Later
It began to rain. Clouds moved in, covered the red-orange sky, blocked out the sun. Shadows, shortening just moments ago, disappeared, as the evening turned into black night, faster than it should have.
In the middle of the half-soaked, shining grass that had begun to spring up from the patches of drab earth, lay a creature, clothed in the whitest of white. A pure garment that had not provided it the safety of innocence and beauty, but had sent it to its end.
A black bead shone in the whiteness, as rain spilled onto the creature, slipping along the white, smoothing it down, causing it to glisten. Still the black bead shone brighter than the white, although it had lost its spark, lost its glitter.
Stains spread from the white, to the green, diluting in the rain, but still dark, still bright, still ominous. In the redness that spread far and fast was a sign. A sign of things to come. A sigh of tragedy. A sign of death. The crimson blood slipped further downhill, seemingly following the two retreating figures, following them into darkness, into loss, into fear. The two thought they had left death behind… were they ever wrong.
It was still raining when they finally arrived.
‘It looks just like Salem,’ muttered Ron flatly, red hair hanging limp in his eyes.
All Harry could do was agree.
Lynn. Harry had expected it to be a bustling town, a city. He had hoped it would be something more than Salem. Something better. Something to wipe away the imprint Salem had left on his mind. Something worth the days of walking.
It was nothing even close to what he had imagined. Homes: some large, some small. Shops: mostly modestly sized.
Not many people out walking. None actually.
A sad town. A town facing tragedy.
A town in turmoil.
Ron had spotted an inn and suggested they go there. It was probably the best place to find information.
A stone-cobbled path led from the trodden-dirt road Harry and Ron had followed, to the inn. It was a small warm-looking building, with a chimney which sent out spirals of smoke into the chilled air. Red bricks lined its walls, and empty barrels sat at its wooden door. The few glass windows it had were fogged over. A sign hanging over it said: Muller’s Inn.
Harry gazed at its welcoming aura and wondered why it didn’t make him feel any less despondent. Ron was already at the door, pushing it open. Harry expected to immediately hear loud voices and raucous laughter coming from inside. There was only silence though. It only helped to depress him more, but he followed Ron.
As soon as he entered the inn, a blast of warm air hit him, toasting him from head to toe. He could feel his rain-soaked hair beginning to dry. A man stumbled past them and out the door. Ron was looking around eagerly.
The inn was larger than it had appeared from outside. With a roomy hallway leading from the door to two large rooms on the lower floor, it gave off the air of a place of meeting. A place where the townsfolk got together to discuss happenings and to have a few drinks with their friends. The two sitting rooms were connected by a large door-like gap in the joining wall. A large fire roared in each, bathing the area in a golden-red light. A counter had been built against the far wall of the room on the right. Behind it stood a bartender, wiping wet glasses with a dishrag and chatting animatedly to a customer. The rest of the room was filled with round tables and comfy couches and chairs. The room on the left contained a large dining table, which stretched practically to the length of the room, and was surrounded by carved wooden chairs. The chairs and sofas should have been occupied, Harry thought, but they weren’t.
A stairwell led from the first floor, to the second, where Harry suspected, were rooms for people staying the night.
Harry followed Ron into the smaller of the two rooms, the one with the bartender. Muller’s Inn was quiet. Harry wondered why. It didn’t seem natural for a town inn to be empty on a dark, cold night, when the warmest place in a village would most probably be an Inn.
The two friends approached the counter, where the bartender was still in deep conversation with his only customer, who happened to be (surprisingly) a well-dressed young woman with brown hair tied tightly at the nape of her neck.
Snatches of their conversation drifted towards Harry.
‘Salem…’
‘…witches…’
‘…small children…’
‘…occult…’
Harry and Ron exchanged meaningful glances. So the mass witch hysteria had spread as far a Lynn. Harry was wondering if that was a danger sign, when the bartender caught sight of them.
‘Hello friends,’ he said jovially, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Uh…’ began Harry awkwardly, ‘We don’t have any money”’
The bartender cut him off. ‘Not a problem, lads. Today, it’s my treat. No one should be without a warm drink on a night like this.’ He pushed two large flagons of a frothy liquid towards Harry and Ron, along with a plate of bread and butter.
Harry and Ron both smiled thankfully, and accepting the drinks and food, sat down at a nearby table, too hungry to bother being polite.
As they sipped their drinks (which happened to be some sort of strong beer; Harry could feel himself warming up immediately) the woman who had been speaking to the bartender a moment ago walked up.
‘May I join you?’ she asked politely. Harry saw that she was a tall woman, but not at all intimidating. On the contrary she had soft brown eyes and an easy, welcoming smile. She wore a modest dress, made out of a thick, coarse material and in her hand she held a medium sized bag that gave Harry the impression of a suitcase. He wondered if she was going somewhere.
‘Please do,’ answered Harry, smiling at her. Ron was too busy with the bread and butter, and couldn’t open his mouth to reply.
‘My name is Rebecca,’ said the woman, tactfully averting her gaze from Ron until he managed to swallow, his ears slightly red.
‘I’m Harry, and this is Ronald,’ replied Harry, feeling a little awkward. He didn’t bother hiding their name’s although he had given Ron’s full name, just to keep it more 1692. He didn’t think there was any point in alias any longer, because if people were looking for them, they’d probably have descriptions along with names.
‘You are rare visitors,’ said Rebecca, smiling. ‘In these times, not many feel brave enough to venture out of their homes, away from their fires. And you two seem more boys than men… but, of course, leaving home is a journey we all must suffer to take, whether young or old. I myself am embarking on a journey.’ She motioned to the bag that Harry had noticed before, affirming his suspicions that it was a suitcase.
Harry was silent for a moment, wondering which question he wanted to ask first. ‘Rare visitors?’ he said eventually. ‘Are you saying that there aren’t many visitors to Lynn?’
Rebecca smiled sadly. ‘Not any longer, no. Lynn Town is emptying. There were many families living here, not a week ago. But since then news has spread far and wide, and word has reached our ears of danger in Salem Village.’
‘The witch-hangings?’ Ron asked, managing to control the urge to stuff more bread into his mouth. Harry smirked at him and picked up a piece of bread, taking a small bite. Ron gave him a Look.
Rebecca seemed oblivious to Harry and Ron’s silent exchange. She nodded. ‘Yes, the witch hangings. Foolishness and idiocy has finally had its way with the people of New England. Children’s games are suddenly of the occult and illnesses are caused by black magic.’
‘So you don’t believe it’s magic?’ asked Harry surprised.
‘No, I do not. I do not live in Salem, though, and I have not heard any clear account of the mysterious illnesses. But I do not believe in magic or the occult. Logical explanations can be found for anything and everything. We just need to look hard enough. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday the answers will be clear and all of this witchcraft uproar will seem folly.’
‘So why are you leaving?’
‘I am returning to my family in Salem Village. I would like us all to leave this place together if we leave at all. And Lynn Town is no longer a suitable place to reside. The grocer has left and his stocks with him. Only the very rich or the very poor remain, the former having connections and the ability to obtain food and the latter unable to afford leaving.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of going to Salem? They’re hanging innocent people,’ said Ron, quietly.
Rebecca shook her head. ‘Afraid? No, I am not afraid. Apprehensive, yes. I do not know whether these people being hanged are innocent altogether, although their innocence in the case of witchcraft is clear. The Village of Salem is a victim of human fault, and there is little you or I can do about that. Whatever else they are, the New England courtiers are, above all, just. I have not attended any trials, of course, but their evidence of the crime must be conclusive enough to convict. And of course, they believe that the crime is witchcraft, so the punishment too, is just.’
Harry raised his eyebrows. Just when he was getting to like the woman, she came up with something that made him despise her. ‘They are killing innocent people. How is that just?’
‘They are not aware that these convicts are innocent, although they may be. They are doing what they feel is correct. The lawmakers and law enforcers are not to blame. All we can hope for is that the ones who sparked this frenzy are punished, in this life or the next and those innocents who suffered are compensated for their suffering in the next life.’
Harry opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it. He sat back, his eyebrows scrunched together.
Was she right? Could they blame Salem’s court, those people who had handed out the punishments? After all they didn’t know… they were the victims of mass hysteria. But wasn’t it true that everybody should be responsible for their own deeds? Whether nine or ninety, whether accidentally or purposely was the deed done, responsibility was something that had to be taken. And who had set off the Trials? Who had put this idea in the Salem Villagers’ hearts? Should they really take the blame for everything that had happened during the Salem Witch Trials? Was it possible to have a sparker in this situation? Wasn’t this just a strange built-up superstition that had finally taken its toll? Was it the sparker’s fault that everything had gotten so out of hand? Wasn’t the responsibility for so many deaths, so many murders, too much to take for one single person, a person who might not have even known what they were doing when they “sparked” the tumult against witches?
Harry’s head was still spinning with questions when Rebecca stood up, picked up her bag and smiled down at the two boys.
‘I wish you good luck, my friends, and a safe journey to wherever you are heading. And I hope that you find what you are looking for,’ she said, a melancholy smile on her face. Harry and Ron said goodbye and watched her leave the tavern.
‘So,’ said Ron, turning back to face Harry, his hands gripping his mug tightly, staring at Harry with an almost knowing look on his face, ‘who was she?’
Harry was still staring at the door through which Rebecca had left, her last words to them still ringing in his ears. ‘I think… she was hanged.’
The look on Ron’s face told Harry that he had guessed the truth even before Harry had said the words.