Salem, January 1693
~~oOo~~
The coarse hemp fibers of the ropes visibly tore at the delicate flesh of her wrists, but Sarah seemed indifferent. Instead, she plodded ahead in calm silence. Even when she stumbled and her fragile body bumped and thumped atop the heap of ugly rocks, no sound left her lips. When she found her feet once more, she trudged onward, head up, staring straight ahead with intelligent eyes as a developing wind swirled through and around her ripped and tattered dress.
Her three captors became unnerved by Sarah’s behavior–her eerie quietness.
“Why doesn’t she scream like the others? Plea for mercy? Say something?” Jonathan cast her a questioning side-eye.
Edward responded, yanking on her rope leash, “We found her out, that’s why. The devil has no more use of her tongue.”
His words made sense, but their nerves remained rattled. Jonathan, Edward, and William picked up the pace, dragging the condemned witch up the steep climb to the windy summit. Atop that wasteland on the edge of Salem stood a lone tree.
With a ladder.
And a rope.
Sarah was just another woman in a long line who’d been accused of witchery that year. Hysterical suspicion gripped the residents of Salem when real-world problems like disputes with the Indigenous people and colonial neighbors hit them. After all, bad things didn’t happen to the holy; in the minds of the God-fearing, the Devil must have snuck in. No one saw panic and fear as the deadly contagion.
And so, the town’s people laid blame on the out-of-the-ordinary. Sarah fit that description as an unmarried woman who dabbled in peculiar things. A few young girls testified to following her into the neighboring woods and witnessing her retrieving tree bark, twisted plants, and soil from decaying vegetation to use in cooking her “potions.”
Her trial–a farce.
‘Lies! See how easily they roll off a snake’s tongue!” yelled an accuser.
“I only see how a judgmental heart makes one’s ears deaf,” responded Sarah.
“Silence, witch!”
Curiously, all were cloaked in black, yet her brand of black was somehow sinister.
Guilty was the verdict, and the trial ended, although, in truth, her neighbors had decided her fate much earlier.
As Sarah stood at the foot of the ladder, a raven descended from the sky and landed on her black hat, which furthered the uneasiness of the men. The bird walked to the edge of Sarah’s hat and bent its head over its brim to look her in the eyes. She saw death in its pupils. But not hers.
Sarah turned and dared to meet her executioners in the eye, had one of them not looked away. Tears drew lines in the dirt on her face.
“It’s too late for your tears to save you,” snarled Jonathan.
“My tears aren’t for me.”
None would admit the skittering of spider legs up their spine that accompanied her words.
“Up the ladder,” Edward ordered before stepping behind Jonathan.
Sarah paused and rolled her eyes upward. The men followed her gaze to a black cloud approaching. It grew nearer and nearer with increasing speed, then seemed to separate into black dots. A peculiar smile spread across Sarah’s pretty face while the men looked on with growing apprehension.
“What is it?” The words barely left William’s mouth before the dots became recognizable as ravens. One by one, they swooped down and settled on the tree branches. Soon, the tree was a sea of blackbirds.
Sarah took her first step onto the wooden rung when the last raven settled. With each step, a raven cawed. Jonathan tentatively climbed behind her, flinching at the noise. When her hands reached the top rung of the ladder, he hung the noose around her neck and then quickly descended the ladder.
When his feet touched the ground, the ravens stretched their necks toward the men and cried in unison.
“Birds of evil,” William whispered to Jonathan. “Better get on with it.”
With William’s last word, a chilly fog rose from the ground, enveloping the men. A thunderous fluttering of feathers filled the air, and a black fog mingled with the grey, blood-curdling fear gripping their bones.
William yelled, “Pull the ladder!” Jonathan lurched blindly, flinging his arms about until fingers touched wood and shoved it to the side.
The men did not know how much time had passed before the fog lifted, for terror had lengthened the minutes. Then, it seemed the devil had taken their tongues, and three quaking men stood gawking at the barren tree. The gnawed and frayed noose hung from the branch with no neck within its grasp. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. Only a single raven remained, small but poised upon the branch with a quiet strength, studying the three men before flapping its wings and disappearing into the growing darkness of night.
The men, dazed and confused, decided not to tell others about these events. What would they think of their God seeing fit to let the witch go? Would others see a witch inside them?
~~oOo~~
Days later, the real threat—an illness known as smallpox—wrapped its wicked arms around Salem and squeezed the life out of many. Sarah had seen it coming and was preparing an herbal tea to protect them.
The Puritans would learn all too late that black hearts die first…
