A/N: I know there's nothing in How to Hang a Witch or Haunting the Deep that suggests Elijah's parents ever sent him away from Salem, or that Elijah and Abigail were separated for nine years, I just thought it would make for an interesting plot device to kick this prequel fanfic off.
I don't claim to be 100% canon compliant with this.
Losing Abigail
A How to Hang a Witch/Haunting the Deep (prequel) Fanfiction
Chapter One: My Blood, Your Blood
Salem, Massachusetts: 1683
"I know precisely who it is throwing rocks at my cows, Elijah and Abigail Rowe – do not, either of you, suppose for a moment I shan't tell your parents!"
Eight-year-old Elijah and his little sister had, in actuality, not been throwing rocks at John Proctor's prized cattle so much as tossing pebbles over the heads of these aforementioned cows so they'd be distracted and move to the other side of the field – the children simply wished to cut across it, and although Elijah could have just walked amongst the cows without much apprehension, Abigail was somewhat afraid of them.
This was, of course, not at all the sort of thing which could be explained – much less believed – at some dark hour well past midnight from those who ought to have been at home in their beds.
So, the siblings simply linked hands and ran for it.
They laughed, gasping for breath, the entire time and prayed they would clear the upcoming low fence before Proctor reached them.
Abigail nearly stumbled – and one of the dreaded cows came up and started snuffling at her skirts, mooing – and this quelled her giggles, making her turn quite white, until Elijah – in a single fluid motion, never having let go of her hand even once – pulled her to safety and she was back to laughing again as they made their way out of the field and towards freedom.
Despite the drained colour of her face, she had not been very frightened – she'd known her brother would rescue her. Elijah never let her down. He wouldn't have left her to be nosed by cows or caught by John Proctor.
"You do not suppose he truly means to tell mother and father he saw us in his field?" she asked, when she had breath enough.
"If he does, who would believe him? Father knows full well John accuses children of cutting across his field nearly all the time."
"But does he know it is because children do cut across his field nearly all the time?"
Even in the dark, she could see Elijah's telltale wink.
"I lost some of my flowers," she lamented, examining the crook of her arm where she'd had nearly a bushel's worth of black-eyed Susans – her favourite flower – gathered before they'd had to make the run across Proctor's field. "Half, at least." Her lower lip trembled.
"That is too bad – but never fear, sister," Elijah said kindly. "We can get you more – they grow all over Salem." He squinted in the dark. "I think we are coming up on a patch of them right now."
Pulling her hand free, she tipped forward, trying to see for herself.
Sure enough, there was a patch, and she began gathering afresh, plucking them with industrious intensity.
"What will you do with them all?" laughed her brother. "You have got far too many already to fit into a vase at home."
"You will see," she replied tranquilly, smiling down at her gathered gold-and-black treasures.
"I think we would do best to keep moving," and he looked cautiously at the sky.
They only had a couple of hours if they wanted to make it back home undetected, before it started to get light. Their intended destination was almost an hour's journey on foot from their house – or would have been for an adult, it was longer yet for the short legs of young children – and it would be just as long – if not longer, because they would be tired – to get back again.
Nodding, Abigail trotted obediently alongside him, still cradling the precious flowers in her clenched arm.
Together, the pair made their way past the low-lit, shadow-strewn harbour and the reedy stretch of murky water until they found the true shoreline, a proper beach where clean waves broke against the smooth, even sand.
The moon above them was nearly full, and Elijah could see the unadulterated joy on little Abigail's face as she sank down to the ground, securing her flowers in a safe little pile nestled with the black dress, shiny hard shoes, and white apron she rapidly shed before she ran, almost headlong, into the waves with a squeal of delight.
"Be careful out there!" he warned her, getting a splash directed at him for his pains. "Wait but a moment," he added, laughing so hard his cheeks smarted as he wiped the salt water from his face; "allow me to shed my own things before you start trying to drench me!"
In less than a minute, he joined her, and the two children were whooping and splashing and doing awkward little flips in the water and showing each other how they could float and trying to see which could hold their breath underwater the longest.
Abigail found a large rock to climb and – after much slipping – when she reached the top she cheerfully declared she could see their house from her new vantage point, and Elijah acted impressed as though he believed her despite the fact it was quite impossible she should see any houses – let alone theirs – from her place.
"Can you see if anyone is awake and looking for us, if mother has put a candle in the window?" he teased.
She put a hand over her eyes and pretended to search the horizon. "No, no candles – not a one – the windows are all dark – we are in no danger."
He gave a sombre nod, as if consoled. "That is good to know."
With her long white underclothes clinging to her legs and her hair unbound and blowing in the wind, Abigail looked like a pale little mermaid come up out from the sea in order to spy out the land of people. She rolled back her shoulders and opened her small, delicate mouth to sing, and she sounded like one, too. Her bell-like voice was angelic and hit all the right notes without warbling or once going off-key.
Poor Abigail Rowe – how dearly she loved to sing! It was only too bad she existed in entirely the wrong time and place to ever indulge such a love. Puritans frowned upon singing, upon idle things like music and art. The general belief was that music, sports, and art led to laziness and sin. In another world – just another country, even – she might have been admired for her obvious talent, rather than constantly told to suppress it, told how wicked she was for being unable to do so.
"That is a beautiful song," remarked Elijah, when she had finished and spread out her arms as if she were a performer on a stage awaiting applause, rather than simply a little girl sitting on a rock in the ocean. "Where did you hear it?"
"Nowhere," she told him, peering down, her tiny chest heaving. "I made it up."
He really was impressed by that; how a girl even younger than himself could invent such a fine song, including what sounded like a real melody, with no help or outside influence rather astonished him.
If only he could, he would have loved to buy her a real leather book for her to write her songs down in. No one had to know she had it, for he felt certain he could make her some manner of hiding place in the house nobody else would discover, and it would be an invaluable treasure to her once she'd properly learned all her letters. But, of course, it was near impossible for an eight-year-old boy to procure such a thing – he hadn't any money of his own, to start with, although his father had promised to give him a few coins tomorrow.
Coins Elijah would rather never have, because of what they meant.
Perhaps he could stitch together some leftover scraps of paper, the cast-off parchment pieces from their parents' letters and documents he usually saved to draw little pictures on for her amusement, bind them into an approximation of leaves that could be turned and written upon, and make a sort of book for her.
It wouldn't be as nice as a fancy leather one, but it would be something.
When they had finished their swim, although both children would have dearly loved to remain in the water longer if it were possible, they sat in the sand, letting the night air dry them off, before beginning the trek homeward.
Abigail braided the stems of her black-eyed Susans together to form a wreath, which she placed upon her head and wore with as much queenly pride as if it were wrought from gold metal and onyx stones instead of mere flowers.
Elijah smiled. So this was what she had desired all those flowers for!
Beside him, the euphoria from her swim and the flower-crown slowly dissipating as reality set back in, she sighed. "I wish you were not going away."
He wished that very same thing. This was the reason he had, after their parents fell asleep, crept into Abigail's room, crouched by her bed, and shaken his sister's shoulder – although she hadn't been asleep, she'd simply been lying in bed, trying her hardest not to cry – and asked if she wanted to come out to the shore with him tonight; because, tomorrow, Father was sending him away to work on the farm of a distant relation who lived in another part of Massachusetts, near to Andover, and he mightn't be back for a while.
Their parents had spoken in terms of years.
This was why he was to have, finally and at too dear a cost for it to matter, a little money of his own.
Their parents meant to do only good in sending him away – they were a well-off family, and they believed placing their growing son within a new environment where he would be required to work harder than at home would build his character and teach him proper values – but he personally failed to see the real use of it.
It was not, after all, as if he didn't do plenty of chores at home, and he always looked after the property, and little Abigail, to the best of his childish abilities.
He loved his parents dearly, which only made being parted from his family all the worse. For it was not only Abigail he would have to leave. No, he would also depart from his mother, who – despite giving the appearance of severity in public – was the lightest, brightest person he knew. It shouldn't have been surprising; Abigail had to get her own little inner light, the one that made him love her, from somewhere. And his father, although grave and quiet and nearly impossible for anyone to make smile let alone laugh (Elijah had only ever seen his mother succeed in the attempt; no one else, not even Abigail at her sunniest, quite managed it), had a warm, generous heart as deep as the ocean.
Elijah felt he belonged with them – they four, together, was all he needed in the world. If they were all under one roof, safe and loving each other, and God was in his Heaven, nothing whatever could be amiss.
It seemed impossible he would feel that way about the relations near Andover, no matter what they were like.
"You will forget all about me," she whispered, turning her head. "Ann Putnam's eldest brother was sent away, and he was completely different when he returned."
"Tom Putnam is an imbecile – everybody knows it," said Elijah, with feeling. "I shall never forget you."
She turned back to face him. "You verily promise? Will you swear it on the Bible?" Their parents always said if you swore on the Bible and broke your promise you went to Hell when you died – she didn't want Elijah to go to Hell, no matter what he forgot, let alone die, she loved him far too much to wish such a terrible thing, but she did long for a promise he couldn't break, one he wasn't allowed to, so he wouldn't forget to remember her when he was away.
"I shall swear to it on anything you desire me to." He put an arm around her, holding his sister close, inhaling her current smell of sweat and salt and flowers. "Look here." With his free hand, he drew a white linen handkerchief from his pile of discarded clothing.
"I sewed that one for you," said Abigail, sniffing.
Pulling his arm back, he searched around their immediate vicinity for a sharp bit of broken rock or shell, and finally finding one which suited his purpose, he pricked his index finger, winced, squeezed it so it began to bleed, and let a couple of drops fall onto the handkerchief.
"My blood," he said, then reached for Abigail's hand. Instinctively, she gasped and pulled it back, but he snagged her wrist. "Come on. Do not be a baby, Abigail – you must trust me. I would never harm you."
She bit her lower lip and nodded, letting him turn her hand over and slice carefully into her finger with his broken shell piece until a tiny drop of blood appeared. He pressed it quickly into the handkerchief between the two drops of his own.
"Your blood." He placed the handkerchief in her lap so she could examine it in the moonlight. Three crimson drops on a white cloth. "See? Our shared blood. You keep that and remember on the inside we are precisely the same. If you never forget me, I can never forget you."
"Never," she vowed, and she took her flower wreath from her head, loosed a single black-eyed Susan, and gave it to him.
The following morning, before seeing Elijah off (Abigail staring down at the buckles on her black shoes nearly the whole time, visibly struggling not to cry, because her parents had instructed her not to and she wished to be obedient to them, most especially since she promised Elijah she'd be good while he was away) their mother tried to brush out Abigail's hair – their usual morning ritual, after which she always twisted it into a simple, unadorned plait and secured it very neatly to the back of her head – and was mystified by its coarse stiffness and briny scent.
"Owww," whimpered Abigail, inhaling a sharp little gasp and pressing her cherished rag doll to her chest. (This doll, with its thread-hair and real cloth apron was a source of unintentional envy to the poorer girls in Salem, especially those in Salem Village, many of whom had had to make their own dolls from cornhusks or dried apples.)
Her mother pulled back, yanking the brush free of her daughter's long hair as carefully as she could given how snarled it had become. "I simply cannot understand it – this is wholly incomprehensible to me – your hair was not matted yesterday."
There was a knock at the door, and nobody prepared to answer it, by the time the brush was properly run through Abigail's tangled locks.
Her mother, obliged to slam it down and go to the door in something of a huff, was rather out of humour with John Proctor's servant, who – just standing there like a simpleton – kept stammering something nonsensical about her children, rocks, and his master's prized cows.
Nine Years Later...
Puritan funerals were typically silent affairs. This suited Abigail Rowe well enough; for her own part, she hadn't spoken a word since her parents died. She couldn't imagine the more Catholic rites of Europe their community spurned, if allowed, could have brought any increase of comfort, not when her mother and father were packed away in caskets like plain wooden boxes, about to be buried away in the earth forever.
More words, a mere service, wouldn't change anything.
Besides, she'd had more than enough words from Elizabeth Parris.
Father had scarcely drawn his last breath, and Mother wasn't even properly cold yet, when the reverend's wife appeared at their doorstep and insisted Abigail come and stay with her family until the funeral.
Since then, she hadn't stopped doling out sharp bits of advice, not deterred in the least by the fact her charge was a complete mute, showing little more life or interest than the rag doll she'd smuggled out of the house with her clothes despite being far too old for such a plaything.
When Elizabeth's sharp eyes had spied the doll, tucked under some hose and stockings, she'd felt the need to remind Abigail she oughtn't take anything from the house – since everything inside it belonged to her brother now.
"I suppose a doll is not of much consequence," she conceded, sniffing. "Indeed, I daresay Elijah will hardly miss such a thing. Or grudge you it. But I hope you have not taken any silver or keepsakes along in your skirts. That might well be construed as theft, plain and simple – and you must know my Samuel will not have a thief under this roof."
Abigail had simply nodded and gotten a patronizing smoothing of her bonnet as a reply.
Even if she'd been inclined to talk, what good would it have done to point out she had not asked to be under the roof of Samuel Parris and would have much preferred to stay at home where her parents' memory was?
There was no consolation from Elizabeth's family to be had, either, if Abigail had been in a state to accept it. Betty Parris was but eleven and had never known grief; she watched their guest with wide, goggling eyes, as if she were a very foreign creature indeed, and did not address her, only whispering a few words now and again to her cousin, ironically also named Abigail.
She couldn't help, despite her lethargy, being vaguely curious about the family's slave girl, Tituba, who she had seen from a distance countless times but never been in close proximity to before, but Elizabeth always ordered her away if she so much as looked at Abigail Rowe for too long, let alone made the effort to speak to their silent guest.
Even now, during the funeral, Elizabeth hadn't left off telling Abigail what she must do.
She mustn't look so much at her shoes or smooth her skirts; this could be construed as a sign of shameless vanity on such a sombre occasion.
Redirecting her line of vision, Abigail glanced across the cemetery and made eye contact with William, a young man she had always liked, not in the least because he was her brother's best friend here in Salem, before he'd gone away. His gaze was kind. The corners of her lips curled up automatically; it was not a smile, not quite, but it was closer than she'd come in weeks.
Elizabeth elbowed her.
And she shouldn't keep looking around to see what the other observers were doing because –
A hand wrapped over Abigail's, its gentle warmth pushing away Goody Parris' droning voice. Calloused fingers rubbed her knuckles reassuringly.
Elijah.
He was back.
There had been various mentions of his coming back in time for the funeral, but as she was not speaking, Abigail hadn't had the means of confirming this with anybody, at least beyond Elizabeth's stalwart belief Elijah would want to examine his inherence as soon as possible.
She turned her head to look at him. He was nearly eighteen now, much taller – as was she – than when they'd last been together, but he had the same messy, curly mop of dark hair and grey eyes the same shade and hue as her own.
It was a relief to her he'd recognised her so readily. That he'd simply taken her hand without a word or hesitation. Part of her was afraid he would not know her, and Elijah failing to know the sister who loved him better than she did herself would have shattered her already broken heart.
It would have been a little like losing him, too, right after their parents.
A little way off from where William stood, Ann Putnam was trying to catch Elijah's eye.
She was leaning forward, shifting conspicuously from foot to foot.
When that didn't work as quickly as she wished it to, she resorted to unfastening a buckle from her shoe and shining the reflection of it in on his face.
He turned his head; she quickly concealed her hand behind her skirts and tried to appear innocent.
This exchange didn't surprise Abigail in the least – Ann had always liked her brother and been playful with him. When they were little children together, she even had a funny nickname for him: Bird.
Sometimes, back then, Abigail had felt the slightest bit sad for Ann because she'd had an unhappy look about her suggesting she felt like a third wheel when spending time with Elijah and herself.
Any children as close as Elijah and Abigail had been will have inside jests just between themselves, and Ann had more often than not given off the impression of being wounded at not being part of what they shared.
It must have been doubly painful for her growing up, because she suffered a similar sense of misplacement and ostracism from her cousin, Mary Walcott, who'd usually seemed to prefer the company of other girls, even servants, to Ann's.
But she was grown up now – long grown out of her awkward childish stage when she had craved attention she seemed destined not to receive – and considered quite a beauty in Salem.
It was hard to believe anyone ignored her these days, that she hadn't plenty of friends and admirers. More people professed, as of late, to admire her wit and charm over that of her less vivacious cousin. Indeed, just last Sunday, Abigail had witnessed Mary Walcott angling for a seat in the pews beside Ann, nearly knocking her best friend Mercy over in the attempt.
Elijah – despite his preoccupation with his grieving, mute sister and dead parents – evidently noticed the change in their old playmate, too, for there were – albeit briefly – two dark pink spots on either of his cheeks when he looked at her.
The funeral ended, the caskets lowered and dirt placed atop them.
Pulling Abigail – perhaps without fully realising she did so – from Elijah's grasp, wrapping a bony arm around her shoulders to guide her forcefully out of the cemetery, Elizabeth declared if she were a good girl, as she admittedly had been up until now, they would be happy to keep her on – she could be, if her brother did not choose to send anything to them for her to live on, help for Tituba in the kitchen. "It will be an honest way for you to earn your keep."
While she still did not speak, Abigail – for the first time – actively resisted. Her feet were rooted to the spot. She looked over her shoulder at Elijah, vaguely imploring, wondering if he could guess her thoughts the way he always had when they were children. She didn't want to go back to the Parris household; she wanted to be at home, in her own room, again.
Elizabeth tugged a little harder. "Do not be stubborn, child – there is no question of you going back to that house – your brother can have no need of you."
"My parents are dead," croaked Elijah, indignant. "I have every need imaginable of my living sister. I fail entirely to understand how you could think otherwise." He reached out for her. "Come, Abigail, we are going home."
Elizabeth Parris had no choice but to let her go, but she whispered a final bit of advice – almost a warning – as she did so. "Be respectful of the house and do not expect things will be as they were when your parents yet lived. Remember it is not yours. Everything you had belongs to him now. I daresay he is thinking it good economy to have you about to handle the cleaning and cooking."
Abigail didn't believe her brother would make her into a virtual servant in her own home – that was simply not Elijah. Yet, part of her couldn't help but be slightly afraid of his having changed – though not to the degree of Tom Putnam, of course – and being stern, wanting things, his things now, just so.
That didn't seem like the kind brother who smuggled tiny drawings to her in his letters home – drawings their parents had always winked at then turned a blind eye to.
Yet still...
So, later – come evening – Abigail found herself putting the tea things out while her brother sat in his – formerly their father's – study with his head in his hands. She slipped, dropping a saucer off a tray and onto the hardwood floor, where it broke into two neat pieces.
The noise drew Elijah from the study. "Abigail? What happened? Are you well?"
An irrational fear, coupled with grief for her parents, struck her then and she sank to her knees, sobbing with quiet abandon.
She felt strangely convinced he was going to be angry. She gripped herself, even as she shook, for the scolding, for the words which would hurt worse than any blow, knowing he – out of all persons – could break her with one disapproving look whereas a thousand harsh words from Elizabeth Parris had scarcely touched her.
"It is only a plate," he said, kneeling on the floor beside her and pulling her to him.
Her tears fell quicker – his kindness, his being exactly what he was when he was a child of eight and she fairly worshipped him, was almost too much.
She had not braced herself for a tender, gentle response.
"I miss them desperately, too," he murmured into her askew bonnet. "I do not think they would have sent me away for as long as they did if they had known, if they had even suspected that they might–" He broke off, pulling back slightly and clearly his throat. "Never mind. Everything will be all right. You still have me. I will look after you."
A/N: Reviews Welcome, replies may be delayed.