Fic "A Darker Time"

[Bagheera]

Source: Loosely based on Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible”, but this story takes place in England, for minor reasons of plot development. Tara and Willow are both around 16 years of age in this story. The village they live in is unnamed; suggestions to name it are welcome, my current choice is Fastnet. Some character names are partly borrowed from Miller, or pastiches of names from “Buffy”; some I just tossed in there.



Disclaimer: JW, ME, blah, blah…I’m just borrowing some of your characters, I’ll return them when I’m good and done.



Rating: Mature (15+). Some violence, adult themes, cruelty. Some situations in this story may be too intense for younger and/or more sensitive kittens, although I guarantee it will not end for our beloved couple as badly as S6.



Teaser:



“You danced for the Devil, did you not?” The man demanded. The Reverend William Osborne stood over the crying girl, relentlessly pursuing his line of questioning.



Mary Smith had no idea what Osborne was talking about, she had had no idea what was going on ever since the men had arrived at her house – was it an hour or a week ago? – and taken her away. Crying, she tried to lower her gaze.



“Look at me girl! You danced for the Devil, did you not?” The candle on the far wall guttered, casting frightening shadows in the Reverend’s face. Mary blanched.



“Sir, I didn’t!” she cried at last.



“There is no point denying it! You were seen! I have witnesses to the fact! Do ye want to hang, girl?” The last question a shout, and made Mary flinch and cry harder, but still she did not reply. Osborne lowered his voice and continued in a more reasonable though oily tone. “Look, I know you weren’t a ringleader. I don’t want to hang you, I only want the leaders of the coven, so we can root this evil out of our lives and live once more as good people under God. You want to be a good person don’t you?” Mary nodded. “Of course you do, of course you do. All you need do is admit that you danced, and there’ll be no more talk of hanging. Do you understand?” Another nod. “So, Mary,” he almost whispered, “did you dance?”



Mary shuddered and nodded once. “Mary,” the Reverend continued, “you must speak. Did you dance?”



Mary cast her eyes down. “Yes, sir,” she whispered at last.



Osborne’s eyes lit up. “Record that she confesses the offence,” he instructed the silent man seated at the desk in the corner of the room. He turned back to Mary. “You danced for the Devil?”



“Yes.”



“And how many warlocks and witches led the ceremony?”



Mary took a deep breath and shuddered, trying to summon her powers of imagination. “It were very dark, Reverend,” she said at last, feebly, “but I think perhaps four or five.”



Osborne grimaced. This was not going so well after all. “Others have said they saw as many as twelve, you must have been well out of the thick of it to see so few. And did you recognize any of them.”



“Their faces they covered, sir, and some wore masks; devils and quite awful things, they were.” Mary already seemed more comfortable.



“Did you recognize anyone?”



“Abigail Emerson was there, sir.”



The Reverend Osborne almost roared in frustration. “Of course you saw her, she was the first to confess, the whole town knows she was there! I begin to think you waste my time, girl, and that your confession is not genuine. And if it is not genuine,” he continued slowly and deliberately, “you will still hang.”



Mary screamed. “Please sir! Please don’t hang me!” she cried.



“Then stop toying with me!” Osborne paused for just an instant, then struck like an adder. “Did you see Willow Rosenberg dance for the Devil?”



“What? No, sir!”



“Are you sure?”



“Yes, sir!”



“Did you see Tara Maclay dance for the Devil?”



“No.”



“Ah, you waste my time! You may yet hang, I am warning you.” Mary stared at him, half-wild with terror. Then he struck again. “Did you see Tara Maclay dance?”



“Yes! Yes!”



“Say it! Say it all!”



“I saw Tara Maclay dance for the Devil!” Mary Smith screamed, and collapsed into sobs. Reverend Osborne stood, and embraced the girl’s shaking shoulders, stroking her short black hair.



“You have been a good, good girl,” he said gently. He straightened and addressed the clerk. “See that you have this recorded. And issue a warrant for the arrest of Tara Maclay.”



Continue (Y/N)

[fidds]

oooh whats this about - interesting - gets me thinkin - looking forward to the next update



*Hannah*

[earthlovinwicca]

Yes to the cont. I really like these AU stories. this is really good keep going.

[DarkWiccan]

Yes... you've got my attention... keep it going



Cheers

DarkWiccan

[Bagheera]

Thanks all for feedback.



This story is currently half completed, it will eventually run to about ten times the teaser length.



Because many topics fall off the front page of this forum so quickly, Kittens looking for updates of this story may want to subscribe to this thread to find them more easily. I intend to post my next update in about 3 days

"Willow and Tara keep kissing. It is intense, it is passionate, and it is, above all else, love. Truly and forever."
"Entropy" shooting script

[Bagheera]

Disclaimer: As before

Rating: PG Adult themes, low level violence

Feedback: Yes, please!



Tara Maclay lived with her family on a small farm. The Maclay family, particularly Donald Maclay senior, was a subject of some derision among the village gossips and had been so for a number of years. It had stemmed from Donald’s wife Miriam ejecting him from the house not long after their second and youngest child, a daughter, was born. This had been nearly a decade and a half ago and as far as anyone knew, Donald continued to take his meals and sleep in the barn, and Miriam continued to refuse him access to the marital bed. There was endless speculation about why it had happened in the first place, and why it persisted. Unfortunately for the wagging tongues, first-hand knowledge of the Maclays’ domestic arrangements was never forthcoming. Miriam almost never came to market, and kept well to herself if she did. Donald senior frequented the town when he wasn’t working the farm, but always attended wearing a face like a storm-front, so that none dared approach him on the subject. His eldest, Donald junior, was a younger version of the father.



When the whisper went out and the men were assembled to arrest Tara Maclay on suspicion of witchcraft, there was a tremendous set-to. There was no doubt for a moment that Tara was guilty, a ringleader among the girls most likely, and suspicion immediately fell upon the mother. Wise heads nodded and predicted that Miriam would be making the journey into custody next. Everyone waited with breathless anticipation as the arresting party set off, a ragged knot of men on foot leading a small horse-drawn cart.



Less than an hour later they returned. It had been a quiet affair. Miriam had called them a gaggle of fools, Donald senior and junior had scowled and stumped off into the barn, and Tara had gone with them without a struggle, not saying a word. As the cart returned to the village she sat upright, staring into space. She was a strikingly beautiful girl of sixteen, blonde, blue-eyed, full-lipped and curvaceous of figure. But people noticed the odd look in her eye, the way she seemed to be looking into the distance without actually seeing. A few more nervous souls crossed themselves as the cart passed them, and the whisper went up: “witch…witch…witch…”



Willow Rosenberg sensed rather than heard the commotion as the cart made its way through the town and she lifted her head from her sewing. She looked out of the window and gave an involuntary scream when she recognised Tara. She rushed to the sill and stared with a mixture of shock, pain and disbelief as the cart passed by. Tara moved her head slightly as the cart passed Willow’s house, and for an instant their eyes locked. Tara’s expression did not change, but for Willow it felt like she had been punched. Her already pale face drained of all colour, and a tear rolled down one cheek. Willow watched, fixed in horror until the cart rattled down the street and out of sight. She then hurled herself onto her narrow bed and dissolved into tears.



_________________________________________________



Reverend Osborne waited for the arrival of the arresting party with a mixture of impatience and pleasure, a predator savouring the meal being brought to him. Soon, he told himself, soon I will be at the heart of the matter. Rid the town of witches, and the accursed Jew. As the villagers surmised, Miriam was high on the list of those suspected of witchcraft, but they were unaware that Osborne also had his eye on Willow’s moneylender father. And they also did not know that Osborne was aware of a connection between Tara and Willow.



Osborne briefly cast his mind back to the day two months earlier when he had stumbled upon Tara and Willow together in the woods. Not that he had actually seen anything, for it was innocent enough on the face of it. They were lying close together on a grassy bank, legs entwined, talking, whispering secrets, giggling, like thousands of other young folks might. Yet when Tara had lifted her head and noticed Osborne watching them, he was stunned by the expression in her eyes: curious, resentful at the intrusion, but at the same time almost indifferent. It was look that he thought did not belong on the face of one so young. It was not a look of innocence; and if it was not innocent, then it was a look of guilt, and that was enough. It was enough. All the while, the slighter of the two, Willow, had remained half-slumbering in the other’s arms, unaware of what had passed. When Abigail and the other girls had been caught cavorting under the full moon, Tara and Willow had not been with them. This had not stopped Osborne from directing his investigation towards the two that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt were engaged in wrongdoing, for he knew that through them he could get to the real targets of his crusade.



Tara was led before Reverend Osborne and made to sit. He paced up and down the room before her a couple of times before he spoke. She remained calm and did not speak, which made the Reverend a little uneasy. He cleared his throat and broke the silence.



“Tara,” he began, “you’re a sensible girl, and you love God, do you not?” Tara gave the slightest of nods. “That’s good. I know that you have been involved in dark practices, but I know that others and not you were responsible. I just want to remove this evil from our lives. You want that too, don’t you?” Tara did not react. “I just want to know who the leaders were and who you saw. Did you see Willow Rosenberg dance for the Devil? Did you see your mother? Does she lead the coven? And the Jew Ira Rosenberg – you saw him too, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”



He could have been talking to the wall, for all that Tara responded. Osborne began to work himself into a temper. For fully fifteen minutes he plied Tara with the same questions, demanded she name the names, threatened her with God’s wrath and the noose. Tara sat calmly and quietly through it all. Eventually Osborne lost all semblance of control. Taking up a slender switch, he brandished it in front of Tara’s eyes, making it swish as he cut the air with it and cried:



“Girl, you should count yourself very lucky! Not many years ago we would be testing your faith with hot irons, ducking you in fetid water, drawing your nails, putting you to the rack! Be thankful you are dealing with an enlightened and civilised man. Now you will tell me all or I will lay your ribs bare with this!” And he leant forward as if to seize Tara and cast her onto the floor.



Tara felt an instant of pure terror that made her heart quail. She did not fear pain, but what she feared was that if Osborne beat her, that she would cry out. And her single greatest fear was that she would cry the name of her friend. For that would be enough. It would only take a moment’s weakness, a single agonised cry of “Willow! Oh Willow, help me!” and it would be all over.



Tara regained her composure a moment later. She looked into the eyes of her interrogator, and Osborne blanched, for it seemed to him that the uncanny girl had gazed into his soul and perceived his weakness. Perhaps she had, for as he looked into those extraordinary blue eyes, she seemed to be saying to him: “Go on, beat me, weak little man, I will never give you satisfaction. Flay the flesh from my bones if you will, you will not have any name from me.” With a cry of rage Osborne hurled the switch across the room and stormed out. A moment later the order came to lock Tara in a solitary cell and give her nothing to eat or drink until she talked.



It is likely that Tara would have stayed chained in that tiny cell until she succumbed to thirst, but it was that very evening that Caleb Somers and his wife Elizabeth made the fateful decision to travel into the village and denounce Abigail, chief among the witnesses to the prosecution. Through mischance and Abigail’s cunning they failed, were accused as witches themselves and imprisoned, along with William Priest who made the similarly fatal mistake of getting up to speak the truth, which was that Sir John Putland through his niece Abigail was directing the accusations against holders of land that Putland coveted. With the prison cells filled almost to capacity, with the suspected warlock Somers in custody, and with the news that a magistrate would arrive on the morrow, the impetus suddenly left the investigation. It was therefore a surprised Tara who found a stale crust and a jug of water placed in her cell the following morning. It did not alter the fact that because of her refusal to co-operate, she would be tried for her life as a witch.

[Bagheera]

Disclaimer: ibid

Rating: M Adult themes. Caution advised for sensitive Kittens - it gets darker.

Feedback: Is always appreciated



On the morning of the trial, Willow rose from her bed while it was still dark. She had slept very badly. She went out to the well, hauled a bucket and washed her face and hands, in the vain hope that it might clear from her mind the dullness and misery she felt. She forced herself to eat a little, dressed as anonymously as she could, and made her way to the court house, even though she was hours early. She found a quiet corner and sat down to wait.



Willow was a pale, delicate-featured redhead the same age as Tara. She had a build like a branch from the tree she was named after. Willow-wand thin, green eyed, she hid her radiant smile most of the time behind shyness and awkwardness. She did not make many friends, those in the village near her age hardly knew her for the most part. It was their loss.



The square gradually filled as people went about their business, and the curious gradually began to stake their places in the court, subtly jostling for the best seats. Willow did not want a seat in a good position; rather, she wanted to hide in the darkest corner where no-one could see her. Or disappear altogether.



Eventually, by mid-morning, the magistrate entered the court and the trials began. Initially it was anticlimactic. Caleb and Mary Somers were tried together, swiftly denounced and sentenced to hang as the warlock and chief witch of the coven. From there it became a procession, the adults swiftly condemned if they attempted to deny their guilt. Abigail and her fellow accusers were playing the court expertly, like anglers teasing trout. By noon, the younger prisoners were being tried. Most had already made full admissions of their guilt and were permitted to join the swelling ranks of the accusers, so those who came after found themselves increasingly outnumbered and intimidated. Then, suddenly the name “Tara Maclay” was called.



Willow’s heart lurched and she suppressed a shriek. She edged further into the shadows and watched, horrified but fascinated, as the small blonde was led into the dock. Tara looked completely alone and lost. She sat hunched forward, her hair spilling over her face and obscuring her eyes.



Reverend Osborne stood and paced slowly to the front of the court. The repast that had been interrupted earlier, Tara’s interrogation, was about to recommence and he wanted to take his time and savour each bite. He began slowly and gently enough, asking Tara to identify herself.



“T-t-tara M-maclay,” came the answer, haltingly, and as she answered, the accused lifted her head slightly, glancing out through the strands of her long hair. Her gaze fell upon Willow for a moment and the redhead flinched involuntarily. It had only been the glance of an instant, yet to Willow it seemed that an entire conversation passed between the two girls in that brief time. There was a greeting, an expression of shared fear, an urgent communication of need and a seeking after strength. Willow suddenly realised that her friend was at the brink of collapse and that Tara would not survive the trial if Willow was not there to support her. If Willow just once failed to met Tara’s questing gaze it would be finished. Willow pictured in her mind that she was seated in the dock next to the blonde and that they were facing the accuser together.



Osborne’s questioning began. Tara denied that she was a witch, quietly but firmly. She had not danced for the Devil, she had not done anything for the Devil, she had not seen the Devil, and she had seen no-one else doing such things either. Abigail and her fellow harpies were called forth and by shrieks and screams, contradicted Tara’s testimony. It was going badly, and Tara began to hunch further forward in her seat, but she was still able to catch Willow’s eye when she required it.



“Cease toying with the court, Tara Maclay! When did you first league yourself with Satan?” Tara’s eye flicked up, her hooded blue eye met Willow’s green for a brief instant, then fell again. Willow, in her mind sitting by Tara’s side in the dock, tried to construct an answer to the question, while Tara remained silent. We are in league with one another, Willow thought to herself, and no-one else.



It had started just a few weeks earlier. Willow cast her mind back and tried to remember what it was that had first drawn her to Tara. It must have been those eyes, she decided. A beautiful bright shade of blue, yet more often than not they were kept hidden behind the folds of Tara’s hair, like sapphire lamps in a curtained window. Willow remembered wrestling with herself, trying to overcome her natural shyness and awkwardness as well as Tara’s. The first few days had been exquisitely painful, full of halting greetings and farewells and waiting silences in between.



One day, Tara had made a startling confession, which was that she had been trying for days to summon the courage to speak to Willow herself. Willow felt a flood of relief and joy at that moment, and was delighted to be able to reply that she had felt exactly the same way. And then a miracle happened. Tara lifted her head and those exquisite blue eyes looked into Willow’s, and her lips curved into a lopsided smile. Willow had never seen Tara smile before, not even from a distance, and at that moment she believed it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And when it had passed, all that Willow could think was that she wanted to see it again, and that she wanted to know absolutely everything about the owner of that smile.



“What did the Dark Lord demand of you?” was the next harsh question. The girl in the dock was silent. Willow answered silently, there were no demands made on either side. She spoke to Tara, Tara spoke to her. They found excuses to see each other and be alone to talk; excursions into the woods to gather wild mushrooms or rob birds’ nests. Willow vividly remembered the first time she had shimmied up a tree in Tara’s company. Willow being the lighter was nominated to do the climbing, while Tara directed her feet and steadied her.



“Is this a strong tree?” Willow had wondered aloud. “I wonder what sort of tree it is?”



“I’m not sure,” Tara had replied, hesitantly. “I’m n-not familiar with timber.” Scrambling for handholds on the rough trunk, Tara holding her feet, Willow had gone up and up, until she could just see over the rim of a neat little nest of twigs and lichen. A pair of light blue eggs greeted her eye.



“Two eggs!” she had exclaimed delightedly.



“W-willow, l-leave one,” Tara had said at once.



“Tara, there’s one each,” the redhead pointed out.



“N-no, we’ll share the one, o-or if you like, you have one egg. I-I couldn’t bear it if the mother bird came b-back to an empty nest.” Willow had climbed down with a single egg in her grasp. When she reached the ground, she couldn’t resist hugging Tara. Willow had murmured something barely audible that sounded like, “You’re so kind,” and there had been the briefest hesitation before Tara had squeezed her back. With her one free hand, for the other still clutched the stolen prize, Willow had stroked Tara’s hair, astonished at its softness. After a few moments, they slowly and reluctantly drew apart and Willow once again caught a glimpse of that astonishing smile. This time she was better prepared and smiled back. Then arm in arm they walked on to find another nest. No king or queen ever feasted on a better meal than the mushroom and spring onion omelette the two girls cooked that golden afternoon.



“What carnal sins have you indulged in with the Evil One?” Willow shuddered, staring at Tara who appeared unmoved. After a moment, the blonde head lifted and Tara briefly stared Reverend Osborne in the face. It was the same look she had given him during her interrogation and the Reverend turned momentarily pale. Willow felt a glow of pride, even though at the same time she blazed with embarrassment as she tried to gather her thoughts to respond to the third question. Firstly, what does “carnal” mean? It was a word much bandied about from the pulpit, meaning something repulsive, something to be punished by the flames of the Inferno. Willow was not ignorant, she lived in a rural village and she had eyes. She knew the cycle of mating and birth that punctuated the farming year, and she understood well enough that the same thing happened with people. None of this, however, equated at all with any concept of wrongdoing in Willow’s mind. There was a supposed teaching that such acts in humans took place only in the marital bed, but Willow had witnessed first hand, among her peers and elders alike, the effects of lengthy evening festivals and too much strong beer, but such acts to her appeared more careless than carnal.



Secondly, what is sin? Surely, it is knowingly doing wrong. I have no answer to this accusation, Willow thought, for Tara and I have done no wrong. I have kissed those soft lips, caressed her skin, held her in my arms, astonished and humbled that so much joy can be found in the company of another. My head has lain against her breast and I have felt the pounding of her heart. I have felt her hands on my body and thought that I would die with pleasure. I know that I want to hold her thigh between mine and squeeze until I burst, I know and understand all of these things and more, but I cannot understand how this could possibly have anything to do with sinning or “evil”. Reverend, I do not understand you, and I believe that you do not know me.



Willow started, for she realised that she had fallen into a momentary reverie. She took her hands out of her lap and hugged herself. She hoped that she hadn’t missed a question or worse, had failed in maintaining her support of Tara. Something had happened at any rate, for the Reverend had turned from Tara and was addressing the magistrate. The court was otherwise completely silent.



The magistrate cleared his throat explosively and spoke. “Tara Maclay, the testimony of other witnesses indicates that you are a practitioner of witchcraft. By your silence you have not defended the charge and your silence further implies that you would be unable to refute the accusations without resorting to lying. I therefore find the charge of witchcraft proven. It is the sentence of the court that you are to be taken hence to a place of incarceration, and from there you be taken to a place where you will be hanged until you are dead.” Amid the gasps of the crowded courtroom and an explosion of shuffling and stamping feet, Tara was bundled out.



Willow’s world turned black. Amid the noise and shouting in the courtroom, her anguished sob went unnoticed. Tears starting to her eyes, she lurched to her feet, gathered her clothes tightly around her, and fled.

[midsummer]

This is fascinating.



Considering that in the actual storyline of the show, everyone was fine enough with their relationship, it's nice to see it in another light. Although it is so sad ...

Maybe the bugs just got sad ...

[LeatherQueen]

Wow... interesting story. I'm really enjoying it so far. Please continue.

--------------------------------


"But when they're playing your song on the jukebox in Hell, you might as well dance." - K. Simpson


"Futile... like a FOX, baby!" - Tara in The Late Shift by wiccachica

[Bagheera]

To midsummer:



Thank you for your comment. I'm not sure if I've made it entirely clear, but in this story the Rev. Osborne has targeted Tara and Willow more because of who their parents are. I see him as motivated more by greed and anti-Semitism. I don't see him as particularly homophobic per se; rather, he is exploiting his knowledge of the T/W relationship to further his own ends.



LeatherQueen: Thank you. I have finished writing this story, though I do return to it every day to read bits over and tidy them up. It runs to 8 parts and I will update 2x/week. It remains quite dark and unhappy for most of the way, I'm afraid.



But if you think this is dark, wait until my next Fic "Mission Statement" (S7 story arc)! I'm really pleased with it so far. 6 short parts are already written, I'll start posting it in a week or 2. Pitch black, anybody?



Edited because I'm a complete spaz who can't count the no. of parts in my own story

"Willow and Tara keep kissing. It is intense, it is passionate, and it is, above all else, love. Truly and forever."
"Entropy" shooting script

Edited by: Bagheera at: 6/7/02 1:01:46 am

[OhGroovetasticOne]

Bagheera,

The film version of ‘The Crucible’ has been one of my favorite movies for years now. And I obviously wouldn’t be reading this story if I weren’t a W/T fan. I love how you have merged the two concepts. I generally don’t go for the W/T fic that goes this far back in time but you have done an excellent job thus far. It’s heartbreaking how obviously close Willow and Tara are and cannot acknowledge each other’s existence beyond eye contact from across a room. I can handle the long running angst as long as we get happy ending for our girls. Thank you for posting this and I look forward to your next update.

-KT

tell me what kind of scale compares the weight of two beauties, the gravity of duties, or the ground speed of joy
tell me what kind gauge can quantify elation, what kind of equation could I possibly employ
~ani difranco

Edited by: OhGroovetasticOne at: 6/5/02 10:38:53 pm

[Thanatopsis]

This is great. I'm impressed with your intrigration of the Crucible and the W/T relationship. I just recently saw the play performed and was reminded again of why I like to dislike this play. I really just want to shake most people in the story for the actions, but oh well. Either way, I'm enjoying this.

-----------------

You say midgets like it's so absurd.

[Bagheera]

Thanks KT, I love your sig. Let me know if you're still with me by the end.

Thanatopsis - thanks. I studied "The Crucible" in school, I've seen it performed live and liked the film. It's a powerful but cruel work.



Disclaimer: ibid

Preview: Willow and Tara converse (very unusual in this story!)

Rating: PG-13, W/T unhappiness

Feedback: s'il vous plait



"A Darker Time" Part 4



That night after a misery of a dinner, Willow pleaded illness and retired early to bed. As soon as the house was quiet, she slipped out of her window and, flitting from shadow to shadow, made her way to where the prisoners were kept, a squat ugly building adjoining the court. A low murmur of voices drifted out of the barred high windows. By the pitches of the voices, Willow surmised that the prisoners were held in two large cells, the men and boys in one, women and girls in the other. Near a window, she found the darkest patch of shadow she could and hissed her friend’s name as loudly as she dared.



There was a brief muffled commotion and a shuffle of feet on straw. Willow hissed out Tara’s name again.



“W-willow?” came a low whisper, and above her head, Willow could barely discern three fingertips reaching through the window in the gloom. She stretched up onto her toes and found that she could barely brush the tips of the fingers of one hand against them. Tara’s fingers pressed back fiercely.



“Willow, oh, Willow, I’ve been so lost!”



“I’ll always find you,” the redhead whispered back, pressing with her fingers in turn. “Oh Tara, I don’t know what to do!” Willow continued, beginning to cry. “I want to help you, but I don’t know how. If I were older I might go to the magistrate and speak out. If there was some way to break these walls open I would do it. But I feel so weak, I’m like a child. Why can’t I be a grown-up?”



“Shh, shh,” Tara hissed gently, “You were wonderful today.”



“Was I? Really?”



“I couldn’t have stood up to them without you there to help. It was as if you were sitting beside me.” Willow stiffened. Tara had felt that, too? “I knew you were special, I always said so.”



“No,” Willow contradicted, “You’re special.” Tara stroked her fingertips gently against Willow’s. Despite the discomfort of having to stretch so far, combined with apprehension and sorrow, Willow sighed with pleasure. She heard Tara’s breathing deepen and realised that she felt it too.



“Willow, listen,” Tara continued, “I don’t think there’s much time. I think they’ll be hanging us soon…” Willow withdrew her hand, for she had to hold herself against the wall for support, and she began to cry again. “Willow, I need your help.”



“Anything, anything,” Willow sobbed, “A file, a dagger, rope? I’ll steal a horse if you need one…”



“I n-need you to take something; o-of mine, t-to my mother,” Tara said slowly and deliberately.



“Of course I will, Tara. Is it testimony, evidence that she can use to get you out?”



“It’s th-these, Willow,” and Tara withdrew her hand, momentarily. It reappeared a moment later and pushed two small objects through the bars. Willow caught them; one seemed to be a lock of hair, the other was a small cylindrical object, such as a cork or a thimble.



Willow was confused. “Tara? What are these? I don’t understand.”



“W-willow, t-take them to m-my mother, she’ll explain everything. It’s important. And don’t l-let anyone see them. Please?” The last question was a heartfelt plea.



“Of course. I’ll go in the morning.”



“Thank you, Willow. And take care, d-don’t get caught.”



“I won’t.”



“Willow?”



“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, I’m just here…with the condemned cell, and the hopeless despair…”



“Listen, Willow, we may not see each other again…”



“Tara, don’t,” Willow pleaded, and she began to cry once more. “I’ve only just found you; I can’t even bear thinking about losing you.”



“You have to be strong,” Tara emphasised. “Just for a little while. Strong.”



“Like an…”



“Yes.” At that moment the girls heard loud voices and footsteps approaching. Willow flattened herself against the wall and held her breath. From a side alley, a few paces from where Willow stood, two men emerged. Unseeing, they walked on and out of sight. “You’d better go before you get caught. I love you,” Tara finished. Their fingertips pressed together a final time.



“I love you, Tara.” And Willow slipped away into the gloom.

[willntlover]

I don't know wheter i am overjoyed that they are so cute together, or to be sad that Tara is goign to die. Hopefully Tara's mom will help Willow rescue Tara!!



-Will



who is so lovin this story

[Thanatopsis]

I agree with willntlover. It's like a double edged sword or sorts. I'm intrigued by what exactly Tara is having Willow give her mother. Will that be the key to Tara escaping?

-----------------

You say midgets like it's so absurd.

[Bagheera]

Disclaimer: ibid

Rating: PG-13, Willow misery



After an exhausting sleepless night, Willow forced food into her belly, made her excuses and set out for the Maclay farm. For the entire duration of her walk, Willow pondered Tara’s last words to her the previous night. They had spoken of their love for each other many times over the past weeks, but never with the finality and totality with which Tara had spoken them.



Love had not been a word Willow was greatly familiar with before she had met Tara. God’s love was something the Reverend Osborne had spoken of from his pulpit, but it took the form of a parent’s love for a wayward, petulant child who barely deserved it. What was love given and taken equally on both sides? It was different to anything Willow knew or understood. Husbands and wives sometimes had great regard and affection for each other, in lucky instances it was love of a sort, but Willow knew of no example where the two halves of such a partnership could be considered truly equal. Is it possible that Tara and I are the first? And if we are, where is our map, what gospel or other teaching is our guide through life? Is it our fate to discover this, to seek out the pathway of our love and mark the ways for others to come after? But if so, why does it appear that it is to be taken away so cruelly when we have barely begun?



These thoughts and more beset poor Willow as she walked out of the village into a landscape of rutted narrow tracks, fields, low rolling hills and copses of trees. Shepherds tended their flocks here and there; a few recognised Willow and waved. She waved back shyly, hoping that she would not meet anyone she knew well, particularly the village dolt Richard Alexander, a boyish prankster encased in a young man’s body, who for some reason had come to regard Willow as his personal favourite among all the girls of the village and made no secret of his intention to make her his wife. This, despite the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg would never have considered him suitable for the important task of wedding their only child.



The farm of Miriam and Donald Maclay was a compact, richly-soiled holding located at the fringe of a great forest. A neat cottage was located a discreet distance from the generous barn. The only possible sign of anything amiss was the presence of twin pillars of smoke; one coming from the kitchen chimney, the other from a chimney arising from an annex at one end of the barn. Evidently, the sundering of the Maclay marriage was still in force.



Diffidently, the small redhead walked to the front door of the cottage and knocked. Soft footsteps approached and the door opened. Miriam Maclay was a thin woman in her mid thirties. Her back was slightly stooped, as though she bore an invisible burden, and her face was lined and the skin stretched taut over the chiselled bones of her face, making her look somewhat older than her age.



“You must be Willow,” Miriam said, “Come in child, I’ve been expecting you.” Willow was momentarily taken aback, for Miriam’s voice had the same quality as Tara’s, a warmth and softness of tone that seemed to lift Willow and draw her close. Led by that welcoming voice, Willow followed Miriam into the small cottage kitchen, where two mugs of tea sat steaming on the table. They sat at one corner of the table, their knees almost touching. Miriam lifted her mug and sipped, regarding Willow through the steam with affectionate grey eyes.



“I’m glad to meet you at last, Willow; Tara has told me all about you. It might have been nicer to have met under happier circumstances, but,…” Miriam let the sentence hang, unfinished.



“I know, I know,” Willow agreed. “Tara said you could help, she gave me something to bring to you. I hope there’s some way for her not to be hanged. Well, all of them really, I don’t think any of them have really done anything so bad, to be hanged I mean. Because, no one deserves that, do they?” Willow groaned inwardly. I’m nervous and babbling, stop it and shut up Willow. She’ll think you’re a fool.



But Miriam only smiled gently. “I know what you mean. There is a terrible wickedness among us, and all of those responsible are walking free and prospering.”



“It’s, I can’t begin to say how awful it is,” Willow added lamely, barely stopping herself from running off again. She brought the two objects out of her pocket and placed them on the table, to give her hands something to do. “These are what Tara asked me to bring you.” One was a lock of Tara’s blonde hair. It seemed to glitter in the light streaming through the kitchen window. The other object was a small wooden thimble. Miriam nodded, gravely. “What do they mean? How will they help her escape?”



“These mean freedom; but Tara doesn’t intend to escape,” Miriam said carefully.



This was too much for Willow, and the tears she had been fighting from the moment she heard Tara’s voice within Miriam’s began to flow. “I – I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How can you both be so calm about it? Tara is going to hang and she’s sending you trinkets, and you’re acting as if nothing’s happening. And I’m not even sure if you were there in the court yesterday. How – how could you not even be there for her?”



Miriam reached out and squeezed Willow’s hand. The young girl cried all the more. “Willow, I realise you’re upset. I have cried for her too, every bit as hard and for as long as you. I can see there is a great deal you don’t yet understand. I almost never travel into town these days, and I suspect that had I been in that court yesterday I would not have been able to restrain myself and I would be sharing Tara’s cell by now, with the good executioner Mr. Knight busily knotting a noose for my neck as well.”



Willow sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. She looked again at the two objects on the table. Miriam noticed, reached into her clothes and drew out two objects of her own. She laid them on the table, and Willow could see a lock of hair similar to Tara’s, though bearing an occasional grey streak, and another small thimble. Willow looked at Miriam quizzically.



“So many questions, so little time for answers,” Miriam observed. “Willow, there is a ritual, with these objects. If it is done at the right time and in the right way, it will free Tara’s soul and ensure it travels to a safe place.”



“Ritual? Soul?” Willow breathed, wide eyed. “You’re talking about…magic!”



“If you want to call it that.”



“Then, Tara is a … are you a … a …” Willow couldn’t bring herself the say the word.



“Call me a witch if you must,” Miriam said. “Tara is too young to be called one, but she has a gift, certain powers.”



“I knew it,” Willow gasped. “I sensed there was something, whenever I – we touched, something passed.”



Miriam was silent for a moment as she scrutinised Willow carefully. “You must have a gift too, to have sensed it. It doesn’t surprise me, Tara did choose you after all. You don’t seem afraid?”



“Afraid? Why should I be afraid? It’s Tara. But,” Willow continued, “if Tara’s hair and the thimble…”



“It’s blood,” Miriam explained. “A small drop, in the bottom.”



“I see. So, why do you need those too?”



“When the time comes, I will do the ritual, and my soul will travel with Tara’s.”



“But that could be years from now!”



Miriam shook her head. “Soon. Sooner than you think.” Miriam leaned back and undid the top of her clothes, letting the fabric spill away and expose her breasts. She reached for the surprised Willow’s hand, held it firmly but gently in her two hands, guided it to her and held it against her left breast, pressing hard enough for Willow to feel the beating of the older woman’s heart.



“What ….” Willow began, but then stopped, because at that moment she noticed that there was a lump in Miriam’s breast. It was firm, the size and consistency of an under ripe apricot, but to Willow’s sensitive touch, it felt spiky, like a thistle. It was like nothing Willow had ever known before. “What is it?”



Miriam sat back and dressed herself. “The executioner is weaving the rope for my Tara’s neck,” she said, for the first time bitterness coming into her voice. She pointed to her breast. “This is the rope that will drag me out of this world and into the next. Please don’t cry for me Willow,” she finished, for the redhead was weeping once more.



“You should see the surgeon…” Willow suggested.



“And what?” Miriam countered. “Have him cut me in that sty he calls his barber shop? I would die within a week from suppuration of the wound.”



“Magic?”



“Not for this disease, I have tried. There is some pain, in my back and around my sides,” Miriam gestured. “Herbs are good for those, but they will only help me for so long. Months, a couple of years at most. Then I will join my darling Tara, who will be waiting for me.”



This was too much for Willow. “And what about me?” she cried. “Tara will leave me, and you can go and join her and be happy. What am I supposed to do? I’m going to lose her, and I’ve only just found her! And – and what about everybody else, it’s not just Tara who is going to be hanged, it’s lots of other people, good people, and their families will be turned out into the cold, and – and I know I’m babbling and I should stop but if you are a – a witch and really have powers you should be doing something.”



“What would you have me do?” Miriam asked. “Call down fire and wrath from the sky and burn the evil ones in their homes? Tear down the prison?”



“Yes, for a start, I think that would be good.”



Miriam Maclay sighed. “So, to prevent an act of violence, I commit a violent act of my own. Nothing changes. Is that really what you want?”



Willow shrugged and rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not thinking, am I? But if we do nothing, the bad people still win, don’t they?”



“Do you really think so? Suppose these poor people all hang, what happens to the good Reverend? For the rest of his life he knows what he did to those people and he wonders when the day will come that someone tries to do the same to him. For the land-thief Putland, the same. He will go to his bed every night wondering if someone is plotting to take away what he stole. They will both be prisoners, in cells of their own making.” Willow lowered her eyes and nodded to show she understood. “But you did ask about Tara?”



“Yes, just before the tangential rant,” Willow sighed.



Miriam looked into Willow’s green eyes carefully. “What does Tara mean to you?”



“She’s my everything,” Willow said desperately, burying her head in her hands and sobbing.



Miriam waited patiently for the storm to settle. She took both of Willow’s hands in hers and said: “I understand you, Willow. Completely.” Willow was silent as she took this in. “The ritual, Willow, it can bind more than two souls, it depends who performs it. Would you consider…”



“I’ll do it,” Willow said at once.



“There is a cost.”



“I’ll pay it, anything.”



“I’ll explain it, Willow,” Miriam said, “and if you want, you may reconsider.”



Miriam and Willow talked until the afternoon shadows grew long. When they were finished, Willow made the long walk home in the twilight, calmer than she had felt for days.

[LeatherQueen]

Nice update. This is getting even more interesting. I've never seen or read The Crucible. I'll have to check it out...

--------------------------------


"But when they're playing your song on the jukebox in Hell, you might as well dance." - K. Simpson


"Futile... like a FOX, baby!" - Tara in The Late Shift by wiccachica

[Bagheera]

LeatherQueen: Thanks. The connection with "The Crucible" is pretty much broken after Part 6, leaving us with basically just W/T until the end (Part 8).



I'm pleased that people both familiar and unfamiliar with the play are enjoying this. For those who don't know, "The Crucible" was written as a response to the McCarthy trials of the 1950s. As far as allegory goes, I believe even Arthur Miller said it was very loose with respect to the events of the time, which I think is a good thing in terms of the durability of the play. It is still performed regularly all over the world.

"Willow and Tara keep kissing. It is intense, it is passionate, and it is, above all else, love. Truly and forever."
"Entropy" shooting script

[willntlover]

Goddess i love this story.



I wonder what is the price of binding tara and Willow's souls ?!



-Will

[Bagheera]

WARNING: Extreme Kitten unhappiness

Rating: M15 W/T Heartbreak, Adult themes

Note: There are 2 more parts left in this story!





Now would be the time to call hell’s fire down upon these people, Willow thought. It was several days later, and Willow was standing at the edge of the village square, in sight of the scaffold. Osborne, Putland, Abigail and her hellions, and sundry others were gathered to await the arrival of those condemned to hang. There had been one or two reprieved at the last minute, for even Osborne had realised that popular sentiment was beginning to turn against him and his crusade. Mary Somers had been the most prominent of those to be spared, in a delicate piece of political manoeuvring that the Reverend was rather proud of. Tara had remained silent and refused all offers of a pardon in return for a full confession. Willow’s one regret was that she had been unable to return to the prison to say goodbye properly. Rumours were afoot of a plan to free the prisoners; guards patrolled the alleys of the village at night, so Willow had been unable to venture out after dark.



As Tara and the others were wheeled into the square, Willow realised that she had never felt such pride before. The redhead understood why Tara had stood firm; that she would not save herself with a lie, and all the while she had been protecting both Willow and Miriam from similar persecution. Willow understood, but she still felt cold hatred for those responsible. She vowed that she would never forget or forgive what had come to pass.



The wagon carrying the prisoners stopped, and they began to alight. Most, including Caleb Somers and Tara, were quiet and calm, helping those who were unsteady on their feet or who were weeping. Keeping together in support of one another, they crossed the square and ascended the steps of the scaffold, where the executioner Joseph Knight awaited. Knight, standing tall on the scaffold and enjoying his fleeting moment of celebrity, was perversely proud of having woven the ropes for the execution himself, for weaving and rope making were his usual daily trades, the village being far too small to require the services of a full-time executioner.



The prisoners lined up before the nooses. From down in the square a drum rolled. Tara stood unbowed, and she caught sight of Willow. Willow returned the look, and just as had happened in the courtroom a conversation passed between them. Look at me, my love, Tara said to Willow with those soft, deep blue eyes. Drink me in with your gaze, remember this moment and remember me. Then, when you leave this place, take me away with you in your eyes, your mind and your heart. Take me away so you can rebuild me in your mind, so we can always be together. Goodbye, my love.



Willow answered silently, I will do it. Thank you Tara, for our all too brief time together, for the joys we shared. I am yours, truly and forever. I love you.



A hood was drawn over Tara’s eyes. Willow turned away, a tear falling from her eyes. She hefted a small pack that lay on the ground beside her, slung it over her shoulder and slowly walked away. There was nothing more for her to see.

[LeatherQueen]

*sniff* That was so sad. Our poor girls...

--------------------------------


"But when they're playing your song on the jukebox in Hell, you might as well dance." - K. Simpson


"Futile... like a FOX, baby!" - Tara in The Late Shift by wiccachica

[Thanatopsis]

Jeez, that was horrible and terribly sad.

-----------------

Oh, um... various sounds of
hesitation...

[DarkWiccan]

Hmmm... interesting that Willow would begin to walk away before Tara has met her fate... We as readers only know so much as the hood being drawn over the blonde's eyes...



::rubs chin thoughtfully:: Huh.



Cheers

DarkWiccan

[Bagheera]

LeatherQueen: Sad to write too. Only two more parts to go, and only 1 box of tissues still needed. Courage, my Kittens.



Thanatopsis: Sad, yes. I didn't think it was altogether horrible, I was aiming for more bleak and gloomy. Hope you're not going to give up on our girls.



DarkWiccan: Maybe I chickened out, making Willow turn away. I mean, if she had stayed to watch, I would have had to describe the act of the hanging, and I didn't really want to do that, and I'm sure a lot of Kittens would be less than keen on reading it (And the mods might have got heavy on me, looking at a few of their recent postings about violence on the Pens Board).

What I was trying to say was, that once the hood covered Tara's eyes, her visual link with Willow was severed. They'd said their goodbyes in this world. The rest is silence. Except of course for Parts 7 & 8. I hope you don't mind waiting a day or two....

"Willow and Tara keep kissing. It is intense, it is passionate, and it is, above all else, love. Truly and forever."
"Entropy" shooting script

[DarkWiccan]

Bagheera -- Sup?



All I was commenting on was the open-ended quality of the scene. I definitely did not want to *see* the hanging... Ew... absolutely not. But... to me it seemed like you were setting up a device for a twist.



I am a huge fan of doing that to my readers... just ask LeatherQueen, heh heh. So naturally I look for loopholes.. all.the.time.



I wouldn't have been quite to inclined to "sherlock" if you had said..maybe.. oh heck, I dunno... Um.. Willow turned away down the road, the creaking sound as the trap door of the scaffold opened lost to her ears. Er.. whatever...



Then I would have known... yup, she's dead. Would I have been a happy kitten? No... But that's not the point. The point is you got a reaction out of your audience and that's what matters.



You like the dark stuff and I dig that about you. You get away with it here and I admire that about you. I've got a couple of fics with dark elements that I've had Xita say, "No way Jose, not on my board" and I respect that.



So, perhaps the implied open-ending is the way to go. It gives us Kitties hope.



There are two parts left. And I can't wait to see how you fix this.



Cheers

DarkWiccan



PS: This whole rambling stream of conciousness post had a point originally... but I lost it half-way through

[Thanatopsis]

Bagheera. Don't worry, I'll keep reading. I'm super curious as to what you plan to do next. It's just as I was reading this, I kept getting images of hangings from various movies and that was enough, you know? But yeah, bleak, gloomy, sad. All sorts of synonyms could be used I suppose.

-----------------

Uh, um... various sounds of
hesitation...

[xita]

I guess that is the message I am trying to send. Implied is horrible enough, I don't see the necessity of graphic descriptions. At that point I think it would become exploitative. And you know, I am not into that.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Willow and Tara Love

Truly and Forever

Edited by: xita  at: 6/13/02 9:33:20 pm

[Bagheera]

DarkWiccan: Actually, I am impressed with your clarity and razor-sharp mind.



Thanatopsis: Phew! I have always treasured your comments and support.



Xita: I am as ever sensitive to the tenets of the "Pens". I'm not so worried about this story as I am about "Mission Statement" ( plug, plug!) because this story is, well, it's shifted in time and place and allegorical, so I at least am comfortable where it's going. "MS" is closer to the real show and as you might agree, S6 was such a mind-f*** that's it's a pretty dangerous place to start writing a fic. I know in my mind that it's going to be okay, but I wonder if the readers and the mods can wait for 15 instalments before they start to breathe easily. Phew! But, Xita, is my writing any good, is what i'd really like to know?

"Willow and Tara keep kissing. It is intense, it is passionate, and it is, above all else, love. Truly and forever."
"Entropy" shooting script

[Little M]

Wow....there's a Miriam in the story and thats my name lol

Was quite cool to see that

----------------------

'I go online sometimes, but everyone's spelling is really bad..it's depressing' - Tara

[Bagheera]

Miriam: I chose the name in this story for its alliterative quality, and because I think it's a cool name for a wicca.



Rating: PG13 adult themes

As a break in the unrelenting gloom, I have inserted a tiny pun in the text. See if you can spot it.

There is 1 more part to go in this story.

__________________________________________



The small redhead set her course for the outskirts of the village. As she walked, a breeze blew in from the west, bringing the threat of rain. Willow tugged her clothes more tightly around her and trudged on.



Behind her there was the odd ugly shout and a low hubbub of voices that Willow ignored. In her mind, she was already saying goodbye; to her parents, her few friends, the village of her birth.



“Hey, Rosenberg! Willow, wait!” came a familiar but unwelcome voice behind her. Willow maintained her stride, walking steadily towards the outskirts of the village. A hand on her shoulder made her stop and turn. It was Richard Alexander, often an annoyance, sometimes tolerable, but at that moment perhaps the last person on earth that the redhead wanted to see or speak to.



“Wait, Willow, where are you going?” the youth asked. “Didn’t you even stay for the..”



“Richard, this is not the time,” Willow said firmly and quietly. “I’m going to visit a sick friend. You’d better stay away, you might catch it.” She closed her mouth firmly and set off again.



“Now just a moment, Will..”



Willow stopped, turned and faced him. “Alexander, you really are a - Richard, this is me,” she said, pointing to herself. “This is me walking away. Now. The effect is ruined if you follow me.” She turned away and walked off. Those were the last words Richard Alexander heard her speak.



As Willow left the outskirts of the village, the promised rain shower came. Willow removed the hood of her cloak and lifted her pale face to the sky, letting the cold drops, swept by the wind, lash her face. She closed her eyes, savouring for a moment the red glow through her closed lids.



She trudged on, retracing the route to the Maclay farm that she had followed a few days earlier. The wind freshened, and the rain stopped. A small ray of sun peeped out as Willow came in sight of Miriam’s farmhouse. Instead of going to the front door, Willow ducked down a narrow lane running between fields, walking in the direction of the forest. She turned her head as she passed, scanning the window for any sign of Tara’s mother. For a moment she thought she saw a hand behind the curtain, a flash of grey eye, but it was such a fleeting glimpse it could have been imagination.



Not long after, Willow reached the first of the trees. As she passed beneath the eaves of the great forest, the world changed. The old life Willow had known was left behind and she entered a serene and silent world. Her footfalls were soft on the thick mossy forest floor, richer and softer than any carpet.



The ground rose gently before her and the forest thickened. Willow sipped clear water from meandering rivulets. The day grew cool as the westering sun began to sink. In a place where the trees were thickest, the redhead stopped to rest. She nibbled a little bread crust that she had brought with her and gathered kindling and dry wood to make a small fire. Then she sat down to wait.



For two days Willow sat in the forest, gathering her inner strength. Once she thought she heard men tramping through the forest, looking for her. She doused the fire and hid in a thicket. Whoever it was, passed on unseen. Another time she thought she heard a bear snuffling through the undergrowth nearby, but it too passed her by. On the second night a wolf came sniffing up to Willow’s tiny fire, and for a moment its amber eyes looked quizzically into hers. Willow seized the largest burning branch from her blaze and drove the animal off.



As the sun set on the second day, Willow piled all of her remaining wood on the fire. She sat cross-legged next to it, and commenced the ritual that Miriam Maclay had taught her. She intoned the words that she had committed to memory, calling on the elements of earth, air, fire and water and the spirits of the north, south, east and west to grant her request. At the appropriate times, she cast ingredients into the fire. As the last words were spoken, the fire blazed suddenly, bathing the pale redhead’s face in a golden light. A wolf howled mournfully in the distance, and then all was silent. Only then did Willow take the last item from her pack, a small leather flask. She opened it and drank the contents in a single draught. Moments later, Willow slumped face forward on the ground beside the fire and lay there, unmoving.



It was many months before a bundle of rags was found deep in the woods. No other trace of Willow Rosenberg was ever found, not a bone, not a hair. Long before then, rumours had begun to circulate about the witch trials. There was a persistent but unsubstantiated rumour that the number of victims buried was one less than the number hanged, but there was no agreement about the identity of any missing body, so the story was most probably apocryphal. Juicier gossip emerged soon after when Abigail disappeared, taking the contents of Reverend Osborne’s strong-box with her. The first tales concerned Abigail herself, that she had established herself in a fine house in Portsmouth and was the mistress of an admiral. Such talk died down soon enough, but attention soon turned to other matters. Other accusers had begun to recant; in any case, without Abigail there to goad them, their stories no longer had any semblance of cohesion or consistency. Osborne’s motives came under suspicion, the bereaved Ira Rosenberg having heard some dark rumour concerning the Reverend and why the loss of his strong-box had been such a blow. Attention then turned to John Putland, as people looked back at William Priest’s testimony and decided that it made excellent sense. Relatives of those who had been hanged and had their property confiscated began to come forward to challenge Putland’s claims to title over the purloined lands, and he found himself dragged through a succession of legal battles that culminated in him losing nearly everything. He retreated to a tiny farmlet and began to drink himself to death, spending his last years in isolation and bitterness. Before this happened, Osborne’s congregations began to dwindle, as more and more of his flock elected to attend sermons elsewhere, even it meant a morning’s journey on the day of rest. With tithes and donations ever falling away, Osborne found his dream of establishing a money-lending business to supplant Rosenberg’s evaporating day by day. One night he simply stole away and became a wandering preacher, eventually taking a boat to Africa with the intention of becoming a missionary. The end of his tale is unknown; equal numbers believed Osborne’s ship sank in a gale, while others insisted that they had news of his death from a brain fever.



There was yet more. Rumours began to circulate that the executioner Knight was breaking into graves at night and stealing the hair of dead virgins to weave into his ropes. Whether these were true or not, Knight found that there was falling demand for his services as a weaver and rope maker, and he eventually drifted away. The magistrate too met a bad end, dying some months after the trials from a painful illness that began with the passing of copious blood in his water. Soon after, he became unable to pass water at all, and in great agony he became prostrated and feverish. With the normal route for making water apparently denied him, urine passed out of his body through his skin and breath, so that all who entered his room to care for him in his final days were sickened by the reek. When the villagers heard news of his demise, they nodded sagely when they were reminded that one of the goodwives of the village that the magistrate had hanged as a witch, a year or two earlier had successfully treated him with herbs and potions for troublesome bladder stones.