by R. D. Brady
Ann tossed a rock from side to side in her hand. “Did I? The Devil must have made me do it.”
“Do you want something, Ann?”
Ann moved toward her quickly, standing too close to Meg. “I want to know why you accused your grandfather. I didn’t see his spirit attack anyone. Neither did the other girls.”
Meg backed away. “Mer—Mercy said she did.”
Ann nodded. “True, but that’s only because I told her to.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you obviously wanted him in jail and yourself out. And I have to wonder why. What are hiding, Meg?” Meg’s blood ran cold as Ann leaned in and whispered, “Or have you not hidden it yet?”
Meg stared at her, her heart racing. “Who are you?”
Ann smiled. “You know, Sarah Goode asked me exactly the same question when I first spoke with her. I am an old, old friend of the Followers.”
“Where is Ann?”
Ann laughed. “Very good. Not even Sarah seemed to realize that Ann is no longer here. Well, that is not entirely true. She is here, just not able to speak. I can feel her, her terror. She does not like sharing this space with me. But soon enough, she will not have to. It will just be me.”
“And what will happen to Ann?”
“She will die.”
“How is this possible?”
“Tituba. She opened a door in Ann’s mind. Ann is a descendant of an ancient race. She has no idea. None of the Putnams do. But once the door opened, I zipped in, knowing my chance was here. And that my liege would be so happy for the knowledge I could tell him the next time we meet.”
“I—I thought you did not remember your former lives.”
Ann shrugged. “Normally we do not. But I was never supposed to be in this body. So I believe there is a chance I will remember.”
“A chance? You are doing all this for a chance?”
Ann shrugged. “What can I say? I am an optimist.”
Meg started to back away from the demon in front of her. “I will not tell you.”
“Oh yes, you will.”
“No, you and your master can go back to Hell.”
"Oh I do not think that's our fate. We are fated to live here, to rule here, while you humans all scurry to do our bidding."
Meg trembled, her knees going weak. “What is your name?’’
“Another question Sarah asked me, but I never told her—there was no point.” She eyed Meg, “But you, I think you scare more easily.”
Meg swallowed hard, even knowing the action answered Ann’s question. And at the same time knowing it was probably best if she did not know which of the Fallen stood before her.
Ann leaned forward. “I am Azazyel.”
Meg gasped, stumbling, her hand to her chest. Azazyel, Samyaza’s right-hand man, his most loyal and deadly soldier.
“Ann!”
Meg's gaze jolted to her right, where Thomas and Ann Putnam stood, neither looking happy. Thomas strode up. “Do not speak to my daughter,” he hissed.
Meg backed away, fearful of the anger in his voice.
“Did she hurt you?” Ann Sr. asked.
Ann’s whole face changed. Her eyes became fearful, her voice timid. “No, Mother. But she is not right.”
With another glare at Meg, Thomas took Ann by the arm and led her down the road. Ann Sr. stood protectively on her other side. Ann looked over her shoulder and winked back at Meg. And Meg heard the words Ann mouthed as if she had said them aloud.
See you soon.
CHAPTER 18
THREE WEEKS LATER
The courtroom was packed and the gallery silenced for a moment as Meg was led in before the noise ratcheted back up. Putnam pushed Meg forward toward the seat next to the dais.
Meg’s trial had finally arrived. She had been locked up for over three weeks now. She thought they had forgotten about her, which would have been understandable as they had arrested so many people in that time. Cells were packed. In Meg’s cell, the women took turns sleeping. There was simply not enough room for all of them to lie down at the same time.
Food had been another problem. Not all the women in her cell could afford to pay for food. Most shared what little they had but more than one fight had broken out when one person accused another of taking more than their fair share.
They have reduced us to animals.
Now she sat in front of the ‘good’ townsfolk of Salem. The people who had known her her whole life. She had played with their children, sat next to them at church, shared a meal with them. And now they stared back at her with angry contempt.
The magistrate didn’t even look at her as she took her seat, although he did nod at Putnam before he banged his gavel. “The Special Court of Oyer and Terminer is now in session. All who wish to bear witness may be heard.”
The court gallery quieted, and Meg scanned it before latching on to her grandfather’s face. He sat at the end of the second row. He gave her a nod.
Meg was so nervous she didn’t dare nod back, lest it be taken as some sort of confession. Last night had easily been the worst night since she’d been locked up. Dorcas had joined their cell.
Almost everyone had been shocked into silence at the sight of her. Her dress was tattered beyond repair. Her hair hung matted on her head. And her bones were displayed painfully through her skin. They had all thought she would be released after Sarah's death. But apparently her father had not come across with enough money and she was to be held a few days longer.
The girl didn’t speak. She didn’t move. The women in the cell with her each took turns trying to feed her and get her to drink. Still, she had taken very little. To see someone so small treated so cruelly; it would draw compassion from the darkest of hearts.
But not from these men—these men who said they were looking for monsters. They were the monsters. Dorcas’s mind was already broken. Even if she left the prison one day, she would never be normal, not after this.
But it wasn’t just Dorcas condition that had kept her awake. She had tried and tried to figure out a way to protect the book and her grandfather. She should have told him where it was, let him move it. But even if she had, with his health, he would not be up to the task. She had struggled trying to find some way to spare him and still stay true to their duty.
For a dark moment, she had even considered turning her back on her duty. But in her heart, in her soul she knew the book would one day change the course of the world, and she could not be the one who helped evil win.
“Sister Jacobs,” Magistrate Hathorne said, his voice deep and cold, “you have been accused of being a witch—a serious charge. But perhaps,” he said softly, his tone shifting, “you are not a witch but the victim of one. You are young, impressionable. A witch could easily hold sway on such an innocent young woman. Tell us the name of the witch who has plagued you and I will see you freed.”
The audience murmured, nodding their heads. Meg could not tell if they agreed with Hathorne or not. But she also knew that this was the moment she had been dreading. Others had provided names to secure their own release—it was why the jail was so crowded. She had accepted that for her to fulfill her mission, she must provide a name.
But now that the moment was here, Meg could not seem to get her mouth to work. She was going to accuse an innocent man in court. She could not do that. She shook her head.
“I order you to tell us the name.” He leaned forward, his voice venomous. “Or declare yourself a witch and face the consequences.”
Meg’s chest ached, her eyes stung, and she stared at the gallery, full of people who’d, almost as one, leaned forward to hear her reply. No one jumped to her defense. She’d spent her whole life here and all the good people of Salem had turned their backs on her.
Then her eyes locked on her grandfather’s. He gripped the back of the bench in front of him, staring intensely at her. And then he started to stand.
“George Burroughs!” she yelled. Her grandfather froze and
then slowly lowered himself back to the bench.
The magistrate turned back to her, surprise on his face. “The Reverend George Burroughs?”
Meg nodded slowly. “Yes,” she whispered. Last night she realized if she had to give them a name, it should be someone who was beyond their reach. The reverend had moved to Wells, Maine. It seemed unlikely they would go all that way to retrieve him.
The magistrate walked slowly across the front of the room, his hand on his chin as he spoke. “The Reverend Burroughs. He was here for three years before he left.” He looked to Samuel, who stood.
“I have heard his name before mumbled by others,” Samuel said. “I believe him to be the ringleader of the witches.”
A rumble rolled through the crowd in attendance as they digested this new piece of information. Meg felt sick. He was an innocent man—just as she was an innocent woman. But no one was interested in that truth.
The magistrate nodded sagely. “A ringleader, of course. For these witches, although filled with the Devil, are also women and therefore need a man to be charge.”
Nods from the audience followed his words, and Meg could swear she heard Sarah Goode laugh in her mind. Men indeed.
But although she hated what she had done, she knew it would allow her to leave prison. Others had done the same. And once she had left, she would recant. She would not let the lie stand. But first she must protect the legacy.
The magistrate made some notes on a paper. Meg closed her hands together. Please let this be over. Please let that be enough.
A shriek went up from the audience, and Meg’s hand flew to her chest. Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam dropped to the floor, shrieking. A second later, Mercy Lewis and Mary Warren did as well. The people around them leaped to their feet, backing away while making the sign of the cross.
Samuel leaped to his feet as well, but he stormed to the gate that kept the audience back. “There is another!”
Meg’s eyes went wide and her breathing all but stopped.
The magistrate walked quickly over to him. “Another?”
Samuel nodded, gesturing to the girls. “Someone else plagues them.” As if on cue, the girls stopped their theatrics.
The magistrate turned back to Meg. “There is another,” he said quietly.
The girls rose shakily to their feet, but the people of Salem didn’t move closer. The girls collapsed on the benches, leaning against one another.
Meg swallowed heavily as her grandfather nodded at her. No, she begged him silently. Don’t make me do this.
He nodded at her again as if he could read her mind, his face serious.
The magistrate walked slowly across the room toward her. “Sister Jacobs, it seems you have forgotten to mention someone.”
Meg shook her head, tears pressing against the back of her eyes. “No.”
“Really? Well, perhaps we should question you in more depth, in private.”
Meg’s heart began to race. She shook her head wildly. Dorcas had been ‘privately’ questioned. Meg’s eyes flew to her grandfather, and she saw the determination on his face. He would not let her face this. He would either stand by her side or in her place.
You cannot prevent it.
He started to stand again, and her heart broke. She was going to lose him. She could not change that. But she could protect the legacy. Squeezing her hands shut, her nails broke the skin and blood seeped across her palm. She nodded slowly. “My—”
She stopped licking her lips, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would explode. She wished it would explode because then this burden would not be hers.
But it didn’t. It continued to beat, the traitorous organ. So she straightened her shoulders, picturing her grandfather reuniting with his wife and daughter. But even with that comforting image in her mind, her voice was still a whisper.
“My grandfather.”
CHAPTER 19
Meg wasn’t sure how she made it home. Between the fear coursing through her from her run-in with Ann and the fear of what was happening to her grandfather, she didn’t know how she was still standing.
There was something inside of Ann Putnam. But it was not the Devil. It was a Fallen angel, one of the worst—Azazyel. He was said to have taught humanity war craft. And to have even shared the secrets of witchcraft and led them into wickedness.
He had somehow taken advantage of Ann. What had Tituba done? How had she opened a door? And Ann, poor Ann, somehow still alive inside with that… thing.
She had heard of people being possessed, but she knew it was not a simple undertaking. But what could Meg do about it? No one would believe her. Ann/Azazyel had everyone believing she could see the true witches. Meg would only get thrown back in prison if she said anything.
In shock, she looked up and saw she had arrived at her home. She pushed open the gate, suddenly exhausted. Her legs seemed to get heavier and heavier as she approached the door. She all but fell into it and pushed. It opened and she stumbled in.
She leaned heavily on the door after she shut it. I need to get the book. She knew that was true. But she had not slept in days. She was in no condition for the task ahead of her. And she’d need to wait until long after dark to make sure she wasn't seen.
She looked at the stairs, dreaming of her bed, but she was too tired to climb them. And besides, she would have to pass her grandfather’s room and she did not think she could face that right now. Instead she walked over to the rocking chair, the one her great grandfather had crafted. Grabbing a quilt from the basket by the cold fireplace, she sat down, pulling the quilt over her. It would get cold tonight, and she should make a fire, but she did not have the energy now. She pictured her grandfather and imagined him standing on a chair at Gallows Hill.
Pulling the quilt to her chin, she squeezed her eyes tight, trying to shut away the image. Tears pressed against the back of her lids.
Oh, please no, she begged, knowing once she started crying she would be unable to stop the sobs. But fate proved merciful, because while she did begin to cry, she also slept. She slept through the long afternoon and through the dark night—a deep and dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 20
Meg jerked awake, her heart pounding as she looked around. Home, I am home, she thought as she stared at the light coming in through the windows, reality slowly returning. Her back ached from the uncomfortable sleeping position but even so, she wanted to sleep longer. But her rumbling stomach wouldn’t let her. Stumbling to the kitchen, she made herself two biscuits with the last of the flour. She washed it down with some water and then went back to the rocking chair and let sleep reclaim her.
She didn't awake again until it was dark. She stared around the room trying to see what had awakened her. A chill crawled over her skin and she pulled the quilt tighter around her. It's nothing. Go back to sleep, she told herself.
The unease didn’t lessen. She went and checked the locks and stared out each window. She knew it was just her imagination, but she still had trouble settling down.
By the time dawn broke, she had been awake for hours. She took some of her grandfather’s coins to buy bread and some vegetables for soup. She left early, hoping she would be able to get her business done before anyone was up. She also stopped at the post office and dropped off a letter for her cousin in Boston. She should know what had happened to them here. The small farm would be hers once Meg was gone.
She had just stepped out of the post office when an arm slipped through hers. “There you are.”
Meg looked down at Ann in horror and tried to pull her arm away from her, but she wouldn’t let her.
Ann shook her head. “Tsk, tsk. Is that any way to treat a friend? Especially one who has been so concerned for you? Why, I must have stood by the old willow tree behind your house for hours these last two nights. You know, to make sure if you went for a late night walk you did not hurt yourself.”
Meg gasped. She had felt eyes on her but thought she was being paranoid. She tried again to pull he
r arm away, but Ann held her too tight. “So have you heard the big news?”
“Wh—what news?”
“Why, George Burroughs has been brought back from Maine.”
Meg stopped dead. “What?”
“I can see you are relieved. After all, you were the one who accused him. Thank goodness he has been brought to justice and is not free to defile other young ladies.” Ann wiggled her eyebrows at Meg.
“He is here? But how?”
“Well, the magistrate sent a special contingent. After all, he is the ringleader.”
“Ringleader?”
“A funny thing happened while you were convalescing. The other girls and I realized it was Burroughs behind all of it after all. His specter visited each of us.”
“Wh—when will he be tried?”
“Oh, he’s already been tried and found guilty—your grandfather as well. With so many people in prison, I suppose they realized they really need to hurry these trials along. Oh look, that is them there.” Ann pointed down the street. A crowd waited around the prison. She had been so focused on Ann, Meg hadn’t heard them. An angry roar went up as the door opened and her grandfather stepped out, two men gripping him on either side. Meg’s knees gave out and she sank to the ground.
Ann knelt next to her. “Oh no. Are you all right?”
Meg tried to push her away. “Please just leave me alone.”
“Not until you give me what I want. Tell me where the book is and I will go right now and tell them all your grandfather, the reverend, all of them, are innocent.”
Meg stared into the face of the girl. She was beautiful, and yet her eyes were dead. The book was more than a chronicling of the Great Mother. It was a tool to fight the Fallen. And if the Fallen got their hands on it, that fight would be lost.
And so would humanity.
Her grandfather was lost in the crowd as three other men were pushed out with him, and then Reverend Burroughs. The crowd pushed them along the street, heading to Gallows Hill. There was nothing that would stop them now.