Trial, The

“Bring in the accused!” Brother Martin called across the large sanctuary.  Two armed guards opened the double doors to allow a small group of people into the church.  It was 1692, and disturbing word had reached the citizens of the Massachusetts town of Boston that Salem was in the midst of terror.  Women and men were accused of consorting with the devil and practicing other forms of witchcraft.  With distaste, they heard the people were crushed, hanged, and even drowned in lakes.  That was not how Boston dealt with their guilty witches.

The people who entered the church were solemn for different reasons.  The men, all older and stony faced, did not relish the nasty business they had to now conduct.  In the middle was a beautiful young woman.  She was golden haired, with rosy cheeks and bright red lips.  Her pale complexion was overall deemed unworldly, “too beautiful to be a sinful human,” the pastor had once announced.  Unfortunately, he soon had to regret speaking those words.  The slim woman was lead to the center of the sanctuary and held in place by the two guards.  The men stepped onto the altar and turned to face her.

“Young Hannah,” the pastor said darkly, looking down at the girl’s bright blue eyes.  “You have been accused of witchcraft, and cavorting with the devil on the holy days of our Lord.  Do you deny these charges?”  The girl looked up at him, her face telling him nothing.

“Your mind has been made up,” she responded coolly.  “Does my answer matter?”

“Nay, it does not,” Martin interjected.  “Surely you know how the other trials have gone?”

“Only that, guilty or innocent, the Salem girls died.” Hannah said, the tiniest hint of uncertainty in her voice.  “Yet no such reports are made of the Boston w- girls.”  The men reacted at Hannah’s nigh-slip.

“We are not so barbaric as our brothers to the north.” The pastor said.  “Yet we ensure that witches shall never dance with the devil again.  Andrew?”  The man at the end of the line nodded and darted out the side door.  “My child, you have one last chance to confess.”

“If I confess, will the church show mercy?” Hannah replied.  There was a sneer in her voice now, something the pastor tried to overlook.

“The Lord will always accept your confessions and repentance,” he vowed.

“Then, I confess,” Hannah said, bowing her golden head.  “The charges are not lies.  I did so commune with the devil not a fortnight ago.”  The men gasped, and the pastor nodded grimly.  Andrew returned, a set of large brass keys in his hand.  The pastor nodded again and Andrews went to a side room just off the altar.  Hannah looked nonplussed at the man’s comings and goings.  “What do you plan to do with me, if not kill me?”

“We promise you shall never dance with the devil again,” the pastor repeated.  Andrew came out of the side room with a long tube that disappeared from sight.  It was kinked in Andrew’s left hand, the opening in his right.  “Take the hose, and put it in your mouth.”  The slim girl shook her head and took a step back.  “You shall take the hose.  Please, Hannah, accept the mercy of the Lord.”  Warily, Hannah took the hose and put it in her mouth.  Andrews unkinked the hose.

For several moments, Hannah stood, unmoving.  Her eyes roved the room nervously, noticing the guards and Andrew had stepped back.  Water poured into her mouth, and she tried not to laugh at this “test.”  Then she noticed her waistcoat began to feel tight.  Looking down, she saw her feet we obscured from view by her growing belly.  She looked to the men like she was pregnant.  She saw her once-dainty breasts surging out, her waistcoat groaning slightly.  The brown fabric stretched and popped as she filled with water.  Her head snapped up as she stared at the men in panic.  Their faces were solemn still.  Hannah ran her dainty hands down her swelling body.  Her stomach looked like she had swallowed a person whole, her breasts like melons.  With an awkward step forward, Hannah realized she was making a sloshing sound.  Her petticoat flared out as her waist and thighs grew, laden with liquid.  Her hand travelled down to her posterior, feeling it had expanded as well.  With a yank, Hannah pulled the hose out of her mouth, water dribbling down her chin.  Her other hand grabbed the hose and kinked it.  Instantly the two guards were upon her, holding their bayonetted weapons to her vast belly.

“Hannah please,” Pastor said pleadingly.  “You must drink it all, or we will be forced to pop you.”

“This will pop me!” Hannah protested.  She stomped her foot with difficulty and her entire body wobbled with a great sloshing sound.  The men looked at one another, doubt on their faces.

“If you are indeed a witch as you have confessed, it will not.  Now please, finish the water.”  Pouting, Hannah put the hose back in her mouth and unkinked it.  This time the water poured faster, and Hannah grew. Her lower body lost definition as her watery belly swallowed it up.  Hannah could now see why the men had stepped back- her body now took up most of the middle of the sanctuary.  Her thin little arms ran frantically up and down her sides as her rosy cheeks plumped up a little bit.

“She’s full!” Andrews said, pulling the hose from Hannah’s mouth.  A tiny bit of water dribbled from the corner of her mouth.  Hannah brushed it off thoughtlessly, and her cheeks jiggled.  Hannah was slightly pear-shaped, the water having descended to her lower half.  With a groan, she tried to take a sloshing step forward.  Nothing really happened.  Her legs were so fat and swollen that she could not walk.  The men looked at one another and nodded, approaching her.

“What are you doing?” She cried as the men placed gloved hands all over her bulging body.  No one answered as they gently rolled her forward.  She gave a cry as she slowly fell onto her belly, losing her pear shape.  Two men darted forward to the raised altar, took a strap each on the stairs, and pulled, grunting slightly with effort.  It revealed a hidden entrance, with a very slight ramp.  The men nodded again and began to push Hannah forward, their hands sinking slightly into her water-filled flesh.  She kicked her tiny feet in protest and waved her stick-like arms, but to no avail.  Hannah eyed the nearing entrance with great trepidation.  Feebly she gave one last struggle, but it was too late.

The man paused, leaving Hannah at the top of the ramp.  She felt their hands leave and hoped beyond hope that they had changed their minds.  Then Pastor came into view.  He made the form of the cross on her head and billowing chest.  “May God show you mercy,” he said somberly.  With a final scream, Hannah was pushed into the hole.

The young girl rolled down the ramp, slowly picking up speed.  She screamed the whole time.  They’ll have nails, or more bayonets, or something else to pop me, her mind concluded.  Her vast body sloshed and made other horrible noises as the water in her churned.  The blackness pressed on her eyes.

Suddenly, she came to a halt.  Her body smacked into something solid and she bounced back a couple feet.  Hannah had come to rest right-side up, the water forcing the enormous pear shape back on the young woman.  Light greeted her eyes as she tried to turn around.

“Hannah?” A soft voice greeted her.  A familiar voice.  Hannah twisted around to see a vast underground chamber, filled with nearly a dozen women.  At the front was a gorgeous red-headed woman with a gently freckled face.  Like Hannah, she had been willowy and supple and, also like Hannah, she was huge, fat with water, and slightly pear-shaped.  Her face had become slender again.  The other women Hannah knew or recognized, all beautiful, all waterlogged, all witches.  “I was afraid they would find you too.”