09 - The Witch Hunters

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The Witch Hunters by Steve Lyons

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

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TheWitchHuntersbySteveLyonsPARTONEBREAKTHECHAIN14January1692'Susannext.''Yes.Susan'Betty'selfinfacewasilluminatedbyachild'sglee.Ann,too,beamedherapproval.Susansmiledweaklyanddidn'tdaretoobject.althoughshewasuncomfortablewiththeattention.ShefeltshewasafraudfornotsharingtheirbeliefsAbgailheldtheeggalo...

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09 - The Witch Hunters.pdf

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09 - The Witch Hunters

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