local” is stretching
it.
I had heard about Clive’s death. Who hadn’t? A young star
on the brink of making it Jim-Morrison-big, his body had been found in
Black Forest, a residential area that’s zoned for horses. In fact,
Clive’s body and head – minus ears, testicles, fingers, and
toes – had been discovered one month ago, immediately following
the February issue of the Manitou Falls Monthly. So I could be polite
and let Gusta ramble on about the murder, or I could be rude and finish
my grocery shopping.
“
I saw the news on TV,” I said, compromising. “All the local
channels carried it. Then Denver picked up the story, then CNN, then
Dateline and – ”
“
Does your mother know you go out in public like that?” Gusta examined
me, her thickly-penciled eyebrows merging, and I made a silent vow to
lose the fifteen (or twenty) pounds I’d vowed to lose last New
Year’s Eve. “You’re how old now, Sydney? Forty?”
“
Thirty-five,” I blurted, stung. Trying to regain my composure,
I reminded her that my mother had passed away.
Her thin-lipped smile of satisfaction vanished as she said, “If
you’ve got lemons, make lemonade!”
“
Excuse me?”
“
Have you heard about the latest body part?”
My mind hop-scotched from lemonade to Clive Newton. The killer had been
mailing the missing portions of Clive’s body to members of his
singing group, The Newts, although no one, including the Colorado Springs
Police Department, could fathom why. The last gift, a big toe, had been
soaked in formaldehyde.
Gusta’s scornful glower had pin-pointed my crotch so my first thought
was: testicles. Someone Priority-mailed Clive’s testicles.
My second thought was to wonder if Gusta’s glare had merely encompassed
my cutoffs. The shorts were skin-tight and I had shunned panties along
with my makeup.
“
Did they mail Clive’s testicles, Mrs. Lowenfeld?”
“
Sydney St. Charles! Don’t talk dirty!” She smoothed the black
lace at her sagging chin line, then tiddledywinked a piece of lint from
her black pedal pushers. “They mailed . . .” She paused for
effect. “His ring finger!”
“
Did it happen to have a ring on it?”
“
Yes! Rampart High!”
Ashamed of my sarcasm, I remembered that Clive had graduated from Rampart
a mere three years ago. Luckily, Old Ed Vernon turned the corner and
propelled his squeaky cart toward us. After lecherously staring at my
blouse, missing its top three buttons, he said, “Is it true the
killer mailed a finger?”
Gusta’s face lit up, and I surmised the frozen chicken in her basket
would saturate its Styrofoam with bloody rime before she finished her
recitation.
As unobtrusively as possible, I maneuvered my cart around Gusta and Ed,
then navigated the rest of the aisle. Parallel to Meat, traveling toward
Dairy, I bumped into half a dozen Manitou Falls taxpayers. After appraising
my tangled ebony curls, the smudges beneath my blue-black eyes, my uneven
cutoffs, and my rubber flip-flops, they all told me about Clive Newton’s
ring finger.
The unspoken question was: Can you devise a spell to catch the killer,
Sydney?
The unspoken answer was: No.
Soon my cart overflowed with the items I planned to serve at my niece’s
birthday party. Plus, “impulse groceries.” Goodies included
pretzels and doodles, various chips and dips, eggs for deviling, and
Coke/Pepsi. Also, economy-size Ocean Spray juices. Condiments. Detergent.
Furniture polish. Bacon. The latest Dean Koontz bestseller (with Kevin
Bacon on the cover). Frozen waffles. Bagels and cream cheese. Three tubs
of ice cream. A box of cake batter, a can of white frosting, and a jar
of green food coloring.
My niece Xanthia, who will turn thirteen this Sunday, collects frogs.
So I thought I’d bake a frog-shaped cake with green frosting and
serve it with pistachio ice cream. This morning I had considered hiring
a magician, but the supermarket receipt, almost as long as my arm, negated
that scheme.
My Honda’s trunk was filled with cartons of clay storage pots,
ordered from a local pottery. Haphazardly stacking my groceries on the
back seat and floorboards, I hoped I wasn’t breaking any eggs.
A couple of women, beautifully dressed and rouged and coifed, click-heeled
past me. I had met Pam and Deb at a local romance writers’ session,
after accepting an invitation to give a talk on witches. My great-aunt
Lillian, who lives with me, said a Merlinesque dissertation (her words,
not mine) would be good for business.
Halting momentarily, the two romance authors surveyed my hairdo, my cosmetic-free
face, and my tacky outfit, all the way down to my flip-flops. Then they
nodded hello and continued clicking. I smelled Deb’s potent perfume,
heard the words “a shame,” and wished I had taken the time
to safety-pin my gaping bodice. Or at least spray myself with cologne.
Never wreck your car unless you’re wearing clean underpants. Translation:
Never do anything you wouldn’t be caught dead doing. So far, I
had encountered the town gossip, the town lecher, a slew of chatty acquaintances,
and two high-heeled advertisements for a torrid romance novel. Thank
God my Murphy’s Law day was almost over.
My stressed-out shoulders sought my car’s fake-fur seat cover as
I buckled my seat belt, turned on the radio, started up the engine, cruised
through the parking lot, and just missed the light at the Safeway exit.
A watched pot never boils and a watched red light never changes, so my
gaze strayed, catching the avid gaze of the homeless man who stood near
my car. I wanted to look away but was mesmerized by a pair of intense
indigo eyes.
Did Deb’s “a shame” refer to the homeless man?
He looked part Irish, part American Indian; Daniel Day Lewis and Tonto.
The strap of a shabby guitar case was slung across one shoulder. Clothed
in too-short, oversized jeans, held up by a pair of red suspenders, his
long russet hair was neatly trapped by a beaded headband and three buttons
on his once-white shirt were missing. Although he possessed a furry chest,
rather than bra and breasts, his shirt-gaffe duplicated mine, and I experienced
a moment of genuine empathy.
Before I could look away, he glimpsed the expression on my face. Thrusting
forth his WILL WORK FOR FOOD sign, he smiled.
I had never seen a vagrant with such perfect incisors, not to mention
canines and bicuspids. He could star in a toothpaste commercial. Or the
late-night infomercial that promises bleached teeth.
Damn. Here I sat, grocery sacks threatening to burst my car at the seams.
The Miracles crooned “Get A Job” from my car radio, and I
knew my expression had changed from empathy to guilt.
Reluctantly, I beckoned him closer and fumbled for my purse.
“
No, ma’am,” he said. “I don’t take charity.”
“
Then you meant what you said?”
“
Ma’am?”
“
Your sign?”
“
Yes, ma’am, I’ll work for food.” He smiled again. “Or,
even better, a bath and some fresh clothes.”
He didn’t sound like a bum. A panhandler, or tramp, or whatever
the heck they’re called nowadays, wouldn’t be concerned with
a bath and fresh clothes, at least not as an alternative to cold hard
cash. Had he seen the disdainful glares of the romance writers? If true,
we definitely had something in common.
Maybe he was incognito, planning to write a tell-all article. In my mind’s
eye, I could see the first lines of the last paragraph: Sydney St. Charles,
a good Samaritan, kept me from starving to death. Ms. St. Charles, a
local witch who owns an herbal apothecary at 36410 Reverend Hale Avenue,
also cast a charming charm . . .
Aunt Lillian would say it was “good for business.”
What charming charm could I cast? The one that helps a person gain favor
in the eyes of others? An easy spell, all it requires is sand and a magnet.
Plus, an incantation that includes the words: “Metal of strength.
Blood of earth. Out of death. I draw thee forth.”
It had been a mild winter, an early spring. My grass had begun to grow,
along with a few weeds, and my white picket fence needed a new coat of
paint. There were heavy boxes in the trunk of my car, not to mention
my multiple grocery sacks. Toting them up the steps of my house would
justify herbal shampoo and soap.
I even had some Jim clothes and sneakers, stored inside a guest room
closet. My stormy three-year relationship with Jim had ended nine months
ago, but I’d kept some of his clothes, tempted to chant a nasty
incantation over them. If I were a real witch, I’d have put a curse
on Jim without a moment’s hesitation.
Suddenly, I heard Tommy Murphy’s precautionary tap-tap-tap and
remembered Clive Newton’s big toe and ring finger.
Yeah, sure, but would a vicious killer plead for clean clothes? No. He’d
rob a Laundromat.
“
Your eyes don’t look like a murderer’s eyes,” I mumbled,
unaware that I’d spoken out loud.
Until the man said, “No, ma’am, I’m not a murderer,
and you’ve got very pretty eyes.”
He gave me that killer smile again. I’d have to make a decision
soon. The light had turned green and several pickup trucks were honking
like a flock of angry geese. The truck directly behind me sported a National
Rifle Association bumper sticker.
“
Get in the car,” I said. “Hurry.”
©2004 by Denise Dietz
Excerpt from Eye of Newt
Five Star Publishing
Trade Paperback ISBN: 1-4104-0241-X
Hardcover
ISBN:
1-59414-096-0 -9
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