Death Angel

Chapter 17: Van Dyke

Salem, Massachusetts, July 19, 1692

"Crimes against humanity?" asked the presiding magistrate, John Hathorne. The courtroom was packed that morning, making him more than a little uncomfortable.

The masses tended to complicate things. It was his job to see to it that a fair trial was conducted, but the mass hysteria of the last few days had built itself up to precarious levels. The crowd wanted blood. Wanted it so much, that John feared that a contradictory verdict would be enough to turn the crowd ugly.

"Indeed your honor," the prosecutor paced the room impatiently. The wooden floors were gleaming, having been polished to a perfect sheen the day before. Still the wooden floorboards creaked and groaned just enough to give away their age, as the prosecutor took stride after confident stride.

John Hathorne disliked it of course. He disliked it just as much as he did any other form of theatrics. Plays, acrobats and performers; those were the only things he deemed appropriate for flamboyant displays such as the one he was witnessing in his courtroom. What a disgrace. In a festival or traveling circus, things might have been completely different. But a courtroom? Such a thing was sacred.

"There are far more crimes that have been committed by the heathen that stands before us."

"Tell me again what the accused has done."

"Spells, your honor. Magic. Unnatural things."

John Hathorne sighed. There was nothing he hated more than ignorance masquerading as intelligence. "And how, pray tell have these things been observed?"

"Aye, 'tis clear as day, your honor," the prosecutor said with a flourish, displaying once more his flair for exhibition. "Frolicking in the dawn, just before sunlight, riling up other women to join her. They worship Satan, your honor."

"It is a very serious matter to accuse someone of consorting with the Devil."

"Indeed your honor," pleaded the prosecutor. "But this woman consorts with the Devil and far worse. Why, just the other day she gave a healing salve to young Emily Hawkins, who we all know had a broken leg. No one thought anything of it, 'til little Emily was suddenly out and about, running like she never had a broken leg, mere hours after receiving the salve."

"Perhaps this woman, perhaps she is a healer," said John Hathorne, doing his best to hide the smirk on his face.

"Healers have their limits your honor. Human beings have their limitations." The sarcasm of John's previous comment was obviously lost on the prosecutor. "Beyond those limitations, there is only the power of God, and the power of the evil one."

"And you have testimony that attests to this? This is more than hearsay?"

"Far more than hearsay, your honor." The prosecutor produced a thick set of documents. "These are signed confessions of the women that participated in the events. Let it be known that the woman who stands before us was the primary instigator of the rituals."

John Hathorne sighed. "That is for the court to decide. Bring the woman."

The guards brought a young lady forward, and several people spat on the floors upon seeing her. "No wonder the floors are gleaming," thought John. "They get polished so often."

"You understand the charges that are being presented to you?" the magistrate asked.

The young woman looked at the judge without uttering a word, her eyes boring deeply into his. This bothered John Hathorne a lot.

Don't you realize I have the power to save you or send you to your death?

John Hathorne let out a long sigh. "Not a single word in your defense, m'lady? Surely a few sentences to save your life?"