Abby the Witch (10 page)

Pembrake stood
and held out his arm, motioning her to stand. The movement was
delivered with the practiced ease of proper gentleman, except she'd
bet her life that wasn't charm twinkling in his eyes.

She swallowed
and stood, bowing demurely to Martha before following Pembrake from
the house.

He was all but
dragging her along with his stiff-shouldered strut. Sure he might
not have her by the wrist, but the implication was there.

When they'd
reached the outside world, the sea breeze racing up off the ocean
and chilling the afternoon air, he'd turned to her.
'You knew about this? You knew we'd travelled into
the past?'

She could see
he was angry; it would be impossible not to the notice the fierce
crease running across his brow. But he didn't have any right to be
angry with her. This wasn't her fault, after all. 'No! Of
course not! I only guessed!'

Pembrake
grunted with disdain and took off down the well-trodden path that
led from the house, winding up to the grassy cliffs beyond.

Abby started
off after him, amazed that the charming, apparently caring Pembrake
who had urged her to lie down when she'd appeared ill, was now
storming off across the cliff, accusing her of having plotted some
strange temporal trap. The exasperation brought tingling heat to
her cheeks as she half-ran after the marching figure.

It took her a
good few minutes of scrambling after him to realise where he was
headed. The cliff, he was taking her to the cliff she had crash
landed on only last night – the place where this whole thing had,
presumably, gone horribly wrong. 'Where are we going?' she tried to
prompt the truth from him, her breath catching with the sheer
exhaustion of running after him.

'I don't trust
you,' Pembrake's voice was blank, 'there's something about you,
Abby….'

Abby suddenly
felt sick. She'd heard that kind of tone before, that sharp
accusation stabbing away at her like a knife. He couldn't suspect
that she was a witch… could he?

They finally
reached the base of the cliff, and Pembrake climbed it with a quick
powerful stride that left Abby huffing meters behind.

'There's
something I remembered from last night,' he cast his eyes around
the still damp grass.

Abby slowed,
her limbs freezing with the terrible thought that ran through her
mind: he knows.

'It wasn't
until you had that – turn in your bedroom…' Pembrake
walked over to a low twisted bush and peered amongst the tangled
twigs, 'that I remembered something about you.'

Abby was
standing dead still, watching Pembrake with heart-pounding
interest.

'Something was
missing, I told myself,' Pembrake's face took on a satisfied smile
and he plunged his hand into the bush, retrieving something. 'The
last two times I saw you, you were holding this,' he brandished her
broom, 'you witch.'

Abby gasped,
instinctively putting her hands up as if Pembrake had struck her.
'N-no,' the drumbeat of her heart almost drowned out his words, and
she could feel the panic threaten to engulf her in flames, 'I-I
c-can explain.'

'Explain? Explain? Why don't you explain why you did
this, why you took us back in time? Or is this all just a game?
Have you just cast some curse on my mind? ' Pembrake seemed to grow
bigger all the time, until his large form, dressed in the
ill-fitting clothes of Arthur, seemed to fill the horizon
completely.

Without her
broom, she had nowhere to run – no hope of escape. But Abby was
sure she couldn't will her numb legs to move anyway. For some
reason Pembrake's turn had shocked her, for some reason she had
grown to trust him. And now she felt the venom in his voice like a
dagger in the back.

Pembrake's
face suddenly changed and his eyes lit up, as if an illuminating
thought had flashed across his mind. 'What am I doing
here? Of course this is some illusion, some charade. You're
trying to keep me here – trying to trick me into thinking that this
is real, trying to keep me from my ship. Well I'm not going to fall
for it, witch.'

'N-no, I…' the
words wouldn't come. Abby couldn't break herself free of the net
that Pembrake had thrown. In a moment she had lost all her years of
experience and had morphed back into the 18-year-old naive child
flitting through the streets, hatred at her heels.

Pembrake flung
the broom behind him, sending it flying over the top of the
cliff.

Abby yelped,
clutching her hands to her mouth.

He walked past
without a word, face set with anger.

'It's not like
that,' she finally managed as he retreated, 'I'm not like
that.'

But by now,
Pembrake had disappeared down the path, headed, she was sure, for
town and a big surprise.

For a moment
she had considered sinking into the grass, to wallow alone in her
fear and self-loathing. But with one look at the calm empty ocean
below, a spark of defiance rekindled itself. She was stuck back in
time – so she didn't really have the time to feel sorry
for herself. Feeling self-pity was a luxury of people inhabiting
the present, when they had all the time in the world to devote to
such negative thoughts. All the time in the past, on the other
hand, had already been swallowed up by history.

Whatever
history, whatever destiny had in store for her, she was
sure it didn't end with her sulking on a cliff top.

They were in
the past; unlike Pembrake, she knew that. And she also
knew that without her, he wouldn't be able to get back. They'd have
to work together on this one or else be lost in the pages of a
history book forever.

Determined,
Abby set out to follow him.

~~~

He was mad,
madder than perhaps he'd ever been. Though as Pembrake negotiated
the beaten track, he knew that was a lie. His childhood tantrums
were the stuff of legends.

What made his
current gut-steaming fury all the worse though, was his own sense
of proportion. He'd travelled years now in the Navy, and had years
of training, years of discipline and control. And what had it
amounted to? A rash outburst on some sodden cliff top.

He should have
handled it differently, he should have maintained control. Shouting
at her and throwing her broom off the cliff was the stuff of his
childhood – not the hallmark of his manhood, or so he'd hoped.

He should
blame her, after all, for casting this spell on him, for robbing
him of his ship, crew, and captain – but he could only blame
himself for losing control. An officer had once told him that a
sailor’s control and discipline were all that kept them afloat on
the treacherous oceans of the world. Which would explain the
sinking feeling in his stomach now that he had lost it.

Within minutes
Pembrake had walked the familiar path that led along the beachside
to Bridgestock Port. He told himself that the minute differences in
the track, the changes in the foliage by the wayside – were
imagined rather than real.

This was Bridgestock, this was the present –
nothing had changed. He'd cast off her spell, he'd be able to find
his crew and Captain soon enough.

With the
shifting feeling of unease only growing as he neared the city,
Pembrake held onto that thought with all his might.

~~~

She'd run to
the cottage, mumbled a hasty excuse about Pembrake wanting to head
off the city immediately and offered to come back as soon as she
could to pay for the board and clothes. Martha's eyes had been
glinting with what could only be described as enthusiastic
interest. It was as if Martha was watching a play unfold around her
and was amused at the actors' proficiency. Abby had just mumbled
her apologies, grabbed Charlie, and run off, determined to catch
Pembrake before he did anything stupid.

As the witch
of Bridgestock she had a duty to the city and its people. So what
if Pembrake was perhaps one of the most irrational, insane,
frustrating people she'd ever met. She still had to help him where
she could, especially considering their current historical
position. She'd never forgive herself if she allowed him to run
amuck in town and do something stupid. Ms Crowthy would roast
her alive if she ever found out Abby had let Pembrake threaten the
future. So what if Ms Crowthy thought time was stronger than one
person’s efforts to change it; Abby could guess that didn't extend
to petulant little Pembrake.

In fact, just
thinking about Pembrake made her skin creep with anger. So what if
she'd just met him and had all of two conversations with the man,
there was just something about him. He oozed charm and
sophistication. He angled his head up with a keen, bright-eyed
determination that had obviously seen him through battles of all
kinds, from gunfights with Elogian soldiers to slinging matches
with young witches. He was just so annoying!

Abby had
virtually flown over the rocky path that led into Bridestock, her
hands two tight balls of firsts, her mind pumping along with anger.
Charlie had, perceptively, stayed quiet apart from the occasional
'who does that guy think he is?'.

It was the
arrogance more than anything. The way he held himself, the way he
tilted his head to the side to look at you. Regardless of whether
he was being angry or charming, his pale green eyes still had the
same piercing, searching quality. You just couldn't relax in the
same room with him, because you knew those eyes were just a flick
away from staring right into your soul.

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.