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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 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