The Awakening (4 page)

“Yeah, I guess.”

Mary flashed him a smile, and filed out behind her husband and kids. With John and Sally gone as well, Finn and Megan were alone. She looked a little distressed.

He offered her his deepest smile. “All right, so they all think we're both weird. I'm a wife beater, and you're a witch by association. Hey, it's kind of fun.”

She still appeared distraught, deep blue eyes dark, slender face, with it's perfectly chiseled beauty, drawn. “Finn, I'm so sorry—”

“Quit being sorry. I was the world's biggest asshole last night, and I'm going to make it up to you today. I'm going to be perfectly charming to Morwenna
and
her bizarre husband. I'm not going to crack a joke or sniff at the Wiccans in any way, shape, or form. I'm even going to have my palm read.”

“Finn, you don't have to—”

He was surprised at the sudden tension that ripped into him—another feeling of absolute desperation. “I don't have to do anything. I
want
to make a great, fun day for both of us. And I want to get to know your family better, and . . . I love you, Megan. And I'm never going to let anything come between us again. Anything. Nightmares, my own stupid temper, anything. And as long as you love me, too, I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. Right?”

She smiled, slowly, leaned close, and kissed him. A perfect kiss, chaste, just right for the breakfast table. But Megan had the ability just to lightly press her lips against his, and make it the most sensual brush in the world. He felt a strange trembling, so stood awkwardly. “We should get going, too. Whoops, sorry. My eggs weren't so hot. Were you still eating? Didn't mean to rush you.”

“No, no, I'm done. Let's get going.”

It was as if they were both suddenly desperate to get out of the centuries-old house, and into the sunshine.

They left the breakfast room, which led straight into the main entry, the old foyer with its circular stairway to the floors above. Outside, in the crisp October sunlight, she stopped suddenly. “I love you, too, you know. So much that it scares me!” she said softly.

“Don't ever be afraid of loving me. You are my world,” he told her, his words far more passionate than he had intended. He felt strangely awkward, as if he had said too much, even to his wife. “Hey, come on, my palm is just itching to be read. And I'm dressed appropriately, all in black. Hurry, while I'm in the mood to really suck up to your relatives!”

“Okay, I'm hurrying, but we're going to make a stop on the way.”

“We're going to stop? Hey, I may run out of suck-up steam.”

“No, you won't, because when you have a chance to talk more with Morwenna and Joseph than you did at our wedding, you're going to like both of them.”

Finn didn't reply for a moment as he walked by her side. He didn't think she was right. He wasn't sure what color Morwenna's hair was supposed to be, but not the raven black she had it colored. And she continually wore black. Complete black. Joseph was the same. His hair was as long as his wife's; he wore it queued back. He wore black trousers and a black shirt, and a huge silver pentagram, at all times.

He wondered what the two would wear to the beach. If they ever went to a beach.

“Where did you want to stop?” he asked.

“The Salem Witch Museum. The boy, Joshua, was right. It takes about twenty minutes, and is the probably the best, most concise way, of getting an overview of what happened during the frenzy in 1692. You'll enjoy it, really.”

“Lead on,” he told her.

“There are more places we have to go, of course. The Peabody Essex Museum is incredible. There's so much in there that's just about American lifestyles through the centuries. Lots of the historical buildings actually belong to the museum now. Sometime, we'll have to get to the House of the Seven Gables. It's a wonderful area, really, and a lot of what is historical is all within walking distance. Morwenna's shop is down a block or so and around the corner from the Salem Witch Museum, and it's just a block or so from the Peabody Essex Museum. And there are all kinds of little wonderful shops in between. And we can eat lunch at a little place on the water. Actually, I have to admit, I loved it all a lot more when I was growing up. Everything was a little spookier and more historical. Now, there's a fair amount of what's commercial going on.”

“Then, of course, there has to be a bit of those who were just born here, have the good old New England reserve and stamina, and just grew up without finding the world spins on the history and witches—real and imagined—in Salem.”

She glanced at him sharply.

“Hey! I'm just saying I'll bet there are a lot of normal people here just living their lives.”

“Well, of course. It's just a town, a charming town.”

“A beautiful town,” he agreed.

And it was. October. A lot of the leaves had already fallen. No snow yet. The temperature was chill but not at all painfully cold. The colors of fall were everywhere, some of the leaves still on the trees, glorious in shades of orange and gold and amber. The town—whether they all believed in witchcraft or not—went all out with pumpkins, jack-o'-lanterns, scarecrows, and decorations. By day, they were light and airy—fun. But it seemed that every house they walked by had something going on—Wal-Mart ghosts hanging from their trees, a pumpkin patch by an old elm, skeletons flying from the porch eaves, bats . . . and at a few houses, the old green witches on broomsticks slammed against a tree, as if they'd run into it. Cute. Harmless.

“Morwenna hates those,” Megan commented as they walked by one of the latter.

“Ah, come on, they're cute. Don't Wiccans have a sense of humor?”

“Well, sometimes. But I guess they feel that the old crone concept—warty noses, green flesh, broomsticks, all that—contributes to the idea of evil. And if you follow the concepts of Wicca—”

“Whether you follow the concepts or not, witchcraft is associated with Satanism, and Satanism has had a bunch of what you might want to call really, truly evil people over the centuries.”

Megan shrugged. “There—that's the statue of Conant in front of us. The founder of Salem. And the museum is just ahead, on our right.”

They had reached the center of the historic district. He'd noted the statue the night before, and remembered asking her something about the old Gothic building next to it and her saying that it was one of the area's best tableaus.

He thought that they were heading right in, but Megan suddenly placed a hand on his arm. “Look, Finn! Someone has a Great Dane at the park!”

Megan was a sucker for dogs—the bigger the better. But he suddenly felt as if a breath of fresh air rushed by them. Looking across the street at the common, he saw that a number of people were out, walking dogs. A few other kids were throwing a ball around; two young women were jogging together.

“Well, let's go see the Great Dane,” he said lightly.

She flashed him a smile. They joined a throng of tourists crossing the street to the large, spacious common. People around them were laughing. A woman strolled a toddler in a cherry-pink carriage. The world seemed pleasant. And
normal
. It was a town, just a town, like any other. Taking revenge upon the evil of the past by making big bucks on tourism.

“Hey, is he friendly?” he called out as they reached the park, to the young man or older teen who was walking the animal.

“She's a total sweetheart!” the youth called back, grinning. Finn, with Megan at his side, approached. Despite the Dane's mammoth size, they both hunkered down. The huge dog immediately licked them both. She was so friendly that she knocked Megan over in her enthusiasm. The kid started to apologize, and Megan laughed, waving a hand in the air, accepting Finn's hand to come back to her knees to better get to know the dog.

“Lizzie doesn't know her own strength,” the kid said. He extended a hand to Finn. “Hi. I'm Darren Menteith. And this, of course, is Lizzie.”

“Nice to meet you. Finn Douglas. My wife, the incredible dog lover, Megan.”

“Finn. And Megan. Are you playing here, at the hall?”

“Yes, that's us,” Finn answered. Megan was busy telling the dog how beautiful she was.

“Wow! Wicked!” Darren said.

“Wicked?”

Megan, still cuddling the dog's massive head, laughed. “Wicked. It's an expression, Finn. It means good.”

“Oh, yeah, exactly,” Darren said. “You know, wicked. Like a girl can be wicked good-looking. You can have a wicked good time. You know?”

“Sorry, I'm from the South. Deep South. Haven't heard the expression before.”

“Hey, man, come on, you must travel!”

“Oh, yeah, we travel, but sorry . . . just haven't heard it before.”

“That's okay. Let me say then, wow, rad! I have some of your CDs.”

Finn arched a brow. He had been getting something of a name, but still, his CDs were available through some of the major Internet chains, but he hadn't heard that he was garnering that much of a following. They did well with their music where they played, but so far, live appearances had been their major selling point.

“Well, thanks. That's great. I appreciate it.”

“We've got a new one with us,” Megan said, balancing back to her feet. “We'd be happy to give you one.”

“Super. I've been planning to come to at least three of the nights you're playing. Starting tonight.” He shrugged. “I'm in college here—didn't go too far out of the hometown after high school, I'm afraid. Thought I'd get the basic stuff out of the way, first.”

“Sound plan,” Finn said. That made Darren about nineteen or twenty, a little older than he had estimated. He had a pleasant face, bright green eyes, and a dead short haircut, almost a buzz. He was wearing a white sweatshirt with a surf logo and plain old blue jeans. Finn decided he liked him a lot.

“So—you're from here.”

“Down the street,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Megan's from Marblehead,” Finn said.

“Hey, I know, I read up on the musicians I like,” Darren said.

Megan grinned at him. “How old is Lizzie?”

“Seven.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, I know. Danes don't usually have a very long life span. Seven is it for a lot of them. Their hearts can't take their size. But I'm willing to bet old Lizzie has a few more years. I take care of her. Give her the right stuff.”

“I'm sure you do. And she is really beautiful,” Megan said. She sighed. “I guess we'd better get going. We're not really here that long this trip . . . and I want to show Finn a number of places.”

“Sure. Hey, don't let all the witchcraft stuff get to you—it's Halloween, and you're going to be inundated,” Darren advised Finn.

Finn nodded. Darren gave them a wave and started off with Lizzie. “Isn't she great!” Megan said.

He hugged her. “Magnificent. And we still can't get a dog yet. Not until we make enough to pay a good dog-sitter when we're traveling.”

Her eyes were bright and beautiful. “That won't be long. Hey, can you believe it! A college kid in a small town has your CDs!”

“Our CDs. Okay, not a bad morning. Good for the ego. Let's see your museum.”

It was a good morning. Tourists everywhere. The word
normal
fell back into his mind again.

The place was definitely jumping. They were the last two admitted to the next showing of the tableau, and as Megan had said, the production was excellent. The recorded voice of the narrator explained the medieval concept of the devil, and how people came to believe in the existence of the devil—and of witches. As he spoke, different tableaus were lighted. The events occurring in Salem in 1692 were then set out, with possible explanations being given. The darkness of the landscape, the depression of severe winter, and that of the lifestyle led by the Puritans were made tangible, and it was easy to see how children, desperate for some form of play, had begun to believe in the tales they were told by the Caribbean slave woman, Tituba. Then, the parents of the children, and others in the village, men of God, began to believe as well. The doctors could find no physical reason for the torment the girls truly seemed to be suffering. Therefore, by the beliefs of the day, it had to be witchcraft.

First, an old deaf woman, Rebecca Nurse, was accused, and nearly dismissed—she had been a good, churchgoing woman. But when she was nearly let free, the girls began to scream and howl in anguish again, and she found herself condemned. Others followed her to the wretched jails. A local man, John Proctor, protested. “The girls will make devils of us all!” he was reputed to have said. And soon, he was accused himself. A plateau of the gallows was later illuminated. A one-time minister said the Lord's Prayer perfectly—a sure sign of innocence, supposedly. But his words were ignored, and the murmuring crowd was shushed. The Devil had helped his henchman, and justice would be served. In all, nineteen were hanged, and old Giles Corey was pressed to death. Justice there, maybe, Finn thought, since Corey had stood as a witness against his own wife when she had been accused.

Years later, one of the girls recanted, her words read by a minister of the church. The craze was over. Witches had gone to trial before in the colonies, and they would go to trial again. But the insanity that had seized this little part of Massachusetts was over.

The lights came up. Finn realized that he'd been squeezing his wife's hand throughout the presentation.

She grinned up at him. “Good, huh? And sad, really sad.”