Beheld Read online

  Dedication

  Since this is a book about strong women,

  I dedicate it to my daughters, Katherine and Meredith.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Part 1 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part 2 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 3 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part 4 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Historical Note on Beheld

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Alex Flinn

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART 1

  I know that children don’t read fairy tales anymore. Oh, they see the movies—animated, sweet ones with helpful birds and talking raccoons, problematic ones where passive young women simply sleep and wait for their princes to come. But those are made-up stories. The real stories, stories that have recurred time and time again, are far more brutal. Stepmothers ordering their daughters’ hearts brought to them to eat raw. Young women cutting off their toes to fit an idealized vision of female beauty. And those are just the romances!

  I know, for I have been alive for much of this time. Not all, of course. These tales date back to the ancient Greeks, and I’m not that ancient. Still, I have lived as a witch since my birth in 1652, and as a teenager since I was one, over three hundred years ago.

  In that time, I have sought love. Once, I found the man I thought would be mine forever. But I have lost him time and time again. This story is about how I found love and lost it. I don’t know how it will end.

  But it started in Salem, Massachusetts. I may, in previous accounts, have fibbed a bit when I said I wasn’t there. It is such a cliché to claim one was in Salem. But I was. Most of those accused as witches there weren’t actually witches, but a few of us were.

  Or, at least, two.

  1

  Witches and Wolves

  Salem, Massachusetts

  January 1692

  I might not have stayed in Salem had it not been for James. I might have been safer. But I have never been one to court safety above all, and I wasn’t in 1692.

  It was in 1692 that I fell in love with James.

  Then I had been alive close to two score years, but like most magical beings, I did not look it. Nay, I did not feel it either. This was convenient, as few things in my life were, for appearing mature carries with it certain expectations—that the person will marry, have children, be mature. I wanted none of that, for few people were like I was. They would age. They would die, as my family had.

  I would not, as long as I stayed clear of fire. Fire was the only thing that could kill a witch. Still is.

  I knew not to play with fire.

  I knew, also, not to play at love. Love would only lead to painful loss.

  But then I met James.

  It happened one morning, early, so early that my breath was a silver cloud on night black as my cloak. I was out chopping wood for the family’s needs. I was a servant, but the Harwoods were not wealthy, so I was rather a maid-of-all-trades—chop the wood, darn the socks, watch the babes. It reminded me of life with my own family, back when I had one.

  That morning, the spring breezes had not yet chased away the winter cold, but I was warm, for I was working. Goody Harwood kept a close watch on me, so I could not use magic. Not all the time, anyway.

  If you think I was working like the mature woman I should have been, you do not know me well. I was slim, as I still am. Every swing of the ax was a herculean effort. I had been out close to an hour and had only two bone-thin logs to show for it. I knew that soon, she would be there, spying for me, accusing me (not incorrectly) of malingering. I had to move quickly.

  I picked up the ax.

  Just as I did, a black shape crossed my vision. Bird!

  This was enough to make me stop again. The birds had left for winter and, thus far, had not returned. And this was no robin redbreast, but a crow.

  I had a history with crows.

  I examined the bird. It was a large one with a yellow bill. It flew around me just above my head and, finally, settled on the very log I had been about to split.

  I laid down my ax, sighing as it sank into a snowdrift. My hands were bare and would surely freeze when I reached in.

  I shooed the bird.

  It did not move. Nor the second nor the third time, either. It merely stared with its black bead eyes, as if it intended to speak.

  Finally, I reached for the ax. The blade was freezing. I meant to swing it just once.

  When I rose, the bird had disappeared.

  Not entirely pleased at the end of my excuse for idleness, I returned to my chopping.

  “Mistress!”

  A voice interrupted me, startled me.

  I whirled to see where it came from, for I had been sure I was quite alone.

  “Your humble servant,” someone said, and he bowed.

  He wore black, at least what I could see, from the toes of his shoes to his hat. With his face thus obscured, he might have been any man I had seen before, any man in Salem, farmers beaten down by the winter’s struggle, old before their time.

  But when he rose, I knew I had never seen him before.

  I would have remembered.

  The man staring back at me was beautiful in an unearthly way, with hair the color of fallen pine needles, skin that had never known harsh sun or harsher winter cold, and eyes a shade bluer than the bluest ocean. He was perhaps two years older than I—meaning two years older than I appeared, so still in the bloom of youth, tall and strong.

  I hesitated. I wanted his help as much to keep him there as to get out of my work. But neither motive was proper for a girl my age, a girl any age in Salem. I glanced around. No signs of life anywhere except for the trickle of smoke from the chimney. I had built a fire when I’d risen. With any luck, the Harwoods would gather by it and Goody Harwood would not come looking for me when she needn’t.

  I nodded, trying to pull my gaze down like a proper young lady.

  “If you please,” I said.

  He moved closer and, at first, I started at his nearness. Then I realized he meant to take the ax from me. I held it out to him, trying to lower my eyes.

  I saw him notice, and his gaze upon me made me look down all the more. Yet I so wished to stare at him. I held my arms around my body, pretending only to be affected by the cold.

  I knew it was more than that.

  He took the ax, brushing each of my gloveless hands with his own. They were so warm, and I sank a bit when the weight was removed.

  Finally, I glanced up, for he was very tall, and when I did, I saw him smile.

  I pulled my eyes away, but his smile remained in my memory. He was so handsome.

  “There now
.” He spoke with a bit of an accent, from Scotland. “You are too young and too lovely for such hard work.”

  I looked down harder.

  “I am not as young as you might believe.” I backed away.

  “Nor am I.” He made no move to chop the wood. “And I know things. Have you heard about what is happening in Salem?”

  I had. At least, I thought I had. There were rumors of children bewitched by demons. But I did not want to admit that it concerned me. If I did, he might suspect how much it did. And why.

  So I said, “I know little. I spend my days and nights just as you see me and my Sundays in worship.”

  The left corner of his mouth came up as if to call me on this lie. “Like any God-fearing young maiden.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  He nodded, half gravely. “Then I should tell you. It happened in town, at Reverend Parris’s house. His daughter, Betty, and niece, Abigail, have been behaving . . . bizarrely.”

  I had heard it. Young girls barking like dogs, writhing and crying out as if in pain. I had not done it. Nor were there any other witches in these parts. Perhaps there was a fungus in their flour. Perhaps they just wished for attention. But I knew better than to say that.

  “I see.” I managed a nod.

  “But did you know that in Boston four years ago, a young woman was stricken with similar symptoms?”

  Aye. I had heard something of that.

  I shook my head.

  “She was, and a woman named Ann Glover was hanged as a witch based upon the suspicion that she had enchanted the girl.”

  “What has this to do with me?” I asked. “Why are you telling me this?”

  I had stood out too long with too little work, and now my body was cold, so cold it felt as if the bones might snap.

  His words did nothing to warm me. “Because it concerns you, Kendra.”

  “Why?” How did he know my name?

  But then I heard the creak of the opening door. I whirled to make my excuses to Goody Harwood, but she smiled.

  “Oh! I thought to hurry you along. The fire is waning, and you must make the breakfast still. But I see you have been harder at work than I suspected. I suppose I couldn’t hear the thuds for the gusts.”

  As if to answer, the wind whipped through me, ruffling my hair. I turned away.

  Goody Harwood had not mentioned the man who was there, and when I turned, I saw why. He was gone, gone as if he had never existed. But in his place was a cord of neatly stacked logs. A crow set atop them.

  I took a shaky breath. I felt about to choke. “I will be but a moment longer.”

  Another gust shook the branches, and she shut the door against it.

  When I turned back, the wood was still there, and the man. I had not imagined it, any of it.

  “How did you . . . ?” A thousand questions leaped to mind, but I completed the one I had started. “How did you know?” My name? That I was a witch?

  “I knew because I knew. James Brandon, at your service.”

  “I have to go inside, sir.”

  “Nay.” His blue eyes were intense now. “You should leave Salem, and quickly. This place is not safe. For you. For any of us. But I will stay and see it out, to protect innocents. You should protect yourself.”

  Did he mean to say that he was a witch—a wizard—himself? I wanted to know, and yet my need to flee him was stronger. “I must go inside, sir. The family will wonder about me. I have to make the breakfast.”

  He gathered some of the wood and brought it to me. As he did, he met my eyes, and for a moment, the wind ceased and the air became first warm, then hot around me, until I felt like I might burn through the drifted snow and not be unearthed until springtime.

  “Then I will see you soon, Kendra,” he said. “I will see you every day until you agree to leave. Now go inside.”

  I could not turn away from him easily, but I forced myself. I had great experience in taking leave of people. I reached for the doorknob.

  “One other thing.” His voice interrupted me. “Beware of wolves.”

  I turned back, but when I did, he wasn’t there. In his place was the black crow, staring at me with bright eyes.

  It flew away.

  The wind began to howl again and did not stop until I was inside the house.

  2

  Ann Putnam

  A week earlier

  Mother always told me to beware of wolves. They lurked in the forest, waiting to attack foolish girls who dared confront them. But, more than that, she warned me to beware of witches. Wolves, she said, feasted only upon the flesh. Witches were in league with Satan. Wolves hunted from hunger. Witches searched for souls to seduce then steal and bring back to their dark master. Wolves could be outrun. Witches were inescapable, materializing in the night, possessing their victims, forcing them to suckle at a demon’s teat or to sign their souls away in an unholy black book.

  Still, I feared wolves more. They were more real to me, more terrifying, when I walked alone in the woods to Reverend Parris’s house.

  By all that is right, I should not have been alone that day. I should have been with Mercy or Mary. But they had walked together, leaving me alone. They would say it was because they did not think I was coming. I knew differently. They wished to leave me. Although Mary Walcott was my cousin and, supposedly, my best friend, she preferred the company of Mercy, who was but a servant, to mine. They were older than I was, both seventeen, and could whisper of older girls’ concerns, of men they hoped to marry. I was but a child to them. I bored them, so they treated me grievously.

  But, of course, when Mother said they had gone, I ran to the door to try and catch up.

  “You should not go alone.” Mother’s hand was a claw on my shoulder.

  “Why not?” My hand twisted the doorknob. I knew why she wanted me to stay, to help her care for the little ones. Even now, she was holding the baby while Timothy tugged at her skirts.

  “I do not like when you walk alone. There are people in Salem Village who wish us ill.” She must have remarked my grimace, for she added, “And there may be wolves.”

  “There are no wolves in daylight. I hear them howling in the night.” I shuddered, thinking of it.

  “In the woods, they are out at all hours, and I know you mean to walk through the woods. Stay on the path and take your sisters, and you may go.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I meant to do neither. “Let me just check the chicken coop for eggs. Mercy did not do that before she left.”

  Before Mother could answer, I grabbed the red woolen cape that had once been mine but was now my sister Elizabeth’s. My reason for doing so was twofold. First, it was cold. But also, it would prevent Elizabeth from following me. I clutched it around my shoulders and was out like lightning, dashing toward the barn. As soon as I heard the front door slam, I detoured around it (for I had already checked the eggs) and ran for the woods.

  By the time she realized what I had done, it would be too late. She was too covered in babies to pursue me.

  I had no compunction about doing this. The new baby was colicky—at least that was Mother’s excuse—and Timothy was merely a brat. I had listened to their crying and whining for days straight, and I had been helpful, doing more than my share of baby laundry in the freezing cold. Going to visit Reverend Parris and Betty and Abigail was a reward, and a small one at that. I did not mean to miss out. Of course I would be punished, but nothing could be greater punishment than to stay home.

  The woods were freedom. I ran toward them, hearing my mother shouting my name beneath the wind, but ignoring her. The canopy of trees formed a doorway. Step through it. Be someone else. Though it was cold, the bright sun streamed down into the white snow, making it sparkle like diamonds. I kept running.

  It was not Reverend Parris I wished to visit or, indeed, his staring daughter, Betty, who was only nine. It was Tituba. Tituba was Reverend Parris’s slave from Barbados. She told the best stories, stories of exotic places, warm places,
magic places.

  The day was a bit less cold than the day before, and the snow was melting. In the wood ahead there was barely any, as the overhanging trees had prevented it falling. I felt the slush seeping through my shoes, but I kept running. I heard Elizabeth’s voice in the distance. I did not stop. I knew if I reached the woods, I would be safe.

  I did. My footsteps slowed, as did my heartbeat. The woods were strangely silent in the winter, neither birds nor even squirrels, the only movement the shadows of trees. The only sounds were my feet against the matted pine needles and the wind. I concentrated on my footsteps until they formed the rhythm of the hymn we had sung at church.

  Sinners, the voice of God regard;

  ’Tis mercy speaks today.

  He calls you by His sacred word;

  From sin’s destructive way.

  I stomped my foot with each rhyming word, listening to nothing, save my head’s music. This was how I did not see the wolf until it was nigh upon me. Then I froze, my heart beating so hard I feared it would shatter my ribs.

  It was smaller than wolves look at a distance, but it was still far larger than I. It had fur of gray and white, puffed out against the winter cold, covered in a dusting of snow, and when it stared at me, its eyes were bright silver, almost white.

  “Hello,” I said, knowing not why. It was a dumb animal with no understanding. Yet its eyes said differently. I felt that I had to address it, that it would be rude not to. It was almost like a person, and my parents had taught me to be polite.

  Also, I worried that the wolf might gobble me up.

  But it did not seem hungry, at least at the moment. Rather, as it continued to stare at me with its intelligent eyes, I heard a voice say “Hello” in reply.

  How was the wolf speaking? I backed away. My parents had also taught me to avoid wolves. And magic, for surely a talking wolf was magic.

  Should I run? I knew, from watching our dogs and cats, that running was the worst thing to do. It motivated an animal to give chase. I must remain calm. I had to keep a cool head. I had to ignore my shaking knees. I had to stare him down. I had to . . .