Black Magic Woman
Authors: Justin Gustainis
Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Mystery Fiction, #Paranormal, #Fantasy, #Horror, #Witches, #Occult Fiction, #Occult & Supernatural, #Occultism
Woman
Supernatural Investigator
Jim Butcher was kind enough to take time from getting Harry Dresden in trouble and read an early draft of the book. His encouragement and support kept me trying to find a publisher when I wanted to just give up. Jim's talent as a writer is matched only by his generosity of spirit. I want to be just like him when I grow up.
Christian Dunn at Solaris bought the manuscript of
Black Magic Woman
and then worked with me, very patiently, to make it better. He is a prince among men. At least in my house.
Lawrence Osborn, copy editor without peer, amazed me with both the breadth and depth of his knowledge. Anybody who can find and correct my mistakes in history
and
Latin
and
computer technology is a polymath of the first order.
An unknown judge at the Colorado Gold Writers Contest several years ago gave me some excellent advice on rewriting the Prologue, and a great deal of encouragement, as well.
Michael Kanaly and C.J. Henderson deserve thanks for many favors granted and kindnesses bestowed.
Terry Bear offered nutritional advice and did copious menu planning, most of which was ignored. Pizza delivery drivers fear him.
My wife, Patricia Grogan, is the best thing that ever happened to me. Without her to do the "happy dance" with, none of this would be worth doing. I love you forever, bear.
"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."
"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
Colony of Massachusetts
June 1692
The whitewashed walls, all Puritan starkness and simplicity, were broken up only by a few narrow windows and the oil lamps that were placed every ten feet. The ceiling was high, its unpainted beams clearly visible to any who might glance that way while seeking Heaven's guidance. The rows of hard wooden benches by design offered minimal comfort, lest anyone invite disgrace by dozing off in the middle of a sermon—in any case, dozing was unlikely to tempt many attending
these
proceedings.
Seated in the last row, Bridget could see that all of the benches were filled. No family in Salem was failing to pay heed to the trials by sending a representative. None would have dared.
Finally, Bridget made herself look to the front of the meeting hall, where the seven magistrates sat behind a series of tables placed end-to-end. Their expressions were both grim and righteous, as befitted the responsibility entrusted to them by the colonial governor—and, indirectly, by the Lord God Himself. Chief Magistrate William Stoughton, the colony's lieutenant governor, sat stoically at the center of this row of rectitude.
Twenty feet of open space separated the magistrates' tables from the first row of benches. The accused were always directed to stand there, midway between the people and their appointed guardians.
Chief Magistrate Stoughton stared at the woman who now stood before the court. His forbidding gaze seemed calculated to freeze the blood of any accused sinner subjected to it. Bridget had seen more than one poor wretch wilt under this merciless scrutiny, confessing to the charges without the ordeal of a trial—thereby saving the Colony no small amount of time, trouble, and expense.
Bridget Warren prayed that such would be the case this time—even while knowing in her heart that such an outcome was less likely than snow in July.
"Goodwife Carter," Stoughton declared solemnly, "ye stand accused of consorting with the Devil and of practicing witchcraft, despicable acts condemned by Sacred Scripture as well as the laws of this Colony. How answer ye these charges?"
The woman who stood before the court neither cowered nor looked away from Stoughton's piercing gaze. She sounded both confident and calm as she replied, "I am innocent of those crimes and of any other, Your Lordship."
"The truth of that will yet be determined," the Chief Magistrate said sternly. Raising his voice, he addressed the congregation. "Who gives evidence against this woman?"
The question was followed by uncharacteristic silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.
Stoughton stared across the length of the meeting hall, and Bridget Warren fancied that she could feel the cold bite of his gaze. She tried to rise, but her trembling legs refused to obey. Nathaniel placed a reassuring hand under her elbow, but did not try to lift her up. To stand or remain seated was her decision, and hers alone.
Grasping with both hands the back of the pew in front of her, Bridget pushed herself to her feet. In a voice louder and more resolute than she'd ever thought she could muster, she declared,
"I do."
"Hush, you," she said softly. "Speak not such words—they're a danger, these days."
"What, 'couple?' Where's the danger in that?"
She slapped his leg, but not very hard. "No, idiot, I meant 'possessed,' as you knew full well."
"Aye, well, I suppose I did," he said with a smile.
"Still and all, I know whereof you speak. My passion did burn brighter this time. Mayhap I wanted to lose myself in pleasure, to forget that business of the trial today."
"Like enough you're right," he said, "but I'll not complain of the result." He gave a contented sigh.
A few peaceful minutes went by before he suddenly asked, "Will she hang, then?"
"Sarah? Aye, she will—as well she ought." Bridget's voice had lost all levity. "Tis a sad thing, Nate, for all that she brought her doom upon herself. I had no joy over condemning her in the court. It were the hardest thing ever I have done."
"Still, the judges believed you. But then, they have done the same for every accuser who has come forward."
"I spoke the truth. You
know
I did."
"If only truth were enough to win the day," he said dryly.
"Yes," she said, her expression bleak. "So many good, blameless people condemned, by the words of crazy children, or jealous neighbors, or superstitious fools. But Sarah Carter…"
"'In league with the Devil.' I'd not credit it, had I not heard the words from your lips."
"I'd not credit it, myself, but that I saw her with mine own two eyes. She were sacrificing a goat, that day I came upon her in the wood, and she had the Devil's signs drawn in the dirt all 'round her—the pentacle, the inverted cross, and suchlike. I recognize the black magic when I see it, Nate, even if I practice only the white myself."
"Aye, I know." A frown appeared on Nate's face. "Does not Sarah have a daughter?"
"She does. Rebecca, her name is," Bridget said. "Aged… eight years, or thereabout."
"What's to become of her? The father died some time back, I think."
"Aye, a horse threw him and cracked his skull. Or so Goody Close told me."
"So, the girl's an orphan, once Sarah goes to the gallows." Nate shook his head sadly. "What's to become of her?" he asked again.
"They've relatives in Boston, or so the talk goes. Mayhap they will take the child in."
"I'll pray that they do. T'would be an injustice, were she turned out into the streets to starve. The daughter should not wear the blame for the mother's wickedness."
"Aye," she said. "There's been too many innocents ground up in the mill of justice already."
When asked for last words, Sarah Carter replied in a cold, clear voice that, some said, could be heard throughout Salem village:
"May you all be damned to Hell, and that right soon."
Then they kicked the ladder out from under her.
Bridget Warren stood at a distance and made herself watch. The expression on her face resembled that of someone about to vomit—which is exactly how she felt.
Nate stood with her, his arm around her shoulders. "We've no need of this," he said softly. "Why invite such sorrow into your heart?"
"I brought it about," she said firmly. "I'll not hide from the consequences, ugly though they be."
Nate squeezed her tighter. A few moments later, they were about to turn away and start for home when Nate suddenly growled, "Gah! I cannot believe they brought the child here!"
Bridget stared at her husband. "What child?"
He pointed with his chin. "Look yonder."
She followed his gesture to one of the little knots of people ringing Gallows Hill. It took her a moment to recognize the adults as Sarah Carter's Boston relatives, who had been pointed out to her a few days earlier. They clung together, the women weeping quietly.
But one who stood with them, a girl of about eight, was not crying.
She was looking at Bridget Warren.
It seemed to Bridget that she and the girl stared at each other for a long time, a contest that was halted only when the child raised her left hand, the first two fingers extended, and sketched a brief but complex pattern in the air.
Bridget gasped, then immediately brought up her right hand to make a gesture of her own—the sign that was the standard defense against the curses used in black magic.
Rebecca Carter continued to stare, expressionless, at Bridget until her aunt grasped the child's hand and pulled her away.
Nate Warren had observed the brief, silent exchange between the two females. Even if he had not, the expression on his wife's face would have told him that something was very wrong.
"Bridget, what means this?" he breathed.
It took his wife a moment more to tear her gaze away from the little girl—the youngest black witch she had ever seen, or even heard of.
"Mean?" she said finally. "Methinks it means but one thing, Nathaniel."
Bridget paused to look again at the lifeless form on the gallows, then sent one final glance after the retreating back of Rebecca Carter. After a few seconds she continued, in a voice that chilled Nate Warren's blood.
"It means this wicked business is not yet done with."
