by Eliza Grace
He walks towards me and, as he does, he lifts his jacket to reveal a knife with a narrow blade. I try to back up, but my foot catches an exposed root and I fall. I am always falling. I can walk now and I am still falling. I am an idiot.
Saying nothing, the witchfinder kneels beside me and grabs my hand. I try to yank it away, but his grip is firm. The knife tip is against my palm and he is pressing, digging the roughhewn steel into my skin. I cry out and once again try to rip my hand from his grip. He allows me to, but only so he can inflict a similar wound on his own palm.
When he forcibly takes my hand again, we are palm to palm and blood to blood. “Stop it! Whatever you’re doing, just stop!”
His eyes are closed, his expression does not change in response to my panicked words, and he begins to change. “Bind me to thee and thee to me, forever is a fleeting thing. The power is mine and mine alone. Our joining is a shadow’s song.”
He loops the sentences over and over, the sound of them carry into the sky and float past the canopy above. My body is tingling, the intensity of it growing and growing until my back arches against the sensation. This seems to go on forever. When his voice quiets, my body is still humming with energy and it is coming off of my skin in visible waves.
The witchfinder’s form is hovering over me, his arms are outstretched, and I can see that the waves are leaving me to enter him. As I watch, his skin takes on new life and the bruises beneath his eyes disappear. His hair becomes glossy and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth are become filled with youthfulness.
I had been right to think how handsome he could be.
He’s an Adonis of a man.
With a flick of his hand and crimson power, his clothing changes back to the modern jeans and shirt. The tingling in my body flares. Standing, he mutters words and from the earth below him, water begins to emerge, drop by drop, and assemble at the level of his face. They join until they are a circular and mirrored surface for M.H. to admire himself in. The tingling in my body flares again.
“You’re young.” My voice is disbelieving, stunted.
“Yes. And you, dearest one, are not.” He points at me and the watery mirror moves, the tingling in my body flares yet again.
When the looking glass is in front of me, I stare in horror. The crystal clip is no more. My hair is frizzy, wild, and the black strands are marred by gray. My eyes are not as brilliant, the silver is dulled, and the first touches of crows’ feet crown the outer corners. My lips are dry and cracked. I am no longer a teenager. No longer on the cusp of eighteen. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?” M.H. repeats, loathing in his voice. “I took what was stolen from me by Elisabeth! I took the time that I should have lived! I would have taken more, had I not needed you to live so I could channel your power.”
“I am not Elisabeth! I didn’t do anything to you!” The water droplets separate and fall, returning to the earth.
“It is your account to settle, descendent of Elisabeth. And you will keep paying, forever. Forever and always.”
The witchfinder turns away from me, his body moving easily with the years that he has stolen. “Where are you going? You can’t leave these woods! I haven’t broken any spell!”
M.H. turns and his smile is nauseating and cruel. “All I needed was your power. I told you—your mother gave me the spell. But you, you can never leave while I am free. We are joined and you, my little witch, have taken my place in this prison.”
“Don’t you dare call me that,” I growl out, realizing it’s the least important thing to focus on. “I’m not your little witch. I hate you.”
“And your hate matters to me?” He arches an eyebrow. “I have used you from the moment I felt you enter this world. I made myself strong enough to reach out beyond the woods and whisper in your ear. I saw you sleep. I saw you wake. I saw the fire spreading.”
“What are you talking about?” I feel confused, angry, scared. So very tired.
“You will understand soon enough.” His voice smoothed over me like steaming tar.
WITH A LAST HAND GESTURE—ONE that makes my body tingle again and I realize that he is siphoning my magic from me... more of my soul’s core—he is gone in a flash of crimson, terrifying energy.
Forever Means Always
I DO NOT MOVE FROM the forest floor where he has left me, even though I can see where the sunlight filters through the trees and I know what direction the fence and home is in.
THERE IS NO POINT IN moving. I cannot go home, though I know the way. I can feel him using the power outside this cage that holds me fast now. And I fear that with his leaving, my power to walk has left also. I do not trust that he has left me healed. He lied about so much. Everything. I do not even want to try and walk.
Near me, the journal rests in dirt and fallen leaves. It is close enough for me to grip. I take it and place it against my chest, over my heart like some sort of amulet. It’s silly, a useless gesture. If I needed an amulet, it was before—before he drew me into a trap.
HOURS MUST PASS AS I wallow in self-pity and defeat. My focus is a dull, dimwitted thing and I let my mind wander to the ‘what ifs’ that wait for me back in the world. You have to at least try. You have to get up and try to escape. You can’t just give up. Try for Jen and Hoyt. Just try. Determined, I try and wiggle my toes.
And they do move, they respond quickly and eagerly and I hate that I have wasted so much time thinking that I have returned to a crippled, useless thing. Standing, I breathe deeply and then I launch forward, my right hand still clutching my mother’s burgundy book, keeping it against my chest. My legs carry me, swift like the wind of the storms the witchfinder sent, towards where the sunlight is strongest.
As soon as I step out from between the trees—the fence and stone barrier three feet ahead of me—I see them. Hoyt is still calling my name. He is standing just on the other side of the fence. Why doesn’t he enter? Why doesn’t he try and find me within the darkness of the woods? Jen is there too—her beautiful dress being ruined by the rain still clinging to the tall grass and flowers.
Her dress.
Her beautiful dress and her gallery show and Taylor. Again, I’ve ruined so very much. She should be there, enjoying her night... not here worried for me.
“I’m right here!” I race the last few steps, only to be struck by an invisible wall. I stand on my tiptoes and cannot feel the edge of it with my fingers. Please, please don’t let me be trapped here forever while he roams free. Please let that have been a lie like all his others. “Jen! Hoyt! I’m right here! I’m right here!”
Hoyt stops shouting and moves closer to the fence, so close that his stomach presses against the barrier that can be felt, but not seen. Does he feel it? “Hoyt, I’m here! I’m here!” My throat is aching, hurting with the effort of shouting. His head tilts, as if he is trying to concentrate on a whisper miles away.
“Tilda, where are you,” Hoyt says quietly, his eyes searching the forest in front of him.
“Please, please see me. Please hear me.” I close my eyes, every part of me praying for this nightmare to end. I lean forward, pressing my own body to the invisible barrier. The fingers of my left hand splay out against the wall; my palm vibrates with a dull energy. It isn’t the brilliant, gorgeous gold the displays of my power have been before. It’s a sad, dull thing. Barely alive.
My right hand, still holding the journal, strikes out weakly against the force that is keeping me trapped. As my hand makes contact, the burgundy tome slips from my grasp. I see a glimpse of my mother’s writing as the book flutters and plummets. For a second, it shines it’s golden sunlight. I wonder if it is the remnant of my mother’s magic left behind. Helping me. She has always only tried to help me. And what have I done? Killed her. Ignored the rules she taught me to stay safe. I must be such a disappointment.
The gold magic has faded.
Mom’s journal pushes through the barrier and lands at Hoyt’s feet. It lands closed and face up; the symbol on th
e cover flashes gold and disappears. I gasp and my utterance is an echo of Hoyt’s own cry of surprise. I watch him bend down; pick up the maroon volume with careful hands. And then he is turning away from me, so that I can no longer see his perfect, wonderful face.
He moves to Jen, the book in hand, and her eyes go wide. Does she remember it? Does she know that it was mom’s?
“The spell is weakened enough that she might remember all I blocked from her mind...so very long ago.” A melodic, calming voice sounds behind me and I twirl, my silvery-pink dress swirling about me in a wave of silk. The movement makes me want to dance even though my world has shattered.
“Mom?” I take a step back, remembering the witchfinder’s cruel illusion. She is in the same nightgown with lace at the neckline.
“I am not an illusion, my Little Witch.” She is so beautiful that it hurts to look at her.
“No,” I stutter out. “You’re just a trick. An awful trick.”
“I’m not, my love.” She smiles softly, and then she says the words I carry with me. The reminder of a childhood gone, of a future unsure, of a magic I once believed wasn’t real. “Never do magic. Never even think about it. Not even once. If you feel it, a tingling in your fingertips, a shaking in your bones... you push it down, down into your toes.”
“Mom...” the name trails off, my voice dying, tears streaming. I know it is her. It must be.
In seconds, we are in each other’s arms. The world stops. Holding her makes even this nightmare become dream. “Mom, oh, mom!” I gasp the words out, so relieved, happiness flooding my body like an uncontrollable euphoria. “But... how are you here?”
“I couldn’t leave you, not when I knew you’d be coming here, not when I knew you had the gift.” She strokes my hair with its premature gray; her fingers feel the way they have always felt—like a mother’s. “My love, my love. What has he done to you?”
“You knew I had the gift?” My mouth fell open and I pulled away from her, but didn’t let go. Of course she’d known though... all those bedtime stories. She was always preparing me, just in case.
“The night... the night I died. I know it wasn’t your fault. I know you checked the candles.” Mom swallowed, looking sad. “When I first showed signs of having the gift, I was eight. Much younger than you. I thought it had passed you by, but I told the stories anyways. I should have done more though.”
“You should have told me the truth, instead of wrapping it all up in stories I thought were fake.” I hate that I feel mad at her, when what I really want to do is just hold her and cry and feel so happy.
“I know that now. I wanted to save you from all of this. I hoped it would never touch you.” Mom swipes under her eyes, though there are no tears there right now. “Clarke magic always starts with fire. I nearly burned the farmhouse down. No one could explain what happened. But I realize now, looking back, that my father knew. That’s why he protected me. I was always so jealous of the way they treated Jen; she was allowed to go into the forest, to stay a child for longer while I was forced to grow up, to abide by rules that made no sense.”
“How did you know it was me that burned our house down?” I feel the guilt wash over me, anew and choking.
“Witches cannot be killed by flame. Your father died, Toby died, and... well, I died too. Once you come into your powers, you have to cultivate them, grow them. There is a grace period at the beginning, but without care and use, the powers will eventually abandon you. They will return to the earth of the witches that came before. I hadn’t used my magic in so long. I became mortal again.”
“I dreamed that night,” I hesitate, trying to remember details of an event I’ve worked so hard to forget. “about candles, about lighting them and watching their flames. And there were dragons. Burning cities.”
“Your powers awakened.”
“So it is my fault. I killed you.”
“I believe there was another presence outside the house. Another spirit urging your powers to life. Tilda, my love, I’d not felt the awakening in you. Not even a hint of it.” She touched my hair gently. “I thought the gift had skipped you, or perhaps with my powers dead, I could not feel. That night though... I thought the familiar sensation was just a dream. Now... now I think it was him.”
“The witchfinder. Matthew,” I breathe out, shuddering. And it dawned on me, what he’d meant about watching me fall asleep... watching me wake... seeing the fire.
“He has changed over time. Or I have. But I feel it was him.”
“It was him,” I confirm, “but I don’t care. I don’t care if he was there egging my stupid power onward. It was my fault, mom. I killed you. I killed you and Dad and Toby.” I hiccupped at the end, fighting back body-shaking sobs.
“Don’t ever say that, Tilda. None of this is your fault. I should have been honest with you, told you everything, but I’ve spent my entire life running from the truth. Even you father never knew.”
When she mentions Dad, my mind plays pictures of my brother and father in a slideshow. “Where are they? Are they here too?”
Mom’s hand drops from my hair; I hate the absence of it. “No, my Little Witch. They’ve moved on.”
“To heaven.” I mumble, feeling crestfallen. I want to see them, tell them how sorry I am.
“To the place after this one.”
“I miss them.”
“So do I.” She hugs me again, wrapping her long arms around my body and I am enveloped in her warmth and smell and protection. I push my face into her body so that I can memorize the feel of it.
“Mom, I don’t understand. How are you here?” I move away from her once more, still holding on, and I ask the question that is burning most inside of me.
My mother lets go of me, steps slightly away, and she spins in a slow circle, her arms held up so that her body forms a cross. “My spirit was called here. This forest is Clarke ground. The bodies of our ancestors are buried here. Our power is here.” She closes her eyes and her face looks so peaceful. “When we die, practicing witch or witch-turned-mortal, this is our resting place. I am lucky, so very lucky, that our ancestors have granted me some freedom in this afterlife to be with you.” When she stops spinning, she is facing me again. She is so beautiful. It is amazing that—even with the benefit of pictures and memory—you can still forget the nuances of a person. Like the curve of their mouth when they smile.
I close the gap between us and cling to her again. “I’m so glad. I’m so glad that you’re here. Thank you for trying to protect me.” I murmur into the folds of her nightgown. “I felt you, shielding me from him.”
She pulls away from me, sadness in her eyes. “In the end, I wasn’t strong enough. Without magic, I could only offer a mother’s love—I guess that’s a sort of magic in its own way. I tried to keep him away from you. I tried.”
My hand moves to the bodice of my dress, above the place where the glass cut is. “But you did do magic. You made my wound better. Wasn’t that you?”
“No.” Mom puts her own hand above mine and she closes her eyes. I feel the tingling again. “That was you, Tilda. Your power.”
“My power?” I stare at her, eyes wide.
“A witch’s magic is intuitive, especially when they are untrained; often it arrives when most needed and with little calling. You were hurt and the power came.”
“But it didn’t fully heal.”
“You haven’t been taught, my Little Witch. I can teach you. I may not have magic any longer, but that much I can do.”
“Then you’re going to stay with me here? Forever... He said forever.” I look away from Mom. Although I hate to take my eyes off of her for a second, I have to see what is happening in the meadow. There are police men now, standing with Hoyt and Jen. I recognize a few of them from town.
“I will stay with you, but not forever.” Her words are like a hammer to my heart and I cannot stop the tears that begin to build. I do not want to be left alone here, here in this forest of shadows and uncertainty. When
I face her again, she smiles and my frown begins to fade. “I will not stay with you here forever, because you will not stay here forever. You will be free again, Tilda. We will find a way, together.”
What she says makes me think again of the world outside, of the people I have left behind—Jen, Hoyt, even Charlie. I want to have thanksgiving with my best friend, maybe even invite Nessa and Meg; I want them all to visit so that we can talk and be close again. Why does everything have to be so clear to me now? Why did it take me so long to figure out what I want?
My body tingles and I know that M.H. is using magic again—wherever he is out in the world that should be my world and not his. “I can feel him, Mom.” My skin vibrates as it tingles, causing me to shiver and hug myself tightly. Mom looks at me, her face less worried than I expect it to be.
“That connection he has forged in blood and magic may very well be his undoing. He was not born with the gift; he has stolen it. And to steal a witch’s magic... you must be a brave or very stupid person indeed.” She reaches out and takes my hand. “Now come, Little Witch. Into the woods to reclaim your gift from him.”
“The witchfinder.” My fingers tighten around hers; I worry that she will disappear at any moment and leave me to my solitude, but her flesh is firm beneath my own. She is real and here and she will help me back to Jen, Hoyt, and the crippled body that I never thought I’d miss once healed.
“The witchfinder.” She repeats my words and leads me away from the forest’s edge, away from the sight of things I’ve come to love dearly. As the evening light disappears behind us, lanterns come to life. My mother plucks one from a tree branch and its glowing reminds once again of the awful illusion that made me run into the woods of my own free will.
Our journey ends at a small clearing in the forest that is shielded from weather by a great thick canopy of emerald vines. Beneath the shelter are books—hundreds of books with brittle pages—a tarnished brass bed and an ancient-looking music box. As I take in what will be home forever, unless forever can be broken, a haunting tune begins to play. Small voices rise up, like a child’s choir in sanctuary.
