Bewitching (2 page)

Nothing.

I knocked again. Still nothing but the crow’s caw.

“Who is that?” A voice from the street shook me in my shoes. I turned and thought for a moment I saw a ghost.

But no, it was Mrs. Jameson, mother to Anne and Alice, two uppity girls who had teased me about the ugliness of my flaxen hair. Still, I felt close to weeping at the sight of a familiar face.

“Mrs. Jameson! It is Kendra Hilferty!”

“Kendra!”

I ran down the stone pathway to embrace her. But when I reached the street, Mrs. Jameson’s arms were closed. “Kendra, what are you doing here?”

I faltered. “I was … visiting… Lucinda.”

“Visiting?” The expression on Mrs. Jameson’s face was strange.

I thought it best to change the subject. “How are dear Anne and Alice?”

Her face crumpled like papers in flame, and I knew.

“Gone,” she said, “all gone.”

“All?” I was sorry now to have thought them snobbish girls. “Mr. Jameson too?”

She nodded. “Of my family, only I have been fated, nay cursed, to survive.”

“I am the same,” I said. “My brother Charlie, he is the only one who lives yet, and I may find him gone when I return.” It was the first I had thought it, and I glanced back toward the house. Had death become so routine for me? Was I turned to a monster?

Then, she did take me in her arms, and we held each other and wept and wept as if weeping were the cure for our troubles.

Finally, I said, “I beg your leave, Mrs. Jameson. I was searching for Lucinda, that she might have some herbs for Charlie.”

She looked at the house, and her eyes seemed to burn. “Lucinda Baker was a witch who brought the plague upon all of us!” she spat.

Was that what was being said? “’Twas George Viccars who brought the plague from London on a bolt of fabric. Besides, Lucinda is my friend.”

“If she is your friend, you may be a witch as well, and should be hanged as one.”

“How can you say such a thing to me? My family is as dead as yours. I only want—”

“Oh, Kendra.” Her face broke, and she began to sob again. “I know what you want. Would that you could have it, but it is too late. Lucinda is gone.”

The crow on the eaves cawed and turned its black head away.

“Some say she left in the night to avoid those who threatened to try her by water. Others say she came to a different end.”

I glanced in the window, which was black and empty. Lucinda was gone and, with her, every last impossible hope. I wanted to fall to the ground and weep, but I had not time for that. Instead, I said, “Perhaps there is something left in her garden for Charlie.”

Mrs. Jameson nodded. “I am sorry for your losses, Kendra.”

“And I for yours. Perhaps…” I stopped. I had been about to say that perhaps she could come and live with us, that we might not each be alone. Yet I knew I would not be staying in the village. I must leave the site of all this tragedy and go far away. “Perhaps I will see you again.”

She nodded again and moved on.

I ran to Lucinda’s garden and gathered what I could of the different herbs. I tried to remember the uses for each. Yarrow, to heal wounds and reduce fever, dandelion for boils, horsetail for strength. I piled all into my apron. In the back of the garden was an herb I did not recognize, yellow and pointy as a cat’s claw. The crow swooped down upon it, as if pointing it out. I did not know its use, but something told me it was the most valuable of all. I took a bunch.

The crow cawed as I shuffled away home.

Charlie lived still, and slept. I watched as a shiver wracked his frail body. Without stopping to check for fever, I went to the well, then the stove. I spent my morning brewing teas and making salves, and the afternoon forcing them on him.

By nightfall, he had improved not at all. Lucinda’s herbs had failed me, and Charlie’s chills had worsened. The boils on his neck seemed redder. Abandoning medicine, I took his hands and began to pray, pray as hard as I could, even knowing that it would not be enough. God, it seemed, had not time for us, certainly not time for me. Who would blame him, for there were so many sick, not only here but in all England, maybe all the world? As I prayed, the telltale odor of rotten meat met my nostrils, and I knew it would not be long before Charlie too was dead, before I was alone, all alone in the world.

And then, along with my tears, my prayers became more fervent, more desperate, only the words changed to something beyond my comprehension. I leaned forward, holding Charlie’s hand, and felt my own fingers vibrate with a strange energy that combined with the words and flowed from me to Charlie, from Charlie back to me, until the room spun and filled with a strange, sparkling light. I was light-headed from hunger and despair, arms throbbing with the effort of saving him, bizarre ancient words coursing from my lips. I did not know what was happening. I only knew that something was, something stronger than prayer, something stronger than grief had hold over me.

Finally, I collapsed from exhaustion.

I woke to the morning sun’s first rays and to Charlie’s voice.

“Kendra? Kendra? I am tired of always lying around.”

I started. “What?”

“I am tired of lying in bed. I want to go outside and play with Tommy and James.”

He was alive! Alive, and wanting to run and play. I rushed to put my hand to his forehead. His fever was gone and the boils on his neck were gone, gone as if they had never existed. I lifted the covers and examined the rest of him. All gone. He was well!

“Stop it, Kendra. What are you doing?” He squirmed away from my touch. “Where is Mother? She will let me go out.”

“Shh. Mother is very sick, in her bed over there.” I gestured at the pile of empty blankets and hoped he would not look too closely. Charlie was alive!

Now, what should I do? I decided there would be time enough for the grim task of telling Charlie of our parents’ demise. I said, “If you can be quiet all day today, I will bring you some chicken soup and tell you a story and tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, we will go outside.”

He nodded and said, “I am hungry.”

Warm the soup. I must warm the soup. But I stood too quickly. I stumbled, and the room spun purple around me. I thought of Mrs.

Jameson’s words:
You may be a witch as well
.

Three thoughts whirled past me, over and over:

Charlie was cured. I had cured him.

It had been a spell I had cast.

I was a witch.

Once, about a year before, I had been on the way to town, bringing eggs to sell for Mother, when I heard footsteps behind me. Then, a voice.

“Hey, there. You, Kendra.”

I turned. It was William Butterworth, an older boy, six and ten perhaps, who thought himself important, for his father was a merchant who did business in London, while my father was only a farmer. I did not care for him. Yet, he was running to meet me.

“Can I walk you to town?” he asked from behind me.

“Thank you. But I am in quite a hurry. I have no time for talk.” It was true. I had taken a shortcut through the woods to save time. I thought it strange that he followed me.

“I can hurry.” He was a big boy with a piggy little nose, and already he was panting to catch up with me.

I walked faster, as fast as I could without the eggs jumping from their basket, but finally, he ran and was before me, blocking my path.

“Gotcha.”

“Indeed.” I stopped walking. “What do you want from me?”

Now that he had cornered me, he seemed at a loss for words. “Nothing… I mean, I see you at church, you’re… I wondered if, maybe we could take a walk together sometime?”

“We are walking now,” I said, trying to step around him, to continue on the path.

He moved left, to impede my progress. “No, but … of a Sunday, maybe. I could walk you home from church, or come to your house?”

He liked me, thought me pretty, perhaps. It was a compliment. I should have said yes, or made some polite excuse, such as Mother believing me too young. But I was unaccustomed to being a girl boys liked, so instead I said, “I do not think so.”

“Why not?” he asked, and when he did, his piggy face twisted into an expression that scared me.

“I have to go.” I tried, again, to walk around him, but, again, he blocked my path, and I was forced into the trees.

“Think you’re too good for me then?” His voice was a low growl.

“I said nothing of the sort. Please let me go by.” I started to run. The eggs jostled against one another, and one fell, but I did not care. I had to get away.

He grabbed my skirt, then my arm. I dropped the basket, all the eggs crashing to the ground. He pulled me toward him. With one hand, he forced my arm behind my back. I screamed in pain, but there was no one to hear. “Turn me down, will ye?” With his free hand, he pawed at my bodice. His tongue protruded from his mouth. He twisted my arm harder until I thought it would break. The pain was unbearable. I concentrated hard on pulling my arm away. My vision blurred, then went all colors and then black.

And then, next thing I knew, he was on the ground, doubled over, clutching at his stomach in apparent agony and screaming foul words. I stared at him in amazement but did not offer to help him. I was free, though I did not see how. In fact, my arm did not even hurt.

The basket of eggs had fallen a few feet from where he lay. I scooped it up and ran as fast as I could through the woods to town.

I went to the shop even though I no longer had wares to sell. Mother would have my hide for breaking the eggs. And yet, when I reached the threshold, I notice that they had not dripped through the basket to my skirts. I opened the cover.

Every single egg was intact, as if they had never been dropped. Even the first egg, the one I had seen smashed, was back in place.

Had I imagined it, William in the woods?

Impossible
. And when I saw him the next week at church, he avoided my eyes.

I told no one about the incident. There had been other signs, like my talent with herbs or the way some animals, particularly crows, seemed to follow me, or the fact that, indeed, bad things seemed to happen to those who tormented me, but none were this blatant.

Until now.

“Where are we going?” Charlie demanded as we left our house before dawn the next morning. I had plied him with soup and stories all day long, not daring to leave his side lest he rise and learn the truth, that our entire family was gone, or lest he become sick again. But, as the day wore on, he became stronger and louder and more demanding. My wispy hopes became solid things. After nightfall, I began my work.

I had decided I must leave town. Mrs. Jameson knew Charlie was sick. If he was suddenly cured, she would tell others and then, there would be suspicion. In our town, there were some, like Mr. Howe, who, like me, never sickened with the plague, and there were those who died, but none who had gotten it and survived. That alone would be looked upon as strange, an act of witchcraft in a town looking for someone to blame for their woes. But if William remembered how I had defended myself against him, that would make it worse.

It occurred to me that if I could cure Charlie, I might be able to cure others. I doubted, however, that I could do it before they drowned me for witchcraft.

“The truth of it,” I lied to Charlie now, “is that the others are very sick still. We have little food left and must walk to the next village to find more.”

I took with me a jug of milk and the last of the chicken, then tied Bossie outside with a note that read “Please take care of this cow. You may have the milk” and hoped that the village would forgive me. I took, also, the last of the wheat.

“Once we leave town, sprinkle this on the ground. Then we can follow the trail to find our way back.”

Charlie nodded. I knew we were not coming back. We would find another village, a new life.

We headed past the boundary stone and out of town. I hurried Charlie toward the hills, the better not to be seen by anyone passing by. We would not be able to enter any other town if the people there knew we were from the plague village, as it had come to be called. I encouraged Charlie to run.

We stopped only for a lunch of chicken when the sun was highest in the sky. Hours later, my stomach growled again. There was no village in sight. There was nothing, no food, no one to help us. We would survive the plague only to die of hunger.

“Let us lie down, Charlie. We will search more tomorrow.”

“But I am hungry.”

“I know. I am hungry too, but there is nothing to be done for it. We will gather berries in the morning.”

“Berries? I thought we were going to a village. What about Mother and the others?”

“Tomorrow will tell. The good Lord will provide.”

His very hunger must have persuaded him to stop arguing, for he lay down beside me. I sat longer until the sun faded in the sky. I wondered if I might use magic to conjure food. I tried to remember the mystical words I had said the day before, to make the magic come once again. Doubt overcame me, and finally, I too fell asleep.

The dawn’s light pried open my eyes, and I looked for Charlie. He slumbered still. I allowed myself the luxury of worry. What would we do? Where would be go? I had been so certain of my powers, and yet, I must not be a very good witch if I could not even conjure a bit of food. We would starve. It was over.

I looked to my other side. Did my eyes deceive me?

I shut, then opened them again.

They did not deceive me. It was a house—a darling little house of brown with white on the eaves and a sort of fence around it. Perhaps we were saved after all.

I crept across the craggy ground. As I approached closer, I noticed something strange about the little house. It did not appear to be made of wood or brick and certainly not of stone. Instead, it was made of something smooth and golden brown, with trim of every color. Closer still, the most delicious smell met my nostrils. Was I delirious? Was I so near death from starvation that I had lost all sense? Still, smell brings memory, and this scent held a memory so sweet, so dear, a memory of a long-ago trip to Shropshire with my father.