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WITH A SPARK

PROLOGUE: WITH FIRST BLOOD

Salem, Massachusetts, 1692

The tree was an oak. Full, massive and sturdy, it had drawn her attention before on her walks around the outskirts of the town. It had stood out to her then with its artist's pallet of color during the autumn months, but now it had come into its full summer magnificence. The leaves flashed in the sun as it settled behind the hill and cast shadowy branches along the ground and amongst the crowd of people.

Voices could be heard behind her, but she kept her head down. The sun felt warm on her bare head; they would not even allow her the dignity of wearing her cap. She heard the officials' words, reading the condemnation and the penalty attached to it. Her throat went dry. The woman ahead of her wailed, the man behind her prayed the Lord 's Prayer. She wondered if it would stop after this.

She had seen it coming, although she had not known the form it would take. Simply, there had been a black sheen over the milk one morning, and a noose hanging in the wind. A flash of the future and then nothing; she was once again alone in the kitchen preparing breakfast for the children. It would come as other times had come, and then it had. She hadn't expected it to come in the form of spoiled children.

It was time. The line had moved forward, falling until it came to her. She climbed the platform and stood atop the wood. It offered little comfort even with her feet bare; the wood had long been dead. Her head was forced back as the executioner slipped the noose around her neck. It smelled of salt and the sea. A quick flutter of her eyelashes and she saw that they had taken it from the docks at Salem Town.

When her eyes opened for the final time, she was met with the face of the child standing at the foot of the tree. Her arms wrapped around her, the little girl pressed herself under the protective branches of the lowest limb. Tears streaked her face and the woman saw her daughter tremble in anger. She shook her head gently and offered her a weak smile. She would be cared for by the others. They would protect her from the madness.

"Mistress," the town official asked arrogantly, "Do you wish to say anything?"

There were many things she'd like to say, but her daughter would never survive if she uttered them. Instead, she chose only one. Raising her head and clasping her hands together, she looked each of her neighbours in the eye. It bought her time to pull the spindle of undyed thread from where she had hidden it.

"May the Mother accept me into her arms, where those innocently accused go before me. May you find peace and solace in the aftermath of destruction and may love heal the wounds left open to the cold." Bowing her head, she felt the power sink into the spindle. It would do no harm if found by anyone. The spell had been cast. "I am ready," she spoke.

It would be a long time before her final wish would be granted.

The spindle fell to the ground unnoticed by the crowd, and rolled to the base of the tree. Tiny fingers picked it up, twirling it between a forefinger and a thumb. She dared not look up at the tree where its victims hung like apron strings. The spindle still pulsed and the little girl recalled her mother's words. She had told her daughter to forgive, had said that the girls and the village did not know what they did. They did not understand the word they accused them with.

A shadow fell over her and dry, wrinkled fingers touched her shoulder gently. Her grandmother leaned heavily on her cane, grief making her eyes glossy. Her grandmother had escaped the accusations. She didn't know why; didn't the village understand how it worked? They could point fingers and fling the word around but they knew nothing. It was learned. One couldn't be lured to it. It came down the line, parent to child.

"Come, child," Grandmother whispered. "We must go home to your brothers."

"I hate them," the child said, staring past her grandmother to the group of clustered villagers who huddled and discussed the next round of trials. "I hate them all."

"You must learn to forgive them. This will pass as it has before." The angry child pushed her hand away, still griping the spindle and bright fibres. "Do nothing rash that you cannot undo."

She squeezed the spindle one last time, not seeing how the thread changed from grey to red, and then dropped it on the path as she walked away. No one saw the calloused hand that stooped to pick it up before placing it in his pocket. Up on the hill, outlined by the lowering sun, the figures swayed on the branches of the tree.