Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(42)
Author of Fasciculus Chemicus, and Keys of Mercy and Secrets of Wisdom.
On the third day of July 1871, I, Jeduthan Sutter, Esquire, after many weeks searching the Exmouth Marsh Lands, discovered the Witches’ Settlement of New Salem in a Desert Location far from Habitation. I Elucidated the Arrangement of the Quincunx, which indicated the Ceremonial Altar of the Village where the Witchcraft Rituals and Abominations were Consummated. Wherefor, having Located the Central Altar I dug down and Recovered the Stone that was the Blasphemous Object of Worship, which contain these Devilish Revelations and Abominations. This I did with a Wise Purpose, according to the Workings of the Spirit of the Lord, who Knoweth all things, as a Warning to All. And now I, Jeduthan Sutter, prior to destroying the Foul Stone of New Salem, so that the Evil embodied in its essence, and which hath moved on from this place to Another, can no longer Harm the World, do first Finish Out the Inscriptions found on said Stone, recording for Posterity those Inscriptions as in Life, made according to the Knowledge and Understanding of the Lord God, who giveth me His Protection from the Evil they contain.
A quincunx. Constance was aware of that peculiar arrangement, as in the array of pips on the number five on a set of dice. The quincunx, she knew from her reading, had a mystical meaning to many religions.
She turned her attention to the next document: an oversize double-quarto sheet of paper, folded. With care she unfolded it and found a finely drawn outline of what could only have been the Tybane Stone, apparently life-size, with its inscriptions—the same five symbols she had seen carved into the body of the historian, Mr. McCool.
She took out her cell phone and began taking pictures, near and far, with and without flash, working swiftly. When she was done, she went through the rest of the papers but found little more of interest—no indication where the settlement had been found, for example, or why Sutter was looking for it in the first place. Instead, the papers consisted of numerous quotations from scripture and other religious ramblings. Sutter, as the archivist had observed, had certainly been a crank. But even cranks make interesting discoveries.
Mrs. Jobe returned with a piece of paper. “This is a list of our visitors, going back six months. We also have a security camera, concealed in that EXIT sign. It’s confidential, of course—we don’t speak of it to visitors.”
“Thank you so much,” Constance said, taking the list. “I’ll have to look this over later. First, I must decipher these inscriptions.”
“If it’s any consolation,” said the archivist, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the inscriptions are gibberish. Poppycock. As I said, Sutter was a fantasist.”
“Do you have other files on witchcraft that might help me understand these symbols—or determine if they’re a sham?”
“We have transcriptions of all the Salem witch trials—on microfiche, because the originals are too fragile—as well as a fine collection of rare books on witchcraft and demonology in what we call the Cage. But I’m not sure how that will help you find your sister.”
Constance looked at her with a drawn face. “I must understand them if I’m to understand why my sister would be attracted to this…filth. You see, Mrs. Jobe, whether these inscriptions are poppycock or real, it is the intention to do wickedness that is this world’s true evil. But if they are indeed fraudulent, it could help my case with my sister…when I find her.”
Two hours later, Constance sat back in her chair, blinking. The microfiche machine was a wonder of hideous 1980s technology, seemingly designed to cause blindness through prolonged use. Why computers had not been introduced here, when the Historical Society was apparently flush with money, was a mystery. Perhaps they did not wish to make it easy to review these terrible trials.
But after all that, the transcriptions of the Salem witchcraft trials had proven a dead end. All too clearly, the “witches” who were put on trial were innocent. There were, however, a few instances in which—reading between the lines—Constance got the decided impression that there were actual witches, both male and female, involved in the witchcraft trials: not as accused, but as accusers, judges, and witch-hunters. It made a degree of sense: What better way to sow fear and hatred in a community, while at the same time disguising one’s own connection to evil?
It was time to visit the Cage.
She called for Mrs. Jobe, who led the way. The Cage was housed in the building’s basement: a small vault, its floor, walls, and ceiling constructed out of steel bars, with a single locked door. Inside were two shelves of ancient books—one along each wall—and a small table and lamp in the center. The air was cool and dry, and Constance could hear the running of a forced-air system. A nearby wall sported various environmental and atmospheric monitors and dials, including a turning drum that, no doubt, registered temperature and humidity. It was a dark and sinister space that—in high anachronism—was festooned with sophisticated digital instruments.
The archivist locked her in, with another admonishment to wear gloves at all times.
There were not many books on the shelf labeled “Occult & Miscellanea”—no more than three dozen. Most she recognized from Enoch Leng’s library at 891 Riverside Drive, which had a deep section on poisons and witchcraft. She began perusing the titles, taking a mental inventory: There was the famed Malleus Maleficarum (The Hammer of Witches); Nider’s Formicarius; Reginald Scot’s The Discoverie of Witchcraft; the French classic De la Démonomanie des Sorciers; the fabulously obscure Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis; and the dreaded, shadow-haunted Necronomicon, bound (although no doubt Mrs. Jobe was unaware of it) in human skin. She was already familiar with the contents of these, and knew they would contain nothing to help her decipher the Tybane Inscriptions—if indeed there was a decipherment to be found.