Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins

by Margeaux Laurent

  “Is your father home?” he asked as he strutted up to where we sat.

  He stared down at us with a pompous air about him, his brown wool coat made his skin look sallow. He walked passed me and pulled at the door as though he was welcome to let himself into my house.

  “No, he is not. But if you walk in on my mother, you are likely to get a pan to the head,” I said coldly.

  “When will he be home?”

  “I am not his apprentice and I do not keep his time,” I growled back.

  “Fine, I will call on him tonight.” He sat himself down next to me. Sneachta maneuvered between us, reached out, and scratched his hand. “What is wrong with that wretched cat?” he howled, as he stood up and backed away from her.

  “She does not like you,” I replied while stroking her fur.

  “Next time she comes after me, I’ll sick my dogs on her,” he threatened as he sucked at the blood that barely broke the surface of his hand.

  I looked up sharply at the whining louse. “You hurt my cat in anyway and you will pay dearly,” I hissed at him.

  Abigail looked rather anxious, but her brother just smiled at me. “Now, that is no way to talk to your future husband,” he said.

  I could tell that he liked the idea of exhibiting control over me. If I were forced to marry this boy, I would live my life under his thumb, governed by the back of his hand.

  “The way you behave, your father better offer me a fare price.”

  “I will never marry you Zachariah Marthaler… even if the only way to avoid it is by death!”

  He froze at my words, as though the thought of my rejection had never crossed his feeble mind. It took a while for his composure to come back to him. Abigail scowled at me and whispered under her tongue that I should take the words back. I raised a hand to silence her.

  “I do not love you Zachariah. I do love another and I am promised to him. Now please leave and do not bother me again.”

  “Who?” he demanded. I thought about that for a moment and suddenly felt incredibly stupid. I had no answer to that question. What was I to say? I am promised to someone who visits me in my dreams and bought me this necklace? That I was never given his name but I somehow, inexplicably, know that he loves me?

  “It is not your concern,” I blurted out.

  Zachariah turned on his heel and strutted away, “Liar,” I heard him call over his shoulder.

  “How could you?” Abigail yelled, “You stupid girl! Who else is going to marry you?”

  I noticed that tears were streaming down my face. I was lost in thought. His words echoed in my head—“Your father better offer me a fair price”. It made me see my mother, young and terrified, on an auction block being sold like cattle. I refused to be sold and traded for.

  “I need to rest. Please excuse me Abigail.”

  Abigail bolted after her brother, leaving me on the porch.

  I turned and went inside where my mother was waiting for me, arms open, with a soft cloth in her hand for my tear stained face. “Do not worry. I will not let such a boy near you.”

  ********************

  After I drank my tea and calmed myself, my mother asked that I walk with her to the market house on Broad and High Street so that we could purchase sage and pumpkins for Samhain. The holiday was tomorrow and it was the strongest time of year for divination, so we rushed to prepare.

  Sneachta followed me, but stayed far enough away as not to create suspicion. Cats were still associated with witchcraft and devil worship and if she followed me as a dog followed his master, many heads would turn.

  In truth, Sneachta is my familiar, a magical creature sent to help guide me in the Craft. Although common belief says that familiars are consorts of the devil, Sneachta is not an evil spirit. She is indeed a cat, my cat, but she is special.

  As we walked, I kept one hand near the opening of my pocket in case I needed to ring the bell or cast a protection spell.

  The market house was a large brick building, somewhat resembling a barn, open on both ends and spacious inside. In the interior, many tables were set up for farmers and merchants to display their goods. These tables, or shambles as some of the locals called them, were overflowing with vegetables, herbs, and grain. I looked around at the haggling merchants and buyers, I saw that that Martha was amongst the crowd. She did not look at us, but I knew she was there to watch over me, as was Sneachta.

  My mother walked through the shambles, moving from table to table, picking her sage and rolling the pumpkins, looking for bruising and insect bites. While she was busy, my attention was caught by a child’s cries. I walked away from the stands and followed the wails to outside the building. I turned the corner of the large brick building and saw a young child, around the age of five years old, sitting on the ground crying. As I moved closer, I recognized the child; this was Martha’s grandson, Isaac. Tears streamed down his sweet cherubic face and he held his little hands over his blood covered chin. He was trembling as he looked up at his assailant.

  Towering over the poor child stood a nasty sneering boy, the youngest of the Marthaler family. Mathew held a dirty, torn, rag doll triumphantly between his fat fingers and gave the fallen boy a swift kick.

  “What happened here?” I said, stepping between the two children.

  Isaac sniffled as raised a finger towards Mathew, “He took my toy,” he whimpered.

  “Is this true Mathew?” I asked sternly.

  Mathew pulled himself up as tall as he could, appearing rather haughty and as pompous as his older brother.

  “It’s only a bastard slave. I can do what I want,” he said.

  I did not think, nor did I hesitate. I reached my hand back as far as it would go and struck the obnoxious child across the face. There was a resounding crack as my hand reached his plump cheek. He flew backward and hit the ground.

  My hand throbbed, but I did not care. I walked over to the now wailing Mathew and plucked the cloth doll out of his hand. I then picked up little Isaac as though he were my own, and set off to find his mother so I could return the child to safety. Isaac snuggled into my shoulder as I walked and he clutched his little doll tightly.

  “It will be alright Isaac. I am going to find your mother for you,” I said gently.

  We walked to the very east edge of town until we reached a side gate of a huge home, and followed the dirt walkway to the slave quarters.

  I noticed that people were staring at us. A white woman carrying an African child in her arms must have seemed unusual. I did not care what anyone thought. I had enough of the Marthalers and their cruelty; enough of their ideas that people were items that they could trade for and use until they no longer found them fit.

  I knocked on the door of a small, one story cabin and waited for someone to answer.

  As I stood with Isaac, I thought of his mother. Although Becky and I had grown up in the same town, we never had the time to become as close as I would have liked. As far back as I could remember, she had been in servitude to her slaveholders, the Smiths, and they left her with no time to play or socialize as free children had time to do. While I had grown up at a leisurely pace, Becky’s journey into adulthood was hastened. She never knew the joys of running barefoot on a summer’s day or playing in the creek and picking berries until the sunset, never having to answer to anyone except loving parents who granted you freedom to be a child. Instead, Becky worked from sun-up until sundown for the Smiths. Yet, even under their harsh thumb, she had managed to find some semblance of happiness. Becky was married to Pete, who was also a servant of the Smith family. They had one child, precious little Isaac.

  Finally, Becky answered the door. I could tell that she had not been expecting company and was in the middle of work. She was brushing flour off her apron as she pulled the door wide open. The flour had gotten on her jet-black hair and it dusted her long thick eyelashes as well. Becky used her forearm to wipe the flour from her face as she turned her attention to the threshold.

  She
had the same large auburn eyes as her mother, and I watched as they landed on Isaac and went wide. Her soft cocoa skin paled as she lifted her gaze to me. She was about my age but her eyes seemed to show a woman who was far passed girlhood. She was quite beautiful, she stood a little bit taller than me, and was very thin. Even in her worn work clothing, mere hand-me-downs from her slaveholder, she had a grace about her.

  I handed Isaac over and tried to explain what had happened, but as I spoke, I saw terror spreading across her face. Her full lips quivered as she looked passed me, and I watched as her arms tightened around her child’s body.

  “Run Aislin,” she hurriedly muttered under her breath.

  Just as I was about to ask what was wrong she slammed the door shut. I turned around with my back to the door. I found myself facing a towering man, with broad shoulders, ruddy cheeks that matched his carrot colored hair, and a scowling expression. Mr. Marthaler’s green eyes looked down at me with distain, and behind him stood his two sniveling son’s, Mathew and Zachariah. I had no time to react. I was struck hard and fast in the face, not once, but twice. I slumped to the ground and felt blood trickling off my lips. The slaves who were in the yard, looked on helplessly as the Marthalers’ stomped passed them. If they ran to help me, they endangered themselves and their whole families.

  I struggled to get up and pushed anyone away who came close. I did not want to cause any more pain than they already had to face. I could walk. I was just in shock.

  I headed back to find my mother and was only feet away from the market house, when I noticed all the people staring at me and shaking their heads. They were siding with the Marthalers and I was thought to be the one who deserved the beating. My eyes welled up with uncontrollable tears. People cursed at me as I passed. I turned back away from them and I started running… running away from the market, passed the town shops and into the woods. I did not think or perhaps I no longer cared.

  I came to an old weeping willow that stood next to a flowing creek. I dropped down and wept bitterly. I wept for all I had seen, all my mother had lived through and for the fear of what Isaac’s family would now face because of me. I curled my knees into my chest and buried my face from the world. I had enough of it all.

  Sneachta was with me and did her best to comfort me, but to no avail. Then I heard something that made me stop weeping and freeze in place. Someone was near me.

  “There, there, my dear Aislin.”

  It was my protector. I looked up slowly to see that he was crouched down beside me. He gently reached out and stroked my hair with his fingertips, as I blinked the tears from my eyes. His presence seemed to soothe me instantly and I watched as he walked over to the water’s edge where he dipped a cloth into the flowing creek. I could not understand where he had come from.

  Sneachta purred as she moved toward my feet to let him sit closer to me. He returned and softly tilted my face with his hand, looking at the areas where I had been struck. He scowled at what he saw and I suddenly felt self-conscious.

  “Your face is bruised,” he said softly as he pressed the cold, wet cloth onto my face and held it there.

  I was mesmerized by him; by the way I felt when I heard his voice. I reached up and placed my hand over his. When our eyes locked, I felt the strong sensation of bittersweet rejoice, as one would feel if they had been reunited with a long lost love—with someone they thought they would never see again. I struggled to understand how I could have such strong feelings for this man that I barely knew.

  “I am sorry that I could not stop them from hurting you,” he said with his soft rolling accent.

  “You saw what happened?” I asked shyly.

  “No, I was on the other side of town,” he replied while he brushed my hair away from my face. “It was very brave of you to protect the child,” he trailed off.

  “Isaac is like family to me,” I replied. “How did you know about Isaac if you were on the other side of town?” I asked in confusion.

  “I heard the locals talking about what happened,” he said with a serious expression, “I never should have been that far away from you.” He seemed to be scolding himself more than talking to me.

  “Do not blame yourself,” I said in earnest as I reached for his hand, “It would not have mattered where you were . . . I still would have protected Isaac.”

  “But I should have been there to stop that brute from hurting you,” he said through clinched teeth.

  “I would not have wanted that,” my tone was now serious. “Mr. Marthaler holds immense power in this town… he would have had you killed for helping me. I would never want someone to suffer on my behalf… especially not you.” Even as I spoke the words I could imagine what horrible things the Marthalers would have done to this man if that scenario had played out, and the very thought of it terrified me.

  “You haven’t changed,” he said under his breath as he shook his head in disbelief.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Greer,” he said, as he placed the cloth near my hairline.

  “Where are you from?”

  He smiled a little, which made his features accentuated. His eyes were sparkling and his olive skin flushed. “I am from Scotland.”

  “Is that where I was in the dream?” I asked him intently.

  “Aye.”

  “How did you know to save me? Are you a… a witch?” Speaking the word out in the open felt dangerous, even when said in the most hushed whisper.

  He did not answer but shook his head from side to side, “I have my own magic though.”

  I nodded in reply. I had seen his magic.

  “Are you new to town?”

  “Yes,” he smiled, “You saw when I arrived.”

  Sneachta placed her head on Greer’s leg and started purring. He laughed at her and scratched her head.

  “Are you here on business of some kind?” I asked, hoping that he would not say he was here to meet a bride that was arranged for him.

  I saw the corner of his mouth slip into a little smirk—as though he read my thoughts, ‘I am here on business, but I am not married … nor am I here to meet a potential bride.”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot and knew I was blushing profusely, “Oh,” I stammered, “I didn’t mean…”

  His beautiful eyes searched my face and he rested his hand on top of mine to silence me, “I did not come to Burlington in search of a bride … but I never knew that we would meet,” he whispered.

  At his touch, my head began to spin. He held my hand gently in his and his fingers began to intertwine with my own. His touch was strangely familiar to me.

  “How is it that we know each other? How is it that I lo…” I stopped myself before the words could finish.

  Greer brushed back a curly strand of dark hair from his face. He stopped crouching and seated himself at my side, “I think we must have always known each other. The moment I saw you at the port … it was as though I was looking into my past.” Sadness crept through his words.

  I searched his eyes and saw no deception in them. If anything in my life was real, it was that fact that I knew him. We had met before.

  I understood what he said and I remembered reading about this in the book. Perhaps we were soul mates, eternally bound to each other’s side. As these thoughts passed through my mind, I knew deep within my heart that they were true.

  Greer leaned in close to me and placed a gentle kiss upon my forehead. His lips were soft, full, and cool on my skin. He moved toward my lips but stopped, his eyes resting on my bottom lip. His eyes widened and changed a bit… they looked slightly darker and what looked like panic shown across his face.

  “You are bleeding, we must get you home.” He wasted no time, bent over and picked me up as though I weighed nothing more than a feather pillow.

  “Can we stay a little longer?” I pleaded.

  He shook his head fervently, “No, you are not safe here. We cannot afford to delay.”

  I then remembered how my blood had drawn t
he creature to me once before and I understood. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bell, holding it in my hand just incase.

  Greer carried me and we swiftly moved through the woods, with Sneachta expertly leading the way. Within only moments, we were at the threshold of my home. He placed me down gently and knocked on the door. My mother swung it open and rushed over to me, pulling me tightly into her arms.

  “Thank God you are alright,” she said while leading me into the house.

  I struggled to free myself and introduce her to Greer, but as I turned to where he had stood I only saw emptiness, for he had gone.

  If it had not been for Greer’s wet cloth that I still held in my right hand, I would have thought our visit was merely a hallucination or a dream. I hesitated in the doorway, but my mother drew me into the house and locked the door behind me.

  “That horrible man,” she gasped when she saw the red marks on my cheek and my bloody lip. She yanked the cloth from my hand and brought it to the kitchen where she dipped it into a basin of water and then placed it again on my face.

  “Where did you get this kerchief?” she asked, “I have not seen it before.” She looked frightened, her face was taught and all her mannerisms restricted.

  I hesitated before I answered. “My protector found me in the woods. He used it to put cold water on my face.” I was afraid of what her reaction might be. Would she forbid my meeting with him?

  “He must be wealthy,” she said while touching the lace that bordered the edges of the cloth, “Do you think you may be in love with him Aislin?”

  I was taken aback by her inquiry. It seemed rather inappropriate for her to ask me such questions when I barely knew Greer, but in truth, I already knew the answer, “I… yes, I love him,” I replied quietly.

  “Then it is a good thing that he is wealthy. He will need to prove that he can provide for you in a way that Zachariah cannot.”

  “What?” Surely, after today’s events, the Marthalers were done with me?