Chapter 33 #2
“That’s so interesting.” I shake my head, beaming like a maniac.
“I’ve always been fascinated by the witch trials.
I used to live in Massachusetts, after all.
I’ve been curious to learn about witch trials in Vermont.
I’m a writer and would love to do a piece on local lore.
Is it right that there was just one trial, Widow Turner?
” It comes out in a rush, and I take a deep breath and try to smile casually.
“Yes, I believe that’s correct. To be honest, I’m not an expert on witch trials generally.
I’m not a historian. I studied Salem from the sociology lens.
But I can put you in contact with my friend Deb; she’s a historian and one of leading experts on witch trials in New England.
She’s lived in Salem for probably forty years now.
She’s a dear friend. I’ll get your info from Madeline and connect you. ”
I’m already fishing through my purse for a pen and paper. “Oh, don’t bother Madeline. Here’s my cell and email. That would be incredible. I’d love to connect with Deb.”
“Tell her about our witch,” says a slurred voice. I’d nearly forgotten Simon was standing there. His face looks even more flushed than before, and his glass looks newly refilled.
“Oh, Simon, she’s looking for facts, not ghost stories.” Lucy shoots her husband an annoyed look.
“No, please tell me,” I almost yell. “Is there a ghost story about a witch here? In Newfield Village?”
“Not just in Newfield Village, in your own woods, Elinor.” Simon grins at me, and it almost looks like a leer.
My heart nearly stops and it’s hard to formulate words.
“It’s just a silly story, Elinor,” says Lucy, shaking her head. “Every town has one.”
“I’m just so curious,” I say, giving what I hope is an intrigued and not crazed smile. “What’s the story?”
“Oh, you know, just that there is a witch in the woods, and she leads little children away.”
“Tell her the rhyme.”
“Yes, tell me the rhyme.” I clutch my glass of mead, feeling like I’ve never wanted to hear anything so desperately in all my life.
Lucy rolls her eyes but clears her throat. Then she and Simon lean together and tell me the rhyme, a look of childish glee on both their faces.
“She’ll lead you to the wild wood;
She wears a black cloak and a black hood;
You are safe with me, the witch she said;
But don’t go with her, or you’ll be dead.”
* * *
A bonfire has been assembled in the back fields.
It looks like it’s composed of old pallet boards, downed branches, leftover firewood.
There’re also old window frames and wooden doors.
I see a few guests adding to it; apparently the custom is everyone is encouraged to bring something they want to burn.
Something to purge. We didn’t bring anything, but I pull off my fascinator and toss it to the pile.
It erupts into a plume of greenish sparks that flicker in the darkness like will-o’-the-wisps.
While the party is still in full swing near the house, many of the younger guests have gathered by the bonfire. I notice a woman sitting on one of the hay bales. She’s dressed in a long black dress and a floral crown that’s beautiful though far more subtle than Madeline’s. I realize it’s Joan.
I’m feeling brazen. Partially from the lead I’ve gained from Lucy Acton. Partially from the rhyme that’s rattling around inside my head. Perhaps partly from the damn adaptogen or whatever Madeline said is in the mead. What do I have to lose? I need to know what’s up with Joan.
“Hi. This party is amazing.”
She turns to look up at me. “Oh. Hey.” She doesn’t look thrilled to see me, but at least she’s acknowledged my presence. “What happened to your orange hat?”
So, she’d noticed me before. And the stupid hat. “Oh. I made a contribution to the bonfire.”
Joan cracks the smallest of smiles and turns to look back at the wooden pyre.
“So, you guys host this every year?”
“Yes. Really, it’s Madeline.”
“Well, it’s incredible.” I take a step closer and kneel next to the hay bale, putting myself at an awkward height compared to Joan.
“Look, I realize I might sound crazy, but I just wanted to say that I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot.
I’m so sorry if I sounded insensitive at the dinner party. ”
She looks at me, her face unreadable. “Insensitive about what?”
“Um, being pregnant. Madeline mentioned you had miscarriages.”
“She told you that? What else did she say?” Her face is like stone.
“Oh, nothing really.”
“Why’d she bring it up?”
“I just . . . I asked if you might be upset about anything and she was just explaining that you can be touchy.” Worse. I’m making it worse. My brain isn’t working properly.
“Touchy.” She nods, her mouth a tight line. “Did she also say that I think they are a bunch of elitist pricks?”
“No! I mean, she said that you sometimes feel out of place since you don’t have the same background.” What’s wrong with me?
“Fucking cunt.” Joan looks out over the bonfire. Then she stands up, for a moment is still, and then hurls her champagne flute toward the bonfire. There is an almost beautiful explosion as the glass hits the wood and fire.
“I’m sorry,” I start to say, but Joan is already walking away, arms wrapped around herself and body lurched forward.
I feel like an idiot. Again. I can never seem to say the right thing to her. But, awkward as our exchange was, I did learn something interesting. There is a rift deeper than Madeline let on between her and Joan.
* * *
The sky is dark and the bonfire is raging. The musicians have moved to play near the fire and a raucous dance party has begun. A young man in catering attire appears beside me, with a glass in hand.
“Another nonalcoholic mead? John asked me to bring this over.”
“Thanks.” I realize I’m parched from the heat of the fire, and I look around for John to catch his eye as a thanks but can’t see him in the mass of people. I take a long sip, even though what I really want is water. Sweat beads on my skin, then immediately cools in the September air.
Around me, the dancing seems to intensify, people’s movements faster, more frenetic. Yips and howls echo through the music, compliments of a group of youngish men, who stand watching the scene. Topher is among them, looking drunk and devilishly happy. So is Julian.
The fire is casting wild shadows and illuminations in the dark. I feel a little dizzy, taking it all in. The man in the catering clothes is talking to me, at me, I realize. He’s looking at me eagerly, saying nonsensical things like “levitational waters and raw birch sap.”
“Sorry, I have to go,” I mumble and take a few steps toward Topher.
It’s then that I notice Madeline dancing close to the fire, a group gathered around her.
She moves in fluid, swirling motions, her red hair alight.
Her eyes find mine and she holds my gaze a moment before throwing her head back and letting out a trill.
Cheers erupt from her audience. I notice, then, Topher’s gaze is trained on Madeline.
The fire glints off his eyes and in that moment, he looks utterly and devastatingly captivated.
I turn and walk away, back toward the darkness.
I pass John on the way out. He’s laughing jovially with a man I suddenly recognize as the governor of Vermont, the two of them red-faced and shiny.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, though I don’t feel very sorry at all. “If you see Topher, do you mind telling him I’m turning in?” I’d tell him myself, but I don’t want to interrupt the show your wife is putting on for him. The vitriol of this thought surprises me.
“You’re leaving?” John exclaims, holding his arms up like he cannot believe what he’s hearing. “No, no. Come on, the best is yet to come. Let’s get you another drink. You’ve been having the mead, right?” He looks around, trying to find a waiter.
“No, really,” I say. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a great party, though. Thanks very much.”
I make my way down the curving driveway, navigating with the dim light of my cell phone.
I turn back at the bottom and take in one last view of the Fall Harvest Festival, see the dark silhouettes of revelers at the top of the hill, hear the growing cries and laughter from beyond.
A cow lows in the field, and I think of the sheep and goats farther back in the Brooks’ barns.
I wonder, fleetingly, if they’ll all survive the night, or if one will be sacrificed under the full moon.