A Spell for the Revolution (27 page)

The word
witches
was interrupted by a slap on the side of the tent, and the flap yanked open. A head popped through the door, hat sagging with the wet and dripping rain. “Sorry, ma’am, we’ve got to take this down now and break camp.”

He was one of the soldiers with the curse already broken. It startled Proctor to see a man with no spirit haunting him, but it also lifted his heart and reminded him of the importance of their work tonight.

“Thank you, Bryan,” Deborah said, standing. “I understand.”

She adjusted her bonnet, then pulled her shawl around her shoulders and over her head. She took the lantern while Proctor picked up the two stools, one in each hand, and exited the tent. He passed the furniture off to another of the soldiers, and then the two of them hurried over to the limited shelter of a nearby tree.

“But why do they need that big a focus?” Proctor asked.

“Do you need more explanation than simple greed? Think of the wealth they can amass. The widow Nance said they would make the whole world slaves. Why does any man have slaves, but to make himself rich at their expense?”

“So, just like Cecily drew on the power of Lydia for her magic,” Proctor said. “Only magnified.”

“I think that’s exactly what she meant.”

Proctor shook the water off his hat and put it back on his head. “There may be other reasons too,” he said, now that he was running with the idea. “Think how the widow Nance was unnaturally young. Once her power was broken, her true age showed. A witch bound to the power of an empire might stay young for as long as that empire lasted, renewed with each new crowning of the king.”

Deborah’s face showed respect for this deduction, pleasing Proctor. He liked to keep a step ahead of her when he could, even if she didn’t expect it.

“It’s wrong, all of it,” she said. “If this curse is any evidence of it, whatever they do with the power is wrong. We have to stop them.”

“We’ll take one step at a time,” Proctor said. “We freed some of the men from the curse. Tonight we’ll free them all. Then we’ll find the German, and we’ll free Lydia and that orphan boy—”

“Slow down,” Deborah said. “I can’t think more than one step ahead at a time right now, or it’ll drown me.”

“I’m sorry,” Proctor said. “It’s just that what they’re doing to Lydia and that boy, taking their power against their will, leaving them weak, it just bothers me. We let Lydia down when we let Cecily escape with her. And nobody else cares about that boy or will protect him unless we do.”

Deborah looked away to the distance. “One thing at a time,” she said.

“I’ll get our supplies and then we’ll go out to the spot I found,” he said.

She nodded, as distant from him again as when he’d first entered the tent. He saw her feet sinking in the mud as he left her there to run back to his own quarters one last time.

They joined the soldiers marching on the road out of town. The rain had finally stopped, but it was dark and cold, and the air felt saturated with wet. A gloom hung
over the long train of men, but Proctor couldn’t tell how much of it was another retreat and how much of it was due to the weight of the invisible burden most men carried.

Deborah carried a different burden, lost deep in concentration. Proctor tried to speak to her several times, but each time she ignored him.

There were many wives and other civilians, even some children, on the road, so Proctor and Deborah didn’t stand out. Proctor couldn’t tell the difference between them and some other young couples at first, but then as he watched more, he saw the couples hold hands, or exchange brief kisses of affection, and it bothered him that he and Deborah did none of that. He wanted to break the curse, return to The Farm, and continue a proper courtship with her, maybe take the next step, even if his mother didn’t bless it.

The road was so churned that mud clung to their feet with each step. When they passed the copse of trees he planned to use, they left the road, stopping first to scrape their shoes clean on some fallen branches. Proctor held Deborah’s elbow to help her climb over a stone fence and fallen logs. It was the only way he could touch her without causing suspicion.

“If we continue the fight, there’s no reason for us to pretend to be brother and sister,” he said as they made their way cautiously into the trees. The air around them smelled of the wet mold of leaves. “We could just tell people—”

“Now’s not the time for this conversation,” she said.

It wasn’t. But there was never a right time for the conversation. “Are you sure the woods is the right place to do this? We could pick someplace more in the middle of the army.”

“The army is so spread out right now, anyplace is the middle. But more importantly, what do you see around us?”

“Not very much in the dark.”

“Crunch, crunch under your feet.”

“It’s more of a squish, squish—”

“Leaves,” she said, impatiently. “Just as there’s a time for leaves to fall from the trees, there’s a time for these spirits to leave this world. This curse is unnatural. What we’re doing is trying to set nature right again.”

“Was that always part of your plan? Because …”

“No, I just thought of it now,” she said with a shrug. “My original thought was that we just needed to be away from everyone. Where’s our spot?”

“Over here, in this clearing.”

He led her between the trees into a small clearing where the grass had been laid flat by the rain. From his bag, he took a handful of salt and began spreading a circle.

“Where did you get so much?” she asked.

“The commissary sent several complaints to headquarters but the thief was never found. Now please, let me concentrate while I do this.”

Inside the circle, he made a star with lines of salt, both to mark the five points and as a symbol of the country. When that was done, he set his bag down and took out flint and steel, and a bit of dry tinder. He knelt next to the candle and struck a few sparks, but none caught.

“I’ll do that,” Deborah said.

Kneeling beside Proctor, she lit the candle the same way she’d lit the lantern in the tent: the flame leapt from her fingertip to the wick.

“What are you staring at?” she asked as she lit the second candle and moved around the circle to the third.

“The widow used magic like that—”

“I’m not her,” Deborah snapped as she finished. “Hand me the other items.”

He reached into the bag and passed her a heavy folded coat. “This is a Continental officer’s jacket. Don’t ask how I got it.”

“I was more interested in how you didn’t get caught.”

“This is a blank letter of commission, the kind also used
for officers, and this is a muster sheet, also blank, but I thought they symbolized every officer and enlisted man serving. And this is a hat I got from a Pennsylvania militiaman. Here is a man’s daily ration of food.”

“What about weapons? No man is a soldier without his weapons.”

Proctor wanted to disagree—he felt like he was still a soldier protecting their country even though he carried no weapons. “I’m supposed to be a Quaker. I couldn’t just start bearing arms now, could I? Especially without enlisting.”

She opened her mouth to argue, and then seemed to realize that they were both on edge because they were tense.

“Here,” he said, reaching into his bag. “A powder horn and flints for a musket. Muskets are useless without powder and flint. I remembered the way the widow used lead balls for her prayers—her spells, I mean. She meant to spell all the lead shot that day, not just the pieces she touched. I thought we could do the same.”

“That’s good,” Deborah said, arranging the items around the circle, inside the points of the star. She used the heavier items to pin down the papers. When she had placed everything the way she wanted it, Proctor handed her a folded blanket. She looked at him, puzzled. “Is this the common soldier’s blanket?”

“No, that’s for you. To sit on. To keep your dress dry.”

“Oh! That was very thoughtful.”

“You sound so surprised.”

“I just hadn’t given any thought to my dress.” She stepped into the center of the circle, careful not to touch or break any of the lines. She placed the blanket on the ground and then sat on it, on her knees, as if in prayer. “You should go away now, Proctor.”

He nearly laughed. “What?”

“If this goes wrong, if I draw all the spirits here and can’t
release them, they may attach to—or even attack—the nearest person.”

“I won’t let them harm you,” he promised. Even though he didn’t know how he’d keep that promise. His skin prickled at the thought of all those spirits chained to his own soul. He didn’t know how Washington carried on.

“I was thinking more about harm to you,” Deborah said softly. “If you go back to the army, keep moving north, when I’m done I’ll catch up—”

“No.”

“But I could—”

“No.”

The candlelight flickered, throwing shadows across her face. Even more softly, she said, “Thank you. I do need you, more than you realize.”

She actually said
thank you
. He let her words fill the air between them until they faded away. She drew a deep breath and then began to recite the verses from Ezekiel that they had agreed to use for the spell.

“Wherewith ye there hunt the souls to make them fly, and I will tear them from your arms, and will let the souls go, even the souls that ye hunt to make them fly. Because with lies ye have made the hearts of the righteous sad, whom I have not made sad; and have strengthened the hands of the wicked, that he should not return from his wicked way. Therefore ye shall see no more magic, for in the name of the Lord, I will deliver my people out of your hand.”

Cut down a bit, and a word changed here and there, but it would do. Proctor lost track of time while Deborah recited it, though he checked on her several times and could see the power flowing through her. He did his part, standing guard to make sure they were unwatched and unapproached.

Which is why he noticed the lights flowing toward them,
twisting like eddies in turbulent water, carried downstream toward the rocks.

The cursed spirits were flowing to them. They came in a great semicircle, pulled like strands of toffee, from White Plains and the road and Fort Washington and places farther north. They came, like long snakes of light, writhing and squirming. Proctor quickly stepped around the clearing so that he didn’t come between them and Deborah.

“… no more magic. In the name of the Lord, I will deliver my people out of your hand.”

She shone with power, like a hurricane lamp herself. Sweat and agony both poured over her face. The spirits were almost there, drawn so thin that surely they must break, just like the others.

But they were coming slowly. As she continued to recite the words of the spell, she began to pant for breath, straining to stay upright, and her words faltered.

“… of the Lord … I will … deliver my people …”

The long, thin strands of light now turned into a mass of snapping, thrashing snakes, some lashing out as if they meant to bite, some pulling back toward the bodies they were unnaturally latched to.

“… deliver my people, out of your hand,” Proctor finished for her. She only needed a little bit more to start freeing the trapped souls. He reached inside to draw on his own magic and add it to hers.

And he found nothing. His magic was already drained.

Now that Deborah was weakened, now that he was looking for it, he saw his own talent flowing out of himself and into Deborah. She was draining him, the same way Cecily drained Lydia, the same way her master stole power from that little boy. And she was doing it without his permission, without even informing him.

In anger, he reached out to take it back.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, afraid.

Before either could do anything else, a fierce wind
slammed into the woods, knocking the tops of the trees together and making them clatter like the rattle of spears. Then the wind rushed over the ground, turning over the leaves like a pack of dogs sniffing for prey.

With no magic, and no weapons to defend himself—to defend them—Proctor felt suddenly vulnerable and helpless.

The wind hit their circle, blowing out the first candle and knocking it over. Then it whirled around the circle, knocking the other candles over and scattering the salt. Around and around it spun, smashing all of it, tearing the papers away, tumbling the other items, spinning all of it and the leaves up in a whirlwind with Deborah at the center.

“He’s found us!” she cried.

At the same instant the spirits stopped their twisting approach and snapped back to their scattered bodies. The air smelled like it did just before lightning struck, sharp and tainted. Through that smell, Proctor perceived another.

Cheap tobacco.

The whirlwind spun up and out through the trees and disappeared. Deborah sprawled on the ground, her cap torn from her head, hair tangled everywhere. He grabbed her under the arm and began pulling her to her feet. Her face turned toward him, dark hair spilling over her features. Her eyes were wide, panicked; her mouth hung dumbly open.

“Bootzamon,” he said.

Her hands groped for her cap like a blind woman. He saw it nearby on the ground, and bent to snatch it up as he dragged her toward the road. She clutched it in her fist as they ran madly through the trees. She stumbled once, and fell, and he ran back to lift her up, and they ran again until they broke through the trees and came to the road.

With shaking hands, she tied her cap on her head as they climbed over the wall. Those nearest the road, especially the married couples, saw their mussed clothing and gave
them knowing looks. Even though they were strangers, Proctor flushed with shame. Deborah was still too panicked to notice. They both kept checking over their shoulders as they plunged into the midst of a group of soldiers for protection.

“Miss Walcott,” said a voice.

Proctor spun, his fist cocked to swing, but it was only the soldier who’d asked them to leave the tent. Bryan.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

They were staring at one. Bryan had been healed—Deborah had peeled his ghost off him and broken the curse. But now he was cursed again. A new spirit walked with him, propped up on Bryan’s shoulder like a wounded comrade. The spirit had a horrible chest wound, a gaping hole where it looked like the body had been hit by grapeshot. It lifted its head, and a familiar face gazed back at them.