The Witches of New York

  “Well you’d better get used to making the trip,” Eleanor advised. “I’ve a standing order with your father, every Wednesday, for a loaf of his marble rye.”

  Beatrice smiled at the boy and he laughed.

  Looking up the street, Eleanor asked, “Where do you suppose Judith is today? I thought for sure she’d come say goodbye. I’d gotten used to her moping about, wondering what she’ll do without us.”

  Adelaide shook her head. “Who knows.”

  Beatrice gave a little shrug.

  The pair looked at each other, then away, knowing something that Eleanor didn’t.

  Seeing the sun was low in the sky, Adelaide checked her watch. “Shall we hire a hansom?” she suggested.

  “No,” Eleanor said, shaking her head, “it’s All Hallows’ Eve. Let’s walk.”

  They chose to stroll past the park—Eleanor with her broom on her shoulder, Beatrice and Adelaide on either side of her. Cleo followed behind, bells jangling against her red patent collar.

  A group of Fantasticals paraded past them on the street, dressed in patchwork clothes and gaudy masks, carrying turnip lanterns and banging pots and pans. They were going from house to house to beg for pennies and treats. Amongst them was a sprightly little girl dressed in a long black cloak and a tall pointed hat. Running up to Cleo, she gave the dog a pat on the head. “Hello,” she said.

  Beatrice grinned at the little witch.

  With a twirl and a wave she danced away. “Goodbye!”

  The witches all laughed.

  It was nearly dark when they reached their destination, but before they went inside, Adelaide stole behind Eleanor and covered her eyes with her hands.

  “Stop that,” Eleanor protested. “What are you up to?”

  Beatrice giggled. “That’s for us to know and you to find out.”

  “Unhand me. I insist.”

  Adelaide whispered in her ear, “That’s not how this works.”

  Running ahead of them up the steps to the building adjacent to the house—the place where Tobias Brody once sold a fine array of philosophical instruments—Beatrice knocked on the door and shouted, “We’re here.”

  With that, a great tarp came down from where Dr. Brody had hung it across the windows, and a beautiful new storefront was revealed. The windows were clean and sparkling with candlelight, the door bore a fresh coat of blue paint. The sign over the door read: THE HERMITAGE.

  “What’s this?” Eleanor asked, hardly believing her eyes.

  “You’ll see,” Adelaide said, leading her to the door.

  Taking Madame St. Clair’s key from around her neck, Beatrice handed it to Eleanor and said, “You’ll be needing this.”

  Slipping the key in the door’s lock, Eleanor opened it to discover a room that looked for all the world like her mother’s kitchen. A long, sturdy table ran down the length of it, set with cups and saucers, pitchers of honey and a plate heaped with teacakes. A fire crackled in a hearth in the back of the room, a cauldron hanging over it, filled with stew. The clock from St. Clair and Thom’s graced the mantel. Row upon row of shelves and cupboards lined the walls, filled with the shop’s jars and tins, teapots and kettles. Dr. Brody tended the fire as Judith Dashley stood on a stepladder with Alden holding her steady so she could finish stringing tin lanterns and garlands of forget-me-nots from the rafters.

  Eleanor shook her head in disbelief. “How did you ever manage it?”

  “You’re not the only witch around here,” Adelaide teased.

  Beatrice bit her lip. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said, taking the girl’s hand. “It feels like home.”

  Cleo trotted past her and promptly curled herself up on a rug in front of the fire.

  Perdu, who’d been watching from his newly installed perch, flapped to the centre of the table, fished a cake from the top of the pile and gobbled it down.

  “What a terrible thief you are,” Beatrice teased. “What a silly bird.” The raven let out a long, stubborn chortle. Eyeing the girl, he declared, “I am no bird.”

  —

  That night they celebrated with mulled cider and soul cakes. Alden Dashley brought out a fiddle and much to everyone’s delight, Dr. Brody sang while Mr. Dashley played. They laughed and told stories and entertained themselves with the games that witches enjoy most on Hallowe’en: paring apples to find their fortunes, dropping egg whites in hot water, playing round after round of three saucers and book and key.

  When the night was over and the Dashleys had gone, and Dr. Brody went off to his bed, the three women stood together in front of the fire.

  “It’s almost midnight,” Eleanor said, looking at the clock.

  “I’m ready,” Adelaide replied, taking Eleanor’s hand.

  “So am I,” Beatrice said, holding fast to her sister witches.

  As the clock struck twelve they recited a special spell they’d crafted to mark their first All Hallows’ Eve together.

  By new moon and twinkling stars,

  Bless this night and make it ours.

  To those who dare to wish us harm,

  We cast on them a wicked charm.

  To those who aid us in our powers,

  We grace their lives with happy hours.

  And to ourselves one wish remains,

  That we might ne’er be lost again.

  Hecate dear, we ask of thee.

  So may it be, so may it be, so may it be.

  THE MORNING SUN Friday, January 21, 1881

  THE GREAT OBELISK TO BE ERECTED

  The Egyptian obelisk known as Cleopatra’s Needle will be erected on its pedestal tomorrow at noon, on Greywacke Knoll in Central Park. If the attendance during October’s dedication of the site is any indication of the public’s interest, it should prove to be a crowded and festive affair.

  After its arduous months-long journey through the city, the obelisk now waits at the ready atop a great turning structure that in itself is a tribute to man’s perseverance and ingenuity. Lt. Commander Gorringe recently remarked, “If all goes accordingly, it will move as easily and deliberately as if it were the minute hand on a lady’s watch.”

  We wish good luck and Godspeed to Gorringe and the good men under his direction.

  Cleopatra’s Needle.

  THE THREE WITCHES spent Christmas with Aunt Lydia in Stony Point. They filled their bellies with crown roast and plum pudding. They admired Lydia’s stamp collection. They played many hands of whist. Every night during the week before the New Year, they took turns reading stories to each other in the parlour. One night, after Beatrice had given a particularly lively rendition of The Cricket on the Hearth, Lydia, having had one too many glasses of sherry, announced, “I wanted to tell you that I’ve seen a ghost.”

  “You have?” Eleanor asked.

  “Do tell,” Adelaide urged.

  Beatrice looked at her aunt with great concern, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t good for her to live alone. She still hadn’t told Lydia of any of the strange (or terrible) happenings that’d gone on since she’d moved to New York. The time had never seemed right. “It was in October,” Lydia said. “Just past mid-month. I remember because it was a full moon. I went out to the porch to sit a spell, and a woman came walking up the road. She was dressed in a long wool cloak with a pointed hood. She came right up to me and asked if I knew a girl with long red hair who wore a wren’s feather on her lapel.”

  Beatrice’s eyes went wide.

  “Worried some ill might’ve befallen you, I told her the girl she’d described sounded much like my niece and if she had any news of you she should tell it. With a calm smile and tranquil face she said, ‘Beatrice is safe.’ Thinking it very queer, I told her I had no reason to think otherwise, then I asked her to leave. In a blink she was gone, no trace of her left. No sign of her in the yard or on the street. If she wasn’t a ghost, then what do you suppose she was? And what do you suppose it meant?”

  “Who knows…” Eleanor said, shaking her head.
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  “Sounds like a ghost to me,” said Adelaide.

  Beatrice sat thinking what the other two witches suspected, that Lydia’s ghost was Madame St. Clair.

  “Well, whatever she was,” Lydia said, “I’m sure I never saw the likes of her before, and I suppose I’ll never see the likes of her again. What a funny thing to happen, especially in Stony Point. Can you imagine what the ladies at the First United Presbyterian would say if I told them?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Beatrice said.

  “Nor would I,” added Eleanor.

  Shaking her head, Adelaide said, “Better not.”

  The year got off to a cold and snowy start, one of the worst winters on record. The work on the Dashleys’ house got delayed, and then delayed again, so Judith spent much of her time at the Hermitage complaining about the house she couldn’t live in and sharing gossip from the hotel. “Marietta’s been asking after all of you. She’d like you to know she harbours no hard feelings and that you’re welcome any time at the Fifth.”

  Miss Davis was also a frequent visitor, stopping in to chat with Eleanor, and to invite all three witches to attend the weekly gatherings of the NWSA. When the suffragists lost their regular meeting place, Eleanor had suggested they gather there, any evening except Saturday. (That night was reserved for Dr. Brody and the Unknown Philosophers, many of whom had taken a great liking to Eleanor’s tea.) Despite the cold weather, business at the shop was brisk, due in no small part to the ladies of Sisters’ Row discovering Eleanor’s affinity for making teas, tinctures and powders that met their “specific needs.” On any given day the place was full of customers engaged in conversations concerning everything from fortunes to fertility, from tinkering to theosophy.

  By day, Beatrice resumed her role as Eleanor’s apprentice—helping in the teashop and learning all she could about herbs, potions and the magic of Eleanor’s people, the cunning folk. By night, she pored over newspapers and weeklies searching for reports of strange happenings around the city. She’d abandoned the idea of giving public demonstrations in favour of investigating individual sightings of ghosts instead. She’d even wheedled Adelaide and Dr. Brody into visiting several sites around the city, with a few of them turning out to be the real thing. In light of their recent investigations, Beatrice had informed Dr. Brody that she intended to write a book that was akin to Mr. Pratchett’s Compendium. “But with miracles of the modern age,” she’d said. “A Census of Astonishments.” With that, Adelaide had promptly taken Beatrice to the stationer to have her first calling cards made. After going round and round about what it should say, she’d finally settled on this:

  “A far cry from the ‘Egyptian Sybil,’ ” Adelaide had teased.

  “I suppose it is,” Beatrice had said. “But far nearer to me.”

  On the evening of January 21, Dr. Brody announced over dinner that he’d arranged for them to take a nighttime sleigh ride through Central Park.

  The wind was bitterly cold, but the sleigh driver provided them with blankets, fur pelts and a jug of warm cider. The sound of the sleigh’s runners slicing through the snow along with the rhythmic jangle of the bells on the horses’ necks cast a charming, happy spell over the cheerful quartet. A few other sleighing parties were out enjoying the evening, and jovial shouts and cheers were often exchanged between them.

  It wasn’t long before they came to Greywacke Knoll and the site where the obelisk was set to be righted on the morrow. To everyone’s surprise except Dr. Brody’s, two great bonfires had been lit on either side of the turning mechanism on which the obelisk sat. A small band of men stood between them.

  “What’s going on?” Eleanor asked, taking hold of Beatrice’s hand, worried the sight of the fires might upset her.

  “Yes, tell us,” Adelaide said, sure that Quinn was keeping something from them. He’d had a terrible twitch in his eyebrow all evening. An endearing tell if she ever saw one.

  Dr. Brody asked the driver to stop and to wait for them. Then he leapt from his seat and assisted each of the women down from the sleigh. “Trust me,” he said. “You’ll want to see this.”

  As the four of them stood watching, four men went about executing history prematurely. Gorringe, not wanting to leave anything to chance, had called for a dress rehearsal of the obelisk’s shining moment. In the glare of the firelight, he stood on a platform and gave the order for the men on the tackles to “haul down, slack away!” Their motions seemed almost inconsequential in comparison with the graceful, effortless movement of the obelisk. Everyone who’d stopped to witness it went silent, struck dumb by the Needle’s spell.

  When the monument was nearly vertical, Gorringe, satisfied that the contraption could do its job, gave the order to reverse the process. Shouts and cheers rose up when it came to rest, people waving their hats or rising in their sleighs to celebrate the momentous occasion.

  Walking to the bonfire that was closest to them, Adelaide, Eleanor, Beatrice and Dr. Brody stood to warm their hands.

  “How did you know this was going to happen?” Adelaide asked, in awe of what they’d seen.

  “I have my ways,” Dr. Brody said with a wink.

  “What a sight,” Eleanor said, staring up at the Needle. “It truly is magnificent.”

  Beatrice stood in silence, letting the moment stand.

  Before long, her reverie was interrupted by someone tapping her on the shoulder. “Miss,” a gentleman’s voice said, “remember me?” It was the person who’d bid her to touch the obelisk on her first day in New York.

  “Yes,” she said, turning to look after the rest of her party, who were making their way back to the sleigh.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, gold tooth glinting in the firelight. “But I’ve something to give you before I go.”

  “My friends are leaving.”

  “I won’t let them go without you,” he promised. Then reaching his hand into the fire, he pulled out a glowing ember. “Trust me,” he said. “Take it.”

  Closing her eyes, she let him place it in her palm. She felt no burning, no pain.

  “Hold it tight,” he ordered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Clutching the ember in her grasp, she felt it turn cold. When she opened her eyes and her hand, the man was gone. All that remained was a stone scarab sitting in her palm, smooth and sparkling like the granite of the obelisk. She put it in her pocket and ran for the sleigh, planning to keep it to herself for now, or perhaps forever.

  —

  That night after everyone had gone to bed, Beatrice sat at her desk staring at the stone scarab. Tomorrow she was to go with Dr. Brody to visit a young telegraph operator who’d reportedly been receiving strange messages after getting a shock from a faulty machine. The Evening Star had teasingly asked, “Is she a new witch?” Beatrice wondered what she might say to the girl that would be of any use. Looking through her notes and journals, she searched for a helpful spell Eleanor might’ve given her, or a bit of worldly wisdom from Adelaide, or some thoughtful saying of Madame St. Clair’s. In the end, she chose to pick up her pen.

  ADVICE for NEW WITCHES.

  It starts with an inkling, a twist in the heart. A sigh, a voice without flesh—announcing somewhere between slumber and waking, “Careful what you wish for, lest you receive it.”

  Next comes the beholding of inexplicable things. A door, shut and locked, opened by forces unseen. A ball of yarn, unravelled in a heap, rolls itself up again. Take note of mysterious happenings—make lists, keep track. See how wonders multiply when magic is not dismissed.

  One needn’t carry the blood of ancients to be chosen by Fate. No witch’s mark, no gap-toothed smile, no dimple in the chin. Only a sense of longing, a restlessness within.

  For the time has come, the day has arrived, as the Spinner of Tales once said, when witches the wide world over are no longer born, but made.

  By mystery, magic, hopes and dreams. By communing with ghosts in the dark. By ambition, desire, curiosity and need. By tying knots around
the wishes of your heart. By charms, enchantments, incantations and schemes. By mixing blood with graveyard dust. By scratching the names of angels on your skin. By struggle, pain, heartbreak and loss.

  To all young women who read by foxfire or dance in the crossroads at night—you, darling ladies, are well on your way, nearly ready to take flight. The path lies ahead, daunting and long, so travel it while you are able. Believe in dreams, ghosts and spectres—ignore them at your peril.

  And now, you may ask, how will you know when your making’s done?

  The answer is quite simple, my dear—by the pricking of your thumbs.

  The

  END

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go out to those who kindly lent their expertise and knowledge during both the research and writing phases of this book: the amazing librarians and archivists at both the New York Historical Society and the NYPL; Angie Oriana Jenkins (belly dancing herbalist extraordinaire); and Bree Hyland of BARRE Studio (whose marvellous dream tea kept my imagination flowing).

  Of the many books consulted for this work, the following became companions and guides along the way: Madison Square: The Park and Its Celebrated Landmarks by Miriam Berman; America Bewitched: The Story of Witchcraft After Salem by Owen Davies; Wonders of the Invisible World by Cotton Mather; More Wonders of the Invisible World by Robert Calef; Flowers and Flower Lore by Hilderic Friend; Ten Days in a Mad-House by Nellie Bly; Opium Fiend by Steven Martin; Experimental Investigations of the Spirit Manifestations by Robert Hare; The History of Last Night’s Dream by Rodger Kamenetz; Narratives of the Witchcraft Cases: 1648–1706 by George Lincoln Burr; Egyptian Obelisks by Henry Honeychurch Gorringe; and Woman, Church and State by Matilda Joslyn Gage; as well as the many writings on folk magic, traditions and witchlore by Gerina Dunwich and the late, great Scott Cunningham.

  Many thanks go to the Canada Council for the Arts for their generous and vital support during the writing process.