Authors: Kevin
The Necromancer (29 page)
Edward’s ragged breathing slowed. Roger and Corwin stood at opposite ends of the clearing, both staring open-mouthed at the fi ery path left in the woods. Roger turned to Edward and ran to him. Corwin followed.
“Are you all right?” Roger asked.
Edward nodded. “I am well,” he replied, then after a pause: “What was that?”
“I know not,” Roger said.
Edward looked at up Corwin.
“Nor do I,” the sheriff added, looking back at the woods.
Edward sat up.
“Come,” he said. “We must fi nd Susanna and the
others.”
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Roger extended his good hand. Edward took it and Roger pulled him up. His whole body ached and stung and throbbed.
The fog was thicker now and continuing to grow
denser.
Far off, the creature’s howls and screeches faded into nothingness.
*****
“What the devil is this?” Parris whispered to himself.
He made his way over to where he had seen Susanna last and knelt down and groped for her. He crawled around for a minute, then his hand fell on her delicate, thin wrist. It was warm. He proceeded to tie her up.
When he was fi nished, he sat down on the ground beside her and waited.
He sat there a long time with his arms wrapped
around his knees, one hand clasping his wrist, the other holding his pistol, now loaded. An odd silence prevailed. No crickets chirruped in the grass, no owls hooted in the trees, no bats fl uttered overhead. Nothing. The roars and screams and gunfi re had stopped some time ago. Parris never felt so alone.
He bowed his head and thought of Naomi and
Elizabeth in New York and wished he could be with them now.
Elizabeth had been feeling much better before he sent her and 264
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her mother away. He wished he didn’t have to do it, but they would be much safer in New York than in the midst of chaos and mayhem in Salem. Yes, it was most prudent and wise to send them away when he did. It was very wise indeed.
He looked up. Voices came from the direction of the wall, and they were getting louder.
“Susanna,” Roger called.
“Sam,” Corwin called.
“Here!” Parris replied and stood up. “I am here.”
Now he could see the light of their torches coming toward him. He rose to his feet and ran up to meet them.
“Where are the others?” he asked. “Where are the Cranleys? Where are Morley Lawson, Milton Ramsey, and Cedric Aldrich?”
“Dead,” Corwin said fl atly. He had recovered his wits and courage, but didn’t look well. His hands were wrapped in bloody rags.
“All of them?”
There was a tense pause.
“Milton...may yet be living,” Corwin said. “I am not certain. But if he be alive, he is surely not well.”
“Lord,” Parris whispered, shaking his head.
“What happened here?” Roger asked.
“Blayne has been defeated. I bound him to a tree,”
Parris said, nodding over his shoulder. “He is alive, but unconscious.”
“Where is Susanna?” Edward asked.
“Over here.” He strode back to her body and the
others followed.
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“Susanna!” Edward and Roger exclaimed, almost in unison. They knelt down beside her. Roger cradled her head in his lap as Edward hastily proceeded to undo the rope.
“What happened to her?” Roger asked, looking up at Parris sadly.
“She fought Blayne. It was she who defeated him.”
“Then why is she tied up?” Edward said indignantly.
“During the battle she plainly exhibited symptoms of witchcraft, by which means she fought and ultimately defeated the warlock. I do not deem it wise to free her. A most powerful sorceress is she.”
“Are you touched in the head, man?” Roger said. “She is barely living. Only the slightest breath does she draw.”
Parris looked at Corwin.
“Why do you let them loosen her bindings? Surely you can see the danger of that.”
“You said she defeated Blayne with the magic of
witchcraft and that is how she came to be thus injured?”
“I do.”
“Then she has proved herself to be our ally in this matter.”
“Well...,” Parris said hesitantly. “Yes. I suppose she has.”
“Then I see no reason why she should be restrained at this time. In any case, she appears to be in no state to cause mischief through either magical or physical means. In fact, it would seem she may not survive her injuries. Therefore, let her be.”
“But...” Parris started to object, then stopped himself, seeing Corwin cast him a baleful glare.
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“Susanna,” Roger said softly, brushing the hair back from her forehead. Tears rose to his eyes. “Susanna.”
The fog began to thin again.
Susanna’s complexion took on a blue hue which
fl ickered brightly, becoming radiant and full and steady, the light refl ecting off the faces of Roger and Edward. Her shallow breathing deepened. Her cool fi ngers closed briefl y on the hand which Edward held hers with. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Her eyes,” he said.“There is something. . .”
Slowly, she sat up. She turned to Roger, then rose to her feet, allowing Edward’s hand to slip away.
“See,” Parris whispered to Corwin. “She is not as impaired as we fi rst supposed. She must be restrained.” He stepped toward her, and Corwin blocked him across the chest with his arm. “We...”
She turned and walked listlessly to the tree where Ambrose sat bound with his arms behind his back and his head lolling onto one side of his chest. She touched her palm to the side of his face. His head rose as his eyes opened blearily and peered into hers. A tear rolled down his cheek.
They remained still for a long time, like ancient statues.
Then the blue aura fl ickered again until it stopped altogether, and Susanna went limp and collapsed to the ground.
Roger and Edward ran to her. She was weak, but
stirring and conscious.
“How do you feel, dearest?” Roger asked.
She looked at him groggily.
“Tired,” she said lowly. “My bones hurt. My throat hurts.”
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She looked at his maimed arm. Her face scrunched into a frown.
“Father! Your arm. What happened?”
“Never you mind, dearest. I am only grateful you are alive. Now it is most important that we see you are well again.”
The fog was largely dissipated now. The silver wall was gone. The sky was black and festooned with stars. The grass was dark again. Everything was the same as when they arrived.
But men had died.
“Help me! Somebody help me!” The cry was hoarse
and frustrated.
“It came from that direction,” Corwin said, pointing to a grove of elm trees halfway up the hill.
Corwin and Parris followed the voice. Edward looked at Roger.
“Go,” Roger said. “I will stay with her.”
And Edward ran after the reverend and the sheriff.
The three of them came to the grove and followed the raspy voice through the trees. It wasn’t long before they came to the clearing and saw the man squirming in the black muck.
“Milton,” Corwin said, almost to himself. “I was certain you were dead.”
“Well, I most assuredly am not. Help me. I am
wounded and cannot free myself from this...this...” He raised his arm a little and it snapped back to sticky black ground.
It would have been almost comical if Milton weren’t so severely injured. A pleased look crossed Corwin’s face, not because Milton looked ridiculous, but because he was alive.
He grabbed his dagger with his swollen and broken hands and knelt down and started cutting the tar-like substance 268
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away while Edward and Parris watched. Corwin stopped and looked over his shoulder at them.
“I could use some assistance here,” he said.
“Oh,” Parris said. “Of course.” He and Edward
produced their daggers and knelt to the task of freeing Milton.
An hour later, the sun was rising and they were on their way back to Salem: Milton, Susanna, and Roger riding in the back of the wagon with Ambrose; Edward and Sheriff Corwin riding up front, Edward taking the reins. As they rode on, Parris realized something was wrong and rode up to the front of the wagon to tell Corwin.
“George,” he said. “What about the girl?”
“I think she will be fi ne,” the sheriff replied. “I have known her and her father for many years. She is no more a witch than you or I.”
“No. Not the Harrington girl, the other one. Jessica Blayne. What happened to her? Where is she?”
An uneasy, sickening feeling fi lled Corwin’s stomach.
He had forgotten about Blayne’s wench. He sighed deeply.
He couldn’t concern himself with her now. His main priority was to bring his prisoner and these injured people back to Salem with haste so they could begin recuperating and trial proceedings could commence.
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270
November Coming Fire
Roger Harrington’s Journal (entered by Susanna
Harrington)—
11 November—At father’s request, I am continuing his journal as my own since he is unable to do so. He tells me it is important for posterity’s sake that an accurate record of all events such as we have seen and partaken of be kept. Poor father, Dr. Griggs had to saw off his arm above the elbow, such was its condition. He insists he is well, but his skin retains a sickly pallor, and I know he is in much pain. The kind doctor said he will regain his strength with speed, and that is some comfort. The doctor visited us this morning and assured me of this, but still, he cannot stop boasting of my recuperation, so certain was he that I was destined to die. Indeed, we are fortunate. Father is already much the better, as am I, though still I am very much weaker than usual. If it were not for Edward and Thea, I am certain, Father and I would be much the worse for our injuries. I am most glad Edward is with us still. It comforts me much that he is here. The hanging is to be tomorrow, and though father is very set against my attending, I know 271
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I must attend to ease my mind, and Edward has agreed to take me. I must see the end of all this.
12 November—The hanging failed. I stood with
Edward and Father amongst the people of Salem on Gallows Hill this noontime, amongst the shouts for justice, while they wheeled him up to the locust tree in the executioner’s wagon in shackles. Upon seeing me, he cast me such a look that my flesh ran cold. I turned away quickly for fear that to endure that look a moment longer I should surely die. I looked back when I felt his eyes pass away from me. He was mounting the ladder, hissing at the crowd as they shouted at him and cursed him for his crimes. Then he reached the top of the ladder and considered us. He seemed to have neither remorse nor regret—no emotion at all—and that chilled me to shivers. Judge Hathorne read the charges against him, but did not ask if he was repentant. He simply nodded to Jeremiah Brown, who placed the
hood over his head, and then the rope. Mr. Townsend pushed him off the ladder. He fell and the rope snapped tight and his body jerked. He swayed back and forth for a minute or more, then his knees rose up. He swung his hands under his feet and reached up for the rope and began to climb up. O, I am more affrighted than ever I have been before. The guards stopped him before he escaped, but I am no longer certain he can be killed.
I know I shall not be able to sleep restfully till he is dead. That sounds terrible, and I wish it were not I who penned those words, but it is the truth. God forgive and protect me.
The day after the failed execution, Judge Hathorne, Sheriff Corwin, and Reverend Parris sat at a table in Beadle’s Tavern drinking tankards of ale as they discussed the situation. It was a cold night, but the large cobblestone fi replace threw enough heat to keep the tavern comfortably warm throughout. It was well past eleven o’clock.
Most of the patrons had gone home long ago, having had an 272
November Coming Fire
evening of stealing glances at the trio and whispering to one another. Now the three men could speak more freely.
“I think it most prudent,” Parris said, “to strike all reference to Blayne from the records. Should there be inquiries later on, we claim ignorance at ever having heard the name.
There most assuredly will be inquiries if we let it be known that we sent two reverends to their deaths under charges of witchcraft.”
“I see,” Hathorne said. He turned to Corwin. “Do you concur with Sam’s proposition, George?”
“I do. I deem it most prudent indeed. I should think we shall suffer enough admonishment for the deaths of one reverend and nineteen others—all innocents.” He leaned over the table to the judge. “But two reverends...” he whispered, shaking his head. “And the second without a trial...” He huffed, sitting back in his chair and throwing one bandaged hand up while raising his tankard to his mouth with the other and gulping his ale.
Hathorne nodded solemnly.
“Very well then,” he said. “I shall see that it is done in the morning. Now, Sam,” he said, looking at Parris. “You are certain Blayne will not survive tomorrow’s execution.”
“Most certain. There has yet to be a witch or a warlock able to tolerate the pyre.”
“Good,” Hathorne said. “You and George see to
it that Blayne is not the exception. There is much distress amongst the townspeople due to Saturday’s folly. I should be placed in a most awkward position should we fail to succeed this time.”