A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 15 – The Rings
Massachusetts Bay Colony - Andover Village, October 30, 1692
Gasping…
I lay gasping. Sprawled on the cold ground, my back arched, and all air knocked from mine lungs. For a moment, my mind takes me elsewhere. To a better place. To a happier gasp.
I gasp as Edward moves inside me, loving me within our canvassed tent, the one at the center of our meadow in that part of the country that be not as cold…nor as sterile as be Massachusetts Bay. I gasp…I gasp in awe. In wonder. My back arches, and I gasp in unbridled passion and from the pleasure of Edward's and my private moments, with our eyes locked on one another. He and I alone as we gasp as one…
Except…except it seems we may not have been entirely alone.
With another gasp, I return to the present, arching my back as pain radiates up and down my spine. Added to this, the cramping in my midsection lingers. 'Tis almost as if my stomach grows by the minute.
Chaos rules me.
The men behind Rosalie point at her as, on her knees, she shrieks and sobs. She pulls at her own hair, then cradles her stomach as I cradle mine. Meanwhile, Reverend Newton looms, hovering above my supine form like a sinister, misshapen god.
All the while, Rosalie screams.
"Isabella, cease thy witchery and thy harm of Rosalie!" shouts he.
I cannot instantly reply. My breaths come in long, difficult pants. Words erupt haltingly.
"I…I be…I be no witch."
The reverend reaches and grips my hair betwixt his mealy hand, so fast and hard that, on top of all else, I fear I may lose the top of my head. I cry out. A thousand stars dance before mine eyes.
"Lie to me not, little harlot," seethes he, spit foaming at the corners of his mouth, "for I fear ye not." The last words remain unspoken. Yet they be writ in his gaze: I fear ye no longer.
He releases me with an angry shove that once more sends me reeling. This time, I halt my fall by splaying my palms outward behind me. His beady blue eyes rake me from head to foot, and half of his mouth lifts upward.
"I did always suspect thou were possessed of dark arts," hisses he, "with how ye smiled and…tempted. Now, I shall be able to prove it."
"I be possessed of no such thing," say I, my voice trembling in both pain and fear.
My gaze pans to Rosalie, who be behind the reverend yet in front of the rest of the elders. As such, her expression be hidden from all but me. And so, when she offers me a cold smile, no one sees. All the while, her final words to me, before the reverend and the rest arrived, ring in mine ears:
'…the day ye removed the rings, ye allowed me into thy clever, dark head, and all ye saw, I saw. All ye felt…I felt as well.'
All ye felt…
My Edward. My love. Our moments joined as one. Bile rises to my throat, but I force it down.
Turning away from Rosalie, I address the reverend again, now with more strength in my voice.
"I be no witch. She be a liar, and she be the witch. She hath confessed it to me. She hath said she invades my mind-"
Again, Rosalie screams. "She inflicts me!" She then contorts her body like a snake, undulating as if she attempts to escape invisible hands. What these nonexistent hands do to her, only she knows. "She pinches me! She be pinching me!" She then pulls at her dress, exposing her shoulder.
When I observe the welts on her shoulder, mine eyes grow round. Vaguely do I hear the reverend and the rest of the elders gasp. For in the next moment, I recall similar welts I have lately hidden underneath my clothing…on mine breasts…mine thighs… Welts…reminders of my moments with Edward.
Someone has been suckling at Rosalie's skin.
"Lies!" I cry. "'Tis not I! I have not-!"
"ENOUGH!" Reverend Newton shouts. "We shall get to the bottom of this."
He snatches me up by my wrist so rapidly that mine teeth rattle. The handful of men waiting in the background then approach. Each grab me, taking no care with where nor avoiding those parts of me they should not brush. Collectively, they pull me forward.
"No! Set me free for I be no witch!"
They comply not. Instead, they lead me from the cellar like chattel, tightening their grips and wrenching my arms when I attempt to pull away. My head throbs. Mine blood pounds wildly, and my heart beats so hard and fast I fear it may erupt. All I can think of now is that somehow, I must reclaim my rings – the rings Goody Platt gave me. What magic they hold, I know not, but they may perhaps be my only hope to keep Rosalie out of my head. To keep her from succeeding in whatever may be her nefarious plan for Edward.
For Edward is far away and has no notion of what occurs.
But the rings…I recall now that I had set them in the small drawer within the night chest by my bedside, the chest Father built for me.
Dear Lord, Father. And Mother.
Mine eyes pan wildly from the face of one familiar jailer to the other. But though the men who tug and prick me take no care with my body, they do no meet mine eyes.
"Where are my mother and father?"
The reverend's son, Michael Newton, who be only a handful of years my senior, suddenly raises his eyes to mine. His own betray his fear, whether of me or the situation, I know not. Nevertheless, he opens his mouth. Yet, before he may speak, he receives a quick and sharp rebuke.
"Look at her not, Michael," Reverend Newton howls, "lest she bewitch ye!"
With a hitch of breath, Michael's gaze shifts briskly away.
"Michael, ye have known me mine entire life. Ye know I be no witch."
He does not reply.
"Michael!" I beseech.
He looks up. No longer is there fear but frigid contempt in his gaze.
"Address me not, witch," hisses he. "I thank the Lord now that thy father did not accept my request for thy hand."
I can only stare at him. When he returns his eyes to the ground, I attempt to reason with the rest of the men. But aye, reason has left us all.
"Goodman Weber, ye know me as well! As do ye, Goodman Stanley! Ye have all known me mine entire life! Ye all know my father! Ye have dined with us and feasted from my mother's table, and ye all know I BE NO WITCH!"
They say nothing. And so I ask a different question, praying for a different outcome.
"Where do ye take me?"
"Silence!" Reverend Newton commands. "Ye do not ask questions! We now shall ask the questions!"
"Where are my mother and father?" I repeat nonetheless.
"I said no questions from ye!" says he, shoving my head.
Stumbling, I lose my footing and end up hauled on mine knees the rest of the way. Fortunately – or perhaps fortune be the wrong word for there be nothing of fortune in this situation – I be not taken far; rather to church, just above the cellar.
Church.
I have been taught by Mother and Father that the church is meant to be a solace to those with heavy hearts. 'Tis a sanctuary to those in need. 'Tis a place of compassion. Of safety.
Yet I feel no compassion in our Puritan, Massachusetts Colony church. Nor do I feel safe when we enter the church's double doors and are greeted by the din of a uproarious mob. The crowd fills every seat. They stand at all four corners. The whole of Andover Village appears to be present, except those I wish to see: Mother, Father, and Goody Platt.
Mine eyes scour all faces as in this manner of dragging me like a pig to slaughter, I am led down the church's center aisle. As I pass each pew, gasps of alarm rise up 'round me. Undisguised whispers of my supposed transgressions easily reach mine ears. These neighbors of mine make the sign of the cross – from forehead to bosom, and shoulder to shoulder.
"They say she be a witch…"
"Aye. They say she communes with the devil…"
"Where are my mother and father?" I shout.
"Silence!" Reverend Newton repeats.
We reach the front of the church, where the reverend's pulpit stands. Before it is set a wooden chair. 'Tis to this chair I be led, then sat forcefully, my rump now joining the parts of me that ache – though, my physical ailments be the least of my concerns. Goodmans Crawley and York each produce rope, with which they begin binding mine hands and feet. When the rope digs into my wrists, I whimper. Goodman York pauses.
"Goodman York, do not stop!" Reverend Newton berates, bounding down the aisle. "Her false claims of pain be surely trickery! Continue! Tightly!"
And so, I be bound so tightly that the ropes cut me, hinders the flow of blood through mine veins. All the while, Reverend Newton wobbles to the head of the church, coming to stand before me.
"Do not dare attempt an escape, for this entire congregation shall join as one to stop ye."
"Where be my mother and father?"
With one last withering look, Reverend Newton begins thus,
"Isabella Swan, ye be on trial for witchcraft, and ye shall stand before thy accusers..."
As he continues, I look out on the crowd. One and all glare at me, some warily, and others with nothing short of hate – their judgment already evident in their eyes. Blood pounds loudly in my ears. The reverend then turns away from me and addresses the overcrowded church.
"Let us beseech the Lord," says he, his thickset arms wide and open to the heavens, "to hear our joined prayer and assist us in this holy endeavor to root out evil in Andover!"
The crowd replies as one. "Amen!"
"To cast out witches and demons in our midst!"
"Aye!"
"Aye! Cast them out!"
"To put an end to the sorcery that hath plagued this town of late and…"
The voices drone as I search for a friendly face, for even one soul who might speak for me. For Goody Platt, at the very least, who may be the only being in this town who can vouch for all I know, who can corroborate the truth of her granddaughter's iniquity.
I cannot find her or anyone who does not appear appalled beyond their wits.
Finally, the reverend is done with his inciting of the crowd. They be all as rabid as can be when he turns back to me with an expression of righteousness, of a pastor guiding his flock into glory.
"Isabella Swan, ye stand accused of being a practicer of witchcraft. Ye be accused of attempting to teach young Rosalie Hale thy dark arts."
"I did not teach her anything! She-"
"Silence! Ye be accused of leading Rosalie deep into the woods, where ye forced her to play fortune games with you!"
"She taught us fortune games! Angela, Jessica, and myself!" Again, my eyes search the crowd. When I locate Angela and Jessica, my friends, I exhale a breath of relief, for I know they can affirm my version of this portion of events, at least. "Angela! Jessica! Tell them! 'Twas Rosalie who taught us all the fortune games!"
Both of my friends look at one another.
"Be this true?" Reverend Newton barks at them. "Were thou both involved in such games?"
"I…"
"We…"
Jessica speaks loudly and clearly. "'Tis not true, Reverend! Angela and I never engaged in such games."
"Jessica!" I call out in bewilderment.
She does not look at me.
"Angela!"
Angela drops her gaze to the floor, her bottom lip quivering.
Their betrayal is yet another wound for which I have no time. For with a smirk, Reverend Newton turns back to me.
"The vileness grows worse," says he, taking a step closer to me, his hands joined behind his backside, "for young Rosalie also tells us that ye…ye pleasured thyself in the woods-"
I squeeze shut mine eyes as gasps of horror and revulsion arise throughout the congregation. I feel faint.
"Ye pleasured thyself in the woods," Reverend Newton repeats for good measure, lest any in the congregation failed to hear or understand, "and ye attempted to convince Rosalie to pleasure her own self as well."
"Lies," I seethe through clenched teeth, reopening mine eyes. "'Twas she as well! Angela and Jessica were there for that too! They know 'twas not I! Angela! Jessica! For the love of God, speak!"
"We were not there!"
"Nay! Nay! We were not there for such a thing!"
Reverend Newton rushes me, his face mere inches from mine, so that as he shouts, his putrid breath forces my head to jerk backward.
"Yet all was still insufficient blasphemy, sinfulness, and immorality for ye! Was it not?"
"I did not-"
"For ye truly employed dark arts, irrevocably turned to evil when ye bewitched Emmett McCarty and led him into the woods as well!"
I inhale a sharp breath through lungs that feel as if they may implode. "No!"
"Aye!" Reverend Newtons counters. "Aye, ye attempted seduction of young Emmett, but when he proved himself too strong-willed for thy Jezebel ways, ye cast a dark spell on him!"
The crowd cries out in unmitigated shock.
"Dear Lord, help us!"
"NO!" deny I.
"Ye cast a spell on him that left him unresponsive in his bed!"
"She spelled him?"
"She be evil personified!"
"Nay! Nay, that is not what occurred!"
"And finally…" Reverend Newton sibilates like a slithering, slippery snake, like a vile, gleeful monster, surreptitiously sneering at me, "we have the worst charge of all…that ye commune with a red-eyed devil, with a demon who teaches ye all they dark arts."
"Dear God in heaven, save us!"
"Spare us from her evil!"
"Take her from our midst!"
Prayers erupt all 'round the church as the congregation pleads for salvation from me.
"Reverend, help us, what shall we do?"
For what feels like an eternity, the reverend remains leaned into me. He allows the congregation's imaginations to run rampant with terror and dread. He waits for their anguished fervor to grow, for their willingness to follow wherever he leads to take complete hold. All the while, he holds my gaze.
You should have stayed out of my way, say his eyes. You should not have laughed at me with your eyes and let me know you saw through me. You should have married my son. You should have submitted to our ways.
"What say ye to all these accusations, Isabella Swan?" asks he eventually.
"Say I, they be all lies," I spit. "The lies of an envious woman and of a lecherous swine!"
An uproar rises in the church house. So deafening that I be momentarily distracted and barely see the reverend's hand rise. When it falls, the ensuing crack arrives before the sting 'cross my cheek. My head rattles between my skull. In the next moment, my entire face pulses and burns.
The church grows eerily silent. Bewildered. Stupefied.
In the congregation's hearts, in their souls, one and all know the wrongfulness, the malevolence in what has just occurred. As I taste blood at one corner of my mouth, as mine head reels unsteadily in lightheadedness, I know that any moment now, someone shall cry out in rage on my behalf. Someone shall surely put an end to this madness, and call out the unjustness of the reverend, of a supposed man of God, and of one who must weigh over twenty stone, striking a woman of barely eight stone. The tides shall now turn in my favor, for the congregation cannot turn a blind eye to this and still call themselves pious. And so, they shall rise from their seats and demand the reverend step away from me. They shall order him, as their ordained minister and thereby, at day's end, answerable to them one and all, to treat me with a modicum of respect. At least, while I be on trial.
Moments become seconds. Seconds seep into a half minute, then a full one. Then two. The church, the congregation, all in Andover remain silent.
"Ye have sufficiently disrespected the house of the Lord with thy misplaced smiles and with thy presence. The next time thou raises thy filthy voice with such vigor here again…I shall not allow thee even an attempt at self-defense," Reverend Newton threatens.
As I hold his malignant gaze, tears of comingled pain and humiliation threaten. They perch at the corners of mine eyes. But I hold them back. I shall not give the reverend, aye, I shall not give any of the damned congregation, for damned they be, the satisfaction of observing me break.
'Tis clear, their minds are already decided. Whether they all truly believe me guilty of witchcraft, or whether they fear going against the reverend and being accused themselves, they have hardened their hearts and minds against me. I therefore do the same against them.
I remain silent.
The reverend backs away. But, he is not done.
"We shall now call witnesses," announces he. "Rosalie Hale!"
Throughout all this, Rosalie has stood at the back of the congregation. Now, she takes a step forward and meets my eyes, terror feigned in hers.
"Fear her not," the reverend says, "for we are in the house of the Lord, and we shall all protect ye against her."
She commences a slow pace down the aisle, halting of a sudden. When she looks up into empty air, her eyes round, and she points at nothing.
"Her specter!"
"What specter?" someone shouts.
"Of what does she speak?" another urgently asks.
Rosalie moves her finger as if it follows an object. It halts beside me. "Her demon specter sits beside her!"
Dropping my head, I shake it from side to side while distressed cries ensue. When I again look up, Reverend Newton's eyes shift between Rosalie and the empty space beside me.
"Where be this specter?" he questions, frowning.
"Look! He be sat on air, on her right side!"
"There is no one and nothing sat beside me!"
"Her specter!" Rosalie shrieks. "He be…he be native! A savage! A warrior with red eyes! He threatens me not to come any closer!"
I lunge from my chair, but I be bound, and when the reverend shoves me, I fall back hard onto the chair.
"No! No! Do not do this, Rosalie! I beg of thee! Do not do this!"
"In the name of the Lord, I command you to be quiet, Isabella!" says the reverend, one arm outstretched in my direction, prepared to shove me again. He then turns back to Rosalie.
"A native?"
"An Indian! A young Indian man!"
"Savages!" cry the crowd.
"Heathens!"
"Heaven help us! She brings the savages' devils against us!"
"The natives know no devils beyond those sitting in this room!"
Gasps of astonishment fill the air.
Meanwhile, the reverend squares his shoulders triumphantly.
"See how the devil lurks within our midst! I have warned ye all, time and again!" Reverend Newton claims, pointing at one and all for emphasis. "And now, ye all see with thy own eyes! Witch, cease casting your savage specter upon Rosalie!" the reverend commands.
"I have no savage specter," I grit through mine teeth.
Rosalie wraps an arm around her stomach. "Her specter afflicts me!"
Her mother now jumps to her feet. "Make the witch stop! She afflicts my child!"
"She shall afflict all our children!"
"I shall move no closer!" Rosalie shrieks.
"Very well, Rosalie! You may stand there, a safe distance from the specter, but pray you, provide thy testimony!" Reverend Newton urges.
In between feigned tears Rosalie recounts her lies – that I have attempted to teach her dark arts since childhood, that I invited she into the woods, then touched myself and told her to do the same.
"'Twas you! You be the witch!" say I. "You confessed to me!"
"And further…" Rosalie continues, her gaze now moving to the empty space beside me, "further, the specter sat beside her…I shall speak regardless of his threats! She has told me he be her lover!"
The congregation roars, and my stomach ripples painfully.
"Be this true?" Reverend Newton enquires. "Is the demon sat beside ye thy lover?"
"There is no one sat beside me," I say weakly.
"I witnessed she in the woods with him, just as I…I witnessed she in the woods with Emmett McCarty."
"No," I breathe, shaking my head. "No 'twas not…I was not…"
"She attempted to bewitch him with her dark arts, but he was too strong. So she struck him down! I heard her spell him before she left the woods!"
"Lies, lies, lies, LIES!" I protest.
"SILENCE!" shouts the reverend. "Rosalie, why did you never tell us of all this?"
"I was petrified! She said she would send her specter to me at night to do horrible things to my family and me, should I speak of it." She follows this with loud wails.
"Hush. Hush, child. I understand thy fear, my child," the reverend consoles. "Please, continue."
"But…after what occurred…after I witnessed she leading Emmett into the woods, after what she did to him-"
"What occurred to him?" interrupt I in indignation. "He attempted to ravish me! All I did was slap his face to return him to his wits, which I failed!"
Goodman McCarty, Emmett's father, jumps to his feet and shouts, "Ye viper-tongued whore!"
"'Tis true!"
"My son would never do such a thing! Silence the lying witch!"
Newton's gaze flares. "Speak not such blasphemy against a God-fearing son of this congregation!"
"I confronted she, though she hath threatened me with her specter. I pleaded with she to leave him be, but then, the next morning," Rosalie sobs, "I heard that Emmett would not wake, and I knew I could no longer remain silent."
"How know ye she be responsible for that as well? Did she confess to you then 'twas her doing?"
"Not then, no. 'Twas the night of the prayer circle for Emmett, when she did confess she had bewitched him, and 'twas her magic which kept he unresponsive, for he had resisted her seduction."
"Be that what ye did, Rosalie?" ask I, understanding now, seeing all too clearly what occurred. "Did ye use thy magic on Emmett because he preferred me?"
Rosalie clutches her sides. "She inflicts me! Help me! Help me! She afflicts me!"
"It is what occurred," breathe I. "'Twas you…"
"She further conveyed 'twas her crimson-eyed lover, who taught her how to accomplish such seductions so that she would use her arts on all the village men and seduce them all, leaving them floundering and distracted so that the savages could attack the colony."
'Tis the wives who shriek now, while the men's attempts to look horrified result in awkward swallowing and fidgeting.
"You evil, evil creature," cry I. "Hate me all ye want, but ye are turning an already frightened people against innocent people."
"Innocent people?" someone cries.
"Is she calling the savages innocent?"
"What treason!"
"Silence! Did ye, Isabella, further reveal in confidence to thy one-time friend, Rosalie, that thee actually…lay with this demon?"
Uproars.
"Did ye disclose your shameful secret to Rosalie and thereby make her an unwilling confidante in your immorality? Did you lay with the demon?"
"HE BE NOT A DEMON!"
"SHE CONFESSES! Ye laid with the being ye yourself claimed to Rosalie was a being not of this realm? An other with red eyes! Did ye leave behind all sense of decency! Of purity! Of morality? Of God's will for a woman's body to remain clean and chaste, meant only for the man He joins to her in holy matrim-"
I can no longer reason. Everything hurts. My face throbs. The betrayals aches. In fact, my entire body aches. And my stomach…there be a war raging in my stomach, and I know not why. 'Tis in this unbalanced, nauseated, disgusted, and irrational state that my mind snaps, and I throw all caution to the wind. For either way, their minds are decided.
"What hubris have ye to assume you know God's will for a woman's body?"
The reverend's eyes verily bulge from their sockets. "What hubris have ye to speak to me in such a manner when I am God's-"
"Ye are God's nothing!" I bitterly snap. "What hubris have ye to speak for God when ye speak nothing of love? God is love! The God I believe in is love – not hate nor fear nor punishment! The God I believe in wishes us love in all its forms! And he shall not punish us for love! Yet what hubris have ye to lecture me, to lecture any when ye know only lust-"
He silences me with another slap. This time, the congregation does not remain silent. Rather they cheer him on.
"Silence the witch!"
"Punish her wickedness!"
"Hang her!"
Newton smiles in my face, emboldened by his flock's reaction.
"You cannot hang me based on the words of an envious woman!" I cry out.
"You shall not hang based on the testimony of an imperfect woman, nay, for we all know women cannot always be relied on. We have one more, wholly reliable witness, for he be at the center of all this."
My heart pounds. Dread turns my blood to ice, for at that moment, I fear that somehow, they have captured Edward, my Soaring Eagle. I feel faint as I search the crowd, prepared to throw myself at the mercy of one and all-
In the next moment, the crowd parts, and mine eyes fall upon Emmett.
"Emmett," I breathe.
He approaches warily, with heavy footfalls. And the congregation is once again silent.
"Emmett McCarty fell ill the month previous," says the reverend, "inexplicably, even though he had shown no signs of sickness and is as hale and hearty as they come. Then, last evening, whilst Isabella Swan was apprehended, Emmett awoke."
Once again, the congregants titter and rumble.
"'Tis coincidence," I say.
The reverend raises and eyebrow. "Coincidence, say you? We shall see, say I."
When Emmett stops at the front pew, I observe his haggard appearance. Dark circles rim his eyes. He has lost weight.
"Regardless of all," I murmur, "I am gladdened that ye have awoken. Her magic on ye was not permanent."
He says nothing and merely holds my gaze impassively.
"Emmett McCarty," the reverend says for all to hear, "is there any truth to what Isabella claims, that 'twas ye who led she into the woods? Further, be it true that ye attempted to ravish her?"
He shakes his head. "I did not lead she into the woods. Further, I made no attempt to ravish she."
I expected nothing else. For to admit to such would earn him hanging.
"Did she lead ye into the woods, Emmett? Did she attempt to seduce ye?" the reverend now asks, barely disguising his eagerness as he awaits Emmett's reply.
Emmett holds my gaze. "I…I…I cannot recall."
This I did not expect. However, Reverend Newton does not appear pleased. His plump lips flatten into a straight line of disapproval.
"What mean ye you cannot recall? Did she or did she not lead you into the woods? Did she or did she not attempt to seduce you?"
"I cannot recall."
"Emmett, you are obviously not completely healed from whatever was thy affliction. I want ye to think clearly," the reverend encourages. "Now, Isabella stands accused of attempted seduction and then bewitchment of thee as witnessed by Rosalie Hale. Is this what occurred?"
"I cannot recall!"
As confused murmurs waft about the church, a minute sliver of hope rises within me. Reverend Newton, meanwhile, rubs his mouth hard with his palm. He expels a deep breath.
"Very well," says he decisively. "We shall now conduct The Touch Test."
I stare at him in bewilderment.
"Emmett, I want you to move slowly and carefully toward Isabella. When your reach her, I want you to cautiously lift a hand and lay it on her arm. If, upon touching Isabella, ye feel as weak as you do now, then thy affliction has nothing to do with she. If…however, upon touching her, you feel all your strength return, then 'twill be proof that she bewitched you, and by touching her, you have stolen back the health she hath taken from you."
"What mad form of test be this?" I cry out.
"Silence!"
"That be no true test!"
The reverend rushes me again, gripping the back of my chair and caging me between his flabby arms.
"Tell me not what be a true witch test," hisses he, "for thy complaints be further proof that ye be afraid of being tested!"
The congregation is deathly quiet as Emmett takes the few steps toward me. I stiffen as he lifts a hand, holding his gaze. His palm is cold and damp when he touches me, and it trembles against my skin. There it remains for a handful of seconds. Then two handfuls. All the while, I see the debate, the war raging behind his gaze. For 'tis he who hath left those marks, those suckling welts upon Rosalie's body. And so, he shall go against her and make amends to me for his attempted ravishment. Or he shall sentence me to death.
In the background, in my periphery, I see how still Rosalie holds herself, waiting.
"Emmett," I breathe imploringly.
He snatches his hand back, his gaze hardening, nostrils flaring. Shoulders squaring with strengthened…with supposed renewed vigor.
"I…I feel my strength returned."
The congregation jumps out of their seats. They scream. They shout. They hug and shake hands, and I squeeze my eyes shut as all breath leaves me. Reverent Newton, with nothing short of glee in his voice, pronounces his judgment:
"Isabella Swan, I find ye to be a witch, a seductress, a Jezebel, a practicer of dark arts, a communer with the devil, and a demon's harlot. Therefore, I hereby sentence ye to death by hanging come morn."
"No," I breathe. "No."
As I be yanked off the chair, my vision blurs in disbelief comingled with absolute terror. Yet, this truly be happening. When my vision clears, my gaze lands on Rosalie.
She smiles.
"No."
Edward. Dear Lord, Edward. He be who she wants, and this sentence of my death by hanging clearly works with what sorcery she has planned. He will return for me and find me…gone. Dead.
And then what? What plans she? What causes her to believe he will ever accept her as my substitute? Unless…unless…unless she means not to be my substitute…but somehow, through her witchery, to be me.
'…the day ye removed the rings, ye allowed me into thy clever, dark head, and all ye saw, I saw. All ye felt…I felt as well.'
Good Lord. She has found a way into my head, and as long as my body survives, she shall reside within it. And Edward shall never know.
"No! No, do not hang me!" I shout as I am dragged back up the aisle, kicking and screaming. For agony rips through me. Repugnance at her deception causes me to vomit.
The congregation cries out.
Such a crushing pain comingled with anger invades my heart. It constricts my lungs. It pierces my soul. I can barely see through it.
"No! No, do not hang me! Burn me! Burn me!"
Silence falls upon the church.
"No, do not burn her!" Rosalie shrieks desperately. "Do not burn her! 'Tis unholy to burn a-"
"BURN ME, OR I SHALL RETURN AND DRAG YE ALL TO HELL WITH ME!"
Goody Swanson faints.
Goodman Crawley falls into convulsions.
The rest of the congregation knows not what to do with itself. Fear invades every particle of their being.
"Burn her! We implore ye, Reverend! Burn the witch!"
"Aye! Aye, burn her!"
"Burn her!"
As one and all call for my burning, save for Rosalie, whose pleas for the opposite are now drowned out, a cold grin of triumph lifts the corners of my mouth. I shall die, but she shall not spend an eternity deceiving, duping, laying with Edward in the pretense that she be me.
And he shall avenge me, of that I have no doubt.
I shall die. But so shall she. And by the pallor of her skin now, I know that she has reached the same conclusion, whether by reading my mind or by simple calculations.
Revenge is cold and insufficient, but 'tis now all I have. Until…until two things happen in unison, both which change everything:
My stomach…something moves within my stomach.
And as my breath hitches wildly, we arrive at the back of the church, where the crowd pushes and shoves me. Slaps and beats me. They mistake my tears for fear when they are for my belated realization and how I have doomed it. Irrationally, I attempt to protect my stomach from the battery.
Amidst the crowd, a small, ancient woman appears. In the mayhem, no one notes or questions when she grips my hair and draws me toward her.
"I cannot see if ye shall survive!" hisses she in my ear.
She releases me and disappears back into the crowd. And, as my jailers and I break through the melee, I find a series of three rings now rest on mine fingers.
A/N: Thoughts?
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SUPER SHORT HISTORY LESSON:
This is obviously a highly fictionalized version of the Salem Witch Scare of 1692. However, the accusations I've used, such as the "fortune games" and "promiscuity" and "witch's tests," etc., were all real and serious accusations in Puritan New England. During the Salem Trials, events such as these really earned innocent women (and one or two men, I believe), hangings. In addition, research into the Salem events, after the fact, raised questions about why so many of those accused were women. A few were marginalized members of New England society – a slave, a beggar who rarely attended church, and a woman who'd been known to be involved romantically with an indentured servant. Many of the accused also tended to be from families with which the accusers' (young, teenaged girls, for the most part) families had been feuding over money, over land, over church politics, etc.
Looking back with the perspective provided by modern science, some scholars have speculated that the strange behavior of the accusers may have resulted from some combination of asthma, encephalitis, Lyme disease, epilepsy, child abuse, delusional psychosis, or convulsive ergotism—the last a disease caused by eating bread or cereal made of rye that has been infected with the fungus ergot, which can elicit vomiting, choking, fits, hallucinations, and the sense of something crawling on one's skin.
And now I'll say…HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!
"See" you next year. ;)