The Witch Hunters


PART ONE

BREAK THE CHAIN

14 January 1692

'Susan next.'
'Yes. Susan'
Betty's elfin face was illuminated by a child's glee. Ann,
too, beamed her approval. Susan smiled weakly and didn't
dare to object. although she was uncomfortable with the
attention. She felt she was a fraud for not sharing their
beliefs
Abgail held the egg aloft, poised theatrically above the
fresh glass She still spoke in an exag,gerated whisper - the
correct tone. it was felt, for deeds of dark portent. `We know
so little of our strange visitors past. We may at least divine
her future:
Only Mary. the eldest of the fIve, injected ~ note of
caution. `Perhaps we should stop this now, Abigail? Will the
minister not miss yet one more egg from his parlour?'
Ann shot a scathing glare towards the girl who would
deny them such pleasure. Betty wore a similar, almost
mutinous, scowl. Nobody wanted this delicious night to
end.
`Tituba will keep it from my uncle,' said Abigail
dismissively. `She will say she broke the eggs, if needs be. It
may earn her a whipping, but she will not tell on us.'
`Beside,' said Ann, `the omens are uncommonly good at
this time.Young Goodman Brown from Salem Town saw a
demon in the forest two days since, on the hunt. Dark of
eyes it was and red of skin:
`Cloaked in unearthly fabrics: said Abigail.
`With terrible horns and hooves:
`Oh. do it, Abi,' chirped Betty impatiently. Go on. do it
now
Abigail raised her hand for silence and turned her face
skyward. She closed her eves and breathed deeply, exhaling
loudly, preparing herself for the ritual.
And Susan could feel it again.
She didnt know what it was. She didnt believe in magic.
diabolic or otherwise, but there was an open pit in her
stomachnonetheless and her nerves tingled with
anticipation. The room was dark, despite the dancing
flames of the candles; cold, despite the warming fire in the
grate and the sturdy shutters closed against the bitter air of
a cruel winter's evening. The tension and fear of the other
girls had acquired an almost physical presence. They
pressed against her nose and mouth, threatening to stifle
`I would see the future husband of Susan Chesterton;
Abigail asked of the shadows. `Show us this thing, we
beseech thee.' She teased open the egg shell and let the
white trickle - slowly, deliberately - into the still water.
Susan felt Betty's hand reach for hers, and she took it. Betty
clung on tightly, clearly terrified. For an insane moment,
Susan shared her fear that the Devil himself might step from
one of the flickering silhouettes on the wall, drawn to this
group by its evildoings. But she also felt the excitement of

disobedience. the lure of secrets unknown and things
forbidden, as the silken strands began to weave their
translucent tapestry behind glass
It is a quill', whispered Ann in a voice full of awe.'You are
to marry a learned nun. Susan
No. the spell is not yet complete. said Abigail tetchily. She
shook the last of the viscous fluid from the egg, careful not
to let the yolk slidc out. then placed it aside and studied the
patterns with intense concentration. `The strands are
settling. the image is emerging It is a sword, look.'
`Yes, a sword' agreed Betty Abi is right, it is a sword!'
`Then Susan is to marry a fighting man:
Aim pouted. `Are you positive it is not a quill?'
Abigail shook her head vehemently. `It is a sword. The
spirits have given us their answer. What think you, Susan?
Would you pledge your troth to a fighting man?'
Susan stared at the glass, but could see only an irregular
shape formed randomly by the egg white in suspension and
lent illumination by the fire beyond.'! don't know,' she said.
`I might not get married at all. I haven't decided yet.'
`Not marry?' cried Mary, scandalised. `Would you become a
bitter old spinster, or a malicious beggar like Sarah Good?'
`Or a witch?' put in Ann, a spark in her eyes.
The atmosphere was diffused by cackling laughter: an
expression of amusement, yes, but with a hard undertone of
spite. There was relief, too, that the ritual had ended
without dire consequence. Susan joined in uncertainly. It
had been a mistake to hint at her different upbringing and
culture, and it was for the best that she had not been taken
seriously.

Abigail cleared her throat and regained control of the
gathering. She had removed the glass from the table, with a
care that bordered on reverence. Now she reached to draw
one more towards her, and produced another egg from the
folds of her formal, constricting, grey tunic.
Another? gasped Mary. `Might not the minister be
returning soon~
There will he time vet for one more.' Abigail seemed to be
fuelled by Marvs worries, to revel in the possibility of
discovery.
Oh, let it he me piped up Betty. `Go on, Abi, let it be me.
But Abigail shook her head.' `Tis my turn to peer into the
future. I wish to know the calling of my husband this time.'
The pronouncement was greeted by silence, and Susan
could feel the darkness rising again. She became acutely
aware of the howling of a lonely wind outside, as cold air
leaked through the shutters and caressed her spine. She had
a sudden, powerful sense that their actions here - this
primitive, superstitious game, as she had first dismissed it -
were wrong in the worst possible way. Only dark things and
evil could come out of this night's activities. She wanted to
leap to her feet, to snatch the egg from Abigail's hand, to
scream out that she would forfeit their very souls. But her
legs felt like concrete and new patterns were already
coagulating in the water.
This time, there was no denying the image that formed.
Even Susan could see it, though it took Ann to put it into
words. `A coffin,' she spluttered. `It's a coffin. Oh, Abigail, no.
No!'
Abigail's habitual confidence had drained away. She stared
into the glass with cursed eyes and a deathly white face, and
her attempts to speak brought forth only strangulated
whimpers. Part of Susan was telling her to step back from
this, to hrmg her scientific knowledge to bear, to refute the
awful prophecy. Another was screaming that it was true,
that the girl was damned.
Then Abigail cried out in pain and swept the glass from
the table with considerable force. It struck the wall and
smashed, but the damp pattern as egg and water soaked
into the wood resembled a coffin still. She saw it and cried
again, toppling backward on her chair as she scrambled to
escape the ghoulish image. She hit the floor with a crash.
and Mary and Susan rushed to her side as Ann just stared
and shook her head and Betty began to weep.
Abigail was thrashing about in the straw, tears cascading
down her cheeks, her breath coming in frenzied pants. Her
eyes had rolled back in their sockets and her body was
seized by spasms. She was having some sort of a fit, and
Susan brought herself up short, not knowing how to help.
Then Betty and Ann were screaming too and wailing, while
Ann banged her head against the table in despair. Susan felt
a tide of misery rising in her chest. It threatened to
overwhelm her. But how could such a thing be? She didn't
believe in any of this. She had never subscribed to the
puritanical doctrines of physical demons and immediate
retribution for sin; she had considered them to be `quaint'.
She should remain calm, bring her logic to bear, settle the
others. But she was losing control, as if some outside force
had taken command of her emotions.
`The Devil!' cried Mary. `The Devil has come amongst us.

'We should never have done his work.We should never have
used the Devils tools.'
She flung herself to her knees and lay over Abigail's pain-
racked body, sobbing uncontrollably.
Then something broke in Susan. and she screamed too.
And the fIrst link strained and began to fracture.

16 January 1692

The Reverend Samuel Parris was alone, afraid and lost. He
tightened his cloak about his wir frame, to stave off the
chill air and the creeping dread, and he cursed himself for
the overzealous devotion that had delivered him into this
heathen domain. He had known his course to be unwise
before he had committed himself to it - and yet the moon
had seemed so benevolent as it smiled upon the besieged
homes of Salem Village, and he had taken this as affirmation
that the Lord would not abandon his follower to the
darkness. It seemed a hollow omen now. The light was
stolen by the leering silhouettes of black, gnarled branches.
Chains of tangible evil shackled the minister, their embrace
ever more inhibiting and cold. The distant hoot of an owl
was distorted and amplified, a warning of approaching
doom. It was night-time in the forest. For Parris, there was
no worse place to be, but for one that lay beyond this plane.
He denied himself such thoughts, drawing strength from
his cross and reminding himself that he was only doing
God's work. For why else would he have been sent here?
God wished him to brave such perils; to risk his soul in the
cause of exposing those demons who walked in human
form amid his flock. To punish them; to save them, perhaps,
from their sins. The strangers had confirmed his deepest
suspicions by fleeing into this place, of all places. The
minister was only doing his duty. Doing what was right.
But Samuel Parris - for all his beliefs, for all his
righteousness - was still a mortal man, beginning to fear
now that he may never fmd his way back to the light. His
footfalls were slow and reluctant, his courage tested by each
as it sent the crunch of hardened snow on fallen leaves and
the snap of twigs echoing like bugle calls to the dark
hordes. Surely, he thought, the good Lord could require no
more of him than what measure of faith and perseverance
he had shown already. The demons were gone and he could
do no good by continuing this pursuit. But, even as he
halted and considered his route back to the parsonage, a
sound came to him on the newly still night air. The laughter
of girls, light and shrill. A mundane noise but one which,
coming at this time and in this place, gripped Parris with a
paralysing terror that mere echoes and dancing shadows
could never have caused. He heard the crashing of
movement, the beating of drums and, above it all, a deep
voice - a familiar voice? - reciting macabre incantations.
The words sounded foul to his ears, as though their very
forms were scratching blasphemies across the surface of
creation.
What manner of unholy sorcery was being practised here?
There was a light through the trees. Parris headed towards
it, emboldened by the revelation of God's plan for him. He
had been led to the forest for a purpose. Clearly he was
meant to be here, to uncover this affront to Heaven and to
deal with its dark-hearted perpetrators.
But still he was unnerved by the grasping black shapes
which he knew in his head, if not his heart, to be the
branches and roots of old and bent trees. His imagination
painted them as monsters, powerful and malign; the spells
he could hear had brought the undergrowth to life and
compelled it to reach with savage claws, to rip the pure,
good soul from his body. He began to wish that he had
never left the warm safety of home and his ailing wife, but
there was no point in such desires. He was where the Lord
wished him to be.
And so. because the Reverend Samuel Parris thought
himself to be a good man and brave - and because he truly
believed that his God would look after him - he held tight
to his cross and forced unwilling legs to take step after
faltering step, until he was close enough to see what was
happening beyond those trees.
And, as a result, his world turned upside down.

29 June 1692

Rebecca Nurse trembled and her throat dried as the
constables lifted her from the cart. People had gathered
outside the meetinghouse. Having satisfied themselves with
a glimpse of the prisoner, some were rushing to get back
inside, to ensure a view of the entertainment to come. Some
were jeering, chanting insults, and stones were thrown. One
glanced off Rebecca's forearm and tears welled in her heart.
Her escorts did nothing. She had resolved to walk tall and
proud towards her' judgment, a Christian woman with
naught to fear and no guilt to hide. Instead she bowed her
head and put her efforts into not weeping, as the chains
that bound her hands shook with her terror and the
constables shouldered a path for her to the door.
She had never seen the meetinghouse so full. To Rebecca,
this had always been a good place, a spiritual place. As a
committed church member, she had spent a good deal of
time inside its wooden walls, in the pleasurable duty of
offering praise to the Lord. Today, those walls were
obscured by a teeming throng. The pews and the benches
in the galleries overflowed with villagers. Some she knew as
friends, others had become bitter foes - and there were yet
more who knew little of her but were here for the spectacle
of the trial. They masked voyeuristic motives with claims of
piety. It seemed to a frightened, frail old woman that a world
had turned against her. Distorted faces leered at her,
accusing her, damning her, wishing her ill. Their voices
merged into a high-pitched, vitriolic shriek in her head. No
longer would she find contentment in this cruel, vindictive room.
She was prodded to a halt behind the minister's great
chair, which had been turned about to serve as the
prisoner's bar. She leaned on it gratefully, taking weight off
her weary feet. Before her, stern and impassive behind an
oaken table, sat the judges: five of those nine to whom had
been granted the power to pass sentence in this hastily
convened Court of Oyer and Terminer. Rebecca recognised
John Hathorne, who had presided at her initial examination.
She had always felt he believed in her innocence - and yet
he had committed her to trial anyway, as perhaps he had
been bound to do on the strength of the evidence
presented. This wasn't his fault. Still, he avoided her gaze, as
if embarrassed to be here.
Chief-Justice William Stoughton displayed no such
qualms. He had been brought from Dorchester to preside
over the witchcraft cases, and Rebecca knew him by
reputation only. In the flesh, he was an imposing man. Harsh
green eves looked accusingly down a long thin nose at her
from beneath wispy, shoulder-length, silver hair and a black
skullcap denoting high office. Stoughton's glare made her
feel like an unworthy sinner to be briefly examined and
dispatched to higher judgment. When he knocked on the
table for attention and spoke her name in rich, portentous
tones, she felt as if he were pronouncing sentence already.
Rebecca Nurse, you have been brought here to answer
accusations that you are a practitioner in the black art of
witchcraft. Do you understand whereof you are charged?'
`I do, said Rebecca, straining to keep her voice even and loud.
`And what say you to these accusations?'
`I swear before the Eternal Father that, as he is my witness,
I am innocent of them.'
Her statement was greeted by hostile cries, and she felt
more isolated than ever. She was alone in the midst of her
community, faced by suspicions and prejudices that had
festered in New England ever since the Reverend Parris's
discovery one winter's night a seeming lifetime ago. At first
Rebecca had felt only pity for those poor girls who had
been found cavorting and performing wicked rites among
the trees. Surely they were beset by dark forces, for why else
would ones so young and innocent have been drawn into
such an evil web? Even Parris's sweet daughter Betty and
his niece Abigail had been ensnared. And, from then on,
things had grown worse. The girls' actions in the forest had
opened a doorway through which the Devil had entered
Massachusetts. They had become vexed by fits, suffering
contortions and screaming of attacks by unseen spectres. As
the curse had spread, Rebecca had prayed for its increasing
number of victims each day. And then the accusations had
begun, as the people of Salem turned their sights inward
and hunted for the instigators of such unnatural torments.
One woman had already been hanged, and Rebecca knew
that more blood would be spilled before the madness could end.
Many of the afflicted girls were in court today, looking
haggard and miserable, some shuffling their feet and
inspecting the wooden floor. Mary Warren returned
Rebecca's gaze with round, frightened eyes; Abigail Wiffiams
and Ann Putnam with venom. Ann's mother, also called
Ann, was present too. Her fits had been doubly shocking to
the villagers, as she was the first adult to be so stricken. It
had been she and her husband who had made the original
complaint against Rebecca, and sworn out the arrest
warrant. Given the bitter land disputes that raged between
the Nurses and the Putnams, Rebecca harboured suspicions
that their intent was partly malicious. Still, the good Lord
watched over both families alike.With his benevolence, she
could come through this ordeal and her accusers too would
know forgiveness and peace.
But, over the next thirty minutes, Rebecca's faith was
sorely tested. A string of witnesses recounted the most
frightful tales of deviltry to the magistrates and jury. Old
arguments with neighbours - and the Putnams in particular
- were dredged from the past, each hasty word offered up
for examination. Goodwife Holton even claimed that her
husband's death, shortly after a quarrel with Rebecca, was
her doing. However, there was still hope. Rebecca's
husband, Francis - dear, sweet Francis - presented a petition
to the court. Almost forty people had signed their names to
a testimony that she, of all in the Bay Colony, was so
virtuous as to be incapable of these crimes. Goodman and
Goodwife Porter, who had come to interview her on her
sickbed when the allegations were first made, had also
presented a favourable statement. And yet the worst was to come.
Rebecca was astonished when a fellow prisoner was
escorted into the meetinghouse. `You bring one of us into
the court?' she protested.
`A prisoner would normally be ineligible to speak,'
Hathorne advised his fellow judges sagely.
`Deliverance Hobbs is a witch, by her own confession.
How can you trust a word that comes out of her head? She
will twist your thoughts against me!'
A sudden wail cut through the room as Abigail Williams
sat bolt upright, her expression taut with pain. Her voice
was distant and shaky.
`Why do you send your spirit to hurt me, Goody Nurse? I
have done no harm to you.' She whimpered and collapsed
back into her chair, in tears. Ann Putnam Junior began to cry
too and some of the other girls followed suit.

`I do not hurt them,' insisted Rebecca, straining to be
heard above an outbreak of enraged shouts. `They are
deceived!'
But Chief-Justice Stoughton was not convinced. `We must
rid ourselves of this scourge that has claimed our land,' he
proclaimed, `and this means searching for the truth
wherever we might find it. The witness will be allowed to
give testimony.'
Deliverance Hobbs was dragged before the bench, looking
sallow and bedraggled from her stay in prison. `I know the
accused,' she confirmed when questioned. `Many times, after
I signed the Devil's book, did I attend witches' meetings in
the pasture of the Reverend Parris himself. Goodwife Nurse
was present on all occasions, handing out red bread and
blood wine.'
`She was a member of the witches' church?' asked
Stoughton.
`She was a deacon of it.'
The girls cried out again, assailed by unseen kicks and
pinches. `She hurts us,' squealed Ann Putnam Junior. `She
torments us to make us conceal the truth. She is a witch.
She is a witch!'
`You see the malevolence of which she is capable?'
shrieked Ann Senior. `She sends out her spirit to bedevil
these poor children, even here in God's house. She
bewitches them.'
`I do no such thing!'
But Goodwife Putnam was on her feet now, and Rebecca
knew that the anguish in her face, at least, was real. `Six
children have I buried,' she moaned. `Six strong and healthy
newborns, of my own and of my poor dead sister's. Oft have
I wondered what sins I have committed that God chose to
visit such a punishment upon me. Yet now I know their
deaths were not his doing, but rather the work of Satan.' A
low gasp of horror went up at the mention of the evil name.
Rebecca fancied she could see a smile playing about Ann
Putnam's lips. `They came for me,' the storyteller continued
- and Rebecca had to crane forward for her failing ears to
capture the deliberately hushed words. `All six of them, they
appeared in my dreams. They writhed in pain and torment
in that room of hell set aside for those who die unbaptised
in the way of God. And they told me: they cried out the
name of her who had condemned them with her spells and
vile curses. They told me the name of their murderer, and
that name was Rebecca Nurse's!'
Ann punctuated her accusation with the stabbing of a
long, bony finger towards its subject. And, immediately, the
girls were beset by fits again. It was a terrible sight indeed.
Mary Warren's legs were crossed so tightly that it seemed
they must break, and Abigail fought desperately against
unseen shadow demons.
`Goodwife Nurse!' thundered Stoughton, above the
cacophony. `Why do you afflict these children so?'
`I afflict them not. I scorn it!'
`They cry out your name. They see your shape!'
`If they see my shape, then it is the Devil who takes it
without my consent or knowledge. I do not consort with
him.'
`That,' said Chief-Justice Stoughton,'is for the jury to decide.'
A hush fell upon the room as the girls' fits subsided and

the jurors filed out of the building, towards the home of
Judge Corwin in which they would conduct their
deliberations. Rebecca's eyes alighted upon Francis through
the crowd. She acknowledged his encouraging smile, but
her heart was weighted down with dread. She was not the
first person to pass through this court, charged with this
heinous crime. And, in all the trials thus far, not one suspect
had been acquitted.
The death sentence had been passed upon them all.

18 July 1692

The final fingers of twilight played across Prison Lane as a
procession of subdued girls emerged from the jail. Susan
came out last, looking pale and thin and miserable. She
stumbled and hit her knee climbing into the cart, but
Samuel Parris offered her a kind hand. The Doctor watched
from a distance, a hood concealing his white hair and a
hand likewise obscuring his features. He wanted so
desperately to help his granddaughter, but he couldn't make
a move. She must not even recognise him.
When had he started to think of time as a restrictive
chain? he wondered. His early adventures had seemed so
simple, but now the threat of paradox wound itself about
him, ever tighter, limiting his choices. He was testing the
chain's strength by being here. If he made a wrong move,
he might break a vital link and it would fall away, ruined. But
he had to do this. This was the Doctor's fourth visit to
Salem, in 1692. He was here only by the good grace of a
powerful man, a legend among his own people; a small
boon granted after the Death Zone affair He wanted to deal
with unfinished business, before he let his first life end. He
had to shake Salem's dust from his shoes and, perhaps, wipe
its blood from his hands at last.
The horses pulled away and the Doctor sighed wistfully to
himself as they rounded a corner and took Susan from his
sight. He had to act quickly now. He crossed the street and
banged on the door of Salem Prison with his walking cane.
He didn't wait for it to be opened. He marched into the
building, back straight, chin up, an understated but
unmistakable expression of superiority on his face. He
congratulated himself on exuding authority
A stocky, red-faced jailer scrambled to his feet, brushing
crumbs from his jerkin and bustling the remains of a hastily
abandoned meal into a desk drawer. The hapless man had
been caught unawares by what appeared to be a second
official visit so soon after Parris's departure. The Doctor
allowed a small measure of scorn to filter into his voice. `I
have a warrant for the immediate release of Rebecca Nurse
into my custody,' he announced, brandishing a sheaf of
papers. He had come prepared this time. `You will arrange
it, my good man?'
The guard took the papers from him and, as he glanced
over them, a haunted and uncertain look came into his eyes.
`But sir, this woman is in the witches' dungeon and is to be
hanged on the morrow.'
`Yes, yes, yes,' the Doctor snapped. `Do you think I am not
aware of that? Now please do as I have asked.'
`But the execution warrant -`
`Will be carried out as arranged. I will return the prisoner
to your care within one hour. Two, at most.'
The guard looked at the papers again. The Doctor prided
himself on an excellent forgery, although this witless fool
was probably unable to read his carefully crafted words.
Still, he no doubt recognised the seal of Governor Phips. He
was trying to reconcile its presence with his own doubts
about these bizarre orders. The Doctor could almost see the
metaphorical cogs of his brain working to bring sense to
the situation. Then, slowly, like the morning sun mounting
the horizon, an idea dawned. `You are taking her away for
interrogation? A last attempt to gain a confession?'
Yes, if you like. Now hurry along, there's a good chap. I
dont have much time to spare.' The Doctor reached into his
pocket and produced four pennies,which he thrust into the
mans grubby hand.
His eves widened at the sight of what, to him, was the
equivalent of two days' wages, and an instant change came
over his demeanour. `Yes, sir, whatever you wish,' he
acknowledged, bowing respectfully even as he backed
quickly out of the room. The Doctor tutted to himself, ruing
the effort he had taken when he should just have offered a
bribe in the first instance.
It occurred to him as he waited in that draughty,
inhospitable place that another close acquaintance was
being held below. It was an unpleasant thought: he knew
too much about the conditions in which prisoners would
be kept here. But again, there was nothing he could do.
Destiny promised a happier outcome for this friend, at least.
The jailer returned, pushing Rebecca Nurse in front of
him. The Doctor had forgotten how ill she had looked in
those final days. Her dirty, ragged clothing hung off her
emaciatedbody like scraps from a weather-worn
scarecrow. Her skin was white and cracked like rice paper,
lent colour only by a purple bruise on her cheek. Her grey
hair was matted and uneven and she walked with some
difficulty Still, she brightened visibly as she saw him. He
shook his head and put a clandestine finger to his lips,
bidding her not to speak.
`Must she be chained?' he asked.
`It is for your own safety sir.'
Look at her, man. She is an old woman, and hardly in good
health. She can do me no harm.'
~She is convicted of witchcraft, sir. The iron prevents her
from casting spells.'
The Doctor answered this with a meaningful glare. The
jailer opened his mouth, perhaps to mention his visitor's
own advanced age, but thought better of it. He fumbled
with his keys and unlocked Rebecca's manacles. As they fell
from her wrists and ankles, he searched his desk for a
release form and filled it out with painful slowness. The
Doctor signed it with the name Benjamin Jackson, and then
took Rebecca's hand and led her out into the now dark
Street.
`I knew you would return, Doctor,~ she said, once they
were alone. `I never lost faith that you would save me.'
He felt miserable.'! am sorry, Rebecca.! have done nothing
of the sort.You must still come back to this place tonight.'
The strength and hope drained from her arms. She felt
limp and beaten now, as if she could not even stand without
his help. But she did not question her fate, nor did she give
any sign that she blamed him for it. She trusted him.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly. `You have already
sensed a great deal about me, Rebecca. You know I don't
belong here, don't you? I'm breaking some important laws
by coming back, but I wanted to see you one last time.'
What could such as you want with this condemned
wretch?'
You are important to me, Rebecca. More important than
you can know. There is so much I want to tell you - about
me, about my burden. About the chains that bind me. I want
to show you things. Things I am forbidden to show to a
living soul, but it matters to me that you understand them.
Will you come with me?'
Of course I will.'
He smiled and, putting an arm around her shoulders, led
her gently towards the main street. In the shadows, there
stood a rectangular blue box, into which he ushered her.
Despite its simple wooden construction, the box belonged
far from the muddy tracks of the Massachusetts Bay Colony,
New England, and the waning years of the seventeenth
century AD. And, presently, the Doctor and Rebecca too
faded from this world. For a time.


PART TWO

THE END OF THE WORLD

11 January 1692

Here we go again,' said Ian Chesterton drily, as he stared up
at the scanner screen. What does it mean, Doctor?'
There's nothing out there!' exclaimed Susan.
`Or perhaps it's just too dark to see anything?' suggested
Barbara Wright, more levelly. She took a step closer and
inspected the shifting black patterns, straining to make out
an outline.
The Doctor shook his head, seeming irritated by their ill-
informed speculation. No, no. my dear, the Ship would
show us something at least if that were the case. My guess
is, this is just a small malfunction.'
Ian raised an eyebrow `Another one?'
`Now, Chesterton, as you know full well, my TARDIS is a
complex piece of machinery.'
`Even so,' said Ian, following the Doctor into a familiar
alcove, `you seem to spend more time at this fault locator
than at the main controls. If it's not the fast-return switch,
it's the fluid links - and that chameleon thing hasn't worked
since we came on board!'
`If you can do nothing except complain -,
`But Ian does have a point, Doctor,' said Barbara. `How do
we even know we're safe in here, never mind if there's a
chance of our ever getting home?'
`There you go again, with your endless talk of home. Do
you know. I find it quite incredible that, with all the
wonders I can show you, you would limit yourselves to one
place and time Incredible Ian and Barbara exchanged a
long-suffering glance as the Doctor shook his white-maned
head and tuned to himself. Still. Ian chose not to press the
point. Their enigmatic colleague could lose his temper in an
instantand at the slightest provocation. There was
somethmg in what he said. too. The Doctor had shown him
a great deal miraculous inventions of which he, as a
scientist, had scarcely dreamed. But, much as he enjoyed the
thrill of discovery, he longed more for the comfort of a
world on which he understood how things worked. The
adventurer's lifestyle was one he would appreciate only in
hindsight, when the uncertainty was over and both he and
Barbara could return to their normal, everyday lives as
teachers in a London school.
`As I suspected,' the Doctor muttered, `a simple matter of
readjusting the image translator.'
`And how long will that take?'
`Oh, not long my boy, not long. A few hours, perhaps.'
`Can we do anything to help?'
`I can cope quite well on my own, thank you, Chesterton.
In fact, why don't the three of you take a walk outside, leave
me in peace for a while, hmm?'
`We don't know what's out there,' protested Barbara.
Susan was inspecting the environmental readings on the
central console. `It's perfectly safe, Barbara. According to the
Ship, the atmosphere and gravity are standard for Earth.'
`There you are, see? You might walk out of those doors
and find yourselves in your blessed schoolyard after all.'

I think well wait until the scanners working if it's all the
same to you: said Ian. He couldn't help but remember how
the TARDISs systems had once failed to warn them of a
radiation hazard on Skaro.
'Nonsense. nonsense' clucked the Doctor. I have delicate
work to do. I don t need the lot of you under my feet,
complaining and asking questions the whole time.' He
operated the door control and ushered his companions
towards the widening aperture. `Go on now, shoo!'
They had little alternative but to obey.

Barbara felt a smile insinuating itself upon her face as she
stepped into the forest and smelled its fragrant air. It was
bitterly cold, but a watery sun tried its best to penetrate a
speckled brown ceiling. She tingled with the welcome
sensation of coming home.
`It looks as though the instruments were right,' she said.
`We are on Earth after all.'
`We can't be sure,' cautioned Ian.
`Oh, I know the scent of home by now,' said Barbara
happily. `No other world feels quite like this.'
`We've been here before, though. It doesn't necessarily
mean we're back in 1963.'
`I know.'
She refused to let him dampen her good mood. Even the
Earth of another era was far better than a Sense-Sphere or a
Marinus, to her mind. Barbara counted herself privileged to
have visited several periods in history; to have lived and
breathed the contents of her textbooks, even though some
pages had been perilous. Whenever they had landed this
time. their visit would doubtless prove to be an enlightening
experience.
Its beautiful,' breathed Susan.
Unspoilt,' said Barbara appreciatively. `There's no
pollution here, Susan. This whole forest could still have
been untrodden by human feet before we came along.'
Which means we could walk for hours and not find any
sign of civiisation,' Ian pointed out.
Wouldn't that be lovely?' enthused Susan, as they strolled
off in a random direction. We could have some time off,
relax and just enjoy the atmosphere for once. Perhaps we
could have a picnic:
Ian squatted down on his haunches and examined the
ground. I hate to put a spoke in your plans, Susan,' he said,
but the grass here has been flattened, fairly recently - and
look.' He produced a primitive arrow, consisting of a sharp
stone head tied to a wooden shaft which had broken in the
middle. No animal made this.'
Barbara put a protective arm around Susan, as the girl
shrank against her side. `I knew something would spoil it! I
think it's horrible what human beings do to each other.'
`Now, Susan, we don't know anyone's been hurt. It's far
more likely the arrow was left by a... I don't know, a
hunting party or something.What do you think, Ian?'
`I think you're right - and I think we're about to get our
proof.'
They took cover behind the trees as the sound of hooves
reached them on the still air. Presently, a dozen horses
cantered by, a hundred yards or so distant. Barbara strained
for a better look at their dark-clad riders, with their tall
black hats. As the foliage quickly stole them from sight, Ian
stepped out of hiding and hurried closer to where they had
been, apparently thinking the same thing.
Andsuddenly, another horse broke through the
vegetation to his right and bore down upon him.
`Ian!' cried Barbara. Susan screamed. But their companion
reacted too late. He turned to face the oncoming animal,
helpless to avoid it. But, just as it seemed it must trample
him, the horse shied, abandoned its human burden, and
bolted in panic.
Ian hurried to the side of the unseated rider: a young, fair-
haired man of about twenty years. He had landed heavily
but was struggling to rise. `Steady on,' he counselled, `you've
taken a nasty tumble there.' He reached out a hand, but it
was knocked aside ungraciously. As Barbara made to join
them, she saw absolute terror in the young man's eyes. He
was on his back, but was dragging himself away from Ian on
his elbows. He scrambled to his feet, still fixated by the sight
of his would-be rescuer, and he let out a hoarse scream and
ran, stumbling and almost falling in his rush to escape.
`Now what was all that about?' asked Ian, perplexed.
`He was frightened of you.'
`That much was obvious, Susan. But why?'
`Did you see his clothes?' asked Barbara. `The lack of any
frills or colour? And from what I could see, the others all
wore the same. You know, I think we've landed in England
in the sixteenth or seventeenth century during the Puritan
movement.'
Ian looked unsettled. `The Puritans? You mean the Spanish
Inquisition and all that?'

Oh, that wasn't the same thing at all.'
Well, maybe not,' he conceded, `but it does show what
religious intolerance can lead to. It might be better if we
just left.'
Where's your sense of adventure?' Barbara admonished
him. `Anyway, the Puritans weren't as homogeneous a
bunch, nor half as bad, as they're painted. They may have
had strict beliefs, yes, but some of them actually pioneered
diversity and freedom in religion - and they had a lot more
fun than most people think. She broke off the impromptu
lecture, aware that she was sounding like a history teacher
again. Sometimes she couldnt help it: after so many alien
worlds, it was just such a relief to be back in an
environment about which she knew something.
`Well that young chap wasn't too tolerant of me, was he?'
Barbara laughed.'Can you blame him? You must have looked
pretty strange to him in your nineteen-sixties flannel blazer
and Coal Hill school tie. I'm not surprised he was scared.'
`I think we should explore,' decided Susan. `There'll be no
stopping Grandfather, anyway, once he gets started on his
repairs.'
`And there's no reason to assume it will be dangerous,' said
Barbara. `No more reason than usual, anyway.'
Ian gave in with a shake of his head and a resigned shrug.
`It didn't look as if those hunters had caught anything yet,'
he ventured thoughtfully. `They were probably riding out
from somewhere nearby.'
`Then we can follow their path back to their town or
village,' concluded Barbara.
`Just one thing before we do,' said Ian, indicating the fabric
of his jacket sleeve ruefully. `I think we should go back to
the TARDIS and change.'

Susan wouldn't have admitted it, but the revelation that
they had not returned to Ian and Barbara's time had filled
her with relief. She felt guilty about this, because she knew
how much it meant to them. But their talk of 1963 always
made her feel unhappy. She had had precious few friends in
her young life.Wherever the Doctor had taken her, she had
been an outsider, ignorant of the norms and customs of one
society after the next. She hadn't really minded before,
because she hadn't known what it was like to belong
somewhere. But she was one quarter of a special group
now. They liked each other (for the most part) and they
worked well together. And Susan didn't want to lose that
group. She liked nothing more than to see her former
teachers getting their teeth into a complex problem or
enthusing about a historical fact or a scientific discovery.
Each time she hoped that, one day, they would grow to
appreciate what they had now; what the Doctor could
show them. Then 1963 would become a distant memory of
an abandoned life. One day.
Her pleasant thoughts were interrupted as she entered
the TARDIS and the Doctor jerked away from the console,
startled. `Where did you... what are you doing back here?'
he blustered. He muttered vague nothings about how their
unexpected return had distracted him. He stumbled over
his words and seemed confused, but his companions knew
the forgetful-old-man act for what it was by now.
`What do you think you're doing?' demanded Ian.

I was, er, I was inspecting a link, a vital circuit in the, er,
the, er...' He put a hand to his mouth and decided to
abandon the sentence. Instead, he went on the offensive, his
eyes narrowing accusingly. `Well, I might ask you the same
question, young man.'
Susan hurried to the panel at which he had been working,
and her dreadful suspicions were confirmed. `You were
setting new co-ordinates.You were going to leave us behind!
Oh, Grandfather!'
`Is this true?' asked Ian.
`Well of course it isn't. I don't know how you could think
such a thing.' The Doctor took Susan's arm gently.'Especially
you, my dear. I could never abandon you.'
Of course he couldn't.'! know, Grandfather, I'm sorry.'
`So what were you doing?' asked Barbara pointedly.
The Doctor drew himself up to his full height. He
clutched at his lapels with his fingers, leaving his thumbs
free to beat against the fabric of his jacket. He was going to
preach to them. `I have decided that, since the pair of you
are obviously so keen to return home, despite the welcome
you have been given here, I should do something to assist
you. I was planning on travelling into the vortex and taking
a month or so to give the TARDIS a complete overhaul.'
`A month?' echoed Barbara.
`You were going to leave us for a month without telling
us?'
`Oh, do apply some logic, Chesterton,' the Doctor
snapped. `This is a time machine, is it not? I could have been
back here in less than a minute, from your standpoint. A
month is little out of my lifetime, but I don't expect any of
you would have wanted to sit around for so long waiting for
me. hmm?'
But you can't control this ship at the best of times,' The
Doctor openedhis mouth, but Ian forestalled his
inteijection~ I m sorry. Doctor, you can't. How did you
expect to get back here with such pinpoint accuracy that
we wouldn't notice you'd gone?'
'Well,' said the Doctor - mumbling and uncertain again, his
hands playing about his mouth, so Susan knew they
wouldn't like the answer - `I had intended to use the fast-
return switch.'
`The -,
`I know Chesterton, I know. But I have repaired it since -,
`Since it took us back to the beginning of time and almost
killed us all. I'm not putting my trust in that thing. It could
take you to the other end of the galaxy, a billion years into
the future'
`We don't even know where we are yet, Doctor,' said
Barbara, her tone more persuasive than Ian's with his
accusations and indignation. `We can't afford to be stranded
here, even for a few hours.'
`You'll just have to carry out your repairs on terra firma.'
`Oh, very well then,' said the Doctor with bad grace.'If you
want a rushed job, then on your heads be it. But, in the
meantime, I'd be grateful if you could leave me to get
started.'
Ian looked as if he wanted to say more, but Barbara
touched him on the elbow and led him towards the inner
door. `Come on, Ian, Susan, we'll find some period costumes
and we'll get out of the Doctor's hair for a while.'

Do you trust him?' Ian asked her as they headed for the
nearest wardrobe room. Perhaps he thought Susan, trailing
some way behind, would not hear. `He can be stubborn.
Perhaps we should stay here; make sure he doesn't pull a
disappearing act after all.'
`Oh, I think it was just a flight of fancy on his part,' said
Barbara. `He knows as well as we do what might happen if
he takes off - and, as he said himself, he wouldn't risk losing
Susan, would he?'
`I suppose not. I just have a bad feeling about this whole
thing, what with that boy in the forest and now the Doctor.
I can't shake off the idea that were going to wind up
separated from the TARDIS and in some sort of trouble.'
Barbara grinned and linked her arm with Ian's. `So
business as usual, then?'
Ian laughed. `Business as usual, I suppose.'
Susan liked the sound of that.

15 January 1692

Susan sat by the window of her room and watched as snow
fell, leaving wet streaks on tiny panes and making the fields
seem unfamiliar and hard. The whole village felt that way
today, as the events of the previous night whirled in her
head and still failed to make sense. The parsonage, not
three hundred yards distant, glowered at her with black
eyes of glass. The awful scene in its back room seemed
like a fading nightmare. Except that it couldn't fade
completely: it frightened her too much. It lurked in the
depths of her mind and threatened to creep up on her if
she didn't watch it ceaselessly.
Nothing in her experience could explain what had
happened to Abigail and the others. She didn't know what
had made Ann Putnam run screaming into the night, nor
why Betty Parris had sobbed into a cushion for half an hour,
rocking gently back and forth. She might have put it down
to play-acting or to overwrought emotions, had she not
teetered over the edge of the same precipice herself.
She tried to recall what she had thought, how she had felt,
at that moment, but encountered a numb spot in her heart
instead. She knew only that something had exerted a pull
upon her; that she had been saved only by the arrival of the
Reverend Parris's slave. Tituba had slapped Abigail Williams
out of her fit and bustled Susan and Mary Warren through
the door. entreating them not to tell anyone of this business.
So far, she had kept her silence. She had slunk back to the
inn and said no more than a few mumbled words to Ian and
Barbara. The whole incident seemed wrong, almost dirty,
and Susan was ashamed of her part in it although she didn't
know why. She felt as if she had done something
unspeakable; let loose a terrible darkness upon this world.
It was hardly logical, but she felt it all the same.
And so, confused and frightened, not knowing what to do
and wishing she could be a million miles or years away,
Susan sat by the window of her room and watched the
snow fall.

You must get away from this place, as soon as possible.'
`What is it, Doctor? What's wrong?' Barbara tingled with
dread as her unexpected visitor pushed his way through
the door. Things had been so peaceful here.Were they in for
another adventure after all?
`What's wrong? Why, young lady, I would have thought a
schoolteacher such as yourself would have known the
answer already.' The Doctor swung his walking stick to
encompass the world outside the window, and spoke to her
as if to a child. `This is the end of the seventeenth century,
my dear, and we are in the village of Salem, on the east coast
of what is still called New England.'
She resented his patronising tone, but was too relieved to
care. Instead, she actually laughed. `I know all that, Doctor.
We told you, remember?' The explorers had returned to the
TARDIS a few hours after leaving it, as much to check it was
still there as to inform its occupant of their whereabouts.
The Doctor had rooted out appropriate coinage for them
and sent them on their way with instructions not to disturb
him again for at least a week. He had always been absent-
minded, but could it really have taken four days for what
they had said to sink in?
`Now listen,' he said, wagging a fmger beneath Barbara's
nose. `I've been doing a little checking into this time and
place, and I can tell you that a great tragedy will befall Salem
Village soon. Things could start to happen at any time.
Where's Susan? And Chesterton?'
`Susan's in her room and Ian's out working,' said Barbara.
`But Doctor, I know all about the witchcraft trials, and I can
promise you there's nothing to fear. We got a receipt from
the innkeeper with the date on it. Today is the fifteenth of
January 1691. It's over a year before anything too bad happens.'

The Doctor seemed to accept that, albeit reluctantly after
his impassioned warning. He walked into the room proper
and shook his head to himself. And then twenty people will
be killed and dozens more subjected to all manner of
inhuman treatment for the sake of a few superstitions.
sometimes, Miss Wright. I think there is no period of your
history that isn't awash with the blood of innocents.
I know, said Barbara. `It seems that way to me sometimes, too.
You should follow my lead and be careful,' the Doctor
counselled. `We can't afford to invite the wrong sort of
attention.' He removed his snow-dampened cloak and
offered it to her for inspection. It had been part of a
costume he had picked up in Revolutionary France, but
beneath it he wore his usual ensemble of checked trousers,
shirt and waistcoat, His sober black and grey attire didn't
look too anachronistic, Barbara supposed. but it seemed
rich for him to be lecturing her. It had taken twenty minutes
to squeeze into her tight bodice and multi-layered skirts this
morning. She longed for the freedom of loose-fitting
trousers and a baggy jumper.
`No, Doctor,' she said dutifully.
He continued to chatter away, apparently thinking aloud,
stroking his chin distantly. `Yes indeed, it would take only
the merest suspicion that we are not from this era and we
could very well become the catalyst to spark off the witch-
hunt a year early.'
She frowned and tried to interrupt him. `I thought it
wasn't possible to alter history.'
`Mm? Oh, indeed my dear, indeed. Now, where is your
hospitality for an old man, eh? I have been offered neither a
seat nor a cup of tea.'
`I think we're a few years early for kettles in hotel rooms.
We have water, or I can fetch you a proper drink from
downstairs.'
`Oh, very well, water will have to do. You only have the
one bed m here? He asked the question suddenly and
sharply, and Barbara wasn't sure if it was meant as an
accusation.
lan sleeps on the floor: she explained as she poured
water from a cracked pitcher and thought she would have
to go to the well again soon. We signed ourselves in as the
Chesterton family from Boston.~
`You did, did you?'
Barbara smiled tightly as she handed the Doctor his drink.
He took it and sat down on the bed. `We're being careful, as
you said. The locals would have taken a pretty dim view of
an unmarried man and woman travelling together, least of
all with a girl who wasn't their daughter or maidservant.'
`And where is Chesterton now? Out working, you say?'
`Another way of trying to fit in. We told people we were
only passing through, but the rumours started almost as
soon as we arrived. The Chestertons were hedonistic and
debauched. We spent all our days idle, taking walks and
drinking in the tavern.' She laughed ironically at the
memory of but two days distant. `To tell you the truth,
there isn't much else to do around here. There's really no
danger, though. A little tension in the air, maybe, but that's
to be expected when you're strangers in an isolated place like this.'
`Quite.'
'So Ian signed up for a few days work with a local farmer.
Francis Nurse. He went out first thing this morning - and
I'm to stay hidden in here and pretend I'm... I don't know.
making clothes or something.'
`WeIl said the. Doctor, `you seeem to have allayed my fears'.
most effectively, Miss Wright.' He patted her hand
affectionately to show that he approved of her actions.
Now, I should like a few quick words with my
granddaughter and then I can return to my own work.'
How is it going, anyway?' asked Barbara, as they stepped
out into the corridor and made for Susan's room next door.
`Oh, quite well, quite well. I could be finished within the
next few days, if you are all so bored here.'
Not bored exactly,' said Barbara,'but I do think we've seen
everything there is to see. Susan? she called, as she rapped
her knuckles against the wood panelling. `Susan, your
grandfather's come to see you. Are you awake in there?
Susan?'
There was no answer, and the same thought occurrcd to
both of them together. The Doctor reached the handle first
and barged into the room beyond. It was sparsely furnished
but functional, as was Barbara's own. The sheets on the bed
were crumpled, the pillow askew. The window was ajar,
allowing flecks of snow to dampen the wood of the sill.
Of Susan, there was no sign.

A bitter wind whipped through Susan's skirts and lashed
snow against her face, numbing her skin. She drew her fur-
hooded cloak about herself and was grateful to Ian and
Barbara for insisting she bring it. It seemed like hours since
she had left the inn and begun to trudge southward, but the
Proctors' farmhouse was coming into view at last. At least,
she assumed this small wooden building was the one she
was looking for. It hardlyseemed large enough to
accommodate the farmer and his wife, their five children
and Mary. But it was just where Mary had said it was, and it
was difficult to get lost in a village that had only about half
a dozen roads. She was beginning to get used to the fact
that, but for the privileged few~ the people of Salem lived in
cramped and Spartan conditions.
`Susan,' gasped Mary as she opened the door to her visitor.
What could have brought you here?' A shadow passed over
her eyes, blotting out the light within. It seemed to Susan
that the light rarely shone. Mary Warren was twenty years
old and blossoming into a beautiful young woman, but a
quality about her suggested greater age. She was taller than
Susan, but somehow diminished by a timeworn weariness
and by the weight of great responsibility. In contrast, the
previous night had seen a more carefree, childlike Mary
peering out from beneath the facade. Although almost
twice Abigail's age, she had clearly taken some delight in
the rituals at the parsonage, if only in those moments when
her glee had managed to override her habitual caution.
Susan trusted her, far more than she did the bossy Abigail or
the faintly unsavoury Ann Putnam.
`I wanted to talk about what happened last night,' she
said, knowing she was speaking the words that Mary
dreaded.
`A later time would be better. I am busy about my chores.'

`I think it's important,' she insisted. `I don't know what it
was that affected us, Mary; but I was scared. I still am - and
I want to know what caused it.'
Is the cause of it not clear? We were using the Devil's
tools, Susan, and he sent his servants to punish us for our
transgressions We are damned now, living out our time
God's earth in the shadow of everlasting torment thereafter.'
No, I won't accept that!'
Mar's eyes welled up with tears and Susan felt sorrow
and, above all, anger that her primitive, irrational beliefs
could cause this misery. `Where I come from,' she blurted
out, we don't believe in magic. Even the most unusual thing
can have a scientific explanation - and I'm sure there's one
for what happened last night, if only we can take the time
to look for it.'
Then you must come from a godless town indeed,'
snapped Mary, and Susan was taken aback by the venom in
her tone. `It is no wonder this world be coming to an end,
when people like you invite the Devil into their hearts:
`Mary!'
Mary's grief overcame her then. She turned and rushed
back indoors with a strangulated sob. Impulsively, Susan
followed, past the cellar steps and into the main room,
where a cauldron of water hung over guttering flames in a
brick fireplace. Mary threw herself back into her work,
ignoring her uninvited guest. She picked up a knife and
began to chop dirty vegetables on a scarred surface.
`Why won't you listen to me?'
`I will not speak with you, Susan Chesterton. The things you
say are evil and I will not countenance such blasphemies.'
`I thought we were both damned already!'
Mary spluttered incoherently, lost for an answer. She
shouldered Susan out of her path and threw a handful of
misshapen chunks of carrot into the pot. Several of them
missed.
`Why experiment with magic if you thought this could
happen?'
`Why does anyone do wrong? I was overcome by the
badness in my soul and I will be punished.'
`You seem so ready to accept it. Don't you want to believe
there's still hope? That you might be wrong about this?'
Susan wanted to grab Mary by the throat, to shake her
stupid dogma out of her, but she knew it would accomplish
no good. `Listen,' she said carefully,'you can't really think this
Devil of yours would be interested in a bit of fortune-telling,
or that your God would be petty enough to turn his back
on you for it.You just can't, or else you wouldn't have gone
to the parsonage in the first place. So why not accept that
there might be another explanation?'
`We were seized by spectres,' insisted Mary. `The witches
have claimed our souls for their dread master. Did you not
feel it too?'
It was Susan's turn to falter.'!... felt something, yes. But I
don't believe in witches.'
`How can you not believe, when they be all around us?'
`Where?'
`Goodwife Proctor is a witch.'-
`No.'
`She is so. I found a rag dolly in her dresser. She puts pins
in it to hurt those who cross her. And then there is the
beggar, Sarah Good: she lays curses on any who scorn her.
And Bridget Bishop of Salem Town, everyone knows what
she is. She was tried for it once, but she bewitched the
judges into letting her free.'
`You're just being silly!'
They held each other's gaze for a moment, and the
passion in Mary's eyes equalled that in Susan's own. Mary
gave way first, her expression downcast as she turned her
back and resumed her preparations. `You keep me from my
work. I must attend to the children, sweep the hail and
prepare broth before Goodman Proctor returns from
fetching lumber. He will flog me if he fmds me idle.'
Maybe Susan should have left the matter alone then, but
this latest revelation appalled her too much. `How barbaric!'
`No. He is stern, but a just man at heart.'
`He is nothing of the sort, if he hits you. He can't treat you
like an object. You should stand up for your rights.' Mary
pretended not to hear, which infuriated Susan. She knew
she was sounding like a petulant child, but she had to talk
some sense into her friend. `Do you know what the problem
is with this place? It's that the people in charge can do
whatever they like, no matter how wrong it is, because they
use silly legends and religion to keep others in their place.
They want to scare you into accepting things as they are.'
`Enough!'
If the bellowed command startled Susan, it positively
terrified Mary Warren. She spun around, eyes wide, and
backed up against the work surface like a cornered hare.
Susan turned too, her skin prickling with the dreadful
realisation that her temper had made her go too far. Why
hadn't she listened to her grandfather? He had warned her
so many times about imposing the views of their oWn kind
upon those less enlightened. Such arrogance could only
lead to trouble.
A huge, grimy man stood in the doorway, his face
thunderous. He was about sixty years of age but his limbs
were muscular through toil and he had the bearing and
confidence of a younger man. His gruff voice held a barely
contained fury and his calloused right hand held a whip. `I
have heard enough! Mary why do you allow this wicked
child into our home? Why do you listen to her heresy?'
I do not. Goodman Proctor, I swear it.'
John Proctor rounded on Susan, menacingly. `Whose are
you, girl?'
`Nobody owns me,' said Susan, sullenly and without much
confidence. `I am my own person.Where I come from -`
Proctor wasn't interested. `I will beat the Devil out of you,
my girl!' he roared. `Your master, whoever he might be, will
thank me for it.'
He took two steps towards her and lashed out with the
whip. Susan screamed and ducked, and the leather thong
cracked against the filthy wall. Mary burst into tears and
fled the room. Susan and Proctor circled. His eyes blazed
and she was terrified of what he might do to her in his rage.
`You make this harder for yourself You only show how
great a hold he has on you.' The whip struck out again, and
Susan darted away and found herself backed up against the
hearth. She could feel the warmth of flames upon her legs.
Proctor closed in and she acted without thought. She batted
the pot of boiling soup from its hook above the fire,
although it burnt her hand to do it. The steaming liquid
described an arc and Proctor dodged instinctively. Susan
took her chance. Proctor's hand clutched at her sleeve as
she hurtled through the door; for an instant, she thought
she was caught. But the fabric tore and she was released to
run, sobbing, from the house and into the bitterly cold
fields.
She raced on, heedless of which direction she was taking.
Her path was hampered by snow, her vision misted by tears,
and she prayed she wouldn't fall. It was a long time before
she dared to slow her pace, or to even glance back over her
shoulder.
To her relief, she was alone.

It soon became obvious that the search was in vain. The
Doctor and Barbara tramped back up the hill to the
crossroads at which stood Ingersoll's tavern. The Doctor
lagged behind, finding the climb heavy going. `I'm not a
mountain goat,' he complained, entreating a worried
Barbara to slow down. She allowed him to rest against her
and they stood by the watchtower, pondering their next move.
`I suppose we shouldn't really worry,' she said doubtfully.
`There's no crime to speak of here, and if Susan was in
trouble with the constabulary we'd know about it by now.
Word of that type of thing spreads quickly.'
`Well, I'm glad you're so confident,' said the Doctor, a little
haughtily. `From what I have seen of this village, I would
hardly describe it as friendly. No, hardly at all. That last
fellow we talked to about Susan was positively rude.'
'People aren't mean-spirited,' said Barbara, `well, not in
general. They're just insular. They're scared. The Puritans
believe that God will judge humanity in 1700 and probably
find it wanting.'
A common superstition when the end of a century is near.'
'Exactly. Some of them try to redress the balance by
cleansing the world of sin. Others think the world is
doomed already, and they live in strict abstinence for the
sake of their own souls.'
And still more look for sin in their fellows and invariably
find it,' said the Doctor pointedly. `The witchcraft hysteria
may not have ignited yet, but the kindling is laid out and
ready, you mark my words. And Susan could be in more
danger than either of you know.'

`Wait, wait!'
The woman on the horse looked bemused as Susan ran
towards her, waving her arms for attention. She must h~ive
been quite a sight, she supposed: an apparently teenaged
girl alone in the middle of nowhere, face streaked with
tears, clothing ripped. `I'm lost,' she explained breathlessly
as she stumbled to a halt.'! need to get back to Salem and!
don't know the way.'
`Salem Town?'
`No, the village.'
`Then you're wandering in the wrong direction, my child.
But you are fortunate, as! am headed there myseff.You may
ride with me.'

The woman indicated the back of the horse and, with a
mumbled thank-you, Susan tried to lift herself over the
saddlebags and into the proffered seat. It was harder than it
looked. She slipped and dislodged a fair amount of luggage.
Without complaint, her benefactor swung herself easily to
the ground and helped to gather up the spilled clothing.
You cannot have seen much of the world outside Salem,
if you are unable to mount a horse,' she observed.
Susan wondered if she had aroused the woman's
suspicion, but the genuine, friendly twinkle in her eye
suggested otherwise. She was dressed in red - a stark
contrast to the normally dour garb of the locals - and her
kind but alert face and portly frame put Susan in mind of a
jolly pirate captain in one of those comic strips she used to
read in the early l960s. It would be easy; perhaps too easy,
to let down her guard around this stranger. `And may I ask
your name?'
`It's Susan. Chesterton.' Hoping to deflect any further
questions, Susan passed the first comment that came to
mind. `You're carrying an awful lot, aren't you?'
`A few samples, dear. I am hoping to drum up trade in the
village ahead of the market tomorrow. Times are hard, you
know. It is difficult for a family to live on a good man's wage
alone.'
But Susan was no longer listening. Her hand had brushed
against something in one of the bags. She drew it slowly out
into the light, fixating upon it as Mary's earlier words
echoed in her mind. It was a simple rag doll. And by the
time she had overcome her instinctive alarm and persuaded
herself it meant nothing, the woman had seen what she was
doing. Her expression had become harder, her eyes hooded.
`Oh.You have discovered my little secret, I see.'
Susan was suddenly nervous. She tried to speak, but could
not. She was relieved when the woman broke the spell
herself with a reassuring smile. `It is a child's toy, of course.
It has no other significance. I do not even know how it
came to be amongst my belongings.'
`No. No, of course not.'
The woman laughed then as she drew herself upright. `Oh
dear. You really don't know who I am, do you, child? I
suspected as much when you first came over to me. Most
would be too afraid.'
`I don't understand.'
`I am the local witch, dear, the woman told her. `My
name is Bridget Bishop.'

Ian gulped thirstily from a flagon of cider. He had to remind
himself of its strength and tear the drink away from his
eager lips. He had become too used to its rough, sharp taste.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned his
attention back to Barbara. `So where is Susan now?' he asked.
`She went straight up to her room after Mrs - I mean,
Goodwife - Bishop brought her back. The Doctor went to
have a word with her, but apparently she didn't say much.
She claimed to have a headache.'
Ian sympathised. He could feel a dull throb building in his
own temple. His muscles ached and his hands were sore
from a day's intensive manual work. The familiar nagging
feeling that trouble was on its way did nothing to improve

his health. Something must have happened,' he said
worriedly. `I hope it's not too serious.
I'm sure she'll tell us in her own time.'
And the Doctor went back to the Ship?'
He said he'd visit again tomorrow, to see how Susan is
and to let us know how he's getting on with the repairs: If
she is m some sort of trouble, we may have to leave soon.
Ian nodded. He wouldn't be sad to see the back of Salem.
Their stay had been peaceful enough, which was a blessing,
but there was not much here to interest him. These
particular Puritans were more strict than Barbara had led
him to expect. There seemed to be no concept of
entertainment in the Massachusetts Bay Colony; not many
diversions from work and prayer, but for long and
surprisingly loud nights spent in the bar of Ingersolls
tavern. He stood there now, trying to make himself small
amid the throng of unwashed bodies and heard above the
clamour of their voices.
It was cold outside, but a fire burnt in the grate and the
sheer number of revellers made the atmosphere close and
uncomfortable. He was tired and dirty and the prospect of
a good bath was remote. He would probably have to wear
the same shirt and breeches tomorrow. He could feel
himself breaking into a flush, but he didn't complain. It was
an interesting life, all in all, and Ian Chesterton just did what
was needed to survive it as he hoped for better
circumstances to arise.
`We shouldn't be worried here, should we?' he asked.
`I don't think so. I don't know a great deal about this
period of American history, but... well, we've been here for
days. There's no sign of danger, is there?'
`I suppose not. It's just knowing what will happen.'
`You know,' said Barbara, `even if we weren't a year early
for the witch trials, I think we'd be safe. The names of those
who were hanged are recorded in our time. If we were
among them, we'd have read about it, wouldn't we?'
Are you sure time works like that?'
It's what the Doctor said. Something will always keep us
from changing what's happened. Think about it, Ian.
Haven't you ever wondered why, whenever we've got into
scrapes in our own past, we've always seemed to have such
lucky escapes?'
Ian laughed. `What are you saying? That we have some
guardian angel watching over us, making sure we don't
muck up history?'
`Maybe,' said Barbara defensively. `Oh, I don't know. I'd just
like to understand how these things work, I've been
thinking about it a lot since we got here. It's like the Aztecs
all over again.' She leaned forward and lowered her voice,
though it was scarcely necessary in the general hubbub.
`These people will go through such misery - and yet here
are we, knowing all about it and powerless to change a thing.'

The sun had given up early tonight, as if exhausted by its
futile efforts. The sky was black, but a bright moon lit the
snow and lent a serene air to what might have been a
perfect postcard scene. The village in winter. But the
Doctor knew what lurked beneath the image.
His walk from the TARDIS had been wearying and he had
hired a horse for the return journey. He would tie it up
outside his ship and use it again tomorrow. But the animal
made it difficult for him to move unnoticed, and he did not
dare pass into the forest while hostile eves might be on
him. The forest was uncharted and, therefore, evil. To some
of the villagers, it marked the end of the world. They must
not see him, a lone horseman, riding across that threshold.
He was guiding his mount in an aimless trot. waiting
impatiently for an old woman to leave his line of sight. She
appeared to be in no hurry. She must have sensed his gaze
upon her, because she suddenly met it with a quizzical look.
And, in that moment, the treacherous ice stole her footing
and she yelped in pain and toppled on to her back.
The Doctor was by her side as fast as his own aged legs
could bear him. She accepted his helping hand gratefuil)~
smiling wanly as she brushed snow from her skirts. `I am an
old fool,! know,' she said, `to be out in such weather. But the
village looks so heavenly tonight and I have not many years
left to appreciate it.' She did seem frail of form, but the
Doctor could read only strength and determination in the
lines of her face and her vital green eyes. She had time yet.
`I am just glad I was able to assist,' he said graciously.
`Perhaps next time you should have somebody chaperone
you.'
`Perhaps,' she agreed, `but I have not introduced myself. I
am Rebecca Nurse, and this is my land.'
She held out her hand and the Doctor took it. `I do
apologise, my dear lady. I had no idea I was trespassing.'
`There is no harm done.You are new to the village?'
`Passing through.'

`I saw as you came out of the forest earlier.'
`Oh.'
She smiled.'! have been watching you. It was the purpose
of my excursion, if truth be told. I do not think you to be a
demon.'
How very kind of you to say so,' the Doctor murmured,
uncomfortable and uncertain of his ground. `Yes, very kind.'
`An angel fell from Heaven last night,' said Rebecca. `I
watched as its golden trail marked the sky. I knew it was a
portent; that God had turned His countenance back
towards the colony. Now you are here, from across the
edge, too kind and too patient to be any thing of evil. But
you should know that some would judge you merely
because you are strange to them.You must be wary of their
designs.'
`I do know of their kind.'
Rebecca faltered, as if she wanted to ask something but
didn't know how. The Doctor thought it best not to wait.'!
have to be going,' he said softly, and she nodded her
understanding.
`Back into the forest?'
`My home lies.., in that direction, yes.'
`Then I will pray for you.'
`Thank you.'
`What is your name?'
He hesitated, realising that a simple `Doctor' would not do.
He recalled the name of one of those infernal twentieth-
century musicians with whom Susan had been so besotted.
It would suffice. `Smith,' he said. `Doctor John Smith.'
`Doctor.'

He mounted his horse in awhvard silence. and they
exchanged a tiny wave as it cantered away. As he reached
the tree line, the Doctor looked back and saw her one final
time a lonely, silver-haired old woman in black, against the
snow.
That was when he remembered what his Earth history
books had told him of Rebecca Nurse's fate

16 January 1692

Abigail Williams shrieked as the needle point entered her
thumb. She brushed the cloth from her lap and sat staring
at the tiny red point of blood. Tears welled in her eyes, not
through pain but through this further sign of her
damnation. The knowledge that she would be vexed by
such had fortune unto death was a yawning pit in her guts.
Even the fire did not warm her. She did not belong in such
a holy place as this parsonage. The walls within which she
had  grown  to adolescence were unfamiliar and
unwelcoming now.
She felt herself shaking and, for a moment, feared another
fit might take her. Her vision was beginning to narrow, to
obscure at its. periphery, yet her other senses were
unbearably acute. And then she heard the front dQor
opening and it served to shock her back to the very
ordinary reality of the room around her. She tried to
compose herself before the minister could see her. But
Samuel Parris burst immediately into the main room and
Abigail faced him with a quivering lip and moist eyes.
Parris looked as if he had been about to remonstrate with
her. His angular face was stern, the pinched nostrils of his
beaklike nose flaring. But, at the wretched sight before him,
he registered first surprise and then worry.
`What demon besets you, girl? Speak of it!' Abigail shook
her head, unable to talk, but Parris crossed the room in
three quick strides and seized her by the shoulders. `Tell me
what can reduce you so to tears.'
Tis nothing, Uncle.'
`It is surely something, if it keeps you from your work.'
`I was merely thinking sad thoughts.'
She controlled her weeping and levelly returned his
penetrating glare. She couldn't tell him about the ritual: he
would have banished her from his home for ever. The
Reverend Parris was an unforgiving guardian - and only
now did Abigail appreciate that what had seemed an
exciting game two nights ago was nothing less than a most
vile sin against the Lord.
`Does this concern your friends?'
`No, Uncle.'
`Susan Chesterton was here two days ago, I heard.'
`She was not.'
`Do not dissemble, child. I have heard she was from
Goodman Proctor. His jade, Mary, was present also. She has
confessed it.'
`It is so, but -,
`What has she said to you, Abigail? What has she done?' His
fingers dug into her flesh and Abigail could feel tears
returning. Sht whimpered and said nothing, and Parris
relented. He released his grip and walked over to the
window. He cast the shutters aside and a breath of fresh
wind made the fire dance as he filled his lungs with crisp
air. His hands were clasped behind his back; his brow was
furrowed. The silence was intolerable. Abigail wanted to
yell at him, make him say something.
When he did speak, it was in a low tone of restrained
menace. `I have heard news of Susan Chesterton. I have
heard she respects the authority of neither age nor
provenance. She speaks out against our laws and our
church. She has proved a bad influence upon young Mary,
and I would know with what thoughts she has been filling
your head.'
He had turned again, to face Abigail with his direct
question. His eyes seemed to strip away the layers of her
skin, looking straight to her tainted soul where all attempts
at deception would be apparent. A simple denial would not
suffice, but she still dared not speak the whole truth.
She is strange, Uncle,' she blurted out. `An unearthly child
indeed. I know not from where she comes, but it is a place
in which marriage be considered blasphemous. She
entreated us - Ann, Mary and I, even sweet innocent Betty
- to join her in magic rituals. But we resisted, I swear it. I
said the Lord would punish us for such actions, but she did
not believe. She tempted us into evil ways.'
Parris's face had softened now. He nodded as if Abigail had
but confirmed his suspicions.'These Chestertons have lived
amongst us five days now. They claim to have ridden out
from Boston, and yet we know naught of them.'
Abigail tried not to show her relief as the minister's
scrutiny was lifted from her. She had a mind to embellish
her tale, but thought better of it. Far safer to let him reach
his own conclusions now.
`What do you plan to do?' she asked.
`I think it is time to make a call at Ingersoll's ordinary,' said
Parris, `to speak to Goodman and Goodwife Chesterton and
their wayward daughter. For woe betide that family if they
have come to Salem Village only to preach their heresies to
my church.'

The Nurse homestead stood on a large tract of land and
commanded an impressive view of the surrounding fields.
Its windows were shuttered contentedly against the world
as it exhaled smoke placidly from a brick chimney. A sundial
was carved into the wood above the nail-studded door. By
later standards, the building was tiny - it consisted only of
two rooms and an additional lean-to structure at the back -
but it was clearly the home of an aspiring and conscientious
family. The Doctor had expected as much. Rebecca had had
the grace and poise of a lady. But historical texts still
referred to her as Goodwife Nurse, and to her husband as
Goodman, rather than the more respectful Mr and Mrs.
Their rise to prosperity had been met with resentment, and
barriers, from certain factions.
There came no answer to the Doctor's first two knocks,
and he began to think this just as well. But something made
him try again. He used his cane this time, delivering four
smart raps to the sturdy oaken surface. Beyond it, he could
hear somebody stirring.
`Oh,' said Rebecca Nurse, visibly taken aback by his
presence on her doorstep. `If you are come looking for my
husband, he is out in the fields tending his herd with
Goodman Chesterton.'
It is to you I wish to speak, dear lady he said with a bow.
though not on formal business. May I come in?'
`Of course. I will stoke the fire for you. Doctor, though you
must pardon me if I continue preparations for my husband's
dinner as we talk.' She beckoned him into her tiny hallway.
SAnd I must say, a pleasant surprise though it is, I cannot
imagine what purpose you might have in visiting me.'
No, thought the Doctor ruefully. Nor can I.

Salem Town lay on the coast, a good two hours' walk
southeast from the village. Its buildings were more densely
packed and its amenities more plentiful. Even so, Barbara
found little to arouse her interest in the thriving
marketplace.  The  stallholders were selling simple
ornaments, cloth, pots, food and, in rare cases, books. She
looked over some of the latter and found that, without
exception, they were religious texts.
Had she been wrong to come here? Her thoughts insisted
on drifting back to Susan, who had stayed in bed this
morning, complaining that her headache was little better.
Barbara had considered calling off her planned excursion,
but Susan had insisted she not inconvenience herself, and
Ian had helped to ease her worries. He would be labouring
in the fields again, he had said, not far away. He could call in
on her regularly. Still, Barbara could not shake the idea that
she had made a big mistake.
`Goodwife Chesterton, is it not?'
She was jerked out of her reverie by the unexpected
words of recognition. She had wandered to a clothing stall,
behind which stood Bridget Bishop, beaming broadly. Oh,
Goodwife Bishop. I'm sorry. You took me quite by surprise.'
`Lost in your own thoughts, eh?' said Bridget, under-
standingly. `You'll be fretting about young Susan, I expect.'
`Well, yes.' How did she know that? Barbara considered
asking, but a shout from the other end of the stall took
Bridget's attention. A thin, sour-faced woman was holding
up a hand-stitched cushion. She was middle-aged, but her
hair was prematurely grey and she carried herself with
stooped shoulders and bent spine. Barbara recognised her
as Ann Putnam. She had seen her around Salem Village but
had never spoken to her, although she was aware that Susan
had been socialising with her daughter. The head of the
household, Thomas, was an influential figure on the village
committee, which made the Putnams a powerful force in
the community. But they were also the primary targets of
resentful gossip during cold evenings spent in Ingersoll's
tavern. Observing Ann's behaviour now, Barbara could see why.
`Three pennies for this?' she cried. `Bridget Bishop, you are
a common crook! Why, I could buy the materials and
fashion the same item for just one.'
Then kindly do just that,' said Bridget sharply, `and clear
the way for my genuine customers.'
`I shall give you two pennies and no more.'
`The price, Mrs Putnam, is three.'
Ann Putnam scowled and flung the cushion ungraciously
to the ground. `You have no business to trade with decent
churchgoers, Bridget Bishop. The court should have
ordered you hanged for what you did. That poor husband of
yours, done to death by sorcery - and yet you stand there
unrepentant, garbed like a harlot in red!'
`Far better a harlot than a mean-minded busybody with
delusions of self-import.'
`Witch!' Ann Putnam hissed.
If I be a witch,' growled Bridget,'you will soon know of it.
I should watch your step, Ann Putnam, lest your haranguing
tongue bring you deserved misfortune.'
Did you hear?' Ann demanded of anyone in the vicinity.
She stuttered on her words and the skin of her cheeks had
been bleached of all colour. She tried not to show it, but she
was genuinely alarmed by Bridget's cloaked threat. The
younger, larger woman must have seemed intimidating to
her, Barbara supposed, but there was more to it than that. `If
harm befalls me, witch, there are plenty here who will
testify to your cursing.'
Ann turned and stalked away then, a little too quickly.
Barbara watched her go and felt as if somebody had dripped
icy water down her neck. Suspicions and accusations. It had
started already, and she knew now that her only recourse
was to find her friends and flee from this place before the
inevitable happened.
For the second time, she was startled by the voice of
Bridget, all smiles and good cheer again as if her recent
confrontation had meant nothing. `Now, where were we,
dear?'
`You said something,' said Barbara hesitantly, `about Susan.'
Bridget cocked her head to one side and examined her
expression. Then her face fell.
`Oh dear.You haven't heard yet, have you?'
`Heard what?' Barbara could feel a barely restrained panic
rising in her chest. `What's happened?'
`Goodman Proctor has been putting about tales of your
Susan,' said Bridget regretfully. `To hear him tell, she visited
his farmhouse yesterday She scorned our ministers and the
teachings of God; she even raised a hand against him. It is
the talk of Salem Village, and word has spread even into the
town. To be sure, the Reverend Parris or the village
committee will be forced to act ere long.'
Oh no:
1 felt I ought to warn you.' Bridget took Barbara's hand
and squeezed it gently. `I know all too well what it is to be
the subject of malicious rumour.'
Yes. Yes, thank you,' she said distractedly The world
appeared to be closing in around her, but the distance she
had foolishly put between herself and Susan was
insurmountable.Why hadn't she followed her instincts and
stayed with the girl? `I'm sorry, I have to go.'
`Of course. I will pray for your fortune.'
She barely heard the good wishes. She stumbled through
the marketplace, her thoughts assailed by worries for Susan.
Suddenly, Salem Town and its people felt hostile. She was
being stared at from every quarter, suspected in every
paranoid mind. She had to find a horse or something, get
out of here as quickly as possible. But her heart was heavy
with dread, and she couldn't escape the nagging certainty
that she would not reach Susan or Ian in time to prevent a
disaster.

Susan struggled to draw breath. The air about her was thick
with soot and a cloven-hoofed demon was beckoning her to
join it in her own personal inferno. Cackling goblins
prodded her with swords and an insistent drumbeat urged
her onward to her fate.
She awoke trembling, face buried in the pillow. She lifted
it and gulped in sweet air. Thin cotton sheets clung to her
moist body and sweat pricked coldly at her forehead. Her
heart beat faster than normal. The drumbeat continued, and
she realised that somebody was banging on the door.
`I know you are in there, girl. Open up!'
The nightmare continued.

Samuel Parris tried the door of Susan Chesterton's room
and was disgruntled to find it locked. What did the child
have to hide? `I am the minister of Salem Village,' he
bellowed, punching the wood paneffing again, `and I bid
you open this door before you tempt my wrath further!'
`What do you think you're doing?'
A man hurtled up the stairs behind him and came to a halt
in an alert stance, as if expecting trouble. Parris stared at
him and breathed deeply, stoking the fires of righteous
anger. Who did this stranger think he was to approach him
so? The man was clearly just returned from the fields - his
brow was grimy and luminous with sweat, his dark hair
plastered down - but he had not the bearing of a common
labourer. He was uncommonly tall, and his posture too
upright. His hands were soft and the skin of his face too
smooth and pale to have been exposed overlong to New
England's weather. He was pretending to be something
other than he was, and there could be no good reason for
such deception.
And who might you be, sir?' Parris asked, inspecting the
newcomer with disdain. He had guessed the answer already.
'I might be Ian Chesterton,' said the stranger guardedly.
The Christian name was an unfamiliar one, possibly foreign
- but the man had a cultured English accent. `And you are?'
`I am the Reverend Samuel Parris, minister of this village.
I would like to speak to you, my good man, about your
daughter.'
`Susan?' Chesterton seemed genuinely surprised.
Parris indicated the guest room door. Perhaps we should
talk of these matters within?'
1 think you should say what you have to say out here.'
Parris seethed at his impudence. `Have a care, Goodman
Chesterton. You are but confirming what has already been
said of your family.'
`Oh, I see. And, on the basis of a few rumours, you come
up here and frighten the life out of a teenaged girl? What
were you planning to do to her, if I hadn't come along
when I did?'
`The girl,' hissed Parris, `must be made to give an account
of her actions. I am responsible for the moral welfare of this
community and I cannot allow such as her to corrupt it
with her blasphemies.'
`What blasphemies?' asked Chesterton, hotly.
`Perhaps you should put that question to your daughter,
sir - though, in my experience, those of such age can only
repeat the beliefs and teachings of their guardians. Do you
bring the Devil to our colony, Goodman Chesterton?'
`I don't have to listen to this.'
`You do not deny the charge?'
`Of course I deny it! You want to condemn my family for
a second-hand report of what Susan may or may not have
done? I thought your Bible said sqmething about being
without sin before you cast stones.'
`Your Bible', he had said. Those words had more of an
impact upon Parris than any insult his foe could have
hurled. They confirmed all suspicions that he had, but filled
him with a numbing dread as he realised just what he was
in the presence of. This was too big a thing for him to
handle alone. He would leave for now - but he had taken
the measure of this man, and he would return. To see him punished.
`The Bible,' he growled as he pushed his way past
Goodman Chesterton and on to the stairs, `is also very clear
on the subject of how we should treat witches.

Across the marketplace, Barbara could see a horse and cart
beginning to pull away. If it was going to Salem Village,
perhaps she could buy passage from its rider? But a veil of
people closed between her and her prize. She fought to
elbow her way through them, as politely as she could - but
regretted her actions as she caught a short, spindly woman
off balance and knocked her to the ground.
Apologising profusely, Barbara stooped to help the
woman gather her belongings. She was searching for stray
potatoes and loading them into a straw bag when she
recognised her inadvertent victim as Ann Putnam. She
braced herself for a barrage of recriminations, but was
greeted instead by pitiful sobs.'My fortune is ever an ill one.
The Devil himself sends out witches to torment me.' She
turned to Barbara and a fervid light burnt in her watery
eyes. `This is what befalls upright people when those
sinners who walk amongst us are not weeded out and
dispatched to God's justice.'
I'm not sure what you mean.'
`You were at Bridget Bishop's stall earlier. You saw as she
laid her vile curse upon me. Watch your step, she warned,
and now it seems her foul prophecy has been fulfilled.'
It was an accident,' said Barbara lamely
Ann snatched the bag away from her, as if she had
suddenly revealed herself to be an enemy of the worst kind.
Is it accident that I have lost six children? That so many of
our herd sickened and died when my husband quarrelled
with Rebecca Nurse? The witches will not leave me and my
family be, for we know them for who they are. But far better
to suffer their diabolic molestations than to turn a wilful
blind eye to it, for that will surely condemn you in the eyes
of our Lord.'
She clutched the bag to her chest and hurried away,
leaving Barbara more worried than ever. She could almost
sense the fears and resentment and spite of a community
bubbling up from beneath a thin veneer of civiisation.
Everything she had feared was coming to pass. Whatever
history might say, the pressures of seventeenth-century life
under a strict theocracy in a new, mostly uncharted land
were too intense to be kept bottled up for much longer.
Something was about to blow.

`No, Abigail, you cannot mean this!'
A part of Abigail Wiffiams enjoyed the horror in Mary
Warren's eyes. She had always revelled in her ability to
shock. It had earned her a standing beyond her eleven years
among the youngsters of the village. But the situation was
too serious for her to be distracted by mere childish things.
With Mary's help, she could reclaim her future.
We have no other option,' she insisted. `It was with the
Devil's tools that we opened a pathway to Hell, and it is only
with them that we can close it again.'
We may only make things worse!'
We are to be bedevilled unto death. How much worse
can it be?'
We might still hope for forgiveness, if we pray hard enough.'
`There is no forgiveness for those who have turned to
Satan. My uncle has preached so often enough. No, we must
fight against the evil we have unleashed, and force it to
release its grip upon us.'
`But tonight, Abigail?'
`We must act before it be too late.'
Mary turned away from her and made a great show of
dusting John Proctor's mantel. `I am not to leave this house
today. My master is afeared that I may consort with Susan.'
Abigail scowled. She was used to getting her own way, and
this time would be no different. Mary was almost an adult
now and Abigail's hold on her was slipping, but she would
not relinquish it yet. `You could sneak away once your
chores are done and the children put to bed, and Proctor is
drinking himself to sleep. Ann Putnam has already agreed,
and Betty will do as I ask her.'
`And Susan?'
She had been waiting for this question. She allowed her
gaze to drop to the floor, as if embarrassed about what she
had to say. In truth, she enjoyed having the older girl hang
on to her every word. `She is not to join us. It is through
Susan Chesterton that the Devil was allowed to enter the
parsonage and to sink his claws into us. She will betray us
to him again, if she be given the chance.'
oh, surely this cannot be.'
You witnessed her blasphemies yourself, I heard! She is
beyond saving, and she will only drag us down with her if
we try. No, we must do this alone, the four of us. Only thus
can we be set free.'
What are we to do?' asked Mary. `What do you have
planned?' Abigail smiled inwardly. She had achieved her
objective, as she always did. Mary was caught on her hook,
ready and eager to do whatever Abigail deemed necessary
for the salvation of their souls.
`I have spoken with our slave, Tituba,' she said in a
deliberately hushed tone. `She has great experience of such
things, from before she came to our family from the
heathen lands. She has told me of rituals that will vanquish
the Devil from our hearts. I will conduct them, if the rest of
you but follow. We should gather at eight o'clock.'
`We are to meet in the parsonage?'
`No.' Abigail shook her head and prepared herself to
savour Mary's reaction to her next carefully calculated
shock. `Tonight, we will confront the Devil in his own
domain. We are to go into the forest.'

`The fear is,' said Rebecca, grateful for the chance to
unburden herself to an expert listener, `that the Devil has
sent his servants on one last mission, to tempt us into
wicked ways before the Day of Judgment. Lord grant us the
strength to resist their wiles.'
`I cannot imagine how one so virtuous as yourself could
fail any sort of a test.'
`It is kind of you to say as much, Doctor, and vet still there
are those who harbour evil thoughts. How can we have
served God well that cannot convert those sinners to his side?'
`Any god can expect only so much,' said the Doctor.
His tone was persuasive, and she wanted so much to
believe him. She hadn't pried into her visitor's origins, but
she had discerned that he was unfamiliar with the laws and
customs of this colony and perhaps of the material plane. It
seemed far-fetched to think of him as an angel - and
pompous to imagine that an angel would appear to her of
all people - but there was something special about him.
Something mysterious, indefinable.
It felt odd to have this enigma seated in the familiar
surroundings of her downstairs room, chin resting on
steepled fingers as he spoke quietly and thoughtfully and
with great wisdom. The fire lit one side of his face but cast
the other into shadow, and this dichotomy seemed
somehow symbolic. It occurred to her that she ought to
suspect his motives, but she had not lived so long without
becoming an instinctive judge of character. He meant
nobody harm; she would have staked her life on that.
`All the same,' she said, tis a worry.'
`Well it needn't be.'
`You think we may be judged worthy?'
`I don't think the world is about to come to an end.' He
was couching his words carefully, as always. `I think it might
just be around for a good many years yet.'
`If you think as much, then I shall try to believe.'
I'm glad. You know, Rebecca, you don't have to live in
fear. It's quite acceptable to enjoy liue~ to take the gifts that
Nature, and even other people, can give to you. Quite
acceptable.'
`I know I should have more faith. It is merely that there
have been so many portents of late: words spoken in haste,
accusations hurled. The winter has been hard, and rain
scarce. We all fear the coming of drought. Even were it not
but eight years to the turning of the century, I should be wary.'
Her words had a strange effect upon the Doctor. `Eight
years?' he repeated, and he cocked his head so that the
shadow fell across the whole of his face. Only his eyes
remained, twinkling with a new alertness. And his voice,
betraying a mounting but controlled panic. `Eight years? My
good woman, what year is this now? Tell me, hurry:
Somehow it seemed only logical that he did not know. `It
is the Year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and ninety-two,' she
replied, `or ninety-one as some still count it. It is not long
since that the date of the New Year was changed:
And now the Doctor was standing bolt upright, his eyes
wide and staring, his jaw set in grim determination. `I have
to leave,' he said simply, surprising Rebecca with his
brusqueness.

`Have I done aught wrong?
`Oh no, no,' he hastened to assure her as he made for the
door. His air of self-confidence seemed to have drained
away, and he was just a confused old man now. Your
company has been delightful, Goodwife Nurse, but I have
my companions to... to... I must attend to. Its the web of
history you see, hmm, yes, well, quite. Goodbye. Before she
had even started to unravel his garbled words, he was back
on her doorstep and holding out a hand. She reciprocated
and he kissed her knuckles gently, then smiled at her. For a
second, the kind, clever old Doctor was back. Then his face
changed again, as if he no longer even recognised her, and
he hurried off across the fields, muttering all the while to
himself.
She wondered if she would see him again, but felt with all
her heart and soul that she would. 1 will keep a watch for
more lights in the sky, she called after him hopefully.
But he was already gone.

They all converged, finally, in Ian and Barbara's room at
Ingersoll's tavern. Ian had coaxed Susan's story from her
and he relayed the salient details to the Doctor, who, after a
cursory amount of tutting and scolding, wrapped a
protective arm about the frightened child. Ian had wanted
to search for Barbara, but the Doctor had advised keeping a
low profile. She arrived, at last, out of breath but grateful to
find everybody safe. Ian welcomed her with a warm smile,
though his stomach was still tight with worry. They weren't
out of danger yet.
`I assume we're all agreed,' he said. `We're attracting too
much attention here, and we now know it can only be a
matter of days before the witch-hunt gets into full swing.We
should leave right away.'
`I'll second that,' said Barbara heartily. Susan just nodded.
SNow hold on a minute, my boy, let's not be so hasty said
the Doctor. `You argued with the Reverend Parris, I believe,
and Susan here has been the subject of lurid chit-chat all
day. I think it very unlikely we can escape from this village
unnoticed, don't you?'
Who cares,' said Barbara, `so long as we do escape?'
*But that, my dear Miss Wright. is the nub of the problem,
isnt it? You see, to get back to the TARDIS, we have to
return to the forest. And the forest, to the minds of these
people, is pure evil. It is the Devil's greatest stronghold on
Earth, no less. If we were to be seen heading into that land,
we would be seized and imprisoned, and they'd no doubt
throw away the key.' There was a smile on the Doctor's face
and his eyebrows were raised. He almost seemed to be
enjoying this chance to demonstrate his keen intellect. Ian
took a deep breath and fought not to display his own
irritation. The most annoying thing of all was that his
colleague was right.
`But that hunting party went into the forest,' Susan
recalled.
`Au yes, but then the need for food makes brave men of
the most cowardly of us,' said the Doctor with an indulgent
smile, `and I very much doubt any of them hunted alone.
Remember, Susan, we are on the New England coast. The
settlers here have come from across the ocean, and as yet
they haven't travelled very far to the west. All they know of
the forest is that, every so often, hordes of ver  unhappy
natives come rampaging out of it. intent upon slaughter
`But even so,' said Ian, `the Devils greatest stronghold~?
They can't seriously believe that.
This is the seventeenth century, my dear boy. Diabolism is
a fact of life here. I would have thought you'd appreciate
that by now.'
It certainly is,' said Barbara, wrapping her arms about
herself Ian wondered what she had experienced to make
her so certain. `But all this talk isn't getting us any closer to
the TARI)IS.'
`No,' said the Doctor, `no, you're quite right, Barbara. We
need a plan - and here's what I think we should do.'

The moon was bright, and Samuel Parris could keep a good
distance between himself and the three strangers. He did
not want to be seen yet. They were clearly engaged in
mischief of a sort, and he would know what it was. Their
cohort, Ian Chesterton, had already left the ordinary,
mounting a horse and drawing off the constables whom
Parris had left on watch. He had returned home to await
their report, until divine providence had allowed him to
catch sight of the wife and the daughter and the white-
haired old man, scurrying past the parsonage a full ten
minutes later. Chesterton's flight had been but a diversion
so that his kin could attend what Parris could only imagine
to be a witches' church. The thought excited him: if he
could find the site of such a blasphemy and observe it, he
could identify its members. Not that he wasn't sure of the
identities of most already.

But then the strangers took a most unexpected turn. They
headed into the forest, without even pause to consider its
dangers. Parris felt a cold lump forming in his throat. If he
followed them, he would be at their mercy, alone in the land
of their master. His legs were unwilling to carry him, but an
inner voice goaded him onward. This could be the making
of his reputation. He was on the verge of routing all evil
from his parish, and after all it was by God's will that he had
come this far. He could not shirk his responsibilities now.
And so, the Reverend Samuel Parris took one last look at
the moon and at the simple wooden buildings of home. He
held on to the cross beneath his voluminous cloak and
muttered a hopeful prayer. And he strode purposefully into
the Devil's domain and, in so doing, enwrapped himself
inextricably in history's chains.

9 November 1954

Over three and a half centuries passed. Then it happened
again. Once more, the trials of Salem Village began in its
minister's own home, with the discovery that a doorway
had been opened to the Devil. Once more, the most
vulnerable members of the community, its children, were
beset by agonising fits that were awful to behold. Once
more, the elders looked for the perpetrators of such evil
among their own numbers. And, once more, too many
people were cast into dark and cramped cells, held in the
cruellest conditions and eventually sentenced to hang on
charges of witchcraft.
This time, thankfully, nobody died. The events of 1692

were being re-created on stage: a horrific chapter of histon-
replayed as entertainment, with perhaps a moral to convey
to its audience. Susan sat, tight-lipped, twelve rows back and
nine seats along, spellbound by the unfolding drama. But
The Crucible affected her in ways that the playwright
Arthur Miller could scarcely have imagined when he first
set pen to paper.
Susan found no enjoyment in the performance. She cried
as John Proctor and Rebecca Nurse went to their deaths in
its final act, thanks in part to the accusations of Abigail
Williams and Mary Warren. She wiped the tears from her
face and hoped her grandfather wouldn't see them. But as
the curtains dropped and the theatre erupted into
applause, she felt his inscrutable eyes upon her.
Susan? What's wrong. child?'
Grandfather, how could they do such things to each
other?' She was stammering with the effort of forcing out
the words. `It's horrible!~
He said nothing. He just laid a hand on hers, but she
shrugged it away. She couldn't bear his comfort, didn't want
to hear his platitudes. Why hadn't he told her about this
before? Why hadn't they done something when they had
the chance?
`I've got to get out.' Her voice caught and her eyes were
misting over. She left her seat before he could stop her,
ignoring him as he called after her angrily. She pushed her
way down the row. A middle-aged woman yelped in protest
and commented on the manners of the younger generation
these days. Susan paid her no heed.
Outside, the scent of fresh rainfall hit her nostrils. The
moon bounced shimmering cascades of light off droplets of
water on the cobbles. Her feet pounded along paving stones
and splashed black puddles up her legs, soaking her
stockings. She didn't care. She just kept on running. She had
to leave the theatre behind, as if that could lessen the
impact of what she had seen. She stopped only when she
could run no more, leaning out of breath against the wall of
a nearby chemists shop and staring sightlessly into the star-
freckled sky. Chaotic images chased each other through the
caverns of her mind, but one thought emerged strongly.
Twenr~ people had died Twenty people executed for the
ludicrous crime of witchcraft, effectively murdered by the
superstitions of a backwater village at the back end of a
bygone century. Twenty people, some of whom she had
met and talked to days before. Twenty people. How could
that be? Why couldn't it have been stopped?
Susan knew what she had to do, her newfound purpose
damming the floods of her tears. She had to go back. To
Salem, to 1692, before it began. Grandfather would caution
her against it: he would say that what she had planned was
impossible. He would remind her of their tribulations in
Mexico. But why? They had done so much good, so many
times on so many worlds. Why not this time? Why couldn't
they provide a much-needed voice of reason? Put an end to
the madness before it began? Save lives and prevent untold
suffering? Help those who had become, for however short
a time, their friends?
Why couldn't they change history?

`In 1954,' said Barbara reflectively,'! was a student teacher in
Cricklewood, living in a rented room.'
`Winston Churchill was still Prime Minister: recalled Ian.
`If I was to catch a train to London tomorrow and take a
walk around the park behind my old flat I could probably
fmd myself sitting by the duck pond marking homework. I
could tell myself what the next nine years have in store
What to look forward to, who to avoid:
`Except,' Ian reminded her, the Doctor made us promise
not to do anything like that, and he seemed serious.' They
were seated on a wooden bench, hardly minding the cold
and the damp after a few days in Salem's more severe
weather. The bright interior of a nearby public house
beckoned to them, but they had both wanted to enjoy the
night air. They were home at last. Not back in 1963, but on
familiar ground for the first time in too long.
`You know what the Doctor's like,' said Barbara. `All his
prophecies of doom if somebody wants to do something he
doesn't agree with. He probably just wants to keep us from
warning ourselves not to go to that junkyard or step into his
wretched Ship.'
Ian laughed at the thought. `He's not really so calculating,
is he? I thought he'd mellowed a bit since we first met him.'
`I don't know, Ian. He hasn't taken us home yet, has he? He
just keeps on making empty promises, like when we left
Salem. He said it would work this time.' She had thought
herself over the initial frustration of her disappointment,
but her voice betrayed it.
`And it will do, someday,' said Ian gently. `We're closer than
we've ever been. And it isn't really the Doctor's fault - he's
never been able to control the TARDIS, has he?'
`Hasn't he? Sometimes I wonder. Take now, for instance.
He starts to tell Susan about The Crucible, and the next
thing we know we're in Bristol on ~he day it opens.'
`Serendipity?'
`I hope so.'
`But the Ship has a mind of its own, too, said Ian
thoughtfully, `quite literally from what weve seen - and
telepathic powers, like Susan started to develop on the
Sense-Sphere. Could it be responsible somehow? Could it
be taking us where. subconsciously, we want to go?
Barbara didnt like where this conversation was leading.
Are you trYing to tell me we cant go home because we
dont want it enough?
`I'm saying it's a possibility. Barbara, you mentioned before
about warning yourself not to go into the TARDIS. Would
you really do that, do you think, if it was possible?'
She didn't need to think long, but she was surprised by
her own answer. `No. No, I don't think I would now. Isn't
that strange?'
Ian grinned. `No more strange than some of the things
we've seen.'
`Are you ready to come back with me now?' the Doctor
asked stiffly. He was staring at his granddaughter in that
particularly unnerving way of which only he seemed
capable. Susan didn't ask how he had found her.
She cut straight to the heart of her decision. `I want to go
back to Salem Village!'
`I know you do, Susan,' he said quietly, with an air of
sadness. `I know, child, but you cannot.'
`Why can't I?' She squared up to him, defying him to deny
her needs again. Couldn't he see how important this was to
her? `What's the point in being able to travel in time if we
can't change anything?'
`What has happened is in the pastWe must not alter it.We
cannot. You know that, child.' He was agitated now, clearly
keen to end the discussion. Normally, Susan would have
acceded to his wishes, but this had been too long in
coming. It was time he stopped treating her like a little girl.
`What do you mean, the past? Whose past? Not ours.'
`But somebody's.'
`When we went to Marinus we were in somebody's past,
but it didn't stop us fighting the Voord. We changed
everything on Skaro. I don't understand, Grandfather, Why
can't we just do the same thing again? Win' can't we help?'
A sob caught in her throat and she looked away. her resolve
fading, the angry words left hanging between them, She
wiped hot tears on to her sleeve.
`I'm sorry, Susan. I should never have brought you here. I
was simply trying to instruct you in a chapter of Earth's
history. I should have considered the effect it might have
upon you. Can you forgive a careless old man this one
lapse?'
She didn't want to, but her reaction to his love was
automatic. Her stubbornness melted and a weak smile
forced its way through the tears. She took his proffered
hand and allowed him to envelop her in his arms. He guided
her back towards the shadowed alcove in which they had
left the TARDIS.
But he didn't answer her question.

`We'd have to stay in Bristol,' said Ian, as he and Barbara
strolled along the streets, arm in arm, through a light drizzle.
`Or move on.We couldn't go back to London.'
`We'd have to create new identities for ourselves,' said
Barbara.
`We couldn't access our bank accounts.'
`We'd have to get new jobs and places to stay, but we'd
need false documents to do that.'
`We'd have to wait for nine years.'
`But then we could just step on to a bus, head back to Coal
Hill School and resume our old lives.
Ian smiled. Wed have to explain how come we've aged a
decade overnight.'
Barbara laughed. `And why we can't remember a thing
about our lesson plans, or the work we set yesterday. Or
which classes we're supposed to be taking.'
`I've got homework to mark,' said Ian suddenly. `First-year
science, chemical formulae. I left it in the back of my car on
Totters Lane.'
`I can't remember where I was up to with my fifth-year
class and the French Revolution.'
`Would you tell them what we learned about it?'
`Oh yes, I can just imagine it. Miss Wright says she went
back in time. It'd be the talk of the playground.'
`I doubt that. Most of the kids think we were born three
hundred years ago anyway,' joked Ian.
They sighed in unison, lost in nostalgia for a world they
might not see again. It was Barbara who put their
disappointment into words. `It's not really practical, is it?'
`So near and yet...'
`I'd like to stay here a while longer. It's familiar:
`But it's not where we belong.'
`We'll have to trust the Doctor to take us back, eventually:
`Via several more planets and times, I shouldn't wonder:
`I'd just like to see an end to it.'
`We can,' said Ian. `We're almost there, It wasn't to be this
time, that's all.'
They had thought their wanderings to be aimless, but it
came as no surprise to either of them to find the wooden
blue police box that was the TARDIS's deceptive exterior at
the end of their journey. They halted before it, and both felt
a strange sensation that was akin to, but not quite like,
coming home.
`So it's once more unto the breach,' said Ian, with a faint smile.
`Once more,' agreed Barbara,
They stepped through the doors and left 1954 behind.

The four travellers sat around a table eating food tablets
which, remarkable though their flavours were, made
Barbara yearn for the proper texture of home-cooked bacon
and eggs. She and Ian should have checked into a hotel for
the night, but it had been too late. Instead, they had walked
into an argument in progress and were now involved in one
of those interminable councils of war in which the Doctor
always seemed to take delight in being contrary.
`History is sacrosanct,' he stated for the fourth time,
looking as intense and serious as Barbara had ever seen
him. `You cannot, you must not, ask me to interfere with it.
The very idea is impossible, quite impossible.'

Susan jutted out her lower lip defiantly, and Ian broke in
with a diplomatic question. `It's just that you've never
explained the mechanics of time travel to us, Doctor. It
would help us all if we could understand.'
`Understand? Explain to you?' The Doctor laughed out
loud. Barbara smarted at his condescending attitude. `My
dear boy, would you try to explain the principles of a
Bunsen burner to a primate? No, this is far beyond your
comprehension, too far beyond. Susan may learn when she
is older, but as for the rest of you, the human mind is simply
not equipped to deal with four-dimensional physics.'
`So you say,' interrupted Barbara, `but it seems to me that
your answer to everything is Do what I tell you and ask no
questions.'
`And have I steered you wrong? Your greatest problems.
Miss Wright, come when you ignore my advice. You do
remember the Aztecs, hmm?'
`Of course I do!' It wasn't fair of him to mention that.
`You tried to alter the past then.'
`That's why I understand what Susan is going through.'
`But you could not do it!'
`I didn't succeed then, no.'
Is that what you're trying to tell us, Doctor?' interjected
Ian, again trying to calm the situation down. `That time or
destiny or something won't allow us to change things?'
`If you like.'
`Then what harm is there in letting Susan try?' asked
Barbara. `She got to know some of the people of Salem,
Doctor - we all did - and a day later, you tell her how they
were horribly killed and she can't do a thing about it. She
just wants to understand why not. Are you really so devoid
of simple human compassion that you cant see that? That
s'ou can't give your own granddaughter some comfort'
The Doctor leapt to his feet, eyes wide with fury, hi~
shoulders quivering. `I have heard quite enough from you
young lady. I will decide what is to be done with my own
granddaughter - and if I don't want her gadding about in all
sorts of danger, attempting the impossible and being upset
when it can't be done, well, that is the end of the matter!'
He turned and stormed out of the room. Barbara, Ian and
Susan shuffled uncomfortably in the ensuing silence.
Two hours earlier, Ian had suggested that the Doctor had
mellowed. Perhaps it had simply been that his companions
had learned how to deal with him, how to steer clear of
difficult topics and when to just nod their heads and agree.
Tonight, they had touched upon one of the most difficult of
all. But it was difficult for Barbara too, and perhaps she had
overreacted to the Doctor's truculence.
Her failure to save the Aztec civilisation from its untimely
demise still hurt. She remembered how fiercely she had
wanted to alter their fate. She knew that Susan was feeling
those same emotions now. But she also knew how painful it
had been to have her every plan thwarted, to watch as
history marched on despite her best efforts. Might Susan
not be spared that? Or might she actually succeed in her
aims, despite what her grandfather said? The Doctor's
argument had too many flaws; he had refused to answer too
many questions.What if they could save those lives after all?
What if?
It all seemed moot now. Without the Doctor, they could
not go anywhere; certainly not to Salem. Nobody else could
pilot the Ship. Susan muttered a tearful thank-you to her
former teachers for arguing her case, then retired to her
bedroom. Barbara hoped  she would get over the
disappointment. She had not recovered from hers.
`I'm starting to have second thoughts,' she confided in Ian,
sadly. `Nine years doesn't seem too long to wait if we can
guarantee getting home at the end of it. I just want this
madness to end.'
1 know Barbara,' he said with a disconsolate sigh. `I know.'

Susan cou1dn't sleep. Whenever she closed her eyes, she
saw Abigail or Mary or Rebecca Nurse; even John Proctor.
How could the girls with whom she had laughed and joked
be capable of sending even the harshest of masters to an
ignoble death as they had? In the back of her mind, she
almost accepted the Doctor's insistence that history could
not be altered, though she did not understand wh~ But still
she felt an overpowering urge to try something, even if it
was just to find Mary and ask her what she was doing, shake
some sense into her. Just something. She could at least be there.
So it was that Susan rose from her bed and dressed again
in her seventeenth-century garb. She padded softly through
the corridors of the TARDIS which, in deference to its
occupants' body clocks, were scantly illuminated by night
lights. The console room was enveloped in shadow Susan
felt the same fear, the same thrill of disobedience, that had
run through her in the parsonage during Abigail's
ceremony. She was doing something very wrong, but
something right, too.
The Doctor had not yet tutored her in the Ships
operation. She could not fly it herself. But she did know the
function of one particular switch, and it was enough for her
purposes. She hesitated over it, imagining her grandfathers
anger when he saw what she had done. It was not enough
to stop her. Not this time. She recalled too that dreadful day
when he had last pressed this switch; when a serious
malfunction had almost killed the entire crew. But he had
repaired it since. Had he not?
In the end, her worries were as nothing compared with
her overriding need to return to Salem. Nothing else
mattered. And so, with a frightened little stab of her
forefinger, Susan operated the fast-return switch. And she
closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the ship's
engines wheezed into life and proceeded to carry her from
Bristol,  from the twentieth century. Towards the seventeenth.
In time, perhaps, her grandfather would come to
understand why.



PART THREE

DREAMING OF THE DEVIL

29 June 1692

Something was wrong.
Susan hadn't noticed it at first, so caught up had she been
in her decision to disobey her grandfather and its likely
consequences. The forest in which the TARDIS had landed
had been familiar enough, and she had been pleased - no.
relieved - to find that the Ship had indeed returned to
whence it had come. She had stumbled through the
undergrowth, cursing the long period skirts that prudence
had suggested she wear; longing to reach the end of an
interminable journey. And, at last, the wooden dwellings of
Salem Village had indeed come into sight.
But something was wrong. Where was the snow, which
had fallen only yesterday? Why did the ceiling of the forest
seem so dense and green? Where had the flowers the
cowslips and violets - sprung from?
Looking back, it seemed strange she had not realised it
before. The village was no longer in winter; the temperature
itself should have told her as much. The heat was
oppressive, uncomfortable. With the changing of seasons,
Salem had only swapped one ordeal for another. And, as for
Susan, had she returned too late to make a difference? Her
stomach sank at the thought. Or could she be too early? Yes,
that was more like it. This could be an earlier summer, a
better chance to alter what was to come. Why else would
things be so serene? She had not yet caught sight of a single
person: this could hardly be a community in turmoil. And
the sinister chill that played on her nerves.., well, that was
only imagination, fired up by her foreknowledge of what
would happen here. She had no reason to worry, she told
herself. And wished she could believe it.
What would her grandfather do in this situation? Apply his
logic, she decided. He would have said there was no point
in worrying about what she did not know and could not
control. She had to be more like him. More rational, more
decisive. Her first step had to be to learn the date, then she
could make definite plans.
Susangritted her teeth, clenched her fists in
determination, and headed towards the village centre. But,
within a minute, she was running again, spurred on by the
illogical certainty that this was indeed 1692 and she was
too late to do a thing.

Three months of shame. Three months of privation and
despair, shuffled from one stinking prison to the next.
Three months of unanswered appeals to God's mercy and
doubts about her own worthiness to receive it. In the end,
it all came down to this. Thomas Fisk, the jury's foreman,
stood. Rebecca Nurse could feel her legs trembling as she
awaited her church's verdict upon her. Her weak chest
ached and she wanted to cough. She resisted the urge. Her
eyes closed, unable to make her face the man who held her
fate in his hands. Shackles chafed at her wrists and she
stood in silence. Oddly, she thought not of her own death,
should the worst come to pass, but rather of her disgrace.

She could not live if her peers could judge her evil.
It came down to one sentence a single pronouncement to
seal the difference between continuing life and ignoble
execution.
May it please the court. we find the defendant not guilty
Rebecca could scarcely believe her failing ears. But there
had been no mistake. Above the clamour of the audience -
all reactions from joy to outraged disbelief - she could hear
enough of the exchange between Fisk and Chief-Justice
Stoughton to know she was saved. She was the first suspect
acquitted by this court. Her Lord had not found her
wanting. With this realisation. her legs gave way at last. It
didnt matter. She wanted to kneel anyway, to give thanks
and praise.
She was swept to her feet by strong arms. which folded
themselves about her in the first embrace she had been
allowed in too long a time. She laid her head against
Francis's chest and sobbed tears of relief into his jerkin. She
could not speak, could barely even stand. Her strength, no
longer needed, had fled from her bones. The world shot out
of focus, sounds merging into a cacophony, and there was
only Rebecca and her beloved husband, fmally reunited.
The moment didn't last. He was torn away and she was
surrounded by constables again. They took her elbows and
returned her to the bar. She tried to protest, but had no
voice. How could they treat her thus? Had they not heard?
She was innocent. But the atmosphere in the meetinghouse
had changed markedly. The revellers had been silenced;
even those who had protested the verdict were struck
dumb. And Rebecca shared their horror as she saw, in a
mortifying time-stopping second, what had become of her
accusers.
They were screaming. They writhed on the bare planks
arid thrashed out a space for themselves amid the throng.
Nobody dared approach lest the curse be passed to them
too. For surely these girls were cursed, and by beings most
foul. Their limbs flailed. Their bodies spasmed and
contorted into positions such as could not be natural. Their
fits were far more vicious than any Rebecca had seen
before. She was fair moved to tears by their agonies, her
heart wounded more so by the tender age of those
afflicted. Only Mrs Putnam was of sufficient years to have
earned such torments, and surely God could have pardoned
even her many trespasses?
So upset was Rebecca that seconds passed before she
realised the import of what she was witnessing. Only when~
she saw that as many eyes were upon her as upon the girls
did she appreciate what was being thought of her. It took
Ann's husband, Thomas, to put suspicions into words. A
thick-set, swarthy, moustached man, in fine clothes that did
not hang well from his labourers body, he elbowed a path
to his wife's side. He cradled her and reached out a helpless
hand to his equally stricken daughter. In anguish, he yelled
to the jury, `Are you blind that you cannot see how Rebecca
Nurse hurts these people? The evil cow delights in your
perverse decision.You would free her to spread her malice
across a world!'
`Your wife is a liar and a fraud,' contested Francis hotly,
`and she has ensorcelled your daughter in her wicked plans.
Bid them stop this play-acting!' But his accusation was met
by renewed screams and wails It was clear to all present
that the suffering of Ann Putnam Senior. and of the girls,
was only too real
She laughs at us. claimed Ann She says she will not leave
us be so long as she lives. She has escaped judgment and
knows now that no mortal power will act against her
Tell her to stop. 'Father' begged the younger Ann stop
Goody Nurse from hurting us.
You do the Devils work here. 'Fisk' Thomas Putnam cried
at the jury's foreman. 'Their agoniesare on your
conscience'
It was all too much for Rebecca. Feeling faint, she clapped
a hand to her feverish brow. To her alarm. Abigail Williams
mimicked the action, clutching at her own forehead in
agony. And she was followed by Mary Warren. and by several
more of the girls. Rebecca was seized again. Despite the
protests of family and friends, the constables dragged her
from the room. Belatedly, she heard the bellowed orders of
Stoughton, cutting across the pandemonium:'! will not have
these witnesses so harmed. Remove the witch from my court!'
`You cannot do this,' protested Francis. `She has been
cleared of the charges!' For his troubles, he was brutally
pushed aside.
As when she had been arrested, and at all times since,
Rebecca offered no resistance. She went along with her
captors, displaying as much dignity as her sorely punished
frame could muster. Despite this turn of events, she trusted
in God to look after her. She had to keep her faith. For what
else had she?

Abigail was on her knees, her every muscle throbbing. She
heaved air into her wheezing chest and shook and
whimpered and prayed for the unendurable pain to end, for
her mortal body would surely break if it did not. As the hail
of blows and kicks receded at last, she lifted her aching
head in hope and felt a rush of cold sweat in her face. But
the blood of the Devil choked her as she beheld the spirit
of Rebecca Nurse, hovering insubstantially above the beams
in the roof, grey face twisted in malice. Fear pierced
Abigail's heart like a dagger; fear that this woman would be
allowed to go free to torture her hated enemies anew. Fear
that her acquittal would cast doubt upon the past and
future testimonies of all who had been harmed, allowing
more witches to escape God's wrath. She would rather die
than live in such an unremitting Hell.
But God was on Abigail's side today, despite her past sins.
The spirit let out a dreadful wailing and was dragged to the
meetinghouse door, expelled by the goodness of a morally
outraged community. It followed its shell of flesh, as this too
was bustled from the building. The pain dissipated and
Abigail rocked back into a sitting position on the sawdust,
panting in relief. The other girls subsided too, and the elder
Ann Putnam wept quietly into her husband's shoulder. The
insistent banging of Stoughton's gavel brought a heavy
silence to the court at last.
The Chief-Justice was silent himself for a full minute, and
Abigail watched his ponderous expression intently and
impatiently. He had consulted with Hathorne and the other
judges, of course, but the decision on how to proceed was
his.With the full force of an eleven-year-old's determination,
she willed him to overturn the verdict. She could think of
nothing in her life that had ever been more important than
that Rebecca Nurse be hanged. She let out a short, well-
timed sob, and it served to galvanise Stoughton into action.
'I will not impose on the jury,' he said in slow, measured
tones' 'but I must ask if you considered one statement made
by the prisoner.When Deliverance Hobbs was brought in to
testify, Rebecca Nurse turned her head to her and said.You
bring one of us into the court? Has the jury weighed the
implications of this statement?'
His message was clear. The bench would not be satisfied
until the prisoner's guilt was agreed. A murmur of
discontent rippled through some quarters of the crowd, but
with the chaos of the last few minutes abated, they were
too aware of their surroundings to speak out of turn. They
held their objections and hoped for good tidings instead.
The jury retired again, obediently, and Abigail used her
hand to conceal a tiny smile. Yes, God was indeed on her
side today.

Parris should have been writing a sermon. He should have
been crafting words with which to bolster the spirit of his
flock, so frayed by recent events. But he could not
concentrate. Not too far distant - in his own meetinghouse,
no less - Governor Phips's Special Court of Oyer and
Terminer was sitting in judgment. He had no doubt of its
verdicts upon those accused Justice would be done, but the
battered and bleeding heart may well be torn out of his
church in the process. And worse, so many more witches
still practised undetected. Salem Village was facing its final
test. It was by no means certain that it would pass. So' how
could he write in such circumstances?
He was secretly pleased, then, by the distraction afforded
by a fist upon his door. But pleasure gave way to irritation
as thehammering continued unabated, a sign of
somebody's impatience. Parris bristled at their nerve and
drew breath to remonstrate with them most strongly as he
strode through the hallway and yanked open the door. But
the air was caught in his lungs and his throat constricted by
surprise, if not alarm, as he saw who awaited him on the threshold.
`What have you done?' Susan Chesterton demanded, eyes
brimming, jaw thrust forward in determination but quivering.
He was taken aback. `Have you been taught that this be
the correct way to address a minister of the cloth?' he
spluttered.
`If you were really a holy man, you'd stop what is happening.'
`It is not for one of your years to judge.'
`But people will die!'
`Those of your kind, maybe. Witches, who deserve not to
walk upon God's clean earth!'
Her eyes widened; she actually looked appalled. `I'm not a
witch, and neither are those people you're condemning to
death. Just look at what you're doing, you stupid, primitive,
bigoted...' She punctuated her words with sobs, until she
could speak no more. Scandalised though he was by her
insolence, the minister could not help but feel sorry for
Susan as she turned away, crying into her sleeve. Her slight
form had deflated, the fight drained from her. He reminded
himself that any child was but the product of its guardians'
wisdom, and that this one must have been subjected to all
manner of vile preachings. Still, though she refused to see
the witches for what they were, she held a commendable
regard for life. She might be saved, if only she could be made
to acknowledge her sins and repent of them.
Parris stepped out into the still, mid-afternoon air and laid
a hand on Susan's trembling shoulder. `You have been gone
from Salem some time, child.You may not be aware of what
has transpired.' He was more accustomed to scorn than to
compassion; his gentle words sounded awkward in his ears.
He changed register so that he was lecturing, as if from the
pulpit. He would stir the goodness in her soul. 1 know
witches walk abroad: the Devil planted his seeds in my own
home. To this day,! regret most bitterly that I did not see his
cruel jest, but he was ever the master of deception.'
Susan said nothing and didn't face him. But her tears had
ceased now and she was listening at least. Her attention
spurred him through the most difficult, most shameful, part
of his narrative.
`My own slave, Tituba, brought the ways of her heathen
land to our society. She indoctrinated my daughter and
niece with black, twisted scriptures, and bade them go into
the forest and perform dark rituals. It was only through
God's grace that I discovered them in time to save them. I
sent Betty away and, thank the Lord, she appears well. But
Abigail and many other girls have been molested by
demons ever since. The witches thought to have the
precious souls of children in their grasps. They are
embittered and vengeful at their failure. Now, with a door to
the Devil opened and the Day of Judgment nigh, they are
emboldened to come amongst us, to torture those who
have defied them. I know not for how much longer our
children might endure.'
He was aware of his own voice rising passionately, as
quotations from his unfinished sermon slipped into his
speech. But, by God, she would hear the truth from him and
she would believe.
`How can you be so sure?' she asked, almost voicelessly.
`How can you know who is a witch and who isn't?'
`They are revealed by their actions,' said Parris without
hesitation, surprised that she should even ask. `You
witnessed the torments of my daughter and niece, I am told,
when first they struck. You may even have been afflicted
yourself.' Susan didn't answer. She seemed less certain of her
ground by the second.
He continued: `The girls, God help them, still have the
strength and goodness to cry out upon their attackers, to
resist the attempts to still their tongues. If this were not
enough, many witches are moved to confess their sins in
hope of forgiveness. They speak of others amongst the
accused and put the lie to their claims of innocence. Tituba
herself told how she was made to sign the Devil's book and
how, even then, hers was but one of ten marks in its pages.'
`And this Tituba... is she... did you execute her?'
`Why, no. The sinner confessed to her crimes and has
since made an attempt to atone. It is yet too soon to know
if a spell in jail might be sufficient to absolve her, or if the
noose will be required. But such matters need not concern
you, Susan.'
She looked at him now, and a new hope shone in her
watery eyes.'Then it's not too late? You havent killed them yet'
`We have dispatched only the most hardened, the most
unrepentant witch of all,' said Parris proudly, for she will
serve as an example to her kin. But that example has not
been heeded by some. The court sits again in the meeting-
house this day, and word reaches me that several more will
join Bridget Bishop in Purgatory.
`Bridget?' if Paris was surprised by Susan's horrified
reaction, he was positively aghast as she swiped his hand
away and rounded on him furiously `No! How could you?
She was kind to me - she helped me when I was lost - and
you've murdered her!' This last was screamed hoarsely.
Susan pummelled her fists against his chest ineffectively
and he stumbled back against the parsonage wall. `Whats
wrong with you? Is this what your God would want you to
do? Hate people, persecute them, kill them for being
different?' And then her accusations dissolved into a fresh
deluge of tears.
Parris had been caught off guard by the outburst, but he
composed himself now and felt rage mounting in place of
surprise. How could she be so ungrateful for his guidance?
`That is enough!' he bellowed, seizing her arms and pushing
her away.
She tore free from his grip and backed off, face crumpled
by misery, voice catching. `There are no witches, you stupid
little man. There's no such thing as witches!'
Then she turned and ran.

Susan didn't get far. She just wanted to put some distance
between herself and the insanity, to be left alone, to think.
So she hared off the beaten path and came to rest by the
deserted field in which the militia sometimes trained.
There, she stopped and gulped in air in short, frenzied
bursts. She tried to stem her tears, but the news of Bridget's
untimely demise pricked her eyes and teased out more.
She couldn't do this without help. She had seen the
Doctor walk into many a desperate situation armed only
with diplomacy and wit, but she was not as articulate as he.
Her carefully prepared, reasoned arguments had become so
much defiant bluster in the heat of her confrontation with
Parris. He had been too logical, too sure of himself, and she
was only now beginning to appreciate that she was arguing
against not merely a misconception but an entire culture.
She had probably made things worsc, not bcttcr. She wished
Ian and Barbara could be here, but they were most likely
asleep in the TARDIS, unaware it had even landed. She was alone.
She thought about giving up then, but a flame still burnt
in her chest, fed more now by resentment than by purpose.
Resentment at the way the minister had treated her; at the
TARDIS, for bringing her here too late; at Bridget Bishop,
even, for being dead. Resentment at all the myriad cruel
twists of fate that had combined, in an almost calculated
manner, to foil her plans. To ensure that The Crucible's
events came to pass. It was almost certain now.
But not if she could help it.
Something of what Parris had said filtered back into her
conscious mind. Almost before she knew it, she was moving
again at a trot, a new sense of urgency Propelling her. She
stooped low to pass the open Windows of the parsonage
and hurried on to the crossroads, beyond which stood the
meetinghouse As she approached it, she could see a cart
pulling away, and villagers were beginning to spill out of the
building She heard their voices, some raised in anger, some
in excitement. Some people were weeping. She joined the
throng, without thinking how they might react to her
appearance Fortunately, they seemed Oblivious to it. their
gossiping, judgmental tongues bent only to the outcome of
the recently concluded trial. There was no mistaking what
the verdict must have been. What Susan needed to know
was, which hapless innocent had they condemned?
She spotted a familiar face and pushed her way through
the rank, unwashed crowd towards its owner. `Mary,' she
called, straining to make herself heard. `Mary!'
The young woman reacted to her third shout, a broad
smile banishing her doleful expression. `Susan, you're back!'
They fought to reach each other and finally embraced, But
Mary broke away, uncertain. `Oh, but I should not be seen
with you. Thanks to Goodman Proctor, the whole village
knows of your family's ideas.'
Only now did Susan see how Mary Warren had changed.
She looked dreadful. Though only a few months could have
passed since last they had met, she seemed to have aged
many years. Her face was lined and haggard, more befitting
a woman of forty than a girl of half that age. Her skin was
pale, her lovely brown hair filthy and bedraggled. For Mary,
such neglect was unusual indeed. Her eyes were sunken,
red-rimmed and haunted. She had become little more than
a sad ghost of her past self. `What's happened to you?' asked
Susan, concerned.
`Why do you return now? You can only get yourself, and
me, into the most terrible of trouble.You should leave while
you still can.'
`I can't do that,' she insisted. `You people need my help.'
`We need but the favour of our Lord - for it seems he must
have abandoned this unfaithful flock to the waiting forces
of evil.'
Susan's misery deepened at this proclamation. She
swallowed and tried not to cry again. How could she alter
such deeply ingrained beliefs? How could she save this
colony from itself? Mary bowed her head and tried to slip
away, but Susan chased her and halted her. `Who was it?' she
asked breathlessly. `Who was on trial in there?'
`The most recent of them was Goody Nurse.'
`Already?' she cried in horror. `What happened?'
`They found her to be a witch and sentenced her to hang.'
Mary's matter-of-fact tone heightened Susan's revulsion,
though the words confirmed nothing she did not know.
`No!'
`The jury thought her innocent at first, but so clear was
her guilt that they were made to reconsider. It is naught to
grieve over, Susan. The witch bedeviled me, and I said as
much in court.'
How much worse could it get? `You testified against her?'
`It is for us all to root out the witches in our midst.
Rebecca Nurse deserves what fate has been chosen for her.'
`How can you say that?'
`All Salem knows it! On the day she was arrested. the Lord
sent ram to break the drought. He was pleased with our work.'
`You can't mean this!
But Mary pulled away then. 1 will talk to you no longer.
Susan, if you cannot recognise what is so plainly just~
This time, Susan allowed her to escape. It could do no
good to reason with the likes of Mary Warren. anyhow She
should talk to those who held influence, If Parris wouldnt
help her, then somebody else might. Rebecca Nurses
judges, perhaps?
`I must get in there,' she insisted as two men, garbed in the
long red cloaks, leather belts and high boots of the village
guard, moved to bar her way into the meetinghouse. `You
don't understand, it's a matter of life and death. They've got
everything wrong!'
`Go home to your parents. child,' ordered one of the
guards. `It is not for you to question the court's decision.'
`No, you've got to let me through!' She made a rush
between them, but was caught and flung back into the
crowd. She swayed, clutched hold of somebody's tunic for
support, was shrugged off and found herself in the dirt,
almost trampled by unheeding feet. She couldn't stop the
tears, then, and she pounded her fists into the ground
impotently.Why couldn't she make them listen?
By now, Susan had been spotted. She was lifted to her feet
and surrounded by curious onlookers, eager for more
spectacle now that the trial had ended.
`Are you afflicted?' somebody asked her.
`Are you beset by witches, dear girl? Does someone
torment you?'
`Is it Goodwife Nurse? Can you see her spirit?'
Somebody, somewhere, was laughing. Laughing, after all
they had done today.
She felt her cheeks blushing hot crimson. Her vision
clouded. `Get away from me!' she screamed, focusing all her
hate and anger into that single command. She elbowed her
way through the startled crowd, deaf to the squeals of
indignationand surprise and the pious words of
condemnation, until she was clear of the clinging primitives
and could run again. Run far and fast, blotting out the pain
and the aching frustration for those few minutes of urgent,
all-consuming effort, knowing only that she had to be far
from here.
But she could not outrun her emotions. It occurred to her
that she had wasted most of this day in trying.

Several hours passed before the Doctor found her. The
fading sun still washed the western horizon in shades of
blood. It would soon be gone. The air hung heavy, but the
day's heat was beginning to dissipate. She was standing
alone, at the top of a hill to the south and west of Salem
Town. A silent sentinel. She stared, empty-eyed, out towards
the ocean. It was some distance away, but in those moments
when a light breeze deigned to blow westward, they could
hear its mighty waves tumbling. Crashing in their endless,
unstoppable cycle. A reminder that time marched on.
`Susan?' His call was a tentative one; a feeler sent out to
test her mood. `Susan, child.'
She didn't respond. He sighed and crossed the distance
between them, a supportive presence by her side. He ought
to have berated her for acting irresponsibly for placmg
herself in danger. But he knew what urge had brought her
to this place. Perhaps he should have been more
sympathetic towards it. Much as it pained him, she would
have to learn this lesson the hard way. As had Barbara before
her. As had he.
Its funny, isn't it?' she said at length. Her voice was
hollow and dispirited. `Ian and Barbara will be born over
there, but not for another two and a half centuries.' She
nodded towards the ocean, across which - beyond the
range of sight - lay the island of Great Britain. `I'm trying to
save their race, or a part of it, and it's all so real and
immediate to me. But, by their time, it will mean nothing. All
this will mean nothing.'
`Time passes. Look at yourself: you're no longer just my
grandchild, Susan.You're growing into a fine young woman
He said it with a good measure of pride, but also a tinge of
regret. She had accepted his every word once, so eager to
please him. Times had changed. She was niatliring, faster
than an old man would like. She would leave him soon.
`You knew it was going to end like this, didn't you?' He
didn't answer. She didn't need him to. `I'm not going to give
up, you know. Not while there's still hope.'
`Susan, child...' The Doctor reached out to her, but she
pulled away. Her tear-swollen eyes were smouldering.
`Bridget Bishop is dead! And Rebecca Nurse, one of the
nicest, most harmless, most generous people I've met, is
going to be next. Whether you help me or not, I'm going to
stop it. I've got to try!'

She faltered, her breathing fast and shallow as she
wrestled her emotions back under control. Again, the
Doctor did nothing but watch her sadly. He had hoped to
fetch her back to the TARDIS, where Ian and Barbara were
waiting. He could see now that this would be impossible.
When next she spoke, she had calmed down considerably,
but there was an edge to her voice.' Do you know where we
are, Grandfather?'
Of course he did. How else had he guessed where she
might be. so far from the village?
Were on Gallows Hill,' she said. `This is where they bring
people to die. This is where they'll have killed Bridget and
where they're going to kill Rebecca - and John Proctor and
all the others.'
The Doctor's gaze was inexorably drawn to a tall, strong
oak tree on the brow of the hill. Despite himself, he felt a
macabre tingle in his old bones. They had hanged Bridget
Bishop from the branches of that tree, a mere nineteen days
ago. They had tied a rope about her neck, let her drop, and
watched her agonies as she was suffocated to death.
`This is where they're going to kill them,' repeated Susan,
and her voice quavered as tears welled up once more. She
turned away from him, as if she didn't want him to see her
cry. This time, he took her silence as an opportunity to
speak.
He couched his words in a restrained and infInitely
patient tone.'The Crucible didn't tell you everything, Susan.
There was much more to the Salem witch-hunt than mere
squabbles and superstitions. Much more. It wasn't a product
of just one or two mishaps: it was the culmination of years
of oppression and fear and hatred; the result of a hundred
minor grudges and a thousand age-old prejudices. It had to
happen, Susan - and believe me, child, there's no way you
or I could have stopped it even if the laws of time allowed
such interference.'
'The laws of time?' she repeated disdainfully.
`You'll understand one day, Susan. We can't always be
actors in the play. Sometimes, it is given to us merely to be
the audience.'
She didn't answer that, but nor did she surrender her
position. She was stubborn; almost as stubborn as he.
1 learned something the first time we came here,' she said
quietly, at last.'! learned where Salem got its name.'
`From the Hebrew word, shalom,' he said with an
understanding nod.
`It means peace. I thought that was quite nice at the
time.'
The Doctor enveloped his granddaughter gently in the
folds of his cloak, and they stared out towards the ocean
together.

30 June 1692

Susan couldn't move. She was pinned to her bed, arms
wrapped around her pillow, face stuck to it by sweat, aware
of her surroundings but paralysed. She could do nothing
but whimper as the room shifted about her. Wooden walls
creaked and stretched out of shape, rearing up like
animated gargoyles. She tried to scream for her grandfather,
but the Doctor was already there. He stood amid the
distorting timbers and directed them to menace her:
punishment for her disobedience. And she could see
familiar faces in the grain and knot holes of the wood. Her
friends, old and new. Mary, Abigail, Ann, Betty. Ian and
Barbara. Her classmates from Coal Hill School and before.
They twisted in pain and begged her for release For it
clear to Susan that their suffering was indeed her fault. She
should not have attended the ritual at the parsonage.
Should not have argued with John Proctor. Should not have
returned to this place. She was an evil, wilful child.
She regained control of her muscles and threw herself
upright, gasping with the effort. The room snapped back to
normal and Susan shivered in the early-morning light that
filtered through the dark glass and painted the room in
shades of brown. It dismayed her to see that the Doctor
was not present. He had abandoned his vigil. She tried to
tell herself she did not need him. It had been nothing more
than a nightmare and she was not a baby any more. But
never had she suffered a dream so vivid, so terrifying.
Her stomach was unsettled and her head was starting to ache.

The Doctor sighed as he inspected the image on the
TARDIS's scanner screen. Light had penetrated even the
canopy of the forest. `I must leave,' he said, `before it is too
late in the day for me to reach civilisation unseen.'
`I still think we should come with you, Doctor.'
`No, Chesterton.' He spoke sternly, allowing a trace of
anger into his voice. He was the captain and the owner of
this ship why couldn't they accept his orders without
question for once? He had only returned at all. briefly, to
ensure that they did nothing foothardv in his absence.
`We've been through this before - and at great length. I
might add. I simply wish to talk some sense into my
grandchild and bring her back home before anything else happens.'
What if Susan won't come with you again?' asked Barbara.
`Then you won't assist me by jeopardising your own
safety, will you? Hmm? No, so long as the two of you are in
Salem Village, you will only draw the more attention to all of
us. Susan is bright enough, she wifi see sense soon.We'll be
back here by, oh, by late afternoon I should think.'
He made a good job of sounding confident. If only they
had seen the girl last night, they would have known it to be
a facade. Susan had refused to accompany the Doctor to the
TARDIS, suspecting that he might take off while she slept.
Reluctantly, he had checked them both into a room at
Ingersoll's, using the name John Smith again. He didn't
intend to spend a second night there.
He reached for the door control but, to his annoyance,
Barbara moved to block him. `There's time yet,' she said
firmly. `It's only just dawn. I want to discuss this business
about changing history.'
`Discuss what, precisely?' he returned petulantly. `I have
made my position quite clear. Quite clear.'
She was undeterred.'! just want you to be honest with us.
Is it possible, in any way, that Susan could alter the past?'
He glared at her with hooded eyes, his lips pursed angrily.
`I thought you, of all people, would understand. I only wish
to save the child from going through exactly what you did.'
Barbara opened her mouth again, but he swept towards the
doors, hands clasped behind his back. `Now, I would like to
leave this forest in one piece, if you have no objections -
and I will have a better chance of so doing if you will allow
me to leave now.'
He pivoted to face his companions, in time to catch the
uncomfortable glance that flew between them. His smile
became broader but remained tight-lipped as he gestured
towards the door control on the console.
If you would be so kind?'

An insistent shaking roused Barbara from a gentle doze. She
was both perplexed and concerned to find Ian standing
over her, his expression taut with worry. `What is it?' she
asked, sitting up in a feeble impression of readiness and
rubbing sleep from her eyes. `Has something happened?'
`Nothing,' he said. `That's the problem, Barbara. Nothing
has happened. The Doctor's been gone for over three hours
now and we haven't heard a dicky bird.'
She sighed. Ian's typically protective attitude could be
endearing, but it made him difficult to live with when he
was feeling helpless. She had gone to bed, after a long and
fraught night, partly to escape his pacing the console room
like a caged beast, his itching to operate the door control,
Why couldn't he have let her sleep?
`I don't think he's planning to just grab Susan by the scruff
of her neck and drag her back here,' Barbara pointed out a
little shortly. `They'll need time to talk.'
`I suppose so,' said Ian, somewhat reluctantly,'but I think we
should go after them all the same. They could be in danger.'

`No.You heard what the Doctor said:
Oh? And since when did he have our best interests at heart?'
*That's not fair, Ian, He was making sense. They're in the
middle of a witch-hunt out there, and half those villagers are
already convinced that we qualify:
`And what about Susan?'
`They never hanged children.'
`But they won't exactly make her life pleasant, will they?'
She had to concede the point. `I'm just worried, Barbara,
The Doctor might be clever, but he does tend to
overestimate his own abilities. What if he runs into trouble?
I don't want to be just sitting here while they get tortured
or thrown into prison or worse.'
Barbara relaxed and sank back into her pillows, her
irritation partly replaced by sympathy with his fears, `Why
don't we give the Doctor a chance to do things his way? We
can't really leave the forest till nightfall, anyway. If he's not
back by then, we'll investigate.'
`By nightfall?'
`He did say late afternoon. We should give him some leeway'
`I suppose you're right,' said Ian, although his expression
belied his words.
`Now why don't you try getting some sleep?'
He shook his head. `I'll go back to the console room and
wait there. I might be able to see them coming on the
scanner, now that it's working again.'
He left with a purposeful stride, and Barbara gratefully
closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. Instead, she was
beset by images of the Doctor and Susan crying out for
help, and of a perilous night-time rescue mission. Even as
they began to blur, finally, into the darkness of sleep, she
was disturbed once more.
No sign of them,' reported Ian.
It was going to be a long day.

Susan stumbled out of the meetinghouse, staying upright
only through the Doctor's assistance. She breathed deeply
of the outside air, but it was hot and heavy and offered scant
refreshment. Tiny flies danced around her head and her
temples throbbed. `How do they stand it in there?' she
gasped. 'I thought I was going to suffocate.'
You must remember, Susan: for these people, a good trial
is the closest thing they have to entertainment. They don't
want to miss out, however uncomfortable it might be for them.'
`Entertainment? How can they be entertained by - by
what was going on in there?' She swallowed drily and
closed her eyes to block out the memory. But she only
succeeded in concentrating her mind upon it.
The defendant this morning had been one Sarah Good,
clearly an unpopular woman. The villagers had scoffed and
roared at her every claim of innocence and had gasped,
scandalised, when she had turned their hatred back upon
them with insults and curses. Surely this, they had said
hypocritically, was proof of guilt.
But more awful still had been the spectacle of the
afflicted girls. Susan had recognised Abigail Williams, Ann
Putnam Junior and some of the others. She had vacillated
between revulsion at their antics and sympathy as she had
begun to suspect that they were genuinely tormented.
Their fits were a dozen times more violent than those they
had suffered at the parsonage. They were painful at best.
unnatural at worst. They had stirred an echo of Susans own
seizure in her chest and left a sick taste in her throat. Dizzy
and breathless, she had been forced to leave before a verdict
was reached. She knew what it would be.
Are you ready to go yet?' the Doctor asked. The heat was
affecting even him; he had produced a white handkerchief
with which he dabbed at his brow. Susan shook her head.
He sighed, his disappointment evident. `It is a sad page of
history, Susan, but it has been written.'
How can they do it?' she asked. `How can they condemn
that poor woman when they have no evidence - just stupid
stories about her muttering things and making cows sick?
Why can't they see how.., how irrational it all is?'
`Fear is the enemy of a rational mind, Susan. That is why
you cannot change what will happen here with mere
words.'
`But I want to understand it!'
`I know, child. I know.'
`Did you see when Ann Putnam pulled that blade from her
stomach and said Sarah Good had put it there? Even when
that farmer showed them the rest of the knife - when he
said he'd lost its end a few days ago - the judges just told
Ann not to lie again. They still accepted everything else she
said, without question.'
`The villagers can't stand to see their children in pain,' said
the Doctor, `and their fits are very convincing. Yes, very
convincing indeed.'
Susan looked up at him, a little too eagerly. She longed to
hear his logical, scientific explanation for the fits, but she
could not put her need into words. It was as if something
had stopped her tongue. He didn't see her expression. He
had turned his head upward, lost in thought. `And in the
seventeenth century,' he muttered, almost to himself,
mankind lacked the medical knowledge to deal with such
an outbreak of hysteria. It is all most unfortunate.'
She waited for more, but the Doctor shook himself out of
his reverie, brandished his cane and changed the subject.
Well if you must stay here. my child, we had best inform
Lieutenant Ingersoll, hadn't we?' She nodded, almost
grateful to him for ending the uncertainty and tension of
the moment. She did want to find out more, but she had
been unaccountably afraid of what she might hear.
They headed for Ingersoll's tavern, and Susan wished her
headache would fade enough to allow her to think clearly.

Even the sight of Francis could not restore Rebecca Nurse's
spirit. One of the jailers unshackled her legs from the damp
stone wall and propelled her towards him with a shove. She
stumbled across the fetid, supine bodies of exhausted
cellmates and almost collapsed herself before she reached
the barred window and let the steel support her weight.
Her husband reached through and took her hands, but
didn't know what to say. Poor Francis; he had been so
confused and lost since the day Israel Porter had informed
her that the girls did cry out against her. He had tried to be
strong in the subsequent harrowing times, but she had ever
been the strong one.
Francis's grimy face and the wild abandon of his tangled
black hair spoke of his neglect of himself since the trial. His
facial muscles had given up, allowing skin to sag from
strong cheekbones. His eyes had receded into protective
pits of misery and he looked every one of his seventy-plus
years. She could only imagine how the farm must be faring.
~How are you feeling?' he asked at last. It was a stupid
question, and he seemed to know it.
They treat me no worse than usual,' she said. `It is almost
a relief to see an end to it.'
The ghost of an unspeakable horror played with his
expression. `You cannot think thus. Many of us know your
trial to have been unfair. We plan to challenge its outcome
with the ministry.'
Dear Francis, it is too late for protestations. The Lord has
passed his judgment upon me.'
`No.'
`Until now, Francis, I could bear the shame, and the pain
of my imprisonment. I could bear it so long as I believed in
my innocence; so long as I could scorn these evil things that
are said of me. Now there is no hope - and, for my hubris
and for whatever other grief I have caused my creator, I am
to be punished. I can but accept my release from this world
and hope he may see fit to grant this unworthy soul
forgiveness in the next life.'
Francis leaned his head against the bars and almost cried.
She felt for him: to see her surrendering like this must have
torn at his heart. But when he spoke again, it was as if he
had chosen to forget all she had said, though his dulled tone
and deadened eyes betrayed the fresh scars of it.'! must ask
you something, Rebecca. When Deliverance Hobbs was
brought into the court, you said she was one of us. What
did you mean by it?'
She frowned and glanced back over her shoulder at the
wretched woman in question. She appeared to be sIeeping.
`Why, merely that she is a prisoner like myself.'
`You do know Stoughton took this to be an admission of
guilt? He claimed you referred to her as a fellow witch.'
Why. I never meant such a thing.'
Then why did you not tell the court as much? Why did
you not answer Goodman Fisk when he put the same
question to you?'
She cast her mind back to the closing stages of the trial,
after she had been returned to the courtroom. The
shouting, screaming, hectoring, the commands of the
judiciary, merging into one crashing wave of noise as she
stood with head bowed, awaiting the second verdict. Her
ears and mind had been numbed. She could remember no
question. `You know I am hard of hearing, and so very
weary. In truth, if I had heard myself addressed, I would
have responded.'
A flicker of her husband's old self returned, his face lifted
by a hardly dared excitement. `Rebecca, my love, you must
put this statement into writing, for we can surely prove that
a great wrong has been done by you.'
`You have had your time.' The jailer interposed himself
between the couple, tore their hands apart and manhandled
Rebecca back to her corner. She went without a fight, her
gaze lingering on Francis.

`I will return as soon as I may Be strong!
She wondered if he was right. The decision to condemn
her had hung by a thread, and that had seemingly been cut
by no more than a mistake. Surely, then, that mistake could
be corrected once the truth was known. But Rebecca had
had too many false causes for hope to believe that God had
not set himself against her in this matter. How many more
disappointments could he make her to suffer?
The slamming of the cell door and the jangling of keys
reverberated in Rebecca's ears long after Francis had been
taken away. She wept for him and, uncommonly, for herself.
Hearing this familiar sound, the witch Deliverance Hobbs
raised a weary but interested head.
Why do you not confess? They believe you to be guilt anyway.'
`I am not guilty.'
Deliverance shrugged halfheartedly. It matters naught
`You have confessed to them, yet they treat you no better
than me.'
`But they do not hang me. They will not hang you either
if you tell them what they wish to hear.'
`You would ask me to belie myself?'
`There are worse sins.'
`Indeed there be. I might perform for them; barter for my
own neck by testifying to the ill deeds of others, who I
know to be innocent of such crimes.' She felt resentment
building, but denied herself the emotion. Deliverance
Hobbs was as much a victim as she, sapped and dazed by
the cruel interrogations of their captors. It was for a higher
authority than Rebecca Nurse to judge her. `No, even
though my life be forfeit, though God may have turned
against me, I cannot so turn against him.'
`Then may he have mercy upon you.'

The Doctor leaned upon his walking cane feeling the
Weight of his body's great age. It was a warm afternoon, but
theheatseemedonly oppressive, the atmosphere
determined to close him in. Rebecca Nurse's home had not
changed in its physical detail, but it felt different to him. The
eyes of its windows were closed against the pain and the
spite that had been hurled in its direction. Smoke no longer
curled from its chimney, as if the life within had been
extinguished. He didnt know why he was here, except that
some echo of Susan's upset had instilled within him an
irrational urge to cure this family's ills. He couldn't, of
course. Their fate had been made immutable by dried ink
on the pages of future texts. He wished he had never read
them, then at least he might be able to try.
From this vantage point, he could see the lonely figure of
Francis Nurse, approaching the farmhouse on horseback.
His gloom seemed to have communicated itself to his
animal, which trudged morosely up the gentle path. The
news from Salem Prison had not been good. How could it
have been? The Doctor had thought to intercept Francis, to
offer condolences and encouragement, but he could not
bring himself to do so. However this poor man struggled, it
would be in vain, the bonds of cause and effect wound too
tight about his life. So how could the Doctor be so
hypocritical as to offer hope where none existed?
Briefly, he wonderedif history could possibly

accommodate Rebecca Nurse's salvation. It was unlikely
Her death was too important; it influenced, and was
remembered by, too many people. A vital link in the chain -
and he, for all his disdain of constricting rules, could not
break such a link. It was the price he paid for his freedom.
Instead, he slipped away from that place. vowing
see Rebecca or Francis again. For he knew that, if he did, the
temptation to help them might just prove too great for an
inveterate meddler to deny.

Susan's head felt worse than ever. When she closed her
eyes, shadows of pain danced on the insides of their lids.
She tried to focus through it, to concentrate on what Mar
was saying, but the argument turned in the same old circles
Mary believed in magic, Susan did not. Perhaps she
shouldn't have come, but she had wanted to make one
person understand her, even if it could not be a minister or
a judge. She had waited outside the farmhouse for an hour
to be sure that John Proctor was not present. Her relief at
finding him absent was balanced by her despair upon
learning that he languished in prison, his wife beside him.
More pain, more misery. History unfolded too quickly and
slipped through her fingers like sand.
Why weren't you in court today?' she challenged.
~I was busy,' said Mary, without meeting her eye.
`You've been thinking about what I said, haven't you?'
`No. It is useless to go against Abigail and the minister and
the courts. I of all people should know. It is as I said, I was
busy. I look after the Proctors' children and their home.'
`What do you mean, you of all people?'

life into its depths and drowned them.
`What's happened to you, Mary? What turned you into this?'
`I can show you proof,' said Mary woodenly. `I can show
you that Elizabeth Proctor, at least, is what they think her to be.'
Susan didn't know if she wanted to see, but her host was
already at the head of the staircase. She beckoned her
visitor into the main upstairs room, explaining: This is
where the Proctors slept.'
What happened in here?' asked Susan. The room was a
mess. Furniture had been overturned, clothes strewn about
and sheets crumpled on the bed. A barrel that must once
have contained ale lay on its side. Its contents had seeped
into the floorboards, leaving an amorphous stain. Shelves
had been emptied, a work basket broken.
`The sheriff's men seized what things of value they had:
said Mary, as if it meant nothing. `I have tidied the rest of the
house since, but have had no use for this room.'
`But they haven't even been tried.'
`It is the law. Their goods belong to the Crown now.'
`And what are their children supposed to live on?' The
cries from the next room persisted. Susan massaged her
aching head.
Mary ignored the question. She crouched beside a dresser
and rifled through an open clothes drawer. `Here - they did
not search well, for they did not find all. One of Goody
Proctor's tools remains.'
Susan realised then what she was about to see. Mary had
told her of it when last she had visited. She was not
surprised, then, to have a rag doll thrust eagerly into her
hands, as if it validated her friend's every claim. It was
similar to the one that she had found in Bridget Bishop's
luggage. (Could Bridget really have been a witch? She had
hinted as much. But no, that was stupid.) A rough) shapeless
body made of rags, bound together with twine to give some
semblance of form. It had been stuffed into a carefully sewn
miniature dress, a twist of fabric left to protrude from the
collar. A makeshift head.
The doll was skewered by three pins.

An animal skittered through the undergrowth at ankle
height. Barbara started and held her lantern aloft, but saw
only shadows. Mud and leaves clung to her dragging skirts
and she was heartily sick of this forest. Night had come too
quickly, light stolen by blossoming trees. She should have
heeded her companion and agreed to set out from the
TARDIS earlier. Ian made no accusations - he was not one
for dweffing on past mistakes, preferring to work on
solutions - but Barbara could have kicked herself. They
were lost, and it was her fault.
`I don't recognise any of this,' she said gloomily.
`It looks different by lantern light.'
`Even so, Ian, I think we should go back.'
He was reluctant. `We can't be too far from the village
now.'
`We could be. This forest could go on for miles, westward.'
`I suppose you're right.'
`We could always try again, once we get back to the
TARDIS. Perhaps we could even fmd a compass there.'

This seemed to cheer Ian up. He nodded his consent, and
they turned and headed back the way they had come. But
they had taken no more than a dozen steps before their
paths diverged. They stopped and stared at each other. `I
thought we came this way said Ian. pointing.
No, it was definitely this way.
Well, if you~re sure.'
`I... was. I remember being sure. I'm just not so sure now.'
Oh, great!'
Well, if you hadn't said anything -`
1 just thought we came from up there!'
Barbara stamped her foot miserably. `Oh, all these paths
look the same to m~.We'll never fmd our way back!'
`Come on,' said Ian decisively. He took her elbow and led
her in the direction she had first chosen. `We'll get nowhere
by standing here arguing about it.'
They walked in silence for another few minutes.
Sometimes, Barbara's spirits were lifted by a familiar tree or
a hoof-beaten path (this latter at least suggesting they were
not too far west). At other times, they passed through places
of which she had no recollection, and she became certain
that even the familiar things had been but cruel deceptions
of a hopeful mind. Such were her paranoic misgivings
during this interminable journey that the first suggestion of
release from the forest brought great comfort, even though
it was in some ways a worrying development.
A light shone through the trees. A guttering flame, too
large to have come from a lantern. A faint smell of acrid
smoke pinched at Barbara's nostrils. A fire was burning.
When they were close enough to fear discovery, they
crouched under cover, hooded their own lights and
watched. They could see the fire more clearly now. Vague
figures passed before it, merging too well with forest
shadows. Barbara could hear low muttering voices, but
could make out no words. She felt Ian twitching restlessly.
He finally laid his lantern aside and announced that he
wanted a closer look. She nodded and told him to be
careful. He bent low, made his way towards the flames, and
was soon lost to her sight.
The muttering ceased and Barbara held her breath, lest
the sound of it disturb the silence and bring night creatures
down upon her. Behind her, hushes rustled with the passing
of another invisible nocturnal dweller. She felt lonely, cold
and exposed.
There was a dull thump, and Ian cried out: a truncated
yelp of surprise and pain. Something heavy crashed into the
forest floor.
And cold hands seized Barbara's neck and she screamed
out loud.

Susan was hot, even beneath one thin cotton sheet. Her
headache was more insistent than ever and she felt as if her
brain was about to split. `You've probably caught some local
virus,' her grandfather had told her, not without sympathy.
`One might almost say it's an occupational hazard. Now if
we were to return to the Ship...'
`I'm not leaving,' she had said firmly. It wasn't just because
of the unfairness of history any more.
The Doctor sat with his back to her bed, reading. A
religious tract, like all the colony's books, enlivened by lurid
descriptions of evildoings and the fates to befall their
perpetrators. Every so often, he tutted and shook his head.
Ever the man of science, of logic, of reason. But reason
didn't work here. She remembered the night in the
parsonage, the helplessness as something else took control
of her body. She had been trying to impose her view of
reality - no, the Doctor's view - on Mary and Parris and all
the rest. But what if she was wrong? She clung to Elizabeth
Proctors doll. She had not needed to sleep with a toy for
many years. She had taken this one from Mary with
thoughts of showing it to her grandfather, removing the
pins because it had seemed the right thing to do. She had
changed her mind now. She wanted to form her own
opinions.
Susan didn't know what her next move would be. She
didn't know what she was aiming to do any more. She only
wanted the confusion to end.
She wanted to understand.

Mary fell into a chair, exhausted. She should have been
gathering firewood to see her through the next week, but
Susan's unexpected visit and the demands of her master's
children had kept her too occupied and it was late now. The
children were asleep, thank God, and she needed a
moment's respite before she attended to the last of her
day's duties. Then she could hang the rope bed in the next
room and go to her own rest, at least for a few hours until
she had to prepare breakfast.Just a moment's respite.
She heard a noise in the kitchen and jerked herself
upright, tired no longer. A footstep. The clatter of a careless
hand against a pot. Shallow breathing. Goodman Proctor,
released from jail, come to punish her for not taking care of
his family as she should? The sheriff, keen to steal yet more
of the few comforts that remained to her? Or something worse?
Mary was on her feet by the time they appeared in the
doorway, but she could not muster the strength to fight nor
the voice to scream. The cloaked figures - three of them?
four? - swooped upon her and she was wrestled to the
floor, a heav sack thrust unceremoniously over her head
and tied about her chest. Still incapable of speech, she
realised that black magic had paralysed her tongue just as it
had sapped the vitality from her muscles.
Borne aloft on the witches' shoulders, she passed out to
the sound of evil cackling and the faint aroma of incense.

Ian was on his knees and the world was awash with bright
primary colours. He blinked ferociously and forced himself
to concentrate, to stay awake. He scrambled out of the path
of the next blow and used a coarse purple sponge (a tree.
his hibernating mind told him) to help him climb to his
feet. He was ready for the third attack, clumsy as it was. The
stick cracked against the bones in his wrist, but he could
indulge the pain of it later. He wrested the makeshift
weapon from the gnarled fingers of the red spectre (a
woman, cloaked) and waved it in a vague threat, taking two
dizzy steps back as reality began to reclaim his senses.
He was still in the forest (for a moment, he hadn't been
sure). He could feel the distant warmth of the fire behind
him. Three women regarded him with hateful glares. They
were dirty and unkempt. their clothes old and ragged. One
of them - a black, grey-haired woman with wild, staring
eves - had Barbara, her arm twisted behind her back. Ian's
breeches had torn against something. Blood trickled into
his shoe. A persistent ache undermined his skull and
reached around to his temples. His fmgers went numb and
the stick fell out of his grasp.
Barbara was by his side instantly, pulling free from her
captor with an expression of disdain. She supported Ian
until he had regained enough strength to stand on his own.
The frightened women hissed and murmured. One took a
timid step forward but brought herself up short.
`What do you want with us?' demanded Barbara. She was
answered by uneasy shuffling; more murmurs. `Why did you
attack us?'
'I think they're scared of us,' said Ian, smiling grimly to
hide his discomfort. `That's right, isn't it?'
`The Devil will take those who betray the coven: the black
woman spat. `A curse upon the both of you, should you tell
of this.'
He found himself laughing giddily, from the stomach.
`You're not telling us you're actually witches?'
`You would be advised to show us respect.'
`Threats will not be enough, Candy,' insisted the youngest
of the three. She was making a feeble attempt to hide her
face with a hand. `They will tell Sheriff Corwin of this and
we shall be hanged for sure.We should not have conducted
the ceremony here tonight. I said the portents were grim;
did I not say it?'
`What would you have me do with them?' snapped the
woman who had been identified as Candy, in a fierce
undertone. `Kill them?'
But they saw us dancing!'
Listen,' Barbara spoke up bravely, `we're not meant to be
in this forest any more than you are. We can't tell anyotie
about your ceremony without giving ourselves away. Well,
can we?'
Her words seemed to have an effect. The younger woman
withdrew, and there was silence for a time but for the
crackling of flames. All awaited the decision of Candy. At
last, she sighed and drew herself to her full, not quite
impressive, height. `We have warned you, strangers,' she
warbled in a throaty approximation of a menacing tone.
Never say we did not. May you choke upon the Devil's own
blood if you but think to reveal what you have seen tonight.
And may his familiars feast on your eyes and peck out your
tongues!' Seeming satisfied with this threat, she beckoned
sharply to her comrades and they slunk away through the
trees. The two teachers watched on in disbelief.
`Ian, what just happened here?' Barbara no longer
sounded quite so confident. They linked arms for mutual
reassurance.
`We've just been cursed,' he said incredulously, the words
sounding bizarre as he formed them. `By a coven of witches,
apparently. But I thought there were no real witches in
Salem.'
`Yes,' muttered Barbara thoughtfully. `I did, too.'

Mary Warren begged for mercy. She appealed to whatever
human sentiment the witches had left, but they proved to
be irredeemable. After a harrowing journey by broomstick,
the sack had been removed from her head and she could
see the parsonage not far distant. She wanted to run to it,
but her hooded tormentors were too numerous. 'No
comfort from the minister, dear. we make the rules in this
church. His faith has no power over us:
She was dragged across the cold field and thrown into a
kneeling position before a low lectern. Upon it lay a book
so black that it drew the very moonlight into its depths. She
had seen it before, on the worst night of her life. It opened
of its own accord, the crackling of its pages like lightning,
and she was confronted by her own signature made in
blood. `You once put your name to the Devil's book, girl.
Thur soul belongs to him now. If you will not serve as you
swore to, he will loan it to us to play with.'
No!' she whimpered. She reached for the cursed page as
if to wipe the blood from it, take it back into her arm, It
fizzed and hissed at her and she was repulsed. She nursed
her stinging fingers and felt acid tears welling on to her
cheeks. `I was coerced into signing it. I turn to God, I turn to God!'
An awful shrieking broke out, and the witches pinched
her and kicked her. A yellow bird squawked and a black cat
spat in anger. `Do not speak that foul name here!' she was
instructed.
An uncommonly mutinous streak rose within her, and she
closed her eyes and swallowed and tried to recite the Lord's
Prayer aloud. Her throat dried, something stopped her
tongue and she cried with the frustration of it. The yellow
bird cackled its glee. `You do not ought to do this to me,' she
cried. The courts will find you out and you will be hanged
for your crimes, like Goodwife Bishop.'
And who will tell the courts?' Pinch, kick. `Not you,
danmed child.' Kick, scratch. `For you know what torments
await if you offend your master further.' Scratch, bite.
`He is not my master!' Mary could feel their spectres
squeezing into the cracks of her soul, exciting her into
another fit. She held it down. She was toppled backward
and she stared into the sky. Grey thunder clouds rolled
across the black expanse. red hellfire flickering at their
edges. The witches swarmed over her and pinned her arms
and legs. A silver goblet was put to her mouth and she was
commanded to drink. She refused and tried to withdraw her
lips, to keep the taste of the vile concoction from them. She
thrashed and squealed but could not break free.
Birds circled overhead: ~witches' familiars with their
mistresses' faces. One dared to swoop down and peck its
sharp beak into her cheek. It suckled on her blood (and
Mary feared that she would grow a witch's teat on that
spot) and flapped away, bloated. She recognised its features
and wanted to scream, but the blood would fill her mouth
if she opened it.
`So you know my face.' The witch who held the cup
loomed over her. `But in truth, you already knew me to be a
member of this church. You heard my blasphemous
preachings and did nothing. You watched as I took the
wicked tool of my cohort, Elizabeth Proctor, for my own -
and yet you did nothing still. You are as evil as I, my friend.
Your name is in the Devil's book and you need only partake
of this sacrament to renew your allegiance.'

`I can't!'
The witch snatched her hood away and, though it came as
no surprise, Mary gasped at the revelation of the face
beneath. The face of a former friend, but hardened, devoid
of all compassion and mercy
`How can you do this to me?' she pleaded.
Drink!' commanded Susan Chesterton. `Drink'  And
somewhere, as if from a great distance, Mary could hear the
sounding of a horn. The midnight call to the witches'
sacrament. She fought to keep her spectre from answering
that summons. But she had lost all control. She felt a great
convulsion whip through her body. Her mouth opened to
scream and Susan poured the blood triumphantly down her
throat. It slithered, thick and foul, into her stomach. A hand
twisted in her heart. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and
saw only darkness.
The darkness lasted for a long, long time.

1 July 1692

Mary had been returned to the Proctors' home, to the very
chair in which she had been sitting when the witches had
attacked. Light filtered through the cracks of the shutters
and the oil lamp had almost burnt itself out. She had slept
for some time, but it had been an unnatural sleep and she
was not refreshed. Her eyeballs ached. Her skin tingled with
the recollection of last night's abuses and her stomach
strained to empty itself of the contents of Susan's goblet.
She threw herself across the room and was violently,
painfully, sick into the fireplace. Her stomach continued to
wretch, even once emptied. She felt light-headed and
hollow, and she remained on her knees and wept for a
peace that had never been hers.
Marked out for damnation. The back of her father's hand
across her face, his disappointed scowl.Why can't Mary find
a man like other girls in town? No more than a burden.Why
should anyone be interested? No verve, no confidence and
scarcely attractive. Father told her so. Unmarried at twenty,
deprived of the chance to make home for husband and
children. Father, still disapproving in his grave. Passing on
the curse. A new family, someone else's children to wait on.
A change of location. A new life, old problems.Who wanted
Mary Warren? The curse found her even here. The Proctors,
danmed for their kindness. Should have left her alone. Let
her turn into the bitter, lonely old crone who waited at life's
end. Don't get too close.
She was choking on tears. She barely heard the door open
behind her; wiped a sleeve across her streaked face as one
of the Proctor children padded across the floorboards. She
couldn't even remember his name. Her mind was awhirl.
`I can't sleep, Mary. May I have some water?'
She felt embarrassed, compromised, angry. `You know the
well has dried up, and I do not have time to fetch from the
stream every day. We must all do without in these troubled
times.'
`I am thirsty.'
`Do as you are told!' she cried. `Go back to your bed, before
I smack you!' She raised a threatening hand and he
scampered away. She froze, looked at what she was doing,
sobbed again and collapsed back on to her hands and
knees. Warm tendrils caressed her neck. The earlv-niorning
sun was straining to penetrate the shutters. The boy
remmded her of his father. She breathed deeply and tried to
calm herself, to put her shattered thoughts back into order.
John Proctor loomed at their centre. Her surrogate
parent. He had been good to her and fair, accepting Mary
mto his home. Treating her as his own. Her first real faimilv.
He had whipped her only when she had misbehaved. She
had condemned him to imprisonment and almost certain
death in return. Not a minute passed that it did not grieve
her. But what else could she have done? For all his
superficial generosity; her master had a cruel temper. And
he practised the black arts. Though she doubted it
sometimes, she had seen this to be true. The Bible
prescribed only one punishment for such sins.john Proctor
deserved his death.
Just as Susan deserved it too.
She had revealed her true nature now, and it was a further
sadness upon young Mary's shoulders. Her duty was clear.
She mourned for the passing of another friend, for Susan
had to be punished. It was not what Mary wanted. It was
simply what must be.

Barbara lay back on the Doctor's bed, stretching her limbs
and luxuriating in the feel of the soft, straw-packed
mattress. Her muscles ached from a night spent outdoors
with Ian, in the glow of the witches' dwindling fire, hardly
daring to doze. The sun had brought its fresh perspective,
at last, and enabled the two teachers to reach Salem Village
without further difficulty. After all that, they had found the
Doctor and Susan alone and unharmed in a guest room at
the inn. The Doctor was not pleased to see them, and
Barbara closed her weary eyes and tried to ignore the
predictable argument that flared between the two men. As
voices were raised, Susan stirred on the other bed and
groaned, bringing a halt to the exchange. -
She has been like this since yesterday,' said the Doctor, as
the three adults gathered around the sleeping girl and
exchanged concerned looks. I imagine she has picked up
some local ailment: influenza or whatnot. If she would
come back to the TARDIS with me. I could run a proper
diagnosis. But she is an obstinate child.'
`Hmm. I wonder where she gets that from,' mused Ian.
The Doctor shot him a sharp look.
Susan's eyelids flickered and she muttered something
that sounded like, `I'm sorry, Mary, I didn't mean to do it.'
`Just what is going on here, Doctor?' asked Barbara.
`Going on? I'm not sure that anything is going on,as you
put it.' He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
`You know what I mean. Something's wrong.'
`We actually came across a coven in the forest,' said Ian.
`Oh, did you?' The Doctor's eyebrows shot up to his
hairline now, and he seemed to be straining not to laugh.
`Three grown women, dancing around a fire and casting
spells,' said Barbara. `They even tried to put a curse on us.'
`Something's gone wrong with history, hasn't it, Doctor?'
`Oh? And what makes you think that, Chesterton?'
`Well...' Ian clearly hadn't expected to have to explain it.
He struggled for words, making vague circling motions
with his hand. `This isn't what's supposed to have
happened. is it? I mean. there were no actual witches in
Salem. were there?'
'Oh my dear boy' said the Doctor - and this time he
actually did laugh - no witches? None at all? Whatever
could have given you such a preposterous idea?

Samuel Parris marched briskly into the parsonage and flung
his cloak and hat on to their pegs. He would have gone
straight upstairs, to look in on his ailing wife before settling
to work in his study, but the unusual silence bothered him.
Instead, he flung open the door to the main room and was
aggrieved to find his niece dozing at the spinning wheel.
`Abigail!' he thundered. She jerked upright, her foot
reflexively and haif-heartedly working the treadle. The
purple rims of her eyes stood out against the sallow
complexion of her skin. Her long blonde hair was in
disarray and it seemed she had been crying. Her apron and
long-gown were dishevelled. A wave  of sympathy
threatened to soften Parris's attitude, but he denied it. It
would do the girl no good to be cosseted. `No charge of
mine sits idle where there is God's work to be done.Would
you allow the Devil further into your heart?'
`N-no, sir.'
`Then `tis time you dedicated yourself, girl - else surely
you will be damned to the pits of Hell.'
`I was only sleeping, Uncle. I am fair tired.'
`Do not question God's edicts, child!' He glared at her and,
under the force of his scorn, she renewed her efforts. `It is
partly your doing that Tituba rots in the witches' jail and I
have had to send Betty away. There is much to be done
here. Abigail, and only the Devil will be served if you choose
to shirk your responsibilities.'
She was working now with as much vigour as she could
muster, and Parris watched in satisfaction. The stench of evil
still clung to her, but that evil might yet be driven out. She
could be saved.
Sometimes,' he grumbled, just loud enough for her to
hear, I ask myself what your poor dead parents would think
of you, that cavorts in the forest and invites Satan into our
midst:

What we are seeing here: said the Doctor, `is a classic
outbreak of hysteria: He settled back in his chair and
interlaced his fingers across his chest, tapping his free
thumbs together. `And, of course, I mean that in the strictest
medical sense. It's hardly surprising, in such a devoutly
puritanical colony. Repressed emotions have a nasty habit
of  bubbling to the surface,  often with drastic
consequences.'
`Yes, I've heard that before,' said Barbara. `It explains why
the girls are having fits, anyway.'
`And girls in particular,' said the Doctor. `Boys, at least, are
allowed some outlets for youthful exuberance: hunting and
the like.'
`What about the women in the forest?'
The Doctor waved a gently admonishing finger. `You're
getting ahead of yourself, my dear. The thing we need to ask
is how the villagers interpret what is happening to them.
They don't have the knowledge to diagnose hysteria as we
can. To their eyes, the girls' fits are far too severe to be
natural at air
But witchcraft seems a bit of an unlikely conclusion: said Ian.
Susan murmured something to herself and rolled over.
Not in this time and place. To the people here. the occult
has a very real presence. It is as tangible as the chairs we are
sitting in. the walls about us. This colony is founded on just
such a tenet. And, thanks to the teachings of Parns anu Ins
ilk, every person in it believes implicitly in the existence of
a God and a Devil, of Heaven and Hell. Every day of their
lives, they fear punishment for their sins. So if any
occurrence cannot be explained away by their limited
science, then what else are they to make of it, hnim?'
Ian chewed on his lip thoughtfully. `I can accept that, I
suppose. And aren't hallucinations supposed to be one
symptom of hysteria?'
`Precisely, my boy, precisely. The children see witches
because that is what they fear most - just as some
Americans of your century imagined themselves abducted
by aliens?
Ian laughed hollowly. `To some English men, that really
happened.'
The Doctor coughed as if embarrassed, and stammered
slightly as he resumed his discourse. `There are other types
of delusion too. Some people, whose fits might be
outwardly less obvious, dream of suffering witchcraft
attacks, or witnessing them.'
`Or causing them,' said Barbara with sudden realisation.
The Doctor nodded encouragingly and she continued: `Of
course. If the villagers are made to feel so guilty all the time,
some could be most afraid of being visited by the Devil and
forced to join him.'
They might even welcome it,' remarked Ian. `Candy and
her friends didn't look like unwilling converts to me.'
Quite, quite.Your conventional history has it that none of
the Salem witches were guilty of that crime, simply because
your historians could not conceive of such a thing. But
guilty some of them most certainly were.'
`Not people like Rebecca Nurse, though,' protested
Barbara.
`No.' The Doctor frowned and, if they noticed his sudden
reticence, his companions didn't comment.
1 still don't understand,' said Ian. `Why would anyone
want to be a witch?'
The Doctor shrugged. `Power. The thrill of doing such an
immense wrong in such a repressive society In a perverse
way, even social standing. Suspected witches enjoyed a
certain amount of notoriety, you know, when times were
better.'
`What do you mean, power?'
`Think about it, Chesterton.Who will deny you a kindness
if they think you have the ability to cause them mischief
with a few well-chosen words or a shake of the head?'
`That's nonsense!'
`Anything but, my boy.Winters are harsh here and disease
rife. Crops fail, people and animals sicken. Whenever such
misfortune strikes, the tendency of some is to look to their
neighbours; to recall old arguments and ill wishes. That's
when the accusations start to fly. Not to mention those
who deliberately curse others.'

Bridget Bishop said something to Ann Putnam in the
marketplace,' recalled Barbara. Ann stumbled a few minutes
later and blamed Bridget. She claimed she had cursed her.'
And in all probability, my dear, she had. The woman fell
because she expected to, because she believed in this
Bridget Bishop's powers. The human brain is a complex
organ.With the right stimulus, it can even simulate illness or
bruising, if it expects to suffer them.'
So you're saying that curses can have an effect, said Ian,
on a psychosomatic level?'
`I am saying that magic works here, in every important
sense - and, this being the case, human nature is such that
some people will take advantage of it.' The Doctor beamed
with satisfaction at a point well made. `That, my friends, is
why there are witches in Salem Village.

As late afternoon segued into evening, Susan stood before
the Nurses' door and looked to Ian for reassurance before
knocking. She had woken only a few hours earlier,
astonished to fmd she had slept so long. She felt better, but
something still buzzed in the back of her head. Her mind
threw up unwanted images of cloaks and dancing and
blood. Ghost echoes of unpleasant dreams. Despite them,
she had used her new-found clarity of thought to make
plans. Ignoring her grandfather's hints about a return to the
TARDIS, she had pleaded with Ian to introduce her to
Francis Nurse. He had acceded, eventually.
Francis looked surprised to find the pair on his doorstep.
With a quick look over his shoulder, he joined them outside
and closed the door behind him. `Ian, I knew not of your return.'
`I came back just this morning. I heard about your wife.
I'm so sorry; Francis.'
A shadow of despair passed over his strong, angular face.
`It is not lost yet. We have good reason to claim that the
verdict on Rebecca was unjust. We plan to appeal to the
Governor of the colony.'
`That's good,' said Ian approvingly.
`And that's why we're here,' put in Susan. `We want to help,
in any way we can.' Francis seemed uncertain, so she
pressed on:'Dont you see? This is important to everyone. If
we can persuade your Governor that his court was wrong
about one woman.
Francis drew Ian to one side, much to Susan's annoyance.
He was ignoring her, as if she was no more than a child.
`Many things have been said about your daughter,' he
confided, in a voice still loud enough for her to hear, `and
about your own teachings. I know you to be a good, hard-
working Christian man, and yet I have heard what Susan
said to John Proctor - and the minister himself has
preached against your family at meetings. Surely you can
understand my quandary?'
`You don't want us to be associated with your campaign?'
Francis shrugged helplessly and Susan's temper boiled
over. `Can't you understand?' she cried. `They're doing the
same thing to us as they're doing to you. Spreading
rumours. Teffing lies.We're no more evil than you are.'
`We do only want to help,' Ian interjected, laying a
firm calming hand upon Susan's arm. `We have no doubt
that Rebecca is innocent.'

Francis glanced back at the house again, apparently
wondering what his friends within would think of this
development. But he had made a decision. `I suppose I am
in no position to refuse assistance, he said with a grim nod,
and I would be most grateful for yours.
Susan grinned as Francis Nurse held open the door and
welcomed his new supporters across the threshold.

My uncle is at work upstairs,' warned Abigail, drawing Mary
into the kitchen. `If he hears us and comes down, you must
say you have come to buy cheese and butter. He knows you
are left alone with the Proctor children and will not think
you idle for not making your own.'
`Oh, Abigail, `tis true I can barely cope. The work would
be hard enough, even were it not for.., what is happening.'
`You have been tormented again.' It was not a question:
rather a statement. Abigail was perceptive. Recent troubles
had taken a bright, mischievous, strong-willed eleven-year-
old girl and hardened her. She was still a girl in form, but an
adult's eyes peered out from what now seemed no more
than a pale and scrawny shell. An adult's sorrow, an adult's
wisdom. An adult's strength. Mary often turned to her for
comfort when things were at their worst, despite her
younger years. But such comfort was tempered by the
knowledge that Abigail Williams could be an implacable
foe. And that, when the Devil attacked, she became a
screaming, terrified child again.
`I was taken last night,' she admitted, trembling. `They
brought me to the field behind this very parsonage and
made me to drink of the Devil's blood, Oh, Abigail, how I
prayed for you or the minister to look out of your window
and see.'
They mock our efforts to find them. They flaunt their
wickedness before our eyes. But one day they will dare too much.'
They said I have made a covenant with the Devil, and it
cannot be broken.'
Abigail took Mary's hands and imparted some of her
strength. You did an evil thing in signing the Devil's book,
but God knows you be truly repentful of it. He will guide you.,
Mary felt herself crying. `Then where was he last night?
Why did he allow the Devil's servants to set about me so?'
She tried not to think of being held down, pinched, kicked,
punched, forced to drink... If it was to happen again, she
would surely die.
`He cannot spare us all our suffering,' said Abigail,'but if he
does believe in your goodness, then he will have given you
the power to see who tormented you.' She raised a
deliberate eyebrow. `Did he do such a thing last night?' Mary
swallowed and remained silent, but knew that she had
answered the question in so doing. `Who was it, Mary?'
`It was no one. It was dark and they were hooded.'
`If you can keep this from me, then God will not help you
to dispute the Devil's claim upon your soul.' Abigail's aspect
had darkened. She exhibited all the authority with which
her uncle preached intolerance and damnation to his
church.
`But what if we are deceived? What if Rebecca Nurse
spoke the truth? What if we are shown falsehoods, and thus
condemn good men?'
`These revelations come from God,' said Abigail. more
softly now, more sympathetic,'and if they reveal ill things of
those we have chosen to respect and trust, then this only
shows how the Devil has manipulated our hearts.'
Mary closed her eyes and shook her head, but could not
summon the arguments with which to dispute Abigail's
claims. She thought ofJohn Proctor and knew she could not
bear the responsibility of sending yet one more to join him.
But was this not God's way of testing her? Susan had
admitted to her crimes, so what doubt could there be?
`If we are to turn a blind eye to sin,' prompted Abigail.
*then we shall ourselves become sinful.' The Reverend
Parris had often spoken similar words himself, `Who is it,
Mary? Who torments you now?'
And, because she knew it was the right thing to do. Man
told her.

Ian hid his surprise at the document that was passed to
him. The words were barely legible and inconsistently
spelled. Ink had blotched in several places, obscuring some
letters. Rebecca Nurse had even added a `k' to her own
name. He had expected better of her, but then he had been
applying the standards of Coal Hill School to a society in
which writing was not yet commonplace. His own
demonstration of the skill had earned him respect; even this
painful scrawl would be looked upon as the product of a
fine mind.
He struggled through the statement, distilling meaning
from its overly formal and wordy style. Rebecca testified,
once again, to her innocence. On the matter of Deliverance
Hobbs, she claimed to have referred to her only as a fellow
prisoner, not as a fellow witch. She was `hard of hearing and
full of grief' and did not recall being questioned on the
subject. Ian nodded and passed the parchment down the
line. `It says all it should.'
`Do you think it might sway Governor Phips?' asked
thoughtful old Israel Porter.
Well it must cast some doubt upon the verdict.'
We need more than doubt,' insisted Peter Cloyse,
obstreperous as ever. We need to show Phips that
Stoughton's court is corrupt; that he has given undue
weight to so-called spectral evidence and condemned good
people to die without proof.' Cloyse's wife - Rebecca's
sister - was awaiting trial in prison, so Ian could
understand his impatience. The group had long debated
tactics before deciding to concentrate on Rebecca's appeal
above all others. Her case was the most solid and she held
the respect of many people. Once she was pardoned, the
fidelity of the court would be called into question and
others would benefit. To such as Cloyse, though, it must
have seemed a lengthy process.
To Susan, too. She was seated on the bare boards of the
floor -. so packed was the Nurses' tiny downstairs room
with friends and family that no chairs remained - and she
fidgeted impatiently through all this talk but kept her own
counsel. Ian was growing concerned about her. She seemed
pale and tired. He resolved that the pair should make their
excuses and leave soon.
`Has anyone spoken to the foreman of the jury?' he asked.

`Fisk?' said Francis.
`That's right - Thomas Fisk, isnt it? What are his feelings
about this?'
`He is a good man,' considered Francis.
`Then perhaps he can make a statement too. If he can
confirm that the decision was only reached because
Rebecca didn't answer his question; that they would have
found for her otherwise..:
It would reinforce much of what we claim; agreed Porter.
and a murmur of excitement circled the room at the idea.
`Fisk could also give the jury's reasons for the original not-
guilty verdict,' piped up Samuel Nurse, one of Rebecca and
Francis's sons. `In that way, the reversal will seem all the
more mistaken.'
And the main thing,' said Ian, `is to make it absolutely
clear that this business with Deliverance Hobbs was
the deciding factor in that change of heart. If we can
establish that beyond question, and then explain what
actually happened -,
He didn't have to conclude the sentence. The reaction
was louder this time, the group's spirits buoyed by the
almost tangible prospect of success.
`And yet we must not build our hopes too high; Francis
cautioned, raising a hand for silence. `Still, the minister
works against us in this endeavour. He walks the village and
spreads word that we would collude with Satan to see his
followers set free.'
`Hang the minister,' muttered Cloyse under his breath.
`He works only to his own ends, `tis true,' said Francis
soberly. `But we must not underestimate him. He could yet
prove to be our greatest enemy.'

Barbara was beginning to regret her own altruism. Ian and
Susan had not yet returned and, needing water, she had
insisted on collecting it herself rather than burdening the
Doctor. But the well had yielded only trickles and she had
had to make a three-mile round trip to the stream with her
heavy pail. Water sloshed over its sides and dampened her
skirts. She sighed in relief as she approached the dull lights
of Ingersoll's tavern and heard voices within. The
establishment was packed as always, and she only hoped to
negotiate the crowd and reach the stairs without inviting
attention.
In this desire, she was frustrated. One group parted to
allow her through; a second did not. She was surrounded.
She came up short and momentarily lost control of her
burden. The pail banged against a skirted leg and slopped
water on to hand-stitched shoes. Ann Putnam Senior
shrieked her disgust and Barbara became the centre of
attention. `Oh I'm sorry,' she stammered, `I didn't mean -`
`Goodwife Chesterton!' bellowed Ann, wringing out her
skirts and exaggerating every motion. `I might have known
it should be you who would contrive to cause such
misfortune. I have not forgotten how you stumbled against
me in the marketplace.'
`That was an accident too.'
`You were in league with the witch Bishop!'
`I helped you up, remember?'
`I have heard about your family now, madam. I only wish I
had known enough to avoid you when last you blighted
Salem with your presence:
You're talking nonsense!'
The crowd shifted and a heavily built man with a
moustache and a ring of unruly hair around a bald patch
took Ann in his arms. Barbara recognised Thomas Putnam
from his habitual scowl. `Why do you return to this place,
witch? What do you want with these good people?
She rounded on him. `Now listen to me. you narrow-
minded old -,
`Have a care, my husband, she seeks to curse us!' Aim
broke free of Thomas's embrace, seeming genuinely afraid,
She backed away, but was impeded by a wall of people. She
threw up her arms and turned her face away. `In the name
of the Lord, avoid!'
`I'm no witch!' protested Barbara hotly, but the tavern-
goers had closed in and she could sense their suspicion and
hostility as much as hear it in their mutterings and intakes
of breath. Nobody dared to touch her, but she felt all too
keenly the oppressive heat of their tightly packed bodies.
She was not normally claustrophobic, but she felt stifled
now by a cage of flesh. She wanted to scream or faint.
`We should call in the militia,' opined somebody. `Where is
Lieutenant Ingersoll?'
`Fetch the minister,' suggested another voice. The
mutterings grew louder. Ann Putnam made great play of
falling to her knees and offering a prayer to God.
There was something rising in the small room. A mob
mentality. An outpouring of emotion from a crowd united
by purpose. A psychological phenomenon, though it
seemed too tangible to describe thus. It was as if some force
had left each villager's soul; dozens of tiny parcels of
suspicion and spite coagulating into one invisible whole. It
hung over them, charging the atmosphere, feeding back
into its creators and magnifying the emotions of which it
was born. Ensuring that this confrontation could end only
in tragedy. It was the spirit of the witch-hunt: the product of
a community in tear. Fear of God, of the Devil and of
everything that lay in between.
The spirit poked and prodded at its progenitors, goading
them into the sort of actions that they would be unable to
explain later. But it was stricken by a sudden stern voice, a
commanding presence. An old man, yet one who exuded
strength and authority The Doctor.
`Enough!'he cried. And the spirit was fractured and lost its
hold. He was on the stairs, towering over them all. Barbara
had rarely seen him so angry. `And what do you think you
are doing, hmm? On what basis do you accuse this woman?
Have you, any of you, seen her do wrong? Have you even
heard her say anything untoward? Well, have you?'
`We have all heard of her perfidy,' said Thomas Putnam,
and there were one or two grunts of assent.
`Oh, have you indeed? Rumours, gossip, tittle-tattle! And
you would condemn an innocent woman on such so-called
evidence?'
`God would have us root out the sinners in our midst.'
`It is not God's work you have done today, my good fellow'
Thomas Putnam glared hatred at the newcomer, but
people were shifting uncomfortably and some were edging
away, gaining distance from the argument. Some people
were looking dazed and wondering what had just
happened to them The Dootorface softened and he
reached out to his companion 'Come along. my dear:
'This time, a passage was cleared for her She staggered
along it with her water keeping her eves downcast. She
took a deep breath and released it gratefully as she joined
the Doctor and he swept her up the stairs. He paused to
give one last word of advice to her erstwhile tormentors.
He spoke quietly. but his voice carried easily through thick silence.
Remember - it is far better to let the guilty go
unpunished than to make the innocent suffer.'

When supper did not arrive, Parris left his study and strode
downstairs to the kitchen. His ire rose at the sight of
Abigail, asleep on a stool, hair splayed across the working
surface. Stew boiled over a hungry fire, flames lapping at
the pot like hissing demons awaiting a chance to invade his
good house.
He roared his niece's name and wrenched her to her feet.
`By God, what will it take to turn you from this sinful path?'
`Oh, Uncle, I am sorry, I...' She looked startled and
confused. She was trying to shake the sleep from her head.
`You deserve what ills befall you, Abigail.You do naught to
return God's love for you with your slothfulness!'
`No!' shouted Abigail. `God has no love for me. Nobody has!'
`How dare you say such a thing?'
`You sent Betty away when the Devil turned his sights
upon her, and she is molested no more.Yet you make me to
stay here and suffer.'

You are older than Betty.Your duty is to confront this evil.'
No. I am no daughter of yours, and you do not love me as one.'
`Abigail!'
Too late. She pushed past him and would have hurled
herself on to the fire had he not seized her in time. He
turned her around and slapped her across the face,
regretting his haste almost instantly. She was not in control
of her actions. The demons had taken her again.
One remnant of his niece peered through a mask of hate,
as she put a hand to her cheek, stung, and threatened to cry.
`I am sorry, Uncle, I do not know what... I don't.., no!' She
jerked as if struck again. `No, do not do this to me. Please, no
more. No more!'
She fell to her knees, twitching and yelping at each new
phantom blow. The witches were attacking her, though she
was but a child and could not deserve such pain. Parris
rushed to her side and assured her of his love, but could
offer no more than cold comfort. And, eventually,
retribution. `What have I done to you, that you would treat
me so?' pleaded Abigail. `Oh God, please help me. In the
name of the Lord, avoid. Avoid!'
Then her pleas were reduced to mere babbling; her
convulsions became more frequent and violent. Parris
shook her and asked the question. The one that mattered.
`Who does this? Who torments you this time?'
`S-Susan,' she whispered. `Susan Ches-'
Then her tongue was stopped as the fit began in earnest.

2 July 1692

From the parsonage, it takes but two minutes to reach the
highest point of Salem Village. Past Ingersolls tavern lies the
crossroads, whereon meetinghouse and watchtower stand
at opposite corners, twin guardians of soul and bod~ From
here, verdant fields slope all ways, freckled with the simple
homes of local farmers. The wooden buildings become
more widely spread, and smaller to the eye, with distance.
Only the languid trails from brick chimneys provide proof
that they are more than the children's toys they appear to
be. The morning sun is greeted by tranquillity, but has scant
time to enjoy it.
As soon as light allows, the colonists swarm about their
business. They spill from the houses, take to shovel and
plough. They tend to their herds, gather milk and water and
crops. Samuel Parris stands and watches their black shapes
against nature's pastel shades, performing their duties with
almost mechanical familiarity. The drudge of everyday life,
accepted with the knowledge that God will bless their
endeavours. As it should be.
But lonely servants desire more than spiritual succour. And
so it is that, soon enough, routine is broken and the patterns
of life become haphazard. Distant figures begin to converge;
paths are crossed. They call on neighbours to ask for advice,
barter for goods, any reason they can find. And, most
importantly, they talk. Did you hear that Giles Corey seeks to
recant his accusation of his wife? Did you see how Sarah
Good swore at the court? What news of the poor children?
Speculation and rumour are rife, pumped around the
village like blood around arteries. But the heart has been
displaced. At the crossroads, Parris stands and prays for a
community fragmented, directionless, at war with itself. The
flow of information oft-times passes him by now. His
services are better attended than ever, but polluted by
whispered suspicions. His sermons have become more
strident, his hectoring more forceful. But Sarah Cloyse still
stormed out of the meetinghouse when he preached
against her sister, Rebecca Nurse. And they stifi talk of the
rising of the Devil in his own home. Goodwife Cloyse is in
the witches' jail now, of course. But, as to the other, is that
not precisely Satan's plan? The village cannot be saved if its
people will not trust in their minister's guidance.
Samuel Parris works harder than any of them, in these
dying days. He seeks out information that will not come to
him unbidden, makes difficult decisions - with the help and
blessing of God, of course - and uses what considerable
influence he still has to guide events along their best
course. Today, his mind is occupied by the Chestertons. He
cannot forget how the outbreak of strife coincided so
closely with their first visit to the colony. And now they
have returned, to spread their heresies anew.
Parris needs time to consider how best to act. Susan, he
has long suspected, is under the malign influence of higher
forces. The responsibility for her actions lies with her
parents. The Chesterton family could provide the key to
ending this horror, and he must be sure to deal with them
appropriately. For the sake of his community For the sake of
God. And most of all, for his own sake.

How couid the native populace stand this, week after
week? The sun be-at down on dry, cracked earth and Susan
itched ferociously beneath her tight bodice The light, fresh
chuckling of the depleted brook made her long for an ice-
cold shower, or at least a bath. She felt drained and dirty
Red circles crowded her vision. Shaking her head, she
collapsed against the rail of the old bridge. Ian was by her
side instantly.
`Hey, steady on, Susan. What's wrong?'
`It's nothing,' she claimed, not even convincing herself.
`You should do as the Doctor said, you know. Get some rest,'
`But what about -?`
`Go back to the inn,' he said firmly. `I'll do what I can to
help Francis.'
`Do you promise?'
`I promise. Now come on, let's get you back to bed:
Susan shrugged off his supportive arm, `No, I can make it,
\bu go on ahead. They'll be expecting us.'
He peered at her suspiciously, perhaps suspecting the
truth. The Nurses' home lay just over the bridge; they were
almost in sight of it. If they both turned back now,
Grandfather might find a way of using Susan's illness to
force a change of plan. She would rest easier knowing that
Ian, at least, had completed the journey; that something was
being done.
`Okay,' he said fmally, reluctantly, `if you're sure.'
She grinned and nodded, willing herself to remain
upright just until he was out of sight. She needn't have
worried. She felt in much better health just facing the
prospect of relaxation. She had not relished the idea of
another day spent in Francis's stifling main room, listening
to the same arguments over and over. Perhaps she could
return to the TARDIS after all: bask in its cool light, free
herself from this restrictive clothing, scrub the grime from
her skin. Sleep off her tenacious headache and emerge,
refreshed, for the next stage of battle. Perhaps.
The sight of Mary Warren stole the new-found buoyancy
from her step. The young woman cut an undignified figure
in her frenzied dash down the narrow dirt-track road from
the tavern. ~Susan,' she panted, slowing to a walk as she
approached. `Susan, thank goodness I have caught you. I
must speak with you on a matter of some import.'
`If you've seen more so-called witches, I don't want to
hear it.'
Mary shook her head, too breathless to speak for a
second. `I... I know I did not welcome you as I should,
when last we met. I can understand your beliefs, Susan. I
used to share them. I used to believe that witches did not
exist, and that the accusations made were no more than the
basest of lies.'
`Then why -,
`You have not been tormented as have I!'
`Mary what is it?' asked Susan. The skin of her neck was
suddenly prickling with the prospect of bad news. `What's
wrong?'
`When did we last meet? Please answer me, Susan, I must
know.'
`Why, on Thursday.'
`Night or day?'
`Day, of course. In your home:
Oh Susan, I fear the Devil wears your shape*
`Mary no!'
`It is true. I saw it myself. You - he - carried me to the
witches' congregation and bade me drink his blood. And,
Susan, the worst of it is this: that Abigail made me tell.'
`The Devil's blood?'An image flashed across Susans mind.
She was holding a goblet. A silver goblet. Red inside. And
viscous.
`Do you not hear me? She will tell it to her uncle for sure.
They will swear out a complaint against you.We must speak
to them first, tell them what a mistake they would make:
`We were in the field,' said Susan suddenly, not sure where
the words were coming from. `Behind the parsonage:
Another fleeting memory `We were holding you down. Oh.
Mary I wouldn't do that to you, but I remember. It's all so
hazy, though.'
Mary stared at her, horrified, and Susan could not blame
her. These terrible thoughts - these memories? - were
bubbling up inside her, threatening to erupt, to roll over her
and transform her into something... different. Something
evil. `Your familiar,' recalled Mary, almost speechless, backing
away now. `The bird, with your face, sucking on my blood.'
`I remember,' gasped Susan. And she did, the shared
experience belying the dreamlike unreality that shrouded
the events. `But how is it possible? Mary none of those
things could have happened.'
`So you say.' Close to tears now.'But we both saw them.We
both know. Oh, Susan, if you claim you had no hand in these
doings, then I must believe you. But can you not see it? The
Devil takes not merely your shape, but your soul too. We
must see the minister.You must repent of your sins.You are
one of us now, one of the afflicted.'
`No!' They were both crying, Susan with the sheer
frustration of having lost control; of being trapped in a
world that no longer bowed to the rules of logic. They
hugged each other tightly and a percussion of lights and
sound played across Susan's forehead, threatening to drown
out Mary's whispered, frightened prayer.
Within seconds, and without much conscious thought,
she was whispering the prayer herself.

The first thing to impress itself upon the Doctor, as he
descended the stone steps into the dungeon, was the
stench. Salem Prison had been built to contain criminals,
not to attend to their health. Hygiene was a low priority.
Mixed odours of sweat and excrement mingled with the
rank smell of despair. He concentrated on keeping his
footing, using his cane to feel out a path down the uneven
stairs. These dungeons, beneath the prison building, had
been hewn out of bedrock. The walls were rough and slimy
and pools of fetid water had gathered in the hollows of the
ground. Flickering torches made little effort to drive back
the darkness. As if to complete the image, a distant wail and
a steady drip met the Doctor's ears.
`I am perfectly capable of walking by myself, thank you,'
he protested tetchily as his escort drove him on with a
shove. The jailer just grunted and pushed him again. He
stumbled into a heavy wooden door fixed across what,
despite its near-symmetry, was little more than a cave
mouth. Through its barred window, he could see that five or
six hunched, ragged figures - barely recognisable as human
beings - lay in the gloom beyond. A girl, no older than four.
rolled over in uneasy sleep and was brought up short by
chains. A rat skittered between two more of the shapeless
mounds. The Doctor was transfixed by the image. appalled
at the extent of their suffering. He berated himself inwardly
for wanting to help. He must not interfere.
Then a filthy hand reached through the bars and seized
his throat.
The Doctor spluttered, caught by surprise. `Come to gloat
at our misfortune, have you?' shrieked a coarse female
voice. `A pox upon you and your family. May your stinking
bones rot in Hell!' The jailer was shouting something too,
and fumbling with a bunch of keys. But the woman's grip
was weak and soon broken. The Doctor pulled away from
her and she let out a hoarse scream of anger and frustration,
straining at the chains that bound her to the wall. The
Doctor loosened his tie and regained control of his
breathing. Then he heard a sharp crack and a cry of pain.
The jailer was inside the cell now, and the force of his
blow had knocked the thin, malnourished prisoner to the
ground. She spat at him and was rewarded with a boot to
her stomach. As she keeled over, her attacker rained blow
after blow upon her, with both fists and feet. She folded into
a quivering ball and began to plead for mercy, but the
punishment continued. The Doctor reacted instinctively.
`Leave that poor woman alone,' he bellowed, rushing into
the affray and holding back the burly man's arm, hoping to
keep his fist from landing again. `She has done no harm.' But
he was rewarded by a casual flexing of muscles and a
sweeping motion that propelled him backward into the wall.
`You have no authority here,' the jailer threatened,
looming over him. `I will treat these prisoners as I wish, and
as they deserve: As if to prove his point, he aimed a final,
brutal kick at the woman's ribs. She whimpered and was
stilt The Doctor said nothing as he was bustled back
through the gate. It was not his business, he reminded
himself. Not his place. not his time. So what was he doing here?
it was the Nurse woman you wanted to see, yes?'
`That is correct, my good fellow: He brushed down his
cloak and attempted to retain a dignified air despite the
humiliation of his recent handling. `She is a good friend of
my family.'
`Be glad I allow this visit and remain silent,' grunted the
jailer. He beckoned him onward, deeper into the dungeon.
The Doctor glanced back over his shoulder. The woman
had not moved from her foetal position, nor had her
cellmates so much as raised a head between them to see
what had happened. The young girl was awake now and
she cried into a filthy, torn sleeve,

`Ian Chesterton!'
Parris bellowed the name, and Ian leapt to his feet, startled
by the minister's sudden presence. When Francis had gone
to answer his door, the assembled group had assumed that
more supporters had arrived. The appearance of Parris, and
of Thomas Putnam, had taken them by surprise and had
decidedly dampened the hopeful atmosphere
`What business have you here? Parris thundered
`This is the man of whom you spoke? Putnam asked him.
`Oh, but this says something of your campaign: sn:~-ted
Parris, addressing Francis, `that I fmd you in collusion with
such as he.'
Such as what?' returned Francis angrily.
`A self-avowed follower of Satan!'
`I beg your pardon!' interrupted Ian. `I have never said
anything of the kind, and certainly not to you.'
Goodman Chesterton is as innocent of these things as is my wife.'
Peter Cloyse joined in the attack. `As are many of those
that you would condemn in your ignorance:
`If you believe such words, then you are a fool or a sinner.
Either way, you will invite the Devil into your heart.' Parris
rounded on Ian, clearly seeing him as the primary threat.
`You have a nerve, sir, to come back here and see what
misery you have wrought.'
`I beg your pardon?'
`Your sermons are not welcome here, Mr Parris.' Cold fury
had brought Francis Nurse to life, imbuing him with more
spirit than Ian had thought him to possess. He scowled at
Thomas Putnam, who had remained darkly silent. `And nor
is he that made the girls to cry out against poor Rebecca.'
`The girls cried out only because they were tormented.'
Francis and Putnam squared up to each other, but Paths
interceded. Striding into the centre of the room, he turned
to glare at each of its occupants in turn, `Gentlemen, ladies,
I have not come here to engage in this squabbling. I have
heard of your efforts to overturn the fair rulings of the court
and I would advise you against so betraying God's will,
much less by consorting with his enemies.
`The only people who would will such malice upon their
neighbours: growled Francis. are the Putnam clan and their
cowardly allies'.
`Why must you set yourselves against me? cried Parris. `It
is for the good of all that we should confront and fight the
evil in our midst, however painful it may prove.' He looked
around for support. but found none in the glowers of his audience.
`I think it's time you both left: said Ian firmly,'as Goodman
Nurse has requested: He drew himself up to his full
impressive height and stared down at the minister. Parris
soon turned away and nodded curtly to his companion.
`The warning has been delivered,' he said, as they swept
out of the room. Hostility gave way to relief at the sound of
a closing door.
Israel Porter broke the silence. `We must act quickly, now
we know it is the minister's intention to move against us.'
Francis nodded. `Ian, perhaps you would be so kind as to
accompany me to Fisk's home. I would have want of your
keen mind and tongue as we ask him to make his statement.'
`Of course,' said Ian. `I'd be happy to help in any way I can.'
`It pleases me to hear you say that,' said Francis, `because I
have yet one more boon to ask of you.'
`Doctor!'
Rebecca's tone was almost reverential. She stumbled
towards him through the haif-hghr. strairnng to see as if she
could not believe what her eves told her He was somewhat
taken aback himself Though he had seen the conditions of
other pnsoners. he had harWv been able to imagine her in
such a state Her noble beanng had been replaced by the
painful. chain-hampered gait of the defeated and abused.
she was filthy, and her clothes had been reduced to rags.
And yet still his arrival lit a spark or hope in her eyes. He
wished he could allow himself to fan that fledgling flame.
To see it extinguished now would be a shame indeed.
`I had given up hoping that you would ever return.'
'I had to see you,' said the Doctor. One last time, he thought.
`You have heard of -,
He nodded quickly. `I know what has happened.'
She gripped the bars that separated them and asked
earnestly, `What sin have I committed to deserve such a
fate?' It was an honest question, and she expected him to
have the answer.
He thought about it for a long while, embarrassed by her
faith but not wanting to disappoint her. `My dear lady,' he
said gently, `we do not always deserve the cruelty of our
fellow man.'
`Do you mean to say I do not suffer God's judgment? May
I still go and sit at his right hand?'
`I'm afraid only you can answer that.'
`I have tried to lead a good life,' said Rebecca. `I have
attended church services regularly. And yet, sometimes in
these past months, I have questioned God. Oh, Doctor, I
know I must die and I am not afraid of it, but I could not
bear to know that I have failed his test. And what of Francis
and my dear children? How grievous it would be for them
if I were to leave the family name blackened:
`It might not come to that,' said the Doctor. He had wanted
to bring her solace, but the words hung between them like
accusations. Liar. Fraud. The nineteenth of July. he thought,
and wished he could not remember the date. A Tuesday, less
than three weeks distant. Five women in a cart on Prison
Lane, still in chains. A last taste of sweet air on the short
journey to Gallows Hill. A bloodthirsty crowd around the
sturdy oak tree. A rope around Rebecca Nurses neck. She
would not know freedom again. This prison - this damp,
cold, vermin-infested hell - was the rest of her life.
They say witches cannot shed tears, Doctor, yet I have
shed enough this past week to bring an end to the drought.'
It was not fair.
`I know that dear Francis prepares an appeal against my
sentence, but I dare not hope for its success.'
He had to do something.
`It is best I accept my fate.'
Something.
`No,' said the Doctor. `Your appeal will succeed. And if it
does not, why, then we shall just have to think of something
else, shan't we? Don't give up the fight, Rebecca. Don't ever
give up fighting - and I will see you free of this place,! give
you my word on it.'
And it would have been so easy to do it, too.
But as Rebecca was taken from him, a heavy weight
settled upon the Doctor's shoulders. He had been
impulsive. Stupid, even. He could not do what he had
promised He must not, though every instinct of his being
protested that he should. Life was not fair. Time was not fair.
It occured to him that this was how Susan felt.
He felt wretched

Susan ran. though she did not know to where She couldn't
go back to the Ship: it was too far and she felt too weak. She
couldnt go back to the tavern: Barbara might be there and
she needed so much to be alone.
How could they carry on as if the world wasn't falling
aparti As if everything still made sense?
She had not reached the parsonage door. She could not
hear to see Parris and to hear his words of condemnation,
his unshakable convictions being trapped in her head,
waging war on her beliefs. She had torn away from Mary,
with her prophecies of damnation and theories of the
occult being drip-drip-dripped into her mind until she
didn't know what was real and what fantasy. She wanted to
escape her own thoughts, memories, nightmares, in the same way.
So Susan ran, with neither aim nor reason. As if she could
outrun her own confusion and hurt. As if the world might
leave her alone. And, when it did not, she found a fence to
cry behind instead.
And there, at last, the Doctor found her.

Ian rode on horseback behind Francis, clinging to the older
man's waist and mentally reappraising the benefits of
travelling on foot. But his discomfort was forgotten at the
sight and sounds of a commotion ahead. The constables, it
seemed, had made an arrest. But their prisoner was resisting
them. Only as they parted for a second did Ian recognise the
screaming, spitting bundle of fury in their midst as Candy,
the witches' leader from the forest. And, in that instant, she
saw him too.
Somehow, Candy broke free of her would-be captors and
hurtled towards Ian. venom in her eyes. She was yelling
something, but her voice was hoarse and he couldn't make
out the words. He didnt have to. to understand his peril. He
scrambled to get off the horse, feeling too exposed and
vulnerable upon it. His leg caught on a saddlebag and he
tumbled straight into Candvs reach. She flailed wildly,
tearing at his skin and his hair, swearing at him all the while.
He fought a defensive battle, trying to push her away - until,
to his relief, the constables caught up with her and
reasserted their authority.
The black woman screamed as she was borne down
beneath the weight of five muscular men. Even as he wiped
blood from his cheek, supported by a concerned Francis,
Ian winced to see Candy's head being driven painfully into
the ground. Still, her eyes were fixed upon him hatefully,
and she roared her threats. `You were warned, Goodman.
You were told what would befall you if you breathed a word
of what you saw. You are cursed now. The Devil won't forget!'
It seemed pointless for Ian to protest that he had had no
part in her arrest. She was, after all, being taken to a
probable death. Still, as Candy was dragged away, her words
collapsing into sobs, he couldn't help but feel a deep chill
across his shoulders. A saying from his own time occurred
to him: There, but for the grace of God,
But God, he knew, had nothing to do with any of this
Abigail identified her attacker. I tell you There is no doubt:
And yet, Mr Parris, you rely once more upon spectral evidence.'
`I witnessed her torment, Mr Mather. I saw with my own
eves what Susan Chesterton did to my beloved niece, and I
could do naught but stand by helpless. God demands that
justice be done!'
The discussion drifted towards the finer points of New
England law, and Abigail could not understand much of it.
She was not helped by the fact that words were lost
through the thick oak door of her uncles study, nor by her
own reluctance to climb the stairs beyond their turning
point lest someone emerge from that door. The soft-spoken
reasoning of Cotton Mather. a high-ranking Boston
clergyman who had taken an interest in Salem's troubles,
was especially hard to discern. And it was that which
concerned her the most. Parris, she knew, was on her side -
and the third member of the gathering, Chief-Justice
Stoughton, had seen the girls' fits often enough to believe in
their occult causes. But Mather was an unknown quantity,
and his calls for physical proof of the witches' guilt might
see an unfortunate end to this business yet.
`I would proceed with care in the matter of accusing a
child,' said Cotton Mather. `The Warren girl, I recall, was once
also thought to have signed her name to the Devil's book.'
Stoughton reacted defensively to this slight on his court.
`She was indeed seized by evil, Mr Mather, and we did right
to confront and expel it. Through our prompt actions, Mary
Warren was saved and she now sides with the angels.'
Beside which,' said Parris,'a tender age does not preclude
the possibility of sin. Nobody doubts the guilt of Dorcas Good.'
Mather sighed. `A tragic case indeed. And vet, tis true that
the craft may pass from mother to daughter:
`Or from father, said Parris. Thomas Putnam and I have
borne witness to the heresies and disrespect of Goodman
Chesterton. He once told me. in as many words, that he
follows the teachings of a false bible. I believe, in this case,
that the father is responsible for the ill deeds of the
daughter; that Susan might even be saved, if we were to
excise this malefic influence from her life.'
`And yet we have no direct proof against the father,'
Cotton Mather reminded him.
`He involves himself with the supporters of Rebecca
Nurse. If he were to be arrested, it would hinder their
attempts to undermine the court's authority, and this can
only prove good for the community.' Parris knew what he
was saying. Stoughton would be easily tempted to his side
by such a prospect.
Mather, however, still thought overmuch. `I would speak to
the child now, ere we make a decision.'
Abigail scurried downstairs, her movements covered by
the scraping of chairs from above. By the time the grim trio
arrived at the kitchen door, she was busily scrubbing the
floor. She pretended not to see them at first, then scrambled
to her feet and gave an apologetic curtsy. Parris rewarded
her diligence with a tiny smile, and told her she may rest a
while now as a colleague would have words with her.
Mather spoke to Abigail kindly and bade her perch on a
high stool. He had a round, gentle face, hut h was hardened
by an alert intelligence that could prove Eu he dangerous.
`Abigail,' he said, `I do not seek to add to your burdens, but
it is urgent you tell me what occurred here last night. Can
you do that?'
She nodded dumbly and collected her words, squirming
inwardly beneath his gaze. `Oh sir, `twas awful. Susan's spirit
came into this very room, and with the minister present
too. It knows no shame. It slapped my face and pinched my
arms and legs. It bit my hand. Look, the marks are still fresh.'
She proffered her right hand for inspection. Stoughton
gasped at the small circle of tooth marks in her flesh. Parris
said nothing, though he had not seen them before. Nor did
Mather give a reaction, much as she looked for one.
Why would Susan do such a thing to you, Abigail?'
She said... she knew that Mary had told me.'
`Told you of what?'
`That Susan had attacked her also, but two nights since.'
`You did not speak of this to me!' cried Parris.
`It is true, I swear it. Ask her. Ask Mary. Susan put her on
her broomstick and carried her to the witches' church,
behind this very building. She bade her drink the Devil's
blood and hurt her grievously, but Mary resisted as we all
must resist these demons.' She broke into tears. `Mary told
me what had happened and I should have told you, Uncle,
I know I should, but I was afeared. Susan came to me, as to
Mary. She said that, if I was to tell on her, her father would
be displeased and he would punish me unto death.'

Mather was suddenly interested. `Her father, you say?'
Abigail resisted the urge to smile. She had hooked him.
She looked directly into her interrogator's eyes and said,
Yes, sir. He was here too, standing by the window over
there, in the very spot that the minister stands now,
laughing as his apprentice turned her magics upon me. Oh,
please do not condemn Susan, sir, for she is bedeviled as
was Mary herself once. As once were we all, when the Devil
made us to do his work in the forest:
You say that Susan's father controls her?' said Parris eagerly.
Goodman Chesterton is a warlock, sir. And, unless he be
clapped in irons, then surely he will kill me for revealing it.'

`Don't expect me to wait on you two every time we visit
Earth's past,' said Barbara good-humouredly as she laid
pewter plates in front of the Doctor and Ian before sitting
down to her own meal. `It's taken me all afternoon to
prepare that salad, what with going into town for the
ingredients and finding water to wash them in.'
Ian grinned. `Two and a half centuries before women's lib,  eh?'
`The important thing,' said the Doctor, munching on a
spoonful of lettuce, `is that you threw off suspicion. It is
vitally important that we appear to be a normal family.'
`Which means fewer meals bought in the bar downstairs
and more prepared for us by our little woman here.'
`Oh, you male chauvinist, Ian Chesterton!'
`Just applying the standards of the time,' said Ian cheekily.
`I think it's a bit late to worry about appearing normal

though, Doctor,' said Barbara seriously, I mean. no one said
anything today - there were no more incidents, thank
goodness - but I heard a lot of whispering behind my back
'So long as it goes no further,' said Ian
Quite,' agreed the Doctor. `However. I think we should be
aiming to leave as soon as possible, if only for the sake of
Susan's health.'
Yes, what is wrong with Susan?' asked Ian. She was asleep
in the other room: the one they had booked in Ian and
Barbara's name, though in practice Barbara shared it with
the girl.
`It's to do with her telepathy, isn't it, Doctor?' Barbara
recalled their adventure with the Sensorites, in which Susan
had demonstrated unsuspected mental abilities. She didn't
like to think about it. It had been a rare reminder that,
despiteoutward appearances, the Doctor and his
granddaughter were not human. She didn't know what they
were,
`Indeed.' The Doctor steepled his fingers together and
rested his head against their tips. After a moment's
cogitation, he began to explain. `I'm afraid I should have
anticipated this. My granddaughter is still at a vulnerable
stage. These powers of hers are developing, but she lacks
the maturity to handle them. We are in the midst of an
outbreak of hysteria and her mind is being bombarded by
strong, forceful emotions and images. She is sharing in the
delusions of the victims; in some cases, even feeding them.'
`With some sort of... psychic feedback, you mean?'
`That's right, Chesterton, that's right. She and this friend of
hers, this Mary Warren, even shared a nightmare.'

Poor Susan,' said Ian. `It must have been terrifying.'
Can you help her?' asked Barbara.
`I have placed her in a mild trance: installed some blocks
in her mind. She is sleeping peacefully for now. But we must
return her to the Ship. She is ifi-equipped to survive here for
too long.'
Do we leave tonight?
`I wish we could, my dear. I wish we could. But to reach
the forest, we would have to pass through a packed bar
downstairs - and certain people might be suspicious if we
were to try another moonlight flit. No. I think the early
hours of tomorrow will be safer:
Theres one problem, said Ian. `I made a promise to
Francis.'
The Doctor looked immediately suspicious. `Francis Nurse?'
`Yes. I told him I'd go with him to Boston, to present our
appeal to the Governor. We're leaving tomorrow morning
and probably won't be back till Monday night.'
`It will do your cause no good, my boy. No good at all.'
`But it can't do any harm, can it? And I made him a promise.'
Barbara watched the Doctor's reaction closely. He did not
seem pleased at this turn of events. `We could take Susan
back to the Ship and wait for Ian there,' she suggested.'She'd
be more willing to go if she knew that something was being
done about Rebecca.'
`And who knows?' said Ian. `We might change history after
all. We have some pretty convincing evidence on our side.
Francis and I even talked to the foreman of Rebecca's jury
today, and he's promised to make a statement that as good
as says he gave the wrong verdict
The Doctors eyes' were hooded, his thoughts his own, but
he nodded slowly, 'Very well, my boy, very well. Iagree
to your plan - but for one small detail. I would be happier
if you could remain with Susan. She might have need of
your strength if your flight from here does not go
undetected.
Then what about Francis?
The Doctor took a deep breath, and every nerve along
Barbara's spine tingled. He was about to make an
announcement of some import - the result of a long-
considered decision. `I will ride to Boston with Francis
myself. I will help your friends to present this appeal of
yours. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure that
Rebecca Nurse receives her pardon.'

3 July 1692

Irregular streams of people converged on the meeting-
house and formed a loose-knit group at its door. Ian eyed
them suspiciously as he cut across the flow. He had thought
the witch trials finished for now, and such a flurry of
activity was otherwise unusual at this hour of the morning.
He headed for the tavern, on the far side of the road, and
ascended its stairs in deep thought. He shook his head
ruefully as he reached a surprisingly obvious conclusion.
`It's Sunday,' he announced to Barbara and Susan as he
entered their room. `Everybody's going to church.'
`That should make it easier to slip away, shouldn't it?'

Susan was brighter and happier than she had seemed in
days - thanks to the Doctor's ministrations, presumably.
Not at the moment, no. There are too many people out
there. If we leave the tavern now but turn away from the
meetinghouse, they're bound to see us and wonder what
were up to. Even if we wait till the service starts, there's still
the watchiower.'
Its the worst possible time to go. isn't it?' said Barbara.
Well draw attention whatever we do:
We could just wait here and keep our heads down. said
Susan.
Barbara shook her head. No, what if were missed at the
service? What if somebody comes for us? They take their
prayers seriously here. If we're absent from church without
a good reason, we could be arrested on the spot and flogged.'
`Charming,' said Ian.
They all considered the situation for a minute, before
Barbara asked, `Did the Doctor get off all right?'
Ian nodded. `No problems there. I don't suppose Francis is
too worried about missing church.'
`It's probably why he chose this morning to leave,' said
Barbara. `An act of defiance against Parris. Anyway, the main
thing is that the Doctor's out of the way, and he won't be
coming back to the village. Whatever we do, it can't
rebound on him.'
`No. We just need to reach the TARDIS and wait for him.
Without being followed, this time.' They had been lucky to
shake off Parris's tenacious pursuit during their first flight.
`We don't want a ring of militiamen around the Ship when
the Doctor returns
I don't we have a choice, then' said Barbara. 'I think
we must go to church',
'I suppose you're right.' Ian didn't relish the idea of
spending any more time here than he had to. The Doctor
had warned him that Susans condition might deteriorate
and he couldncope without the old man if that happened.
Aftersvards said Barbara, people will be leaving for all
areas of the village. We can just drift along with them.
Someone like Parris would be hard-pressed to keep tabs on us:
Then we can make a run for the forest when nobody's
looking,' Ian concluded. `It sounds like we have a plan.'
'I just hope Grandfather can do something,' said Susan
quietly.

An air of foreboding settled over Barbara as soon as she
entered the meetinghouse. Dozens of eyes were turned
upon her party; real or imagined, she did not know. She
concentrated on observing what the other arrivals were
doing. A cultural faux pas now would only add to the
feeling against them.
She had not been in this building before. In truth, it was
barely more than a hut, and there was scant room for all
who wanted to worship. The galleries were packed and, on
this level, rows of people were crushed together in high-
sided pews. She was dismayed to find, first of all, that men
and women were separated. Ian shrugged and cast her a
forlorn glance as he found a seat on the right-hand side of
the room. Barbara was pushed along with the flow towards
the left, and was alarmed to see that she had lost Susan also.
The village's youngsters, it seemed. were made to stand at
the back. Resisting the incessant pushes of those around
her, she struggled to catch a glimpse of her companion. She
was rewarded by the discovery that Susan. at least, was not
alone. She had found her friend. Man Warren.
Feeling exposed. vulnerable and a long way from the
door. Barbara took her seat and noticed, to her chagrin, that
she was immediately behind Ann Putnam and her husband.
She resolved to ignore them. playing with her hands and
studyingherowninterlaced fingers. She was
uncomfortably aware that Ann had spotted her. The
woman muttered something in Thomas's ear and shot the
newcomer a hateful glare, but said nothing.

The meetinghouse was filled to capacity, but still villagers
teemed through its doors. The air was hot and still,
suffocating. Susan longed to be far from here. The memory
of Sarah Good's trial, between these walls, and the presence
of a subdued Mary by her side churned up too many
unbearable emotions. A tingling sensation crept across the
back of her skull and she fought to control it, using the
relaxation techniques that her grandfather had taught her.
She still wanted to save the people of Salem. She still had
hope that Rebecca would survive her ordeal, even against
the will of time. But, more than anything, she wanted an
end to this. She wanted to leave.
`I will pray for you today,' whispered Mary. Susan smiled weakly.

The Reverend Parris cleared his throat for attention. He
led his congregation in prayer and Susan joined the others
in repeating each line after him. She had attended religious religious
Ceremonies before, on several worlds, but this one was
different At most - and especially at the best of them - she
had found herself bolstered by the joy and love of the
worshippers, even though she had not shared their faith.
No such emotions were created here The Purtan' litany
was long and turgid. and even Parris made little attempt to
inject it with feeling. The responses were given by rote,
almost reluctantly. This was no pleasure - rather, a duty.
The service dragged on. Susan could not see Barbara from
where she stood, but she drew regular concerned looks
from Ian. She returned them confidently, although the pain
in her head was beginning to grow and spread again. She
closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. With the villagers'
chants merging into a lulling background drone, she felt
herself drifting into dreams. She thought of the TARDIS. Of
home. Then something sharp dug into her side, between
two ribs. She stifled a yell as she was yanked back to dour reality.
The man with the stick had already passed her by and
was prodding some other poor child into wakefulness.
Susan's legs ached.
Parris announced that they were to sing a psalm.

Barbara stood awkwardly and realised, with some
discomfort, that she was expected to know the words to
the hymn. Sung with neither heart nor musical accom-
paniment, it came out as a dirge. The slow and tiring
melody would not have been pleasant. even had the voices
of the congregation not slaughtered it. She kept her lips
moving but allowed no sound to pass through them.
There were more prayers then, and more hymns. Time
dragged on interminably and she estimated that at least two
hours had passed since they had arrived. Her face smarted
with prickly heat and she was bothered by circling
mosquitoes, several of which had slipped into the building
from the nearby swamp.Whenever she was called upon to
stand, she felt nauseous She wondered how Susan must be
coping: what if her illness resurfaced? She remembered
restless children, fidgeting through school assembly, and
thought this must be a thousand times worse for the
children here. Would this meeting never end?
They sat again, and Barbara experienced blessed relief as
she realised that the praying and singing was over for a
time. Parris was delivering his sermon, and she had only to
listen. She failed in this regard, unable to concentrate on his
words. He referred to the witch trials - of this she was
dimly aware - and for the most part he seemed to be
preaching about the deserved punishment of those who
would consort with the Devil. She was forced to pay
attention when he talked of the efforts of some to overturn
`a fair decision of God's own court'. These `misguided
sinners', he said, sought to desecrate even the holy day by
so working against him when they should be in meeting.
Francis Nurse's challenge to the court's authority was
clearly a sore point with Samuel Parris. He spoke of it at
great length and with scorn. He was scared, Barbara
thought, and she found herself wondering if the efforts of
Ian and the Doctor might bear fruit after all
`you have no business in this house of god' hissed Ann
Putnam. turningonly partway towards Barbara and
speaking out of the side of her mouth Barbara sighed and
chose not to answer. It had been only a matter of time, she
supposed. before the woman felt compelled toexpress her
disapproval I have watched you, You know not even the
words to your psalms.
Barbara bridled and broke her vow of patience. Leaning
forward, she whispered harshly in Ann's ear,'I have as much
right to be here as you, with your nasty, suspicious little mind.'
Ann would surely have said more, but a gasp rose from the
rearmost section of the congregation. Something was
happening at the doors, but, no matter how both Barbara
and Ann strained, they could not see what. Belatedly
Barbara realised that Parris's sermon might provide a clue.
He was still discussing `those who would see witches walk
free amongst us', but with a peculiar emphasis now on the
church's duty to show its intolerance of such evil; `to act as
God would direct us, with neither question nor hesitation'.
`Bring the witch forward!' the minister commanded - and
suddenly, Barbara knew just who had been brought into the
meetinghouse.

Rebecca Nurse had been unable to attend church meetings
for too long. When last she had seen this house, it had been
furnished as her courtroom. Now, as she was led down its
aisle, she allowed herself to believe that, in this place of all
places, God may witness her plight and smile upon her. It
was a vain hope, she scolded herself She was not here to
receive mercy. Chains still bound her. limiting her strides.
Firm hands held her arms and kept her on course. All eyes
were upon her, and she averted her own gaze lest she
witness too much hatred, She felt nothing Her emotions
were numbed by so many acts of cruelty Whatever was
planned for her today, it would he' hut one more. The
minister, perhaps. would want to hold her up to further
ridicule, to show his community thc cvii against which they
fought. If so. then she would show only dignity and
composure She would give them no reason to believe his
words. No cause to harm more innocents.
She was brought to a halt before Parris, who had already
launched into a tirade. He reminded his congregation of the
accusations against her; of the hearing that had proved
them to be true. He spoke of Satan's conceit, to disguise his
minion as a good churchwoman. And he said more, though
Rebecca could not hear all his words. Such a traitor, Parris
concluded, had no place within this holy institution.
And that was when, at last, Rebecca understood.
She might have realised it sooner, had it not seemed
inconceivable. She had been unable to imagine a worse fate
than she had already suffered: imprisonment, torture,
deprivation, disgrace, the suffering of friends and family. She
had had but one source of solace, and this she had thought
eternal. She was a member of the church. She believed. And,
while she believed, there was hope.
Now hope was dead. The minister was pronouncing a
sentence of excommunication upon her: a banishment from
God's church and sure condemnation to Hell. He was
stripping away the one thing that Rebecca had left. The one
thing she had clung to. Destroying her more completely
than the hangman's noose could have imagined.
There was nothing in life or death for her now. No place
in Heaven. Rebecca Nurse fell to her knees and wept.

And Susan could stand it no longer
How could they treat an aged woman this way' Could
they not see how weak, how ill, she was? Had they not done
enough to her already? Fury burnt in her heart, pounded in
her brain, and she had pushed her way to the aisle before
Mary could stop her. `Leave her alone!' she screamed, but
followed the command with a choking sob. Instinct told her
to race to the altar, to wrest Rebecca from the uncouth,
unfeeling hands of her guards. Fear halted her; reason
kicked in a second later. An alarm bell was ringing inside
her head and the room tunnelled around her. Momentarily.
She was on the outside of her body, looking down at its
small.trembling shape, surrounded but alone, and
screaming what have I done?
Her rash words seemed to echo, to merge with the
appalledmumblings of the congregation, to turn
themselves back upon her as if to say,You stupid child, you
were almost free! She wanted Ian or Barbara or her
grandfather. but could see only the faces of strangers,
leering, condemning her. And Parris, pushing Rebecca
Nurse out of his way in his haste to see who had disrupted
the ceremony His nostrils flared in outrage; his face was
crimson.
She backed towards the door, wrestling with the familiar
imperative to turn and flee. She has done nothing wrong,
can't you see that?' Her voice was tinv.What was she doing?
Trying to salvage the situation, but knowing it was
hopeless. `Can't any of you see what's happening here?
You're so obsessed with your witches that you see them
wherever you look.You're letting fear blind you. It could be
`you next time, any one of you'
`Constables,' bellowed Parris. `arrest that girir
The constables had to push past the minister to obey.
Susan had a second's grace to survey the crowd, looking for
understanding. She found none. She saw Ian's face, a mask
of horror - too far. too hampered. to reach her. She could
not see Barbara.
Alone again. Too much for her to handle. She reacted as
she always did, cursing her weakness. Why couldn't she
stand up to them? Why couldn't she be more like
Grandfather? How long would she remain a helpless,
frightened little girl? Hands tore at her dress as she ran for
the doors, but momentum carried her through. She erupted
into the outside air; hot and stale as the relentless sun
approached its zenith. She ran, with only one objective in mind.
The TARDIS.

Susan's departure caused an uproar in the meetinghouse.
Villagerscommentedloudly uponher scandalous
behaviour. Some demanded action. Some voices, Barbara
heard gratefully, were raised in her defence. The constables
tried to reach the door, but too many people had left their
seats and it was near impossible to move. Ann Putnam

shouted something at Barbara. but she did not hear it. She
launched herself into the melee in the hope of escaping the
confounded woman and her damaging accusations. She was
pushed and pulled and squashed and trampled. The exit
seemed a mile away.
An age later, she spilled out on to the road but found the
noise and confusion there almost as bad She could see no
sign of either Ian or Susan. Nor had Parris been able to
extricate himself from his flock yet. But Thomas Putnam
was present, and had the attention of most.
We have allowed this wicked child to live amongst us far
too long,' he preached. `She does challenge the authority of
our leaders and scorn the teachings of the Holy Bible. It is
only through the wiles of her family that she has thus far
escaped retribution:
The crowd roared its agreement. Barbara froze indecis-
iveiv. They were paving her no attention, but that could
easily change. If she spoke up against Putnam now, she
would surely doom herself. And yet, if she did not, what
peril might Susan find herself in?
Then it was too late.
In her time, they would have called it a lynch mob.
Thomas Putnam set out in search of his victim, and
entreated those who shared his sentiments to join him.
Many did. Too many. They were joined by a stream of girls,
Abigail Williams at their head, transparently overjoyed at the
prospect of the hunt. And Barbara could only hope that her
companion had found Ian or the TARDIS, or both. For the
dam of reason had burst in Salem Village this day - and if
Susan was seen here again, then nothing would keep her
from being swept away by a tide of suspicion and loathing
and fear.

Susan pushed herself further. faster, barely aware of the
grass rolling beneath her feet She had to get away, had to
run faster than she had run before. But her body betrayed
her. She hit a slope awkwardly and her right ankle twisted
beneath her. She cried out. more in frustration than in pain,
as she collapsed. She didn't know where she was, but it
didn't matter. So long as she kept moving. She dragged
herself up. breath catching. She could not see anybody, but
she felt them. Their hatred was a blunt axe, smashed into
her brain. Psychic feedback. Coming closer. Her thoughts
were jumbled, hectic, some not even her own (such fear,
how could they stand to live with it?). She was in a
nondescript field. Which way to the forest? She chose at
random.Keep moving, don't let them catch you.
Grandfather, where are you?
She had made a mistake. She didn't realise it until, through
streaming tears, she saw the girls moving to cut her off.
Abigail. Mary. The younger Ann Putnam. She knew the other
faces, if not their names. She should have doubled back, but
she could hear adult voices too. And feel their proximity.
Perhaps she was surrounded. Perhaps not. In her headlong
dash, she could not pause to check. But, as if through a haze,
she saw the bridge. The bridge across the brook. The wrong
side of the village. But Susan could only think of the
sanctuary of the Nurse homestead beyond. Perhaps the
Doctor was still there, or Francis. An illogical hope. But her
pursuers could not have reached the far bank yet. Escape
lay in that direction.
She swerved towards the bridge. Abigail and her followers
moved to cut her off. Their paths converged Susan was
closer. But her ankle throbbed, making her favour her left
side. She was slowed. It proved to be her downfall
Abigail cannoned into her. Determination had imbued her
with remarkable strength. They hit the ground togethcr and
almost rolled into the water. The younger girl came out on
top. Susan was on her back, Abigail straddling her chest and
fighung to keep that position. Susan latched on to her long
blonde bait and Abigail squealed as she tugged it. Long nails
dug into Susan's wrist as Abigail tried to break her grip.
Susan managed to raise a knee, to dislodge her attacker from
atop her, but by now each had a firm hold on the other. And
Abigail's followers had arrived, forming a circle around
them, cheering and shouting encouragement as the
wrestling match continued. Susan caught the back of a hand
across her face; responded with the heel of her palm to
Abigail's chin. The girl was pained, and lashed out blindly
Susan managed to extricate herself, to push Abigail away
from her. She swayed, unsteady on her feet, and prepared for
another bout. But Abigail remained on her knees. She wiped
her face on the back of her sleeve. Her nose was bleeding,
but her expression was that of a victor. She had done all she
had intended to do.
Susan could not reach the bridge now. She was
surrounded by jeering, chanting children. And swarming
across the field from the direction of the crossroads came a
hungry mob of villagers. She was trapped.
Thomas Putnam arrived first, pushing through the
youngsters until he was face to face with his prey, though
he spared a glance for poor. dishevelled, injured Abigail. See
what the witch has done to me, the girl moaned, She is
angry that I would act against her
`Aye,' cried Ann Putnam Junior, we all saw what she did:
A spectre flew out from her. contested another witness.
It swore it would kill dear Ahi
It assailed her with punches and kicks and bites
No protested Susan. for all the good it would do. `That
isn't what happened More adults were arriving now the
youngsters parting to allow them into the centre - apart
from the usual afflicted girls, that was. They huddled
together by Putnams side. Susan felt a charge building in
the atmosphere. Her skin tingled. Once again, the scene
took on an air of unreality. Her mind threatened to drift off
into illusion. She forced herself to concentrate.
The girls fell into fits again. Abigail went first, kicking up
dust from the dry earth. Ann next, with a dreadful wail: `It
comes again, it hurts us. We are caught betwixt her spirit
and the blistering fires of her domain. Oh God, have mercy!'
The adults looked to Putnam for guidance, but he seemed
lost. To Susan's surprise, Mary pushed her way forward. `No,
Abigail, Ann, you must not do this.' But more girls followed
Abigail's lead with each second. `Do not believe in them.
They would see my friend in jail, though she has done no
wrong.You must bid them stop.'
But the fits were too convincing. Even Susan could
scarcely believe them natural, though she knew their cause.
The less wise Thomas Putnam simply shook his head. `How
can this be a deception?'

She is taken by the Devil again. Thomas,' another of the
adults shouted.' `Tis clear he speaks through her mouth.
Susan's familiar sits on Mary's shoulder,' wailed Ann
A yellow bird it is,' cried Abigail.It pecks at mary's tongue
and makes her to lie.' Susan blinked spots away from her
eves. She could almost see the bird herself. She had to deny
it. had to think. This was but a temporary distraction The
crowd would be on her in seconds.What could she do'
Putnam seized Mary's arm. `What say you. child~ Do you
share this girl's beliefs? Have you, that were so recently
saved, turned back to the path of sin?'
Mary tried to stammer something, but the onlookers
could not have heard. It seemed that everyone had an
opinion, and wanted to give it. Cries of `Witch! and
Consorter!' mingled with entreaties to the terrified
maidservant to reveal who had corrupted her so.
Mary swallowed visibly, and her eyes met Susan's and held
them. She was, by equal turns, encouraged and jeered. She
tore her gaze away and nodded, defeated. Her statement
was inaudible at first, but with Putnam's encouragement
she repeated it, and shouted it: `She is a witch! A cursed witch!'
Howls of anguish. Of satisfaction, more like.
`She has come here to pour scorn upon the works of the
court; to twist our thoughts and to plant doubts so her
witch friends may go unmolested. She sought to have me in
her power.' Then she was in the grass with the others,
howling like a wolf. `No, Susan, why do you do this to me?
`Twas not my fault your deception failed!'
Susan felt betrayed, sickened, scared but, most of all, dizzy
as the circle closed around her at last. She thought to back
away, but realised the futility of it. A desperate plan
occurred to her, and she had no time to even think it
through. She fumbled in her skirts and produced two
things. Elizabeth Proctors doll. And a pin.
This gave the mob pause. and elicited a gasp that was
heavy with righteous horror - as if they were shocked to
have their suspicions confirmed, despite their willingness
to act on such. The sharp point of the pin poised next to
the dolls head. Susan issued her threat. Her mouth was dry
and the wurds reverberated dully in her brain.' If any of you
lays a hand on me. Ill run this pin through the doll's head.
I swear it. And my victim will be... She cast about for
somebody suitable, and saw Thomas Putnam glaring knives
of hatred at her. `Him!' she concluded, with a nod in the
appropriate direction. `I... I'll kill him!' It seemed to be
working. Putnam was positively ashen.
`Now, I want to get out of here.' Susan motioned towards
a section of the crowd, but nobody moved. `I said, I want to
leave!'But still, her demand earned no reaction beyond the
shuffling of feet and a few uncomfortable glances. Even the
hysterical girls had ceased their commotion, and a deathly
hush had fallen. Nobody dared to accost this self-confessed
witch, but they would not so turn against God as to aid her
escape. An impasse had been reached, and Susan knew she
would lose their fear if she did not act.
So she made a second rash decision.
`This is your problem, all of you. You're scared of things
that don't exist.' She tried to sound like her grandfather: a
lecture from him would always command respect and stir
reason. Instead, she felt like a petulant, immature girl railing
against the world.'I'm no witch. How could I be? There's no
such thing as magic - and I'll prove it to you'.
She rammed the needle home through the effigy's head
And made sure that everyone saw it.
To her horror, Putnam screeched and threw hi' hands to
his face, as if his head had exploded. He coilap~ed like a
dead weight and, almost a~ one. the crowd surged away
from his attacker. Ann Putnam junior burst into tears and
flinched from her father's felled body. But he was struggling
to his feet again already, and his face - twisted gruesomely
by pain and rage - was one of the most frightening things
that Susan had ever seen.
Witch he yelled.
He was twice the weight of Abigail, and he bore her down
easily. She did not have time to react. The doll was
wrenched from her grasp, the pin removed. Putnam tossed
it to one side, then punched Susan in the face. It was a
strong blow. She felt blood erupting from her nose. Putnam
stood back, eyesblazing. Andhisfollowers were
emboldened by his example now. The crowd leapt upon
her. She was dragged to her feet, poked and pinched. Those
who still hung back contented themselves with shouting
vile insults.
Somebody asked Putnam what to do. It was suggested that
Susan be taken to Parris or handed to the militia. But he still
wanted vengeance. His lip curled with malice as he
proclaimed: `She denies she is a witch, though we have all
seen her cast a witch's spell. Well, there is one sure test of
her claim, and we are in the best spot for it.'

Float her!' somebody shouted, and others took up the call.
Float her! Float the witch!'
Susan must have blacked out then, such was the pressure
upon her mind. She cursed the latent abilities that made her
so unremittingly aware of the crowd's feelings, their hateful
thoughts, unable to screen them out.
The next moment of which she was clearly aware saw her
in the shallow stream. being forced inexorably downward
by rough. insistent hands. She offered token, pointless
resistance as her head hovered an inch above the surface
and tht scent of brackish water played with her nostrils.
She took a fInal breath, almost too late, before she was
thrust under. Her ears were filled, the cries of the
bloodthirsty pack muted. She closed her stinging eyes.
She felt cut off from the world; unbearably frustrated
as she realised she might not see it again. Might not see anything.
They intended to kill her. She knew this with numbing
certainty; could sense it in their thoughts. It was the
ultimate test of a witchcraft suspect: if she survived her
ordeal, it could only be by occult means, and they would
hang her. They would learn their mistake when she
drowned. Too late for Susan. They might show remorse at
her death; they might treat others with more reason. She
might end the witch-hunt through her sacrifice. The idea
might even have comforted her. It did not.
Everything went black. Even the colours behind her eyelids
were engulfed by shadow. To her surprise, it did not last.
She felt herself lifted. By... hands? No, their hands still

pushed firmly downward. This motion, she sensed, came
from within. And then she was standing, her would-be
murderers falling away before her, and she faced them: the
cowering, wretched primitives, helpless. hopeless. before
her revealed power. The power of a witch And it was
hardly a surprise for, after all, the doll had worked against
her expectations. She stood there, knee-deep in water.
exulting in her new-found self-awareness and status. and
she vowed that they would pay for what they had meant to
do to her.
Then she tried to breathe in.
And the illusion snapped like an overtensed elastic band
and she was below the water again, her face pressed into
the mud, lungs empty and straining and hurting. And
even-thing went black for a second and final time. Which
was all Susan knew.

`You must not go after them!'
Barbara struggled to remove Mrs Putnam's clinging hands
from the fabric of her dress, but the woman was insistent.
`Don't tell me what to do!' she protested.
`You cannot stop them, and they will think the same of
you as they do of your daughter.'
Barbara pulled away at last, but she knew that what Ann
said was true. Bitter resentment boiled up within her. `What
do you care? You think I'm a witch, don't you?'
`You may still be redeemed, if you but confess yourself.'
Barbara almost laughed. She was drained, both physically
and emotionally. She had no idea where Susan was now, and
could think of no way to help her. She sank into the dirt,
leaned against the woodenmeetinghouse wall and
wondered when this would all end
To her dismay, Ann crouched beside her But she seemed
kinder now, and more understanding Was this some sort of
a trick?
Sometimes,' she said. we may be lured into using a
witch's tools for holy reasons
I thought it was sinful. said Barbara wearily, to use black
magic for any purpose
Might not God forgive our methods if their object be just?'
Look. I havent cast any spells! Will you leave me alone?'
Have you not been tempted, Goodwife Chesterton? To
pierce the veil between our world and the next? To contact
those who have passed over; to ensure that the ones you
love are safe and happy in God's embrace? It might be
worth any sin to ease your heart so.'
Ann left those words hanging in the air, and slowly they
sank into Barbara's troubled mind. She turned her head
slowly, saw Ann Putnam's expression of intense hope and
realised what she was being asked.
`Your babies..
`Those of mine, and of my sister.' The plea was almost
voiceless. `I have tried to contact them, so many times. I
have cast the runes, boiled up magic potions, and yet their
voices do not come to me but in half-remembered dreams.
Can you not help me?'
`I...' Barbara was lost for words.'! can't. I'm sorry.'
Ann's face sagged, then hardened. `You would not use your
sorcerous powers for even such a cause as this?'
I don't have any powers!' protested Barbara,
You are a witch!'
it seems to me that youre the one whos practised
witchcraft!'
Both women were on their feet now. and Barbara wished
she could take her last words back. The wrc~ched Ann had
turned away from her, head bowed, and she was hugging
herself tightly. Barbara drew closer, wanting to comfort her.
but she felt that to touch her would be a mistake. She hung
back awkwardly.
1 miss them so,' wailed Ann, tears flowing freely. `How can
it be right that they have been taken from me? How can it
be God s wilP I am cursed, I tell you. I will know no peace
until we have cleansed the evil from our midst.
I know: said Barbara softly. `I know.

Ian had been teaching for long enough to know when
trouble was afoot. A ripple of excitement spread across
Salem Village. People streamed towards its centre like eager
kids to a playground fight. His every instinct told him Susan
was involved. He joined the throng, and soon saw its
destination: the massing crowd by the brook. He pushed his
way through determinedly. He didn't allow himself time to
be horrified by the sight of three men - Thomas Putnam
among them - holding Susan face down in the water. He
simply reacted. He skidded down the short, dry slope and
hit the trio like a bowling ball. They scattered, and Susan
bobbedtothe surface. Ian took her arms and
unceremoniously hauled her out of danger. He dropped her
as a brawny arm snaked around his throat from behind. He
kicked back against his attacker. hut Putnam joined the
affray and winded him with a punch to the stomach. He
returned the punch and managed to deliver a satisfying
uppercut to the mans jaw. He shook himself free of his
captor and backed away, eyeing all three men warily as they
closed on him again, His breath had been stolen, but he
made an effort to speak.
`Is this what the Bible teaches you? To drown innocent children?'
`Your daughter is no innocent.' Snarled Putnam, `and we
seek only to test her:
With a flash of insight. Ian realised what the nature of
their `test' must have been, One of Francis's friends had
talked of the practice of floating. `Well she's passed then,
hasn't she?' They faltered, He had gained their attention,
`Look at her, man, she's lost consciousness. She's barely
alive. Are you going to kill her before you'll accept she's no
witch?' He recalled some of the arguments that had been
made at the Nurse home, and addressed his audience in
their own terms. `The Devil fools you into thinking the
guilty innocent, but might he not also do the reverse? That's
why we have courts, to find out the truth, If you choose to
make your own justice, but fall for his deceptions, then the
war is lost.'
He was beginning to sway them. They had only really
needed to have someone break their blood-crazed trance, to
point out the reality of things. To explain what they had
been doing. He wasn't home and safe yet, but he had at least
bought time to attend to Susan. He crouched by her side. To
his relief, she was breathing shallowly.

Putnam wasnt willing to let this go yet. Ian would have
been surprised if he had been. `She used a witch's doll,' he
protested. we all bore witness to it
She hurt me! squealed Abigail in support.
'You hunted her down like a dog. Have you ever thought
she might just have been frightened?' He checked for a
pulse It was weak but steady She would survive.
And what of you Chesterton' Perhaps it is you who seeks
to deceive We might learn something indeed if we were to
float you:
Ian stood up slowly to face his tormentor. The crowd
were no longer behind Putnam, but they could well have
become stirred up again if he was to carry out his threat.
However, if Ian was not mistaken, Thomas Putnam was a
coward. He would not dare to attack him when not riding
on a crest of frenzied approval. The pair glared at each
other for a long moment, each taking the measure of the
other.
Their deadlock was broken by an unexpected arrival.
Samuel Parris made his way to the front of the crowd, with
an unusual calmness. He was flanked by two constables. Ian
wondered how much they had seen. `Goodman Chesterton
is correct,' said the minister, to his surprise. `It is the job of
our court to judge the accused.' He looked sternly at
Putnam, who turned away, abashed. `And, in the case of the
girl Susan, it is my belief that she is more sinned against than
sinning.'
He was up to something. Ian could sense it. He dared not
interrupt, though, for at least Susan would be saved from
the mob. But Parris's next words confirmed his most awful
suspicions mc Devil would take Susan Chesterton as his
pawn - and. lacking as she has been in spiritual guidance,
she cannot resist his wiles. I intend to take her into my own
home, where she can learn the word of God and share in
the strength of my niece and of all those beset by this curse.'
`Now hold on a minute!'
`You would deny her God's succour. Ian Chesterton?'
`I...no, I...' No answer would have appeased the
onlookers. so Ian fell silent, conceding the point. Things
could have been worse. They still could he.
The constables made a move towards him, and he realised
then that Parris's final card had yet to be played. `But then,
you worship not the God of our people, do you?' A smile
flickered about the minister's thin lips as he brandished a
sheaf of papers. `That is why, sir, I have sworn out this
warrant against you.You are under arrest.'

4 July 1692

Susan woke and, for a second, her mind was empty. She
blinked, but still did not recognise the room in which she
found herself. Vague memories of drowning came to her. A
dull buzz in her `head hindered concentration. She felt
hollow, as if somebody had scoured the marrow from the
insides of her bones. A child stood at the foot of her bed.
Her vision was blurry. She remembered a name: Betty Parris.
No, Betty had been older. `Who are you?' she asked.
`Susannah.'
`Where am I, Susannah?'
The girl turned and ran.
Betty's sister, thought Susan. Was she in the parsonage,
then~' Why couldn't she remember?
The door opened. This time, it was Samuel Parris who
entered.
And flew at her, his face a bloated, twisted mask of
malice, reaching out with sharp claws, digging into her
flesh,..
She scrambled to get out of bed, was hampered by a crash
of nausea and looked up to realise he was simply a man.
Parris stood in the doorway, seeming almost sorry to have
worned her. What had she been thinking of? He must have
rescued her from the pack. He had wrapped her in warm,
dry towels: filled her with soup.
Do you feel better this morning~ he asked kindly. Susan
shook her head.Do you remember aught of what
happened last night? Logic told her that much of what she
did recall had been unreal, vivid though it still seemed. She
shook her head again. Parris dared to move closer. He seated
himself on the next of the room's four beds, a safe distance
away. Even so, tici skiii crept with his proxnnhly. ~ne toiu
herself not to be so stupid. `You were molested by witches:
old acquaintances of yours, I do not doubt. They sent their
spirits into this room and subjected you to torments most
vile.'
`I... don't remember.'
`You suffered a most restless night. The witches have
renewed their onslaught upon many of the girls, but they
stole your tongue and forbade you to tell of them. Perhaps
you recall now who they were?'

`I don't think so, no. I remember having nightmares, but -,
Take not this matter lightly. Susan The witches know you
to be safe in this house of God. and they are dismayed. They
will come to you again and wage war upon your soul, unless
you resist them.'
`But I don't know anything
What price familial loyalty Susan. when your own parents
would cause you such pain Speak out against them, and
allow God to be your father in their stead:
Her head was spinning They wouldnt!'
lan Chesterton already lies in Salem Prison.'
No'
Parris crossed the gap between them. He held Susan's
arms in a firm grip as she trembled and shook her head
vigorously. Something dark and awful was rising in her
heart: despair given occult form. She tried to dispel it with
reason.
`We came here to help you,' she said, `but you're ruining
everything!'
`They come to you again, do they not?'
`No. Leave me alone!'
`Who are they, Susan?'
`I don't
`God will protect you if you but speak the truth. Who are
they?'
`Nof
His face distorting, the room itself collapsing, grey
formless shapes streaming through tumbling walls. They
cackled with malice and licked their lips at the sight of
theIr victim.

`Help me,' Susan begged of Samuel Parris, as the witches
attacked.

You've got to do something about Susan,' said Ian.
How can I?' asked Barbara. `I've tried to get into the
parsonage, but Parris is there all the time. He won't let me
near her.'
`Is he hurting her?'
`I don't know.' It was typical of Ian, thought Barbara, to he
so concerned about his friends despite his own
predicament. `No, I doubt it. He thinks she's a victim, like the
Williams girl and Mary. He'll probably treat her quite well.'
So long as she doesn't try to stand up to him.'
`Ian, I don't know what to do. The conditions in this
place...
He tried to reach through the bars, but the chain
connecting his wrists stopped him. Barbara reached for him
instead, and they held hands tightly. `Forget me. Were all
used to being in places like this. I'll survive. In fact, they `11
be taking me back to the village tomorrow, for an
examination or something. I'll see you then. In the
meantime, see what you can do about Susan.'
She nodded bravely. `I'll try.'
How are you? They haven't done anything to you, have they?'
Barbara shrugged. It seemed petty to be discussing her
own problems, though chief among them was a gnawing
sense of despair. She had lain awake all night wondering
how this had come to pass; how they could have been so
close to freedom only to have the prospect so completely
destroyed. She felt as trapped as either Ian or Susan now.
But all she said was, `I've had a few funny looks. Nothing
serious.'
Ian nodded. `Parris and his allies have it in for all of us.
You'll be next, and then the Doctor if they can fmd him.'
Of course. He'll b= expecting us to be at the TARDIS tonight.'
`You should go to him.With Susan, if you can manage it -
but don't take any stupid risks. He'll know what to do.'
`We'll come back for you.'
Ian leaned as close to her as he could manage, and
whispered,'Remember what the Doctor always says. No cell
is escape-proof.'
She tried not to show how much she doubted his
statement. He had indeed come unscathed through such
imprisonment before; they both had. But this time, it felt
different. Perhaps it was this dungeon, with its rats and its
damp and its cold and fetid air. Or perhaps it was the almost
communicable sense of futility that its miserable denizens
generated.
Either way, this wasn't a place where hope could thrive.

Susan worked in the pastor's kitchen and longed to make a
run for his door, but she was too weak, confused and afraid.
She half believed that he was the only man who could care
for her. She worked diligently, learning from Abigail how to
operate the spinning wheel, how to wind the one-handed
clock that would not tick for more than four hours and how
to bake bread in the compartment at the back of the
enormous fireplace. Parris expressed dismay that she did
not know such things already, and was appalled that she
could not recite her catechisms. He blamed her parents for
not raising her in the service of God and he resolved to
deny her food until the demons were starved out of her.
Faint from hunger, she sat on the small bed that had once
been Betty Parris's, and thumbed unseeingly through a bible
from which she was supposed to be learning. Though she
had been he~e only a short time. the hours stretched into
eternity and she saw no escape. She cried into her pillow
and prayed for (her grandfather? No...) the minister to
vanquish the evil forces that were stealing her mind.

Evening was drawing in as Barbara made her third attempt
to see Susan. Once again, Parris met her at the door.
`The girl is under my care,' he stated. `She is well.'
`All the same, I would like to see her.'
`God looks after her now, and he would keep her from
your malefic influence.'
`How dare you!'
`It is for the girl's own good.'
`How would you know what good is? You've persecuted
my family since we ari-ived.You've had Ian sent to prison on
trumped-up charges and you've all but kidnapped my
daughter. I demand to see her!'
To her relief, Parris stepped aside then. But she was
suspicious: he had given in too easily, and with a tight,
knowing smile. It didn't matter. She had to see Susan.
Parris ushered her through the hall and into the
downstairs bed chamber. The presence of another man
there - round-faced and lean, with the unchapped complexion
of the clerical classes - did nothing to assuage Barbara's
worries. `You know of Mr Mather. of course?' said Parris, and
she nodded graciously although the name meant nothing to
her. Mather regarded her coolly.
Her heart fluttered in dismay at the sight of her young
companion on one of the beds, wrapped into a ball. Susan
breathed hoarsely and stared into the distance blankly. She
was pale and sweating. `I thought you were supposed to be
looking after her!' Barbara exploded. Parris and Mather
exchanged a glance, but said nothing as she rushed forward
and took Susan's hand in hers. She could feel only a distant
pulse. She rolled the girl over and smoothed back her
matted hair. `Can you hear me, Susan? It's me, Barbara. It's all
right now, Susan, I'm here.' Susan muttered something, but
she could not catch the words. They sounded nonsensical.
`If she has suffered in this house,' said Parris gravely, `it is
not through the doing of any here. We would only have her
go to God and repent of her sins, but certain powers do not  wish it.'
`What are you talking about?'
`Rather you should ask the child that.'
`Susan?'
More murmurings, equally incomprehensible.
Parris strode forward and shook Susan roughly by the
shoulders. `Tell them what you have told me,' he directed her.
`Leave her alone. Can't you see she needs rest?'
`Are you so frightened of what she might say, Goodwife?'
`Can't you see what you're doing to her?'
`I? It is not I who bends her mind towards sin.'

`It is meet that we hear what this poor girl would say,'
interrupted the calm voice of the man called Mather.
Suddenly, Barbara knew where she had heard his name
before. Cotton Mather: he was remembered in the twentieth
century for his writings on the witch trials. An influential
clergyman, he had given the hunt his blessing; had perhaps
even inflamed it. Why did Parris want such a figure to
witness this meeting between mother' and daughter'? It
could be for no benevolent reason, she concluded.
`The witches hurt me,' moaned Susan. Her eyelids
fluttered and her head rolled drowsily on her shoulders. She
was barely awake.
Parris leaned over her, unable to suppress his excitement.
`They take their revenge, do they not? They punish you for
leaving their fold, for turning to God.'
`It is true.'
`You're putting words into her mouth!'
`Because the witches have stopped her tongue!' retorted
Parris fiercely. `But fasting and prayer have so bolstered
Susan's spirit that she can lay some charges against them.'
He sounded proud of her.
`Who torments you, Susan?' asked Mather.
`Do your parents send their spectres to you?'
ian,' pleaded Susan indistinctly.
Mather gave Parris an inquisitive look. `The girl's father,'
the minister explained. `Goodman Chesterton.'
`I thought him to be imprisoned?'
`Indeed. But I would wager the girl talks of past
mistreatment.'
Barbara had had enough. `This is ridiculous! Susan is
obviously ill, yet you brmg her here, starve her and try to
twist her mind and every word she says. She's calling to Ian
for help, can't you see that?'
`We have only her best interests at heart,' insisted Parris.
`You havent even called in a doctor!'
Her sickness is of the soul, not of the body.'
`I've had enough of this. I'm taking her away.'
`I would do nothing so foolish, Goodwife Chesterton.'
`You have no right to stop me!'
`You are a witch!' Parris yelled.
Barbara squared up to him, seething with rage but
keeping her voice controlled. Oh, and you would just love
to think so, wouldn't you, Mr Parris? You'd love to imagine
that all your enemies are sinners, or witches, because it
means you don't have to be right.' She turned to Mather.
`There are no charges against me, I believe. I can take my
own child home with me, yes?' Mather looked once more to
Parris, then nodded silently. Barbara smiled and took Susan
by the arm.
And Susan screamed and threw off her grasp, and that was
when Barbara knew she had been trapped.
Though she had heard much of Salem's hysterical fits, she
had not yet witnessed one. But, even if she had, it could
scarcely have prepared her for the shock of seeing Susan in
the grip of such a violent seizure. The girl tossed her head
back so far that the older woman's neck ached in sympathy.
It was soul-destroying to see her like this. She beat at her
chest as if stifling flames, writhed beneath the punishing
blows of invisible bullies and babbled meaningless pleas.
Barbara wanted so much to help, but she suspected it was
best to stay clear until the fit subsided. A second later, her
choice in the matter was curtailed. As one, Parris and
Mather took her by the shoulders and hoisted her away
from their young charge.
`Keep away from me!' Susan cried to an unseen enemy.
`Go to God, Susan,' Mather implored her. `Go to God. He
will give you the strength to resist your attackers and name them.'
`Does your mother torment you?' Parris wanted to know.
`Does Barbara Chesterton cause these ills?' Susan was
straining to speak, but something prevented her.
`If you tell us who does these things, we can stop them.'
`She will join your father in his dungeon.You need not fear
them once they are bound by iron. Go to God, Susan.'
`He will protect you.'
`It is Barbara!' screamed Susan. `Barbara, why do you keep
doing this to me? I thought we were friends!' With this
startling confession released, the fit was broken. Her
contortions ceased, although she panted heavily and
whimpered as if still in pain.
Parris and Mather turned to their visitor. The minister
feignedsurprised outrage, but could not keep the
satisfaction from his voice. `And so, at last, we have our
proof.'
`You call that proof? You made Susan say those things!'
`It was not I who sent my spirit to menace her.'
Barbara wanted to argue, but she could already see the
futility of it. She couldn't afford to be detained. Who would
meet the Doctor then? How would he know what had
happened to his companions? She ran instead, out of the
room and through the small hallway. She fumbled with the
catch on the door and, even as she pulled it open and
crossed the threshold, Parris caught up with her. They
described a circle as he pulled at her dress and she strained
to escape his grasp. Where will you run to, Goodwife
Chesterton?' he sneered.
~You've no right to do this!' she protested.
`It will take but an hour to swear out a warrant against
you, and you will go to the witches' jail.'
`Take your hands off me!
`Go on, run. Run to your master. See what good it does
you.' With a ripping of fabric, Barbara pulled away. Parris
yelled after her, `Your family are finished in this colon~~
Barbara Chesterton. Your natures stand revealed now, and
we will not suffer any one of you to live!'
Barbara didn't look back. A sob caught in her throat as she p
thought of Ian and Susan, both confined to their own
prisons. She ran for the forest, for the safety of the TARDIS,
for the wisdom of the Doctor - and she didn't care who
followed her.
Which turned out to he a mistake.

Susan sat on the side of her bed, running bare feet over the
floorboards. She was weak and empty and hungry, but
washed with relief all the same. She had learned how to
construct psychic defences. She knew her own mind again.
Other thoughts were still there, trying to break down the
barriers, and there were black patches in her memory (she
remembered seeing Barbara, but not what she had said, nor
where her erstwhile teacher might be now). But for the
present, at least, her identity was whole. Unassailable. The
worst of it was over.
And she understood now. Some of it, at least. A clear head
at the end of the ordeal allowed her to see how the sick
girls could easily have mistaken hallucination for fact; how
the beliefs of Thomas Putnam, telepathically reinforced by
Susan's own fears, could have caused a hysterical reaction
to a supposed witch spell. How the Devil had been raised
in Massachusetts, and why the people of Salem Vifiage had
been so extreme in their rea~tions to him.
Mary had come down from Proctor's home to see her; a
friend once more. Susan's conversion to the ranks of the
afflicted seemed to have erased all doubts she had had. She
had spoken of her own experiences, and Susan was
comforted by the knowledge that she was not alone. In
turn, she was careful to speak of the fits as a purely medical
condition. She met with reticence at first, but it crumbled
with surprising speed.
`I'm just saying, she explained gently, `that we shouldn't
automatically believe what we see in these dreams.'
Marynoddedandglancedtowardsthedoor
conspiratorially. `Sometimes they are contradictory.'
Susan nodded vigorously. `That's right. They don't make
sense. But people like Parris and Mather are believing every
word we say, and acting upon them. You've got to see how
dangerous it is.'
`I do, Susan. I do understand.'
She felt a thrill of excitement. To have broken through
Mary's wall of resistance so easily: it seemed incredible, after
so many fruitless attempts. `Then you must speak up, she
said eagerly. If you can come forward and tell them you
don't believe in the dreams any more... You can tell them
you were mistaken about John Proctor!'
`No!' She was taken aback by Mary's sudden reversal. `No,
you must not ~sk this of me. Please do not,' Mary stood and
deliberately turned away. She hugged herself and stared out
of the dirty window, at the hulking shape of the parsonage's
lean-to dairy beyond.
`I don't understand.' Susan padded across the cold boards
to her side. `What is it, Mary? Why can~t you just tell them?'
`I simply could not. I could not face such pain a secon~
time.' Susan felt sad to see tears straining to seep out of
Mary's eyes. And it was not just her own sadness, but also
the resonance of a deep empathy with her young friend.
She knew Mary's misery as her own: consuming, all-
pervading, destructive, hopeless. She was drawn by it, a
moth to the flame, compelled to touch although it might
destroy her. She reached out a hand and, sensing their newly
forged link, Mary did likewise. Their fingers touched. A
spark crackled between them.
And Susan knew then what it was like to live Mary
Warren's life.

Dusk was turning into night. The forest was dark, but Parris
was sure-footed and confident, fears pushed to the back of
his mind. The presence of the elder Ann Putnam helped.
She had arrived at his home, manic with excitement,
insisting he accompany her. Her husband's brother had
followed Barbara Chesterton into the heathen domain. And,
like Parris before him, he had made a discovery. A temple of
evil. Parris felt a not unwelcome surge of nervous
anticipation. The Lord had blessed his endeavours of late;
rewarded his minister for his faith. He had been allowed to
triumph over the Chestertons, and now their foul master
himself was on the run. He even felt~ optimistic about
Rebecca's appeal. He had sent a rider to Boston this
morning, to inform Governor Phips that the girls' fits had
been renewed by the mere prospect.
A crowd had already started to gather at the temple.
Putnam family and friends all. They kept a wary distance,
though it posed no visible threat. It stood beneath the
spreading branches of a young oak tree, and Parris was at
first disappointed by its innocuous nature. It was made of
simple wood, with glass panels at the top of each face. It
could have been a local hut, but for its unusual blue
coloration and the nonsensical words that had been painted
upon it. But, even as he began to doubt this fmd, God sent
him an intangible sign. Parris knew with certainty that the
box's appearance was merely a ruse. He felt, though he did
not see, the eldritch energy that crackled about it.
`You see?' crowed Mrs Putnam. `You see, Mr Parris? Our
brother has tracked the Devil to his very stronghold; found
the base from which he launches his assault upon us.'
Parris stepped forward, entranced, and the hushed crowd
deferred to him. A stronghold? A temple? He wasn't sure.
But this was a discovery indeed: at the least, a tool from the
pits of Hell. They were looking to him to pass judgment, to
tell them what to do next, how to employ this divine
providence against their foes. But he could not guide them.
The irony was a bitter one. Long had Parris dreamed of such
an opportunity to prove his goodness, to stand firm in the
war against Satan. To make them grateful for him. Now,
though, his throat was dry and he dared not make a
decision lest it be the wrong one. If only the news had
come to him an hour earlier: had Cotton Mather not already
left for Boston, then this responsibility would have been his.
Thomas Putnam was quick to offer advice. `We cannot
suffer this thing so close to our homes. What of the
children? It should burn.'
`May we not learn something of it first? We could mayhaps
even turn it against its master.'
`The witch-woman Chesterton is in that temple. Edward
saw John Smith at the door and he beckoned her within.
They plot our destruction even now, as we ponder. We must
needs act fast.'
`Two people stand within? How could such a thing be?
`Tis scarcely large enough to hold one.'
`Who knows what magic the Devil would employ?
Destroy the temple and the magic will die too. God would
wish it.'
`Would he wish us to execute them without trial?'
This pair have proven themselves to be servants of evil!'
He was right, and Parris knew it. So did their audience, who
shuffled restlessly and longed (he could sense it) to put the
torch to their Heaven-sent find. But to actually do the deed,
to kill them...
`Could it be but a doorway?' he asked thoughtfully. It was
a comforting theory, and he longed for it to be true. Did he
want so much to take Putnam's advice? To destroy it
without killing?

His ally knew the right words to say. `If it be so, then
through this doorway comes the evil that besets us. It must
be burnt if our colony is to know peace. We must trap the
demons in their lair.'
A comforting theory.
Samuel Parris had just lived through the most gruelling six
months of his life. A portal had been opened to the Devil in
his own village, his home, and prayers and sermons and
trials had failed to close it. Now this was his chance. To end
the madness, to strike a resounding blow in the war. To,~arn
God's favour. To go down in history for all the right reasons.
One chance to live for ever. So how could he fail to take it?

The minister's thoughtful expression filled the scanner
screen. Barbara had listened to his conversation - thanks to
the Doctor's repairs, the screen's erratic audio circuits were
functioning again - and her dread hadmounted
throughout. She mentally willed Parris to reject Putnams
plan. The Doctor had told her often enough that the
TARDIS was virtually indestructible, but that word `virtually'
bothered her. As did the Doctor. He stared at the screen,
grim-faced, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the
console. They had spoken little. She had told him briefly of
Ian and Susan's plight, but had not asked about his trip to
Boston. Nor had he issued any of his usual recriminations
when it became clear that she had been followed. This
situation was too serious for words.
They watched and waited and hoped.

* * *

Susan pulled away from Mary, overwhelmed. The pain, the
misery, the guilt, the intense terror. To live a lifetime like
that. So much hurt, so much mistreatment. She had seen
herself from the outside, imploring Mary to end the lies.
And don't you think I want to, but how can I? She had
stood up once before. denounced her friends, recanted her
own accusations. They had chain~d her, imprisoned her,
heat her, tortured her, whatever they had to do to make her
tell their truth. And I don't know what truth is any more.
And Susan was alone in the centre of the witch-hunt, a tiny
voice crying out Stop!' hut it wasn't her voice. It was
Mary's, and nobody wanted to hear it. So what can I do?
How does it end? No answer to that.
Susan stared into Mary Warren's haunted eyes and
understood.
She didn't know what to say, but it hardly mattered. Her
friend had seen into her mind too. She knew that Susan was
no witch now. She knew exactly what she was, and
although she might not be able to comprehend it, she could
have no doubts. A visitor from elsewhere. A stranger who
wanted to help. A way out of here. Perhaps the only way, for
her.
Susan couldn't stop the witch-hunt, couldn't save those
lives, but perhaps she could rescue one tortured soul. `Come
with me,' she whispered, hardly daring to give voice to the
words. And Mary Warren nodded, though she too was
unable to speak for tears.
No further words were needed. Susan and Mary slipped
out of the parsonage hand in hand.

* * *

They were collecting sticks, laying them around the blue
box. Building a fire with which to burn the demons out.
When Barbara could bear it no longer, she turned to the
Doctor in frustration. What are you going to do?
He was standing, head bowed, lips pursed, thinking
unpleasant thoughts, fingers tapping idly against the
console. He said nothing.
`Will the TARDIS burn, Doctor?'
`No. It won't.'
`That's something, I suppose.'
He punctured her relief with a sharp look, suddenly
animated. `Something? Something? My dear woman, this is a
disastrous turn of events. Disastrous! We are about to give
these primitives proof that magic exists. Proof, don't you
see? Within hours, word will have spread right across New
England that the wood of this, this unholy temple will not
burn. Powerful people - literate people - will come here to
see. They will study my ship, attempt to fathom its
construction and consign their findings to print. History
will be irrevocably changed and we will be responsible!'
`But,' she protested feebly, `we can't change history. You
told us!'
He turned away quickly and began to pace the room.
playing with his hands and mumbling. `The First Law...
chaos in the time stream.., but how can I leave her?' She
didn't catch the rest of it. She had scarcely seen him so
anxious, so uncertain of himself.
`Burn, house of the Devil!' commanded a muted voice.
Startled, the Doctor jerked around to face the screen. It
showed Thomas Putnam. He was brandishing a flaming
torch. He thrust it into the pile of dry tinder and, within
seconds, grey smoke began to obscure their view of the
cheering spectators. The TARDIS was ablaze. No, not the
TARDIS; merely the wood around it. Barbara could feel no
rise in temperature. But the Doctor's reaction was worrying
enough.
He was operating the controls, so careful to avoid her gaze
that she knew he must be up to something. It took her a
moment to work out what. Her heart leapt into her mouth.
She raced around the console and tore him away from the
switches. `Doctor, no! We can't leave Ian and Susan here!'
`We have no choice, he insisted, his expression pained.
`We can't go out there, Barbara. They'd kill us.'
`Then we stay inside. We're in no danger.'
`We are in more danger than you can imagine,' stormed
the Doctor. `Do you think I would abandon my own
grandchild if I had a choice in the matter? Well, do you?' She
did not. She faltered and slackened her grip, allowing him to
pull away from her. `I know it is difficult, Barbara,' he
continued, more gently. `The chains of time can bite cruelly
indeed. But there is no alternative, believe me.'
She did. He was staring her straight in the eye now,
showing no sign of obfuscation, of hesitation. He seemed
distant, alien, but utterly resolved. She protested anyway.
`There has to be something we can do. What about the
people out there? What will they think when we fade away
before their eyes?'
`It will leave them with no doubt that witchcraft exists. It
might delay the dawning of reason, the end of the hunt. It
might cause the deaths of dozens more. It could be ruinous.'

Then how..
We leave now, Barbara.We take off while the flames burn.
It will seem as if the fire has claimed us, and we will leave
no physical evidence to the contrary.'
Tongues of flame licked about the TARDIS now, and the
screen offered no view of anything beyond. Despite the
regulated climate within the Ship, Barbara felt hot and dry.
The Doctor turned back to the controls and ~he wanted so
desperately to stop him again. She wanted his argument not
to make sense. She wanted not to believe him.

Susan knew that something was desperately wrong. She and
Mary were not the only people headed into the forest and,
though they had been spotted several times, not a word had
been said to them. She gathered speed, dragging her
companion along beside her, fearful of what might be luring
the villagers here. In confirmation of her worst suspicions,
the TARDIS lay at the centre of their interest. A crowd had
gathered about it, obscuring her view of the Ship
completely. But she could see a rolling black plume of
smoke, and its acrid smell stung her throat and coaxed tears
from her eyes even before she could accept the awful truth
it betrayed.
They were burning it. Destroying her home.
She could not stop herself Though the odds were against
her, she rushed forward and screamed defiance. She had to
stop them. But they were too many for her and she found
herself held fast and delivered back into the hands of the
Reverend Parris. He frowned his disapproval, but she could
not hear his scolding words over the crackling of fire and
the excited shouts of the mob.
And a new sound: a terrible creaking, like the death throes
of an animated wooden creature. A familiar sound.
The shouts turned to horrified gasps.
The blue box was disappearing from within the flames.
The villagers drew back as one, awe-struck by the
disintegration of this magical artefact. As it faded into
nothing, and no plague appeared to strike them down, a
few raised a ragged cheer. The Devil's ten~p1e, somebody
claimed, had been razed. They would not see its like in this
colony again. But Susan knew the truth, though it was
almost as dreadful to contemplate. The TARDIS had
dematerialised. Faced with possible death, her grandfather
had chosen to flee. To leave her behind.
She wept bitterly and shrank against Parris's side, for he
was the only man who could keep her safe now. She stared
into the flames, burning lower and wider as the bonfire
collapsed in on itself in the absence of its centrepiece. And
she saw only a bleak, empty fate for herself. Alone.
Abandoned. Damned.
Susan had looked into Mary Warren's past, and she
recognised it now as her own future.


PART FOUR

THE WEIGHT OF HISTORY

The Longest Time

A fire burns in the small of Ian Chesterton's back. Flames of
agony roar along his spine, tickling the base of his skull,
numbed only by familiarity. His chest aches and his
breathing is shallow. He cannot move. Chains bind his neck
to his feet, his ankles to the wall. He is forced into a tight
foetal position, feeling as though he will never be able to
straighten his body again. His nose is bleeding. He is
fatigued and dizzy, hut too uncomfortable to sleep. He tries
to clear his mind, to focus through it, with limited success.
He can barely remember a time when he wasn't confined
to this dungeon. How long has it been? Days, weeks.
months? He doesn't know. His bed in the TARDIS seems a
long time distant; his lab at Coal Hill School like a scene
from somebody else's memory. His life has become a
monotonous stretch of darkness, pain and hopelessness. He
has begun to share in the beliefs of his disconsolate
cellmates: that this is all he is to know. For the rest of his life.
They will kill him, and he will be helpless to stop them. He
will die two hundred and fifty years before his own birth. It
all ends here.

On the day of his examination, Ian still had hope. He had
spent only two nights in prison. He was tired and dirty, but
it would not distract him. He was an enlightened man of the
future, possessed of the knowledge and the logic to make
the judges see their mistake. How could they think him a
warlock? How could they even believe in the existence of
such a thing? But, as the cart returned him to Salem Village,
onlookers lined his path sporadically to jeer and spit at him.
Projectiles were hurled: sticks, stones, whatever was at
hand. He had done them no wrong, but the force of their
hatred was powerful indeed. He felt ashamed. How much
worse, he thought, for those to whom these tormentors had
been kindred, perhaps once friends?
The meetinghouse was as full as it had been for the
service, perhaps more so. Ian had to push his way through
the people who blocked its aisle. He kept one step ahead of
his guards, determined to retain his dignity. He was aware
that, with his unusual height for this time and the tales that
had been told of him, he cut an intimidating figure. In this
supposedly holy place, he was greeted only by an awe-
struck silence. He halted before the head table, behind
which sat three magistrates. Two were local men: he
recognised Jonathan Corwin, the sheriff's uncle. The third
was Stoughton. He returned the thin-faced Chief-Justice's
glare evenly. He was `privileged', as one jailer had put it, to
have such a man preside over his initial hearing. Stoughton
was taking a personal interest in Ian's fate.
The Reverend Parris was also present. He opened
proceedings with a prayer. He entreated God to grant the
judges wisdom, that they might see the witches among
them and be not blinded by Satan's lies. He prayed that the
negro woman Candy would be granted forgiveness. She had
been examined the previous day and had admitted to her
sins; had even practised her dark craft for the courts
benefit. Parris asked that others might be guided towards
the same light and, though he did not mention Ian by name,
his gaze lingered long and hard upon him. He made no
appeal to fairness; no acknowledgment of the fact that the
prisoner might be innocent.
Ian concentrated on everything that was said, either to or
around him. He had psyched himself up to expect a series
of devious questions; attempts to confuse him, to make him
contradict himself. He was surprised and, in no small
measure, angry when, instead, he was subjected to a barrage
of unsophisticated accusations.
Have you signed the Devil's book?'
`Why do you hurt the children?'
`Have you made contact with the Devil?'
`Have you signed the Devil's book?'
`Do you send out your spirit to torment them?'
He answered each in the negative, but the questions came
faster and more pointedly. The most damning of them were
repeated over and over.
`Have you signed the Devil's book?'
`Look, if you'll let me speak -,
`Why do you hurt the children?'
`I don't hurt them, I've told you before!'
`Do you take communion on the Witches' Sabbath?'
`Of course I don't!' This shouted denial had the effect of
silencing his interrogators at last. In the ensuing hush, Ian
knew he had made a mistake. He had allowed frustration to
overwhelm him. It was what they had intended. He had
shown himself to be disrespectful of both law and church.

But he had their attention. He forced himself to be calm and
reasonable, and continued. `You call this an examination, but
you aren't prepared to learn anything.You're not interested
in what I have to say.You just want me to confirm what you
already believe.'
`We are interested,' said Stoughton in measured tones, `in
hearing the truth from your lips.'
`No you aren't.You just want to hear a confession.'
`Then confess to the truth!'
`I am telling you the truth!'
`Your guilt has been confirmed to this court already.'
`By whom?'
`The slave Candy has named you as an accomplice to her sins.'
Ian almost laughed with incredulity. `And you believe her?'
But he saw, from his judges' expressions, that they did. He
swallowed drily. Clearly, his fellow prisoner had seized a
chance to revenge herself upon the man she held
responsible for her plight. The evidence against him was
mounting. He had to talk fast. `You said yourself that Candy
admitted to being a witch; that she cast spells to prove it.
Don't you think she wants to bring down an innocent man with her?'
`She has repented of her sins,' Parris put in.
`So now you'll happily accept all she says?'
`It is from you that we wish to hear it,' snapped Stoughton.
`Must we make the afflicted children to suffer further by
bidding them come forward and testify?'
`I think you'd better!'
`Have you made contact with the Devil, Ian Chesterton?'

`Have you signed the Devil's book?'

He has drifted into an unpleasant doze, filled with bitter
dreams. They sear his eyeballs and his mind and insist that
he awake, to escape them. He complies, but regrets this
return to his own waking nightmare. He seeks, belatedly, to
recapture the dream state, yearning for the quickening of
time it might bring. Time, before he is at least freed from
this cruel torture and allowed to lie flat. But time is a
nebulous concept when no measure can be applied to it.
The passage of the sun brings no structure to the endless,
torch-lit days down here.

`Your home is in Boston, Goodman Chesterton?'
`That's right,' said Ian, recalling an earlier lie.
`Then kindly explain why no minister there has heard your name.'
`No minister could name every member of his church,' he retorted.
~I would consider it a failing of any who could not.'
Jonathan Corwin leaned forward. `Perhaps, sir, the accused
might like to clear up this matter by simply telling the court
whose church he attends?'
`Well, Goodman Chesterton?'
`I don't see where this is leading,' Ian bluffed. `You know
I'm a churchgoer. My whole family went there on Sunday~
`And before that?' Stoughton pronounced each word with
the delighted anticipation of a cat about to pounce upon a
lame bird.
Ian didn't know how to answer him. Science was his
subject, not history. It was Barbara who had invented their
cover story, and even she would probably have been
confounded by this situation. Whatever statement he could
make, Stoughton would he sure to refute it and find proof.
He couldn't even come up with a convincing stopgap. And
by now, it was academic anyway. The villagers had seen his
telling hesitancy and were muttering knowingly The witch
had been found out.
`You do not attend meetings at all, do you?' snapped
Stoughton, visibly savouring his triumph. `At least, not in
God's church.'
`If you will but confess, Corwin said more kindly,'it will go
well with you at your trial.'
`I keep telling you, there's nothing to confess to. I haven't
done anything wrong.'
`Disregard of the Sabbath is a crime in itself,' bellowed
Stoughton. `At the least, it will earn you a spell at the
whipping post.'
`I'm not from this colony!' It was another outburst born of
desperation. Stoughton shifted in his high-backed chair,
relaxing slightly. He no longer thought this a challenge, Ian
realised.
`Pray tell,' said the Chief-Justice, an amused eyebrow
raised.
`Barbara and I left England in a ship some time ago.' Ian
could feel his palms sweating, although he spoke the truth.
`We've been exploring ever since, always on the move,
That's why you have no record of us in Boston. We've never
lived there.'
Stoughton's eyes narrowed and his lips stretched into a
tight, malicious smile. `Oh, we know all about your ship,
Chesterton. We have simply been awaiting your slip in
revealing it.'
Ian frowned and thought it best to keep his own counsel,
untilhe knew what the magistrates had planned.
Fortunately, Stoughton could not wait to apprise him of the
details. `Your own wife and your travelling companion,
Doctor John Smith, were seen to enter the Devil's domain
last night. They led us to your transport: your gateway to
whatever benighted world it is from which you came.'
`That's preposterous!' claimed Ian, but there was a cold
space in the pit of his stomach.
`Your blue box has been cleansed by the fire of truth. No
trace of it remains on God's pure earth.'
`I don't know what you're talking about,' he said
stubbornly, though a dozen questions throbbed in his mind.
What had they done to the TARDIS? Burnt it? How could
that be possible? He voiced the least incriminating, the most
important question: `What happened to Barbara? My wife?
What have you done with her?'
`I think we have seen enough,' said Stoughton. His fellow
magistrates concurred with solemn nods. `Ian Chesterton,
by your own words you have betrayed your nature. I
commit you to trial and order that, for the nonce, you be
held in chains so your spirit may not wander and cause
further grief.'
`What have you done to Barbara?'
`You would do well to consider a confession. There may
yet be a place for you in Heaven if you be truly repentant.'
`Answer me, damn you!' screamed Ian as he was dragged
away. `I've a right to know what's happened to my own wife!'

The uncertainty is the worst torture of all. He could bear his
own mistreatment if he knew his friends were safe. And yet
he has had no news of them since Barbara's visit, the day
after his arrest. At worst, they have been imprisoned or
executed or locked in a cell like this one. Or perhaps they
are trapped in this woebegone colony, the TARDIS
destroyed. At best, they have rescued susan but have been
unable to help him. Forced into retreat, and with their ship
threatened, they have had to leave. To abandon him. He
knows he cannot count on their help, nor should he have
to. He should be able to free himself. But he cannot. He can
do nothing for himself. He can only pray for them.

The first time, Ian fought back.
Chained he might have been, but he still had some room
for manoeuvre and he was a good deal more resilient and
energetic than his jailers had expected. He downed one,
pinning him to the floor and only then starting to wonder
what he would do with him next. But the fights were never
even-handed. Another man forced his way into the tiny
enclosure and attacked Ian from behind, wrapping fat
fingers about his throat and almost choking the life from
him. He lashed out blindly with elbows and heels, but the
first guard was up again: he delivered a punishing blow to
Ian's gut. The time-lost teacher doubled up and took a
second punch to the jaw. He lost control of his leg muscles
and crumpled, but his assailants were not satisfied. A heavy
boot crashed into his ribs, another into his temple. He rolled
with the force and lay on his back, groaning as they kicked
him again and again. He retreated into a warm, dark place
and waited for it to stop. Eventually, it did.
The next day, it started again.
His bearing had marked him out as a target. He had arrived
here determined to give them no concessions; to keep his
dignity, his self-respect, his confidence. He would not
become one of the abject, beaten shells of humanity that
littered the cells around him. His jailers had risen to the
challenge. As did the jail keeper, who questioned Ian more
than once about his background, expressing his frustration
at the lack of answers with vicious slaps. His wage, Ian
learned, came from a charge levied upon the families of
prisoners for their food and lodgings. When there was
nothing else to be cheerful about, he became perversely
gratified that no such income could be garnered from his
estate to pay for his dank, one-man room and for his
irregular helpings of bread, grey slops and water.
On the fourth day - or the fifth or sixth, by now he had
lost count - two jailers squeezed into his cell and
unchained him. His wrists and ankles breathed gratefully,
tingling with the forgotten sensation of air upon flesh.
Briefly, he hoped there had been a favourable development.
It was not to be. He struggled in vain as they surrounded
him, held him down and stripped him of his clothes, caring
not if the fabric was torn in the process. They ran coarse
hands over his naked body, laughing and discussing their
search for a `witch's tit' on which his familiar had suckled.
When they found nothing, they threw his filthy clothes
back in his face and gave him less than a minute to dress
again. Iron bands gripped him anew and his spirit was
crushed at last. He felt humiliated, degraded. Defeated.
He never fought back again.

In time, they saw him as less of a threat. Ian's newly
submissive attitude earned him less frequent beatings, and
eventually a transfer. He was moved in with other prisoners,
his manacles locked to a metal ring in a musty corner in
which green fungus sprouted. By now, he had a cold and
had not slept properly in days. His head ached and his face
was streaked with dried blood. But in his change of
situation he saw hope. There were people here to plot
with, to build upon his own ideas. People who would yearn
for escape as much as he did. His throat burnt, his mouth
was swollen and he wasn't sure he could talk any more.
Even so, his heart soared when the huddled mass next to
him introduced itself as John Proctor.
John Proctor! Ian may not have had Barbara's knowledge
of history but he did know that name, immortalised as it
had been by The Crucible. Proctor had been a fierce
opponent of the witch-hunt. He had also become one of its
victims. Like Rebecca Nurse, he had been - was to be -
hanged on charges of sorcery. His real crime, of course, had
been to speak out. Ian's mind worked furiously and he
recalled something Susan had said, in the TARDIS on the
way to Bristol. She had called Proctor a cruel man; had
spoken of his treatment of his maid, Mary Warren. He could
not think about that now. He saw what he needed in this
man's eyes, in the grim set of his chiselled features. An
indomitable spark, subdued but not extinguished. History
was right.John Proctor would fight this, until he could fight
no more. But fight it how?
`To escape would bring but more trouble down upon us.
We could not clear our names, nor regain our property, in
such a way.'
`Who cares about property? We're talking about our lives.'
`We have not yet been tried. To run would be to admit guilt.'
`They'll find us guilty anyway, you know that.'
`They will not execute us, though. They cannot. Not if we
appeal to their reason.' It was a sound enough argument -
for someone who had not seen the future.
John Proctor had been writing a letter, with paper and
quill brought to him by a friend. It implored the upper
echelons of the New England ministry to take a personal
hand in the trials. Ian helped, but he itched to take more
direct action, fearing that this would do no good. He had
heard nothing of Rebecca's appeal; only that she still
languished here, elsewhere in the labyrinth. Her continuing
presence deepened the pall of gloom that hung over the
prisoners. If one so conspicuously good as she could not be
spared this fate, then what hope for the rest of them? What
hope, Ian wondered, for his own attempts to intervene in
Salem's politics?
Tis the girls who should hang,' stated Proctor on more
than one occasion. `They whose lies have brought about
this misery' Ian dissuaded him from repeating the sentiment
in writing. His desire for revenge, however justified, would
not be seen as a virtuous quality. Proctor needed to produce
not an outpouring of anger, but rather an impassioned yet
logical plea to common sense.
`Tell them how Stoughton has decided to accept spectral
evidence,' he urged, `that he believes what the girls say
without real proof.
And that they dissemble,' said Proctor firmly.
They could dissemble, yes,' said Ian cautiously.
`There is no doubt of it. When my jade first joined the
accusers, I was able to thrash the Devil out of her. It is only
through my absence that Mary has turned to him once more.'
`It's more complicated than that. The girls are genuinely ill.'
`If indeed it be so, then `tis not through the doing of any
one of us here - though if I could have but five minutes
with them, they would suffer all the things they have
claimed, a'right.'
`We could say they might be lying,' said Ian tactfully, `or
they might just be mistaken. The main point is that the
court should need more evidence either way.'
Proctor nodded and began to write again. Before long, his
craggy face crumpled and he closed a massive fist around
the half-completed missive. `Where is the sense in this? The
governors have no interest in the pleas of such as~ us.' He
hurled the ball of paper at the wall with all the force his
chains would allow him to muster.
`You can't just give up,' said Ian. Proctor scowled and
turned away from him sulkily. Ian had been waiting for this
chance. He battled through the muzziness in his head. He
had to sound confident, even enthusiastic. To inspire faith.

`You're probably right about the letter. But there is still one
way out of this,John.'
His celimate laughed bitterly. `You have talked of escape
before, friend Ian, and I will give you the same answer.'
`We don't have to lose anything. We can hide out and
come forward when the madness is over, when we can get
a fair trial. The important thing is to survive until then. To
be free.' Proctor was still not stirred, so Ian produced his
most persuasive argument. `What about your wife? She's
pregnant, isn't she? How long before the baby comes? Do
you want it to be born in this place?'
`I do not wish him to live his life on the run,' grumbled
Proctor without turning back, `to he unable to see his
brothers and sisters.'
`Then won't you help me?' urged Ian. `I want to see my
family too, John. I don't know where they are. I don't even
know if they're alive. If you won't come with me, then
please at least help me to escape!'
His only answer was the dripping of water and the long,
pain-racked sigh of another doomed soul.

As the jailer towered over him, Ian pushed himself upward
and butted him in the stomach. While he was still too
winded to speak, Ian clamped one hand over his mouth,
seized his throat with the other and thrust him against the
wall. The jailer dropped his pitcher, which spewed its
contents over both men. Ian kept up the pressure,
squeezing harder and harder. He was dizzy and perspiring,
but grateful at least that his deduction had been correct.
Only one guard had been spared to water the prisoners. But
if he was able to shout for reinforcements, then Ian's efforts
would have been for nothing.
It was an ambitious and risky plan, but it was all he had.
And it didn't take account of the atrophying effect of his
days of inactivity. His whole body shook with the effort of
forcing weakened muscles to perform. He could feel his
grip loosening, little by little. He could feel his victim
fighting back.
He almost wept in frustration as his hold was broken. The
wiry man scrambled out of his limited reach and, still
panting, opened his mouth to yell for help. Ian fought
helplessly against his chains.
And the jailer slumped to the floor as John Proctor
brought the heavy pitcher down on to the back of his skull.
Light-headed with relief, Ian closed his eyesand
supported himself against the wall. When he looked again,
Proctor was laying into the semiconscious guard with fists
and feet. His face was a snarling mask of hate. `All right,' Ian
insisted, `that's enough. That's enough!'
Proctor eased back, his expression clearing. He rubbed his
knuckles ruefully. `We have to be sure he will sleep. I have
no wish to see what they will do to you - to both of us now
- if this fails.' Ian didn't comment further. He wondered if he
had looked so savage, so barbaric, in the moment that he
too had had the upper hand and was desperate not to lose
it. (He probably had, he concluded.)
Proctor stooped and pulled a collection of keys from the
fallen man's belt. He slid them across the floor to his ally,
and Ian set to work on fmding the one to unlock his
manacles. Fortunately the chain between his wrists was not
so short as to hinder him. `You'll have to come with me,' he
grunted over his shoulder.
`You appear to have left me no choice,' Proctor agreed.
Ian freed his hands, but found his feet more difficult as his
palms and fingers tingled with the restoration of free-
flowing blood. He almost dropped the keys into Proctor's
grasp. `Here, you'll have to do this yourself till I get my
circulation back. I'll keep watch.'
He was halfway to the open door when he was brought
up short, startled, by the appearance of a grey apparition
before him. He had long since stopped thinking of most of
his fellow prisoners as humans; merely as shapeless
mounds. He had had the briefest of exchanges with only a
few of them. But one had found the strength to rise, to reach
out with a pair of scrawny arms. He wasn't even sure if it
was man or woman, the broken remnants of a grimy face
peering out from beneath a tattered hood. Its voice was dry
and cracked. `Take me with you!'
He flinched from it automatically. `I can't.'
It fell again, with an awful wail. Ian felt as if he had just
pushed a dagger into its heart; cut the strings with which it
clung to life.
`We must.' John Proctor was free now. He pulled Ian
around, seized his shoulders and stared earnestly into his
eyes. `I have a wife, a son and daughter elsewhere in this
festering hellhole. It is not my intent to leave them.'
`We can't take everybody'
`How, in good conscience, can we deny them their
freedom? You know full well to what we would abandon them.'

`We stand a much better chance if the two of us can just
sneak out of here,' argued Ian. But that was only part of his
reason. A nlass jailbreak would constitute a significant
violation of history. He could almost hear the Doctor now,
disapproving as always. He could not do this: The problem
was, he didn't quite understand why. How could it be
wrong to save these lives, to end such hardship?
Proctor shook him insistently. `With numbers, we can
overcome any foe. Remember, Ian, you could not have come
this far but for my assistance. How can you, in turn, refuse
help to these poor souls?'
How indeed?

Ian's spine feels as though it might snap. A tiny part of him
imagines it would be some comfort if it did, for at least the
pressure would end. He tries to sharpen dull thoughts, to
keep his brain occupied. He asks himself questions. Did a
soft heart doom his escape attempt? What made a denizen
of these dungeons run screaming to her jailers? A
misguided hope for clemency? Or a more subtle push from
history? Protecting its own integrity, as the Doctor had said
it would. Will he be allowed to leave this place only if he
goes alone? Is he as shackled by the chains of time as by
these iron bands?

Despite an adrenaline boost to his system, the next few
minutes passed in a blur. He and Proctor had unchained
enough prisoners to put up a fight when the jailers arrived.
Some were useful only as distractions, though Proctor
contributed far beyond what Ian had expected of a sixty-
year-old businessman. The jailers were less skilled in
combat than in unchallenged sadism. Even so, Ian was
staggered by an onslaught of fists and boots. He took an
elbow to his nose and the world exploded into a blood-red haze.
Soon, he was no longer thinking about his actions. He was
striking out here, avoiding a blow there, wading through an
undulating sea of subhuman life until he burst out into the
uneven passage outside the cell. It took him a second to
realise that freedom beckoned. Proctor was by his side, a
stream of blood running down his cheek, eyes wild. Other
prisoners fought their way towards the pair. Those jailers
who were not down were at least trapped, unable to stop them.
People screamed and reached to them through bars as
they stumbled towards the rough-hewn steps, unsteady in
the hall~light. Their pleas tore Ian's heart, but he could do
nothing for them. He had lost his keys in the struggle. Five
people in all attained the surface level - another had fallen
on the stairs, too weak to climb. There were no jailers left
up here. It was almost too easy.
Except that somebody had alerted the town guard.
Ian and Proctor led the way out on to the street, and came
to a halt as they faced a half-ring of militiamen. For an
instant, Ian planned to make a fight of it. But they were
outnumbered, even before one of their motley group fell to
his knees and begged for mercy. And their captors were armed.
The sharp points of two rapier swords converged upon
Ian's throat.

For how long did they punish him; bind him neck and
heels? He cannot tell. He only knows that he is crippled in
both body and spirit. As the jailers remove the extra chains
from him, he yields to their every prod and does not
respond to their taunts. He will not be able to muster the
will for another escape attempt. He cannot even lie straight,
though he has wanted to so badly. Blades of agony slice into
his back when he tries.
His one consolation is that he is drifting into sleep now,
through exhaustion, despite the questions that reverberate
in his mind.
Has he thrown away his one chance of freedom? Is he
himself now to become a part of history? Will his name
appear in future texts, an unimportant addition to the death
toll? Has time abandoned him?
Can Ian Chesterton ever go home again?

Barbara stepped out of the TARDIS, and immediately her
heart fell into her stomach at the sight of straight roads and
large, brick-built buildings. The Doctor's confidence had
been as misplaced as ever. The fast-return switch had failed,
bringing them neither to Salem nor to the seventeenth
century. Her hopes were dashed and, though she had been
half expecting this, Barbara's legs went weak with shock.
She leaned against the Ship's wooden exterior and quietly
wept.

18 July 1692

Fourteen days. Two weeks, stranded in this primitive
village. Susan counted each one, like a prisoner marking off
the days of a sentence but without hope of release.
Yesterday, she had heard that Chief-Justice Stoughton had
signed five death warrants; condemned five women to
execution. Sarah Good was one: the spiteful beggar whose
trial she had attended. Rebecca Nurse was another. All their
efforts had come to nothing. History continued on its path.
and had swept her along with it. She no longer possessed
the resolve to rail against what must be. She lay in her
borrowed bed and cried, as she did most mornings.
`Susan, you must rise else the minister will scold you.'
Abigail shook her roommate out of a fitful doze. She was
right. Though the sun had barely risen, Parris would be
down here soon and expecting the children to be about
their duties. Susan fought to overcome the sick feeling in
her stomach. She climbed out of bed despite the weight of
sadness upon her. Abigail helped her to dress in a gown for
which Parris had lent her material. Once a hateful foe, the
minister's niece had taken on a benevolent guiding role
towards the newcomer. It was as if Susan's newly acquired
label of witches' victim had to be nurtured.Without Abigail,
thedesolation of her life would have long since
overwhelmed her. She would have eschewed Parris's
imposed routine, finding no energy within herself to
comply with his demands. And, no doubt, she would have
been accordingly punished. Cast in prison as Mary had
been, perhaps.
Even so, Susan cooked and cleaned with lifeless eyes -
too-accurate windows on the emptiness of her soul. She
could not even concentrate on the maintenance of her
psychic barriers, the development of which had been one
blessing of her time in captivity. She had not suffered a full-
blown fit in over a week, even when Abigail had climbed up
on to the dinner table and tried to fly through the window,
flapping her arms in vain.John Proctor had taken the blame
for that one, despite his distance and imprisonment. Susan
could stand outside it all now, recognising the symptoms of
hysteria for what they were. She felt only the occasional tug
at her thoughts, entreating her to abandon logic and to join
in. Sometimes it was even tempting. Samuel Parris - no, this
whole society - allowed no outlet for youthful emotions.
Only a daily drudge of work and prayer. She longed to cast
all that aside, to dance and shout with abandon. She
stopped herself only because she knew where it would
lead. But Susan could foresee a time when, through sheer
desperation, she would allow the barriers to crumble. She
would rejoin the ranks of the afflicted girls, willingly and for ever.
Parris called Abigail and Susan into his study after lunch.'!
am to take the both of you into Salem Town this evening,'
he told them, `along with those who have been likewise tormented.'
`Oh Uncle, no, not to the witches' jail!'
`Be not afraid, Abigail. They cannot harm you now.'
`I suffer pinches and kicks whenever I approach the
cursed place.'
`Then you must be strong,' said Parris firmly. `Five of our
enemies are to hang on the morrow. It is Mr Stoughton's
thought that we should confront their brethren with
victims of their sorcery tonight.'

`That they may be affrighted to confess?' guessed Abigail.
`Aye, and to name their accomplices still free. It is in the
cause of bringing an end to your suffering that we must do this.'
Then I will go to God for the courage to do it.'
`And what of you, Susan? You have said not a word.'
`I will do whatever God thinks right,' said Susan timidly.
She had long since learned how to retain Parris's favour.
Still, it was hard to pretend this trip would be an act of mere
duty, when a defeated spirit was rising again within her. She
wanted to cheer. After all this time, she was to be taken to
the one man who could help her. The one man from whom
she could obtain guidance and hope.
Susan had asked many times about her would-be parents.
She had been appalled to learn that, in her delirium, she had
cried Out upon her mother'; relieved that Barbara had
disappeared along with the Doctor and his `magic box'
thereafter. But her `father' had remained. He was close at
hand, but frustratingly too far to reach. Until now.
The Doctor was gone. He had taken with him the core of
Susan's life. But Ian was still here, and he alone could make
this all right.

The horse maintained a brisk trot, but it was not speedy
enough for Barbara. She clung on to the overturned TARDIS
and tried to rearrange the straw in the cart to make herself
more comfortable. These muddy lanes were interminable,
and she ached to reach their destination. She stared at the
Doctor's back as he spurred his mount onward, but chose
not to distract him with questions. Not yet.

Paramount in her thoughts were Susan and Ian. She hated
to imagine what they might be enduring. The Doctor had
persisted in reminding her how things could have been
much worse. The fast-return switch could indeed have
taken them to another century, another world. She had felt
relieved - and somewhat stupid - to learn that, in fact, they
had arrived in the Bay Colony's affluent capital, Boston, only
two weeks after they had left. But still, those missing two
weeks worried her, particularly when she heard the news
that, in but twenty-four hours, there would be an execution
in Salem Town.
And that, she thought, was another thing.

Susan shivered as she descended the stone steps. They
seemed to go on for ever, taking her further and further into
the depths of a frigid hell. She felt as though she would
never climb them again. She clung on to the fervent hope
that Ian could help her. But, if he was held in chains below,
then how could he even help himself?
The afflicted girls - seven, all told - were silent. The dark,
damp atmosphere of the dungeon suppressed even Abigail
and Ann, who had chattered ceaselessly throughout their
journey into the town. The latter was accompanied by her
mother, who had expressed her determination to rid the
colony of its `unsavoury elements'. Where Ann and Ann
Junior went, so too was Thomas Putnam. He joined Parris
and Stoughton in the role of chaperone. Or agitator, Susan
thought. Even the Putnams' servant, Mercy Lewis, was in
attendance. That one household, she had come to realise,
enjoyed an inordinate say in the course of events. The three
men walked at the back of the motley group, along with the
jail keeper. They herded the increasingly reluctant girls
ahead of them, cutting off all hope of escape. Susan kept
close to Mary Warren, though no words passed between
them. They knew each other, appreciated each other's
plight, too well.
Susan was terrified of what she might fmd down here.
The procession came to a halt before a large but packed
cell. Flickering torchlight illuminated the huddled lumps of
bodies on the floor within. Susan strained for a glimpse of
Ian's familiar shape, but could not see it. The jail keeper
produced a stick and rattled it against the bars.
`Everybody stand!' he commanded. `Come on, prisoners,
on your feet. There are men of God present.'
He unlocked the door and marched into the cell. Parris,
Stoughton and Putnam ushered the girls, and the elder Ann
Putnam, through after him. Some of the wretches were
struggling to rise. The keeper lashed out with his stick,
prodding and beating others into alertness. They stood, too,
after a fashion. One aged woman stumbled against the wall.
She whimpered as the keeper took her shoulders and
hauled her back up. The girls found themselves in a tight
cluster at the centre of the room. There was scarcely the
space to hold them. Susan shrank from the foul, unwashed
bodies of the prisoners, sympathy and disgust mingling in
her heart.
With slow and measured paces, Parris strode around each
of the snivelling captives, regarding them with unconcealed
disdain. `You know these children,' he said. Susan had the
impression that he was performing primarily for Stoughton,
who watched silently from the doorway.'It is they who have
suffered your molestations these past months. Gaze upon
their faces and tell me they deserve such bedevilment, they
that be so young and innocent.'
`We do nothing,' muttered one man, his defeated tone
belying his defiant words.
`Still you would deny your sins! Five of your kind are to
hang, by God's decree. Might not some of you take this
chance to repent? For surely this same fate will await those
who do not.'
`I would speak to the children.' Parris turned in surprise as
an old and bent woman shuffled forward. She stopped,
mere inches away, as the chain that linked her to the wall
snapped taut. Susan stifled a gasp as, through the gloom, she
recognised Rebecca Nurse. `I would have them know,' she
said, `that I bear them no malice. Even as I go to my grave, I
pray to God to forgive those who have done this unjust
thing to me, for they are most sorely misguided.'
`You are a witch, Rebecca Nurse,' yelled Abigail. `A stinking
witch, and I hope you rot in Hell for it!' Susan moved to - to
do what? Something, just something - but Mary anticipated
her foolishness and pulled her back. Susan bit her lip and
choked back words of anger.
`May God grant you wisdom to see past the deceptions of
Satan,' said Rebecca sagely.
Parris interceded. `We will hear no more from you, who
will not confess your sins though the gallows await you. My
niece is correct: you will burn in Hell, an unrepentant
sinner. I only hope your fate will serve to turn others to the
path of our Lord.' To Susan's fury, he gave Rebecca a push
that sent her sprawling backward. She was caught by a
short, stout man with a lined face and sharply defmed
features. He supported Rebecca and glared hatred at Parris,
who rounded on him with evident relish. `And what of you,
Burroughs? You had the effrontery to wear a minister's
cloth whilst you did consort with Satan. There is a special
corner for you in Purgatory if you will not throw yourself
upon God's mercy.'
`God will not condone your actions in this,' growled
Burroughs
`It is he who guides them!'
`Mr Parris,' shrieked the younger Ann Putnam. `He pinched
me. Mr Burroughs pinched me.'
`And I,' cried Mercy Lewis. `He sends out his spectre even
now.'
`Jail keeper!' roared Parris.
`He is king of the witches,' wailed Ann. `Even this much
iron cannot fully dampen his sorcery.'
`Desist from these actions, Burroughs,' commanded Parris,
though there was fear in his voice, `else you will be bound
by more chains.'
But Burroughs just stood and shook his head slowly,
wearily. Mercy Lewis fell to her knees and Abigail, too, was
flinching now from random attacks. One by one, the others
succumbed. All except for Susan and Mary, who hugged
each other and tried to close their senses to what was
happening. Mary prayed for an end to the madness, and
Susan joined in, sending a plea to a God in whom she did
not believe.
Because the madness had to end somehow.

Barbara and the Doctor sat on a grass verge, eating cakes
that they had purchased in Boston The light was failing and
Barbara was keen to press on to Salem Town. However, the
Doctor's argument had been sound: they were on the last
leg of their journey now and increasingly more likely to be
recognised with each step their horse took. They would do
best to arrive by dark and find somewhere to secrete the
TARDIS. Safe inside the Ship. they would make plans for the
morning. Barbara ached with impatience, but understood
the need for caution. Some things. however, she did not
understand
'You haven't told me about the appeal yet.' The Doctor
raised an eyebrow. For Rebecca Nurse,' she prompted.
`I remember. And it should be evident to you what its
outcome was. You do know Rebecca is to be hanged
tomorrow, hmm?'
`Of course I do.'
`Then I would rather not discuss it further.'
`Why are you shutting me out like this? What are you
hiding?'
`Hiding? Hiding?' His eyes darted towards her, then quickly
away. `My dear young woman, I have more things on my
mind than your misguided attempt to change history.'
`My attempt? You were as keen as anyone when you left
for Boston.'
`Then perhaps we have all learned a lesson from it, eh?
Perhaps indeed.' He gazed into the mid-distance reflectively
`What happened, Doctor?'
`Well, what do you think?' he snapped. `The Governor of
the colony refused to grant Rebecca Nurse her reprieve. It
was as I expected.You can't simply rewrite the past.'
`Did he give you any reasons?'
The Doctor flapped his hands vaguely and struggled to
find words. `What reason do you need? The fact that
Rebecca is to be... that they're going to -well it should tell
you all you need to know, shouldn't it? Now I will hear no
more on the matter.' He took an overly aggressive bite from
his soft cake and lapsed into a sullen silence.
Barbara burned with a familiar resentment. He was lying
to her, keeping secrets. He had never been particularly
skilled at covering it. But she could not press the point. Not
yet. They needed to work together, to rescue their friends
from whatever fate Salem had dealt them. They could not
afford a rift between them now.
There would be time enough for a reckoning later.

Burroughs had been fitted with new chains and the girls
were calm again. But the incident had persuaded Stoughton
to change tactics. The accusers were split into smaller
groups, each accompanied by an adult. They would
confront selected prisoners one by one. Susan and Mary
had managed to stay together; they had been assigned to
the care of Parris. If Susan felt uncomfortable with his close
attention, she was positively nauseous upon hearing they
were to see John Proctor.
Proctor lay against the back wall of another of the larger
cells. He was sleeping, but Parris shook him out of his doze.
At first he was confused and haggard, a ghost of the
domineering man who had tried to beat Susan a lifetime
ago. But, upon seeing his visitors, he levered himself upward
and his expression darkened. Anger lent him a new vitality
and Susan was scared of him all over again.
Come to gloat, have you, Parris?' Proctor sneered. `Or
perhaps you would have these whores invent fresh lies
against me?'
`Master!~
`Do not speak to me thus, Mary Warren. I took you into my
home when no other would have you, and this is how you
repay me.'
Tis you who choose to afflict the girl with your magics,'
snarled Parris. `She only speaks the truth of it.'
`Truth?' Proctor laughed bitterly. `When she gave you the
truth, you clapped her in chains. It is no wonder she is given
to dissemble.'
Parris scowled and pushed Mary towards Proctor. 'Speak
to him,' he commanded gruffly.
Mary was on the verge of tears. `Please, Goodman Proctor,
confess to these crimes. They will not believe you if you say
you do not commit them. They will send you to your death.'
`Confess for the sake of the children, Proctor!'
`Tell them the truth, Mary,' John Proctor implored.'! know
what they have done to you, but it is God who will judge all
in the end. It is to him that you must answer. Do you hear
me, child?'
`I...' Mary's voice deserted her. She turned away from him
and sobbed. She tried to leave, but Parris caught her and
turned her back. Under Proctor's challenging gaze, she
composed herself. Her eyes were downcast asshe
whispered, `I must tell the truth, sir. You have sent out your
spirit to torment me and the others, many times.'

`You see?' crowed Parris. `You will not turn your accusers
from God. Now what say you, Proctor? Will you go to him
instead? If one such as you can confess, `twill be for the
good of all.'
`It will assist you in the persecution of others, is what you
mean: Proctor turned his attention to Susan suspiciously.
She felt a chill of guilt and foreboding, and hugged herself
unhappily. She had hoped to keep out of this. `And what
business has she here? Not long since, you believed her to
be a servant of the Devil - yet now you would accept her
words against me too?'
`Susan was under a malign influence, but she has cast off
that shade through work and prayer. She wishes to be let be
by your kind.'
`She is a heathen child!' Proctor spat.
`Susan, tell him how the witches afflict you.'
It was an order, not a request. Susan answered in a small
voice, rushing her words. Like Mary she avoided Proctor's
eyes. `They come to me as spirits and pinch and scratch me
and goad me into fits.'
`Have you ever counted John Proctor amongst them?'
She didn't answer. Parris asked again, more forcefully this
time.
`Speak truthfully, Susan,' coaxed Mary, eyes begging her to
do the opposite. `God will protect you:
Hating herself for it, Susan squeaked: `Yes.Yes, I have.'
She had wanted to stand up to Parris, to deny his
dangerous claim. She could not. She found herself, instead.
staring earnestly at the victim of her accusation. She bent
her will towards a silent plea that he would understand; that
he would see what she had not, when first she had learned
of Mary's role in this tragedy. They were mere girls, and
powerless. They had no choice but to do as Parris bade
them or suffer the consequences. He knew of Mary's ordeal.
He knew this wasn't her fault. It wasn't Susah's fault. Surely
he would understand.
John Proctor let out an outraged roar and launched
himself at her. His powerful hands closed about her throat.
Parris came to her rescue, wrenching him away. The two
men grappled and Susan screamed.
`I will choke the truth out of you, witch bitch!'threatened
Proctor. Parris was fighting to hold him back; shouting for a
jailer.
`Susan? Susan!'
`Ian!' It seemed unreal, but suddenly he was there. All this
time, he had been dozing by Proctor's side, and yet she had
not seen him. Just another misshapen bundle of rags. He
looked awful: bruised and tired, sick and dirty. But he could
help her. He had to. `Ian,' she cried, two weeks' worth of hurt
and despair tumbling out at once, `the Doctor's gone. He
and Barbara left in the TARDIS. We're stranded and I'm
living with the minister. They make me cry out on people
and, oh Ian, they're going to hang Rebecca. Ian!'
She screamed this last, reaching out to touch him as a
jailer pulled her away. Another lent his fists to Parris's
struggle against Proctor. A third was pushing a bewildered
Ian back into his corner. She was lost amid a flurry of
activity. `Susan, hold on,' Ian cried as they were torn apart.
`I'll fmd a way out of here. I'll do something, I swear.'
But the whole prison was alive now, awakened by the
disturbance. She could no longer hear his words above the
clamour; no longer see him through the mlee and the
blinding tears in her eyes. She could only ask herself what
he - her last hope - could possibly do.

Barbara could not sleep. She perched on her bed, mind
heavy with disturbing thoughts. Ian. Susan. The Doctor: the
lies he had told, the things he had refused to share with her.
An endless succession of broken promises. Vows to take
her home.
The book lay open on her lap. She had visited one of the
TARDIS's libraries. As always, she had been frustrated by
the lack of order to its contents. As always, she had found
what she sought under her very nose. It was as if the Ship
itself sensed her desires and rearranged its shelves
accordingly. The book was about the Salem witch trials. In
her own time, 1963, it had yet to be written. She had felt
vaguely guilty about opening it. But she had had to know
what the Doctor would not tell her.
She had been surprised to find the information there,
although she had been searching for it. Details of the
statements made by Fisk and Rebecca Nurse; of Francis
Nurse's journey to Boston to present them to Governor
Phips. Barbara found herself wishing she had read this page
earlier. The four travellers had made history. The results of
their interference were cast in print for all to see, even if
their names were not. What had the book said before their
arrival?
She had checked the index, fumblingly, for the name
Chesterton. It was not listed. If they failed to rescue Susan
- if Ian went to his death - would it magically appear?
And she had read of a reprieve granted, her heart
gladdened until she had remembered the reality and read
on. She had learned how the fits of the afflicted girls were
renewed that same day; how a `Salem gentleman', his name
unrecorded, had prevailed upon Phips to reverse his
decision. Barbara had stopped reading then.
And had started to think disturbing thoughts.

Susan hit her knee as she climbed into the cart on Prison
Lane. It was a simple accident. Her mind had been
elsewhere, and even the sharp pain failed to focus it. But
Abigail seized the opportunity to claim that the inmates of
the witches' dungeon had reached out to perform this petty
act of spite. Susan did not argue. She accepted Parris's
helping hand and lowered herself into the straw. When
asked if she was tormented still, she shook her head. The
horses pulled away and the receding prison building was
swallowed up by darkness. The girls began to talk again,
then. She ignored them. Mary took her hand and gave it a
reassuring squeeze. She barely felt it. She could only think
of Ian, more' helpless than she had ever seen him. And her
life, stretching out ahead of her. Confined to this place. This
life. This hell.
Susan was dead inside. If she had felt hopeless before,
then it was a thousand times worse now. For she knew that
hope was gone.

19 July 1692

On the last day of her life, Rebecca Nurse felt better than
she had felt in months. She was able to stand, despite the
jolting of the cart as it was dragged along the pockmarked
surface of Prison Lane. She held her head high, savouring
her last taste of sweet morning air. The mockery and taunts
of the crowd that swarmed after the prisoners transport
faded into the background, meaningless to her. They had
come not just from Salem but from Boston and Ipswich and
Topsfield, to see the five condemned women to their
graves. Through fear, she suspected. Relieved, perhaps, to be
able to divert suspicion from their own deeds. Each would
have to make his own peace with God, someday.
Sarah Good could not be so philosophical. She perched
on the back of the cart, straining to break her bonds as she
hurled vile insults at her tormentors. Susannah Martin was
slumped in a corner, sobbing as she hid from them,
ashamed. Rebeccasurprised herself with her own
contrasting serenity, her calm acceptance. But she had seen
things beyond this mortal existence. The events of the
previous night were distant in her mind, like fleeing
dreams. Perhaps they had been but a vision. Even were it so.
she felt blessed. She looked to the hangman's noose for
release. A beginning. Soon, she would know peace.

Ian sat up straight, nerves tingling in the high-voltage
atmosphere with which Salem Prison was newly charged.
Few words were spoken, but even those inmates who had
not noticeably stirred in weeks were shifting today. Restless.

Attuned to each whisper, each breath. They had been on
edge since the signing of the death warrants had been
reported. News of Rebecca's release last night had crackled
around the dungeon like wildfire; her return, hours later,
had brought a depressed hush. Depressed but expectant.
Something washappening. Something to break the
monotonous routine. Something bad. They all prayed for a
twist of fate, a miracle to save their comrades. All were
silently grateful that they had not been chosen to take that
fmal journey. John Proctor wept, for the first time that Ian
had seen.
They waited. Waited for the moment when the first
supposed witch was sent to her death. They would know;
Ian felt it as a certainty. The exact second. Crying with the
resonance of her pain and despair. Looking forward only to
a similar fate. For if they could do this to Rebecca Nurse,
then who could be safe? Whom would they spare?

Parris trailed a short distance behind the cart, matching its
sedate pace, heedless of the excited throng around him.
This was a sad day for his church, but a happy one too. His
advice had been heeded. Salem was taking the first decisive
steps towards ending its problem. The first steps towards
reinstating its minister as its undisputed spiritual leader. But
Parris could afford to be magnanimous in victory, and he
knew the importance of making the right impression. So he
concentrated on the sadness and reflected the solemnity of
the occasion. There would be time enough for celebration
in private.

***

The cart juddered its way out of the town. It struck Rebecca
that she would not see Salem's buildings again. Despite
herself, her chest swelled with misery. She tried to dispel it
with a deep breath. But she was surrounded by the
splendour of God's work, and she could not hold back a tear
at the thought that she was viewing it for the final time. The
delicately sculpted clouds, drifting on a beautiful deep-blue
sky. Gentle fields, their verdant coverings swaying in the
breeze. The gurgling North River. Rolling hills, with perfect
flowing contours that could never have been carved by
man. Rebecca's hopes for something better in the next life
seemed futile when she saw the unsurpassable gifts with
which she had been blessed in this.
She thought too of those she would leave behind. Francis,
lost without her. He was somewhere in the crowd, unable
to reach her. She could not see him, but she felt his
presence. Dear Francis. She prayed for him to have faith.
They would be reunited yet.

`I saw Susan.'
`I know.' The Doctor squeezed Barbara's arm, trying to
reassure her though he shared her worries. He, too, had
glimpsed his granddaughter in the crowd. He, too, had read
the misery in her face. He, too, had wanted to go to her; take
her away from this. They could not. Too many people
would recognise them, condemn them, work against them.
They would end up sharing their friends' fates, not altering
them. `We must stick to the plan we agreed. It is the only
way, my dear.'
Barbara nodded bravely. The procession was out of sight
now. They had joined its fringes, keeping their heads down
and covered, then allowed it to leave them behind. They
could still hear the shouts, the whoops of joy, but Prison
Lane was deserted. `At least we know she's alive and safe,'
said Barbara, `and Ian wasn't... well, you know.'
He did know. He had secretly feared that Ian might have
stood by Rebecca's side in the cart, his overlong presence
here distorting the time stream. Even so, relief was tinged
with bitter regret. The Doctor had been unprepared for the
impact of seeing Rebecca Nurse go to her fate. Barbara
seemed able to blot it out. He couldn't. He had made her a
promise. He had broken it. She had trusted him and he had
betrayed that trust. But, shackled as he was, what else could
he have done? just his best. Get on with it. Save Susan and
Ian and leave here. Shake the dust from his shoes.
`Come on,' he said, leading Barbara back to the witches' jail
and trying to clear his mind of distractions. `We have work to do.'

The cart took a sharp left turn and a further fragment of
Rebecca's old dread fell back into place. The hill loomed up
ahead and filled her vision, though it was some way distant
yet. It was an abomination, a carbuncle upon the Lord's
creation. Many souls had fled their mortal husks on that hill.
Sinners, thieves, murderers. She felt as if their spirits
lingered still. Their banshee wails welcomed the approach
of their iimocent brethren with malicious glee. Enjoying
their moment of vengeance, perhaps. For all her efforts, her
good and faithful life, she would be hurled into an
unmarked grave in such ignominious company. Bridget
Bishop greeted her too, the most recent of those hanged.
Rebecca did not know if she had been guilty or not. What
did it matter? She had been denied fair treatment all the same.
She prayed that the spectacle of her death would give
pause for reflection to those who had wished for it.
The cart trundled on.

`Witches!' screeched Abigail. `You go to a deserved death!'
`You employed your magics to hurt us,' Mercy Lewis
shouted. `Now feel what it is to be hurt in turn!'
`You will enjoy the bitter fruits of your lives' works in
Hell!' asserted the younger Ann Putnam.
Many of their words were stolen by the uproar, buried in
the fever pitch of the crowd. They only yelled them all the
louder, running up to the back wheels of the cart and
cavorting almost within reach of their victims. The sight of
it sickened Susan. They were sending these women to their
deaths. Did they not feel compassion? Could they not at
least act with decorum?
But decorum was a foreign concept to these colonists
today. They exulted in their own tyranny and cruelty. They
enjoyed the antics of their youngsters, treating them as an
engaging sideshow. Where Susan had expected reflective
silence, she found instead a babble of excitement, an
outpouring of venom. The contrasting cries of outrage,
expressions of injustice, from such as Francis Nurse had
hardly an effect. She had wondered how they could hang
Rebecca: stare right into her pleading eyes and remember
her good words and deeds and yet kill her. She had her
answer now. She had faced a mob like this before, and knew
too well of what evil it was capable. She stayed close to
Marys side, the subdued pair drawing small comfort from
each other.When Abigail entreated with them to join in the
mocking of their foes, they declined.
She remembered that night in the parsonage: the start of
it all. The thrill of disobedience, of doing something tangibly
wrong. All events since had been but escalations of that
single, basic impulse: an impulse hitherto repressed by a
puritanical society. The wrongs had become bigger, the
thrills (for some) greater. And now they committed the
greatest wrong of all.
Things had spiralled too far out of control.

It was one of the most harrowing escapes of Ian's life. Not
because of the danger: there were no jailers to be seen.
They were doubtless enjoying the mid-morning sun, and
the deaths of former charges. Not because of the situation:
Barbara's appearance, complete with keys and an assurance
that the Doctor and Susan were unharmed, filled him with
joy. It was because of his cellmates, as they begged him to
save their lives too and he knew he could do no such thing.
He tried to harden his heart to their pleas, but he knew
their suffering too well. By the time his chains had fallen, he
had taken a rash decision. A compromise. He might well
regret it, but he felt he had no choice.
He took the keys from Barbara's hand. She looked puzzled
and anxious, but she trusted him. `Do you still want to get
out of here?' he asked John Proctor in a deathly whisper.
`With all my heart.' Proctor was pale and broken. Today's
events had destroyed his spirit. Gone was the resolve to
stand and fight. He had seen too clearly the end result of
such a course.
The trio stumbled across the cell, Ian and Proctor
unsteady on their feet. Ian's fingers and toes prickled with
the return of full circulation. He lurched onward, knowing
time was short. He ignored the hands that pulled and tore
at his ragged clothes, though it crippled him to do so. He
forced himself to remember his last bid for freedom. He
couldn't stop, couldn't help them. Couldn't afford to attract
too much attention. He was saving one person; it would
have to be enough. Proctor seemed to accept it too, this
time. They had to get out of this place, and this was the only
way. Alone.
Until they reached the dank passageway. Then Proctor
halted and seized Ian by the arms, his eyes alight with
desperation. `Elizabeth,' he croaked hoarsely. `My wife. My
unborn child.We cannot leave them here to die.'
Ian swallowed drily. Things were becoming complicated again.

At the sound of footsteps, the Doctor shrank behind a
freestanding cupboard in the reception area. Somebody was
approaching, from within the prison building. He cursed his
luck. Barbara would be back at any moment, hopefully with
Ian in tow. He had to do something, before the pair of them
ran straight into a bunch of jailers.
`Should we not check the dungeons?' a male voice asked.
`Go down there yourself if you wish,' said another. `The
prisoners on this level are restless enough. I have no wish
to face a hundred vengeful witches, chained or no.'
The first man seemed to agree. `The keeper cannot expect
us to risk our necks whilst he spends his day at the
festivities.'
`Not for what pitiful amount we are paid.'
The Doctor could remain in hiding for no longer; not
without tempting discovery or, at best, suspicion when he
did reveal himself. He stepped smartly into view, cleared his
throat and looked as if he had been there all along. Only two
jailers were present, as he had surmised. They reacted to his
appearance with astonishment, but he did not give them
time to question it. `Is security in this establishment always
so lax?' he demanded. `I have been waiting for attention.'
They were suitably cowed. They mumbled apologies and
played with their hands. `We do not have the full
complement of staff today,' one explained nervously. `You
know of the executions, sir?'
`Of course I do, man,' the Doctor snapped, `and yet I hear
you making plans to shirk your responsibilities. It is not
good enough, not good enough at all. No, do not concern
yourselves with the dungeons now.' They had jerked into
action, heading for the steps. It was the last thing he
wanted.'! have sent a woman down there.Yes, you left a set
of keys hanging behind the desk here, where anyone could
have walked in off the street and taken them. It is fortunate
indeed for all concerned that! happened to have business
with one of your prisoners. I shall be reporting this to your
superiors.'
`Wh-what is the nature of your business, sir?'
`I beg your pardon?'

The jailer repeated himself, less hesitantly. The Doctor had
heard the first time, but was stalling. He had hoped that a
confident, aggressive attitude would see him through this
unquestioned. Why did he never prepare for these
situations? `What, you dare tell me... I have been kept
waiting for... Oh, well, I suppose it is your job to ask these
confounded questions. Well done, well done.' He coughed
uncertainly, aware of his own tongue stumbling over his
words. Brain racing faster than his mouth again. He puffed
out his chest and clutched at the edges of his cloak, using
body language to restate his authority. `And, of course, you
have a right to know what I am doing in your jail. Indeed.
Especially when I have been charged to remove one of your
prisoners from your custody. Ian Chesterton. I have a
warrant for his immediate release.' He glared at them both,
defying them to challenge him again. To his dismay, they did.
`We may see this document then?'
Time for the third approach. `What is the meaning of your
constant interrogations?' he stormed. `Do you not know
who I am?'
`Yes,' said one of the jailers unexpectedly. Recognition and
new respect dawned in his eyes. `Yes sir, I do. I apologise, I
had not seen it till now. You seem somewhat... different
from last night. This man,' he informed his colleague, `is an
emissary of Governor Phips himself. We will do all you
require of us, sir.'
The Doctor peered suspiciously at the stocky, red-faced
man but could not recall meeting him. He had had the good
fortune to be mistaken for somebody else, he supposed. It
was a stroke of luck on which he intended to capitalise. `I
only require you to sign Goodman Chesterton over to my
care. My assistant will bring him here.' Aware of scraping
sounds of movement from below, he raised his voice so
Barbara would hear him. `In fact, I believe that is them, on
their way now. The three of us shall be out of your hair very shortly.'

Barbara froze on the steps, gripped by uncertainty. `The
Doctor's talking to somebody,' she hissed to Ian. `It must be
a guard.'
`You heard what he said,' Ian whispered back. `He's telling
us it's safe to show ourselves.'
`Two of us, perhaps.' She cast a worried glance back
through the gloom, at John and Elizabeth Proctor.
Dangerous though their presence was, she was stung by
their looks of hopeful expectation. `He isn't expecting a quartet.'
`We can't abandon them now.'
`What else can we do?'
`Leave this to me,' said Ian decisively. `John, I want you and
your wife to stay here until I tell you it's safe. Barbara and I
will see what's happening upstairs and come back for you.'
John Proctor nodded his understanding. Elizabeth sank
gratefully into a sitting position, brushing back black hair to
reveal a forehead glistening with sweat. Her pregnancy was
beginning to show. Barbara could not help but wonder
what effect her recent ordeals may have had upon the
unborn child.
Ian moved to take the lead, but Barbara halted him. He
smiled ruefully as she gripped his arm and marched him up
the remaining steps. The Doctor greeted them with a secret
nod of approval. Two jailers were also present; she tried to
ignore their inquisitive looks. `Ah, Mrs Wright, I see you have
brought the prisoner. You have informed him of the details
of his pardon, I assume?'
`I have,' she confirmed, striving to sound confident. What
had the guards been told, that the Doctor could now
brazenly organise Ian's escape before their eyes?
Well, run along then, Chesterton. I will attend to the
details here.'
Ian hesitated and looked at the Doctor meaningfully.
His demeanour became stern. `You are free to go, my boy.'
`I would like a word with you first, sir. In private.'
The Doctor took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. `I'm sure I
have nothing to say to you, Goodman. Now, you have been
granted a reprieve. I suggest you take it, with no more of
this shilly-shallying.'
Barbara wondered how much the Doctor had deduced
about what had happened downstairs. Enough, she
suspected. She watched with helpless worry as the two
men squared up to each other, unable to speak freely but
saying all they needed to say in their stubborn expressions.
The jailers were bemused. How long before they became
suspicious? `I'd like a word,' said Ian through gritted teeth.
`about the conditions in this place. About the people who
are left to endure them.'
`Other people are of no concern to you. You have your
freedom.'
`My freedom isn't enough.'

`It is all that is on offer.'
`Don't you want to put an end to all this?' Ian was edging
his way around the room. The Doctor pivoted to follow
him.
It is not as simple as you might like to think.'
Oh, isnt it?' He turned suddenly, launched himself at the
nearer of the jailers and floored him with an unexpected
punch. `John!' he yelled. `Up here, quickly!' And then the
second jailer attacked Ian, as the first leapt back to his feet,
and the situation descended into chaos.

Running again. Breathless, unthinking, no destination in
mind. That was how this mission had begun. When it still
was a mission and not just a fight to survive. An ironic
symmetry, perhaps. Susan had failed. She had known that for
weeks. But she had just been forced to witness the ultimate
consequence of that failure. The very thing she had come
here to stop. The destruction of hope. The prisoners, driven
on by constables and by the taunts of spectators. Made to
climb their final ascent, too steep and rocky for their
transport. To the top of Gallows Hill. Screamed at, urged to
confess to what they had not done. The ladder, placed
against a high branch of the oak tree. Its top rung knocking
against the bark with a hollow, cracking sound. Snapshot
one. The first frozen image, scarred on to Susan's thoughts.
The ladder. The tree. The stomach-hollowing sight of the
swaying noose.
Others must have perished first. One, two, perhaps three,
before Rebecca Nurse's turn came. But hers was the face
that lingered, the one to whom Susan's hiding eyes had
been drawn. She stood on the ladder, rope tied around her
neck, looking like a ghost already. She made her final
address to this world, her resignation a painful contrast to
the screeched threats of Sarah Good. Parris entreated her
again to confess, to beg for mercy. She~ would not belie
herself. She asked God to forgive those who had unjustly
condemnedher. She prayed for them to know
enlightenment and peace. She was finally to know peace
herself, she said.
The crowd reacted with insults, rude retorts and gleeful
assertions that she was bound for Hell. That was snapshot
two. Rebecca's face, the skin stretched thin. Raised to
Heaven, with a hint of fear and a world of sadness. The last
time that mortal eyes would see that face. Then the
executioner pulled on the hood, climbed down the ladder
and kicked it away.
And Rebecca Nurse died.
The third, final snapshot. The image that will never drift
far from Susan's thoughts. Rebecca's corpse hangs like a
dead weight, its hands tied behind its back. Its death rictus
is masked, but somehow all the more horrific for it. As
though something ghastly were concealed beneath the
cloth. She rocks gently in the breeze. When they are sure
she is dead, they will cut her down; hurl her into an
unmarked pit. The crowd are silent at last, as if guilty, seeing
what they have done. They afford their victim a respect in
death that was not offered in life. But it is too late now. They
have killed her. Time will not turn back.
So Susan ran, before Parris or Abigail or Mary could stop
her. She ran, because she could think of nothing else to do
but to obey that primitive, irrational impulse. She ran,
although there was nowhere she could possibly run to. For
running would not change a thing.
She was still trapped in Salem. The witch-hunt continued.
Rebecca Nurse was still dead. Her own life thight as well
have ended.

Had Ian had the time, he might have regretted his rash
actions. His party outnumbered the guards five to two, but
Elizabeth kept clear of the skirmish, while Ian and John
Proctor were battling below par. The excitement, fear and
urgency of his escape had fooled him into overlooking the
price that incarceration had exacted from his body. He
lashed out the best he could, but staggered dizzily beneath
a hail of blows that he could hardly see. He needed to work
through this. He was the group's best hope. He couldn't
afford to lose control.
But Ian was down and counting the seconds before
consciousness would abandon him. Blood rushed in his ears
and he could only berate himself for risking the lives of his
friends on his insane plan. He had picked a fight he could
not win. A fight against history.
Then the Doctor was helping him to his feet, and he
realised he had underestimated the old man. Not for the
first time. One jailer was sprawled unconscious across the
desk: Ian had visions of the Doctor's cane taking him by
surprise. The other man was still struggling, but was firmly
pinned to the floor by Proctor and Barbara. Elizabeth
cowered in a corner. `Th-thanks,' stammered Ian.
`Do not thank me, my boy. I only acted to extricate Barbara
and myself from the predicament in which your foolishness
placed us.'
`Yes. I'm sorry about that.'
`What have I told you about interfering with history?'
`Not much!' Ian snapped.
`I've told you all you need to know,' said the Doctor, `but
will you listen to me? Hmm?'
The world was coming back into focus now. Barbara was
tying the conscious jailer's hands with a rope. He was
already gagged by his own shirt. His colleague would be out
for the foreseeable future. Ian turned to the Doctor,
suddenly excited. `Doctor, we've done it. Don't you see?
We've won! We can take John and his wife out of here.'
`John Proctor, I presume?' The Doctor's disapproval was clear.
Ian nodded eagerly. `We can change the course of history:
`It is quite out of the question.'
`But it is possible!'
`We must not,' hissed the Doctor. And he was pleading
now, not lecturing. The change struck Ian like a bolt
through the heart. Was it another deception? He felt as
though they were standing on the threshold of a tragedy.
How could that be?
He swallowed, determined not to be so easily cowed. He
wanted an explanation at least, before he would leave a
friend to die.
`We couldn't take them back now if we wanted to he
pointed out, drawing the Doctor to one side and speaking
quietly so the Proctors would not hear him. `We'd have to
drag them down to the dungeon and chain them up our-
selves. We've already altered our past, and look: no disaster!'
Barbara inter~pted the discussion. `We're finished over
there. I think we should get out of this place before anyone
else turns up.'
`Well, Doctor?'
The old man's face had rarely been so transparent. His
stubborn scowl had melted into indecision. He was giving
Ian's plan serious consideration. He was tempted. But
something held him back. The fear of who knew what
consequences? He didn't seem to have the answers any
more. Ian almost felt sorry for him, in his confusion. But
perhaps the Doctor was about to learn a valuable lesson.
About compassion.
And then Elizabeth cried out, fell heavily back against the
wall and slid to the floor. Barbara looked startled,John flew
to his wife's side and Ian was numbed to see an expression
of relief wash over the Doctor's features. Relief and
reinstated confidence.
`It is her belly,' cried Proctor. `The child!'
`The excitement must have been too much for her,' the
Doctor announced. Ian hated him for sounding as
triumphant as he did.
`She needs attention. We must have a doctor.'
`She can have all the help she needs,' Ian insisted. `We just
have to get her out of here, back to our... vessel.'
Elizabeth groaned, and John Proctor made a decision. `We
would only slow you down. It was in madness that I
thought to escape at all. I know not even to where we could
have fled. Were it not that the executions today had left me
afeared, I would have seen the nonsense of it. Go, Ian. We
shall wait here until the jail keeper returns.'
Ian hesitated, but the Doctor was pulling at his sleeve and
he knew that Time had taken a hand. The Proctors were
tied to this spot by the unbreakable chains of history He
would not persuade them to leave it. Still, he was reluctant
to abandon them. `Write that letter, John,' he urged as his
companions waited at the door, showing their impatience.
`Make as big a fuss as you can. They'll have to listen
eventually'
Proctor nodded. `Goodbye, Ian,' he said, calmly.
`Goodbye,John.'
Goodbye,John. Hope you don't mind dying. Never seeing
that baby of yours. Becoming a martyr.
And then he was outside, with the Doctor and Barbara,
running for the TARDIS, fearing pursuit. One step closer to
leaving this world, this year, its people, its places, its
tragedies, behind him.
Back on familiar ground.

It should have been a day of triumph.
Abigail sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, and
reflected on the hopes she had had for this day. She had
anticipated it for so long. The Bishop woman's hanging had
been but a test of public opinion. It had served to whet her
appetite. She had pushed harder for the remaining witches
to meet a similar fate. In return, they had molested her all
the more. As her pain had grown, so had her hatred. She had
wanted them dead, corpses twitching on the end of a rope.
The ultimate punishment for their sins. The ultimate
demonstration of Abigail's power in this community.

She had expected it to make her happy. Why did she feel
so empty?
Because her future was a void. An endless, black, desolate
wasteland. Because she could see no respite from her
torments. A never-ending cycle of hurting, accusations and
punishment. As much a prisoner of this life as she had been
of the one before. A row of hanging witches stretched into
infmity, and each one was a dead weight upon Abigail's
conscience; a malefic spirit screaming for vengeance in her
head.
The egg in the glass had shown her the truth. She was
damned. She had damned herself. Now she could only play
out her part in history as she waited for the Devil to claim
her soul.

Parris brought his horse to a halt and Susan slid out of its
saddle behind him. They tied the animal up behind the
parsonage and trudged towards the back door without a
word being exchanged. Parris had stayed in Salem Town
even after the sated crowds had dispersed back to their
own homes. He had had the constabulary assist in the
search for his charge. Eventually Susan had returned of her
own accord.
`I ran because I was scared. Sarah Good's spectre lingered
in this world after she was hanged. I feared it might make
true her dying threats.'
The lies had tripped easily off her tongue, turning Parris's
anger into concern but doing nothing to lessen Susan's
despondency. This was her new life - joining the Salem girls
in their deceptions, because it was the only way she could
know peace. It frightened her to think how well she
understood Abigail Williams now. She wondered how long
it would be before she too was forced to make a choice. To
cry out upon an innocent, to condemn them. Or to suffer herself.
The kitchen was empty and in darkness. No fire was lit.
Susan could feel Parris stiffening with anger. He had
charged Abigail with the duty of preparing supper, yet she
had been idle. He drew breath and roared,~r name. Susan
broke away from him, wanting to escape before the
inevitable confrontation began. But it was not Abigail's
shape that appeared in the doorway into the house. It was
a shape that Susan recognised instantly, though for a second
she would not let herself believe her mind was not playing
tricks on her again.
`Grandfather!' she cried, overjoyed, rushing into his arms.
He held her affectionately, just for a second, before bundling
her behind him and into Barbara's protection. Abigail and
Mary came into the room too, to watch in nervous silence.
Susan hugged Barbara, needing irrationally to have proof of
her tangibility. Looking back over her shoulder, she was no
less happy to see Ian. He had followed her in from the yard,
so he and the Doctor had Parris surrounded. She wept then
with the knowledge that her ordeal was over. Her friends -
her family - had returned for her. Escape was but a
formality.
`What is the meaning of this intrusion?' blustered Parris,
though his position denied him such authority and he
appeared to know it. He produced a wooden cross from his
cloak and brandished it. `If you have come to end my war
with Satan, then mark this: the Bible will always inspire
good men to take arms against such as you.'
Ian pounced and snatched the cross from his hand. Parris
cringed: a pitiful sight. `You're so sure of yourself~ aren't you,
Parris? So sure the world will come to an end if we don't all
do as you say.Well we aren't here to hurt you.We just want
to take Susan back and leave.'
Parris sneered, emboldened by the lack of an immediate
threat.'And to where will you travel, Chesterton,know not
by what devilry you escaped your jailers, but the good
colonists will not allow you to long remain free.You will be
hunted down and hanged for what you have done, for today
you have only made your guilt the more plain.'
Ian smiled grimly. `Believe me, we can be far from this
place before you've even raised the alarm.' He produced a
length of rope. `Now, are you going to let me tie you up or
will you make this difficult?'
`I will not raise a finger to assist a witch.'
Abigail jerked into action, elbowing her way past the
Doctor and to Parris's side. `It is as the minister says,' she
crowed defiantly. `Mr Mather and Mr Stoughton are
expected here in but a moment. They will see what you
have done. And the village is awash with people, returned
from the town.You cannot move quickly, unseen.'
`Do as you will,' challenged Parris, `but know you will be
captured and tried for your sins.'
`If we were the witches you think we are,' growled Ian,'we
could kill you to keep you from talking.'
`I would trust in God's grace to protect me from your magics.'

Susan could bear it no longer. With each second, her
hopes of leaving this place seemed, to fade. `We should just
make a run for it,' she blurted out.
`Far better to surrender and pray for God's mercy,'
preached Parris. `For all my efforts, the girl is as unrepentant
as her witch parents. Do you wish her to hang beside you,
Ian Chesterton?'
`You wouldn't!' cried Barbara.
`I'm afraid he would.' The Doctor had been observing the
exchange in contemplative silence. Now his commanding
voice rang out clearly. `And he would fmd it a very easy
thing to do. You see, our friend here has become quite
skilled at manipulating the victims of this little outbreak.'
`I beg your pardon, sir!'
`Oh yes, whether he knows it or not - and I suspect he
does know it, much as he might tell himself otherwise. But
what of the Reverend Parris himself, I wonder? How
innocent can he be in all this?' The Doctor was smiling, and
Susan's nerves unwound at the sight. It was a smile of
victory: her grandfather's joy at defeating an enemy with his
wits. `After all, the doorway to the Devil was opened in your
own home, was it not?' He put the question sharply to
Parris, who reddened. `And yet how could it have been
opened at all, unless the minister himself was weak? Or evil?'
Susan knew what she had to do. `Oh Grandfather!' she
cried, toppling into the centre of the kitchen. Her
performance was convincing enough to make Barbara gasp.
She was on her knees, twitching and jerking. `Grandfather,
tell Mr Parris not to hurt me.' Parris and Abigail watched in
horror. The Doctor's smile grew broader. Susan tossed her
head back and moaned in imaginary pain. `his spectre, his
spectre. It comes to me, pinches me, bites me. The king of
witches stands revealed and he would take his final revenge.'
And what, Mr Parris, will your friends think if they arrive
at your home to see that?' At the Doctor's words, Susan
rolled on to her side, to conceal a grin. She clutched at her
stomach and groaned.
`She dissembles!' cried Abigail.'It is not my uncle's spectre
that bedevils her. It is that of her father, prodding her into
this false accusation. Your deception will avail you naught,
Chesterton.'
`Oh? Then how do you explain this?' Susan sneaked a
quick look and saw that the Doctor had produced a witch's
doll, apparently from Parris's pocket. The minister was aghast.
`You placed it there with your own sorcery.'
The Doctor's eyes twinkled. `I hope your Mr Mather
believes you.'
`Mary sees it,' Abigail insisted, a touch of desperation in
her voice. `Mary sees how you seek to besmirch the
minister's good name.'
All eyes turned to Mary Warren then. Even Susan forgot to
continue her pretence. The young woman blanched from
the attention. Then she swallowed and, hugging herself,
came forward. And looked at them, one by one. Abigail first,
their gazes locking. Then Ian. Barbara. The Doctor. When
Susan's turn came, she strained with all her mind to will her
friend to her side. It was to no avail. Their bond had been
broken. Susan's powers had been dampened, and she would
not have dared release them even had she been able. She sat
on the dirty floor and longed for Mary to do the right thing.
Wanted it so much it hurt. Mary stared into her eyes the
longest. And made her decision.
`The Reverend Parris,' she said, calmly, fixing a confident
stare upon the minister, `is a witch. Long has he entreated us
to cry out on the innocent, for thus is the Devil's work done.'
And there was silence.
Until Parris found his voice, at last. `What confounded
betrayal is this?' he bellowed. He took two steps towards his
accuser.
And she fell, as would a puppet with its strings abruptly
slashed. She thrashed about and squealed and babbled
streams of words in which only the minister's name was
discernible. Parris leapt back from her. Abigail's face was a
mask of horror. Even the Doctor seemed alarmed. Mary had
given herself over to the hysteria more completely than
Susan could ever have done. She felt she ought to do
something, but Barbara held her back gently.
`We'll make you a promise,' said the Doctor quietly, as
Mary's wails subsided into subdued whimpers. `We are
going back to our own.., home. If you allow us to leave
now, you will never see any of us again. But if we are
captured...'
`We'll make sure you go to the gallows with us,' said Ian,
making plain the threat that his companion had left
unvoiced.
The Reverend Parris was crestfallen. His face was ashen.

`You have left me no choice. I must make a deal with Satan,
if I am to preserve my own soul.'
`Believe what you wish,' said the Doctor.
He made for the door, but Susan called to him:
`Grandfather!' He stopped and turned. She moved to Mary's
side, took her hand and helped her to her feet. He knew
what she was thinking; she could see it. His eyes narrowed
and he tilted his head back. She was prepared for an
argument.Wondering if she could still muster the energy for one.
`I would prefer to stay,' said Mary in a small voice.
`Mary?'
`It is a kind offer you would make, Susan, and I am sorely
tempted. But my life is here and I will not run from it.'
`Are you sure?'
She nodded. Susan didn't know what to feel. Pride,
perhaps, that Mary Warren had learned how to fight for
herself. Despair, certainly, at the life to which she was
abandoning her. But, as she had said, it was her life. Her
decision. Her future.
`Then it is settled,' said the Doctor. He swept briskly out of
the parsonage. `Come along, Susan, come along!' Ian
shrugged helplessly and followed him. Barbara lingered in
the doorway.
Susan enveloped Mary in one last hug. `Things do get
better,' she whispered as they reluctantly disentangled
themselves. `It does end.' She glared at Parris, who was
watching them sullenly. `And as for you, you'd better not
mistreat her - or else we will be back!'
She paused for a quick backward glance on the threshold.

Then she stepped out of the parsonage and joined her
friends. And left Salem Village behind for ever.

8 September 1742

The history book lay open on the beach. An anachronism.
Its pages fluttered in the soft breeze that drifted in from the
water. Ian let that same breeze cool his face. He stretched
out on the hot sand and sheltered his eyes from the sun.
The cramped conditions of Salem Prison were a distant,
unreal memory. He was deeply fatigued.
Barbara sat beside him, sifting golden grains through her
fingers. `We needed this, didn't we? Time to unwind and
reflect. Especially you and Susan. I can't imagine half of
what you both went through.'
`The TARDIS takes us to where we need to be, again.'
`I hadn't thought of it that way.'
Ian grinned. `It could be a coincidence, of course. Or
perhaps there's an army of Daleks waiting behind the dunes.'
`I wonder where Susan is.'
`She went for a long walk. Don't worry about her, Barbara.
She has a lot to think about and she wants to be alone. She'll
get over it.'
`Yes. I remember how I felt after Mexico.'
`I hate to admit it, but the Doctor was right again.'
`Was he?'
Ian sensed a serious conversation in the offmg. He lifted
himself up on to his elbows. `We couldn't change anything,
no matter how hard we tried - and we all tried! I guess
history was just meant to be.'
`But we did change some things. Nothing grand, I'll grant
you - but you read about John Proctor, didn't you?' Barbara
picked up the book and flicked through it as if planning to
quote from the relevant passage. Ian had already seen it.
`The letter, you mean?'
`Yes, the letter. His plea to the clergy. You encouraged
Proctor to write that, Ian - and it helped to bring the witch-
hunt to an end.'
`But no sooner than we expected it to end. No fewer
people died.
`So what are you saying? That John Proctor's letter was
destined to be written? That history already took account of
our interference?'
`Why shouldn't it? From a certain point of view, we'd
already done everything we did in Salem before we even
left London, two hundred and seventy years later.' Ian tossed
the idea about in his head, and found it disturbing. Could
they take no action that wasn't predetermined?
`But surely, if we had read about it first, we could have
done things differently. We could have deliberately cheated
Destiny.'
`I don't know. Perhaps John would have written his letter
without our help. He had the idea before I came along, you
know.'
`It didn't do him much good, either.'
`No.' He had read that page, too. On 19 August 1692,John
Proctor had been hanged. Ironically, his wife, for whom he
had sacrificed his freedom, had been granted a reprieve.
Even William Stoughton had been loath to condemn an
innocent, unborn child. The thought churned up all manner
of weird sensations for Ian. He had shared one of the most
trying experiences of his life with Proctor, but still hardly
knew him. He had been so close to him a few days ago, and
yet his fate was already a musty old chapter in the chronicle
of a long-gone time.
`It makes you wonder how different things could have
been,' said Barbara. `What if we had rescued him? Or
Rebecca? Would it have changed things for the better, or for
the worse?'
`Any number of factors could have ended the witch-hunt.
Some would have been more important than others.'
`It's like picking a thread out of a tapestry. If you're lucky,
it might just come free. If not, it might unwind the whole
picture. Ian, how could we have lived with ourselves if we'd
saved one person only to cause dozens - hundreds - of
others to die?'
`Do you really think that could have happened?'
`Yes, I do. I think it is possible to have an effect, and the
Doctor is terrifIed of it. I haven't told you, Ian: when he
went to Boston... I think he... well, he...'
`What is it?'
`Rebecca's pardon was granted, you know.'
Ian sat up, brow furrowed. He was beginning to work out
where this was going. He didn't like it.
`I read about it in the book. Francis rode back to Salem
Village thinking his wife had been spared. But somebody
had already been to the Governor and changed his mind.'
Ian hardly dared ask the question. `Who?'
`The book doesn't say.'

`Well, the crafty old devil!' He didn't know if it was worth
getting angry. Somehow, the whole thing seemed so
inevitable. `No wonder he was so keen on going to Boston
instead of me.'
`We might be wrong. He did seem concerned.'
`Oh, I'll just bet he was!'
1 did think about confronting him, but... oh well, you
know what he can be like. And we have no real proof.'
Barbara sighed. `Is this what it's going to be like all the time?
I don't know if I want to go on visiting the past if we can
only watch; if we're helpless to do anything when it
matters.'
`Perhaps we aren't,' said Ian thoughtfully. `There's one
person whose life isn't mapped out in that book.' His
companion's expression was blank, so he provided the
information for her: `Mary Warren.'
`Susan's friend?'
`Precisely. They spent a lot of time together - and from
what we saw at the end there, Susan had a very positive
influence,'
Barbara smiled at the memory.'I suppose she did,'
`But there's no record of what happened to her after 1692.'
`Do you think..
`We might be allowed one little victory?'
`One change for the better,'
`If it doesn't affect history,' said Ian,'! don't see why not,'
`Better not tell the Doctor,' said Barbara with a giggle. `He'll
pop back to Salem and put things back the way they were,
just in case.'

Ian laughed, too. `I'd like to see him try.' He became more
solemn as a twinge in the small of his back reminded him
of the reality behind their conjecture. No, more than that.
Once, just once, I'd like to see him get involved with
somebody; have to do something he doesn't like for the
sake of the time stream or whatever. I think we might get a
very different story out of him then.'

He didn't recall dimming the lights. Perhaps the TARDIS
had done so itself, reacting to his mood. He sat in his
armchair in the console room and thought about all that
had happened in Salem. The Doctor, alone. As, ultimately, he
knew he would always be.
He couldn't expect them to understand what he had done
to Rebecca Nurse. Couldn't expect them to condone the
vow he had made and broken. He hadn't meant to do it. He
had fooled himself into thinking he could make things all
right for her. Stupid old man: befriending a stranger, giving
her false hope. Arranging her death behind her back. He
hadn't had the courage to defy time. He had been afraid ofit.

There was nothing he could do for her now. Just put the
whole thing from his mind. Unfinished business. A weight
upon his conscience. A lesson for his future. He had even
disabled the fast-return switch. Not before time. It had
almost destroyed the Ship once. Without it, this latest
bothersome escapade could not have occurred. He had
warned Susan about the hurt that planning tO change the
past could bring.Who would have dreamed so much of that
hurt would be his own?

With a heavy sigh, the Doctor clambered to his feet. At
first he felt ancient and fragile, and he used his cane for
support. The lights rose, anticipating his new-found
purpose. He swept his cloak back over his shoulders and
took his post at the console. It would be time to leave soon.
Time to call his companions back. Their wounds would
have lessened, though they might never heal. One more rift
between him and the two teachers. One more incident to
drive his grandchild away.
Perhaps he could atone for it. He had not told them yet,
but this last journey had not been made at random. Fifty
years forward in time, with no spatial dislocation. At least,
none to speak of. He had made it, almost to the nearest
month. The Ship was operating more efficiently than it had
done since he had appropriated it. He was ready to try a
larger jump. A more important one.
He could take Ian and Barbara home. This time, he was
sure of it.
Barring any small problems, of course.


PART FIVE

INNOCENT BLOOD

14 January 1693

A cold winter sun cast shafts of light through the parsonage
windows. A year had passed, but the room was unchanged.
Its constancy through turmoil churned up conflicting
emotions in Mary's heart. It seemed an age ago that five girls
had sat around this large oak table, laughing as they cast
their ill-advised spells. An age ago, but the spectres of those
happy, carefree children seemed close enough to touch. It
was difficult to imagine how she could ever have been one of them.
Abigail was crying. Mary held on to her and allowed her
to sob into her chest. Another strange sensation. She had
hated the minister's niece, not such a long time ago. She had
been the shrieking, venomous leader of the accusers. But
the blame was not all hers. Abigail was truly damned,
though whether by occult forces or by the pressures of
Puritan life and her own fears and desires, Mary did not
know. Hatred had become sympathy, and the understanding
of a newly-grown adult.
`Why do you still go to the court, if it upsets you so?'
`It is in the hope of seeing justice done,' said Abigail
tearfully. `But they are undoing our good work, allowing the
witches to roam free and hurt us. Mary, I could not suffer
their torments again.'
Mary pushed her away gently and spoke in a firm tone.

`Then do not allow them to afflict you, Abigail. It is in your
power alone.'
`I cannot make them stop. Only iron and the rope can do that!'
`It is a delusion, Abigail. The others have accepted it.'
`You are deceived by Satan. Oh please, Mary, tell them you
are deceived. Save us from this terrible mistake.'
`They will not listen to us now. They require more proof
than we can give before they will believe claims of sorcery.'
`Mr Stoughton will listen. He believes us yet. Oh, Mary,
please!'
Abigail was begging now, but Mary felt only pity for her.
Her part had been played. The veil of madness had been
lifted from Salem, its sins examined in the cold light of
sanity. Abigail's time would not come again. She was left
only with her own grief.
`I have no choice but to leave,' said Mary. `You must
understand that.' Because she had reason to grieve, too.
The witch-hunt had ended, but its cessation had not been
sudden. There had been two more mass hangings. John
Proctor had died in the first. By a miracle, his wife had been
spared. Her baby had been born into a prison cell - but,
with fresh reprieves issuing from Governor Phips's office
almost daily, it was certain that both mother and son would
be freed. Happy as the prospect made her, Mary did not
want to be present on that day. How could she face
Goodwife Proctor, live in her household, after all that had
happened? After all the pain she had caused? She had
packed her bag, pausing only to see Abigail on her way out
of Salem Village. Towards a new life.

`Leave me then, if you must,' said the younger girl sullenly.
'I had hoped to help you first, as another once helped me.
But you cannot be helped if you will not let go of this
hatred. You must accept the past and look forward to a
future for yourself.'
`I lost what future I had when we conjured up the Devil.'
`I pray it is not true, Abigail.'
The rest of the colony can forget what demons have
beset us, but I cannot. I can never be at peace.'
Mary picked up her bag and left then, because there was
nothing else for her to do. She would not forget Salem
Village, but she could take some comfort from the fact that
she had grown up there at last. She had learned to be
independent; even helped to end the witch-hunt, in a small
way. She had resisted Abigail's forceful personality more
often, told less frequent and smaller lies when forced to lie
at all. She had coaxed ever more incredible stories out of
the other girls, even had them accuse a minister's wife. She
had helped to discredit their testimony, to make the
judiciary think again about spectral evidence.
She would keep her promise to Abigail. She would pray
that she too might find contentment. She would pray for
Susan also, without whose strength and kindness she would
have remained afflicted herself; become, like Abigail, lost
and embittered, She wondered where her friend was now.
She knew that, wherever, she would be making a life for
herself.
That was what Mary Warren had to do. She would start by
walking into town and buying passage on the first cart out.
Anywhere would do. She didn't know where fate would
lead her, but it would be to a better place than she was
leaving. Because, this time, she would be in charge of her
own destiny. No longer a prisoner.
Mary Warren cast off history's chains and headed into the
future.

Today

The Crucible again. The Doctor shifted uncomfortably in
his seat. He remembered Susan's reaction to the play. There
were tears on Rebecca Nurse's cheeks, but she did not turn
away. She watched the actors intently. Perhaps she prayed
for a happy ending; for her fellows to turn away from their
insane path.When the final curtain dropped, she didn't join
in the applause. He wondered if he had made another
mistake. She didn't understand yet. She would.
They strolled back to the TARDIS side by side. She kept
her distance from him. An invisible cocoon had sprung up
around her: a shell of loneliness, misery and regret. She
didn't belong here in this time, couldn't fit in with these
people. She shouldn't have seen her own life, portrayed by
an actor. Shouldn't have seen her own death.
`How do you feel?' he asked at the doors.
She shook her head mutely. He waited.
`It grieves me to witness so much destruction,' she said at
last. `I had hoped for my fate to bring an end to it. I am an
old woman, I have not many years to lose. But I pray for the
other victims.'
`There was an end,' said the Doctor. `The witch-hunters
realised what they had done. It just took a little more time.'

`How much time? How many people died?'
There was no way to avoid the question. He hoped she
could deal with the answer. `Nineteen were hanged. One
was pressed to death for refusing to give testimony. Several
died in prison.' It was a small toll, almost insignificant from
this point in time. It wasn't the deaths for which Salem was
remembered. But to Rebecca's ears it must have sounded
like a massacre. A culling of her friends. A shadow passed
across her eyes. She drew a deep, shuddering breath.
`Whywastherenomention ofyour family's
contribution?' she asked, composing herself remarkably. `Of
your granddaughter's, at least.'
`History can be blind. When it needs to be. But that isn't
why I brought you here. It isn't what I wished you to learn.'
`I do not see what I am expected to gain from being
shown these horrors. You say you cannot spare my church
from them?'
`I'm afraid not.'
`Then I would like to return.'
`Not yet. Please. Trust me.'

He took her to the small town of Danvers, Massachusetts. It
bore scant resemblance to the Salem Village of three
hundred years past. Progress had brought tarmac, fast cars
and litter to its streets. The Doctor knew that, compared
with most developed places on Earth, it was quiet and
beautiful, but to Rebecca it must have seemed an
abomination.
The town still offered some havens from the modern
world. It was to one of these that the Doctor headed. A
tranquil, sloping field, bordered by gently waving trees. In
the centre of it stood Rebecca Nurse's home. It had
weathered the lonely centuries with pride. Later occupants
had added to it, but Rebecca cried when she saw that her
two rooms and lean-to extension had been lovingly
preserved. He could imagine how poignant it must have
seemed to her. Amid a barrage of the unfamiliar, it was her
first real touchstone to all she had lost; a testament to the
passage of time, in which her life had been swept along and
buried. It could do her no good to dwell on its presence. He
ushered her onward, down towards the family graveyard.
One monument towered above the rest. The Doctor's
pace slowed as they approached it. It was wrong to show
this to anybody. Cruel and possibly harmful. But Rebecca
knew what awaited her already. She had seen the story of
her life spelled out from beginning to end. How could it
hurt her to see what happened next?
And then it was too late for second thoughts, though there
was time enough to fret as the Doctor awaited the
consequences of a desperate act. Rebecca's face froze as
she read the name carved into the white obelisk above a
touching eulogy. Her name. She had not guessed, although
he had thought his secret writ plain in his features. For an
unbearably long time, she gave no other reaction. The
Doctor half expected her to scream, to cry, to lose her mind,
to bring time crashing down about his ears.
Instead, her eyes shone with awe, but her brow creased
with puzzlement. Her voice was hesitant, choked. `How can
it have come to pass that I should have a memorial at all,
much less one so grand?'

`I can think of few more deserving.'
`Yet is it not the fate of the executed to lie in unmarked
graves?'
`My dear Rebecca, your family and friends thought more
of you than that. A good deal more. They risked all to move
your body; to give it a proper and dignified burial in secret.'
`But this stone?'
`The tribute of a future generation. They knew what
wrong had been done to you. They did all in their power to
put things right.'
`My... excommunication?' He could see how difficult it
was for her to ask. How painful it was to hope.
`Rescinded,' he confirmed, and smiled at the beatific
expression that washed over her.
`Then I may hope for a seat in Heaven after all?'
`I am sure it was never in doubt.'

He took her to the second memorial then: the larger one
that stood across the road from the unrecognisable site
where once the meetinghouse had been. She knelt before
it, straining her weakened eyes to read. The Doctor leaned
on his cane and watched in silence.

In memory of those innocents who died during the
Salem Village witchcraft Hysteria of 1692

She remained there for the longest of times, conflicting
emotions vying for control of her face. He thought it best
not to disturb her, though he began to wonder if she could
ever understand.

At last, she stood awkwardly and walked around the fine
stone monument. She stroked its rough surface with
reverence. She circled it twice and read the immortalised
quotations of the witchcraft victims, including one of her
own. She returned to the frontispiece and gazed at the
simple inscription there a second time. A third. And she
whispered. ~Innocents.
`As I told you, the truth was eventually recognised.'
`Theyremember us,' said Rebecca. `Though three
centuries have passed, they know what was done to us.
They remember... me.'

He had shown her where it had started. Finally, he took her
to where it had all ended. For too many people. At first,
Rebecca didn't think much of the developments in Salem
Town. She complained of the noise, the crowds, the tainted
smell of the air. She visibly flinched from the silhouettes of
stereotypical witches with hats and broomsticks, which
advertised shops and restaurants and were emblazoned
across T-shirts. Witchcraft had become a tourist industry;
visitors were attracted by tales of the trials and by the
occult connotations that still clung to Salem's name.
`I had hoped for a better future,' said Rebecca in disgust.
`This time still has its vultures and its voyeurs. They will
flock to any spectacle, taking cruel delight in the
misfortunes of others.'
`It must seem that way to you,' said the Doctor carefully.
`How else do you explain the play?'
`To these people, it was a long time ago.'
`Does that make it a source of pleasure?'
`Perhaps simply of historical interest.'

They found peace atop Gallows Hill. They sat on damp grass
there and the sounds of traffic receded, though white
clapboard houses and red-brick apartment blocks had
stolen the ocean view. The Doctor felt the sweet breeze in
his hair, and again he remembered sitting here with Susan.
A lifetime ago.
For a few minutes, Rebecca was unsettled. She kept
glancing at the trees, as if trying to work out from which of
them a rope had once hung. Her personal future, to which
she still had to return. But, as the Doctor had hoped, the
perspective offered to her by this future helped to
overcome such apprehension.
`How does it end?' she asked at last. The play had not
furnished her with that information.
He thought about it, wondering how much to say. A
growing discontent. The villagers became displeased with
the court - remorseful, even, for what they had allowed it to
do. John Proctor helped: he wrote letters, made speeches
and argued against the witch-hunt. A lot of people thought
he was making sense. And then there was George
Burroughs, who recited the Lord's Prayer as they sent him
to his death - a supposed impossibility for a witch; Giles
Corey, who was killed without trial when he wouldn't
speak in the court. And Rebecca Nurse, who comported
herself with such grace and dignity that few doubted her
innocence at the end.'
`I am to become a martyr, then.' Her voice was steeped in
disbelief `I am to play a part in the future, so long as people
still think of me and remember.'
`They will always remember what happened in Salem Village.'
`And `tis good that they will recognise it as a madness of sorts:
`Do you understand now?'
She nodded. I hope I do. When first we met, Doctor, I
warned you against those who would fear us for our
differences, whether real or not. It was such people who,
gripped by a delusion, committed great sins against the
Lord. And yet the trials of Salem have not been in vain if
they can live on in memory and be a caution to those who
are still to come. Mankind will learn tolerance and
understanding from our sad example, so hope can flourish
anew.' She smiled, for the first time since he had taken her
from the dungeon. 1 am blessed to have become a part of history.'
`This world is blessed to have known you.'
`I am ready to go now, Doctor.'
He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and helped her
to stand. His risk had paid off. He had done the right thing;
laid a few personal ghosts to rest. Ian and Barbara had never
understood. They had left him at the first opportunity,
taking their own transport back to their own time. His
granddaughter had left too. And all the people since. He had
never really tried to explain to them. He had wanted to
explain to somebody, at last. He had wanted to achieve
some closure; perhaps to expunge his guilt.
But a small part of the guilt remained, Nagging doubts. He
had not shown Rebecca everything.What if she could learn
all about this strange new world? What if she came to
understand too much? What price his absolution, if he had
had to deceive her to achieve it?

Nobody noticed as they left. Nobody heard Rebecca's
blissful sigh of contentment, drifting on the wind even
when she could no longer be seen by mortal eves. The sun
set in that part of the world, on that balmy evening.
Elsewhere, the latest witch-hunts continued. People still
died because others thought themselves different or better.
Or perhaps because they were afraid.
Rebecca Nurse wentto her final rest with calm acceptance.
Life, for the rest of us, goes on.