Time Twisters

by RABE, JEAN

  The tightly restrained silence exploded, and outrage and denial filled the courtroom as members of the gallery and the judges struggled to grasp what they had seen. One older woman, taller than most, stood quietly by, as surprised as any at what she had witnessed.

  August 24, 1692

  It was not yet midnight, and the summer breeze at Gallows Hill was warm and fresh with the scent of ripening grains. A woman stood alone by the elm tree, waiting.

  From where she stood, she could see the man coming twenty minutes before he arrived. He was alone, so she remained.

  Completely unafraid, Lieutenant Governor William Stoughton approached the elm. It was a cloudless night, and the moon showed his uncompromising face with its weak chin. This evening he walked with a cane, although he had no limp. He had come armed, though alone. He was early, and he looked around anxiously.

  “William Stoughton, thank you for coming. We have something important to discuss.”

  To his credit, Stoughton only jumped slightly. The woman had been next to the tree, not really hiding. The woman was tall, and very thin. He estimated that she was close to his own age, though she wore the sixty years harder than he did.

  “Yes, good woman, I am here. Now tell me what business you have that brings me out of my rooms at such an hour. Your letter promised to reveal proof of witchcraft in Salem Village. What is this proof? And be warned, I’ll know if you lie.”

  The woman chuckled slightly, surprised by his choice of words. “Will you now? You can tell lies when you hear them? And does the truth sound like lies as well? Are you a witch, William Stoughton?” her tone light and full of humor.

  Not liking her tone, Stoughton stood straighter, standing barely taller than the woman. “I will not tolerate such slander.”

  “My apologies then, William Stoughton, for I know you to be no witch. I know that you are a committed man of God, and you have no traffic with witches. I know that you come here to do what you see as the Lord’s work, to find witches and see God’s justice done.”

  Looking at the stern face of the woman before him, he inquired, “Do I know you, good woman? What is your name?”

  “No, William Stoughton. You do not know me. But you will.”

  A feeling of distant dread snuck up on Stoughton, but he held it down. Something here was making him uncomfortable, and it annoyed him. “You should know, woman, that I am emboldened by the Lord, and it does occur to me that you might not be a true woman of God, and you might think to do me harm. I will not hesitate to strike you down should you show signs of witchery. Additionally, I have placed the note you gave me in a secure place along with a letter explaining my purpose for coming out here. Should you seek to do me violence, it will go badly for you.” Stoughton spoke with more confidence than he felt.

  “Ah, yes. You mean these?” said the woman, pulling two folded parchments from her pocket.

  Stoughton paled. “How did you . . .” Fear crept in again. He looked around the hill, not entirely comforted that he saw no one else lurking about. His anger began to rise. Who did this woman think she was to question him, and why was he tolerating it?

  “I presume that you no longer have such faith in those girls and their spectral visitations? Or the wealthy patrons who house and entreat you? Half those girls have confessed to bearing false testimony, and will no longer approach the court.”

  “Woman, I am here doing the work of the Lord. I came to Salem to find its witches and see them purged from this village! I need no patron or girl to tell me when witchery is afoot! Words will not deceive me. Those girls were clearly bewitched and now claim falsely to being misled. I will go forth without their witness, and apply the vengeance of the Lord!”

  “Do you know how to find a witch, William Stoughton?”

  “Of course, woman! I have already found and put many of Satan’s brood to the rope, and I will continue my mission!” Who was this woman, Stoughton wondered, and why was he continuing to suffer her questions? He was the magistrate here, not this wrinkled old crone. “I am tired of your games and questions. You will stand before me in court, and then you shall answer my questions! Then you shall tell me what you know of witches, old woman!”

  “Fair enough.” The woman’s tone shifted. “But first, I must ask a favor of you, WIlliam Stoughton.”

  He was annoyed at this woman’s use of his name, and eager to be away from her. He would no longer indulge her foolishness. It was most unlike him to meet her, but the events in yesterday’s court had left him unsure of many things. To get away, he snapped: “What?”

  “I ask that you take this paper, and this quill and ink. You are to write a letter that you were wrong to put innocents to death on the words of misguided, mistreated children. You will write that you prosecuted innocents in your blind zeal, pushed by the greed and spite of others. You will write that you abused your power and that you hanged people for witchcraft without any real proof.”

  Too outraged for words, Stoughton sputtered incredulously at the audacity of this woman.

  “Oh, and then you will place that letter in your pocket. You will climb this tree, place that noose around your neck, and give value to your life by ending it.”

  Disbelief gave way to fear as the woman walked up to Stoughton. Giving in to the fear and outrage, he pulled back the cane he was carrying and started to bring it down on her, but found himself frozen by her gaze. There was no fear in her eyes, even though he was about to crush her skull. Fear made his arms tremble, and he could not deliver the blow.

  “The truth of witches in Salem, William Stoughton? None of them, Stoughton. None of the people whose lives you ended were witches.”

  He whimpered. “What have you done to me?”

  Ignoring him, she continued, “If it comforts you, realize that I am no better than you. I have heard your testimony, and in truth, I had already decided upon your guilt before you came before me.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he whispered as he moved toward the elm.

  “Because you will not stop. And because it is the right thing to do. What you have done here is wrong. Your actions have served the cause of evil. And now I have to stop you from going any further. So now I must do what is right and serve the cause of good.” The woman smiled a sad smile. “Again, you have brought me down to your level, William Stoughton. It seems we have both failed our Lords on this day.”

  William Stoughton tried to scream as he dipped the quill into the ink. In the distance, he heard a woman’s voice reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

  Sheriff John Walcott walked nervously up to Gallows Hill. It was after midnight and clouds hid the moonlight. He saw a familiar face and walked purposefully toward her.

  “Ah, John Walcott. Thank you for coming, we have much to discuss.”

  “What is this about?”

  The old woman handed him a blank piece of paper and a quill. He caught a glimpse of movement behind her near the elm. His mouth fell in shock as he saw the limp body swinging. Next to the limp form were three dangling nooses.

  “I must ask a favor of you, John Walcott.”

  September 23, 1692

  “The funeral was lovely.”

  “Mm—hmm.” The woman rocking on the porch nodded as she sewed an unfinished baby blanket.

  “She was so frail at the end. She seemed to pass peacefully.”

  “Mm—hmm.”

  “And in her own bed.”

  The rocking slowed. “The governor was quick to clear the jails, wasn’t he? A decent God-fearing man, our governor.”

  The bloodhound stretched out on the edge of the lawn, his head on his paws. A cat slept on the dog’s back.

  “I am glad that business is over. Four signed confessions of false prosecution from those men on Gallows Hill. Bad business.” The younger woman sewed up a tear in a shirt.

  The afternoon passed. Constance noted that Ruth worked slower than usual.

  “Ruth, are you well?”

  “I have been tired lately. An
d this morn, my stomach sent me from me from my breakfast again.”

  “Congratulations, dear!” the old woman said with a knowing smile. Two chairs rocked gently as hands worked industriously.

  “I was thinking about the name Agnes. I believe it is a girl.”

  “That would be nice. What do you think, Mercy?” Ruth started and looked up. Standing at the steps of the porch was Mercy Lewis. At her feet, the dog laid quietly, and the cat continued to sleep peacefully.

  “I . . . I should think John or Samuel would be among the names to consider, not Agnes.”

  “Indeed.” Constance nodded. Ruth looked at the two, and at the bloodhound that still lay quietly.

  “May I . . . may I speak with you ladies?” the girl asked timidly.

  “Of course, Mercy. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Mercy sat cautiously in the empty rocking chair. After a time she spoke: “I did not mean for it to go as it did. When Betty and Abigail began to have the fits, the doctor claimed witchcraft, not us. It was not our intent, but the story grew, and as we were in court, I feared for them if they were seen as lying.”

  “And when did you begin wanting very, very hard that all in the room should believe?”

  Mercy sat with her mouth agape for only a moment. “Early. I first wanted Tituba to admit to witchcraft, and that others should believe her. And for all courts, I wanted with my heart that our lies not be turned on us. Then Abigail Hobbs claimed to be a witch, and that was not my doing. Then I had no part, and all believed despite me. Then I found that I wanted very, very much that people stop believing.”

  “But that did not happen, did it?”

  Mercy shook her head, her eyes downcast.

  “Once begun, you could not reverse the tide, could you?”

  “No. I sat and prayed, and hoped and tried, but it was no use.”

  “No. Such persecution takes root easily in the minds of men, and grows like a fire,” Constance said. “Is this the first of such misguided efforts, Mercy?”

  Mercy shook her head. “No,” she said very quietly. “My parents.” Mercy began to cry. “Who never wronged me, not once.”

  “Well, what is done, is over.” Constance resumed her work.

  “But I have done wrong by others. My sins are terrible, and I do not know how to make them right!”

  A maternal smile met the confession. “My dear, others have already died for your sins, because theirs were the greater sins.”

  “But does that truly forgive me?”

  Smiles from both older women on the porch came to that question. “No, dear, none of us are forgiven, no matter how many others die.”

  Much later, at the sunset, Mercy spoke again. “May I join you ladies?”

  “You already have, Mercy. You already have.”

  STANDING STILL

  Donald J. Bingle

  “Are you sure you wanna do this, doc?”The patrol-man gestured across the lobby at the subject. “He’s got some sort of a device, with a trigger of some kind duct-taped to his hand. S.W.A.T. says it’s probably a dead-man switch.”

  Dr. Lefkowitz lowered his head to peer over the top of his glasses. The subject, a fit-looking Caucasian in his mid-thirties, sat on the floor, his back to an outside wall. Although his brow was furrowed and his eyes flicked about the room, intent, no doubt, on discerning any threat, he did not seem to be agitated. His hands were steady and his blue dress shirt was unstained by sweat, even under the arms.

  “Well, sergeant, the fact is that I am going to do this, whether I want to or not. First, it’s my job. Second, I’ve got my Kevlar vest on.” Lefkowitz jerked his head toward the subject. “Notice that the top two buttons of his shirt are open?”

  The cop shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Obviously, our perpetrator is not wearing a vest. So, unless he is suicidal, I don’t think he is going to blow up anyone, assuming . . .” He raised his eyebrows as he looked at the cop.

  “Yeah?” said the cop.

  “. . . assuming the S.W.A.T. guys don’t shoot him while I’m talking him down.” He lowered his eyebrows. “It is a dead-man switch, after all.”

  The cop gave him a tense, crooked smile. “Don’t worry, doc. I’ll make sure the macho squad doesn’t get trigger happy.”

  “Thanks, sergeant.” He turned to leave, mumbling to himself as he began to move in slow, sure steps toward the fanatic-of-the-day. “Just another day at the office.” He opened his palms and half-raised his hands, holding them away from his body, as he separated from the throng of police, onlookers, and emergency personnel watching the scene unfold, and continued to move toward the threat.

  When he was about fifty feet away, he got the usual response.

  “Stop,” yelled the man with the trigger. “Stay where you are. There’s a lot of people at risk here.” The man waved the duct-tapped trigger toward Lefkowitz as he spoke.

  “I’m not armed,” said Lefkowitz in a calm, practiced voice. He moved his hands up and interlaced the fingers behind his head and did a slow turn in place. “No gun, no cuffs, not even a wire, as you can see.” He completed his demonstration and faced the subject once again. “I could strip down to prove it, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me. It’s a bit chilly in here, don’t you think?”

  The subject ignored his question and moved on to what was the typical next question according to the textbook on these things, a textbook that Dr. Lefkowitz had helped write. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “My name is Morris Lefkowitz and I’m a doctor, a crisis counselor of sorts. I work for the police department. My job is to keep everyone safe . . . including you.”

  The man bobbed his trigger-hand at Lefkowitz. “This is keeping me safe at the moment.”

  “I can see that. All of us can see that. What would happen if you were to let go of that trigger, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “A lot of people might die, including you, maybe.”

  The doctor tilted his head to one side. “Including you, too.”

  “The world might be a better place without me,” said the man. “Besides, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  Lefkowitz took a small step toward the man. “I see. I’d like to talk about why you feel that way, but I’d like to do it without shouting across the room. Can I come closer and we can sit and talk?”

  The man’s eyes flicked to a watch on his left wrist, the opposite hand from the one clutching the device. “Yeah, I guess. I’ve got some time to kill.”

  Lefkowitz started to walk toward the man.

  “Not too close,” cautioned the subject. “You stop ten, twelve feet away and sit on the floor.” He seemed to consider something for a moment. “Cross-legged, with your palms on the floor at all times.”

  Lefkowitz nodded and did what he was told. “It’s not a very comfortable position,” he said lightly.

  The man actually smiled. “Life sucks,” he said. “And then you die.” The smile faded. “Or maybe not.”

  “Bad things happen,” agreed Lefkowitz as the cold from the floor began to cool his palms, “but I don’t think life sucks just because some bad things happen, do you . . . I’m sorry . . . I don’t know your name.”

  “That’s right, doc. You don’t know nothing about me or my life.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  The subject’s eyebrows popped up. “What could you possibly know about me? And don’t give me any of that ‘You’ve been hurt’ crap.”

  Lefkowitz pursed his lips. “I know that you’re not a lawyer.”

  Now the subject’s eyebrows popped down in confusion and consternation. “How would you know that?”

  Lefkowitz smiled. “My name is famous in legal circles. You didn’t remark on it. Lawyers always do.”

  He was drawing the subject in. “You a famous defendant or witness or something?”

  Lefkowitz shook his head. “No. But there’s a famous legal case about someone with my name, from years and years
ago. Lefkowitz vs. Great Minneapolis Surplus Store.” One of the methodologies utilized with people on the edge was to have a conversation that was as normal as possible, with all the asides and trivialities that entailed. He’d used this bit before with success. “The case is always taught in contracts class, so lawyers have always heard of it. Contracts is taught in the first year of law school, when everyone is their most compulsive, so they read and summarize and digest all the facts of the case and then, ten or twenty or even fifty years later, they remember the name Morris Lefkowitz.” Now for the useful segue. “Funny how things in the past can affect us now, isn’t it?”

  The man said nothing.

  “How about your name?”

  “Edwin. You can call me Ed.”

  “I see,” intoned Lefkowitz, “Can’t say I’ve ever met an Edwin before. It has a nice, old-fashioned ring. What about your last name?”

  “You won’t have heard of me. I’m not famous and nobody with my name is famous either.”

  “Maybe not, but I’d still like to know who I’m talking to.” Lefkowitz actually didn’t care personally about Edwin’s last name, but he knew the police were listening in from the sidelines. If they got a name, they could run the subject for priors or contact his doctor or his wife or somebody who could help talk the guy out of whatever it was he had planned. So he pressed the issue. “What’s your last name, Ed?”

  “You don’t need to know. It won’t do you any good to know. Besides, it’s against regulations and . . . despite all this . . . I do my best to follow regulations.”

  Lefkowitz was startled. He was expecting a lone crazy, saddened by the death of a loved one or pissed off at an employer in the building who fired him, not a military man on a mission. “Are you a soldier, Ed?”

  Edwin glanced down for a second, but didn’t respond. Lefkowitz sized him up. The guy was fit and strong, his hair relatively short. He had the look of a Marine.

  “Are you a member of the Corps, Ed?” Edwin flinched at the word “Corps,” but he still didn’t respond.