June had only begun a few days ago and already Michael was staring at his calendar.  The put-upon manager of Dunder Mifflin Scranton was looking for a reason to party.  In the office.  There was always Father’s Day, he thought, but that would only apply to Stanley.  Unless Creed had kids; he probably didn’t even know where they were since he was such a freaky weirdo.  Michael, of course, conveniently forgot about Toby’s daughter Sasha, but that was probably for the best.

His eyes fell upon the first day of summer, June 21st.

 “Yes!  That’s perfect; we can have a little shrimp on the barbie and some frozen margs up on the roof.”

Rather delighted with his awesome party idea, Michael failed to realize he would basically be celebrating the beginning of the hottest and most grueling days of the year.  Wanting to plan things a.s.a.p., he Googled the phrase “first day of summer” to find some ideas for the Party Planning Committee; they never had a clue about what people really wanted at a party.  He always did all of the work for these office parties, he thought to himself; “why do I even have a PPC posse?”

The Google results intrigued Michael with all of their mentions of “summer solstice”.  “What’s that mean, solstice? Isn’t that a kind of car?”

After sifting indiscriminately through the results from NASA, Wikipedia, and the like, Michael looked up “summer solstice” instead.  One site popped out at him: http://www.religioustolerance.org/summer_solstice.htm. 

“Perfect!  I can combine the teachings of the world’s great religious guys with the fun of a par-tay! Let’s see, so this solstice thing happens twice a year...uh huh...ok...pagans? What?” 

Now that he was truly confused, he yelled for his living encyclopedia/lackey, Dwight K. Schrute.

 “Dwiiiight! What’s a pahgan?”

The self-appointed third-in-charge hollered back: “If you mean a paygan, that, Michael, is a man or woman who believes that nature is the embodiment of a larger spirit that controls life.  They pray to trees and lakes and rocks and bears.”

Jim jumped right in. “And beets.”  Dwight glared at his nemesis.

Furrowing his brow, Michael shouted, “Riiiiiight.  That sounds crazy.  I guess I can just ignore that stuff about paganism and make my party about getting tan and drinking a lot.  Cool.”

“Wait, you’re having a party?  What for?” Dwight asked.

Michael leapt out of his office and announced his party plans for the 21st.  A collective groan filled the room.

Stanley spoke first.  “Michael, why would we want to spend the longest day of the year entirely with our co-workers?”

“Because you care for them and Dunder-Mifflin makes up your extended family.  The family that plays together stays together.  Don’t you know that?”

In response, Stanley’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head.

*~*~*

Before Michael returned to his office to continue his party planning, Angela walked over to Dwight’s desk.

“Michael, I do not approve of this ridiculous idea of yours to have a party celebrating a debasement of religion.  I refuse to help plan it.”

Dwight felt the need to educate the head of accounting on the significance of the day.

“Angela, it’s an astrologically based recognition of the day when the sun reaches its closest proximity to the earth.  And the Druids celebrated it and built Stonehenge for it, so that’s pretty legitimate.”

Nodding along to Dwight’s lecture, Michael turned to Angela. “Ya, what he said.  It’s all good.  No devils will be there.  Except maybe Packer.”

Angela raised an eyebrow and flared her nostrils at her lover.

“My ancestors never allowed paganism or witchery to be celebrated in their midst.  I simply will not let it occur in my workplace!”

Pam piped up at this last statement.

“Angela, what do you mean ‘your ancestors’?”

The cool blond turned to reception. “My family lived in Salem during the witch trials.  One of my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great...”

Everyone’s face fell as Angela continued to rattle off fifteen “greats”.

“...great-aunts was an accuser who identified dozens of witches and got them rightfully hung for their devil-worship.”

Pam and Jim’s eyes went wide and they looked to each other to make sure they had just heard Angela correctly.

“Why am I not surprised?” Pam muttered.

After staring disbelievingly at Angela for a moment, Jim shook his head and spoke. “How did she identify these Satanists?”

Dwight answered for his lady-love. “Jim, I’m kind of an expert on the topic of witches, so let me explain.  After you were a vampire for a day, I thought that I should brush up on my supernatural hunting skills.  I dug out my grossmutter’s copy of the Hammer of the Witches and it says that witches usually have familiars, demons pets that look like regular animals, like toads or cats.”

Pam choked back a laugh. “Angela, how many cats do you have again?”

Angela spun around and marched back to her desk to fume.

*~*~*

            Going home for the night was a relief after the hour of party planning that had devolved into an argument about having the party on the roof or in the parking lot.  Pam actually agreed with Angela for once and thought that the roof might be a bit dangerous if alcohol was going to be a part of the celebration.  Meredith was not the most coordinated person when sober, so....

Arriving at her apartment, Pam went through the motions of a regular Thursday: making something for supper, changing into pj’s while her pasta boiled, and taking in a little 30 Rock and Grey’s Anatomy before bed.  Annoyed by the plot twists that had popped up on Grey’s, Pam turned in early.  While brushing her teeth, she thought about what Angela had shared with everyone that afternoon.  The Beeslys had been in America for a long time; since the Mayflower Pam had been told.  It was possible that they had lived near Salem all that time ago.  With a laugh to herself, Pam curled up under the sheets of her queen size bed. As she snuggled into the soft cotton, she thought “God, Angela would have made an excellent Puritan.”

Awakening with a delicious stretch and a yawn, Lady Pamela Love-well Halpert went about preparing herself for the day ahead.  Cold splashes of water refreshed her greatly as she vigorously washed her face.  After lacing her bodice and straightening her apron and frock, the lady tamed her wildly curly hair underneath a bonnet. Her dressing done, she made her way down the narrow stairs to the kitchen.  Before stepping out to run her morning errands, Lady Halpert took a look into the larder, which revealed a goodly amount of food.  In addition to a ration of ham and some mild cheese, her husband had asked for a new supply of candles for his study.  He was keeping quite late hours with his new position as governor of the commonwealth; the Honorable James Make-peace Halpert had much parchment-work to read over, and he was burning up candles ever so quickly.  Grabbing a shawl and her basket, Lady Pam walked out into the sunlight of a sweet day in 1692 Boston.  Perhaps she would have pence enough for a few crayons after buying the candles and jelly mould necessary for that night’s banquet.  The idea gave her pause to smile.

*~*~*

            A half-day’s ride away, north of bustling Boston town, there was Salem, home to many a good and righteous Puritan family.  Among these happy God-fearing people lived the Putnams and in their ranks was one Angela Chastity Putnam.  Small in stature and severe in character, Angela was a model of demure womanhood and faithful obedience to the word of the Lord.  However, it was well known in the village that she could be over-zealous in her condemnations of harlotry, even for a Puritan, and romantic misadventures were never discussed in her presence. 

Although it was a bitterly cold day in January, Angela set out for the Reverend’s house on the other side of the village green; there was a pressing matter concerning the service for that coming Sunday which she must discuss with the Reverend.  She had only now to come up with a problem.  Her visits to the Reverend’s home had become rather frequent, and against her better judgment, Angela had fallen in love with him. 

The determined Puritan chose to knock on the kitchen door instead of using the front entrance; she needed to compose herself before meeting with the Reverend.  Angela was let in by the Reverend’s slave, Kelly Tituba.  With a bubbly giggle, Kelly pulled Angela towards the hearth.

“It is so good that you have come this early morn, Mistress Angela!  I am fortune-telling with Widow Vance and sharing the news of the day.”

With a wary look at the glib gossiper who stood bouncing on her heels, Angela nodded her head and proceeded to the hearth where the Widow Vance sat quietly knitting.  The tiny coral beads of her necklace were offensive to Angela’s chaste eyes; it mattered not that the woman’s beloved late husband had bought them for her in Boston.  Angela averted her gaze to the fire, although it too was orange. 

Upon receiving a cup of tea she inquired, “How does one perform this fortune-telling, Kelly?”

“Ah, well, it does take some mighty skill, but I will tell thee.  I can summon futuresight by peering deeply into the ashes of a fire. Shall I put out this one and start with you?”

Hesitating so as to weigh the consequences of this devilish act, Angela determined that it was simply a fun game of gossip and that God would not smite her for it.

“Please do Kelly,” she spoke softly, with a hint of a smile.

Pouring a pitcher of water into the flames, Kelly stirred the ashes slightly to extinguish the fire but not the embers.  Squinting, with determination upon her brow, Kelly appeared to be deep in thought.  From prior experience Angela had learned that this was generally not the case with Kelly, and she was only daydreaming about strawberries and cream or other such niceties.  With a contented sigh, Kelly scooted back from the hearth and declared that Angela would soon be betrothed to the Reverend himself.  A wave of color passed over the visitor’s face and she jumped up out of her chair.

“Kelly!  What are you saying?  What an appalling insinuation!” The tidy world in which Angela Putnam lived did not allow her the luxury of playfulness and she felt as though Kelly was calling her a hussy, in front of Widow Vance of all people. 

Widow Vance was alarmed by her neighbor’s reaction.  “Oh, Mistress Angela, 'tis of no matter; we will not hold you to it.”

The riled woman’s protests only became louder.  The stomping of feet was heard upon the stairs leading to the kitchen and Rev. Dwight Kill-sin Parris bounded into the room.

“Who is being strangled!?  Are you womenfolk safe?  Kelly?”

“Oh, Master we were but playing a game.  All is well.”

“Lie not to me, Kelly Tituba.  Mistress Angela is standing there a-quiver, like one possessed.”

As her heart raced from the proximity the Reverend to herself, the wheels of Angela’s mind began to turn when as she heard these words from Rev. Dwight’s very own sin-free lips.  “Possessed, he says.  Whatever could have caused that?” she deviously thought.  Considering the problems that gossips like Kelly and Phyllis Vance, Vance Cargo could cause if they chose to spread vicious lies about her and the Reverend, Angela decided she would pre-empt any such falsehoods.

“Aye, Reverend Parris, there is something dreadfully wrong.  I feel not at all like myself.  It is Kelly’s doing, what with her necromancy and witchery.”

“So it comes to light!  Widow Vance, fetch the jailer More-fruit Kevin whilst I take Mistress Angela to the doctor.  Kelly is no longer in my service.  I declare her to be a witch!”

            “Hear ye, hear ye: there be witches afoot in fair Salem!” yelled the town-crier, Amity Bernard.  “Six souls have been taken by the devil! Cast your eyes upon them in the jail this afternoon!”

****

            The taste of immediate vengeance was too heady and seductive a brew for Angela; soon all those who crossed or displeased her in any way were apt to be accused of witchcraft.  In the offender’s presence, she would begin to shake, always making sure that Rev. Dwight was around so he could declare it to be a possession and take the spell-caster away to jail.

            Never had the Salem jail been so full; after Kelly arrived, there came Goodwife Desire Scott, married to the county judge, Michael Fear-not Scott.  Angela deeply detested Goody Scott; purposely trodding through the mud so she could raise her skirts above her clog-clad feet, the harlot.

Of course, the Widow Vance did not last long and was soon among the other accused in the jail.  Strangely, she did not appear to be very put-out by her situation, and conversely sat knitting and gossiping with visitors as they strode past the windows of the communal cell.

            The last and loudest of the women Angela had detained was the bar wench Meredith Temperance O’Malley.  Aside from being a heathen Irishwoman, she partook liberally of men and drink as if no one saw.  Angela saw; she watched what everyone in Salem did in case she was called upon to testify against them some day.  Her catalogue of sins and sinners took the form of a diary, which was long and detailed.  It was surely the best reading to be had in the village.  After the Good Book of course.

            Having fulfilled her personal quota of accused women for the time being, Angela turned her sights to the dastardly men of the village.  Deacon Reginald Humiliation Howard was at the top of her list of maleficent villagers.  Kelly had told her that the deacon was plotting to take over the Reverend’s flock and make it more efficient, what e’er that signified.  No one would harm her true-love’s parish if Angela could help it. He had also had illicit relations with Kelly, holding her hand behind the church and even daring to kiss her cheek when she would come to deliver a message from Rev. Dwight.  Male-hussy.

            And finally there was the shifty villager called Creed Corey.  What he did, from whence he came, or where he dwelled no one could tell.  Things often turned up missing after a visit from Master Corey, like shears, balls of twine, roosters, and church bells.  They were ne’er seen again, but it was thought that he perhaps sold them to greedy folk in Boston.  Angela had had enough of his thievery and hardly twitched her nose before he found himself jailed along with the others.  Upon entering his cell, he was heard to say, “home, sweet, home” in the most nostalgic manner.

            In charge of the rabble in the village jail was More-fruit Kevin, the jolly jailer.  He had not married, and was slow-minded, but performed his duties well, especially when given a ration of baked apples or maple and molasses candy.  Upon seeing the parade of women brought to his jail, Kevin sighed.

“Graaaacious. Ah, mayhap they will have a fishwife row. ‘Twill make for a fair bet with Amity.”

Sadly, it is unlikely that the corpulent jailer would have been permitted to see such a row, had it come to pass.  As Kevin’s personal stench was overpowering, he was not allowed close to the ladies without their loud protests.  The company of women was not to be his until Kelly supplied him with a vial of lavender water so he would bring her all of the best gossip to be had.  The jailer happily accepted the offer and he stank no more.

“Hear ye, hear ye: the witches will be made to talk! The Right Reverend Dwight Kill-sin Parris commands it! He also has an abundance of beets should any wish to partake in his harvest!”

Amity Bernard was parched after all of his shouting; he made note to quit taking payment for announcing villagers’ personal messages.  Salem dearly needed a printing press.  When one arrived, Amity would be able to use what he had learned at Master Cornell’s print shop when he was an apprentice.  He had been chased out of Boston for lechery before he could establish his own press and became a town crier, capable of little else.

*~*~*

Although torture was a most excellent method of extracting (false) confessions, the witch prosecutors in Salem were not satisfied with the results of their attempts.  Their version of water torture was gleaned from an old witch hunter’s manual that had been poorly translated.  Instead of slowly dripping water on the forehead of a victim over the course of days, the pair poured the lukewarm contents of a pitcher over the villager’s whole head.  This refreshing shower was quite pleasing and far from punishing.  The newly-baptized “witch” was generally returned to their cell after a few rounds of the Judge and the Reverend cursing back and forth at each other when the victim did not confess a single wicked sin as they sat wet headed.

After dismissing the advice found in the witch book, the investigators realized that simply interrogating the suspects was sufficient; the accused were in tears after listening to the pair for only a short while.  Observing these backward proceedings was Master Tobias Hathorne, the county’s representative to the Commonwealth.  He was to record each interview and report back to Gov. Halpert as needed.  Judge Scott found Master Hathorne’s very being loathsome and dearly wanted to dismiss him from the events all together.  To the Judge’s dismay, he lacked the authority to do so.

            The one instance in which the Judge and Reverend had resorted to truly painful torture, it was because they had begun to tire of Master Creed’s incoherent babbling.  Taking him outside behind the jail, the officials held him down and set about putting heavier and heavier stones atop his chest.  The supposed wizard’s only response was a chortle and a request for “more weight”; this was not the desired result of pressing with stones, and the pair decided ‘twas all for naught. 

Tobias Hathorne spoke up.  “I warned ye of this outcome; Master Creed is but an old thief and no wizard at all.  Cannot we move on to the other accused villagers?”

The two other men agreed that Master Creed was more mad than magical and he was released from jail.  Before disappearing into the woods he did manage to pry off his cell door.  Ne’er was it found.

            The three investigators returned to simple interrogations without the thumbscrews, dunking chairs, or red-hot pincers after the Creed Corey incident, and Goody Scott was the first to benefit.  Judge Scott refused to participate in the interview for fear that his wife would cast a spell on him; he hid himself in the cellar of his house while she was out of her cell.  Master Hathorne was forced to become involved in the session.  It was decided that Goody Scott should be kept in the jail if only to give Judge Scott some peace of mind; he did seem quite disturbed in her presence.

            The most revealing confession would come from Tituba, called Kelly.  The talkative and excitable slave was a nightmare to interrogate as Rev. Dwight would soon discover.  Master Hathorne simply backed out of the room when he could no longer stomach her voice.  Once the Reverend yelled at his slave and told her that it was not the time for fairytales, Kelly settled down and told her master that all she had done was tell Angela that she would love and marry Dwight Kill-sin Parris himself.  The creepy grin that spread across his face was enough to let Kelly know she had guessed correctly.  All of those deliveries of preserved beets to Angela Putnam’s house had to have meant something.  The chatty young woman added that she was just playing at fortune-telling and she couldn’t truly read the future.  The ashes of a fire could not be used to forecast the husband of a frosty blond virgin after all.

*~*~*

While looking in on Angela and asking after her health, the Reverend declared that considering her confession, Kelly would be cleared of all charges, with the exception of wearing too much berry-juice rouge. The pious accuser became distraught upon hearing this news and assured herself that though some of the sinners might escape earthly justice, they would know it in the life beyond.  Her wrath grew after the Reverend’s visit and all those in Salem would feel it.

*~*~*

Unfolding the great expanse of the Boston daily paper, Gov. Halpert’s gaze fell upon a story coming from Salem.  Having heard about the goings-on there from his deputy, Master Hathorne, he had felt assured that things would conclude shortly and there would be little to worry about.  This was not the case at all.  Events escalated quickly once power was in the hands of Judge Scott, Rev. Dwight, and Angela Putnam, all of whom were named in the account.  In the months that had passed between the six original accusations and the paper’s publication, there had been fourteen more condemned.

Calling for his kind-hearted wife, Gov. Halpert pointed the story out for her perusal.  She blanched when she read what was happening in her place of birth.

“For shame, Angela Putnam!  Oh, what could have happened to her that she would risk her neighbors’ lives?”

“Dost thou know this woman?” her husband asked.

“Why I learned to sew from her mother and we read the Good Book together as children.  I cannot believe what I have read here.  My James, we must away to Salem and end this nonsense.”

“I will write to my deputy in that town and we shall leave this very week.  I attended Harvard with this Michael Fear-not Scott; he is a comical man, but surely he will understand reason and logic.”

Riding through Salem Village, Lady Halpert recalled her childhood, turning her head to and fro so as to regard a familiar homestead, or a beloved elm tree.  The village had an ominous aspect; the already darkly painted homes had an even grimmer countenance than was usual.  There were few folk about, either on the green or in the market.  Such silence disquieted the governor's wife, and she said as much to her husband. 

"If one accounts for all of the accused, 'tis no surprise that there are so few outdoors in Salem, my love,” he said frankly.

"'Tis very troublesome.  I should hope that there have been no hangings."  After a pause, Lady Halpert continued, and her voice took on a faraway tone. "I wonder if my old sweetheart has been pestered by Mistress Angela.  I should think not, for she was quite taken with him herself." 

Gov. Halpert winced at the thought of his wife having affections for another, but then shared a grin with her.  "And what of this sweetheart?  Hast thou not been wedded for seven years?"

"Aye, and I would not leave you for all the tea in China," the lady smiled as she clasped her true-love's hand.

The bumpy carriage ride came to an abrupt end in front of Judge Scott's home.  The couple descended from the carriage, the Governor extending a hand to his wife as she stepped out, and they were heartily welcomed by the stern Reverend and the foolhardy Judge. 

"Ah, my lord Governor, how fared you on your trip to our village?" asked Judge Scott.

"'Twas but a half-day's ride, your honor; a good nap served me well and we arrived in short time," was Gov. Halpert's reply. "Her Ladyship read the latest sermons to be had in Boston and stitched a fanciful design of her own making.  She is ever so accomplished."  Lady Halpert blushed at this praise, and curtsied before the magistrates.

"Well, well.  We shall have your bags taken to your rooms and you may enjoy some entertainment until supper is set."

A look of dread crossed the Governor's face at the mention of "entertainment" with regard to Master Michael Scott.  No good could come of it, if he recalled his Harvard days with any accuracy.

*~*~*

After listening to a great number of ribald country songs "sung" by the Judge, with fife accompaniment courtesy of the Reverend, the quartet sat down for supper.  The meal was composed of turkey, cranberries, wheat bread, green beans, turnips, yams, oysters, eel, and of course, a dish of the Reverend's celebrated beets. 

Apologizing for the undersized spread, the Judge admitted that this was due to the fact that his wife, Goody Scott, was actually among those imprisoned. Lady Halpert gasped at the revelation.

"Surely you jest, your honor," the noble woman said, incredulous. 

Whilst chewing upon a juicy beet, the Judge sputtered, "Oh, no, she is most assuredly in Salem jail."

Gaping like a trout upon hearing these words, Gov. Halpert said, "Do not your wedding vows bind you to your wife, sir?"

Judge Scott shrugged his shoulders and impaled a portion of turkey upon his fork.

The Reverend was kind enough to answer the Governor's inquiry.

"Though she may be his wife, she is evil."

Slurping a helping of oyster, the Judge finally spoke for himself.  "My wife is rather bewitching you know.  I do not quite understand how it is that we are married.  One day we were simply courting as is proper and the next we were signing a love contract with the good Reverend here as a witness."

Rev. Dwight nodded his head solemnly.

The Governor swallowed a quaff of beer and peered at his wife over the horn cup.  Lady Halpert was quite amused by the discussion, yet still appeared fretful. This will be a most lengthy and tiresome trial, the Governor thought to himself with a chuckle.  What other follies could the next day possibly offer?

            “Hear ye, hear ye: get thee to the courthouse for the trial of the century!  See your neighbors and maybe your wives or daughters tried for witchcraft!” 

‘Twas autumn in that evil year in Salem, and poor Master Bernard was now making proclamations to himself, for most of Salem was in jail awaiting the trial he was announcing.

*~*~*

Though ‘twas early morn, there were no cocks crowing.  The village and much of the surrounding towns were empty, their free inhabitants having settled in Salem's meeting house where the trials were to be held.  The Governor and his wife started out to the trials alone, the Judge and Reverend having set out an hour before them to prepare for the day.

As the couple walked across the green to the meeting house, they were joined by Tobias Hathorne.  Master Hathorne had yet to meet Lady Halpert, and was immediately struck by her modest beauty.

Lady Halpert was absorbed in her thoughts as she made her way to the trials.  It had been many years since she had last seen Angela Putnam.  They had not parted on good terms and she had always regretted that.  Her marriage to Master Halpert had occurred not long after she ended her flighty flirtation with Royce Anders, the butcher’s son.  Upon hearing the news that Pamela was to be married, Angela had told her friend that she did not think kindly of the way that she had treated Royce and could not condone such behavior.  Pamela had moved to Boston with James and wed him there a week after Angela’s admonition; they had not spoken since.

The party reached the meeting house and quickly found their seats in the first row, reserved for the most important personages in attendance.  Mistress Angela was seated opposite them on the other side of the aisle, but did not see Lady Halpert arrive, as she was engaged in conversation with Master Devin, the cooper.  The meeting house was filled to the rafters.  There was no time for stragglers to find a proper seat; the trials were set to start and there would be little movement for several hours.

*~*~*

            The sturdy oak door of a side room opened, and the judges presiding over the trials marched out in their black robes and long white wigs.  First in line was Michael Fear-not Scott, followed by Rev. Dwight Kill-sin Parris and then Judge Humphrey Steadfast Hudson.  The last of these venerable figures was truly worthy of veneration.  He was a respected judge, now retired, and had come from Boston to regulate the proceedings as a favor to the Governor.  Judge Hudson’s wife had wanted to buy their daughter, Melissa Abstinence, a hope chest; the Judge welcomed the additional income, however indifferent to the events he was. 

            The next figure to appear was the bailiff, Devout-Always-to the-Righteous-Reign-of-You-Lord, or Darryl for short.  Standing in front of the judges’ bench, Darryl unfurled a parchment, which rolled for a yard or two before him.  Upon the surface of the document were written the names and alleged misdeeds of each of the jailed.  They were all accused of witchcraft or wizardry.  He began to read their names in order...

            Angela’s wrath had spread wide, and by the time the trials began, the total number of accused had reached forty.  There was Katy Comfort Bishop, a brazen headed harlot from Meredith O’Malley’s tavern, as well as Oscar Sewall, the head of the village’s market.  Master Sewall’s mother hailed from the strange land of Mexico, and his Mexicanity struck fear into the heart of Mistress Angela.  And his produce was rarely firm. 

            Angela’s distain for the other jailed “witches” was based upon similar perceived faults she felt were going unpunished.  Like being whorish.  Or selling candy that was too sweet.  Or black cloth that wasn’t black enough.  The list went on and on.

            The bailiff’s usually strong voice was beginning to fail him as he reached the end of the list.

            “Madge of Mifflin: witchcraft.” (Wore pantaloons while gardening.)

            “Lionel called Lonny, of Mifflin: wizardry.” (Was generally unpleasant and disrespectful.)

            “Karen Perseverance Phillips, of Stamford: head of the coven of witches.” (Planned a civic celebration without receiving permission from the county...or Angela.)

            “David Wrestling Wallace, of Danvers: wizardry.” (Supporter of Deacon Howard’s scheme.)

The bailiff reached the end of his criminal inventory.

No one spoke.  Judge Scott looked to the bailiff for encouragement; there were so few trials in Salem, he had forgotten how to proceed.

Darryl stared at the Judge, in the vain hope that his superior would suddenly recall the next step.  Alas, the Judge grew agitated and Darryl finally said “Let the trials begin,” his voice thick with exasperation.

At these words, Judge Scott grinned like the fool he was and struck the bench with his gavel; thus, the day began in earnest.

*~*~*

First to be called to stand before the judges was Goody Scott.  As soon as she appeared in court, Angela jolted to life, trembling and speaking in tongues.  Her performances had greatly improved over the months; she had a great deal of practice.  The shouts of “witch!” and the fingers pointed at Goody Scott did not upset the strong-willed woman, and she walked directly up to the bench where her husband sat shaking a wee bit himself.  Judge Scott had been so sure that he was going to stand up to his wife before she entered the room; his trusty maid Caroline had told him that he was strong and capable, and he believed it. ‘Twas all for naught once Goody Scott’s eyes met her husband’s; the woman’s strange power o’er her husband kept him from convicting her.  Her testimony and interrogation went swiftly as she overwhelmed her husband with rhetoric and womanly wiles.  It was an easy task to change her beloved’s mind.  He voted ‘nay’ when the time came and the commanding woman was released.

As the trials progressed, and Angela shook more and more, the villagers in attendance believed less and less that these forty “witches” were anything other than victims of a selfish, deceitful woman.  The cases against the accused lacked any strong evidence and had virtually no witnesses.  Judge Hudson was one of the unconvinced.  In between working his rebus puzzles, he voted for the release of every witch or wizard that came before him and the two other magistrates.  Holding the elder judge in great esteem as they did, Judge Scott and Rev. Dwight felt obligated to vote in the same manner, and so the rest of Angela Putnam’s victims were set free.

            The sly and vengeful accuser could not fathom why her plot to rid the town of sinners was not successful. Angela whirled around in her seat and surveyed the room.  A spot of vibrant green caught her sharp eyes.  It was the elaborately embroidered bodice of Lady Halpert, depicting the Tree of Knowledge, complete with verdant leaves and golden apples.  Angela, wearing a black dress and smock, her hair pinned into a tight bun, was appalled at Pamela’s showy attire.  Pamela had always been an excellent seamstress and when young, she embroidered everything that would take a needle and thread.  Angela had not the fanciful mind of her friend and was ever so jealous of her talent which garnered great praise from all those in the village. 

Rising from her bench, Angela pointed one white finger at her childhood friend.

            “Villagers of Salem, see you the symbols of greed and seduction affixed to Lady Halpert’s bodice?  Such decadent and immodest adornment!  You temptress!”

            Lady Halpert stared disbelieving at the bitter troublemaker as howls and gasps rose around them.  Gov. Halpert could first only muster an “egad” and then remembering himself, stood up from his bench.  Looking Angela directly in the eyes, he walked towards her.

            “This must stop, Mistress Putnam.  Why are you determined to ruin your village’s reputation as well as your own?”

            Petite Angela Putnam tried to stand her ground, but her face fell, and she slowly backed into the judges’ bench.  She looked to Lady Halpert, but was denied reciprocation as the other woman’s head was bowed.  It was then that Angela thought of Royce Anders, and the tears in his eyes when he learned of Pamela’s nuptials; Angela could not abide the freedoms that Pamela taken with the butcher’s son.  She would allow him to walk with her while she gathered berries in the forest and even let him kiss her hand.  Pamela’s sinful actions were not the only reason for the breach in their friendship.  Although Angela did have some small feeling for Master Anders, she was most pained by Pamela’s abandonment of her all those years ago.

            Turning back to her friend’s husband she stuttered, “I, I do not understand why I am being persecuted! What wrong have I caused by uncovering witches in our midst?”

             “What wrong!? Indicting your neighbors, spreading lies about these good people.  Variously calling women witches, hussies, and harlots, like my wife!”  The Governor was shouting at the end of his declaration.  Lady Halpert sighed loudly, and as she gathered her skirts to hie herself away, the light from the room’s narrow windows glinted off of the offending bodice. 

            Lady Halpert briskly walked out of the meeting house.  The beleaguered governor shook his head and briefly closed his eyes, running his palms down his face.  When he opened his eyes again, Angela appeared defensive yet seemed to be weary and miserable as well.

            “That is not an opinion to be voiced here.  As head of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I hereby grant all of the remaining accused their freedom.  May they ne’er be harassed again.  Judge Scott, Reverend Dwight, Judge Hudson: you may stand down.”

            Some of those gathered in the meeting house cheered as the long terror reached its conclusion; others groaned as the free entertainment ended.  Judge Scott and Rev. Dwight were sorely disappointed by the Governor’s edict; it had been ever so long since they had seen a good hanging.  Judge Hudson was only too eager to return to Boston and the solitude of his existence there.  His wife and daughter would spend his money and he could content himself with a new volume of puzzles just arrived from England.

            Angela was left alone in the front of the room as her fellow villagers filed out.  Her eyes downcast, hands folded across her apron, she stood frozen.  The dark heavy doors at the front of the meeting house squeaked shut on their hinges, and then all was silent.

*~*~*

Having stayed behind to collect his thoughts, the Reverend entered the main meeting room from a side chamber, and stood admiring his secret love, Mistress Putnam.  Sorrow filled his heart as his examined her forlorn expression.  Taking a step towards her, the heel of his shoe struck the thick wood floors, and Angela shuddered.  Casting a fearful glance at the intruder and finding it to be the Reverend, she fairly rushed to him, falling into his embrace.

“Parris and Putnam went to court

To catch themselves a witch.

They were cruel and mean and made a scene;

May they both be boiled in pitch!” 

As there was no longer a need for updates on the witch trials, Amity had turned to creating and singing madrigals and other ditties to fill the time.  A few of his tunes became popular, as he sang them hourly.  Truth be told, they would not leave one’s brain once they had been heard; ‘twas a most bothersome affair.

*~*~*

As was decreed by Gov. Halpert, Angela spent a day and a night in the stocks, Rev. Dwight e'er by her side to read her favorite verses aloud and keep away the rabble.  The villagers thought the punishment was too light, and Angela's vicious behavior was not forgiven.  Among her neighbors there was but the handsome Royce Anders who would speak with her and allow her in his shop.  However nice Master Anders had been to her, his kindness was little consolation to Angela when she considered all that she had lost.

In deepest despair, the downtrodden Mistress Putnam was left with hardly another choice than to do that which she hated most.  She must beg for forgiveness from her victims and make apologies to all.  She began her penitence with a letter to Lady Halpert, her oldest and once dearest friend.

Most gracious and honored Lady Pamela,

I write to you with a heavy heart and a humble spirit.  How I have offended you!  And in doing so, have shamed myself.  My actions that day were most cruel and they can hardly be forgiven.  I beseech you to remember the joy we shared in our girlhood friendship and confidences.  The tomcat that I sent to you last week in care of Master Hathorne is well I hope, and is happily eating all of your mice.  Surely the gift of a puss will not reconcile me to you, but I have faith that, in time, our friendship shall regain its place in your heart. 

Most sincerely,

An. Chast. Putnam

The reply to Angela's letter was swift in coming and full of cheer and good will.  Lady Halpert had no desire to end their acquaintance and assured her bosom friend that her apology was accepted.  She added that she knew how stubborn her friend was and that the simple apology was enough; Angela ought to write similar letters to those she accused.  Lady Halpert ended the letter by entreating Angela to write her again soon and that she hoped that their correspondence would continue, unbroken, for as long as they could draw breath.

This encouraging response convinced Angela that she was performing her penance as she ought.  She wrote letters to all of those she hurt and offended; making her way to each household in Salem to hand-deliver the admissions of guilt.

 The Reverend and Mistress Putnam were wed in the spring of 1693, before the beets were to be planted, and the Governor and Lady Halpert attended the ceremony especially, as a show of cordiality between the parties.  Harmony was restored to Salem, ne'er to be disturbed again.

Pam awoke with a shudder.  What the hell had she just been dreaming about!? Witches, and Angela, and Dwight as a priest, and she and Jim married and living in colonial Boston?  She vowed to never again eat spicy tomato sauce on her late-night pasta.

            When Jim sauntered into the office, Pam laughed. She’d had just envisioned him wearing a powdered wig, breeches, and silver-buckled shoes not two hours ago.  She’d contained herself for as long, thinking it’d be better share her dream with him in person instead of calling him.  With a quizzical look at his girlfriend, Jim allowed himself to be dragged to the kitchen. Dwight popped his head up and shook it disapprovingly.  Jim. Running to get a cup of coffee, Dwight thought. His attachment to caffeine is disgraceful; I could never be an addict.  Schrutes have more will-power than to bow before mere chemical compounds. 

             Reaching the relative asylum of the kitchen, Pam gave Jim a peck on the lips.  Jim saw a glint of mischief in her hazel eyes. 

“Pam, what’s the deal?  Has Michael already harassed you this morning?  It’s only...8:58,” he said, glancing at his watch. “There’s no way he’s even here yet.”

“Nope.  This is much weirder than anything Michael could come up with.”  Pam put a mug of water into the microwave to heat up.

“What are you talking about? Have you got a new prank for Dwight?  One that doesn’t involve Sharpies?” Jim said, pointing to his bare forearm.  Their Wednesday afternoon prank, consisting of a fake tattoo on Jim’s arm (drawn by Pam), Stamford hazing rituals, and company loyalty, had not gone well.  Dwight didn't believe that Jim had gotten “Dunder Mifflin Forever” permanently inked on his body because everyone in Stamford had; ironically, the heart-shaped sketch was still clearly defined two days and three showers later.

Pam snickered at the tattoo and then pondered Jim’s question for a moment. “Actually, now that you mention it, this could definitely be used for evil.  I had a dream last night that you will not believe.”  

Pulling her hot mug out of the microwave and dunking a raspberry zinger tea bag into it, Pam began her story.  She regaled Jim with the whole ridiculous dream, skirting around the detail about them being married.  All Jim could do was laugh right along with her.

“Pam, that’s a messed-up dream!  Do you think that Angela’s big protest speech yesterday is what caused it?  I mean, it has to be.”

 “Oh, yeah, that’s got to be it; I mean, why else would I dream about that stuff?!”

           “Wow, I don’t know.  But you’re right of course; there are so many things we could do with that.  Like make Dwight think that he can move things with his mind,” Jim said with a devilish grin. 

            Pam raised her eyebrows.  “Things like a coat rack for instance?”  It was going to be a fun day.   

Finishing up their conversation and their respective tea and coffee, Jim and Pam went back out into the main office to their desks.  Angela had entered the office while they were rehashing Pam’s dream.  Pam approached the accountant cautiously.

“Good morning, Angela.”

Angela turned her chair slightly to face Pam.  The accountant was wearing an off-white cardigan; below her left shoulder an “A” was embroidered in a shiny crimson thread.

“Hello, Pam.  Do you need anything?  I’m trying to secure an industrial grill and a sno-cone machine for the party.”

“Oh, no.  Uh, I like your sweater.  That “A” is for Angela right?”

“What else would it stand for?” she huffed.

“Oh, nothing.  Talk to you later.” Pam went back to reception with a smirk and prayed that she wouldn’t have dreams about The Scarlet Letter that night.  More dreams about Jim would be good; maybe just not Puritan ones.