Dangerous Magic

by Sullivan Clarke

  “By the stars, Colin Macgregor,” she spat, reaching for a shawl to pull on over the thin chemise she was wearing. “What are you doing lurking about like that? Do you have any idea of what kind of fright you gave me?”

  “Is that why you screamed?” His handsome face wore a look of genuine shock. “I was passing when I heard you and came to check to see if you were alright. It’s not like you to be frightened of strangers, given how people tend to show up at your doorstep unannounced.” He looked at the poker she still held in her hand.

  “What on earth is going on, Lark. Why are you armed?”

  Lark looked down at the poker as if she didn’t remember how it got there and then rushed to put it aside. As she turned, Colin Macgregor followed her.

  “I had a bad dream,” she said. “That’s why I screamed. When I awoke I was walking the bridge between what wasn’t and what was. The first thing I saw as I got my bearings was you in the forest. I was already nervous, so my immediate thought was to defend myself in case…”

  “…in case the dream was real?” he asked. “G’lord, lass. That must have been quite a dream. What was it about?”

  Lark turned towards the fireplace and knelt to put a log on the coals. “I don’t remember,” she lied and then stood to face him, not wanting to discuss it further.

  “And it is I who should be asking you questions,” she said. “What are you doing lurking in my wood, anyway?”

  “I wasn’t lurking.” Colin Macgregor reached to hand her another log. “I was passing.”

  “On your way to where?” she asked, shooting him a skeptical look. “I’m off the path.”

  He paused for a moment and then shook his head. “Very well. You got me. I am on my way to the village but thought I’d just take a little trip by your house to see if you needed anything and to make sure you were safe and well.”

  “Colin…” Lark stood and brushed past him. “We aren’t seven years old anymore, playing at knights and princesses. I don’t need rescuing.”

  Colin shook his head and laughed. “I know that,” he said. “As I recall you once said you’d make a better knight than princess, and we all had to agree. Few women could handle themselves as you do.” Then his face grew serious. “But sometimes it’s handy to have someone about in case you need help slaying the dragons.”

  He paused. “Have you given any thought to what I told you the last time we spoke?”

  “About what?” The fire was building now and Lark moved to put a pot of water over it.

  Colin gritted his teeth in frustration. “About the preachers in some villages taking a closer interest in those who they believe are still practicing the old religion.”

  “Ah, that. No, I haven’t, Colin.” And then she stopped, and in her mind she saw the black wolf with the cross round its neck. She felt the blood drain from her face.

  “What?” he asked suddenly. “Is something wrong?”

  Lark shook her head, as if by doing so she could shake the image out of it. “No, nothing,” she said.

  He stood and walked over to her, taking his friend by the shoulders. She looked so troubled and it was all he could do not to enfold her in his arms, insist that she come back to his little stone house where he could look after her, care for her.

  “Don’t lie to me, lass,” he said. “Something is wrong. Now tell me. Has someone come here and threatened you? Was it the Reverend Pratt? Has he come snoopin’ around?”

  “Col!” she shrugged him off, his words only making her more anxious. In fact, now that she thought about it, her friend’s paranoia was probably to blame for the realistic dream. She felt a sudden urge to rid herself of her friend’s presence.

  “Listen, Col,” she said, pulling the wrap around her. “I do appreciate your concern and your attempt at chivalry. But really, I am fine. I do not share your worries about the church sending someone after me. I help those villagers. They have nothing to fear. And I have no enemies.”

  Colin couldn’t resist. He reached out his hand and rubbed the back of it against her cheek. She was so beautiful and in his mind’s eye he could still see her standing naked in the moonlight, her long red hair swirling about her in billowing copper waves.

  “No, but you never know when some may arise. If they do, promise me I’ll be the one you’ll trust to champion you.”

  He wondered for a moment if she knew how much he loved her, but when she rolled her eyes and smiled he knew she did not.

  “Silly man,” she said. “Of course if I need you I will call you. Just don’t tarry about waiting for it.”

  “You could always stay with me,” he persisted. “I could protect you.”

  “Colin,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “Boarding with an unmarried man would bring me even more of this attention you fancy I’m getting.”

  “But if we were married…” he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

  “Me? Marry you?” she asked, and threw back her pretty head, her tinkling laugh filling the cottage. “Lark the Goodwife? You’d expect me to go from living here by my own leave to joining you in a Christian marriage where women are forced to obey?”

  “Would it really be so bad?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, adding some fragrant herbs to the now boiling water over the fire. “I think it would.”

  “You could take the vow and not mean it,” she said.

  “Aye,” she agreed. “But a man will hold a woman to any promise she makes so long as it is to his advantage. And I think we both know you could force me to obey.”

  He pondered this, remembering the spanking. He did not tell Lark that as far as he was concerned that was just what she needed - someone caring and kind who would force her to obey, for her own wellbeing. He knew just how such a comment would be received and said no more on the matter.

  He managed a smile, too, then, and turned to leave. “Very well, then. I’m off to town to deliver hides to the tanners.” He turned. “If you don’t mind my asking, Lark, what was your dream about?”

  “Like I said,” she replied. “I don’t remember. I only know my grandma was in it.”

  But the shadow of fear that crossed her face betrayed her. He knew even as she stood there that she was lying.

  “Hmm,” he said. “Very well then. Have a good day. Stay safe. Keep the wolves from your door.”

  The words hit her like a fist in the stomach and when she closed the door after him, she leaned up against it for a moment, knowing that there were no such things as coincidences, and despite her attempts to deny it, there was indeed something to fear. She just didn’t know what.

  Chapter Five

  “There’s really no need to be afraid, my dear child.” Rev. Maximilian Fordham leaned towards Millicent Salter and looked into her large blue eyes. “I know you are nervous, but it is so important that you repeat for me that which you told the Widow Hatch and the Reverend Pratt.”

  Millicent swallowed hard and glanced at the three people seated to her left. Reverend Pratt and his wife were staring at her, with an expression almost as fearful as their own. She had no way of knowing that they feared this man as much as she did, and were petrified at having their star witness’ memory fail. But Gertrude Hatch’s face showed no fear, only determination.

  “Millicent, dear,” she said, leaning over to take the girl’s hand in a hard and bony grasp. “Please do tell the good Reverend Fordham what you told us. Just think of how disappointed your dear mother will be if you don’t do the right thing.”

  She gave Millicent’s hand an extra squeeze, and the implication was clear. The older woman was still more than willing to make good on her threat of accusing Millicent of thievery if she did not do as she was instructed.

  “You promise no harm will come to Lark?” Millicent looked at Rev. Fordham imploringly.

  “If she accepts our help she will receive only the Lord’s grace, child,” he said. “Do you doubt the mercy of our Lord?”

  His tone was silky, dangerous
.

  “No!”

  The girl sensed that this man’s purpose in the village was of an official and important nature, and also that he wielded some sort of power. She did not want to make him angry.

  She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, it was in a low and defeated voice. “I’ve been to Lark’s cottage on several occasions,” she said, and preceded to tell him what she’d told Gertrude Hatch about the strange little female figure with the exaggerated female form, the owl that rested by day in her ceiling beams, the cat and the strange carvings in the stonework round her fireplace. As she spoke, Rev. Fordham took notes.

  But when she got to the part about Lark’s requesting a lock of her hair, he stopped her.

  “Did she say what she intended to do with this lock of hair? Did she offer you anything after that, such as a special elixir or potion?”

  Millicent shook her head.

  “Did you ever see any strange dolls in human form?” The dark eyes were on Millicent’s face now, searching, questing.

  Millicent scanned her memory and then brightened.

  “Why, yes,” she said. “Last winter when she was treating so many of the elderly for the cough, I went by to pick up some wash that she didn’t have time to do. While I was there she was finishing up a little doll. And sewn to it chest was a locket. Widow Bright’s locket.”

  “Widow Bright?” Rev. Fordham looked up at the others sitting in the room.

  “Yes, Rev. Fordham,” offered Greta Pratt. “She’s the old woman who lives down by the mill. As I recall, she was very sick with the cough, and no one expected her to pull through. But she was one of the few who did. The cough took many of the elderly, some younger than Widow Bright. God’s blessings were with her.”

  Rev. Fordham’ mouth narrowed into a grim line and he fixed a disapproving gaze on his fellow clergyman. “Were they?” he asked. “Or was Widow Bright willing to exchange her soul for her health? These witches often barter the promise of life for the sick’s sworn allegiance to their master.”

  “Witch? Millicent Salter was looking from one face to another now. “Is that what this is about? Are you saying you think Lark’s a witch?”

  “Our suspicions are none of your concern, silly girl,” Reverend Fordham snarled. “How old are you?”

  Millicent looked flustered. “I’m just now into my eighteenth year, sir.”

  “And you’ve lived in this village all your life?”

  Rev. Fordham leaned in towards her again, but his tone had gone from coaxing to menacing as the girl nodded, unsure of what he was getting at.

  “I’ve been all over the world, child,” he said softly, his eyes narrowing in anger. “I’ve seen firsthand the work Satan does, witnessed how he lulls the unsuspecting into trusting those imbued with the false gifts of healing and beauty. This Lark Willoughby is no physicians and yet by your own account she heals with unnatural ease. The dolls you describe are not jut dolls, but poppets used by witches when working their spells. The dolls stand in the stead of their target in unholy spell work, which is why a personal object like hair or jewelry is needed to personalize the doll. You say you did not know what she was using the hair for, and for that reason - and your testimony here - I am forgiving your complicity in the devil’s work. But should you ever seek such assistance again I would hope the church fathers strip you naked and beat you until you cry out for God’s unending mercy.”

  Millicent sat listening, tears gleaming in her eyes as she twisted her apron nervously in her hands.

  “Is it really the devil’s work if it heals? I saw the death from cough, saw it claim my neighbors. It was a grievous sight!”

  Fordham’s face grew stormy. “A few days suffering before death? Is that more grievous than the endless torment that awaits those who work with or benefit from the ministrations of Old Nick? Is it worse than an eternity of having the skin stripped piece by piece from your body by demonic knives? Is it worse than the painful blisters that erupt in the hellfire and burst only regrow and burst again. And again. And again, each time with worse pain? Is it worse than having your fingers and toes chewed off and consumed by blood-thirsty imps?”

  The girl was cowering now and sobbing from the imagery.

  Seeminly satisfied snapped his notebook shut and turned to face Millicent Salter and the Pratts, who sat in wide-eyed admiration of his ability to instill such holy fear through words alone.

  “And as for this Widow Bright,” he said. “I shall need to talk to her next to determine whether she was aware of what her locket was being used for, and if so whether she understands the grave implications of her actions.”

  He rose to his feet and the Rev. Pratt rose with him.

  “I’m quite sure that if she did she doesn’t now,” Rev. Pratt offered. “The Widow Bright has become increasingly frail of mind since the spring. Age, you see.”

  “More likely enchantment,” Rev. Fordham said, pulling his cloak about his shoulders and shooting his host a condescending look. “I’ve seen this before. Witches will often confound those they help, just in case they are questioned.”

  When Reverend Pratt continued to look skeptical, Gertrude Hatch stepped forward.

  “If I may be so bold, Reverend Pratt, what this man says makes perfect sense to me. We are isolated here and are not accustomed to the sophisticated methods this man has seen the devil employ. Much about Lark Willoughby has seemed alarming to me, and when dear Millicent here confided to me what she’d seen I knew I could no longer call myself a Christian if I did not take what I knew to the church.”

  Millicent turned in shock at the older woman’s pronouncement and started to differ with her over events, but a warning glance silenced her before she could begin.

  “Wise words, madam, wise word indeed.” He turned towards the door. “There is no time to waste. Now, take me to this Widow Bright.”

  *

  It was raining by the time Colin Macgregor reached the village, and the weather did not improve the mood he’d been in since leaving Lark’s cottage. For the second time, he’d been frustrated by their encounter and the clouds seemed to darken along with his state of mind.

  He tried to be objective, telling himself to allow for the fact that she was right and he was wrong. The village was isolated; if the rumors of witch hunts were indeed true then the witch hunters wouldn’t likely come to such an out of the way place, but focus on larger towns where a woman seeking to profit from or embellish her arts may make a wild boast of magic.

  The skins on his back were heavy, and he walked faster and then broke into a run as larger droplets began to fall fast and heavy. To his left he could hear the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer and ducked into his stall for shelter.

  Hiram Fletcher dropped his hammer as soon as he saw Colin.

  “G’day young man,” he said heartily, extending a beefy hand.

  Colin returned the greeting warmly. He’d always liked Hiram, who knew every person - and horse - in the village by name. Colin didn’t know all the villagers by name, and only most of the horses by sight. Today he noted that Hiram was working on a large black horse he’d never seen before.

  “Nice animal,” he said, dropping the skin on a nearby table and moving to stroke the horse’s nose. It dipped its head down, grazing Colin’s hand with a warm muzzle.

  “Don’t move your hand too fast around him; he’s head-shy.”

  But the warning had come too late. When Colin moved to scratch the animal’s neck, it pulled back suddenly, rolling its eyes in fear.

  “Easy, lad,” Colin soothed. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Then he frowned. “Someone’s mistreated him. Who does he belong to?”

  Hiram walked over and picked up the horse’s right foreleg, matching the shoe he’d been pounding on the anvil to the animal’s hoof. With a grunt of frustration he took it back to the anvil, picked it up with tongs and sunk it back into a pile of hot coals.

  “Part of a team belonging to some preacher man that came
in two days ago,” the blacksmith replied, extricating the shoe from the red coals and pounding on it with renewed effort.

  Despite the heat coming off the coals, Colin felt a chill go through him.

  “Preacher man? What preacher man?”

  “Don’t really know,” Hiram replied. “Not from around here. Came in on a carriage pulled by two black horses and went straight away to the Rev. Pratt’s without so much as a ‘how-do-you-do’ to anyone.”

  He sank the shoe into a vat of cold water and steam rose in a hissing cloud.

  The horse began to move around as Hiram approached it with the reformed shoe still clasped in his tongs. Colin grabbed the lead rope and whispered soothing words to the animal as Hiram leaned down to check the fit again.

  “Perfect,” he said over his shoulder, shooting a grin to Colin before beginning to nail the shoe in place.

  “So what is he doing here?” asked Colin. “Is he preaching Sunday?”

  “I don’t think so,” the blacksmith responded. “I don’t think he’s a preaching preacher, and if he is half the flock will be hiding under their pews before the first hymn is sung. I caught a look at him when hi and his driver came over with the horses. Scariest looking man I’ve ever seen. ‘Bout as tall as you, only thinner with black hair and a the illest-looking face you ever saw.”

  “You mean he’s sickly?” Colin pressed, feeling hopeful. Perhaps the cold damp weather would drive him away.

  Hiram stood stretching his lower back before standing and putting the handle of his tongs back in his leather work apron.

  “No, I mean ill as in mean looking. When he looks at you, it’s like he’s staring into your soul. Made me uneasy, it did, but don’t go telling’ anyone I said that. I don’t want it getting’ around that I insulted the preacher’s guest.”