As far as he knew, Peter Cutler had never sinned. Every Sunday, he made the three-mile journey to the meetinghouse and sat quietly between his parents, while Reverend Parris delivered his sermon to the rhythm of his fist pounding the pulpit. Peter tried to keep every edict, law, and precept handed down by magistrate and minister. But, on a cold February night, he went all in. Peter broke two laws at once. In a single act, he disobeyed his father and took something that didn’t belong to him.

In the premeditation of his crime, Peter hadn’t changed into his nightclothes. Fully dressed, he slipped out of bed and wrapped himself in his winter coat. He crept to the edge of the loft and turned to make his descent down the ladder. Conscious of the quiet and his parents sleeping in the adjacent room, he skipped the creaky second to last rung and eased himself onto the hard dirt floor.

Peter picked up the chair reserved for his father at the end of a rough-hewn table in the center of the room. After a few careful steps, he placed it in front of the hearth. The fire had died out hours before and the withering clump of embers cast the room in blackened orange shadows. With both hands on the mantle, Peter raised himself onto the chair, bringing his head level with the flintlock musket suspended above the fireplace.

Few men in Salem owned a rifle and among them Robert Cutler’s was a rarity. A thing of beauty, with an unblemished black iron barrel framed in a polished wood stock. It was too expensive a firearm for a farmer, but Peter’s father had fought in King Philip’s War. After several skirmishes, Robert Cutler had proven himself an exceptional marksman and the rifle had been gifted to him as he continued to serve in the local militia.

When Peter turned twelve last year Robert had taken his son out hunting for game to celebrate the harvest thanksgiving. The son proved to be every bit the natural marksman his father was, and with a hefty fowl draped over his shoulder, Peter had followed his father home with a prideful stride. To his surprise, they did not head for the road leading back to the farm. Instead, Robert had led his son on a detour to show him the tree.

Alone in a clearing deep in the woods, the great oak stood, as if the surrounding trees had crowned it king and set themselves at a reverent distance. Then Robert showed Peter the markings — a pattern of deep grooves marring the otherwise perfect black bark of the oak.

He explained to Peter that a sounder of feral pigs roamed these woods and the patriarch of the group used this tree as its personal scratching post. The grooves started just above Peter’s chin and ended a foot over his head, testifying to the hog’s size. Robert told his son, in obsessive detail, that he had once seen the beast marching through the forest, its head bobbing above the shrubs and saplings. His father hoped to one day bag the boar, but the creature only came to the tree after midnight and before sunup. Robert Cutler was a farmer and had no time for such a committed pursuit. So Peter Cutler had decided that tonight he would finish the tale his father had started.

Peter freed the rifle from the iron hooks, mindful of the grating of metal on metal. With the musket nestled in the crook of his left arm, he reached across to the far end of the shelf and secured the powder flask and small pouch of lead balls. He stepped down from the chair and swiftly but quietly made his way out of the house. After closing the door with a cautious push, he turned around to see a winter landscape glistening under the full moon.

With each footstep, the squeaky crunch of breaking ice sent a shiver up his spine. He spared a few worried glances back at the house as he crossed the field to reach the weathered barn, then ran the last few paces before turning the corner. A snowdrift had built up along the west side of the building, forcing him into a high-stepping march while cradling the rifle.

“Peter,” called a hushed voice, drawing Peter’s eyes to the far end of the barn. He looked up to see the pale, rosy-cheeked face of Thomas Parris poking out from around the corner. Peter doubled his effort and joined his friend.

Thomas Parris was five years older and a good seven inches taller than Peter. With his hands tucked under his arms, he stared down at the rifle. A smile emerged over the edge of the scarf wrapped around his neck and chin.

“Did you bring the powder and the munitions?” Thomas asked.

“Of course,” Peter replied, glancing down at the bag hanging from his shoulder.

“Can I hold it?”

Peter clenched the rifle, pulling it closer to his chest. “When we get to the woods. After I shoot the boar.”

“Let’s go then,” Thomas said. “I have to be back before sunrise.”

Peter hesitated. He glanced at the back of the barn. His eyes were unfocused, as if staring through the grey, chipped wall.

“What are you worried about?” Thomas asked. “We’ll get the boar, take a few shots, and be back before anyone knows we left.”

Peter didn’t reply. He continued staring toward his house.

Thomas placed his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “I told you there’s nothing to worry about. Your father will be so proud you bagged the beast, he won’t even be mad about taking the rifle. You’ll be a hero. You think I’d be out here if I thought we’d get caught? I’d be in more trouble than you.”

Peter nodded and followed Thomas out from behind the barn and through the open gate, leaving his farm behind. They trekked along the edge of the snow-covered road which connected Salem to the village of Beverly to the north. Certainly no one would be fool enough to travel this late at night in such harsh conditions. Still, they kept themselves close to the woods. The snow between the road and the trees was deeper, hindering their progress. But easy access to the woods reassured them of quick concealment should the need arise.

They trudged through the snow for three miles until they reached a pair of trees which had fallen, one on top of the other, on the side of the road. Peter had made a mental note of the landmark when his father had led him out of the woods on the return journey from their hunting trip. Exhausted, the boys sat down on one of the trunks and spent a few minutes catching their breath.

Thomas pulled his scarf down below his chin. “How far?”

“About two miles. Maybe two and a half,” Peter replied.

Thomas turned and stared into the darkness between the trees. “I don’t want to get lost in there. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. We won’t get lost. The clearing is a good size. With the moon up, we should see it from a few hundred yards away.”

“Let’s go then. It must already be past midnight. That should give us about an hour to wait for the boar before we have to start back. If it’s actually real.”

“It’s real,” Peter replied with a sharp tone of defiant affirmation.

“My father says the only pigs around here are in pens,” Thomas said.

“Your father? The reverend? He spend much time out in the woods?”

“Your father’s a farmer. What’s he know?”

“My father fought in King Philip’s War. He’s the best shot in Salem. Probably the best shot in The Colony,” Peter replied before turning to fix Thomas with a scrutinizing gaze. “And I thought you said not to tell anyone.”

“I didn’t tell him we were going to go hunting for the boar. I just asked him if there were any wild pigs around. Come on, let’s go.”

They entered the woods. At first they followed the broad paths of interlacing snow, which settled between the sparse trees as it fell. The light of the moon filtered through the gaps, illuminating the icy lanes. But as they ventured deeper in, the trees grew closer together, forcing the boys to weave their way through an unmarked and uncertain route. The darkness pressed in.

The silence of the woods was broken by their irregular footsteps and the snap of branches as Thomas forged ahead. Peter walked close behind, confident in the older boy’s height to clear the way and spot the clearing.

“Did you bring a lamp or a torch?” Thomas whispered, his voice marked with frustration.

“No,” Peter replied.

Thomas grunted and stepped around the trunk of an obstructing tree. Just as they rounded the oak, Peter bounced against Thomas’s back. The older boy had gone rigid. As Peter looked up, he caught a glimmer of light reflecting off Thomas’s cheek. He was staring intently at something ahead, but Peter saw only the blended outline of trees.

“Do you see the clearing?” Peter asked.

Thomas continued his scrutiny in silence.

“What is it?” Peter insisted, stepping beside Thomas and stretching on his toes.

“It’s a fire.”

Peter squinted. A collage of vegetation and shadows obstructed his vision. Thomas continued walking with a renewed stride. After a few minutes of trampling through the undergrowth and maneuvering around trees, Peter finally saw it.

The clearing, as he had suspected, was perfectly visible under the moon’s full light. But off to the side of the scarred tree, in the center of the clearing, a fire raged. They were two hundred yards from the glade, but it was immediately obvious the fire had not started by natural occurrence. It was massive, reaching nearly half the height of the great oak, but the borders of the fire were defined and contained. After a few moments of studying the inferno, Peter noticed the people.

The silhouettes, highlighted against the fiery red and yellow backdrop, swayed and leapt with savage grace. Even in his bewildered state, Peter could tell they were naked. The stimulating rush of blood surging to his head came with further revelation. They were all women. His eyes darted to and from the scene, playing out the battle between his shame and curiosity.

“We should go,” Peter whispered.

Thomas’s face betrayed no sign of conflict. His gaping smile and rounded eyes never wavered. “Let’s get a little closer.”

Peter grabbed hold of the older boy’s sleeve, attempting to break his fixation. “Let’s just go. We shouldn't be here.”

The coat slipped between Peter’s fingers as Thomas marched forward. His fear of being alone pushed aside his fear of the unfamiliar. Peter fell in step behind Thomas, sparing an occasional peek at the chaotic gathering as they drew closer. When they were no more than fifty yards from the clearing, separated by a few rows of dispersed trees, Thomas stopped. The faces and bodies of the gyrating women were fully visible in the fire's glow. From this distance, the dancers could have easily spotted the two boys, but their attention was focused on their movement, the fire, and an occasional glance at the night sky. The crackling of consumed wood blended with the women’s joyous wailing. But all other sounds faded when a voice drifted into Peter’s ears.

“Oh, Peter. What have your hands wrought? And what have your eyes seen?”

It was close by and far away. A hiss and a rumble. Soothing and full of menace.

Peter turned to discover the man standing behind him. He was naked. His body was lean and muscular, dripping with sweat. From the corner of his eye, Peter could see Thomas disappearing into the woods at a sprint. A small voice, deep within Peter’s mind, screamed to follow his friend, to run for his life. But his stare remained fixed upon the man, and through his eyes the image seeped into his legs, fastening him to the earth.

His gaze drifted upward, past sculpted legs set in a wide stance. Peter flinched with embarrassment at the sight of the man’s engorged penis. Averting his eyes, he focused on the man’s face. Or what should have been a face.

It was shadow and mist. A hazy swirling smoke clinging to a space surrounded by a mane of long black hair. The featureless void studied Peter, tilting and shifting. At every angle, Peter could perceive an endless depth, as if the black cloud extended beyond the back of the man’s head.

“You’ve come to find the great beast?” The voice slithered from nowhere and everywhere. “He comes here with his harem of sows. Full of lust and pride. You understand pride, don’t you, Peter?”

Peter’s lips trembled, wordless and dry.

“Your father’s pride has become your pride. Is that wrong?”

The man stepped closer. The abyss stared down, gripping Peter’s mind.

“Pride goeth before destruction.” Peter recalled the words of the minister with an instinctive, thoughtless recital.

“Destruction?” the voice echoed. The face might have smiled if it had a mouth. “No, Peter. Greatness. But they’ll never understand. You’ve taken the rifle and left your farm in the night. You were forbidden, were you not?”

“Yes,” Peter stammered.

“What will you do then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go back to your farm. Place the weapon back above the fire. Then settle into your bed. Keep your secret. Bury it deep within your dreams. Let it grow. Let it hold you in the night.” The man reached out and traced his thumb on Peter’s forehead. “And I will send one of us to keep you.”

The man stepped back. Peter trembled, still frozen in place.

“Now go, Peter. Back to your farm. Run.”

And he did. Peter ran the entire way home. Tireless and swift, with a power born of terror. He crept into the house, silent and cautious. After placing the rifle back above the mantle, he ascended the ladder and slipped into bed. He did just as the man had said. But that was incidental. What else could he have done?