The Skinwalker's Apprentice (12 page)

Easthampton, NY

1658

Margo was at the shore once again. This time there were no little birds with messages or news that would make her sprint home to her family. She had no family, and she had no home. All she had was a large book with a rose on the cover strapped to her chest, a small map to a house ‘of sorts’, a heavy golden key, and an umbrella that was supposed to take her across the frigid river to safety. She opened the umbrella and placed it on the ice-cold water. It did not float away; instead it tipped on its side towards her, as if to say, “Get in.” She stepped into the umbrella, and it straightened itself out. With a jolt, it began sailing away from the shore.
It actually worked
, she thought to herself. She owed Goody her life. She did not look back at the village, and she tried not to think of her family. How long would it take someone to discover them? She wondered if Goody would alert anyone of their death, though she knew it would be dangerous for her to do so. An entire family deceased, one daughter missing, and the midwife Goody Garlick the only one who knew of it. It would cast her in a suspicious light to say the least. She decided it best to try not to think of those things if she could help it. Instead she attempted to focus on her journey across the river.

“Oh, of all the nights,” lamented Margo, gazing up at the full moon. It was by far the largest she had seen the moon look in all her years. It hung low in the sky, illuminating the water before her like a giant lamp. She was plainly visible from the shore, she guessed, and anything flying overhead would spot her with ease. She threw a protection spell around herself and the umbrella, though she knew it would do little. The beauty of Drusilla’s plan, Margo was realizing, was that all the magic she knew she had learned from her apprenticeship. There was nothing that she could do that Drusilla could not undo, except, of course, for the magic Goody Garlick had shown her in those few hours they had spent together. Margo hoped that would be enough to stop the fiendish woman. What had driven her to do such atrocious things, to seek power so ruthlessly? She could not merely be insane and be so calculating and cunning at the same time. There was something driving Drusilla, though Margo had no idea what it could be. She continued on through the night. The moon was not so luminous now; she was cloaked in shadows as she rode the umbrella towards her destination, a crisp breeze stinging her cheeks. Her hair danced wildly behind her, and she gripped the handle of the umbrella tightly.

Though she tried her best not to think of her, Elisabeth’s face kept popping into Margo’s head. How had they died? Had her little sister been afraid? Had Drusilla used her poisoned black smoke to choke the life out of them? Margo’s blood began to boil, and she willed herself to calm down. If only she had been there, maybe their lives would have been spared. Perhaps she could have saved them. She thought of her father and how hard he had worked to give them a better life, and of her grandparents who had always supported her, no matter how unorthodox her decisions, and who had stood by her parents through the most trying times. She thought of her little sister Hannah, who had not yet begun her life. Margo had never known life to be fair, but this last blow was merciless. She asked herself how she had been able to endure it that night at all, when the tears began to stream down her face. She held the umbrella handle tight and rested her forehead against the smooth wood as she sobbed. She felt as if her heart was being squeezed, that her chest was caving into itself, but she went on crying until she had no tears left.

The skin on Margo’s face was raw from the cold wind biting at her, and crying was not helping the situation. She began to take deep breaths and steadied herself slowly. It was only when she became completely still and soundless that she began to see and hear what she hadn’t seen and heard before. As she rode the black umbrella towards her destination, dark shadows whipped on either side of her. The wind howled shrilly in the distance. Or was it the wind? Margo worried that the gruesome howls that had rendered her unconscious in the forest earlier that day would return. She had heard of such beasts from Drusilla’s magic books: banshees that cried out when death approached. Their shrieks were so loud they could knock one out for days on end. Margo shuddered. She was thankful she had only fallen asleep for hours and not days, or Drusilla would surely have found her, and that would’ve been the end.
Not that this alternative was much better
, she thought bitterly, but at least she had a chance to fight. The bottom of her sailing umbrella shone like lacquer against the water. She tried not to look into the reflection. Her own face was as frightening as anything she could wish to see that night, and she did not wish to see a flying shadow above her.

After what to Margo seemed an eternity, she could spot the shoreline. She moved the umbrella handle, and it steered towards the coast. She thought again of Goody and thanked her silently. How kind she had been to Margo, when so many had been unkind to Goody. Witch or not, she had a tremendous heart, and Margo was glad she’d trusted her. She wished the villagers would be kinder to Goody, though she knew it was not likely. She knew the settlement would go on as it had before her inhabitance there, and that her absence wouldn’t cause so much as a ripple in the ponds of the villagers’ minds: fodder for a week’s worth of salacious gossip and no more. What Margo couldn’t know as she reached the shore of New Amsterdam, was that her family were not the only victims that night. The founder of the settlement, Lion Gardner, would also lose his sixteen-year-old daughter that cold February night. And by morning, Goody Garlick would be accused of killing her, along with the Pennyfeathers, by way of witchcraft.

Easthampton, NY
,

1658

It had taken Margo the better part of the night to reach the other island. The umbrella boat had taken her swiftly across the channel and up the bay past New Amsterdam. When she reached the shore, she walked another four miles until she came to the star on the map. She was waist deep in marshland and barely able to keep her eyes open for lack of sleep, but she trudged on, thinking only of the witch Drusilla nipping at her heels. After what seemed like hours to Margo, but in reality was no more than thirty minutes, she reached the ivy wall. It was smaller than she’d expected and sat atop a small patch of dry land at the center of the wetland. She struggled up the mound, her skirts heavy and cold, and took the golden key from her pocket. With a deep breath, she pushed the key into the wall; there was no door or lock to be seen. To her surprise, as she did this, the ivy opened as if an invisible hand were pushing the vines aside like drapes. On the other side was a clearing, much like Drusilla’s, but instead of the stone house, something entirely different stood.

An enormous elm tree sat squarely at the center of the glade. Its enormous, thick branches opened like a hand, and in its palm rested a circular house made of wood and trimmed in gold. This is what Goody had meant by a house ‘of sorts’. It was a tree house and unlike anything Margo had seen in her life.
That’s most everything I’ve seen lately
, thought Margo to herself as she slogged the few short steps towards the house. She reached the stairs to the structure, twenty wooden planks nailed to the trunk, and she began the painful climb up. When she finally reached the landing of the tree house, she was greeted by a roaring fire, a cozy room lined with books, and an enormous embroidered chair that looked like the perfect place to rest. She sat down mercifully and kicked off her water-laden boots first and her ice-trimmed socks after. She was making an enormous mess of water on the maroon rug beneath her, and she looked around for anything to dry herself off with.

“There’s a bathroom, you know … for that sort of thing,” said an impudent voice.

Margo stood up and looked around in alarm.

“Who said that?” she demanded, but she saw no one. Then it spoke again.

“Calm yourself. I’m the caretaker of this house. Who do you think had the fire going, hmm?”

If she had seen strange things before that day, it was safe to say this ranked as the most unusual. A cat, a black one with tiny white socks and a white belly, sat just out of view behind one of the many bookcases in the circular room. She eyed Margo lazily and seemed to smile bitterly when she caught her eye.

“But you’re a CAT, you can’t speak,” said Margo in horror.

“Said the witch who floated here on an umbrella. Don’t tell me what I can’t do or you’ll sleep in the marsh,” said the cat with a yawn.

Margo kept quiet after that but eyed the cat suspiciously as she went to look for the bathroom. There was a bright blue dress hanging in the small powder room with a note attached: ‘For Margo; good luck! G’.

She smiled as she felt the soft fabric of the dress, and she thanked Goody silently for all her help. She was warm and dry and would hopefully get at least one night’s rest before starting on her task.

“How did you know I came here on an umbrella?” asked Margo curiously as she walked back into the sitting room and settled in the red chair. She hadn’t noticed before, but a cup of hot tea, a soft piece of bread, and hot broth had been laid out on a small wooden table beside the chair. Forgetting her manners, she didn’t bother to ask who had put the set up together, and instead began to eat. The trip had left her famished.

“Goody, of course. She’s my dear friend, and I only agreed to help you because she’s involved.”

“You mean you are her cat?” asked Margo innocently.

“I am no one’s cat but my own, thank you very much,” hissed the feline, showing Margo her teeth.

“I apologize. I did not mean to offend you. This is all so very strange to me is all,” said Margo ruefully.

“Yes, well, being a witch comes with the territory of very strange I suppose,” the cat said as she stretched herself out and walked out from behind the bookcase. Upon closer inspection, Margo could see that the small socks on the cat were in fact not the mouser’s coloring, but actual tiny socks.

“Why are you wearing socks?” she asked the cat, which despite her sour disposition was quite charming to the eye: slender and a gorgeous color of onyx, with wide hazel eyes and the daintiest of pink noses.

“Why do you ask so many inane questions when you should be—oh, I don’t know—preparing to face the witch who has been hunting you like a dog down the eastern shore?”

“I am too tired tonight, I must rest for a few hours before I begin my work. Will you wake me, cat?”

“I suppose. You have a few hours until the sun is up. I will pounce on you then,” said the cat, turning its tail to Margo, who was already falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Easthampton, NY

1658

Margo woke up to a cat’s tiny face in hers, the smell of fish wafting in her face as the feline spoke.

“Wake up, Pennyfeather, you have work to do.”

Margo sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as she did. She had gotten a good night’s rest somehow; she suspected the tea from the night before had helped. She hadn’t even remembered leaving the chair for the bedroom, and in fact she hadn’t. Talking cats can do more than just talk, after all.

Margo got up and went to the small bathroom attached to the room. She splashed her face with water, and when she looked up, she did not recognize the reflection in the mirror.

Her cheeks were hollowed; her skin dry, and there was something about her eyes that was different than before. They were boundless pools of black, dead things without a trace of the sparkle they once had. Margo shook her head and looked away. She walked out to the circular room and saw that the red chair that was there the night before had been cleared away. In its place was a large black cauldron, a fire blazing beneath it, and beside the cauldron there was a podium with the rose spell book Goody had given her upon it. Margo rolled her sleeves up and looked around the room. As she did, the windows and walls transformed to shelves with glass bottles and parcels, labeled with things like ‘toad tongues’ and ‘beard of goat’. She looked at the book, and it was already opened to the right page.

She read the first ingredient out loud: “A droplet of blood.”

But before Margo could even think of pricking her own finger—“OUCH”—a droplet of blood formed at the tip of her ring finger and dropped with a plop into the cauldron.

“That was disconcerting,” she said, putting her finger to her lips and reading the next ingredient.

“Hopefully the next ingredient doesn’t call for a leg,” said the cat lazily.

Margo couldn’t help but giggle.

“No, it calls for cat tongue,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

The cat shivered from her ears to her tail.

“I don’t think I’d be half as charming without it,” the cat sulked.

“Ah, so you do have sentiments,” said Margo knowingly, but the cat turned her face away in resentment.

“And I agree you would not be the same without that tongue of yours. You’d be like any other dreadful old mouser,” Margo teased.

She turned her attention back to the book. Despite the lighthearted moment she’d just had, her insides were heavy as lead.

“You mustn’t forget,” she told herself, “what you are about to do is grave.”

She read the next ingredient out loud.

“A sprinkle of gargoyle sweat,” she said, making a disgusted face just as a glass vial flew into her palm. The label read ‘Perspiration of Gargoyle’.

Margo grimaced as she opened the bottle. It smelled awful. She poured a few drops into the brew.

She went on this way for hours, pouring troll teeth, lizard gizzards, and morning dew into the concoction. She tried not to think of actually drinking the potion, but she knew she must. At long last, after seven hours, the mixture was ready.

“Let sit for two days, and then consume no less than three flasks,” she read out loud, trying not to gag as she did. “I suppose all we can do now is wait,” she told the cat, and she sat down by the fire and closed her eyes.

For the next two days, Margo paced around the tree house or read more from the rose spell book that Goody had given her, while petting the cat, who had become quite fond of her. She’d taken to bouts of crying a few times a day, thinking of her family and of the battle that she knew awaited her. Margo was terrified of Drusilla, but her anger and her desire to stop her outweighed her fear by miles. She studied the spell over and over, and wondered what it would be like if she could defeat the evil witch. What life awaited Margo on the other side of this?

When the second day of waiting passed, Margo prepared three flasks side by side and carefully poured the putrid mixture into each one. She looked at the cat warily, her eyes full of tears, and downed the first, holding her nose as she did. It was the most wretched thing she’d ever tasted. She grabbed the second container with uneasy hands and drank it quickly, holding her nose as she had before. Her face was turning a sickly shade of green, but she went on and drank the third flask in one gulp, covering her mouth to keep from getting sick. She stumbled over to the red chair and tried to think of anything else but the horrible taste in her mouth and the sour liquid pouring down her insides. Outside the day was foggy and cold. Had Margo looked out, she would have barely been able to see a few feet past the tree house entrance. She was weak and felt cold, but what she saw next did not help her condition. Out the window to her left, the one that faced the river she’d sailed there on, Margo thought she’d spotted something a few yards away. She squinted, and there it was again, this time, a few yards closer. She felt her pulse quicken and beads of sweat forming around her hairline. She ran and grabbed the rose spell book, opening it up to the very center.

“I must be quick, cat,” she said, preparing herself for what she had been waiting for.  In the fog, a few hundred feet away, Margo could just make out a small blood red brooch, floating in the fog.

Drusilla was coming.