A Spell for the Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page B

his name was Bootzamon—”
    “Proctor,” Deborah said warningly.
    Magdalena snorted. “Bootzamon? Surely that is some kind of joke, a very bad joke.”
    “That’s what he said men called him. Why is it a joke?”
    The color drained out of Magdalena’s face and she took a step backward, leaning into Ezra’s arms to steady herself. “No, I can see, you are joking me not.” She used her cane as a focus for her spells, and now she held it in front of her, scanning the road and the trees around them. “Back in the old country, my people had a tradition, the bootzamon. He was a, what do you call them, a scarebird—”
    “Scarecrow?” suggested Zoe.
    A chill ran through Proctor.
    “Ya, that is it, a scarecrow. But not just a scarecrow. The spirit of a dead witch is captured in the bootzamon. Bootzamon is a man witch. A woman witch captured that way would be called the bootzafrau.”
    “What do they do with the captured witches?” he asked.
    “The spirits are slaves to whoever captured them. In the old country, the bootzamon and bootzafrau would protect a village from evil, and then be released from this world when their duty had been done.” She drew a deep breath and looked at the scalps. “But I do not think this is a protective spirit.”
    “No,” Proctor admitted grimly. “Bootzamon killed Mister and Missus Walker, Alexandra’s parents.” He stole a glance at Deborah, who had crossed her arms and would not meet his eye.
    “But not the girl?” Magdalena asked.
    “No,” Proctor said. “I could find no sign of her, but it appeared that she had been gone for some time. All her brothers too.”
    The old Pennsylvania Dutch woman digested this information. She watched Deborah out of the corner of her eye for a moment before she spoke. “We must have a meeting. You will tell everything that happened on your trip to Virginia.”
    “Yes,” Proctor said. “I’ll tell you all the whole story, everything that happened. But let’s do it up at the house.”
    “Ya, that is wise,” Magdalena said. Beckoning the others to follow her, she turned to go.
    “I’ll be along in a moment,” Proctor said, and the old woman paused. “First I want to give some decent burial to the last remains of the Walkers.”
    She nodded agreement and continued on her way. Zoe bounced at his side. “Can I help?”
    “No. Now scoot,” he said, shooing her after the others. She trudged away with the hangdog look of the perpetually disappointed.
    The last to go was Deborah. “I know you had to tell them,” she said. “But I’m the one who has to protect them here, make them feel safe, on the same ground where my own mother and father were murdered. Just keep that in mind when you tell them the whole story up at the house.”
    “We don’t even know what the Covenant’s new plans are yet,” he said.
    “Is that supposed to make us less afraid, or more?”
    When he didn’t answer, she turned away and followed the others. He watched her back dwindle toward the house before he steeled himself to step out and collect Bootzamon’s horrific trophies.

Proctor buried what was left of the Walkers in a tiny hole next to Deborah’s mother and father at the edge of the orchard. As he carried the shovel back to the barn, he realized he was tired of digging graves. And he didn’t feel like waiting in one spot while the Covenant kept killing his friends and their families.
    He went to join the others, who had crowded around the hearth in the main room of the farmhouse. Deborah handed him a serving of chicken potpie.
    “Did you make this?” he asked, surprised.
    “Don’t worry,” she told him. “The sisters cooked it.”
    Deborah’s mastery of spells did not extend to cooking. Luckily, the others were willing to help. Proctor waved his thanks to the “sisters,” two middle-aged women from western Massachusetts who were actually cousins. Sukey Ballard was a stork-faced widow, while Esther Pettingal was an old maid, pale as a