Chapter 4

1692

Theda Kenyon wrote, 'The blackest chapter in the history of Witchcraft lies not in the malevolence of Witches but in the deliberate, gloating cruelty of their prosecutors.'

They team were sitting round the table back at Salem PD, Garcia on the laptop at the end of the table.

"Before you give us anything, Garcia," Rossi said, "check that you are on scramble?"

"Yes, I am. Safe to talk now."

"Ok, go ahead, what did you find?"

"Homeland Security has been carrying out experiments in matter transfer in the North Atlantic, by using wormhole technology derived from the Hubble Spacecraft and other unspecified sources." Garcia said, "But the experiments keep going wrong."

"How going wrong?" asked Morgan. "What happened?"

"The first thing that happened is the wormholes transferred matter, but it moved things through time, and not space. Then they lost control of the opening. It was supposed to stay out to sea, and away from shipping lanes. But it kept moving inland, and they lost control on several occasions."

"Through time?" Reid said. "Are you saying that Aaron could have moved through time?"

"Possiibly."

"Time travel?..." Morgan was staggered.

Prentiss and JJ didn't trust themselves to say anything.

Rossi was the only one able to speak coherently. He asked, "Do we know when and where?"

"It seems that instead of space, it's time. So it will be the same place."

"When?" repeated Rossi. "Tell us when."

"Three hundred and sixteen years ago."

The team sat stunned.

"Sixteen ninety two." Reid broke the silence, falling into his safe 'encyclopædia' mode. "The Salem Witch trials. There were fourteen women and five men hanged for witchcraft, one man crushed to death for refusing to enter a plea."

"If Hotch is there, he needs help." Morgan said. "That wasn't a good time to be a stranger."

Rossi was at a computer terminal. "What were those stats again, Reid?"

"Fourteen women, five men hanged, one man crushed to death. It was a common, and terrible form of torture that they used with impunity back then."

"I think you had better come and look at this." Rossi looked very worried. The others crowded round and looked at the screen.

It now said two men crushed, with a list appending.

Giles Corey

Aaron Hotchner

Oh my god!

"Is there anything on the Homeland security site about getting things back that have gone through?" Rossi, ever cool, asked Garcia.

"No, Sir, but they believe that the wormhole is two way, although nothing yet has been retrieved."

"And how often does this wormhole open up?" Rossi again.

"It takes a week to reset the machine, so it will be a week before we can send anyone on a rescue mission."

"And if someone goes back in a week, will it be a week later in sixteen ninety two?" asked Morgan, finally able to articulate.

"No. It seems that the end point is fixed within a few hours." Garcia said.

"A week?" Reid said. "I've got to wait a week?"

"That week will give us time to do some research." said Morgan. "We need as much detail as possible on the trials." He glanced at Reid. "Anything you have read will be out of date now. Hotch has changed history."

"And, Garcia, see if you can find any information as to why that particular year." Said Rossi. "It seems a bit of a coincidence that the wormhole should gravitate to the most notorious time in Massachusetts' history."

"Unless..."! Reid said slowly, eyes staring at nothing."

"Unless what, Genius?"

"Unless the year was random, and the wormhole somehow triggered the hysteria of the witch trials."

"Strong possibility, Reid." said Rossi. "Share your thoughts with Garcia, and let's get some answers. We have six days. Morgan, would you work with Reid and Garcia, Prentiss and Jareau, please, search the history of Salem in sixteen ninety two, and see if there is any trace of the other missing people."

Reid and Morgan flew back to Quantico that evening, so they could use the FBI resources. Garcia was still there. She often slept at the office, and especially when one of their own was missing. Reid and Morgan hurried to her bunker as soon as they arrived.

"Well, hello! If it isn't The Genius G-Man and Price Charming!" Garcia's words were chirpy, but her eyes showed real concern for her missing boss. Morgan sat down beside her; Reid went off to make some coffee. They had seven long nights ahead.

Aaron was close to passing out. His captors delighted in twisting his broken wrist and the grinding bone ends made him scream. He was on his knees in front of his tormentors, one of whom was pressing his hand backwards against his arm. Aaron had tears of pain on his face, along with blood and filth from the cell. He bent back trying to relieve the pressure on his hand, as the tormentor jerked at his wrist, and however much he tried, he couldn't prevent his outcries of agony.

"What do you ...want from me?" Aaron gasped, "Please...s-stop and let me..." His pleas were cut off as the tormentor twisted his hand, and Aaron fell onto his side.

"Confess, witch!"

"But I'm not..." A kick in the small of his back from a man in a cleric's collar again stopped any speaking. Aaron whimpered and rolled onto his back. The tormentor let go of his wrist, and Aaron cradled it in his other hand. He looked up and noticed that one of the men was examining his guns. He noticed with relief that the safety catches were on. He didn't have long to contemplate that when a foot kicked his groin. He groaned in agony and curled up.

"Confess, witch. Where did you come from? Were you on a spectral visit? Who did you visit? What are you intentions?"

Aaron rolled onto his front and attempted to stand. "I don't know what you are talking about. Please, let me..." Again he wasn't allowed to finish. A kick to the stomach, and he fell sideways then onto his back. He held his hands up in front of him.

"Please, I have got nothing to do with this. Please let me go!"

"Evil creature, even the witches condemn you! You will be tried and hung for your blasphemy!" The tormentor was becoming hysterical. He kicked Aaron's broken wrist again, and Aaron turned onto his side, facing away from the men in judgement over him. He cradled his wrist once more, trying to support it, alleviate the shooting pains along his arm.

"How do these work?" one of them said, holding up his guns. "What kind of weapons are these?"

"I d-don't know." Aaron said.

"They were taken from you, and you don't know the workings of them. You are a liar, witch." He pulled Aaron to his feet by his shirt front and tie.

"You will be tried. How do you plead"

"I refuse to p-plead. I have n-not been accused of a c-crime, I cannot b-be tried." Aaron tried to keep his voice steady, but he was weakened, and his resolve was faltering. The man let him go and he fell back to the floor.

Furiously, the man in the cleric collar stepped forward and tore his shirt off him, and removed his shoes and socks.

"Throw him back with the women. Let them deal with him!"

Aaron was dragged between two men by his arms; his head hung forward, dripping blood, his bare feet dragging behind. He vaguely felt streams of blood running down his bacs and a trickle out of his ear. He knew that if infection didn't kill him, then the beatings likely would.

The cell door was opened, and Aaron was thrown in. He was too weak to save himself, and he landed on his front in the muck on the floor. He was dazed and unable to think. He turned onto his back and wiped his face with his hand. Breathing heavily, trying to control the pain ripping into him, he didn't try to stand; he just lay there in the dirt, waiting for whatever was coming next.

"He's yours, now."

As the door closed, the women surrounded him.

"You bring false accusations upon us by your witchery!" Bridget shrieked. "You will be punished! In this life, and the next!"

He tried in vain to protect himself, but the assault was vicious, from women saving their own skins at the expense of his. They began to punch and kick Aaron as he lay on the filthy floor.

He cried out for them to stop, to listen to him. Tears fell, as they attacked him, their own terrible fear giving them strength. He was soon overcome, and slipped into blessed darkness.

William Shakespeare wrote, 'What a hell of witchcraft lies in the small orb of one particular tear.'