Reckoning

"This is a weird park," I said as we entered the square.

"Have a better look," Sam told me, pointing to the first bench. I went over to it. There was writing there. It read: Bridget Bishop, Hanged, June 10, 1962. I continued around, looking at each bench. Sam followed along behind me. Sarah Wildes, hanged. Elizabeth Howe, hanged. Susa

"This is the Witch Trial Memorial," Sam explained. "These are the names of the people who were executed."

I knew a bit about the witch trials from school and from some reading I'd done on my own. Two young girls had made claims that they were bewitched. From there, accusations flew and a court was set up. People were dragged in to testify. The girls continued and seemed to go crazy. More people came forward, claiming that they too had been attacked. In the end, twenty people were executed and dozens more accused or affected. The whole thing was over in a few months; then the people who ran the court were forced to close it and apologize for what they'd done.

With a shiver I thought of my own behavior, how I'd wanted to write a letter to the local Widow's Vale paper and «expose» Wicca. While no one would have been tried or executed, I could have caused a lot of trouble for Morgan, Hunter, Mr Niall… so many others. Thank God Mary K. and I hadn't actually done anything.

"You know what the weird thing is?" Sam said, looking down at the closest slab. "There people weren't witches at all. Some of them were outsiders, just a little weird in society's eyes. Some were prominent citizens. No rhyme or reason to it."

"Then what happened?" I asked. "Does anyone really understand?"

"Not really," he said, carefully brushing some dead leaves that obscured the name on the bench below us. "It was hysteria. People pointed to anyone in sight, claiming anything the judges asked them to claim—if only they would be allowed to live. People admitted to things they didn't do. If you didn't confess, they executed you. These people"—he indicated the benches around the square—"they wouldn't confess to things they hadn't done. They were very unlucky, and very brave."

"But now the town is full of witches," I said. "Why come here when the people who were killed weren't even Wiccans?"

"The idea still remains that witchcraft is evil and dark. I guess we feel the need to come here and set the record straight."

"All this," I said, shivering as I looked over the bleak stone benches, "just because some girls made up stories about witches."

"It was more insidious than that," Sam said. "People were ready to rush to judgment, even to kill, just to exorcise their own dark thoughts and fears. Now everyone looks back on this, not understanding how it could have happened. But people still persecute and hurt one another over things they can't personally understand."

"I guess maybe you know something about that," I said.

He nodded, understanding my meaning. "I guess so. I've always been out as a witch, and I came out with my sexuality early as well. I refuse to lie."

"My mom never mentioned that you were gay. Did she know?"

"Well"—he exhaled and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans—"I came out when I was eighteen, a few years after your mother left. But she always knew. I could tell. She was incredibly empathetic. She probably didn't think it was a big deal; I guess that's why she didn't mention it."

My mother was empathetic. She could feel other people, sense their emotions—just like I have been doing more and more since I'd been here. I liked that part of being a witch. But the mention of my mother also brought my attention back to the graveyard with its decaying grave markers. We quietly walked away from the memorial.

"So," I said, "do you have a boyfriend, or…?"

"I did," he said. "We separated about two months ago."

"Oh." I pushed some leaves around with my foot. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he said genuinely. "Shawn and I decided that we needed to be apart for a while."

"Shawn… was he a witch?" I asked.

"Yes." Sam nodded, staring out at the street. "He lives in Holyoke. It's nearby." He snapped back to his normal, su

I followed Sam along, and pointed out favorite restaurants, shops, and houses. We passed Bell, Book, and candle—the shop where Charlie worked. We stepped in, but he wasn't there. I had to hide my profound disappointment. It wasn't like the blows to my head had given me amnesia. The incident in the library had been on my mind more less nonstop from the moment I woke up. I wondered what had happened between Charlie and Brigid. It couldn't have been good. Maybe, I thought, cringing with guilt—maybe he was breaking up with her at this very moment. Maybe that's why he wasn't at work.

Not likely.

Uggggh. Too much to think about. I still felt guilty. Maybe it was a good thing the plates had knocked me senseless that night. I probably would be a basket case otherwise. After picking up a birthday gift for Ruth, Sam took me to an old hotel for lunch. He told me stories about my mother, all kinds of brother-sister high jinks. As we were talking and enjoying ourselves, I realized how good Sam was being to me. He'd put me up and cared for me with no advance warning at all. He'd stood up to his family to defend me. I owed him honesty. There was a convenient lull in the conversation as Sam was eating, I decided to use it.

"My dad doesn't know where I am," I said, not looking up. "I ran away."

Sam stopped eating, set down his fork, and waited for me to continue. He didn't look at all that surprised. With that stu

"I've been calling someone from my coven," I said, coming to an end. "She put a watch sigil on me so that she'd be able to find me if I wasn't in touch."

"That's something, I guess," he said, processing the information for a moment. Then he dug into the pocket of his brown suede jacket, pulled out a tiny call phone, and plunked it down on the table.

I got the hint.

When the first sound I heard was Hilary's voice, I readied myself to snap the phone closed again but then thought better of it. Sam was trusting me to call my family—ans Hilary, like it or not, was family now.

"Hi, Hilary," I said, trying to sound cheerful, as if this was the most normal call in the world.

"Alisa? Is that you?" She sounded breathy, really alarmed.

"It's me. Hi."

"Where are you?"

"Safe," I said firmly. "Fine. Staying in a nice warm house, eating three meals a day. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? Alisa, your father's about to have a heart attack, and…" I heard her stop and steady herself. She must have known I could be spooked away.

"I just called to tell you guys that I was okay," I said. "That's all. Is Dad around?"

"No, he's at work, sweet—Alisa."

She caught herself so abruptly, I actually felt bad, like I'd been way too rough on her. I knew she wasn't all bad.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"How am I feeling?" She was surprised. "Oh, I'm fine. Good. A little jumpy the last few days."

We actually made some small talk over the next few minutes. I think I was even able to convince her that I was fine. I didn't sound crazy or strung out. In fact, I was about a million times calmer than I usually was at home. She told me that they'd stopped doing any pla