31 Birdie
BIRDIE
I follow Ezra back upstairs to the main floor of the archive.
He leads me over to the little research center in the middle of the room.
It’s a circular desk area with a pair of computers, a large copy machine, and several styles of digital scanners.
Pulling out one of the computer chairs, Ezra sits and wiggles the mouse.
“Grab that chair. I want to show you something.”
I wheel the other chair over and sit next to him, watching as he logs in to the archive database and pulls up a complicated, multi-folder file system.
He’s clicking around too fast for me to catch anything, going right to the file of interest. Double-clicking on a PDF, the screen fills with a colorized image of what looks like an old piece of yellowing parchment.
“Don’t be shy.” Ezra tugs on the back of my chair. “Wheel in closer and take a look.”
The page is torn along one edge, as if it once lived in a book.
But the lines are handwritten and messy, not clean, typed font.
Judging by the measures of scale to top and left, the page is little more than eight inches long, five across.
The book was small too, then, portable. I glance to Howe. “What is it?”
“Just read it.”
I narrow my eyes on the digital page, trying my best to make out the looping, faded script. The English isn’t modern, that’s for sure. Between the words used and the style of the font, I’m guessing maybe eighteenth century.
Ezra rocks back, folding his arms behind his head. “Read it out loud.”
“Okay . . . umm, well it looks like it says, ‘Upon laying my Alice at last to eternal rest, my heart doth fill with sorrow, and my soul be filled with dread. Oh, mine own Alice, thou did not deservest to die . . . There can be no home for me here, in this most wretched place of woe. I shall take ye children and goeth elsewhere.’” Finishing the short section, I sit back. “Ezra, what is this?”
“That’s a journal entry written by Robert Godwin Dent, husband of Alice Dent, one of the victims of the Burr Island witch killings of 1637.”
I let out a breath, my gaze darting once more over the lines of script. “And you’re sure? You’ve corroborated this with other archival evidence?” I glance his way, taking in his sheepish expression. “Ezra?”
“Not quite,” he admits.
“What—”
“I haven’t seen anything of the journal but this page,” he says over me. “And I haven’t found anything else to corroborate it yet. But it all fits,” he rushes to add.
I lean away from the screen. “Oh, Ezra—”
“No, look.” He points at the first line of text.
“‘Upon laying my Alice at last to eternal rest . . .’ Don’t you see?
Whatever else happened in this church the night of the fire, there was enough of Alice left for Robert to bury her.
Which he did. I believe he buried her up at Homewood. Then he left. They all left. It fits.”
“But this is all you have?” I wave at the screen. “A photocopy of an unmarked page from an unsubstantiated journal? This is your proof connecting the women burned as witches to the Homewood site?”
He groans, dragging a hand through his mussed blonde hair. “God, you sound like Winthrop’s institutional review board.”
I lean a little closer, my hand fluttering to touch his arm. “Ezra . . . is this what you submitted to get the dig approved?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Among other things.”
“But—there’s no telling if this is even real,” I cry, waving at the screen. “How did you get any permits passed if this is all you have as evidence?”
“The Raven Hill Group has been a huge supporter of my project! And they’re not hobbled the same way universities are.”
“You mean by ethics?”
His nostrils flare, his expression indignant.
I know I’m pushing too hard, but this is serious.
“They believe in my work, Birdie. They believe in this.” He points to the screen again.
“I know what I’m looking at. I know these archives inside and out.
I know my island history. And I know what’s waiting for us up at Homewood.
I may not have proof of my theories yet, but I know where to find my proof and it’s right there! It’s just waiting for us!”
I can’t help but be moved by his determination, even as I sense his clear frustration and hesitation. Sitting forward, I arch a brow. “But?”
“What?”
“Well, there is a ‘but,’ isn’t there? Yesterday you said you were having trouble with the permits. What’s the Winthrop ethics review board saying?”
He sighs, shoulders sagging as he sits back.
“They’re saying if I don’t provide additional corroborating evidence by next week, they’re gonna shut me down.
It won’t matter what zoning permits I have then.
A ‘no’ from the university could end this before I ever get a chance to prove my theories are correct. ”
“And . . . have you told the Raven Hill Group?”
“No,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”
“You think they’ll pull their support too?”
He nods.
Shit. No institutional approval and no funding? The project will be dead. “Oh, Ezra . . .”
“I know!” He drags both hands through his hair again, letting out a heavy groan. “Do you think I don’t know how bad this is? The RHG will just be so disappointed, and I can’t bear to let them down. Not when I still have time to fix this, time to find the proof I need to expand the project scope.”
Hands flat on the desk, I take a deep breath. “Okay . . . let’s just walk this back for a minute. Tell me why you think this is some missing page from the long-lost journal of Robert Dent. I mean, where did it even come from?”
His mouth is pursed in a childish pout, as if I just took away all his animal crackers. “A box in the basement.”
“A box in the basement?” I don’t even try to keep the incredulity from my tone. “By any chance was the box labeled ‘Property of Robert Dent’?”
“No,” he snaps. “It was in one of the boxes that came over from The Bugle.”
“The Bugle?”
“Yeah, The Burr Island Bugle. It’s the island’s newspaper.
Before we had the archives set up here, a lot of historical documents were stored over in the basement of The Bugle.
A few months ago, same time as all the storms, they had some major flooding.
A lot of boxes came over here. It was a mess.
We had to dry them all out. Some of it is still downstairs. ”
I point to the photocopy on the screen. “And this was in one of the boxes?”
“Yeah, there was a box full of the personal effects of William Bartlett. He’s one of The Bugle’s former editors. Ran the paper for almost thirty years. This was in the box, along with a few other journal clippings. I think they’re all from the same journal. Robert’s journal.”
“And William is . . .”
“Dead,” he finishes for me. “Like, fifteen years ago.”
I nod, thinking it through. “So, we can’t ask him to authenticate the photocopy. Is there a reason why William Bartlett would have photocopied pages from Robert Dent’s journal just sitting in a box at The Burr Island Bugle?”
He shrugs. “Maybe he was working on a story about it? Or maybe, for him, it was just sentimental.”
“Why would it be sentimental?”
At this, he smiles. “Oh, did I not mention? William Bartlett was married to Louisa Dent, direct descendant of Alice and Robert Dent.”
A direct descendant? It’s a thin thread, but it’s certainly something more than nothing.
“Don’t you see, Birdie? This is the link.
” He points at the journal entry again. “This is the proof I need to show that these five women were killed by an angry mob, burned alive in this very church. Once they were dead, their families buried what was left of them and fled Homewood. I think if we keep digging up there, we’re going to find bodies.
And if we finally find the bodies, we’ll have all the proof we need to establish cause of death. ”
I fight another shiver. “And that’s what you want, is it? You want the bodies so you can establish that these women were burned alive in a fire set by a mob of their own neighbors?” The glint in his eye has me sitting forward. “What? Am I missing something?”
“Well . . .”
“Ezra, what?”
He casts a conspiratorial glance around before lowering his voice, scooting closer in his chair. “What do you know about witchcraft, Birdie?”
Lord, here we go again. Am I going to get asked this every day of my stay out on this crazy island? “It’s not my specialty.”
“No, but it’s mine,” he says with a widening smile.
“I have a masters in Magic and Occult Science from the University of Exeter. In grad school, I did a comparative study of burials for women accused of witchcraft. And the bulk of my recent work has been focused on the New England witch trials. If these women were real witches, I think we’re going to find proof of it in their graves. ”
“Wait—real witches? What does that even mean?”
He waves a hand, clearly in a rush to explain. “Don’t get bogged down in the semantics. I’m saying I believe that they believe they were witches. And the people who killed them certainly believed they were witches. Do you know how witches are buried, Birdie?”
“No . . .”
“A woman in Essex was discovered with iron rivets pounded through her corpse to keep her locked in the ground.”
I wince. “Ezra—”
“Another was buried beneath a large boulder. Yet another was bound in iron chains. But all these women were buried by the communities who accused them of witchcraft, by people who feared them and their power.”
I think I’m catching on. “So . . . you think these Homewood burials will be different somehow? You think, because the families buried them quietly and privately, you’ll find something else in the graves?”
“I do.”
“What?”
His grin lights up his whole face as he leans forward. “Grimoires.”
A sharp chill snakes down my arms. “Grimoires? Why would spell books be buried with these women?”