by S. L. Baum
“I wasn’t trying to pressure you into anything,” Link told her as soon as she entered the room.
“I understand. I also realize that Charity is right. If you are going to consider yourself a part of our little family, then you should know our history. You’ve learned some of Charity’s and James’s history, so I guess it is time that you learned some of mine.”
The five of us settled into various spots in Link’s bedroom, as Catherine sat down on the padded bench that was positioned at the foot of the bed. She took a deep breath and then sighed heavily. Catherine closed her eyes, bringing herself back to a time, so long ago, and then she opened her mouth to speak...
*****
CATHERINE
Since I am the “oldest” in our family, my story is a long one. But I will try to make it as compact as I can. Some details will need to be omitted, but I shall try to give you a good picture of those beginning years of my life, my family history, and how I came to know that I was an Immortal One.
My story begins in Scotland, in the year Sixteen Hundred Thirty, in the little village of Hawick, not too far from the English border.
It was there, that a mother was in labor for many, many hours. Both mother and child were in a severely weakened state by the time the little babe was born. The mother summoned the last bits of strength in her worn out body, to hold her baby girl for the first, and last, time. She kissed the curly head of her little one, and with her last breath named the babe Margaret.
Margaret was my great-great-grandmother.
Through family stories passed down, it was said that Margaret grew to be the most beautiful little girl the villagers had ever seen. By the time she was a toddler, her long strawberry ringlets hung down to her waist and not a single person could resist touching her curls whenever they were in her presence. She was a kind and loving child too, making friends with all of the other children in the village as she grew up.
Margaret married her childhood love, the baker’s son, Robert, when she was just sixteen years old. They remained childless for several years, until they were blessed with a son in Sixteen Hundred Fifty-Five. They named the boy Charles. The midwife informed many of the village women that Margaret bled for mere minutes after the babe was born. The day after the birth she was completely recovered, no signs remained from the pain of delivery.
Around that time, the villagers had begun to whisper harsh things about Margaret. Her once close friends began to resent her beauty and her health, and wondered how, as the years passed, she could retain her youth and energy. Margaret was twenty-five when she gave birth to her son, and she remained as she was for years to come.
Charles was a grand looking boy with a mop of curly brown hair. Everyone in the village adored him, as they had his mother when she was his age. But the villagers grew more suspicious of Margaret with each passing year. She was never sick, and she never seemed to age. Robert and Margaret were born within a year of each other, but all too soon the age difference appeared to be closer to ten years. While the villagers always had a kind word for Charles, they spoke to Margaret as little as possible, avoiding her whenever they could. Witch was whispered behind closed doors.
From history, we all know that Witch-hunts had been prevalent in many countries for hundreds of years. Beginning in Sixteen Hundred Sixty-One, Scotland was home to one of the largest. Around six hundred people were accused of witchcraft during an eighteen-month span of time. My great-great-grandmother was one of them. She was accused of summoning the devil to keep her young and in perfect health. The “nail in her coffin,” so to speak, was when a particularly jealous woman in the village stabbed Margaret with a sharp knife. Three witnesses professed to have watched the gaping wound close and heal within minutes.
Margaret fought the charge of witchcraft to no avail. She denied any wrongdoing and demanded her release, screaming for justice as she was taken away. In Sixteen Hundred Sixty-Two, Margaret was convicted of witchcraft, beheaded, and then burned. She was almost thirty-two years old when she was killed and looked just as lovely as she did the day she told her husband they would soon be parents. In fear for their own lives, Robert and Charles soon left Hawick for Jedburgh.
Even though Charles had moved to Jedburgh as a very young boy, the whispers of his mother’s witchcraft seemed to follow him wherever he went. He married later in life, waiting until he found a woman who didn’t believe the gossip and the stories of his childhood. Charles and his wife had a daughter. They named her Anne. Charles was forty-six years old when he became a father. He aged just as a normal man should, and so the stories lessened as the years passed.
Anne also had a normal life, aging beautifully and gracefully. Her fourth child, a babe she named Oliver, was my father. My father married a beautiful young woman, named Mary, from a neighboring town. Oliver and Mary had six children together, four survived. I was the last, born in Seventeen Hundred Seventy-Seven, and they named me, as you know, Catherine.
The stories of Margaret were all but gone by the time I arrived on this earth. While growing up I heard only whispers of her, with very few details. I had a simple childhood full of love. I was the baby of the family, and my older siblings were constantly doting on me. They gave me trinkets to play with and treats to eat. I loved each of them fiercely. My mother, Mary, taught me to sew when I was a young girl, and I soon learned that I had quite a gift for needle and thread. I loved to make clothing for myself, for my mother, and for my sisters. I would spend hours planning and executing my designs.
I married the tailor’s son when I was seventeen; his name was Duncan. Duncan and I grew restless with life in our Scottish town and decided to try our luck in England. We made our way to the city of Leeds and opened our own little dress shop. With our combined skills at dress making, the shop soon became very popular. We were able to make grand gowns, for those who had ample coin, with beading and trim to be envied. Our business expanded but our family did not.
As we neared our seventh anniversary it became a clear possibility that we would remain childless. I prayed for a miracle and was granted one. On my twenty-fifth birthday, I gave birth to a little girl. We named her Mary, after my mother. But my joy was short lived. When Mary was but two months old, another wave of the plague crept through our part of Leeds. Duncan and Mary quickly became ill.
There were about eighty people in our area that were struck with the Black Death... the plague. I tried so hard to nurse both Duncan and Mary back to health. I spent sleepless days and nights at their sides willing them to fight and stay with me. Little Mary was so frail and passed away after only a few days. Duncan held on longer, he lasted two weeks. The sickness did not touch me, and even my lack of sleep during that time seemed not to affect me. I remained healthy, and I cursed myself for it.
The only way for me to conquer my sorrow was to work. So I made dresses, dozens of them, and displayed them prominently around my shop. Life went on, eventually business was good again, but my heart was empty and broken. A few years passed by and one day a little old lady stopped by the shop. She said she was just passing through Leeds and was a very distant cousin of mine. She introduced herself as Elspeth.
I told her about the loss of my Duncan and Mary. She squeezed my hand and her eyes filled with sympathy. The warmth in her eyes quickly turned to curiosity, and she inquired what my age was. I answered that I was thirty-three.
Elspeth then told me the story of my great-great-grandmother Margaret. She described her remarkable beauty, her ability to heal, and then her beheading and burning for witchcraft. She had preserved the story of Margaret in her mind and had painstakingly passed the details on to me.
“You look a little like her, were you aware of that?” she questioned me, her eyes wrinkling as she squinted in deep thought. “I saw a painted likeness once, and the resemblance is truly there.”
“I wasn’t aware. Margaret was hardly ever spoken of in our house. I always wondered why the conversation was quickly turned in another direction if her
name was even quietly uttered,” I said, in my own soft whisper.
“Well, young cousin, you don’t seem vastly younger than your true age, so you may be safe for awhile. But watch out, my dear,” were her words of warning.
Elspeth left Leeds the following day.
I studied my reflection in my hand mirror that night. I had a few wrinkles around my eyes and at the corners of my mouth. I was aging properly. Wasn’t I? Crazy old woman, I thought. But I started to wonder about my health. When was the last time I had been sick? I honestly couldn’t remember. Even bringing sweet Mary into this world was no effort at all. I easily returned to sewing, cooking, and cleaning the following day.
Soon, I became obsessed by the story of Margaret and the knife wound. I could not remove my cousin’s words from my thoughts. Could someone really heal from a wound within minutes? The question rolled around in my brain, as I was cutting fabric for a new dress. I stopped to stare at the heavy metal scissors. I needed to discover if it was true, I had to know if I was like her.
I took the scissors in my right hand and opened them wide. My plan was to cut into the skin of my left palm, but my hands were shaking too much to carry it out. In a split second decision I closed the scissors, yanked up the fabric of my skirt, and quickly stabbed myself in the thigh. As I removed the metal from my flesh I was shocked to discover that I was in much less pain than I had imagined I would be. I watched as a small amount of blood trickled out from my leg but it did not gush out, as it should.
The blood flow stopped, and I stared in wonder as my body healed itself. Within minutes, all that was left of my little experiment was a trickle of blood down my leg and a tiny line where the scissors had entered my flesh. I could heal myself. If that were true then I had to admit I wasn’t aging either and hadn’t been for a few years.
I remembered my cousin’s warning about the jealousy and suspicions of the villagers and made a plan for myself that very evening. I had a few years left in Leeds, at most. I had enough money saved that I could move to Manchester, start up a new shop, and go by a new name. If Manchester became unsafe, I decided that my next move would be to Liverpool.
Soon I arrived in Manchester, and before I knew it, I was moving on again. Time had started to take on a whole new pace for me. When I arrived in Liverpool, I introduced myself as Mary and gave my age as twenty-three. I also decided to work for a dressmaker in Liverpool, rather than open my own shop. I reasoned that less attention would be given to me if I were not the owner. No one cared what the girl doing the stitching looked like, as long as the shop was reputable and the dress was beautiful.
My time in Liverpool came to an abrupt end in the spring of Eighteen Hundred Thirty-Two. It was my fifty-fifth year on this earth.
Toward the beginning of May, an older woman came into the dress shop. I only saw her from behind, but was struck by a sense of familiarity. When she returned a few days later, I saw her face. It was my sister Victoria, a much older version of her, but my Victoria nonetheless.
While Victoria chatted away with the shop owner about the ball that she and her husband were attending the following week, I accepted a lace delivery. I kept my head down and worked as swiftly as possible. I prayed she wouldn’t recognize me. How could she, I thought. I had never aged past my mid twenties. How could she ever guess that the young woman pinning her dress would be her fifty-five year old sister?
As I helped slide the silken gown over Victoria’s head, I tried so hard to keep my face pointed downward. The temptation proved too much and I glanced up at her, Victoria’s eyes locked on mine in doubtless recognition. I put my finger to my lips, and my eyes silently pleaded with her to keep quiet. She strained to do so. She kept staring at me, her eyes full of questions.
After she signed for her gown and made arrangements for its delivery, she handed a folded piece of paper to me as she departed the shop. Written in my sister’s small precise handwriting was a message. She wanted to meet me at four o’clock that very day. I left the shop early and arrived at the location Victoria had specified. I found myself standing in front of a cafe. Victoria was sitting inside at a table.
“So the stories were true after all,” Victoria whispered as I sat next to her.
“Which stories? The ones about Margaret? Or have there been stories about me too?” I questioned in a whisper that matched her own.
“Both. Catherine I cannot believe it is you.” She smiled as she wrapped her arms around my shoulders. That felt so good. I had denied myself friendship and love for so long after Duncan and Mary had passed away. “You shouldn’t be this young. I look so old next to you,” Victoria said with a small laugh and then shook her head. “I was so sorry when I heard about your family, then a few years later you just disappeared. The stories of Margaret started being retold again, this time with a connection to you. I just didn’t want to believe it,” she continued.
“I moved to Manchester for nine years but people became suspicious of me, so I left and came here to Liverpool. I don’t know how much longer I can remain and I don’t know where to go from here,” I confessed. It was such a relief to tell my story to someone. I told her everything about my joys, my losses, and my life of seclusion. We talked for an hour without pause.
“You have to leave England,” she stated as our conversation came to an end. “If I have heard the stories about you and your connection to Margaret, then others have as well. People will be looking for you. They’ll charge you with witchcraft and kill you as they did her. We have to make a plan. We’ll meet here again, the day after tomorrow. But just know that I love you, dear sister, no matter what.”
“I love you too,” I cried as I hugged her a little too tightly. After starving myself of affection for so long, I did not want to let her go. The embrace was nourishment for my soul.
We met again two days later, as planned. Victoria wore a worried expression on her face as she sat down at the table.
“I have distressing news. I’m afraid my husband heard me say your name. He started to drill me with questions. So, I lied and said that I thought I saw a young woman who looked strangely like my sister Catherine, and it made me think of you again. His eyes filled with excitement. He asked me where, and I told him that it was several blocks away from here in front of the bakery. He kept pressing for details, and when I had no more to give him he boasted aloud to our friends about the notoriety he would receive if he could prove there was a real Witch. This is not good, Catherine. He said that he had heard there was a Witch with red hair living in Manchester ten years ago and had always wondered if it had to do with your disappearance.” Victoria’s eyes were wide with fear.
“He has changed as he’s aged. His heart isn’t as compassionate as I once believed it to be. He loves me, and truly wants me to be happy, but the fact that he’d sacrifice my own sister for his notoriety… that scares me. I don’t think he’d ever hurt me, because it would reflect badly upon his character. But I fear for your safety.”
Her fear invaded me. I nervously scanned the room, almost expecting an angry mob to be staring back at me - ready to take me away. “What should I do Victoria?”
“I made discreet inquiries through my maid and have booked you passage to America. The ship leaves in three days,” Victoria explained as she handed the papers to me.
The ship was Brig Catherine with passage from the Port of Liverpool to the Port of Philadelphia. It sailed on the ninth day of May, in the year Eighteen Hundred Thirty-Two.
Brig Catherine... I immediately knew that I needed to follow her plan. The ship and I shared a name, it just seemed right. The fear washed away as I knew that this was meant to be. The move was more sudden than I had planned, but America would be the perfect place to start over. It would be a new beginning where no one would know me, or anything of my family history. America was called the land of opportunity, after all.
I walked the deck of the ship my first night on board, re-reading a mysterious letter, wondering how it had been placed in my
room back in Liverpool, the night before Brig Catherine’s departure.
I can still see it in my head. It said...
Catherine,
I have been observing your movements for many a night. You are a mystery to me. What are you? I had hoped to foster friendship with you, but it is too late.
You are not safe here anymore. Do as your sister has suggested and board the vessel, cross the sea, put distance between you and these hunters.
I will seek you out someday.
Elizabeth
I remember thinking, Who was this Elizabeth and how had she known about me? It worried me that I was leaving England and therefore would probably never find out. But I was excited that I would be able to reinvent myself in this new world. I reveled in the thought of the adventures that lay ahead of me. I mourned the loss of my loved ones and the only life I had known. However, I was ready to start a new life.
*****
Catherine took another deep breath, finishing her story.
“James wasn’t that far away from where you landed,” Link observed.
“He was a twelve year old boy at the time of my arrival. I’m not sure how compatible we would have been if we had crossed paths then,” Catherine smiled. “It took me almost thirty years to make my way down to Vicksburg, Mississippi and discover my destiny.”
“Thank you for sharing your story. I’m sorry for your loss Catherine,” he said.
“It seems that you, me, and Charity have that in common. It is hard to lose the ones we love.” She reached over and squeezed his hand.
“But it is a blessing to find those with whom it seems we are destined to be with,” I added.
Linked looked at Catherine, his eyes were thoughtful. “So, there was another Immortal One within your blood line,” Link mused. “Is there a hereditary compound at play here?”
