Candlemas Eve Read online

  CANDLEMAS EVE

  Jeffrey Sackett

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2012 / Jeffrey Sackett

  Copy-edited by: Patricia Lee Macomber

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  Cover images provided by:

  Alessandra Casiraghi (http://gilliann.deviantart.com/)

  http://zememz.deviantart.com/

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Jeffrey Sackett was born in Brooklyn in 1949, and counts himself fortunate to have made it home from the hospital unscathed. After studying briefly for the ministry, he chose to pursue an academic career—this being preferable at the time to his alternative, which was a year in Vietnam as a guest of the government.

  He obtained master’s degrees in history from Queens College and New York University, a doctorate from St. Andrew’s Seminary, and also studied classical Greek, Latin, German, French, and Mandarin Chinese. Being thus possessed of a vast fund of information, he became a teacher of history and English in both high school and college, which he has remained until this day. He is currently an associate professor in both the History and Philosophy departments of Dowling College and Suffolk Community College.

  He explored other career alternatives at various times. He worked for a while as a bank guard (until he was fired for taking a nap down in the vault when the bank was being robbed), as a security guard (until he was fired for falling asleep on the job), as a cab driver (until he got fired because he didn’t know where anyplace was), and as a finder of missing persons (most of whom had disappeared by choice, and threatened him with all manner of violent reprisals when he found them). He decided that on the whole, teaching was his safest bet.

  He has travelled extensively in Europe, Latin America, and the United States, has spent time secluded in a Trappist monastery, a Hindu ashram and a Buddhist Zendo, and has been five times granted fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities.

  Sackett lives on Long Island, New York, with his wife Paulette, an artist; their daughters Simonetta (who is enrolled in a culinary program) and Elizabeth (an actress and singer), and their lizard Horatio, a seven foot long iguana. Theirs is the only house in the neighborhood with a sign saying Beware of Reptile on the fence.

  Book List

  Blood of the Impaler

  Candlemas Eve

  Future History – the 2190 A.D. Edition

  Grogo the Goblin (originally titled The Demon)

  Lycanthropos

  Stolen Souls

  The Mark of the Werewolf

  The Warm and Witty Side of Attila the Hun

  Audiobooks

  Lyncanthropos

  The Warm and Witty Side of Attila the Hun

  Jeffrey Sackett can be contacted at: [email protected]

  Buy Direct From Crossroad Press & Save

  Try any title from CROSSROAD PRESS – use the Coupon Code FIRSTBOOK for a one-time 20% savings! We have a wide variety of eBook and Audiobook titles available.

  Find us at: http://store.crossroadpress.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  "One Stage Before" by Al Stewart, copyright © 1976 Gwyneth Music Ltd. All rights for U.S. and Canada controlled by Dick James Music Inc. in care of PolyGram Music Publishing Companies, 810 Seventh Avenue, New York, New York, 10019. Used by permission.

  "Be-Bop-A'Lula" by Gene Vincent and Tex Davis, copyright © 1956 by Lowery Music Co., Inc., Atlanta, Ga. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.

  "Pathfinder,"

  "The Demon Lover,"

  "Solstice Hymn,"

  "Powers Working,"

  "Ballad of Abigail," and "Candlemas Eve," by Jeffrey Sackett. Copyright © 1987 by the author. Additional lyrics and verses by Jeffrey Sackett, copyright © 1987 by the author.

  "Thomas the Rhymer,"

  "Shapechangers" (also known as "The Coal Black Smith" and "The Two Magicians"), "The Unquiet Grave," and "Pirate Chantey," all in the public domain.

  "Roots of Oak" by Donovan Leitch. Copyright 1970 by Donovan (Music) Ltd. international Copyright Secured. All Rights controlled by Peer International Corporation. Used by permission.

  This novel is dedicated to my wife Paulette, the only woman who ever truly bewitched me.

  Author's Note

  Any reader interested in exploring the records of the events which transpired in Salem, Massachusetts, during the spring and summer of 1692 is urged to read Deodat Lawson’s contemporary account, A Brief and True Narrative of Witchcraft in Salem Village, published in London in 1693 and available as a historical reprint in most large libraries. The original documents and records are housed in the county court archives in Essex County, Massachusetts. (Before you hop in your car and drive on over there, let me warn you that it is next to impossible to get permission to look at them.)

  Any reader interested in other fiction regarding the events in Salem is urged, of course, to read or see Arthur Miller's classic drama, The Crucible. It was while teaching this play to high-school students that the idea for this novel first occurred to me. While I have taken pains to avoid being derivative, I nonetheless readily acknowledge my debt to this drama, even to the extent of accepting and perpetuating certain historical inaccuracies. I would like to make a special note of thanks to Marge Nelson, Joseph Granitto, and Norman Brust, who collectively hired me to teach at Kings Park High School. Had they not done so, I might never have taught Miller's plays.

  Any reader interested in hearing old British folk songs arranged as rock and roll is urged to listen to any of the excellent records of the British rock group, Steeleye Span, in particular Now We Are Six.

  Any reader who is offended by foul language, blasphemy, or sexual situations is urged to stop reading this book immediately. Please remember that the characters herein are not choirboys, and the situations herein are not Sunday school picnics. Any attempt to prettify modes of speech, patterns of behavior, or personalities would be unrealistic.

  One more note:

  If you happen to be a Satanist or serious witch, please do not read this book at all. It will offend you deeply; and I really do not need you people as enemies. I have enough problems at the moment.

  J. S.

  To understand witchcraft, we must descend into the darkness of the deepest oceans of the mind. In our efforts to avoid facing the realities of human evil, we have tamed the witch and made her comic, dressing her up in a peaked cap and setting her on a broom for the amusement of children at Hallowe'en. Thus made comic, she can easily be exorcised from our minds, and we can convince our children—and ourselves—that "there is no such thing as a witch." But there is, or at least there was. A phenomenon that for centuries gripped the minds of men from the most illiterate peasant to the most skilled philosopher or scientist, leading to torture and death for hundreds of thousands, is neither joke nor illusion.

  -JEFFREY BURTON RUSSELL, Witchcraft in the Middle Ages

  Blessed are all the simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.

  -NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

  And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? And Satan answered the Lord and said, From going to and fro in the Earth.

  -JOB 1:7


  PROLOGUE

  October 29

  Mary Warren shivered slightly from both the cold and her own nervousness as she stood hidden in the darkness of the alleyway. She peered across the fog-shrouded street at the door of the tavern and heard the faint sounds of revelry and good cheer drift toward her, echoing from the cobblestones and then fading into the cold New England night. A hay wagon drawn by an old nag rolled noisily past her, and she moved back even farther into the darkness, grinning haughtily at the Puritan scowl which had been chiseled into the granite face of the old woman who drove the wagon. Mary's expression bespoke condescension and superiority, ridicule and dislike; and yet she withdrew farther into the alleyway. For most of her life she had lived in fear of such women, and the habitual shrinking back when in their presence asserted itself whenever she saw one of them.

  "Old fool," she muttered. She stepped quietly forward to the edge of the alleyway and leaned out to watch the hay wagon move down the street. The loud rumbling of the wooden wheels on the cobblestones and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse's hooves momentarily drowned out the sounds emanating from the tavern, and Mary neither saw nor heard the tavern door open as the two farmers left the inn and began to make their way home. By the time she noticed the two men ambling unsteadily down the street, they were already too far away for her to call out to them without attracting more attention to herself than she would wish. "Hell and damnation!" she muttered angrily. Mary pulled her shawl tight around her throat and returned her attention to the door of the tavern. It was just after midnight, and the town of Boston was covered by a blanket of darkness and fog so thick that Mary's eyes strained as she gazed across at the door. There were indeed certain areas of Boston which had street lights (actually little more than large candles in glass encasements), but this section of town, down by the wharves, remained unlighted. It was the opinion of the royal governor and the town magistracy that dock areas were breeding grounds for vice and corruption, and they had no intention of encouraging nocturnal activities by making them safer. The merchants and ship owners might chafe under such decisions, but in the fall of the year 1698 there was little they could do about it but grumble.

  Mary started in anticipation as the tavern door opened and a portly, well-dressed middle-aged man walked out into the chilly night. He stood for a moment before the tavern and buttoned his long cloak. Mary walked out of the alleyway and moved to the edge of the street. "Good evening to you, good mister," she called out. "Why go you so early to your bed? The night is yet young."

  The portly man peered myopically through the fog. "Who's there? Who speaks to me?"

  She stepped into the street and ambled over to him, allowing her shawl to fall open and reveal her white throat. Her hips swayed as she walked, and she placed her hands upon them as she stopped a few feet away from the man. "My name is Mary," she said sweetly. "And how are you called, good mister?"

  "What are you doing here alone at this time of night?" the man demanded, ignoring her question. "Why are you not home and in bed?"

  "Truly, sir, 'tis home I'll be going very soon now," she said, moving slowly closer to the man. "But my bed, alas, is so cold and empty! It wants warming." She placed her hand softly upon the man's cheek. "Though my body is warm, very warm, yet my bed is too large for me to warm it alone."

  The man grabbed her hand and thrust it away from him. "Have you no shame, girl?"

  "Indeed, sir, I have shame. I have a flood of shame, I dwell in shame, I live for shame." She smiled and licked her lips. "Would you not take pleasure in shaming me with your flood?"

  The portly man sputtered, dumbfounded. "Do you know who I am, girl?"

  She leaned her head to one side. "I hope you are a man who will shame me."

  "I am the Reverend Josiah Witherspoon! And you are a whore!"

  "A minister?" she said calmly. "Then we have much in common, sir, for your livelihood depends upon sin, and my livelihood depends upon sin."

  "You brazen—you—you—!" He grabbed her by the wrist and began dragging her down the street. "We'll see what the magistrate has to say to you, you little harlot!"

  Mary clamped her teeth down hard upon his hand, and he released her with a cry of pain. She ran across the street and disappeared once again into the alleyway. The minister ran after her, his ample stomach bouncing in time to his gait, but he stopped before the alleyway and squinted his eyes in an attempt to see into the darkness. "Come out here, girl!" he commanded, but neither sound nor movement reached him from the blackness. "Come out here, I say!" He stepped back into the street. "Yes, yes, I understand. I am supposed to pursue you into the dark so your friends can rob and murder me. Well, I am not such a fool, harlot." He turned and began to stomp angrily away. As if his divine office occurred to him as an afterthought, he turned and called out, "God have mercy on you."

  Mary Warren waited a long while, listening as his footsteps grew increasingly faint and then became inaudible. She stepped warily forward to the edge of the alleyway and looked down the street. She released a sigh of relief. "Damn all ministers," she muttered, "and damn all fat, ugly old men." She heard the clipping of wooden heels upon the cobblestones and drew back into the darkness. She waited nervously as the footsteps grew louder and closer. If the minister was returning with a magistrate, she could do nothing but run and hope that she was faster than they.

  "Mary!" she heard a voice whisper. "Mary! Where are you?"

  "Abby!" she said as she walked out into the street. "You frightened me! I thought you, were a minister or a magistrate!"

  Abigail Williams laughed. "A minister or a magistrate! By God, Mary Warren, you know me better than that!"

  "Aye, but a footstep is a footstep in the darkness," she said. "I just approached a minister a moment ago, and he tried to bring me to the magistrate. I thought you might be one of them, coming back for me."

  "Sorry."' Abby shrugged.

  "And why are you here?" Mary asked. "I thought we had agreed that you would go to the warehouses and I would stay by the wharves."

  "Aye, but there is no one there! I wandered about for over two hours, and saw naught but rats."

  "Did you wait by the taverns?"

  "They are all closed, shut up as if it were Sunday! In truth, Mary I'll not ply my trade there again. And it is getting late, and we need a man before morning."

  "I know, I know. It has been a sparse night for me also," Mary sighed as she leaned against the wall of the alleyway. "I had but three this whole evening, and none were rich."

  "How much did you make?"

  "Twelve shillings."

  Abby sighed and brushed some dirt from her skirt. " 'Tis twelve shillings more than I've earned this night."

  "Abby, look." Mary pointed at the tavern door and Abigail followed the direction of her finger. The door had been opened, and a husky young man was walking out into the street. His hair was long and full, pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a blue ribbon. Even at that distance and through the fog the girls could see the rich brocade upon his waistcoat and the slight glimmering sheen of the silk stockings which covered his calves. "He's perfect," Mary whispered. "Young, strong—"

  "Perfect or not, he'll do," Abigail replied. She walked out into the street and drew her shawl from her head, allowing her rich black hair to fall freely about her shoulders. "Good evening to you, sir," she said cheerfully. " 'Tis a cold night, is it not?"

  The young man turned in the direction of her voice and regarded her with amusement. "Aye, it is that."

  Mary walked forward and stood beside Abigail. "My name is Mary, and this is my friend, Abby. We've been seeking all night some means of warmth, good sir. Can you help us?"

  A confident smile spread over the young man's face as he looked at the two girls. The one who called herself Mary seemed twenty years old; the other girl, Abby, a few years older, but not more than twenty-five. Mary was thin but in a willowy fashion, not sickly or wiry like so many of these colonial farm girls. Her brown hair was cut short,
but curled around her ears and neck. She had the plain honest face of a good Puritan, but it was soft and warm, not hard and cold. The other girl's hair was long and luxuriant, and her figure was full and curvaceous. Her large eyes glinted above high cheekbones, and her full lips glistened in the moonlight. "Some means of warmth," he said. "What, shall I buy you rum or brandy?"

  "Nay, sir, for we have drink of our own," Abigail replied. "The warmth we seek comes not from the cup."

  "Are you from England?" Mary asked. "You speak not as we in New England speak."

  "Yes, dear girl," the young man said, stepping onto the cobblestones and approaching the two girls. "I am from London. I am the Marquis of Stonehampton."

  "A lord!" Abigail gushed. "I've never met a lord! Are you very, very rich?"

  The Marquis laughed. "Rich enough, Abby, rich enough."

  Mary placed her hands upon his arm and leaned slightly against him. "Then truly, sir, you will help two poor girls, will you not?"

  "Help you in what way?" he asked. He was playing with them, enjoying the banter and the game. "Do you need lodgings?"

  "Nay, sir, we have rooms not far from here."

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure you do. Food, then. Are you hungry?"

  "Aye, sir, we are," Abigail said, taking his other arm, "but it is not food for which we hunger."

  "Well, then, how can I help you?" he laughed.

  "If you please, sir," Mary said, "our bed is too large for the two of us, and we cannot together make it warm."