Wild Irish Witch

by Tricia O'Malley

  “Just let me pack you some food first,” Bridget said, already scurrying towards the cottage.

  “I should change anyway,” Fiona called, following her. No point in ruining a pretty dress by tromping through the muddy hills.

  In a matter of moments, Fiona was on her bike with her lunch wrapped in wax paper and tucked in the basket. She’d thrown her hiking clothes on quickly, with barely a glance at the bedroom door, behind which her father still slumbered.

  As she pedaled from town, the church bell began to toll, signaling the end of services.

  It sounded ominous to Fiona, as if it were signaling the end of her way of life.

  She picked up her pace.

  Fiona found she couldn’t even look at the O’Brien farm as she rode past, and instead she turned her face towards the breeze that blew from the ocean. On any other day, she’d be singing and smiling at the sun that sat so cheerfully in the sky above her.

  Her heart pounded with exertion, even though Fiona knew it was foolish to try and outrun what had happened at the church. One way or another, she was going to have to face the ramifications of Father Patrick’s words. She could only pray it wouldn’t be as bad as she was making it out to be in her mind.

  Fiona reached her field in record time. She laughed at herself. It wasn’t her field― it was the O’Brien’s field. But in her mind it would always be her spot. Leaning her bike against the low brick wall, she grabbed her lunch and hiked across the field to the top of the path to the cove. Pausing at the top, she took a deep breath as the pulse of the magick there pressed against her. Fiona always thought of it as stepping through a thin membrane into another world― a secret spot just for her to enjoy.

  Even though Fiona knew others could come here if they know how to properly respect the cove, she’d yet to see anyone else ever come down here. Trailing her hand along the rock wall, Fiona deftly followed the path that zigzagged down the side of the cliff until she reached the bottom.

  Standing at the beach, she drew a circle and stepped into it, then pulled her gift out of her pocket. She looked down at the shiny gold tube, something she’d treasured just last night, but now seemed so frivolous. Fiona wasn’t a normal girl, and she never would be.

  Lifting her hand, she held the lipstick up so that the sun glinted off it.

  “I offer this gift to honor the cove.”

  She threw the lipstick and it landed with soft plop in the blue water gently lapping at the beach. It tumbled in the sand for a moment, before another wave came along and swallowed it. Fiona breathed out with a sense of loss― almost as if she was losing a part of herself. The silly girl who had dreamed of happy endings yesterday now knew those dreams to be the silly fabrications of someone who had once thought she could pass for normal.

  She ate her lunch in the sun, staring out at the cove, and eventually the sun’s warmth and the sound of the water soothed some of the anguish in her heart. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to doze a little in the sun, hiding from the world for just a moment longer.

  The crash of the waves and a spray across her face jolted her eyes open. Fiona held still, her eyes flitting back and forth as she tried to figure out what was wrong. Puffy dark clouds had rolled in front of the sun, and the cove― once serene― now raged in anger. A shout from above made her whip her head to the left.

  Father Patrick stood at the top of the path, his purple robes billowing behind him, a staff with a large cross in one hand. Four men flanked him, one of whom Fiona knew to be the local Garda. It was a striking image, the cross held high against the dark clouds of the sky, the priest’s purple robes reminiscent of royalty. Even though she knew Father Patrick had a flare for the dramatic, Fiona couldn’t argue with his presentation. She stood slowly and smoothed her hands on her pants before crossing the beach.

  The waves crashed against the sand, angry and violent. She knew the cove was angry for her, but there was little an enchanted body of water could do for her now. Straightening her shoulders, she climbed the path, slowing only when she was a few feet from Father Patrick.

  “Father Patrick,” Fiona said, raising her chin so that she met his gaze dead on.

  “Fiona Morrigan, it is with great pleasure that I will have you brought in for the crime of practicing witchcraft, which is illegal in this village.”

  “I've committed no such acts,” Fiona said, throwing her shoulders back and standing proudly as the cove raged in anger behind her.

  “And yet you sun yourself so easily in this cove― one which we know to be enchanted and deadly to all who come here. You walk so easily along its beach. Sure and that's evidence enough, isn't it now?” Father Patrick's eyes lit with a maniacal joy, a spider closing in on its prey.

  Fiona looked past him to the Garda standing behind him, nervously running his hands along the hat he held in his hands.

  “Garda Roarke, you must know this is an abomination.”

  “I'm sorry Fiona. The good father here has made an accusation that can only be refuted at trial. That's just how it works.” The Garda shrugged helplessly as though to say there was nothing he could do.

  “So you're saying I can go around and accuse anyone of witchcraft in this entire village and just like that, they'll be taken and put to trial? That's positively absurd,” Fiona seethed.

  “It's not just anyone. He's clergy, Fiona,” the Garda said softly.

  Fiona stared furiously at the men, weighing her options. If she tried to run, they'd surely catch her. There was no use invoking the power of the cove either as that would only back up their claims. Hatred for Father Patrick began to wind through her, and as it did, the waves began to kick up in anger far below her, and a gust of wind all but blew them over.

  “See? She's a witch― she's trying to use the power of the cove against us,” Father Patrick said, pointing.

  “Now who is the nutter here?” Fiona asked, pasting a pleasant smile on her face. “He thinks I can control the weather? If that was the case, we'd have sunny skies every day.”

  The men around Father Patrick broke into smiles, easing some of the tension. That was when Fiona realized she would have to play the game from within.

  “I'll come along with you gentlemen, but only to show you once and for all that I'm not a witch,” Fiona said, stepping forward until she was shoulder to shoulder with Father Patrick. She glanced over her shoulder to meet his eyes as she passed him. “And to make sure you never abuse your power in this town again, Father.”

  The words were a promise, and it was clear Father Patrick realized it as he stumbled back a step.

  “Bind her! She just threatened me!”

  Fiona closed her eyes as the Garda apologetically wound a rope around her wrists. Unable to look at the beauty of her field, she kept her eyes at the path at her feet, promising herself that once she got out of this mess, she would never live in hiding again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Her mother's voice woke her.

  Fiona had no idea how much time had passed since she had been unceremoniously dumped in the small room off the Garda's office. As a gaol went, it was fairly basic. A single cot sat along a smooth stone wall, with a small jug of water and a single cup on the floor next to it. Bars lined one side of the cell, leaving Fiona no privacy. It surprised her that she'd even managed to doze off. Funny how the body works sometimes, she thought, listening to her mother's tone become more strident as she berated Garda Roarke.

  “Why, I know your mother, Garda Roarke. How dare you hold my daughter without any evidence? This is unallowable!”

  “I'm sorry, that's the God's honest truth, I am. Father Patrick has formally filed a charge of practicing witchcraft. I have to follow procedure, which means a trial before her peers is to be scheduled for this week. I suggest you start gathering your character witnesses, as she'll need people to stand for her.”

  “A trial? Sure and you're fooling me then,” Bridget's voice registered disbelief. Fiona sat, stunned by the turn of
events. How had she gone from lighting a candle for her father to being held pending trial? She never should have gone to church. Part of her wanted to blame her father for her problems, but she knew that blame was useless.

  “Father Patrick has insisted.” The Garda’s voice was weary, and Fiona detected a hint of sadness in his words. She wondered if her mother did as well.

  “Why is he doing this?” Bridget asked softly, using a voice that Fiona had heard often over the years. It had convinced many people before to answer her mother's questions, and Fiona had no doubt it would work again.

  “A successful trial will place him in high esteem― he wants out, to oversee a bigger church in Dublin. This town is too small for Father Patrick. He wants the riches and the prestige that go with a larger congregation.”

  “At the expense of my daughter's life? I'll fight with everything I have,” Bridget declared.

  “Bring your best. Witchcraft trials demand an audience of her peers and a town vote. You'll need to persuade the town to let her stay. Now would be the time to call in any favors you can.”

  Fiona stood and walked across the room to wrap her hands around the cool iron bars of her cell. She pressed her cheek to the bar, her hope plummeting as she realized the town would have to stand on her behalf in order to overthrow Father Patrick's charges.

  “Can I see her?”

  “You're not supposed to, but I'll allow it,” Garda Roarke said.

  In moments, Bridget's hands were wrapped around Fiona's, and for the first time since she'd been arrested, tears pricked her eyes. There was something about looking at her mother through the bars of a cell that made her feel completely defeated.

  “There's going to be a trial,” Bridget whispered, her eyes searching Fiona's. Bridget's fear pulsed at Fiona in waves that threatened to overtake her and spiral into despair. They both left the dire outcome unsaid.

  A guilty judgment would result in death.

  Even though Fiona knew that, in other parts of the world, witch hunts were now considered backwards and unacceptable, that way of thought hadn't quite reached their small village. In Grace's Cove, religion ruled, and Father Patrick was akin to a king. The fact that she was even being allowed an audience of her peers was remarkable.

  “I'm surprised even that's being allowed,” Fiona admitted, bitterness lacing her voice.

  “I'm going to call in all my favors,” Bridget promised.

  “Please― anyone you can think of at all,” Fiona whispered, pressing her forehead against the bars.

  “I will. Are you all right in here?”

  Fiona laughed and gestured to the small cot.

  “I've been better, but Garda Roarke has been fair to me so far.”

  “And I would expect nothing less, or I'll be speaking with his mother.” Bridget said firmly.

  Fiona flashed her mother a small smile.

  “I'm scared.” Fiona blinked tears from her eyes.

  “Father Patrick is but one man. Do not doubt my power to persuade this village,” Bridget said fiercely. “They’ve known me longer than him. We’ll be just fine. But, in the meantime, I had best get to the gossip mills before Father Patrick. We’ll want to turn the wind of talk against him.”

  “He’s not a good man,” Fiona said, clenching her fist at her gut, “I can feel it, deep inside. His core is black, like the roots of evil have twisted around his heart.”

  Bridget pressed her lips into a thin line.

  “Sure and I’ll take that into account. We can fight fire with fire then,” Bridget nodded.

  “How long will I have to be in here?” Fiona said, her eyes searching Bridget’s. She hoped it wasn’t longer than a few days― the solitary aspect of this cell would be enough to drive her crazy.

  “Not more than a few days, I’m sure of it. I’ll cry foul on holding you here without any evidence. And I’ll be reaching out to some contacts of mine at the Archdiocese in Dublin. Father Patrick isn’t the only one with connections.”

  Fiona felt hope bloom in her chest. Trust her mother to always protect her.

  “Bring me one of your outfits, please. I want to look nice and approachable for the trial,” Fiona said. Though she hated to admit it, appearance mattered. And in the court of public opinion, she would need to appear an innocent and pretty young girl.

  “I will. Now, I must be off. Go inside, my love; you’ll find the strength you need,” Bridget murmured as she clasped Fiona’s hand once more before disappearing down the hallway. “You take care of my girl, Garda Roarke. If anything unwieldy should happen to her in here, I’ll be holding you accountable.”

  A smile crossed Fiona’s face briefly at her mother’s brisk no-nonsense tone and Garda Roarke’s quick acquiescence. She could only hope her mother’s clout would prove enough to sway other members of the town. Easing herself down onto the cot, Fiona stared at the ceiling and did just as her mother suggested― she went within.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Ah, I’ve breakfast for you, then, Fiona.” Garda Roarke cleared his throat outside her cell.

  Fiona waited a moment more from where she had been staring at the ceiling, counting the lines in the stone.

  “Everything all right then, Fiona?” Garda Roarke asked.

  Pushing herself up to sitting, Fiona thought about the question. In theory, yes, she was all right, so to speak. She’d slept off and on through the night, and she wasn’t any the worse for wear. But emotionally, she was a wreck.

  “I’m fine as one could be, I suppose,” Fiona said, crossing to where Garda Roarke fumbled with the key to the cell door. The hinges of the door creaked as he pulled it open, handing her a tray of food. Fiona knew immediately that Garda Roarke’s mother had done the cooking, as the tray was loaded with scones, porridge, eggs, and sausage, with a small vase holding a flower. It wasn’t likely that other prisoners received such nice fare, and Fiona took the tray with a smile and a small nod of acknowledgement.

  “Thank your mother for the food,” she said softly, crossing to set the tray on the bunk.

  “I’ll do that. She’s worried about you in here,” Garda Roarke said.

  “I’m not sure what to say to that, other than you and I both know that I shouldn’t be here,” Fiona pointed out.

  A flush of pink tinged Garda Roarke’s cheeks and he reached up to tug on the corner of his mustache.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  Fiona supposed he couldn’t really be discussing the merits of her imprisonment with her, so she simply nodded, reaching down to tear off a corner of a still-warm blueberry scone. Though nerves clawed at her stomach, Fiona forced herself to eat, knowing she would need to keep her energy up for what she knew would prove to be the most attended and scandalous event of the season in Grace’s Cove.

  Her trial.

  Fiona wondered how the format would go. She’d couldn’t even remember there ever being a public trial in Grace’s Cove before. Being a small village composed of families and relatives, most spats were settled over a pint at the pub. Rarely did something escalate to the level of Garda intervention. Fiona groaned and shoved another piece of scone into her mouth.

  “Garda Roarke?” Fiona called, and heard a shuffle from the other room before Garda Roarke appeared before her cell door, a cup of steaming tea in his hands.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you explain to me how the trial will work?”

  “Of course, lass. Here’s your tea,” he said, putting the cup on the floor before unlocking the door and pulling it open. This time, he stepped into the cell and crossed the small room to hand the tea to her before stepping back to lean against the wall and cross his arms over his chest.

  “I can’t recall there ever being a public trial before,” Fiona blew on her tea.

  “I can’t say there’s been one since you’ve been born, now that I think of it,” Garda Roarke said, smoothing his fingers over his dark mustache as he squinted his eyes in thought.

  “Wouldn’t this be a
matter that goes before the High Court Judge? Not a common law public trial?” Fiona asked. She’d honestly never heard of such a matter being handled like this before.

  Garda Roarke sighed and shook his head.

  “Yes, in theory, if this is a criminal matter it should go before the High Court.”

  “So… I’m not sure I’m understanding why I’m being held then.” Fiona raised an eyebrow at him.

  “It’s Father Patrick. He’s demanded a trial of a court of public opinion. It appears there’s a small loophole in the law. When things switched over from the common law to the courts, there was a loophole left that allows clergy to bring someone forward on charges. A decision by their peers is held as law― both by the church and state. Most other areas have done away with the loophole. We haven’t, as it has never been invoked before and as such― well, it had slipped from our thoughts. Father Patrick knew of this rule and has used it,” Garda Roarke said, his eyes woeful.

  “Can we call a tribunal to revoke the law?” Fiona asked.

  Garda Roarke raised one eyebrow.

  “I’d have to look into that. I think you need at least a few weeks for a tribunal and that would only prolong your stay here. You might want to take your chances with the public trial.”

  Even as he said the words, Fiona knew he was right. A tribunal would only allow Father Patrick to recruit more people to his side. It could end up even worse for her.

  “Is there anything I can do to prepare?” Fiona asked, knowing she was taking a chance by asking for help from the Garda. He leaned forward, peeking out of her cell door and down the hallway, before turning back to look at her.

  “I’ve always liked your mother, you know,” Garda Roarke began, his eyes darting about. “She’s been kind to my mother and helped her in ways that only a daughter could― one which she’d never had. In fact, she gave her one of your tonics not too long ago. It cleared up a nasty chest cold that I was quite certain would turn to pneumonia. For that alone, I’m indebted to you.”