The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  ‘Old Baggis be pleased to see thee again, witch wench. Do not fret thys’n in these short hours left. I shall see you do not spend them lonely.’ He left with a throaty laugh still rattling around the room as the door clanged shut and the key turned in the lock.

  It was a relief to be alone, even in such a place. Here at least, for this moment, there was no one to jab an accusing finger in her face or spit at her as she passed by. She sank to her knees on the rancid straw, trying to summon some of the courage and forbearance she had seen her mother show. At least they would all be reunited once more. It would not be long now. The execution had been set for dawn the following day. She had only to endure this night and the ordeal of the gallows, and then she would be at peace with those she loved. She had already made up her mind that this was the only path left to her. She believed Gideon when he said she could have the power to save herself, that it was there for the taking. But she would not. How could she? Could her mother truly have wished her to become such a vile creature as Gideon? She refused to believe it. No, she must have hoped only that he could keep her persecutors at bay long enough for some other salvation to present itself. Had she hoped William would come to Bess’s rescue? It was possible, her mother not knowing the full truth of the Gould family’s involvement in her own end. Bess’s head throbbed with the effort of reasoning the unreasonable. She pulled her shawl over her head and lay down, thankful to find herself quickly drifting into sleep.

  It did not seem moments later, although it must have been several hours, when she was woken by the sound of the door being opened. Baggis staggered into the cell. Even in the fetid air Bess could smell the alcohol on his breath as he approached her.

  ‘Well now, here be Baggis, good as ’is word, come to keep thee company.’

  Bess scrambled to her feet. ‘Leave me be, please.’

  ‘Don’t be shy, little lass.’ He stepped close to her, reaching a hand toward her breast. Bess batted it away. He laughed. ‘You ’ave no business being picky, you mibben better take comfort where ’tis offered. I heard,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘that the witchfinder be so sure thee be a wicked, wicked creature, he be planning a little surprise.’ Baggis paused to wipe his dribbling mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Seems he favors the Scottish method of ridding the parish of witches. Should draw a crowd bigger than a summer fair. Years since we’ve ’ad a burning at Batchcombe.’ Seeing fear in Bess’s eyes, he went on. ‘Never mind, witchy, I dare say thee’ll make a right pretty candle.’

  Bess tried to dodge past him, but he lurched sideways and grabbed her by the hair, falling to the ground with her. ‘Now then, you be gentle with old Baggis, witch wench, and ’e’ll be gentle with thee.’ He pinned her down, leaning his great weight on top of her. Bess struggled wildly, but she was hampered by her shackles and not strong enough to push him off. He lowered his mouth toward hers. ‘A little kiss, shall we ’ave, mibben?’ he slobbered.

  Bess moved her face at the last moment and sank her teeth deep into his bulbous nose. Baggis let out a scream and sat up, blood gushing from the bite. He swore unintelligibly before swinging his right fist down with brutal force into Bess’s cheek. She heard her own jaw crack.

  ‘Bite me, would you, you vixen? Lie still or I’ll knock every tooth from that pretty mouth!’

  Bess was still reeling from the blow but quickly became aware of him fumbling beneath her skirts. Now the fetters were hampering her attacker. Bess squirmed and wriggled, not thinking now, simply reacting. Baggis swore and brought his fist down a second time. Bess screamed as it connected with her cheek in the exact same spot as the first. The pain rendered her immobile until she felt Baggis reach his goal. He let out a series of porcine grunts as he moved to force himself inside her. A different pain, sharper than that which possessed her face, more intense and somehow far more unbearable, stabbed through her body. Bess looked up to see the leering face of her attacker made even uglier by his selfish lust. At that moment the clouds shifted in the night sky, exposing the moon. Its silver beams fell through the high prison window, slipping between the bars and reaching into the darkness. Bess felt the light cover her. The full moon. This was the moment. Now she must decide. Baggis lunged into her, spitting saliva onto her face. Bess thought of Gideon and of what she had witnessed in the woods. Then she recalled how he had spoken of freedom from pain and freedom from death. She thought of her mother’s words. Survive! Live on. She made her decision. She tried to say the words Gideon had taught her, but her mouth no longer responded as it should. She coughed out blood and tried again. Every word was wrenched painfully from her throat.

  ‘Fleare dust achmilanee … achmilaneema … Eniht si eht modgnik.’ She spat out a tooth and continued with a little more strength. ‘Eniht si eht modgnik, my Lord. Fleare dust achmilanee, dewollah eb yht eman! Fleare dust achmilaneema.… Rewop dna eht yrolg! Fleare dust achmilaneema!’

  Her attacker was too absorbed in his own pleasure to pay any heed to the strange sounds Bess now chanted, louder and louder, stronger and stronger. She repeated the verses three times, just as Gideon had instructed, terrified that at any moment the clouds might rob her of the moon’s rays. But they did not. She spoke the last syllable of the last utterance and waited. Nothing happened. Nothing to stop the relentless defiling of her body. Nothing to mask the repulsive noises coming from the drunken jailer. Had it all been a fantasy? Had she really to submit to this and then to suffer the torment of being burned alive? Bess closed her eyes and formed one more word. She used all the breath that was in her body to scream it.

  ‘Gideon!’

  The room became suddenly preternaturally still. Even Baggis paused. In the distance, Bess could hear a high whine that grew and gathered force until it became a deafening roar. The soft light of the moon was replaced by a dazzling glare. The jailer looked about him in panic, then back at Bess. He cried out in terror, struggling to get away from her, falling backward in his haste to disentangle himself.

  ‘Witch!’ he shouted. ‘Witch!’

  With the filthy man out of the way, the pulsating light enveloped Bess. The noise was terrifying now, like the battle cry of a thousand regiments or the roar of a hundred fighting dragons. Baggis’s mouth stretched open in screams that could not be detected in the cacophony. Bess could feel the power surging through her body. It washed away the pain, stopping the blood and mending her broken bones. She stood up, feeling herself weightless and free as the chains to her fetters snapped. Now she understood. She understood the ecstasy of power. The beauty of it. The glory of it. The sensual joy of it. Her entire being glowed and shone with it. She regarded the cowering man in the corner of the cell. How quickly the tables had been turned. This time it was she who raised her hand. Baggis covered his head with his arms, whimpering. Bess wanted to test her strength, to take her revenge, to feel for the first time in her life what it truly meant to be the one with the power. She knew she could squash him like an ant beneath her foot if she wished. She began to rise up, floating toward the window.

  ‘Mercy!’ Baggis screamed.

  Bess lowered her hand slowly.

  ‘You will receive precisely the mercy you deserve,’ she told him, pointing a finger in the direction of his groin.

  As the pathetic man’s screams rose to shrieks, Bess turned and pushed her way effortlessly through the bars of the window. Once she was in the street, silence returned. She looked about her, suddenly spent and weak once more. She had not been observed. The village slept on. Clearly only the occupants of the cell had heard anything at all. Keeping to the moon shadows, Bess ran.

  Extract from

  Batchcombe Court Records,

  March 21, 1628

  On this day, shortly before dawn, the accused and convicted Witch, one Elizabeth Anne Hawksmith, did use Witchery to escape her gaol. The same did grievously afflict the gaoler, one Jonothan Baggis, as he attempted to restrain her. He was in fact rendered simple-minded, and his privy member was seen to turn black and with
er. The Witch did, according to his testimony, scale the walls of her cell with all the ease of an insect before using the strength of the devil himself to pull the bars from the window. She did then shapeshift, transforming her body to that of a lizard so that she might effect her escape via the narrow portal, which is indeed too small to permit a grown woman to pass through it.

  Let it be recorded here that the said Witch did then flee the village. Upon the discovery of the distressed gaoler near to sunrise, the alarm was raised and she was pursued to Batchcombe Point, where the party, despite speedy response and valiant efforts, did fail to apprehend her. Those present have borne witness and testified to the fact that the convict did then step from the cliff top, spreading her arms and taking to flight.

  BELTANE

  APRIL 15—MOON ENTERS ARIES

  It has been several weeks since Tegan sat in my kitchen and listened to the tale of Bess and her family. Ostara came and went on swift westerly winds that have at last begun to chase away the darkness of winter. Since the equinox, the weather has been mild and damp, bringing about a lushness and early spring splendor to rouse us all from our vernal hibernation. I have found myself strangely uplifted by the sharing of my history, as if I have let go some of the pain and loss that I have carried with me all these years. Of course, Tegan is unaware that the story of Bess is in fact the story of my own beginning. Why would she make such a connection? She has assumed that Bess was perhaps a distant relative of mine, and I have been content to let her believe so. The story has, however, ignited a passion in her for all things magical. She quizzed me endlessly on my own knowledge of the arts so that I eventually agreed to instruct her in the ways of the hedge witch. I have searched my heart and can find nothing wrong in doing this, so long as I believe I am truly free of my pursuer. Certainly I have seen no signs that my new settlement is unsafe. My intention is to teach Tegan what it means to work with nature, to heal and protect. The craft of hedge witchery is benign and good, and I believe she will take to it. Indeed, she has already shown herself a willing pupil, spending more and more time with me, listening attentively and carrying out my instructions with care and interest. I confess I am enjoying both her company and her enthusiasm. Of course, it is out of the question that I would allow her to wander into the darker realms of the craft. Such magic has no place in her life. I would not wish upon anyone the price I have paid for the power that I chose to take. And it was a choice, however much I might care to blame circumstance and misfortune. It was my choice. And it was a choice my mother turned away from. The only way I have been able to reconcile myself to my decision all these years is to have continued her work. To heal. To tend. To support the weak. These are the good things a witch can do. A witch must do. These are the skills I will impart to Tegan. We have already started our preparations for celebrating Beltane. How I long for that day to come, when the sun god takes his place as majesty over the year and all is warmth and growth and abundance. I have given Tegan books to read on the subject, all the while reminding her that her schoolwork must not suffer. Her mother, whom I have still yet to meet, might at last become resistant to her spending so much time with me if she were to receive bad reports from school.

  APRIL 19—FIRST QUARTER

  The first swallows have arrived, and a pair have returned to an old nest in the eves of my garden shed. The daffodils have ceased their nodding and begun to recede. The dance of spring has been taken up in turn by the blossom, which is particularly good this year. The pussy willows and apple trees in the copse are a delight, and I can easily lose hours wandering among them. But there is work to be done. I continue to take my place at the weekly market at Pasbury. There is another market I could attend, in a town close enough for me to pass signposts to it. A larger, more prosperous town, where no doubt I would find a more abundant supply of customers for my products. But it is not a place I can bring myself to revisit. The memories are too vivid and too painful, even after all these years. I must focus on my stocks. I have plenty of flavored and scented oils but wish to prepare a quantity of lavender bags and bowls of potpourri. And the birch sap wine is ready for labeling. My needs are simple, but my savings have dwindled after the long winter. There is no avoiding the necessity for money. Much as I dislike the activity of selling, I must force myself to peddle my wares. At least it offers the chance to treat those I might otherwise not come into contact with. Tegan is determined to join me as often as I will allow, though I have warned her not to expect too much.

  APRIL 23—SECOND QUARTER

  What a success! I had no idea the people hereabouts would have such a desire for my products. It seems word has begun to spread. Tegan hugely enjoyed the day and gained almost as much satisfaction as I did from seeing the last of the basil oil snatched up before three o’clock. We celebrated with an ice cream from the neighboring stall. The day was remarkable for something other than my modest financial gain, however. Just before midday an attractive woman with gentle eyes and pretty hair approached the table. She feigned interest in the bottles of bath oil, but I sensed immediately she had another reason for standing before me. At the same moment I recognized what was familiar about her features. Tegan spoke.

  ‘Mum!’ she said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I begged a long lunch break so I could come and see how you were getting on.’ She paused and looked at me while continuing to address her daughter. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  ‘Oh, course. Mum, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth … my mum. Helen.’

  She held out a hand and I took it. Only now did I notice the uniform beneath her mac.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ I said.

  ‘Tegan talks about you nonstop. Elizabeth this, Elizabeth that.’ She smiled, but I could not read her true feelings on her face.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ I said, then, ‘She has been a great help to me today.’

  ‘Yeah, look, Mum, we’ve sold heaps of stuff. Everyone loves it. You should try some of this.’ She picked up a pot of oatmeal body scrub. ‘It’s lush and only a couple of quid. Go on.’

  ‘Quite the salesman,’ Helen said, taking the pot and digging in her purse. She handed Tegan the coins without looking at her purchase. ‘Well, I’d better leave you to it then. Keep up the good work. I’m on a double shift, remember. There’s cold chicken in the fridge. Don’t wait up.’

  Her visit seemed to have little effect on Tegan beyond her initial surprise. I think she was pleased her mother had bothered to seek her out and that she had bought something. I am very sure, however, that her purpose in coming to the market was not to please her daughter but to see me. It was, after all, the ideal neutral ground on which to size me up. There was no need for the awkward niceties a visit to my home would have required. Instead, she could satisfy her curiosity with the briefest of meetings. I felt too that she was in some small way staking her claim on Tegan. Or rather, reminding me that she was her mother and that any time she spent with me was on her sufferance. Or was I placing my own needy interpretation on a harmless gesture of friendliness? It is hard for me to tell. I know I have become fond of Tegan. I look forward to her visits and find instructing her a joy. I am all too aware that her mother could put a stop to her seeing me if she wanted. What would she say if she knew her daughter was learning the craft from me? I do not know the woman, and yet I am more than a little certain that she would disapprove. Which means we must keep secrets, Tegan and I. And secrets are dangerous. They start small but grow with every evasive answer or outright lie that protects them. Nevertheless, I confess to finding the closeness such conspiracy breeds irresistibly delicious.

  APRIL 25—SECOND QUARTER

  Last night, after a long day’s toil in the garden, I invited Tegan to join me for the evening in a thanksgiving to the Goddess and the elements. As darkness began to fall, I picked up my staff and we made our way to the clearing in the center of the small copse. I have already used the shallow fire pit several times and have arranged tw
o fallen logs around it for seating. We gathered some kindling and larger fuel and lit the fire. I placed candles on stones in a bigger circle about us. I had Tegan stand beside me as I began the prayer to consecrate the circle.

  I cast this circle in the names of the Mother of Life and of the Green God, nature’s guardian. May it be a meeting place of love and wisdom.

  Carrying my staff, I paced the circle three times deosil, holding in my mind the image of a blue flame burning atop the staff. I then returned to the center of the circle and took Tegan’s hand. We raised our arms and eyes heavenward. I intoned:

  I call upon the elemental spirits of Ether, the wraith of life, to watch over us and assist us with magic. You who are everywhere, in all directions, in Fire and Water and Earth and Air, sustaining, I bid you hail and welcome.