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  By J. Thorn

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  Before the Realm

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  Copyright © 2013 by J. Thorn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by:

  Katy Sozaeva

  Laurie Love

  For more information:

  http://www.jthorn.net

  [email protected]

  Before the Realm: Inception, Act I

  Salem 1692

  The red devil’s stone ax split her mother’s skull every time she closed her eyes, the gruesome scene playing over and over again in her head. Mary would be pleased with three hours of sleep. Maybe two. But most nights she laid awake, listening to her uncle’s snores and watching the spiderweb flitter in the night’s chill. Her mother’s brother took her in as a gesture of condolence as well as empathy. Mary hated tending to the animals and standing over the hearth while the fire singed the bottom of her skirt, but the relative safety of the village was preferable to the vulnerability on the world’s edge, the place where the red devils could ride out of hell and bludgeon your family to death with a wicked reckoning.

  Mary sat up and pushed the thin, woolen blanket off of her feet and tucked the edges around Bridget’s neck. The gaps in the shake let the chilly, autumn air seep into the home. Her uncle refused to burn the firewood before the first frost in hopes that it would last until the first thaw. She crept out of the room and pushed the heavy door outward. The rows of cornstalks swayed and rustled like murmuring children. The aroma of ripe apples, leaves, and the inevitable winter shook the sleep from Mary’s head.

  “I’m not going tonight,” she said in a hushed whisper. She knew it was a lie. She was going whether she wanted to or not.

  She turned to the right, toward the forest and the narrow path at the eastern end of the Parris farm. For a moment, Mary thought she saw the flicker of his eyes. She looked up at the crescent moon in a cloudless sky, and when she looked back they were gone. She stood still, the autumn woods soft and gentle but also smothering the hidden evil.

  You must come to me to save yourself.

  Mary tired of the call and shook her head, as if to loosen the words from inside and spill them onto the ground. The Black Man spoke as if he controlled her every action, and in a way, he did.

  “I’m tired. I wish to sleep and rest my weary bones.”

  You are barely a woman, a child on the cusp of adulthood. Your bones are not old enough to be weary. Come to me so we can continue the apprenticeship.

  “I don’t want to any longer. The Reverend, he preaches of the clutches of Lucifer and—”

  The Reverend wishes nothing more than to push his diseased appendage into your warm folds. He has sick, demented fantasies in his head, and they are not the work of Satan.

  Mary sighed and turned to look back at the door of the family’s home. Her feet pulled her toward the safety of the warm bedding until the vision of blood on the pillow filled her head again, the memory of the red devil’s ax buried in her father’s head. She turned away from the door and its memories and looked again at the path leading into the forest. She took a step toward the trees and out of the moon’s meager light.

  ***

  His cape hung on broad shoulders and cut through the air like a black knife. He never faced her, never revealed his eyes. The rim of his black hat glistened with moisture as the deepest depths of night turned toward dawn. The sun would not breach the horizon for several more hours, leaving Mary and the Black Man alone. She knew none of the others would be joining them. Mary dreaded these meetings more than all the rest.

  “Harvest. The solstice comes soon thereafter.”

  “You did not beckon me from sleep to speak of fall plantings.”

  “No, I did not,” said the Black Man.

  He stepped around the struggling fire burning inside a white star drawn on the freshly scraped earth of the forest, crackling leaves pushed to the perimeter in fluffy mounds. Mary took a step backward until her shoulders felt the bite of sharp bark at her back.

  “I fear they’ll return. The red devils. I want your protection,” she said as he stood in front of her. His hat floated nearly seven feet from the ground.

  “I shall protect you from their savagery,” he replied.

  “I know and that is why I am here. I want the power of darkness to keep the beasts at bay.”

  “And I have provided that protection, have I not?”

  Mary nodded as she felt his cold grip on her breasts.

  “When the final judgment comes to this village, you will deliver the weak to me and I will spare your soul.”

  Mary hitched up her skirt and turned around, wrapping her arms around the tree. She felt him enter, which forced a tear from her eye. She bit her lip until it bled and that pain was the only thing she could feel.

  ***

  “What is meant here by Devils? One of you is a devil, a wicked angel or spirit in service of the Dark Prince, the Black Man, and his fallen angels. He uses the flesh for vile and wicked deeds, the worst of such, their villainy and impiety do not resemble devils and wicked spirits. Thus Christ, in our text, calls Judas a devil, for his great likeness to the Devil and his betrayal of God’s only son. For he was a man, but a devil in likeness and operation. Ye are of your Father, the Devil.”

  Mary saw the Reverend’s face contort in anger at the mention of the Black Man and Satan’s minions. She watched the men looking upon the pulpit in stern consternation from one side of the congregation while the women on the other side blinked the tears from their faces. She wanted out of the crammed church house, to enjoy the few hours of the week on the Sabbath that were not going to be spent scrubbing floors or tending to the hearth.

  “There are such devils in the Church, not only sinners but notorious sinners; sinners more like the devil than others. Some here have communed with Lucifer, have signed his book and consummated that covenant in the most vile, insidious ways. Christ tells us that such are the children of the wicked one, of the Devil. Hypocrites are the very worst of men. Corruptio optimi est pessima. Hypocrites are the sons and heirs of the devil, the free-holders of Hell. When Satan repossesseth a soul, he becomes more vile and sinful. As the jailer lies loads of iron on him that hath escaped. None are worse than those that have been good and have turned from the Lord’s graces; those that might be good, but will not.”

  She stifled a giggle and then glanced at Bridget sitting to her right. Her cousin looked back and smiled with the innocence of childhood in her eyes. Mary thought about what the Black Man had told her about the Reverend, and she smiled at the irony of his sermon on the hypocrites caught in the Devil’s snare.

  “Christ knows who these Devils are. There is one among you, a Judas to the twelve of Christ. Well, who is that? Why it is Judas. Christ knows how many Devils among us, whither one of ten, or twenty. He knows us perfectly and he knows those of us that are in the Church, that we are either saints or devils, true believers or hypocrites, and which amongst us would sell Christ and his kingdom to gratify a lust. We do not think we are such,
but the Lord seeeth it. He knows the one amongst you that is corrupt and he will bring his heavenly vengeance to bear on that diseased soul.”

  The Reverend left his gaze on Mary far longer than he should have and she felt it. Mary knew the time had come, and she knew what decision had to be made. The reckoning was upon them and she would not surrender her fate in Salem to the murderous red devils that annihilated her family in Maine.

  ***

  “Tell me the story again.”

  “You’re a foolish, morbid child, Bridget.”

  Mary grabbed the horsehair broom to brush the ashes from the front of the hearth before using a ladle to stir the soup inside of the cast-iron pot. She could see her cousin out of the corner of her eye, clutching a ragged doll to her chest and biting her bottom lip.

  “Tell me what the Indians done to the God-fearing folks.”

  She stopped and turned to face Bridget. Mary peered outside the door to make sure John and Goody Proctor were not within earshot.

  “You know yer mama would put the whip to me if she knew I was telling you more war stories from the frontier.”

  “The Second Indian War, not King Phillips,” Bridget pleaded.

  “You want to know about the raids, am I right?”

  Bridget nodded and sat on the floor at Mary’s feet.

  “It was about this time of year, late harvest,” Mary began. “Maine had been under siege for five days and four nights by the savages. They ended up killing over two hundred of us.”

  “How’d they do it?”

  “It be too gruesome for a girl your age, Bridget. I can’t tell you no more.”

  Mary turned away from Bridget with a wide smirk on her face.

  “Please?”

  “You mention a word to anyone that I told you this and I’ll beat you. You hear me?”

  Bridget nodded yet again.

  “The red devils rode through the town, setting fire to all the houses. They asked us if we wanted to surrender with the prospect of being burned alive, and many good folks came out. When they did, the red devils said they didn’t need no more French prisoners and they struck the men down, and the women.”

  “What’d they do to the children?” Bridget asked.

  Mary shook her head and sighed the same way she had done so many times before.

  “The savages skewered their little bodies, from anus to mouth.”

  Bridget winced.

  “That night, men could be heard screaming about the land as the red devils skinned them alive and then roasted their flesh. They used the women in their fiendish ways and killed them too. Those of us that could get out, me and my folks, we made for Falmouth, to a place we thought was safe.”

  “But it wasn’t safe, was it?”

  “No,” replied Mary. “It wasn’t. A few nights later, while we lay in our beds, the red devils snuck into the village along with a few of the French. They broke through the doors and smashed people’s heads right on the pillow. I saw my mama’s life drain from her face. Nothing but a freak encounter saved me from them too.”

  Bridget waited for her favorite part of the story.

  “The Black Man appeared and the red devils scattered. He approached me and shook his head at the carnage that lay about the cabin. ‘Go south to Salem before they return.’ I’ll never forget those words and the way they slithered from his face like a filthy snake. I did what he said. I ran and ran until I found a farm where they sent word to your daddy, my uncle. You can imagine my surprise when I found out that he lived here, in Salem.”

  “The Black Man saved you,” Bridget said.

  “Or damned me,” replied Mary. She turned and left the child to ponder the possibility of another attack.

  ***

  Mary awoke the next morning with the echoes of the Reverend’s sermon in her head. She had no lingering memories of the previous night, but did not make any assumptions about what that meant. The Black Man worked like the insidious leak in a roof. What started as a trickle could end as a devastating flood. She went about her daily work, feeding the hens at sunrise and keeping the flame in the hearth. The others began their daily activities as well while trying to fend off the morning’s bitter chill.

  “I dreamt of the red devils.”

  “Aye. We all do, coming from the frontier war,” replied Mary.

  Bridget moved through the room whisking dirt from the floor, or at least appearing to do her chores.

  “Other girls been talking about Tituba.”

  Mary stopped and turned to face her young cousin. She glanced about the room.

  “What about her?”

  “They say she can help, with, you know, boys.”

  “That’s a lie. Sinners will pay for it.”

  “She can. They been in the woods with the Venus glass.”

  Mary shuttered the window and pushed the door shut. She grabbed Bridget by the shoulders and forced her into a chair.

  “Who’s talking of this?”

  “Abigail and Betty,” replied Bridget.

  “Have you not heard of the Reverend Hale’s cautions? That glass will bring nothing but diabolical manifestations. You stay away from Tituba, you hear me?”

  Bridget nodded but smiled.

  “This is not to be trifled with. You’d only be whipped for singing and dancing. But witchcraft is a hanging offense.”

  “Then what do you do out in the dark night, deep in the woods? I seen you, Mary. I seen you walking out there.”

  Mary sighed and placed her hands on her hips.

  “That ain’t nothing for you to be worrying about. I know what I’m doing and it’s for the sake of the colony, the Crown.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  Bridget smiled again and the blood drained from Mary’s face.

  “What else have they said about the slave woman?”

  “Tituba?”

  “Of course, child. Don’t play games with me.”

  “They say she’s not from Africa. They say she’s one of the red devils,” Bridget said.

  “She came from Barbados.”

  “Aye,” replied Bridget. “But that is not where she was born.”

  Mary waited. Bridget kicked her feet in the air as they dangled inches from the floor. She leaned back in the chair and grinned at her cousin.

  “Well?”

  “They say she’s an Orik.”

  “Arawak.”

  “Yes, that’s it. From the Arawak tribe. They say she learned the black arts in Barbados.”

  “The Venus glass is not a black art,” replied Mary. “It’s nothing but a silly parlor game played by foolish and troublesome young girls.”

  The last comment wiped the smirk from Bridget’s face.

  “Abigail says all the girls do it.”

  “Because Abigail is foolish and troublesome. You stay away from her, you understand? And you stay away from Tituba too. That’s the devil’s work and you’ll be whipped for it.”

  Bridget shifted on the chair as if she could feel the whacks to her backside. Mary turned away from her cousin to tend to the hearth when the girl spoke again.

  “That ain’t all they say about Tituba.”

  ***

  “Good morning, Goody Parris.”

  “Good day to you, Mary. What brings you out this way, distracting you from your chores?”

  Mary let the subtle accusation slide and swallowed her pride.

  “I was hoping for a word with Abigail.”

  “She’s busy at the hearth,” replied Goody Parris. Her eyes traveled from Mary’s head to her feet where she could see the previous day’s charcoal on the hem of the skirt. “I reckon you ain’t been as busy at your hearth.”

  “One word, ma'am. May I?”

  Goody Parris spun from the door and called out her daughter’s name. Abigail appeared a few moments later, her hands twisting at the apron covering her stained and tattered frock.

  “Mary Walcott is here and she wishes a word with you. I shall ex
pect the water to be boiling when I return from the field.”

  Mary forced a smile at Goody Parris as she backed out of the doorway, allowing Abigail junior to step out.

  “What gossip are you spreading in this town?”

  Abigail smiled at Mary and looked over her shoulder. “None,” she replied.

  “You’re a filthy liar, Abigail Parris. Tituba is not practicing dark arts with the children and you best not be telling those stories.”

  “Who is saying I am?”

  “Bridget.”

  “Right,” replied Abigail. “Bridget speaks of flying horses over the south fields. You seen any of those?”

  A man rode past the front of the Parris place and tipped his hat at the two teenage girls talking on the front step. They smiled and waited for him to pass before continuing.

  “Reverend Hale is in Salem. He’s got books, Abigail. Lots of books. They give him the right to do examinations and if they find out that—”

  “He won’t find nothing ‘cause there ain’t nothing to find. Tituba may have done the Venus glass with some girls. She may have done it with some of the women too. It ain’t witchcraft if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Have you seen him, Abigail?”

  Abigail leaned back against the house and crossed her arms.

  “Hale?”

  “You know of whom I speak.”

  “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me seein’ as how you must’ve seen someone?”

  Mary sighed and looked into Abigail’s eyes. She knew the Parris family well. Everyone did. Their eldest daughter stood with the posture of entitlement and privilege.

  “I’m trying to save us from eternal damnation, from the burning fires of Hell.”

  “Really?” Abigail asked. “By having relations with John Indian? Is that why you’re so concerned about Tituba, ‘cause you’re knowin’ her husband?”

  Mary slapped Abigail across the face. Abigail put her hands to her mouth and fought the tears welling in her eyes.

  “So help me God, Abigail. If you don’t stop with this foolishness you’re going to bring a pointy reckoning to us all.”