"Yep," I said, biting my cookie. "Poorly, but I can."
Now that I thought of it, Sam would be the perfect person to teach me how to scry. Scrying seemed like a perfect way to get some information—maybe find out something about why I was supposed to come to Gloucester.
"You work in divination, right?" I said.
"Mostly," he replied.
"Can you teach me how to scry?"
"Scry?" He shrugged. "Sure. I can try. Not all witches can scry succesfully. It's a personal thing, and there are lots of different methods. You have to find out which one is right for you. We'll try method first. We're related, so we might use the same element."
He got up and went into the living room and returned with a large black bowl. He filled this from the contents of a jar he pulled from one of the kitchen cabinets.
"It's seawater," he said, setting the bowl down on the table. "I gather up a jar a week. A major rule of Wicca—never take more natural resources than you need, even from something as huge as the ocean."
Sam lectured me on the basics. I was impressed with the depth of his knowledge. Part of me always saw Sam as the goofy kid my mother had described in her book. Now I see what he really was: a mature and incredibly responsible witch with years of training. He placed five white candles around the bowl, elevating them on stacks of books so that they sat just above the rim. After lighting them with a match, he turned of the overhead light.
"All right," he said, taking my hands. "Relax. Breathe deep. Focus on the water."
I did. At first nothing happened. It was just us, sitting in the dark, staring into a bowl of water for about twenty minutes. Then I realized I was looking down through a square form, as if I was peering into a box. There was a flash of purple, then we were back to the water. I'd been hoping to see people, to hear them say clever, cryptic things. All I got was a box full of purple.
"I think I've had enough, Sam," I said, sighing.
"Did you see something?" he asked.
"I don't think it was anything," I said. "Just a flash of color."
"You're probably exhausted." He got up and turned on the light. "We'll try again when you're feeling better. For now, I think we both need some rest."
14. Witch Trials
March 21, 1953
Ostara already. I've been so busy the past few months, I've barely noticed how the time has gone by since the dearc. No visits from Oona, thank the Goddess. We seem to have been completely successful.
In the meantime the little child inside me grows. She is a girl, of this I am certain. I never knew what utter joy motherhood would bring. I have become even more aware of the turning of the wheel and the phases of the moon. I feel her movement when the moon is full. She tends to be sleepy when it wanes.
— Aoibheann
Salem is only a short drive away, and Sam took a scenic route along the water. The sky was finally clear, and it was breezy. Aside from a few little aches and the cuts and bruises, I was fine. It was nice to get out alone with Sam.
Pulling into the town, I was amazed by all the Wiccans I saw on the streets. Everyone seemed to have a pentacle necklace, or tattoo, or something kind of witchy. In fact, the witch thing seemed to be done to death. Every store window seemed to feature an picture of a little figure in a black pointed hat, riding a broom. Sam parked his car in a lot near the visitors' center.
"Come on," he said. "There's something I want to show you."
Tucked behind some buildings next to the lot was an ancient cemetery, with thin, frail headstones—some sunk halfway in the ground. Next to this was a square sectioned off by a low stone wall. Heavy slabs of stone jutted out from the wall at equal intervals, forming benches.
"This is a weird park," I said as we entered the square.
"Have a better look," Sam told me, pointing to the first bench. I went over to it. There was writing there. It read: Bridget Bishop, Hanged, June 10, 1962. I continued around, looking at each bench. Sam followed along behind me. Sarah Wildes, hanged. Elizabeth Howe, hanged. Susannah Martin, Sarah Good, Rebecca Nurse, George Burroughs, Martha Carrier—all hanged. Giles Corey, pressed to death. There were more still, their names carves roughly into the stones. It was so stark, so disturbing.
"This is the Witch Trial Memorial," Sam explained. "These are the names of the people who were executed."
I knew a bit about the witch trials from school and from some reading I'd done on my own. Two young girls had made claims that they were bewitched. From there, accusations flew and a court was set up. People were dragged in to testify. The girls continued and seemed to go crazy. More people came forward, claiming that they too had been attacked. In the end, twenty people were executed and dozens more accused or affected. The whole thing was over in a few months; then the people who ran the court were forced to close it and apologize for what they'd done.
With a shiver I thought of my own behavior, how I'd wanted to write a letter to the local Widow's Vale paper and «expose» Wicca. While no one would have been tried or executed, I could have caused a lot of trouble for Morgan, Hunter, Mr Niall… so many others. Thank God Mary K. and I hadn't actually done anything.
"You know what the weird thing is?" Sam said, looking down at the closest slab. "There people weren't witches at all. Some of them were outsiders, just a little weird in society's eyes. Some were prominent citizens. No rhyme or reason to it."
"Then what happened?" I asked. "Does anyone really understand?"
"Not really," he said, carefully brushing some dead leaves that obscured the name on the bench below us. "It was hysteria. People pointed to anyone in sight, claiming anything the judges asked them to claim—if only they would be allowed to live. People admitted to things they didn't do. If you didn't confess, they executed you. These people"—he indicated the benches around the square—"they wouldn't confess to things they hadn't done. They were very unlucky, and very brave."
"But now the town is full of witches," I said. "Why come here when the people who were killed weren't even Wiccans?"
"The idea still remains that witchcraft is evil and dark. I guess we feel the need to come here and set the record straight."
"All this," I said, shivering as I looked over the bleak stone benches, "just because some girls made up stories about witches."
"It was more insidious than that," Sam said. "People were ready to rush to judgment, even to kill, just to exorcise their own dark thoughts and fears. Now everyone looks back on this, not understanding how it could have happened. But people still persecute and hurt one another over things they can't personally understand."
"I guess maybe you know something about that," I said.
He nodded, understanding my meaning. "I guess so. I've always been out as a witch, and I came out with my sexuality early as well. I refuse to lie."
"My mom never mentioned that you were gay. Did she know?"
"Well"—he exhaled and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans—"I came out when I was eighteen, a few years after your mother left. But she always knew. I could tell. She was incredibly empathetic. She probably didn't think it was a big deal; I guess that's why she didn't mention it."
My mother was empathetic. She could feel other people, sense their emotions—just like I have been doing more and more since I'd been here. I liked that part of being a witch. But the mention of my mother also brought my attention back to the graveyard with its decaying grave markers. We quietly walked away from the memorial.
"So," I said, "do you have a boyfriend, or…?"