The Necromancer Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Kevin
bars as the man pulled away and booted the offender in the teeth.
The man fell back, throwing his hands up to his face.
“You know better than that, Nathan,” Hathorne
said, then continued down the hall as the prisoner nursed his bloodied nose and mouth.
Sheriff Corwin and the two reverends had already halted before Tituba’s cell and were critically looking her over.
Hathorne strode over and followed their gaze to the lumped fi gure curled up on the fl oor in the corner of the cell, a model of desolation.
“Tituba,” Parris said.
There was no response.
“Tituba,” he repeated.
31
The Necromancer
She raised her head slowly and looked up at them.
Recognition and surprise registered on her face. Of course, she knew who they all were. Salem Town and Salem Village were small, and by nature everyone knew each other. Only the most adept could conceal themselves or their doings from public scrutiny. Typically, if two people were having an affair, it wouldn’t be long before that affair became common knowledge.
But Tituba’s look of recognition stemmed not from such trite town gossip, but from something darker, a brooding fear that had settled in her subconscious and was now resurfacing as she peered into the cold blue eyes of the man with the tome.
She didn’t scream, although every particle of her being yearned to do so. No. It could only worsen the situation at this point. As it was, she felt certain she would meet her fate hanging on the end of a rope on Gallows Hill. She didn’t know how the law worked, but for the moment she deemed it prudent to remain silent.
“Reverend Parris and I were at her half the night,”
Hathorne admitted. “Yet she refuses to confess her wickedness and damned devotion to the black arts.”
He looked at Blayne.
“We thought a man of your learning and experience may fare the wiser.”
“Hmm,” Blayne nodded then motioned to the cell
door.
Corwin jingled the keys around, searching for the right one, and unlocked the door. Blayne stepped inside and advanced toward Tituba, who, fl inching, sat up and fl attened her back to the wall. She averted her eyes from his and turned 32
Witch-Hunt
her head away. He seized her by the lower jaw and forced her to look at him.
He was tall, but seemed even more so now from the perspective Tituba had sitting on the fl oor of her cell. From there, he certainly was imposing, and the stern countenance he wore only accentuated the fact. He appeared to be no more than thirty-fi ve or forty years of age, although his demeanor suggested one of more advanced years and experience. His brow was slightly furrowed; his hair, long and dark; his beard, full and streaked with several gray hairs. His face was austere and gaunt with deprivation giving it a rough, hewn appearance.
It was evident that this was a man of some authority who was accustomed to a position of command from which to wield his well-seasoned powers.
“Leave me with her for a time. She will confess,” he declared knowingly as he jerked his hand away from her face.
“No!” Tituba screamed, unable to restrain herself any longer.
“Master Parris, I beg you not to go! Please! He will do me much harm! I do not wish to die!”
“Ah,” Blayne murmured. “The Devil has a powerful hold on this one, does he?” He wove his fi ngers into her frizzy black hair and pulled. “Let that be the contest then.” He turned to Hathorne.
“Leave me with her for a time. My soul to the Devil if she be not confessed by dusk,” he swore, then roughly released her again.
“Very well,” Hathorne said.
“No!” Tituba cried as Parris and the two judges
disappeared down the hall.
33
The Necromancer
Blayne placed the tome on the fl oor and slipped out of his coat, the din of the dungeon door slamming shut and the bolt sliding back into place still hanging thinly in the air. He rolled his ruffl ed sleeves up and unbuckled his belt, pulling it through the loops of his breeches. There
The man fell back, throwing his hands up to his face.
“You know better than that, Nathan,” Hathorne
said, then continued down the hall as the prisoner nursed his bloodied nose and mouth.
Sheriff Corwin and the two reverends had already halted before Tituba’s cell and were critically looking her over.
Hathorne strode over and followed their gaze to the lumped fi gure curled up on the fl oor in the corner of the cell, a model of desolation.
“Tituba,” Parris said.
There was no response.
“Tituba,” he repeated.
31
The Necromancer
She raised her head slowly and looked up at them.
Recognition and surprise registered on her face. Of course, she knew who they all were. Salem Town and Salem Village were small, and by nature everyone knew each other. Only the most adept could conceal themselves or their doings from public scrutiny. Typically, if two people were having an affair, it wouldn’t be long before that affair became common knowledge.
But Tituba’s look of recognition stemmed not from such trite town gossip, but from something darker, a brooding fear that had settled in her subconscious and was now resurfacing as she peered into the cold blue eyes of the man with the tome.
She didn’t scream, although every particle of her being yearned to do so. No. It could only worsen the situation at this point. As it was, she felt certain she would meet her fate hanging on the end of a rope on Gallows Hill. She didn’t know how the law worked, but for the moment she deemed it prudent to remain silent.
“Reverend Parris and I were at her half the night,”
Hathorne admitted. “Yet she refuses to confess her wickedness and damned devotion to the black arts.”
He looked at Blayne.
“We thought a man of your learning and experience may fare the wiser.”
“Hmm,” Blayne nodded then motioned to the cell
door.
Corwin jingled the keys around, searching for the right one, and unlocked the door. Blayne stepped inside and advanced toward Tituba, who, fl inching, sat up and fl attened her back to the wall. She averted her eyes from his and turned 32
Witch-Hunt
her head away. He seized her by the lower jaw and forced her to look at him.
He was tall, but seemed even more so now from the perspective Tituba had sitting on the fl oor of her cell. From there, he certainly was imposing, and the stern countenance he wore only accentuated the fact. He appeared to be no more than thirty-fi ve or forty years of age, although his demeanor suggested one of more advanced years and experience. His brow was slightly furrowed; his hair, long and dark; his beard, full and streaked with several gray hairs. His face was austere and gaunt with deprivation giving it a rough, hewn appearance.
It was evident that this was a man of some authority who was accustomed to a position of command from which to wield his well-seasoned powers.
“Leave me with her for a time. She will confess,” he declared knowingly as he jerked his hand away from her face.
“No!” Tituba screamed, unable to restrain herself any longer.
“Master Parris, I beg you not to go! Please! He will do me much harm! I do not wish to die!”
“Ah,” Blayne murmured. “The Devil has a powerful hold on this one, does he?” He wove his fi ngers into her frizzy black hair and pulled. “Let that be the contest then.” He turned to Hathorne.
“Leave me with her for a time. My soul to the Devil if she be not confessed by dusk,” he swore, then roughly released her again.
“Very well,” Hathorne said.
“No!” Tituba cried as Parris and the two judges
disappeared down the hall.
33
The Necromancer
Blayne placed the tome on the fl oor and slipped out of his coat, the din of the dungeon door slamming shut and the bolt sliding back into place still hanging thinly in the air. He rolled his ruffl ed sleeves up and unbuckled his belt, pulling it through the loops of his breeches. There