Witch Hunt (8 page)

Jansen’s face reflected his instant outrage. “Those greedy bastards! Those filthy,
oversexed
, greedy bastards.”

William smiled. “I haven’t heard such colorful language since leaving England. It’s rather refreshing.”

Jansen looked around at the straw piles, and with obvious distaste, chose the neater of the two. William easily relinquished his own bed to the other man.

“Well, we Dutchmen aren’t as prissy as the Puritans. The society we created in the New World is a lot more relaxed than theirs.”

“Wish I’d known that sooner,” William said.

Jansen studied his companion. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” He removed a pipe and tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket, packed the pipe, and then lit it. “What was your sin?”

“Telling the truth.”

Jansen puffed smoke into the room. “That’s the true original sin, sure enough.”

William decided he liked Jansen Van Carel.

Bridget, Phip, and Silver searched the sandy beaches for crabs and sea vegetables. They found large seashells to use as cups and bowls, and dragged home huge bundles of driftwood to add to their growing store of firewood. Although it was only summer, they were already preparing for the winter that lay ahead. The sheriff had taken their axes, and they had no other means to create fuel but to scavenge the land and seashore.

They worked their fields by hand, trying to produce as large a crop as they could without tools. They wandered the countryside gathering berries, fruit, and birds’ eggs. They set simple traps to catch rabbits and squirrels, and dried the meat and tanned the skins.

Bridget learned to heat water in tightly woven baskets.

None of the Hawthornes’ former friends or neighbors offered to help them. No one would associate with the children of accused witches.

Bridget made weekly trips to Boston to share her meager bounty with her family, and to help keep hope alive.

Bridget and Phip closed off all the rooms of the house with the exception of the kitchen, and the kitchen became their home. They made beds of straw bales and cuddled together on cool nights to keep warm. Bridget discovered a creative gift she had not known she possessed and became a consummate storyteller. Her gift helped her and Phip get through the long, dark nights.

In July, Bridget quietly celebrated her thirteenth birthday.

William stood in the darkness of his cell and looked out the barred window, studying the sky. When the bright sliver of moon finally appeared in his sight, he bowed reverently to greet her. Every month of his life, from his earliest childhood, he had greeted the night lady’s return in such a manner. Life was like the moon, he mused. It began slight and fragile, grew in might until it shone with glory, then started its decline until it disappeared from sight altogether. However, it always returned. He bowed a second time to the new moon. “Life does return,” he whispered to the night. Sadness threatened to overtake him. Last night the moon had been dark, so he scryed. After Jansen had fallen asleep, William took a cup of water from the barrel and magically charged it. Then he sat on his bed, gazed into it, and saw his family’s future. He had not been surprised by the vision, but he was forced to face the truth about his own fate. He hoped he had the courage to see it through to the end. He sighed, and careful not to disturb his snoring cellmate, lay down on his bed.

He had not been allowed to see his wife, even though they were housed in the same building, since their incarceration in Boston. However, on every new moon they visited each other.

William closed his eyes and fell asleep. Once in the dream state, he laid himself down on his bed of straw and fell asleep again. Then, in the deeper dream state, he made himself awaken and stand up. He looked around at the shimmering quality of his surroundings and knew he had passed from the material world into the world of stars — the name he gave to this other dimension he occasionally visited. His body of light passed through the jail wall and moved to the nearby grove where he and Margaret always met. She had not yet arrived, and he waited.

Soon a luminous figure glided into the clearing, and he saw the glorious form of his wife. As she neared, she spoke the name that was their password between the worlds, so he would know it wasn’t an impostor. He returned the proper response, and they came together. They embraced and caressed each other. His emotions of love and sadness welled up with the extreme intensity that was characteristic of the star world, and he struggled for greater control.

Margaret wiped away crystalline tears from his face. “Don’t cry. What happens happens. They can’t separate us. We’re bound for eternity. We’re two halves of one whole.”

“What becomes of our children?” William asked.

“Perhaps they’ll change the world. Or perhaps their children will. We Hawthornes are a force to be reckoned with.”

Her beauty overcame him, and he wished her form to be naked. His wish was granted, and, after he willed away his own diaphanous covering, they fell together in sexual embrace.

When William finally awoke in his physical body, his pants were wet with the earthly remains of his passion.

The arrival of Mirasaya not only added color to the grim cell of women prisoners, but also spirit.

Mirasaya was West Indian, a slave whose nonconformist ways had labeled her a witch. She was bewitchingly beautiful, and that had been her first offense. The Puritan men with whom she came into contact found her desirable and accused her of haunting their dreams as a succubus, forcing them into sexual relations. This charge came from more than a half-dozen devout Puritan men.

To make matters worse, she refused — despite repeated whippings by her master — to don the “ugly” dresses that were the required wear of Puritan ladies. Instead she made her own clothes, dying the drab cloth she had been given into a startling array of colors and sewing them into a style more pleasing to her tastes.

Her third sin was that she had developed a liking for the effects of tobacco and started smoking a pipe. And, despite her life of slavery, Mirasaya was happy. That was the worst sin of all in the eyes of her oppressors. She was easily labeled a witch and shut away in prison so that she could be an example to other slaves who might be tempted toward independence of character.

When the public heard of this brazen, wanton witch, they hastened to Boston from all parts of Massachusetts to view her. The cells in the Boston jail had large, barred windows, which opened to the street. Like animals in a zoo, the accused witches were gawked at and allowed no privacy.

The morning after Mirasaya’s arrival, the crowd grew quickly. The dark-skinned beauty calmly lit her pipe and watched them watch her.

A young woman threw a hunk of animal dung at Mirasaya’s feet. “Here, put this in your pipe.”

Mirasaya smiled, picked up the dung, and threw it back at her. “Maybe you like it for supper?”

The crowd murmured in consternation for a while, but then grew silent.

“You!” Mirasaya jumped to her feet and pointed at a man who had curled his lip at her in an exaggerated sneer. “You make face at Mirasaya. Mirasaya no like that.” Her voice dropped in timber and became menacing. “Tonight I come to your bed and make you sin. I take your little, tiny, wormlike man thing and I make it grow big … oh, so big that you don’t even know it your own little worm … and I tickle it until it explode.”

Horrified gasps and cries escaped the crowd, and they quickly scattered. For a time the women in the cell were alone.

Mirasaya looked at Margaret and gave her a delightful grin. “They want show. I give them.”

Margaret smiled. “Pretty soon they’ll start selling tickets.”

“That man, he have messy dreams tonight,” Mirasaya said.

Margaret laughed and looked around at the other women in the cell. They were amused. If they had been on the outside, they would have been as shocked as the others in the crowd. Prison was stripping them of the conventions of their former society. Inside this cell they were all just women, plain and simple.

Mirasaya sat back down on her perch, and between puffs on her pipe, sang an upbeat Caribbean song. Soon the women were swaying to the sound, and Priscilla was beating a lively rhythm on an upturned water bucket. Mirasaya laughed, set aside her pipe, and started to clap. Despite the cumbersome weight of the heavy leg chains, Margaret began to dance. Rebekah — who until that moment had been lost in grief — was quickly by her side, imitating her unabashed movement. Mirasaya stood, took the hands of the other two women, and they formed a small, undulating circle. Their cellmates stamped their feet, clapped their hands, and whistled in encouragement. Margaret was overjoyed to see a smile on Priscilla’s face, and silently thanked the gods — and Mirasaya — for that smile.

The moment was shattered by the arrival of the examiners. The women burst into the cell, seemingly aghast at the sight and sounds that confronted them.

“What witchery goes on here?” the leader of the examiners — Margaret had learned her name was Hannah — bellowed.

The music, dancing, and laughter came to an abrupt halt.

“That’s better,” Hannah said.

She pointed at Priscilla. “We’re here for the little witch again.”

Margaret wanted to scream with rage, but held her silence.

“Not the
pricking
again! Oh, please, no. Mother?”

The examiners moved toward where Priscilla sat, but Mirasaya stepped into their path. “You no more stick the little one with your pins.”

Hannah looked at the dark woman in disbelief. “Who are you to be telling us what we’ll do?”

Rebekah moved to Mirasaya’s side. “You’ll not stick Prissy anymore. She’s been stuck enough to please any God, I’m sure.”

Two more prisoners moved to stand with Mirasaya and Rebekah, their eyes blazing with defiance.

Hannah’s mouth fell open, and she began to sputter.

Margaret felt her eyes sting with tears. Power had descended on the small band of women,
and they were using it
. No longer afraid of the repercussions, she moved, as did the remaining prisoners, to guard Priscilla.

Hannah shook her finger at them. “We’ll see about this.”

Defeated, the jury of six women stormed out of the cage.

There was a moment of silence, and then Priscilla began her drumming anew. The women looked at one another, the pride of their accomplishment washing over their faces, until each of them was smiling. Mirasaya began to sing her song and clap her hands, and soon they were all dancing.