Read Online Malice by Robert Cote - Free Book Online Page B

in mist. Avery’s voice came again, telling him the figure before him was the Wellman—an egoless reflection of Lysander. The well was a bottomless reservoir filled with every thought, desire and emotion Lysander had ever known, and it was the Wellman’s job to draw the pail to the surface, bringing forward whatever was asked for.
    “Lysander, I want you now to remember the seizure. I want you to go back to the cause of your seizure. When I count to three you will be there. One…two…three. Tell me what you see?
    “Blackness.”
    “Lysander, I’d like you to tell me if there is something responsible for your seizure?”
    He hesitated. “Yes.”
    “Is it okay if we revisit that memory?”
    Lysander’s head shook even as the question was being asked.
    “It’s important that we do so.” Avery’s voice was calm but insistent.
    A crease of tension ran down Lysander’s face. Avery sighed and leaned forward.
    “Lysander, you will be completely detached from the images before you. You are an observer. You are a guest. You cannot be harmed. Now, I would like you to go to the earliest incident that is responsible for your seizures. When I count to three, you will go there. One…two…three. Tell me what you see.”
    Avery could see the balls of Lysander’s eyes rolling around under his closed lids. In a monotone Lysander said, “I see a village. There are people in the streets. They are yelling. There is a woman in a cart. She is tied with rope and the crowd is yelling at her. She has been tortured. A young girl throws rotten cabbage and it strikes her in the head. The woman turns to shout at the girl and more food is thrown. An older woman tries to stop them. It is her daughter they are hurting, but blood is what the crowd wants and they push the old woman away.”
    “Lysander, where are you?” Avery asked, surprised.
    “I am in Millingham.”
    Avery wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. The muscles in his face were twitching nervously. “What year is it?”
    “It is the year of our lord sixteen hundred forty-eight.”
    A thin sheen of perspiration started bleeding through Avery’s shirt. “Say again, Lysander. What year is it?” In Avery’s voice: a touch of incredulity mixed with desperation.
    “It is the year of our lord sixteen hundred forty-eight. I told you.”
    “All right. Thank you.” Out came Avery’s handkerchief again. “Tell me, why are the people so angry with this woman?”
    “Children in town have died and she was responsible.”
    “How so?”
    “She is a midwife. She lives on the edge of town. She has treated several people who took ill. Many of the children she treated have died.”
    Avery hesitated. “What is her name?”
    “Rebecca Goodman.”
    Avery’s jaw slowly came unhinged. “She’s in a cart right now, you said? She’s being brought to prison?”
    “No, she will be burned at the stake for witchcraft. The council of elders has already determined her guilt.”
    “Not hanged?”
    “Hanging’s too quick.”
    Avery leaned forward intently. “Lysander, I want you to move forward now to the next important event. Again, you will be an objective observer. Nothing you see can affect you in any way. When I count to three, you will go there. One…two…three. Tell me what you see.”
    Lysander squirmed in his chair as though the seat itself had become intolerably hot. After several calming suggestions Avery asked the question again.
    “Rebecca Goodman is tied to a wooden pole. Sticks and brush are piled at her feet. She faces the council.”
    “Council? The ones who condemned her?”
    Lysander nods.
    “Go on.”
    “Guards ignite the brush underneath the woman. Her face contorts with panic. The heat is unbearable.” Lysander writhed in his chair again. “The flames are rising. The crowd stops hollering. Some look away. The pain…The pain is …”
    “Yes, go on.”
    “Tiny fissures on the witch’s arms and belly. Her skin is cracking, yawning open and closed