It might have been a perfectly ordinary funeral had the man lying at the bottom of the hole in the ground been dead.  To be fair, he looked the part.  His shoulder-length hair and beard were white, as was the pale, paper-thin skin hanging loosely from his skeletal body.  Between ears that had grown too large for their head, an open mouth revealed yellow teeth, their corners worn smooth from decades of use.  In every outward appearance, the figure reclining in the gouged-out bit of earth seemed little more than the husk of a life long-lived and quite recently cast off.

  However, upon closer examination, there were some signs of life.  The rocks placed upon the wide wooden plank that covered the old man’s naked body rose and fell, propelled ever so slightly up and down by shallow, labored breaths.  Coupled with the murderous glare from a pair of very much open and piercing blue eyes, they defied the grim finality of the man’s surroundings.  For, while he might be brushing up against it, the sole resident of this particular hole in the ground was not yet, by even the most liberal definition, deceased.  A fact that seemed to have been entirely overlooked by those gathered nearby.

  A crowd of men, women, and children, all dressed in black, stood stiffly under the bright autumn sun.  Though silent as mourners, their dour faces lacked the usual somberness associated with the passing of a beloved friend or family member. 

  Between these not-so-bereaved attendees and the coffin-sized hole, a pile of large stones occupied the spot traditionally reserved for a mound of freshly dug earth.

  Overseeing the proceedings was a well-dressed rotund man.  He cradled an open black book in his hands as he faced the crowd.  While his official demeanor gave him an air of authority, his broad smile and smug expression were more reminiscent of a schoolyard bully than a man of the cloth.

  Yet, despite these discrepancies, no reasonable person could be faulted for making the obvious assumption, bowing their head in respect, and quietly walking by.  Unfortunately for the man in the hole, there didn’t appear to be any reasonable people in attendance.  

  The rotund man shifted his book, straightened his black broad-brimmed hat, and pulled down on a matching vest, the buttons of which strained to contain his stomach.  With his white shirt, high socks, and buckled shoes, he resembled a child’s drawing of a Thanksgiving turkey come to life.  Clearing his throat to indicate he was about to begin, he motioned for all to be quiet.  An unnecessary gesture, as the only sound came from the calls of seagulls diving in the waves off the nearby beach.  

  “Good morrow, Mr. Corey,” he said loudly to the man in the hole.  “I pray ye have had enough time to consider your position and that good sense has prevailed so we might end this unpleasantness today?”  He gave the crowd a somber look to relay his distaste for the task at hand.  “I ask again, in the presence of these fine witnesses, are ye finally ready to enter a plea of guilt or innocence?”

  Holding a quill over the tan parchment of his ledger, the rotund man inclined an ear towards the hole. 

  Though the literal gravity of his situation was surely excruciating, Mr. Corey remained perfectly silent and perfectly still.  The only indication that he had heard the rotund man’s question was the slow drift of his eyes.  His head did not move as they slid to one side, stopping to stare squarely at his inquisitor.

  For a long moment, neither man blinked.

  At last, the rotund man raised his gaze to the blue sky and shouted.  “Another!”

  “Aye, Sheriff Corwin,” chorused two burly men as they stepped forward.  Selecting a large flat stone from the mound, they walked to the hole and placed it gingerly onto Mr. Corey’s mounting pile.

  Sheriff Corwin closed his book and frowned.  The old man was holding up a good deal longer than he’d anticipated.  Arresting the well-to-do farmer had been the easy bit.  His men had dragged Corey and his wife from their house in the middle of the day, making sure the village was bustling with people for the greatest effect.  The sheriff himself was always careful to play the part of the reluctant authority, executing one of the more unpleasant duties of his office.  Inside, he quite liked these moments of the job where he got to shout.  He suspected his naturally deep bellow was what had earned him the position in the first place.  Well, that and his father-in-law.  Who, as a judge, was in charge of making such appointments.

  Following a good bit of berating, the couple was thrown into a dirty cell with little food or water.  Given the horrid conditions of the local jail, it was never long until prisoners confessed.  However, in the old man’s case, it had been weeks.  Not only did he refuse to enter so much as a plea into the record, indeed, he hadn’t spoken at all.

  The sheriff would have been more than content to leave Mr. Corey to his silent wallowing, but the Court of Oyer and Terminer were nothing if not zealous.  They wanted a plea so they could move ahead with the trial.  It was a formality, to be sure.  No one had been found anything but guilty.  

  So, the sheriff did as he was told.  After all, he was only following orders.  If along the way he was to make a tidy profit from the sale of the accused’s seized property, so much the better.  In the end, he’d decided upon the pressing.  He counted on the fact that the punishment, having never been used in the Colonies, was sure to draw a large crowd.  Moreover, publicly breaking a prisoner would cement his absolute authority over the current troubles.  Regrettably, things had gone all arsy-varsy, and the old man’s fortitude was becoming a cause for worry.  The sheriff could not afford to be made a fool of in front of the entire town.

    A loud cracking sound, followed by a gasp from the crowd, pulled the sheriff from his thoughts.  He looked down into the hole and saw the old man grimacing in pain.  An unsightly bulge jutted from his right side, where a rib had snapped under the increasing pressure.

  “What say ye now, Mr. Corey?”  The sheriff smiled, his confidence returning.    

  The old man turned his head to look his nemesis full in the face this time.  The sheriff was pleased to at last see some response.  Perhaps they were finally getting somewhere.  

  Mr. Corey took in a rattling breath, opened his mouth as though he was about to speak, and spit a stream of dark blood across the toes of the sheriff’s shiny shoes.

  “Another!” the sheriff shouted as he disgustedly shook his foot in an attempt to dislodge the stain.

  Many in the crowd grumbled disapprovingly at the continued insolence of the man in the hole.  Many, but not all.

  Towards the back of the throng, a small group of adults huddled together.  They wore the same black garb as the others, wide-brimmed hats for the men, dark dresses, and white bonnets for the women.  Yet something in their manner was different.

  While most had looked away at the sound of the man’s breaking rib, Sarah had forced herself to watch.  She’d fought the urge to stare at her feet or busy herself with tucking the strands of red hair that had fallen across her face back under her bonnet.  To do anything but bear witness seemed disrespectful.  It was hard, but then again, what wasn’t in these dark days?

  “Is there nothing we can do, William?” she whispered to the man standing beside her, as together they watched another stone be carried to the hole. 

 “We dare not,” William said, shaking his head.  He was tall and broad, with wire-framed glasses and a slight slouch, as though he carried a heavy weight no one else could see.  “If we do, we shall share his fate — or worse.”

  William nodded in the direction of the cemetery that sat atop a nearby knoll.  The eyes of those around him followed his gaze, not to the gray headstones dotting the grass but to the lone tree that rose up among them.  The old elm stood like a specter, its craggy arms casting finger-like shadows over the hillside.  From a long branch halfway up its trunk, a thick rope dangled, swinging gently in the breeze.

  “Is it true?” Sarah asked.  “About Margaret?”

  “Yes, this morning.  Along with Ann, Mary, Wilmott, and Samuel.”

  At this news, one of the younger women huddled near Sarah fell against her and began sobbing into her shoulder.  

 “They continue to slaughter us like lambs,” Sarah said, her voice low as she soothed the young woman.

  “What would you have me do?” asked William.

  Though he was the official leader of their group, he knew it was Sarah the others looked to for guidance.  If her headstrong temper were set against him, it would be hard to get the rest to go along with what he had planned.  He didn’t like to think about what might happen then.

  “I would have us defend ourselves,” said Sarah.

  “In a fight you know we could not win?” 

  “Is it better to wait as they come for us one by one?  Until there are too few left to make a stand?  A slim chance is preferable to none.  What other choice do we have?”

  William looked at her and then at the rest of the group.  “We could leave.”

  “Leave!” a chorus of voices shouted, causing several members of the crowd to glance back in their direction.

  “Brothers and Sisters.  Please,” William whispered, once he was sure attention had returned to the gruesome proceedings.  “It is unwise to draw any further scrutiny our way.”

  William glanced at Sarah, who gave a curt nod and pulled a necklace from beneath her dress.  At the end of its silver chain hung a single black stone, the image of a raven carved into its surface.  Grasping the pendent, Sarah closed her eyes and made a sweeping gesture with her hand.  There was a plunging noise, like that of a heavy stone dropped into a deep pool of water.  This was followed by a pressure that made their ears pop, and all sound was instantly muffled.  Gone were the murmurs, the rustling of clothing, and the shuffling of feet.  It was not complete silence but as if the din of the day now drifted to them from far away.  In the distance, they could just make out the sheriff’s cry. 

  “ANOTHER!”

  “For all our sakes,” William said, now with a bit more vigor, “calm yourselves.”

  “Calm?” said Sarah.  “How can you ask them to be calm?”  She motioned to a large portion of their group that had gathered behind her.  “We have built lives here.  Our children attend school.  All we have is in our homes and farms.  We are good neighbors who have as much right to stay as anyone.  Yet, ye ask us to walk away and leave it all to them?  After what they’ve done?”  

  “They are afraid —” William started.

  But Sarah’s ire was not to be deterred.  

  “They may be scared,” she said, fire in her eyes, “but we are not.”

  The faces behind her nodded in agreement.

  “They are afraid,” William said, again, “of what they do not know.  I had hoped, given time, things would be different.  But we can wait no longer.”

  “So, we simply leave?”

  “Yes.  I know we would give up much.  But if we stay, we run the risk of being discovered.  Then what sort of life would there be for us, for our children?  And who among us whilst sit idly by and witness more brutality inflicted on our friends?”

  “Who says we whilst be idle?” Sarah asked, her hands on her hips.  

  A wave of agreement rippled through those behind her.  William watched, as their fear, like a spark on dry tinder, enflamed into anger and vengeance.  With each passing moment, the difference between them and the bloodthirsty crowd that had gathered on a beautiful day to watch the torture of an old man grew slim.

  William turned to Sarah but only saw the same anger in her that was obvious in the others.  Her fists were clenched, and her mouth was a hard thin line.  He was losing them.

  “Whiffle-waffle!”  

  The cacophony of side conversations that had erupted at the notion of a fight suddenly went silent as an elderly gentleman shuffled his way forward.  He was stooped and swung a smooth wooden cane outward as he walked.  A young man supported him on one side, offering his arm for balance.

  “Before ye abandon all good sense, listen to yourselves!” he said.  As he spoke, his head tilted, and his cloudy sightless eyes peered intently into nothingness.  “A fight, truly?  That’s just what they want, to draw us out.  They look for a justification for their evil deeds, and you would hand it to them on a silver platter.”

  Faces that only moments before had been red with anger now blushed with shame.  Even Sarah’s eyes drifted downward.

  “These are hard days, to be sure,” the man continued.  “But for the time being, kindness and justice have no home in this land.”  

  He prodded the young man, who led him forward until he stood between Sarah and William. 

  “Yes, we could stay,” he said, reaching for Sarah’s hand, “but what purpose would our deaths stand?  Our families started out long ago.  They fled persecution and, at great risk, came across the sea to this new place.  No one said that journey was meant to end here.”

  “And if we leave, what do we do then?” Sarah asked.

  “What we have always done, survive.  Don’t misunderstand me.  I do not suggest we give up the fight.  If I thought it would further our cause, I would stand with each of you, win or lose.  And at that moment, I would feel a great sense of pity for those who rose against the best of us.” He squeezed Sarah’s hand, and she managed a weak smile.  “But also know that a retreat is not a surrender.  Just as bravery is no replacement for wisdom.”

  He waved his free hand through the air until it found William.

  “We have trusted brother William to lead us thus far with good reason.  Let us not lose our faith in him now, at the time of our greatest need.  He says we must go, and I will not question his wise council.  For, while revenge shines the brightest flame, it does not last, no matter how unjust the act that spurs it.  In this particular fight, we only succeed if we endure.”  

  His speech done, the old man shuffled back into the group.  Placing both hands on top of his cane, he lowered his head.  One by one, the others followed, each silently bowing, until, with a final look at William, Sarah did the same.     

  “It is settled,” William said.  He turned to the young guide, who’d remained in the middle of the circle as his master departed.  “Is it safe, Sigil?”

  The boy, for he was little more than a teenager, raised his head.  A deep scar sliced his right eyebrow in two, and the eye beneath stared out through a permanent bloody swirl.

  “Tonight, there is no moon,” he said quietly, looking straight ahead.  And though it was William on whom his gaze fell, he spoke as if peering far into the distance.  “Meet at the harbor.  There will be a boat.  Long is the way.  Speak to no one, or all shall perish.”

  When he’d finished, he stepped back and resumed his post at the old man’s side.  There were no  other objections, and the group separated into twos and threes, making plans in hushed whispers as they slipped away.

  William took Sarah’s hand and, gently unclenching her fist, grasped it in his.

  “What will become of us,” she asked as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “We will go on like we always have, learning to blend in, until we finally find a place to call our own.”

  “Oh, William!” Sarah cried and fell forward into his arms.  As she did, she let go of the pendant that hung around her neck, and the sounds of the day broke in on them once more.

  “HOLD!”

  The crowd of onlookers froze.

  There had been much shouting throughout the day’s proceedings, but this was the first not delivered in the familiar bellowing tones of Sheriff Corwin.  This voice was dry and raspy, and despite the obvious effort required for speech, defiant.

  “Quiet!  Quiet!” the sheriff called unnecessarily.

  No one else dared to make a sound.  Because for the first time in two days, Mr. Corey, the naked, frail, accused man in the hole, was about to speak.

  Grinning at the thought of having finally broken his prisoner, the sheriff straightened and stepped closer, book and quill at the ready.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Corey.  Am I to interpret by your interjection that ye have finally come to thy senses?  Do ye, at long last, wish to enter a plea into the record as to your guilt or innocence in the matter at hand?”

   Mr. Corey did not immediately respond.  He lay in his hole, beneath the mound of rocks, wheezing heavily with each breath, staring up unblinkingly.

  Fearing silence, as it was neither something he could shout at nor hit with a large stick, the sheriff leaned forward before his control of the situation could slip any further.

  “Well?  What say ye?  Out with it, man!”

  It would later be reported that Mr. Corey’s response was delivered with such force as to be heard well beyond the village square.  Some even claimed workers as far away as the docks had been able to make out the old man’s reply.  In any case, those within earshot agreed on one thing; it was a moment that would haunt them and the town forever.

  “I DEMAND MORE WEIGHT!” 

  The sheriff stumbled backward as though physically struck by the absurdity of the old man’s request, and the crowd fluttered like a flock of startled birds.  Even the men handling the rocks looked around confused, their desire to follow orders conflicting with the source of the command.

  It was now Mr. Corey’s turn to smile.  Though it was quite possible, no one noticed, for all eyes had shifted to the sheriff, who had begun to shake uncontrollably.

  Tremors rippled across the rotund man’s round cheeks, double chin, and bulbous-belly.  His meaty hands balled into fists, and his face raced from white to red, finally settling on a deep purple.  He looked like a human volcano, and like a volcano, he erupted.  

  The sheriff threw his ledger and quill to the ground with a cry of frustration.  Then, lowering his head like a charging bull, he bounded forward and leaped atop Mr. Corey’s pile of stones.  Once there, he began furiously jumping up and down.  With each landing, he bent his knees fully so that his thick legs could spring his bulk aloft, again, and again.  His hat fell from his head, and his hair flew wildly.  Beads of sweat covered his brow, and spittle spewed from his mouth.  

  Those closest took a wary step back, wincing at the loud snapping sound of the old man’s bones that could be heard above the sheriff’s flurry of stomps.  Revulsion showed clearly on their faces as the day’s morbid entertainment took a distinctively more macabre turn.

  Though his rage did not quickly subside, the sheriff was not a fit man.  His jumping soon slowed and finally stopped.  Breathing heavily, he stepped down to the ground and bent double with his hands on his knees.  

  The crowd pushed forward, cramming themselves around the hole.  A murmur went through it as heads gazed down at Mr. Corey, who, much to everyone’s surprise and the sheriff’s best efforts, was somehow still alive.  Though from the look of him, not for much longer.

  The old man was showered in dirt, and one of his arms dangled sickeningly to the side.  His eyes looked up at the sea of faces, and blood sloshed from the side of his mouth as he struggled to speak.  At first, it looked as though he wouldn’t be able to gather enough air into his collapsed lungs to give life to his final words, but then he spotted the sheriff, and his voice strengthened.

  “With my last breath,” he forced out, “I curse ye, Sheriff Corwin.  Ye, and this wretched town.  May the echoes of your evil deeds leave you forever damned!”

  And with that, Mr. Corey, as they say, gave up the ghost.  His eyelids drooped to half-mast, and his jaw relaxed.  His purple tongue, swollen and forced unnaturally far out of his mouth by the crushing weight, flopped across his stubbled chin.  

  A woman in the crowd screamed and fainted into the arms of those around her.  

  Still sweating from his exertions, the sheriff took this as a final insult.  Wrenching a fancy walking stick out of a nearby gentleman’s hand, he used the end to push Mr. Corey’s tongue back inside his mouth.  It took several prods before it finally deigned to remain behind the old man’s bloody teeth.  Satisfied, the sheriff tossed the stick back to its owner, who made no attempt to catch it as it clattered to the ground.

  “’Tis finished,” the sheriff spat, bending to pick up his hat.  After a quick dusting, he placed it on his head, adjusted his vest, and tucked his ledger firmly under one arm.

  The mass of onlookers parted, giving the sheriff a wide berth, and watched in silence as he walked away.  Then they too began splitting off into small groups.  It wasn’t long before the square was empty, with only the two guards left behind to dismantle their gruesome pile.

  The setting sun cast long shadows, and the sheriff’s round silhouette was disappearing into the approaching twilight when it started.  What began as one or two large flakes floating in the air quickly grew, and soon a heavy snow was falling from the sky.  As darkness enveloped the surrounding wooden houses and dirty brown streets, the quaint village slowly vanished beneath a blanket of clean, pure white.