Black Creek Crossing

Chapter 34

TARTLED BY THE FLASH OF LIGHTNING, FATHER Michael Mulroney’s whispered prayers died on his lips, and as the thunderclap that instantly followed on the heels of the lightning bolt rattled the windows of the church, he got to his feet and hurried up the aisle to the door. The first drops of rain were just beginning to fall, but the storm that had suddenly blackened the sky had not yet unleashed enough water to drown the wisp of smoke rising from the enormous tree that stood in the old graveyard across the street. As he stood in the shelter of the tiny church foyer and the rain began coming down harder, Father Mike felt a chill pass over him — a chill far colder than the slight drop in the temperature could account for.

A second bolt of lightning struck, slashing out of the sky, reaching down to the tree like giant fingers intent on gripping the mighty oak, ripping it from the ground, and tossing it aside as if it were no more than a weed. In an instant the lightning had vanished and the deafening roar of its accompanying thunder once again shook the structure of Father Mike’s church to its foundations. As the thunderclap rolled away and the skies seemed to open — as they must have at the beginning of the Flood, the priest reflected — he backed deeper into the church, closing the doors as if to shut out not only the storm, but the fear that was congealing deep within his soul.

Abandoning his prayers, he retreated to the small room behind the altar and sat down at his desk. Unlocking the bottom drawer on the left hand side, he took out a worn book that had been left in the desk by his predecessor, or perhaps even by someone who had served Roundtree’s small Catholic congregation several centuries ago. When he’d first come upon the book nearly twenty years ago, he’d thought it little more than a curiosity, for what possible relevance could seventeenth century speculations on witchcraft have to his parish? He’d glanced through it, more amused than anything else by the obvious terror the author felt for everything he discussed in his short essay on how the town had tried to rid itself of two women — or, rather, a woman and her teenage daughter — who had been accused of “Vile Majyk”—as it had been called in the book — nearly a century before the Revolutionary War. His first impulse had been to give the book to the local library, where it properly belonged, but for some reason — a reason he’d never quite understood — he put it back in the drawer, where it had remained locked away for almost two decades.

Then, almost two years ago, he was awakened in the middle of the night by a sudden storm that whipped up out of nowhere. The first crash of thunder woke him, and the second flash of lightning was so bright that he went to the window to make certain it hadn’t struck the church next door. A moment later the third bolt struck, lashing down out of the sky into the great round tree in the middle of the cemetery. For almost half an hour he stood at the window watching as bolt after bolt of lightning struck the tree and deafening thunder crashed against his ears, shaking the tiny parsonage. In less than an hour the storm died away as suddenly as it began, and he went back to bed. But as he rose at dawn the next morning and looked out the window, instead of seeing the shattered and scarred remains of a tree, as he’d expected, the immense old oak stood as it always had, its canopy forming an almost perfect sphere, none of its branches showing any signs of the violence to which it had been subjected only a few hours earlier.

Then, late that afternoon, he’d heard the first rumors of violence that had taken place in the house at Black Creek Crossing the night before.

And something clicked in his mind.

He’d gone to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, taken out the book and thumbed through it until he found the passage that had suddenly risen out of the depths of his memory:

… it being known that Storms struck out of empty Skyes when they practiced the Evil Majyk and three Witnesses swearing that they saw ye Round Tree struck by lightning but never Burned, they were thus Bound to that Tree, there to be Burned themselves…

Father Mulroney read the passage three times before turning the page to read the rest of the story of what had happened when Margaret and Forbearance Wynton had been burned:

… and when ye Flames did finally Die and ye Smoke blewe away on the great Winde that rose up, naught was left of ye Witches nor the Rope that Bound them, yet ye Great Tree still stood.

The priest locked the book up once again and went to his prayers, certain that the Holy Mother would guide him. He’d followed the trial of Nate Rogers, and once or twice wondered if perhaps he should talk to the man’s lawyer, perhaps show him the book he’d found locked in his desk. But in the end he kept silent, saying nothing about the strange passages he’d read in the old book, knowing that whatever had been written in it couldn’t possibly have any bearing whatsoever on the case of Nate Rogers, who had never been able to give any explanation at all for what he’d done.

“There was a voice,” was all he’d ever said. “It told me to do what I wanted to do.”

Besides, Father Mulroney had reasoned, if he said anything, people would only have thought he was as crazy as Nate Rogers had been found to be.

Then, on the day that Marty and Myra Sullivan and their daughter moved into the old house at Black Creek Crossing, thunderheads had churned up in a clear blue sky, and an electrical storm as violent as the one on the night when Nate Rogers murdered his wife and daughter had lashed out at the village for almost three hours before vanishing as suddenly as it had arrived.

The sky had once more been crystalline blue, and within minutes of the cessation of the rain, thunder, and lightning, no trace of the clouds remained.

Another had struck only two days ago.

And now a third had struck.

For the third time, Father Mulroney opened the old book and tried to make sense of the strange and impossible things described within its covers.

As the fire under the cast-iron kettle died away, so also did the storm that had been raging outside. Once again neither Angel nor Seth was certain how long they had sat staring into the flames. But when they looked outside, the sun was just above the trees; soon dusk would begin to fall, and the darkness would gather quickly.

Seth swung the kettle out of the fireplace, and together they peered into its depths. Just as before, most of the water had boiled away, and what was left seemed utterly devoid of either color or aroma. And when they breathed in the steam still rising from the surface of the broth, neither one of them felt anything unusual.

“How much of it do you think we should drink?” Angel asked.

Seth shrugged. “All of it, I guess.”

Angel peered uncertainly into the kettle, which was far fuller today than it had been when the fire burned out the day before yesterday. “But what’s it going to do?”

“How should I know?” Seth asked. Fetching the ladle and lifting it to his lips, he blew on it, then tipped his head back and poured the contents into his mouth.

Far from burning his tongue, which he’d feared, the liquid seemed cool in his mouth, and he felt the same cool sensation as it moved though his esophagus and down into his stomach.

“You won’t believe it,” he said as he dipped the ladle into the kettle once again, this time offering it to Angel. “It’s not even hot.”

Though Angel could see the steam rising from the ladle, she still held it to her lips and took a careful sip. Seth was right — it was cool! Tipping the ladle further, she drained it quickly, and felt the coolness spread through her. Houdini had now approached and sat by her feet. Dipping the ladle once more into the kettle, Angel held it close to the floor, right under the cat’s nose. Not even bothering to sniff it first, Houdini lapped thirstily, sucking up the liquid until the ladle was empty.

Ten minutes later, with the kettle empty, the ladle put back on its peg above the counter, and the book returned to the niche behind the loose stone in the wall of the fireplace, they closed the cabin and climbed the stone berm.

When they got to the top, Angel turned around and looked down at the stone they used to mark the spot where they’d buried Houdini. “Let’s try something,” she said to Seth as she recalled the strange words of the recipe’s second verse. Focusing on the stone, she tried to visualize it rising into the air until it was level with the cabin’s roof.

For several long seconds nothing happened. Then, as she and Seth watched, the stone slowly rose from the ground, seemed to float in the air for a moment, and dropped back to the earth.