by John Patrick
Elvis was thrown into a dank and gloomy underground cell. The only light came from the feint flicker of a candle that struggled to find its way under the heavy wooden door. Water trickled down the algae-covered walls, rats scurried over sodden straw on the stone floor. Elvis had no idea of day or night. He slept when he could. Stale bread and foul tasting water were occasionally pushed through the door.
His questions such as 'What day is it?', 'What time is it?' were met with 'Your a wizard, you tell me!' or 'Any time you want it to be.' Elvis gave up asking.
It felt like he'd been there for weeks when finally a key rattled in the lock and the heavy door squeaked open. Was this it? Was this the day he'd lose the attachment to his head?
Mary was shoved into the cell.
'You two can die together!'
The door was shut.
Mary hung her head.
'Mary! Is that really you? How...why are you here?'
'I wanted to help you Elvis.' she spoke softly without looking up. 'After I drunk the potion an' came back, I 'eard 'bout them lockin' you up. I thought, maybe I could find you an'... make up a story or somethin' to get you out. But soon as they 'eard me say your name they grabbed me an ' locked me in shackles. I'm sorry Elvis, I'm real sorry.'
Elvis bowed his head. 'I think they're going to kill me.'
'I know.' she said quietly. 'They're gonna try us together, for witchcraft.'
'Try us?' said Elvis 'Try us! That must mean there's going to be a trial so then I can tell them the truth! I can prove we're innocent!'
'Prove?' laughed Mary incredulously 'How are you going to prove anything? They won't let us speak! We're already dead, Elvis.'
'Can't we get a lawyer or something?'
Mary just looked at him and shook her head. 'I don't know what one o' them is, but whatever it is, we ain't gettin' one.'
Elvis sat down against the wall and dropped his head into his hands. 'You shouldn't be here Mary. They got me, they didn't need to catch you too.'
Mary sat alongside him. 'Don't cry Elvis. It's done now.'
'I'm not crying.' growled Elvis, wiping angrily at his tears. 'It's this place.'
Mary put her hand under his chin and turned his head to face her. She wiped away a tear with her finger. 'You didn't need to come back here and do this for me, Elvis. I know that. You're the bravest person I ever met.' She leant forward and kissed him gently on the mouth.
For just a fleeting moment, all of Elvis's anguish was gone. He was drifting high above London. The pain of his blistered feet, the aching of his battered body, the hurt of being locked up centuries from home evaporated.
'Thank you Elvis.'
They huddled together in the dark and damp. They told each other stories to pass the hours. Elvis amazed her with tales of space travel and submarines, of robots and world wars. He told her of how he'd come to be injured as a baby and of his life at school. Mary told him of her existence as a servant girl, of shivering in the servant quarters in the attic, of working like a slave for just enough to eat. She told him of her dream to one day escape from poverty and be the lady of the house. That silly dream that was now over.
Eventually the time came and the door opened. Half a dozen guards marched inside. Mary turned to Elvis again and squeezed him with all of her might.
They were prised apart and dragged from the cell.
Back in the church hall Alan was hiding under a pile of jumble. Mother Munro sat quietly in a rocking chair and swayed gently back and forth.
On the table, the death list lay under a flickering candle. A new name appeared. 'Mary Young Executed, 12 August 1665, Witchcraft.'
Reverend Singer watched the police as they scoured the graveyard. He shook his head as they poured into the church, as they pulled open ancient tombs to look inside. He swigged back his cup of potion. In a moment he too was gone.
Chapter 19