A Time to Every Purpose
As Justus walked across the deserted lobby of the Ravenwood Inn, he looked out the bay window at the choppy, white-capped waves that were battering the rocks along the coastline. The crashing of the surf was the only sound that penetrated the eerie silence of the centuries-old inn.
If he were a more sentimental man, he might have been brought to tears at the knowledge that this was the last weekend the inn would be in operation. Come midnight on Sunday, he would cease to be the proprietor. But he was never one to succumb to maudlin behavior. Besides, there was no shortage of opportunities for a man of his talents.
Still, he thought as he gazed at the authentic early eighteenth century décor and the well-maintained woodwork, I'm going to miss this place.
Justus shivered; there was a chill in the air, and he had always had an aversion to cold weather. He walked across the lobby and began piling logs, kindling and crumpled newspaper in the oversized stone fireplace. When he struck a match, the flames came to life, immediately brightening the atmosphere of the room.
"That's better," he said, warming his hands over the burning logs.
The grandfather's clock chimed, reminding Justus that there was much to be done. It was closing weekend, and the inn would be full. All the rooms had been reserved months in advance. The guests would be coming, literally, from all corners of the globe. The wealthy, successful patrons were about to gather to bid farewell to the old hostelry.
Justus smiled, anticipating the celebration on Sunday night, an Irish wake for the Ravenwood Inn.
* * *
Rebecca, the first guest, arrived early Saturday morning, just before nine. Justus had expected her to be the first since she had the shortest distance to travel. Rebecca, a bestselling author, lived on Nantucket. Once she ferried to Hyannis, Ravenwood was only a few hours' drive up the coast.
"Welcome back, my dear," Justus greeted the writer when she appeared at the front desk.
"Thank you," she said. "It's always good to come back to this old place. I assume I'll be in my usual room?"
"Naturally," Justus replied and handed over an antique key adorned with an onyx raven. "I've taken the liberty of starting a fire in your room."
"Great!" she said, taking off her fur coat and hat. "It looks like we're in for a storm. The sky is the color of slate."
"If you'd like something hot to drink, there's a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen."
"That's just what I need," Rebecca said and headed to the back of the inn.
By noon, four more guests arrived: a Grammy-winning singer, a world-renowned ballerina, a prominent architect and one of Hollywood's most beloved actresses. All the guests, after freshening up in their rooms, sampled the cold buffet Justus had thoughtfully provided for them in the breakfast room. Not long after the grandfather's clock chimed one, a prominent politician arrived from Washington and joined the others for a sandwich and tossed salad.
"Maybe for dinner, we can impose upon Sarah to prepare one of her famous desserts for us," Joy, the singer, said.
"If not," Justus offered, "I'm sure I can find something here that will satisfy your sweet tooth."
When the proprietor returned to the lobby, he saw Martha, wet from the rain, staring up at the painting on the wall.
"I remember when I painted that," she said, instinctively aware that Justus had entered the room.
"You did a beautiful job, but I always wondered why you chose to make the inn larger than the surrounding trees. It's an interesting perspective since the pines actually tower over Ravenwood."
"I wasn't concerned with the inn's physical size. I wanted to show how imposing it was. It dwarfs everything else in importance."
Justus put his arm around the frail, shivering woman.
"Come in and warm yourself by the fire. Here, let me take your coat."
"There's quite a downpour out there," she said, relinquishing her drenched parka.
"The other guests are just finishing their lunch, if you'd care to join them."
"Are they all here? Am I the last?" Martha asked anxiously, as though she had committed a major social faux pas.
"Oh, no. Only six have arrived. You make seven. I'm sure the others will be wandering in, if not today then tomorrow. Now, you go and get something to eat. Put some meat on your bones; you're as thin as a rail."
Neither Martha nor any of her fellow guests objected to Justus's treating them with such blatant familiarity, for although they were all preeminent in their fields, the proprietor of the Ravenwood had known them well before their rise to fame and fortune.
* * *
Throughout the evening the storm continued to worsen. The howling wind rattled the wooden shutters, and the heavy rain pounded the slate roof and the glass window panes.
It's shaping up to be a real nor'easter, Justus thought as he added more logs to the fire.
Despite the inclement weather, by midnight, four more guests arrived. These were the concert pianist, the archeologist, the fashion designer and the world class chef. By midmorning the next day, the remaining two guests—the Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer and the Wimbledon tennis champion—checked in.
Throughout the day the guests would meet in small groups to reminisce. They would chat for a time, and then return to their rooms. All of them enjoyed the peace and quiet that Ravenwood offered. In the absence of cell phones, the Internet, television and radio, the guests could leave the problems of the twenty-first century behind and truly relax. Some chose to take naps on the inn's four-poster beds, some enjoyed reading in the overstuffed wing chairs and others unwound in the hot, soapy, scented water of Ravenwood's old claw-footed bathtubs.
When the sun began to set, the women congregated in the inn's dining hall. In honor of the occasion, Justus sat at the head of the table where a celebratory feast was to be served. Elizabeth, the archeologist and oldest of the guests, sat across from him at the other end. Six guests sat on her left and six more on her right.
Bottles of the finest wines and champagnes were made available, and the women were encouraged to drink as much as they wanted. The food was brought in by a nondescript woman of indeterminate age, who preferred to remain in the shadows when she was not placing dishes on the table. The guests seemed to take no notice of her, which was just the way the woman liked it.
"Well," Justus said, once the first course was placed before them, "it's been a long time since we've all been here together. What's new and exciting in your lives?"
As was to be expected with such successful people, the guests had incredible news to tell. Prudence, the ballerina, was going to play the lead in an upcoming production of Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty. Ruth, the fashion designer, had completed a new collection that was about to grace the Paris runways. Joy, the singer, had recently recorded a new album that went platinum within twenty-four hours of its release.
"And what about you?" Justus asked Mary, the actress. "What's going on in Hollywood?"
"Are you still married to husband number five?" Prudence teased.
"He's only number four," Mary said. "And, yes, we're still married, despite the awful gossip you read in the tabloids."
"How about your career?" Justus inquired.
"Next week I'm to begin filming a picture with Daniel Day-Lewis."
"Ah, do I detect another Oscar in your future?" Joy asked.
"It's too soon to tell, but the script is very well-written."
Justus's eyes then went to Rebecca, the writer, who was sitting next to the actress.
"Speaking of writing, what have you been up to?" he asked.
Rebecca hesitated a moment, and one by one the other guests' heads turned in her direction.
"I'm almost finished with my ninth book," she replied.
"What is it?" Mercy, the photographer asked. "Another mystery?"
"No. It's nonfiction, a history."
"History?" Honor, the politician echoed the word. "American history?"
"I'm writing about local history—in particular, the story of Coventry," Rebecca said, her eyes staring at a grape tomato in her salad.
A sudden, uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. It was broken only by the clamor of the raging storm.
"You can't be serious!" Mary exclaimed, breaking the eerie stillness.
"It's a story I feel ought to be told," Rebecca explained.
"Why would you want to write about Coventry?" Prudence wanted to know. "Nothing remains of the place."
"That's why I wanted to write about it. It's an incredible story. An early British settlement all but wiped out after an attack by the native people."
"An attack in retaliation for the slaughter of a large number of natives by the men of Coventry," Justus interrupted, reminding his guests of the terrible events that led to the massacre.
"Nowhere in my book do I claim the men of Coventry were innocent victims," Rebecca clarified. "Rather, it is the women of Coventry, who took no part in the killings, who unfairly paid the price for their husband's and father's actions."
"Not all of them had to pay," Honor said. "What have you written about the small group of women who took shelter in the old meetinghouse?"
"Just that: I tell about how fifteen women sought refuge in the old church and were spared the fate of the other settlers of Coventry. Those survivors then traveled to other settlements in New England and later prospered."
"And do you identify these women by name?" asked Abigail, the tennis player.
"Of course, not!"
A mysterious smile appeared on Justus's face, and he asked, "And what about the Ravenwood Inn? It was built upon the remains of the old church. Is it mentioned anywhere in your book?"
"No. I saw no point in writing about the inn since it wasn't built at the time of the massacre. Also, by the time the book hits the bookstores, it will no longer be standing."
"Ah, yes," the proprietor said with a sigh. "Soon Ravenwood, like Coventry itself, will be gone."
"Good riddance, I say!" exclaimed Joy, still a teenager and the youngest of the guests. "After this weekend, I'll never set foot in this part of the country again."
Several of the guests nodded their heads in agreement with her sentiments.
"Alas, all things must pass," Justus said.
Moments later, the electric lights flickered and died, and the dining hall was bathed in darkness. The thirteen guests did not seem to mind. They continued to enjoy the expensive alcohol by the light of the candles in the center of the table. Only their host refrained from drinking.
* * *
As the grandfather's clock sounded the three-quarter hour chimes at 11:45, the guests, at Justus's invitation, got up from the dining room table and stumbled out into the lobby. The women's bags had been packed and were waiting for them.
"Is it wise to send us out into the storm in our condition?" Mercy asked. "We've all had way too much to drink."
"As I promised I would, I’ve taken the liberty of finding other accommodations for all of you," the innkeeper replied.
"I'd much rather remain here tonight and leave first thing in the morning," Abigail whined.
"Me, too," several of the other guests echoed.
Justus paid no attention to the objections. They knew the inn would close at midnight, and that they would be forced to leave.
"This is the end of a long journey," the proprietor solemnly announced, his eyes moving from one woman's face to the next in succession.
"Not the end," Joy corrected him. "Simply a fork in the road or an intersection."
"Yes," Rebecca added. "It is but the conclusion of a chapter in our lives, not the end of the book itself."
Justus turned and stared at the clock as the second hand made its way through another minute.
"Do you remember your Bible, ladies?" he asked, never taking his eyes from the passage of time.
"Somewhat," Prudence replied, speaking for all the guests.
"I've always had a fondness for Ecclesiastes myself," Justus announced.
"You read the Bible?" Honor asked with astonishment.
"There are a few good lessons one can learn from its text. For instance, it says in Ecclesiastes 3 that there is a season for all things."
The guests looked at each other nervously. Why was their host behaving so peculiarly?
"What are you trying to tell us?" Prudence asked.
"Remember when you fled the attacking Indians and sought help from God in the meetinghouse?"
"We could hardly forget such an ordeal," Rebecca responded.
"You begged him to save your lives, but the only reply you got was the screams of your fellow settlers as they were being slaughtered just outside the church door."
"Why bring all this up again?" Sarah asked. "It's something we've all tried to forget over the centuries."
"But surely you must remember when a number of the warriors broke down the church door, dragged two of the women away and killed them?"
"Please stop this!" Prudence asked. "I beg you."
"As you begged me to help you that night after your own God turned a deaf ear to your entreaties?"
"We entered into a pact with you, Master," Faith said, "and we have all kept our pledge to you down through the years."
"Indeed, you have," Justus said. "You have been the most loyal of followers, and I continued to reward you handsomely. You were not only saved from certain death at the hands of the Wampanoag, but you were given worldly riches and success beyond your wildest dreams. And, of course, you had almost four centuries to enjoy them."
Justus finally turned away from the clock as the minute hand was about to overtake the hour hand. He struck a long fireplace match and approached thirteen black candles that had been placed on the front desk of the inn.
Outside the storm was reaching a deafening crescendo. Since the tide was high, the waves crashed against the eastern face of the inn.
The nondescript servant who had served dinner earlier that night walked into the lobby and looked imploringly at her master. Justus nodded his head, and the woman transformed into a large black rat that then scurried away, seeking safety.
"The Ravenwood Inn, built on the location of the old meetinghouse, has been a lasting symbol of our covenant," Justus, the Dark One, declared. "It has served its purpose, but now it must come to an end, as must our arrangement."
"No!" Faith cried. "You can't abandon us now."
As Justus lit the first of the candles, he intoned, "There is a time to build and a time to tear down."
Faith, the architect of many of America's and Europe's most influential buildings, began to age so rapidly that between the time the second and hour hands met and the clock chimed the first or twelve hours, she had become nothing more than dust.
"Surely we can enter into a new contract," Sarah cried in desperation.
"There is a time to plant and a time to uproot," Justus said, lighting the second candle.
Like Faith, Sarah whose tasty epicurean creations had delighted the wealthiest palates on both sides of the Atlantic, aged and died in the brief time between the sounding of the first and second chimes.
Martha did not try to bargain with the Dark One. She accepted her fate stoically. As Justus lit the third candle, she turned toward her painting of the Ravenwood Inn. It was the last sight she saw when the clock chimed three.
"I'll do anything you ask, if you give me a few more years," Charity pleaded.
Ignoring her pleas, Justus said, "There is a time to be born and a time to die."
Charity's beautiful music was forever silenced when the fourth candle was lit and the clock chimed four.
Joy, who had been little more than a child when the Indians attacked the settlement and killed her parents and siblings, reacted with anger.
"I should have known you couldn't be trusted, you evil bastard!"
"There is a time to laugh and a time to weep," Justus announced, lighting the fifth candle and ending the life of the famed pop singer.
Prudence, who was as swift as she was light on her feet, ran toward the door, hoping to escape her fate.
"There is a time to dance and a time to mourn."
The prima ballerina never left the room. Her life came to an abrupt end moments after the sixth candle was lit.
"There is a time to gather stones together and a time to scatter them."
As the seventh hour chimed, Elizabeth, the respected archeologist was as dead as the mummies she had excavated in the Theban Necropolis's Valley of the Kings.
"There is a time to keep and a time to throw away."
I can't complain, Abigail thought, as she watched Justus bring the match to the eighth candle. I've had a good run.
The tennis player's long and remarkable life was over by the time the clock chimed eight.
"There is a time to mend and a time to tear."
Ruth, whose designs had been worn to presidential inaugurations, entertainment awards ceremonies and the most exclusive social events on three continents, ceased to be when the ninth candle was lit.
"Aren't you going to spare any of us?" Mary asked. "Must you kill us all?"
"There is a time to love and a time to hate."
It was the final act for the acclaimed movie star when the clock chimed ten and another candle was lit.
"Dear Lord," Honor prayed, falling to her knees and hoping to strike a last-minute bargain with the Christian God she once worshipped and abandoned. "Forgive me my weakness and deliver me from this evil one."
"There is a time for peace and a time for war."
Justus smiled at the politician's treachery as he lit the eleventh candle and ended her life.
"There is a time to search and a time to give up."
Mercy, who had captured the worst of humanity on photographs while covering major international news stories, had but one thought before her life was extinguished: would her soul be doomed to hell for all eternity for her allegiance to the Dark One?
The twelfth and final hour chimed. Justus turned and faced the only guest who was still alive.
"Is it because of me?" Rebecca asked him. "Did you kill us all because I dared write about the women of Coventry?"
An enigmatic look crossed Justus's face as he stared at the writer.
"There is a time to speak and a time to be silent," he said, lighting the thirteenth candle.
No sooner did the writer turn to dust than the hands on the grandfather's clock stopped. His work in the former settlement of Coventry over at last, Justus spread his arms wide. As a huge wave headed toward the coast, the Dark One turned into an ebony plumed bird and flew away.
Moments later, an immense tidal wave descended upon the Ravenwood Inn and carried every trace of it out to sea.
No, Salem never visited the Ravenwood Inn, but he did try to become Eric Draven (the Crow) for Halloween one year. As usual, something went wrong with his spell.
