The Necromancer (16 page)

There was no added ceremony, only silence as she stood at the top of the ladder awaiting the fi nal shove she would have to take. At fi rst, after waiting what seemed like eternity, she thought she may be dreaming, dreaming a dream of darkness that never ended. When was the push going to come? Was this some kind of cruel joke? She began to think so, but when Cranley fi nally shoved her back and buttocks with both hands and turned her off the ladder, groping her in the process, not giving her a chance to ponder the moment, she felt herself plummeting through the naked air and knew for that second that this was the end.

Her body fell hard and fast, using up all the rope’s slack in moments. The rope snapped taut in an instant, abruptly cutting short Bridget’s descent as the knot cracked hard behind her ear, wrenching and breaking her neck.

The crowd gasped.

Her legs swung out in front of her. She thrashed violently, suspended in the air, jiggling the rope as her legs kicked wildly. The skirt of her dress grew wet as her bowels and bladder failed her. The stench of feces and urine drifted to meet Cranley’s nostrils in the warm and still air as he looked at the twitching hanged woman. A light wheezing could be heard coming from her mouth and nose as her body convulsed once, twice, a third time, then suddenly went stiff, allowing the rope to become straight and taut. The wheezing stopped. No one spoke. The only sounds to be heard came from a few sparrows fl ying over the North River and the creaking of the rope against its bough, burdened by the weight of its victim swaying in a circular manner while the body spun slowly clockwise, then counterclockwise, then clockwise again.

140

Gallows Hill

*****

neglected the journal of late. I have not the constitution to bear the events, which I know I must record for posterity’s sake, that perhaps future generations who would read these words may somehow avert such barbarities from taking precedence again. This Tuesday past, poor Rebecca Nurse and four other women were brought to Gallows Hill, and hanged from the great locust tree as witches. And now, four days later, they hang there still, stinking of rot. Buzzards have gathered themselves in that damned tree and fl y about it picking at the bodies at their leisure. This grieves me verily. I knew Rebecca.

She was one of the most benevolent women I have ever been acquainted with. She has helped this family through many a time of hardship, offering nothing short of her own blood to see us fare well. I think it improbable that I should ever see her like again. I do not know the others hanged; only that Sarah Good was of poor disposition and poorer reputation. I cannot vouch for her, but if a woman, such as Rebecca Nurse, could be branded a witch and executed as such, then we may all be in most dire peril. I can only hope that God Almighty will see us through these desperate times anon, and return my Martha to her former state of health and good cheer and bring our daughter back home to us.

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142

Ambrose sat robed in black on an oriental rug in the center of the drawing room. He was in a lotus position: legs folded Indian style, the thumb and index fi nger of each hand touching, palms up. His eyes were closed, his posture perfect. His face was clammy with cold sweat.

Before him, hovering about twelve inches above his lap, was a dark maroon gemstone about the size of a large apple—a shew stone, he had called it—which emitted a dim white-blue light from its center.

Ambrose had been seated in this posture in the dark for some hours now, meditating, seeing.

He shuddered.

He was surfacing from his trance.

Jessica appeared at the threshold of the room holding a candlestick, bathing Ambrose in the candle’s fl ickering yellow fl ame, and remained standing there, watching him sadly.

He opened his eyes.

“It has begun,” he sighed softly.

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The light in the stone went out and it fell from its suspended position in the air. Ambrose caught it in mid-plummet and drew a deep breath.

“The bloodletting has fi nally commenced,” he said, exhaling, shaking the shew stone in a fi st of triumph.

“Ambrose.”

He turned toward the voice, to the door where Jessica stood.

“Susanna is having the dreams again.”

Ambrose rose from his posture and followed Jessica up to the bedroom he now shared with his bride. As they approached the room, they could hear Susanna crying. He fl ung the door open. She thrashed her head back and forth in bed, her hair pasted to her face with tears and sweat, saying,

“No! No! Don’t...” Her arms fl ailed. Her legs pumped up and down, kicking the sheets onto the fl oor.

Ambrose sat down beside her on the bed and brushed the hair from her face.

“Susanna,” he said, grabbing her wrists and pinning her arms to the bed. “Susanna!”

“NO!” she screamed.

“Susanna!” He shook her violently. “SUSANNA!!”

She stopped thrashing, but didn’t open her eyes, didn’t awaken.

Her head lolled over to one side and she fell into a deep, silent sleep.

Ambrose turned away and looked up at Jessica

staring down at Susanna’s limp body. Even he, with all his knowledge—arcane and worldly—didn’t know what to make of these nightmares. She shouldn’t be able to remember 144

The Summoning

anything of what happened on Walpurgisnacht, consciously or subconsciously, but there could be no other explanation.

She was remembering, despite his enchantments, and soon she would probably remember everything. Those memories would fi nd their way into her conscious mind and she would know what he was.

Her subconscious mind was already becoming aware and her conscious behavior refl ected that. Though they still made love every night since their wedding, a barrier had been erected between them. He saw a glazed, traumatized expression in her face on occasion, but mostly during, and especially after, they made love. Her lips, more than anything, betrayed the true feelings she was coming to realize she had about him. Her kisses lacked the honest, unbridled passion that had characterized them prior to the wedding, prior to her rape.

Ambrose had to do something. He couldn’t—

wouldn’t—lose her again. He found himself thinking this, then corrected it. No. She wasn’t Odara, but it was so often so easy to forget that. Susanna and Odara were so much alike, more so than mere superfi cial appearances betokened. They were kindred spirits, brought together by one link—him. The similarities extending to every aspect of their personalities, even down to their slightest mannerisms, was uncanny.

Ambrose found himself on many occasions about to call Susanna by Odara’s name before catching himself in mid-utterance, and he began to wonder if he was really in love with her or just with Odara’s memory evoked by her. After pondering the matter for some time, he had concluded that his love for Susanna was genuine. Was it not, after all, the same qualities he loved about Odara that had caused him to fall in love with Susanna? Certainly, the initial physical resemblance had attracted him to her, but it wasn’t until he began interacting with her as a person that he ultimately fell in love with her. He couldn’t lose her now. He couldn’t go through that pain again.

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Determined, he stood up and walked to the door,

looking back at Susanna’s slumbering body, then at Jessica.

“Stay with her, and watch over her,” he said, picking up a candlestick from the table by the bed and inserting a fresh one.

“Where are you going?” she asked as he lit his candle from the fl ame of hers.

He looked at her gravely. An expression fell across his face which she had never seen before. It was worry.

“I have much work to do before sunrise. Stay with her. I know it is diffi cult for you, but you would be doing me a great service. Please. Take care of her. For me.”

He left.

Jessica couldn’t refuse such a request from him so tenderly put. She felt sympathy for him. She knew all too well the pain of losing someone close, the pain she felt everyday, knowing Ambrose no longer loved her, if he ever really did.

He loved
her
, the ungrateful wench on the bed. Jessica would kill her if she didn’t think it would hurt him; if she wasn’t so afraid of him, and what he would do and was capable of doing; if she wasn’t so afraid of losing any chance to have him back in her arms and in her bed.

She would honor his request to the letter. Perhaps the time would come when he would realize that Susanna was really no good for him. Perhaps her loyalty would pay off and he would realize she was the best woman for him. Perhaps...

Perhaps...Perhaps...

She placed the candlestick on the table, draped a blanket over the armchair standing against the wall by the door, and sat down for her vigil. She was tired and knew it would be 146

The Summoning

diffi cult to keep her heavy eyelids from closing on her, but she would make the effort and hope Ambrose returned soon.

He certainly seemed concerned, she found herself thinking. But was this really necessary? Why should this be different than any other night? Susanna is sleeping soundly enough to be mistaken for dead, and the nightmares have passed already. Surely this is pointless.

And thinking so, Jessica fell asleep herself.

*****

She stepped out of bed and thought to wake Jessica and ask her what was going on, but decided not to disturb her.

She looked too peaceful, and even though they weren’t really getting along, Susanna harbored no resentment toward her.

Jessica was just jealous, that was all. In time, that would pass.

Perhaps they would even become friends.

Susanna looked at the candle. It still burned, but it was low. She replaced it with a new one and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She went looking for Ambrose.

She still felt strangely, inexplicably detached from him—almost afraid of him—but he was her husband now, and to him her loyalty belonged.

She descended the stairs slowly, gradually becoming more alert as the lingering effects of sleep drifted away. But although her awareness was getting sharper, she was confused.

It was diffi cult to think clearly. Too many thoughts bombarded her mind. Too many emotions fl ooded her head, changing the 147

The Necromancer

blood in her veins to ice.
I should not be here
, she thought
. I don’t
belong here, but with my family in Salem.

Her inner eye fl ickered with a lewd montage: howling beasts; naked bodies; debauchery; murder; sin. They were fl eeting images that made no sense to her but mindless horror.

A shudder crept up her spine, and the images and her memory of them were gone. But the horror gripped her and refused to let her go.

She padded to the bottom of the stairs and made a cursory inspection of all the rooms, but found nothing but emptiness and silence, drear and profound silence. She could hear every movement she made, every rustling of her gown, every breath she took. It unnerved her to no end.

She found herself standing outside in front of the house. Though she wasn’t aware of having done so, she had opened the door and stepped into the cool night breeze. The candle had guttered out some time ago, and now she stared at it dumbly as if some law of nature had been broken.

The moon was full and bright, thoroughly bathing everything in its pure light and washing most of the color from the trees and surrounding landscape.

Out here, things weren’t quite as quiet as they had been indoors. Owls hooted. Crickets chirruped. Trees swayed in the wind, their leaves seeming to whisper dreadful secrets in the night. Flocks of bats fl uttered overhead searching for food.

And a peculiar murmuring droned on far away.

For some reason, Susanna’s curiosity quelled her fear and she went in search of the murmuring’s source.

At fi rst, it was diffi cult to determine which direction the sound came from. The wind seemed to be carrying it to diverse places at the discretion of its whim, and like so many phantoms, it vanished just as she became confi dent; she was 148

The Summoning

closing in on it. However, she was able to speculate fairly well as to the general vicinity of the sound’s origin by noting the limited range of distance she had covered in pursuit of that sound.

Now, as she headed in that direction, she knew

she had fi nally made the right choice, and was afraid. But her fear wasn’t paralyzing and didn’t hamper her quest. Her inquisitiveness was superior to her fears, and wouldn’t be sated until a discovery had been made. Of course, she was anxious about what she might be likely to fi nd, but, she reasoned, if she stayed a safe distance away and remained quiet, what harm would there be in that? Besides, Ambrose may be out here.

Even though she was now sure that she did fear him, he was still her husband and deserved to be respected as such. If he was injured or needed her help, she would have to oblige him.

Her gait progressed from a walk to a stride—dropping the candlestick—to a sprint, and soon her chest was heaving and burning, her heart beating faster, her head pounding. The fresh sweat of physical activity mingled on her skin with the dry, stale perspiration of her nightmares.

Her run was producing results, though. She was

covering ground, and not in vain. A strange murky glow loomed in the boughs of the trees ahead over the next hill, and there could be no doubt that the murmuring was coming from there. It was much louder now. The fl uctuations in the glow’s brightness coincided exactly with the tones of the sound.