She had resigned herself to the persistent ache years ago. A deep bone close pain in her shoulder and hip that ellicited a whimper when she scrubbed the clothes and that slowed her gait noticeably. But she accepted it stoically. After all, she was in her 64th year. The village physician was somewhat helpful..sending her home at times with a small corked bottle of Laudanum. She was fortunate. Many of her dear friends were gone. Either taken by ravaging sickness or more recently.... well, she tried not to think about that. It was a harsh life, in this new unforgiving land, especially when the light became less and the leaves fell from the trees and the cold wind blew from a purple sky. It would be a difficult winter, she mused. The intensive labor of spring and summer, endeavors that kept those who made up the Tribunal busy....planting, cultivating, tending flocks. As those things became less she knew that they would be watched more closely...watched for any deviance of the protocols, any display of defiance, any criticism of the presbyters....open to more hysterical accusations. Especially now that she was alone, having lost Abner five years past. Aged widows came under more suspicion as they were prone to peculiar eccentricitys. She smiled and took solace remembering that Abner held them in disdain as she. She trudged on quietly towards the tomb in the vale. It was a safe place to meet. The man who reposed there, a village founder, was despised by all, which made less chance that they would be observed. Who would visit his grave?  She limped on, her threadbare shawl impotent against the chill. Didn't the presbyters exort all that "thriftness is a virtue" Hmphh she snorted...they with their woolen frocks and felt hats...sitting snug by their hearths shuffling papers with false testimony towards those on whose neck the noose would next tighten. Charity was extinct among them. As she drew closer to the tomb a warm voice intoned, "Sister  Sarah...welcome" Three others glided closer and offered greetings, their warm embrace a pleasant contrast to the pall that had decended upon their village. They spoke quietly, in that vale...telling their stories...relating their fears. Sister Ruth had been seen simply walking about after dark. It was a night of full moon and forest sounds. Two children had ran off when they overheard Sister Martha singing in her garden. She feared that they would tell of her frivolity. Sister Ann had broke the axe handle on a knotty slab of hickory. A word of malediction crossed her lips just as Abigail Williams chanced by. They were one and all fraught with distress. Had not Moses written, "Though shalt not suffer a witch to live"? 

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The walk home took longer. She stopped often to rest. Her hip burned with pain. A heavy mist hung low in the lane. It had gotten colder. Finally her door. Upon entering she was thankful to see that the fire had not gone out. Three clean rocks had been warming near the hearth. She carefully wrapped them in an old cloth and tucked them in her bed. She chuckled as she thought, "Oh it's not you Abner but it will have to do" As she lay in bed with candle glowing, the warmth of the rocks, she thought of the tree that they had planted that evening by the tomb. She had calmed them with her words. It was an alliance...symbolic of their shared pain and fears and of their hope that soon this madness would pass. The candle flickered into a yellow puddle, the locket with his picture slowly fell to her lap as her eyes closed. The pain in her shoulder and hip ebbed away as the laudenum coursed through her body.