This is a story I wrote a while back, exploring the history and backstory of the Starforce Saga universe. In a world (You thought that in a deep voice, didn't you.) where exohumans have been around as long as humans, history would have played out in subtly different ways. This one explores the milieu of the Salem Witch Trials. Set in Colonial Massachusetts, it gave me an opportunity to explore a different style of voice, inspired and guided by the writings of Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Witch!
By
Richard L. Wright
As I drifted in that not-quite-awake state, I knew I’d had
the dream again. It had become a recurring theme in recent months - the one
where I soar through the air, conversing with the owls and nighthawks that hunt
by the pale moon. Again, they’d chastised me, calling me clumsy and slow. “Wingless girl-child! Graceless groundling! Stay where you belong!” The
mockingbirds were particularly cruel.
A chill ran through me, cold air seeping through my thin
nightshift. I pinched my eyes shut, unwilling to acknowledge being awake.
Wakefulness would start the day, and I did not enjoy my days much of late. I
reached down to pull up the blanket I must have thrown off. I groped blindly
for it, but it did not come to hand. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.
Imagine my surprise to find I was not in my bed, nor had I
rolled off onto the floor. No, I was decidedly not in my bedchamber at all. I
was, in fact, in a tree. My puzzlement quickly turned to panic, and I wrapped
my arms and legs around the broad oak branch where I found myself.
I lay there, trembling with cold and fright, wondering what foolishness
I had committed now. Once assured that I was not about to plummet earthward, my
heart desisted its attempts to escape my breast. I looked around and recognized
my location. I was only a scant number of yards from the open window of my
room, the grubby curtains billowing out into the predawn. Had my dreams of
flying caused me to exit the safety of my bed, climb down the trellis, and
clamber up this tree like a squirrel - all in my sleep? It was madness, and
although it beggared belief, I was bereft of any other explanation.
I resolved to set aside speculation on the cause of my
discomfiture, focusing instead on remedying it. By happenstance, I did have
some experience with this particular tree. Mother Abigail had thrashed my
eight-year-old backside soundly, but I estimated the worth of climbing the
mighty oak had far outstripped the cost of my unladylike behavior. “Those boys
said I couldn’t do it,” I’d proudly proclaimed to Mother Abigail. “But I showed
them.”
“Aye,” Mother had allowed, the hickory switch smacking her
calloused hands, warming it for the work ahead. “And you showed them your nether
region as well, you willful strumpet! Why do you think they goaded you to climb?”
She had me at that. I had been known to chafe against the
restrictions of my gender. It seemed always to me that boys had much more
enjoyable pastimes, while we of the distaff were allotted only work, pain and
shame. I was not demure in my protestations then, and even now, a full woman of
fifteen years, I bristled at the long list of things not allowed me. Those boys
had known I would rise to the bait and, in that rise, afford them a peek, but my
view from that lofty perch was superior to whatever they sought to glimpse.
So my wayward childhood had left me with certain illicit
skills, tree-climbing among them. I worked my way down the trunk, careful not
to rip my shift - that would earn me a whipping for sure. As my feet touched
ground, I smiled to myself. Now all I had to do was get back inside before
Mother Abigail discovered me missing.
It was then that I realized I was not alone. I do not believe
I heard any growl that alerted me to his presence, nor any of my other senses
save a pricking of skin on my neck. I turned, slowly, terror near seizing me.
Never had I seen a wolf so large, nor one as rangy and
rawboned as this one. Granted, I had only seen one of the beasts before, and
that had been shot dead by the hunter proudly displaying it. He’d held forth
about how rare it was to see one of the creatures in the Massachusetts Colony
these days, and never so close to townships. I recall softly stroking its pelt,
sad that the beast had died.
This one, though quite alive, looked starved. Patchy fur
stretched tight across his boney frame, and eyes were yellowed from
deprivation. I knew I must look like a well-needed meal to him. My mouth went
dry and my eyes forgot how to blink, so great was my fear.
Some rude and nonsensical part of me railed in my mind at
the unfairness of it all, piqued that my careful climbing had been for naught.
That portion of me wanted to stamp its feet and scream, in the manner of
children. But the Church teaches that only by cleaving strictly to divine law
in every aspect will His salvation be our reward. Climbing a tree in my night
shift was hardly righteous obedience, so it was reasonable that the carnivore
before me bore much greater resemblance to fire and brimstone than heavenly
reward. I dropped to my knees and bowed my head in prayer.
“Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for Thy wisdom and Thy love,
for all the acts of discipline to which I am subject. Strengthen me by Thy
Spirit for Your purpose. My body and soul, talents and work, my present, my
future, my end. Take them, they are Thine, and I am thine, now and forever.
Amen”
Rather, that is what I should have prayed. It certainly had
been drilled into me by countless repetitions since early childhood. However,
the fact is that all I managed to get out was a string of repeated mumblings of
“please don’t kill me.”
To my astonishment, the wolf sat down, tilting his head to
stare at me - hardly the deportment one expects from a ravening beast. His brow
creased, whether in worry or concern I could not say. A whine escaped his
throat and I found myself feeling sorry for the poor thing. In an instant, his
countenance had transformed from predatory to pitiable.
I began to dare hope that this was no wolf after all, but
simply a large dog. I had always been fond of animals - dogs and cats
especially - so I might befriend this one. But that hope evaporated when his
mouth opened, exposing teeth that no domesticated canine possessed.
Again, that selfish and petulant voice in my head
complained.
If only he’d come from
the direction of Old Jack’s hen house, just over the hill. Then he’d be full of
bird and I could be safe in my bed.
The wolf looked in the direction of the hill, then back to
me. Could it possibly have understood my thoughts? He stood, coming closer. I
braced myself for the attack that must surely come next. His head lifted, hot
breath stirring my hair. At least if he bit my head clean off, it would be a
quick death. He sniffed my face, his jaundiced eyes locked on mine before I
closed them in a final prayer. I heard a snort, and his presence retreated. I
opened my eyes to find him gone, vanished. I looked around, but he was not to
be seen.
I’m not ashamed to admit that I broke out in a fit of
shivers. The whole affair - the dream, the tree, the wolf - was strange and
unsettling. Finally, I recovered my wits and made my way to the trellis, intent
on making the safety of my bed before something even more curious befell me.
More careful climbing saw me safely through my window. I quietly lowered the
sash and then collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion.
#
“Charity Kincaid, you worthless girl, look to your work!”
My thoughts had wandered, dwelling on the prior night’s
doings. Mother Abigail’s admonishment brought me from my reveries, and I looked
upon the hash I had made of my spinning. The bobbin was a rat’s nest of woolen
clumps and spindly threads. Mother slapped the carded roving from my right hand
and waved for me to rise from the wheel.
“What devil has gotten into you, child?” Mother chided. “Go
tend to the youngers while I sort out this calamity. Take them out to gather
berries, and see to it they don’t gorge themselves.”
I ducked my head and retreated without, glad to have avoided
worse treatment. Mother bore little patience for slovenly work, and spared not
the rod for poor labors. To not only escape a whipping, but be allowed to frolic
with the younger fosterlings was more reward than punishment.
“Fetch me a basket of eggs from Old Jack while you’re
about,” Mother called before I latched the door.
I’ll own that put a damper on my spirits. If, as I
suspected, Old Jack’s hens had met with my hungry canine friend from this
morning, he would be in worse distemper than usual. Still, a morning spent
outside was worth a few moments dealing with a curmudgeon. My mood began to
rise once again, only to have Mother shout one final admonition from the
window.
“And steer you clear of that witch!”
One must understand that there are two kinds of witches. The
first sort worships Satan, dances naked in the moonlight and casts curses on
the devout. Those are an abomination, creatures of blasphemous intent. The
Church deals with those witches most severely when they appear, usually with a
judicious application of rope or fire. Two score years ago a midwife had been
hanged over in Boston, and since then the Church had executed another thirteen
women and two men for acts of vile devil magic. It was not a charge taken
lightly.
But Mother wasn’t truly accusing Mistress Bellgrave of sorcery,
but rather expressing a deep-seated distaste for her. Most of the women of our
village shared that view. They judged her improper and wicked, for reasons I
had yet to fathom. She was a quiet and
handsome woman, with an odd manner of speaking and what Reverend Thompkins
considered to be insufficient piety. She was quick of wit, and did not suffer
fools gladly. It wasn’t helpful to her cause that she was the lone Baptist in
our Puritan community. Adults of our township mostly avoided her, and she
responded in kind. She was tenderhearted to children, however. Some mothers,
like Abigail, saw her as a threat, and cautioned their young to stay away else
they be lured into a stew pot.
For myself, I had no cause for trouble with the woman. On
the occasions I had encountered her, she had always been kind to me and the
other children. There was no talk of devils or stews, and she was quick to
offer sweet branch water for our parched throats or a rapid remedy for whatever
scrapes and stings we might have accumulated in our travels. So it should come
as no surprise that we three orphans did, in our harvestings, wander into that forbidden
realm where Mistress Bellgrave lived.
We came upon her gathering honey from the hollowed-out
crevice in a large maple. She looked up as we approached, sunlight through the
brilliant red leaves painting her in crimson flame.
“Good day to you, Mistress Charity. Best you and the
children keep your distance. I have an arrangement with these bees - they don’t
sting me and I only take a small portion of their wares - but I doubt they’ll extend
that bargain to you three.”
“Oh dear,” little Emma said, stiffening her five-year-old
frame at the mere idea of nasty, stingy bees. Bertram, having reached a
venerable and manly age of seven, was completely fixated on the sticky
sweetness being collected, and the price to be paid for it had not yet
graduated into his consciousness. I grabbed his hand before he could bolt,
earning me a dagger-eyed stare.
“Best indeed, Mistress,” I replied from across the clearing.
“Although I’m eager to learn this bee negotiation skill you have learnt, we’ll await
you at the safety of your door. Mayhaps we can barter a portion of our berries
for a bit of that gold you’re mining?”
“Mayhaps, mayhaps,” she smiled. “Although I’ll wager Mother
Abigail would be less than pleased to learn I had anything to do with it. But,
yes, go. Await me at my cottage. There’s a pitcher of water on the porch; help
yourselves.”
Then we were off, Emma in the lead and Bertram dragged
behind. Mistress Bellgrave’s abode was not far, barely a quarter-league. Once
out of sight of the honey tree, Bertram’s thoughts wandered to other
temptations and I was able to release his hand. The day was cool and the sun
shone dappled through the leaves. Aye, it was far more pleasant than spinning,
knitting and salting beans for the winter.
As we moved through the wood, something prickled at the back
of my neck. The sensation brought to mind how I had sensed the wolf after
descending from the oak that morning. Could he still be about? Perhaps he had
found Old Jack’s hens less than satisfying, and now sought meatier fare. I
shook my head, seeking to dislodge my fanciful worries. The oddness of my
morning had left me uneasy, and it would serve me ill to dwell on it further. The
roar of the bear brought me up short and drove all thoughts of the wolf from my
head.
The creature was monstrous in size, visage and mien. Five
foot tall at the shoulder, it looked. Its jowls drew back, exposing teeth the
size of a man’s fingers. Unlike the wolf, this animal was muscled and healthy.
Emma attempted to hide herself in my skirts, but Bertram had
been scouting ahead, swinging his stick-sword at imagined scoundrels and red
savages. The wooden weapon dropped from nerveless hands as he faced the beast,
much closer than any of us could have wished. In a display of wisdom rare in
one so young, Bertram froze in place.
I looked about and found a cypress tree to my left, its many
branches forming a ladder that even Emma could climb. Lifting her up, I
whispered in her ear, “Climb, as far as you can. And don’t make a sound. Stay
up there until I call for you.”
She skittered up and I turned my attention back to the boy
and the bear. Moving slowly toward Bertram, I began to speak to the beast in
calm, soft tones.
“Good day to you, gentle sir. Or madam. I wonder if I might
borrow this boney excuse for a meal for a moment. You see, there’s a young girl
up yonder tree in need of her brother’s hand to hold. I shan’t be but the shake
of a lamb’s tail but I can treat with you directly.”
Reaching forward, I slipped my arm around Bertram’s
quivering shoulders and drew him to me. Then, with a steady, slow pace we
backed ourselves to the cypress. He needed no encouragement or instruction to
make the climb. Then it was but myself and the bear.
I had already ascertained that the cypress would not support
our combined weight, and no other trees suitable to my needs existed nearby. My
doom stared at me with slathering jaws. The bear took a trio of steps toward
me, a low growl underscoring its approach. I sidestepped, backing against a
different tree, hoping in vain that it would forget seeing two tender morsels
retreat up the cypress. As with the wolf, I could only hope the end would come
quickly. I took consolation that my sacrifice might spare the children.
The bear stood. My stars, I had no appreciation of how huge
the animal was until it reared before me. It might have been ten feet tall,
twenty! It eclipsed everything and all I could think to do was cross my arms
before my face and scream, “No!”
And it stopped.
I cowered before the massive thing, awaiting the fate that
comes when man comes face to face with the wild nature they fought to leave
behind. I stood there, arms covering me, quite prepared to die. But it didn’t
occur.
The bear whimpered, dropping to all fours. I lowered my arms
and felt its hot breath on my face, the sensation now familiar. The bear stared
into my eyes, a baleful look that spoke to me of anger and loss. It sniffed my
face, as had the wolf. I recall wondering if it was trying to remember me, and
whether that remembrance would bring me weal or woe. Then it backed away,
ponderously, to stand in the center of the path. It was at that moment that Bertram
dropped from the cypress.
“You stay away, you bad thing!”
Whatever sympathy or understanding the bear and I had
shared, the beast did not include this interloper in it. It spun and reared up,
drawing back a paw to strike him.
“Stop!” I cried, with all the ferocity in my heart for Bertram.
“You shan’t have him!”
I’ll tell you, I was prepared to fling myself betwixt the
child and the beast, so desperate was my cause. But as I rushed to do just
that, the animal halted and turned once more to stare into my eyes. Surely even
whatever strange forces had been at work up ‘til then could not now save me.
Then the thing bowed before me.
I cannot explain what came over me then. Nothing made sense
and I feared it was all about to end horribly. But I placed my hand on the
bear’s head, as if in benediction, and it moaned softly. The great head raised to
look once more into my eyes, and I suddenly knew the source of her rage and
pain. She was a mother, or had been until this day. Hunters had killed her
babes that very morning while she foraged. I saw their still bodies through her
eyes, tasted their blood in my nostrils, and felt her anguish. Her world had
died with those bairns, and she knew nothing now but loss and furor. I wrapped
my arms around her immense neck and wept.
I know not how long we two remained in that embrace. When my
senses returned, I felt a change in the beast. Sadness still resided there in
her grand breast, but the fury had subsided. I released her from my arms and
took a step back. She looked upon me one final time, then turned and shambled
away. Watching her broken soul return to the wood, I feared I would never know
what became of her.
My mind returned to my young charges. Bertram stood frozen,
his eyes locked on me, paralyzed with terror. He looked unharmed, so I turned
my attention to Emma, high up in the cypress tree.
“You can climb down now, Emma. The beast is gone and we are
saved.”
The poor child clung tightly to the trunk, shivering. I
called, cajoled and coaxed, but to no avail. With a sigh of resignation, I
hiked up my skirt and began to climb. The tree, as I had suspected, did not
tolerate well my weight, swaying with my every move. Taking care to only grasp
the sturdiest of limbs, I finally made my way to where Emma had rooted herself.
“It’s safe now, sweet girl,” I whispered. “Won’t you come
down with me?”
“No!” she cried, lashing out a foot at me. “You put a spell
on the beast. I saw it!”
The force of her accusation took me aback, and her kick
also. My grip on the tree slipped as the branch under my feet snapped. I fell.
I didn’t fall far. My body floated there, in thin air. My
arms flailed but there was nothing to grasp, no limbs within reach. I looked
down and saw young Bertram clasp his hands to his mouth, his eyes wide. I heard
a scrabbling sound and looked to see Emma climbing down at a break-neck pace.
When she reached the ground, she tugged at Bertram, urging him to run. Bertie’s
hands fell from his face as he finally spurred himself into action.
“Witch!” he cried, then turned to follow Emma at a flat run.
“God’s grace, Charity’s a witch!”
I hung there, helpless in the air, not knowing how it had
happened nor how to undo it. Witch?
How had this befallen me? Had my rebellious ways invited the Devil himself into
my heart? Was my soul damned for all eternity? I could see in my mind the Reverend
shaking his head ruefully as he set torch to kindling piled at my feet, the
proper punishment for sorcery. I wrapped my arms tight about and began to weep
again, this time for myself and what I had become.
I felt a touch on my arm. Wiping away my tears, I looked up.
Wafting before me, her long raven hair loose in a breeze
that I did not feel, was Mistress Bellgrave. Her eyes were sad and a little
smile graced her face. She reached out to take me in her arms.
“You have questions, I’ll warrant,” she said, her soft voice
near at my ear. “Come. We’ll talk.”
#
The bouquet of drying garlic and onion bit at my nostrils.
So many scents assailed me in Mistress Bellgrave’s cot: cod drying on a rack,
bundles of lavender and oleander hung from the rafters, a variety of herbs
growing in small containers. There was a pot hanging in the fireplace, but it
seemed far too small to stew even the smallest of children. From its spot by
the hearth, the housecat regarded me briefly before returning to its nap.
Mistress Bellgrave pressed an earthenware mug into my hands.
Fragrant, sweet steam supplanted the pungent sting of root vegetables.
“Drink, child,” she said, sitting herself on a small bench
in front of me. “It will calm your nerves somewhat.”
I smelt it deeply, wondering if the pleasing aroma was meant
to disguise a foul taste. Why must remedies universally assault the tongue so?
Mother says that it is to remind us that God’s benefice is not meant to please
our bodies, but to ransom our souls. Mother says many such things.
“Is this why you’ve brought me here, Mistress? Am I meant to
learn the brewing of such potions?”
She gave forth a quick laugh, shaking her head with a smile.
“If you wish. It is but tea made from chamomile, with a bit
of mint and honey. No majiks nor necromancy are required in its making, I
assure you.”
I took a small, tentative sip. It was divine. Even as I drew
in a more substantial portion, I wondered if I had forfeited any right to
partake of things related to divinity. I had strayed from God’s path, however
accidentally.
“I thank you, Mistress Bellgrave,” I said, my words catching
in my throat. “Would that this honeyed infusion might save me from damnation
eternal. But I am surely beyond redemption now.”
She cocked her head to one side, regarding me with a
quizzical gaze. “Whatever could make you say such wretched things of yourself,
Charity? You are a good and caring young woman, devout and Godly in all ways I
have ever seen. Yours is as pure a soul as I have ever known. Our merciful God
would not condemn a heart so cherished as yours.”
The tears came unbidden to my eyes, tumbling down my cheeks.
My head bowed, eyes diving deep into the mug. “My soul is tainted, Mistress. My
actions have betrayed my true heart, and there is deviltry there. Like you, I
am laid bare a witch.”
She reached out to lift my chin as her eyes sought mine, her
gentle smile soothing more than any tea ever could. “Have you made a pact with
Satan, Charity? Have you danced naked around a midnight bonfire with evil
spirits? Have you rejected the sacrament and seen the Devil's Mark appear on
your skin?”
“N.. No.” I sputtered. “I don’t think so.”
“Then I say with certainty, Charity Kincaid - you are no
witch. Nor am I.”
“But… I flew! Up in the air, floating like a feather. We
both did!”
Mistress Bellgrave sighed, and her smile turned sad. “It is
true that you and I are alike, but what you have become is nothing of the
devil, nor witchcraft of any sort.”
“If not witchery, then what are these strange happenings?
This morning, I awoke in the bough of an oak. Then I convinced a hungry wolf
not to devour me. Before you arrived, I communed with a bear and sent it away
also. Are these not things unnatural and unseemly for a good and Godly person?”
“Unnatural, yes,” she admitted. “But far from unseemly. Was
it unseemly for you to save the children? Did not God send his angels to close
the jaws of the lions, saving Daniel in their den?”
I was forced to admit that her point was well crafted. Had
God acted through me?
“We are different from others, that much is true. It is not
a work of Lucifer, nor a fall from His grace, but simply something that
happens, like a caterpillar becoming a moth.”
She leaned back, looking to the sideboard where a companion
to my mug sat steaming. She lifted a hand and the mug arose and drifted across
the room to meet her outstretched hand. I stared at it, mouth agape.
“Like you,” she said, “I have been gifted. I can move things
with my thoughts. I struck no bargain with spirits to receive this boon. I
believe it was a gift from God. From your recounting, it seems the good Lord
has bestowed upon you a kind of mastery over beasts. I suspect you actually
draw them to you without realizing.”
“But, why?” I cried. “What possible reason could God have
for anointing a wretch such as me with such power?”
“It is not for us to question God’s wisdom, nor to try and
divine His purpose. All we can do is endeavor to use these gifts in ways that
will please Him, in performance of good works.”
My eyes were still cemented to the mug in her hands as I
attempted to digest her words. I found my thoughts veering into trivial
questions, details that distracted from the larger tapestry.
“How… How long have you had your gifts?”
“Mmm,” she smiled around a sip of tea. “I was a bit older,
twenty-three years of age when the Emergence came about. That’s what we call it
- Emergence. I fell off a dock into a river and there being no one else about,
I was sure to drown. As I bobbed in the water, I spied a rope, coiled on the
wharf, but it was well out of my reach. I stretched out my arm, praying for a
miracle, and then it happened. The end of the coil lifted and moved toward me.
At that same moment, I felt myself buoyed up in the water, no longer fighting
to keep my head above the surface. By God’s Grace, I was saved.”
“How frightful,” I murmured, recalling my encounters with
the wolf and the bear. It seemed that miracles in times of danger was something
else we shared.
“As a child, my old nanny used to tell tales of people
granted wondrous powers by God. After my near-death, I began to suspect that
there was truth in those fanciful stories. I set about learning whatever I
could about myself and what I had become. In my travels, I’ve met several
others like us, and learned much. Yes, there are others of our kind - not many,
but some. We do not congregate, and most of us hide what we can do.”
“What are we?” I asked. “Is there even a name for what this
‘Emergence’ makes of us?”
“Those like us don’t usually speak of it, fearful of what
unenlightened ears should make of such talk. But in London, around the time of
the Great Fire, I found men of the new science, men who seek to understand what
we are. They spoke of a new race of man, something they postulate that man is
slowly becoming. They have a new word for mankind - human. And there is a Greek
word I heard them use - exo. It means ‘outside’ or ‘beyond.’ They combine those
two words to describe us: ‘exo-human’ - beyond man.”
Rapt with attention to her tale, something nonetheless
prodded at my thoughts.
“Mistress, you mentioned the Great Fire. But I have read of
that tragedy. It occurred in 1666, a quarter of a century past. If you were a
maid of twenty-three then, that would make your current age…”
“I was actually over forty by the time of the fire. I am now
sixty-seven years of age.”
I gaped anew, this time at her smooth skin and lustrous dark
hair. By her appearance, anyone would have marked her as no older than her
middling twenties.
“We have a tendency to long lives and slow aging, we exo-humans.
It varies, but I have heard of one who lived almost two hundred years.”
“My stars…” I looked away, trying to arrange my thoughts as
to how I fit into this strange new world I now occupied.
“One thing I learned quite quickly is that there is danger
for us. Because we are different, people often fear and revile us. This is
often the way with the unfamiliar. Just as you initially associated your gifts
with the Devil, so do many others that lack the ability to understand. The
church gives power to those that fear, so that it becomes the sword of their
ignorance.”
My thoughts were a whirl, but one realization came to the
forefront. “I cannot go back home.”
Mistress Bellgrave nodded, the sad smile I had seen floating
in the trees returned to her face. “The children saw,” she said flatly. “Even
as we sit, they have told Mother Abigail what transpired. She will fly to
Reverend Thompkins. He will raise the constabulary. They will come for us.”
“We must flee!” I shot to my feet, looking about for
something to do, some item that must needs packing for our flight. Mistress
Bellgrave took my hand, urging me to sit.
“Yes,” she said with a calmness I found admirable. “We will
go. While I could not have anticipated your sudden involvement, I have plans in
place for just such an event as this. Friends and sanctuary await us in the
Virginia Colony. My bags are packed, with all the things we will need for our
journey. We can leave as soon as you finish your tea.”
Would that she spoke true, for no sooner had I raised the
mug to my lips but there came a clamorous beating upon her door.
“Mistress Bellgrave! Come out at once.”
The voice was immediately recognizable as that of Reverend
Thompkins. I once again leapt to my feet, the contents of my mug flying up out
of it. Mistress Bellgrave flicked a finger and the liquid returned to its
vessel. She then raised that finger to her lips, urging me to quiet. Her eyes
indicated a coat-cubby beside the door, and I moved swiftly to hide myself
there. Only then did Mistress Bellgrave deign to rise, smoothing her skirt
before moving to open the door.
“Reverend Thompkins! Whatever brings you to visit such a
commotion upon my door? I was just sitting down to some tea when you knocked so
rudely. And why are you in company with such a mob?”
“We are seeking the girl,” he demanded. “Charity Kincaid.”
Me! They had come for me forthwith. My heart pounded, and a
hand flew to cover my lips lest I give voice to my distress. Accusations of
witchcraft, especially against children, made for quick arrests in these times.
I would be long interrogated by magistrates, examined most intimately by
doctors. Awaiting trial, I would lie in a damp cell, alone and despised. And to
think, just that morning my greatest concern had been a beating for ripping my
night shift.
“Then why seek you here?” Bellgrave demanded. “That old
fishwife, Mother Abigail, surely has the poor girl slaving at some menial task,
as is her wont with all her charges.”
“She is not there,” Thompkins said. “And we have reason to
warrant she is here, in your abode. We have no quarrel with you, Mistress. Best
you surrender her than abet her crimes.”
“My kettle is near the boil, sir,” Belgrave said with a
huff. “May I at least remove it from the fire before dealing with your
foolishness?”
Without awaiting the reverend’s reply, she closed the door
in his face. She turned to me, her lips compressed tight. “I will deal with
these,” she whispered. “But… Remember the animals. They can likely sense your
fear, even at a distance. They come to you, and they do your bidding. Remember
that.” Then she opened the door and pulled it shut behind.
I moved to a nearby window, taking care to remain in
sufficient shadow. I could see Mistress Bellgrave, standing quite still with a
pleasant smile on her face, as “the good reverend” shouted and gesticulated in
front of her. The words were indistinct, but the tone was not. Arrayed behind
Thompkins were over half a dozen men, armed with weapons ranging from simple
clubs to knives and a lone sword. They were led by Constable Hutchinson, whose prized
flintlock pistol had been wedged under the wide belt that encompassed his
prodigious girth. The men grumbled amongst themselves, eager to get on with
their righteous defense of Almighty God against a fifteen-year-old girl.
Mistress Bellgrave stood her ground, politely and firmly.
Reverend Thompkins, by contrast, was livid. Every measured and temperate word
she spoke was but kindling to his sanctimonious fire. Then he struck her, a
vicious backhand that seemed to shock even the mob at his back. I gasped,
barely restraining my urge to rush to her side. She fell, stunned at the sudden
assault. I saw perplexity in her eyes. Her fingers touched the corner of her
lips, then withdrew as she stared at the blood staining them. As she focused on
the scarlet smear, Thompkins stood over her, spittle and curses spewing from
his lips as he brandished a cross like a shield against the slender form prone
beneath him.
Mistress Bellgrave’s eyes hardened. Then she began to rise,
not by a leveraging of arms and legs against the ground, but as a feather upon
the breeze. Wind whipped around her, billowing her skirt and lifting her raven
hair to writhe like a living thing. The men backed away in terror, some
dropping their weapons. The same word formed on all their lips: witch. Two of
their number fled. Thompkins sprang back with such haste that he fell over his
own feet, dropping the cross. I ran to the door and flung it open.
“If it is me you
seek, then here I am. I will submit myself against Mistress Bellgrave’s safe
conduct from this territory.” I know not what steeled me to such boldness, for
my insides were filled with fear and panic.
Reverend Thompkins pointed to me, a gesture made difficult
by his simultaneous efforts to rise and scrabble away from the floating woman
before him. “Witches, both of them! Bind them and gag their mouths before they
unleash unholy curses upon us. Quickly, men!”
Emboldened by their pastor’s words, the group surged
forward. Mistress Bellgrave spread her arms, fingers splayed, then thrust her
open palms toward the gang. They fell back, toppled as if by a great wind.
Thompkins flew like a cartwheel, and when he landed again, showed us his heels,
fleeing with a high-pitched scream more appropriate to little Emma than a grown
man. Most of the mob followed suit. Mistress Bellgrave turned to me and called
out.
“Fetch the travelling case by the door. It is time for us to
take our leave.”
Behind her, the constable sat up. Benefiting from his great
weight, he had been moved hardly at all, and had now pulled the pistol from his
belt, cocking back the hammer as he drew down on an unaware Mistress Bellgrave.
I shouted, with all the force of my soul. Then the thunder of powder filled my
ears.
Mistress Bellgrave had started to turn back, one hand raised
in warding. Now that hand clutched at her breast and the spreading red stain
there as she settled to the earth. I ran to her side, tears already misting my
vision. She looked up to me, fighting the pain with gritted teeth.
“You must go, little one. Take my bag and flee. Everything
you need can be found within. Go.”
“I will not leave you, mistress,” I cried. “I need you to
guide me in this new life.”
She grimaced, a hand clutching at her wound. “You will do
well. Remember what I have said, and take care with fools such as these. May
the Lord watch over you and keep you safe.”
Then she was gone. I flung myself over her, bawling. I have
no thoughts as to how long I remained there until the tip of a sword dug into
my back.
“On your feet, witch.”
Towering over me, the constable swayed. Sweat dripped from
his corpulent face, whether from exertion or fear I knew not, nor did I care. I
glared at him and he took a step back.
“You killed her,” I said through clenched teeth. “For that,
you will pay.”
As he lifted the sword, a great paw tipped with knife-like
claws swatted him to the ground. I looked away from his screams as the bear
finished him.
My sole focus was Mistress Bellgrave. The grip of her agony
had slipped away, and her face was now soft and serene. Would that my fearful
thoughts had summoned the beast sooner, she might have lived.
“Though we knew each other but a short time, I’ll miss you
all my days, Mistress.”
The bear’s breath at my shoulder lifted my head, not in fear
this time. She snuffled, and let out a mournful sound. The great beast shared
my sadness and loss as I had shared the grief for her lost cubs. I hugged her
neck and cried for a spell.
By the time the cowardly reverend returned with more men,
Mistress Bellgrave’s cabin was her pyre, and we both were gone.
I love it. You may have just had a yarn in mind, but had I lived in those days I would have been subject to the same treatment for being gay. It resonated with me.
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