We're studying The Cruc in English class, and this story simply had to be written... since I obviously can't show it to my teacher for reasons which will become apparent, I'm throwing it on hoping for a good general response. Then again, obviously there are not a lot of Crucible writers hanging around here so I'd be shocked and delighted at any review whatsoever.
Judging from the draft ticking the hairs on Abigail's arm, a new customer had just entered, most likely seeking her services. Cold though it was, she began to prepare her room and herself, removing her dowdy dress, petticoat and undergarments, and lighting the candles. As she folded her clothes into the discreetly coloured armoire, she kept time with the mistress' preamble – "Our Zillah is, of course, quite famous… escaped from the Salem witch hunt, she did… the morning of her execution…" – and figured she had two minutes until her customer would walk in. Of course, she had not accounted for the customer engaging the mistress in conversation, and she faltered for a second, listening. Most men cut the mistress short in their eagerness to meet and enter the mysterious Zillah, a prostitute who had gained impressive notoriety among Boston culture for her claims to the Devil's magic… yet this man seemed to be challenging Madam Parson.
"She has, then, been endowed with unnatural powers? …And her name is Zillah, how strange, for I had not heard of a Zillah having been either charged or condemned in the Salem courts… Since you mentioned it, I consider myself rather an expert, actually… Reverend, if you will."
The black crepe veil dropped over Abigail's face just as the door to her nest creaked open. Rather than turning and greeting her client, she chose to deviate from her usual routine and defiantly faced the fire, letting the obviously nervous man behind her linger over her graceful feminine curves. After a full minute, the man spoke, the forced casualness in his voice betraying his anxiety.
"You are Zillah, then?"
"I am," Abigail whispered, pitching her voice lower than was natural for her.
"Zillah the Witch, whom I've heard tell about?"
"The same."
The silence grew between them, for Abigail played an unusual whore; she reveled more in the theatrics than the money, and therefore demanded that the client direct their session. Thankfully, this one played along.
"Tell me, how was it you escaped the morning of your execution?"
"My master gives me great powers. I was able to shift my shape to that of a mouse and scuttle past the boots of the guards. My master would not have me die."
"And what of the other women who didn't escape?"
Abigail emitted a low chuckle. "They, like so many others, only dreamed of having the love of my master. I was the favoured woman, I am the she whom he chose to be his companion."
"Then I suppose he…" The reverend paused and gulped, clearly hoping to stave off any hereditary terror at the suggestion of the great Satan. "I suppose he dislikes your profession?"
Abigail laughed throatily and ruefully; how like a Reverend to immediately latch onto the one component of her story that dealt with the breaking of a commandment. "Not at all. My lord understands my need for money and earthly possessions; he understands that, though I love him, I am still a part of this world." Finally, she turned to him, and heard his breath catch as he realized her full nudeness. "Tell me, Reverend…" Her use of the title was sarcastic and ironic… "Have you ever seen a completely natural woman?"
"I…" He gasped and loosened his tie, but did not answer. "Why do you still veil your face?"
"My master wishes me to keep my identity secret. To you," she hissed, approaching him, "I am only a pair of breasts… or buttocks… or a flower." Gently, she pressed his hands to the body parts in question, before lowering herself to the mat on the floor to wait. "My master also demands a fee for the use of his woman."
She indicated a brass coin dish on a table. It was perfectly Satanic-looking; Abigail had stolen it herself from a pawnshop for its uneven golden colouring and unfinished, sharp-looking edges. With small rocks, she had scratched runes – or, her approximation of runes – into the surface, largely evoking the drawings Tituba had made for Betty. Then, she had burned it until the brass dulled to gloomy-looking pewter and the runes glowed white. The Reverend faltered at dropping his coins in; finally, he defiantly left them on the table beside and approached Abigail on the mat.
Without any further conversation, the Reverend loosed his pants and began. His pace was frantic; he moved like he was being chased. Abigail held tightly to the sheet and tensed every muscle in her body to avoid being thrown forward onto the mat. It was only when her clients entered this state that she began to worry; some had beaten her, some had ripped off her veil, and on one memorable night the scared young man who visited her stabbed himself upon leaving the brothel. Something warm and liquid dropped onto her back; she assumed it was drool, and grimaced behind her veil. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was over, and the Reverend was back on his feet. His face was obscured by the shadow cast by his hair, but the fact that he cried was evident.
With a mixture of disgust and pity, Abigail turned from him and began to dry herself off, mentally reminding herself to request the abortive pennyroyal tea from Madam Parson the next day. The Reverend surprised her, however, when he spoke to her in a clear voice, as though he had not been weeping seconds before. "You were not tried by the court of Salem."
"What makes you so certain, Reverend?"
"Please…" The Reverend pressed his fist to his mouth for a long beat. "Do not call me that. I am certain because your name exists not in any record of the courts, the orders for execution, the prison log…"
Abigail giggled; her next line was delivered flippantly, as her persona was naught more than a cover or a game to her at this point. "My master has powers to induce amnesia, to erase records."
"Ah, your master, of course," the Reverend whispered. Without another word, he turned briskly and strode from the room.
Assured that he had left the building, Abigail retrieved his shockingly tall stack of coins from the table. Irritably, she snatched of her blessed veil, and breathed deeply as the perspiration on her face evaporated in the open air, allowing for a moment of melancholy nostalgia, contemplating the customer's strangeness of character. Then, she pushed all whimsy aside, sighed, and began to count what her uncle had paid her.
Yes, that was Reverend Parris the whole time. Abigail knew from the first but Parris never figured it out because he's a round idiot.