Chapter 1

  Mr. Barboux

  Narrator uncredited:

  He first darkened the door of Ingersoll's Ordinary. A hunchback, clad in black robes and a drooping cowl which obscured his features, he appeared from a distance to slither close to the ground, his hump rising and falling like that of a Carrion-worm. The bartender, used to dealing with cutthroats, murders, and thieves – a man not easily unnerved – was immediately disconcerted by his presence. “An evil seemed to follow him,” he later said. “And I swear just talking to him briefly, left a lingering shadow across my very soul...He smelled of death, his hands were withered and claw-like, and he spoke in a most peculiar accent, one which I still cannot place. Growing weary of his endless interrogation, I finally told him Jim Pickman was the one he should be talking to, and I pointed him out in the far corner.”

  Jim Pickman was never hard to find. Everyone knew him. He was a famous Indian hunter, a sort of legend in the village at that time. He drank every night at Ingersoll's Ordinary and he always sat at the same corner table where he could, “see everybody coming and going,” he said. He was not an outlaw exactly, but word had it an arrest warrant gathered dust on some sheriff's desk. Despite his notoriety, Jim Pickman was surprisingly soft spoken and cordial, and seemed willing to talk about the stranger, in depth.

  “Some kind of European, I'd guess,” he began as way of explanation. “An odd fellow. Without even so much as a greeting, he asked me about witches and spell casting. Evidently he'd heard from someone that I'd seen a witch's coven one night, while on patrol.” Then biting into his half eaten sandwich, he drank his beer and for a moment seemed mentally to leave the room. “There they were,” he continued, looking straight into my eyes like an inquisitor, “dressed in animal skins and wearing horns, they frolicked around a raging hell-fire, chanting hideous incantations no Christian could ever comprehend...I told the stranger all I knew, but the stranger, who refused to give me his name, was not satisfied. He wrung his hands and mumbled angrily to himself like one not entirely in command of his faculties. His eyes turned red. Yes, red!” Jim Pickman reiterated as if he himself did not believe his own words now. “And then he asked in a growling, demoniac voice whether I knew, the names written in the Devil's book!”

  A few weeks later, a barmaid was able to provide more information.

  “A stranger? Oh, you must mean that queer little man who rented a room upstairs for nearly a month...Room 7, way in the back, at the end of the hall, on the third floor. Normally, we have trouble renting that. It's small and dark and cold at night, but the foreigner said it was, 'exactly what he needed.' You should've seen the owner's eyes light up! Especially when he said he'd pay in advance for the entire month.” The barmaid shook her head. “And he paid in gold coins, if you can believe that...Old ones...with a monarch no one recognized...Oh,” she said. “I wish I could forget all about that awful man. I had to clean his room out one night. Mind you, he only went out at night. We never once saw him during the day. Other guests complained about foul smells coming from his room. But nothing could prepare me for what I saw. Opening the door, feathers covered the floor...And in cages!” she said, putting a hand up to her mouth. “And in cages...the animals he kept looked like they had been tortured. Never in all my life...” She had to stop for a moment. Changing the subject, she said. “He never told anyone his name. He signed the guest book with an X. At first, we all thought he could neither read nor write, but in his room I found loads of books written in different languages. He spoke to the owner, now and then, but never to us women. He seemed uncomfortable around us, like he thought we was less than him or something. Anyway, the owner gathered the man was some kind of alchemist, on account he worked with potions and powders and things. The stranger mentioned something about his master being sick and that he'd somehow caught the same disease. He seemed distraught...desperate, you might say. In his room were many vials and bottles of dark liquids, animal parts – innards – and he even had a human skull he kept on his desk.”

  From the owner, all that could be gleaned was the curt remark, “He always paid his bills in advance,” which added little to my inquiry.

  From there, the trail went cold. For several days there were no additional clues. But then suddenly, there was a breakthrough. Sheriff Corwin, remembering our conversation, heard about a hunchbacked man hanging about the apothecary, and when he showed the proprietor a sketch, he immediately identified the man as a recent lodger he had rented a room to above his shop. With haste, the sheriff climbed the back stairs and knocked on the tenant's door. An apprehensive face appeared in the window, a series of locks were forced open, and finally a haggard man, severely stooped, let him inside.

  The tiny room was a mess. Many books laid spine up upon a round table. Notes were scattered everywhere, as were vials and jars and little animals in cages. There was hardly a place to sit or stand, that was not already occupied by some object.

  “Can I help you?” the man finally asked.

  “I'm Sheriff Corwin and you are?”

  “Mr. Jules Barboux,” the man stammered as if he were unfamiliar with his own name.

  “And what brings you to our village?”

  “A cure.”

  “A what?”

  “A cure,” the man said, giggling. “Perhaps I should explain.”

  He cleared off a small portion of the round table, heaping everything together like a pile of worthless junk onto an already overcrowded sideboard. “Please, sit here. Perhaps I make you some tea?”

  The sheriff waved his hand. “So what's this about a cure?”

  “My master sent me to find a cure for a rare blood disease he contracted somewhere, in the primitive country of his origin...He sent many of us, you see, not just I, to the farthest corners of the world.”

  The sheriff grew even more suspicious. “But why here? What exactly did you hope to find here?”

  “Unique plants and animals...Indian healers...things you can't find anywhere else. This being the New World.”

  The sheriff went over to the bookcase and pulled down a volume. “I see a lot of books here, but not one Bible,” he scowled. “What language is this written in anyway?” he asked, shaking the book in his hands as if it were a wicked thing.

  “That?...It's a Sumerian medical text.”

  Just the sound of the alien word, “Sumerian,” made the sheriff cringe. He squeezed the book carefully back into the void created between the others, holding it tentatively with two fingers as if it were a contagion.

  “No,” the sheriff said reflectively. “No, I don't like the look of this place. Not one bit. What exactly are you up to in here?”

  “Like I said...”

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  “Yes, yes. Your master's sick. But who is this master, and where does he live?”

  “Quite near,” Mr. Barboux hissed. “So very, very near.” And he looked around the room as if he might suddenly appear at any moment.

  Finding a way through a narrow gap in the curtains, a tiny ray of sunlight entered the room and meekly stretched itself across the table. Wearily, like a cat, Mr. Barboux eyed it suspiciously.

  The sheriff noticed his odd behavior. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “The sunlight,” Mr. Barboux hissed. “To us it burns like fire...The master and I, that is. We have the same disease.”

  Just then, in the next room, the sheriff heard footsteps. The air grew suddenly very cold. The door opened ajar as if by itself. An elongated shadow seeped into the room, spilling out across the floorboards until it came to within a few feet of his right boot.

  “The master!” cried Mr. Barboux. “The master beckons.” Then amid a fit of whispers and giggles, he added, “So little time. So much to do!” and with darting eyes, he scanned the room.

  The hair on the back of the sheriff's neck stood on end. His training told him to enter the next room and investigate, but his instincts told him to run.

  “Something not right,” he mused, feeling a sudden shudder throughout his body. It was the presence of evil, he thought, yet there was no obvious cause for alarm.

  “I'll have to tell the Reverend Parris about all this,” Sheriff Corwin said, backing up toward the door. “The hand of the Devil has certainly touched this place.”

  Nothing is known as to whether the sheriff and the Reverend actually spoke, but soon after, the sheriff ran into Jim Pickman at the East India dry goods store.

  “I heard you had a run in with the stranger?” the sheriff asked him.

  By now everyone knew who the stranger was. Few knew his actual name, however, outside the sheriff's department. Jim Pickman did not seem surprised by his question; he had been expecting it. But he was none too pleased to talk about it, openly with a lawman. Naturally suspicious of Sheriff Corwin, he at first tried to brush him off, asking if they could talk some other time. He feared the stranger would get him into trouble by association.

  “Anything you can remember,” the sheriff insisted, “even the smallest detail might prove helpful.”

  Jim Pickman still wondered whether he was setting a trap. Whenever he saw a lawman, the writ for his arrest always seemed etched upon their face. But the sheriff showed no signs of hostility; instead, he seemed rather curious to receive his answer. Jim looked at him a minute and realized it was better to appear like he was cooperating rather than being evasive and he decided to divulge a few harmless tidbits.

  “He asked about witchcraft and spells.”

  “Did he mention a cure?”

  “Not to me. Why? Was he sick?”

  The sheriff did not answer. His eyes searched the frontiersman up and down.

  Then, “And the Devil's Book...” suddenly came blurting out of Jim Pickman's mouth. He did not know why he had said it. It seemed like the remnant of a previous thought. Maybe it was the ill affects of drinking? He could not exactly say, but as soon as he had said it, he was filled with regret. He feared the sheriff would take it as some kind of confession, the utterance of a guilty conscience and from that moment on, he felt helpless, as if the sheriff now had control over his tongue.

  “The man likes books,” the sheriff remarked disparagingly. “Personally I hate books,” he added. “Nothing but trouble. Filled with dangerous ideas better left unsaid.”

  The two talked amicably for a while longer. Jim Pickman fidgeted with his hands under the table. “I wish I could tell you more,” he finally said, “but what do I know about such things?” He laughed, more chokingly, than with amusement.

  The sheriff gazed at him once more. This time blankly. He leaned back in his chair and causally surveyed the room. The tension in his face all but disappeared. Then he came forward once again, put on his hat, and said in a non-threatening tone, “I might have more questions for you later,” as he got up to leave.

  Jim Pickman found the encounter quite strange. He knew the sheriff needed his help, but still, he did not trust him. Aesop's fable of, “The Farmer and the Viper,” suddenly came to mind.

  Witnesses differ greatly on what happened next. As to the sequence of events, some had a strict chronological order in their head, while others linked them by cause and effect...This one led to that, etc. In the end, no firm timeline could be established. Little supporting evidence could be found to validate the following eyewitness statements, recorded by Sheriff Corwin and his men.

  The first witness to come forward was Rebecca Nurse, a greatly respected member of our community. She was charitable and extremely pious, independent and self sufficient, but when she spoke that day, she seemed frail and somehow, much older. Her confidence was shaken; her mind troubled. She herself had recently been accused of witchcraft.

  “He was a devilish man,” she said bitterly, as if she wished to physically harm him by her words. “A hunchback of a pale and sickly complexion, with tired, red eyes like those who never sleep. He came banging on my door at an ungodly hour, when even the sun itself had sense to slumber. Normally, I never would've answered, but he banged so rapaciously I thought it must be something important., like the announcement of a fire or something. Scarcely had I opened the door when he rushed in and started ransacking my pantry, asking to see – of all things – the Devil's Book!”

  “You can imagine my shock! What did I know of such things? I racked my brain to appease him. He wanted to see potions and scrolls with spells. What could I possibly show him? A vial of rose water? A bit of lamb's ear? In the end the answer came to me as the foul imp moved into the next room, which was the kitchen, and continued his ransacking of my home like a viking. There, I showed him what I had (which wasn't much), no more than an assortment of herbs hanging upside down to dry that came from my garden or were things I traded for with neighbors. Breaking off a sprig here and there (which I handed to him), I began my lengthy discourse, explaining the medicinal properties of each, my aim being both to distract him as well as bore him (hopefully to death), so that he would finally leave.”

  “Chamomile is good for the nerves and helps with sleep,” I said. “Ginger is for stomach ailments, while peppermint and cinnamon relieve digestive issues, and lavender and lemon balm are soothing herbs as well. For headaches, basil can be effective, and for minor wounds sea balm is just the thing. Fever few reduces dizziness and fever, and sorrel treats itchy skin...”

  But the imp became infuriated. “Yes, yes,” he said angrily. “But we seek remedies more potent. These are but old woman's tricks.” His eyes scoured the room. He suspected I was hiding things from him. “I must not fail my master,” he said and went over to the cupboard and emptied out the drawers as if he had letters of marquee to raid my home, flinging things this way and that across the room. “We need magic,” he gasped. “Powerful magic, the kind you witches posses. The master has a blood disease, one which keeps him confined indoors during the daylight hours. He, we, can only go out at night for I too have the same affliction! It is a curse, but if it could be lifted,” he giggled spasmodically like an overstimulated child, “what powers we would have!”

  Whatever the little madman uttered next, I honestly could not say. His entire constitution underwent a sudden change. Instead of worlds, he now snarled, instead of giggles, he exhaled gutterally like a lycanthrop or other savage beast...When he shot past me to loot another cupboard, a lingering smell like a fetid corpse overwhelmed me, his eyes turned fiery red, and his teeth protruded like a wolf's fangs.

  “I thought you had healing powers?” he growled, and having no more nooks or crannies to plunder, he gazed at me with the eyes of a savage predator. His hands became claws, one eye twitched like a deranged Hainhoffer coo-coo in an over wound clock. “What kind of treachery is this?” he hissed. “Are we not both followers of the black arts? Are you not in fact, a witch?”

  He rambled on...

  “And I suppose you fain ignorance of Tituba, too? My master has a plan,” he smiled like a petty demon, causing all the furrows in his face to draw as taut as the skin of a desiccated apple. “Imagine if witches forged an alliance with my master!” he snarled. “Tituba's the key. A powerful witch. A sorceress of great magic and power!”

  As scared as I was, I nearly burst out laughing. “On this account,” I said as calmly as I could, “you're gravely mistaken. There are no witches in Salem Village.”

  “Trials, arrests, executions...” he blathered. “Why have them then?” It was obvious he did not believe me.

  He cast a hasty glance into the next room, then shuffled off toward the stairs leading to the second floor, his back so bent he looked more like a broken tree.

  “You won't find anything different up there,” I cried, hoping to dissuade him.

  His eyes narrowed; what a sinister plan he cogitated. For a moment, I feared he might strike me down.

  “I've wasted enough time with this old fool,” he cursed, looking up toward the ceiling. “Yes, yes, time to go...Nothing to be gained here. Not a witch at all...Only an old fool.”

  “And that was the last I saw of him.”