Free The First Book of the Pure by Don Dewey Page B

She
sobbed when she heard the proclamation, and then could barely
breathe as she heard the gallows rope hum as Alice’s body dropped
and caught, snapping her neck. Then she screamed aloud as young
Sarah met the same fate. She envisioned the girl as one of her own
daughters, now long since gone. Once again she experienced the pain
of having a friend and a child wrenched from her. It caused her
great anguish that she was never as close to her own children as
they might have been. This wasn’t justice. This was worse than
Crete. She was beside herself with anguish, anger and a renewed
hatred for the men perpetrating this horror. She knew she could
never forget or forgive this terrible thing, and suddenly she
realized how much she had cared for young Sarah. Now it was too
late; Sarah was dead, and Mary had unwittingly contributed to her
death.
    Mary was taken out when there was little in
the way of a crowd. She had hidden some things on her person. She
did it not for this specific incident, but for whatever came up.
She’d lived many lives as Ruby, and knew her circumstances could
change in a heartbeat. She had a small but finely honed throwing
star sewn into her long dress, ratty now by way of imprisonment,
soilage and the inability to change into clean garments. She was
certainly looking the part of a witch or a hag as they took her out
for her hanging. Her hair was bedraggled, her face dirty, her
clothing disarrayed and filthy. But she was also ready.
    “What would happen to you if I escaped?” she
asked the man leading her out.
    “You won’t.”
    She pressed him. “But what if ?”
    “Witches have disappeared before. It would’ve
happened again,” he said with a leer. There was no one else about,
and he pressed her body, dirt and smell and all, up against the
wall and kissed her, saying, “I guess it won’t hurt you to give me
some fun before they stretch your neck.”
    As he groped her, she finished slicing the
bonds that held her hands together behind her. “Any more from you
and I’ll scream so loud the hanging crowd will all hear.”
    “So what?”
    “Do you really want to live in this town with
them all wondering if you’re perverted?” The question was one that
would cause anyone who lived in or near Salem to pale. He let her
go and started her back on route to the gallows.
    As they walked past the fire that was kept
burning all the time now, and up the steps to the gallows, she
moved a hand to the slit, not quite a pocket, that held her pouch
of powder. She tossed off the rope from her hands, shoved the guard
down the steps, and threw the bag of powder into the fire. It was
as impressive as she knew it would be. It was not so much an
explosion as it was a rush of smoke and sparks. The smoke spread
instantly, shocking the small crowd, and hid her as she headed for
the route she’d chosen. Only the man leading her to her expected
death was close enough to see anything, and he’d struggled to his
feet and grasped for her, ripping her dress nearly off. She flung
her star into his throat, turning to run instead of watching the
blood spray from his jugular as he dropped to his knees, still
clutching her torn dress. By the time the smoke began to clear she
was gone, the witnesses were having terrible eye trouble, and a
couple of fresh guards were rushing up to take charge.
    Later, when questioned by the magistrate, a
guard, concerned for his job, offered the rags of her dress as
evidence that Mary Parker had been hanged. He stated that
her body had turned to ash but the dress was untouched. She’d been
a witch, after all.
    It didn’t need to make sense. Often these
things did not make sense. They just needed to be believed
to become truth to those deciding what the truth was at that point
in time. Nobody there could admit she escaped. They declared that
her death was by hanging in September of 1692, and continued in
their series of trials.
    Only the guard, handling the razor sharp star
carefully,