When the Black Roses Grow

by Angela Christina Archer

  “Daughter,” Deacon Pruett warned in a gruff tone. “Be mindful of thy words bespoken upon thy courted beau.”

  Mary shifted her eyes away from us, folded her arms across her chest, and growled under her breath.

  James’s eyes locked upon mine with a whisper of curiosity and adoration. Fierce, and yet, kind behind the sea of deep blue that drew me like a moth to a flame. They humbled my fear with an odd sense of comfort, and although I wanted to look away from him, I could not—too overwhelmed by the notion he played not a stranger, but an old soul known to me my whole life.

  I held my breath. My body inched forward, toward him—the slight movement catching not only my attention, but also his, and I straightened, withdrawing in embarrassment.

  A tiny smile spread across his lips—his perfect lips—and he stepped forward a single step as if to mirror the impulse I should not hath shown.

  Mary caught his advance and she glanced at him without turning her head. Her shoulders tightened as a fierce fire ignited in her eyes. She wrapped her fingers around his arm, squeezed the wool on his jacket sleeve, and drew in a deep, warning breath.

  James’s smile vanished and he obliged her unspoken command. Ever the queen of all, she demanded and everyone obeyed, like slave hands, only worse, because at least slaves had a nightly reprieve when they could think and talk for themselves.

  “Daughter, ‘tis nearing upon supper time,” Deacon Pruett muttered. With his eyes still focused on the Bible in his hands, he and Mrs. Pruett strode past Mary and James. “We best conclude our stroll for the evening.”

  Mary glared at her father, but did not say a word as she hesitated to follow. She looked at me and an evil smile spread across her lips as she tugged on James’s arm.

  “Perhaps, you will consider staying through the night?” Her words were more of a hinted statement than a question, as though he really would not hath the ability to refuse.

  My stomach churned at the thought of him snug in a bundling sack in her bed, wrapped neck to feet and sewn, so they may share a night together.

  Do not look after them, Emmalynn, do not look after them.

  I fought with my own counsel and wrapped my arms around my waist as I rocked my body back and forth. Unfortunately, my curiosity consumed me. All argument and reason against watching him stride away vanished.

  James glanced over his shoulder and our eyes locked.

  He smiled and I caught my breath, holding it while I clutched my throat with one hand and my chest with the other. Butterflies fluttered wildly in my stomach as the young girl inside danced with joy, screaming with excitement as she bounced on her toes.

  He had noticed me before, but he has never smiled, not until now.

  He smiled at me.

  Elation burst through my veins. I covered my mouth to hide my own grin, a grin I thought not ever possible again, and I giggled a little to myself.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind circled and whirled around me, blowing my cotton dress, the strings of my bonnet, and my raven curls in different directions. Like a warm blanket, it pressed upon me, wrapping in a confining embrace.

  As abruptly as it flurried, the burst of breeze died and vanished. An odd movement fluttered in the corner of my eye, catching my attention. A vine sprouted, then began to grow and grow, and within the wink of a bat’s eye, it circled around itself until it formed a delicate wreath.

  I flung myself backwards upon my rump and kicked my feet.

  The vine did not sprout from the ground, but grew out of thin air and floated over to my mother’s headstone.

  From the vine, leaves sprang and bounced, followed by sharp thorns, and lastly flower buds that, within seconds of emerging, bloomed into perfect black roses. The allure of them mesmerized, and yet, terrified me.

  Before me, lay an enchantment not of this earth.

  No, Lord, please no. Tell me, I did not do this. Tell me I am not capable of this. Witches do not exist. They are not real. No one holds power like that. Witches do not exist.

  My hand slapped across my mouth, stifling my scream as I stumbled to my feet. My knees weak, I tripped over a rock and collapsed in the dirt before catching my balance. My eyes fixed upon the roses, floating innocently in the air.

  In my backwards haste, I bumped into the broken fence and the old splintered board jabbed my lower back, scratching the skin underneath my dress. Pain shot through my body and I whipped around to face the fence, nearly falling to my knees once more.

  The last remaining mourner visiting her peacefully resting loved one gaped as she watched me. She could not know the hallucination I had seen, could not know what occurred with the sudden gust of wind and inconceivable ring of black roses.

  Those that see hallucinations are those damned by the devil. Those that see hallucinations are witches, destined for a death sentence to rid the earth of their evil. Children of the possessed were not under suspicion, unless they showed the same behavior as their parents, so they spared my life months ago. I would not be, now, if someone had seen what I saw.

  “My apologies,” I whispered. “Please forgive my interruption.”

  I lowered my chin to my chest and hid my face behind my hand as I scurried passed her and fled the graveyard.

  The otherwise short destination to my home seemed to extend on for miles, worsened by my emotionally driven clumsy footing and wobbly legs. With my mind nothing more than a fuzzy mess of never ending questions and terrorizing thoughts, the concept of stepping one foot in front of the other, proved almost too foreign.

  Tears traced down my cheeks and stung my eyes, blurring my vision as my hand shoved against the old wooden gate. Nearly missing the board, the lumber nicked my finger as it swung on the rusted hinges.

  My shoes pounded the porch before I dashed through my front door, then slammed it behind me with a loud thud.

  My knees hit the wooden floor and I buried my face in my hands.

  I could not hath conjured those flowers. No, I refuse to believe it. I am simply me. Simply a woman. Simply a powerless woman. Witches do not exist . . . witches do not exist.

  TWO

  The crisp spring air chilled my bones as I stepped outside.

  Just before dawn, the sun barely peaked through the trees, and the rays of light flecked against the wood logs of my home. Not blinding to the eye, but bright enough, the glittered hues of orange and red bounced off the dark brown.

  My herd of nanny goats called from their pen. Their bellowing bleats echoed across the garden as I ambled toward them with ropes in my hand. Unbeknown to them, their breakfast still sat on the porch in buckets, and there it would remain.

  Ducks scattered around my feet as my shoes crunched through the fallen leaves and twigs. In their hasty retreats, strewn feathers floated in the air a few seconds before landing upon tufts of grass or in sprays of weeds. Their incessant quacks caused a rousing stir in the drake who was nothing short of a mean spirit when he felt threatened.

  Lord, how I prefer chickens.

  Although, chicken feathers littered my yard alongside the duck feathers, so I suppose foul is foul—chickens, ducks, what did it matter to own either of them? They both give me plenty of eggs, both made wonderful stew, and both hath the talent for falling prey to a stray canine or a hawk looking for breakfast or supper.

  I suppose the only difference between the fowl was the annoying morning crow of my rooster over the peaceful silence of my drake, unless messed with, of course.

  “Can I help ya this mornin’, Mis’ress Hawthorne?” Jeb called out.

  His appearance caught me a little off guard and I spun around to face him. “I did not know thou would be here this morning.”

  “I thought I’d come by and fix that broken fencepost in the garden.”

  He set down the shovel in his hands and tr
otted over to me with a broad smile on his dirt stained face. One of Deacon Goodwin’s farm hands, Jeb often visited to help with chores I could not handle on my own—his efforts appreciated, although I feared for his safety when here.

  “Doth Deacon Goodwin know you are here?”

  “Got all my chores done this mornin’ ‘fore I left. Titana say it’d be fine.”

  “Jeb, if Deacon Goodwin discovers thee missing or learns of thy benevolence, especially toward me, then Hell would hath no fury like him. He will not hesitate to punish you.”

  “He won’t find out.”

  I bit my tongue in hesitation and pondered if I should pursue my honesty or at least to bestow another word of caution.

  “So, where ya headin’ this mornin’?” A bead of sweat dripped from Jeb’s forehead and he wiped it away with the dirty sleeve of his arm before putting both hands on his hips.

  “I am off to meet a man along the traveling road near the bridge to barter the goats for a milk cow.”

  “Ya need company?”

  I shook my head. “You know you cannot accompany me.”

  He groaned under his breath. “Ya shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Ah, but ‘tis a beautiful morning with the sun illuminating the sky in shades of pink and purple, I believe I shall enjoy a stroll alone.” Bestowing him a smile, I hoped to convey my reassurance.

  “Ya sure do love ya colored skies, don’tcha?” he laughed.

  “A lesson instilled from my mother, I suppose.”

  His gaze lowered to the ground and he kicked a rock with tip of his shoe. “She was a good woman, real nice, and had a kind heart. Titana talks of her often.”

  “Yes, she was.” The one subject I wished not to think of—if my memory would even allow—played on the forefront of my mind. “I suppose I should collect the goats. I do not wish to keep the man waiting. Thank you for fixing the post.”

  “Ya welcome. Good day to ya, then, Mis’ress Hawthorne.” With another quick nod, he retreated to my garden, bending down to fetch the shovel along the way.

  I untied the rope of the gate and entered the goat pen. Nannies and kids scurried around me, full of excitement, hopping like deer in the forest and snorting breaths out of their noses. A couple of the young does fled from the unruly young bucks rearing on their hind legs to butt heads with one another.

  The ever-present struggle for dominance engrained from the day they were born.

  After securing ropes around the nannies necks, I shoved the gate open and led them out of the pen. The kids followed without question, although all of them impetuously sprinted in several different directions. Anxiety fueled their mothers, who attempted to follow. They began spinning in circles and tangling me in a plethora of ropes—a spectacle, surely, for any who watched an awkward young lady trying to herd uncontrollable goats, bleating loudly.

  “Ya certain ya do not need help?” Jeb laughed.

  I waved off his question with my own laughter as I followed the herd out onto the peddler road, bustling a little quicker than I desired behind dozens of small hooves.

  Townsfolk either still asleep or enjoying their morning breakfast left the village deserted in the early morning hour, and I strolled alone, drinking in the silence.

  As I passed the last house on the street, the front door slammed shut. I jerked my head, meeting the wide-eyed gaze of John Coleman. He cleared this throat as he shoved his hands in his pockets, trotted down the porch stairs, and through the gate to the road.

  “Good morning, Miss Hawthorne.” He tipped his hat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Coleman.”

  An old friend of Joseph, my late husband, John had helped us build our home, plant our first garden, and shared many evening suppers and picnics by Frost Fish Brook with us. Even through his shy nature, he was a kind man, always the first to aid another in need.

  “I suppose I should not be surprised another would be out enjoying the sunrise on this fine morning.” His brown eyes twitched with his nervous chuckle.

  I bit my lip and glanced from him to the home that belonged to Rebecca Junior and not his betrothed Julia Clayton.

  “Yes, ‘tis quite a beautiful morning,” I whispered.

  With my words, his shoulders hunched and he closed his eyes. Guilt plagued him, his secret exposed, caught in the home and perhaps the bed of another woman.

  “Miss Hawthorne, I . . . I just . . .” He bit his lip, unable to finish his sentence as his embarrassment oozed through every muscle of his tall, thin body. His stance stiffened, his shoulders ridged.

  I raised my hand to ease his suffering. “No need to speak of it, Mr. Coleman.” With my own public family humiliation and secret lust for a man courting another woman, clearly his choices were none of my concern. “Of all who could place judgment upon the life of another, I certainly am not one of them.”

  He smiled, understanding the hint toward my own culpability. “Julia and I were discussing the other night how we hath missed thy company, and Joseph’s, of course. He was a good friend. Perhaps, you will join us for supper one evening, soon.”

  “Surely, you doth not wish for the company of a dull widow, but thank you for the offer.”

  He nodded. “Well, if you ever change thy mind.”

  A flash of yellow caught my attention. Rebecca stared at us through the window of her home. The oiled cloth covering she had just yanked open still swished sideways from her sudden grasp and her lungs heaved heavy breaths with her sobs.

  John glanced toward her, too. His once squared shoulders deflated, brooding with the same heartbroken sorrow in his eyes as in hers. The hint of deeper emotions than just a simple affair whispered in their silent exchange.

  “Good day to you, Miss Hawthorne.” John’s mumbled words were barely audible. With hunched shoulders, he stumbled down the road with a lumbered, disjointed gate as he dragged his toes in the dirt and wiped his tear streaked face.

  Rebecca watched from her perch in the window. Her arms wrapped around her body in a tight hug as she sobbed. The sin of one matched the sin of the other, each with repercussions neither wanted the other to face. Not only love and heartbreak between two people who should not be together, but now their indulgence witnessed by another. Someone who, albeit would not wish to lie, might be obligated to expose the truth.

  I tugged on the ropes of the herd, ignoring the nagging feeling twisting in my gut.

  Mile after mile, I continued to stroll toward the bridge. Even with the sunshine, the early spring morning chill sent goose bumps racing down my arms and turned my breath into steam when I exhaled.

  Dew moistened the thick grass along the road, exaggerating the green tint, and catching the goats’ eyes. Their attempts thwarted with a jerk on the rope before they could take a bite. In their haste and excitement, the goat kids quickly burned their morning energy. Their pace slower now and their little, once-hopping, feet left lazy trails in the dirt road behind their mothers.

  Due to their choppy strides, the bells hanging around the necks of the nannies all clanked and clinked in an inharmonious tune, a lullaby of sorts. Although, I suppose even with the dissonant tones, the chimes held some cadence.

  Two, four, six, seven, eight . . . all still following—

  Suddenly, my eyes caught two figures strolling toward me several yards ahead. Both, wearing cloaks draped over their shoulders and up over their heads, shielding their faces.

  As we neared one another, the tall one with broad shoulders withdrew the cloak from his head. A stranger, his eyebrows furrowed as he glared and grabbed the shoulder of the shorter one to halt him. His handsome appearance and dirt brown hair looked familiar, and yet, did not at the same time. Features seen before, only I could not recall where.

  The shorter one remained hidden under his cloak, still as a statue while
the man watched me. He cocked his head to one side and then the other, in an odd dance as if studying me and waiting for me to move. With his eyes fixed upon mine, he said not a word, offering no salutations.

  “Good . . . good morning.” My voice cracked on my last word.

  The man’s shoulders squared and he inhaled a sharp, protective breath.

  My eyes darted all around then landed, once again, upon his scarred face. Even in the distance, the deep slash from his forehead to his chin haunted me. Why did he not respond? Why did neither of them move or speak? My pulse quickened, and although my mind said walk, my feet refused.

  I cleared my throat.

  With my sudden noise, the man grabbed the short one by the shoulders. They strode away toward outlying forest with an odd sense of panic in both of their strides. Just before they reached the trees, the cloak on the short one flew away from his head. Long, silver-white blond curls bounced in the sunlight as the young boy, nay, a girl, tried desperately to draw the cloak back over her head.

  I caught my breath.

  The skin on her hands was as pale white as her hair. Like the color of snow that falls upon the ground in winter. Her skin nearly glistened in the sunlight as she tugged and jerked at the uncooperative cloak. Frustrated, with her struggles, the tall man finally scooped her into his arms, and galloped the rest of the distance into the trees—vanishing from my sight.

  I stood motionless and blinked a few times. Did I just see what I thought I did?

  Perhaps, the sunlight played a trick upon my eyes, or, perhaps, I should not hath risen quite so early this morning. Surely, a lack of sleep can toy with a drowsy mind. Surely, I could not hath seen what I just saw.