Witch Test, page 9
Mr. Juno bangs a gavel on his desk. I wonder if they really did that in Puritan times or if he just likes the noise. “Now it is time for the magistrates to make a decision.”
“Wait!” Hannah stands up, and a wave of surprise goes through the room. When she opens her mouth to speak, nothing comes out. She tries again. “I want to say something in my defense.”
“Mr. Juno,” Abby cuts in, “everyone has already had a turn to be questioned and Hannah declined. I don’t think it’s fair for her to get to speak now.”
“In this—a matter of life and death—I will allow her to have a voice,” Mr. Juno decides.
“But in real court—” Abby begins, but Mr. Juno cuts her off.
“We’ve established the rules of modern trials don’t apply here. Though I am not a voting member, I am the head of the magistrate, so what I say goes.” He turns to Hannah. “Go ahead.”
Hannah fixes her gaze on the floor, and for a minute, I think she’s going to sit back down without saying anything.
Finally she quietly clears her throat. “I don’t think it’s fair that three people get to decide the fate of the rest of us. I think we should all get to vote on who is guilty or not guilty.”
Before Mr. Juno can answer, Abby cuts in, “I disagree. How can we expect the ones accused of a crime to be fair in voting?”
“Fair?” Hannah’s face is purple, almost eggplant-colored, and her eyes are shiny. I wonder if she’s about to cry or pass out. As it is, I’m barely holding down my lunch. “Nothing about this process is fair. There’s been no real evidence against any of us, just hearsay and rumors. What justice can be served under such a system?”
By the faces of my classmates, I can tell I’m not the only one who agrees with Hannah.
“And that is the very point of this exercise,” Mr. Juno says, taking control of the classroom again. “As Hannah so rightly put, this trial isn’t fair, just as the real witch trials that took place in Salem and Hillford, and all over the world, weren’t fair. Today the term ‘witch hunt’ is often used by those in power who don’t want to face consequences for their words and actions. But the real witch hunts of history came for those who weren’t in power and had no way to protect themselves. That sense of injustice you’re feeling right now, remember that. It will serve you well to make the right choices one day when you have power over others.”
Hannah has since sat back down and the rest of the class is spellbound by Mr. Juno. Abby is at the front of the class with a stunned look, like the teacher slapped her in the face. My brain is playing catch-up, and Mr. Juno’s speech has given me more to think about than I’m ready to digest.
“With all that, our three magistrates have a job to do,” Mr. Juno says. “Let’s give them a few minutes to discuss their decisions amongst themselves, and I’d like the rest of the class to take some time to think about what I said. The first draft of an essay on what the witch trials can teach us about how to be good citizens will be due at the end of the month.”
Much of the class groans at this announcement, but I’m stuck on Mr. Juno’s words. And how Candy said she’s a witch, but being one is not what so many people think it is.
So many of us are stuck on the childish version of a witch. Kids fear witches because they don’t want to be cooked in a witch’s brew. It’s a physical threat. The fear of witches in Puritan times was a different kind of fear. The witch trials were about control. Power.
I stare at the magistrates with their heads close together, discussing who will be found guilty, who they think should be killed. It’s not so much a discussion as Abby whispering at the other two, though I can’t hear what she’s saying.
Abby throws the word “witch” around like it’s nothing. It’s not one of those super-smart English words Mr. Juno loves to use, but it’s got a weight to it. It means something, represents something, far beyond the idea of a magical woman dressed in black with a broom and a cauldron.
Has Abby moved beyond the kid idea of a witch as well? Does she call me that, not because she’s scared that I might summon spirits from beyond the grave with a Ouija board, but because she is afraid of the power I might wield? The power I had when Nate chose me over her.
I’m heady with all these big thoughts when the verdicts start rolling in. I barely hear the names as they’re called out by Mr. Juno, followed by Mia’s statement of guilty or not guilty. Of course Abby would make Mia state the verdict, as if that makes Abby any less responsible for the decisions being made about people’s lives.
Hannah is found guilty and stands up front, her hair hanging over her pale face, with the others who were found guilty. Anthony Rodriguez is one of the few who is declared not guilty. No surprise, given he sold me out. His life for his soul, I guess.
My fate is as good as sealed. It’ll be the gallows for me.
None of this is real. No one is actually going to die tomorrow, not from hanging anyway.
If my mother’s death has taught me anything, it’s about the randomness of death. That any of us could go at any time, though I try not to linger on thoughts like that for too long. The counselor I went to back in fifth grade said it wasn’t good for me. She gave me techniques to redirect my mind when it would go to a place like that. But what else am I supposed to think about with this assignment?
There’s a heaviness in the room, like we’re all too deep in our own thoughts of death.
There’s a crowd at the front of the room where the guilty have amassed, and only a few of the reprieved at the back. I’m the only one left at the tables, the last one to have judgment passed on me.
“Elizabeth Treat Baldwin,” Mr. Juno calls out my name in a solemn tone.
Mia sneaks a glance at Abby, who narrows her eyes. “Guilty,” Mia says in a squeaky voice. Maybe Mia’s feeling a little guilty about sentencing her old friend to death, but the smirk on Abby’s face tells me my ex-best friend feels no such thing.
My legs are tingly as I walk to the front of the room. There’s barely any room up there for me to fit, so I squeeze in among my classmates. There’s a big gaping space between all of us up front and the lucky few in the back.
“What sentence do you bring upon those who are guilty?” Mr. Juno asks.
This time Abby has the honor of kicking the bucket out from under us when we have a noose around our necks. “We sentence them all to death by hanging.” Her mouth twists up in a sick half-smile.
The bell rings and Mr. Juno has to shout out his last instructions. “Your homework tonight is to answer the question of what you would miss the most if this truly were your last day. That’s for everyone to answer. A full paragraph, three to five sentences, or a poem of at least ten lines.”
The tingling in my legs has turned into a numbness that spreads throughout my whole body. As I walk to my next class, I can’t shake it; it’s like I’m not really in my own skin anymore.
I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Juno is a genius with this whole witch game or if he’s just a twisted guy who likes to make his students suffer.
Chapter 21
Numb
I carry that numb feeling all through the bus ride home. It’s another unseasonably warm day, Halloween ever closer but the weather acting like summer.
I shed my backpack and sweatshirt when I get home and think about starting my homework. In addition to the English assignment about what I would miss if I were to die tomorrow, I have algebra problems and questions for history class.
Instead of sitting at the kitchen table with my work, I walk upstairs and stand in the doorway of the art studio. My crow painting sits there waiting for me to finish it, but I have no desire to work on it.
The car accident that killed my mom is something I try not to think about, but my numb brain picks that to focus on. I was too young to remember what happened, but I’ve been told it was a miracle I survived.
I wonder if my mom had time to make a list of what she would miss before she died. Would I have been on it?
Right now an old grief pierces its way through the numbness. It’s an ache in the chest that will eventually fade but never really go away. I may not remember my mom, but I miss her. Or maybe I miss having a mom, which isn’t the same as missing my actual mother.
I slam the door to the studio on all the reminders of my mom. I retreat to my bed, putting the picture of her on my nightstand face down so I don’t have to see her.
I try to let the numbness cancel out these other feelings. But my body is bloated with pain and grief, both too big to fit inside of me and crushing me from the inside, so I don’t know whether I’m exploding or crumpling.
My mom’s diary is under my pillow. I can practically hear it telling me to read more.
So I do.
I’m at the entry dated October 30.
Writing down the dreams hasn’t stopped them. If anything, they’ve only gotten more vivid. Of course, I don’t think they’re only dreams. I believe they’re visions of the past.
I finally told Candy about them. She thinks I’m channeling this girl’s spirit, that the girl is showing me memories from her life. But why?
Candy did a reading for me, but the message felt fuzzy and didn’t offer any answers to that question. But there may be a way to find out. Halloween is tomorrow, the thinning of the veil.
“Thinning of the veil” sounds important…and ominous. I type it into my phone and find a blog post from a real witch. Turns out Halloween was originally celebrated by the Celts as a holiday called Samhain, which is pronounced “sow”— like cow—“when.” I try out the word by saying it aloud and commit it to memory. Witches believe the veil between the living world and the spirit world is at its thinnest on Halloween, so it’s easier to communicate with the other side.
It’s something I want to explore further, but I turn back to my mom’s diary for now.
Candy thinks we have a better chance than ever of connecting with the spirit world with me being pregnant. It seems to have brought out a clairvoyant side of me.
It’s strange, this reversal of roles. My sister has always been the one with a connection to the spirit world. I’ve been a practitioner for longer, but my craft has never led to any kind of direct contact the way Candy’s has from pretty much the beginning.
It seems the budding life inside of me is a bridge to the spiritual world. I’ve always been a little jealous of my sister’s abilities. Now that I have two things I’ve always wanted, I’m mostly just scared.
P.S. I finally told Ben about the pregnancy. He was as excited as I expected him to be. I think I did a good job of fooling him that I was too.
I try not to get hung up on the fact that I’m a P.S. in my mom’s diary. The all-consuming nature of my earlier emotions keeps the sting of my mother’s indifference away.
I consider not reading any more of the diary. So far all it’s done is bum me out or creep me out.
It has shattered the idea of what I thought my relationship with my mom would be like had she survived the crash. Not perfect. None of my friends—or ex-friends—have perfect relationships with their moms. But I always imagined my mom and I would have been close. Based on the diary entries, maybe I’m better off with just my dad and Candy and Felicity.
With all of that in my head, I plow back into the diary as the world darkens outside, matching the darkness in my mom’s words.
Chapter 22
Thinning of the Veil
My mom’s diary is propped up on my pillow as I read it. My stomach grumbles and I should be making dinner, but as I did with my homework, I ignore everything else.
The words on the page call to me—a pull in my midsection—that’s how strong the urge to read is.
November 1
It’s been a long night. I’m exhausted and nauseous, but I have to write down all that happened. I don’t want to forget a single detail.
Candy spent all day preparing. I had to help out at the corn maze, but I left as soon as the last group of teenagers made their way out of the maze.
I didn’t want to do the ritual at home, so we decided to use the shop. Ben accepts all of me, but he doesn’t practice himself. He’s always been into Catholicism in a way I never was. I don’t want him to know what I’ve been up to, not until I figure out what is going on. I don’t want to worry him.
We finished cleansing the space by boiling herbs and salt in water. Candy had already cleared a space on the shop floor for the circle. Silver candles for the Goddess and frankincense, myrrh, and sandalwood incense to summon the girl.
Candy consulted with the cards earlier in the day and it led her to a particular spell, though I would be the one to perform it.
We knew it was working right away. First there was an unnatural stillness in the room, and then there wasn’t. Nothing as obvious as a gust of wind, more like a silent electricity to the air. A crackling you could feel in your bones.
Then the girl appeared, the one from my dream. It wasn’t until I saw her in the shop that I realized how much she looked like a young me. Her hair was a bit lighter and her clothes were old-fashioned and dirty, but her face was all mine.
Candy and I looked at each other, her amazement a reflection of what I was feeling. She squeezed my hand in an encouraging way, though her palm was as sweaty as mine.
I swallowed several times before I could speak, and when I did, it seemed to startle her. I asked her name.
“Elizabeth Treat.” Her voice was wispy, ethereal, like she was speaking from the far end of the tunnel, but the name—my name—shocked me. Candy shot me another encouraging look.
I asked the girl when and how she died.
“1663 in Hillford. I was hanged like the others.”
Candy squeezed my hand again, and I asked, “Why are you in my dreams?”
“You can save her” was all she said.
“Who?” I asked. “Who can I save?”
“Her.” Then she pointed at me and sort of faded into nothing.
I broke out in a cold sweat as I thought about the girl, processing that she had my name and that I needed to save someone: maybe myself.
I was so focused on her words that when I looked up, I was surprised to find Candy peering down at me. My head was in her lap.
She said I had fainted as the girl disappeared. Candy caught me and tucked my legs in, so I didn’t break the plane of the circle. I still had to finish the ritual.
“Then we’ll get you tea and something to eat,” she said.
With my whole body weak and shaking, I finished and snuffed out the candles, closing the connection. Candy disappeared out into the night with the stubs to bury them at a crossroads because I was too weak to do it myself.
When she returned, we talked and drank tea until the wee hours of morning. I tried eating a cracker, but my stomach wouldn’t tolerate it. At least I kept the tea down, one of Candy’s peppermint brews that helped settle my stomach…if not my nerves.
I’m back home now, lying in bed with Ben, but I haven’t slept. He’ll be up for work soon. The farm has to be prepped for winter. Sometimes I wish he would hire more help so he didn’t have to work so hard. But it’s not in his nature to pay someone to do a job that he can do himself.
Now that I’ve written this down, I hope I can sleep. I hope I don’t dream of the girl. I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep.
I shiver as I close the diary and shove it under my pillow. I rub the stitching on my quilt between my fingers to try and push through the fog and find my way back to my room. I feel like I’m at the shop sitting in the middle of a circle with my mom and Candy.
I look around my room, but my eyes can’t process what’s there in the dark. It’s like the day went from afternoon to evening in a blink. It’s like I went back in time with my mom in her diary.
I lay down and close my eyes because everything feels like too much right now. My heart beats fast in my chest, but I barely feel present in my body.
A girl with my mom’s face and name—my name, too, because Treat is my middle name—was hanged in Hillford for being a witch. My mom was a witch. My aunt is a witch.
Despite having been called a witch so many times over the last couple of months, I don’t feel like one. Even with a family history of witches, I can’t imagine any way in which I could be that powerful.
Chapter 23
The List
I’m groggy the next morning, though I crashed shortly after dinner. After somewhat recovering from reading my mom’s diary, I ordered pizza. My dad showed his usual level of interest in the meal, which meant he ate it without comment.
As I get ready for school, I wish my favorite sweatshirt, the one with Van Gogh’s Wheat Fields with Crows, was clean. His crows are tiny compared to mine, just a couple of strokes of black paint in the swirling blues and yellows of his night sky. I settle for a baggy beige sweater in an attempt to not draw attention to myself.
I yawn as the bus rumbles down the hill. I take my usual seat near the front, almost too distracted by my mom’s latest diary entry to care that Abby and Mia switch seats to be right behind me.
Their chatter is like a mosquito buzzing in my ear, annoying but harmless…until they decide to bite.
I’m trying to write the poem for Mr. Juno’s class, the one about what I would miss the most if I died, when Abby flicks the back of my head.
“Oh sorry,” she says. “I thought I saw a bug.”
I keep my gaze on the poem, the paper balanced on a book on my knees, and add another line. It’s just a list right now, but at least I’ll have something to turn in.
Mia squeezes in next to me. “Where were you at lunch yesterday?”
It was my first lunch in the art room. Daya spent much of the time showing me where all the different supplies are kept and talking about the piece she’s working on. We barely had time to eat before the period was over.
It was a nice break from the stress of everything at school, and it’s been a good distraction to think about what I’m working on.
Abby not-so-subtly looks over the back of the seat at my homework, so I cover the paper with my arm. “Are you writing a love poem? Or is it a spell?”
