Copyright
Massachusetts, 1692
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
Exodus 22:18, King James Version
The beast of burden beneath Richard Tarr was aptly labeled. With a broad, short back and powerful hindquarters, the horse was more suited for labor than riding. No amount of prodding could urge the massive brown steed into a pace faster than the jarring trot that had threatened to rattle the teeth right out of his mouth. Appreciating the teeth that had never given him any trouble, Richard resigned himself to letting the animal trod along. Unused to such travel, Richard found the saddle awkward, and the hot summer sun had sweat trickling down his back. All of it, the horse, the heat, the very mission, spurred his frustration.
His own two feet would have been faster. Or a rowboat. That would have been his choice. Water travel was in his blood, even when his feet were on solid ground.
A boat hadn’t been an option, not unless he’d wanted to portage across several miles of swamp. Therefore, he was atop the dull brown beast, plodding along as if time made no difference.
He’d traveled this land route before, the road of less than twenty miles that led from the Boston Harbor to the village of Salem. It was a long and lonely trek, and he was accompanied only by a dark dread that sat in his gut like a sleeping giant awaiting an opportunity to wake. Stretching and yawning, the giant seemed to take great pleasure in rising from an eternal sleep to trouble Richard’s mind and soul. Sometimes it was for no more than a flickering second; other times it would fully wake and haunt him for hours, never remembering its presence did not need to be verified.
That sleeping giant had taken root years ago, and though Richard chose to believe it rested comfortably while he was at sea, his soul knew differently. It knew he’d made a choice based on carnal and selfish needs and that the outcome of it had left a heavy grudge inside him. Therefore, the inner part of him that housed the sleeping giant relentlessly assured Richard he’d never know complete peace again.
This, he thought as the horse clip-clopped over a crusted trail sprouting barely a blade of grass, is my punishment. My sentence, and I have no choice but to abide by it as if it were decreed upon me by the king of England.
The child wasn’t to blame. No child ever was. He’d come to accept that years ago. Born a seaside waif, he’d never known his parentage. Never knew how he came to be living on the streets of London, stealing scraps of bread and drinking from rain barrels. Those were his earliest memories. Whether he actually remembered those incidents or whether they’d been placed in his memory by Captain Earl Burrows, Richard wasn’t sure. Earl claimed Richard had been about five when Earl found him scavenging along the docks. Although not known for deeds of charity, Captain Burrows had taken Richard aboard his ship. Perhaps Earl had figured that was the only act of benevolence he needed to provide. Either way, some twenty-odd years ago, Richard had begun his life of sailing. He rose up the ranks from cabin boy, and five years ago, when Earl knew his days were numbered, the captain turned over the love of his life, the Concord, to Richard.
All his years at sea had played well in Earl’s favor, and that too had been bequeathed upon Richard. The Concord was but one sea vessel—albeit his favorite—in his fleet, which sailed from England to the colonies, then on to the West Indies and Spain before returning to England. The fleet served Richard well and would continue to for years to come.
The trail upon which the horse trod widened, suggesting they would soon arrive at their destination. Bracing himself, for he knew the inner giant would soon stir, Richard scanned the horizon. Blocked by trees, it was nothing like the image he was used to seeing, where if a man didn’t know better, he might believe he’d sail right over the edge of the world. From the deck of the Concord, the horizon was always a glorious sight. Water as far as one could see—an image that always stirred the part of his soul he did know. The part of him that relished his life at sea. The life he was born to live.
That wasn’t so today. Around the bend would be a village. The one after that was where he would collect his daughter. A child spawn from his loins and born on land after he’d taken to sea again.
His breath tightened in his chest, and he transferred the reins to his other hand in order to dig into his shirt pocket for the crisp slip of paper. It was a brief note, simply stating the death of his wife and where his daughter was awaiting his imminent arrival. A daughter he had no idea what he would do with other than collect. That much he understood as his duty.
Without guidance from him, the horse rounded the corner. Then the heavy hooves stopped, and everything about Richard went still as he lifted his gaze.
The horse stomped and tossed its broad head, sensing the death Richard’s eyes had locked onto. A single large and gnarly tree stood upon a hill on the edge of town, next to a rocky cliff that bespoke an ominous aura even as the summer sun shone above. Off the lowest branches hung several ropes and at the end of those ropes was the most catastrophic sight his eyes had ever gazed upon.
Eight—he counted them twice—bodies dangled eerily. Although he was a distance away, it was apparent the poor souls, whoever they may have been, had their hands tied behind their backs and their legs bound.
Closing his eyes, questioning the sight, Richard drew a breath before lifting his lids again. The image hadn’t changed. If anything, it appeared darker, more sinister. A curse rumbled deep in his throat. The majority of the bodies were clothed in dresses.
A shiver crawled up his spine at the evil gloom that seemed to penetrate the entire hilltop and block the otherwise bright sunlight from shining down upon that singular tree.
It was then he noticed the crowd gathered lower on the hill. Not on the rocky side, but the grassy side that gently sloped downward and eventually opened up into the village green of the community. A plethora of sounds reached him, or perhaps they had always been there and he’d been deaf to them, too stunned by the sight to take in more.
The horse tossed his head again and took a step backward, as if unwilling to go any closer. Richard didn’t blame the animal. There wasn’t crying or protests. Instead, an almost joyous chant echoed through the air. As if the bodies swinging from the tree were a glorious sight to behold.
Richard reined in the horse to keep it from twisting about. In doing so, the note crinkled in his hand. Once the horse was settled, he flattened the paper on his thigh before holding it up to read where his daughter would be located. Urgency arose inside him. The sooner he completed his business, the better. He’d entered corrupt ports during his voyages and instinctively knew this place hosted a sinister core.
Staying near the outskirts of Salem, as far from the hill as possible, he steered the steed onward. With little more than a tap of his heel, the horse’s speed increased, putting distance between them and the hill. Like him, the animal was leery of entering the town.
The note described a large home between Salem Towne and Salem Village. The two were no more than five miles apart and, as he’d learned before, very separate communities. One more welcoming than the other. However, the spectacle he’d just witnessed had him wondering if his recollection was correct.
Not that it mattered. He’d leave both villages before nightfall and never return.
A short distance later, he crossed a bridge. On the other side farms scattered the road, some close by, some set back. Locating the one he
