Page 42 of Wildwood

“Yes, I believe that’s correct. To be honest, I’m not an expert on witch trials generally. I’m not a historian. I studied Salem from the sociology lens. But I can put you in contact with my friend Deb; she’s a historian and one of leading experts on witch trials in New England. She’s lived in Salem for probably forty years now. She’s a dear friend. I’ll get your info from Madeline and connect you.”

I’m already fishing through my purse for a pen and paper. “Oh, don’t bother Madeline. Here’s my cell and email. That would be incredible. I’d love to connect with Deb.”

“Tell her about our witch,” says a slurred voice. I’d nearly forgotten Simon was standing there. His face looks even more flushed than before, and his glass looks newly refilled.

“Oh, Simon, she’s looking for facts, not ghost stories.” Lucy shoots her husband an annoyed look.

“No, please tell me,” I almost yell. “Is there a ghost story about a witch here? In Newfield Village?”

“Not just in Newfield Village, in your own woods, Elinor.” Simon grins at me, and it almost looks like a leer.

My heart nearly stops and it’s hard to formulate words.

“It’s just a silly story, Elinor,” says Lucy, shaking her head. “Every town has one.”

“I’m just so curious,” I say, giving what I hope is an intrigued and not crazed smile. “What’s the story?”

“Oh, you know, just that there is a witch in the woods, and she leads little children away.”

“Tell her the rhyme.”

“Yes, tell me the rhyme.” I clutch my glass of mead, feeling like I’ve never wanted to hear anything so desperately in all my life.

Lucy rolls her eyes but clears her throat. Then she and Simon lean together and tell me the rhyme, a look of childish glee on both their faces.

“She’ll lead you to the wild wood;

She wears a black cloak and a black hood;

You are safe with me, the witch she said;

But don’t go with her, or you’ll be dead.”

* * *

A bonfire has been assembled in the back fields. It looks like it’s composed of old pallet boards, downed branches, leftover firewood. There’re also old window frames and wooden doors. I see a few guests adding to it; apparently the custom is everyone is encouraged to bring something they want to burn. Something to purge. We didn’t bring anything, but I pull off my fascinator and toss it to the pile. It erupts into a plume of greenish sparks that flicker in the darkness like will-o’-the-wisps.

While the party is still in full swing near the house, many of the younger guests have gathered by the bonfire. I notice a woman sitting on one of the hay bales. She’s dressed in a long black dress and a floral crown that’s beautiful though far more subtle than Madeline’s. I realize it’s Joan.

I’m feeling brazen. Partially from the lead I’ve gained from Lucy Acton. Partially from the rhyme that’s rattling around inside my head. Perhaps partly from the damn adaptogen or whatever Madeline said is in the mead. What do I have to lose? I need to know what’s up with Joan.

“Hi. This party is amazing.”

She turns to look up at me. “Oh. Hey.” She doesn’t look thrilled to see me, but at least she’s acknowledged my presence. “What happened to your orange hat?”

So, she’d noticed me before. And the stupid hat. “Oh. I made a contribution to the bonfire.”

Joan cracks the smallest of smiles and turns to look back at the wooden pyre.

“So, you guys host this every year?”

“Yes. Really, it’s Madeline.”

“Well, it’s incredible.” I take a step closer and kneel next to the hay bale, putting myself at an awkward height compared to Joan. “Look, I realize I might sound crazy, but I just wanted to say that I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot. I’m so sorry if I sounded insensitive at the dinner party.”

She looks at me, her face unreadable. “Insensitive about what?”

“Um, being pregnant. Madeline mentioned you had miscarriages.”