Chapter 24

While Father Maloney hunted for relics, I tried to envision the precise location of the church. Not knowing exactly where we were in relation to the altar and coffin, I chose an approximate area. Nothing at all remained of the church, which I thought made sense. The white church wasn't a part of the town. I turned to what had once been the Common. It was a mass of trees and low bushes. The centuries of abandonment had taken their toll. None of it was recognizable.

We stood, looking around, waiting. Father Maloney returned.

"This woman will be here?" he asked again.

Before I could reply she appeared, slightly to our right. Behind her I saw the coffin. It looked to be the same one I saw weeks before. I'm sure the coffin sat where the altar used to be. My estimation was only a few yards off. Now, all was as it should be.

Her eyes rested on me for several seconds. The gentle smile was there as well. She turned to George.

"You have done a fine service, sir," she said. "I thank you again for your aid."

She turned to Father Maloney. She seemed to eye him curiously but without animosity.

"You are the Popish reverend?"

He opened his mouth. No words came out. The only reply was a quick nod of his head.

She studied him for a second longer and turned back to me.

"Frank Jackson, never will I forget you. There was my shop," she said. Her arm moved, waving over a tangle of brush and trees many yards away. "There, I did provide for those in need. For helping them, they accused and condemned me for sorcery."

"And hanged you," I blurted.

"There," she said calmly, pointing behind us. "On the Common."

She pulled the collar of her dress down slightly. The bruise from the rope ran around her neck. It was red and nasty looking, as if the noose had just been removed.

"They realized they made a mistake?" Father Maloney asked.

"They did but too late," she replied. "My body, what they took into the wood and left for two days, they then brought here to the church. The reverend refused me proper burial, though he believed in my innocence. I was denied my Christian service as does befit a Gospel woman."

I had difficulty understanding her. She had spoken only in short sentences before, which made comprehension easier. Now she was telling her story. The longer sentences, combined with the antique English and thick accent, were equally hard to understand, but fascinating to me at the same time.

"You cursed the town," Father Maloney said.

"I did so place a curse on the people and town," she replied.

"Do you regret committing the sin?"

"I do, though I believe not it were a sin" she said. "They after wished me a proper burial. Is it not Christian to forgive? I forgive them and regret my action."

"Then God will forgive you," he said with a glance toward George and me.

Mary slowly turned and looked down at the coffin. She stood for several seconds, just looking at it.

"You will then grant me peace?" she asked.

"We will," Father Maloney said. His voice was soft and gentle.

“Then it is time,” she said. With a last look at me, she leaned forward.

The lump returned to my throat as I watched her step into the coffin and lay down on her back. She placed her hands together over her stomach and intertwined her fingers.

Father Maloney took a small, black, leather-bound book from his shirt pocket. He opened it to a page he had marked, looked at us, nodded and began reading a prayer. George and I bowed our heads and listened.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the coffin. Mary's eyes met mine. She smiled, closed her eyes and sighed.

Father Maloney continued to read. A breeze began rustling leaves in the trees, increased in power and began to swirl about us until it rocked me before settling around the coffin. It became a small whirlwind that none of us felt from only a foot away. The priest hesitated for an instant and continued.

I watched the coffin begin to undulate, as if heat waves were roiling around it. Slowly, it began to fade. In a few seconds, it was gone.

Father Maloney continued praying, eyes wide with disbelief. He bent, grabbed a handful of dirt and fallen leaves and tossed it on the spot once occupied by the coffin.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he intoned. A minute later he said, "Amen."

He turned to George and me. "They'll have me locked away if I ever say a word about this."

Before either George or I could reply, from behind us, roaring through the trees, a near hurricane force wind erupted. It whistled toward us, bending trees, lashing through the branches. I heard what sounded like gunshots as two trees snapped, crashing to the forest floor. Branches and large limbs flew toward us, carried on the wind. They forced us to duck to avoid being impaled.

In the whistling wind, I also heard a shrill scream of anguish, frustration or anger. The wind hit us, blowing me off my feet. I landed on the soft earth and stared, frightened, mystified and horrified at the sight I was witnessing.

The wailing, shrieking scream increased in intensity. It forced me to cover my ears. Overhead, riding the wind, I saw the woman from my dreams, the woman who attacked me in my dreams, and ripped me to pieces. Her shrieks and cries were ear piercing as she sailed overhead. She grabbed at tree branches, fighting against the hurricane force.

Then, gradually both she and the wind faded away into nothingness. The tortured wails ebbed until nothing but silence remained. As quick as it began, it was just as abruptly over. The wind, the woman and her howls were gone as if it and she had never been.

"What the hell?" George asked. He climbed cautiously to his feet and glanced around.

"The bad one from my dreams," I said. I pushed myself off the ground. "She's gone."

Father Maloney got up and nervously looked around, eyes fearful. "I saw her. Up there near the treetops."

"Now I think it's over." I peered into the forest and hoped I was right.

We stood motionless, eyes roaming the woods, waiting for something else to happen. When nothing did after a minute or two, we began to relax.

"Where did she go?" George asked. He looked up at the tall treetops.

“I think somewhere none of us want to ever see,” Father Maloney said.

"Mary is at peace," I said. At the place her casket sat, no evidence of the whirlwind could be seen. It was as though it never happened.

"Not the other one, though" he replied. "She…"

"Yeah,” I said.

“She knew where she was going,” Father Maloney added. His eyes, too, were on the treetop where the woman disappeared. “She could see hell.”

“I think so,” I replied.

***

Later, after we spent time talking about and reliving the events several times, I found a branch and managed to gouge a slit a few inches deep into the forest floor, on the spot Mary's coffin had sat. When I felt it was deep enough to secure the headboard and, I hoped, prevent it from toppling over, I worked the marker into the hole and tamped the dirt around it. We stood silently in front of it for a while.

"I'll come back every year," I said, "to make sure it's okay."

"And pay your respects," Father Maloney said. He studied me. "You liked her."

"She scared the hell out of me, pardon my language Father. At first, I mean. When I realized what she wanted, I felt sorry for her. But, yeah, I guess it grew into liking her."

"I think she liked you too," George said. “I could see it in the way she looked at you.”

"It's almost five o'clock." I wanted to change the subject. We had been there more than five hours.

George checked his watch. "We got here before noon. Where did the time go?"

Father Maloney looked at his watch and shook his head. “This is a day I won’t forget.”

"We're all done," I said. I felt relieved but didn’t want to get involved in a strange passage of time event or discussion. "Let's go. Supper is on me."

“You only have to say those words once to get my attention,” George said.

We turned to the marker and spent another minute saying goodbye to Mary. I silently told her I'd be back in a year to check on her grave, and we began our trek back to the car. None of us said much during the walk out. I think we were each lost in our private thoughts. No one would believe what we had just gone through. George echoed Father Maloney's comment that he would never dare tell anyone.

"They'd have me in a nut house before I finished," he finished.

"Same here," Father Maloney said.

When we cleared the woods and arrived at my car, I stopped and looked back at where we had been. George and Father Maloney did the same. I wondered if it was really all over.

"Perhaps we could all meet next year and go in," Father Maloney said.

"I'd like that," I said. "I think she would too."

"Yeah, we should keep in touch," George said. "I mean, how many other people alive today went through what we just did?"

"You've both got my number," I told them.

I didn't tell them I wouldn't have the phone number much longer. Neither did I expect phone calls from either man. It was just talk, sincere and honest at the time they said it. And I knew they would never forget what happened for as long as either of them lived.

As the days and weeks passed though, life would take precedence and promises to keep in touch, and for us to meet would fade from memory. I knew I would never see either of them again. In a few days, neither man would remember suggesting we all meet and trudge back to Danielsford in a year.

***

I parked behind George's car, managing to jockey mine into the space. I try to avoid parallel parking whenever possible. I've never been good at it. This time I had no choice. Neither George nor Father Maloney commented on my difficulty.

We found a table and ordered dinner. While we waited, we relived the event one more time, possibly the last. As is normal in most events, the passage of even a few hours had caused the evil woman's destruction to grow in magnitude. What really happened was burned into my memory. Just as with them, it would remain there for the rest of my life with no need to exaggerate.

Our orders arrived and we ate in silence, and then relaxed with cups of coffee. Again, not much was said. The full weight of it all began to settle onto us and we began to realize what happened. I wondered if, in Father Maloney’s case, it would cause him to question any of the teachings he learned. It was a question I didn’t ask. When we finished our coffees, we declined a refill and got up to leave.

Outside, once again we all promised to stay in touch and to try and meet in Wenham in a year. We climbed into our cars and drove away with final waves. George faced the long drive back to western Massachusetts and Father Maloney and I were on our way to Boston.

Before we were several miles into the drive, Father Maloney's car had disappeared from view. I expected priests would obey the laws. Father Maloney seemed to be a frustrated NASCAR driver, not unlike most of the other maniacs on I-95. I took my time keeping at least close to the speed limit, much to the frustration of almost everyone else on the road. They all seemed to be in the same race against time as the Priest, desperate to save a few minutes.

I turned onto my street, pulled into my driveway and parked. There, I sat for a few minutes or so going over the minute details of what the three of us had just been through.