Authors: Kevin
“Wake up, William,” he said. “We have further
inquisitions to make.”
William Cranley looked up at four men, then yawned, groaned, and rose to his feet groggily to open the door for them, but Hathorne had already slid the bolt back and opened it. Before William was able to stand fully erect, Corwin had snatched the keys from him and crossed the threshold with the others.
They walked down the hall, passing several sad-looking male and female prisoners, some of which grabbed through the bars at them, begging for release. One of the prisoners clutched Hathorne’s coattail and tugged at it forcefully, almost bringing him to the fl oor. The judge regained his balance, spun around, and, glaring indignantly, stuck his leg through the bars as the man pulled away and booted the offender in the teeth.
The man fell back, throwing his hands up to his face.
“You know better than that, Nathan,” Hathorne
said, then continued down the hall as the prisoner nursed his bloodied nose and mouth.
Sheriff Corwin and the two reverends had already halted before Tituba’s cell and were critically looking her over.
Hathorne strode over and followed their gaze to the lumped fi gure curled up on the fl oor in the corner of the cell, a model of desolation.
“Tituba,” Parris said.
There was no response.
“Tituba,” he repeated.
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The Necromancer
She raised her head slowly and looked up at them.
Recognition and surprise registered on her face. Of course, she knew who they all were. Salem Town and Salem Village were small, and by nature everyone knew each other. Only the most adept could conceal themselves or their doings from public scrutiny. Typically, if two people were having an affair, it wouldn’t be long before that affair became common knowledge.
But Tituba’s look of recognition stemmed not from such trite town gossip, but from something darker, a brooding fear that had settled in her subconscious and was now resurfacing as she peered into the cold blue eyes of the man with the tome.
She didn’t scream, although every particle of her being yearned to do so. No. It could only worsen the situation at this point. As it was, she felt certain she would meet her fate hanging on the end of a rope on Gallows Hill. She didn’t know how the law worked, but for the moment she deemed it prudent to remain silent.
“Reverend Parris and I were at her half the night,”
Hathorne admitted. “Yet she refuses to confess her wickedness and damned devotion to the black arts.”
He looked at Blayne.
“We thought a man of your learning and experience may fare the wiser.”
“Hmm,” Blayne nodded then motioned to the cell
door.
Corwin jingled the keys around, searching for the right one, and unlocked the door. Blayne stepped inside and advanced toward Tituba, who, fl inching, sat up and fl attened her back to the wall. She averted her eyes from his and turned 32
Witch-Hunt
her head away. He seized her by the lower jaw and forced her to look at him.
He was tall, but seemed even more so now from the perspective Tituba had sitting on the fl oor of her cell. From there, he certainly was imposing, and the stern countenance he wore only accentuated the fact. He appeared to be no more than thirty-fi ve or forty years of age, although his demeanor suggested one of more advanced years and experience. His brow was slightly furrowed; his hair, long and dark; his beard, full and streaked with several gray hairs. His face was austere and gaunt with deprivation giving it a rough, hewn appearance.
It was evident that this was a man of some authority who was accustomed to a position of command from which to wield his well-seasoned powers.
“Leave me with her for a time. She will confess,” he declared knowingly as he jerked his hand away from her face.
“No!” Tituba screamed, unable to restrain herself any longer.
“Master Parris, I beg you not to go! Please! He will do me much harm! I do not wish to die!”
“Ah,” Blayne murmured. “The Devil has a powerful hold on this one, does he?” He wove his fi ngers into her frizzy black hair and pulled. “Let that be the contest then.” He turned to Hathorne.
“Leave me with her for a time. My soul to the Devil if she be not confessed by dusk,” he swore, then roughly released her again.
“Very well,” Hathorne said.
“No!” Tituba cried as Parris and the two judges
disappeared down the hall.
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The Necromancer
Blayne placed the tome on the fl oor and slipped out of his coat, the din of the dungeon door slamming shut and the bolt sliding back into place still hanging thinly in the air. He rolled his ruffl ed sleeves up and unbuckled his belt, pulling it through the loops of his breeches. There was no doubt as to how he intended to use it.
“You will confess. Oh, yes. You will indeed confess most profusely of your sins and the sins of your sister wenches. And lest you give thought to spending your tongue on such talk as that which you have seen, remember: It is I who chained you here with accusations and suspicion. Do not dare to bare your voice against me—a revered man of the cloth—for your testimony is but fodder for worms and shall not be believed.”
Tituba remained silent. She feared the man too
much to do anything else. However, silence would do little, if anything, to lessen the torture and humiliation she was about to endure, and she knew it.
Blayne tossed off his skullcap and gripped her by the shoulders. He forced her to lie prone on the fl oor.
“No!” she cried, struggling. “Please...no, Master Reverend!”
Blayne responded to her pleas by smashing her in the face with his fi st, stunning her into stupidity.
He tore her clothes open from neck to waist till her large brown breasts were exposed.
Tituba was still dazed, but she became aware of
the reverend’s hands peeling away her undergarments from beneath her dress as she began to regain her wits. By that time, however, it was too late for any form of cunning to extricate herself from this situation. Blayne had her securely 34
Witch-Hunt
pinned down with the whole of his body and had successfully completed the intended breach of his desire.
He thrusted inside her methodically, every lunge accompanied by grunts of pleasure tinged with scorn. He whispered curses in her ears.
“Fuck...you, sow!” he hissed.
“Cunt! You cunting wench...Fuck!”
“I shall...tear...your cunt...piecemeal. Oh, you beast...
your stench is strong. Oh, you savage...your cunt is wet...with blood.”
Tituba could smell him strongly, his breath and body poisoning her with his lustful scent as their skins rubbed together, making her feel nauseated. He pressed the side of her face into the cell fl oor with his palm as he changed his position, his member still sliding violently in and out of the thicket of coarse black hairs at the fork of her thighs, tearing her fl esh.
She felt detached from herself, as an outsider, even though she could still feel the pain, could still feel the cold, dirty fl oor beneath her, could still feel him and his weight on her, oppressing her, making it diffi cult for her to breathe. How she so dearly wished she wasn’t in this cold, heartless place.
How she longed for the freedom and temperate climes of her peaceful homeland now so far away. Now, in the face of this wicked man, even death looked inviting.
Blayne released her face. She turned it back toward him speckled with grit. Her eye was cut and swelling shut from the blow he had delivered earlier. Tituba felt certain she would die here as a consequence of Blayne’s rape of her. She was desperate, and certain she had nothing to lose, made a struggle to free herself.
“Oh, wench!” Blayne cursed. “You dare resist me!”
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The Necromancer
Tituba, knowing deeply the failure of her effort to escape, said nothing.
“Then feel the lash of my belt!”
He reached for the belt, folded it in half, and whacked her in the side of the head with it, dazing her again, but slightly. She recovered quickly, but before she had time to initiate another escape attempt, Blayne’s hand found her throat and throttled it. Tituba choked and whimpered as tears rolled down her cheeks. She grabbed his arm with both hands in an effort to break his grip on her throat, but he was too strong.
The hold subdued her effectively as the circulation of blood and oxygen was abruptly cut off from her brain.
This excited Blayne all the more and quickly brought the act to its conclusion with a series of moans and grunts at the same moment Tituba lost consciousness.
The coupling thus completed, Blayne stood up, pulled up his trousers, and brushed himself off with his hands.
A few minutes later, Tituba stirred and opened her eyes. Her body ached and was especially sore and stinging where she had been violated. She felt fi lthy and ashamed. His semen was all over her thighs and belly. It was still warm but cooling rapidly as it caked to her skin and pubic hair. The cell spun sickeningly. She found it diffi cult to maintain her balance as she attempted to sit up. She fl opped over onto her side, and tasting the bile in the back of her throat, retched and vomited.
She looked up at Blayne, who was once again fully dressed, wearing his coat, and nestling the tome to his breast.
“Heed my words, wench,” he reminded her. “Lest you be hanged by your own hands.”
Then he left her cell, slamming the door shut behind him, and strode down the hall. He banged on the dungeon door for the guard to open it, and he was gone.
36
Witch-Hunt
*****
livestock perished. More talk had spread of the witches held in the town’s prison. Neighbors turned on each other. More people became affl icted, accusations were cast, and arrests were made.
Tituba had confessed as Blayne had insisted, naming herself and the two Sarahs as witches, and now the three of them were being sent to Boston to await trial. As Hathorne, Corwin, Blayne, and several guards escorted them from the prison, four men dragged two more women and one man down the street toward the prison in shackles.
The two parties met in the road and stopped briefl y to exchange information.
“Witchcraft?” Hathorne asked expectantly.
The men nodded solemnly, then proceeded to the
prison house.
One of the captive women held Blayne transfi xed. He thought
she
was dead. No. He
knew
she was dead.
Upon closer scrutiny, however, he realized the woman in question—who could have been no more than twenty years old—wasn’t the woman he thought it was, but someone who bore an overwhelming resemblance to her.
Still, he couldn’t control the feelings that stirred within him when his gaze fi rst fell upon her. It was at that moment that he resolved to see her again, and at any cost, make her his.
37
The Necromancer
38
The day following the departure of Tituba and the two Sarahs—March eighth—Blayne rode out to the prison on horseback from his cottage in Salem Village to visit the woman whose image had moved him so. When he arrived, the guard escorted him to her cell, and Blayne dismissed him.
The dungeon was more dank than usual and the
stench of waste and body odor more prevalent. The cells were Spartan at best; each one equipped solely with one bucket for bowel and bladder movements. Prisoners, many of whom were infested with lice, were not allowed to bathe and were given only the minimum amounts of food and water necessary to sustain life. Roaches, rats, and other rodents and insects were given free reign to roam from one cell to another and forage for food...or possibly a little fl esh from a slumbering inmate.
The conditions were ideal for breeding disease.
But contracting disease was the least of Susanna Harrington’s concerns. The penalty for being convicted of practicing witchcraft in Salem was death by hanging, and Susanna knew her situation didn’t look promising. Why did the Bromidges accuse her of such a serious and detestable crime?
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The Necromancer
She attended Meeting more regularly than most of the other villagers and was probably a more fervent believer in the divine grace and powers of the Almighty than many of the reverends.
All she ever wanted was to lead a quiet, peaceful life, and tread the righteous path of the Lord. Now she was in danger of being branded a witch—a servant of Satan—and condemned to die.
She mulled the dilemma over continuously in her mind as she lay on the fl oor of her cell facing the wall opposite the cell door with her eyes closed. Even if she were acquitted, there would still be the scandal; she would still feel the shame; she would still be scorned as a pariah.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
She felt a strange tickle in her back, almost a twinge.
She rolled over, opening her eyes. She was startled to fi nd a reverend peering at her intently through the bars. To her surprise, she failed to recognize him. She thought she knew everyone in Salem, members of the clergy in particular.
“What is your name, child?”
“Susanna,” she replied meekly. “Susanna Harrington.”
“Well, Susanna Harrington, do you know the charges made against you?”
“I do, Reverend,” she said, lugging herself to a sitting position, “Witchcraft. But I know naught of such things. I am but falsely accused.”
He knew she spoke the truth. He knew, for the most part, that the accusations fl ying about were the results of the hysterical paranoia that swept through Salem; a consequence of the fear incited by the incident that took place at Reverend Parris’s home less than two months ago. Even if Susanna were a witch, it certainly wouldn’t have mattered. Though this was the fi rst time they had ever encountered each other face 40
Susanna
to face, Blayne loved her and her apparent vulnerability, and he would do whatever it took to protect her and see that she was safe. He wasn’t going to allow the tragedies of the past to haunt him by repeating themselves.