Read Witch Water for Free Online

bench and another map on a plaque. One
dotted guide-mark read THE WITCHES PATH, then after a few more
steps, another sign announced that he’d reached it.
    The more the hill rose, the higher the
grasses on either side seemed to grow. Fanshawe followed the path,
intrigued without knowing why. More tourist stuff, and he
mocked, The Witches Path? It’s just a friggin’ path!
    But as he approached what seemed to be the
most elevated of the hills, he stopped. Facing him now was a sign
larger than the others, as well as a clearing in the grasses,
leaving only bald dirt. Engraved letters on the sign began: WITCHES
HILL: IN JULY, 1671, THIRTEEN WITCHES WERE…
    Fanshawe, eyes intent, read the words aloud.
“Witches Hill. In July, 1671, thirteen witches were executed here,
including Evanore Wraxall, the notorious coven leader. Dozens more
practitioners of the Black Arts would be executed on this very hill
for another fifty years…” Fanshawe chuckled without much mirth. Sounds like somebody needed a hug.
    But he tried to contemplate the gravity of
the words. What I’m standing on right now was the Colonial
equivalent of a gas-chamber. People—witches or not—but living people had died on this very ground over three
hundred years ago.
    He shuddered at the cruelty of it all, and
the madness, then turned to leave. But at a break in the grasses
which rimmed the clearing, his eyes widened. This hill was, as he’d
thought, the highest around, and through the break he could see the
entire town down below. Perfect as a picture on a postcard, he mused, drinking up the view. Yes, he’d been in New York too
long. New York didn’t have views like this, just incalculable
skyscrapers, ubiquitous scaffolds and window-cleaning platforms,
and monolithic apartment buildings consuming entire city blocks.
Gazing at the little town now, it occurred to him that too much of
his life had passed since he’d experienced such a monumental sense
of wonder.
    The faintest breeze brushed over his face,
and hidden within it, he heard, or thought he heard, a sound just
as faint. Just a drift of something, like a word spoken by someone
too close to a rushing surf. Yet, a word it had seemed to be, in a
feminine tenor. The word was this: “…lovely.”
    Fanshawe paused to identify the direction
from which it had arrived: just off from the break in the grasses,
where a lone tree stood entwined by leafy vines.
    Then two more words, even fainter: “…love
you…”
    Before Fanshawe had stuck his head fully out
from the tree, he saw with a jolt that he was not alone. Just below
the immediate rise of the hill lay a lower elevation surrounded by
flanks of unkempt bushes, while two t-shirts draped over a bush
left a clue: HARVARD and YALE. The joggers, Fanshawe
remembered. Indeed, the two women were lying together in the lower
clearing, sunbathing on towels, and after a moment of peering,
Fanshawe recalled their headbands and well-toned bodies. Both women
were topless, yet they’d also rolled up the edges of their running
shorts as much as the fabric would permit. Fanshawe stared without
breathing.
    Their age could not be determined, though he
suspected they were well out of the groves of higher learning. One,
Harvard, lay flat on her back, eyes closed, with a tiny grin
touching her face, while Yale lay on her side, on one elbow, to
gaze down in apparent adoration. “I love you,” came another
drift-like whisper, and Harvard replied, “I know,” and grinned with
more obviousness. They kissed daintily, then Yale ran a hand up her
companion’s belly and across her breasts in a single, fluid motion.
Harvard’s nipples erected, at once, to dark pink plugs of sensitive
flesh. Then Yale assumed her friend’s supine pose. There they both
lay now like a passionate secret, smiling, basking in brilliant
sun, their hands joined.
    It was only when they both lay still that
Fanshawe’s emotions began to simmer. He gulped, his mouth going
dry. His gaze rolled over