The Necromancer (10 page)

“Your sister passed away from us last month. I am sorry I have not told you before now. I had not the courage or the strength to do so. I know you were most fond of her.”

“Phoebe...” Susanna said, “...dead.” That last word was barely audible, little more than a whisper. Susanna had suspected Phoebe had died, but hearing it and knowing it was true made it real for her.

“Oh, Father!” she cried, then broke down completely, clasping the bars with her hands and sliding her head and body along them until her knees hit the fl oor.

“Phoebe!” she sobbed.

Roger knelt down and placed his hands on hers as she wept. He felt terrible and guilty. I shouldn’t have told her, he thought. It didn’t help for her to know now. It simply could not help.

He hated to think about it, but it was a very real possibility that she would never have had to know. If the magistrate chose to see her executed, what good would it do to make the last days of her life more miserable than they already were. He resolved not to tell her of her mother’s failing health.

It would be too much for her to deal with all at once.

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Roger stayed there, kneeling outside her cell,

comforting her until she cried herself to sleep against the bars.

He didn’t want to wake her so he stuck his arms through the bars, laid her down on the fl oor, and wiped her tears away.

He stood up and wiped the tears from his own face, only just realizing that he had been crying at all. His family was being destroyed before his eyes, and all he had the power to do was watch. Had he done something to offend the Lord?

He wondered again. He looked at Susanna and hoped the misfortune which had been smiting his family would come to an abrupt and utter halt, but hope was all he had.

Now Susanna sat almost catatonic in her cell,

unbelieving of how much her life had changed in the past two months. If she ever survived this, her life would never be the same. It certainly wouldn’t be better than it had been.

All she wanted was peace and happiness. If she

survived this, she wouldn’t take those treasures for granted again. She had become shy and introverted since the onset of adolescence, too shy to speak to boys, thus the fact of her ongoing maidenhood, despite her beauty. Now, she knew how silly she had been. She wanted a husband and a family. She wanted to be loved. If she survived this, she would cast away all those awkward feelings and fi nd the happiness she desired.

“Susanna,” a deep voice said.

She broke her gaze and became conscious of her

surroundings once again. She raised her head slowly.

“Susanna,” Ambrose said. “Are you well?”

It took her a moment to fi nd voice enough to respond.

She was still choking with bereavement.

“Yes,” she said meekly. “Yes, Reverend. But I am very weary.”

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“Well, perk up, child, for your time has come.”

Her face went from blank to horrifi ed.

“Did you hear me well?” he said. “You are reprieved.

You need not spend another dreaded hour in this damned place. I have come to take you away from here. You shall no longer suffer as you have.”

He plucked a set of keys from his coat pocket, rifl ed through them, found one, and inserted it in the lock.

“Come,” he said, turning the key and opening the door. “Let us leave this place immediately. You are liberated.”

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Reverend Parris arrived back in Salem early that evening and rode directly to Judge Hathorne’s house to report his fi ndings. The rain had stopped sometime earlier that afternoon, but the roads still remained slippery with inches of clumpy mud, which, in places, could swallow the whole of one’s foot. Parris was glad to be back in Salem. His horse had been threatening to fall over throughout his journey and nearly threw him more than half a dozen times. The prospect of completing his trip in the now cold, damp weather, covered from crown to sole in mud was far from acceptable, but fortunately he was never forced to accept it.

When he reached the house he stepped down from his horse, stormed up to the door, and knocked rapidly.

“Reverend Parris,” Hathorne said with mild surprise upon opening the door. “Back from Boston already? I had expected you would stay the night.”

“There was no time. I have made a most monstrous discovery.”

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Parris’s voice was loud and urgent. Upon hearing it, Hathorne’s wife Lydia, who had been in the kitchen preparing dinner, stopped everything and quickly appeared behind her husband, peering over his shoulder at the minister in the doorway.

“The Reverend Blayne is no such thing at all, but a warlock.”

Lydia gasped.

“Tituba has informed me he murdered a maiden in the village this past winter.”

“Mary Hobbs...” Hathorne said faintly.

“What was that?” Parris asked.

“Mary Hobbs has disappeared from Salem. Not a soul has seen her since late December.”

“Tituba claims to have witnessed Reverend Blayne chasing the girl through the wood, whereafter he seized her and smote her dead. She says Blayne has the powers of a warlock, powers to kill and maim and bring forth great misfortunes and misery upon whomsoever he chooses by the employment of fi lters, potions, charms, and the like. He brings forth great suffering, says she, by traffi cking with the Devil and his emissaries.”

“Are you convinced the slave’s testimony is genuine?”

“Yes. That I am.”

“Then we must act with haste. Reverend Blayne must be interrogated at once. And if he truly proves to be one of Satan’s own, he shall be made to answer for that crime.” He stepped back from the door and grabbed his coat, then looked back at Lydia as he slipped into it.

“Sorry, dearest. But I must be off.”

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Fugitives

He grabbed his cane, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.

“Ride out to the prison and notify Cranley that if Reverend Blayne comes for Susanna Harrington she is not to be released into his custody under any circumstances whatsoever. Blayne has been most anxious to see the Harrington girl exonerated, and if he should suspect we have any knowledge of his alleged involvement in the black arts, he may make attempts to remove her.”

“Where are you going?”

“To notify Sheriff Corwin and gather some men

together, then we shall ride out to the Blayne cottage and have him arrested. Join us there when you have fi nished your errand.

We may need a holy man to put the fear of God into this beast.

*****

The nearest neighbor was Isaac Goodale. His home was almost a full mile south. During the time the Blaynes lived in the village no one had heard or seen anything peculiar, least of all Isaac or his family. Moreover, Isaac was on amiable terms with the reverend and had on more than one occasion expressed great admiration for him.

Until now, there had been no reason to suspect any witchery among the Blaynes. The only accusations made against the reverend had come from a woman—a slave—who, 91

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herself, was an admitted witch. But the Devil and his disciples were clever, and it certainly wasn’t beyond the scope of possibility that the reverend should prove to be a warlock.

If he was innocent, the truth would surely reveal itself; if he wasn’t, that too would be known, and the appropriate actions would be taken. Hathorne would see to it personally.

Such was the frame of mind he had when he and

Corwin and his men rode up to the Blayne house. There was some doubt as to whether or not he should take such drastic action, but in these times of uncertainty it was much better to be cautious than to allow hidden enemies to gain the advantage.

Just as Corwin dismounted his horse, Parris rode up and stopped.

“He has taken her from the prison,” he said to

Hathorne. “Just as you have feared.”

“Then he is the Devil’s own!” Hathorne said, and nodded to Corwin.

Corwin advanced toward the door of the house, torch in hand, and hammered it with his fi st.

“Reverend Blayne, this is Sheriff Corwin. In the King’s name, I demand you to open this door at once! You have much to answer for!”

When there was no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked.

“Break it open,” he commanded the men.

John Hawks and his brother Phillip hopped down

from the back of the wagon they rode in and walked up to the door as Corwin stepped back. John ran up and stomped on it right next to the handle, but the door was made of heavy 92

Fugitives

oak and showed no signs of weakening. Then Phillip made an attempt with similar results.

Robert Eames and Richard Carter stepped down and joined them. None of them had expected it would be the heavy task it was proving to be.

They took turns, two at a time, assaulting the door with pounding kicks. The wood began to splinter and give.

Then, suddenly, as a couple of feet landed heavily against the door, it caved in and stinking blue smoke gushed out of the building as the Hawks brothers, who had kicked the door last, fell back on the ground.

The unmanned horses whinnied and bolted off

blindly through the woods, taking the wagon with them while Hathorne and Parris struggled to still their horses and keep from being thrown.

The men choked and coughed. The smoke was not the smoke of fi re, but of something foul and offensive which none of them had ever smelled before.

At fi rst, the smoke obscured everything; then it blinded the men. And there were sounds. Something else was there with them, something alive in the house.

Its breathing sounded like a rusty saw cutting through bone. The breath was putrid and moist and enshrouded them, warming the surrounding air.

It growled.

“Dear God!” Parris exclaimed, rubbing his eyes in hope of regaining his sight.

Corwin had already done so, despite the fact that he had been closer to the house than either Parris or Hathorne, and he opened his eyes.

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A large creature lingered over the remains of Phillip and John Hawks, peeling the skin from their bodies with its talons and stuffi ng it in its maw. Its fi ery breath had effectively scorched the clothes to ash to access the meat beneath, and it was hungry.

It stood inside the house by the doorway, a creature of no less than ten feet tall. Flaps of respiring fl esh dangled loosely in slimy brown ribbons from its face and body. The head was a ragged boulder of festering gray meat with jaws large enough to encompass a man’s head, unimpeded by its large teeth and fangs. Tentacles fl owed from its scalp into a sinuous green mane dripping with venom. Its eyes writhed like crazed yellow serpents from their sockets, extending nearly half a foot from their origin, each one seemingly with volition of its own.

It roared.

Parris’s eyes began to function again. Through the dispersing clouds of blue smoke his blurred vision could detect Corwin’s fi gure moving toward the doorway in a vain attempt to save the Hawks brothers, although they had been killed the instant the door collapsed.

Eames and Carter were still dazed and blinded, reeling on their feet with their hands pressed against their eyes.

Parris’s vision cleared. He saw the creature lurking just beyond the threshold, devouring its prey.

What in the name of the Lord is that thing? He

wondered.

He thought about it for a moment, then concluded it could only have been some demon which Blayne had summoned from the rotten bowels of Hell. He had read about such a creature in a work on demonology. A Vortung, he thought it was called.

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“George!” he called out as Corwin reached for Phillip Hawks’s half-stripped arm. Corwin looked back at him. Parris was still seated in his saddle, looking on impotently, afraid to move.

The Vortung, alerted by Parris’s call, raised its head from its meal and saw the edge of Corwin’s body crouched by the doorway. It roared again, and lunged toward him. Corwin dove out of the way as the Vortung’s bulk crashed through the doorway, sending shattered planks and splintered oak into the air. The front of the house collapsed in on itself and fell on the bodies of the Hawks brothers, crushing them.

The demon reached for the fi rst man it encountered.

That man was Robert Eames. He staggered back and forth, turning around in circles, sensing the danger he was in, but his eyes were still tearing and blind.

It seized him by the throat and hoisted him up. His hands dropped from his eyes to the arms of the creature which held him aloft while his legs kicked at nothing. The slime on the Vortung’s skin burned Eames’s hands and neck. Tears streamed down Eames’s reddened cheeks as he gagged and gasped for air.

He opened his eyes and stared blearily into the face of the demon which held him. He fl oundered in its grip. A shot was fi red, and a chunk of the Vortung’s shoulder was blown off in a spray of black blood. Hathorne had fi red his fl intlock rifl e and was clumsily reloading as quickly as he was able.

The Vortung howled, thrashing its head back and

whipping its tentacles in every direction. Flecks of venom hit Corwin, Carter, Parris, and Parris’s horse. The horse cried out and threw the reverend into a bush before fl eeing into the woods with the other animals.

Hathorne’s horse was sprayed on its hind quarters and the animal bolted into the woods, taking its rider with him.

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