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Authors: Devin O'Branagan
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our children?” William asked.
“Perhaps they’ll change the world. Or perhaps their children will. We Hawthornes are a force to be reckoned with.”
Her beauty overcame him, and he wished her form to be naked. His wish was granted, and, after he willed away his own diaphanous covering, they fell together in sexual embrace.
When William finally awoke in his physical body, his pants were wet with the earthly remains of his passion.
The arrival of Mirasaya not only added color to the grim cell of women prisoners, but also spirit.
Mirasaya was West Indian, a slave whose nonconformist ways had labeled her a witch. She was bewitchingly beautiful, and that had been her first offense. The Puritan men with whom she came into contact found her desirable and accused her of haunting their dreams as a succubus, forcing them into sexual relations. This charge came from more than a half-dozen devout Puritan men.
To make matters worse, she refused — despite repeated whippings by her master — to don the “ugly” dresses that were the required wear of Puritan ladies. Instead she made her own clothes, dying the drab cloth she had been given into a startling array of colors and sewing them into a style more pleasing to her tastes.
Her third sin was that she had developed a liking for the effects of tobacco and started smoking a pipe. And, despite her life of slavery, Mirasaya was happy. That was the worst sin of all in the eyes of her oppressors. She was easily labeled a witch and shut away in prison so that she could be an example to other slaves who might be tempted toward independence of character.
When the public heard of this brazen, wanton witch, they hastened to Boston from all parts of Massachusetts to view her. The cells in the Boston jail had large, barred windows, which opened to the street. Like animals in a zoo, the accused witches were gawked at and allowed no privacy.
The morning after Mirasaya’s arrival, the crowd grew quickly. The dark-skinned beauty calmly lit her pipe and watched them watch her.
A young woman threw a hunk of animal dung at Mirasaya’s feet. “Here, put this in your pipe.”
Mirasaya smiled, picked up the dung, and threw it back at her. “Maybe you like it for supper?”
The crowd murmured in consternation for a while, but then grew silent.
“You!” Mirasaya jumped to her feet and pointed at a man who had curled his lip at her in an exaggerated sneer. “You make face at Mirasaya. Mirasaya no like that.” Her voice dropped in timber and became menacing. “Tonight I come to your bed and make you sin. I take your little, tiny, wormlike man thing and I make it grow big … oh, so big that you don’t even know it your own little worm … and I tickle it until it explode.”
Horrified gasps and cries escaped the crowd, and they quickly scattered. For a time the women in the cell were alone.
Mirasaya looked at Margaret and gave her a delightful grin. “They want show. I give them.”
Margaret smiled. “Pretty soon they’ll start selling tickets.”
“That man, he have messy dreams tonight,” Mirasaya said.
Margaret laughed and looked around at the other women in the cell. They were amused. If they had been on the outside, they would have been as shocked as the others in the crowd. Prison was stripping them of the conventions of their former society. Inside this cell they were all just women, plain and simple.
Mirasaya sat back down on her perch, and between puffs on her pipe, sang an upbeat Caribbean song. Soon the women were swaying to the sound, and Priscilla was beating a lively rhythm on an upturned water bucket. Mirasaya laughed, set aside her pipe, and started to clap. Despite the cumbersome weight of the heavy leg chains, Margaret began to dance. Rebekah — who until that moment had been lost in grief — was quickly by her side, imitating her unabashed movement. Mirasaya stood, took the hands of the other two women, and they formed a small, undulating
“Perhaps they’ll change the world. Or perhaps their children will. We Hawthornes are a force to be reckoned with.”
Her beauty overcame him, and he wished her form to be naked. His wish was granted, and, after he willed away his own diaphanous covering, they fell together in sexual embrace.
When William finally awoke in his physical body, his pants were wet with the earthly remains of his passion.
The arrival of Mirasaya not only added color to the grim cell of women prisoners, but also spirit.
Mirasaya was West Indian, a slave whose nonconformist ways had labeled her a witch. She was bewitchingly beautiful, and that had been her first offense. The Puritan men with whom she came into contact found her desirable and accused her of haunting their dreams as a succubus, forcing them into sexual relations. This charge came from more than a half-dozen devout Puritan men.
To make matters worse, she refused — despite repeated whippings by her master — to don the “ugly” dresses that were the required wear of Puritan ladies. Instead she made her own clothes, dying the drab cloth she had been given into a startling array of colors and sewing them into a style more pleasing to her tastes.
Her third sin was that she had developed a liking for the effects of tobacco and started smoking a pipe. And, despite her life of slavery, Mirasaya was happy. That was the worst sin of all in the eyes of her oppressors. She was easily labeled a witch and shut away in prison so that she could be an example to other slaves who might be tempted toward independence of character.
When the public heard of this brazen, wanton witch, they hastened to Boston from all parts of Massachusetts to view her. The cells in the Boston jail had large, barred windows, which opened to the street. Like animals in a zoo, the accused witches were gawked at and allowed no privacy.
The morning after Mirasaya’s arrival, the crowd grew quickly. The dark-skinned beauty calmly lit her pipe and watched them watch her.
A young woman threw a hunk of animal dung at Mirasaya’s feet. “Here, put this in your pipe.”
Mirasaya smiled, picked up the dung, and threw it back at her. “Maybe you like it for supper?”
The crowd murmured in consternation for a while, but then grew silent.
“You!” Mirasaya jumped to her feet and pointed at a man who had curled his lip at her in an exaggerated sneer. “You make face at Mirasaya. Mirasaya no like that.” Her voice dropped in timber and became menacing. “Tonight I come to your bed and make you sin. I take your little, tiny, wormlike man thing and I make it grow big … oh, so big that you don’t even know it your own little worm … and I tickle it until it explode.”
Horrified gasps and cries escaped the crowd, and they quickly scattered. For a time the women in the cell were alone.
Mirasaya looked at Margaret and gave her a delightful grin. “They want show. I give them.”
Margaret smiled. “Pretty soon they’ll start selling tickets.”
“That man, he have messy dreams tonight,” Mirasaya said.
Margaret laughed and looked around at the other women in the cell. They were amused. If they had been on the outside, they would have been as shocked as the others in the crowd. Prison was stripping them of the conventions of their former society. Inside this cell they were all just women, plain and simple.
Mirasaya sat back down on her perch, and between puffs on her pipe, sang an upbeat Caribbean song. Soon the women were swaying to the sound, and Priscilla was beating a lively rhythm on an upturned water bucket. Mirasaya laughed, set aside her pipe, and started to clap. Despite the cumbersome weight of the heavy leg chains, Margaret began to dance. Rebekah — who until that moment had been lost in grief — was quickly by her side, imitating her unabashed movement. Mirasaya stood, took the hands of the other two women, and they formed a small, undulating
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