Loved
As Caitlin flew with Caleb, arms wrapped around him, loving the feel of his body, she thought of how lucky she was. Just the day before, she'd been worried that Caleb would say goodbye. And now, for once, her luck had changed.
Thank God for that necklace, she thought.
It was late afternoon by the time they arrived in Salem. He set them down inconspicuously in an empty field on the outskirts of town, so no one would notice.
They walked a few blocks, and arrived right on the Main Street of Salem.
Caitlin was surprised. She had expected something more. She'd heard about Salem her whole life, from textbooks mostly, always in connection with the witches. But to see it as a real, living place, as an everyday town, she found quite strange. She had imagined it as a perfectly preserved, historic place in her head, almost like a stage set. To see normal, modern, everyday people living their lives, driving, hurrying to and fro, caught her off guard.
Salem looked almost like any small, New England, suburban town. There were a few chain stores, the typical pharmacies, everything modern, and almost no sign that this town had so much history. The town was also a lot bigger than she had imagined. She had absolutely no idea where to even begin to look for her Dad.
Caleb must've been thinking the same thing at the same time, because he looked over at her with an expression: what now?
"Well," she began, "I guess we didn't expect him to be standing on Main Street and waiting to give us a big hug."
Caleb smiled.
"No, I didn't think it would be that easy, either."
"So? Now what?" she asked.
Caleb looked at her. "I don't know," he finally said.
Caitlin stood there, thinking. Several people passed them on the street, and some of them gave Caitlin and Caleb a strange look. She looked at them in the reflection of a store window, and realized that they were a startling couple. They were anything but inconspicuous. He was so tall, and dressed elegantly in all black. He look like a movie star, plopped down in the middle of the street. Standing next to him, she felt more average than ever.
"Maybe we should start with the obvious?" she asked. "My last name. Paine. If my Dad still lives here, maybe he's listed."
Caleb smiled. "You think he'd make his number public?"
"I doubt it. But sometimes the most obvious answers are the best ones. Anyway, can't hurt to try. You've any other ideas?"
Caleb stood there, staring. Finally, he shook his head.
"Let's do it," she said.
For the millionth time, she wished she still had her cell. Instead, she looked around and spotted an Internet cafe across the street.
*
Caitlin had typed every variation on "Paine" she could think, and still, there were no results. She was annoyed. They had searched every possible residential and business listing in Salem. They had tried Paine and Payne and Pain and Paiyne. Nothing. Not one single person.
Caleb was right: it was a silly idea. If her father did live here, he wasn't going to make his number public. And she had a feeling, given the mysterious clues so far, that he would never make it that easy on them anyway.
Sighing, she turned to Caleb.
"You were right. A waste of time."
"The rose and the thorn meet in Salem," Caleb said slowly, again and again.
She could see him thinking.
She had been repeating the phrase in her mind, too, and it felt good to hear it out loud. She had been turning it over and over, but still had no idea what it meant. A rose? A thorn?
"Maybe there's a rose garden somewhere?" she said, thinking out loud. "And maybe there's some sort of clue hidden underneath it?" she said. "Or maybe it's the name of a place?" she added. "Maybe there's a bar, or an old inn, called the Rose and the Thorn?"
Caitlin turned back to the computer, and tried several variations of the search. She tried just rose. Then just thorn. Then rose and thorn. Businesses establishments. Parks. Gardens.
No results.
Annoyed, she finally reached over and shut the system down.
They both sat in silence for several minutes, thinking.
She turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"Well, we've been looking for a living person," he said, "in today's world. In this century. But vampires have lived for thousands of years. When one vampire says to another, come meet me, he doesn't always mean in this century. Vampires think in centuries, not years.
"It could be that your father is not here now. But that he was. A very long time ago. It could be that we shouldn't be searching for a living person. But one who lived here at some point. And maybe even died here."
Caitlin stared at him, not really understanding.
"Died? What are you saying? My father is dead?"
"It's hard for me to explain this to you, but you need to think about this differently. Vampires live through many incarnations. Many of us have gravestones, even though we are living today. I myself, under different names, am buried in many cemeteries in many countries. Obviously I am not really dead, or buried. But at the time, the locals needed to be assured that I was. We had to stop the evidence, reassure them that I wasn't coming back to life. And a burial and a tombstone was the only thing that would put them at ease.
"The vampire race does not like to leave trails, and we do not like it when humans know that we have come back. It brings too much unwanted attention. So, sometimes, when there is no other choice, we let them bury us. And then we sneak out, quietly, in the middle of the night, and move on."
He turned and looked at her.
"It could be that your father was buried here. Maybe we shouldn't be searching above ground, but below it. We have checked the living Paines. But we have not checked the dead ones."
*
Caitlin was taken aback as they walked in the small graveyard, her mind still reeling. She had never been in a place this old before. When they had entered, a large sign had read "The Burying Point, 1637." She marveled at the fact that people had been coming here for almost 400 years.
More than that, she marveled that there were a few tourists wandering the cemetery right now. She had assumed they would have been the only ones here. But after all, this was Salem. And this cemetery was an attraction. People seemed to come here and treat it as a museum. In fact, she noticed that there was an actual museum adjacent to the burial plots. It didn't feel right to her. She felt that this place should have been more sacred.
The cemetery was small and intimate, the size of someone's backyard. A cobblestone path twisted and turned its way throughout the place, and as she strolled, she marveled at how old the tombstones were, at their strange fonts, worn away with age. It was English, but it was so old, and so quaint, it almost read like a different language.
She carefully read the names, particularly scrutinizing the last names.
But she couldn't find a single "Paine," or any variation on the name. They had reached the end of the trail. There was nothing.
As Caitlin reached the end, Caleb beside her, she stopped and read a plaque. It described some of the horrific tortures that the witches had suffered. One of them, she read, was "pressed" to death. She was horrified.
"I can't believe what they did to them," Caitlin said. "It seems like all the witches met horrible deaths."
"They weren't witches," Caleb said gravely.
Caitlin looked over at him, hearing sadness in his voice.
"They were our kind," he said.
Caitlin's eyes opened wide. "Vampires?" she asked.
Caleb nodded, looking down at the stones.
Silence settled over them, as Caitlin pondered that.
"I don't understand," she finally said. "How were they here?"
Caleb sighed. "The Puritans. They weren't persecuted in England because of their form of Christianity. They were persecuted because they were our kind. That is why they left Europe, and why they came here. To practice freely. They were trying to escape the oppression of the old world, the European vampires. They knew that if they were to survive, they would need to found a new nation. So they came. They were the benevolent vampire race, and they didn't want to war with other vampires, or with humans. They just wanted to be left alone.
"But over time, the darker vampire races followed them here, and in increasing numbers. The early wars in the colonies weren't between humans: they were really wars between good and evil vampire races.
"And the persecution of witches in Salem was just a front for a persecution of vampires.
Wherever there is good, bad follows. A perpetual battle between light and dark. The witches who were persecuted and hung in Salem were all of the good vampire race.
"This is why it would make perfect sense for your father to be buried here. Why Salem, in general, makes perfect sense. Why your necklace makes perfect sense. It all points to the same thing: that you are the one heir. The key to finding the sword they hid, that will protect us all."
Caitlin looked around the cemetery again, her mind spinning from all the history. She didn't know what to make of it. But she did know one thing: there was no "Paine" here. It was another dead-end.
"There's nothing here," Caitlin finally said.
Caleb surveyed the graveyard one more time, and seemed clearly disappointed.
"I know," he said.
Caitlin was afraid their search was really over this time. She couldn't let it end here.
"The rose and the thorn, the rose and the thorn," she said, again and again, whispering it to herself, willing herself to find the answer.
But nothing came.
Caleb began to wander the path again, and Caitlin began to wander, too, thinking as she went.
She soon came to another large plaque, nailed to a tree. At first she read just to distract herself, but as she continued reading, she suddenly became excited.
"Caleb!" she yelled. "Hurry!"
He hurried over.
"Listen to this: 'Not all of the witches who were persecuted are buried in this graveyard. In fact, only a small portion of them are. There were over 130 other witches on the 'accused' list. Some escaped, and some are buried elsewhere. For the complete list, see the museum's records.'"
They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing, and turned and stared at the museum beside them.
*
The sun was setting, and just as they reached the museum door, it was literally being closed in their face. Caleb stepped up and put out a hand, stopping the door.
An old lady's face appeared in the crack, stern and annoyed.
"I'm sorry, folks, but we are closed for the day," she said. "Come back tomorrow if you like."
"Forgive us," Caleb said gracefully, "but we need just a few minutes. I'm afraid we cannot return tomorrow."
"It's five after five," she snapped. "We close at five. Every day. No exceptions. Those are the rules. I can't keep this place open for everyone who comes in late. Like I said, if you want to come back, come back tomorrow. Good night."
She began to close the door again, but Caleb held it open with his hand. She stuck her head back out, twice as annoyed.
"Listen, do you want me to call the cops - "
Suddenly, she froze mid-sentence, as her eyes locked with Caleb's. She just stared at him, for several seconds, and Caitlin saw her expression change. It softened. Then, amazingly, she broke into a smile.
"Well, hello folks," she said, completely cheery. "So happy to see you here. Please come in," she said, opening the door widely and stepping back with a smile.
Caitlin looked at Caleb, shocked. What had he just done?
Whatever it was, she wanted to learn it herself.
Don't worry, you will.
Caitlin looked at Caleb and was twice as shocked to realize that he had just sent her a thought, and that she had heard it.
*
They had the museum to themselves as they walked down its narrow, dimly-lit hallways. Pictures, plaques and paraphernalia lined the walls, all of witches, judges, and hangings. It was a solemn place.
As they continued, they came to a large display. Caitlin began to read, and was so taken by it, she decided to read it aloud to Caleb.
"Listen to this," she said. "'In Salem, in 1692, a large group of teenage girls suddenly fell ill. Most of them lapsed into a fit of hysteria, and screamed out that they had been attacked by witches. Many of these girls went so far as to name the witches who were afflicting them.
"Because their illnesses were so mysterious, and because many of these girls died suddenly and there was no other explanation for it, the townspeople fell into a frenzy. They hunted down the people accused of witchcraft.
"It is worth noting that, to this day, no one has ever been able to determine the nature of the illness that struck these girls, or why they were all struck by such hysteria."
Caitlin looked at him.
"Just like you," he said. "They were our kind, and the feeding pangs were beginning to overtake them. They were not sick. They were hysterical. They were overwhelmed by what they were becoming, and unsure how to handle it."
Caitlin thought hard. Teenage girls. 1692. Salem. Coming-of-age. Going through the same exact thing that she was going through now.
It was overwhelming. She felt such a connection to history; she no longer felt alone with what she was going through. Yet she was terrified at the same time. It validated her. But she didn't want validation. She wanted someone to tell her that this was all not true, all just a fantastical nightmare, and that everything would be back to normal soon. But the more she learned, the more she was overcome by a feeling of dread. The more she realized that things would never go back to normal for her.
"Here it is," Caleb said, from the other side of the room.
Caitlin hurried over.
"The list. The 133 accused."
They both slowly looked over the long list of people, handwritten in an antique scrawl. It was hard to decipher the handwriting, and it was slow-going.
But at some point, close to the end of the list, Caitlin suddenly froze. She reached out with her finger and pointed at the glass.
There was her last name. Paine. Spelled exactly like hers. On the list of the "Accused."
"Elizabeth Paine. Accused of witchcraft. 1692."
Elizabeth? A woman?
"I knew it," Caleb said. "I knew there was a connection."
"But..." Caitlin began, so confused, "...Elizabeth. That's a woman. I thought we were looking for my Dad?"
"It is not so simple. Remember, we are dealing with generations. It could be that we are looking for Elizabeth. Or it could be that we are looking for her father. Or husband. We don't know where your ancestry begins or ends. But we do know there is a connection."
"Look at this!" Caitlin said excitedly, hurrying a few feet away, to a different exhibit.
They both stood and stared. It was incredible. An entire exhibit devoted to Elizabeth Paine.
Caitlin read aloud: "Elizabeth Paine was unique among those on the Accused list. She would go on to great notoriety, immortalized in The Scarlet Letter. It is widely accepted that its famous heroine, Hester Prynne, was actually based on the life of Elizabeth Paine. She was the centerpiece of the greatest work of a longtime Salem resident, Nathaniel Hawthorne."
Caitlin suddenly looked at Caleb, her eyes open wide in excitement.
"That's it," she said, breathlessly. She was hardly able to contain her excitement.
"What?" he asked. He still didn't see it.
"Don't you see?" she said. "The riddle. It's a play on words. Hawthorne. The rose and the thorn. The thorn is Hawthorne. And the rose is scarlet. As in, The Scarlet Letter. In other words, it's about Hawthorne. And Paine."
At that moment, the old woman entered the room again, seemingly coming back to her senses. She looked at them both, and said, "I'm sorry, but I really do need to close up now - "
Caitlin hurried over to her, grabbing her arm. "Where did Hawthorne live?"
"Excuse me?"
"Nathaniel Hawthorne," she said excitedly. "It says he once lived in Salem."
"Young lady, we know exactly where he lived. Thanks to our historic trust, his house was preserved. In fact, it still stands here, to this day. Perfectly intact."
Caitlin and Caleb looked at each other.
They both knew where they had to go to next.