“They’re murder, plain and simple,” my aunt had agreed, “those in charge don’t give a bean for the truth you have to tell. All they care about is their judgement, and writing your name in their book.”
“Just so they can cross it out when you’re dead,” my sister’s flat comment had given me chills, but I knew that she wasn’t saying it just to upset me. It was true.
When you’re dead.
I shivered in the morning sunlight, trying to make myself as small as possible. The magistrate, Sarah Hawkins’ father sat in a tall chair that had been set up for him. He would preside over everything, but the final decision would be made by the witchfinder.
A hush fell over the crowd as Elias Maycotte made his way up the hastily constructed wooden stairs. A few enterprising business owners wound their way through the crowd selling pies and tarts, but their cries were silenced by the tall man’s arrival.
He was dressed plainly; a heavy black cloak flung over one shoulder, and his moonlight pale hair spilling down his back. His ghostly eyes scanned the crowd as the dark-haired woman who accompanied him signaled the magistrate.
The prisoners were brought forward, thrown to their knees before the men and women who would judge them.
I pressed my hand to my mouth to smother my cry of fear and anger. They had been beaten and mistreated, and my beautiful mother’s face was marred with crusted blood and bruises covered their arms and legs. My aunt struggled against her captor, and his hand lashed across her face, splitting her lip with ease. In a moment, her chin was stained with bright red blood. Tears welled up in my eyes but I could not make a sound.
My mother and aunt were dragged to their feet and accused once more by Sarah Hawkins. The woman’s shrill voice was triumphant, and echoed out over the murmuring crowd. After the sharp prodding of her elbow, Sarah’s husband, Joseph, my mother’s lover, mumbled his own accusation of witchcraft. Claiming to be bewitched into betraying his wife.
I watched my mother’s face closely, memorizing every line that made up the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheekbones and the color of the braid that fell lifelessly against her shoulder. Her eyes were on me, and I could hear her voice in my head, telling me to run. To run for the docks and to get as far away as possible from Elias Maycotte and the dark haired woman that accompanied him.
The woman.
My eyes darted to her, but she was standing back from the group of accusers, her head bent, and her hair covered by the hood of her thick cloak, just as it had been when their wagon had arrived in town. Her long fingers were twined together, cradling something I could not see.
“Burn them!”
The shout came from the crowd, and my mother’s shoulders straightened. My aunt leaned against her briefly and then she too stood tall. I could see her lips moving and my sister’s shoulders straightened too. My tears threatened to spill over my cheeks, and I rubbed them away with knuckles, biting my lip to prevent my cries from giving me away.
“You will not confess to your crimes, and you will not ask for God’s mercy.” Elias Maycotte’s voice was calm and smooth, rising above the noise of the crowd as clearly as though he had shouted them. “Ellyn Turner. Sybyll Turner. Hannah Turner. You are condemned to death for your crimes against these good people, and against God. If you confess now, your souls will ascend to heaven… deny the mercy I offer and you will burn forever.”
A collective gasp when up from the crowd as my beautiful mother, my stoic aunt, and my sister all stood silent before they were dragged to the posts that had been erected just for this purpose. Another poor woman, a widow from a neighboring village who had been accused of bewitching a farmer’s pigs into eating its litter fall to the rough wooden stage, crying for God’s mercy and the mercy of her accusers.
She confessed everything. That she had witched the pigs, and laughed while the sow had eaten her young. Tied to her stake, my mother shook her head. This woman was not one of our kind. She was terrified, but she was no Daughter of Hecate. She was just an old widow in possession of a good tract of prime farmland.
Unfortunately for her, whether she confessed or was found guilty, being accused of witchcraft meant death, and she was secured to a post just like my mother and sister. The poor woman shrieked her dismay, cursing God, cursing her accusers, everyone watching… so much for that confession.
Run.
My mother’s voice whispered in my head, her green eyes burning into mine.
Run.
My aunt’s voice joined her sister’s and they bounced around together in my head as my eyes filled with tears. My feet were rooted to the mud beneath them, my body frozen. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. I wanted to send every single shred of power inside myself up into the cloudless sky and pull down the rain that would douse the flames that were even now being lit.
But I couldn’t do it.
The smoke was rising from beneath the old widow’s feet, and her screams and curses grew louder as the grey tendrils rose around her shoulders. She coughed loudly and I covered my mouth to keep from sobbing as the torches were touched to the bundles of dry wood that had been piled at my mother’s face.
Her green eyes pierced mine, and the witchmark on the back of my thigh began to burn. I gasped and lurched to the side, trying to regain my balance as my leg went numb.
The woman who accompanied the witchfinder stepped forward, pushing back her hood to reveal raven black hair and eyes so dark that they may as well have been made of obsidian. She stretched out one of her slender arms, pointing a long, dark stained finger in my direction.
My breath caught in my throat.
She could see me.
RUN!
My mother’s voice screamed in my head, and my body vibrated with the force of it.
Elias Maycotte with his pale, dead eyes followed the women’s pointing finger and opened his mouth to shout for someone to grab me. The woman next to me gasped as the glamor broke and she realized that I was there.
CHAPTER 3
The fire caught the edge of my mother’s dress, and I felt her hands push me away from the crowd, and finally my legs started working. With tears streaming down my face and sobs tearing at my throat, I ran. I crashed into people, pushing them out of my way as I went. Hands tugged at my clothing, trying to stop me, and I felt a chunk of my hair ripped away from my scalp as someone tried to catch me.
I ran until my legs felt numb and the marketplace was far behind me. My mother’s hands were pushing me towards the docks, pulling me around corners, taking me to places I had never visited as though I knew them.
I could hear shouts behind me, but my ears were full of my mother’s voice telling me to run, telling me to hide. It was so hard to run when my lungs were full of smoke, I was choking and coughing, and my vision was blurry with tears. But she pushed me hard, kept me running, tripping, careening around corners, just steps ahead of the men who chased me.
Elias Maycotte’s men.
Men who would take me back to the stage to be burnt just like the rest of my family.
My bare feet slipped on the hard cobbles as I turned another unexpected corner and I tumbled to the stones, scraping my palms and knees and rolling into a puddle. My body was hot, so hot. My lungs filled with smoke, and my eyes watered. My heart pounded in my chest and everything hurt.
It hurt so much.
My mother’s voice had quieted, and her phantom touch had faded away and I knew what had happened. I pulled myself to my knees and forgot all of the hiding I was supposed to be doing. I screamed my rage and fear into my mud covered hands, how could they do this. How could they?
I could hear the sound of heavy boots pounding after me and as they came around the corner, I reached out with my powers, the ones I was forbidden to use outside of our house, and I sent those huge men sprawling on their faces in the street.
A tower of barrels, stacked and ready for carting, shook and swayed before tumbling down on top of them. Some of the barrels burst open, spilling their
contents over the street and the prone bodies of my pursuers.
Serves them right. Drown in beer and molasses for all I care.
My head ached, my legs were jelly, and my witchmark burned. The pain in my leg brought me to my feet and I lurched against the wall of a nearby building, trying to catch my breath. I coughed, tasting smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
They were dead… they were all dead.
I reached out to them with my magic, desperate for something… a whisper, a sign… but there was nothing.
That was the worst moment of my life. Running unsteadily through the streets that had suddenly grown so cold under my feet, my mind utterly blank. I didn’t know what to do, where to go… nothing. There was nothing. I had been abandoned. Stolen. Suffocated.
I didn’t dare look behind me, the bodies of the men I had crushed with the barrels and the plumes of dark smoke that rose from the marketplace… there was nothing for me here, but there was also nowhere for me to go.
* * *
My mother’s magical guidance had led me to the dockyards and the ships creaked at their moorings, their decks swarming with men carrying ropes and crates of trade goods headed across the sea to the colonies. The smell of the sea was faint in my nostrils, overpowered by the choking smoke that lingered. I needed to clear my head, clear my lungs, clear my eyes. I stared into the dark water that lapped at the dock. Seagulls called faintly, bobbing calmly on the surface.
There were more shouts from the alley. More men. More men coming to take me away and put me in the flames. Without thinking, I jumped into the water.
It was cold, blissfully cold, and I let my weight carry me deep below the surface. I opened my eyes, letting the salt water wash away the smoke that stung them. I knew that they would be waiting for me on the dock, and I couldn’t hold my breath forever.
I swam as far away from the dock as I could, until my lungs were screaming for air and my head began to pound. An extra push from my magic, spurred by the panicked hammering of my heart forced me above the surface of the water and I gasped for air, floundering briefly in the water as the sunlight hit my face.
The rope that bound one of the great sailing ships to the dock hung low in the water nearby, and I watched a long black rat scurry nimbly across its thick, twisted length on its way onto the boat.
With my teeth clenched in determination, I grabbed the rope and wrapped myself around it. It was slippery with algae and I clung to it tightly as I shimmied up towards the deck. I could feel my magic surging through me and hoped that the glamor I was projecting covered me as it should. I had only just started learning that particular skill, and all I could do was hope that my heightened stress levels were pushing the glamor to where it needed to be. Hannah had always been able to do it perfectly.
Hannah.
I choked on a sob and almost lost my grip. The men who had been chasing me were searching the docks. Shoving long sticks into the water and moving boxes and bales in their quest for a redheaded girl in a ragged woolen dress. They had seen me running away from the fallen barrels, and heard the splash as I jumped into the water. If I fell now, they would find me, and it would all be over.
I clung tightly to the rope, my legs shaking with effort, and my arms moments away from collapse. I gritted my teeth, picturing my mother’s face, her bright red hair floating around her face in the heat of the fire. Not me.
Hand over hand I pulled myself higher until I was level with the deck and could crawl through the opening that was barely large enough for me to slip through.
I lay on the deck, my heart hammering in my chest, staring up at the mast and the furled sails. The wood was warm under my back and I could hear the cries of gulls and the shouts of the men on the deck.
Sitting up slowly, I crawled across the foredeck towards an open hatch before sliding inside. Despite the glamor that shimmered around me, I was so focused on getting out of sight that I pushed my torso through the hatch before looking at what I would be falling into.
Thankfully, I landed on soft bales of cotton fabric, sailcloth and woolen blankets. Dry goods bound for the colonies no doubt. It was quiet inside the hold, and I could hear the sailors walking around on the decking above my head. I moved into the pile, covering myself as best I could with the bales. The last thing I wanted was to be discovered and turned over to Elias Maycotte’s men. Something told me that they were still swarming the docks, and that I was safer here.
I breathed my first sigh of relief, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to drop my glamor just yet. After sunset I would be able to move about the deck freely, and then I could escape back to our little house. I would pack a small duffel and point my shoes in the direction of a new life, wherever that would be.
* * *
As I settled into the noises of the ship, and the smell of the things that surrounded me, the grief and pain of everything I had been through washed over me. The silence of my family had left me hollow. Every day of my life I had carried my mother, my aunt and my sister with me everywhere. I knew where they were, what they were doing, even what they were feeling… but now I felt nothing. My mind was blank, and my heart was heavy. My witchmark itched, but I was afraid to scratch at it. Hannah had told me that if I scratched it too much I would scratch it off, and then Hecate would never speak to me because she wouldn’t recognize me.
Kids can be cruel little shits, and Hannah had been awful to me sometimes. Now she was gone, and she would never be awful to me, or loving, or laugh at my terrible jokes.
The tears ran down my face in an unending flow and I sobbed all of my pain and heartache into the soft blankets and my mind tumbled into darkness.
CHAPTER 4
I don’t know if it was the motion of the ship, or the change in the light that woke me, but I was definitely fully awake when a burly arm reached out and pulled me from my hiding place.
“I’ve found me a little red mouse!” the man had shouted, lifting me high so that my bare feet dangled above the wooden floor of the cabin.
I could have begged for his help, but I was still shaking off my exhaustion, and my stomach was empty, and my family was dead. So I did what any nine-year-old witch who couldn’t hide behind her glamor would do.
I cried. Hard.
“Here now, little miss, stop your blubbing. I didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said gruffly, setting me down. It was working, tears from a little girl always made rough men uncomfortable. “I’ll take you to Mrs. Askew. She’ll know what to do with you. Wipe your face, girl.” I snuffled lightly and wiped my face on the sleeve of my woolen dress. If I couldn’t hide, I would have to play along until I could escape the ship. Why he was taking me to see this Mrs. Askew I didn’t know, but if it meant that I was going to avoid punishment, I was willing to do just about anything.
As the large man led me out of the cabin I had been hiding in, he kept a light grip on my upper arm, as though he expected me to bolt away at any second. He would have been right, but I would use my power on him, and make him open his hand. Hecate would forgive me for something like that.
As my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, I realized that we were no longer at the dock. The creaking of wood, the splash of the ocean and the cries of gulls that floated above had replaced the sound of the bustling sailors and workmen moving cargo and shouting to each other. The sails were unfurled, snapping gently in the wind.
We were at sea.
Panic settled in my stomach and I planted my feet firmly on the deck until I was tugged forward, stumbling as I felt the tears begin to well up again.
“We’re at sea,” I finally choked out. All I could do was state the obvious. All of my plans were gone. Everything I knew was gone. Everything.
Everyone.
“Aren’t you the observant one,” the man remarked dryly, tugging me forward again. “We’re at sea, and you’re a stowaway. Come on then.” He seemed amused by my reaction, but I was genuinely stunned. I had never imagined that the ship would be leaving
port, if I had known; I never would have climbed aboard.
I closed my mouth and allowed the man to lead me along the deck. Sailors went about their duties, scrambling up the masts and securing the sails as the wind freshened. I could see the town disappearing behind us, but I didn’t dare ask where we were going. I had a feeling that I would find out soon enough.
Dorithie Askew was a large woman with a pinched but kind face, and the burly man who had found me pushed me towards her without much ceremony.
“I found this in with the blankets. I can’t put her to work, but you might have some use for her.”
Mrs. Askew’s eyes were a dark grey, and they narrowed in my direction as she examined me. “Come closer; let me see your face.” She reached out a hand that was heavy with gold rings and sparkling stones and I hesitated for just a moment before stepping forward.
Mrs. Askew gripped my chin and stared in to my eyes, examining me closely. She licked the thumb of her other hand and rubbed it firmly against my cheek.
“Nothing a good scrubbing wouldn’t fix,” she muttered. Her eyes flickered to the man standing near the door, but she retained her grip on my chin. “You found her in the blankets, you say?” The man must have nodded, and she turned her attention back to me. She tugged at my dress and clucked her tongue at my bare toes. “You are quite a mess, aren’t you? No matter. I need a helper on my journey to New York, and you will have to do.” She released my chin and I resisted the urge to rub my jaw.
“What is your name, child.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, but as I opened my mouth to reply, she waved her hand dismissively. “No. No, do not tell me. I am sure it is something plain and common. I will call you Sarah.” She glanced absently at the large man once more. “Write her name down in the passenger roll as Sarah Goode.” She waved the man away, and I allowed myself to look around the cabin.
Witchmark Page 2
