“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.