Eternity: Immortal Witches Book 1 (The Immortal Witches) (2 page)

The man emerged in his nightclothes after a time, looking rumpled and irritated. “What’s all this?” he demanded, white whiskers twitching.

Two witches!” shouted the man who gripped my mother’s arms tightly. The ones who brought this plague on us all, Honor.”

The old man’s eyes widened, then narrowed again as he perused us. Beyond him I could see the glow of a fire in a large hearth, and feel its heat on my face. I longed to go warm my hands by that fire. My fingers were already numb from the cold.

“What evidence have you against them?” the magistrate asked.

The word of this one’s own sister,” said another, pointing at my mother.

“Matilda is not my sister,” my mother said, her voice ever calm, despite the madness around her. I would never forget her face, beautiful and serene. Her eyes, so brave, no hint of fear in them. “She is the sister of my husband.”

“Your husband who died of the plague!” the man cried out. “And now your nephew is taken as well.”

“Many have been lost to the plague, sir. Surely you wouldn’t accuse every bereaved family of witchery?”

The man glared at my mother. “Matilda St. James bears witness, Honor. She’s seen them practicing their dark rites with her own eyes.”

“‘Tis a lie!” I shouted. “My aunt is maddened with grief! She knows not what she says!”

“Silence.” The magistrate’s command sent shivers down my spine. He stepped forward, glancing down at the woven sack my mother still clutched in her hands. “What have you there, woman?”

Mother lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. I could see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, the way he looked at us, judging us, though we were strangers to him.

“‘Tis only some herbs,” she said softly, “brewed in a tea.”

“She lies,” the man said. “Matilda St. James said this woman was bringing a potion to cure her young son. But she feared the witch would deliberately wait until it was too late to help the lad, and her fear proved true. A witch’s brew lies in that sack, Honor. Nothing less, I vow.”

“‘Tis no potion nor brew,” my mother told him. “‘Tis simply some medicinal tea, I tell you.”

“Are you a physician, wench?” the magistrate demanded.

“You know that I am not.”

“Give me the sack.”

The hands holding my mother’s arms eased their grip, and she gave her sack over. The magistrate opened it, pawing its contents, and I shuddered recalling the stones we’d put inside. Glittering amethyst and deep blue lapis, for healing. And the candles, made by our own hands and carved with magical symbols to aid in Johnny’s recovery. We would have set them around his bed, where they would have burned all night to protect him from the ravages of the plague.

The magistrate saw all of this, and when he looked up again, his eyes had gone cold. So cold I felt even more chilled despite the warmth from the fire at his back. “Put them in the stocks. We try them on the morrow. Perhaps a night in the square will convince them to confess and save us the time.” He withdrew, leaving the door wide, and reappeared a moment later with a large key, which he handed over to one of the men. “See to it.”

“No!” I cried. “You mustn’t do this! We’ve done nothing wrong. Magistrate, please, I beg of you—”

His door closed on my pleas, and again I was pulled and dragged as I fought my captors. But my struggles were to no avail. And soon I found myself being forced to bend forward, my wrists and my neck pressed awkwardly into the stock’s evil embrace. The heavy, wooden top piece was lowered as my own neighbors held me fast, and I heard the chain and the lock snapping tight.

I could not move. Could not see my mother, but I knew she was nearby, for I heard her voice, strained now, but steady. “Tell the magistrate he shall have my confession,” she said. “But only if he will let my daughter go free. She knows nothing of this matter. Nothing at all. You must tell him.”

The man to whom she spoke only grunted in reply. And then the villagers left us. In the town square, bent and held fast, we waited in silence for the dawn. The freezing wind cut like a razor, and the wet snow continued to slash at us. I shivered and began to cry, my face stinging with cold, my hands numb with it, my feet throbbing and swelling.

And then I heard my mother’s gentle voice, chanting softly, “Sacred North wind, do us no harm. Ancient South wind, come, keep us warm.” Over and over she repeated the words, and I forced my teeth to stop chattering and joined with her, closing my eyes and calling to the winds for aid. My mother’s folk magic could not make iron chains melt away. But she could invoke the elements to do our bidding.

Within minutes the harsh wind gentled, and the snow stopped falling. A warmer breeze came to replace the bitter cold, and my shivering eased. I was still far from comfortable, bent this way, unable to relieve the ache in my back. But I knew my mother must be suffering far more than I, for her body was older than mine. Yet she did not complain. I took strength from that, and vowed to keep my discomfort to myself.

“Hard times await us, my daughter,” she told me. “But whatever happens tomorrow, Raven, you must remember what I tell you now. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” I whispered. “But, Mother, you mustn’t confess anything to them. Not even to save me. I couldn’t live if you were to die.” The thought terrified me, and I pulled my hands against the rough wood that held them prisoner, though I could not hope to work them free. She was all I had in this world. All I had.

“Perhaps this is my destiny,” she said softly. “But ‘tis not yours.”

“How can you know that?”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’ve known from the day you were born, child. By the birthmark you bear upon your right hip. The crescent.” Tears burned my eyes. But my mother went on. “You’re a far more powerful witch than I have ever been, Raven.”

“No. ‘Tis not true. I can barely cast a decent circle.”

She laughed then, softly, and the sound of it touched my heart. That she could laugh at a time like this only made me love and respect her more than I already did, though I’d never have thought it possible.

“I speak not of the form of ritual, but the force, Raven. The power is strong in you. And you will need that strength. When this is over, child, you must leave here. Go to the New World. My sister, Eleanor, is there, in a township called Sanctuary, in the colony of Massachusetts. She is not a witch, and knows nothing of our ways. She was born of my father’s faithlessness and raised by her own mother and not in our household. But she is kind. She will not turn you away.”

“Perhaps not,” I said. “But I will not leave you behind.”

“I fear ‘tis I who will leave you behind, my darling. ‘Tis the night of the dark moon, when our powers ebb low. But even were our lady of the moon shining her full light down upon us, I doubt I could save myself. Do not cry for me, Raven. Dying is part of living, a birth into a new life. You know this.”

“Oh, Mother, stop saying such things!” I cried loudly, sobbing and choking on my tears.

When Mother spoke again, I could hear tears in her voice as well. “Raven, listen to me. You must listen.”

I tried to quiet myself, to do as she wished, but I vowed she would not die tomorrow. Somehow I would save her.

“When ‘tis over,” she told me, “you must return to our cottage in the village. But do so by night, and be very careful. You mustn’t be seen. Do not wait too long, child, lest they burn the house in their vengeance or award it to Matilda’s family in return for her testimony against us. You must go back in secret. Gather only what you will need for your journey. Then go to the hearth. There is a loose stone there. Take what you find hidden beyond that stone.”

“But, Mother–”

“And take the horse, if she is still there. You may sell her in some other village. But take care. Should you meet anyone, do not tell them your true name. And as soon as you can, book passage on a ship to the New World. Now promise me you will do these things.”

“I'll not let them kill you, Mother.”

“There is nothing you can do to prevent it, child. I’ll have your promise, though, and I will die in peace because of it. Promise me, Raven.”

Sniffling, I muttered, “I promise.”

“Good.” She sighed, so deeply it seemed as if some great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. “Good,” she whispered once more, and then she rested. Slept, perhaps. I could not be sure. I cried in silence from then on, not wishing to trouble my Mother with my tears. But I think she knew.

When dawn came, it brought with it the magistrate, and beside him a woman, looking distraught with red-rimmed eyes. Behind them walked a man who wore the robes of a priest. He had an aged face, thin and harsh, with a hooked nose that made me think of a hawk, or some other hungering bird of prey. He was pale, as if he were ill, or weak. And then they came closer, and I could see only their feet, for I could not tip my head back enough to see more.

“Lily St. James,” the Magistrate said, “you and your daughter are charged with the crime of witchcraft. Will you confess to your crimes?”

My mother’s voice was weaker now, and I could hear the pain in it. “I will confess only if you release my daughter. She is guilty of nothing.”

“No,” the woman said in a shrill voice. “You must execute them now, Hiram. Both of them!”

“But the law—” he began.

“The law! What care do you have for the law when our own child has become ill overnight? What more proof do you need?”

At her words my heart fell. She blamed us for her child’s illness, just as my aunt had done. No one could save us now.

I heard footsteps then, and sensed the magistrate had gone closer to my mother. Leaning over her, he said, “Lift this curse, woman. Lift it now, I beg of you.”

“I have brought no curse upon you, nor your family, sir,” my mother told him. “Were it in my power to help your child, I would gladly do so. As I would have for my own husband and for my nephew. But I cannot.”

“Execute them!” his wife shouted. “Michael was fine until you arrested these two! They brought this curse on him, made him ill out of pure vengeance, I tell you, and if they live long enough to kill him, they will! Execute them, husband. ‘Tis the only way to save our son!”

The priest stepped forward then, his black robes hanging heavily about his feet and dragging through the wet snow. His steps were slow, as if they cost him a great effort. He went first to my mother, saying nothing, and I could not see what he did. But he came seconds later to me and closed his hand briefly around mine.

A surge of something, a crackling, shocking sensation jolted my hand and sizzled into my forearm, startling me so that I cried out.

“Do not harm my daughter!” my mother shouted.

The priest took his hand away, and the odd sensation vanished with his touch, leaving me shaken and confused. What had it been?

“I fear you are right,” the priest said to the magistrate and his wife. “They must die, or your son surely will. And I fear there is no time for a trial. But God will forgive you that.”

Pacing away, his back to us, the magistrate muttered, “Then I have little choice.” And the three of them left us alone again. But only for a few brief moments.

“Mother,” I whispered. “I’m so afraid.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from them, Raven.”

But I did fear. I’d never felt such fear grip me as I felt then, for within moments the priest had returned, and he brought several others with him. Large, strong men. People filled the streets as my mother and I were taken from the stocks. The people shouted and called us murderers and more. They threw things at us. Refuse and rotten food, even as the men bound our hands behind our backs and tossed us onto a rickety wagon, pulled by a single horse. I crawled close to my mother, where she sat straight and proud in that wagon, and I leaned against her, my head on her shoulder, my arms straining at their bonds, but unable to embrace her.

“Be strong,” she told me. “Be brave, Raven. Don’t let them see you tremble in fear before them.”

“I am trying,” I whispered.

The wagon drew to a stop, and the ride had been all too short. I looked up to see a gallows, one used so often it looked to be a permanent fixture here. I was dragged from the wagon, and my mother behind me. But she didn’t fight as I did. She got to her feet and held her head high, and no one needed to force her up the wood steps to the platform, while I kicked and bit and thrashed against the hands of my captors.

She paused on those steps and looked back at me, caught my eyes, and sent a silent message. Dignity. She mouthed the word. And I stopped fighting. I tried to emulate her courage, her dignity, as I was marched up the steps to stand beside her, beneath a dangling noose. Someone lowered the rough rope around my neck and pulled it tight, and I struggled to be brave and strong, as she’d so often told me I was. But I knew I was trembling visibly, despite the warmth of the morning sun on my back, and I could not stop my tears.

That priest whose touch had so jolted me stood on the platform as well, old and stern-faced, his eyes all but gleaming beneath their film of ill health as he stared at me...as if in anticipation. Beside him stood another man who also wore the robes of clergy. This one was very young, my age, or perhaps a few years my elder. In his eyes there was no eagerness, no joy. Only horror, pure and undisguised. They were brown, his eyes, and they met mine and held them. I stared back at him, and he didn’t look away, but held my gaze, searching my eyes while his own registered surprise, confusion. I felt something indescribable pass between us. Something that had no place here, amid this violence and hatred. It was as if we touched, but did so without touching. A feeling of warmth flowed between him and me, one so real it was almost palpable. And I knew he felt it, too, by the slight widening of his eyes.

Then his gaze broke away as he turned to the older man and said, “Nathanial, surely ‘tis no way to serve the Lord.”

The kiss of Scotland whispered through his voice.

“You are young, Brother Duncan,” the older man said. “And this no doubt seems harsh to you.”

“What it seems like to me, Father Dearborne, is murder.”