The Stroke of Midnight: A Supernatural New Year's Anthology
Page 4
Wolves howl in the distance, calling forth the moon and the new year. This day was meant to be a celebration, but it has been tainted by something dark and sinister.
I can hardly feel my feet against the frigid packed earthen floor. The tatty blanket given to me reeks of urine and rat droppings. The bitter night air pierces through my threadbare underdress, needling at my skin.
If only I could die from the cold. It would save me from the coming torment.
I close my eyes, stilling the bile that rises in my throat at the thought of my death. My father never allowed me to attend the other burnings, but I could hear their screams from my cabin at the edge of town. They were horrific, filled with terror and agony.
I do not want to scream, but I know I will. Everyone does.
Mice scratch at the wood frame of my bed as they scavenge bits of fabric for their nests. I watch them scurry through the moonlight, only to disappear into shadow yet again.
Four days I have been here. Waiting. That is the worst part of it. Knowing that death is coming to claim you and you can do nothing to delay it.
At first I was terrified, and rightfully so, but that terror changed as the hours passed by and my anger began to swell. She did this to me. I do not know how, but I will find a way to make her pay.
I rise unsteadily to my feet and grip the bars at my window, ignoring how the frozen metal bites into my flesh. Smoke billows from hearth fires about my village. The scent of salted pork and cabbage drifts on the wind, drawing my attention toward home.
Our cabin is small, sitting on a ridge just north of the town center. My father spent all summer peeling bark from the logs to add a second room to house his new wife. The backbreaking work took him away from home long before dawn and well after night had fallen. He was not around to see Anne's true nature, but I was.
If I stand atop my narrow, hay-filled bed, I can see a candle lit far in the distance. Is my father preparing to come to the trial? Will he bring my brother and sister as well?
I release a weighted sigh and sink down to the bedding. I draw my knees into my chest as I clutch my ankles. With the moon on the rise, I know it will not be long.
Soon the men will gather, bringing armfuls of wood. A great pyre will be built at the town center, a single tree pounded into the frozen earth to hold me upright when the flames begin to eat away at the hem of my dress.
A solitary tear slips from my eye. I hurriedly wipe it away. You must not be weak, I scold silently.
I press my forehead to my knees as I hear voices beginning to arise from the four corners of the village. Women whisper in hushed tones as the men set to work.
My stomach twists painfully and I throw myself to the side, retching. It is loud and horrid, as I have nothing on my stomach to expel.
"It will not help, you know?"
I look up through wisps of greasy hair to see the piercing eyes of my new mother. Anne's smile is cold and thin. Her hair has been drawn back over her shoulders, braided with bits of black ribbon.
Her crimson dress is immodest, draping low at the neck and high above her ankles. A harlot in the flesh.
"Why?" I ask, feeling a trembling of rage begin to warm my belly.
Her pale shoulders rise and fall with an indifferent shrug. "You should be grateful that you were chosen. The great god Janus will be pleased to receive such a beauty."
I blink, confused by her words.
"Oh? You have not heard of the gods yet?" Her smirk deepens.
"There is only one true God," I spit back as I slowly rise to my feet.
I waver slightly but force myself to remain upright. I am weaker than I realized, with nothing to hold on to. Anne's eyes widen with delight, darkening with the shadows that frame her face. The torch she holds aloft creates demonic shadows along the walls.
"Foolish girl. You have much to learn about the world and the old gods." Her tone is condescending and riddled with ice. "Janus is the great Roman god. In his hand he holds the key to time, to new beginnings. He is the one we celebrate on this final day of the year. It is to him that we lift or songs and praise. You just do not know it."
"What has he to do with me?"
Anne's smile in condescending. "It has little to do with you and much to do with me. You see, I am after something far more precious than gold or silver. And Janus can grant it to me, if he is pleased with you."
"So I am to be a sacrifice? Why?"
"So that I may be granted immortality, of course." Anne takes a step back and places the torch in a rusted metal holder perched on the wall. She dusts off her hands on the front of her dress and then clasps them thoughtfully before her.
"Not all of us still have our youth, my dear. Some of us have to work very hard to coerce time into slowing."
My brow furrows as I take a shaky step forward. The cold seeps up through the soles of my feet, but I push away the discomfort. "I do not understand."
Anne laughs. "Of course you do not. You have a weak mind and a dull personality. It is any wonder your Thomas was the slightest bit interested in you in the first place."
She raises a hand and pats the edges of her braid. Vanity is a sin, so my father raised me to believe, and yet he so easily succumbed to this monstrous woman's charms.
"Thomas is a good man. He does not need beauty and superficial things to entertain him." I can feel heat flushing up along my neck and into my cheeks.
"Indeed." She sways gently side to side. Her eyes seem to glow in the dim light, as if lit by an inner fire. "Too bad your father was not the same. He seems to have grown rather fond of my… superficial things. Did you know that he used to call out for your mother in the dead of night. Pitiful, weak man. I drove her memory from his mind merely so I would not have to listen to his incessant whimpering."
My hands begin to quake at my sides. "Have you no decency? To speak of the dead with such vile hatred?"
"Hatred?" She presses her palm to her bared chest in mock surprise. "What was there to hate? Your mother was too weak to fight off the fever that took her from you."
"No one can cheat death, not when God commands it."
Anne's smile hardens as she steps up to the bars that separate us. She clasps the metal rods with such force to drain the color from her fingers. "I can… and I will. Tonight is my rebirth."
Her gaze shifts to look over my shoulder. I wonder if she can see the men piling the wood onto the pyre. Or is it the rising moon she searches for?
"Your time comes swiftly, Mary Albright. Perhaps you should spend it in prayer." Anne turns and clutches her skirts as she strides back down the short hall to the outer room. I listen as she speaks in low tones to my guard. Then the door opens and closes behind her.
I sink down to my knees, too weak to hold myself upright any longer. I bow my head, breathing heavily as the tears come.
I hardly take notice of the footsteps until they are upon me. I look up, squinting against the flickering of the torch to see the man's face.
"Thomas?" I swipe away my tears with the back of my hand.
He shifts uncomfortably, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. "I heard what you said… about me."
I sink back and clutch my hands about my waist to still the trembling. I am no longer sure if it is driven from emotion or cold.
"I meant every word of it."
He nods slowly. His sandy hair and trimmed beard catch in the light, shining like wheat on a fall day. "I thank you for that."
"Of course." I stare up at him, feeling just as awkward as the first time my father presented me to him. Thomas and I grew up together, but we hardly spoke. He worked the fields with his father and tended to their farm on the opposite side of the village from where we lived.
From time to time I would see him while out chasing butterflies near the forest edge. He was always kind but reserved. As a child, I was sure he disliked me because he never spoke to me. I was rather taken aback when he asked my father for my hand in marriage. Even more so that my father woul
d agree.
Although my father was not a prominent figure in our village, he was a man of trade. Having spent his life as a carpenter, he knew everyone. Many of the homes here have been built or furnished by my father's ailing hands. Thomas is a farmer. To some, that is considered a lowly job.
"Did you come to visit me, then?" I ask softly.
Thomas dips his head lower so I am unable to glimpse the emotion in his eye. "I have been here the whole time."
This surprises me. "You are my guard?"
"Yes. It was only right that I be the one to watch over you." His voice is hardly above a whisper. "I heard your cries. I wanted to come to you, but…" He trails off as his voice cracks.
"You were afraid." I finish for him.
"Afraid?" He rises up. I can see anger pinching his lips into thin, white lines. "I am not afraid of you. It is her that troubles me."
My breath catches in my throat as I stumble to my feet. I approach the door and grasp its rigid bars, staring up into the face of my betrothed. "You know what she is?"
He nods slowly. I can feel his gaze upon me and lift my chin to meet him. I see warmth reflecting back at me—and something far deeper than I could have imagined. "You love me, don't you?"
Thomas swallows. His beard rises and falls as he nods. "Always have."
I slowly reach out a hand and cup his cheek. His beard is warm and surprisingly soft against the palm of my hand. "You never told me."
"I had plans to on our wedding day. Your father knew. I told him the day I came to your house." He presses his cheek into my hand and closes his eyes, as if savoring our first touch.
"You never spoke to me," I say, feeling my anger begin to wane in light of this new confession. Confusion and regret mingle to form a bitter poison in my belly.
"I did not know what to say. You were too beautiful."
I laugh and he opens his eyes. He reaches through the bars and gently runs his thumb across my cheek. "I never dreamed your father would say yes to my request. When he did, I was sure I would wake from my dream, but then you came to me and smiled so prettily I was afraid my heart would burst if I tried to speak."
"I never knew," I whisper, staring up in the warmth of his eyes. How did I fail to notice the laugh lines about his eyes or the way his lips curl so easily into a smile?
"Would it have changed anything?" He lowers his hand to clasp mine to his chest. I can feel the steady thrumming of his heart beneath my palm.
"Yes." I nod slowly.
He stiffens, but I do not let him pull away.
"I would have attempted to know you better."
A hesitant smile brightens his face and for the first time, I realize the beauty that lies beneath. True, there are men far more pleasing to the eye in my village, but none with a heart as open as Thomas's.
"I wish I had known sooner," I whisper and curl my fingers inward as I draw away from him. Heaviness falls upon me yet again as I lower my gaze.
"There is still time. We can leave, get away from this place."
"No." I shake my head, knowing to the depths of my soul there is nowhere I could run from Anne. "I would not see you hurt on my account."
He reaches through the bars and grips both of my arms. "You are worth the risk."
A tear slips from my eye, trailing down my cheek. He reaches up and wipes the moisture away with such gentleness it hurts. "You must go," I plead, pulling back from his touch. I clasp his hand in mine and place a kiss across his palm. "If they discover you here with me…"
"I will find a way to free you," he vows as I release his hand. His gaze pierces through me as he backs slowly away. I watch until he disappears around the corner. Loneliness sweeps in to take his place, and I gradually sink down to the base of the bars. It feels colder now, the darkness more oppressive.
I can hear the shouts in the yard beyond these walls. More men have gathered. Children play chase in the snow, laughing and carrying on as children should. This time is meant to be festive, not burdened by the desire for death. I wonder if my sister is among them.
Anne brought this burden upon my village, but she was not alone. Many of the women have taken her into their fold. I watched these past few months as they changed. Oh, it was not so obvious that the men took any notice, not that they did usually. It was subtle. The look in their eyes or the way they huddle together like hens ready to peck out the eyes of a new victim.
I am that victim, a voice whispers in my mind.
I wrap my arms about myself as I lean back against the bars. I can hear the hammers and axes now, splintering logs for kindling. Soon screams and the scent of charred flesh will rise to the sky.
I shudder and draw myself away from these thoughts.
I think upon my sister and my brother, praying to God for his protection on them after I am gone. Perhaps Thomas would flee with them, keep them safe if I bid him to do so. He is an honorable man and would be bound by that vow, but I cannot bring myself to ask it of him.
I love my family dearly, but kidnapping children is a crime punishable by death. I cannot bring that upon him. He deserves a long and happy life.
Torchlight spills through my window. I look up and see several pass by, raised high in the air.
It is time.
I grip the bars and slowly rise up to my feet as the latch on the front door shifts. I can hear their boots stomping along the wooden plank floor before I see them. I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. I will not let them see my fear.
Albert Birkbeck leads the pack. His russet hair is windblown and his cloak lightly dusted with snow. Samuel Boulding and Earnest Holloway stand at his shoulder, both with shifting eyes that never seem to be able to meet my own. Their torches spit as they lower them just scant inches below the roof.
Peering just beyond them, I can see Thomas. His mouth is firmly set, his shoulders taut. I wish I could call to him, warn him against doing anything foolish, but I do not want to give away that we spoke.
"Mary Albright, you have been charged with the heinous crime of witchcraft. We have been summoned to bring you before the town for your trial," Albert says with a wide grin.
I never liked the man. His unsavory reputation for his love of drink tarnished him long ago. I never understood why he was allowed to remain. Perhaps the leaders felt that his sins could be purged.
The key turns in the lock and the doors swing open. I step back to allow Samuel and Ernest to grab my arms and pull me from my cell.
Earnest's hands are calloused and rough. His time working as a smith has hardened him. Samuel's hands are a sharp contrast, smooth and soft. The hands expected of a man who spends his days counting money instead of beats of a hammer.
I walk silently between them as Albert slams the door behind me. I can feel it resonate within my chest. I look to Thomas as I pass, casting one final lingering glance before I am shoved out the door.
My palms dig into the dirt. The skin atop my knees splits and warm blood stains my tattered underdress.
"There is no need for that," I hear Thomas say from behind me.
"Witch lover," Albert spits. I look back over my shoulder in time to see Albert's fist slam into Thomas's stomach. A cry escapes my lips as Thomas buckles in half and nearly spills down the steps.
"Do not hurt him," I shout as I lift a hand toward him.
Albert turns and leers down at me. He draws back his leg and slams his boot into Thomas's side. I close my eyes at his sharp cry. The sound of bone cracking makes me feel ill.
Ernest shifts uncomfortably beside me. I grab onto his ankle and glare up at him through clumps of matted hair. "You know what they say I am?"
He nods.
"Stop this or I will haunt you from the grave."
The large man's face pales. He darts a glance between Albert and me. Shaking off my grasp, he turns and grabs Albert by the arm. "Thomas is right. This is not the way."
Albert spits on Thomas and wipes at the sweat that beads along his brow. Thomas rolls onto his side, g
asping for breath. I fear the damage that has been done, but a part of me is relieved he will not be there to see me burn. That is hardly the way I want him to remember me.
Ernest loops his arm under mine and hauls me to my feet. "I did as you said."
"You did." I nod, leaving him to wonder if I will follow my word. Samuel steps forward and clutches my arm. I can feel the clammy sweat that clings to his palms. I turn and smile up at him, enjoying the way he cowers back from my gaze.
If only he knew that the real witch will still be among them long after my embers burn out.
"Get on with it," Albert growls as he shoves me from behind.
The torchlight flickers overhead, lighting the path before us. A gentle snow has begun to fall, dusting the ground and my hair. I shiver and wrap my arms about myself. My bare toes go numb long before we reach the town center.
I can see the unlit pyre waiting for me. Dozens of logs split in half and piled to make a circle around a wooden platform. One thick log rises from the center. Ropes coil beside it, waiting for me.
I take a shaky breath and close my eyes for a split second. I cannot do this. I cannot pretend that I am strong.
I fear death, fear the unknown.
My mother smiled up at me before she took her last breath. She looked so serene despite the fever that ravaged her body. "I will see you soon," she had said.
She never looked afraid. Only regret filled her glassy eyes as her head rolled to the side and she fled this world. I wish I could have her strength to face death, but I do not.
My hands begin to tremble with such violence that Ernest glances down at me. His expression is unreadable, but when he swallows roughly, I know he wants nothing to do with this false trial.
Everyone knows a trial is merely a formality. If not, why go to the trouble to build the pyre?
Dozens of torches blaze bright as we round the corner of the mill and the town center comes into view. More people have come than I had hoped. Children no longer run about, but cling to their mother's skirts.
I search the crowd for my father and find him at Anne's side. His head is bowed low and his hands are clasped before him, fiddling with the brim of his hat.