twisted atop the wagon, snarling and snapping at the rope, keeping its paws away from the old man's hands.
The horse glanced over its shoulder, took a step forward nervously, nostrils flaring. But when Proctor expected it to bolt in blind panic, it stopped again. The Quaker woman rushed forward, shouting, “What have you done? Tell me, what have you done?”
“Nothing,” Jedediah said, then shouted at the panther, commanding it to stop.
Emerson, his jaw set grim, came forward cautiously. “What manner of sorcery is this? What do we do?”
The Quaker woman shook her head. “Do nothing! I'm going to retreat, in case she's drawing on my fire. It's an illusion—don't believe what you see.”
The panther roared in an attempt to drown out her words. With a shudder through its shoulders, the panther grew in size and bulk, changing shape again into a black bear. Its lips rolled back from pink gums and huge teeth, froth flying from its open mouth as it snapped at Emerson and slashed at the old man with its long, curved claws, still bound together. Both men jumped back.
Proctor's heart clenched, the way it had when he'd gone into battle against the British. His pulse throbbed beneath the bandage on his neck.
“We must do something,” Emerson insisted.
“Help me grab her,” Jedediah said. “We'll wrap her in the blanket and lay her in the cart.”
As he tried to hold the bear's bound paws, it struggled harder. Emerson was hanging back, and he couldn't control the woman or beast or what ever it was alone. Proctor advanced another step, half out of the bushes and up the side of the ditch, ready to lend a hand. Neither man saw him, their attention fixed on the cart. But the bear, or panther, or witch, what ever she was, stared straight at him.
The bear's bare-toothed snarl turned into a laugh.
An invisible fire poured out of Proctor, flowing opposite the direction that it had when he'd grasped Pitcairn's protective charm.
As the fire flowed out, real, visible flames burst out on the bear's bound wrists, leaping from the ropes. The old man muttered under his breath and tried to throw a blanket over the flames. Emerson leapt the other way.
It was wise that he did—Jedediah's coat burst into flames around his shoulders, fire licking at his ears while he spun in a circle, madly trying to pat it out. He knocked his hat off as the flames singed his cheeks. Emerson rushed to help him, shoving him to the ground away from the wagon, and rolling him to put out the fire.
The Quaker woman shouted, “You must hold her.” But still she held back.
Proctor didn't understand what was happening, but he knew he was the only one who could help, so he ran to the edge of the road, ready to grab the witch, no matter her shape.
As he approached the cart, though, the bear shrank back into an old woman, who shook off her singed bonds, which fell, smoking, with a thump, onto the wagon.
At the same instant trees all around them erupted with the sound of crows cawing, a din so loud Proctor covered his ears. A black mass rose up from the woods like smoke from the British fires in Concord only a few days before; a murder of crows spiraled into one big cloud of birds, screeching and crying as it circled the sky.
Beneath that ominous black mass, Emerson was still putting out the flames on Jedediah's clothes, Jedediah was shouting that he was fine, and the Quaker woman stalked down the trail, head lowered, chanting.
And Proctor stood there, motionless, uncertain.
The widow rose free and unencumbered in the back of the cart. She spread her arms, and the sleeves of her dress flared out like wings; tilting her head back, she cawed to the sky, echoing the crows in their dark blot overhead.
Then she stared at Proctor for a third time, and the grin vanished from her face. A cold air settled over Proctor, more than the chill of the shadow from the crows. A thin, gray mist rose from the floor of the forest, as if called by the cold.
Her eyes
The horse glanced over its shoulder, took a step forward nervously, nostrils flaring. But when Proctor expected it to bolt in blind panic, it stopped again. The Quaker woman rushed forward, shouting, “What have you done? Tell me, what have you done?”
“Nothing,” Jedediah said, then shouted at the panther, commanding it to stop.
Emerson, his jaw set grim, came forward cautiously. “What manner of sorcery is this? What do we do?”
The Quaker woman shook her head. “Do nothing! I'm going to retreat, in case she's drawing on my fire. It's an illusion—don't believe what you see.”
The panther roared in an attempt to drown out her words. With a shudder through its shoulders, the panther grew in size and bulk, changing shape again into a black bear. Its lips rolled back from pink gums and huge teeth, froth flying from its open mouth as it snapped at Emerson and slashed at the old man with its long, curved claws, still bound together. Both men jumped back.
Proctor's heart clenched, the way it had when he'd gone into battle against the British. His pulse throbbed beneath the bandage on his neck.
“We must do something,” Emerson insisted.
“Help me grab her,” Jedediah said. “We'll wrap her in the blanket and lay her in the cart.”
As he tried to hold the bear's bound paws, it struggled harder. Emerson was hanging back, and he couldn't control the woman or beast or what ever it was alone. Proctor advanced another step, half out of the bushes and up the side of the ditch, ready to lend a hand. Neither man saw him, their attention fixed on the cart. But the bear, or panther, or witch, what ever she was, stared straight at him.
The bear's bare-toothed snarl turned into a laugh.
An invisible fire poured out of Proctor, flowing opposite the direction that it had when he'd grasped Pitcairn's protective charm.
As the fire flowed out, real, visible flames burst out on the bear's bound wrists, leaping from the ropes. The old man muttered under his breath and tried to throw a blanket over the flames. Emerson leapt the other way.
It was wise that he did—Jedediah's coat burst into flames around his shoulders, fire licking at his ears while he spun in a circle, madly trying to pat it out. He knocked his hat off as the flames singed his cheeks. Emerson rushed to help him, shoving him to the ground away from the wagon, and rolling him to put out the fire.
The Quaker woman shouted, “You must hold her.” But still she held back.
Proctor didn't understand what was happening, but he knew he was the only one who could help, so he ran to the edge of the road, ready to grab the witch, no matter her shape.
As he approached the cart, though, the bear shrank back into an old woman, who shook off her singed bonds, which fell, smoking, with a thump, onto the wagon.
At the same instant trees all around them erupted with the sound of crows cawing, a din so loud Proctor covered his ears. A black mass rose up from the woods like smoke from the British fires in Concord only a few days before; a murder of crows spiraled into one big cloud of birds, screeching and crying as it circled the sky.
Beneath that ominous black mass, Emerson was still putting out the flames on Jedediah's clothes, Jedediah was shouting that he was fine, and the Quaker woman stalked down the trail, head lowered, chanting.
And Proctor stood there, motionless, uncertain.
The widow rose free and unencumbered in the back of the cart. She spread her arms, and the sleeves of her dress flared out like wings; tilting her head back, she cawed to the sky, echoing the crows in their dark blot overhead.
Then she stared at Proctor for a third time, and the grin vanished from her face. A cold air settled over Proctor, more than the chill of the shadow from the crows. A thin, gray mist rose from the floor of the forest, as if called by the cold.
Her eyes
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