Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cotton Mather never thought he’d miss Salem, not with all its chaos and heartbreak and panic. He no longer had any attachments, since Gloriana was banished and his friend, John Alden, was condemned to hang at daybreak. But he had to leave; there was no other choice. He’d committed a grave, unforgivable sin. To stay would be certain death.

But at the time, what else could he have done? Cotton’s mind kept circling back to this thought. The horse beneath him swayed as it walked across the uneven dirt road out of town, and it pitched Cotton back and forth uncomfortably. Not that there’d be any comfort for him. Not after what he’d done. But was there another way? Why had God not intervened?

You have never had any reason, you pathetic failure.

There’s a catch in his heartbeat when he thinks it - a pang of guilt, a twinge of fear. How dare he... how dare he think such a thing of the Almighty? No, it is clearly Cotton in the wrong here. It is he who must seek atonement somehow. But how? His mind went to that verse from Exodus, the one reminding the faithful of the consequence of striking back against their parents. He deserves to hang, unlike so many other Salem innocent, whose only crimes were having bad luck.

And then, a light in the sky, so bright it’s almost blinding.

Even in the bright light of day, it is impossible to miss. It shoots off like a firecracker, only brighter and louder. Perhaps it’s a meteorological phenomenon Cotton had never seen before, but it certainly catches his attention. The horse startles and stands still. Cotton drops the reins and stares into the sky like a child, transfixed.

It lasts only an instant, but even so, Cotton feels its image burned into his mind’s eye.

He’s reminded of that battle in the Old Testament, that moment where God stopped the sun in the sky to give his chosen people the advantage against the Amorites. He thinks of God’s guidance in the battle. "Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged,” Joshua says, ‘for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." He remembers that Rahab, the sinner, was spared.

It must be a sign. A star pointing the way.

Cotton puts his faith in God, takes the reins back in his hands and directs his horse in the direction the light was pointing.

She cannot stop shaking. Her mind feels cloudy; her thoughts are scattered and unclear. The frenzy lasted only a few brief moments, barely the space of a heartbeat. The aftermath is proving far more difficult for her.

She cannot stop shaking. Her mind feels cloudy; her thoughts are scattered and unclear. The frenzy lasted only a few brief moments, barely the space of a heartbeat. The aftermath is proving far more difficult for her.

Her parents lie dead in the attic. Dead at her own hands, though she did not even touch them. Her mother’s brains spill from the cavity left in her skull; her father, across the room, is pinned to the wall. His blood seeps out slowly from his wound, and then stops.

Does she feel guilty? Does she feel remorse? No, Anne thinks. She cannot stop trembling out of joy. They may have been her parents, but they were the wicked ones who brought witchcraft to them all, and she’d rather be on the side of the righteous. Their death was necessary for the salvation of Salem.

But she wishes she hadn’t had to do it. Or rather, that she hadn’t had to do it using her own witchcraft.

She staggers down the stairs from her parents’ secret attic, and the door seals itself shut behind her. At least no one will discover them for now, Anne thinks grimly. She kicks the head of the dead pheasant across the floor.

In going down the stairs to the first floor of the house her knees suddenly give way. She grasps the railing to keep from falling and manages to seat herself on a step halfway down. She’s still shaking. She cannot stop shaking.

She doesn’t want to be a witch. She hasn’t given her heart and soul over to Satan - not of her own accord. She was born this way. She didn’t ask for this. It’s terrifying. I am not you. I am not like you. I am not a witch!

She thinks back to when she asked Cotton Mather to examine her for witch’s marks. She thinks of his delicate, gentle fingers caressing the skin of her legs, her arms, her neck. She was nervous, but so was he, and that made her feel more at ease.

But it was also… exciting. She liked being touched that way. She enjoyed it. She longs for that kind of touch again, and without thinking her own hand slips up her dress. She caresses herself with the heel of her hand, exploring for a moment, before she snaps out of it.

That’s how the devil gets into one’s heart, Anne thinks, chiding herself and pulling her hand away.

Then she finally remembers what her father had been telling her that had made her so angry. Salem is still in danger. She doesn’t know how to stop it, but she has to try. With renewed resolve she gets to her feet, climbs down the stairs, and steps out her front door, squinting into the brightness of the sun, hoping against hope that all is not lost.

His eyes are stinging. His throat is raspy. All his skin feels as though it is aflame.

But he is alive, and that is more than Isaac could have hoped for.

He had lost consciousness for who knows how long, and when he comes to, he is laid across the hindquarters of a horse, being carried back from the cracks and into the commons of Salem.

“Anne! Anne Hale! I need your aid!” The voice sounds familiar - the reverend! It is the Reverend Cotton Mather who has brought him back from the precipice! But Isaac knows that he is not out of danger yet. He feels very weak and weary.

“What is it, Reverend?” The magistrate’s daughter is there now, but Isaac cannot even lift his head to see.

“Isaac is ill.” The reverend dismounts and brings the horse around to the front of the Hale home. “Where is everyone?”

“I… I have no idea,” Anne replies. “Let me help. I want to help.”

Isaac feels her hands on his neck, his shoulder, the side of his face. They bring comfort even as the flesh beneath her fingers burns at her touch. She’s applying healing salve to his open sores. He feels like he’s being anointed.

“Oh, poor Isaac!” she whispers.

He groans as Anne and Cotton hook him beneath his arms and pull him down from the horse. The pain, the pain! But Isaac cannot even lift his tongue to speak. His head falls first to Cotton’s shoulder, then to Anne’s, as they struggle to carry him and stagger inside.

Isaac opens his eyes with great effort when he’s laid down on a blessedly soft surface. His surroundings seem more lush and comfortable than what he’d expect from most Puritan homes, besides the Sibleys, of course. He can’t help but stare at the lovely knickknacks and artwork and furniture. How comfortable he is now that he is lying down! He cannot believe he’s in the magistrate’s bed.

“He can stay here for now,” says Anne, out of breath. “My father… went out of town this morning. He will not be back for a while. What happened to him?” she asks.

“I cannot say with certainty,” said Cotton, “but I suspect it had something to do with this.”

From his coat pocket the reverend produces the Mallum, the item Mary Sibley had given Isaac to destroy. If Isaac had followed her instructions to the letter, would this malady have been avoided? Or would things have been worse for them all? It is a strange thing, but beautiful to behold. It does not seem particularly malevolent now. It looks like it belongs here, among the magistrate’s belongings. She had admitted to him that this had been an item of great evil - why did she have it in the first place? Isaac couldn’t bring himself to think badly of his Magic Mary, but being in such pain, he could feel his loyalty waver. He had always been the first to her side when she needed help; where was she now, in his hour of need?

“What is it?” Anne asks.

“An instrument of witchcraft,” the reverend says. “It appears to have unleashed a pox on our poor man here.”

Anne’s voice goes quiet; it brings a chill to Isaac’s spine. “If that is true, I fear Isaac may not be long for this world.”

It’s hopeless. Isaac knew it from the moment he opened that cursed apple. He should have followed Mary’s directions to the letter. He should have shoved the terrible thing into the cauldron instead of opening it only for himself.

“I am sorry to bring him here and put you in danger,” Cotton says to Anne. “But I believe the Lord directed me to him, and us to you, with a great purpose. I have it in my mind to attempt a scientific experiment that may yet save all of Salem.”

Isaac is only just barely clinging to consciousness now. His eyes still sting. His skin still burns. He feels the weakness creep through his limbs like the blood in his veins. He can’t listen any longer … he can’t hold open his eyes… he can’t think, except of the pain… and then all is dark again.

“I do not fear for myself,” Anne says to the reverend. She thinks back to what her father had said upstairs. She did not need to fear the power of witchcraft; witches’ blood had coursed through her veins since birth. The curse could not harm her. What had been the word her father used? “Reverend Mather, what scientific experiment are you proposing?” she asks.

Cotton Mather’s thoughts are in disarray, clearly. All his words tumble out at once, one idea falling right over the next. “In all my research on witches and their craft…” the reverend says, “There are recurring patterns, infection and disease among them. Livestock taken by plague, enemies destroyed by pox. But I’ve also encountered many cases of such in my learning… a process called inoculation. Onesimus in Africa, Timonius of Constantinople, Pylarinus… they all indicate that there is a method by which disease can be controlled through the way it is spread.”

Anne cocks her head. “I am afraid I do not know your meaning. I thought disease came from God, to punish the wicked. Control of the infection would be to… interfere with God’s will, then.”

“Look at this man!” Cotton Mather cried out, his volume growing wildly for a moment. Anne startled, and he drew in a deep breath to calm down. “I am sorry. I did not mean to alarm you. But what wickedness could poor Isaac have done to merit such a fate? I cannot put my faith in a God that would allow an innocent fool to suffer such as this. Look at the blisters on his skin. Look at his mouth. This infection was sent straight from the bowels of hell itself.”

Anne looked down at the man suffering in her father’s place. The reverend was right. What twisted world would this be if their God was not one of love and forgiveness? She nodded in agreement then.

“It is done by taking fluids of the infected - the pus from their sores - and passing it to the healthy, through either an injection or through a small knick, an open wound.”

“Inoculation will make them ill,” Anne says, somewhat aghast. “You would propose spreading the disease, instead of preventing it!”

“That is exactly the point, ” Cotton replies, his voice pitching with excitement again. “That is exactly the point. The natural spread of disease will strike those already weak and vulnerable, and as it grows stronger it can overtake even the most healthy and hale individual. The inoculated strain tends to be weaker, and thus easier to overcome, but it should still convey immunity to pox after the disease has run its course.”

Anne hesitates for a moment. Something in the reverend’s description has inspired her; her discomfort slowly gives way to a revelation. Inoculation. That was what her father had meant in the attic. Only those who carry the witch blood in their veins or are touched by it will be safe from this pox. That is what protected her from the curse. She was already inoculated against it. “What can I do to help?” she asks.

“Keep him safe,” Cotton asks her, laying a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Keep him comfortable.” The reverend gathers himself up and prepares to leave. “He will lend us the material we need to help control the spread of disease. God has sent him in his suffering so that we all may be saved; may God keep you both in his bosom.” He heads towards the door. “I must find the physician and convince him of my plan. It may be difficult. My father…” He cringes, but continues, barely pausing. “All my research was destroyed this morning. My greatest thanks to you. And your father, when he returns” - here Anne cringes as well - “please lend him my thanks.”

“I will do that,” Anne says finally, and they bid one another goodbye.

For a moment he lingers, as though he has something more to say.

For a moment Anne lingers as well, hesitating.

They let their secrets remain secret and move on.

As the reverend leaves, Anne turns to Isaac. He is trembling, with discharge forced from his mouth oozing down his cheek and onto her father’s pillow. “Isaac, poor man,” she says. “I know what I must do to save you.”

She looks into her father’s bedside drawer, where she finds a fine knife. It is, like so many of his things, an object of great beauty. The hilt is intricately carved from a dark solid wood and inlaid with enamel and fine metals. But she is not interested in it for its beauty, but for its danger. With a slow, careful motion, she cuts the flesh in her palm. She presses her hand against the open wounds on Isaac’s face and holds it there.

Anne thinks of Christ, and his healing of the blind man with mud and saliva.

Now she sees the power of God herself. The blood seeps from her wound, warm and comforting and strange. She holds it there until his seizing stops. His body stops shaking. His muscles tense and relax as the curse loosens its hold.

Perhaps a little witchcraft isn’t such a bad thing after all.