Suffer a Witch (15 page)

“Me, too,” Em said.

Her father nodded, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Her father’s eyes went vague, and his face reflected his longing for her mother.

“How did they become witches?” Em asked.

“That’s right,” her father said with a smile. “That’s what we were talking about. The thought of your mother pushed everything else out of my head.”

“Yes.”

“They became witches because you were first reborn into your power. That’s what we call it — ‘reborn.’ At the moment of rebirth, you had the capacity to make anything you touched quasi-immortal — a witch.”

“And now?” Em asked.

“Surely you’ve tried it,” he said.

“Giles,” Em said. “He likes young, inexperienced women. He’s tried to make them stay that way.”

“That is not the way it works,” her father said. “We grow and change; we just don’t age and die.”

“Ever?”

“Well, clearly, we can die,” he said.

“How is that possible?” Em asked.

“I don’t know,” her father said. “Science will probably consume my next cycle. For now, my focus is learning from our ancestors through archeology. Who knows? If you find me in 2014, I might be a geneticist at the University of London.”

“You will always be a watchmaker to me,” Em said.

“That was fun,” her father said. “I still do it.”

“What?”

“Fix old watches,” her father said. “Now it’s my ‘hobby.’”

Her father laughed.

“Who would have thought that I would ever have the time and energy to have ‘hobbies’?” Her father shook his head and grinned.

“You don’t take breaks from the world?” Em asked.

“No,” her father said. “When one life ends, I move to another place in the world. This is my first time back on Rousay since we lived here after the London fire. I take it you take breaks?”

“We take breaks,” Em said. “We used to take them only every fifty years. But we took more than that in the 20
th
century.”

“Oh?”

“Giles set Salem on fire in 1914,” Em said. She glanced at her father when he laughed. She smiled. “You laugh, but he was seen. The whole ‘Salem Witch Trial’ thing was big then, and . . .”

“He was recognized?” her father’s voice rose with disbelief.

“He was,” Em said with a smile. “He had to get out of town. A few of the others went with him. Then Sarah Good was working in a molasses factory. Her supervisor tried to assault her. She got upset, and her powers caused it to . . .”

Em gestured with her hands that the tank had exploded and made a sound that imitated the blowing molasses tank.

“She was supposed to have died,” Em said. “The rest of us got out of town fast.”

“When was that?” her father asked.

“1919 — the Great Molasses Flood,” Em said. “

“Where do you go?” her father asked.

“We used to go to a more wild part of the US,” Em said. “Now, we own an island in the Bahamas. John Willard got it when he was the captain of a pirate ship. I bought it from him for a dollar.”

“But you return to Boston?” her father asked.

Em nodded.

“Always to Boston?”

Em nodded.

“Why Boston?” her father asked.

“I thought I had to be close or lose . . .” She stopped talking when her father laughed. “Why is that funny?”

“I thought the same thing,” her father said.

“It’s not true?”

Her father shook his head.

“We are what we are, Em,” he said. “Even your friends, the other witches. They are what they are. We can live anywhere.”

Em nodded.

“Still, it must be nice to have people around who grew up when you did,” her father said. “People who speak your same language, know your history.”

She looked at him.

“I’m a little jealous,” he said with a smile.

“Is there a way to reverse it?” Em asked.

“For those who want to move on?” her father asked.

Em nodded.

“You have to wish it, Em,” her father said.

“I’ve tried,” Em said.

He scowled. Leaning over, he held her hands between his.

“You can have whatever it is that you wish,” he said. “Anything. Let’s try it.”

“Gold,” Em said.

He nodded. She opened her hands, and there was a single gold Kroner.

“Try it yourself,” he said.

She picked up her teacup. Closing her eyes, she wished for another cup of tea. When she opened her eyes, nothing had happened. He smiled.

“See! It doesn’t work,” she said.

“You truly are my daughter,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“You are trying to bend the laws of the world,” he said. “When you call for gold, it appears because it exists in the world. You can call for a guppy or a sea turtle, and one would appear.”

He opened his hand to show her a juvenile sea turtle. Picking it up by the shell, he set it in her hand.

“Tea exists in the world,” she said.

He smiled. Picking up the turtle, he closed his eyes to wish it gone. He opened his hands to show that they were now empty.

“You mean I can’t ask for things that need to be made,” she said. “I can call a tea bag.”

She closed her eyes and focused on her hands. In a moment, she felt the rough edges of her favorite Earl Grey black tea bag. She opened her hands to show him.

“You can call hot water to you, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said.

She smiled.

“You can call something like tea to you, but you’d have to know where it existed,” he said. “For example, let’s see what your George is drinking.”

He held his cup. In a moment, it filled with Guinness beer. He took a sip.

“It’s confusing,” Em said.

“And you just want some tea,” he said.

Em nodded.

“Your friends,” he said. “They can leave only on the anniversary of their making.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, there are some rules,” her father said with a smile. “You can only undo things on the exact anniversary of your making them.”

“So my hanging anniversary,” she said.

“The anniversary of their transformation,” he said.

“September 22,” she said.

He nodded. They sat in silence for a moment before she went inside to make more tea. When she returned with two full mugs, he was watching the stars again.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m here because you made it so,” she said.

“No,” he said. “You had to have come looking for me. That was the criterion. Why did you come looking for me? You said earlier that you’ve been thinking about a few things.”

She nodded.

“What is happening in your world that would bring you here?” he asked.

“A man has entered my life,” Em said. She turned her body to face him.

“A lover?”

“Not mine,” she said. “He claims to be the child of one of the witches, Alice Parker. She fell pregnant in prison.”

“She came back pregnant,” her father nodded. “Surely the child didn’t survive.”

“That’s what Alice says,” Em said. “My son Benoni’s ancestral granddaughter works at the store. She convinced us to have this John Parker — that’s what he goes by — into the store for a lecture.”

Em swallowed hard.

“And?” her father said.

“A demon came out of him,” Em said. She looked up at her father, and he nodded. “We held a séance for those who were killed and not buried with us. They told us that this demon has disrupted their slumber.”

“He brought them back,” her father said.

“He hasn’t brought them to life,” Em said. “But . . .”

“Yes?”

“They — the spirits — told us that we should find the last one, John Proctor,” Em said. “But I have this feeling that if we find John Proctor’s remains, the others will be returned.”

“Would that be bad?” her father asked.

“Yes,” Em said. “After all of this time, I don’t think they could handle it, and . . .”

Em fell silent. She held her Earl Grey up to her nose to smell the Bergamot.

“And?”

“They hanged a lot of women for witchcraft in Boston,” Em said.

“I’ve heard,” her father said.

“One of them has haunted the park across the street from my house for more than three hundred years,” Em said. “She asked to be sent on last week, which we did. When she was leaving, she wished me ‘Good luck.’ And before that, she said she wanted to move on before . . .”

“Before?”

“She didn’t say,” Em said.

Her father gave her a knowing nod.

“What?” Em asked.

“You’ve met your demon,” her father said.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“We are made of the creator,” her father said. “They are made of the opposite — chaos, entropy, devil, demon — pick a word. Each of us has an opposite.”

“And the others?”

“They have only you,” her father said. “That doesn’t mean that this creature doesn’t want some of his own witches. He’s likely recruiting ghosts and other malcontents. They are easier to gain access to because they have so much time and so little to do. They also don’t have bodies to feed.”

“The others,” Em started and then stopped.

“Yes?”

“They are having dreams of Salem Village,” Em said. “They feel like they’re right there. I watched their faces when they told me.”

“And?”

“I think they’d go back in a heartbeat,” Em said.

“There’s nothing to go back to,” her father said.

“They would rather die than extend this prolonged life,” Em said. “I’ve heard them say that a prolonged life is like a kind of death.”

“And you?”

“Life is life,” Em said. “Death is death.”

“You are suited for immortality,” her father said.

“Suited or not, it’s what I have,” Em said.

Her father laughed. Not sure how to respond, Em fell silent. She watched the stars and listened to the surf in companionable silence with her father. She was so focused on the dancing stars that she started when he spoke.

“Surely, this is of your devil’s making,” her father said.

“What is?” Em asked.

“Your witches’ longing for the days gone by and their old homes,” her father said.

“Why would he doing this?” Em asked.

“To remove your witches from your side,” her father said. “Increase his odds of winning.”

“Winning?” Em asked.

“The war,” her father said.

“War? What war?”

“With you,” her father said. “He’s trying to reduce your ranks. He must think that the reason you transformed these people is so that you would have soldiers of your own. I would.”

“That’s not true,” Em said.

“Doesn’t matter,” her father said. “He deals in deceit and lies.”

“We are truth tellers,” Em said. “George said the demon reminded him of a feeling or fog hanging over Salem Village when he returned. He was surprised at the darkness that seemed to encompass the entire region.”

“Truly?” her father looked surprised.

Em nodded.

“That means he’s planned this war,” he said.

“George?”

“Your demon,” he said.

“Where’s he been for more than three hundred years?” Em asked.

“Planning a war, no doubt,” her father said.

“What?” Em sat up in her chair.

“He’s planning a war against you.”

“Can he do that?” Em asked.

“He can and will,” her father said. “Every new immortal must face their demon, and it always ends in war.”

“Why?” Em asked.

“It’s part of the deal,” her father said with a smile.

“Have you met your demon?” Em asked.

“I have,” her father said.

“And?”

Her father shrugged and looked away.

“Did you win?” Em asked.

“I suppose so,” her father said. “I . . . You remember the plague? The fire?”

“Of course,” Em said.

Her father nodded.

“That was your war?” Em asked.

“Battles in my war,” her father said. “We came here for me to recover.”

“Recover?”

“From the battle,” her father said. “But the demon never stops until . . .”

Em watched rage and sorrow move across her father’s face until all that was left was resignation. He glanced at her and noticed her attention for the first time. He cleared his throat.

“It was a long time ago,” he said.

“It was.”

“I think the final battle was Henry,” her father said. “My only child left on a boat with Henry Rich. Did he get sick on the trip?”

“Yes,” Em said. “I never knew what happened. He’d been such a vibrant man, and suddenly he was ill.”

Her father glanced at her and then looked away.

“Your demon did that?” Em asked.

Her father’s head moved just slightly in a nod. He turned his body to stare at the open ocean.

“But . . .” Em said.

“Yes,” her father said. “Henry’s illness and death set you up for witch accusations all those years later.”

“Your demon is the reason I was hanged?” Em asked.

Her father didn’t turn to look at her.

“Your demon is the reason I was hanged?” Em repeated.

He didn’t respond.

“Answer me!” Em said in frustration.

“I’ve nothing to say,” her father said. “My only child was hanged as a witch. I . . .”

He looked at her and smiled.

“I hate hanging,” her father said. “Burned in a pyre is worse, if you can imagine anything worse than hanging.”

“Drowning sounds particularly bad,” Em said.

“Not really,” her father said in a matter-of-fact way. “Fire is awful because it takes so long. You get to watch the wood catch on fire, then your clothing, your feet — inch by inch, it consumes you, while the good people — people you loved and thought of as friends — stand by and cheer.”

“Sounds horrible,” Em said.

Her father raised his eyebrows in an “of course” gesture.

“Our hangings took up to thirty minutes,” Em said.

“Awful,” her father said.

They fell silent for a while. Em drank her tea and listened to the waves.

“Do we share the same demon?” Em asked.

“I doubt that very much,” her father said.

“But?”

“From what you’ve said, they’ve combined their efforts,” her father said. “One got you hanged.”

“Thus making me immortal,” Em said.

“The other is waiting for me, for us,” her father said.

“Will you fight with me?” Em asked.

“I cannot,” her father said. “We can’t . . .”

“Be at the same location in the same time,” Em said with him.

“Why would your demon wait so long?” Em asked.

“He couldn’t defeat me in my time,” her father said. “He needed help.”

“My demon is stronger?” Em asked.

“Different in some way that’s compatible to my demon,” her father said.

“It’s just . . .” Em shivered, “ . . .horrifying.”

“It is,” her father said.

Em was looking at the bottom of her teacup and wondering if she could get another cup when her father sighed.

“Your God says he never gives you something you can’t handle,” her father said.

“And?”

“We should be able to handle this,” her father said.

“How?” Em asked.

“I have no idea,” her father said.

Em nodded. Her father stood from his seat.

“Let’s sleep on it,” her father said. “Tomorrow night, we’ll go visit the area I remember as the center of knowledge. If this is happening now, it’s happened before. There should be something in the library.”

“You sure?”

“No,” her father said with a laugh. “But we’ll try anyway.”

Em smiled.

“Come, daughter,” her father said.

Em followed him into the house. They hugged in the living room before he left for the bedroom and his wife. Wide awake, she sat on the couch, waiting for sleep. The next thing she knew, her father’s wife was moving about, and the sun had risen on the next day.

“Did you drink my beer?” George gestured to his Guinness.

Shaking his head and laughing, John Willard patted George’s arm.

“It was just . . .” George started.

“Disappeared like magic,” John said with a laugh. “You’re pestered with a demon who drinks your beer.”

George laughed. Their laughter caused Wilmot and Margaret to give them dark looks. George touched their shoulders as he passed them on his way to refill his beer. They were in the basement of Sam Wardwell’s home. Em’s body lay on a massage table near the middle of the room. The rest of the witches sat in their usual groupings — Bridget, Elizabeth, and Mary Ayer Parker chatted near the fireplace; Wilmot and Margaret were reading novels on a leather loveseat against the wall; Sarah Wildes, Ann, and Alice were standing near Em; Martha Carrier, Sam, and Sarah Good were working on a puzzle; Giles was sitting by himself; and George and John played pool.

“She should be back by now!” Giles jumped to his feet. “It’s been twelve hours!”

“Giles, we don’t know exactly . . .” Ann started to say.

“We
do
know!” Giles said. “That
ghost
that came with
George
said . . .”

“She’s a ghost,” Sarah Wildes said as she walked to Giles. “You know how they are disoriented when they first die.”

“I resent that,” Martha said from the corner of the room Sam had forced her to stay in.

“She should be . . .”

Em’s body gasped for air. George ran to her side.

“Em!” Alice bent over her face. “Em!”

Em’s chest moved up and down with her breath.

“She’s not here!” Giles wailed.

“Back up!” Ann ordered. “Now!”

The witches took a step back. George put his arm over Giles’s shoulder and tried to lead him away. Giles pushed George away from him. Ann started working on Em’s body.