Salem moon, p.1
Salem Moon, page 1
Salem Moon
By
Scarlet Black
World Castle Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
World Castle Publishing
Pensacola, Florida
Copyright © Scarlet Black 2011
ISBN: 9781937085384
Library of Congress Catalogue Number 2011928102
First Edition World Castle Publishing June 1, 2011
http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
2011 Forward National Literature Award: Genre: Fantasy.
Cover: Karen Fuller
Editor: Beth Price
Salem Moon Dedication and Acknowledgment
This novel is dedicated to all those souls who lost their lives during the Witch trials of Salem, Massachusetts in 1692.
No one writes a book alone and this one was no exception.
It is with heartfelt gratitude that I thank the following people who have lent me their expertise and knowledge to bring this book to life.
C.B: for sharing the inner workings of Wicca.
Larry Savignano: for providing accurate crime scene procedures.
Ye Olde York Historical Society: Information on the Candlemas Massacre of York Maine.
The many friends and family who shared their photos and memories with me on their visits to Salem, Massachusetts.
My husband, Larry and my two dogs, Harley and Zeus who’ve put up with my long hours at the computer without complaint!
And of course, my wonderful publisher: World Castle Publishing who was kind enough to put their faith in my work.
Part 1: Salem Village, 1692“If it was the last moment I was to live, God knows I am innocent…”
-Elizabeth Howe, hanged as a witch, July 19, 1692
Chapter 1
The ground fog rose eerily even as it wrapped itself all around the woods still visible at this early hour, just short of dawn on this mid- July day. The ground was wet with dew and the promise of a hot day to come. A full harvest moon, unusual for this time of year, hung low in the sky, washing the land in a pale, beautiful white light.
Gabriel Blackstone was the only one in his household to witness its splendor. His sister, Abigail was still asleep. His father, Dr. Samuel Blackstone, Salem Village’s only veterinarian, was busy tending to a sick horse on a neighboring farm.
Dr. Blackstone was an educated man and believed the acquisition of an education was paramount to opening the world around oneself. To seek, to understand, to gather knowledge would lead to that one special passion; that which would provide meaning to one’s life.
Consequently, he gave both Abigail and Gabriel many books to read; books on such subjects as science, adventure, and the great classics of English literature.
The Blackstones also owned one of the largest dairy and poultry farms in the county, so they were expected to read practical books on farming and animal husbandry as well.
This time of the morning was for hunting wild game; mostly, the deer that the family depended on to feed them through the long, cold and bitter New England winter.
Gabriel did not understand why the hunt for deer was necessary and would often ask: “Father, how is it that you can kill some animals and yet care for others?” To which his father would reply, “God has made each animal to serve a purpose.”
As for Gabriel, he would have been happy to never eat the flesh of an animal, preferring to find sustenance in the abundant fruits and vegetables that grew on their land. However, that would seem odd, and appearing odd in these times was dangerous.
In the beginning of this very year, 1692, word had come of a deadly Indian attack on January the 25th in the town of York in the district of Maine, part of the province of Massachusetts Bay; more commonly known to the colonists as “the Eastward.” In what was known as the Candlemas Massacre, 100 settlers in York Village had been brutally murdered, their homes and businesses burnt to the ground by the Indians.
While the events occurring in Salem Village were not the same in nature as Indian attacks, they were just as ominous and frightening.
Gabriel was well aware of what was happening in Salem Village; the witch hunts, the cursed accusations, the public hangings at Gallows Hill.
In early June, it had begun with the accusation, trial and hanging for the high crime of witchcraft of a woman named Bridget Bishop. She was hanged on June 10th of that year.
After the hanging, it seemed as if Salem Village, Salem Town and its surrounding colonial towns were incited to crave more blood. So, the madness began; a madness that would forever paint a dark smudge on Salem, Massachusetts.
Although Gabriel would never dare to say it aloud, he did not believe in witchcraft, nor did he believe in the strong religious fervor of the Puritans. He believed in God, whom he loved, but not in the zealous and dangerous way that the Puritan religion was causing neighbors to accuse one another of practicing witchcraft. He understood that it came down to simple human nature. People needed a scapegoat, someone to blame for the evils of the world, real or imagined.
After the onset of the hysteria, it fed upon itself, turning what had once been a sleepy little town into a place where unimaginable evil now resided. Evil that did not come from any supernatural source, instead from the very people with whom they shared their lives, neighbors, and friends who would allow their brethren to be persecuted and murdered. There really was no other word for it, was there?
Those who were perceived as “different” from their peers became perfect fodder for a witch hunt. Why, even his own twin sister, Abigail, who lay asleep at this early hour, could be accused! Her gentle, caring nature toward all living things, the way she hummed to herself while going about her chores, her extraordinary beauty, which spiked jealousy in some of the other girls her age—all of these things made her vulnerable.
He and his sister shared stunning good looks. Both were blessed with incredibly lustrous, dark brown hair and exceptionally long lashes over unusually pale, grayish violet colored eyes and pleasingly slim builds. Gabriel’s looks differed from his sisters in that her hair was long and straight and hung to her waist, while his had a slight wave to it. As was the fashion of the day, his hair was on the long side, just touching the rim of his shirt collar. A few strands fell across his forehead, lightly brushing his eye lashes. He was taller than she at six foot one, while she was a more petite five foot five. He had a strong upper body; a finely chiseled chest and heavily muscled arms from years of working outdoors.
He knew the young girls in Salem Village sought his company. They would stare openly when he made his way into town, quickly averting their eyes when he caught them. He had no interest in any of them. In all his eighteen years, no girl had ever captured his heart and he was beginning to wonder why that was. Surely, he’d find his soul mate someday, just as his father had found his; Gabriel’s mother, Mary, whom his father had loved dearly. There had been no one else since her death many years ago.
Gabriel left quietly through the back door and called to Hunter, the Blackstone’s dog. Hunter was a Black Mouth Cur, given to his father as a gift from a southern veterinarian who swore on his life that for true hunters, no other dog would do. He was right. Hunter was a fierce predator. Gabriel had once seen him take down a squirrel before it could make its escape up one of the old oak trees that grew in abundance in these woods. He shook it from side to side, until it finally succumbed to death. However, Hunter had other more pleasing attributes as well. He was loyal, even tempered and willing to die for his owners.
Gabriel put his small leather pouch, which contained black gun powder and a small locket on an extremely thin and delicate chain, made of the finest gold, in his breeches pocket. The locket had been his mother’s and he carried it with him always. Slinging his firing musket over his shoulder, he and Hunter headed out into the deep woods.
Death was on his mind this dawn; that of the animal he sought as well as those poor unfortunates hanged at Gallows Hill. What was not on his mind was death on the most personal level of all: his own.
In a thicket, he saw two shadows playing with the first light of dawn. He was unsure if it was an animal or a human being; nevertheless, he took his musket from his shoulder and loaded it with gun powder.
He heard low whispering, the kind of talk hunters make hoping that their prey will not be alerted to their presence. They were speaking of his sister in a way that horrified him.
“Ah, Abigail, she is ripe for the picking and those lips, plump and as sweet as nectar. I can just imagine what it would be like to kiss that mouth and ravage her as I would a common whore,” said one of the boys, slyly.
He recognized the voice at once. It belonged to Thomas Snow, whose family had owned and lost a large dairy farm in Salem Village. Their father, Richard Snow was known throughout the colony as a man of excesses. Whether it was drinking or gambling, he did it up in a big way.
He’d literally gambled away their land. Now, although they still resided on the land, they were no more than indentured servants, earning only a small pittance for their labors from the new owners.
“Aye, I da re you to do it, Thomas. Do it before she ends up at the end of a rope, hanged as a witch. You know what the other girls have been whispering about her…” This voice belonged to Joshua Snow, his older brother.
“They are just envious of her beauty,” Thomas replied.
“Sinful beauty, that is what they say of it, and that’s enough to bring about an accusation of witchery in these times, you know it is.” Joshua’s voice was barely a whisper. But, Gabriel heard it.
Gabriel’s heart pounded as he listened to the exchange. He felt both fear and anger. How could they speak of his sister in such a way? He rustled the bushes to make his presence known, hoping to stop their conversation from going into more terrifying depths.
Both Snow brothers stopped talking and pointed their muskets toward the sound. Seeing that it was Gabriel, they lowered them and greeted him somewhat awkwardly, not sure of what he’d overheard.
Gabriel gave a brief nod, mumbling, “Good morning, gentlemen.” He continued walking deeper into the woods, feeling their eyes still upon him.
It wasn’t long before he came upon a magnificent white tail doe, grazing quietly on the tender shoots of a wild shrub. Moving stealthily, not even daring to breath, he came within three yards of the animal when it spotted him. Its graceful eyes found his, but it did not run or appear to be afraid; instead, she stood gazing at him as if entranced.
Gabriel aimed his musket directly at her head, having a clean shot at the animal, but he did not fire, was unable to fire. The doe’s eyes seemed to be boring into his own. His hands began to shake, his brow broke out in a cold sweat and all the while he felt as if he was being watched; not only by the deer, but by someone, something else. He looked left, right, back and front. There was nothing except the early morning sounds of the woods. The mourning doves cooed their sad song, the frogs in the nearby pond croaked, insects buzzed, bushes rustled with small animals.
All at once, time had ceased to exist. The animals, birds, and insects fell silent and Gabriel felt again that he was being watched, but not from without. He felt a strange sensation come over him, and he knew. He was not being watched from anything outside himself, but from something inside, something alien and cold and very powerful.
The doe sensed it as well, and her eyes widened in fright, but still, she did not move away. It was as if she were stuck in quicksand, unable to obey the most basic of instincts; the need to flee.
The power was frightening, but, ah, it was intoxicating as well! He’d never felt like this before, as if he could squash both the animal in front of him and any enemy that came his way, like a helpless insect under his boot. And he would enjoy doing it!
He never needed to fire his weapon, because out of thin air, there was an ungodly wail of pain. He watched in both horror and fascination as the deer’s chest burst wide open, spraying blood everywhere, on the trees, the shrub she had been eating, stopping just short of where he stood.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered, as the deer went down with a thud.
“Dear Lord, indeed,” said the trespasser within him. The voice was low, mocking and amused.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the sensation and the voice were gone. What was not gone was the corpse of the deer, lying on its side, its eyes already at half-mast and glazed over in death.
Gabriel walked cautiously up to it. Upon closer examination, he saw that the wound to the chest was not possible, and yet, there it was. If he’d shot it, the entrance wound wouldn’t be this large. He smelled the muzzle of his musket and found no smell of used gun powder, nor was it hot or even warm to the touch.
He vaguely remembered the strange sensation of something or someone being with him, but that was all. He was truly puzzled about what and how this happened. He ran off, out of the woods, to locate his father who was more qualified to determine what had happened to the deer.
Samuel Blackstone knelt down in front of the deer and gently lifted its head and swept the leaves and brush away from the body so that he could get a better look.
Aghast, he abruptly pulled away; his hands soaked with blood as pieces of the deer’s heart came spilling out onto the ground.
“The heart seems to have…exploded, or to be more precise, imploded. The wound came from within the deer, not from without.”
“But, how is that possible, father?”
“It isn’t. I don’t see any reason for it.” His father scratched his head as if that would produce an answer. But there was no answer, none that would coincide with the laws of physics as he understood them.
“Did…anyone see this…incident, Gabriel?”
“I don’t know, father. I didn’t see anyone. I saw the Snow brothers earlier, but they moved farther down, toward the logging road.”
“Give me your musket.”
Gabriel handed it over to him without question.
Samuel Blackstone raised the musket high—and fired. The smell of gun powder was pungent. Smoke rose from the barrel.
“There. If anyone questions you, your gun has been fired. The proof is set. Now we have to bury the carcass of the animal. We cannot bring it home in this…condition.”
Father and son worked side by side; silently digging a large enough hole to bury the deer in, the sweat pouring off their brows. The day had begun. The dawn was behind them now, and it was indeed an oppressively hot and humid day.
“Not a word of this is to be spoken, not even to Abigail. I could not bear to lose you, nor her. And your mother, God rest her soul, you are all I have left of her. If word of this—whatever it is—becomes known, there will be accusations of witchcraft. Accusations are enough in these dark days to bring about a trial and…” He let his words trail away, but Gabriel understood what was left unsaid.
He wanted badly to confide in his father about the sensation of being watched from within when the deer’s chest had exploded, but the memory was becoming vague and he was not sure if it was real or just his mind playing tricks on him.
In a dense patch of trees behind them and to the left, two very real pairs of eyes were watching. Two pairs of ears were listening as well to the exchange between Gabriel and Samuel Blackstone. Those eyes and ears belong to Thomas and Joshua Snow.
Chapter 2
Thomas and Joshua Snow ran home in haste. They burst through the small wooden door that led to the colonial kitchen and called out for their mother, Priscilla Snow.
Priscilla Snow was a tiny, frail looking woman and although she was only in her early thirties, she appeared to be much older. She was thankful that her two sons took after their father, Thomas Snow Sr. They were both tall; heavy-set boys with a shock of bright red hair and beard and piercing blue eyes. Standing before her, ruddy faced and out of breath, they were both speaking at the same time in excited voices.
Priscilla’s usually weary, lifeless eyes began to sparkle as they told the complete tale of what they’d just witnessed in the woods.
“Witches!” she hissed. “The beautiful ones, Gabriel and Abigail with faces reserved only for the angels. Their tempting beauty bought and paid for. Only the devil himself could create such beauty in mere humans, to make us believe they are innocent and pure, when in fact, it is more of the devil’s own tricks.”
“Mother, Abigail had nothing to do with any of it!” Joshua loudly protested. Everyone throughout the village knew he was smitten with her, just as his brother, Thomas, and many of the other young boys were.
“My son, you do not understand. She is Gabriel’s twin. Their bond is strong. What one knows so does the other. If one is a witch, so the other must also be,” Priscilla said vehemently.
She’d never liked the Blackstones anyway. The family had money, was respected and beautiful as well. Why even Mary Blackstone had been bewitchingly beautiful right up until the day she died.
“What is going on here?” Richard Snow asked, looking confused by the anxious looks and conversation of this family. He’d just come back from the hunt. He stood on the threshold of the kitchen, a large, bulky man; he filled the entire doorway, blocking the sunlight from entering the kitchen.
“We have witches in our midst. That’s what’s going on.” Priscilla informed her husband.
“Who do you dare to accuse, Priscilla?” Richard asked.
