Prologue
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document. Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower.
Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise. Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out.
It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the
posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide. The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his
advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard
The Bargain
Salem Village, Massachusetts
November 11, 1701
The moon was in its last quarter in the house of Gemini. This would prove to be important on another such night in Salem Village. But on this night, six solemn-faced men sat round a rough-hewn table, in the tiny rectory of the Meeting House, arguing over the neatly penned words of an ominous document. Their raised voices drowned out the sound of the rising wind that shook the windows and blew sparks from the flue of the woodstove in the corner, and the sudden howling of the neighborhood dogs, that echoed into the cold night. The strong gusts of frigid night air were forceful enough to move the heavy brass bell hanging in the tower.
Its iron clapper sounded eight times as the men continued to pound the table and shout before the door to the Meeting House flew open, causing them to jump to their feet in surprise. Two figures, one tall and wide as the door frame, the other half his size, stood just inside the threshold. Time seemed to stand still as all sound ceased both inside the building and out.
It could have been an instant or an eternity that held each man in the room frozen in the
posture he’d assumed just as the door was flung wide. The giant figure, wrapped in a deep purple cape, broke the spell by striding into the meeting room, his footfalls making an odd tapping sound as if he wore hobbled boots.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It appears there are some concerns regarding our...agreement.” His whispery voice matched the sounds of the brittle autumn leaves that had blown through the doorway behind him and his companion, and were now scuttling across the dusty, pine floorboards. Once inside the circle of light thrown out by the large oil lamp, he pushed back his hood and an intake of breaths could be heard round the room.
Except for the elderly man seated at the head of the table, none of the others in the group had ever met the two strangers with whom they were about to seal the most important deal of their lives. But even at his
advanced age and with all his worldly dealings, he had never noticed the strange shape of the big man’s pupils before, as they reflected the flickering lamplight. Almost vertical, they seemed to have the power to immobilize.
The newcomer nodded to his assistant who produced a razor-sharp quill from beneath his own cloak and laid it atop the vellum document on the table. Rubbing his hands as if to warm them, the large man indicated the pen. “Gentlemen, I believe we have business to tend to.”
Outside, a sudden snow squall had come up, the fierce wind whipping the heavy white flakes until they resembled sheets flying on a clothesline on a black, blustery day. The snow collected quickly on the frozen ground and window sills of the sleeping village. At this hour no sensible man was anywhere but beneath several layers of goose down quilting. So no one in the village saw the white stuff pile deeply everywhere except on the roof of the Meeting House, where it hit the glowing cedar tiles like drops of water on a flame. And much later, no one but the large brown and gray hawk riding out the storm in the belfry saw the shadow of a figure bury a wooden box beneath a sapling in the churchyard
No comments:
Post a Comment