Suffer a Witch (13 page)

She scowled.

She’d imagined death to be exactly like this — same smell, same feelings, and even the same sounds. She shook her head at herself and opened her eyes.

“Nothing in life is exactly what you expect it to be, Martha,” she said out loud.

Her voice echoed back to her.

She was lying on her side, with her nose pressed into the dirt. She let out a breath, gathered her strength, and she rolled over. Her body ached from the effort. She stretched her neck and then her arms. Like she did in yoga class, she extended her legs. She felt bruised. If she’d broken something, it had already healed.

“Let there be light,” she said.

Light emanated from her hands. She flicked her fingers to the ceiling, and a line of white light appeared on the ceiling. She was in some kind of cellar or tunnel with granite walls. She must be under a large tree because the tendrils of roots filled the spaces between the rocks. She took a deep breath. The soil was clean, moist, and fertile.

She was not in New England.

She jerked up to sitting. When she was young, the bubonic plague had taken London to its knees. She had helped her mother and father stuff bodies into graves like this one. She looked around her.

She was lying in a long, narrow chamber with granite stones for walls. There seemed to be rooms on either side at the end of the passage. There was enough room for a child to stand, but not for an adult. She crawled toward the end of the passageway to peer into the room on her right. It was a standard burial chamber from the Neolithic era.

She grinned. She knew where she was.

She was on Rousay. She had come home.

She laughed out loud.

After the plague and fire, her family had retreated to her father’s ancestral family land on Rousay, an island in the Orkney Islands just north of the Highlands of Scotland. After the farm manager had begged her father to stop interfering with the farm, she and her parents spent any free day exploring the ancient ruins that covered almost every square inch of Rousay.

Of course, she’d thought that death would be dark peace, blissful quiet, and an end to the press of living. In a Neolithic passage tomb, death was dark peace.

She crawled back to where she had awakened. It had been more than three hundred years since she’d been in tombs like this. She didn’t remember how to get out of them. She lay back down.

The moment her spine hit the dirt, she missed George.

She’d never told him about Rousay or the glorious days of exploration in these tombs. In fact, outside of telling him she was from London — which was technically true — they had never talked about the details of her life before she’d come to live in New England.

When she’d met him, George absolutely hated the Scots. The Scottish Privy Council had just authorized field executions of Scottish Presbyterians, or “Covenanters,” not loyal to the king or caught in arms. In order to stay alive, Covenanters were abandoning their faith in droves. The Reverend George Burroughs found their betrayal to be cowardly and despicable. He had no space for deserters, especially people who abandoned their Puritan beliefs. He had railed against the cowardly Scots.

Her life on Rousay was her secret.

Since she was born in London, no one ever needed to know that her heart and soul belonged in the Orkney Islands. Shaking her head at her stubborn man, she rolled onto her hands and knees again to see if she could find a way out.

She went to the end of the passageway and then back to the rooms. As far as she could tell, there was no way out. This tomb had not been excavated by modern archeologists, so there wasn’t a new entrance. Em was effectively stuck here.

Leaning against the wall, she wondered if she could use magic to get out. She wondered whether George had noticed that she was missing. She was just starting to feel sorry for herself when she heard footsteps on top of the tomb.

She doused the light and lay in the dark.

Someone was standing on top of the tomb. Their boots whacked the side of the tree above. The tree’s roots showered her with dirt.

She lay still.

For all she knew, John Parker or his demon had brought her here. The boots trotted down from the top of the hill. She listened until she heard only silence and the Atlantic Ocean crashing against the shore.

Her mind went over her day. She’d been running errands when she went to Jamaica Plain. Once there, she’d run into Michael, now Martha, who happened to have fought with George in Kuwait. Em had tried to raise the super at the apartment building, but he didn’t want anything to do with her. Martha rang the intercom, and the super changed his mind. She’d gone down the long hallway and then . . .

Nothing.

She had a vague impression of spinning. Her stomach turned over. She had no idea how long she’d been in this passage tomb. Probably hours, but surely not days. She rested in the dark.

She’d lain for a little less than twelve hours in the mass grave on Gallows Hill before waking up with a gasp. The dark crevice and rising moon had transformed death’s stillness into a desperate press for air. She’d lain there for another half hour, attempting to take a full breath. After some time, she’d become aware of the pressure of the witches on top of her. She’d heard the water lapping in the river nearby. She’d become overwhelmed by the stench of rotting flesh and thrown up.

Em’s stomach heaved. She clamped her mouth closed against the acid brought by horrifying memories and too much dark. She felt this terror every time she lay down. When George was home, she’d reach out for his hand, and, even in the deepest depths of sleep, George’s hand would grasp tight onto hers. When George was traveling, he would send her the image of the last thing he’d seen before he closed his eyes for sleep. She would catch the image and hold it to her heart as a reminder that she was not alone in the dark.

She was alone in the dark now.

There was a scraping sound at the end of the tunnel, away from the remains rooms. The person had returned.

Em’s heart beat a desperate rhythm. She was completely vulnerable. No one would know if the devil infected her. She would return home and transform the others. As the devil invaded the powerful, immortal Salem Twenty, they would wreak havoc on the world.

She had to get home. She cursed herself for never learning transportation spells. She had no magical idea how to transport her body from this tomb. She scrambled into one of the rooms and found something big to hide behind.

Again, the scraping sound came at the end of the tunnel. She felt a
whoosh!
as the air pressed out of this quiet place. A blast of cold, moist air sent a shiver down Em’s back. She rolled herself into a tight ball and covered her head.

“Emmy?” a man’s voice yelled. “I know you’re there, love. Just hang on for your old man.”

“Father?” Em whispered.

“It’s me, love,” her father said. “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

Em scrambled to the passageway and peeked down the hall. An opening, just large enough for her to slip through, had been made in the granite. She said a soft prayer of thanks. A man’s hand appeared in the opening. She crawled to the other end of the tomb and grabbed onto the hand. The strong hand of her father pulled her head first from the passage tomb.

“Welcome home,” her father said.

He grabbed her in a hug.

Em stood in her father’s tight grasp for what felt like a second or maybe a year. Emotion overcame her, and she sobbed for all that had happened since she’d seen him last. He held on. When she was steady on her feet, he stepped back to look at her. Ashamed of her emotions, she looked down and away from him. He tipped her face up to look at her.

“My Em,” he said. He wiped her tears. “Always so strong.”

“I’ve had to be,” Em said.

“Yes, you have.” He gave a quick nod and turned away. “We need to get off the hill before anyone sees us.”

“Anyone?” Em asked.

“The island’s a hub of activity now, Em.” Her father smiled. “Archeologists, mostly. Who’d have ever guessed that anyone with even an ounce of sense would want to live on Rousay?”

Em smiled.

“Come now,” her father said. He tucked her arm into the crook of his. “It will be dark soon.”

Em noticed the sun was low in the sky. On Rousay in the summer, it got dark around ten at night. She must have been in the passage tomb for at least ten hours. As if he could hear her thoughts, her father gave her a slight nod.

“I’ll take you home,” he said. “We’ll say you’re a wandering American lost on the hill. Can you pull off the accent?”

“Sure,” Em said.

“I’ve a wife,” her father said. “She’s lovely, funny, smart about books, and not so smart about things — loads of university degrees.”

“She doesn’t know you’re five hundred years old?” Em asked.

“Oh, I’m much older than that.”

Scowling, Em turned to look at her father.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

They took a few steps before Em’s “running errands” clogs slipped.

“Change your shoes,” her father commanded. “While you’re at it, put on something sensible. Good Lord, child, you’re on Rousay.”

“But . . .” Em started to protest.

He laughed and waved away her protest. Smiling, she used magic to change her shoes into her favorite hiking boots. She added a thick, hand-knit, grey sweater over her clothes.

“So severe,” he said. With a snap of his fingers, the sweater became orange, red, and yellow. “To match your hair.”

He grinned as her long brown hair transformed into a sunny red.

“You’re no daughter of mine,” he said.

“I’m not?” she asked.

He grabbed her arms and looked into her face.

“You are my only child,” he said with a nod. “But as far as anyone knows, I am barren.”

Startled by his severity, she could only nod. He squinted at her.

“Most of your childhood, I thought your mother . . .” He gave a slight nod. “That’s why I let you go off to the colony with that ridiculous Henry Rich.”

“You didn’t like Henry?” Em grinned.

“Long-winded speeches about the purity of the church.” Her father shook his head. “Purity of a sixteen-hundred-year-old church. Bah. The man was a loon.”

“It was a different time,” Em said.

“Your mother . . . she was so free, so strong,” her father said. “She knew what I was — told me on her death bed.”

Her father shook his head.

“I’ve never loved another like I loved her,” her father said. He raised his eyebrows. “Anyway, I am ‘Will,’ at your service. I’m married to Justine. We live on Rousay at our old place. I hadn’t been here in two hundred years before I met her in Glasgow. She’s an archeologist.”

Em nodded.

“You still with George?” her father asked.

“Yes,” Em said.

“That’s a long union,” her father said.

“Three hundred and thirty-three years,” Em said. “And counting.”

“Why not sow your oats?” her father asked.

“It’s not my style,” Em said. “I’m like my mother that way.”

Her father laughed and set off toward their farm. She followed him at a quick clip down the paths carved by ancients. A half-hour into their hike, they were joined by a large red Scottish deerhound and her mate, a grey Scottish deerhound. The dogs surrounded them in greeting and then rushed toward the back door of the house on the bluff. The dogs’ bark brought a woman to the door. She opened the screen to let the dogs inside. She gave a worried look out into the field and then turned back into the house.

“She can’t see us,” Em said.

“We blend in,” her father said.

Em looked down at her bright sweater and her father’s brown leather jacket. She threw him a doubt-filled look. He laughed. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The woman returned to the door and looked out. He whistled again, and she turned toward the sound.

“I’m here!” her father yelled.

She gave a whole-arm wave and went back inside.

“She’s mostly blind,” he said under his breath. “Lost her sight as a child.”

“How does an archeologist work if she can’t see?” Em asked in the same low tone.

“She has a husband who knows these ruins like the back of his hand,” her father said.

Em smiled.

“You’ll like her,” her father said. “But first . . .”

Her father stopped walking. They had been walking so fast that Em tripped over him. He caught her before she went down.

“We’ll talk when she’s asleep,” her father said. “We need to talk.”

“How did you know I was your daughter?” The words popped out of Em’s mouth before she realized she even had the question.

“I came to America when I heard of the hangings,” her father said. “I went to the crevice. I looked in the pit, and you weren’t there.”

“You went to Gallows Hill,” Em said. Her father looked away from her to cover his emotion. “I saw you get off the ship.”

He turned to look at her.

“Or I thought I did.” She shrugged. “It was just something that happened, you know? A few days ago . . . Well, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things.”

“And?”

“I don’t know anything,” she said.

“We’ll talk,” he said.

He grabbed her arm, and they started walking toward the back door.

“Come along, stupid American — let’s get you inside,” her father said. He went up the three stone steps and into the stone house. “I’m home!”

Em stood at the bottom of the steps for a moment. Through the doorway, she heard her father greet his wife and the excited barks of his dogs. Nodding to encourage herself, she went up the steps and into the house.

“Right this way, sir,” the uniformed police officer said to George.

George had called the police at the Mystic Divine. He’d had just enough time to reschedule his clients before a policeman arrived. The uniformed policeman had followed him to the Central Burying Ground to Martha’s body. When they arrived, Buford, the ghost of the British militiaman, saluted George and retreated from Martha’s body. While the policeman bent down to Martha’s corpse, the little red-haired girl pulled at George’s pockets for his keys. George managed to slip her his keys without the policeman noticing.

A whirlwind of activity ensued. George was led to a bench and instructed to wait until someone could take his statement. He looked up at the uniformed policewoman and nodded. She waited for him to get up before taking off toward the street. He followed the young policewoman to the sidewalk on Boylston Street, where a salty, older detective waited for him.

“Mr. Burroughs.” The detective held out his hand for George to shake. “Detective Shane Donnell.”

“Sir,” George said.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Reverend George Burroughs, would you?” The detective laughed. “You know, from Salem?”

George smiled. He’d learned a long time ago that denying who he was only led to long-winded conversations about Salem Village. By saying nothing, the person usually moved on. The detective was no different. Seeing George’s smile, the detective checked himself and gave a curt nod.

“I’ll bet you’re sick of that,” Detective Donnell said.

“George Burroughs had nine children,” George said with a shrug.

“That he did,” Detective Donnell said. He looked into George’s face. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh?” George asked.

“You work with the homeless in the winter,” Detective Donnell said.

“I do,” George said.

“Why is that?” the detective asked.

“They are the insane, the lost, the unwell, the lonely, and the abused,” George said. “They are the refuse of our prosperous society. They need help, especially in the winter. They accept my help.”

“What do you do?” the detective asked.

George knew that the detective was trying to get a sense of him as a person. He was tempted to use magic to clear any of the detective’s doubt. He’d found that any good detective could feel the deception even if they didn’t sense the magic. In general, his usual charm, honesty, and a smile worked the best.

“I talk to them,” George said. “Reach out to the isolated pockets of humanity that are missed by the usual social safety nets. I have contacts with social services and non-profits. Once the need is found, it’s pretty straightforward to get actual help. The trick is making the connection. I happen to be good at connecting with people. I’m able to do it financially. So I spend my winters out in the wilds of Boston.”

“You own the . . .” The detective gestured to the Mystic Divine.

“My partner, Em, and I do,” George said.

“Partner, not wife?” the detective asked.

“Wife,” George said. “‘Em’ is short for ‘Martha,’ a nickname her father gave her.”

“You’re clearly not the Reverend George Burroughs,” Detective Donnell said with a smile.

George could have told him that, no matter how many times he’d begged Em, she would not marry him. He could have said that Em was still married to Giles, a fact Giles remembered every time he needed something or outlived another wife. He could have said that, while his wife Mary had been dead for more than three hundred years, in the eyes of God, he was still married to her. Instead, he just smiled.

The detective started flipping through the pages of a pad of paper fit for the television detective Columbo. He took a cheap ballpoint pen out of his pocket. He was just about to write something down when a younger man walked up, holding a smartphone. The young man held out the smartphone to the older detective. Detective Donnell looked at the phone and then gave the young man an irritated look before he shifted his focus back to his pad of paper.

“My partner,” Detective Donnell said without looking up.

“Detective Alvarez.” The young man held out his hand for George to shake. George shook his hand. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be
the
Reverend George Burroughs.”

Detective Donnell looked up at George and then at his partner.

“I see what you mean,” Detective Donnell said. He turned to his partner. “George Burroughs had nine children.”

“I know, but . . .” Detective Alvarez said. “He could be the real thing. They were
witches
, you know.”

George wished that Em were there to hear this. She would have laughed. He flushed with worry for her. Keeping his panic for her at bay, he grinned at the young man and looked away. Detective Donnell hit the younger detective’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Focus,” Detective Donnell said to the young man. To George, he said, “These young kids have no attention span.”

“How can I help?” George asked.

“Tell us what you know,” Detective Alvarez said.

Detective Donnell gave him a sideways look, and the younger detective shrugged.

“I don’t know what I know,” George said.

“Start from the beginning,” Detective Donnell said.

“Of today?” George asked.

“‘Martha came into the store’?” Detective Donnell read off his pad.

“Sure.” George nodded. “I had a break in between clients.”

“Clients?” Detective Donnell asked.

“I give spiritual counseling,” George said.

“Psychic readings?” Detective Alvarez asked.