Okay. So I'm going to try to keep up with this story the best that I can. I know I've never posted a complete story. I'm sorry; it's a weakness of mine. I get so drawn into it, then something comes up, or I simply lose interest. Fear not, I have high hopes for this story, and I think you guys will be thoroughly pleased with it. This chapter pretty much focuses on the hidden tension and rivalry of Danforth and Hale. Again, it's not going to fit in with the scenes and acts from the play/movie. This is pretty much my version of behind the scenes. So, I'll stop blabbing, and I'll let you continue reading. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

The sun was fighting the clouds that day, as it had seemed to have been doing for the past couple of weeks now. The grass was now brittle and brown, and the trees showed no sign of life. The mornings were dark and dormant now that all of the birds had flown south for the winter. It was a depressing time of year; even more so now that the unfortunate events were occurring here, thought Hale.

The dead leaves crunched on the ground as he walked solely to the meeting hall from his carriage, in response to a request from Reverend Parris to meet face to face with the supreme officials of the court before the suspects were tried. His brown hair blew in every which direction. He folded his lips inward and hunkered down into his shoulders to avoid getting chapped from the wind. He gripped his bible tightly and held it against him as it if were a living, breathing entity. In a way, to him, it was.

He recollected on the families he visited yesterday, analyzing each of their situations. Why here, in Salem? Why all of these children? The devil had his particularly queer ways of afflicting innocents, and choosing his hosts. A smirk crept onto his face; simply the sheer fact that the town needed him sent a jolt of satisfactory up his spine. His importance was lavished here; this town relied on him and his scholarship. No matter. He was going to get to the bottom of this, if it was the last thing he'd ever do. No man of God would ever let His children suffer.

His mood of feeling utterly significant and powerful quickly wavered as he came to the entrance of the town meeting hall, where he would finally meet face to face with the almighty Thomas Danforth, thought to be the most logical man in all of Massachusetts. And most powerful, too. His heart pulsated in his ears as he nervously opened the heavy door to the conference center. There he came to see Reverend Parris, along with a few other officials of the court whose faces he did not recognize; and none other than Deputy Judge Danforth himself.

"Ah, Mister Hale!" Parris ushered eagerly over to the grinning man, greeting him with a firm handshake. "Good to see you, man."

Hale nodded, "Mister Parris." He nervously crossed his hands in front of him.

"Come; allow me to introduce you to our finest officials. This here is Judge Hawthorne, and Judge Sewer. Over here we have Mister Herrick, our court marshal. And this is Ezekiel Cheever, our court clerk."

"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen," replied Hale, shaking each of the men's hands accordingly. The men nodded.

"And this is Judge Danforth, our very own governor."

"It's an honor, Mister Hale," Danforth nodded, greeting the minister with a handshake. His face was that of stone, showing no sign of emotion. As well as the Reverend could read a person, he could tell this one was going to be a touch nut to crack. A glimpse of what Hale believed to be a smile grew on the Judge's face.

Hale grinned, his nervousness choking up in his throat. He felt intimidated rather than of equal status to this man. He could almost feel the authority lustering from this stone man. The very room he stood in felt as if it were a holy relic. The aura radiating from him was something so supreme; something so… powerful. "No, Mister Danforth, the honor is truly mine."

Danforth poured himself a glass of ale. A moment of silence filled the room, waiting for him to start a discussion on the town's crisis. He sipped the beverage before breaking the silence. "Mister Hale; what is a man like yourself doing so far away from home, all the way out here in Salem from Beverly?" he asked, appearing to attempt to make friendly conversation. The gentlemen looked over at him.

Hale glanced at Parris, who nodded at him to continue. "Why, the same reason you're here from far as well, sir; to bring justice to the wrong-doers, and save the afflicted children. Mister Parris sent for me to examine the town of witchery."

"Mmm-hmm." Danforth walked towards the fireplace and took a seat, studying the burning embers in the hickory wood. He watched as the ones that were the brightest and hottest eventually crumble and fall into the ash. "And what makes you think you can free these children?" he asked, not disturbing his fix on the fire.

Hale grinned, the extent of his knowledge flooding his entire body all the way up to his nervous red cheeks. "This whole region can be freed, sir. By the dispensation of the almighty Father and His mercenaries who lavish and teach of His great power and grace all across His green earth, every wretch and every sinner can overcome the infernal grasp of the Devil himself," he said in account to the Puritan belief that was thickly spread over the town of Salem, "whether they be bewitched or not." He gripped his bible tightly, anxiously running his fingers over the rivets in the spine.

Danforth took a moment for the little man's words to register into coherency. He set his goblet of ale on the table as he rose, looking far off in the bleak sky through the window. He put both hands behind his back. Silence filled the room. After a moment, Danforth spoke. "I bid you do right, Mister Hale."

Hale nodded. "Ay, sir." He quickly put on his hat and turned to the door before he heard his name once more, and was halted in mid-step by Danforth. He peered over his shoulder.

Danforth turned his head slowly away from the window to face him. "We look for no saint to save this town." His eyes hardened. Hale said nothing. "Only God."

A bit stunned and not sure whether to take the comment seriously or not, Hale half-heartedly smiled at the men before leaving the meeting hall. He didn't understand. Did Danforth really think he believed himself to be a saint? It was absurd, he thought. He was a minister, not a savior, and he knew in his heart along with God that he thought himself no more than that.

Hale briskly walked over to his carriage and nestled himself in the seat comfortably. With both hands on the reigns, the horse moved forward, pulling the buggy along with it.

Traveling further down the dirt path that led him to his temporary homestead, he noticed a figure in the near pastures. It was to his surprise to see John Proctor laboring the day away by lashing the tall dead grass left over from the summer. It made his day a little better to see someone as humble and noble as he. Proctor waved in the far distance as Hale brought the steed to a halt.

Proctor leaned his rake on his shoulder. "Ah, Mister Hale. How do you do, sir?"

"Quite alright, thanks." Hale looked over the vast meadows. "How is Goody Proctor?"

"She's well."

Hale noticed a certain hollowness in his voice, as if he wanted to avoid the subject. In the far distance, he could hear the rattling of another oncoming carriage coming through the valley. "Who is that?" he asked, never recollecting seeing that horse outside the church yesterday.

"Oh. That be Mister Hershel Brunswick. He lives across the way, there."

Hale pondered at the name. "Brunswick… funny, I don't recall seeing him at the sermon yesterday."

"Because you didn't," Proctor replied, dusting the hay seed off his shirt. He looked back up to him. "Mister Brunswick, Goody Brunswick, Miss Gallows, and their daughter don't attend church but maybe once a year, and not on their own accord." He looked down for moment. "Best get going then… Elizabeth has dinner waiting."

Hale was baffled. Don't attend church? He wasn't used to hearing such blasphemy of denying the love of Jesus. His brows narrowed as he watched the carriage approach the two of them. There, he could make out the man's face. He was a darkly handsome man, tan from working long hours in the sun and equipped with facial stubble. The man smiled. He looked as though a good man should… but surely he did not deny the power of God.

"Evening to you, Proctor." Hershel nodded his head, tipping his hat as Proctor walked passed him, who returned the favor. He looked over at the strange man he'd never seen before. He was properly dressed and well groomed; obviously not from the village. "You mustn't be from around here." He held out his hand in greeting to Hale after jumping from his carriage. "Hershel Brunswick."

Hale smiled and accepted the greeting. "Reverend John Hale." He had never remembered shaking so many hands in one day.

"Where do you come from, Mister Hale? I've not seen you in town." The town was weary about strangers. It wasn't often they got visitors out here in the pastures.

"Beverly. I've come here on behalf of Reverend Parris."

"From Beverly? What brings you all the way here?"

Hale's eyebrows rose, baffled. "Why, to rid the town of witches; to bring the light of Jesus to the accused."

A confused expression spread over Hershel's face. "Witches? I'm afraid I don't understand… I've never heard of such a thing here." His heart raced as he felt his cheeks turn hot.

Hale froze. He looked away from him, exhaling slowly through his nostrils as he pondered on what he had just heard. Not going to church, and knowing not of the darkness that had overcome his own village; could it be that he was afflicted, too? Perhaps the devil was conjuring him ignorance. "Tell me, sir… how often do and your family attend church?"

Hershel fidgeted nervously. He hated when people asked these types of questions, especially a minister. "I'd be lying if I said we went often. We… practice at home."

"I see… we'll talk again," said Hale, a little suspicious to his lifestyle. He grabbed the reigns to his horse. "I bid you good day, Mister Brunswick," he said before he moved onward down the trail. Hershel waved slightly, a nervous knot forming in his chest. He needed now more than ever to protect his family.