The Necromancer (5 page)

“I believe you,” he said, feeling responsible for her imprisonment, and feeling guilty for not telling her the truth.

“What shall happen to me?” she asked tremulously.

“Fret not, dear Susanna. No harm will befall you. I shall attend most fi rmly to the maintenance of your safety.”

The dungeon door slammed. Blayne broke his gaze

away from Susanna and looked down the hall at the man walking toward him.

“I am most grateful,” Susanna said, compelling Blayne to turn to her with the familiar sound of her voice. “But why do you hold such conviction of my innocence?”

“I know you, though never have we two met prior to yesterday when I spied you, shackled and haggard, on the path to this wretched place. Take care in knowing I am with you, for I am your champion.”

Susanna’s cheeks fl ushed brightly with blood. His words and their underlying meanings were well perceived, although she doubted her comprehension of them. In fact, she doubted the whole conversation and even the fact that it had taken place. But it did take place, and the reverend was still standing in front of her cell as proof that it had.

The man was just a few cells away now as he

continued to walk toward Blayne, peering with concern through the bars of each cell as he went along. He stopped a few feet away from Blayne, still beyond Susanna’s limited view, and addressed the Reverend formally.

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“Pardon me, Reverend,” the man said. “But I am

searching for my daughter.”

“Father,” Susanna called out.

She leapt to her feet and ran to the cell door, wrapping her fi ngers around the bars.

“It would seem you have found her,” Blayne said.

“Oh, Father,” Susanna said, taking his hands through the bars. “How I’ve missed you.”

“How are you, dear child?”

“Oh, I so wish to leave this place. I know not what I did to warrant this.”

Roger turned to Blayne.

“Surely, you know Susanna is not capable of such crimes as those for which she stands accused. In the name of God, why is she here?”

“Father,” Susanna interrupted. “The reverend has promised to help me.”

“Yes, Mr. Harrington. Susanna speaks the truth. It is quite plain that she belongs not in such piteous places as this, and I will employ the whole of my infl uence to see that the charges brought against her be dismissed.”

“Do that and you shall have my undying and most

earnest gratitude. Our family has suffered much in the recent months with the illness of my youngest daughter and the frail condition of my wife. I could not bear to see any harm befall my dear Susanna too.”

Blayne placed his hand on Roger’s shoulder.

“All will be well,” he assured him. “I shall not rest until Susanna is liberated from her imprisonment.”

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Susanna

Blayne turned to Susanna.

“Blessed be, child, and farewell. I shall return tomorrow with good tidings.”

Blayne clasped Roger’s hand and shook it fi rmly.

“Farewell,” he said, then left before Roger or Susanna could say anything more to him.

Susanna heard the door slam and lock, then Roger turned to her.

“I do not think that I have ever seen that reverend before,” he mused aloud. “Hmm. Strange. Susanna, did he say what his name was?”

“No. I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask. It is strange, though. I do not remember ever seeing him, either.

Father, do you suppose he is here for the witchcraft trials?”

Roger thought about this a minute, then said:

“Well, if that be his purpose, I am much comforted by the thought; for—if he be as good as his word—he would seem an ally in your case, and a valuable one at that.”

“He said he was my champion.”

Roger let out a light sigh and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

“Indeed. Then that is good news. Much-needed good news. That should do much to cheer your mother and sister.

They have been grievously worried about your well-being.”

“How are Mother and Phoebe? Are they any better?”

“Dearest,” he replied, placing both his hands

over Susanna’s again. “I wish to God I could reply in the affi rmative, but I cannot. The fact of your imprisonment has weighed heavily on both their dear souls, and I fear they are both all the more fragile for their worry.”

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Susanna frowned. Tears welled up in her eyes. She was mortifi ed.

“Now, dearest,” he said, wringing her hands gently in his. “Do not fret so. I think they should both improve greatly once I tell them of the promising words the reverend spoke to you and me.”

“It is my entire fault,” she wept, breaking down completely. “If I were not in prison, Mother and Phoebe would be better now. I am to blame for their suffering.”

“Not so, Susanna. I would not have told you of

their conditions if I thought there was need for you to blame yourself for their ailings. It is no fault of yours that you were jailed. You committed no crime. They were both ill before your incarceration. They care about you, and so they have great concern for your well-being. Even if this were not so, only the Lord knows if their health would be restored by now. So, please dearest, take comfort in the knowledge that you shall be soon acquitted and released, and that your presence at home is much desired and will prove most benefi cial to both your mother and sister.”

Susanna nodded, sniffl ing and wiping the tears away from her cheeks and eyes, but she still somehow sensed that she would never see her mother or sister well again.

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Roger Harrington’s Journal—

15 March—Today I mourn the loss of my poor Phoebe, who died yester-night after many a dreary day of suffering. We buried her frail body this morning, and now my concerns are for Martha, who has most assuredly taken ill with the smallpox, and was only able to attend the funeral with the greatest exertion; and Susanna, who has been falsely accused of bewitching the Bromidge boy into committing abhorrent sin. It is only with the most grievous strain that I now pen these words fully one week since Susanna was taken from me, for I did not have the strength to do so previously.

I pleaded my case profusely to Judge Hathorne, yet it failed to move him. I know not what evil has come to Salem, but evil has come and stricken our home most severely. I pray God does not have it in His Grand Design to take Martha and Susanna from me. The

loss of Phoebe has near killed me with mourning. I do not think I could survive more bereavement.

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Something had been gnawing at the back of Parris’s mind ever since Tituba’s interrogation. He was certain she hadn’t told them everything, although she did confess, but he was also certain that there was something amiss with her confession. He didn’t know what it was, but he was sure she had been holding something back. What he wasn’t sure of now was her guilt. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because she had lived in his home for the past few months and hadn’t shown him anything that would lead him to believe she was the wicked sorceress she was purported to be. Perhaps he was feeling a little guilty himself for taking her from her homeland as a slave only to end up in some dark dungeon in New England awaiting a probable execution.

But there was something else that disturbed him.

She seemed to recognize Reverend Blayne when she saw him, and when she saw him she seemed genuinely terrifi ed of him. She was probably afraid of what would happen to her when she had been tried and judged, but the fright he saw in her eyes when they fell upon Blayne was immediate fright, not the fear of one who knows execution is a somewhat distant, albeit very real, possibility.

Whatever it was that actually disturbed him, it was all the reason he needed to visit Tituba in Boston Prison. He was determined to unearth the whole truth. Both his conscience and God would accept nothing less.

*****

Hathorne’s home to seek an extension for Susanna to keep her from being sent to Boston, so that he may make further inquiries regarding the crimes for which she stood accused.

At least that’s what he intended to tell Hathorne. The fact that he felt so strongly about her and would do anything for her wouldn’t do much to help her case, and would more likely 46

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jeopardize any chance of her acquittal. In his mind, he could hear Hathorne berating him for his poor judgment; or worse, dubbing him a victim of her enchantments. Ambrose Blayne, the great, but infamous, witch-hunter, bewitched.

Ambrose laughed lightly. It was amusing and ironic that he should be in such a position. A venerable man of the cloth, defender of God and king, in love with a witch. It would be a very laughable situation if it were not so serious. If his superiors and colleagues knew the truth—the real truth—they might possibly fi nd it equally amusing as well, although Ambrose doubted any one of them possessed the degree of humor necessary to fi nd it so.

He rode down Main Street, enjoying the break in the cold weather, which had been such a burden during the winter, reveling inwardly over the thought of being with Susanna. It had been an unseasonably warm day, but an appropriate one to herald the coming of the new season. Spring: a season renowned for birth, rebirth, and change. He felt optimistic about the future.

He rode on. People were outside enjoying the warmth of the ebbing sun. Gone were the heavy coats and layers of clothing and long faces of winter—at least for today. Children played with each other in the street; dogs barked; women nestled up to their men, grateful to have survived the hardships of winter, hopeful of a promising spring.

Ambrose came to Hathorne’s home, stepped down

from his horse, and tethered him to a hitch. As he approached the house, he heard voices coming from one of the open windows. It sounded like Hathorne and Parris were engaged in a mild discussion. Ambrose glanced inside and discovered he was right: Parris and Hathorne were talking, and the subject of their conversation was of such interest that Ambrose couldn’t help but listen.

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“...but I don’t see what you can discover that has not already been learned. She is guilty, Sam. She confessed it herself.”

“Still, I feel it necessary to question her alone. There is much I sense she has not yet spoken of, and I am confi dent she will convey to me that which I seek to know.”

“Very well, Sam. I don’t like it, but do as you will, and report to me your fi ndings—if there be any—upon your return.”

“I shall depart for Boston tomorrow.”

There was the sound of chair legs dragging across fl oorboards.

“Farewell,” Parris said.

Ambrose walked quickly to the door and knocked.

Parris opened it, glared at him gravely, nodded, and then walked out. Hathorne, who had been sitting at the table, stood up.

“Reverend Blayne,” he said. “What brings you here?”

Hathorne’s eyes were red, his complexion pallid.

“That matter concerning Susanna Harrington. You

know I believe—”

“Yes, yes,” Hathorne sighed. He looked more serious than Ambrose had ever seen him.

“You think she has been falsely accused. I don’t know what is worse: all this diabolism which is afoot or all you reverends who seem so thirsty for witches’ blood at the fi rst, then wish they be dubbed saints.”

“It is most singular, I know. But my belief is fi rm. I do not wish to see innocent blood spilled, especially of one so young and pure of heart.”

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Hathorne looked away, shaking his head slightly.

“I can have her transport to Boston detained as a courtesy to you—there is word the prison there is overstocked, anyway—but do not ask it of me again. I trust you know this places me in a most awkward position, but you must have ample reason for your request.”

“I do.”

There was a long silence. Ambrose sensed tension coming from Hathorne. Hathorne turned away and walked to the window.

“Have you heard of the recent massacre just outside Albany?”

“Yes,” Ambrose replied. “Indians, were they not?”

Hathorne placed his hands on the window sill, as if to support himself.

“Bloodthirsty savages.” He took a deep breath. “Word has it; they came in the small hours of morning, fully two score of them, screaming like animals. They came and raped, pillaged, and murdered well near eighty colonists—men...and women...and children!”

Hathorne’s head drooped. From behind, it appeared to Ambrose as if he was sobbing. He was.

The magistrate continued. There was an

uncomfortable tremor in his voice.

“When they had fi nished with their treachery, they razed the village and rode off with all the livestock, leaving barely a soul alive. Only by the following sunrise was their worst abomination discovered.”

Hathorne’s voice was so low now Ambrose had to

strain to hear him.

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“The smoke was seen in Albany by a blacksmith and his son. They called together an assembly of townspeople and rode out to be of some assistance. When they arrived, they learned the insufferable truth. The mere thought of it makes me ill.”

More silence. Then:

“Those damned, heathen beasts had eaten of the fl esh of those poor people.

“MY BROTHER AND HIS FAMILY LIVED IN

THAT VILLAGE!”
he screamed angrily, then broke down and sobbed more intensely.

Ambrose stood by silently, not knowing what he

could say. He wondered why Hathorne had bothered to tell him about the massacre. What signifi cance did this have to Susanna?

The judge managed to regain some of his composure once again.

“With all the recent barbarism perpetrated by these savages, many of our people are affrighted that they may be the next attacked and are seeking protection and retribution.