As soon as he’s inside the cell, I feel a strange sensation come over me. A subtle undercurrent, pulling me toward him. I have a sudden uncontrollable desire to see his face. To peer under his hood. To look at him.
I duck and tilt my head in several directions but his features remain hidden.
“Who are you?” I ask. I’m gazing at him with such intensity that I instantly feel embarrassed. Foolish. I try to look away, but I just can’t bring myself to. This man—this hooded figure—has a magnetism that is making me dizzy. It’s unreal. Almost … magical.
“My apologies, Sarah.” His voice is deep and smooth with hardly any intonation. As though every word, every syllable, holds precise equal value in his mind. And the way that voice says my name sends a warm shiver through me. I don’t only hear it. I taste it. Feel it. Smell it. It’s like warm bread coming out of the oven.
“I am a member of the clergy of the Church of England.”
Clergy?
Another word I’m unfamiliar with. I want to ask what it means, but I know this will only cause the guard to scowl even deeper in my direction so I keep my mouth shut.
However, the man seems to read my thoughts. Know my limitations.
“It’s a religious position,” he explains without prompting. “I am here to offer you God’s blessing and hear your confessions before you are executed this morning.”
Confessions?
Once again, my mind asks the question, but he answers.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me before you die? Any secrets? It is believed that if you die with a clear conscience you will go to heaven.”
The guard scoffs at this from the other side of the door.
Both of our heads pivot toward him and he wipes the smirk from his face.
“So,” the priest asks in his liltless intonation. “Is there?”
“No,” I say softly.
“Are you certain?” he prods.
I nod silently.
“Very well.” He walks toward me. The closer he gets, the hotter my blood feels inside my veins. As though it may actually start to boil.
I push myself back against the stone wall. Drawn to him and terrified of him at the same time.
“W-w-what are you doing?” I stammer, watching uneasily as he comes within a foot of me. I look up, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes, but his oversize hood is draped low.
I could do it right now. I could reach out and rip it from his head. Gaze upon his face. My fingers itch and tremble with the anticipation of it.
“I’m blessing you,” he says simply. His voice mesmerizes me and I instantly lose my train of thought.
I follow his arm as it rises slowly and catch a glimpse of his right hand as it drifts toward my forehead. His skin is velvety. Young. Unblemished. The sleeve of his robe slips, revealing a hint of his wrist. It’s wide and smooth. With soft traces of light blond hair.
He seems to hesitate for a moment, his hand trembling slightly.
Then, after regaining control, his five fingertips connect with my skin and I feel a jolt of energy. A spark. Like something wonderful—beautiful, comforting, kind—is being transferred from his flesh to mine. And then back again. I close my eyes, absorbing it. Relishing this one glimmer of happiness. The first in days. Never wanting it to end.
I feel my grief miraculously lifted from me, like a blanket of darkness that’s finally been stripped away. A layer of grime that I’ve been struggling to see through, washed clean.
Everything before this moment feels like a long-ago dream that I’ve now woken up from. Refreshed. Renewed. A curtain of serenity drawn around me. As though the very source of my pain and agony and suffering has simply been blown away like dust from a neglected corner.
And then, as devastating as a stone wall crumbling around me, it’s over.
His hand is gone. His touch is gone. My tranquillity and reprieve are gone. The room feels darker, colder, emptier than it ever has before.
By the time I open my eyes again, the cell door is already being opened by the guard and the man in the black robe is stepping through to the other side. A world away from this one.
“Wait!” I call, rushing toward him.
The guard shoves his sword through the bars again, staving me off. I stop just short of its sharp point.
The door is closed with a bang. Locked. The priest turns back to me. “Yes, Sarah?”
There it is again. My name on his lips. His voice reaching through the bars to caress me. Comfort me. Hold me. It’s almost familiar.
“I—” But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I told him to wait. All I know is that I don’t want him to leave. Ever.
“Nothing,” I mumble, dropping my head.
Without another word, he turns and disappears down the long, dank hallway, his black robe billowing behind him. And even though I would do anything at this moment to convince him to stay, I have the disheartening feeling that he’s desperate to get away from me.
16
BURNED
The time has come.
I am extracted from my cage and marched slowly down the dark corridor. No one speaks. Either out of respect for the soon-to-be dead, or because there’s nothing left to say.
I am led out of the prison, through the throng of people, and finally onto a platform that rises out of a mound of chopped wood and dead brush. Extra ropes are used to bind me to the towering beam in the center, crisscrossing my entire body.
The portly man who originally arrested me is back. He’s standing next to the platform in another richly decorated silk doublet, speaking passionately to the crowd about God and the devil and a never-ending war between the two. His crooked yellow teeth snapping each word in half, spitting angry accusations in my direction.
Finally the torch is extended and a firestorm alights beneath me.
I close my eyes and think of Zen, offering up a silent apology. Begging his forgiveness for my failure. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t save him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Even though he’s gone now, I am hopeful that somehow my voice will travel through the strands of time, find a place where he still lives, and whisper it softly into his ear.
I open my eyes to the inferno that blazes below me.
The fire is hot and relentless, rising up from a thicket of smoldering ash. Lashing at my feet. Filling my eyes with smoky tears of defeat.
The flames hungrily stare me down. Like a wolf licking its lips at the sight of an injured animal. Savoring the promise of a feast. Taking its time before moving in for the kill.
The wood crackles beneath me. One by one, branches are crushed, incinerated to black dust in the path of the merciless blaze. I am its only target. The sole destination. Everything else is a mere stepping-stone along the way. A dispensable victim to demolish and cast aside as it fights its way to me.
I search my surroundings desperately for help. But there is none to be found. Silence answers my distress. Punctuated only by the mocking fizzle and crack of the flames.
They can’t let me die here. Their prized possession left to burn. To shrivel up. To turn to bitter ash. They won’t. I’m sure of it.
They will be here soon. They will stop it.
And for the first time in my shallow, abridged memory, I will welcome the sight of them.
The smoke billows up, cloaking everything in a sickly haze. My vision—normally flawless and acute—is gone. My throat swells and burns. I wrench my head to the side, coughing. Choking. Gagging.
One ambitious flame forges ahead of the others. Winning the race to the top. It claws at my bare feet with long, gnarled fingers. I curl my toes under and press hard against the wood at my back. I can already feel my skin start to blister. Bubble. Scream.
And then I fight. Oh, how I fight. Thrashing against my constraints. But it’s no use.
And that’s when I realize … no one is coming.
The fire will consume me. Melt the flesh right off m
y bones. Turn my entire manufactured existence into nothing but grimy dust to be carried off across the countryside with the slightest breeze.
The wind shifts and the smoke clears for long enough that I can just make out a tall, hooded figure standing alone on the other side of the river. Watching silently.
The fire finally catches my skin. The pain is excruciating. Like a thousand swords slicing through me at once. The scream boils up from somewhere deep within. A place I never knew about. My mouth stretches open on its own. My stomach contracts. And I release the piercing sound upon a city of deaf ears.
The man who arrested me is there. He steps up to the edge of the flames. “This is what happens when you welcome the devil into your soul!” he shouts. The spectators yell back their concurrence, raising their hands in the air.
All the while the flesh on my bare feet is rippling, turning black. The putrid smell gags me. I cry out in agony, feeling the fire devour my ankles next, travel up my shins.
When will it stop?
When will I black out?
Please let me faint.
“And this!” He draws a long silver chain out of his pocket. Through the clawing flames I can just manage to see my locket swinging from the end of it.
Not destroyed. Not broken.
“The symbol of her pact with Satan!” he’s saying, raising the necklace high over his head. “This will accompany the witch back to hell!” With one flick of his fingers the necklace is suddenly in the fire with me.
I attempt to peer down through the flames, the heat scalding my eyes, causing them to rain tears. I blink them away furiously until finally I see it. Lying next to my charred feet. Only inches away.
Determination returns to me. From somewhere I summon strength. I kick out my left foot, feeling the rope dig into my burned flesh, sending another searing bolt of agony through me.
Blackness starts to invade my vision, withering in from the sides.
No! I silently shout back. I can’t pass out now! Not when my salvation is so close. Not when I can almost touch it.
I let out a roar of anguish and I thrust my leg forward as hard as I can. The tightly bound ropes shift slightly up my leg, giving my feet a larger range of motion. I press against the wooden beam at my back, redistributing my weight so that I can slither my foot closer.
The fire continues to consume me inch by inch. The pain is excruciating. My body is begging to shut it out. Turn off. The darkness still creeps across my eyes. I blink it away furiously.
Stay here, I command myself. Stay present.
I wiggle my legs again, shimmying the rope farther up. I stretch my toes, extending them as far as they can go until I finally feel the hard surface of the locket under my singed flesh.
My mind rejoices but I know I have a much more difficult task ahead of me. I have to get it open.
I feel for the chain and curl my toes around it, then drag it toward me.
The man in the silk doublet is still entrancing the crowd with some kind of sermon about evil. Even if anyone is looking directly at me, I’m confident my actions are shielded by the blanket of fire and smoke.
The pain has reached a peak where I almost no longer feel it. It’s as if everything has gone numb. But the blackness is still threatening to consume me. Take me away. Render me useless. Leave me here to burn to death.
The smoke is so thick now, I can’t see what my feet are doing. It threatens to suffocate me. I stop breathing, wondering how long I’ll be able to go without air.
I hold the locket under one foot while attempting to wedge what’s left of my toenail on the other into the crack of the heart. The flames have reached my waist now, relentlessly ripping through skin and muscle.
The darkness moves in quickly. From both sides. Like a curtain being drawn across a brightly lit window.
Through the growing shadow of my vision, I see a flash of movement. The towering wall of gray smoke around me billows, a sudden gash tearing it open before it quickly closes back up. As though someone has cut through it with a knife.
I just manage to unclasp the heart and open the locket clenched underneath my toes when the curtain closes completely and the night swallows me whole.
PART 2
THE INVASION
17
BOULDER
I dream of water.
Cool and clear and magnificent. It lifts me up and carries me downstream. It runs over me, washing away my past, purifying my soul, erasing my mistakes, soothing the fiery pain in my legs. I can feel it healing me. The beautiful current cleanses my rotted, charred skin, rinsing it to make way for new, healthy skin. Fresh cells filled with life and perfection.
I am whole again.
I want to float here forever. Never waking. Never knowing what will happen next. Never caring.
I hear the drip, drip, drip of water running over a steep rock, fighting to make its way up the sharp incline before trickling drop by drop over the other side. I know I am moving toward this rock. I will smash into it. It will alter the course of this blissful journey. It will change everything.
I attempt to paddle, to steer myself away, but the gravity of the massive object is too strong. All objects are helpless in its pull. Even me. I continue to float toward it, afraid of what will happen when we finally collide. When our strengths are pitted against one another. When we are forced together at last.
I don’t know who will win.
I don’t know if either of us can.
* * *
When I open my eyes I am in a strange, unfamiliar room. It’s large with bare white walls, textured ceiling, and tall blackened windows. My eyes adjust immediately, seeing flawlessly in the near dark. But there is nothing to see. The room is empty. Apart from the bed I’m lying on, which is swathed in soft white sheets and a thick blue blanket, a small table at the foot of the bed, and a single dim lamp in the corner.
There’s an inherent sadness to this room. As though it’s not just vacant but somehow left behind. Abandoned. And now the loneliness breathes in and out of the walls. Like it has seeped into the paint, soaked into the plush beige carpeting, burrowed itself inside the foundation.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I hear the sound again and I turn to see a tall metal stand next to my bed. It holds a plastic bag full of clear, unidentifiable fluid that drops into a long tube. I follow the tube to see that it leads directly into a vein just above my tattoo.
An IV. I immediately recognize it from my days in the hospital in the year 2013.
Frightened, I bolt upright, tearing the plastic needle from my arm and kicking the covers from my legs. I am poised to jump from the bed and run, but something catches my eye. My legs are covered in a thick white gauze, wrapped in perfect symmetrical layers all the way to my toes.
Someone has bandaged my wounds.
Carefully and curiously, I grasp the end of one of the bandages, just beneath my hip, and slowly start to uncoil it. I gasp and drop the gauze when I see that my wounds are entirely healed. Where I was sure there would be mangled, burned flesh, there is now only a swirl of fresh pink-and-white skin. It’s new and slightly tender. But the pain is gone.
How long have I been in this room?
And how did I get here?
I suddenly recall how fast my wrist healed when I attempted to dig out my tracking device—less than an hour—but that was a small gash. This is different. That fire devoured my skin. Ripped at me like a ravaging animal with razor-sharp teeth. I don’t think there was much left when …
When what?
What happened after that? Before I woke up here?
I remember the witch trial. The mob of angry people. The blazing fire. And then …
My locket.
It was tossed into the flames with me.
I just managed to clasp it beneath my toes and unhook it, activating my transession gene before the smoke and pain and panic finally won the tugging battle with my consciousness and I passed out.
But how did I get her
e? In this bed.
And where is my locket now?
Desperately, I feel around my chest and collarbone. There is nothing but bare skin. I lift the covers up and peer toward the bottom of the bed, wiggling my bandaged toes.
I work quickly, unraveling the dressing until both of my new, healed legs are free and bare.
It’s only now that I realize I’m still wearing my thick and heavy seventeenth-century clothing, minus the kerchief. Half of the skirt is gone, burned in the fire, leaving me with a jagged, blackened hem just below my knees.
I glance anxiously around the room, searching for any sign of my locket. Wherever I am, however I got here, I need to leave. I have to get back to Zen. I can still save him. I can transesse to the day they brought him back to the Pattinsons’ home, after I was arrested. I can get him out of there. He doesn’t have to die.
The word die, even in my silent thoughts, makes my stomach retch and my head spin. I lean over the side of the bed and gag, my stomach heaving. But nothing comes out.
I apparently haven’t had anything to eat in the past few days.
I command myself to think. Focus. Come up with a plan.
I scan the room, noticing a door in the wall behind me. I have no idea what’s on the other side of it but it doesn’t matter. I can’t very well stay here. I have to find my necklace. That is priority number one.
Without it, I am trapped again.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and test them separately, putting a little weight on each foot, pausing to check for pain or discomfort or for my newly grown skin to suddenly peel right off and slip to the floor like a heap of discarded clothes.
So far, everything seems to be working as it should.
I eye the door, preparing myself for what might be on the other side. I rise warily to my feet but am suddenly stopped when I see the door start to swing open with a low creaking sound.
Unforgotten Page 9
