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Salem Village
January 19, 1692
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Hekate called to the girls, one a stray given to Samuel’s service under the guise of his niece, the other his daughter. Abigail Williams was a meddlesome bother. Every day for the last three years it seemed that she found herself snooping through Hekate’s valuables, stealing some of the smaller silver and gold trinkets, only to find them return to their mistress’s jewelry box the next day. Hekate did not hate Abigail because she was a thief; she hated her because her thievery was reckless.
An orphan ought to know how to steal properly. The pair quickly descended into the lower region of the house, Abigail, the older of the two, launching ahead of Elizabeth, making a game out of her attendance. Hekate couldn’t help but smile. Even at the center of hypocrisy there were those who longed for ecstatic freedom, she could see it in these girl's’ eyes. Their childish games were a reminder of her own girlhood in the Otherworld, a place where childlike wonder and excitement remain constant.
“Yes, Mrs. Parris?” Abigail greeted her with a curtsey.
”You girls are in luck,” said Hekate with feigned excitement.
”Today you will be learning how to spin, sew, and mend!” The two girls sighed, obviously less enthused about the whole ordeal. Hekate chuckled.
”I expected as much, which is why we’re going to make it a game. I’ve given Tituba a load of Mr. Parris’s clothes that need mending. Whichever of you can mend her share the quickest, and do the best job, shall receive a cake fit for a queen.”The girl’s’ eyes lit up, then dulled down again. “But,” spoke Abigail, “wouldn’t that be gluttonous of us, to eat a whole cake?”
Hekate smiled,
”Yes, I suppose it would be. But if we womenfolk are to slave away in our homes and kitchens, why not indulge ourselves every once in awhile? It’ll be our little secret, and if Mr. Parris finds out, I’ll take all the blame.” Abigail and Elizabeth jumped with joy, taking their seats next to Tituba at the spinning wheel, who greeted them with sewing needles and spools of thread. “Will you be joining us, mistress?” Tituba asked.
”No, Tituba. I’ve got a few errands to run. I’ll to market, but you girls have fun with your mending.” Hekate waved as she threw on a shawl and went out the door into the streets of Salem.
The morning sun hit Hekate’s pale visage and reflected her beauty on all who gazed upon her. She had done well to choose a form so fair and radiant. She walked down the streets of Salem, which were little more than gravel paths and trodden earth.
”Good morning,” she said to a few, the men returning the greeting, the women only nodding. She was the most beautiful, richest woman in Salem, and she drew the ire of all women in the village, though they would never let her catch wind of it. Hekate walked through the village unassumingly, then just before she arrived at the market stalls, turned and made way to the forest at the edge of the village, making sure none were watching.
The woods were her domain, or one of them at least, for they concealed the secrets of her craft, and within the shadows of trees and thickets of limbs and brush lie portals into the Otherworld, making it the perfect place for her witchery. Hekate glided over the wild earth, passing through dense shrubbery as easily as one passes through an open door. After a short trek, she found herself in a clearing where two other women stood, one setting up a heretical altar, the other tracing occult patterns in the ground with a stang, then filling them with salt and bone dust. Hekate smiled as she came upon them. They greeted her by curtseying and kissing her hands.
”Sarah, Bridget, I had not expected to greet any of my fellow witches in the woods so early. I am pleased to see the two of you preparing for tonight’s festivities so soon.” “Of course Goody Parris,” said Bridget Bishop, a resident of Salem Town who had come seeking Hekate a few months earlier. She was an outspoken lass who often dressed scantily and cared not for the drab lives the Puritans led. Indeed, Bridget was a symbol of rebellion among Puritan society, making her the perfect instrument to unleash Hekate’s malice. “I believe tonight’s gathering shall be our largest yet.”
“Agreed,” spoke the older Sarah Wardwell, a witch from Andover whose husband, Samuel, acted as Cunning Man to its residents, prophesizing all manner of events. “I dreamt of this Sabbath four nights ago. I saw a good twenty folks dancing around the pit.”
”Ah, how right you both are. In attendance tonight shall be my own daughter, Beth, and my niece, Abigail. I have instructed Tituba to teach them the ways of symbols and prophecies in their mending lessons today. They shall think it all a game and my husband will remain ignorant to our true workings.” The three of them laughed, all quite jovial.
Hekate planned to introduce all the young women of Salem to her ways, persuade them all into reciting the black prayer, releasing them of their Puritan bonds and returning their spirits to the wilds of the Otherworld. Hekate could think of no greater gift, but her ambitions would soon send Salem spiraling into chaos, for the next day the two young girls began acting in a strange manner, speaking backwards, convulsing, harming themselves and others, pointing the accusatory finger at the other townsfolk.
Hekate’s plan was culminating into one of the New World’s darkest moments, a witch-hunt that would shake and rot Salem’s Puritan foundations. The death of their particular brand of hypocrisy came at a great price to the New England Coven, of whom three of its members were executed. But Hekate was no stranger to sacrifice, it was one of the tenets of her craft. She fled Salem under the guise of Elizabeth Parris with her “husband,” Samuel, eventually discarding the glamour like a tattered robe, leaving New England behind. Samuel remarried, believing his wife to be dead, and Hekate moved on to other regions of the New World, eager to meddle in the affairs of mortals.
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