Abby the Witch

by Odette C. Bell

  Yes, Abby thought to herself, but he still would have abandoned you in the future. Though, Abby guessed there was more to the story than Pembrake was letting on, or perhaps more than he knew himself.

  Pembrake put a hand up to his face and breathed into it, and then brought his hand down quickly as if he were wiping away his frustration.

  'Well… your mother was different – not at all like she is in the future,' Abby foolishly tried to change the subject, 'she was so bubbly and vague that I doubt she would remember us in the future from the past,' she ticked her fingers, trying to follow through the thought in case she got confused. 'Really,' she tried to rally against the pained look on Pembrake's face, 'she was just so… young… I'm sure she won't remember.'

  Pembrake turned on her. 'Young? I'm surprised you could notice a thing like youth, Abby. The reason you found her so confusing is that she's your polar opposite. I'm surprised you couldn't see it. The reason,' Pembrake drew his face closer, the stress of the morning playing across the creases around his eyes, ‘you found moth– Lilly – so confounding, is that she is everything you aren't.' Pembrake's words were not entirely cold, his tone dipped and bobbed with an edge of stress and exasperation. 'She's young. All that bubbling and giggling, the playfulness, the open emotion – you are supposed to do all that stuff when you're young. And you've never done any of that, I'm sure.'

  Abby receded, like a broken wave tracing back across the sand. She should never have provoked him. She wasn't old, he was wrong about that: she was sensible, proper and grown up – just like a witch, just like Ms Crowthy. Still, she conceded, a proper witch probably wouldn't feel so alienated by his statement, wouldn't let his cold words push through her like a blizzard. 'That's not fair. You're just angry….'

  'And you are a lot younger than you think.'

  Charlie, who had remained suspiciously silent, tucked himself in front of her legs, as if he wanted to prevent her from throwing herself at Pembrake in anger. He was wrong through, she felt like curling up like a dead leaf, not launching herself in a death strike. 'Well then, if you hate me so much and think I'm such a child, why did you propose to me, ha? And tell me, did you get down on both knees, or could you never bring yourself to do that for witch?' At least the hot anger was pushing away her fear and sadness, even if her voice did still waver with uncertainty.

  'Ha. That really annoyed you, didn't it? The prospect of marrying me is the worst thing you could think of, isn't it? Or is it, maybe, that the prospect of marrying anyone makes those little old-lady toes of yours curl up in fear?'

  Abby stood back from him, ready to leave, ready to run away from the pleck and never come back. What a rogue, what a cad what a-

  Just as Pembrake opened his mouth to serve her a fiery dose of scorn, Abby saw something. Across Pembrake's reflection in the glass, like a bird flying through a thick mist, a vision clouded the window. Abby felt herself being drawn towards it, all attention fading from her feelings and onto the glass before her.

  It was a woman on a broomstick, falling through the air, her body limp and unconscious.

  Abby's face was so close to the glass, the scene had filled her whole vision, yet it drew her closer and closer.

  The woman kept falling, soon she would hit the ground that rushed up beneath her, and then she would-

  It was like being sucked, drawn, pulled into a cold cloud. Abby's skin prickled with an encompassing chill, as if she had jumped into the ocean during a storm.

  Closer and closer.

  A hand on her shoulder yanked her back. 'What the pleck are you doing?' Pembrake's mood hadn't improved any but there was a touch of concern in his steely eyes.

  'I..I,' she was still trying to process the vision, trying to wipe the image of falling through the air from her eyes, so she could see what was before her in real time. 'I think someone's in trouble,' she chanced upon the correct words and nodded quickly, 'someone's in trouble.'

  'What?'

  She had seen a wall in her vision, one of the walls of the city. There had been a vine growing up the side and words etched into the stone. She knew that wall, and she had to get there quick.

  Without turning to him, without bothering to explain where she was going or what was happening, Abby took off in a flustered flight, hands drawing up her skirt so she could dash unabated.

  'Abby?' Pembrake barked from behind her. 'What are you doing?'

  Too late to explain.

  It was vital, she repeated to herself as she rushed across the streets, that she got there in time. She may not be sure what it is that she was supposed to do, but Abby had to get there before that girl fell out of the sky. Every witchly sense in her body was telling her legs and arms to pump harder, her lungs to draw in more air, and her heart to continue beating like great big drum.

  She was not aware of Pembrake as he pelted up beside her, and ducked under his arm when he tried to pull her to rest.

  'Abby?'

  'Pembrake this is important!'

  Very important.

  Finally she reached the place where she knew she had to be. She could see the wall with the vines and it matched the one seared into her second sight perfectly. Pembrake, who had followed her the whole way, ran right up to her and grabbed her arms tightly.

  'What the pleck are you doing?' his face was flushed with the effort of the chase.

  She kept her eyes squarely on the wall. He wouldn't understand.

  'Abby?'

  'I'm waiting.'

  'For what?'

  'To save someone.'

  Chapter 9

  She needed to save someone; her second sight had told her so.

  'I have to save someone,' she repeated to the disbelieving look on Pembrake's face, her voice pitching feverishly.

  'Abby.' It was clear from his face and the desperate tone of his voice that he thought her irrational.

  He didn't believe in destiny, so why would be believe in second sight?

  'You've had a stressful couple of days,' he tightened his hands around her bony wrists, as if searching for flesh that wasn't there, 'you shouldn't exhaust yourself.'

  She was trying not to listen to him, the concern on his too-close face was distracting her. He shouldn't be concerned for her, he shouldn't care.

  In her effort to avoid eye contact she directed her gaze to the wall behind him. There, along the top high above, she saw several figures. Then a cheer and two figures on a broom began to gently rise above the rest.

  Pembrake turned to follow her gaze and the surprise spread across his face like a virus.

  The broom slowly began to arc about, the figure at the back excitedly waving their arms, obviously enjoying the ride. But then the broom began to descend in choppy motions, and the figure behind had to reapply their grip quickly.

  There were several shouts from above.

  'What the pleck?' Pembrake was staring up transfixed, probably never having seen a witch fly in his life.

  As both figures descended, the shouts grew louder. Now that the broom had flown out of sight as it hugged the wall, Abby could make out the figures that flew on it. The one at the front, who she had assumed to be the witch, had a long black scarf over her head, obscuring her face. Abby felt cold just looking at her. The girl at the back though, and she did look to be quite young, looked terrified. She was wearing a large, fluffy pink and white dress, her loose brown locks jumping around her face with the ever choppy twist of the broom.

  As the broom descended yet further, drawing level with the rooftops, something unimaginable occurred, the witch flying it jumped off, rolling onto a sloping roof and disappearing. Her agility was catlike, her movement so quick and strong, so terribly unwithcly.

  For a moment the broom hung there, suspended in thin air for as long as it took for the wood and bristles to realise they could no longer fly. Which was just enough time for Abby to run underneath it and will them to last longer. Though she could not command the broom to levitate again without actually touching the wo
od, by focusing her mind hard enough, she could will the magic that was fast leaving it, to hold on that little bit longer.

  It worked to a fashion, the broom tilting, but not plummeting towards the earth. But the girl on top, when she was just two meters from the ground, Abby reaching her hands up to catch the broom, chose that moment to faint.

  She landed on Abby and knocked her flat to the ground.

  When she awoke it was not to find Pembrake hovering over her, his oft angry face transformed with concern. In fact, it wasn't until she had raised herself on her elbows, ignoring the pounding pain in her head, that she caught a glimpse of him. He was standing in a small crowd of Guards and very official-looking people.

  'You're awake then, ma'am.'

  Abby looked up to see a man behind her, leaning against the wall, apparently set there to watch over her. He had the red jacket of a Guard, though it was unbuttoned and the sleeves were rolled high.

  She felt the old sense of dread rekindle at the sight of that red jacket, but within a moment she'd damped it down. She was in the past, after all; she should wait around to see if the Guards were going to chase her before she ran for the hills.

  That's benefit of the doubt, that is, as Ms Crowthy would say. And only someone with faulty second sight would bother with it, Abby realised.

  'Your man was worried you'd got conked right hard from that broom.'

  Abby nodded mutely, not following anything.

  'The Gov said you'd be alright in a while, he knows a hit to the head our Gov. Said you'd be out for five minutes and he's right on the dot.'

  'Oh.' Abby's head was swimming and she felt like she was standing on the prow of a swaying ship navigating a violent sea.

  She sleepily looked over to the crowd of people, Pembrake in the middle. That's just where he should be, in a crowd of people, she thought slowly.

  Beside him, looking up into his face with obvious admiration, was the girl from the broom, Abby realised. The look on her face would have drawn a firm whack across the shins from Ms Crowthy; she didn't believe any man deserved that much admiration.

  The flush to Pembrake's cheeks, and the kick to his lips, suggested he didn't mind it all that much. Beside him was a tall, heavy figure with a bushy moustache and a very hardened face. He looked like the kind of man that would appear on recruitment posters. He looked like the kind of man that would always get his way.

  Various Guards and other courtly-dressed people milled about them, talking excitedly. Pembrake glanced over at her finally and, though she couldn't be sure, looked momentarily guilty.

  Then a surprising thing happened. He pushed through the crowd and knelt down beside her, placing a warm and steadying hand on her back.

  'Abby.' Now he was closer she could smell the guilt on him.

  Ms Crowthy was very adept at smelling guilt. She said it smelt like a mixture of sweat, fear, and self-pity.

  The firm hand on her back pushed her up until she was sitting upright, blinking hard at the sudden attention from everybody else.

  'What an honourable man,' one person muttered.

  'So lucky to have him here when he was.'

  Was Pembrake shuddering at their words?

  'Saved the Princess and now he's off to save another damsel, what a knightly man indeed.'

  The words 'saved the Princess' were like a quick slap across Pembrake's cheeks and he winced painfully.

  'Abby, I'm so sorry,' he whispered quickly, 'really-'

  'Alright, let's have a look then.' A huge Guard with a massive pot belly marched up to her.

  She instantly knew from his chronically crooked nose that this man must be the Gov. By the looks of his nose and his dented face he must have been in fights constantly since his birth.

  With one powerful hand, the Gov latched onto Abby and pulled her to her feet. The sudden move sent a wave of nausea spinning through her head, and the whole world seemed to be tipping back into her.

  Pembrake shot up stuttering like a mother hen.

  The Gov grabbed a hip flask from his belt and flicked the lid off with one hand and forced it into Abby's mouth, tipping it back until she had no choice but to swallow.

  She spluttered horribly as the alcohol seared her throat. But in a moment she could taste the herbs and feel as her balance reverted to normal.

  That was a witch's brew, her suddenly-sharp mind told her.

  'It's powerful stuff,' the Gov sniffed loudly, 'got it off the Crones up in Pickard street.'

  The man with the moustache that could stop armies practically hissed at this. 'You would think, with the horrendous crime that has just been committed, you would not talk of witches with such pride.'

  The Gov, who it seemed had nothing left to fear judging by the significant brutal effort that would have gone into making his face so misshapen, shrugged. 'Crones are nice ladies – make a fantastic pick me up. And you should taste old Waterby's tea; it’s finer than what they serve up at the castle, I have my men running on it, Franklin, and it does them a treat.'

  'Haven't been sick in years,' said the man that had watched over Abby.

  Franklin looked like a man on the verge of ordering the firing squad. But he seemed to back down, smiling so stiffly the tips of his moustache shot out at right angles. He did not withdraw his comment, but did not push it further either.

  'Plus,' the Gov sniffed, 'it was your idea to have the Princess go for a broom ride.'

  'It was not my idea!' Franklin looked like the kind of man who switched like a pendulum between apoplectic rage and withering disdain.

  'Well you agreed to it then,' the Gov shrugged his shoulders coolly.

  With Abby on her feet, she could gradually see the scene for what it was – a play. It looked like all the actors were assembled and playing their parts with aplomb. There was the dirty old witch that had escaped over the rooftops, the handsome brave young man that had saved the day, the fawning beautiful Princess, and the ruddy Franklin. Abby wondered for a moment where she fit in.

  'It must have been a surprise,' the Gov sniffed loudly and Abby noted it was the kind of hearty sniff Ms Crowthy would approve of, 'when that broom came out of the sky like that and stuck you on the head.'

  What with the powerful herbs pumping through her system and the usual brilliant memory of a witch, Abby held her tongue. She remembered perfectly what happened, thank you, right up to the moment when she'd reached up and caught the unconscious Princess and had been squished for her effort.

  'Gosh,' was all she could think of.

  Pembrake was squirming beside her, and she dearly desired to pull him aside and ask him how exactly he had found the gumption to take credit for this save as well. Was he going to make a habit of this?

  The Princess, who appeared to be in her late teens, fluttered over, her face still locked into an adoring sickly-sweet smile. 'You're so brave!' she actually clapped her hands together, 'how amazing.'

  Abby had to stop herself from shooting the Princess a withering look. No one should be that chirpy.

  Pembrake, though he did seem to be trying not to, smiled appreciatively.

  The Princess looked ready to jump into her brave saviour's arms. She wouldn't care a bit, Abby was sure, if the Princess found out Pembrake had stood by dumbly as she'd fallen from the sky. Pembrake looked the part with his muscles bulging from his shirt like that, and that dazzling smile. Abby looked like a scrawny scarecrow with her wild unwashed hair and baggy clothes.

  'So brave,' Abby finally decided to play along, tilting her head towards Pembrake and blinking sweetly, 'my hero!'

  No one, save Pembrake, noticed the sarcasm in her voice. They simply nodded as if that was the right response. Pembrake licked his lips nervously and looked away.

  If Abby was more forthright, more sure of herself like Ms Crowthy, she would milk this for all it was worth. She would try and throw herself in Pembrake's arms like the fawning Princess and proclaim her undying adoration of his heroics. Though she couldn't quite bring herself to
do it – to do something so confrontational to another person – she realised with a frown that if she stayed with Pembrake much longer, she'd lose such qualms. He was putting strange thoughts into her head.

  'We simply must reward him!' the Princess declared with another clap. 'He must come to the Palace to meet my father!'

  This time Pembrake did bother to look at Abby, and he looked triumphant. The word 'palace' had been enough to push away any latent fear he might have felt for lying about his heroics. They were trying to get into the palace, after all: this was perfect.

  Part of Abby wanted to agree. Part of Abby wanted to celebrate the fact their little adventure seemed to be moving in the right direction finally. But the rest of Abby had a jaw-splitting headache and wanted to bash Pembrake over the head with that broom over there.

  The Princess latched one arm around Pembrake's and blinked from under her eyelashes.

  Abby felt cold just watching them.

  Franklin cleared his throat and looked like he was drowning in the honey dripping from the Princess' voice. A sentiment Abby could understand, though she felt uncomfortable comparing herself to the man. There was a distinctly sharp edge to his presence, like his entire personality was directed towards slicing through anything that opposed him.

  'Oh, yes,' Franklin blinked blankly, 'yes we should.' He flicked his eyes over to her and quite unashamedly looked Abby up and down. It was clear he was concerned that Pembrake might insist his ugly, dirty friend come along.

  Pembrake hadn't answered yet and he appeared to be giving Franklin the strangest of sideways glances. Abby hadn't known Pembrake long, but admittedly she was starting to consider herself a bit of a Pembrake expert. She knew what it meant when those green eyes were pulled thin and he pushed his shoulders out as if he were trying to break his shirt – it meant he was thinking of something dangerous.

  Whoever this Franklin man was, he was in trouble. What he'd done to irk Pembrake, Abby did not know; all she could be certain of was the undercurrent of suppressed anger Pembrake was shooting his way. Pembrake looked for all the world like a man who was looking for an opportunity, any opportunity to strike.