Accusations Part Two
Rated: PG

“Kneel before the magistrates!” One of MacGyver’s heavyset jailers shouted, shoving him roughly and causing him to fall to the floor with a bone-jarring impact.

His body was still sore from the beating he had received, the swelling, puffy bruise around his eye throbbing painfully. He had been stripped of his own clothing, now wearing a simple, plain, garment made of coarse fabric that scratched him uncomfortably. The heavy manacles encircling his wrists and ankles were already chafing and irritating his skin. As his hazy double vision cleared, he saw that his belongings, including his clothes and his knife, were strewn across a table as if on display for examination. He also saw among the dour faces of the magistrates someone familiar. The man wore a wig as was custom for judges during the period, a thick mass of white curls cascading down to his shoulders, but beyond that alteration, his appearance was unmistakable.

“Pete,” MacGyver croaked weakly, smiling slightly, hoping for salvation.

“You will be silent until the magistrates address you!” His belligerent jailer shouted, pushing him with a thick, heavy wooden club, jabbing him right in a sore, tender bruise on his back, causing him to gasp sharply in pain.

“How came you to be among us?” The man with the appearance similar to Pete asked.

“I don’t know,” MacGyver said.

“He lies! I saw all!” Thomas Wycliffe shouted, his voice thundering theatrically inside the meeting hall. In the dim, drab lighting, his yellowish skin seemed even more ghastly, taking on the sickly hue of tallow, his complexion waxen.

“Tell us what you saw,” the man resembling Pete said.

“I was taking my morning walk when he appeared from nowhere,” Thomas said, his voice tremulous and his eyes wide with terror, pointing at MacGyver with a trembling, bony finger. “He wore that strange garb that you see there, on the table, and he was carrying those fiendish, demonic instruments of the devil. A woman from our village lay, drowned by the river, and when he placed his hands on her…she awakened, as if from sleep.”

The other magistrates murmured amongst each other in astonishment.

“Then, truly, we are in the presence of a great and terrible power, intent on destroying us all,” one of them said.

Several of the others nodded in assent, except for the man who bore a striking resemblance to Pete. He frowned and appeared to be considering carefully the details of the story Thomas had related.

“How could restoring life to one who was deceased be considered an act of evil?” He asked. “Surely, if this man hath power, it is derived from God, and not Satan.”

“Restoring her life was a masquerade, a ruse designed to conceal his true purpose! He is trying to deceive us so that we will weaken our position and he can take advantage of us, striking us down with his evil power when we are at our most vulnerable! Do you not see? He is trying to mislead you, to lure and ensnare you into his trap! He is one of the devil’s vile minions, I tell you!” Thomas bellowed.

The man who looked like Pete turned to face MacGyver. “What say you to the charge that you engage in the crime of sorcery?” He asked.

“That I’m innocent,” MacGyver said, his throat feeling dry, not having been offered anything to eat or drink since his confinement.

“Lies!” Thomas thundered. “You will confess! You will confess or be sent back to the hell from whence you came!”

The man who looked like Pete raised his hand to silence his vehement colleague. “Bring in the witnesses,” he said.

“Witnesses?” MacGyver asked, earning him another painful nudge with the club.

“If you are truly innocent as you claim, then you will not be the one thus afflicting these poor children,” another magistrate said.

MacGyver was hauled to his feet, the sudden movement causing him dizziness and a brief period of nausea. He watched as several townspeople entered as spectators, along with three young girls. When they saw him they fell into a shrieking, screaming fit of hysterics, collapsing to the floor and convulsing uncontrollably as if suffering from epileptic seizures. The others in the room murmured, staring at MacGyver with fear and suspicion.

“Children, who is afflicting you thus?” Thomas asked.

“He is!” The girls shrieked in unison, pointing at MacGyver with accusatory fingers, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Another hushed din fell over the meeting house, confirming what most of the townspeople already believed to be certain. They were in the presence of evil, an evil that had to be purged.

“That’s not true! I’ve never seen these girls before in my life! They’re obviously faking to get your attention and convince you of my guilt!” MacGyver shouted, the blunt end of the club once again jabbing him forcefully to silence him.

“Children, tell the court…is he the apparition that hath appeared to you nightly?” Thomas asked as he strode around the meeting house, his voice almost a vicious, low hiss. He glared at MacGyver with pure contempt and distrust.

The girls increased their screams and howls, writhing on the floor in agony, their bodies contorted, their faces twisted in grimaces of pain.

“Nightly he comes to harm us! He pricks us with pins and drinks our blood!” One of the girls screamed in pure terror, clawing at her face in a fit of histrionics that was impressive to behold, even though it was meant to condemn.

“That’s not true!” MacGyver shouted. “Look, I’m telling you…you’ve gotta listen to me, please. All of this is a complete fabrication! These girls are making this up!” The end of the club smashed hard against his bruised back again, and he winced.

Thomas leered at MacGyver. “Why do you torment these children?” He asked.

“I don’t! I’m not! Please…” MacGyver said.

Thomas turned away from him, facing his fellow magistrates. “Gentlemen, I believe the evidence is strong and clear,” he said. “This man is a harbinger of Satan’s evil and all that it represents, and if we do not rid ourselves of it soon, it shall be too late. All of us will fall victim!”

The girls screamed again, falling into another attack of apoplexy.

“Why do you not confess?” One of the other magistrates asked.

“Because I have nothing to confess,” MacGyver said. “I’m innocent.”

“The evidence is overwhelmingly against you,” another magistrate said. “You materialized from nowhere, according to Thomas. You wore these unusual garments, you restored a woman’s life without the hand of God, and now you are harming these poor children, the most innocent, meek, and blameless among us. Why will you not confess to these crimes of sorcery and evil?”

“I’m innocent,” MacGyver reiterated, licking his chapped lips.

Thomas turned to face him again, his yellow, gaunt face twitching with buried rage and disgust.

“Take him back to the prison where he may reconsider his fate,” he said. “He shall confess to his crimes. If he doth not confess, he shall be executed.”

“Wait! No! Please…I’m innocent! I’m innocent!” MacGyver shouted as he was being led away by his burly jailers, dragged forcefully from the room, his chains clinking as they slid across the floor.

He made eye contact with the man who looked like Pete, silently pleading for his life and for his release, struggling in vain against the men who restrained him. The look in those dark eyes unsettled the man, unsure what to think. Something about the stranger seemed decent to him, almost honorable. Saving a life contradicted with everything he thought he knew about witches and sorcerers and other servants of the devil, who only used their powers for harming others, not healing them. Still, he had seen the girls afflicted by his presence. He had examined the strange clothing and heard the accounts of his appearance from nowhere. He knew there was a possibility that Thomas was correct in his assertion that the stranger was attempting to deceive them, that he could not be trusted, but there was also a part of him that felt sympathy for the man, wondering perhaps if he was indeed innocent as he claimed.

As MacGyver continued to be dragged from the room, he observed the girls who had accused him of hurting them carefully, noticing that they did seem to be seeing something that was terrifying them, staring at nothing and reacting to it as if they were hallucinating. Their convulsions also continued unabated. The more he watched them, the more he wondered if they were indeed being harmed and had fallen ill by some cause, except it had nothing to do with demons or magic or sorcery. If he could somehow prove his theory and present it in a way that made sense to the magistrates, perhaps he could clear his name of the sorcery charge. He knew that, however, it would be a difficult if not almost impossible task in this world where due process was a foreign, unknown concept and one was guilty until proven innocent. The man resembling Pete seemed to be the most rational and the most willing to consider other explanations, but he also needed the help of Emily. He knew he could make her understand. He needed to escape and try to find her.

***

Finding crude devices near his isolated cell such as twigs, MacGyver hoped they would suffice as tools for his escape, using them in an attempt to pick open the lock on his manacles. He was concentrating, hard at work on his plan when he felt a small, cold set of hands clasp around his through the bars of the prison, stopping him.

“I would not attempt escape if I were you,” a woman’s voice said in a low whisper. “If you succeed and they find you again, it will only confirm their suspicions that you are a sorcerer and that you used your powers to flee from their authority, and then they will kill you for sure.”

Looking up at the source of the voice, MacGyver saw Emily, cloaked in a cape, her head hooded as if to protect her anonymity. She pressed a cool, wet cloth against his swollen eye, causing him to wince and groan. She smiled at him in sympathy, trying to be gentler as she continued to apply it, soothing and comforting him.

“I should not be here,” she said. “If they find me…oh, but I care not. I must do something to help you. I could not bear it if they wrongly execute you as they have so many innocent others.”

“Emily,” MacGyver said, shifting his weight, the straw on the cell floor beneath him prickling him, his chains clinking with his movement. “Maybe there is a way you can help me.”

“I want to desperately, but I know not how,” she said.

“Listen to me. I think those girls who are accusing others in the village of witchcraft—

“Cowards,” Emily spat. “Shameless cowards who will one day be exposed for their cruel deception.”

“That’s what I thought at first, too. I thought they were making everything up, but maybe they’re not.”

Emily shook her head. “You mustn’t say such things,” she said. “It only confirms the magistrates’ belief in the validity of spectral evidence and further condemns you.”

“They’ve been poisoned,” MacGyver said.

“Poisoned? But how?”

“A fungus.”

Emily looked at him, confused.

“Something that grows in your grain,” MacGyver said, trying to explain. “It can cause symptoms similar to what those girls are experiencing, such as convulsions and hallucinations. In order to find someone guilty, all the magistrates have to do is ask the girls who are already experiencing hallucinations leading questions cleverly designed to indict the accused. The girls are terrified, seeing things that aren’t there, so of course they will believe anything, including that whoever is standing in that meeting house is the cause of their suffering. Now, if I can just prove it, then—

“I do not understand,” Emily said. “Our grain could have caused this horror to continue?”

“Yes,” MacGyver said. “It would explain why they claim they see such horrifying things, and their twitching on the floor.”

“But why would not all of us be similarly afflicted?”

MacGyver shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps the batch of bread they ate was infested with the fungus but others have not been. Maybe there is only a trace of the fungus in the grain supply, but if there’s enough, and I can somehow obtain a sample of it, I might just be able to prove my theory and offer an explanation to end this madness and save innocent lives in the process.”

“What if you cannot find this proof you seek?”

MacGyver sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all I have so far.”

“I cannot allow you to die,” Emily said, squeezing his rough, calloused hands, cut in places from his beating. “I must do something. There is…something I neglected to mention to you before.”

“What is it?”

“One of the magistrates is my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. He is all that remains of my family after the death of my poor mother.”

“He doesn’t know that you’re the woman who almost drowned by the river,” MacGyver said, understanding where her thoughts were leading.

“No. If I tell him, offering testimony as to your benevolence and charity, perhaps he will convince the others to show you mercy.”

“That sounds wonderful, but Thomas doesn’t strike me as a man who would easily change his opinion.”

“He is most obstinate to be sure,” Emily said, “but if my father were to request a reprieve of your sentence from the governor of the colony himself, there would be little Thomas could do to countermand that order from a man in such a high position of authority.”

“Well, I suppose it’s worth a try,” MacGyver said. “Do you think your father is a reasonable man?”

“I do believe so,” Emily said. “He will listen.”

MacGyver thought back to the magistrate who looked so similar to Pete, wondering if that man was Emily’s father.

“All right,” he said. “Talk to him. See if you can convince him.” He smiled and gently squeezed Emily’s small, delicate, feminine hands.

“I shall,” Emily said, returning the smile. “After I do so, I shall bring you rations of sustenance so you do not starve. They do not need to be so cruel to their prisoner, depriving him so.” She reached up and gently stroked the side of his face that was untouched by bruises and cuts, smoothing back his hair.

“You’re already taking an enormous risk for me,” MacGyver said, taking her hand. “Only do what you can.”

Emily nodded and smiled, dabbing MacGyver’s swollen, puffy eye one more time with the damp cloth before stealthily leaving the prison, her cloaked figure giving her the appearance of a supernatural being herself as she quietly glided away, her graceful movements not even disturbing one piece of straw on the floor.

***

The magistrate who looked like Pete sat at his desk in his home, bent studiously over his task, his wig and judicial robes hung on a hook in the corner of the room. Candlelight flickered and danced on the walls, distorting his shadow. Although his concentration and focus were almost entirely on his work, he still sensed his daughter’s presence as she appeared in the doorframe outside his study.

“Emily,” he said, looking up at her sternly with bloodshot, tired eyes. “You have been out late. Why dost thou tarry so?”

“I apologize for my tardiness, father,” she said, curtseying and bowing her head. “I was just…” she sighed, shifting her weight on her feet unsteadily.

“What is it, my child? What troubles you?”

“It is this new prisoner.”

“The stranger accused of sorcery?” He asked, bolting upright, his eyes wide with terror, gripping her shoulders, searching her eyes with his. “What hath he done to harm you? Tell me.”

“Nothing father. Actually, I believe him to be innocent of the crimes for which he is accused.”

“Did you speak to him? Did he tell you such things? You are to be nowhere near him where he can influence you with his evil power, dost thou understand? He is dangerous!”

“He hath done no such thing, father,” Emily said, trembling, feeling the force of her father’s anger and growing slightly intimidated by his wrath. Still, she tried to remain resolute. “I…” she stammered, fidgeting nervously, looking away from his volcanic stare.

“Out with it, child!”

“I am the woman he saved from the river.”

He dropped his hands from her shoulders, staring at her in stunned amazement, unsure of what to say. He turned away from her, lost deep in thought, staring at the bright flame of the candle.

“I do not believe he wishes anyone ill,” Emily said. “How could he, if he returned me to life?”

He remembered that he had made a similar argument during the trial earlier that day, and he also remembered how the others tried to disabuse him of the notion, claiming that the stranger had done it for reasons other than pure altruism, suggesting that it was a scheme meant to ensnare them all in his web of evil intent. Now that he knew it was his own daughter that the stranger had revived, something Thomas had conveniently neglected to mention during trial, the stakes became more personal for him.

“Did he tell you why he would do such a thing?” He asked quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

“He only wanted to assist me,” Emily said. “He is kind, father. I do not believe him to be a force for evil, as the others insist.”

He turned back to face his daughter, suppressing tears in his eyes, glad to know that she had survived nearly drowning, finding himself conflicted about the stranger. A part of him wanted to believe he was innocent, but the other part told him to remain vigilant and wary. “Why then did he appear from nowhere?” He asked. “Why, during his trial today, did I witness with mine own eyes how he made those poor young children from the village suffer miserably?”

Emily thought about what MacGyver had said about a poisonous substance in the grain supply. “He says he can prove that they have been poisoned somehow, and not by any malevolent form of magic, but by something that occurs naturally in the grain,” she said. “Father, he wants to help us—all of us. He wants the innocent to cease being persecuted—

“Hush my child! You must speak no more of this!” He roared with renewed fury. “Dost thou honestly believe I would send innocents to their deaths? No, he is misleading you. He is using some form of trickery to weaken our resolve! He will be our ruin! I cannot listen to this! No! I refuse!”

“But father, please!” Emily sobbed, tears in her eyes. “He saved my life. Please…do not allow his punishment to be carried out! Do not let the others do this to him!”

“I cannot speak as to why he would preserve your life,” he said in a quieter tone. “I am grateful to him that he did. However, perhaps God had a hand in it more than he. Perhaps he is pretending, stealing the glory of God for his own benefit, claiming it as his own so that we will react to him less harshly.”

“I saw him do it, father,” Emily said. “I felt it. It was he who revived me.”

“Perhaps he took advantage of your weakened state, led you to believe that it was he who had saved you when it truth it was God’s doing.”

“What if he was sent from God?” Emily asked. “What if our assumptions are incorrect? We could be unfairly imprisoning and mistreating one of His own. Please…at least…talk to him before you decide to carry out his sentence. For me.”

“The devil’s power is strong,” he said. “He might influence me the way he has influenced you. However, mine will and God’s will are stronger. I can overcome him if I must.”

“Does this mean you will speak with him?”

He sighed. “When he looked into mine eyes today, pleading with me, repeatedly claiming his innocence…I tell you, my child, I nearly believed him. It was strange…almost as if he knew me somehow and I knew him. I cannot explain it.”

“So you will speak with him?”

“Yes, my child. I shall learn all that I can from him to determine his true purpose here. If he be evil as is suspected, then there is little I can do. His sentence must be carried out.”

“But if you see what I saw in him, a kind and gentle man only wishing to help, not deserving of such rough, brutal treatment…”

He sighed. “Then we shall see,” he said, smiling sadly.

To be continued…

Y'know, Mac could have tried to argue that he was sent by God so that Emily would not die, because he was the only one who could save her- that he gets the enlightenment of what to do and how from God, and that if they continue beating up on him, they will be killing off God's gift to them.

But then, they'd accuse him of heresy I bet.

(b'cos he WAS a godsend for that pretty lady )

Good reasoning... but then we also have that MacGyver all the time declares that he doesn't believe in things like God or spiritual. So I guess even to save his life it may be a bit hard for him to say that God send him

Wonderful chapter as usual, MacsChick. Thank you!

Meh, he DOES believe in Logic. And Benevolence.

It's just a terminology thing, when ya think about it. XD

I see where you're coming from, Ignus, and how he could have argued that and played along with their spirtitual and superstitious beliefs, but yeah, he would probably be accused of heresy, not to mention they wouldn't believe him, still claiming he did it as some kind of trick to gain their trust before destroying them with his "evil power." I thought the scientific angle, of Mac trying to find another cause for the hysteria of the girls that were accusing him, was an idea right in line with his character. Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying this story and that it's provoking so much thought! More is on the way!

On ahead! You are doing a great job I don't think he'd try to convince them of it, really. He's Mac. He probably is disgusted by Salem officials at the particular era and wouldn't even want to ingratiate himself with them.

Great chapter, MacsChick!
The ever insidious rye ergot... nasty stuff...

Thanks fer another great read!