Praise for Witch Hunt

Praise for Witch Hunt
“Witch Hunt has a riveting storyline that will keep
you turning the pages late into the night.
O’Branagan has skill at developing characters and
suspense.”
— Rocky Mountain News
“A superb examination of the corrupting influence
of power: political, social, economic, religious,
and sexual power. Witch Hunt  works well on
several different levels, and the story comes very
close to being a modern religious and political
allegory.”
— 2AM Magazine
“Witch Hunt is an outstanding book which grabs
you right from the beginning.”
— Midnight Zoo
“O’Branagan is a very talented writer, and the only
problem with her work is that she doesn’t write
fast enough! Very highly recommended ...”
— New Leaf
“Witch Hunt is an entertaining novel, steeped in
metaphysical detail and filled with witch and
spiritual lore.”
— Locus
Also by Devin O’Branagan:
Spirit Warriors
Witch Hunt (First Edition)
Glory
Red Hot Property
Red Hot Liberty
Show Dog Sings the Blues
Devin O’Branagan
Cornucopia Creations, Ltd.
Copyright © 1990, 2010, 2011 by Devin O’Branagan.
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without permission in writing from the author, except for the
inclusion of a brief quotation in a review.
Second Edition Witch Hunt print book format published 2011 by
Cornucopia Creations, Ltd.
Second Edition Witch Hunt e-book format published 2010 by
Cornucopia Creations, Ltd.
First Edition Witch Hunt originally published 1990 by Pocket Books,
a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-1463581800
ISBN-10: 1463581807
Cover and book design by Sue Campbell Graphic Design
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This novel is dedicated to all those souls who have been,
and continue to be, persecuted in the name of religion.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1988 Salman Rushdie wrote a novel that offended
fundamentalist Muslims and death threats were issued to him,
which included an official fatwa by the Supreme Leader of Iran,
the Ayatollah Khomeini. I watched the news report and thought,
“That wouldn’t happen in America.”
Then I remembered the 17
th
Century Salem witch trials.
The news that evening was also full of snippets about Jerry
Falwell’s Moral Majority and Pat Robertson’s Christian
Coalition, and I was disturbed by the fundamentalist rhetoric of
judgmentalism. I recalled that the book considered America’s
first “best-seller” was the 17
th
Century Day of Doom by popular
New England Puritan minister, Michael Wigglesworth. It was an
epic poem about the Second Coming of Christ and the horrors of
Judgment Day. It created an atmosphere of fear that set the stage
for the Salem persecutions. I began to wonder what kind of stage
modern fundamentalist preachers were setting.
I decided I wanted to use my art to make a statement about the
dangers of religious fanaticism. I also wanted to explore my
belief that people aren’t good or evil because of their religion,
but because of their character and personal choices. And I wanted
to touch on the mystery of Divine Grace.
My publisher chose to release Witch Hunt as a horror novel,
and so I slanted it to that market by including sensational
elements that were superfluous. It was a decision I always
regretted. Therefore, I was thrilled when the opportunity arose
for me to rewrite it according to my original concept. I am
extremely proud of this new edition of Witch Hunt, which is
updated for the 21st Century. Here is a review I received for the
original edition that is apropos to this one:
“A superb examination of the corrupting influence of power:
political, social, economic, religious, and sexual power. Witch Hunt
works well on several different levels, and the story comes very
close to being a modern religious and political allegory.”
- 2 AM Magazine
First Witch:  When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning or in rain?
Second Witch:  When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
— Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act I, Scene I

PROLOGUE
Summer
Montvue, Colorado
Preacher Alexander Cody was afraid. He hadn’t been afraid since
Afghanistan — when he rescued an American diplomat held by
insurgents. But God had claimed him in his moment of fear, and,
from that time on, he had never been weak of spirit again — until
now, on this airplane.
His wife, Rachel, sat in the aisle seat next to him, holding their
baby daughter Eden in the crook of her left arm. She sneaked her
right hand into his, and it wasn’t long before the sweat from their
palms became intimate. Embarrassed by his own evidence of
fear, Cody stared out the window at the night sky and tried to
avoid her gaze, but once she managed to capture it in the glass’s
reflection and give him a wan smile. As hard as he tried, he
couldn’t return her attempt at solace. Instead he averted his eyes
and prayed, promising God the sacrifice of anything — even his
delicious lust for Rachel — if only He wouldn’t let the plane
crash.
The plane recoiled from the fury of the wind with another
explosive shudder, and the cabin lights blinked, then failed. Cody
gasped at the sudden darkness, and muffled screams filled the air.
There were sixteen passengers on the short red-eye commuter
flight, which had originated in Colorado Springs and was headed
to Montvue, Colorado. Cody and Rachel were in seats that faced
Alan and Curtis Hawthorne. Cody knew them to be father and
son, both of Montvue’s most prestigious law firm, Hawthorne
and Hunter. Cody was glad that the darkness now shielded his
haunted face from the view of these important men. He had a
reputation to protect. It was his reputation that allowed him to
reach so many people and spread the Lord’s truth.
Alexander Cody had been in the Special Forces in
Afghanistan, where he barely survived an explosion that resulted
in years of skin grafts, plastic surgery, physical therapy, and,
WITCH HUNT
2
most of all, pain.
Cody ran his hands over his face. The scars were no longer
visible — the surgeons had actually turned him into a handsome
man — but he knew how he looked beneath the mask. He would
never forget.
It was when he had returned to Afghanistan as a CIA operative
that the miracle happened. There, in the first field action he had
seen since his injuries, he froze with terror. In that moment of
inner blackness in the Afghani desert, he had — for the first time
in his life — reached out to a higher power, and it claimed him.
He found God, and everything changed.
Now he was the most successful Christian preacher on
television, the Internet, and in bookstores. He was one of God’s
chosen. So why, he wondered, was he so scared?
The captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and
gentlemen, Captain Cassel again.” His voice sounded hearty and
reassuring. “Don’t panic, we’re doing just fine. There’s no
denying it’s a hell of a storm — these Rocky Mountain showers
tend to hit unexpectedly and be a bit rugged — but I’ve flown
through worse, no problem. We’ll be landing at Montvue in
about five minutes. Sorry there aren’t any lights for you ladies to
fix your faces by. Captain out.”
The tension relaxed somewhat.
Generally peeved by the whole situation, Cody decided to file
a formal complaint with the airline about the captain’s use of
profanity.
The cabin lit up from without. The flash of lightning
illuminated Curtis Hawthorne’s calm face. How could this man
— whom Cody had heard wasn’t the slightest bit religious — not
be as frightened as he?
Darkness returned.
“Aunt Glynis told me at breakfast that she dreamed of the
Salazar curse,” Curtis Hawthorne said.
There was a moment of silence.
Alan Hawthorne’s voice was gruff. “Glynis is imaginative.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
3
“I love you.”
The plane began to descend.
The lights of the landing field were blurred by sheets of rain,
but Cody felt a wave of relief when he saw them.
Another streak of lightning appeared out of the night sky, and
Cody watched in stunned horror as it struck the right wing of the
plane. The bright light triggered a flashback to the explosion he
had survived. For a split second he smelled burning flesh.
The jet trembled from the blow, a crash of thunder drowned
out the sound of the engines, and the plane started to rock. Bile
rose in Cody’s throat, adrenaline surged through his body, and a
sense of unreality flooded him. “God, this can’t be happening.”
Shrill cries filled the cabin.
The rocking became more pronounced, and one of the wings
hit the ground. Cody’s perception of reality shifted to slow
motion as the jet casually flipped over.
Secured to his seat, he clawed at the air in a vain effort to halt
events. The high-pitched whine of the engines and the sound of
crunching metal filled his ears. Hand luggage sailed past his
head. The runway lights illuminated the cabin with an eerie glow,
and he watched as Curtis’s head slammed up against the cabin
wall and dark blood splattered. Next to him, Alan’s seat buckled,
and Cody imagined he could hear the old man’s back snap as his
body twisted. Rachel, her face glistening with tears, clutched the
baby to her bosom and kept yelling Cody’s name, but he couldn’t
respond.
The inverted jet skidded down the runway shrouded in a veil of
sparks any one of which Cody knew could start a fire. Fire was
the enemy that lay in wait for him, eager to complete the kill it
had attempted before. He could already feel its eager tongue
licking his face once again.
After what seemed like an eternity, the plane’s movement
ceased. There was a moment of silence within the cabin, and then
it was filled with chaos. People shrieked in terror, fell from their
seats, and scrambled to find a way out. Cody unhooked himself
from his seat and dropped to the ceiling beneath him.
“Help us!” Rachel was unable to release herself because she
WITCH HUNT
4
was clinging to Eden, but Cody didn’t care. He just wanted to get
out before the fire started … before the hungry beast ate him
alive. The other passengers watched in obvious disgust as he
pushed an old man out of his way and dodged for the emergency
exit across the aisle, which now rested under the wing of the
plane. Someone was already there, trying to open it, and Cody
pushed him out of his way as well. He tried the latch, but it was
jammed.
“Alex, help us!” Rachel’s voice was desperate.
Ignoring her, Cody made his way to the front of the plane and
tried the door to the cockpit. It was locked from the inside, and
the pilot didn’t respond to his pounding.
He raced back to Rachel’s seat and reached up underneath it,
fishing for her hard, carry-on suitcase.
“Why won’t you help us, Alex?” Rachel struggled to open the
seat belt with one hand while trying to hold on to the squirming
baby with the other. She kicked at his head, but he dodged her.
Cody found the case and slammed it against the window. He
heard something crack and grew hopeful, but then realized it was
the suitcase, not the glass, that had broken. A sob escaped him.
Curtis, apparently dazed from his head wound, released
himself from his seat and lowered himself to the floor. His
father’s chair dangled in the air, and Curtis made a move to
release him.
“Don’t try to get me down. My back’s broken.” Alan paused.
“The plane’s going to explode, son.”
Cody spun around and looked out the window, following
Alan’s gaze. Fire! His sobs intensified when he saw the flaming
engines.
Rachel whimpered.
Curtis moved to her and released her seat belt. He guided her
and Eden down, then sank to the floor. “Dad … my head … I
don’t know how long I can stay conscious, but I’ll keep the
flames at bay. Can you help?”
“I’ll try,” Alan said.
Even in the midst of his terror, Cody registered their strange
exchange. He crouched down and hugged himself as Curtis and
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
5
Alan began to chant strange, unintelligible words. His sobs
quieted as he became mesmerized by the sound of their two
voices. He looked up and saw that their chanting also captivated
Rachel. He glanced out the window at the engines and saw the
flames ebb.
Cody felt as if he were floating. The noise and commotion of
the other passengers faded away. He wondered if he were dying.
He felt a strong presence of warmth and love, a sense of comfort
and reassurance. “I love you, too, Mommy,” he whispered before
losing track of time.
A loud pounding outside the hull startled him. Someone had
arrived to help. He jumped to his feet. He could see no rescue
vehicles yet, but it looked like people had driven out from the
small terminal. He rushed past Rachel and Eden and ran to the
emergency exit door. “It’s jammed!” he yelled at them through
the glass. “The door is jammed!”
One of the men ran to a car and removed a crowbar from its
trunk. He returned and pried at the door from the outside.
Cody looked around. Curtis was now chanting alone; his father
was unconscious. As his voice became noticeably weaker, the
flames outside grew stronger. The correlation struck Cody, and a
different kind of fear filled him. Curtis and Alan had actually
been controlling the fire. How could anyone do such a thing?
What were these men? They could only be in league with the
Devil; Satan’s servants, using his vile powers in an attempt to
save themselves. His breath came in labored gasps.
He thought about his own pitiful behavior. Why had he been
such a coward? Had these people cast a spell over him and stolen
his faith? That would explain it. Rachel saw and heard their
sorcery. She would understand what they had done to him. He
hyperventilated. He had to escape.
The Hawthornes seemed to be in the possession of infernal,
supernatural abilities. Their powers were more than human
beings had the right to possess. The angel Lucifer had been
damned to hell because of his willful imitation of God; how
much more heinous a crime to be a mere human being daring to
do the same?
WITCH HUNT
6
In that moment Cody made a vow to God that, if he survived,
he would uncover the truth behind the Hawthornes’ sorcery and
reveal it to the world. He would succeed, because God had given
him that power.
The emergency door opened. Before Cody fled, he looked
back and saw Curtis slump into unconsciousness. The flames
instantly billowed up into the night air.
Eleven passengers managed to escape the wreckage before the
plane exploded.
CHAPTER ONE
Summer Solstice
Montvue, Colorado
Thirty-one-year-old Leigh Hawthorne had left behind the horror
of the past and created the perfect life for herself. But, as the
Boeing 747 chased the sun across the sky, she fought a growing
fear that her fairy-tale existence was coming to an end.
It started with what her five-year-old son Adrian saw. Then the
telegram reporting the deaths of her husband’s father and brother
— the mysterious relatives about whom Craig never spoke. And
now they were traveling from their home in New York City
toward his old hometown in Colorado, a place that held the
secret of the Hawthornes. Even though Leigh had spent ten years
wanting to know more about Craig’s past, the impending
knowledge filled her with inexplicable dread.
To relieve her anxiety, Leigh listened to the score of the
musical Razzmatazz on her iPod. The music was dynamic and
would work well with her acrobatic style of choreography, the
uniqueness of which had been responsible for landing her the
plum job with the Broadway show.
Against the backdrop of her closed eyelids, Leigh imagined the
athletic poetry in motion that was her trademark — dramatic
leaps and kicks, flashy pirouettes, and what Craig called her hotto-trot T-and-A sexery — and was pleased with the progress of
her work on the opening number. However, she was dismayed to
see the form of Crista Corrigan change into her own and had a
momentary struggle to change the image. Crista was the star of
Razzmatazz. She didn’t have the incapacitating stage fright that
cut short Leigh’s own career as a performer.
Leigh opened her eyes, turned off the music, and studied
Craig, who sat across the aisle from her with their nine-year-old
daughter Kamelia; both pored over a batch of medical journals.
Like father, like daughter. The daughter was definitely not going
to follow in her mother’s dance steps. From the progress Kamelia
WITCH HUNT
8
was making, Leigh guessed that she would probably be awarded
the Nobel prize for medicine after performing the first successful
brain transplant by the time she was eighteen years old. She
grinned at the thought.
Adrian said something to her.
Leigh pulled off the headphones. “What?”
Her son sighed. “I’m mighty bored.”
“You could take a nap.”
Adrian crossed his arms and shook his head.
“I’ll rub your back.”
That served to weaken his resolve.
They lifted up the arm of the seat that divided them. Adrian lay
down with his head in her lap, and Leigh gave him a gentle back
rub.
“Can we tell Daddy ’bout our secret now?” Adrian asked.
Leigh’s stomach tensed. “We must never tell him, Adrian.
Okay?”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Oh.”
Someday she’d have to offer him some real answers, but for
now because would have to do.
Leigh’s thoughts turned to her other major concern — the
Montvue Hawthornes. Craig had not contacted his family in
twenty years. However, from the telegram that arrived it was
evident the Hawthornes knew exactly where to find him.
Craig glanced up at her. “What’s going on inside that pretty
blond head?”
“I was thinking about your family. What are they like?”
“Capitalistic slimeballs.”
“Mmmm. Sorry I asked.”
“Don’t waste energy worrying about it. We’re in there for the
funerals and then, like the wind, we’re gone.” He blew her a kiss
and turned back to his reading.
Leigh liked Craig’s style. It was … well, it was weird. Upon
their first meeting, after he had inserted the speculum, he looked
into her and said, “Far out.” She chose a new gynecologist, but
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
9
found a husband.
“It’s a mighty long ride,” Adrian said. Mighty was his newest
word.
Leigh looked down into his face and resisted the urge to
smother it with kisses. She thought him terribly cute. Just like his
father. Kamelia, on the other hand, had inherited Leigh’s grace
and classic beauty. Somehow, in the baby-making, the genes had
become strangely spliced. Kamelia had Leigh’s looks and Craig’s
mind, and Adrian had Craig’s looks and her creativity. It was that
imagination that caused Adrian to see what he had seen, she told
herself for the umpteenth time. That’s all there was to it. What
else could it have been? She replaced the headphones and once
again became lost in Razzmatazz.
It was nearing dark when the small plane they chartered at
Denver International Airport finally landed in Montvue. A man
with graying temples and troubled eyes met them at the airport’s
tiny terminal. He did a double take when he first saw Craig; the
shaggy collar-length hair, wire-rimmed glasses, baggy pants, and
oversized shirt — Leigh called it Craig’s mad professor look —
obviously weren’t what the man in the expensive tailored suit
had expected. However, he quickly offered Craig his hand. “My
condolences.”
Craig shook his hand. “Ray.” He nodded toward Leigh and the
children. “My ball and chain and the two little anchors.”
Ray looked uncomfortable.
Leigh smiled. “We keep him from floating away. I’m Leigh.
Our children, Kamelia and Adrian.”
“Ray Hunter. Partner in Craig’s father’s law firm.”
“You’re some kinda family, too. Right?” Craig asked.
“Some kind.” Ray chuckled. “Whatever have you become,
Craig?”
“Free.”
Ray shook his head, took two suitcases in hand, and led them
to his Cadillac.
Montvue was a town of twenty-five thousand people, built
where the foothills of the Rocky Mountains met the rich
WITCH HUNT
10
farmlands of the eastern prairie in northern Colorado. Even in
twilight, Leigh was impressed with its picturesque beauty. On the
outskirts of town, sprawling farms stood against a backdrop of
blue snowcapped mountains. As they entered Montvue itself,
they were greeted by wide, clean streets lined with a variety of
shade trees; old, mostly Victorian-style homes; spacious, wellkept lawns; colorful flowers and bird baths dotting the landscape;
and old-fashioned lemonade stands abandoned for the day.
Leigh’s stomach ached. This was the kind of hometown she had
longed for in her childhood. An unwelcome mixture of emotions
welled up as she compared Craig’s comfortable, upper-class
roots to her own seedy background. Leigh looked at her husband
with surprise. She would never have imagined him in such a
wholesome, all-American setting. Did she really know him at
all? She felt her insecurities surge, and her face became hot.
Without looking at her, Craig reached across the seat and took
her hand. “Boring towns breed boring people,” he said.
Did he know what I was feeling? she wondered. “You’re not
boring.”
“Yeah, well, I did a lot of drugs after I split.”
Leigh at least knew him well enough to know that wasn’t true.
From Ray’s sidelong glance in Craig’s direction, it seemed he
wasn’t so sure.
“So, how’s the old witch doin’?” Craig asked.
“If you’re referring to your mother, as well as might be
expected,” Ray said. “You certainly seem to be taking this
tragedy quite well.”
Craig took off his glasses and cleaned them with his rainbowcolored tie. “I loved Dad and Curt. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.
I’m sorry my grief isn’t evident enough to please you.”
The car pulled into a cobblestone driveway, and they passed
through an open wrought-iron gate. A gold-lettered sign on the
tall, spiked fence said HAWTHORNE MANOR. Leigh gawked
open-mouthed at the grounds through which they drove. Beneath
the ancient beauty of several towering oak and maple trees, was
an expanse of formal Roman gardens. A large fountain flowed
lazily, the water dark in the dim light. Statues of Roman gods and
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
11
goddesses dressed in green ivy were scattered throughout the
yard. Carved sandstone benches were set among the multitude of
flower beds, and blazing torches perched on a variety of stands.
When they turned a bend in the drive and Leigh caught her
first sight of the mansion, she gasped. It was a three-story Queen
Anne style house with steep-pitched gabled bays, ornate wooden
balconies, and prism-cut leaded glass windows. Ray parked at
the foot of the stairs, which led to a large porch that curved
around the house, encircling half of the first floor. The front door
was open, and, as Ray unloaded suitcases from the trunk, Craig
led his family into his childhood home.
The foyer was overflowing with sympathy wreaths and flower
bouquets, but the room itself was dominated by a large statue of
winged Mercury. In front of it, a lit brass oil lamp hung from the
ceiling by three delicate chains. The oak parquet floor, polished
to a dazzling sheen, reflected the flickering of the flame.
They walked into the parlor, which was brightly furnished with
antique rugs and furniture and colorful Tiffany lamps. An elegant
fireplace and a baby grand piano dominated the room.
“Wow,” Kamelia said.
“Pretentious, isn’t it?” Craig said.
Leigh shook her head. “It’s wonderful.”
A woman appeared beneath an arched doorway that opened
into the depths of the house. Her strawberry-blond hair, streaked
with gray, was stylish, and her face, beautiful. However, her
voice —  which had a cultured English accent —  was hard.
“Craig.”
“Mother.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Sorry I had to.”
“Of course.”
Leigh, embarrassed by the coldness of their exchange, tuned it
out and studied the older woman. Her fair coloring indicated that
Craig inherited his dark looks from his father’s side of the family.
She glanced around, hoping to see a picture of Alan Hawthorne.
There was a loud commotion, and the room filled with people.
A bent, elderly woman shuffled over to Craig and threw her
WITCH HUNT
12
arms around him. “Oh, Craig.”
He didn’t hesitate to return her embrace. “It’ll be okay, Aunt
Glynis.”
An electric wheelchair rolled toward Craig, and the old man in
it extended his hand. “My boy.”
Craig grasped his hand. “Uncle Dori.”
A teenage boy and girl stood in the corner and regarded the
visitors with cool expressions.
Ray deposited his load of suitcases in front of the fireplace.
“Don’t know where you want these.”
“I’ll take care of them,” Craig said.
There was an awkward silence as everyone studied one
another.
“It seems there’re a lot of people here who don’t know each
other,” Glynis said at last.
Craig cleared his throat. “The big beautiful blonde is Leigh.
The little beautiful blonde is Kammi … Kamelia. The one who
looks like me, only neater, is Adrian. I call him Slugger.”
No one said anything. Leigh took a deep breath to steady
herself.
“From the fond hellos, I’m sure you’ve figured out that Glynis
and Dorian are my aunt and uncle.”
“How do you do?” Leigh said politely, and then felt an instant
regret. She knew how they were doing, and it wasn’t very well.
She wished she had just said hello. Besides, she found herself
worrying that her Brooklyn accent was still too pronounced
despite all her years of trying to rid herself of it.
No one responded to her anyway.
Adrian scrutinized his grandmother carefully. “Are you the old
witch?”
A slight smile played at the woman’s lips. “I imagine so.”
“Mighty big hi,” he said.
Vivian studied Adrian for a few moments with a bittersweet
expression — Leigh wondered if she were recalling another little
boy whom he resembled — before responding. “Hi.”
Glynis pointed to the teenagers. “That’s Jason and Melanie,
Curtis’s children. He’s seventeen. She’s sixteen. They’re orphans
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
13
now. Did you know that Julia passed over when Melanie was
born?”
“I didn’t know,” Craig said. “I’m sorry. Julia was special.” He
looked at the teenagers. “I’m your wayward uncle.”
“We’ve heard about you,” Jason said.
“Yeah, I’m sure you have.”
“Is Leigh … well, you know?” Melanie asked.
“Nope,” Craig said, and six pairs of stony eyes turned to stare
at her.
She didn’t know what she wasn’t, but Leigh suddenly wished
she were somewhere else.
“And the children?” Vivian asked.
“Yeah, Mother, they are,” Craig said, his voice weary.
“We are what?” Kamelia asked.
“Nothing that matters,” Craig said.
A gasp, en masse, escaped the Montvue Hawthornes.
“When are the funerals?” Craig asked.
“What?” Vivian’s fair face was even paler than it had been
before.
“Funerals,” Craig repeated.
“Oh … tomorrow.”
“What rooms should we take?”
“Those in the east wing.”
Craig moved to retrieve their suitcases.
“Dinner will be served at seven,” Vivian said.
“We ate on the plane. Our inner clocks are ticking to a different
metronome. We’re going to crash.”
Vivian seemed startled. “Well … then breakfast is at seven in
the morning.”
“We’ll be there with bells on.” Craig led Leigh and the
children from the room.
“Am I what?” Leigh demanded when they were alone in their
room.
“It doesn’t matter,” Craig said.
“It sure seems to matter to them.”
“I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what matters to them.”
WITCH HUNT
14
“Please tell me.”
He winced. “God, Leigh, I shouldn’t have brought you. I can
already tell it’s going to be like taking sweet Alice on a tour
through an ultra-bizarre wonderland.”
That quieted Leigh. She didn’t want him to regret her presence.
And she knew that Craig hadn’t kept his secrets for ten years
only to suddenly bare his soul to her. She was good at patience.
She was content to watch and wait.
Kamelia opened the door and glided into their room,
unannounced. “Well, Dad, I’m impressed. Hawthorne Manor
sure beats our apartment.”
“You should knock before entering your parents’ bedroom,”
Leigh said.
“I always listen first, Mom. Didn’t hear any sex.”
“You don’t always hear sex,” Leigh said. “Someday you’re
going to embarrass yourself.”
Kamelia flashed her pretty smile. “I don’t embarrass easily.”
“Craig, I really think all those anatomy books you’ve given her
have warped her sensibilities.”
Craig pushed his glasses higher up onto his nose and regarded
them both with a serious expression. “Actually, my strategy is to
make her so sophisticated and worldly wise that she’ll scare the
piss out of any boy who might want to come on to her.” He
shrugged. “Then I’ll never have to worry about those things that
fathers of girls worry about.”
“Take note of that, Kammi,” Leigh said. “It’s all a diabolical
plan.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Kamelia gave them each a kiss. “I
promise not to return tonight.” She winked at them and shut the
door behind her.
“Well, it seems that we have permission,” Craig said.
“For what?”
He stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and
hung his head sheepishly. “You know, the effword.”
Leigh laughed. “God, you’re so … irreverent.”
He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with love. “About
God, maybe. About you, never.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
15
And that was true.
He pulled her dress up over her head and tossed it to the floor.
His lips began on hers and slowly made their way down her
body. Leigh’s knees grew weak; even after a decade he thrilled
her. After he stripped away her remaining clothes, he scooped her
up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
He was out of his own clothes and in bed with her almost
immediately. Tenderly, reverently, he explored her body with his
eyes, hands, and lips. She responded with a need to reciprocate,
but, surprisingly, he restrained her. “It’s Midsummer’s. It’s my
day to worship at the gorgeous, brown-eyed, blond altar of
womanhood. So let me do my thing, okay?”
It wasn’t the first time he had made such an unusual request.
She surrendered to his wishes and lay back submissively,
allowing him to make her feel good. He did it well, and it wasn’t
long before she floated on a sea of sensual delight.
“Your womb is the cauldron of life, where magic is born,” he
said and slowly entered her body.
Craig moved inside her with erotic precision. As her passion
peaked, she had to resist the urge to wrap her legs around him
and draw him in deeper, because he wanted her to be passive in
receiving his adoration.
Old fears ruled her life, and her insecurities always made her
eager to please.
“I love you, Daddy. Please don’t cry.”
“If your mother hadn’t tricked me into marrying her by getting
herself knocked up with you, I would be a success. Instead …”
Grief overcame him again, and he shook with renewed sobs.
The little girl began to cry, too. “I’m sorry, Daddy. You want
me to go away?”
“Naw. It’s too late for that now.” He guzzled the remaining
whiskey and threw the bottle against the wall, where it shattered.
The little girl jumped, and her tears flowed harder. “I’ll clean
it up. It’ll be okay.” She scrambled to pick up the glass, and in
her haste, cut her finger. The cut was deep and began to bleed.
She was worried he would see and be mad and so tried to hide
WITCH HUNT
16
her hand in the pocket of her smock, but the blood soon soaked
through the light cotton. She scooted across the floor and tried to
make herself inconspicuous in the corner, but a fat rat was trying
to do the same, and the two collided. She screamed, which
brought her mother stumbling out of the kitchen. Soon she was
hovering over the little girl, breathing sour, wine-scented breath
into her face.
“Whatsa matter, little Leigh?” She saw the blood on her
smock. “What did you do to my little girl, you bastard?”
“No, Mommy! Daddy didn’t do it!”
Her mother grasped the broken neck of the whiskey bottle, and
with an animal cry, staggered toward the couch. Her father tried
unsuccessfully to dodge the weapon — he was even more drunk
than his attacker. The sound of tearing flesh struck her ears even
before she heard her father’s screams.
“No! Mommy! Daddy! No!”
“No! Mommy! Daddy!”
The yells were coming from the children’s room. Leigh forced
herself to consciousness and made her way across the hall. She
opened the door and pushed the old-fashioned wall button that
turned on the light. Adrian was thrashing about in his bed,
whimpering and talking incoherently.
“Mom?” Kamelia’s voice was sleepy.
Leigh moved to Adrian and gathered him into her arms,
closing her eyes to the assault of tiny fists that lashed out at her
face.
“Hush, baby. It’s okay. Mommy’s here.”
Adrian’s struggles quieted, and then he pushed her away with a
fierce shove. “They’re going to kill us all. All of us.
Everywhere.” His voice sounded strangely mature, like it had
been that other time.
“Oh, God, it can’t be happening again,” Leigh whispered.
“Who, son?” Craig asked.
Leigh hadn’t heard him come in. Her heart sank.
Adrian looked around frantically, as if searching for the enemy.
“Them. The ones who have always been afraid of us.”
Craig sat down on the bed. “When?”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
17
“Soon.”
An involuntary sob escaped Leigh.
“Where?” Craig asked.
“Everywhere. It’ll start here, but it’ll spread. There will be no
place that will be safe. It’ll be worse than the last time. It’ll even
be worse than the time before that.”
“Can we stop it?” Craig asked.
“Perhaps,” Adrian said, and then he went limp in Leigh’s arms.
“Adrian!” She began to shake him.
Slowly, Adrian opened sleepy eyes. “Mommy?” His voice was
small and confused.
She clutched him protectively to her bosom. “It’s okay now.”
Craig gave her a hard look. “This has happened before?”
Tears filled Leigh’s eyes. Without really understanding why,
she had been afraid of him finding out. But it was too late now.
She nodded.
“The same vision?”
“No, he saw the plane crash. He saw your father and brother
die. He spoke their names. He had never even heard their names
before.” She moaned. “Maybe this time it was just a dream?”
“Let’s hope so.” He paused for a moment before he left the
room. “You should have told me about this sooner, Leigh.”
She tried to read Craig’s face and tone of voice, but couldn’t
decipher them. She could only tell that he was disturbed … with
her, with Adrian, with the message Adrian had delivered, she
wasn’t sure. She considered her son’s words and decided that this
time it probably was just a nightmare.
As Leigh gently rocked Adrian in her arms, she glanced at the
old scar on her finger and thought about nightmares — those that
were only dreams, and those that came true.
The dining room was imposing. The table and sideboard were
solid oak, with heavy claw feet, and the shelf on the sideboard
rested on two small wooden griffins. A matching china cabinet
was filled with an impressive collection of chinaware. The
bronze and crystal chandelier held a dozen wax candles. When
Leigh and her family arrived for breakfast, the maid, a striking
WITCH HUNT
18
woman not much older than Leigh, was serving coffee. She
smiled at Leigh, who returned the smile gratefully — it was the
first gesture of warmth anyone had offered since her arrival.
Vivian, Dori, Glynis, Melanie, and Jason were already seated.
“You may serve now, Helena,” Vivian said.
“Yes, madam.” The maid spoke with a thick Polish accent.
“My significant others here know nothing about our family
secrets,” Craig said. “I like it that way.”
“As you wish.” Vivian passed a chilled decanter of orange
juice around the table. “Since we’re now all together, perhaps we
could toast to Alan and Curtis.”
Everyone filled and raised their glasses.
“Will you propose the toast, Craig?” Vivian asked.
A tense silence filled the room. Leigh held her breath. She
imagined he would say something like, Now that you’re in the
know, guys, tell us, is Elvis really dead? But he surprised her.
“To Dad and Curt. I’m sorry I never said goodbye, but even in
absentia, our ties were strong. We’ll meet again.”
“To Alan and Curtis,” voices said.
Glasses clinked.
Adrian dropped his glass and flooded the table with juice.
Melanie shrieked and jumped up to avoid the orange stream.
“You little klutz!”
Leigh stemmed its flow with her linen napkin. Adrian began to
cry, and she tousled his hair playfully. “‘Sokay.”
Melanie glared at her.
Leigh sighed and sopped up the rest of the flood with Adrian’s
napkin.
Helena served strawberry ice, garnished with fresh mint sprigs.
“You’re a doctor now,” Glynis said.
Craig nodded.
“Good work for someone like you.”
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
“What about your children?” Vivian asked. “What kind of
special gifts do they have?”
“Kammi’s going to take after me and be a healer.” He paused
and looked at Leigh. “And it seems that Slugger’s got the Sight.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
19
Vivian looked pleased. “Is that true?” she asked Kamelia.
“I’m going to be a doctor just like Dad.”
A special gift. Maybe he’s not mad after all, Leigh thought.
“So, how did you two meet?” Glynis asked Leigh.
“I was one of his first patients.”
“Kinky,” Melanie commented.
“Isn’t that sort of unethical or something?” Jason asked.
“Hippocrates be damned,” Craig said.
Leigh was glad Helena chose that moment to serve the plates
of quiche and melon wedges.
As she ate, Leigh studied Melanie and Jason. The teenagers’
eyes weren’t reddened from tears, and they didn’t appear
particularly sad. It seemed odd for children to be so unaffected
by their father’s death.
Melanie caught Leigh looking at her. “What’s your problem?”
“I was thinking how sorry I am for your loss,” Leigh said.
Melanie shrugged. “We’re used to it.” Her voice was dull.
“That’s too bad,” Leigh said.
“Now that your father and brother have passed over, I assume
you’ll move back home, Craig,” Vivian said.
Craig shook his head. “No way.”
“But you’re the man of the family now. You must come back.
We need you.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“But — ”
Craig stood, knocking his chair over. His anger was more
evident in his trembling finger as he pointed at her than in his
tightly controlled voice. “Stay out of my life, Mother. I claimed
it, it’s mine, and you can’t have it.” He righted his chair and left
the room.
Seemingly unmoved, Vivian took a sip of coffee and looked at
Leigh. “I’m sure you’re very sweet, dear, but you must
understand that you’re never going to be a part of this family.”
Leigh was stunned. She wasn’t good at assertiveness, but for
the sake of Kamelia and Adrian — who were staring at her —
she managed to say, “It’s a little late for that now, Vivian. Like it
or not.”
WITCH HUNT
20
The Hawthorne family finished their breakfast in silence.
It was a hot day to be wearing black, Leigh thought as she stood
beneath the white glare of the sun.
There had been no air-conditioned funeral home reserved for
family and friends of the deceased to pay their final respects.
Instead, they gathered together under the open sky in the local
cemetery for a graveside service.
The graveyard was packed with guests, curious townspeople,
and local reporters. The deaths of such wealthy and important
men had attracted a lot of attention.
After most of the notable guests arrived, Vivian nodded toward
Ray. Standing at a small podium, he gave the eulogy. He spoke
for half an hour, beginning with the tale of the Hawthorne
family’s arrival in Montvue in the 1800s, and ending with praise
about the many contributions Alan and Curtis had made to the
community.
Afterward, the family threw flowers into the open graves, and
then arranged themselves into a receiving line. Despite a
disapproving look from Vivian, Leigh took her place beside
Craig and their children.
Dozens of people filed past them, offering kind words and
occasional tears. Leigh felt strange accepting condolences for
two men she had never met, but she tried to handle herself as
gracefully as possible.
Helena and her family moved down the line. Leigh was
pleased to see a friendly, familiar face.
“How are you this afternoon?” Helena asked Leigh.
“Better than this morning.”
“I don’t envy you.” Helena put her arm around the ruggedly
handsome man at her side. “This is my husband, Marek
Janowski. He works for the Hawthornes, too, as groundsman.”
“Hello, Marek. I’m Leigh.” She offered him her hand.
He surprised her by kissing it.
“And these are my sons, Frank and Gil,” Helena said,
introducing the two teenage boys fidgeting next to her.
“You have a good-looking family.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
21
“I know.” Helena gave Leigh a gentle chuck under her chin.
“Keep it up, okay?”
Leigh nodded. “Thank you.”
The Janowskis moved on and were replaced in line by a
distinguished elderly woman with silver-gray hair.
She gave Vivian a curt nod. “Vivian.” Her mask of grief
rivaled Vivian’s own.
“Katherine.”
Leigh was shocked by the hostility in the women’s voices.
“I’m surprised you came,” Vivian said.
“I didn’t come for you. I came for him … and for me.” Her
voice broke, but she recovered herself. “I share in your sorrow.”
“Well, I’m touched.” Vivian’s sarcasm was thick.
“Romantic rivals,” Craig whispered in Leigh’s ear. “The witch
won.”
Katherine dropped her head and began to leave. Leigh grasped
her arm as she walked by, and Katherine looked up at her,
startled.
“Please accept my condolences,” Leigh said.
Katherine’s bright blue eyes welled with tears. “Thank you.”
With head raised a little higher, she walked away.
“I’m surprised they were romantic rivals,” Leigh whispered to
Craig. “She looks so much older than your mother.”
“Yeah, well my family’s genes march to the heartbeat of a
different drummer.”
The screech of the microphone startled Leigh. She looked up
to see that a familiar-looking man had ascended the podium and
was adjusting the microphone.
“Attention! May I please have your attention?”
“Mom,” Kamelia said, a breathy tone to her voice, and Leigh
instantly knew who the stranger was. Kamelia and her girlfriends
called him, “The Incredible Hunk.”
The crowd quieted, and the people who had been preparing to
leave stopped.
“I’m Preacher Cody, and there are a few things I want to say.”
“What the hell is he doing?” Vivian asked.
Craig shrugged.
WITCH HUNT
22
“I want to point out something to you good people of
Montvue. Did you notice someone missing here today at this
funeral?” Cody asked. “God. It is God who is missing. I heard no
prayers and noticed no clergy participating in this burial. I find
that strange, don’t you?” He paused, and the reporters began to
move forward. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me that there were no
religious aspects to this burial, because the Hawthornes are not a
religious family. As a matter of fact, there is no history of this
illustrious family ever, in their hundred-year reign in Montvue,
ever having attended a single religious service of any kind. For
members of a God-fearing, Christian society, I find that strange.
Don’t you?”
“Craig?” Vivian’s voice betrayed her fear.
Craig stepped forward. “Hey, preacher man, you’re out of
line!”
Cody laughed. “Me? Out of line? No, I’d say it’s you and your
entire Devil-worshiping family who’s out of line.”
A startled gasp passed through the crowd.
Cody held up a copy of his bestselling book, Doomsday. “In
here I spoke about devil worshippers, but when I wrote it I didn’t
know my own townspeople were members of the cult.”
“I think you’ve let that Hollywood stuff go to your head and
you’ve rocketed straight into fantasyland,” Craig said.
“I was there,” Cody whispered, and the crowd hushed. “I was
there!” he shouted, and the crowd started. “I was on the plane
that crashed, and I survived. I survived because God wanted me
to live and tell the truth about what happened on that plane. I sat
across from the men who now lie in those coffins. I heard them
chant their spells. In their moment of panic, in a desperate act to
stay alive, their respectable façades vanished and they called out
to Satan. I heard them. So did Rachel.” He pointed to the
beautiful young woman who stood next to the podium. He
lowered his voice. “And — knowing I was God’s servant — they
cast their spell on me, and for a moment, I forgot God and was
afraid. For that, I am truly repentant. But I am here today to tell
the truth — tell God’s truth. These people whom you so revere
are witches and Satan worshipers, and we cannot tolerate that in
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
23
our midst.” He paused, and with final dramatic flair he yelled,
“We will not tolerate that in our midst!”
A moment of stunned silence filled the graveyard.
“Diane Fox, with the  Post-Dispatch,” a reporter said,
announcing herself to Cody. “I tend to agree with Dr. Hawthorne.
Don’t you think that your actions here today are somewhat out of
line, Preacher Cody?”
“I am being bold, that’s true. But one must stand on conviction,
not convention.”
“If something significant happened during that plane crash, I’d
be interested in the details,” Diane Fox said. “But this is neither
the time nor the place.”
Cody nodded. “You’ll have your wish, Miss Fox. In the
meantime, I want you Hawthornes to stand ready to be exposed
for what you really are. Our American forefathers had the faith
and courage to deal with those of your kind. And, as it happens,
so do I.”
“Adrian was right,” Craig whispered to Leigh. His hand
trembled as he clutched hers. “It’s begun again.”
CHAPTER TWO
1692
Salem Village, Massachusetts
The early morning light was dim when Margaret and William
Hawthorne walked through the fields of their farm looking for
the first sign of spring. They found it in the green buds of a lilac
bush. Margaret felt a rush of delight; the earth’s body was
awakening from the long sleep, and her own body trembled in
response. She fell to the ground, pulling her husband down to
join her, and they lay together on the cold earth in tight embrace.
Burying her face in the crook of his neck, she breathed deeply,
enjoying his musky smell. His heart beat hard against her chest,
and it caused her own heart to perform a wild dance. When her
need for union grew too intense to ignore, she disentangled
herself from William’s arms and gently pushed him onto his
back. Then, beneath the privacy of her long skirt, she mounted
him and began to ride. Closing her eyes, she allowed the
definitions of her personal consciousness to fade. She knew he
had done the same, because soon their minds were flying
together on the wind of chaos, their direction led by no will, their
pleasure beyond any control. Their bodies coupled of their own
volition while their souls celebrated the joy of union.
The thunder of their blood and the lightning of their
consummate lust returned them to earth.
Later Margaret reached inside herself and claimed the mingled
creative essence of their two beings. She used the clear fluid to
draw a crescent moon on William’s forehead. He, in turn,
reached inside her, took the elixir, and blessed her. Then
Margaret sat for a time bare to the earth and offered it libation
directly from her body.
It was in such a manner that the Hawthornes of Salem Village
performed their Spring Rite.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
25
Margaret removed the small basket from storage. The “spring
basket” had been prepared in September for the family’s
celebration of spring’s first morning.
The basket contained dried apples, pears, and plums, as well as
a wax-sealed earthenware crock filled with berries  —
strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries  —
preserved in a light sugar syrup. She served the treats as
breakfast to her children, along with their customary pewter
bowls filled with hasty pudding and molasses.
Margaret was thirty years old, a year younger than her
husband. She was a big, strong country woman, filled with an
honest and open lust for life. Her handsome face was creased
with lines which were a testament to easy laughter. Her blue eyes
reflected humor, and she carried herself with an air of confidence
that was uncommon among the women of her village. But she
served the women as midwife, so avoided the resentment her free
spirit might have otherwise provoked. She and William ran a
successful farm on the outskirts of the village, and because of the
relative privacy of their lives, were able to maintain the secret
practices of their family religion. Margaret and William
Hawthorne were loyal to the old religion of their ancient English
ancestors.
Twelve-year-old Bridget produced a book from the bench on
which she sat and handed it to Margaret. “Sarah Bradford gave
me this yesterday. She said that with all the witches appearing in
the village, I had better repent and save my soul or they — the
witches — might capture it.”
The book was a leather-bound volume of Day of Doom by the
Reverend Michael Wigglesworth. It had been circulating among
the colonists who could read, and Margaret had heard about it.
She flipped through its pages. “So, the Kingdom of God is at
hand and we should all repent and be saved, I see.” Margaret’s
contempt was undisguised. “I don’t believe in living in fear and I
don’t consider myself,” she paused, reached across the breakfast
feast, and gently pinched Bridget’s cheek, “or you, either, a
sinner in need of salvation. We love each other, the earth, and our
WITCH HUNT
26
fellows. That’s all any God could expect from us.”
“So, what do I do with the book?”
Margaret glanced at the exuberant fire in the massive fireplace
and thought about what she’d like to do with it. “Return the book
to Sarah and thank her very much for her concern over your
soul.”
“Are we witches, Mother?” four-year-old Phip asked.
Margaret choked on her cornmeal mush and was unable to
catch her breath. William gave her back a helpful beating.
Priscilla, only two years older than Phip but a great deal wiser,
shook her finger at her brother. “Don’t ever say anything like that
again.”
“Why?” Phip asked.
“Because,” Priscilla explained, her tone superior.
“The witches those teenage girls have called out upon do bad
things, like torture and murder children, and share communion
with the Devil,” William said, still pounding on Margaret. “We
don’t do things like that, and we don’t want people to think we
do. Do you understand?”
Phip nodded. “What’s the Devil?”
William shrugged his shoulders. “Some invention of
Christianity, best I can figure.”
“Why?” Phip asked.
Margaret stopped choking and forced the answer from her
raspy throat. “Because they need something besides themselves
to blame their faults on. Their horned and cloven-hoofed Devil is
their scapegoat.”
“Are there witches like they say?” Phip asked.
Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know. For the most part, I think
that the girls who claim to be having all these visions ate some
kind of poison herb — there are some that will make a person
see things and suffer fits — and that’s the source of all the
trouble.”
“Well, there’s Tituba, too,” William said. Tituba was the local
minister’s Barbados slave who had entertained his children with
harmless voodoo tricks and thus inspired their imaginations. It
was the minister’s daughter and niece who instigated the frenzy
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
27
that was spreading throughout the village.
“Yes, and there’s Tituba. She hasn’t helped matters. If she
hadn’t confessed to everything they accused her of, and
embellished it all to make herself seem important, I believe the
whole matter would be over.” Margaret downed a cup of cider to
soothe her throat. “But she claimed that she read nine names in
the Devil’s book, and so now the magistrates are determined to
ferret out each and every one of ‘God’s offenders.’”
“I heard that Tituba confessed because Reverend Parris
thrashed her until she did,” Bridget said.
An uncomfortable silence fell over those at the table.
“If that’s so, I’m sorry for her,” Margaret said at last.
Catch, the family’s dog, padded up to the table in search of
treats.
“Can I give him something?” Phip asked.
William nodded.
Phip scrambled off the bench, added a splash of berry syrup
and the rest of his milk to the remainder of the hasty pudding,
then set it on the floor. The dog lapped it up, his brown eyes
shining with joy.
Margaret studied the shaggy mutt. “What a sorry sight that dog
is. I think we should find ourselves one more handsome.”
William shook his head. “Catch helps me hunt.”
“He’s a good dog,” Bridget said.
Priscilla stuck out her lower lip. “But, I love him.”
Phip threw his arms around Catch’s neck.
Margaret grinned. “Just wanted to get your blood flowing.”
“You’re an evil one, Margaret Hawthorne,” William said. “Are
you sure your name isn’t in the bad old Devil’s book?”
The birth was a hard one. Blood and sweat flowed, and Margaret
felt a pang of helplessness when she saw the dim light with
which the child was born. She could tell it was one of those
babies not destined to live long. She had seen it before, but it was
something no one else could see, so she was unable to warn the
mother. Instead, she offered a hearty smile to Susanna Weston
and said, “You have a beautiful daughter.”
WITCH HUNT
28
The pain in Susanna’s eyes was replaced with relief. “She’s
well?”
“All fingers and toes in place.”
The pale and exhausted mother reached out to claim her child.
Margaret lightly sponged blood off the crying baby, wrapped
her in a tiny blanket, and handed her to the waiting arms.
“Have you chosen a name?” Margaret asked.
“Grace. She’s God’s grace to me. I thought I’d never have a
child.”
Margaret’s sorrow grew. Her mind raced for the possibility of
something, anything, that might help Grace survive; always
before she had just accepted the observance of a newborn’s dim
light as an irreversible death sentence. She fumbled in her satchel
of herbs.
“It was a hard birth, Susanna, and both you and Grace are
weak from it. I’m going to prepare a blend of herbs I want you to
brew. Drink a cupful of the tisane every morning yourself, and
give the baby a spoonful as well. It’ll make you both strong.”
Susanna frowned. “The baby, too?”
“It won’t hurt.”
Susanna nodded. “Whatever you say. All the women in the
village say you’re the best midwife in all of Massachusetts.”
Margaret frowned. “Only in Massachusetts? I’m offended.”
Susanna laughed and placed Grace’s mouth to her already
dripping breast.
Margaret’s home was a fine dwelling. She and William had built
it themselves when the newlyweds moved to Salem Village from
their home in England. The oak building was constructed around
a massive brick fireplace. Downstairs were two rooms: the
kitchen and the parlor. Up a short staircase were two
bedchambers. The pine floors were always swept clean, and the
small windowpanes were covered with colorful woolen curtains.
Cooking pots hung from the andirons in the central fireplace, and
breads were usually baking in the brick oven, which was attached
to the chimney. The house constantly smelled of simmering stew,
beans or succotash, baking rye and Injun bread or meat pies, and
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
29
roasting pork, beef, mutton, or wild game. The family’s fields
kept them rich in vegetables, and their cows provided milk and
butter. Margaret loved her kitchen. She enjoyed cooking for her
family, tending the small indoor herb garden, spinning thread and
weaving cloth with her daughters next to the warmth of the fire,
and teaching her children the sacred knowledge of their
ancestors.
It would be another year before she could give Phip instruction
— he was still too young to be trusted to silence — but Bridget
and Priscilla were already apt students.
Knowledge of herbs was an ongoing lesson with the girls, but
that morning Margaret chose to teach them about magical
protection. It seemed a dangerous time to be without protection.
William, Phip, and Catch were out plowing the fields for the
spring planting, and the women were alone. Bridget and Priscilla
sat at the kitchen table while Margaret drew curtains over the
windows to shut out the light of day. She lit a tallow candle and
placed it on the table, then removed a tiny box of deadly
nightshade from behind a loose brick in the chimney. She took
two dried berries from the box and ground them with her mortar
and pestle to a fine powder. After mixing the powder with a cup
of hard cider, Margaret administered the concoction to the girls
by spoonfuls until she was convinced each had received the
proper amount. Finally, she placed a few drops of scented oil —
a mixture of lilac and violet — in the flame of the candle to scent
the air with a pleasant aroma. All the while, she hummed an old
English lullaby. Before too long, the drug took effect and the
girls — their eyes darkened and their lips curved in crooked grins
— visibly relaxed.
“How do you feel?” Margaret asked.
“I’m floating,” Bridget said.
Priscilla giggled. “Happy.”
“Good, because we’re going on a journey together.”
“Where?” Priscilla asked.
“Hush. Listen to me, and speak only if I ask you to.”
“Yes, Mother,” Priscilla said.
Bridget slapped the table. “She said hush.”
WITCH HUNT
30
Margaret grinned and waited for them to settle down. “Now,
close your eyes and listen to what I have to say.”
The girls obeyed.
Margaret spoke slowly. “When we’re born, the gods send us
into this world with the spirit of an animal to be our protector and
guide. This animal is with us all our lives, even if we never see it.
Most people don’t know this, but our ancestors taught us about
the power we can gain if we meet our guide. Today you’re going
to take a journey to find your animal. Are you ready to explore?”
Bridget nodded, but Priscilla didn’t. Concerned, Margaret took
Priscilla’s hand and felt the blood pulse at the wrist; it was
strong. Relieved that she hadn’t given the child too powerful a
dose of the herb, she continued.
“I want you to see a cave. It doesn’t matter what kind of cave it
is; it can be a dark, mysterious cave or a bright cave full of
crystal rock and dancing light. But you must find a cave and go
inside.”
She gave them a few minutes to follow her instructions.
“Now, inside your cave, find a hill and walk down it, and keep
walking further and further down into the earth until you can go
no further.”
She paused again. She noted that both girls’ closed eyes were
fluttering. That told her their journeys were proceeding well.
“When you’ve reached the bottom, look around for an
entranceway into the inner world.” She paused. “Pass through it
and look for the animal waiting there to greet you.” She paused
again. “Talk to it. Touch it. Hug it. Ask its name.”
Margaret gave them time to befriend their animals before
calling them back home.
Margaret’s voice brought Bridget around, but she had to shake
Priscilla awake; she wanted them to revive quickly and
remember.
“It was an owl, Mother,” Bridget said, her voice sleepy. “A
beautiful owl with bright eyes and huge wings. I climbed on its
back, and it took me flying over the trees. It was so wonderful.”
“What was its name?”
“Moonlight.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
31
“And yours, Prissy? What was your animal?”
Priscilla couldn’t quite keep her eyes open, but she managed to
answer. “It was a little doe. We ran together in the field. She was
sweet and pretty.”
“What did she call herself?”
“Samara.”
“Good. You both did well, but there are some rules about your
animals that you must follow. First, you must never tell anyone
else — anyone except your father, of course — what your animal
is, or that you even have an animal. Do you understand?”
They both nodded.
“Second, you won’t need the herb to visit that world again.
Now you can go there simply by imagining your secret cave.
After a time, you won’t even need to journey; you can just close
your eyes and be there. Will you visit it again and again until you
can go there easily?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“And finally, I want you to practice calling your animal —
Moonlight and Samara — to you. Make it come into your world
to be here for you. There may come a time when you’ll need its
help.”
“You mean Moonlight will  appear and fly around here?”
Bridget asked.
“Yes, but it’s likely that only you will see it. Sometimes a very
powerful animal can manifest to others, but most likely it’ll be in
the form of one of its cousins already in this world.”
“Like the owl in the barn?”
Margaret nodded. “The owl in the barn may let Moonlight
share its body to help you in some fashion.”
“Like how?” Bridget asked.
“Well, it can act as messenger for you. Or protect you.”
Bridget smiled. “Oh, that would be wonderful.”
“You must never harm any of your animal’s reflections in this
world,” Margaret said. “And you, Prissy, can never eat venison
again. Otherwise you’ll offend your animal and it will desert
you.”
“How do I call Samara?” Priscilla asked.
WITCH HUNT
32
“Silently. You always call out silently,” Margaret said.
Bridget laughed. “This will be fun.”
Margaret looked at her daughters with compassion. What
seemed like a new toy could well turn into a deadly game
someday. That was the lot of every person with true power who
lived in a world that didn’t understand. She hoped her daughters
would never have to find that out for themselves, but she feared
otherwise.
Margaret helped her daughters upstairs to their beds so they
could sleep away the effects of the herb.
“Do you have an animal?” Bridget asked as she was being
tucked in beneath the covers.
Margaret nodded. “A snake.”
“What’s its name?”
Her snake had a name she couldn’t repeat to the girls. It would
not be wise. She kissed Bridget and then Priscilla, who was
already fast asleep by her side.
Before leaving, Margaret removed two pieces of cheesecloth
from her pocket and tied one on each of the posts at the head of
the bed. As the cloth strained food in her kitchen, so it would
now act as a sieve for the children’s dreams. It was time their
nonsensical dreams gave way to dreams of the old knowledge.
“Rest well, my daughters, and dream ancient dreams of power.”
The constable came for Margaret in late April.
Cherry blossoms clung to trees in white splendor, violets and
cowslips dotted the grassy yard with color, and robins, redwing
blackbirds, and bobolinks danced and sang together in
celebration of the renewal of life when the constable’s wagon
pulled up in front of the Hawthornes’ house.
Margaret and her daughters were planting seeds in the outdoor
herb garden beside the house. William, Phip, and Catch had just
come in from the fields for dinner — their midday meal — and
were washing away the dirt from their labor in a bucket of water.
The constable stepped down off the wagon. “Goodwife
Hawthorne?”
She stood and wiped the dirt from her hands. “Yes.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
33
He approached and grabbed her arm. “I have a warrant for
your arrest.” He yanked her into motion. “Come on, then.”
William stepped forward. “On what charge do you arrest my
wife?”
“The charge of witchcraft.”
William lunged for the constable.
“No!” Margaret shouted. “Don’t be a fool, man.”
“Mother!” Phip ran toward her, but William quickly stepped in
front of him and swept him up into his arms.
Phip reached for Margaret, while Catch growled at the
constable.
Bridget burst into tears.
Priscilla stamped her foot. “Let her go, you bad man!”
The constable bound Margaret’s hands with leather straps and
shoved her up into the back of the wagon.
“Don’t leave us, Mother.” Phip struggled in William’s arms.
Catch barked and charged the wagon. The constable scrambled
for the wagon seat, but Catch managed to nip his leg. The
constable grabbed a length of rope from the seat next to him and
lashed out at the dog with it.
“You devil dog! You vile witch animal!”
The whipping made Catch more riled.
Margaret realized what was going to happen and yelled to the
girls, “Get Catch!”
Bridget raced to the animal, quickly restrained him, and started
to lead him away.
“No you don’t, little girl. Bring that devil dog here.”
Trembling, Bridget looked at her mother.
Margaret feared for her children, so she nodded.
Reluctantly, Bridget returned Catch to the constable. He made
a noose in the end of a rope and slipped it over the dog’s head.
Catch growled again, but when the constable pulled the noose
tight, it made him yelp. The constable laughed, looking around
for the nearest sturdy tree limb. He found it on a nearby maple.
He dragged the yelping dog to the tree, threw the rope over the
limb, and pulled on it, lifting the dog off the ground.
Phip shrieked and tried to wiggle from William’s grasp. 
WITCH HUNT
34
Priscilla ran toward Catch.
Horror filled Margaret. “Stop her, Bridget!”
Bridget reached for Priscilla, but she was only able to hold
onto her for a few moments before she broke free.
The dog, hanging three feet above the ground by its neck,
made desperate gurgling sounds and thrashed about in the air.
The constable snickered. “We hang witch dogs just like we
hang witch bitches.” He turned and gave Margaret a look of
triumph. “It just takes a little longer to get the likes of you to the
noose, that’s all.”
Too late, Margaret saw Priscilla descend on the constable. “No,
Prissy!”
Priscilla kicked the constable with all her might.
He grunted. “Ah, so you’re one, too, huh?” With his free hand,
he reached out and grabbed her; with his other hand, he yanked
down hard on the rope and broke the dog’s neck, then let the rope
go slack. Catch fell to the earth in a lifeless heap. The constable
threw Priscilla to the ground and bound her kicking feet as well
as her hands, then tossed her as if she were a sack of flour into
the back of the wagon alongside Margaret.
When the wagon moved, Margaret cried out in anguish. She
looked at William, whose cheeks were wet with tears. She saw
the pain in his eyes and felt his heart. He had wanted to save
Catch. He ached to free Margaret and Prissy. But, he had to
consider the safety of Phip and Bridget, too.
Margaret clung to his love. No matter what the authorities did
to them, they could not destroy that.
Baby Grace Weston died in her cradle of no apparent cause, as
Margaret knew she would. In the witchcraft hysteria that had
seized Salem Village, the death was not as easily dismissed as it
would have been in another time. Susanna blamed the herbal
brew that Margaret prescribed and she had administered. The
young girls of the village whose “visions” were the basis for
most of the witchcraft arrests, found their imaginations primed
by Susanna’s plight. They “called out” on Margaret and she was
quickly arrested.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
35
Margaret and Priscilla were taken to jail in the nearby town of
Ipswich, where they were held until they could be examined and
officially charged with their crimes.
The preliminary hearing for Margaret and Priscilla was
scheduled for the Monday following their arrest. It was held in
the large meetinghouse in Salem Village, and Samuel Sheldon
was the magistrate assigned to conduct the hearings. There was a
bar of justice at which the accused stood to face the accusers; the
accusers were a row of teenage girls who sat on a bench in front
of the auditorium. The room itself was filled to capacity by
throngs of people eager to enjoy the scandal in their midst.
William left Phip at home in the care of Bridget, and went to
the meetinghouse to stand with his wife and daughter.  It
frightened him to expose himself to the accusers, but it
frightened him more not to stand with his family. He had always
been their guardian and protector.
Dressed in his best blue suit, a black hat, and black shoes, he
walked into the meetinghouse as confidently as he was able. The
room was already filled, and upon his arrival an excited buzz of
voices spread among the spectators. He closed his mind to their
ridicule. His jaw tightened, his lips drew thin, and he fought back
his anger. How many of these women’s babies had Margaret
brought into the world? How many of the mothers would have
died in the birthing without Margaret’s knowledge and skill?
Where was their gratitude and respect?
William stood in the back of the room and waited for the
proceedings to begin. When the hearing was called to order and
the first prisoner, Priscilla, was brought to the bar, William strode
forward to be with her.
Priscilla’s pale face lit up when she saw him.
The knot in the pit of William’s stomach tightened when he
saw her dirty and disheveled condition, but he smiled at her,
walked to her side, and took her tiny hand in his.
“I’m William Hawthorne,” he told the magistrate. “I believe
my wife and daughter to be innocent of the crimes they’ve been
accused of, and I’m here to stand with them during this
examination.”
WITCH HUNT
36
Sheldon nodded. “That’s your right.” He picked up a piece of
paper and read from it. “We have before us now the examination
of six-year-old Priscilla Hawthorne. She’s accused of the
abomination of witchcraft.” He looked across the bar at the small
girl. “So, are you a witch?”
Priscilla thrust out her chin and said, “I am not.”
The magistrate cleared his throat. “My notes here indicate that
you’re not a churchgoing Christian. Is that true?”
“I don’t go to church.”
“Why?”
“It’s too far to come into town every week. We live on a farm.”
“Other farm people come into town to attend church.”
“Ours is the farthest farm from town. It’s very far.”
“If you haven’t been instructed in the faith, how do you know
that you aren’t a witch?” Sheldon asked.
“Because I heard that witches do bad things and kill people
and play with someone called the Devil, and I don’t do any of
that.”
“Does anyone in your family do those things?”
“No.”
William felt Priscilla’s fingers tighten on his. He gently
squeezed her hand in return.
“Why did you kick Constable Stone?” Sheldon asked.
“Because he was hurting Catch. My dog.”
“Your dog was attempting to prevent the arrest of an accused
witch. Only a devil dog would do such a thing. The constable’s
action — the hanging of that beast — was appropriate to the
circumstance. Why did you try to prevent it?”
Priscilla’s face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. Her
composure faded as she whispered, “I loved him.”
Sheldon gave her a hard stare and then turned to the six young
girls who sat primly on the bench before the bar. “What say you,
God’s mouthpieces?”
On that cue, four of the girls began to writhe and moan. Then
two of them fell onto the floor in convulsions.
“She pinches me.” The girl named Elizabeth held out her arm
for everyone to see the tiny spot of blood. “Her shape is here and
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
37
is pinching me.”
William squinted and strained to see the marks.
“Get away, little witch. Leave me alone.” Elizabeth flailed the
air around her at the unseen specter and continued to develop
new wounds.
Then William saw the tiny flash of reflected light. Elizabeth
had a needle in the palm of one hand and was poking herself
with it. William’s mouth fell open with surprise. He looked to
Sheldon, but the magistrate had apparently not seen.
The clamor the girls made increased in volume. William had
never seen or heard such commotion. Was this show performed
at every hearing? How could grown men take such things
seriously? One of the girls jumped to her feet, ran around the
room, and flapped her arms. “She’s trying to make me fly. Please
make her stop.”
Another girl crawled around the floor on all fours, barking.
Elizabeth pointed to her. “Look! The devil dog has come back
to be with his mistress.”
The dog-girl stopped in front of the bar, squatted and urinated a
huge puddle, then scampered back to the bench and the other
girls.
The crowd gasped.
Sheldon raised his hand. “I’ve seen enough. Take the little
witch away to Boston where she’ll be held over for trial.”
“Father?” Priscilla turned and threw her arms around William’s
waist.
Rage filled William. He pointed at Elizabeth. “She was
sticking herself with a needle. I saw it.”
Sheldon appraised him. “If you saw something, I’m sure it was
the witch’s doing.”
“Search her. See for yourself.”
Sheldon shook his head. “If there’s a needle on her person, I’m
certain it was placed there by the witch.”
“But she was sticking herself,” William said.
Sheldon made a sound of exasperation. “Then the Devil, or
this young witch, made her do it.”
William’s mind raced. “She cried.”
WITCH HUNT
38
“What?” Sheldon asked.
“I’ve been told witches don’t cry.” William turned Priscilla’s
tear-soaked face toward the magistrate.
“I see the Devil pouring water into her eyes,” Elizabeth
shouted, the venom in her voice more pronounced than it had
been before William’s attempt to discredit her.
“There you have it.” Sheldon waved his hand in a gesture of
dismissal. “Take her away.”
Priscilla was pried out of her father’s arms and led away.
A sob escaped William as they took her from him. Panic filled
him. He struggled with thoughts of grabbing her and fighting
their way out of the court. He no longer felt like a man.
Margaret was brought into the room and led to the bar. Relief
crossed her face when she saw William, but she shook her head
to tell him that he shouldn’t have come.
“Margaret Hawthorne, you’ve been brought to this hearing on
the charge of witchcraft,” Sheldon said. “Are you a witch?”
“If a witch is one who harms the innocent and cavorts with the
Devil, no, I am not,” Margaret said.
“Did you deliver a baby girl, named Grace, to Susanna Weston
on March twenty-eighth?”
“Yes, I did. I’m a midwife.”
“Did you devise a blend of herbs for Goodwife Weston to give
to her newborn?”
“And to take herself. Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
“It was a hard birth. Goody Weston lost a lot of blood, and was
weak. The child had taken a long time to be born, and she, too,
was weak. I gave them herbs to strengthen their hearts and enrich
their blood. I’ve given it to other mothers and babies in the past.”
“What were the herbs you gave Goodwife Weston?” Sheldon
asked.
“A blend of hawthorn berries, shepherd’s purse, and comfrey.
They’re quite common herbs, your honor.”
“And you are aware that baby Grace Weston died this
Wednesday past?”
“I didn’t know until my arrest, but yes, I’m now aware of
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
39
that.”
“Did the herbs you forced on Goodwife Weston kill baby
Grace?”
“I did not force anything upon Goody Weston, and no, I’m sure
they didn’t harm the baby at all.”
Sheldon paused and studied his notes. “Where did you obtain
your knowledge of herbs?”
Margaret hesitated, and William knew she was searching for a
safe answer. “I read books.”
“What books? You mean the Devil’s books?”
“I mean books. I read.”
Sheldon leaned across his table toward Margaret. “Have you
signed the Devil’s book?”
Before Margaret could reply, the girls on the accuser’s bench
once again began their hysterics. Two fell onto the floor to
writhe, while Elizabeth shouted accusations.
“She appeared to me one night while I slept and forced me to
drink a potion. I burned with fever for days afterward.”
Sheldon looked behind the row of accusers at a matronly
woman who sat behind Elizabeth. She nodded her head as if to
confirm Elizabeth’s dread illness.
Sheldon turned to face Margaret. “Did you poison this
innocent child?”
“No, I did not.”
Elizabeth then shocked the entire room to silence. She pointed
at William and said, “And he was with her. He held me while she
poured the potion down my throat.”
William had never known true terror until that moment.
Sheldon looked at William and Margaret with a contemptuous
expression. “Well, so we have a witch and a wizard, too. I should
have known.” He waved the constables forward. “Arrest this
man on a charge of witchcraft. Take the rampant hag to Boston,
along with the little witch. These hearings are adjourned.”
Margaret did not know anything about devils, but demons were
familiar to her. The Boston jailhouse seethed with demons. Those
it housed generated the horror that permeated the building. Very
WITCH HUNT
40
few true criminals had passed through its bars; for the most part,
it had hosted victims.
As the jailer shoved Margaret and Priscilla into their new cell,
Margaret gagged from the stench — the two slop pots in the
huge cell were overflowing. Eight pairs of desolate eyes watched
the Hawthornes while they were locked into leg chains. Margaret
watched Priscilla’s tiny ankles taken captive, and wondered if
they had forged the miniature restraints just for the occasion, or if
they were accustomed to arresting children in Boston.
“The examiners will be in soon,” the gruff jailer said.
“Examiners?” Margaret asked.
The man turned away without responding and hurried out of
the cage.
Margaret looked around at where she and her daughter would
be housed for the months ahead — she had heard that the trials
would not even begin until summer. There was a bucket of water
and a bucket of corn gruel, apparently the day’s meal. Mounds of
old straw were scattered throughout the cell and most had
women perched upon them. Margaret led Priscilla to one of the
piles, and when they sat down, bugs scattered.
Priscilla, exhausted from the difficult trip to Boston, curled up
in a ball, her head in Margaret’s lap.
“I hate them,” Priscilla said.
Margaret stroked her hair. “Who?”
“The Christians.”
“Don’t hate, Prissy. You only hurt yourself with hate.”
“They treat us like animals.”
“Does Samara hate people?” Margaret whispered.
Priscilla thought about it. “No. But she’s afraid sometimes.”
“Fear can be a tool of survival. Hate is another matter
altogether.”
“I wish I could be free, like Samara.”
“Why don’t you visit with her, then?”
“All right.” Priscilla closed her eyes, her mind escaping to run
free in the fields.
Margaret heard the feeble cry of a baby and looked around,
startled. Two straw piles away, she saw the telltale bundle,
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
41
listless in its mother’s arms. Gently, she extricated herself from
Priscilla’s sleeping form and went to investigate.
The pale mother watched her approach with a wary expression.
Margaret smiled. “How is it that you have a baby here with
you? Was it charged as a witch, too?”
“I birthed it three days ago.”
Margaret looked at the bloodied straw on which the woman
sat. These were not fit conditions for delivering babies. “I’m a
midwife. May I see?”
The woman clutched the baby to her bosom. “The midwifewitch that murders babies?”
Margaret sighed and sat down on the floor a few feet away.
“So they say. But you must know that they lie. I’m no more a
witch — by their standards — than you.” She paused for a time
to allow the woman to think about her words. “My name’s
Margaret. And who are you?”
The woman’s apparent fear seemed less pronounced, but not
altogether relieved. “Rebekah.”
“And your baby?”
Tears filled Rebekah’s eyes, and she shrugged. “I’ve not
named him.”
“Not named him? After three days? Why do you delay?”
“He’s not going to live.”
Margaret approached Rebekah and took the baby from her
arms. When she unwrapped the dirty and bloodied petticoat that
served as the child’s swaddling clothes, she gasped. The infant’s
eyes were running with yellow pus, and his tiny face was dotted
with inflamed sores. He was nearly dead already.
“What happened?” Margaret asked.
Rebekah’s voice was flat. “It’s not so clean here. The bugs bite
him. I have little milk …” Her voice died off.
“What of your husband? Your family? Why don’t they come
for him?”
Rebekah looked at Margaret and uttered a brief, bitter laugh.
“Because I’m a witch, of course.”
“The authorities will do nothing?”
Rebekah shook her head.
WITCH HUNT
42
Margaret set her jaw and injected strength into her voice.
“Well, then. We’ll just have to see to the situation, won’t we?
When my daughter Bridget comes to visit me next, I’ll ask her to
brew us some herbs. A golden seal wash will clear up his little
eyes, and a chamomile poultice will soothe those bites.
Pennyroyal oil will keep the bugs from biting him, and
marshmallow will increase your milk flow. You’ll see. It’ll be
fine.”
Rebekah’s eyes lit up with hope. “You think it’ll be all right if I
name him?”
“What would you have named him, if things had been
different?”
“Daniel.”
Margaret smiled. “Daniel is a fine name.”
“Daniel,” Rebekah said.
There was a loud commotion at the cell gate as the examiners
arrived for Margaret and Priscilla.
Six women entered. Several of them quickly placed
handkerchiefs to their faces, protecting their noses from the
room’s stench, but the others seemed unmoved by the odor.
Margaret immediately noted their hard expressions as they
scanned the room.
The oldest woman, who seemed to be in charge — Margaret
guessed her age to be around fifty —  pointed a finger at
Priscilla’s sleeping form. “There’s the one.”
Margaret stood up and moved to her daughter. “What do you
want?”
“Ah, and there’s the other.”
The six women moved to surround Margaret and Priscilla.
“We’re the jury sent to examine you,” the eldest woman said.
“Rouse your little witch, and the two of you strip yourselves.”
Margaret was stunned. “What?”
“Are you deaf? Strip your clothes. We’re here to look for teats
and devil’s marks. On with it.”
Margaret knew she had no choice but to comply. She shook
Priscilla awake. “Get undressed, Prissy. These women are here to
examine us.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
43
Priscilla rubbed her eyes awake as she sat up. “Examine?”
“Yes. Do as I say.”
Priscilla removed her dress.
Margaret, too, began to strip away her clothing. Although she
knew no shame for her own body, she cringed under the jurors’
eager and greedy appraisal of her growing nakedness.
Margaret looked over the heads of the women who surrounded
her and could see the lust in the face of the jailer as he strained to
catch a glimpse of flesh. She flushed with embarrassment.
“What exactly are teats and devil marks?” Margaret asked.
The spokeswoman put her hands on her hips. “Well, if you’re a
witch, you know. If you’re not — which I very much doubt, from
what I’ve heard — I’ll tell you that they’re marks left by the
Devil’s incubus where familiar spirits are given to suck. The teats
feel no pain.”
Margaret stared in mute horror as the woman removed a long,
sharp needle from the pocket of her apron.
“So, let’s get on with the pricking,” the woman said.
Each of the six women withdrew needles of various types and
sizes and poised ready for attack.
“Mother?” Priscilla’s voice quavered.
Margaret felt her own rising panic. She could easily bewitch
Priscilla so she would feel no pain, but that would damn them
both as witches. She realized that she had no option but to let
them torture her daughter. “Don’t fight them, Prissy.”
Six pairs of eyes and hands probed Margaret and Priscilla’s
bodies. The jury immediately zeroed in on a birthmark above
Margaret’s right nipple. She closed her eyes as a needle
punctured her flesh, and she did not even attempt to mask the
pain it produced. Tears came to her eyes, unbidden, as the hand
holding the needle jerked to pierce her nipple as well. She
glanced at the woman who was holding the offending needle and
wasn’t surprised to see a slight look of triumph on her face.
Margaret swallowed her bile as she felt the blood trickle down
her body.
Shrill screams pierced the air as a needle slid into a small mole
on Priscilla’s arm. “Mother!”
WITCH HUNT
44
“The pain will pass, Prissy.”  Please, gods, protect my
daughter.
A needle ripped a freckle on Margaret’s back, and she winced.
“Mother!” A needle found a reddened fleabite Priscilla had
gotten while asleep on the pile of straw.
“Bend over,” a voice demanded of Margaret.
Margaret was filled with revulsion as the women began to
probe her anus and vagina, looking for suspicious marks.
A finger prodded an area behind her vaginal opening. “There.
Look at that.”
“It’s a scar caused by childbirth,” Margaret said, but the jurors
were unconvinced. The darning needle plunged into the scar.
“Mother! Make them stop.”
One of the jurors began to laugh.
Bent over as she was, she grew dizzy. Priscilla’s cries grew
more frantic and filled Margaret with an overwhelming sense of
helplessness. The jurors’ laughter rang obscenely in her ears, and
the needle tore into her again, off target, and stabbed her urethra.
With the echo of her own screams following her into the
blessed darkness, Margaret fainted.
Bridget watched helplessly as the sheriff seized the family goods.
“But don’t you have to wait until the trial? And then only if
they’re found guilty?” Bridget tried to make her voice sound
strong, but wasn’t having much luck.
Phip hid behind her skirt.
The sheriff chuckled. “Merely a technicality.”
He continued to heap the Hawthornes’ pewter, furniture,
lamps, clothing, cooking utensils, foodstuffs, and tools onto the
bed of his wagon. He tied two cows and three horses to the back,
and topped off his load with three cages of chickens.
“But how will Phip and I live?”
“By your wits, child. By your wits.”
The sheriff drove away in a cloud of dust, and Bridget resisted
the urge to hurl rocks after him.
“What are we going to do?” Phip asked.
Bridget’s anger, overshadowing her fear, gave her the edge of
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
45
defiance she needed. “We’ll show them … we’ll survive.”
“I’m hungry,” Phip said.
“Get used to it.”
When Bridget came home from Boston to find the sheriff
gathering together the livestock and loading his wagon with the
family belongings, she had stopped a distance from the house,
dismounted her horse, Silver, and slapped him hard. It took five
days of searching the countryside on foot before Bridget found
Silver in a distant meadow, courting a beautiful filly. Because of
the delay, Bridget did not make it back to Boston in time to
deliver the herbs needed to save baby Daniel’s life.
The despair that filled the cage containing her mother and
sister was so thick Bridget began to tremble. “I’m sorry I didn’t
get here in time.”
Margaret’s face was sad. “You did your best. Don’t fret about
it.” She paused. “So, they took it all?”
“We still have the house and land. I still have Silver.” Bridget
passed a small basket of dried herbs through the bars. “Here, I
gathered these. There’s kelp, dandelion, and alfalfa. You always
said the combination will keep a body healthy. I guess you’ll just
have to eat them. I’m sorry I couldn’t brew them for you, but …
I don’t have a pot.”
Margaret examined the basket she held. “You made this?”
Bridget nodded.
“It’s a fine basket.”
“Thank you.”
“If you make a real tight weave — tight enough to hold water
— you can heat water in it by dropping in hot rocks.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Have you seen your father?”
“Yes. He sends his love to you and Prissy.”
They glanced over at where Priscilla sat, hollow-eyed, staring
vacantly into space.
“She looks awful,” Bridget said.
“They keep coming back to hurt her.”
“Will she be all right?”
WITCH HUNT
46
“I’m trying to get her to visit Samara more often.” Margaret
raised the basket of herbs. “This’ll help, too.”
“I wish I could have brought you other things to make it easier
for you, but …” It was unnecessary for Bridget to finish the
sentence.
“I love you.”
Their fingers embraced through the bars.
“I love you, too, Mother.”
There were far fewer men than women arrested by Salem
authorities for witchcraft. As a result, the conditions the accused
wizards enjoyed were, if not more luxurious than those of their
female counterparts, at least less cramped.
The cellmate William had been sharing his small cage with
since his arrest  —  an irascible old man who had the
unfortunately damning habit of talking to himself — died of the
hardships of his imprisonment. He was replaced by an equally
irascible young man named Jansen Van Carel.
“Damned self-righteous, sexually inhibited, Puritan clowns,”
Jansen said to William in greeting.
William grinned. “Well, for a society that can have twelve to
fourteen children per family, I’d say they really aren’t that
sexually inhibited.”
Jansen grunted. “So, are you one of them that stepped out of
line or what?”
“I’m not one of them.”
Jansen waited for William to explain, but after a considerable
period of silence passed, he shrugged and said, “I’m Jansen Van
Carel, out of New York City. Call me Jan.”
“William Hawthorne. What did you do to get yourself damned
by Salem’s fine folk?”
“My ship ran into trouble, and I dropped anchor in their port.
While I was waiting on repairs, I came ashore to conduct some
business, and … well, I have an affliction … and it attracted the
wrong sort of attention, and here I am.”
“You’re a ship’s captain?”
“I own a shipping and trading company. Caribbean Ventures.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
47
Heard of it?”
William shook his head apologetically. He studied the other
man’s rich apparel and jewelry. Caribbean Ventures seemed to be
a lucrative venture. “Has your ship got a load on it?”
“Sure. Why?”
“What became of your ship?”
Jansen’s expression was grim. “They’ve seized it while
awaiting the outcome of the trial.”
William sighed. “Then prepare yourself to meet the gallows,
man, because they want your cargo.”
Jansen’s face reflected his instant outrage. “Those greedy
bastards! Those filthy, oversexed, greedy bastards.”
William smiled. “I haven’t heard such colorful language since
leaving England. It’s rather refreshing.”
Jansen looked around at the straw piles, and with obvious
distaste, chose the neater of the two. William easily relinquished
his own bed to the other man.
“Well, we Dutchmen aren’t as prissy as the Puritans. The
society we created in the New World is a lot more relaxed than
theirs.”
“Wish I’d known that sooner,” William said.
Jansen studied his companion. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” He
removed a pipe and tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket, packed
the pipe, and then lit it. “What was your sin?”
“Telling the truth.”
Jansen puffed smoke into the room. “That’s the true original
sin, sure enough.”
William decided he liked Jansen Van Carel.
Bridget, Phip, and Silver searched the sandy beaches for crabs
and sea vegetables. They found large seashells to use as cups and
bowls, and dragged home huge bundles of driftwood to add to
their growing store of firewood. Although it was only summer,
they were already preparing for the winter that lay ahead. The
sheriff had taken their axes, and they had no other means to
create fuel but to scavenge the land and seashore.
They worked their fields by hand, trying to produce as large a
WITCH HUNT
48
crop as they could without tools. They wandered the countryside
gathering berries, fruit, and birds’ eggs. They set simple traps to
catch rabbits and squirrels, and dried the meat and tanned the
skins.
Bridget learned to heat water in tightly woven baskets.
None of the Hawthornes’ former friends or neighbors offered
to help them. No one would associate with the children of
accused witches.
Bridget made weekly trips to Boston to share her meager
bounty with her family, and to help keep hope alive.
Bridget and Phip closed off all the rooms of the house with the
exception of the kitchen, and the kitchen became their home.
They made beds of straw bales and cuddled together on cool
nights to keep warm. Bridget discovered a creative gift she had
not known she possessed and became a consummate storyteller.
Her gift helped her and Phip get through the long, dark nights.
In July, Bridget quietly celebrated her thirteenth birthday.
William stood in the darkness of his cell and looked out the
barred window, studying the sky. When the bright sliver of moon
finally appeared in his sight, he bowed reverently to greet her.
Every month of his life, from his earliest childhood, he had
greeted the night lady’s return in such a manner. Life was like the
moon, he mused. It began slight and fragile, grew in might until
it shone with glory, then started its decline until it disappeared
from sight altogether. However, it always returned. He bowed a
second time to the new moon. “Life does return,” he whispered
to the night. Sadness threatened to overtake him. Last night the
moon had been dark, so he scryed. After Jansen had fallen
asleep, William took a cup of water from the barrel and
magically charged it. Then he sat on his bed, gazed into it, and
saw his family’s future. He had not been surprised by the vision,
but he was forced to face the truth about his own fate. He hoped
he had the courage to see it through to the end. He sighed, and
careful not to disturb his snoring cellmate, lay down on his bed.
He had not been allowed to see his wife, even though they
were housed in the same building, since their incarceration in
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
49
Boston. However, on every new moon they visited each other.
William closed his eyes and fell asleep. Once in the dream
state, he laid himself down on his bed of straw and fell asleep
again. Then, in the deeper dream state, he made himself awaken
and stand up. He looked around at the shimmering quality of his
surroundings and knew he had passed from the material world
into the world of stars  —  the name he gave to this other
dimension he occasionally visited. His body of light passed
through the jail wall and moved to the nearby grove where he
and Margaret always met. She had not yet arrived, and he waited.
Soon a luminous figure glided into the clearing, and he saw the
glorious form of his wife. As she neared, she spoke the name that
was their password between the worlds, so he would know it
wasn’t an impostor. He returned the proper response, and they
came together. They embraced and caressed each other. His
emotions of love and sadness welled up with the extreme
intensity that was characteristic of the  star world, and he
struggled for greater control.
Margaret wiped away crystalline tears from his face. “Don’t
cry. What happens happens. They can’t separate us. We’re bound
for eternity. We’re two halves of one whole.”
“What becomes of our children?” William asked.
“Perhaps they’ll change the world. Or perhaps their children
will. We Hawthornes are a force to be reckoned with.”
Her beauty overcame him, and he wished her form to be
naked. His wish was granted, and, after he willed away his own
diaphanous covering, they fell together in sexual embrace.
When William finally awoke in his physical body, his pants
were wet with the earthly remains of his passion.
The arrival of Mirasaya not only added color to the grim cell of
women prisoners, but also spirit.
Mirasaya was West Indian, a slave whose nonconformist ways
had labeled her a witch. She was bewitchingly beautiful, and that
had been her first offense. The Puritan men with whom she came
into contact found her desirable and accused her of haunting their
dreams as a succubus, forcing them into sexual relations. This
WITCH HUNT
50
charge came from more than a half-dozen devout Puritan men.
To make matters worse, she refused —  despite repeated
whippings by her master — to don the “ugly” dresses that were
the required wear of Puritan ladies. Instead she made her own
clothes, dying the drab cloth she had been given into a startling
array of colors and sewing them into a style more pleasing to her
tastes.
Her third sin was that she had developed a liking for the effects
of tobacco and started smoking a pipe. And, despite her life of
slavery, Mirasaya was happy. That was the worst sin of all in the
eyes of her oppressors. She was easily labeled a witch and shut
away in prison so that she could be an example to other slaves
who might be tempted toward independence of character.
When the public heard of this brazen, wanton witch, they
hastened to Boston from all parts of Massachusetts to view her.
The cells in the Boston jail had large, barred windows, which
opened to the street. Like animals in a zoo, the accused witches
were gawked at and allowed no privacy.
The morning after Mirasaya’s arrival, the crowd grew quickly.
The dark-skinned beauty calmly lit her pipe and watched them
watch her.
A young woman threw a hunk of animal dung at Mirasaya’s
feet. “Here, put this in your pipe.”
Mirasaya smiled, picked up the dung, and threw it back at her.
“Maybe you like it for supper?”
The crowd murmured in consternation for a while, but then
grew silent.
“You!” Mirasaya jumped to her feet and pointed at a man who
had curled his lip at her in an exaggerated sneer. “You make face
at Mirasaya. Mirasaya no like that.” Her voice dropped in timber
and became menacing. “Tonight I come to your bed and make
you sin. I take your little, tiny, wormlike man thing and I make it
grow big … oh, so big that you don’t even know it your own
little worm … and I tickle it until it explode.”
Horrified gasps and cries escaped the crowd, and they quickly
scattered. For a time the women in the cell were alone.
Mirasaya looked at Margaret and gave her a delightful grin.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
51
“They want show. I give them.”
Margaret smiled. “Pretty soon they’ll start selling tickets.”
“That man, he have messy dreams tonight,” Mirasaya said.
Margaret laughed and looked around at the other women in the
cell. They were amused. If they had been on the outside, they
would have been as shocked as the others in the crowd. Prison
was stripping them of the conventions of their former society.
Inside this cell they were all just women, plain and simple.
Mirasaya sat back down on her perch, and between puffs on
her pipe, sang an upbeat Caribbean song. Soon the women were
swaying to the sound, and Priscilla was beating a lively rhythm
on an upturned water bucket. Mirasaya laughed, set aside her
pipe, and started to clap. Despite the cumbersome weight of the
heavy leg chains, Margaret began to dance. Rebekah — who
until that moment had been lost in grief — was quickly by her
side, imitating her unabashed movement. Mirasaya stood, took
the hands of the other two women, and they formed a small,
undulating circle. Their cellmates stamped their feet, clapped
their hands, and whistled in encouragement. Margaret was
overjoyed to see a smile on Priscilla’s face, and silently thanked
the gods — and Mirasaya — for that smile.
The moment was shattered by the arrival of the examiners. The
women burst into the cell, seemingly aghast at the sight and
sounds that confronted them.
“What witchery goes on here?” the leader of the examiners —
Margaret had learned her name was Hannah — bellowed.
The music, dancing, and laughter came to an abrupt halt.
“That’s better,” Hannah said.
She pointed at Priscilla. “We’re here for the little witch again.”
Margaret wanted to scream with rage, but held her silence.
“Not the pricking again! Oh, please, no. Mother?”
The examiners moved toward where Priscilla sat, but Mirasaya
stepped into their path. “You no more stick the little one with
your pins.”
Hannah looked at the dark woman in disbelief. “Who are you
to be telling us what we’ll do?”
Rebekah moved to Mirasaya’s side. “You’ll not stick Prissy
WITCH HUNT
52
anymore. She’s been stuck enough to please any God, I’m sure.”
Two more prisoners moved to stand with Mirasaya and
Rebekah, their eyes blazing with defiance.
Hannah’s mouth fell open, and she began to sputter.
Margaret felt her eyes sting with tears. Power had descended
on the small band of women, and they were using it. No longer
afraid of the repercussions, she moved, as did the remaining
prisoners, to guard Priscilla.
Hannah shook her finger at them. “We’ll see about this.”
Defeated, the jury of six women stormed out of the cage.
There was a moment of silence, and then Priscilla began her
drumming anew. The women looked at one another, the pride of
their accomplishment washing over their faces, until each of
them was smiling. Mirasaya began to sing her song and clap her
hands, and soon they were all dancing.
Jansen’s fit roused William from sleep. At first the sounds in the
cell mingled with William’s dream.
He was in a huge butchering hall, and dozens of screeching
chickens were being slaughtered. The scene passed from his
mind, and he became aware of Jansen lying on the floor,
screeching and convulsing. Dawn was upon the sky, and in the
dim light William watched the fit in amazed fascination.
Jansen’s eyes were open and bulging, but they were unseeing,
while foamy spittle mixed with blood sprayed from his mouth.
William had seen fits that accompanied high fevers and certain
illnesses, but never before had he seen the strange contortions
Jansen assumed or heard the sounds he made. William squinted
and shifted into a seeing mode. The aura of light surrounding
Jansen’s body came into focus, and William saw the parasite that
was attached there. A hideous claw-shaped shadow was attached
to the body of light, around the area of the head. Only once
before, as a young man in England, had he seen anything similar.
It was on a sailor recently returned from the West Indies, and had
been magically implanted on the sailor’s person as a result of a
tangle with voodoo. The sailor’s family called in Margaret —
who even in her youth was highly regarded for her healing skills
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
53
— to rid him of the curse. William struggled to remember what
she did to accomplish the task.
Soon Jansen’s fit quieted, and, without coming to
consciousness, he fell into a sound sleep. William picked him up
and placed him back onto his bed, then waited patiently for him
to wake up.
The first thing Jansen became aware of was the telltale soreness
of his gashed tongue. It had happened again. He wondered how
he could bear to go on living with the affliction, but as he
considered his circumstances, he decided that he might not have
to go on living too much longer after all. Those damn Puritans,
anyway. He opened his eyes to see William gazing at him, and
embarrassment flooded. Damn William, anyway. He could have
been a gentleman about the whole matter and pretended it hadn’t
happened.
He pushed himself up into a sitting position, and despite his
swollen tongue, said, “So, now you know.”
“Do you ship and trade in slaves?” William asked.
What kind of fool question was that, out of the blue? “In my
youth — about a dozen years ago — I dabbled in the slave trade.
It was distasteful to me. I don’t do it anymore.”
“How long have you had this affliction of yours?”
“Since …” The connection dawned on him for the first time.
“Since about a dozen years ago.” He looked at William. “What
are you getting at?”
“Island magic. Voodoo.”
Jansen waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Superstitious
shit, all of it.”
“I know of … an old folk remedy to deal with such things, if
you’d like me to try it on you. I mean, you’re right that it’s
probably all just shit, but it couldn’t hurt, could it?”
It was obvious that William was choosing his words carefully
and deliberately trying to be nonchalant about the matter. Could
he really be a wizard? Could there truly be such things? Hell,
what could it hurt, indeed?
Jansen shrugged. “It would give us something to do with our
WITCH HUNT
54
miserable time, at least.”
The men’s drinking water was stored in a large wooden barrel,
and the water level was low. They emptied the remainder of the
water and kicked the bottom out of it.
After William chanted some strange words over it, they laid it
on its side. With a few handfuls of straw, William made a small
poppet, which he hung from a short rope on one end of the
barrel. William stood back proudly, surveying their creation.
“Well, there it is.”
Jansen looked at the scene with amusement. “All right. So,
there what is?”
“The place for your passing through.”
“All right.” Jansen’s skepticism grew. Now he’d have to slip
the guard a handsome bribe to get another water barrel. What had
he got himself into, anyway?
“See, if you pass through a specially prepared hole — although
usually it’s in a tree or a rock — then the parasite will be pried
loose and take refuge in the poppet that’s hanging there.”
“Ask me if I believe you,” Jansen said.
William shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if you believe.”
Jansen was slightly touched by William’s sincere desire to
help. He sighed. Well, if it would make him feel useful, he’d
humor him. “So, I just crawl through, huh?”
“Yes, but you must be naked, of course.”
“What? Are you daft? What if the guard comes along?”
William thought about it for a minute and then smiled. “We’ll
tell him you’re trying to take a bath.”
Jansen looked at the open-ended barrel and burst out laughing.
“Hell, I’ll do it just so I can see the guard’s expression when we
explain ourselves.”
Jansen stripped his clothes, and feeling like the village idiot,
crawled into the barrel and out the other end, beneath the
hanging poppet. Once Jansen had passed through, William
quickly snatched the poppet and set a flame to it.
“There.” William ground the ashes beneath his feet and gave
Jansen a broad grin. “It’s gone.”
Jansen sat on the cold floor, naked, looking at William with his
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
55
triumphant foot on a pile of ashes, and felt like a total ass. “I can
see how you managed to get yourself arrested for witchcraft.”
Jansen’s wife and son were finally notified of his plight, and they
visited him. Alida Van Carel was a comely woman, with dusky
blond hair like Jansen’s own, and gray eyes, which mirrored
some deep, unexpressed pain. Or at least that’s how William read
her eyes; as a rule, he was quite good at discerning such things.
Peter Van Carel was a friendly and open fourteen-year-old.
William enjoyed their visit nearly as much as Jansen seemed to.
It wasn’t an affectionate reunion of husband and wife, but it
was friendly. Alida passed a small satchel through the bars to
Jansen. “A pipe and tobacco, some fruit, a change of clothes.”
“I appreciate it.” Jansen rifled through the bag and pulled out
the pipe and a measure of the tobacco, which he offered to
William. “Since I already have one, would you like to use this?”
William was grateful. “I would. Thank you.”
“William performed an old folk remedy to rid me of my
affliction,” Jansen said, and winked at Peter. “I owe him.”
“Did it work?” Peter asked.
“Too soon to tell.” Jansen handed William two apples and two
pears. “Consider these payment for your services.”
William took them reluctantly. He looked at Alida. “I don’t
want to be rude, but do you think that maybe you could take
these to my wife and daughter? They’re here, in this prison … if
you wouldn’t find it too much trouble …”
Alida studied him with her haunted eyes. “You keep those. I’ll
be happy to take them some fruit of their own.”
William smiled. “Thank you. Margaret and Prissy Hawthorne.”
“I’ll do it this afternoon.”
“Thank you. Very kind.” Had he ever thought it possible to be
so terribly grateful for a few pieces of fruit? William moved to a
far corner of the cell to allow the family some relative privacy,
and to savor the gifts of their generosity.
“I’ve arranged to escape on the way to the trial,” Jansen quietly
announced to William the day before they were to be taken back
WITCH HUNT
56
to Salem for their hearings. “The transport will be waylaid by
some of my men. There’s a boat waiting in the harbor. Will you
come with me?”
“My wife and children?”
Jansen shook his head. “I thought about it, but there’s no way it
can be arranged.”
William shrugged.
Jansen nodded. “Of course.” He paused. “So, do you have a
strategy? I’ve heard if you plead guilty they won’t hang you, at
least.”
“I’m not going to plead at all.”
“Not plead? But they’ll force you to plead.”
“They can try.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If I don’t plead, they can’t take my land from me. I have
nothing else to leave my children. They’ll have no future
otherwise.”
“But …” Jansen’s voice died off as the full measure of what
William had said settled into his mind. He felt a wave of respect
for the other man. “God, William, you’re a better man than I.”
He took a piece of paper and pen from Alida’s latest package and
scribbled his name and address on it. “Here. Whoever of your
family survives this should come to New York, and I’ll do what I
can.”
William took the paper. “I’ll give it to Bridget. Expect at least
her and Phip.”
Jansen nodded. Unfamiliar emotions flooded him, but he
didn’t know how to express them. Finally he said, “I think your
spell worked. It’s been a month since I’ve had a fit. I don’t seem
to have the affliction anymore.”
Jansen’s escape was successful, and William stood mute before
the court.
The first of his family to be brought to trial in Salem, William
refused to plead. He was taken from the courtroom and
interrogated by the magistrate in a holding cell.
“Why do you not plead?” Sheldon asked.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
57
For the first time in months, William felt a sense of control
over his own fate. “If I don’t plead, your honor, you can’t seize
my land. It’s the law.”
Sheldon, his chubby face already red, began to perspire. “You
cannot refuse to plead to the charge.”
“Yes, I can.” William was filled with a sense of deep calm.
Sheldon began to rant. “We have ways to make you plead.
You’ll not get away with this. We’ll break your fool’s silence.
You’ll not embarrass this court.”
William smiled at the man’s anger. It felt good to turn the
tables of frustration and impotence. “Do what you must, because
that’s just what I intend to do.”
After Sheldon stormed from the cell, William prepared the
deed that would convey his land to Bridget and Phip.
Bridget, who had come to the meetinghouse that morning for the
beginning of William’s trial, visited her father after he had been
taken from the court. He gave her the deed.
“My land is yours now. They can’t take it from you.”
Bridget silently nodded.
“You’ve been so strong and brave. I’m very proud of you.”
Bridget began to weep.
“Did you bring the berries?”
Bridget handed him the small box of deadly nightshade, and he
removed a fatal dose.
“Are you going to kill yourself?”
William looked into her fearful eyes. She was no longer a
child. “No, they’ll kill me.” He held up the berries. “This’ll make
it quicker.”
Bridget threw her arms around him in a fierce hug.
“Tell your mother I’ll wait for her on the other side. Take care
of your brother and sister. Raise them well.”
“Is Mother going to die too?”
William recalled his vision. “I may be wrong, but I see you
three together, without us.”
“What will we do?”
“When the madness stops, sell the land and go away from here.
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58
This isn’t a good place for people like us. Go to New York.” He
pressed Jansen’s address into her palm. “Jan said he’d help. He
says there’s greater tolerance there. Try to find others like us to
marry. Keep the blood alive. Don’t lose the old ways.”
“I promise, Father.”
“Buried beneath the stones of the hearth in the parlor is a book.
Don’t uncover it until the day you leave this town. It’s been
handed down for generations. It has the secrets that your mother
and I haven’t had time to teach you children. Study it, and share
its lessons with Prissy and Phip.” His voice broke, and he paused
to collect himself. “There’s a lot we haven’t had a chance to
teach you.”
Bridget’s weeping became sobs.
William handed the tiny box back to her. “Take some of these
to your mother.”
She nodded.
“Go home. Don’t stay in town today.”
“I’ll always love you,” she said.
He stroked her cheek. “Then we’ll meet again.”
That afternoon, William was taken to an open field on the edge
of Salem Village. A large crowd turned out to watch. William
was made to lie down, and the sheriff piled heavy rocks on his
chest, one by one.
“Do you consent to plead?” Sheldon asked as the fourth rock
was placed on William.
The pain was crushing. William’s tongue toyed with the berries
he had hidden in his cheek. It was still too early in the procedure
to surrender to death. “More weight,” he managed to say.
Some in the crowd began to cheer the sheriff on. William felt
the blood begin to flow from between his lips.
“Consent to give testimony and we shall remove the rocks,”
Sheldon said.
William could no longer speak.
“Give him more,” Sheldon told the sheriff.
William bit into the berries.
Within moments he felt lighter. The drug — or was it his small
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
59
victory? — made him happy. He could freely sense the emotions
of those in his audience. He felt a few who were appalled by the
“justice” of the court. Good, he thought. There was hope in that.
His giddiness increased rapidly, and then the paralysis set in.
He was finally free.
“How long have you been a witch?” Sheldon asked Margaret.
“I don’t understand your question,” she replied.
“Were you born a witch, or did the Devil make you one?”
“I don’t know what the Devil is.”
“Did you poison Grace Weston?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you give a sickness potion to the girl Elizabeth?”
“I never saw her before my preliminary hearing.”
“Who’s the tall man of Boston that other witches have named
in their testimony?”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s the leader of the witches, the keeper of the Devil’s book.
Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long have you practiced witchcraft?”
“I don’t even believe in this thing that you call witchcraft.”
Sheldon looked pleased with himself. “That in itself is
damning evidence, you understand.”
Margaret sighed; she had no spirit to go on with this. William
was dead. Priscilla, in her brief trial, had been convicted of
witchcraft and sentenced to imprisonment of an undetermined
length. Although the court was reluctant to condemn convicted
child witches to death, Margaret knew that Priscilla could not
possibly survive a long prison term. However, for the sake of
Bridget and Phip and their continued safety, she understood she
should cooperate. She tried to think of a defense; accused
witches were not allowed the benefit of counsel. She knew from
the results of other trials that if she were to confess to the crime,
they would not execute her. But that would put Bridget and Phip
in peril. She did not know what to say.
“I have enough evidence to easily find you guilty of the crime
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60
with which you are charged, Margaret Hawthorne,” Sheldon
said. “I condemn you to death by hanging on Gallows Hill this
Tuesday next.”
Margaret meditated over the berries. She briefly considered
poisoning Priscilla — it would be more merciful than leaving her
alone in the hell to which she had been condemned. But
Margaret believed that with life there was hope.
She decided against taking a fatal dose herself. It would be best
for her children if the authorities believed they were the
executioners. Instead, she took just enough to elevate her spirits.
She would rather leave this world happy than sad.
She thought about her life. It had been good. She thanked the
gods for the gifts they had given her. She prayed to them to
protect and keep her children.
She thought about distant relatives, three hundred years before,
who had died in the European witch hunts. She thought about
distant relatives three hundred years hence, and hoped they
would not face the same thing. She wondered if humanity would
ever learn from their mistakes.
She held Priscilla as tightly as she could until they came for
her. They had to pry the child from her arms.
Two other women rode in the wagon with Margaret to their
death that morning. Margaret was not frightened, but — despite
the drug she had taken — she was angry. She had admonished
Priscilla not to hate and was surprised to meet the face of her
own demon of hatred. As the wagon neared Gallows Hill, she
was sickened by the blood lust that rose in waves from the
crowd. She thought of her familiar spirit, and the corners of her
lips curled slightly. “If it’s witchcraft you wanted, it’s witchcraft
you’re going to get,” she whispered.
The woman riding closest to Margaret overheard, and gave her
a surprised look.
“My familiar’s name is Vengeance,” Margaret said.
The woman’s smile was bitter. “Then give it to them.”
The snake manifested in the midst of the crowd, and screams
filled the air.
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61
“It’s poisonous!” someone screamed.
“Run!”
The crowd scattered.
“It’s witchcraft!” someone else yelled.
“It’s after the magistrate!”
Sheldon danced a sort of jig in an attempt to evade the
copperhead, but he was unsuccessful. His screams filled the air
as the fangs injected their poison into his leg.
“Will he die?” Margaret’s companion asked.
“I leave that to the gods to decide,” Margaret said.
The High Sheriff was undaunted by the diversion. He soothed
the startled horses and led the wagon to the giant oak tree.
Three nooses were already in place.
As the wagon stopped beneath the tree, Margaret looked up to
see the owl circling overhead. She smiled.
“Tell Bridget I love her, too, Moonlight,” she whispered. The
noose was hooked around Margaret’s neck. “I’m coming to you,
William.”
She heard the whip as it struck the horses, and felt the wagon
move from beneath her. There was a sudden jerk, a wrenching
pain accompanied by the crunch of breaking bone, and then
Margaret escaped the world that had turned on her.
Bridget, using a sharp stick as an awl and dried sinew as thread,
made three fur capes from the small pelts she had been collecting
all summer and fall. She delivered Priscilla’s to her before the
first snow fell.
Per Margaret’s advice, Rebekah and Mirasaya both pled guilty
to the charge of witchcraft. They were spared the gallows, but
like Priscilla, sentenced to remain in prison. Without their
warmth and love — and the inner escape that Samara continued
to provide — Bridget knew that Priscilla would have lost her
mind.
Bridget braved the difficult winter travel and continued her
weekly visits to Boston to take Priscilla, Rebekah, and Mirasaya
food. Her stores were meager, but she rationed carefully and kept
the five of them alive through the darkest months of their lives.
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62
Spring came, and using their bare hands and sharpened sticks,
Bridget and Phip prepared the fields for planting; they had
managed to save enough seed from the previous harvest to sow
two fields. With great effort, they did their best.
In May, sanity returned to Massachusetts, and the governor
issued a general pardon for all condemned witches and ordered
their release from prison. However, according to law, all
prisoners had to pay the jailer for their keep from the time of
their arrest. The fee was two shillings and sixpence a week.
Priscilla had been imprisoned for more than a year. Bridget
couldn’t claim her sister until she sold the farm.
“What about you?” Bridget asked Rebekah and Mirasaya as
she finally completed negotiations to secure Priscilla’s release.
Rebekah shrugged. “There’s no one who wants us. No one to
pay the prison fee.”
Bridget was confused. “So?”
“So, we’re here for life, it seems.”
Bridget was shocked. She thought about the money she had
received for the farm. After paying off their debts, there was little
left. There was enough to buy freedom for one of them. But
whom could she leave behind? “I can help one of you. That’s all
I’ve got the money for.”
Hope lit up both their faces, but Mirasaya’s expression was
quickly replaced by one more cryptic. “I no want freedom from
witchcraft prison paid for by witch family. Bad luck. You take
fragile one here.”
Bridget was stunned. “You know we’re witches?”
Mirasaya put her hands on her hips. “What, you think we
stupid or something?”
We?  They both knew? Bridget looked at Rebekah, who
shrugged. “It’s all right with me. You saved my life. I care about
you.”
So it was decided.
As they prepared to leave, Bridget hesitated. She looked into
Mirasaya’s eyes, and for a moment their souls touched. She
realized that Mirasaya wasn’t at all concerned by the fact that the
Hawthornes were witches. She had performed a supreme act of
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
63
charity, and Bridget was overcome by emotion. She threw her
arms around Mirasaya and wanted to make her promises of an
ultimate rescue, but she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t want to give
her false hope. “You’re very special, Mirasaya. I’ll always carry
you in my heart.”
Mirasaya kissed Bridget. “I remember you ‘til I die, and even
after. You good girl, strong and brave.”
Not as strong and brave as you, Bridget thought. She returned
Mirasaya’s kiss before she scurried from the Boston jail and the
tragedy that remained within its walls.
Outside, Bridget lifted Priscilla onto Silver. With Phip and
Rebekah walking beside her, they began the long trek south to
New York. As they left Salem behind, Bridget thought about the
Puritans, their religion and their law, and — despite all the loss
and suffering she had endured — she was very glad she was of
the blood of witches.
CHAPTER THREE
Midummer
Montvue, Colorado
Leigh was trembling. She hadn’t stopped trembling since
Preacher Cody’s startling appearance at the Hawthorne funeral.
However, she held her questions until she and Craig were alone
in their room.
“Witches and Satan worshipers?”
Craig snapped the strap of his polka-dot suspenders. “Not
Satan worshipers.”
“What then, witches?”
He nodded, stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his baggy
black trousers, and paced.
Leigh sat on the edge of the bed. “But there is no such thing.”
“Don’t be naive, Leigh.”
His words and tone made Leigh feel as if he had slapped her
across the face. To take her mind off the affront, her thoughts
returned to the words of Preacher Cody. “He said something
about the Hawthornes not being religious …”
Craig chuckled. “Oh, my family’s got religion. That old time
religion, to be exact.” He stopped pacing and looked at her.
“That’s what witchcraft is. It’s the old religion. It goes back to
tribal society, to the individuals who had extraordinary powers,
which they used to benefit the tribe. They were the shamans —
or medicine men and women —  who could heal, help their
people with visions of future events, hex the tribe’s enemies to
protect their own, charm the wild animals into not harming the
tribe or, conversely, becoming the evening’s dinner. Some of
those bloodlines have been preserved, along with the knowledge
those individuals possessed. The Hawthornes are hereditary
witches.”
They looked at each other for a long time in silence.
Inside Leigh a storm was raging.
She tried to understand the concept of witchcraft as Craig
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
65
described it. She held it up against all the models her mind had:
the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, sultry Kim
Novak’s Gillian in the movie Bell, Book and Candle, suburban
Samantha Stephens and her bizarre relatives on Bewitched, the
sexy sisters on Charmed, the assorted self-proclaimed modern
witches who appeared on the local news shows at Halloween,
and the Devil worshipers that the Christians had always painted
witches to be.
If Craig’s witchcraft was hereditary, then not only Craig, but
the children, too, would be witches. Were her children witches?
Craig had an extraordinary ability to heal; even his colleagues
often commented on it. He had taken women who had lost baby
after baby, and whom other physicians had given up on, and
brought them through successful pregnancies with smooth births.
His success with infertility cases was phenomenal, and he had
practically developed a cult following of infertile women.
She remembered the time Kamelia held the cat that was hit by
a car. Within minutes it leapt from her arms, completely well;
and Leigh was so sure its back had been broken.
She thought about Adrian’s visions.
A sob escaped her.
Then anger arose, and she threw it at him. “Why didn’t you tell
me?”
“I should have.”
“Why did you cut yourself off from your family?”
“They became power trippers. I was afraid of losing the magic
to the politics of power.”
“How will we tell the children?”
“We don’t have to. Didn’t you see their faces when the
preacher man called us witches?”
“No.”
“They knew. They just needed to be reminded.”
Leigh’s anger melted into fear. “What he said about Satan
worshipers …”
“They’ve always been afraid of us, so they’ve always made us
out to be evil. It isn’t the power that’s good or bad, it’s how the
individual uses it that matters. It’s the same with them. There
WITCH HUNT
66
have been powerful Christians who have misused their power,
just as there have been evil witches who have done the same.”
“We’ve got to get the children away from here before
something comes of Preacher Cody’s accusations. I mean, things
could get crazy and someone could get hurt.”
Craig burst out laughing. “Oh, Leigh. My dear, naive Leigh.
Yes, that could happen.”
Leigh once again felt as if she had been slapped, and she began
to cry. “Don’t be condescending to me. I’m more than a little
overwhelmed.”
Craig sat down and slipped his arm around her. “I’m not
laughing at you. I’m … it’s so much more serious than you
understand, that’s all. Think about the things Slugger said last
night.”
Adrian’s words echoed in Leigh’s mind. They’re going to kill
us all. All of us. Everywhere. It’ll start here, but it’ll spread.
There will be no place that will be safe. It’ll be worse than the
last time. It’ll even be worse than the time before that. “Oh, my
God,” she whispered.
Craig stroked her hair. “The last time was the Salem witch
hunt. The Christians killed about twenty people, two of them
Hawthornes. The time before that was the Inquisition, what we
call The Burning Times. Somewhere between a half-million and
nine million people — estimates vary depending on their source
— were killed as heretics. Many were witches. Now, how many
really were witches and how many were simply random victims
of the Christian witch mania is also debatable. The Hawthornes
were nearly wiped out during that time. Slugger said that this
new killing spree would be even worse than the burning times.
Do you realize what that means?”
“It couldn’t happen today. We’re more enlightened. We’ve got
civil rights.”
“We’ve also got mass media and a world that’s terrified of
extinction. Fear looks for scapegoats. And fear breeds hate. Look
at history — the Inquisition, Salem, Nazi Germany. Charismatic
people can sway the masses to support the most heinous of
crimes against their fellow man. And unfortunately, the preacher
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
67
man has what it takes.”
“What can we do?”
“Slugger said that perhaps we could stop it. The stakes are
high. We’ve got to try.”
“Can we send the children away, at least?”
“Where do we send them? To your folks?”
Leigh thought about their alcoholism and how advanced it
was. “No.”
“Besides, like Slugger said, there isn’t any place that will be
safe.”
Cody sat at the desk in his study across from Diane Fox, the
aggressive reporter from the Montvue Post-Dispatch. He had
chosen her to conduct the interview because she had a reputation
for hard-line journalism, and he felt she wouldn’t softsell the
information he had to share. He also thought that with her
reputation, which had been established during her years with The
Denver Post, his news would be taken more seriously.
He decided to hit the Hawthornes hard in the local media; he
wanted to vindicate himself among those who had heard of his
cowardice during the plane crash. His attack against witchcraft
would begin on the very next episode of Preacher Cody. It had
already been filmed and was set to air. And it would be just the
beginning of many more such shows. God had shown him what
his next mission was to be. If the Christians were to survive the
end times, their faith had to be protected from those who would
seek to capture it.
Cody studied Diane as she studied her notes. She was blond
and beautiful like his wife, and he had noticed earlier, like the
wife of the witch Craig Hawthorne. However, they were three
distinct types of women. Whereas Rachel’s beauty was chaste,
Leigh’s was sexy, and Diane’s was hard. He found it
uncomfortable to be around a woman such as Diane, with her
painted face, her masculine clothes, and her heavy cloud of
perfume. He thought it a travesty against what true femininity
should be.
“So,” Diane said, interrupting his mental condemnation of her,
WITCH HUNT
68
“you claim that two of the Hawthornes’ ancestors were tried and
condemned for witchcraft during the Salem witch trials. Another
one was also arrested for the crime, but died before he could
plead. Throughout the family’s history there have been repeated
rumors and suspicion leveled against them for alleged
supernatural behavior and activity. They have never been
publicly associated with any established religion. And the two
Hawthorne men buried today, Alan and Curtis, were heard to be
chanting some kind of spell after the commuter airplane crashed
which seemed to control the spread of fire within that plane.”
She fixed her cool eyes on him. “How can you expect an
intelligent, well-educated public to buy this kind of stuff?”
“It’s the truth.”
“How can you be so sure of what you saw and heard on that
plane? You yourself admitted that you panicked.”
“I wasn’t the only witness to their acts.”
“Mass hysteria could account for that.”
“Those are straws you’re clutching at, Miss Fox.”
She tapped her pencil on the edge of the desk. “Okay, okay.
Let’s just say it happened your way. Doesn’t your charge imply
that these Hawthorne men saved lives during that crash, yours
included?”
“God saved our lives. If you notice, the two witches are dead.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Preacher, but I
think this all really is bunk. I mean, witches simply aren’t real.
They’re Grimm’s fairy tales.”
“Like creation is Darwinism instead of Divine? I think that the
well-educated public can be greatly misled about reality. It’s the
sad fact of worshiping the mind as God. The Bible warns us
about that. It also warns us about witches and tells us what our
stand should be. Old Testament, Deuteronomy, King James
Bible: ‘When thou art come into the land which the Lord thy
God giveth thee, thou shalt not learn to do after the abominations
of these nations. There shall not be found among you any one
that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or
that useth divination, or an observer of times’ — that would be
an astrologer — ‘or an enchanter, or witch, or a charmer, or a
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
69
consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer, for
all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord: and
because of these abominations the Lord thy God doth drive them
out from before thee. Thou shalt be perfect with the Lord thy
God.’ Are you calling God’s word bunk, Miss Fox?”
“Well, I am not at all sure that the books of the Bible haven’t
been altered somewhat by man over time. As a matter of fact, in
college, my lit professor showed us that, indeed, the Bible had
been changed a number of times to reflect the values of the
times. The common man didn’t have access to the Bible until
relatively recently. The church held it captive, and the church, we
all know, has always been a greatly political entity.”
Cody felt his anger but willed it away. “I’ll not get into an
argument with you over the verity of God’s word as reflected in
the Holy Bible. Now, you’re a reporter — an excellent reporter,
from all I’ve heard — and the good, Christian community of
Montvue will be interested in the facts that I’ve provided you.”
“How did you dig up this stuff on the Hawthornes?”
“I have connections.”
“Through your CIA involvement?”
“The CIA doesn’t deal with domestic concerns.”
Diane smiled. “Yes, of course.”
“It is my spiritual duty to confront the Hawthornes and ask
them to repent. It is my mission to save souls, you understand. I
plan to go to their home Sunday night, after my show is
broadcast, and inform them of God’s grace and mercy.”
Diane’s eyes widened with surprise. “I see. Do the Hawthornes
know about this?”
“No, but I expect they will after your article is printed. And I
expect the Christians in Montvue will, too. Any who care to
accompany me in a show of God’s force will be welcome to
stand with me.”
Diane stuck her pencil up behind her ear and shook her head.
“That’s a terribly explosive situation you’re proposing. I don’t
think I want to be party to lighting that fuse.”
“Well, then, Miss Fox, I’ll find a reporter who does.”
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70
Leigh found her children in their room. Adrian, exhausted from
the ordeal of the funeral, was asleep on his bed, his thumb
securely tucked away in his mouth. Dangerous-looking witch
there, she thought as she took his shoes off and tucked the
blankets around him. Kamelia was lying on her bed, staring at
the ceiling.
“Can we talk?” Leigh asked.
“Sure.”
Leigh sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a stray wisp of
hair out of her daughter’s face. “So, tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Like a lot of the pieces of my life were finally put in place
today. You know, there’ve been things about myself that I’ve
never understood; things that just never fit anywhere.”
“Such as?”
Kamelia took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes in a manner
characteristic of her father. “I … I’ve never had much interest in
religion. I mean, you and Dad didn’t raise us with it, but you
never stopped me from doing it, either. And when the Incredible
Hunk hit the air, boy, did I try. Most of my friends managed to
find religion real quick, but it just didn’t feel right, you know?”
Leigh nodded.
“On the other hand, I always felt that something — something
powerful — was there taking care of me and that everything was
just fine, that I was protected and safe. It was like I knew God, or
whatever, without having to go looking.”
Leigh had never known that her daughter entertained such
thoughts. She wanted to ask questions, but thought it best to just
let her talk.
“And so often I just know things. Things I shouldn’t know.
Like, I can walk into your bedroom and know you’re not doing
sex, not because I listen at the door — I just made that up — but
because I know you’re not. And,” she rubbed her palms together,
“my hands get so hot, and I touch things and stuff happens. Like
Cindy’s cat. You remember Cindy’s cat?”
Leigh nodded.
“Well, stuff like that happens with my friends, too. Like, Tara
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
71
and Heather and I would be doing something we shouldn’t, and
Tara — the klutzoid — would get hurt.” She rubbed her hands
together again. “I could make it better so her mom and dad
wouldn’t know.”
“Did you ever tell Dad?”
“Yeah. And all he would say is that it was a gift I inherited
from him. That it was cool and not to worry.”
Leigh felt a twinge of resentment. Why hadn’t anyone told
her?
“Why didn’t Dad tell me about the witch thing?”
“I don’t know, honey.” Leigh’s anger returned, but she pushed
it back. “Tell me, Kammi, do you believe you’re a witch?”
A look of wonderment crossed Kamelia’s face. “Yeah. It
doesn’t seem weird, or space-cadet time, or anything. I sort of
understand, and it feels okay.”
“What about Adrian? Has he said anything?”
“Not really. Well, before he fell asleep he looked at me and
said, ‘I didn’t like preachers in my last life either.’”
Leigh experienced a wave of gooseflesh. She felt like a
stranger to her family, an outsider. “I’m not … a witch. You
understand that, don’t you?”
“Did you know Dad was?”
Leigh shook her head.
“That wasn’t real fair of him, was it? Kinda like poor Darrin on
Bewitched.”
Leigh forced a smile. “Kinda like.”
Kamelia sat up and hugged her mother. “Well, for a mortal,
you’re real cool by me.”
Leigh was grateful for Kamelia’s love. “This isn’t a sitcom.
Your Incredible Hunk’s going to cause trouble.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Your dad thinks it’ll be real bad trouble.”
“Are we going to fight or run?”
Leigh didn’t like the concept of fighting. “We’re going to stay
here and try to stop Preacher Cody.”
Kamelia nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Leigh tousled her daughter’s hair affectionately. “You sound
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72
more like your father every day.”
Kamelia shrugged. “Well, I am a Hawthorne, after all.”
Diane Fox picked up her three-year-old daughter, Tiffany, at the
Montvue Heights Preschool on her way home from Preacher
Cody’s ranch.
Tiffany was the result of an affair Diane had with a married
coworker at her previous job as a reporter for The Denver Post.
When she discovered her pregnancy, Diane quit the man, quit the
job, and quit Denver.
Determined career woman that she was, the power of her
maternal instincts shocked her. Even though a child was
unexpected, she discovered that she wanted the baby more than
she would ever have imagined possible. Diane, big-city born and
raised, wanted her child to grow up in a world that was more
gentle than the one she had known, and so she chose Montvue as
their new home.
“Momma’s got a hard decision to make,” Diane told Tiffany as
she strapped her into her car seat. “There’s this crazy man who
believes in witches. Like in ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ You remember
Hansel and Gretel?”
Tiffany nodded, her eyes wide.
“Well,” Diane slid in behind the wheel and strapped herself
into her own seat, “this crazy man wants me to tell everyone that
these certain people are witches and that witches are bad because
this book he has says they are.” Diane started the engine and
pulled out into the flow of late-afternoon traffic.
“Now, this man, a regular gospel shouter he is, is planning to
do some shouting at these witch people and wants lots of other
people to be there to back him up. He wants — you want a
burger, honey?”
Tiffany giggled. “Want a burger.”
Diane pulled into Wendy’s and got their dinner at the drivethrough window, then headed home to eat it.
“Burger!” Tiffany yelled, straining for the aromatic bag that
was just out of her reach.
“You’re too messy an eater, honey. We’ll be home soon.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
73
Anyway, this crazy man — who’s this odd version of Rambogets-religion — wants me to write the story about the witch
family and announce this rally at their home Sunday night. If I
don’t do the report, he’ll get someone else to.”
“French fries?” Tiffany asked.
“In just a minute. However, I think if I keep the story, and
write it in a manner that shows both sides, it would be better than
giving it to Joe or Paula or some other twirpy reporter at the Post
who’s gaga over this crazy man. I mean, they’d write whatever
he wants them to, because they think he’s just so terrific. So, I
think I’ll keep the story and do it with objectivity. What do you
think?”
“Root beer,” Tiffany said.
Diane grinned. “Thanks for your input, honey. Don’t know
what I’d do without you.”
The Sunday morning issue of the Post-Dispatch carried Diane’s
story about Preacher Cody, the Hawthornes, and witchcraft.
The Hawthornes passed the newspaper around the breakfast
table.
“It says they’ll be here at eight tonight,” Melanie said.
“What are we going to do, Craig?” Vivian’s composure had
deteriorated in the few days since the funeral. Dark circles
shadowed her eyes, and her voice quavered with fear.
“We could secure the gates and not let them in. Wish we had
some alligators for the moat.”
“What’s a moat?” Adrian asked.
“A ditch dug all around a castle and filled with water,”
Kamelia said.
“We got a moat?” Adrian asked.
Kamelia rolled her eyes. “No, silly.”
Adrian nodded and popped a strawberry into his mouth.
“Okey-doke.” Okey-doke was his latest word.
“Maybe you should call and talk to the police,” Leigh
suggested.
Craig nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Some protection magic wouldn’t hurt, either,” Jason said.
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74
Melanie peeked over the top of the newspaper. “I’ll help you
with that.”
“Can I come?” Kamelia asked.
Everyone looked at Leigh.
Leigh cleared her throat nervously. “I … I don’t know …”
“Go for it, Kammi,” Craig said. “Now the covers are pulled,
you’d better not keep sleeping in the buff.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Dorian began to cough and couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
Glynis slapped his back a few times. “He’s not well today. I
think it’s all the stress.”
“Put him to bed after chow time. Kammi and I will be by later
to give him a look-see,” Craig said.
“Can’t eat,” Dorian said, his voice raw. “I’ll go now.”
Craig nodded.
Dorian maneuvered his electric wheelchair away from the
table and out the terrace doors, to the small guest cottage he and
Glynis shared.
“He’s scared,” Glynis said.
“We’re all scared,” Vivian said, giving more attention to
chewing her fingernails than to the food on her plate.
“I’d like to discuss why everyone’s so scared,” Leigh said.
“What’s to discuss?” Jason asked.
Leigh ignored the harshness of his tone. “Well, I went online
and did some research about modern witchcraft. I didn’t realize it
before — guess I just never paid attention — but these days it
seems to be pretty well accepted. Amazon has all kinds of how-to
books on the subject. I ran down some major magazine articles
that spoke of it as being a folk religion. There are people who
claim to be witches doing the talk-show circuit, and they aren’t
being persecuted. Why, besides Adrian’s vision, is everyone here
so scared?”
“Most people consider talk-show witches and books on the
subject as entertainment and aren’t threatened by it,” Craig said.
“Some scholars and intellectuals understand the reality of it, and
write wonderful articles in an attempt to dispel the myths, but
they’re only going to appeal to other scholars and intellectuals.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
75
The problem lies with narrow-minded people who tend to be
threatened by what doesn’t fit into their own specific niche,
because if anything else is right, then they’ve got to be wrong.
Add to all this a charismatic leader like the preacher man, his
labeling of us as Satanists  —  a heady subject these days
everywhere — small town mentality like Montvue’s, a seemingly
respectable and powerful family such as ours, and you have a
major kaboom waiting to happen.”
“And don’t forget about our ancestors who were killed for
witchcraft,” Glynis said. “If for no other reason, we’re scared
because it’s happened to us before.”
“Then there’s this,” Jason said, shaking the newspaper.
“Well, at least the killer dyke didn’t defend the enemy,”
Melanie said. “She is actually making an attempt at reason in the
article.”
“Killer dyke?” Leigh asked.
Melanie nodded. “Diane Fox, the reporter. As a reporter, she
tends to go for the jugular, and, well, everyone knows she’s a
dyke. I mean, she dresses like a guy, and she doesn’t date or
anything. I think her kid must have been a case of rape or
artificial insemination or something.”
Leigh sighed.
Helena came in with a fresh pot of coffee.
“What’s with the phone ringing off the hook this morning?”
Jason asked her.
Helena shook her, head. “You don’t want to know.” She began
to refill cups. “But I will say it’s amazing how well some of
those Christians out there can swear.”
“What do you think of all this, Helena?” Leigh asked.
“All what?”
“The fact that you work for a family of accused witches.”
“Well, it’s no surprise to me.”
“Oh, you knew, then?”
Helena smiled a beautiful, slow smile “Well, very often it takes
one to know one.”
Sergeant Tom Cosworth of the Montvue Police Department
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76
wasn’t surprised when the phone call came in. He had read the
morning newspaper.
“Is this the head honcho, the biggest cheese?” a man’s voice
asked when Cosworth picked up the phone.
Cosworth scratched his ample belly and relit his tired cigar. He
was alone in the cop shop at the moment, and didn’t much care
for the non-smoking rules. “Well, Lieutenant Brody is the watch
commander, but he’s unavailable right now. I’m Sergeant
Cosworth. What do you need?”
“This is Dr. Craig Hawthorne of the Hawthorne Witch Club. I
assume you’ve heard of our respected organization.”
Cosworth chuckled. “Yep, your PR department’s done a bangup job.”
“So, would you understand it if I said that our teeth are
chattering and our knees are knocking?”
Cosworth chewed on his cigar butt. “Yep, I would.”
“Can the distinguished men — and women, of course — in
blue, or whatever color you’re wearing these days, make like the
cavalry?”
“Well, Dr. Hawthorne, there’s not a whole lot we can do at this
stage of the game.”
“Does the preacher man have a permit?”
“Doesn’t need one.”
“Doesn’t need one? You need a permit to take a piss in this
goddamn country! What do you mean, doesn’t need one?”
Cosworth sighed. “If he doesn’t block free travel into and
around your home, he doesn’t need one.”
“Isn’t there a law prohibiting this sort of ballyhoo in front of a
man’s private castle?”
Cosworth tapped an ash into the pot of the plant on his desk.
“Well, they can’t carry picket signs and they can’t tell the
neighborhood kids things like you murder babies, but, yep, they
can gather to save your soul.”
“My goddamn soul is just fine, thank you!”
Cosworth really didn’t blame the doctor for giving him an
earache. “You could all just go somewhere else tonight. Not be
there.”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
77
“Would you turn tail and run?”
“Not me. This is America.”
“Says it all, doesn’t it?”
The phone receiver went dead in Cosworth’s ear. “Poor
bastard,” he muttered, and then he relit the dying ember on the
end of his cigar.
The guest cottage that served as Dorian’s and Glynis’s home was
located just inside the south gate of Hawthorne Manor. It was
small but cozy, and Craig had always been more comfortable
there than in the big house. With its bright chintz curtains, simple
overstuffed furniture, and scattering of homey knickknacks, it
was a warm and inviting place. The only telling influence of the
Hawthornes’ wealth was the original Norman Rockwell painting
that hung on the living room wall.
“His allergies and asthma are really bad.” Glynis led Craig and
Kamelia into the bedroom where Dorian lay. “When he gets
excited or nervous he has troubles. I’ve put the houseplants back
outside, and I’ve been keeping the windows closed. I even had
Marek put a new filter in the air conditioner. But nothing is
helping.”
“How ya doing, you old fart?” Craig sat on the edge of
Dorian’s bed.
“Don’t like being old.”
Craig nodded. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it? But, one of the cool things
about our heritage is that our aging slows as we creep forward.”
“That, my dear boy, is both a blessing and a curse.”
Craig pulled his stethoscope out of his bag, placed it on
Dorian’s chest, and listened to his noisy bronchi. “Rock, rattle,
and roll.” He took Dorian’s temperature and examined his glands
and throat. “Aunt Glynis’s diagnosis hits the nail on the head.
Best thing you can do is rest. Try to sleep.”
“Sleep?” Dorian asked, his voice croaky. “With that crazy
preacher breathing down our throats? He’ll be here in just a few
hours. How can I sleep?”
Kamelia pulled some small blue cloth bags out of her pocket
and handed one to Dorian. “Here’s an amulet. Melanie, Jason,
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78
and I made them. It’ll help protect you.”
Dorian took it and immediately began to sneeze and cough. He
thrust it back at her. “Herbs in it. Can’t handle it right now.”
Kamelia’s face reddened, and she stuffed them back into her
jeans. “I … I didn’t think. Sorry.”
Craig grasped Kamelia’s hands and gave them a comforting
squeeze, then placed them on Dorian’s solar plexus. He put his
own hands on his uncle’s head, and within moments he could
feel the connection of his and Kamelia’s energies as they coursed
through Dorian’s body.
Dorian tensed at first, and then began to relax. “Oh, yes. Nice.”
“This’ll mellow you out and start the fences mending.” Craig
watched Dorian’s face relax. He loved and respected the old man
who had given his all for love. It was a story Craig heard as a
small boy from his grandmother, Beatrice, during one of her
many wine-sotted tirades. The story of Glynis’s and Dorian’s
romance, and the violence his grandfather used to try to derail it,
was one of the many reasons Craig had chosen to go his own
way in life.
“Will he be better now?” Glynis asked. Her arthritic fingers
struggled to tuck a stray lock back up into the hairnet that held
her silver hair.
Craig nodded. “He needs some Z’s. Let’s make back to the
Land of Oz for now and leave him be.”
“Yes, the Wicked Witch of the West is waiting.” Glynis
dissolved into giggles, her hand hiding her mouth.
Craig stood up and put an arm around her frail shoulders. “Oh,
dear, I see I’m having a nasty influence on the home front.”
“You’re like a breath of fresh air, Craig. A breath of fresh air.”
Together, Craig, Glynis, and Kamelia walked back to the
mansion. On the way, Craig held Glynis’s hand and sent healing
energy into her arthritic joints.
Preacher Cody’s handsome face stared out at the Hawthornes
from their television set.
“And Paul warned of this when he told the Galatians, ‘This I
say then, Walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfill the lust of the
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
79
flesh. For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit: and these are
contrary the one to the other: so that ye cannot do the things that
ye would. But if ye be led of the Spirit, ye are not under the law.
“‘Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these:
adultery, fornication, uncleanliness, lasciviousness.’” As Cody
spoke these lines from the Bible, the television screen cut to a
visual collage of sexual images backed by a pulsing, rhythmic
musical score.
Then the screen flashed to gory photographs of a black mass
and ritual murder, and the soundtrack shifted to heavy metal.
“‘Idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions,
heresies.’”
Finally, there was a montage of ghetto street violence, backed
by a rap song. “‘Envyings, murders, drunkenness, revelings, and
such like, of the which I tell you before, as I have also told you in
time past, that they which do such things shall not inherit the
kingdom of God.’”
Preacher Cody returned to the screen, this time in an outdoor
setting. He was dressed in blue jeans, a western-style shirt, a
cowboy hat, and boots. He stood in a grassy field with a beautiful
white mare and her newborn foal. His piercing blue eyes looked
directly into the camera. “God has spoken to me again, my
friends. The first time He spoke to me was in the Afghani desert,
when He told me to speak to His people of the end times. That I
have done. Then He spoke to me again last week, very near to
the place I’m now standing, in a plane crash that should have
taken my life. But He saved me so that I could warn you about
one of the sins of the flesh that threatens to insinuate itself into
our Christian lives and steal from us our faith and ultimate
salvation.” The screen returned to the scenes of the black mass.
“Witchcraft. The abomination of witchcraft.” Suddenly the
photographs of the black mass became animate, and the gore and
horror of the ritual sacrifice being played out came to life, replete
with horrified screams from the young children who were
sacrificial victims and devilish laughter of the perpetrators. “Ah,
but these witches are subtle. They’ve tried to whitewash our
thinking so that most of us, in our twenty-first century
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80
sophistication, don’t even believe in them.” Cuts of childish,
fairy-tale versions of cartoon witches became interspersed with
the shots of ritual murder. The alternating scenes began to speed
up until, with a loud crescendo of heavy metal noise, they
merged. The final scene was an overlay: the pretty, blue-eyed
blond child character, Tabitha, from the television show
Bewitched had conjured up the Tooth Fairy, while, in the overlay,
a little blond girl, whose throat was cut, was having her teeth
pulled out for use as charms by members of a Satanic coven.
The camera returned to Cody, who had been joined by his
angelic-looking wife and baby daughter, both dressed in flowing
white dresses that moved gently in the wind. The lilting sounds
of a flute, with a soft bongo backbeat, filled the airwaves.
“We need to protect ourselves, and our loved ones, from the
growing menace of evil that these witches pose. The signs of
their presence are all around us.” The song “Age of Aquarius”
accented a photographic montage of newspaper astrology
columns, Tarot card readers, occult shops, and New Age
publications.
“Eradicating these obvious Satanic influences from our
Christian society is only the first step. Because then it gets more
subtle. Beware the false prophets!” Eerie chanting began, and
pictures of East Indian gurus flashed on the screen.
“And last of all are the witches who lurk in our midst in
disguise.” The lovely Samantha Stephens and the theme song
from Bewitched played. Preacher Cody’s voice became soft and
seductive. “Beware the witches who might be your next door
neighbors …”
The sun set over the mountains as Preacher Cody, his wife, and
daughter basked in the bright love of God and each other.
The screen faded to black.
Melanie shook her head. “And so it begins again.”
“You might as well kiss your liberty, and probably your sweet
ass, good-bye,” Craig said.
The people began to congregate outside the south gate of
Hawthorne Manor at eight o’clock.
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
81
Vivian was frantic. “What are we going to do, Craig?”
“Play hide-and-seek or show-and-tell.” He put on his favorite
golf cap and snapped the strap of his polka-dot suspenders.
“After giving it some more thought, I think show-and-tell might
be more productive. If we ignore them, the problem isn’t going
to go away. Adrian said that the worldwide persecutions he saw
could possibly be prevented. I want to give reason a try.”
“You’re not going out there?” Vivian asked.
“Unless you have a magic wand that’ll make the preacher man
and his followers disappear in a poof.”
“You know I don’t.”
“No, we witches are so terrifyingly powerful, such a horrible
threat to them, and yet we can’t even keep them from persecuting
us. Makes a whole lot of sense, don’t it?”
“We’re going with you,” Jason said. Melanie stood defiantly
by his side.
Craig nodded. So far, he had seen them only as a sullen
sixteen-year-old girl and an angry seventeen-year-old boy. It was
good to see that they had some redeeming features. “Okeydoke.”
“Okey-doke,” Adrian echoed.
“Me, too,” Kamelia said.
“Nope.”
“But, Dad.”
“Nope. You’re going to stay inside the castle with the
drawbridge raised.”
“I’m coming,” Leigh said.
Craig shook his head. “It’s not your fight.”
“The hell it’s not.”
Craig was surprised by the tone of her voice. He shrugged.
“You stand with us, you’ll damn yourself.”
“Any way you look at it, it seems I’m damned anyway.”
“Lovely commentary on the situation, don’t you think?” He
snapped his suspenders again. “Well, shall we, boys and girls?”
The four of them went out into the night to meet the gathering
crowd.
They walked slowly through the grounds, not anxious for the
WITCH HUNT
82
confrontation. Lighted torches on a myriad of stands illumined
their path.
“I’m sorry I never told you about the witchcraft,” Craig said to
Leigh. “I guess I hoped it would never come up … that we could
be kinda like Rob and Laura Petrie.”
“That’s bullshit,” Leigh said. “You go to great lengths to
ensure that our family isn’t of the normal all-American variety.”
Craig sighed. “You don’t understand. If I were concerned with
being a witch, I’d go to great lengths to act normal — so no one
would be suspicious. Look around you. That’s how my family is.
It was because I felt free that I could be … well … free. Can’t
you see?”
Leigh maintained a stony silence.
“If I had told you, then I would’ve been a ‘witch’ again, and I
couldn’t have just been me.”
It was Leigh’s turn to sigh. “Well, it’s a moot point now.”
“Ain’t it the truth?”
They neared the gate.
“I don’t think you should open it,” Leigh said.
“Then they’ll know we’re scared. We’ve got to show them we
have nothing to be scared of, that we have nothing to hide.”
“What if … well, something happens?” Leigh asked.
“Then at least we’ve tried. It’s better than cowering with fear
and letting evil have its way.”
Leigh looked at him curiously. “Evil? I’ve never heard you use
that word before.”
“Doc Hawthorne’s dictionary defines it as that which stifles
life, creativity, and joy. People like the preacher man, who spread
hate and inflict guilt, they’re the evil ones.”
Preacher Cody stood outside the gate with fifty or so
supporters. Craig recognized few of the faces in the crowd, but
the torchlight fell on one person he remembered well. James
Bradshaw, the President of the Montvue First National Bank —
which held the Hawthorne millions — stood with the preacher.
Cody greeted them with a smile. “I didn’t think you’d face us,
Dr. Hawthorne.”
“I’m not going to be intimidated by the likes of you.” 
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
83
“Is that why you won’t open your gate to me?”
Craig opened the gate wide.
“Did you watch my broadcast this evening?” Cody asked.
“You got your facts all wrong.”
“How is that?”
“You showed a bunch of Satanists doing a black mass. That
has nothing to do with witchcraft.”
Cody smiled. “Interesting that you know this.”
“Satanism is a deliberate perversion of Christianity by
demented, rebellious individuals. Witchcraft is just the folk
religion the Europeans practiced before the advent of
Christianity. Witches don’t even believe in the Devil, let alone
serve him.”
“Well, Dr. Hawthorne, I’m impressed by your familiarity with
the subject. How is it that you know these things? Are you a
witch?”
Craig was not about to admit to Cody that he was a witch, not
when the preacher had such a perverted concept of what that
meant.
“I’m familiar with the facts because I’m a well-educated man.
If you were well-educated, then you’d know the facts, too.”
Cody threw his head back and met Craig’s attack in turn. “I am
well-educated in the ways of the Lord. Can you say the same?”
“I have no interest in your religion, preacher man. That’s my
constitutional right.”
“And it is these people’s God-given right to oppose you!”
Craig heard Leigh utter a small gasp as Cody’s powerful voice
rose and shook the night air.
“We’ve come here tonight to tell you of God’s forgiveness for
your sins, if you’ll repent and ask for it. We have come here
tonight to show you that our God is one of mercy and grace.”
Cody’s followers punctuated his words with shouts of “Amen”
and “Glory be,” and in their excitement, began to surge forward.
“God’s word says that you are an abomination! If you accept
Jesus Christ as your savior and leave behind the ways of the flesh
that taint your soul, you can be saved. It doesn’t matter that you
were born into a family of vile witches, or that you, Mrs.
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84
Hawthorne, married a witch and bore witch children, because
your true birthright is divine. All you need do is claim it.”
Before Craig could react, the crowd surged and pushed them
back farther onto their property, off the cobblestone driveway,
and toward the guest cottage. As they moved deeper into the
shadows, people grabbed flaming torches from the stands in
order to light their way.
“Craig!” Leigh shouted for him, but the mass of bodies bearing
down kept him from moving to her side.
“And you children, perverted by the sins of your elders, you,
too, can find God. It isn’t too late!”
“Stay away from us, you creep.” Jason tried to push the
preacher backward while shielding Melanie from his grasping
hands.
“The end times are at hand. All who don’t find salvation
beforehand will have to suffer the wrath of God’s retribution as
the world is punished for its grievous sins.”
The body of people stopped moving when they reached the
cottage.
Craig, straining to see Leigh among the crowd, noticed James
Bradshaw standing with a flaming torch held high above his
head. The flames of the torch were licking at the wooden
shingles that extended from the cottage’s roof.
“Bradshaw!” Craig pointed at the roof. “Look up!”
The banker’s attention — as well as that of everyone else in
the crowd of believers — was on Cody, who took Craig’s verbal
cue.
“Yes, look up to heaven and see the hosts of angels waiting to
welcome the righteous into eternal paradise.”
The wind gusted, and the shingles accepted the flame.
“Fire!” Craig became frantic.
“Yes, the flames of hell fire and damnation await those who
deny the Lord thy God.” Cody, trancelike in his exhortation,
seemed oblivious to the events occurring around him.
Craig unsuccessfully tried to plow his way through the crowd
to reach the cottage. “You goddamn bastards, you’ve started a
fire!”
DEVIN O’BRANAGAN
85
“And the fire of truth will burn away the dross material of our
mortal beings, and our souls shall be free.”
Craig lunged for Cody and grabbed him by his shirt. He drew
his face toward his own. “Your people have started my uncle’s
cottage on fire, and he’s in there, crippled and bedridden.”
Cody’s cloudy eyes cleared, and he focused on Craig’s. Shock
registered, and he strained to look in the direction Craig was
pointing. “Oh, Lord.” He pushed Craig away and tried to clear a
path through the mass of people. The crowd, no longer
mesmerized by their leader’s words, noticed the flaming roof and
began to scream and scatter. James Bradshaw, jostled by those
around him, inadvertently dropped the torch. It landed on the
ledge of the closed window behind him, breaking the glass.
Before he managed to retrieve it, the flames ignited the inside
curtains.
Melanie screamed. “Uncle Dori!”
Craig, Cody, Leigh, Melanie, and Jason all moved closer to the
small frame building which was quickly being engulfed by the
fire.
When they were near enough to feel the heat from the flames,
Cody froze, a look of stark terror crossing his face. “Oh, God,
not fire.” He slowly backed away.
Craig didn’t pause to weigh the risks or consider the
probabilities as he left his family’s side and raced toward the
front of the cottage. He heard Leigh call to him but didn’t turn
back. He didn’t want his resolve to weaken. He had to try and
save Dorian. He couldn’t leave the old man alone to die such a
terrible death.
He ran up the wheelchair ramp and burst into the house
through the front door, where thick smoke enveloped him in a
shroud of darkness. He tried to shout for his uncle, but couldn’t
breathe. The sound of Dorian’s wild shrieks told Craig where he
was.
He raced down the hall to the bedroom, but when he entered,
he drew back in horror — Dorian’s body, showered by flaming
ceiling boards, was on fire. Craig grabbed a nearby quilt, and
was dashing to smother the flames when a great billow of fire
WITCH HUNT
86
raced down the hallway to claim him. The searing pain he felt
before losing consciousness reminded him of another, similar
death he had suffered at the hands of Christians in the distant
past.
It was like a bad dream, replaying itself again and again.
* * *
If you’ve enjoyed this sample and would like more information
about where to purchase the book, please visit the novel’s
website: www.NewWitchHunt.com
WITCH HUNT
88
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Devin O’Branagan’s novels include the paranormal
thrillers Spirit Warriors  and Witch Hunt, published by
Pocket Books in English and Heyne Books in German. The
second edition of Witch Hunt, updated for the 21st Century,
was released in 2010. She is also the author of the hilarious
Red Hot series of comic chick lit novels and the canine
chick lit spinoff, Show Dog Sings the Blues. Her urban
fantasy Glory is the first in The Legend of Glory series.
Devin is a member of the Dog Writers Association of
America, writes a weekly blog for TAILS Magazine, and
she uses her writing projects to support animal rescue.
Visit Devin’s website at www.DevinWrites.com where
you can learn about all her books, watch book trailer
videos, buy autographed copies of her novels, and sign up
to receive her monthly newsletter.