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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 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.
     

     
    Margaret removed the small basket from storage.