Witchmark: Daughters of Hecate ~ Prequel

by Meredith Medina

  Mrs. Askew had begun to unpack her trunks, and the small dressing table was draped with fine fabrics and lace the like of which I had never seen. I longed to touch it, but I knew that I would be scolded if I did.

  “Well, Sarah,” she addressed me by my new name and I swallowed thickly. “I had a dream about you. A woman with red hair like yours brought you to me, and told me to look after you and take you to the colonies.”

  My mouth dropped open. My mother had pushed me towards this ship for a reason, even as the fire was taking her away from me; she had been guiding me to this woman. My witchmark itched and I fidgeted with the urge to scratch it.

  “Come now, let us find you something to wear. That ugly old thing will never do.” She tugged at my ragged dress and I felt a sudden protectiveness over it. My aunt had made it for me out of one that Hannah had outgrown. Mrs. Askew smiled kindly and I felt a comforting warmth replace the knot of fear that had tightened in my stomach.

  I nodded, and tried to return her smile. If my mother had brought me to this woman, then I was resolved to honor her wishes and behave myself.

  I allowed Mrs. Askew to dress me in clothes that were finer than anything I had ever owned and took to following her about the ship and catering to her every request. I fetched her supper, brought her paper and ink for writing letters, and listened to her stories about the colonies. Her late husband had been a merchant, and he owned this ship, which was stocked with goods bound for a place called Salem.

  “I couldn’t very well allow my dear Abraham’s final shipment to be delayed!” Mrs. Askew was determined to see the colonies on her own and establish her own contacts there. It seemed a lofty thing to me, but I suppose I was a little young to understand at the time. All I had done was nod and agree with her.

  The journey was a long one, but not unpleasant, and Mrs. Askew was determined that she would teach me to read. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I already knew how to read, and that my mother and aunt had not skimped on my education. I knew which herbs to use to alieve the symptoms of gout, and which tea to make to speed the arrival of a stubborn child. Where my aunt and my mother had taught me to read useful things, Mrs. Askew taught me to read frivolous things like sonnets and even sang songs to me.

  It was very strange, and while I enjoyed her attentions, I longed for the dusty books that my mother would bring out of a wooden box at the foot of her bed. The ones that had pressed flowers between the pages and the smell of herbs on the frayed fabric covers were my favorite. I would have taken those with me when I left the town. But now they would never leave the box, and I would never be able to read them again.

  Mrs. Askew was kind to me, and while I never confided in her, she knew that I carried a heavy secret. One that caused me lapse into long silences without warning. She tried her best to cheer me, but I did not know how to tell her that the wound was still too fresh, and that I did not know if my heart would ever heal. Mrs. Askew had the good sense not to try to treat me like a daughter, but I was a treasured companion who slept in a little bed beside hers and accompanied her everywhere.

  * * *

  The voyage passed quicker than I had expected, and the sailors who shouted for land were thrilled to see the end of their journey drawing near. Mrs. Askew had no told me what I could expect from Salem, but from what she had said, I assumed that we would stay for a short while, sell some of the goods that she carried, and then set sail for New York.

  As the ship dropped anchor in the harbor, I helped Mrs. Askew choose the goods that would be taken ashore. The village looked quiet, and the smoke from the chimney’s rose gently into the air. The sight of those gray plumes filled me with just a little jolt of fear, but I did my best to hide my trepidation as Mrs. Askew bundled me into one of the little boats and we were rowed to shore.

  Men from the village, severely dressed and firm faced welcomed us ashore and the goods were set out upon several rough tables for the women to peruse. The frosty reception continued until Mrs. Askew produced letters that had been written to her husband from one of Salem’s wealthiest citizens, a Thomas Putnam, inviting him to bring his goods to Salem.

  Mrs. Askew expected me to help her with the sales, and I did as best I was able, but I could not shake the feeling of unease that gripped me as we stood in the center of the village. There was a tension in the air, as though something terrible were about to happen. Women exchanged distrustful looks, and Mrs. Askew and I were examined with hard eyes and whispered comments.

  “These Puritans,” Mrs. Askew huffed as another woman asked a price for a length of lace and then walked away without purchasing it. I nodded distractedly, my eyes on a young woman who hung back from the groups of women milling around examining the wares. My witchmark itched suddenly and I slapped at my leg to make the sensation go away, but it only intensified, making me chew my lip in frustration.

  The young woman was dressed as severely as the rest of the villagers, and her dark eyes were fixed on me. I thought it might have been my hair that had drawn her attention, a few of the other women had commented on it. I did not take their interest to heart, and not all of the words they said were unkind, but Mrs. Askew had told me not to mind what they said.

  Leave.

  A voice whispered in my mind.

  I looked up in shock, my eyes wide as I strained to hear more. The young woman with the dark eyes had disappeared from the edge of the crowd, and I could not find her.

  Leave. Not. Safe.

  Could there be one of us here? Another Daughter of Hecate so far away from England. I wanted to meet her; I wanted to speak with her. What did she mean? Why wasn’t it safe? I was desperate to speak to someone who understood how I felt, how empty I was. I wanted to see her witchmark, was it the same as mine? But she was nowhere to be found.

  As the sun began to set, Mrs. Askew accepted the kind patronage of Mr. Proctor, who invited us to stay for supper and gave us a room in his large house for the night. Seated around the table with Mr. Putnam’s family, my feeling of unease didn’t fade.

  Mrs. Putnam was a pale, slender woman who did not say much, and Thomas Putnam’s wide smile seemed fixed to his face in a permanent way.

  “You have come at a difficult time, Mrs. Askew, Salem has been plagued by some troubles of late,” Mr. Putnam said, his smile did not falter. “Our daughter, Ann, has been ill, but we trust that she will recover soon.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” Mrs. Askew said, her concern written plainly on her face.

  “Yes, it has been very trying.”

  He did not seem to be overly concerned, and Mrs. Askew did not press him further. I didn’t like Mrs. Putnam’s silence, the look of the girl who brought out our meals, or the smile on Mr. Putnam’s face.

  Mrs. Askew slept soundly that night, but I stared at the ceiling, listening to the house as it creaked. We would be leaving for New York in the morning, and it could not come fast enough. All I could think about was the young woman I had seen in the village, the one who would not stop staring at me. The one who had whispered her warning in my mind.

  THUD.

  I must have drifted off to sleep, but the sound of something hitting the floor of the room above us made me sit up.

  Mrs. Askew’s soft snoring was the only sound. My heart hammered in my chest and my breathing was short and shallow. It could have been nothing... but something wasn’t right.

  Chapter 5

  I got out of my bed as quietly as I could, moving towards the door, which opened with the barest hint of a creak. I let out the breath I had been holding and crept down the hallway. The house was quiet, but I thought I could hear the sound of crying.

  Standing on the stairway was the girl who had served our dinner. She wore a long sleeping robe, and her hay colored hair was braided loosely over her shoulder.

  Another loud thud echoed in the silent house. The girl turned to me and laid her finger upon her lips.

  “Ann is very ill, we must be quiet.”

  Even tho
ugh I knew that I should go back to bed and pretend that I hadn’t heard anything, I came closer.

  “Goody Bishop is sending out her spirit... I saw it in the house. It had taken the shape of a red bird; it flew around the room, and swooped low over Ann’s head. Then she took ill...” The girl’s voice trailed away and I had the distinct feeling that she didn’t quite believe what she was saying, but had rehearsed it several times to get it right.

  “Why would Goody Bishop do that?” I asked, knowing that the answer would be one that I had heard more times than I ever wanted to hear it.

  “Goody Bishop is a witch. She’s been witching Ann, sending out her spirit. She’s punishing Ann for being so good. For her father being so wealthy. She is jealous... and wicked.” The girl sounded very sure of herself, and I began to feel nervous. “Mr. Putnam says you have come from England... did they punish witches in your village too?”

  “Yes... yes, they burned witches.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to have this conversation. The girl nodded gravely, looking back up the stairs as the sound of sobbing filled the air.

  “I hope that Goody Bishop and the other witches in Salem will be punished. Their sins should not be allowed to stain the village.”

  I began to back away, but the girl grabbed my elbow and pulled my closer, “Come and see what Goody Bishop has done to Ann.”

  I tried to pull away, but the girl was bigger than me, and stronger. Her fingers pinched painfully into my flesh. She tugged me with her as she climbed the narrow staircase that led up to Ann Putnam’s room.

  She pushed the door open to reveal a small room that was bare of furnishings except for a small bed covered in white sheets. A small form was huddled on the bed, one arm secured to the bedpost with a length of fabric.

  “Ann...”

  The other girl turned, moaning and tugging at the tie that held her to the bed.

  “Mercy? Mercy you must untie me, please untie me.” Ann’s voice was plaintive, but the girl next to me shook her head.

  “You know I cannot, Ann. Your father would whip me if I untied you. Do you remember hurting your mother?” Mercy’s voice was soft and even, and it chilled me to the bone.

  “I hurt my mother? I cannot...”

  “Don’t worry, Ann, we know it was Goody Bishop lashing out through you, taking her anger out on your poor mother.”

  Ann Putnam began to cry again, knocking her head against the wooden headboard in desperation. I backed towards the door; I had seen enough... and I knew I would not be able to sleep until Salem had been left far behind us.

  Mercy didn’t seem to notice that I was retreating, and as soon as my foot hit the stairs, I turned and ran for the room I shared with Mrs. Askew.

  I closed the door to the room behind me, my heart pounded in my chest and I felt cold all over. Mrs. Askew’s gentle snores filled the room as I climbed back into my bed. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, knowing that above us, Ann Putnam was confined to her bed, possessed by something that I couldn’t quite understand.

  I didn’t know what Goody Bishop had done to deserve Mercy’s harsh words, but if the knot in my stomach was any indication, she had done nothing to Ann Putnam.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to force myself to sleep, but I could hear everything happening in the house.

  When dawn broke I was sitting up in my bed, listening to wood being chopped outside the house and the sound of the family beginning to stir. Ann had quieted as the sun rose, but I could not shake the feeling of dread that sat heavily on my shoulders.

  Breakfast was a quiet affair, with Mr. Putnam and his younger children in attendance. Mercy served us our breakfast, and her cold eyes held mine as she set down our plates. I wondered if she knew what I was, and if she did... what she would say.

  “Are you sure that you won’t stay, Mrs. Askew?” Mr. Putnam’s wide, unsettlingly calm smile had not left his face. “We are expecting another visitor in the village today.”

  “I do apologize, Mr. Putnam, but we really must move on to New York today.”

  “A shame indeed, Mrs. Askew,” he replied, his eyes glittering in the light that streamed through the high kitchen window.

  I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave immediately, but Mrs. Askew was determined to do some last minute sales for some women who had hesitated over the lace the day before. She was convinced that they would return to make their purchases and of course I could not argue.

  * * *

  It was carrying the last of our wares down to the little boat that would take us back to the ship when my witchmark began to burn. It was a sudden, sharp pain that made me cry out and I stumbled just a little, trying to catch my breath.

  Behind me, someone cried out a greeting and the sound of a wagon approaching and the unmistakable sound of hoofs beat in time with my heart.

  Run!

  My mouth dried up and without a backward glance I ran for the beach where Mrs. Askew waited. The voice echoed in my head, repeating that one word over and over again.

  Run!

  Run!

  “Are you quite all right, Sarah?” Mrs. Askew was all concern as she reached for me, but I nodded my head quickly and clambered into the boat.

  Mr. Putnam and his wife stood at the edge of the village, watching us depart. Mrs. Putnam’s face was blank and emotionless, and Mr. Putnam wore his signature smile that never seemed to move.

  As the boat was pushed into the water, Mr. Putnam was joined by two figures cloaked in black. The man wore a conical hat with a broad brim, his pale silvery hair, spilled over his shoulders like moonlight.

  Elias Maycotte.

  Mr. Putnam seemed thrilled to see him, shaking his hand eagerly. But Elias Maycotte’s ghostly pale eyes were set upon me, and his face was as hard as stone. The woman I had seen with him, the one who had seen me in the crowd, she stood at his side, her black eyes burning into mine.

  My witchmark stung, and I winced, trying my best not to sob as my eyes filled with tears.

  They had found me, and we had to get away. We had to leave Salem far behind. My mother’s face danced in my mind’s eye, her red hair floating around her face as the fire licked at the edge of her woolen dress.

  The boat pulled farther and farther away and Mrs. Askew continued to talk about her sales and how pleased she was that she had honored her husband’s contract with the elders of Salem. Very pleased indeed.

  I nodded in agreement, but I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Elias Maycotte in his black cloak. If only I could help Goody Bishop... but I couldn’t.

  What about the young woman who had whispered in my mind? What would happen to her?

  As the ship set sail for New York, I knew that I had to get away from Mrs. Askew; I had to disappear. If Elias Maycotte had found me in Salem, he would find me in New York. Mr. Putnam would tell him who we were, his strange smile spread across his whey colored face, and I would have to run again.

  That was a long time ago now, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of rebellion, death and injustice, and you’d think that the memories would have faded away, but I can’t leave that part of myself behind. Sure, I’ve forced myself to forget a lot, but I’ll never forget the shape of my mother’s face, or the smell of her books as she sat by the fire and taught me about healing and our goddess given skills and powers.

  I tell everyone that I’m 21, but only because it’s a lot easier than trying to tell the truth. Besides, no one would hire a 335-year old barista.

  What is the truth anyway? No one in Salem told the truth, and just like every witch trial, there were innocent lives lost for the sake of pride and revenge.

  Nowadays it’s safe to say you’re a witch, you could even call it trendy. I’ve met lots of them. But collecting crystals, wearing pentacles, and lighting black candles on a full moon doesn’t make them witches, not really, and Hecate will never see them the way I know she can see me.

  It’s hard not to be cynic
al, but after all this time, it where I’m comfortable, plus it makes for fewer invites to margarita nights with women I can barely tolerate. I’m just trying to live a normal life, I mean, if you can call any of this normal.

  Available Now ~ Daughters of Hecate

  Book 1 - Sticks & Stones ~ Available now (standalone)

  My name is Ophelia Turner, and I’m just like any other 21-year old. Except for the fact that I was born over 330 years ago. After escaping witchfinders with a penchant for dealing with their problems with fire, I’ve been hiding out in New York City.

  But after all this time, I’m starting to worry that my cover has been blown. My boyfriend is acting really weird, and I get the distinct feeling that I’m being hunted all over again. It doesn’t help that my last coven contact has been really quiet and the Malleus are literally knocking on my door. You might hate Mondays, but I’ve got a serious problem that can’t be solved with a venti pumpkin spice latte.

  Book 2 - Moonlight Burns ~ coming soon (standalone)