I have no idea what to write, so I will put an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo!
From the hole in the bricks she saw three pairs of feet swaying back and forth, tickled by skirts whipping around the ankles with the wind. There was a roar as if a tempest had blown through and knocked loose the inner evil of everyone in the town, expurgating the shadowed horror from their throats with violent appreciation. Children’s boots scattered in front of the window through which Tituba gazed. The light stomping and echo of innocent laughter struck Tituba as obscene when juxtaposed against the desolate spread of humanity left in the town’s square. She ran bony fingers across a belly not swollen enough for having missed her cycle these seven months. It writhed beneath her touch. The echo of an elbow skating across her abdomen like an axe chopping through wood.
This time tomorrow, she would be free of this place. Her birds had come and told her so. The doors will be unlocked to her. Though she wouldn’t be able to stay on this land. The land to which she had connected herself so thoroughly. Salem was still hunting witches, and Tituba was the only true witch in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. “Hold on, sweet boy, we’re to be free on the morrow. The soul of this land tells me so. You are to be born a free man. Your spirit speaks to mine even now, my sweet boy, my sweet Caliban.”
Tituba rocked on her knees through the night, chanting the spells sang to her in her mother’s womb. Those spells which were permanently tattooed on her soul through her mother’s love and magic. The same spells she wove around the heart of her son, only now just the beginning of the witch he would become. The nascent power behind her skin pulsed beneath her ribs with every sound uttered from Tituba’s song. She knew that some of the magic she covered her Caliban in was from the well of the earth, springing and reacting to her call; but the majority of this miracle erupted from her own heart and soul, overflowing her fruit with the ripening power of her love. Outside her window, the skirts and shoes no longer danced with the wind, but the stain of their dance darkened the hill where no moonlight could touch.
A wolf bayed her name in its song, and she sang back with all the fierceness she felt. John. It was her John. No longer man, passed into her wolf to protect her and their child. She sang back her song of devotion. Her call of freedom. Soon he could surrender himself to Mateguas and cantillate with eternity. The call of his song was a blessing and a blight upon her being, she bent around their son, swallowing her sorrow, but accepting her grief. Her grief was proud, and made its owner stoop. She propped herself against the cold stone walls of the prison and beckoned sleep to her.
As the sun kissed her face she eased back into consciousness. From the other side of her cell, the sound of a lock turning in place struck her back into her senses. She stood, anticipating an attack, calling the earth from beneath her feet into the viscera of her herself. A man nearing thirty or better, with a plait of shockingly pale hair thrown over his left shoulder, and a uniform designating him as a constable, entered the dank space, a handkerchief pressed to his nose and mouth. In a tone which was shockingly warm and polite, he said “I am to take you from here.” Tituba looked about him, feeling caged and fretting over the implications of his statement. “I won’t be going to the hill, Constable.” Tituba would raze the entire colony before she sacrificed her son to these vessels of hate. The constable lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “I am sorry, you misunderstand me. I am to escort you from the prison, Ma’am. You are being released. You confessed your crime and did so shaming the devil.” His lip quirked as though he thought the situation ludicrous. “I will escort you to the edge of this territory where you are to be left. You will be executed on sight if you ever return to this jurisdiction. Worry not, you will be provided three days of vittles and a skein of water. This place is so changed and charged with what it does not understand, so it fears. Thus, bad begins, and worse remains behind, my lady.” At this, he took a gentle grip on her elbow and ushered her away from the depths of the tombs only once removed from the oubliettes old torture, and across the greenery of the colony.
When they were far enough away as not to be seen, he removed a flask from the pocket of his doublet, handing it across to her. “Drink, my lady, you need it more than I.” Raising the silver flask to her lips, she sipped tentatively at the liquid. The sweet brandy swirled in her mouth, tantalizing and delicious. In it, she could taste the sunlight that fed the grapes, and the water that gave them life. She tasted the sugar that dripped from the seeds of the golden globes, and the maple of the barrel wherein it was changed. She breathed deeply, allowing the smell of the brandy to affix itself in her mind as the smell of her own freedom. The woods that surrounded them pulsed in recognition of her.
“Over that hillock of lavender is the end of this territory. This is where I must leave you. I will stand witness to your crossing of the border, and report to the magistrate that you are beyond the divide. I wish you well, my lady. You were more sinned against than sinning.” With that, the Constable turned abruptly and marched off in the way they traveled, his actions belying his words. Tituba watched as he took up to a run, and was absorbed by the forest. Looking down, she noted she still held his silver flask. How curious a creature is man? Tituba thought as she took her first step over the fragrant purple hill.