by Cate Tiernan
“Perhaps not,” Kyra agreed. “Still, ’tis a sad thing to see sickness in one so young.” “Indeed.” With every ounce of my might I wished that I could take back the spell—take it all back and restore Tysen’s good health. Perhaps I could. But I didn’t want to involve Kyra in this, especially now that I had dabbled in dark magick. I thanked her for the cakes and headed back to the cottage, thinking of possible spells. There was a spell intended to undo the original spell—certainly worth a try. And there was an endless variety of healing spells. Surely any combination of those would cure the boy. Back at the cottage, Ma was asleep. I checked her for fever, then sat at the table with her Book of Shadows. After much searching I found the spell of reversal: On the eve of the new moon I cast a spell,
And the effects I created, I must now quell.
May this spell be lifted and I now gifted with . . .
“With good health for Tysen,” I whispered aloud. The spell called for protective stones such as amethyst or smokey quartz, and I was to use one white and one black candle for balance. I bit my lips, determined to sneak out to my sacred place in the woods as soon as night fell and save Tysen. For now I could only assemble the things I would need.
Night had fallen. Ma had been to the table to eat, but now she was back in bed again, too weak to stay up for long. Still, she was healing well. I had cleaned and dressed her wound, and it was starting to close with no redness or discharge. I was grateful that she would recover.
She dozed upon her pillow now, and I was ready to slip out and reverse the spell that had
befallen poor Tysen. My tools and herbs were assembled. All that I needed was a gem-stone from Ma’s cupboard. I opened the cabinet door and poked about, searching for a stone with the right charge. I found a malachite, a bluish stone with bands of white. Holding it thoughtfully in my hands, I realized it would be a good stone to keep near me. Malachite was known to give wisdom, pointing one in the right direction, giving guidance. I was about to slip it in my pocket when the stone broke in half! Part of it tumbled from my hand, falling to the table with a thud. Ma bolted up in bed. “What was that?” she asked. “This malachite,” I told her, picking up the pieces from the floor. “It broke in two!” “Oh, dear Goddess!” Ma exclaimed. She tried to rise from her bed, but I could see that the movement drained her.
“Don’t get up, Ma,” I said, tucking the blanket over her. “It’s all right.” “But it’s not! This has dire meaning. Malachite breaks in two to give you a warning of danger. Something terrible is going to happen, Rose!” I swallowed hard, trying to hold back my own panic.Oh, Goddess, are my dark spells coming back to me? I couldn’t bear to tell Ma the truth of my worries, to admit how deep I had fallen
into spells she didn’t approve of.
“Oh, then . . . it must have been predicting your accident with the arrow,” I said, turning my face to the cupboard. I put the two pieces of malachite back on the shelf. “Because, actually, the stone broke last week. I simply forgot to mention it to you.” “It was already broken?”
I could feel her fear draining away.
“Well, then, let’s hope you are right. Perhaps you are.” She turned on her side, content to fall back asleep.
I found an amethyst in her collection, then collected the candles and herbs I had gathered. It was time to save Tysen.
Quietly I slipped out the door and started up the path. Ahead of me light spilled down the lane. What was it from? A moment later torches floated up the path, heading this way. I recoiled in fear. What had happened? Had Tysen died already and the Vykrothes come to punish me? I backed up to the door and nearly fell inside. Ma was already up, hobbling toward me.
“What is it, Rose?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “I sense the danger. What’s happening?” “A band of people is coming,” I said, rushing to stow away the things I had collected for my spell. “I don’t know who they are, but they are not Vykrothes.” “Let us see,” Ma said, shuffling painfully to the door. I followed her out to the sea of darkness bobbing with torches and ghostly faces. In the lead the village reverend stepped forward, his mouth a slash of contempt. “What business do you have with us so late at night, Reverend Winthrop?” my mother asked politely. “Have you come to pay a call upon the sick, for that is what I am. A victim of a hunter’s arrow.”
“I am sorry for your hardship,” Reverend Winthrop said. “But I am here on a mission from the Almighty Father. I have come to take your daughter to prison, Síle. On the morrow she will be tried as a witch.”
“It cannot be!” my mother protested.
“No!” I cried. I clutched my belly, buckling to my knees. A witch! How could it be that these people knew of my love for the Goddess? I had moved stealthily, attending church on Sundays
and always careful not to speak of my true life around the villagers. A coldness overcame me as I
stared out at them, my tears blurring their faces. How could it be?
“Upon whose order do you take her?” my mother demanded. The reverend did not answer. But someone stepped forward from the crowd—Siobhan! “Upon my word!” she shouted. “I know her to be a witch, and I will testify against her.” “No!” I pleaded. “ ’Tis not fair. She hates me! She wants to have revenge!” But no one seemed to hear my cries as the men stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. Brusquely they bound my wrists behind me and shoved me away from the cottage. “No!” I cried, turning back to see Ma huddled at the doorway. “Ma! Please!” But she merely watched me go with a stricken expression on her face. She held out a hand to me, as if I could clasp on and save myself from drowning. But I could not. I marched off to prison, my heart hammering with fear that this was truly my death march. Because of Siobhan, I had been named as a witch. And no one, no one in the Highlands, had ever faced those charges and escaped alive. On the morning of my trial a guard woke me and roughly ushered me into a cottage near the village center. I hoped they were bringing me to the table to break my fast, but when I saw the minister, Reverend Winthrop, along with a stout, bearded man, I reared back in fear. “Dr. Wellington is here to examine you for the mark of the devil, Rose MacEwan,” said the reverend. “Off with your gown.”
The guard at the door crossed his arms, smiling at me. I had never been ashamed of my body, having been raised among circles of unclad witches, but to go naked before such hostile eyes . . . I began to tremble. Would he realize that I was with child? If he did, ’twould prejudice the town against me. “I cannot,” I said, folding my arms across my chest protectively. “Balderdash!” the reverend shouted. He stepped forward and tore at the collar of my gown. “Remove your clothes, and I’ll remind you to make haste, for your trial is upon us.” “No!” I shrieked, trying to pull away from him. I felt like a trapped animal; there was no way out. Closing my eyes, I began to take off my gown. I stood there naked, feeling their lust and hatred swirl around me. Something jabbed at my buttocks, and I opened my eyes to see the physician jabbing at me with a stick, as if I were chattel in a field. Keeping his distance, he touched my buttocks, my thighs, my belly, my breasts. Humiliation burned in my throat, and I closed my eyes again. I could not tell whether he knew I was with child. At this point the mound at my belly was quite pronounced and my breasts were swollen with milk, but I wasn’t sure this physician knew the realities of a woman’s body. His examination seemed more motivated by lust than professional interest.
And thus I began the day of my trial, naked before three peculiar men. After that I was allowed to dress and given a bowl of gruel, which I gobbled up eagerly. It was not enough food to sustain my babe, and I wondered if there would be more at lunch. After breakfast I was dragged out to the center of our village, where I was tied rather barbarically to a hitching post. Villagers were free to assemble around me and witness the nightmare, and most of the villagers I saw every Sunday in church were in attendance. Among the faces gathered there, I saw the members of our coven—the MacGreavys, Norn, Aislinn, and the others. Ma was there, leaning gingerly on Mil
ler MacGreavy’s cart. I spied Meara with two of the little
ones in tow, and I wondered if she was their ma now. Kyra and Falkner were conspicuously
absent, but I suspected that their parents had been fearful for their safety. If the village reverend started to get greedy, he might look for others who were guilty by association. Standing in the center of the village, sweating under the late August sun and the scrutiny of so-called holy men, I felt horribly exposed. An alarming odor filled the air, something I could not identify. Was it a burning herb?
No, I thought, swallowing against the biting taste in my throat. It’s the smell of fear. My fear. Reverend Winthrop began talking to the crowd, telling of evils prevailing among us. I was trying to listen, trying to create a defense in my mind when I saw someone moving through the crowd—a lean, solid figure.
Diarmuid!
I felt my life force rising as he turned toward me. Our eyes locked, and I could feel it in the air between us. He still loved me. He had come to tell me that and to free me from these charges. He would come forward during the trial and rescue me. I closed my eyes and focused on sending him a message. Diarmuid would rescue me once again. This would all be over soon. You’ve come to save me!I told him in atua labra .I knew you would come for me.
I waited for an answer.
But all I heard was the voice of the reverend accusing me of being a witch. “Coming upon her at the brook one morning, I saw her conducting what must certainly be a pagan ritual,” he said in his whiny voice.
I suddenly recalled the morning when I’d heard someone on the path. The morning after Beltane, when I’d slipped off my clothes for a thorough cleansing . . . “I was washing,” I said, looking out at the crowd for validation. “Do not most maidens bathe upon rising?”
“Without a stitch of clothing?” Reverend Winthrop asked. A few of the Presbyterians snickered, as if he’d made a coarse joke. “Why do you laugh, when most of you could use a thorough cleansing in the river?” Ma said, standing tall. The crowd grew silent. “Or is that odor the stench of hysteria? For I have yet to see a person so accused treated fairly in these Highlands.” The minister folded his arms, appraising my mother. “Woman, what is your claim here? This is a formal inquisition.”
“I am the mother of Rose MacEwan, and I know her to be a kind and noble child,” Síle said. Her hair was covered by a modest veil, her voice filled with a fortitude that belied her injury. “Whatever evil you have charged her with is false, I swear a solemn oath to that. And I charge you to release her and return her to her proper home.” It was dangerous for anyone to speak in my defense, but Ma had been willing to take that chance. In some ways, I knew I didn’t deserve it. Pressing one hand against the child in my belly, I marveled at how deep a mother’s love could run. Reverend Winthrop puckered his lips, as if Síle’s words had left a sour taste in his mouth. “These are the words of her mother,” he announced formally. “Although I’ve yet to know a mother who clearly sees her child’s true flaws.”
I turned to Diarmuid and sent him an urgent message:The man shows disrespect toward my mother! I wanted to say.Step forward and set him aright! But now he was watching the reverend,
pretending not to understand me.
“So,” the minister went on, “it was no surprise when this young maiden came to me with proof that Rose MacEwan is a witch.” He gestured toward Siobhan. “Tell us what you know, please.”
Siobhan stepped forward, her long neck craning as she lifted her chin proudly. “She is a witch!”
she said in a tinny voice. “I have witnessed her performing her craft.” Although she was hardly convincing, she smiled gleefully. I turned to Diarmuid, wondering what he thought of his betrothed now. Had he known that she was a backstabbing hypocrite?
Diarmuid’s face was pale, his blue eyes flashing with something I couldn’t determine. Surprise? Perhaps he hadn’t heard that Siobhan was my chief accuser. Step forward and make her cease,I ordered him.You have the power to stop her. . . . Don’t let
this drag on!
But he didn’t seem to be receiving my messages. Where was his mind today? “What have you seen Rose MacEwan doing?” Reverend Winthrop prodded Siobhan. “Remember what you told me?”
“Aye!” Siobhan answered. “I have seen her dancing in the woods at night! Dancing with the devil!”
Her words lashed out like the crack of a whip. How could she say that? Even if she hated me, did she not realize those words would be my death sentence? I pressed my hands to my hot cheeks, too afraid to respond, too frightened to cry. The crowd gasped and murmured.
“Quiet, please!” the reverend shouted. “Let’s not waver from the point at hand. Did you or did you not see Rose MacEwan in her dance with Satan?” he asked Siobhan. “I did!” she shouted. “And I can prove it.” She pointed a finger at me, hatred gleaming in her pale gray eyes. “Rose MacEwan is with child! She is carrying the devil’s spawn!” I felt stung. How did she know I was with child? Had Diarmuid told her? It would have been a huge betrayal, something I could not believe of him. She must have found out some other way. But how?
The crowd was rumbling with speculation. Ma had collapsed onto Miller MacGreavy’s cart, and I saw Norn embrace her. I tried to catch Diarmuid’s eye, but he was blocked by one of the villagers, who was laughing heartily. Should I send him anothertua labra , or was that a waste of time?Oh, Goddess, help me!
“Is it true, Dr. Wellington?” Reverend Winthrop asked the physician. “Is Rose MacEwan with child?”
Dr. Wellington stroked his bristly beard as if the answer lay there in the folds of his chin. “Well, aye, ’tis true.”
“My child is not the devil’s spawn,” I cried. “She is a healthy, human child with a father who will love her!”
“Liar!” Siobhan shouted. “There is no father! Rose MacEwan has lain with the devil. That is why her belly is swollen with his evil seed!” Reverend Winthrop made the sign of the cross, and those standing closest to me took a step back, as if my evil could spread to them.
“There is a father for my child!” I insisted. “He is among us now.” I dared not name him, for fear that the crowd would turn on him, too. The answer had to come from him; Diarmuid had to be the one to stand up and lay claim to me as his future bride and mother of his child. By doing so he could turn this scandalous dilemma into something honorable in the eyes of the Christians, who at least believed in redemption.
I glanced toward him, beseeching him, but he did not move. What was he waiting for?I need you —now! It’s time for you to save me. Denounce Siobhan’s lie. Claim me as your own true love
and lover.
“A father among us?” Reverend Winthrop said tartly. He glanced over his shoulders at the men in the crowd. “All right, then. Let the father of Rose MacEwan’s child step forward. What human among us has lain with this woman?”
I looked at Diarmuid, begging him to act now. But he would not meet my glance. It was as if he were cast in stone, a useless pillar of rock. Please!I thought, beseeching him with every fiber of my being.Please . . . they’re going to kill
me and our baby!
But he did not move.
“Oh, Goddess,” I mumbled under my breath. “Let it not be. He is choosing her! He is choosing her over me!”
“Just as I suspected.” The reverend shook his head, eyeing me with mock sadness. “There is no father, is there?” His eyes glittered with malice. “There is!” I insisted.
I wanted to protest, but my throat had gone dry. Going over to a horse trough, Reverend Winthrop pushed back the sleeves of his gown, making a show of washing his hands. “I wash my hands of the matter of your redemption. I do believe you are guilty as charged.”
“Aye, she is guilty!” someone cried.
“Guilty! Guilty!” The cry became a chant taken up by the villagers around me. I felt myself collapsing against the hitching post, my hands hugging my belly. I couldn’t let them hurt my babe. But how could I stop the swell of hatred that
raged out of control? “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
Strong arms clamped around me. I felt myself being lifted, then dragged off through the crowd. Villagers stared at me, their eyes full of scorn or pity or curiosity. One woman snatched her children away and tucked them behind her skirts, as if I would harm them. How wrong she was. Didn’t she know I would defend any child, especially my own, to the ends of time? “Another useless Wodebayne to the gallows,” I heard a Vykrothe man mutter just loud enough for me to hear. “ ’Tis no loss for us.”
Is that what all of this had boiled down to? Hatred and prejudice? I wondered, but my thoughts were clouded with pain and confusion.
“At last she’ll be getting what she deserves,” said a familiar voice. I glanced up to see Siobhan sidling up to Diarmuid, a smug expression on her face. Beside her Diarmuid stood staring at the ground.
Not man enough to defend me! I wanted to say, but the words were caught in the painful lump lodged in my throat.
I dug my heels into the ground, making the guards halt for a moment. “Mark my words, Siobhan,” I told her, my voice cracking with emotion. “Your evil will come back to you threefold!”
“Begone!” she said, waggling her fingers at me like a sprite. “You’ll not harm me again.” Without thought I was upon her, grabbing and scraping in an attempt to shatter her silly composure. I felt my nails dig into her skin, scratching the side of her cheek. “Aaah!” she yelped. “The witch has attacked me again!” The men quickly yanked me off her, but before they dragged me away, I had the satisfaction of seeing her sad little pout, along with a trickle of blood running down her graceful neck. That is the neck that should be snapped at the gallows! I wanted to scream. She had tried to kill
my mother, had she not? The urge to senddealan-dé her way was strong, and it took all my
restraint to control myself as the men took me off to my tiny prison. My cell was actually the springhouse behind a villager’s cottage. The roof was made of leaky straw thatching, but the mud-plastered stone walls prevented my escape. Tossed onto the dirt floor there, I curled into a ball and thought of Diarmuid, my heart truly breaking. What had happened to the power of our love?
