Salem

The Clearing Next to The Highway

The woods emitted a thin mist that covered their eyes. There was no movement. Neither wind nor animal dared to stir the leaves in this part of the woods. It was as if they knew that this was not a place to wander into. The sudden tramping of twigs and underbrush by twelve pairs of feet dispelled any notion of walking into the clearing that sat a measly quarter mile from the town's main highway.

Sneakers and boots pounded the dewy grass beyond repair as the girls ran through the trees hollering, whooping, and swinging their arms in joy. It was dark, and their familiarity with this part of the woods was the only reason that any of them didn't trip on a protruding root and sprain an ankle.

Screams sent birds flying and arms snapping branches out of the way dislodged the bugs. All flew into the air in a mad attempt to escape the children who seemed to be suffering from some angry fit. Finally, they reached their destination.

A small, nearly perfect circle surrounded by trees and natural wild grass. The clearing had long been purged of anything resembling wildlife, and the ground was packed with dirt, bubblegum wrappers, and old chicken bones. In the center sat a fire pit, the stones blackened from ash, and the white rocks picked up from the hardware store always had to be placed back into their spots by the end of each night. Against the red dirt, these rocks were arranged into a series of creepy symbols that no outsider could understand.

But the witches did. And their teacher knew even more about those symbols than they did.

Tituba was a black woman from some country most of these girls had never heard of. Abigail, Abby to her friends, told everyone that Tituba was from Barbados. And everyone believed her, too; after all, Tituba worked for Abby's Uncle. She'd know more about the strange witch than anyone.

The girls burst into the clearing and didn't stop running until they had surrounded the burning fire. Tituba smiled, releasing a deep throaty laugh that pulled a subsequent giggle from her young guests. The excitement of running half-crazed through the forest had yet to abide, but Tituba raised her hands, and as she slowly lowered them, they followed her to the ground. Kneeling in the red dirt common to their mountain, the girls did not regard the stains they would leave on their clothes. Nobody would ask about them; if they did, a simple lie would suffice.

"What did you bring me tonight?" Tituba asked, and everyone held out their fists, some clutching plants, others clutching animal bones. Abby was holding something covered in a terry cloth towel that she refused to move an inch from her chest. Tituba ignored her, or she didn't even notice. Sometimes it was hard to tell what Tituba was or was not seeing. The witch reached a hand behind her and brought a small, water-filled cauldron to the fire and set it down gently.

"Mary Warren," she addressed the girl to her immediate left. "You go first." The mousy girl threw in Witch Hazel, and the water sent a plume of steam into the air. Tituba addressed each girl, and when called, she threw her tribute into the cauldron. When the witch got to Abby, the girl stood and handed Tituba the towel-covered object she'd brought with her. The witch also stood and met the girl's offering over the cauldron. She gently removed the towel and smiled at the sight of a live rooster.

Tituba took the offering and grabbed the rooster's tagged legs. Abby must have stolen this rooster from one of the outlying farms. Suddenly, Tituba swung the rooster high above her head, and the girls scattered away from the fire in surprised glee, the remaining offerings thrown to the ground and promptly forgotten. All except Annie Putnam's live frog, caught down by the creek, which hit the ground in a panicked effort to escape the stomping feet and found itself kicked into the fire.

Screams pierced the humid night air, and laughter followed close behind it.

"What's your offering for Abby?" one girl shouted, her mocking tone encouraging several others to goad Abby as well.

"I know what it’s for!"

"She wants him again!"

"Get her Will Proctor back!”

Abby, who had yet to move her spot in the red dirt, sprang from her knees and ran around the fire to whisper in the witch's ear. Tituba stilled, and when the words sunk in, she pulled a horrified face and would have sprung away from the girl had Abby not clutched the shoulder of Tituba's faded denim shirt.

"No!" Tituba protested vehemently. "That would be a horrible thing! No!"

Abby scowled in frustration and contempt, grabbed the rooster from Tituba's limp hands, and then threw the witch away from her. The girl's anger at the witch's refusal to do as she said fueled her strength, and Tituba found herself landing in the hard dirt on her hip. Pain seared through the left side of her body, but she ignored it as she watched Abby in horror.

"Abby! No!" she shouted, trying vainly to break through to the girl's senses. It didn't work, and everyone watched in varying degrees of horror or glee as Abby raised the rooster above her head. With a scream of ruthlessness, the girl brought it down to earth, the animal's head crashing against the white rocks that made up the symbols surrounding the fire.

Taken by a sudden wild, inexplicable urge, she stuck her fingers in the blood gushing from the stolen offering's head and brought the fingers to her mouth. She smeared the blood across her lips as if playing some macabre dress-up game. Her tongue darted out of her mouth and tasted the coppery taste so commonly associated with blood.

When she straightened her back, the other girls got a good and long look at her wild eyes and blood-smeared mouth. They knew what Abby had just done, and even though it crossed a line none of them had thought themselves capable of crossing, they threw their hands in the air and resumed dancing. Someone even turned on some music. Soon enough, a shirt came off, followed very swiftly by a pink-striped bra with white lace, and then everything else until the owner of these articles of clothing stood stark naked in the moonlight filtering through the surrounding leaves. The howls of laughter pierced the night as a different girl followed the streaker's example.

Utter chaos reigned in the clearing. If Tituba had been in control of that night's proceedings, she had lost all of it. All sense of propriety and modesty had vanished before her very eyes. She was frozen to where she lay on the ground, for she knew what Abby had just done. Drinking blood, there was no helping her now.

The commotion in the clearing was so loud that no one noticed the preacher walking up to them through the woods. His home lay just a few miles away, closer to the town and adjacent to the church. Reverend Parris often took walks in the middle of the night as a self-prescribed cure for his insomnia. He had followed the highway-nothing more than a two-lane road. The government finally agreed to name it a highway so it could be paved. More curious than concerned when he heard the music and the screaming, he veered into the woods.

Surely, it was nothing more than a teenage party gone wild. He had broken up a few in the past. It wouldn't be a big deal to break up another one now. He was more inclined to let everyone go with barely a warning on this particular night. The varsity football team had just won the game against their longtime rivals, and Reverend Parris certainly wasn't interested in destroying the town's joyous mood with calls to the police. No, everyone would have to disperse earlier than they'd planned.

But what he came upon was not what he'd envisioned on the road. He was somewhat confused as to what he was seeing. The party seemed to consist of only girls, some very young looking and some streaking through the clearing, filtering in and out of his view. All of them were shouting and running. There was a fire, and the Reverend felt a deep, unnatural stirring inside him.

He had only felt this stirring once before. He’d attributed it to something quite wonderful then. But this stirring rang of something quite terrifying. This stirring told him to run.

“It’s the Minister!” a shout rang out, sounding panicked and surprised. The yells turned to screams, and suddenly everyone ran in a panic, trying to disappear into the trees. He walked closer, the unease in his stomach forcing him to hesitate at the edge of the trees.

He was surprised to find that he recognized some of these girls. He saw Betty’s pink flannel jacket flashing in between the trees. He ignored them for the most part. He was drawn to the fire. The pot was at a roiling boil, and he cautiously picked up a stick and poked at the dead thing floating at the top of the water. He jumped as it rolled and revealed itself to be a frog. A small one but its size was hardly the point.

“No!”

The sudden scream pierced through the fog in his brain, and he dropped the stick and ran towards the scream. He was not two feet into the trees when he came across Abigail trying desperately to pull her younger cousin off the ground. Betty was screaming, seemingly caught in some spasm, and clutching her stomach.

“No!” she screamed again. The older girl looked up as his continuing movements caught her eye. She had a doe-eyed look about her. She was caught, and she knew it. And she feared it.

“Uncle! Please!”

He couldn’t tell if she was begging for his help or mercy.

Betty screamed again, and his attention immediately focused on her. He knew that he should take her to the hospital. She seemed to be in horrible pain. It was so bad she couldn’t communicate around it. He scooped her up and started carrying her back to their home.

Abigail followed him, never saying a word.