Joan Van der Linden

“I feel like I’ve lost my sense of grace about myself and the world..”

Prologue

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BOTTOM OF THE RIVER March 1684

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In the year of 1684, four days after another woman’s hanging, she was found out.

They did not listen to her lies, for they were undoubtedly lies, that she was innocent. They restrained her and sent her to the gallows to await the hearing. The rough spun fabric of her kirtle dress provided little shelter from the bone-rattling chill. Thick iron shackles dug into the soft flesh of her wrists and ankles, leaving raw crimson welts that stung mercilessly. Eyes burning with what the guards would call ‘The Devil’s stare.’

A foul stench of mildew and waste coiled in Joan's nostrils. Her stomach roiled, but she refused to let the brutes witness such weakness. Clenching her jaw, she fixed her gaze upon the barred window slicing a thin sliver of moonlight across the earthen floor.

"Mother," she mouthed the sacred invocation in a hoarse whisper. "Guard them on this night, when I cannot shield our circle from mortal perils."

If the witch-hunters gleaned knowledge of her sisters' identities on the morrow, she would gladly burn at the stake before betraying a single one. They were her truest family, bound by deeper oaths than any Puritan could fathom.

It was a fortunate chance that only she had been accused. None of her coven were found, and as the penmanship said, they would cease coven activities and resume their aliases as young impressionable women. They embodied the virtues the men here appreciated: silence and modesty.

Something was wrong with Joan. She was rebellious, brash, always lifted her skirt just a bit to show her ankles and feet in public as she trudged through mud. To the men of age who’d come to her, she would blaspheme them, she would read, refuse to give up her Dutch accent, wore bonnets just to deceive the crowd that she was married. She was a liar, deceiver, not a woman devout to her faith.

All of those were true.

In front of the jury the next morning, she knelt in front of Minister Hubbard. The stifling silence of the cramped courtroom was shattered by the minister's blistering condemnation. Minister Hubbards’ face contorted with rage as flecks of spittle flew from his lips, his bony finger wagging accusingly at the woman forced to her knees before him.

"Wanton harlot! You are a foul instrument of the Devil himself!" he bellowed, the veins in his neck straining against his stark white collar. "With your perverse ideas and unnatural abilities, you seek to unravel the righteous society we have built upon God's word!"

Joan lifted her defiant gaze to meet the reverend's piercing glare. Though her body had been whittled away by the brutal imprisonment, her eyes burned with an inner fire that failed to flicker even in the face of such venom.

"Speak not to me of God's word, you pious hypocrite!" Joan spat with contempt. "Where was your precious Lord and Savior when you soiled your marriage vows last night with that wretched harlot two houses down? I saw you leaving her bed chambers just before dawn."

A collective gasp arose from the gathered crowd of Puritan townsfolk. Mutters and cries of outrage rippled through the stifling courtroom as the minister recoiled, his sallow cheeks flushing crimson. Joan allowed a tight, satisfied smile to crease her chapped lips - if she was to be damned, she would not go in silence.

"Silence her blasphemous tongue at once!" Hubbard roared to the brutish guards flanking Joan.

That sealed her fate. Joan could never resist tempting it.

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A few miles away from Salem Village was a river. Its currents were strong when the wind was heavy, but this midday it was serene with light ripples. The scorching mid-day sun bore down on the dusty road leading away from Salem Village. A steady stream of villagers followed the broad, veiny hands of Minister Samuel Hubbard as he firmly grasped a rope, tugging it forward. His knuckles were white from the tightness of his grip.

The rope was crudely tied into a noose around the slender neck of Joan. Her blonde curls stuck in matted tendrils to her sallow, gaunt cheeks. Chains bound her wrists, clanking with each reluctant step she took behind the minister.

Joan's olive green dress was tattered and stained from a night confined in the dank basement of the gallows. Her bare feet were cut and calloused from being dragged over the unforgiving New England terrain. Despite her ragged appearance, an air of quiet strength and defiance burned behind Joan's hollow, sunken eyes.

The other villagers followed at a wary distance, muttering hushed condemnations under their breaths. Righteous fury etched across their pinched faces - the harsh lines a permanent fixture after years of clinging to the severe Calvinist doctrine. They shot accusing glares at the woman they had decided was possessed by the Devil himself and conspired with witches to torment their God-fearing community.

On the river stood the Ducking Stool. A public proceeding, an execution in essence. She would be bound to a chair over the river and plunged into the water. If her body floated, she was deemed the accursed devil worshiper. If she sank, they considered her innocent. It was a barbaric test, intended to verify the truth of the witchcraft accusations.

Joan Van der Linden was a witch. She came from a long line of witches, the inheritance passed down through the women in the family. It was only upon moving here that she couldn't reveal her true nature. Anywhere else, they might suspect her of being unmarried and past her prime, but not a witch. Here, accusations followed her even without transgression.

The clanging of the iron bells shook Joan from her thoughts, each tolling ring seeming to rattle her very bones. She knew their dreadful sound well - the calling bell that roused the God-fearing folk of Salem to come bear witness to another wretched woman's condemnation.

A sick, cold feeling twisted in her gut as she realized those bells now rang for her.

Joan swallowed hard at that thought, gloved hands wringing together anxiously in front of her dress. No, she dare not even think that word too loudly, not when every watchful eye in this cursed place hungered to condemn the next poor soul to the stake. Not when the ashen faces of Helena, sweet Magdalene, and Elizabeth's little daughter remained fresh in her mind, their screams of agony still ringing in her ears.

"Not Joan...this can't be, can it?"

The tremulous whisper of Alice Cabot sliced through the tense air, the ashen-faced young woman clutching her shawl tightly as if to shield herself from Joan's very presence. Of course the rumors had already reached her wide ears, Joan thought bitterly.

"She can't..." Alice continued, only to be silenced by a stern look from Amelia Putnam, the aging widow resting one calloused hand firmly on the other woman's quivering shoulder.

"Hush," Amelia commanded, her voice carrying the unmistakable tone of feigned suspicion. "Do not talk to her, she is a witch, a foul creature."

Joan felt the weight of those words like lead in her chest, even as she recognized the layers of deception woven through them. Of course Amelia knew better, knew of the secret ties that bound their tiny coven in unholy communion. But the older woman's eyes remained unflinchingly hard, her jaw set in grim determination to maintain that facade, no matter the cost to Joan's soul.

"It is a shame it had to be our Joan," Amelia continued, her gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd with a solemn shake of her head. But even that veiled admission carried a razor edge of warning that tightened Joan's resolve - a vow that nothing would ever make her betray the loyalty, the bond of sisterhood. Not even Joans execution.

A derisive chuckle from the striking Eleanor broke the heavy silence, her full lips twisting in a cruel smirk that betrayed none of the concern furrowing her finely arched brows.

"They're probably dunking her in her clothes just to see how she looks underneath," the raven-haired beauty mused with a slow, considering look up and down Joan's frame.

Good girls. Joan thought with a hidden smile, they were acting normal as she asked. They wouldn’t be found, Joan had asked them to pretend to not even know her if it ever came to this. Alice, Eleanor, and Amelia would be fine. They would miss her, but they would be fine.

"Halt."

The minister's commanding voice cut through the growing din like a knife, silencing all further whispers with a sweeping gesture of his hand. They had arrived at the river, and Joan felt her breath catch in her throat as she stared up at the imposing edifice. This was where her judgment would be rendered, her fate sealed for eternity. They had arrived.

The chair was already set up on a thick rope swaying over the river, She refused to show weakness before these Puritan inquisitors, her spine steeling despite the murmurs rippling through the gathered crowd.

"There's the lying jezebel who blasphemed against the Lord's teachings!"

"Aye, that one's a prime candidate for Lucifer's ranks with her heretical tongue."

Joan swallowed hard. If only the fools knew the truth behind her so-called heresies - that a woman could govern herself without a man's chains binding her independence. Her only crime was daring to speak her mind against their pitiless doctrine.

Minister Hubbard stepped forward, his beady eyes glinting with self-righteous fervor as he surveyed his flock. "We are gathered here to judge whether this accused lies in the clutches of the Devil's grasp. If she is innocent before God's eyes, the pure waters shall accept her into their depths when we put her to the Swimming Test."

Joan's heart lurched as the burly constables yanked her toward the crude wooden seat suspended by ropes over the churning river. The "swimming" was a brutal farce, every god-fearing person knew it. Yet they all eagerly descended like self-appointed executioners, drunk on their own moral delusions.

The coarse hemp dug into her flesh as they bound her limbs to the restraints. At the minister's command, she would plummet into the murky depths, the ropes rigged to slip free and leave her at the mercy of the churning currents. If she floated, it meant she had rejected the baptismal waters - damning evidence that she trafficked with hellish forces.

Joan stole a final glance at the leering crowd before the coarse burlap sack obscured her view. These were her accusers and judges, the very neighbors who once chastised her for walking unaccompanied or voicing her own thoughts too stridently in public. Their smug condemnation now paved her path to the river's icy embrace.

Let them bear witness to the Puritan brand of justice they so fervently coveted.

Hubbard raised his arms, basking in his flock's hardened stares. The slightest crack in his authoritarian mask threatened to undo their blinded obedience. He must uphold the pillars of piety upon which their community stood.

"Joan Van der Linden has been accused of blasphemous crimes against God's law!" he bellowed, his voice slicing through the hushed tension. "As a woman divorced from male governance and given to outspoken defiance, there is overmuch evidence that foul Satanic influence has taken root in her soul. We shall put the allegations to trial by water on this day. No Common Scold should walk around and influence our impressionable woman of God!"

She steeled herself for the ordeal, the first to face this execution. All she needed was to hold her breath underwater and wriggle free from the bonds.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for her coven: Amelia, Eleanor, Alice...

Joan drew herself up straight in the bound chair, closing her eyes and leaning back against the rough wood.

"Mother Nature, be with me," she whispered.