Spellbound
Spellbound
The Awakening of Aislin Collins
By,
Margeaux Laurent
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Margeaux Laurent at Smashwords.com
Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins
Copyright (c) 2010 by Margeaux Laurent
All rights reserved. This publication, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form nor transmitted in any manner (printed or electronic) without prior written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, businesses, organizations, events, or locals is completely coincidental.
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For my family
Who fill my life with magic.
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About the Author:
Margeaux Laurent lives in the United States with her family.
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CHAPTER ONE
Burlington, New Jersey
October 14, 1734
I sat by the fire reading a book my father had given to me. It was about a castaway named Robinson Crusoe and his adventures with pirates. My mother sat in the chair next to me working on her needlepoint and occasionally muttering words of frustration under her breath, her Irish brogue betraying her attempt at an English accent.
Our serenity was soon broken by a banging on the kitchen door. My mother cursed to herself and carefully laid down her sewing. I did not bother to look up as I brushed a strand of my silky, long dark hair behind my shoulder. Her tall, thin frame cast a shadow on my page as she passed me, and I could hear her dress ruffling as she made her way through the back parlor and to the door. I did not want to be bothered. I loved the time I was able to spend reading. I relished in being swept into a world far beyond the one I knew, where adventure waited at every turn, and people were allowed to be themselves. I did not live in that kind of world. My world was full of restrictions and requirements, and worse still, expectations. Expectations that I felt I could not possibly live up to, nor did I have any desire to do so. I found no interest in being a lady. I found no desire to marry a man twice my age and be expected to push out babies until I was too old, and my body too fragile to bear the burden any longer. I watched women of this type. Mrs. Leeds for example, who on a rare occasion came to town and resembled a mother duck with her gaggle of children crowded around her. She waddled like a duck too. She was pregnant again and was always in an ill-tempered mood. Of course, having as many children as does Mrs. Leeds is indeed rare, but there is no guarantee that another husband would not ask his young wife to do the same. I will not be such a wife. In fact, I prefer not to marry at all.
I could hear two voices in the kitchen, one raised and the other calm.
“It’s an emergency,” the young woman insisted.
“Abigail, everything to you is an emergency,” my mother replied.
“Please ma’am, let Aislin help me. I need her.”
I heard my mother sigh and call my name. I had already placed a ribbon between the pages of my book to mark my place. As I stood, I smoothed out the skirt of my sapphire blue gown, which had become slightly wrinkled from my time curled up reading.
“I am coming.”
I found my shoes by the hearth and placed them on my feet, and I grabbed my forest green cloak. As I swung it over my shoulders, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the sitting-room mirror. My eyes had been blurry from reading, so I leaned into my reflection and rubbed them. I examined them to see if they appeared tired or bloodshot, but luckily, they only reflected back to me as crystal blue. My hair reached the small of my back and I quickly pulled it forward so that it was no longer lumped underneath my cloak. I then moved from the mirror and rushed to meet Abigail and my mother in the kitchen.
As I passed my mother she reached out her hand, “Don’t let her keep you out late,” she whispered as she reached back and tied her thick auburn hair into a knot. I gave her a little nod, and turned my attention to my friend.
Abigail looked frantic. Her green eyes were opened wide as she nervously twirled a strand of carrot colored hair around her spindle-like finger. In her anxiousness, she was turning as pink as her silken gown.
“What is it?” I asked as I followed her out the back door.
“Benjamin is missing,” she said, as we sprinted down the dirt street, our cotton dresses flowing off our legs like bellowing flags as we made our way to Abigail’s home.
Abigail was quite a bit taller than I was, and I found it difficult to keep up with her as she rushed ahead. She had incredibly long legs and the mean natured girls in town often teased her, calling her gangly. Growing up, I had spent many hours comforting Abigail as she wept in response to the girls’ taunting. At times, she would complain that she wanted to be petite like me, but I thought she was beautiful the way she was.
She was almost seventeen years old now, but in many ways Abigail still behaved as she did when we first met. I am two years older than she is and have always looked after Abigail, who is subsequently always finding new ways to get into trouble.
Abigail’s home was south of town, nestled deep in the woods. It was a long distance from here, but at the pace we were running, the journey seemed to take no time at all. We turned down a street surrounded by giant oak trees and trimmed with great evergreen pines, and we passed many houses on the side streets of town, with their white picket fences and spotless front yards. Some of the houses stood taller and larger than others did, some were made of brick, and others were made of wood, painted in crisp shades of white or gray. Many had columns out front, while others were plainer and smaller; each home reflecting the income and status of their occupants. We turned right on the corner and passed Saint Mary’s Church on our left. The Minister yelled at us to slow down as we took the road that turned south, toward the forest.
The woods seemed to envelop the long, narrow, path that led to their estate. Tall imposing pines and oak trees swayed in the wind as we hurried down the road. Finally, the outline of the manor appeared before us, standing in stark contrast to the darkness of the surrounding woods stood an enormous two story white house.
I followed Abigail as she flew through the white wooden gate that led to her backyard. The yard was perfectly gardened with a little shed and rabbit hutch near the back. The garden opened up into the deep, thick, Pine Barren woods. I noticed that the door to the rabbit hutch lay wide open and that no animal could be found inside.
Weeks earlier, Abigail had convinced her father to let her take one of the baby bunnies that he had found scavenging in her mother’s garden. Her mother had protested, but Mr. Marthaler had thought it to be a good idea and that this animal would teach Abigail responsibility. Mrs. Marthaler insisted that it was something that the servants would do, but her husband ignored
her and built Abigail’s pet a hutch.
Now, the cage lay wide open and Abigail ran screaming through the backyard and into the woods in search of her little rabbit. I looked back at the house, and saw the tall and imposing figure of Mrs. Marthaler staring out the window at us. A smirk was plastered across her cold face; her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun, making her harsh features even more unbecoming. I ignored her glares and made my way behind the shed, out of her line of view. The sky was growing darker and it would soon be twilight.
When I was certain that Abigail was far away and that no one else could see me, I sat down on the cold October ground. With the crimson and golden leaves crunching under the weight of my body, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I called Benjamin to me with my mind. I searched for him and probed for him until I was certain of his location. He was hiding behind the woodpile, only a few yards from where I sat. I remained in the same spot with my eyes shut tight, my face feeling the cool air, until finally I felt a soft muzzle against my fingertips. Benjamin had hopped over to me. I thanked him for listening to me and carefully picked up the little brown bunny, and kissed him on his head. Benjamin twitched his little nose. He was hungry and cold. It was time to go back into his hutch. After I had placed him gently back into his home, I placed some carrots and fresh water in his bowls, shut the door, and then called for Abigail.
She came running over with a look of disbelief plastered on her face.
“Where was he?”
“He was over there, behind the woodpile,” I said, watching Abigail’s eyes follow my outstretched fingertip toward the firewood.
“How did you find him? I have been looking for hours!” she huffed, as she struggled to catch her breath.
I felt a slight panic well up inside me, but it subsided quickly. I knew that it was not difficult to convince Abigail of anything.
“I just sat still and listened for him. Then I heard him nibbling on the wood.”
Abigail seemed convinced and wiped the sweat off her freckle-covered cheeks.
“Thank you Aislin. I was so worried about him. I thought that the wolves or owls might have taken him.”
Just then, we heard the distinctive clunking sound of her little brother Mathew and his favorite wooden toy working their way toward us. The child dragged his wooden duck behind him, tugging on the rope that connected his plump little fingers to the battered toy. As he approached, he placed his free hand on his left hip and scowled at us. He looked very much like his mother, with the same harsh features and sandy colored hair, fashioning the same sour expression.
“Mother wants you in the house,” he squawked. He sounded much more like a catty little girl than the son of a hard-handed politician. “You have been asked to leave,” he spat in my direction.
I patted Abigail on the shoulder and looked up at the sky. “It’s getting dark. I should go home,” I said, as I turned toward the wooden gate.
“Would you like company for the walk?”
“No, Abigail. Thank you, but you would be walking home in the dark.”
Abigail nodded her head and turned her attention back to Benjamin’s hutch. We both gave a friendly wave and I watched as she followed her little brother back into their house. I noticed that she gave the trailing wooden duck a couple of well-placed kicks as she went.
As I walked in the direction of my home, my thoughts wandered. Mrs. Marthaler’s contempt for me had prompted my mind to drift. She did not approve of the friendship Abigail and I shared. We had met in Dame school when we were young children. We learned our alphabet, how to sew and paint, and we always stuck together. I had always been different from the other children. I never quite fit in, and Mrs. Marthaler saw this. Although I could carry on a conversation with all the young women of our community and could perform the same tasks, I was somehow always different, always on the outskirts of our social circles. Perhaps it all started when our schooling was over. Abigail spent the time helping her mother, all the while learning how to be a proper wife. I spent time with my father at his print shop, where he taught me to read and write. He also taught me how to count and do mathematics in the back of his shop so I could help with his daily tasks. It was never a problem until Mrs. Marthaler found out about my further education and started spreading rumors through town.
“Ladies were not meant to be educated in such ways,” she told my father one day after church. “It is unbecoming, and you will never find a man to marry a girl who engages in such masculine activities,” the Governor’s wife insisted as she and Mrs. Marthaler ambushed our family when we were making our way home.
My father agreed cordially as we broke away from the gaggle of clucking hens and when we got back home, he told my mother that we would continue my education in the evening at our house, and no one was ever to know. My father believed that I was intelligent and that an education would enrich my life. I secretly knew that my father treated me in many ways as he would have treated the son he never had. Each night, after he returned from work, we would sit together and study arithmetic, and he would bring me new books to read whenever they came into his shop. Most often, I was given the New Jersey Gazette. My father printed and distributed the paper each week
It was dark now. The walk in the brisk night did not seem to take that long and I found myself back in town. I decided to take the long way home and walk through the town. Beautiful lantern lights lined High Street, the main thoroughfare of Burlington. Many of the shops had candles lit in the windows, giving the street a welcoming air. It was pleasant to say hello to the shop owners as they closed their establishments for the night. I walked passed the cobbler’s shop, which was a small building, painted gray, with large windows that allowed patrons to watch the cobbler while he worked. He was a portly man with a jovial expression, and he waved happily before he tootled home for the evening. I passed the apothecary on my right, and further up the street I passed my father’s print shop on my left. I smiled as I looked upon the shop, knowing my father was still inside, busy at work. The building was large for one business, but then again my father required a tremendous amount of space for his work. My eyes drifted up the side of the building, scanning the cream-colored exterior until I spotted his silhouette pacing back and forth in one of the structure’s many windows. I did not stop to say hello, as I knew my mother wanted me home. Instead, I turned west and followed the narrow street that bordered the port.
I walked quietly passed the witch’s tree, an old weeping willow that was used to hang the last witch and wizard accused of witchcraft in our town. It had happened only five years ago and though I was only fourteen, I understood the severity of this event. I remember that the happening had made my mother angry. She told me that neither of the accused were witches. As I passed under the looming branches, I was compelled to stop at the tree. Legend said that this was where the witches went for wood to make their brooms. I wanted to inspect the limbs, but I was forbidden.
My mind drifted back to that night; to the moment I learned who I really was, and why I could do so many things that others could not. I remember the room was dark. My mother paced back and forth in front of my four-poster bed, running her hands through her auburn hair as she talked to herself. I sat quite still, anxious, as I waited to hear what my mother was struggling to find the words to say. She clutched an old book in her left hand. It was small but well worn, she lifted it up to the candlelight, as though asking it for guidance and then finally she sat down next to me.
“Aislin, what I am about to tell you may come as a great surprise and it will most certainly go against everything you have learned from the Minister,” her blue eyes sparkled in the soft flames that blanketed the room in warm light. She peered into one of the candles as though in a trance. In truth, she was searching for the right words.
“My people, our people, do not view special gifts or powers to be evil. In fact, back home it was common for women and men to have special gifts. These special people were considered to
be close to God and gifted by the Creator. I have the gifts, as did your Grandmother. I had thought that perhaps you would not because your father is not from the Isle, but yet you possess them, and they are more powerful in you than I have ever seen.” As she spoke, I could hear anxiety building in her voice.
I sat silently. I felt as though I was walking in a dream. I heard her words but they were almost shrouded.
She continued, “I have seen you call animals to you. I have watched you predict when events would occur. I have witnessed you play with the wind and kindle the fire downstairs. Now I have no choice but to teach you because you must learn to control your powers or you will surely bring eyes full of hatred and fear upon yourself.” She was fighting back tears, her alabaster complexion flushing as she struggled to control herself.
“I’m so sorry Mother,” I said frantically as I took her hands in mine, forcing the ancient book to drop between us on the bed. “I will not do it anymore. I won’t!” I insisted, as fear welled up inside me. “What is wrong with me?” I asked.
My mother pushed a tendril of my dark hair away from my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “No! Do not think like that,” she insisted, “Nothing is wrong with you dear child. You are special, you are … a witch.”
As she spoke the word, I felt time stop. I felt a sensation of being enveloped in complete and total truth. I felt whole, and yet in the back of my mind spun all the possible and horrible ramifications of such a reality.
“Am I evil?” I breathed the words in a hoarse whisper.
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