As Abby marched along the path, her rational mind, which was barely a buzz behind her whirling frustration, picked up on the little differences. The huge tree to the left of the path, the one that had been struck by lightening the year Abby had come to Bridgestock, was still standing tall and strong, it's huge limbs shading the beige gravel of the road. And then there was the road itself. It was wider in the future, having been re-graded to allow more traffic than the wandering fisherman wanting for a walk over the cliffs. It was a popular walk in the present day, with signposts and the occasional bench.
Pembrake, she was sure as she neared the city, the ambient sound of its hustle and bustle reaching towards her, would not have noticed a thing. Even with that piercing glance, she was sure he would only notice what he wanted. He seemed to her, even after their brief encounters, to be the kind of person that looked first and asked questions later.
Abby had continued along the path until she had reached the section where it split in two, the beaten track on the left leading down to the docks and the road to the right quickly turning into a cobbled road that led into the city heart itself.
There were people milling about the crossroads. So she'd tucked her arms around her middle in an officious 'I'm busy – go away' way and walked through them with her head tucked firmly onto her chest and Charlie trotting behind. If you looked busy, Ms Crowthy had once pointed out, then people will avoid you like the plague. Busy people, after all, have a horrible habit of making other people around them busy too. It is ingrained into every child's mind to avoid a bustling parent – cross their path and you will be roped into some task. People never forget this lesson, Ms Crowthy had assured her, so if you want to get somewhere – look busy.
It worked, of course. The people parted before her without probably being conscious of it, just following a lesson embedded in their hindbrain like the constant need to breathe. Within moments she'd found herself negotiating the cobbles, worn smooth from so many years of traffic, that led to the market strip in the centre of town. In her own time, the markets were busy but orderly things. Most of the traditional tents and ramshackle stalls had given way to buildings and store fronts. And though it could get busy on a Saturday morning when all the merchants would vie for customers with the farmers and artisans, it was not a touch on the utter chaos that surrounded her now.
A thick pall of concentrated scent filled the air as people bustled against each other in their effort to push a path through the crammed market. Incense, frying food, spices, perfumes, and flowers – it was a heady, intoxicating mix that threatened to burn the insides of Abby's nostrils if she stayed around too long. A witch's sense of smell is supposed to be an asset, but around such a powerful concoction, Abby needed two corks and a good deal of tape.
Charlie leapt deftly into her arms at one point, rather than be trampled by a mob of pot-bellied merchants arguing over the price of exotic spiced tea. Abby clutched tightly to Charlie, feeling his little heart beating quickly in his chest. Not that he would admit this, of course.
As they continued, a man pushed into her, the heavy crate in his arms jabbing her hard in the side. Then from the other direction a large woman, her arms full of dress fabrics in wonderful shades of blue and gold, swiped past her face, knocking Abby painfully in the nose.
Both assailants mumbled their apologies and pushed on through the crowd. Abby glared darkly after them and tried to pick a less treacherous path through the pressing bodies. But it proved impossible, and Abby was soon swallowed up by the crowd, one tiny angry witch and flustered cat in a sea of crushing shoppers.
How in the name of the all that is good, was she to find Pembrake now? If he was somewhere in this seething mess, then she'd need a week and a stepladder to find him. He could be off somewhere, irreparably changing the timeline, and she was powerless to stop him.
A huge, needling headache was filling her brain and addling her thoughts. What with her pent-up frustration and the overpowering scents of the market, Abby needed a good lie down.
She spied, through a tiny break in the crowd, the town square. She remembered it from her own time as an oasis of calm. A large statue dedicated to the slain Prince Sebastian set on a pedestal with a beautifully serene water fountain at its feet.
Pushing through with all her witchly importance gathered around her like a ram, Abby eventually made it through a wall of burly men who had gathered before a fish monger and were haggling over the price of one the ugliest fish Abby had ever seen.
Finally, her cheeks flushed with the effort and her forehead sticky with sweat, Abby reached the statue, or rather where the statue should have been.
What was in fact there was a bell set between two huge iron polls. And standing next to it, staring up at the structure, the corners of his mouth pulled thin, was Pembrake.
Abby marched right up to him, her headache making her head swim, but her anger at Pembrake's sheer irrationality, pushing her forward like a sprinting lioness. Charlie gave an encouraging hiss to back up her general mood.
He'd thrown away her broom, lied to Martha about saving her, run off into the past looking for a ship that wouldn't be built for another 20 years, and let's face it, he was rude to his mother. Abby had every reason to be annoyed with Pembrake Hunter.
'So,' she came up behind him and fell just short of jabbing him hard in the ribs as Ms Crowthy would have done, 'do you believe me now, or what?'
Pembrake reached out a large hand and touched the tarnished surface of the bell, apparently ignoring her.
'Do you honestly think I have the power to send us back in time? Or control people like Martha and Alfred – to make them trick you? I mean, what would be the point?'
Pembrake finally turned to her, and she could see that her words were registering. There was a distinctly annoyed curl to his lips. 'What are you doing here?'
'What am I doing here?' she paused for effect, or rather to allow her addled brain to catch up to her whip-crack tongue. 'I'm here to stop you from making a huge mistake-'
'I told you to leave me alone, witch,' Pembrake raised his voice slightly, his eyes dark with warning.
Abby flinched, expecting his words to echo through the crowd like the ring of the giant bell beside them… except nothing happened. No one turned around and called for the Guards, there was no hastily-assembled mob to chase her from the town, or group of farmers with pointy pitch forks ready to push her into a cave somewhere.
'How dare you. I save your life and this is the thanks I get?'
Pembrake stood silently watching her with his head cocked to the side, arms flexed across his middle. 'You saved me-'
'Yes, I saved you. I found your mother on the verge of tears, frantic with fear that something might happen to you. Then I flew through that godforsaken storm until I found you sinking into the ocean like a lump of coal. I plucked your from the sea and got you to that cliff – that was me, Pembrake. And this is the thanks I get. Useless, baseless prejudice, you –' Abby cast around for the correct word, 'hypocrite.'
Pembrake was pale, either from the mention of his mother or from her accusation that he of all people should understand the hypocrisy of prejudice. 'You're a witch,' he repeated the words, his voice unsure, but his face still locked with dark menace.
'Yes I'm a witch,' Abby virtually shouted, 'and you're an idiot. I think we're even.'
An old woman who had paused by the bell to sort out her purchases looked up with interest. 'A new witch in the city! Oh well, isn't that good news!' She nodded appreciatively at Abby. 'You'll be going to go and see the Crone, I'm sure. I've heard she's been seeking out new recruits ever since that business with the Colonel. And you look as if you know your trade sure enough,' the old woman nodded again then twisted her head into a shake when she looked at Pembrake, 'and you, young man, should learn to show proper respect around witches.'
'I-' the edge of Pembrake's anger dissipated and he looked at the meddling old woman with confusion.
'You should be learn
ing your place. You don't go harassing witches around these parts, me lad, not if you know your proper place.' The woman took a moment to glare at him from under her thick woollen hat and then muddled off, her packages held awkwardly between her spindly arms.
Pembrake turned back to Abby and shook his head slightly. 'Don't think this changes anything.'
'No, of course not, why should a little thing like public opinion influence someone like you.'
'And what does that mean?'
'It means that before this morning you'd never met me, Pembrake, well not properly anyway. Then, when you found out I was a witch, you had sufficient reason to blame all your problems on me and treat me like some kind of wasp. Just because you have seen other people do it, just because to the rest of society I am a convenient scapegoat. I bet I'm the only witch you've ever met.'
Pembrake narrowed his eyes but didn't interrupt her.
'But now we're in the past, suddenly it's okay to like witches again. Suddenly it's okay to treat us like actual people. So if you allowed yourself to be so swayed by public opinion in the future, what the hell is stopping you now?' Abby finished her sentence hotly, not really knowing if it made any sense, or if the argument that had been bubbling away in her head could convince even the stupidest of Naval Commanders, but she still felt the tingle of victory at having said her piece.
Pembrake faced her but did not look at her fully, instead allowing his eyes to settle on the bell beside them. 'So what if you're right…' his voice was quiet, 'and we are back in the past… what does that even mean?'
'It means we have to try to get home before we get stuck here for good,' she scaled back her anger, not wanting to scare off the flicker of reason she saw in his eyes.
'How did we even get here though?'
'The storm… there was something different about it, the way those clouds were circling above you – I've never seen anything like that before.'
Pembrake seemed to frown at a memory, his eyes moving around gently as if tracking some mental ghost, 'I see.'
She was pretty sure he didn't see, but wasn't about to tell him during this random break in his irrational petulance. 'Okay.'
The small muscles around Pembrake's forehead moved slightly as if he were trying not to frown. 'So what do we do now?' he asked eventually.
Abby was surprised at his sudden change in allegiances. So was this him trusting her now? Or was this some kind of prelude to another fight? She decided to play it safe. 'I guess we find out…' Abby found herself staring at the bell too, not sure, when pressed, what it was that you did when you were stuck back in time. Try and get home again was an easy one to figure out, but how exactly was she supposed to do that? 'I guess we look for… information?'
Though it was clear he still hadn't forgiven her for whatever transgression he blamed her for, he smiled wanly. 'Good plan.'
Abby bit into her lips and returned the wan smile with, she hoped, friendly hostility.
'We could,' Pembrake pulled on his too-small shirt, trying to make it stretch further over his shoulders, 'go and ask someone.'
'That's your plan,' Abby chuckled sharply, 'good plan. Let's go and ask someone in the past how it is that you get back into the future. Do you know what the inside of a prison cell looks like, Pembrake? Because I'm pretty sure that's where they'll stick us if we go around spreading crazy stories.'
'They don't take you to prison for being insane, they take you to an asylum. And yes, it is a good plan, because what other option do we have? You said yourself that the storm was strange, that the break in the clouds was the likely cause of our current temporal displacement-'
Abby frowned at his easy transition into scientific language, another reason to hate him she was sure.
'So why don't we go and ask if it's ever happened before? If something as benign as a storm with unusual meteorological phenomenon can send you skipping back in time, then don't you think we might not have been the only people to succumb to it?'
Abby tried to follow his words through the dull thump of her headache. He was annoyingly arrogant, how on Earth was he Mrs Hunter's son?
Pembrake was looking at her expectantly, obviously waiting her for 'oh of course, you are so smart'.
'Hmmm,' was all she could manage.
'I mean, because it doesn't seem to be so hard to go back in time, don't you think it's happened before? And if it has happened before, there may well be someone in this city who knows something about it, who can help us out.'
Was he deliberately using small words so her apparently small mind could catch up? Gah! Who did he think she was? 'Yes, Pembrake, I understood you the first time,' she lied, 'but we can't very well just go around asking people if they've ever gone back in time, and if they have, could they possible give us some pointers on how you get back home again. They'll think we're crazy!'
Pembrake gave her a look that quite obviously said people would already think she was crazy, then rolled his eyes in exasperation. 'I wasn't suggesting we go up and ask the fishmonger for his theories on temporal displacement. I was thinking more along the lines of a witch actually.'
She stared at him. He always said that word with dripping resentment, and it made her want to pull his eyes out. She didn't go around saying Naval Commander like it was the scummiest, dirtiest insult to ever reach the back streets of Bridgestock. 'And how are we.…'
Ms Crowthy had always told her that the best scientist was the one who never bothered to experiment or run around plucking new theories out of the ether like they were daisies from the paddock. The best scientist was the farmer tending his livestock or the wanderer bracing the storm – people stuck into doing what they were doing without trying to abstract any thought from it tended to do a darn good job. You need someone practical if you want a solution, Ms Crowthy had always said, not someone who stares at their books all day and looks for new ways of making powder go bang.
Abby hadn't been quite convinced, sure that there was room enough for both kinds of people in this world. But as she stared at her feet, mulling over Pembrake's suggestion, she knew that both he and Ms Crowthy had been right. When you are really stuck on a problem, the best place you can head is somewhere where you'll get a strong cup of tea and an even stronger clap around the ears. And a witch could give them both.
'Are you dumbstruck with the brilliance of my suggestion?' Pembrake raised a scornful eyebrow and shook his head at her silence.
'Okay, okay,' she couldn't take anymore of his smug face, 'we will go and see a witch. Good suggestion, Pembrake!' she faked a smile.
'You witches sure are stupid creatures,' his voice wasn't pumped full of anger like before, but his words were still delivered with the same scorn. 'I hope whoever we find is more helpful than you.' Pembrake pulled on his shirt one final time and brushed past her.
Was that a smile on his lips? Because he wouldn't be smiling when she was through with him.
Abby marched off after Pembrake, sure that past would not mind too much if the side of his head had an accident with the palm of her hand.
Chapter 6
They had walked through the market until they'd reached the relatively quiet side streets, Abby several steps behind Pembrake, so she didn't have to run into the back of him every time he stopped suddenly to let some lady walk in front of them. She'd caught the end of a couple of the dazzling smiles he flicked the young girls, and it made her sick to her stomach. Was Pembrake really that stupid to charm the women of 28 years ago? Fast forward to the present, she felt like shouting to the back of his head, and they'd be old enough to be your mother.
By the time the crowd pushing past them had thinned to the occasional sailor marching to the port, or plainly-dressed middle aged woman bustling along with her arms full of groceries, Abby was sure she knew exactly the kind of guy Pembrake Hunter was. She was also sure that if Ms Crowthy were present to the see the rakish wink he offered a passing portly, middle-aged woman, the old Crone would whack him over the head with her broom.
>
Boys like Pembrake kept the rest of the world blushing when it should be busy going about its daily business. But Abby was immune; she could see through the handsome strong sailor to the total fool underneath.
'If you frown anymore, you're going to give yourself wrinkles.' She looked up to see him walking beside her, green eyes centred on her mouth. 'And trust me,' he continued, 'a girl like you doesn't need wrinkles.'
What a total and complete pleck. 'And if you keep smiling at all the young girls, the next thing you know you'll be your own father.' She turned her face to the side, trying to stop him from staring with those horribly piercing green eyes.
'You think I don't know what my mother looked like 28 years ago? Plus, there's no harm done in making friends.'
'Making friends? You call winking at every woman you see in the street making friends? How do you think their husbands feel, ha? How do you think your mother would feel?'
'Firstly stop bringing my mother into this, and secondly, it doesn't matter, Abby; it's only a harmless wink,' he said her name with the kind of off-the-cuff officious tone a teacher would use on a student. It was obvious he felt like he had to teach the naive Abby a thing or two about the workings of life.
Abby was livid. What a complete and total plecking idiot he was! And for someone who never felt the need to swear, screaming obscenities in her head at him was like slapping him fitfully with a white glove. 'Oh really? Is that how it works, Mr Commander?'
He smiled into a laugh, his face twisted with humour. 'It's Mr or Commander; they're both titles. For a witch you really are kind of stupid.'
A blush was creeping up her cheeks and, more than his total arrogance, it was making her blood boil. She shouldn't be blushing in front of this pathetic excuse for a sailor; she should just tip her head haughtily and brush him aside into the gutter where he belonged.
'Are you,' he tipped his head down towards her, his eyes flickering to and fro as if he were looking for a ring lost in the sand, 'blushing, Abby?'
Abby the Witch Page 8
