by J. Thorn
“I’m thinking you’re the only one here concerned about a ‘pointy’ reckoning. I’ve got a pot to boil.”
“It ain’t John Indian, Abigail. That ain’t who I been seeing in the dark of the night.”
Abigail walked up to Mary with a fresh, red mark on her left cheek. She grinned and stuck her chin out.
“Then who, Mary? Maybe we can have Tituba run a Venus glass for you too?”
“Nothing corporal,” replied Mary. “Hale is right to be concerned, but it ain’t Tituba he should be worrying about.”
“Spill it, Mary Walcott.”
“Tis the Black Man. And where the Black Man appears the red devils will follow.”
Abigail Parris nodded and slammed the door in Mary’s face.
***
Mary dreaded the night. Before her parents had been slaughtered in their bed by the red devils, she enjoyed the solemnity of darkness as a reprieve from her chores. Mary used to dream of seeing Boston, of walking the streets and visiting all of the fine shops the city had to offer. She imagined owning servants and having her meals served on silver platters.
But the red devils stole that from her. They snatched her future away in the same way the yellow fever would steal the healthy, vibrant young of the colony. She was still unsure how she made it out alive. At times, Mary wished the natives had split her head open as well. She dreamed of an eternal sleep devoid of the dark forces she had to deal with now. The Black Man arrived on the Maine frontier during the raids on Falmouth and saved her. At least that’s what she thought. Now, Mary could not decide whether he was her salvation or her damnation. Either way, she served him, and Mary tired of serving. She thought again of Boston before inching the door shut.
Mary felt the chill in her bones, the visceral cold intensifying with each passing sundown in October. Smoke curled and drifted from chimneys as the town tried desperately to combat the encroaching winter. She tugged at her stay and then pulled her scarf around her neck while looking across the fields. A few flickers of flame could be seen reflecting off the windows of houses, but none suggesting that anyone remained awake in the dead of the night.
As Mary walked toward the darkened forest, she thought about her conversation with Abigail and how much the girl really knew. Mary came very close to disclosing her association with the Black Man but then pulled back. What exactly would she tell Abigail? The form of Lucifer that spared her life from the red devils in Maine was now here in Salem, corrupting her mind and her flesh? Would she say that she was in his service? Mary wrestled with these thoughts as her footsteps released the pungent aroma of fallen leaves and ripe apples. She passed a row of fruit trees and was not even tempted to pull a Devonshire Quarrenden from the branch and sink her teeth into the crisp, sweet apple.
It was the loss of the mundane pleasures that angered Mary. The red devils, the Black Man, the frontier violence: they stole her childhood, her innocence. She mourned the loss for herself but also for the others more vulnerable, even her loose-lipped cousin, Bridget.
She looked back at her house atop the hill as she reached the edge of the forest. The night appeared tranquil and peaceful, and yet Mary would never have that security again. For her, it would always be a time when hidden evil revealed itself to corrupt what was left of the righteous. The path lay before her and she could see it with a clarity that others could not. They may have caught a glimpse of her entering the trees, but the way would remain obscured to all but her. Mary paused and, for a moment, considered turning her back on the path and returning home, barring the door, and hiding. But she chased the foolish thought from her head. She was a young woman, not a child. Children hid from problems but women faced them. At least the strong ones did, and Mary thought she was regardless of the emotional scars left by the red devils.
The trees hung low and the leaves falling from the branches created a silent, dark storm beneath the canopy. The birds were gone, and the natural creatures remaining in the forest were silent. What appeared to be a vibrant, thriving environment in the long days of summer felt more like the underworld now. With the addition of eternal flame, Mary thought she could be walking through the gates of Hell.
She pushed deeper until the forest was so thick that it stole what little light remained in the sky. Even with the leaves falling, the silence and darkness suffocated the life from it. Mary felt the familiar fear welling up in her throat. Whenever she moved closer to the Black Man, her body revolted in ways that became recognizable. Her eyes fluttered and her heart raced in her chest. Mary heard the snapping of a twig and spun to face the noise.
“Who is it?” she asked. Mary realized what a foolish question it was. She knew exactly who was there.
But then another sound of cracking wood came from behind her. It took Mary several moments to figure out that there was more than the Black Man in the forest, there were others here too. She started to run down the path toward the spot where she would meet him. Mary knocked branches aside and nearly tripped over her own skirt. She pulled the fabric up at the waist and pushed her legs harder. The noises intensified in pace with her acceleration until it sounded as if a herd of mountain lions was in pursuit. Her cap fell from her head and Mary’s long, blonde hair fell to her shoulders and spilled down her back. Sweat ran down her cheek despite the night’s chill, and she ran as hard as she could, deeper into the void. Mary hopped a downed tree, sprinting to the place where the Black Man would wait for her. For once, she was running to him for safety instead of trying to escape his clutches. She turned and felt a brush of air on her cheek. She collapsed to the ground, falling to her knees and putting her hands in her face. Mary had no desire to identify her pursuers.
“I see you have met my familiars.”
She looked up to see the Black Man standing before her with his arms spread wide.
“The ancients called them gakis.”
“Make them go away,” she cried into her hands. “I don’t want to see them.”
“But I think you do,” he replied.
Mary shook her head; her hair coiled like snakes.
“Look.”
Mary lifted her head from her hands and looked to the left of the Black Man. At first, she thought he hung lanterns in the trees. Halos of meager light hovered in the air, no longer pursuing her through the forest. She counted dozens of glowing orbs until she realized they were not lights at all. They were the eaters of light.
“What?” she asked.
“Gakis. The hungry ghosts doomed to wander for all time in search of that which will not satiate.”
Mary stood and the gakis remained where they were. The Black Man put his hand out to her.
“They will not harm you unless I command it.”
Her lips trembled and the chill of the night returned now that she stopped running.
“You want to know what they are? You want to see them?”
Mary nodded even though every fiber of her being cried out against it.
“Come,” he said.
On his command, the gakis stepped from the darkness and toward Mary. They hissed and spat, bringing the pungent reek of death and decay. Mary put a hand to her mouth and gagged. The bodies of the creatures were long, but not tall. Their gray, bluish skin stretched over thin bones, looking like it was about to tear in places like the elbows and knees. Not only were they blue, but the skin was greasy and it attracted whatever filth the creature crawled through. Their arms and legs were twice what a normal man’s might be, but they had half the muscle of a child. They all had a distended belly that jutted out from below thin ribs and their necks stretched upward like an ostrich. There was no hair left on their heads, and their eyes sat deep in the skull like chunks of coal. There were two holes where a nose may have been, and then that slit for a mouth. The creatures were shoving blood and excrement into the maw on their face, sallow cheeks smeared with feces, and they had a low moan like a rat.
“They’re hideous,” she said.
“They are you. They are hum
an. It is nothing but greed and unfulfilled desire.”
“Why are they here?” Mary asked.
“It is almost time to open the Portal. They are here to guard it.”
“What is a Portal?”
The Black Man waved his hand and the gakis stepped back into the darkness. Mary could no longer see them, but she could feel their sorrow in her own heart.
“I don’t understand.”
“I have chosen you, Mary Walcott. You shall be my queen on a dark throne, to rule through time. In order to establish our court, we must destroy this one.”
The Black Man removed his hat and turned his face toward her. Mary looked into the eyes of despair, into the face of Gaki.
***
Tituba sat in the cell and waited. She had been in shackles her entire life, some of them made of iron and others composed of threats. She never trusted the white man, although she had to admit a fondness for the girls. Until their first bleed, they were innocent and curious, and Tituba fueled their curiosity of the black arts. Of course, she never called them such nor suggested their origin. In Barbados, she discovered that the will of the children was much more powerful than those of a blatantly insidious nature. She stood and looked out of the hole in the cell wall that functioned as a window. It was large enough to help dispel the stink in the pen but not big enough to tempt escape. The villagers ran from house to house and Tituba could hear the frenetic cries for help. She saw the constable run past as well as Reverend Parris. She even spotted Reverend Hale and wondered how long it would be before he arrived at her cell with his stack of books and promises of eternal salvation.
She sat back down in the dirt that stank of dried piss. Tituba’s fingers traced the scars on her arms, and she felt as though the scar tissue on her back was on fire.
“Tis the time of the reckoning,” she said to the empty cell. “The Black Man has come to pry open the Portal and claim his right to the dark lord’s throne.”
She smiled and giggled until the laughter was so hard that it forced her to double over. She cackled and rocked back and forth while pulling her knees to her chest.
“Ain’t nuthin’ to be done, ain’t no way of protectin’ the white folks from the Black Man’s clutches.”
Tituba wailed and the laughter turned to sobbing. She shook her head back and forth.
“Now da masters gonna feel what it’s like to be the slaves.”
***
“You must have proof.”
“No, I do not,” replied Reverend Parris. “That is for the judge to decide. The judge and the Almighty.”
“I cannot serve the warrant on this,” said the constable.
“His Majesty’s courts have used spectral evidence before. There is precedent.”
“I thought you were a man of the Book, not of the Law.”
“I am well learned in many ways.”
The constable looked at Reverend Parris and could not ignore the determination in the man’s face.
“If you do not take action, Lucifer’s minions will run rampant over our land. The Black Man will corrupt and the red devils will rise up to slaughter our babies in their swaddles.”
“The Witches Hammer. It provides process for evidence gathering, I presume?”
The Constable’s question knocked Parris from his intellectual perch. He removed his spectacles and sat back in his chair, laying his hands on the table between them.
“You have seen the Malleus Maleficarum. I did not expect you to be a Latin scholar.”
The constable nodded and leaned closer to the Reverend.
“I have the slave woman shackled. She shall hang for the Venus glass.”
“Nothing but child’s play. I’m grateful she has been taken into custody, but she is not at the left hand of the Black Man,” said Parris, pausing.
“Should I issue the warrant and the hanging, what if that isn’t the end of the terror? What if the Black Man wants more?” asked the constable.
“That is God’s worry, not yours. You serve the book of law and I’ll serve the book of the Lord,” replied the Reverend.
The constable sighed and grabbed a piece of parchment and his quill.
***
The screams could be heard throughout the village. The sun barely crested the hills dusted with the season’s first frost. Mary’s eyes fluttered and, for a moment, she saw his hideous face. The Black Man now had a name and it felt as disgusting coming from her lips as it did in her head. She stood and walked to the main room where the rest of the family sat around the table.
“There is wailing,” she said to her uncle.
“Aye,” he replied. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What?” Mary asked.
Bridget sat with her head down, unable to look at her cousin.
“The devil is in Salem.”
Mary thought about her conversation with Abigail Williams and she felt like vomiting.
“The children—” Mary’s aunt began before collapsing into a sobbing shamble.
“We feared you had a similar sickness. Word has come that many of the children have been lost during the night.”
“Lost? Where?”
“Dead, Mary. Daddy means they’re dead.”
Mary glanced at Bridget and she thought she could feel her own heart breaking.
“Last night the devil came to Salem and stole the breath of our children. For some reason he has spared our house. Do you know why he would do that, Mary?”
She turned her head sideways at her uncle’s question. Mary tried to lock her emotions and keep them hidden.
“I do not, sir.”
Mary’s uncle looked at his wife and then back to Mary, an unspoken communication common amongst married couples.
“The Reverend says the Black Man was afoot last night, that he sent familiars to kill. He is trying to chase us from the Garden of Eden so that the red devils may rule the profane soil. The Reverend says some folks saw the Black Man last night. Other say he had a left hand, that someone of corporal form was with him. Do you know of this, young Mary?”
“I know nothing of which you speak,” replied Mary.
The wretched dreams of the past night returned to her conscious mind. Mary’s face contorted as she tried to determine what was a dream and what was real. She could not lodge Gaki’s hideous face from her mind.
“Liar,” Mary Sibley said. “Tell her, Jonathan. Stop protecting this wicked child. Tell her what hath been seen by the man of God.”
Bridget stood and stormed from the house while Mary clutched the apron around her waist.
“Several villagers came to the Reverend at first light. They knew not to bother Dr. Griggs as their children were already dead. They said they heard filthy noises in the night, and when they looked out of their shutters, they saw the Black Man. He moved through the village with another by his side,” said Jonathan.
“Tell her,” Goody Sibley said. She stomped a foot into the earthen floor.
“The villagers told the Reverend that you were with the Black Man, Mary. They’re saying that you murdered the children.”
“That’s impossible,” Mary said to Jonathan. “I have not left the room since sundown last night.”
“Look.”
Aunt Sibley pointed at Mary’s apron, covered in dark, moist dirt and dead leaves.
Before Mary could say another word, the door thumped from the other side.
“The constable of Salem in service of His Majesty hereby serves a warrant of arrest for one Mary Walcott.”
Mary looked at the door and then into the faces of her uncle and aunt as the constable spoke again.
“The warrant is served. The charge is witchcraft.”
Before the Realm: Degeneration, Act II
Salem 1692
“You know that the devil cannot overcome a minister. You know this?”
Mary Walcott nodded.
“Do you want the sweet light of Jesus to fill your soul?”
Mary nodded
again.
Jonathan Hale looked up at Reverend Parris, waiting for a signal to proceed. Samuel tilted his head forward, his eyes fixed on Mary sitting on the witness stand. The other girls sat in the benches reserved for the congregation during the Sunday sermon. Constable Joseph Herrick stood next to the door holding a set of shackles and a length of rope.
“I want to help rid the hidden evil from Salem. I will not rest until every last inch of the colony is returned to the glory of God. Do you want to help me, Mary Walcott?”
“I do, Reverend. I want the light of Jesus.”
Hale smiled and pushed his thinning hair back from his forehead. His white, bony fingers held the holy book tight to his chest.
“I know you do, child. In order for me to help you, you must answer my questions.”
“I saw her specter swallow the life essence from my child.”
“Silence,” Constable Herrick replied to the cry from the back of the meetinghouse. “Silence or you’ll be the next in shackles, Goody Osbourne.”
Hale looked again at Parris and then toward the pulpit where William Stoughton sat, his brow furrowed. Hale knew it would only be a matter of days before one of the most powerful men in the King’s colony would convene the Court of Oyer and Terminer and the hunt would begin. Stoughton was not a man of the cloak and Hale knew he would prefer swift justice over salvation. He grabbed Mary by the shoulders and continued.
“Will you, Mary Walcott, answer my questions?”
“Aye, Reverend. I will.”
“Were you with the Black Man in the forest last night?”
“I saw her,” yelled Sarah Osbourne.
“One more, Goody Osbourne. One more outburst…,” replied Constable Herrick.
Mary continued, “I was in my bed, Reverend. I was not in the woods with the Black Man last night.”
Several girls sighed and Hale turned to them before turning back to Mary.
“Upstanding members of our congregation place your form at his left hand. How say you?”
“I have no recollection of being with the Devil last night,” replied Mary. She hoped she could continue to speak the truth in God’s house.
