Witch Water (17 page)

Abbie grinned at him as they strolled Back
Street. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “You seem
very…enchanted by something.”

Yeah. You.
He hadn’t even realized
that he was holding her hand. “I guess I’m thinking about how
easily I’ve taken things for granted.
You’ve
made me realize
that.”

She seemed astonished. “Me? How so?”

“Just the way you look at things. It’s like
you’re
the one who’s enchanted, with everything around you,
every minute.”

“Well, that’s how I feel most of the time.”
Her smile just seemed more and more radiant. “Every day is a
blessing—even if it rains, even if my car insurance goes up or one
of the toilets breaks and I gotta fix it.”

“I need a bigger dose of
your
outlook. I’ve lived in New York most of my life, and it’s taken me
till now to realize the cosmopolitan world isn’t an honest
world—it’s built on greed, deceit, and one-upmanship—but places
like this
are
honest. When you live in the city long enough
you become oblivious to the fact that most of our culture evolved
out of small little burgs like Haver-Towne.”

“All towns have their veneers, and we have
ours. But it’s really only a tourist town on the outside. Deep down
it’s pretty genuine, and so are the people who live here. I never
realized that until I’d spent that year in Nashua—and that’s not
even a big city, really. I’m so glad I came back.”

I’m glad you did too, otherwise I never
would’ve met you.
“Like what you were saying yesterday. The
witchcraft motif and all that. Take out those corny connotations,
and it’s just another reminder of our history.”

Abbie squeezed his hand as if enthused.
“Finally! You’ve seemed so interested in that since we met but you
hadn’t mentioned it all night. I was afraid to bring it up.”

“What, the witchcraft stuff?” he said
innocuously, but then remembered what he thought he’d seen at the
pillory this morning. “And Jacob Wraxall?”

“Sure!” Her hair tossed as she strode along.
“I’ve been dying to ask. What did you think of the graveyard?”

Fanshawe chuckled but the humor behind it
seemed dried out. “It’s a doozy of a graveyard, all right. Why is
there a very suspicious
hole
where Evanore Wraxall’s body
should be?”

Was she teasing him? “Oh, I didn’t tell you
that part, did I?”

“No, you did
not.
”

“Are you
sure?
”

Fanshawe simply scowled at her.

She appeared more enthused now than ever.
“Okay, here goes. It was exactly 666 days after her execution”—her
long eyelashes fluttered—”when Jacob Wraxall dug Evanore up and ran
off with her remains.”

Fanshawe’s pace slowed. “Uh, do I want to
know what he did with the body?”

“Well, there was no embalming in those days,
Stew. She was nothing but bones by then. Wraxall used the bones for
black magic.”

“Warlock dad digs up witch daughter. No
Father of the Year Award for him, huh? And what’s with the old
barrel on Witches Hill?”

“Weeeeell, do you
really
want to
know?”

By now there was no doubt that she was using
the subject to toy with him.
Toy with me all you want,
he
thought. “Yes, I really do. You know, it’s not fair for you to keep
stringing me along.”

“They called it barreling,” she said
abruptly, slowing down a little herself.

Fanshawe didn’t understand.
“
Barreling?
What—”

“The method of execution, I mean. It was
called
barreling.
”

Fanshawe wondered.
They drowned the
witches in barrels?
“What ever happened to good old hanging,
decapitation, and burning at the stake?”

“That was old hat by then. And, remember,
witchcraft, sorcery, and heresy were considered the worst crimes in
those days. So those convicted got—”

“Barreled… Now I get it. They put the witch
in the barrel and fill it with water till she drowns—”

Now Abbie’s refreshing smile turned grim.
“Oh, no, Stew, it’s much worse than that. In fact, barreling was
about the worst form of capital punishment that the witch-finder
counsels ever thought of. Did you see the hole in the front side of
the barrel?”

Fanshawe reluctantly nodded.

“They’d put the witch in the barrel, pull
her head out through the hole and keep it in place by sliding this
thing called a U-collar around her neck.”

Fanshawe made a face, trying to picture what
she’d described. “Oh, like a pillory only…with a barrel?”

“Well, sort of. See, after they did
that…they’d bring out the dog—”

Fanshawe’s eyes narrowed as if leery of
something. How could he
not
think of those times he’d
thought he heard a dog barking, not to mention the dog he thought
he’d seen through the looking-glass just before dawn?

He felt the heat of Abbie’s hand in his,
hoping he wasn’t sweating. “The…
dog?
”

Just at that moment, a dog began yelping
from across the street. Fanshawe stopped with a jolt, and jerked
his gaze.

“
Nervous,
Stew?” she laughed.
“Suddenly you’re on pins and needles.”

He frowned across the street, at the same
annoying poodle that had snapped at him this morning. Its
overweight master frowned back almost as an accompaniment with the
animal’s hostility.
That little fucker again…
The poodle
strained against its lead, barking directly at Fanshawe.
God, I
hate little yelping dogs.
“I like dogs,” he explained. “Just
not
that
dog.” But the distraction snapped. “And
what
were you saying? Something about barreling…and a
dog?
”

“Don’t worry, Stew,” Abbie allayed. “The
kind of dog I’m talking about was nothing like that little pooch.”
Abbie maintained her cheery composure even in the luridness of what
she was about to detail. “After they locked the witch’s head so
that it was sticking out of the hole in the barrel, they brought in
the dog. It was always a big one, like a Doberman, Irish Wolf
Hound, like that. But they’d also…” She let out a warning breath.
“Are you sure you want to hear this right after dinner?”

“You must think I’m a real light-weight,” he
said, yet still baffled by what she was taking so long to describe.
“I’m from New York, remember? People—usually stock brokers—jump off
of buildings every day. The local crime page in the paper is worse
than a slasher movie.”

“All right, you asked for it. They’d
starve
the dog for several days first, and they’d rile it
up, and…well…”

“
What?
”

She let out another abrupt breath. “The dog
would attack and…
eat
the flesh off the witch’s head.”

Holy shit…
Fanshawe nearly stumbled.
“Hello! Me? I’ll take hanging any day!”

“Hanging was considered letting them off too
easy,” Abbie said. “They had to
pay
for their crimes against
God. Oh, and that’s not some mock barrel up there. It’s the one
they really used.”

Fanshawe recalled the details he’d noticed
of the barrel, how the clear resin completely covered the old
wooden slats: a perfect preservative. But the grotesque verbal
portraiture created its own images, which sunk deep into his mind’s
eye.
They’d sic a starving dog on the witch’s living head…
His stomach seemed to turn inside-out. “You know, after all that
happy talk, I need a drink. How about I treat you to a Witch-Blood
Shooter?”

Abbie’s smile, as always, shined like a
bright light. “You’re on.”

—
| — | —

CHAPTER SEVEN

(I)

It was just after nine p.m. when Fanshawe
and Abbie entered the Squire’s Pub. The comfort he felt by being
with her—the idealism of a first date notwithstanding—continued to
ease the turmoil he’d been dwelling on all day. Additionally, he
was pleased by how easy it was to slip his arm around her waist; he
could tell she was glad he did that. Closer now, her subtle perfume
and shampoo scents were driving him nuts, to an arousing degree,
yet not once had he even re-framed the vision he’d stolen last
night, when he’d peeped on her and seen her utterly naked.

Several tables full of loud professors took
up the pub’s rear section; Fanshawe noticed the two joggers, too,
who didn’t seem to be having quite the raucous time as their
inebriated elders, which was understandable.

Most of the bar, however, was empty.
Perfect,
 Fanshawe thought. Mr. Baxter stood in
attendance, and at first Fanshawe was worried what the proprietor
might think of him walking in with his arm around his daughter. The
instant he spotted them, though, he seemed to perk up, as if
somehow energized by their entrance. Fanshawe let his hand slide
across the small of Abbie’s back when they parted for him to pull a
barstool out for her.

“Well, hey there, you two,” the older man
greeted, a crackle in his voice. “How was dinner?”

“Excellent, Mr. Baxter,” Fanshawe said, then
sat down next to Abbie. “A perfect meal for a perfect evening.” He
wondered if he should take Abbie’s hand so quickly in front of her
father, but before he could finish the consideration, she took
his.

“Oh, yeah, Dad, it couldn’t have been
better,” she augmented, “and Stew says the curries are as good as
the Thai places he goes to in Manhattan.”

“Your daughter has great taste in cuisine,
Mr. Baxter.”

Baxter, thumbing his suspenders, failed to
restrain an amused frown. “That she does, but not such good taste
in what she chooses to let come out of her mouth. I’d like to put
my boot to her behind for telling you all that gory baloney about
Wraxall and his daughter.”

“Listen to Dad,” Abbie mocked, looking at
Fanshawe. “You should’ve seen how excited he was when we found all
those black-magic relics in the basement. ‘The Salem of New
Hampshire!’ he said. ‘We’ll make a fortune from all these sucker
tourists!’”

“Mind your mouth, girl…”

“Well, it’s true, Dad. For someone who
thinks witchcraft is just a bunch of ‘silly drivel,’ you sure
jumped all over it.”

“You did a little jumpin’ yourself, missy,”
Baxter replied, wagging a finger. “So don’t ya go puttin’ it all on
me in front of Mr. Fanshawe.”

Abbie laughed and drifted off her stool. She
went behind the bar, to make drinks.

Fanshawe smiled through the vocal volley.
“Well, it certainly looks like it’s working; you’ve got a pretty
solid business here. But tell me, Mr. Baxter. It can’t
all
be baloney and drivel, can it?”

Baxter scoffed mildly. “Oh, I’m sure a
little bit of that religious mob-law stuff went on,” and then he
threw a hard glance to Abbie, who was adding ice to a silver
shaker, “but it wasn’t nothin’ like the witch-killing free-for-all
that my mouthy daughter here claims. It was just mostly folks
gettin’ a little carried away.”

Abbie rolled her gray eyes. “What about the
tens of thousands of people who died at the hands of the
Inquisition, Dad? Just folks getting a little
carried
away?
”

Fanshawe interjected, addressing Baxter.
“But, seriously, did the legal authorities of this town really
sentence heretics to death by
barreling?
”

Baxter stiffened up. “Aw, Abbie, ya didn’t
tell Mr. Fanshawe all
that
morbid nonsense now, did ya!”

Fanshawe laughed. “Don’t blame Abbie, sir. I
was the one who insisted she tell me.”

Baxter made a gesture of frustrated
resignation. “Oh, jeez. I suppose there’s a hint of truth to it,
but there ain’t really no official record.”

Now Abbie began to work the shaker, speaking
over the clatter of ice. “The
unofficial
record, Jacob
Wraxall’s diary, testifies that almost a hundred were executed in
that fashion, including his daughter, Evanore.”

“Abbie, why do you insist on fillin’ Mr.
Fanshawe’s head up with all that grisly poppycock?”

This was the first time tonight Fanshawe
felt sexually distracted by Abbie: the way her breasts tossed
slightly as she shook the iced tumbler, and suddenly he seemed
hotly intrigued by the graceful slope of her neck, the hollow of
her throat, her gleaming bare shoulders and skin above her
cleavage. Fanshawe could’ve winced when the friction of Abbie’s bra
from the shaking seemed to provoke her nipples to hardness.

Jeez…
Eventually, he dragged his way
back to his focus. “But I am curious about what Wraxall’s diary
revealed. You’ve actually read it?”

“Oh, sure,” Abbie admitted. “I’d be happy to
show it to you sometime.”

Baxter flapped a hand of disregard. “You can
look at it all you want, Mr. Fanshawe, but you’ll be hard-pressed
to make out a word of it.”

“It’s true that most of it’s not legible,”
Abbie added. “First of all it’s written in a very old style, and
the majority of the lines are blurred—”

“Oh, water damage? Silverfish?” Fanshawe
presumed.

“Nope. It was mostly because back then the
inks of the day were high in iron oxide content—I actually
researched this. Proteins in the vellum stock that they used for
paper interacted with the iron molecules. It would look great for a
hundred years or so, but longer than that the ink would blur and
turn yellow. A lot of the books here are like that
unfortunately.”

“But you said that
most
 of the
diary’s illegible,” Fanshawe pointed out. “Most means not all.”

Now Baxter butted back in. “There’s a tad
you can still make out, but you’re guaranteed a whopper of a
headache from eyestrain.”

Abbie began to pour the drinks, looking at
the shot glasses as she spoke. “Overall, there was a lot of
verification of some of the mysteries of the day. There was a spate
of missing persons—mostly children and teenagers—but no one
suspected that occult ritualism had anything to do with the
disappearances. Instead they were blamed on small scattered tribes
of Indians who wanted revenge against the Colonists for killing so
many of them when the area was first settled.”