“Old families?” Margaret Price wore her usual self-satisfied expression, and poured tea from a chipped Blue Willow pot into matching cups. Will was pleased to note it was ordinary tea. “No. Winthrop, Larcom, Endicott. Those are the old families around here.”
“I guess I mean the seven families,” Will corrected himself.
“I guess you do,” she replied. He wanted to wipe that smug look off her face. Reading his tension, Samantha squeezed his shoulder gently. Margaret did not fail to note the intimate gesture.
Coming here had not been his idea. It had not really been Sam’s either. It was the elder Mrs. Price, Evelyn, whom she had telephoned. Hoping for some guidance on Will’s “condition.” Will had been against the whole thing and was surprised to learn the old woman—who must be in her nineties—was still living. Evelyn Price didn’t have an answering machine, so Sam could not leave a message. Nevertheless, daughter Margaret called Sam the next day, insisting she and Will come for tea.
“The seven families haven’t been here more than six or seven generations,” Margaret continued. “Which isn’t old at all for this part of the country.”
“They were up in Maine before,” Sam prompted.
“The Camden-Warren area. Ship captains, lawyers. Many of the Prices were soldiers.”
“Halls too,” replied Sam. “And back to England before that?”
“Yes. West Midlands.”
“Price is a Welsh name, isn’t it?”
Margaret paused, studying Samantha’s face.
“I’ve heard it said that Price comes from the Welsh ap Rhys. The sons of Rhys. I don’t really know about that.”
“And the Chesters take their name from that town, on the Welsh border?”
“So they say. Your Halls are from the area around Coventry. Branfords also.”
“Wales to England,” said Sam, retracing the steps forward in time. “England to Maine, Maine to here.”
“That’s right.”
“Never staying anywhere more than six or seven generations.”
Margaret nodded deliberately.
“You want to know about the curse.”
“Curse?” Will sat up as if prodded. His ribs still hurt from slamming the rock face on his rapid descent. And there was a bruise on his left cheek that Margaret had stared at but not asked about.
“Careful of the tea, dear,” she warned, handing him a napkin. “Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong,” Samantha replied. “That’s just what we want to know.”
In fact, she had not been at all clear why they had come. Sam did not have the same faith in Margaret Price that she did in Margaret’s mother, but she was sure the invitation was no coincidence. Will pointed out that Evelyn could not even know they had called, but Sam was unmoved. You did not ignore signs. Now she was tossing out random details to see what stuck. If Margaret thought they had come to learn of a curse, well then, that’s why they had come.
“The curse is legend,” Margaret said casually. “Not really history.”
“Of course,” Sam agreed.
“And there are many people better versed in the telling than me.”
“But they haven’t invited us to tea,” Sam answered. “And you have.”
Margaret set her cup down on the cherrywood coffee table and leaned back against worn sofa cushions. Late-day sun through sheer curtains gave her hair a silver sheen.
“Back in England, or Wales perhaps, in medieval times, a demon was ravaging the countryside. Killing cattle, stealing children. Beguiling young women and poisoning crops. Doing what demons do.”
“Where did the demon come from?” Will asked. Both women looked at him in surprise. You did not interrupt the telling of a tale. He should know better.
“That isn’t part of the story,” Margaret said, regathering herself. “Several brave men went to confront the demon. To slay it or drive it off, but each one came to grief. The people of the region called on their most trusted leaders to save them. Seven of them. Sages, holy men, warriors. One from each of the prestigious families gathered to hunt down the enemy. The fiend feared their strength and fled, but eventually they caught and bound it. Of course, you cannot kill a demon. But working together, they conjured a spell by which to banish it from the world once more. Back to the abyss.”
She paused for a sip of milky tea. Despite her false modesty, Will noted the stylized language and dramatic pauses of a seasoned storyteller. She might find the tale nonsense, but she had clearly told it more than a few times before, and on some level was enjoying this.
“Demons are ancient beings,” she continued, “and clever. No man alone is a match for one. But now I’m telling the professor his own subject.”
“That’s okay,” said Will, hesitantly. He neither wanted to intrude nor fall into some trap. “Every tradition has its own rules. This isn’t my story.”
“Of course it is,” she countered, gazing steadily at him once more. “I mean, all of us. We’re all the heirs to this tradition, as you call it.”
“Go on. Please.”
“The demon tried to bargain. It would give them riches, long life, knowledge. Whatever they wanted. I don’t know if demons have the power to give those things, but I suppose we’ll all say anything to save ourselves. Yes? Some of the men were tempted, but in the end they stayed the course. They performed the rituals and enacted the spell that banished the fiend. However, before its parting from this world, it hurled a curse on the seven men. A curse on them and their children, and grandchildren, and all their ancestors down the generations.”
She looked at them expectantly, as if awaiting their verdict.
“What was the curse?” Will finally asked.
“Ah, yes.” Margaret bent forward for more tea. He wondered if he could drown her in that little cup. “Versions vary with the telling,” she finally said. “What do you imagine it was?”
Plague? Insanity? Bad skin?
“Restlessness,” said Sam.
“I had a feeling you’d heard the tale before,” Margaret answered, settling back against the tired blue cushions.
“Long ago,” Sam replied. “And not told like that.”
“Wait,” said Will in dismay. “That’s the curse? Restlessness?”
“Restlessness is too gentle a word,” answered the older woman. “More like a profound unease. A constant sense of struggle, of searching. With no hope of fulfillment.”
“Sounds like the human condition,” Will said. She smiled at him. Whether in agreement or in pity at his ignorance, he could not say. “So what happened after that?”
“After, yes. The community dissolved. Mistrust and strife took hold in that place.” Her tone had grown darker; her eyes gazed at the floor now. “The old learned to live with the sense of loss. The young moved on to new lands. The same people who had turned to the seven to save them, now turned on them. Blamed them for their unhappiness. Drove them out.”
It seemed to Will she was taking this awfully hard for a mere legend.
“And the same thing kept happening,” Sam said. They both looked at her. “I mean the unease. It kept happening wherever they went. That’s why they kept moving from place to place, isn’t it?”
Margaret sighed. Looking sorry that she had started talking of this.
“One generation would find a new home. A land that held some echo of the richness and mystery of their old home. The next few generations would build up their place there. It was in their natures to prosper. To become leaders. And then another generation would ruin all they had achieved. And the young people would scatter again.”
“How would they ruin it?” Sam asked.
Later, Will would understand that this was the most important question of all, though Margaret appeared to have no answer. At the moment, in that following silence, he only sought to shake off the unsettling enchantment of the tale.
“You’re trying to say that these seven families traveled as a pack? Between continents, over centuries?”
“Now we move from legend to history,” Margaret replied, unconcerned with his doubt. “And history is not so tidy. Every generation, children grow and move on. It’s like that for all families. We can’t even be sure of the number. We say seven, but maybe it’s six, or eight. Probably some died out, and others come into the story later.”
“Yeah?” mused Will. “Which?”
“Well, for instance, the Browns. They claim Brown derives from Bronwyn, which is an old name in Wales. But some say they didn’t become one of the families until Maine. Always been working people, you know. The Paysons are another question mark, if you ask me.”
“You’re telling me there isn’t even agreement on who the seven families are?”
“Oh dear,” laughed Margaret. “There’s very little agreement about anything.”
Then why the hell should we take any of this seriously, he wanted to say. Except that she had not asked him to. She had all but dismissed it as a fairy tale, even if her tone said differently. He had nothing for which to chastise her. He had walked into this room with that gnawing unease already inside him.
“Are we at the time in the cycle when the young people scatter?” asked Sam.
“I think we’re past that point,” said Margaret, a bit sadly. “I mean, yes, many have gone. William here, for one. My own children. You’re still around, aren’t you, dear? But you are the last of the true Halls. Doc and Sally Chester had no children. There are hardly any Branfords or Staffords left.”
“Still a few Browns,” Will couldn’t help but say.
“Yes,” the older woman conceded, “but they do themselves in at such an alarming rate, don’t you think? And, well, not to be too hard about it. But they don’t really embody the essence of what the seven families once were.”
Will knew that Muriel would be proud of that judgment, so he felt no need to dispute it.
“No,” said Margaret Price softly. “It’s all going away. The history, the sense of community. The families themselves.”
“What about the curse?” asked Will.
She held him in her gaze several long moments before speaking. Will thought her expression looked kind. Maybe a bit tired, but not at all haughty.
“The first thing we need to do is find you stronger guardians,” she answered.
He felt like he had missed a part of the conversation.
“The Duffys are troublemakers,” Margaret went on. “The whole clan, everyone knows it. You can put one in a police uniform but it doesn’t change anything. I’m sure the boy had coming whatever you gave him, but we can’t wait until it happens again. To someone else. You don’t want to end up hurting Samantha, for instance.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Will asked, baffled and alarmed.
“I worry about you, William,” said Margaret. “My mother does too. And generally speaking, she doesn’t give a damn about anyone.”
“That’s good of you, but there’s no—”
“It’s not about goodness,” she said sharply. “Some of us still remember our obligations, that’s all. We take responsibility for our own, whatever their behavior or affliction.”
“Is that what I am? Afflicted?”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t call it anything,” he shot back. “Except maybe superstition. Paranoia? Bad luck? Life is hard, stuff happens to people. We get worked up. Why does it need a name?”
“Why are you here?”
“Because my mother fell down the stairs.”
“Why are you here in my house?”
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Price, I have no idea. Why did you invite us?”
She took a deep breath, her eyes hard. This was it, Will thought, now it would come out. Whatever she believed was amiss, whatever role she had assigned herself in fixing it. But then something changed. She released her breath slowly, without speaking. Her eyes became gentle again.
“Do I need an excuse to invite old friends for tea?” she said finally, and he knew at once that the moment had passed. There would be no point in pressing her now. “You should really try those sugar cookies. Old family recipe.”
“So was that useful?” Will asked, with only part of his attention. Most of it was focused on the small package in his lap. Margaret had handed it to him just before they left the house. From my mother, she said, tucking it into his arms.
“A little,” said Sam. She was driving. It had not taken much effort to convince Will that bad things happened when he drove. “Might have been more useful if you weren’t so rude.”
“I wasn’t rude.”
“You kind of were.”
“What, you’re going to play Miss Manners now?”
“I’m not rude to people,” she said, her voice uncertain. “Wait, am I?”
“The woman has been rude to you your whole life.”
“That’s no reason.”
“Look,” he said, squeezing the package’s blocky contents with his fingers. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. My social skills have abandoned me since I came back here.”
“It’s not about that.”
“She’s a blunt old battle-ax,” Will maintained. “If she can dish it out, she ought to be able to take it. I thought I might crack her cool. Make her say something she didn’t want to.”
“Well,” Samantha considered, turning on the windshield wipers. “It almost worked.”
“No, she’s too smart.”
“Actually, I think she was told not to say too much.”
“Told by whom?”
“What is that?” she asked, meaning the package.
“A book.”
“Just what you needed.” Her attempts at humor cheered him. “What book?”
Will undid the clasp and slid out the dense object. Gilded edges and no words or markings on the black leather cover. He turned the thin pages, unable to understand much at first. Except that the book was old. Two hundred years or more.
“It’s in Latin,” he said.
“Can you read that?”
“Only in theory.”
“There’s a dictionary at my house.”
Tom Hall had many books in Latin, Greek, French, German, and dictionaries in all those tongues. Will would have to rely on such help, because his mind was bouncing off the pages now, unable to absorb the words. Thinking of other things.
“She knew about Jimmy,” he said.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed.
“I didn’t think he told anyone what happened.”
Sam had heard about the incident in the woods before Will could tell her. The only thing she revealed to him was that Jimmy’s arm was hurt, but he was otherwise all right. And that he had not reported the encounter to anyone.
“He had to get the arm looked at,” she said now. “Somebody had to know something.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. His father.”
Kevin Senior. Who, when drunk, used to beat Brendan, though Will’s pal insisted he deserved it. Now the old man had cancer. His wife was gone. His youngest was fighting in Iraq, his oldest was in prison. And Will had just made his life a little harder.
“What did he say?” Will asked.
“That Jimmy hurt his arm struggling with someone. That he was taking a short leave of absence to recover.”
“Didn’t mention my name?”
“When are you going to accept that people here know things,” she said, exasperated. The rain intensified, and Sam leaned closer to the windshield. She drove slowly and cautiously, unlike him. “Those old women knew when I got my first period. They knew which boys I liked. Your face tells them things. Just sitting in front of them, they can read your whole life.”
“I hope you’re exaggerating,” he said after a moment.
“Not a lot.”
“I need to get out of this town.”
“That won’t help,” she said quickly. Urgently, it seemed.
“How do you know?”
“Weren’t you seeing that shadow before you came here? Back in New York?”
Had he told her that? He must have—he had told her so much.
“I think you just like having me around,” he said with a smile. She did not smile back.
“I do,” said Sam quietly. “I never thought you would leave.”
“When? Like, go to college?”
“I mean, I knew you would. On some level I had to know that’s where your life was headed. College, job in the big city. Anybody could see that was for you. But on another level, it wasn’t real. That you would leave here. Leave me.”
“Sam. We weren’t even close anymore by the time I went.”
“Is that how it felt to you?”
Yes was the only honest answer. But he had forgotten or misremembered so much else about his life, why not this also?
“Maybe you’re the one who needs to get out,” he said.
“Hah,” she laughed. Like it was a ridiculous idea.
“Why not? What’s keeping you?”
“I can’t leave,” Samantha said in dismay, glancing over at him.
“Of course you can. Unload that mausoleum and hit the road. Lucy Larcom is making generous offers, I hear.”
“Your mother isn’t selling, is she?” There was panic in her tone.
“She hasn’t even mentioned it.” Muriel had assured Will that no deal was imminent, and suggested it was better not getting Abby riled up by asking. “Has Lucy been after you too?”
“She cannot sell that house,” Sam insisted. “Not yet.”
“For God’s sake, why not?”
“Because everything started there. This...thing, with you. You have to be living in the house until we figure it out. It’s critical.”
“Oh man,” he sighed. “Should I also sleep in a pine box full of native soil?”
“I’m serious, Will.”
“That’s the thing, I know you are. I swear, you need to get out of here more than I do. I might have to kidnap you.”
“I cannot leave this town,” she said flatly. “There’s some of us who are meant to stay. Everything I am is tied to this place, these people. You must know that.”
He did not know any such thing, but the certainty in her voice stopped him from saying more. That, plus the fact that he had reached the first woodblock illustration in the book. It was primitive work, but compelling, and his eyes could not look away.
“Her mother wanted me to have this,” he said. “What does that mean?”
“If it’s from Evelyn, there’s a message in it.”
“What message?”
“I don’t know,” Sam replied, “it depends on the book. You figure out what it is yet?”
“Yeah,” Will confirmed. Gazing at the shadowy, crosshatched figure hunching in the billowing flames. “It’s a demonology.”