The Necromancer (21 page)

And if that wasn’t enough to convince her, surely all the bizarre events that happened to her in the past few months could. Susanna knew there was more to the world than her eyes could discern.

“Susanna?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“When did Judge Hathorne let you out of prison?”

She debated with herself whether she should tell her mother the truth, then decided it would be better if she didn’t know. As much as she hated to admit it, her mother was dying and there was nothing that could be done about it. It would serve no useful purpose to tell her the truth. That would only distress her, and in her fragile condition that news could very well kill her.

187

The Necromancer

“Early this evening,” Susanna replied.

Martha smiled.

“That is good,” she said. “That is a great relief. The state Salem is in at present is most distressing. Your father has tried to protect me from knowing what has been going on because he wanted me not to worry about you, but I know. I hear things, you know. He prefers I didn’t, but I do; and I do not want you telling him I know. He has enough to concern himself with without worrying about me worrying.”

“I will not tell him, Mother.”

“It is so good to have you home safe, Susanna.”

Susanna’s eyes returned to the offending strip of saliva and she took a handkerchief from a pocket in her dress, wiped it off, and placed the handkerchief on the night table.

“Now listen to me, dear. I want you to be a good daughter to your father. He needs you. When I am gone, you will need each other.”

Hearing her mother speak of her coming death with such certainty caught Susanna off guard, and her mouth dropped open.

“I know...Susanna. I know I’m dying. When I have passed on, you and your father will be the only kin you have left. You must be strong for him, for me, and most importantly for yourself. I want you to be happy, dear. Life is far too short and fragile to mourn for the dead.”

She clasped Susanna’s hand tightly. She had amazing strength for a woman in her state of ill health.

“You have been such a lonesome, young woman. You should fi nd yourself a good husband and learn the joys of being a wife and a mother.”

188

Martha’s Eyes

I am married, but my husband is a monster.

“Susanna, you must always remem...” Martha’s lids struggled to stay open. “...remember I will always be with you...

always love you...al...”

Martha’s eyes closed. At fi rst, Susanna thought she had died, but her mother’s chest still rose and fell, and a moment later she could hear her drawing the long, slow breaths of sleep.

*****

A few days later, Roger awoke before sunrise and went in to check on Martha. Her eyes and mouth were open, but she was dead.

189

The Necromancer

190

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Resurrection

Reverend Parris held a small ceremony behind the Harrington house. Martha lay in a pine box beside the open grave which Roger had dug for her earlier that morning. Edward had offered to do it, but Roger insisted on digging the grave himself. It was something he felt he had to do, something he was sure Martha would have wanted.

Edward and Thea stood by Roger to comfort him.

He hadn’t been very talkative since he discovered the body, hadn’t even shed a tear. But Thea knew he was devastated.

She had seen a good number of men mourning the loss of a wife or child at a good many funerals in her 76 years, and this one was no different. From her experience, she realized there were three kinds of widowers: the ones who sobbed; the ones who stood stoic and numb; and the ones who just didn’t give a damn and might even allow a faint, serene smile to crease their lips. Most men fell in the middle category, and that was where Roger fell. She knew he was hurting and would need all the support they could give him.

Susanna looked on from her bedroom window on the second fl oor, crying. She wanted so much to be down there 191

The Necromancer

at her father’s side, paying her last respects to her mother, but she had to stay hidden. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing her.

Sheriff Corwin was probably still looking for her, and she didn’t want to think of what could happen if she was arrested again. She was free and with her father, and that was all that mattered. But this was her fourth day back at home and she hadn’t left the house once. It was making her restless. Every time she broached the subject of venturing outdoors Edward, Thea, and Roger became alarmed, and she knew there was no convincing them she would be safe. They were adamant. She was imprisoned in her own home.

Outside, Reverend Parris had fi nished reading from the Bible, and Edward and three of the reverend’s attendants walked over to the coffi n and stood on either side. Two ropes lay underneath it crosswise and each man picked up an end.

The coffi n rocked slightly from side to side as it was hauled up. They positioned it over the grave and proceeded to lower it into the earth.

Susanna turned away from the window and threw

herself on the bed, burying her face in the pillow to stifl e her weeping.

*****

On September 17th, Giles Corey, a stubborn old

man of eighty-one, was taken out to an open fi eld behind Salem Prison naked and forced to lie fl at on the ground when he failed to enter a plea of guilty or not guilty for practicing witchcraft. He knew he and the others accused were innocent, and he had no intention of validating these trials by pleading not guilty or otherwise. He remained silent.

But Judge Hathorne was determined to get a plea

out of him. On this point the law was clear. The penalty for remaining silent was
peine forte et dure.

192

Ressurection

Corey’s arms were outstretched, his wrists and ankles bound to stakes which had been hammered into the ground.

Several men placed a thick wooden board across his chest, covering his old body from his neck to his shins, and began gradually piling heavy stones on his chest.

After a while, Hathorne asked Corey if he had

changed his mind and decided to enter a plea.

For some time there was silence as Hathorne

impatiently tapped his cane against the ground.

“You had best put more stones on and get this

madness over with,” Corey said laboriously. “You shall not be hearing any such words uttered from my mouth.”

Infuriated, Hathorne said: “Let us see how you feel after some days under the stones.” Hathorne and his men walked away.

When they returned, two days had passed. Corey was pale and weak. A cloud of fl ies buzzed around his body. The stench of his rancid excrement was overpowering.

“Giles Corey,” Hathorne said smugly. “How do you plead?”

Corey looked at the judge sternly, grimacing, but he said nothing.

The judge nodded to his men and they proceeded

piling more stones on top of Corey.

Corey grunted and winced, groaned and cringed.

“I am not asking for a confession,” Hathorne said as the men continued. “All I require is a plea. Enter a plea and I will have the stones removed.”

Corey shook his head, then the judge shook his as if to say,
What a foolish old man you are, Giles Corey.

193

The Necromancer

Hathorne and his men heard a crunching sound and the board shifted slightly. Corey wheezed. His eyes widened.

A tremor shook through his body. He exhaled one last, dry breath. His head jerked up and fl opped on its side. His tongue lolled out of his mouth followed by a small amount of blood, then his body went completely limp and still.

Hathorne scrunched up his face in disgust, and he pushed the tongue back in with the butt of his cane.

*****

Ambrose sat on the divan sipping his wine, preparing himself for the ritual. He thought about the last time he saw Susanna and what had gone wrong since then. He had slept too long after fl eeing from the demons and the dead, and when he fi nally did awaken two days later, Susanna was gone from Angelwood and he was having diffi culties fi nding her again.

His profi ciency with the shew stone was far from adequate, but he had to make the best of it. Traveling in his subtle body was very draining and he had to save up his energy for his next journey—the journey he was going to take tonight, to the Salem churchyard.

After some time spent in meditation with the stone, he had achieved success. Susanna was back home in Salem with her father, and Ambrose knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

He sat down in the magic circle wearing a black robe embroidered with red symbols around the neck and cuffs. He would much rather have gone in his corporeal body, but he knew they would be looking for him and he couldn’t risk it, even in the small hours of the morning when the ceremony had to be held.

Ambrose anointed his forehead with some ointment, perched a crown of vervain on his head, and grabbed his sword. He lay back and closed his eyes.

194

Ressurection

The vibrations came quickly. It wasn’t long before he was rising to the ceiling, leaving his material self behind. Unlike his opium-induced projection, he was in more control and better protected by the sanctity of the circle. There would be no mistakes tonight.

In another few seconds he was at the churchyard, standing before the grave of Robert Eames. Eames had tried to warn Susanna at the Walpurgisnacht celebration, but Ambrose still held his soul captive in that tormented limbo, and that meant he was still Ambrose’s slave and would have to obey him.

Ambrose outlined the gravesite, slicing into the earth with his sword, not actually plowing through it but leaving a silk-thin border of fl ames. He stood back and described a circle around himself in the same manner.

Next came the incantations.

The words droned on and vibrated in the cool air.

Soon the whole graveyard resonated in an array of spectral colors and unearthly sounds. All the trees and grave markers threatened to splinter and unknit themselves. The clouds rushed in and blotted out the moon, but the churchyard was ablaze with light and marvelous colors and there was no need for further illumination.

Ambrose struck the gravesite with his sword, allowing it to slide effortlessly into the earth up to the hilt, then he raised his outstretched arms, palms upturned and fi ngers splayed and curled like claws, toward the sky, knotting his hands into fi sts at the top of the movement.

“In the names of Beelzebub, Lucifer, and

Mephistopheles, I command you to rise and obey.

“Rise!” he cried, bringing his arms down and raising them slowly again as if he were lifting some enormous weight.

195

The Necromancer

“Rise!” he screamed, performing the same

gesticulation.

“In the name of Satan, I COMMAND YOU TO

RISE!”

Everything fell still and silent. Then a smile of satisfaction graced Ambrose’s face as he heard a muffl ed pounding sound come from beneath the ground: Thump...

Thump...

Thump... Then a dull crack. The earth shifted with a low rumbling sound, pulling down a small amount of topsoil and withered grass.

“RISE!” Ambrose roared.

The grave began to open up. Sod and soil sifted down into it, widening the crevice. The rank odor of musty decay wafted upward from the hole. The sound of soggy pine wood snapping apart became louder as pebbles and moist and dry dirt continued to fi lter downward into the coffi n with a hollow raindrop sound, exposing it to the damp, naked air.

Scrabbling to the surface like a wounded rat, the dead man wrested himself from his dark bed of wood and earth and plunged his fl esh-stripped arm up awkwardly out of the grave.

*****

Susanna slept soundly and dreamlessly. Mourning the loss of her mother had drained her. She wept into her pillow for many hours after the funeral, refusing to eat or leave her room. She knew to expect her mother’s passing, but she wasn’t prepared to deal with it. Susanna had cried, and had kept crying, until she had cried herself to sleep early that afternoon.

A noise jarred her from sleep and she opened her eyes.

One of the shutters to her window had broken away from its latch and the wind was banging it against the wall outside. She pulled back the covers, stepped out of bed, and went to the 196

Ressurection

window. She still wore the dress she wore when she watched the men lower her mother into the ground, but she didn’t remember covering herself up. Her father must have done so earlier. Well, she still had him. That was some comfort.

When I have passed on, you and your father will be the only kin
you have left.

She opened the window and a gust of cool night air rushed in and blew her hair and her dress back. She reached outside and refastened the shutter, then drew back and slammed the window shut. She looked down at the new grave marker and the fresh rectangular mound of black earth before it. A pang of sorrow assaulted her chest and she sighed, afraid she would start sobbing again. She didn’t. She felt choked up, but the tears wouldn’t come. That was good because she didn’t know if she could endure that kind of mourning any longer.

A noisome odor gagged her and she pinched her nose between her thumb and index fi nger as she turned around. The door to her room was open. It hadn’t been when she awoke, she was sure of that. Her stomach fi lled with a nervous, watery feeling.

“What...” she said, confused, then saw a fi gure to the right of the door move. Its motion in the dark shadows was enough to enable her eyes to lock onto it and determine what it was, and then she knew that the foul odor she detected was the fetor of skin turned sour.

The fi gure was that of a skeleton, robbed of all its fl esh but a few fl aps of rotting meat here and there and some ragged tufts of fi lthy hair sticking out of its head in patches.

It was dressed in the rags of a man she may have known once, but in its present state of decrepitude she couldn’t determine who that man might have been.