Salem, Massachusetts. October, 1693
The baby lying in the frantic woman's arms was wailing. Still. Ten minutes after they had entered the woods. The woman didn't know if it was due to hunger, exhaustion or fear. Or perhaps all three. In any case, the woman was too afraid to stop moving. Too afraid of getting caught. But she also feared that the loud noise coming from her nine month old son would draw people to them anyway. If someone were following them, the baby's cries would keep any pursuers hot on their trail.
Realistically, it would take some time for anyone to start chasing them. She knew that. But people would begin searching eventually and she wanted to be far, far away by that time.
She knew that someone would piece some things together soon enough. When they discovered the ruined house, the dead body and the missing child, there would obviously be questions and a search for the missing child. They'd eventually realize who else was missing from town: a pale, skinny, recently widowed woman with a nine month old baby. They would look for her. And they'd look for the child. Not the baby. The other one. The one that they would have discovered missing. Dorothy was her name. She was a scrawny, small five year old with messy, shoulder length brown hair and large, haunting dark brown eyes. And she did not belong to the woman who was currently holding her hand and pulling her through the woods.
But the woman had promised Dorothy's mother she'd take care of her. She had promised. And if they had stayed in town, nothing good would have come of it. Dorothy could have been taken away. Who knew what they would have done with her. They could have accused her of causing the accident and put her back in jail. She had already spent nine months in that horrid place for an act she did not commit and it had done enough damage to the poor thing. It had even ultimately led to the mess they had left behind. Yes, Dorothy had technically been the culprit, but she was not at fault for what was happening to her. Whatever she was doing, she couldn't control it. That much was obvious.
Panting slightly at this point, the woman continued to plow through the woods as fast as she could with a baby in her arms and another child in tow. Sweaty tendrils of her light brown hair fell in front of her face and she blew puffs of air from her mouth to push them away. Her son was still whimpering a bit in her grasp, but at least it was quieter now. She did not know where she was going or when she would stop, but she figured it would be when she had put enough distance between her and Salem to no longer feel afraid. Enough distance for her to feel safe. Or, she thought wryly, until she dropped dead from hunger and fatigue. But she was going to escape, even if she died trying. She was going to fulfill her promise to Dorothy's mother and keep her safe if it was the last thing she did. She owed poor Sarah that much.
She quickly glanced down at the young child walking beside her. She couldn't believe how quiet and obedient Dorothy was being. She walked at a quick pace and stared silently ahead. She was a smart child. There was no doubt that she knew what was at risk, even though there was also no doubt that she was afraid.
Fear did terrible things to people. It changed them. In fact, it was what had started this whole mess. It had changed the people of Salem the year before. So much so that they were accusing good people of crimes they did not commit. People had died because of it. Fear had been the reason she, Dorothy, and so many people had gone to jail. Fear was the reason nineteen innocent people had been executed. It was the reason the woman was now a widow and Dorothy was now motherless. It was the reason that Dorothy was so different now and doing things she could not control.
It made the woman angry. It made her stomach churn. She had always been proud of who she was. She was not a bad person. She used her abilities to help people. That was what people like her were supposed to use them for. Not that all of them did. Not that people like her were all kind and good. Certainly not. But most were good. But people were so afraid and misinformed that they acted irrationally and too many innocent lives had been taken. And now the ordeal had changed the survivors. She herself had noticed that her once ever present confidence had wavered. She felt dirty. She felt tainted. She felt as if she should be ashamed.
She frowned in anger and annoyance as she picked up her pace, her anger showing in her forceful, quick steps. It was not fair! A five year old child should not have to be so fearful to be herself that she turned inward and destroyed things. A grown woman with an infant son should not be ashamed of who she was—because that meant being ashamed of who her son was. Considering he was like her and her husband, of course. Her now deceased husband.
The woman inhaled through her nose and set her jaw as she stood up straighter and tried to blink back tears. She was not going to let the fearful people she was leaving behind take her confidence. She was not going to allow her husband and the other eighteen victims to have died in vain. She was not going to be afraid of her own self. Instead, she was going to be proud.
Her name was Elizabeth Ann Proctor and she was a witch. She had magic running through her veins and the power to do all of the bad things she had been accused of. But she hadn't and never would, despite the many times over the past eighteen months that the thought of revenge had tempted her.
Perhaps, she thought, running away was a good thing. It was a chance to start over somewhere else. A chance to be themselves without having to be afraid. A place where they would finally be safe.
She did not know if such a place existed, but she certainly hoped so.
A/N: Hi! I've had the idea for this story in my head for a little bit now, but I've just been trying to finish planning it all out before I start uploading. I've done a story on the Salem witch trials before, but I got inspired to write another one and I also feel as if I've improved so much as a writer since then and could do it justice.
Obviously some parts of this story are going to be fictional for the sake of moving the story along, but I'm going to try to weave in as many accurate facts as possible. For starters, Elizabeth Proctor was a real person who did in fact survive the Salem witch trials. Dorothy Good is also a real person and was the youngest person in Salem to be accused of witchcraft. I found her story (and the stories of the other victims as well) to be so sad that it kind of inspired this story. I'm a little nervous about it, so I hope everyone enjoys the first chapter and I can't wait to continue writing the rest of it! Thanks for reading and don't forget to let me know what you think so far.