Beyond the Fortuneteller's Tent

by Kristy Tate

  “You think you can escape the judgments of God?” a voice boomed.

  Whirling, Petra breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Chambers standing at the opening of the cave. At least he was human. Although frightening in the flickering torch light, his shadow, long and lean, across the floor.

  After Emory’s conversation, Petra had half expected an angel or a demon from hell. Although,

  Chambers didn’t possess unearthly powers, but he did look scary. The wind, whistling through the cave lifted his hair so that it flew about his face. His cloak swirled around him as he lifted his arm, pointed his gun and fired a shot into Emory’s chest.

  The cave exploded in a haze of smoke and blood.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In Elizabethan times, the church went to great lengths to root out the influences of Satan and his servants. They used torture, such as hot pincers, the thumbscrew, and the 'swimming' of suspects, to force confessions of witchcraft.

  —Petra’s notes

  Petra huddled in the corner of the carriage in a fog of pain. The wheels churning through the mud and the steady clomping of the horses did nothing to ease the driving rain’s sting. Above her, the heavens churned in revolt, the clouds heaved, lightning sparked and thunder shook the ground. The horses pulling the coach strained against the bits, pushing toward Dorrington, to find shelter from the storm, food and comfort. Petra knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. Where would Chambers take her?

  Chambers rode ahead, astride a white stallion, while one henchman drove the coach. Another guy carrying a pistol rode behind. In the scuffle, someone had hit her over the head and she felt the pain with every wagon jolt. Occasionally, as she bounced along the muddy and jutted roads, Petra considered escape. The ropes around her hands and ankles wouldn’t prevent her from flinging herself out the carriage door, but then what? The henchmen would most likely pick her back up and toss her back in like a wayward sack of potatoes. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Everything jumbled together.

  Closing her eyes, Petra replayed a memory in her mind: Emory falling, blood draining from his face and staining his shirt. Petra had to keep reminding herself that he couldn’t die. Probably. Yes, she’d seen him heal in minutes from a bullet wound not too many hours ago, but what if it only worked so many times? He hadn’t really explained the rules of his existence.

  Where was he now? When a henchman had banged her head, she’d lost focus. Maybe just for a moment, or maybe for hours, she didn’t know. By the time her vision cleared, all she saw was the sky swimming in rain. Heaven’s rage, she thought. It was her last conscious thought for a long time.

  ***

  Petra woke in the dark. As she pushed herself to her elbow, away from the hard, cold ground, her head thundered, though the whistling wind and beating rain had stopped. When her eyes adjusted to the dark she realized that she was no longer in the coach, but inside somewhere. Sitting up, she tried to register her surroundings. Dark, damp, stone walls and floors. She was in a cell identical to the one where she’d seen the gypsy. Maybe close to the torture chamber. She bit back a swell of panic, which seemed to be her go-to emotion whenever Emory wasn’t around.

  Scooting across the floor so her back rested on a stone wall, Petra took stock. She felt every stone and pebble through the thin fabric of her panties, but that was the least of her pain. Her head, her arm, her belly—she ached everywhere. Pulling her knees to her chest, she rested her forehead on her knees and closed her eyes. Somewhere along the way she’d lost the blanket. Emory. She shivered violently in her filthy shirt, bra and panties.

  If Emory couldn’t die, why hadn’t he rescued her? Where was he? What had happened to him?

  When the cell door swung open with a screech, and Petra looked up, hopes raised.

  Fritz stood inside the cell bearing a tray of food. Breakfast in bed, she thought. The sight and smell made her stomach roll. She wondered if Chambers had ordered the meal or if Fritz had brought it on his own. Because of his nervous twitching, she guessed the latter. Fritz kept his gaze focused on the ground; he wouldn’t look at her. He set the tray on the ground and undid a satchel he had slung over his shoulder.

  “Fritz, thank you. Tell Mary thank you too,” Petra said, suspecting that Mary had made the tray. Petra braced herself against the wall so she could stand. “How did you know I was here?”

  He reached into the satchel and shook out her dress. Wrinkled and dirt smudged, it was better than nudity. “Tis common knowledge.” Fritz kept his gaze over her shoulder and made the sign of the cross over his heart with one hand and handed her the dress with the other.

  With a sinking feeling, Petra took the dress. “Is why I’m here common knowledge?”

  “They be saying you a witch, mistress.” Fritz edged toward the door. “They’ve sent for the examiners.”

  Examiners? Petra pictured the man at the DMV who gave her the driver’s test. She hugged the dress to her body.

  Fritz nodded. “The ecclesiastic examiners. They’ll be bringing a witch-pricker.”

  Witch-pricker?

  “They’ll test my blood?”

  “If ye have blood.” He looked at her then and focused on her wound. The tightness in his shoulders seemed to ease when he saw that she definitely had blood.

  She touched her head and felt the dried blood in her hair. “Who sent for the examiners? Chambers?” Fritz didn’t deny it, so she continued. “But Lord Garret, he won’t let me be pricked.”

  “My Lord Garret has eloped with Mistress Anne.”

  The previous night swam into focus.

  “They’re saying you be responsible for his enchantment.” Fritz continued, looking somber. “His marriage so shortly after his father’s death is highly irregular.”

  “The Earl is dead? How?” Petra rubbed her head.

  “He died in the storm at Hampton Court.”

  Petra considered the news. She wanted to ask more about his death—was it an accident, did anyone suspect foul play—because she did. What if the law, whoever that was, suspected Garret, Rohan or Emory? And what if the law was Chambers until Garret returned? A chill crept through Petra. “Lord Garret falls in love and I’m to blame?”

  “Yes, bewitched, miss, so it seems.” He gave her an apologetic smile and turned away, locking the door behind him.

  ***

  One or maybe five hours later, a figure in a black robe and hood opened the cell door. For a wild moment, Petra had a flash of hope that the man, the same size and shape as Rohan, had come to rescue her. When the man roughly yanked her to her feet, hope died. He wasn’t Rohan in disguise. He was Chambers’ henchman.

  She understood why Chambers was angry. She’d helped spoil the plot to prevent the distribution of the Bible. Maybe he held her responsible for the death of the Earl. Not that she’d pulled the actual pistol triggers or brandished swords, but she’d been there spitting fire and throwing smoke bombs.

  Chambers no doubt would say Petra was on the other side of God. He believed in his cause. With the Earl gone and Garret sitting in his place, what would become of Chambers? Garret seemed to tolerated him, but with Anne whispering in his ear, how long would Chambers have a place in the manor?

  The henchman drew her through the catacombs. Petra let loose a sigh of relief when they passed the torture chamber. Pushing open a heavy wooden door, the henchman strong-armed her across the courtyard and up a wooden stairway to an elevated platform.

  A noisy, restless crowd milled around the square. Dimly, she recognized a few faces: Mary, red eyed and blotchy skinned, and Muffin Face and her perpetual scowl, Fritz staring straight ahead. Another hooded henchman stepped forward so that the two men flanked her.

  Father Knightly slowly climbed the stairs, his face grim. He took center stage and addressed the crowd.

  “The judgment of God has fallen on our fair village. Satan has come upon us in great wrath. God, for a wise yet unfathomable reason has left us vulnerable. God’s will, in time will be manifest, but only if
we repent and purge ourselves of all ungodliness. We must not fall prey to the lion who seeks to destroy us.”

  Is he seriously comparing me to a lion? Petra’s mind reeled.

  Father Knightly faced the crowd with outstretched arms. “We must guard ourselves against the wiles of Satan!” His voice boomed, face red, eyes wild. “We must watch, pray and humble ourselves before God!” Spit flew from his mouth.

  Good heaven, Petra thought, he really believes what he’s saying. He honestly thinks I’m an instrument of Satan. Looking over the crowd, she searched for Emory and Rohan. They had to be nearby. They wouldn’t let Chambers win. They would save her. Now is the perfect time for a hero to show up.

  “True piety toward God is our only safeguard from the ills of life, our only hope for the life to come. Our village can only be saved through sacrifice and extermination!”

  Extermination?

  He pointed. “What say ye?”

  Petra swallowed. “What charges do you have against me? Why do you think I’m a witch… or a lion?”

  Father Knightly circled her, still pointing at her chest. “Do you have a supreme respect for the laws and authority of Gods?”

  She shook her head, swiveling to watch his slow rotation of her. “Of course, I --”

  “Are you disposed to resist His will and gratify your own?”

  This is a good time to lie, she decided, although lying while defending her adherence to God’s laws seemed wrong and counterproductive.

  “Do you surrender yourself, body and soul, to my service to be employed in whatever way I may judge conducive to the progress of God’s kingdom among men?”

  “Absolutely not,” Petra said, standing straighter. “I don’t know who made you judge of this kingdom.”

  The crowd roared.

  Father Knightly took a step closer, dropped his outstretched arm and pulled her cell phone from his robes. He pressed a button and Breaking Benjamin screamed. The jeers, the catcalls and the whistling went silent. Father Knightly spoke quietly, “Can you deny this is an instrument of the devil?”

  Petra wanted to laugh. The two men with vice-like grips on her arms were proof that this wasn’t funny, yet a nervous giggle bubbled inside of her. “It’s an instrument from Apple.”

  The crowd jeered and cat-called, reminding Petra of the angry crowd in the old Frankenstein movie. They even waved the same pitchforks and clubs. Father Knightly raised his hands for silence. “She admits it!” he screamed over the crowd’s roar. “She admits that Satan, who tempted Mother Eve with the first apple, has sent another.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” Petra said as the henchmen tightened their grips and led her to the edge of the stage.

  A pole stuck from the middle of a heap of wood. As true realization hit, Petra kicked and screamed. Twisting her legs, she aimed high. Hit ‘em where it hurts, she coached herself, but she couldn’t seem to hurt them at all. Henchmen secured her arms with leather straps.

  “Burn her! Burn her!” the crowd chanted in time.

  Panic. Petra writhed as the henchmen lifted her to the pole. Where’s Emory? This can’t be happening. She took a breath, swallowed her fear, and opened her lungs to yell again, but she could hardly hear her own shrieks over the tumult of the crowd. They tied her to the pole and a man in a dark hooded robe lit the pyre with a flaming torch.

  Smoke, heat, and crackling flames. Fire flickered toward her dangling feet.

  She heard another roar and another name, her own. She saw Emory shoving through the crowd, tossing aside grown men, women and small children. Insults and fists didn’t slow him. The taunts shifted as he shouldered toward the growing fire.

  “The witch’s lad!” someone shouted.

  Another called, “Burn him too. Burn ‘em all!”

  The fire, many inches below her feet, suddenly rushed toward her. Dimly, she realized that the fire had burnt the pole supporting her. She crashed. Something hit her head. Pain shot through her body and then, suddenly, nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dreams are:

  Images, sounds, or emotions that pass through the mind during sleep.

  A response to neural processes.

  Reflections of the subconscious.

  Predictions.

  Messages from gods, the deceased, or from the soul.

  Not really understood.

  —Petra’s notes

  Her eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted and yet unsubstantial against the white, unnatural glare. She licked her lips; they were cracked, dry and tasted of blood and ash. Her head pounded. Someone touched her hand and whispered what sounded like an apology. “Petra Pooh?”

  “Daddy?” Her eyes flickered open and his face swam into focus. Immediately, she began to cry hot tears that made her cheeks sting. She remembered being tied to a stake and falling into the flames. There had been horrific pain and then nothing. Had she died in the fire? After this life we’re gathered back to our people, Emory had said. Her dad, her mom, her people. She tried to swallow and her throat felt raw. “Where’s Mom?” she asked.

  “Oh, baby,” her father said, and his voice cracked. He pressed her against him in a fierce hug, but when she winced in pain he gently let go and settled her against the pillows. She saw his tired, lined face, the gray sprinkling in his hair, and his blue, worried eyes. He was alive and so was she. Her mother was still dead.

  Petra slipped a hand into his and looked beyond him to the sterile, white hospital walls. Outside, the distant lights of Santa Maria Boulevard sparkled in the twilight. Cars rushed up and down the parkway; street signals flashed yellow, green and red; a blinking airplane headed for the airport.

  I didn’t die in 1610. Did I live in 1610? She touched her head where it was tender, she felt the bump beneath her fingers, so she understood the pain, but that didn’t explain everything.

  Not at all.

  She still wore Emory’s ring. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Her father was still there. “I missed you,” she whispered.

  “I’ve missed you too. After losing your mother…” his voice broke. “I don’t know how I would have survived losing you too.”

  She let her heavy eyes close, trying to make sense of her new world. Her old world. This different world. A world without Emory.

  ***

  A battery of tests and doctors filled the next day. During the poking, prodding, and bandage-changing Petra learned a few things: An earthquake during the Renaissance fair had sparked a fire; she’d been lost beneath the tangle of the fortuneteller’s tent for a day. She’d been in the hospital, unconscious, for four.

  Petra closed her eyes against all this information. She tried to process the hospital truth with her time in 1610. Intellectually, she lined up coming to the hospital with her arrival at the manor, her swim at the river with Emory with a bed bath given by a nurse, and her phone playing Breaking Benjamin. But while her mind told her one thing and her heart said something else entirely.

  “It’s common for a patient suffering severe physical and emotional distress to have delusional episodes,” Doctor Graham, a mental health counselor told her. “It’s your mind trying to escape the horror of your reality.” The doctor, a petite blond in an oversized lab coat had purple spotted fingernail polish. She looked a lot like Mary.

  “But wouldn’t I go to some happy place?” Petra asked through cracked lips. It hurt to speak, her throat dry and scratchy, but she had to try. Worrying that she’d lost her mind was making her crazy.

  “Not necessarily,” Doctor Graham shifted in the chair beside her and settled a clipboard in her lap, “just as your nightly dreams aren’t always happy. There’s a great deal of research and controversy concerning the workings of our subconscious. Some say dreams are a random firing of neutrons and have no meaning. Spiritualists believe they are messages from God.”

  “It seemed so real,” Petra muttered, staring past the doctor and out the window, beyond the bustling city to the green hills where the canyon
began. “And there are so many things I didn’t know, that I couldn’t have imagined…like cockfights.”

  Doctor Graham smiled. “Our subconscious minds are incredibly powerful. We know many things that we’ve never given much thought, yet our brains have filed away the information.” She patted Petra’s hand. “You can’t believe the nightmare. You can’t argue with it, or challenge it. Your only option is to destroy it.”

  “Destroy it?” Petra thought of Emory, his face, his smile. How could she destroy someone she loved? Because she did love him, even if, or maybe even especially because, he was the work of her imagination.

  Doctor Graham gave her a kind and sympathetic look. “It’s not real, so it can’t be destroyed literally. The only way to defuse its power is to shine your light of reason upon it. There’s no other option. You can’t believe the lie, but you might find it helpful to write it down. It will help you clarify your feelings. Journaling about such a traumatic experience will let you explore, process and release your emotions.”

  Now would be a good time to mention the ring. But Petra remained silent. She wasn’t ready to try and prove or disprove Emory.

  Giggles and voices from down the hall caught Petra’s attention. She turned to watch Robyn, Kyle and a giant pink and purple pony approaching. The trio stood hesitantly outside the door.

  “Your friends are eager to see you. They’ve been by many times,” the doctor said, gathering her things and rising to her feet. “You’re lucky that you have so many people who love you. If you’re interested in journaling, I’ll get you a pad of paper and a pen.”

  “Thank you,” Petra lisped, wetting her lips and tasting ash. “I’d like that.”

  Doctor Graham patted Petra’s hand and beckoned for the trio to come in. Robyn, Kyle and the pony trooped through the door. Behind the pony, Zoe. Petra’s heart leapt and she suddenly realized how grateful she was to see her sister. She desperately needed to apologize.