The Demon Plague
by Joreid McFate

Copyright © 2005, Karl Joreid and Frances McFate
All rights reserved

Flesh that bears the ancient star,

Passed from womb to womb;

May crystal right

The demon blight,

While guarded by the moon.


Prologue

Monday, August 15, 1692
Town of Salem
The Magistrate's House


       As an artist, Anson Talbot had an extraordinary eye for detail. Grasping the charcoal stick awkwardly in his crippled hand, deformed since birth, Anson drew loosely but quickly, capturing in an instant the tortured face of nine-year-old Elizabeth Parris. Only a few strokes were needed to depict her contorted body writhing on the floor of the Magistrate's house.
       His attention was drawn to the doorway leading to the antechamber. George Corwin, the High Sheriff of The County of Essex, ushered in the witch. Anson had not seen the Sheriff since June, at the execution of Bridget Bishop. If there was one image from that hanging that remained vividly etched upon his memory it was the obvious delight George Corwin had taken at being the instrument of the woman's slow death.
       Patience Gladstone walked before the pompous Sheriff, defiance in every step. All of the others Anson had observed, men and women alike, up north in Salem Village and here in the Town of Salem, had a beaten look about them. Not this witch. After five months of trials, he knew by instinct she would be the focus of his next painting.
        Her eyes met his. He saw that she recognized him and his hand grew unsteady at the heavy pounding of his heart. During his visits to Reverend Parris he had oft times stolen glances at her as she served the meals. That she dared to brook Puritan mores by acknowledging him in open court sent a rush of warmth through his soul.
       Anson sketched furiously. He drew the contempt Patience Gladstone's eyes held for the proceedings. Contempt for Magistrate Hawthorne, for the Sheriff, but mostly for the throng gathered to hear her confession. Her posture not only placed her against those within these legal chambers, it blasphemed the very essence of Puritan values.
       A delicate smile played at the corners of her bowed lips. At the sight of it, Anson knew a confession would not be heard here this day.
       His crippled fingers began to cramp. He ignored the pain, and drew as if possessed. Sheet after sheet filled with his exacting renderings. He captured the self-aggrandizing, peacock posture of Sheriff George Corwin as he placed various items on the table beside Magistrate Hawthorne.
       There was a leather-bound book--a possible Grimoire, Anson thought. There were cachets of herbs. There was some sort of amulet -- a crystal held in a lacy web of silver filigree looped over a leather thong. There was also a small doll and several candles.
       Anson scribbled frantically, trying to preserve the moment. His attention kept returning to Patience Gladstone. Though her skin was stained with the grime of her imprisonment and accented with bruises from her torture, she was exceedingly comely. Her hair was the color of autumn leaves, her skin like churned butter, and she was infused with the spirit of youth.
       She was but sixteen years old.
       He knew her defiant attitude had not escaped Magistrate Hawthorne. He stared down his aquiline nose at the accused. His blanched skin, pale against the black skull cap and black robe, and his close-set eyes gave him the look of a waiting vulture.
       When he spoke, the words slithered from his lips.
       "Elizabeth Parris," he said, "Speak child. Have you been afflicted by Patience Gladstone?"
       The young girl babbled wildly. Her small hand wavered as she pointed a trembling finger at the accused.
       "What do you say, child?" The Magistrate leaned across his desk. "Tell us. Is this the one?"
       Writhing in pain, the girl pointed once more. "Yes, she is the cause of my affliction."
       A wry smile crossed the lips of Patience Gladstone. "I am innocent and clear of this."
       "Are you, now?" the Magistrate said. "Yet, not only have we heard from this child, but others too. Ann Putnam and Abigail Williams have both described your actions against them."
       The Reverend Samuel Parris, father of the afflicted girl, stood. The pain of his child caused by the witch had made its mark on his already drawn face.
       "Release my daughter from your grip."
       Patience held her chin high. "I have no control over little Elizabeth."
       "Did you not consult with Tituba while under my roof? Tituba! A confessed witch."
       "I am only your indentured servant, Reverend Parris, and Tituba your slave. She is no more a witch than I."
       "Magistrate," Reverend Parris said, "you heard her. She has confessed to being a witch."
       Patience waved off his accusation with impudence, drawing a gasp from the onlookers. When her hand moved, Elizabeth fell once more to the floor and screamed in agony.
       The Magistrate's glare silenced Reverend Parris, and he sat. Hawthorne's voice stilled the crowd.
       "Release the child from whatever power you hold over her. I command it!"
       Patience Gladstone returned his stare.
       Hawthorne slammed his fist on the desk. "You have claimed that you are no more a witch than Tituba. Yet Tituba has confessed to making a contract with the Devil."
       "Look upon these bruises," Patience Gladstone said. "They were caused by your torture to force a confession from me." She brushed her hair aside, exposing the darkness caused by the straps that had bound her neck.
       A woman screamed. "Look! Behind her ear! She bears the Devil's mark!"
       Anson saw the birthmark clearly. It was no larger than his thumbnail, dark brown against her pale skin. It was a perfect five-pointed star.
       Despite her indentured servitude, Patience held herself as any freeman would, ignoring the shouts from the crowd. Anson was enamored. He felt himself blush, and nervously brushed his mop of dark, curly hair. He surreptitiously scanned the room to see if anyone had noticed his improper reaction.
       He noticed a stranger with an unusual shade of light blond hair standing in the crowd. That he had overlooked this man startled him immensely. Anson was not accustomed to overlooking any detail.
       He began to rough out a likeness of the gentleman.
       His artist's eye found discrepancies. The man was exceptionally tall, at least a head taller than the others crowding the trial room. He must be a gentleman of considerable wealth, for his clothing was of the finest material. The appearance of the fellow's apparel was of stark newness, as if it had never before been worn. It was as if the man had donned them straight from the shop of a quality tailor, for surely they were not crafted by any goodwife in Salem. Anson knew without measuring, that, from the width of the brim of the man's hat to the length of his white collar, all was according to Puritan Law, and would not be off by even the hair of one of his finest brushes.
       As he sketched the stranger's intense blue eyes, he followed the direction of the man's gaze. It was trained on the table of evidence, with an occasional glance at the High Sheriff. George Corwin, an imposing barrel-chested man, stood next to the table, his meaty arms cradling his flintlock. The musket, its fittings polished, was new, and had replaced the sheriff's old snaphanse. Corwin not only held the weapon proudly, he caressed it. Anson smiled behind his mustache, beholding the expression of supreme power on the man's face.
       He looked back to where the stranger was. He had moved within the crowd, working his way closer to the sheriff. Then Anson corrected his assumption. The stranger had moved closer to the items placed atop the table beside the magistrate.
       He detailed the stranger's finery, and was totally engrossed in his observations when he became aware that the tall gentleman was glaring at him. The stare was so intense, so cold, that Anson cringed and averted his eyes. The stranger returned his attention to the items on the table.
       Though the room was but dimly lit by sun filtering through the oiled paper windows, his eyes gathered light like an owl's. At thirty-five, an age when it betrayed most, Anson's vision was exceptional. He had no trouble seeing the slight blemish within the crystal. He leaned forward, staring. The flaw had shape. It was a perfect five-pointed star. He looked upon Patience Gladstone. She bore the same mark.
       The magistrate narrowed his eyes.
       "Patience Gladstone," he said, "do you not see what you have done? Why do you torment this child?"
       "This trial is a mockery," she replied, meeting his stare. "I do not afflict little Elizabeth."
       "Do you deny you enact witchcraft before us by the motion of your body, which has such influence upon the child?"
       Patience lifted her hands in exasperation and Elizabeth Parris sobbed.
       "Bind her eyes so she cannot look upon me and you will see my movements have no influence upon her."
       Hawthorne ignored the remark, but his craftiness was displayed openly upon his face. "Why do you hurt her?"
       "I do not hurt her."
       "Whom do you employ, then, to do it?"
       "I employ no one!"
       As if he had sprung a trap, he said, "Then what creature do you employ?"
       A murmur rippled through the crowd, flowing like a wave. Anson turned toward the source of the commotion and gasped.
       Looming in the doorway was a form, its face hidden by a cowl. It stood at least seven foot tall and was as broad as two men standing abreast. It was clothed in odd garments of a uniform gray, beneath which bulged the outline of unearthly musculature. Anson sat transfixed. He was torn between his innate desire to observe and his instinct to flee for safety.
       The being took a single step into the room, and for a brief instant, its cowl shifted. Anson caught a glimpse of its face. He knew he had looked upon a demon from hell.
       Screams of terror erupted from the crowd. Chaos ensued. There was a frantic scramble to escape. To Anson, it seemed movement had slowed to allow him the opportunity to record every detail. The demon paid no heed to the screaming people and bounded across the room toward the blond man.
       The stranger's eyes widened, but not with the fear that permeated the very souls of the Puritans. His expression was more one of hatred. He reached toward the table of artifacts; his long fingers grasped the crystal amulet. As he did, his sleeve rode up, and Anson glimpsed something wrapped around the man's wrist. Then, as quickly as it appeared it was gone, hidden beneath his sleeve. Anson's mind recorded what he had seen.
       Sheriff Corwin, yellow teeth bared in a grimace of terror, stumbled backward barely an arm's length from the spawn of Hell. It reached the stranger. Corwin brought his flintlock to arms, ready to protect himself. The creature pounced upon the stranger and its massive weight brought the tall man down hard on the wooden floor. Using the demon's momentum, the stranger tucked his feet against its stomach and, like a catapult, tossed the massive beast over his head.
       The demon flipped completely over, landing on its rump directly in front of Anson. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, and he was face-to-face with one of Satan's minions.
       Anson felt his heart stop. He stared into the creature's black orbs, eyes so dark the pupils were indistinguishable. Eyes as vile as the very depths of Hell, as damnable as the devil's soul.
       The moment passed. The Sheriff raised his flintlock. The stranger ran toward the doorway to the antechamber. The creature righted itself and turned. A single swipe of its huge hand knocked the barrel of the musket off target, and a few leaps across the room brought it to within reach of its prey.
       Sheriff Corwin recovered quickly and aimed the flintlock at the creature. It pounced on the back of the man, tumbling him out of the room into the antechamber and out of view. The Sheriff leapt over those who remained cowering on the floor and gave chase. He raised his weapon, pointing it around the corner toward a sight Anson could only imagine.
       At the same instant the powder flashed, a brilliant burst of rainbow light spilled from the antechamber. The musket's cacophonous retort echoed throughout the trial room.
       The last thing Anson Talbot recalled before he was rendered unconscious was a thunderous explosion.

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