The unbroken circle

Revised prologue

Sarah Malone

Salem, Massachusetts

April 1692

"Quite a fine day for the gallows," commented Eduard Hobbes to James Webb, the upturned curve of his mouth lending to the smear in his tone .

"Yes, a fine day indeed, " James Webb agreed, a malicious grin spreading across his leathery face. James Webb swung the creaky, wooden door wide and stepped into the dank, dank cell.

Eduard Hobbes followed closely behind, his arms folded. "This cell wreaketh of the Devil," He spat on throned, grumbling as he did so.

Fractured sunlight slanted in, breaking up the encompassing shadow of the hollow, suffocatingly charged finality the cell embodied for its reluctant occupants.

"Thou execution art nye, Sarah Malone," Eduard Hobbes stated, his slack faced expression and stony were as bland as his appearance.

After helping Sarah rise onto her unsteady feet, Master Hobbes gingerly led Goody Sarah away from the splice of her cell's single window that sat high upon the prison wall, both so tantalizingly close, and yet, miles away from her groping hands. How she longed for sunlight; the kiss of the sun upon her face, the feathery breeze like a tickle upon her dry skin, the smell of rain in the early Salem morning. Had it only been but a month since her arrest?

"Follow," James Webb commanded, shoving a very stiff Sarah toward the gaping door that led out of the cramped prison.

Her muscles wailed in agony at her sudden, brisk pace. After lingering weeks of forcing her body into the same, now familiar crouch upon the hard packed, dirt ground, the agonizing stiffness in her joints brought an odd, reassuring pleasure. The pain affirmed her place as one of the living- for now, at least.

A sudden shiver wracked Sarah's frail body, drawing her to recoil inwardly, though her feet did not halt in their steady march. Nothing about the brilliant, blue of the Salem sky had been altered. it was all as she remembered; the air, the wavering grass and the rich dirt underfoot. Dark strands of hair whipped about her cheeks as the warm breeze of the summer's day danced about the motley procession of the accused who trekked to Gallows Hill in Sarah's wake. A crowd had already gathered, craning their necks to gaze at the line of prisoners, accusation and wariness clear in the dozens of pairs of eyes .

Shallowly, Sarah drew in her breaths- her last few breaths. An irrefutable accusation sat upon her head. A witch, they all proclaimed. A witch, indeed.

At the crest of the steep, grassy hill-Gallows hill- resided the means of her end. The knotted, graying-brown ropes whipped with the breeze, appearing almost as harmless like the leaves fluttered in the trees on the edge of Sarah's husband's land.

The Afflicted Girks huddled near the front of the crowd. When they laid eyes the line of condemned, their faces crumpled as they moaned in feigned fright. One girl clawed at her eyes, whilst another scratched roughly at her neck, mewling like a cat. Just the sight of the girls elicited a fresh wave of bile to climb up Sarah's dry throat. The pretenders winning in their childish games of life and death deserved only her pity.

The smallest girl, the daughter of Goody Sarah Malone's accuser keened Sarah's name in a half whimpering, half pleading voice. "Release me, I beg you, Goody Malone!"

Her mother, Goodwife Mary Wade had once been a friend of Sarah's. In fact, Sarah delivered all of her five children- the last of them being the round faced girl pleading for Sarah's death this very day.

Of Goody Wade's five children, two had lived past infancy; her elder daughter, Susanna and the afflicted girl who spoke falsely against Sarah. Their claims are only partly fabricated, however. For Sarah, admittedly, was a witch. Not a Satanic, heathen- nay,, nowhere near what they claimed she be. Sarah held no ill against God, nor the confines of the Puritan lifestyle. But she knew in her heart that the trusst form of worship could be attributed to the Earth.

A sharp shove forward jolted Sarah out of her mind's eye. The procession of jailers and prisoners halted in before the gallows. Jeers of "witch," and "Satan's messenger," rattled her.

Their twisted faces blurred as a folly of hot tears crept out from the corners of her eyes. Only four faces registered in her mind; Rose, Alice, Adam and John gaze back. forcing a mask of peace upon her otherwise grim expression, Sarah deftly moved forward at the prompting of Master Hobbes.

As She did thusly, a single teardrop trailed Rose's cheek. Alice's blue eyes glazed over, resignation clear there. Sarah's husband, John donned a mask upon his typically jovial face. An impassive facade marred his expressive features. Sarah watched as her only son, Adam hid his in his father's side.

"Tis time Sarah. Have a final say, if thou must." James Webb muttered gruffly by Sarah's ear.

Sarah nodded.

"Tis an oath I wish to impart," Her voice rose from a wavering croak to a suddenly, steely boom. "On thi day, the day of my unwelcome execution, I wish to promise a sacrifice of my flesh and blood onto the Earth. Heed ny vow now; the blood of my blood will follow in mine own footsteps. This be a vow my own will surely comply to. Any born of my bloodline will halt any who hope to allow crimes as these to occur henceforth. No accuser or kin to an accuser will be harmed. Violence feeds violence, as death does death. So mote it be." Her voice rang out over the cacophonous crowd.

In the wake of her declaration, a chorus of "Kill the witch!" erupted from the congregated villagers.

Sarah found the scraping rope placed roughly around her neck. Inch by inch, the rope tightened about. A wet gag choked Sarah's growing protestations. Limp legs flailing, Sarah claws at the noose clamping about her throat. Wheezy, sharp breaths broke off as the last remnants of Sarah's final supply of sweet, sweet Oxygen whistled from her aching lungs. The bittersweet blackness swallowed Goodwife Sarah Malone moments later, mercilessly freeing her from the bonds of the confines of her imperfect, mortal body.