Teresa Medeiros (3 page)

Arian drew the amulet from her nightgown, viewing it with newfound respect. Until that afternoon in the clearing, her clumsy attempts at spell-casting had always failed her. She shivered with mingled fear and delight at the memory. The raw power strumming across her nerves had been like being kissed by a bolt of lightning. Perhaps her natural talent for witchery had just needed a fresh focus. She’d read many tales of such charms and talismans, necessary only until the novice witch developed faith in her gift.

Arian longed to discover what other wonders she might be capable of, but after her disastrous encounter with Marcus, she feared invoking her powers without a compelling reason.

She closed her fist around the amulet, wishing it could be a source of comfort as well as contention.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she snuggled deeper into the quilt. But instead of dreaming of a raven-haired prince who possessed the power to break Gloucester’s dark enchantment with a single chaste kiss, she dreamed of a man with hair the color of sunlight and eyes of glittering frost.

She moaned softly in her sleep as the wick of the tallow candle sputtered in its drippings and drowned itself into darkness.

The meeting house was cool, the oppressive heat of summer vanquished by the autumn winds. Arian smoothed her skirts and stole a glance at the man beside her.

Her stepfather’s profile was as impenetrable as it had been at breakfast when all of her cheery attempts at
conversation had been rebuffed by the stony set of his jaw. He had left the hot corn mush, smothered in the sugary molasses he loved untouched on his wooden trencher. Draining the well water from his mug, he had risen and started for the meeting house without a word, giving Arian no choice but to slap a white bonnet askew on her head and trot after him.

The Reverend Linnet’s voice swelled, its arresting timbre undiminished as he plunged into the third hour of his sermon. As he accented his threats of fiery retribution by slamming a fist on the pulpit, his words penetrated Arian’s fretful musings for the first time.

“Aye, my brethren, the Almighty Lord led us to Gloucester. He rescued us from evil and delivered us from the temptation of lives of ease bought with the life-blood of our faith. He carried us over the sea to this new land. He protected us from tempests and disease.”

Arian thought grimly of her mother, who had died choking on her own blood.

“But wherever there are godly men on this earth, there are devils to tempt them.” He lowered his voice to a hollow whisper that could still be heard throughout the hall. “Never forget the words of the Lord written in Job: ‘When the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, Satan came also among them.’ ”

Arian glanced at the rapt faces around her, both disgusted and slightly envious that they could find a worthy message in the man’s theatrics.

“It is because we are good that Satan sends his servants among us. Satan is clever. He knows what tempts us. I hasten to remind you that Lucifer was the most beautiful angel in the heavens. No star shone brighter than Lucifer’s glorious face. Never forget lest you be drawn into beauty’s snare. Would Satan send ugliness among us to lead us astray? Would he send a heinous monster to plague our cattle and cast our innocent children into fits?”

A blanket of ominous silence drifted over the hall. People turned to one another, their eyes questioning.

“No!” The Reverend’s voice rang out in a shout “There is beauty among us. And there is evil among us, too. There is evil in this very room.”

A collective gasp rose from the pews. Arian drew in a ragged breath, but found herself unable to release it as the Reverend Linnet looked straight over the heads of those seated in front of her, paralyzing her with his gaze.

“Satan’s angels stalk us. Wild and wanton creatures fly in the night, howling at the moon. Simple tools dance with a life of their own. We can deny it no more. Satan and his servants are abroad in Gloucester.” Then more gently, “Now bow with me and repeat the Lord’s Prayer.”

Arian sat frozen, the breath oozing from her body as Marcus’s head bowed with a terrible finality. Only one head remained upright. Only one pair of eyes remained open. The Reverend Linnet stood tall and straight at the pulpit, his eyes devouring her with an unholy hunger. The Lord’s Prayer flowed smoothly from his lips in blatant mockery of his searing gaze.

Arian choked back a cry, terror rising in her throat. She rose and fled down the long aisle between the pews, mercifully unaware of the hollow silence that descended over the congregation and the single tear that splashed on Marcus Whitewood’s folded hands.

Arian ran toward the only home she had known in this foreign land. Marcus’s clapboard house sat placidly in the middle of the clearing, the sparkling indifference of its windowpanes mocking her agitation.

She clutched her aching side as she flew up the stairs to the loft, half expecting to hear the angry roar of a mob behind her.

Golden sunshine beamed through the window, thawing the numbness from Arian’s mind. She paced the narrow attic, reviewing every scrap of thought she had
ever had concerning the handsome minister who had come to their village the previous spring.

He had spoken to her often as she left the meeting house, clasping her hand in his warm, dry palm. Charity Burke had simpered each time he smiled at her, while Goodwife Burke had whispered to Arian that he had received several invitations to marry since arriving in Gloucester. Now Charity was having fits and naming Arian as her tormentor.

Arian’s hands shook with impotent rage. She had to admire Linnet’s craftiness in making his accusation prior to the Lord’s Prayer. Everyone in Gloucester knew that a witch could not recite the Lord’s Prayer aloud. The hundreds of times she had repeated the prayer in the past would be forgotten as word of her flight from the church spread on the wings of malice.

But why in God’s name did Linnet seek to destroy her? Did he truly believe her a servant of Satan?

Dropping to her knees beside the bed, Arian scrabbled in her stationery box for a sheet of foolscap and a feathered quill. Time was all she had and it was running out like the sands of an hourglass. Seized by inspiration, she began to scribble madly, pausing to chew on the quill’s feather while she searched her brain for a word that rhymed with “newt.”

Arian was standing at the window when Marcus rounded the bend, his shoulders set in sharp angles of defeat. After several moments, his leaden footsteps sounded on the stairs. As the door creaked open, Arian turned to face him.

He gazed at the floor, his hands hanging limp at his sides. “I sought the good Reverend’s help last night. I did not know he would make my confession public.”

“It seems the
good
Reverend surprised us all.”

Marcus lifted his head. His pale blue eyes were darkened by torment. “He convinced Constable Ingersoll not to come for you. He agreed I should be the one
to fetch you for questioning. The villagers trust me.” The burden of their trust lowered his shoulders another inch.

Arian dreaded his answer, but was still compelled to ask. “Do you think me wicked?”

He could not meet her steady gaze. “Your mother was wayward before she discovered the grace of God.”

Arian snorted. “God’s grace must be bountiful indeed if He forgave her sins.”

“Don’t succumb to blasphemy, child. Remember the commandments. You must honor your father and mother.”

“I’d have been more than happy to honor my father if my mother had only bothered to get his name.” She could not resist giving the amulet a brief caress as an old and familiar bitterness welled in her throat. “So you find me not wicked, but wayward. As my mother was.”

“I think you are playing a child’s game your grandmother taught you. But I know you have powers. And such powers cannot come from God.” His voice cracked beneath the strain. “The Good Book speaks plainly on the subject of witchcraft.”

“I am familiar with the scripture. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ ” Arian rested a hand on his forearm, thinking it odd that she should be the one to comfort him. “Shall we go?”

He pressed his lips briefly to her hair. “Do not cry, child. I could not bear it.”

“Don’t be absurd, Father Marcus. Witches don’t weep.”

Arian’s trembling lips belied her words.

Arian’s steps did not falter until they came in sight of the muddy road thronged with villagers. Marcus gently propelled her past Charity Burke, who stood with her mother’s hands on her shoulders, her eyes averted. To hide a glimmer of shame? Arian wondered.

“Bow your head, witch! You are exposed! Repent of your wickedness!”

Arian halted at Goody Hubbins’s rasping cry, meeting the accusing gaze of the shriveled spinster with head held high.

Goody Hubbins shrank away from her. “The witch is cursing me! I cannot breathe! Help me! Lock her away!” Clutching the loose folds of skin at her throat, she swooned into the arms of the widow behind her.

Before Arian could defend herself, Constable Ingersoll snatched her from Marcus’s arms. A lone man stood before the shed that served as a jail for the settlement, his tall hat blocking the sunlight. Arian fought the urge to spit in his face as she recognized the
honorable
Reverend Linnet. He swept open the door of the shed so Ingersoll could herd her inside.

Arian was the only one to hear the Reverend’s hissed whisper. “Sell me your soul, witch, and I shall save you.”

The door slammed, shutting her away in the dark.

Arian shivered, battling hysteria. The dank straw littering the narrow cell reeked of musty things that skittered and rustled along the walls. A shy cough sounded behind her. Arian whirled around, squinting into the gloom to find a tiny gnome of a woman with long, matted hair squatting in the corner.

“Dinna fear, lass. I’m a thief, not a murderer. Ye must be the young witch. I heard ’em speak o’ ye.” Arian realized that she too could hear the rising voices of the villagers in the square. The crone’s lilting burr disintegrated into a girlish giggle. “They’re no more fond o’ me than ye. They clap ol’ Becca in the stocks on the morrow … or hang me.”

It wasn’t difficult for Arian to imagine how the shriveled Scotswoman had ended up in the jail. Despite having fled the persecution of bigotry themselves, the Puritans had little tolerance for anyone who did not share their narrow view of the world. Before Arian could contemplate sharing the woman’s grim fate, the door swung open to admit Marcus and Linnet. Becca shrank into the hay.

Marcus twisted his hat in his hands. “The good Reverend has been gracious enough to offer us his help.”

“How noble of him.” Arian glared at Linnet, feeling as if she had little left to lose.

Marcus missed the man’s baneful smile. “Aye, daughter. He has been kind enough to offer you a home in your time of need.” A sickening suspicion took root in Arian’s mind. “He has offered to take you in and drive out the demons that possess you.”

Linnet smiled with gentle benevolence. “I seek
only to follow an example of a colleague of mine in Boston—a Reverend Mr. Cotton Mather. He recently opened his own home to a young girl possessed with strange fits.” Arian squelched a shiver as his hungry eyes raked her. “In all modesty, I must say it takes a devout man to undertake such a challenge.”

Marcus beamed. “If you will agree, daughter, we will present our case to the villagers. The good Reverend will use his influence to persuade them to our side. What think you of his generosity?”

Arian closed her eyes to blot out Marcus’s hopeful face. “I think,” she said softly, “that the good Reverend can go straight to hell.”

Marcus’s mouth fell open. Linnet’s jaw clenched, a rhythmic tic pulling the skin tight. Arian heard a faint rustle in the hay behind her.

Linnet grabbed Marcus by the collar and shoved him toward the door. “Flee, Goodman! ‘Tis Satan who speaks through this willful child. You must not be privy to such perversity.”

Marcus stumbled out. Linnet slammed the door and whirled on Arian, his eyes narrowed. She locked her knees, refusing to let them crumble. In all of her admiration for his fine looks, why had Charity Burke never noticed the lines of cruelty etched around his sensual mouth?

That mouth curved in a tight-lipped smile at her defiance. “You dare mock me. Do you know what will happen to you without my intervention? You’ll be tried before the magistrates and a jury. If you’re found guilty of witchcraft, you’ll be hanged.” The back of his hand crept up to stroke her cheek. “It would be a shame for such lovely flesh to melt in the fires of hell.”

She recoiled from his touch. “You’ll taste the fires of hell long before I will, sir. You have no evidence to convict me.”

His throaty chuckle unnerved her. “Oh, no? The villagers are examining my evidence as we speak. They
have in their hands a book of childishly scrawled rhymes they believe to be spells, several mysterious vials, and a certain willow broom.” He advanced on her, backing her against the wall, his voice deceptively soft. “Of course, they all know the French are more vulnerable to the attentions of Satan because of their dark and sinful natures … their insatiable hungers …”