A Spell for the Revolution (2 page)

Singer whinnied again. Proctor turned his head toward the door, conscious that the crickets had fallen silent.

His gaze shifted from the door to the room.

Not all the red was cast by fire.

He jumped back. The iron clattered off the stone hearth as he dropped it. Blood was smeared everywhere. He checked the bottom of his shoe—he’d slipped in a pool of wet blood on his way in. It was fresh. A woman’s body lay under the table. The top of her head was missing. A man’s broken body, cut to bloody ribbons, was folded against the wall.

“Jesus,” Proctor whispered.

“Funny, that’s who they called on too,” said a voice that made Proctor jump again.

Bootzamon stood framed in the doorway. For just a second he looked like a scarecrow. Then his pipe flared, and he blew out a stream of smoke.

“Mister Bootzamon,” Proctor said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “What happened here?”

Bootzamon shook his head sadly. “It appears to be an Indian attack. Exactly how old are you, young man?”

“Turned twenty-two this past month,” Proctor answered in reflex. He looked for a way past Bootzamon, remembering that the Covenant’s assassins had come to The Farm dressed as Indians last year. “What makes you say it’s Indians?”

“See, that’s too bad,” Bootzamon said. “My master wants young witches only. ‘Catch the young ones, kill the old.’ I couldn’t find the Walker girl, but I got to thinking you might be young enough to take her place.”

His cockfeather brushed the lintel as he stepped through the door. One arm hung at his side, the gloved hand casually dangling a bloody tomahawk.

Proctor saw the weapon, but he felt
magic
tickle the back of his neck. Worse than murder had been done here already. He reached into his pocket for his bag of salt while his thoughts raced for the right protective spell. Keeping his eye on Bootzamon, he sprinkled salt in a quick circle around himself. “The Lord is my rock and my fortress, my deliverer. Deliver me from my strong enemy—”

“Bosh,” Bootzamon said around the pipe stem in his lips. He removed the pipe and blew smoke toward Proctor. A wind slammed through the house, banging open the window shutters and scattering Proctor’s circle of salt.

The wind died, and Bootzamon stood there, tapping the tomahawk against his palm.

“You’re a witch,” Proctor whispered, and then felt foolish for saying it. His own use of magic was too slow, too useless for this kind of fight. He bent down quickly and snatched up the iron.

“Not precisely a witch,” Bootzamon said. “But I may be a ghost—boo!”

Proctor twitched.

Bootzamon chuckled and danced closer to Proctor. “Or I may be an Indian.” The last word came out with a sneer as he swung the tomahawk at Proctor’s head.

Proctor banged the tomahawk aside with the iron, then reversed his swing and slammed the metal bar into his attacker. It was like hitting a bag of sticks and straw. The tomahawk flew one way and Bootzamon the other. He hit the far wall, crumpled to the floor, and then popped up again, pipe in mouth. He reached up and recocked his hat, then licked his gloved finger and ran it along the edge of the feather.

“What are you?” Proctor asked.

“What are
you?”
Bootzamon retorted. “I’ll tell you what
you are—you’re nothing but a miserable bag of snot and bones, piss and
Scheiße.
And, sadly, too old to be of use to me.”

Bootzamon stretched his hand toward the tomahawk. The weapon slid toward him across the floor, the blade scratching a line through the blood, and flew up into his hand. The flickering light from the fire cast a sinister glare over his features, distending and exaggerating them.

He blocked the only path to the door.

Fear shot through Proctor like fire through dry grass. He turned and leapt headfirst through the open window. He slammed into the ground, and the air crashed out of him, but somehow he held on to the poker.

Singer snorted.

Bootzamon flew through the window and landed nimbly on his feet next to Proctor.

Proctor rolled away, rising, swinging the poker as he stumbled upright. Bootzamon was either a witch, doing magic, or he was a creature made from magic, like the animated corpses that had attacked Proctor and Deborah on The Farm that dark night the year before. Either way, the magic had a focus. Break the focus, break the spell.

He retreated around the corner of the house, watching Bootzamon follow him with an almost casual step. The coal from the pipe cast a thread of light along the cockfeather in his hat. Roosters were the focus of all sorts of black magic. The cockfeather must be the focus—it made perfect sense.

“I smell you,” Bootzamon said. “Even a corncob nose can smell the stink of sweat and hunger, fear and death on you.” He pulled the pipe from his mouth and held it down at his side. “I smell you—”

Proctor lunged and knocked the hat off Bootzamon’s head, dodging the tomahawk as it swung at him. Holding the iron bar in front of him like a shield, Proctor snatched up the hat and yanked out the feather, crushing it in his fist.

Bootzamon stood there, unfazed.

“If you think my hat looks better than your own, you’re welcome to it,” he said, jamming the pipe in his mouth. “It can cover your naked skull once I peel off your scalp.”

“The feather’s not the focus?” Proctor said, stunned. But then what was—?

Bootzamon laughed. He made a quick lunge toward Proctor. It would have been deadly but the creature froze mid-step. The dark light in his eyes began to fade, and his body suddenly grew more lumpy and shapeless. He pulled out the pipe and saw that it was extinguished.

“Dickon!” Bootzamon cried.

A horned, man-shaped shadow the size of a cat swirled up out of the earth. Its left fist was closed around a burning coal that illuminated a webwork of veins in the back of its hand. With a screech of anguish, it smashed the coal into the pipe. Then it disappeared in an upward spiral of smoke, leaving behind the stink of saltpeter and brimstone. Proctor suppressed a shudder of revulsion—it was one thing to believe in imps and demons, but another thing entirely to see one summoned by name.

Bootzamon drew deep on the relit pipe and puffed out another noxious cloud of cheap tobacco.

The pipe. Of course. Proctor should have guessed that first. He could try to smash it, but he didn’t think he’d get a second chance to hit Bootzamon in the head. He backed away, slowly, measuring his step, making sure of his footing. If he went around just one more corner, he could make a dash for Singer.

Bootzamon chuckled at him, then coiled and made a leap that carried him over Proctor’s head. Proctor ducked, swinging the iron wildly. When Bootzamon landed, Proctor charged him.

The creature leapt back again, another fifteen feet, and held out his arm, the tomahawk hanging limp in his hand.

“What are you going to do?” Bootzamon taunted. “If
you break me, my master can put me back together. If you destroy my limbs, I can find replacements.” The tomahawk snapped upright in his fist. “You, on the other hand, are neither so durable nor so easily repaired.”

His arm snapped back, and he threw the tomahawk at Proctor, who twisted aside, dodging it easily. Now was his chance—he charged at Bootzamon.

Something in the glitter of the dark eyes warned him.

He ducked as the tomahawk returned, passing through the space his head had just occupied, landing with a soft
thwack
in Bootzamon’s fist.

“Ah, that worked on the woman,” Bootzamon said, sounding either pleased or disappointed.

Proctor circled to the right.

“You wouldn’t know where I could find the girl, would you?” Bootzamon said, dancing jauntily from side to side, holding the tomahawk ready to strike. “I could promise to make it quicker for you if you tell me—”

Proctor attacked in the middle of Bootzamon’s sentence, and the creature reacted by leaping backward again.

“It’s not polite to interrupt—” Bootzamon said as he landed next to Singer.

He was interrupted by the mare, who lashed out with her rear hooves the instant he landed. The blow sent Bootzamon flying off in several directions—an arm one way, body another, pipe a third.

Proctor dropped the poker and dived for the pipe.

Bootzamon popped up to his feet and swung an empty shoulder socket toward his life spark. His other hand still clutched the tomahawk. “Give that back to me,” he growled.

“You didn’t say please,” Proctor said. He snapped the pipe in half.

“You stinking peasant farmer—”

The words died on the creature’s lips. His head shrank to a dried gourd with a corncob nose, his remaining arm
flopped loose like a broken flail, and his legs turned stiff, not bending at the knees. He ran straight-legged for Proctor, raising the tomahawk above his head in a wordless scream.

Proctor plunged his hand into the trough. Steam boiled up around his fist as the pipe was extinguished, and Proctor jerked his hand out with a yelp.

Gourd, scarf, clothes, and straw fell in a jumble at Proctor’s feet. The tomahawk slid across the ground to the edge of his bloody-soled shoe.

In the grasses nearby, a cricket ventured a chirp.

Proctor shook his hand. His knuckles hurt, as if he’d punched someone in the jaw. After retrieving the fire iron, he poked carefully through the pieces—a broomstick, an old thresher’s flail, and pieces of chair legs knotted together formed Bootzamon’s scarecrow bones. Only when Proctor had knocked them apart did he dare breathe easily.

The sound of the crickets rose in grateful chorus.

He went over to Singer. She had froth around her mouth, but her eyes were calm again. Proctor stroked her neck and fetched a handful of oats from his saddlebag. As she nibbled from his palm, Proctor said, “Thanks.”

Singer rubbed her head against Proctor’s shoulder and pulled at her tether. He gave her another handful of oats.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t done here just yet. He took a long look at the pieces of the scarecrow scattered on the ground. It was so dark now, he wasn’t sure he could see them all. Wasn’t sure they hadn’t moved or collected themselves.

The fire in the cabin had faded, leaving no more than a dim glow through the open door. Taking the gourd and broomstick first—the skull and backbone—Proctor carried the pieces inside and shoved them one by one into the flames until the creature was completely destroyed. If he concentrated on the work and watched where he put his feet, he didn’t have to look too closely at the dead bodies.

Still, by the time he fed the last bits of straw into the fire, he had seen enough. The woman had auburn hair, the same color as Alexandra’s; the man was lean and broad-shouldered, just the way she’d described her father. Though he turned out Bootzamon’s pockets before burning the clothes, he had not discovered the missing scalps and could not give the bodies the final dignity of being complete. With the stink of burned wool and silk strong in his nose, he searched the second room and the sleeping loft, but he found no sign of Alexandra or her several brothers.

He stood in the doorway and leaned his head against the jamb, breathing fresh air and staring out into the night. Poor Alexandra—she was going to be devastated, just as Deborah had been when the Covenant killed her parents.

Deborah! What was the phrase that Bootzamon had used?
Catch the young witches and kill the old.
The Covenant knew the location of The Farm. If Bootzamon had been sent after Alexandra, then The Farm wasn’t safe. He had to get back home
now
.

He retrieved a purse full of salt from one of his saddlebags, brought with him to create a protective circle around him as he slept. He used nearly all he had left around the perimeter of the small house, saying, “Let there be no remembrance of former things, neither let there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those who shall come after.”

The words trickled out of his mouth like the salt from his fist, starting over again each time he dipped his hand in for more. Anyone who came here now would turn away, forgetting why they came. The house would be all but invisible to them, for at least a time.

When he finished, he stood at the door and whispered a silent prayer to God, begging His forgiveness and asking Him to consecrate the bodies inside in place of a proper burial. All his aches and soreness, forgotten during the fight with Bootzamon, came rushing back, amplified by his
new bruises. Night was no time to travel, but he couldn’t stay here.

He walked toward Singer and found her at the end of her tether, well away from the trough.

A red light glowed in the bottom of the water. The pipe.

Proctor plunged his hand into the water, still teakettle-warm. He fished out the broken bowl-end of the pipe and took it to the splitting stump. Using the heaviest piece of firewood he could find, he smashed the pipe into pieces. Then he took the butt-end of the log and ground even the pieces into dust until there was no flame left.

“Good night, Mister Bootzamon,” he said.

He turned toward the house one last time—and didn’t see it. He knew better, but it was still unsettling. Deborah had done a good job teaching him after all.

Proctor walked over to Singer and climbed back into the saddle. She seemed as eager to leave the farm as he was. They had to push through the thick, oppressive air and the dark to find the cart road and turn north again. About an hour later, they came to the ford on the Potomac.

“Didn’t think we’d be back again so soon,” Proctor said.

Singer plunged down the bank and splashed into the water. Proctor rubbed his eyes to stay awake as they crossed. Five hundred miles away, Deborah and the other witches were in danger already. And they didn’t know what was coming.