THE WITCH HUNTERS STEVE LYONS DOCTOR WHO: THE WITCH HUNTERS Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd, Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane, London W12 0TT First published 1998 Copyright © Steve Lyons 1998 The moral right of the author has been asserted Original series broadcast on BBC television Format © BBC 1963 ‘Doctor Who’ and ‘Tardis’ are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review ISBN 563 40579 Imaging by Black Sheep © BBC 1998 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Cover printed by Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton PART ONE BREAK THE CHAIN 14 January 1692 ‘Susan next.’ ‘Yes Susan’ Betty’s elfin face was illuminated by a child’s glee Ann, too, beamed her approval Susan smiled weakly and didn’t dare to object, although she was uncomfortable with the attention She felt she was a fraud for not sharing their beliefs Abigail held the egg aloft, poised theatrically above the fresh glass She still spoke in an exaggerated whisper – the correct tone, it was felt, for deeds of dark portent ‘We know so little of our strange visitors past We may at least divine her future.’ Only Mary, the eldest of the five, injected a note of caution ‘Perhaps we should stop this now, Abigail? Will the minister not miss yet one more egg from his parlour?’ Ann shot a scathing glare towards the girl who would deny them such pleasure Betty wore a similar, almost mutinous, scowl Nobody wanted this delicious night to end ‘Tituba will keep it from my uncle,’ said Abigail dismissively ‘She will say she broke the eggs, if needs be It may earn her a whipping, but she will not tell on us.’ ‘Beside,’ said Ann, ‘the omens are uncommonly good at this time Young Goodman Brown from Salem Town saw a demon in the forest two days since, on the hunt Dark of eyes it was and red of skin.’ ‘Cloaked in unearthly fabrics,’ said Abigail ‘With terrible horns and hooves.’ ‘Oh, it, Abi,’ chirped Betty impatiently ‘Go on, it now.’ Abigail raised her hand for silence and turned her face skyward She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, exhaling loudly, preparing herself for the ritual And Susan could feel it again She didn’t know what it was She didn’t believe in magic, diabolic or otherwise, but there was an open pit in her stomach nonetheless and her nerves tingled with anticipation The room was dark, despite the dancing flames of the candles; cold, despite the warming fire in the grate and the sturdy shutters closed against the bitter air of a cruel winter’s evening The tension and fear of the other girls had acquired an almost physical presence They pressed against her nose and mouth, threatening to stifle ‘I would see the future husband of Susan Chesterton,’ Abigail asked of the shadows ‘Show us this thing, we beseech thee.’ She teased open the egg shell and let the white trickle – slowly, deliberately – into the still water Susan felt Betty’s hand reach for hers, and she took it Betty clung on tightly, clearly terrified For an insane moment, Susan shared her fear that the Devil himself might step from one of the flickering silhouettes on the wall, drawn to this group by its evildoings But she also felt the excitement of disobedience the lure of secrets unknown and things forbidden, as the silken strands began to weave their translucent tapestry behind glass ‘It is a quill’, whispered Ann in a voice full of awe ‘You are to marry a learned man, Susan.’ ‘No the spell is not yet complete,’ said Abigail tetchily She shook the last of the viscous fluid from the egg, careful not to let the yolk slide out, then placed it aside and studied the patterns with intense concentration ‘The strands are settling the image is emerging It is a sword, look.’ ‘Yes, a sword ’ agreed Betty ‘Abi is right, it is a sword!’ ‘Then Susan is to marry a fighting man.’ Aim pouted ‘Are you positive it is not a quill?’ Abigail shook her head vehemently ‘It is a sword The spirits have given us their answer What think you, Susan? Would you pledge your troth to a fighting man?’ Susan stared at the glass, but could see only an irregular shape formed randomly by the egg white in suspension and lent illumination by the fire beyond ‘I don’t know,’ she said ‘I might not get married at all I haven’t decided yet.’ ‘Not marry?’ cried Mary, scandalised ‘Would you become a bitter old spinster, or a malicious beggar like Sarah Good?’ ‘Or a witch?’ put in Ann, a spark in her eyes The atmosphere was diffused by cackling laughter: an expression of amusement, yes, but with a hard undertone of spite There was relief, too, that the ritual had ended without dire consequence Susan joined in uncertainly It had been a mistake to hint at her different upbringing and culture, and it was for the best that she had not been taken seriously Abigail cleared her throat and regained control of the gathering She had removed the glass from the table, with a care that bordered on reverence Now she reached to draw one more towards her, and produced another egg from the folds of her formal, constricting, grey tunic ‘Another?’ gasped Mary ‘Might not the minister be returning soon ’ ‘There will be time yet for one more.’ Abigail seemed to be fuelled by Mary’s worries, to revel in the possibility of discovery ‘Oh, let it be me,’ piped up Betty ‘Go on, Abi, let it be me.’ But Abigail shook her head ‘’Tis my turn to peer into the future I wish to know the calling of my husband this time.’ The pronouncement was greeted by silence, and Susan could feel the darkness rising again She became acutely aware of the howling of a lonely wind outside, as cold air leaked through the shutters and caressed her spine She had a sudden, powerful sense that their actions here – this primitive, superstitious game, as she had first dismissed it – were wrong in the worst possible way Only dark things and evil could come out of this night’s activities She wanted to leap to her feet, to snatch the egg from Abigail’s hand, to scream out that she would forfeit their very souls But her legs felt like concrete and new patterns were already coagulating in the water This time, there was no denying the image that formed Even Susan could see it, though it took Ann to put it into words ‘A coffin,’ she spluttered ‘It’s a coffin Oh, Abigail, no No!’ Abigail’s habitual confidence had drained away She stared into the glass with cursed eyes and a deathly white face, and her attempts to speak brought forth only strangulated whimpers Part of Susan was telling her to step back from this, to bring her scientific knowledge to bear, to refute the awful prophecy Another was screaming that it was true, that the girl was damned Then Abigail cried out in pain and swept the glass from the table with considerable force It struck the wall and smashed, but the damp pattern as egg and water soaked into the wood resembled a coffin still She saw it and cried again, toppling backward on her chair as she scrambled to escape the ghoulish image She hit the floor with a crash, and Mary and Susan rushed to her side as Ann just stared and shook her head and Betty began to weep Abigail was thrashing about in the straw, tears cascading down her cheeks, her breath coming in frenzied pants Her eyes had rolled back in their sockets and her body was seized by spasms She was having some sort of a fit, and Susan brought herself up short, not knowing how to help Then Betty and Ann were screaming too and wailing, while Ann banged her head against the table in despair Susan felt a tide of misery rising in her chest It threatened to overwhelm her But how could such a thing be? She didn’t believe in any of this She had never subscribed to the puritanical doctrines of physical demons and immediate retribution for sin; she had considered them to be ‘quaint’ She should remain calm, bring her logic to bear, settle the others But she was losing control, as if some outside force had taken command of her emotions ‘The Devil!’ cried Mary ‘The Devil has come amongst us.’ ‘We should never have done his work We should never have used the Devils tools.’ She flung herself to her knees and lay over Abigail’s painracked body, sobbing uncontrollably Then something broke in Susan and she screamed too And the first link strained and began to fracture 16 January 1692 The Reverend Samuel Parris was alone, afraid and lost He tightened his cloak about his wir frame, to stave off the chill air and the creeping dread, and he cursed himself for the overzealous devotion that had delivered him into this heathen domain He had known his course to be unwise before he had committed himself to it – and yet the moon had seemed so benevolent as it smiled upon the besieged homes of Salem Village, and he had taken this as affirmation that the Lord would not abandon his follower to the darkness It seemed a hollow omen now The light was stolen by the leering silhouettes of black, gnarled branches Chains of tangible evil shackled the minister, their embrace ever more inhibiting and cold The distant hoot of an owl was distorted and amplified, a warning of approaching doom It was night-time in the forest For Parris, there was no worse place to be, but for one that lay beyond this plane He denied himself such thoughts, drawing strength from his cross and reminding himself that he was only doing God’s work For why else would he have been sent here? God wished him to brave such perils; to risk his soul in the cause of exposing those demons who walked in human form amid his flock To punish them; to save them, perhaps, from their sins The strangers had confirmed his deepest suspicions by fleeing into this place, of all places The minister was only doing his duty Doing what was right But Samuel Parris – for all his beliefs, for all his righteousness – was still a mortal man, beginning to fear now that he may never find his way back to the light His footfalls were slow and reluctant, his courage tested by each as it sent the crunch of hardened snow on fallen leaves and the snap of twigs echoing like bugle calls to the dark hordes Surely, he thought, the good Lord could require no more of him than what measure of faith and perseverance he had shown already The demons were gone and he could no good by continuing this pursuit But, even as he halted and considered his route ... THE WITCH HUNTERS STEVE LYONS DOCTOR WHO: THE WITCH HUNTERS Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd, Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane, London W12 0TT First published 1998 Copyright © Steve Lyons 1998 The moral... shook the last of the viscous fluid from the egg, careful not to let the yolk slide out, then placed it aside and studied the patterns with intense concentration The strands are settling the image... ‘is for the jury to decide.’ A hush fell upon the room as the girls’ fits subsided and the jurors filed out of the building, towards the home of Judge Corwin in which they would conduct their deliberations