Sacrifices (A Seasons of Magic Short Story)

by Sarah Biglow

  Sacrifices (A Seasons of Magic Short Story)

  Sarah Biglow

  Published by Sarah Biglow, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SACRIFICES (A SEASONS OF MAGIC SHORT STORY)

  First edition. July 5, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Sarah Biglow.

  Written by Sarah Biglow.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  SACRIFICES

  SACRIFICES

  JUNE 20, 1693 - BOSTON

  The sun shone bright overhead. I could feel the pull of the magic in the air around me. It longed to be used, to aid my power, for today was the Summer Solstice. The day when light magic burned brightest in the world, beating back the darkness. The realization that I would never again feel the world ebb toward light magic nearly shattered my resolve. I would not give them the satisfaction of tears as they led me from the cell, hands bound behind my back.

  A small group had gathered to watch my rushed execution. I should have been confined to a cell for months, yet here I was, only hours after having received my sentence. I reached the steps to the gallows and found my sister, Theodora, waiting a ways off, the pentacle pendant I’d worn since I was a child around her neck. I met and held my sister’s gaze as they placed the rope around my neck. I silently willed my sister to be strong. Tears shone in her eyes, the same blue as mine.

  “Eleanor Pruitt, you are charged with the crime of practicing witchcraft. You have been found guilty and will be hung by the neck until you are dead,” Samuel Harris pronounced from the front of the crowd.

  I held my head high, ready to accept the sacrifice I had to make to ensure good magic lived on to beat back the evil to come. And so, as the hangman tightened the noose about my neck, I smiled to myself. I would sacrifice my life this day, but our kind would win out in the end.

  One day ago...

  The air hung heavy with the threat of rain. Our small practitioner’s circle sat gathered in our sitting room. My husband, Jacob, sat at the head of the table with his chin perched atop his steepled fingers. I stood by his side rocking Bethany, our youngest child, in my arms. Theodora, my younger sister by two years, sat two seats down, wedged between Marcus Winthrop—the local butcher—and Rosemary Plinth, one of the school teachers. My parents huddled near the far end of the table. We were not the only ones with magic in our community and we hardly considered ourselves in charge. But we were united in our belief that the darkness had to be stopped.

  “We must take action,” Marcus said matter-of-factly. Despite his considerable size, he was a gentle soul. Still, no one would dare accuse him of conspiring with witches for fear they would be run out of his shop with a butcher’s knife at their back.

  “What would you have us do?” I shifted the squirming infant to a more comfortable position. “If we use our gifts to expose them, we will all surely be branded as guilty. The church would not see the difference in our motives.”

  “We have the Solstice at our backs. They would be no match for us,” Marcus argued.

  “The Solstice is a day away, yet. Eleanor is right. Taking them on in such an open manner would jeopardize our numbers,” Jacob answered.

  “Our numbers already dwindle. If they have their way, we will be wiped from this earth by summer’s end.”

  “They have suffered losses too,” Rosemary interjected in her low alto tone. In addition to being a teacher, she was a skilled Healer.

  For over a year, the Order of Samael had coerced and bribed young women to accuse light practitioners of horrible crimes. All were untrue. If anything, the Order’s acolytes were more than likely culpable for these crimes. But they had their hands in the church and government. We had long suspected the local reverend of being at the top of their ranks. We had taken out some of their numbers with less fanfare and public knowledge, but Marcus was not wrong that we appeared to be fighting a losing battle.

  As if to punctuate our dire circumstances, thunder boomed and lightning split the sky outside the window. Between one breath and the next, the skies opened up and rain pummeled the ground and side of our small home. Before anyone could say another word, the front door burst open and our six-year-old son James skidded to a stop.

  “Mama, Papa!” he cried, raindrops dripping from the tip of his nose and eyelashes.

  Jacob was on his feet in moments, pulling the boy to him. Theodora rose from her seat as well. I had enough sense to pass Bethany to my mother before following James out into the downpour.

  “What is it, Son?” Jacob pressed.

  “The bad men. They set a fire,” he said, tugging on his father’s hand.

  I exerted a fraction of my will to keep both my husband and son in place. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  James squirmed under the unseen hand of my magic. “They had burning sticks. They threw them in a house.”

  “We have to help,” Jacob insisted.

  “It is surely a trap,” I replied. It would make little sense to set a fire in such a storm unless it was fueled by magic. That type of blaze would draw attention. They had used a similar ruse in Salem months ago and it had cost four practitioners their lives.

  “Trap or no, we cannot let innocent life perish,” Theodora announced from behind him.

  She was too quick for me to stop as she marched off in the direction of a growing plume of smoke. I released James long enough to shoo him back to the house. As he disappeared inside, the rest of our gathering poured out.

  “We should help,” Rosemary said, the rain slicking her golden locks to her head.

  I could only nod and lead the charge after my younger sister. I would never forgive myself if her desire to defend the innocent led her to the gallows.

  I HAD TO STIFLE A GASP of shock as we came upon the reverend’s home in flames. A throng had assembled, passing water buckets in a futile effort to put out the flames. Even from this distance I could sense that magic was at work here. Just like in Salem. Reverend Samuel Leominster stood at the front of the house. “Matthew! Come out!” he shouted.

  “He was in the back bedroom,” his wife sobbed.

  As discreetly as possible, I picked up a bucket, catching rain water as I moved toward the back of the house. I needed only to step within a few feet of the charred wood to sense the magic fueling the blaze. I made a show of tossing the water from my bucket at the flames as I inhaled, trying to find the source of the magic: the sulfurous stink of spoiled eggs. It was not someone I’d encountered before.

  Magical talents passed through families much like magic itself. Not all members of a particular line would inherit the same set of skills, but it was not uncommon that cousins could bear similar gifts. I had learned at a young age that my gift manifested in identifying magic. I often wondered whether any of my children would inherit this skill. I also had the gift of foresight. It was only a pity I had not foreseen this.

  The fire continued to burn, the rain and pails of water having little effect. I let the rainwater build up in my bucket one last time and moved farther behind what remained of the home. Just as I was about to raise the bucket, a loud cry drew my attention. I turned my gaze upward to the second story of the home. Through the soot and smoke I could make out a young boy clinging to the sill. It had to be the reverend’s son, Matthew. He was barely older than James. Setting the bucket on the ground, I held my arms outstretched.

  “Jump,” I called to him.

  He shook his head, backing away from the only escape he had. I glanced around me to ensure no one would see before holding my hands out to either side of me. I called to the magic in
the air around me—from the raindrops to the grass to the sparks of the flames—and directed it around me. A funnel of whirling air formed around the spot where I stood and I let it lift me off my feet and toward the house. The pendant at my throat—carefully concealed beneath my collar—warmed the closer I got to the fire, yet another sign that the blaze was fueled by dark magic. The wind I’d created kept the smoke at bay as I reached the second-floor window. The boy hid just out of view, his face now smudged with ash.

  “Come with me,” I yelled, holding one hand outstretched.

  His eyes went wide at the sight of me hovering so far above the ground, but he still did not move. The flames had nearly engulfed the room and the smoke grew thicker with each passing moment. He would surely die if I took no further action. He huddled on a poorly secured bit of flooring.

  “Please. You must trust me.”

  He remained immobile. I bent down to his eye level and said as calmly as I could, “Matthew, I know you are frightened. But I am going to get you safely to your mother and father. I swear it.”

  The flames continued to eat away at the last remaining boards beneath the boy’s feet as indecision weighed on him. I could see from the furrowed brow he was still unsure whether to believe me. The wind surrounding me was beginning to fade the longer I tried to sustain it. I had not accounted for being in the inferno for so long. When Matthew still made no move to accept my help, I reached out a tendril of magic, letting the burnt rosemary scent beat back the choking, cloying taste of ashes on my tongue. The unseen extension of my being wrapped around the boy’s middle and, with a hard pull, he flew into my arms just as the floor where he’d stood collapsed.

  “How?” he croaked as I let the whirlwind sweep us from the remains of the house and back onto solid ground.

  I stopped short of answering his question. I could not tell him the truth of what I’d done for fear he’d repeat it to his father. But neither could I hope that he would simply forget the question due to the trauma of the fire. So I led him away from the remnants of his home and into the pouring rain. It washed some of the smudges from the boy’s cheeks.

  “How did you do that?” he prompted.

  “I asked God to help me save you. And He did,” I answered. Guilt tightened my chest at the lie. But it was the only way to keep myself and those closest to me safe.

  I bent to brush hair from his eyes and he reached up to pull the pendant from beneath my collar. I could still feel the warmth of it through the fabric of my dress. I pulled it from his small fingers and tucked it away.

  Matthew’s eyes went wide again and I watched in silence as he worked through what he’d seen. In the blink of an eye he took off through the crowd. It took a moment to realize what he was about to do, and by that time it was too late to stop him.

  “Father! She’s a witch!” Matthew hollered at the top of his lungs as he stumbled into the middle of the bucket-wielding crowd still trying to put out the fire.

  All heads turned to the child waving frantically at me. I could see my husband and sister at the back of the throng, both had gone pale at the accusation. I stopped where I was, knowing any sudden moves would only condemn me further in the minds of my neighbors. From the edge of the crowd nearest what was left of the house Reverend Leominster appeared. He bore a painful burn to his left cheek and his brow was peppered with sweat from the heat. Matthew ran into his father’s arms. After a brief hug, the reverend released his son and, in doing so, exposed the forearm of his right arm. A familiar brand of a triple spiral and scythe marred the otherwise unblemished flesh. My blood ran cold at the fact that he would put his own child in danger to deal our kind a blow.

  “He called her a witch,” a woman’s voice called from the middle of the mob.

  Reverend Leominster moved to stand a foot from me. Matthew had been sent into his mother’s waiting arms. I took slow breath as the rain continued to fall. “What say you?” he called to me.

  “Forgive me, Reverend, but I think your son is confused. I rescued him from the house,” I answered. Out of the corner of my eye I spied Theodora inching closer. Even from where I stood I could smell the tart taste of her magic gathering in the air around her. I shook my head, silently begging her to stay away.

  “You would call my son a liar?” Leominster boomed.

  “Merely that he believes he saw something he did not,” I replied.

  Matthew wriggled from his mother’s embrace and pointed at my chest. “She’s got a mark, Father. A witch mark.”

  The reverend lunged at me, hand contorted into a claw. At the same time, Jacob shouldered through the crowd. Only Marcus looping an arm around my husband’s torso stopped him from interfering. I stood ramrod still as the man’s hand groped along the collar of my dress until he found the slender chain and pendant. He tried to yank it free of my neck, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “My son speaks the truth! She bears the witch’s mark!”

  All at once the crowd began to shout. Some called out that I should be hung on the spot, while others simply decried how they had lived as my neighbor for years and had no idea. Finally, Marcus stepped forward.

  “You cannot deny her a trial.”

  The reverend glanced between us and, after a few tense moments, he nodded. “Very well. You will be detained until such time as a trial can be set.”

  Temporarily satisfied that I would see justice, the throng returned to the task that had brought us to this place in the first place. Both Jacob and Theodora approached, but I shooed them away. I could not afford for the rest of my family to be dragged into this with me. For a brief moment I thought of running, but it would only prove my guilt to my peers. So I gave no resistance when two men led me away from the chaos.

  A JAIL CELL IS FAR from the most comfortable of accommodations but at the very least it was dry. I was alone in the cell. Only one other was in use. Its occupant sat curled on the straw mat in the corner. I exerted a little will to heat the air around me and dry my clothing so that I would not catch my death before the masses had the chance to hang me for the crime of being who I was born to be.

  I settled on the mat beneath the barred window and stared out at the dark sky beyond. I had no doubt that, despite the fact I had used my powers to save the child’s life, he would claim I had enthralled him for some evil misdeeds. It would not matter what I had to say in my own defense. They had proof of my nature. The pendant had firmly given me away. I had always believed the pendant to be a happy reminder of the power I wielded and my connection to it and the world around me. It had been a gift from my father when I was a child. Not all light practitioners wore such symbols, but enough had been discovered with them to provide a solid link to magic for the uneducated masses. Perhaps I’d been too brazen in wearing it out in public. But I had not had time to think before throwing myself into the Order’s trap.

  The door to the jail opened on heavy hinges. The sound was enough to rouse the woman in the other cell. She leapt to her feet, grimy fingers clutching the bars to her door. I could see dried tear tracts on her cheeks from where I sat.

  “I’m innocent. I’m not a witch,” she called.

  “Quiet,” a slender man with a scraggly beard snapped before sliding a bowl of gruel through the bars.

  I expected her to refuse his offering, but she clutched it to her chest, greedily shoveling the meager rations into her mouth. The guard turned to me and pushed a second bowl into my cell. I stayed where I was, the idea of food far from my present desires. Soon, the heavy door closed, leaving me alone with my companion. She had grown silent, curled back up on the mat in the corner.

  When the Order had begun its campaign to purge the world of light magic, I had seen that I would die by their hand. I had even known it would be by hanging. Even still, it broke my heart that the child I had been so intent on saving was to be my undoing. I wanted to believe that whatever testimony he gave against me was to please his father. And what child doesn’t wish to make their parent proud? But the fire
had also been a trap. The Order had succeeded in condemning another practitioner of light magic to death.

  Settling my back against the rough stone, I propped my head in my hand and studied the stars far beyond. At some point, I drifted into sleep.

  I stood in a field of vibrant green. Delicate daffodils dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see. The place felt all at once foreign and familiar. I turned my head skyward to find a clear blue sky. It was all a very pleasant place and yet I sensed something on the horizon. As if I was waiting for someone to arrive. They were horribly late.

  “I have long waited for you,” a high-pitched soprano voice said from behind me.

  I turned slowly to face the speaker. A short, squat woman with long, flowing hair the color of copper approached me. She could have been a distant relation save for the shockingly deep brown eyes the color of fertile soil. Her skin was a deep tan as if she had spent her entire life in the sun.

  “Who are you?” I questioned, making no effort to close the gap between us.

  “I am many things. The air you breathe, the light of the sun and the shadows of darkness.”

  “You are...”

  “The essence of all magic. And you, Eleanor Harrow, have a destiny that awaits you and your bloodline.”

  “I have not been a Harrow for some time now,” I corrected.

  “You will always be a Harrow by blood. And soon you shall see how much your blood means to the world.”

  “They will hang me.” It was a statement of fact. If this woman was truly the essence of magic then she knew what I had seen.

  Her face fell, her lips turned down in a frown. “A most unfortunate course of events.”

  “I do not wish to die, but I know I cannot prevent it. I refuse to place my family in more danger than they are at present simply by their association with me.”

  She gave a sad smile and did not meet my gaze. “What is it?” I prompted.