How I Found You (22 page)

Hell. There were the words.

“You can see it, can’t you?” Rose murmured.

I made a sort of ‘yes’ noise.

She exhaled in relief.

I exhaled in regret.

“Let’s do this,” said Rose.

“Now?”

“Now,” she echoed.

How odd it seemed that I’d spent weeks wary for her to trust her life in my hands, fearing that I would disregard it. And now, as I fought for her salvation, she was the one who was disregarding herself. But one thing remained the same—I held her life in my hands.

“Lie down,” I said.  

She did her best to lie flat in the cramped tree house. I took the flower from her. It was a buttercup—a squashed one, but a buttercup nonetheless. I placed it over her heart. And then I took off my jacket and blanketed it over her for warmth.

Step one, complete.

“I’ll need to say the spell now,” I talked her through it. Though I was just as much talking myself through it.

Rose nodded. I sensed she was scared.

“Please,” I begged her one last time. “Reconsider? It’s not too late to stop this. You don’t need to do this—”

“No,” she cut me off without hesitation. “I’m doing it.”

I imagined that behind all of her bravado, she was feeling like a feather in a tornado. She must have been terrified. Even I was getting palpitations.

I attempted to emotionally detach myself. “Okay, when I say the spell, you might feel light headed, but I’ll be right here with you. When the incantation is finished, I’ll seal it with a drop of my blood.”

“What happens then?”

“I don’t know.”

This was where never having done the spell before set us at a disadvantage.

“I guess we’ll soon find out,” she said.

We both laughed nervously, which, as it happened, proved to be a dose of much-needed relief.

I bent down and kissed her lips and then I began…

“
Grant memory to the soul,

Return it to a life so old,

Let the truth be seen,

Cast back by the power of a witch’s dream
…”

Rose let out a whimper and her head rolled to the side.

I wanted to stop, at least to check that she was okay. But the first rule of witchcraft was, once you’d started a spell, you could not stop. So I kept going…

“
What was born into life,

Was thus born before,

Uncover what it seeks to find,

Through the channels of the unconscious mind
…”

Her head thrashed towards me, and then back in the other direction. I swallowed and kept going…

“
A witch’s blood will grace it same,

And send the soul back to whence it came
.”

I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted the coppery hint of blood. Then, I kissed her. Her eyelashes fluttered.

I saw the blood trickle into her mouth. Her eyelids drooped and I watched in dismay as she drifted away from me.

“Rose?” I pushed the hair from her serene face.

When she didn’t react, I gently shook her shoulders, but her body was limp and her eyes remained shut.

“Rose!” I shouted.

She didn’t move.

“Rose!”

What had I done?  

I Face Myself

1692 Salem, Massachusetts

EMILY SADLER UNTIED HER PINAFORE
and folded it neatly on the stone work surface. She stood back and proudly admired the kitchen. She’d stake her life that they had the cleanest pots in the whole town. And why wouldn’t they? She’d spent near three hours scrubbing them at the brook today. The finished products now hung glistening from the stone wall.

Emily patted her hair, double checking that no strands had fallen loose. She then took a seat on a stool beside the front door, awaiting her husband’s return. Oliver Sadler had been out since the break of dawn, working with his Uncle John, the blacksmith. At last, an honest day’s labour
—
something that Oliver had kicked and screamed about, fighting tooth and nail to resist.

“Why?” he had argued. “I know not why I should. Not when I already possess all the power conceivable, and could be a wealthy nobleman if I so chose. Instead, I’m out at just past five of the clock, on a bitter cold morn’. Pah!”

“Oliver,” Emily had pleaded with him, “thou would not wish the townspeople to talk
—
”

“I care nothing of the townspeople!”

“Reckless.” She shook her head despondently. “There will be a witch hunt.”

“So be it!” he exclaimed. “My goodwife, Emily, thou hast nothing to hide. Thou art human. It is
I
who am the witch. And I say, let them run afraid.”

“They shall not run; they shall hunt and bring trial.”

“They shall try…”

“And they shall take thee from me,” Emily finished. Her mossy green eyes brimmed with tears.

Oliver softened and enfolded his arm around her. “Dear maiden, if ye truly wishes, then I shall work with my uncle,” he yielded. “I shall be Oliver the Blacksmith, and none other!”

Emily dabbed at her watery eyes. “I do wish. I do.”

He snapped his fingers like a genie granting a wish. “Then so it will be done.”

And that was that. Oliver Sadler had become a working man.

Now, as the sun began to set, Emily awaited his return, praying, as she always did, that no harm had come to him during the day.

She crossed her ankles, the material of her dress skimming the grey floor. The smell of broth filled the air as it cooked on the stove. Everything was prepared for Oliver’s return, and Emily longed to see him.

Her gaze remained glued to the gap in the wooden door. She watched as the day’s light dimmed.

“Oliver, where art thou?” she muttered. He usually returned home before sundown, and yet here she sat, in darkness, still waiting.

Her mind raced with terrible thoughts. What if today had been the day that they’d come for him? What if he had been caught and exposed as a witch? What if he was, at that very moment, locked in the stocks, awaiting trial?

Emily couldn’t bear it. She began to weep into her hands. The idea of life without Oliver was too horrible to imagine.

I’ll go in search of him
, she decided.
I’ll plead with the townspeople to let him go.

If only she could turn to someone for support. But the Sadlers had few friends in Salem. Oliver was known to be a displeasing character at the best of times. But never where Emily was concerned. To her, he was wonderful.

Emily rose to her feet and dried her eyes. There was no room for weakness.

Just as she was about to set off in search of her missing spouse, the front door swung open.

“Oliver!” Emily gasped.

His step was light and he smiled roguishly. His dark hair was swept to the side and his cheeks were ruddy from the cold.

“Where hast thou been?” Emily asked. She opened her arms and enveloped him into a loving hold. She adored the scent of his skin and the warmth of his embrace.

Oliver kissed her on the temple. “My sorrow it is if I worried thee.”

“Where hast thou been?” she asked again.

“Detained,” he answered, puckishly.

Emily’s stomach knotted. “How so?”

“Ah, broth,” Oliver breathed, his russet brown eyes travelling towards the kitchen area. “I am famished!”

Emily took his face in her hands, directing his focus back to her. “My love, what hast thou done?” Panic began to rise in her throat, for she knew Oliver too well.

He grinned and then passionately kissed his wife.

It was a kiss so familiar to Emily. The kiss of the one she loved. But today it made her sad, as it came with a sentiment of foreboding. That of a kiss goodbye.

“Please,” she whispered to his lips, “tell me what hath detained thee?”

Mischief exuded from Oliver’s air. “I showed that old hag Dolores Rapp the importance of affable manners.” He winked.

Emily felt a rush of blood surge to her head. “I am faint,” she murmured.

Oliver assisted her back to the passageway stool.

“What did thou do?” she begged him for answers.

“I set free her livestock!” Oliver announced, beaming with pride.

Emily relaxed slightly.
Yes, that’s another friend lost, but at least no witchcraft was done.

“You unbolted her fence?” Emily guessed.

Oliver’s eyes glinted wickedly. “I did not.”

“Then, what?” she pressed, weary from his games.

“I granted her animals the gift of flight.” Oliver doubled over laughing. “Thou should hath seen her face!” 

“Oliver, no!” Emily cried. “Please tell me thou speak untruths!”

“She deserved it,” Oliver huffed. “She did not pay my uncle, and after he shod all three of her fat horses.”

“But she will know it was thee, Oliver! She will accuse thee of witchcraft and thou will burn for it.” A fresh batch of tears brewed.

“Let her accuse,” Oliver replied complacently. He looked to the kitchen, ready to feast and put the day’s events behind him.

“Oliver,” Emily clung to his arm, desperate never to let go. “Her husband is Lathiaus Rapp, and he fears witchcraft most of all. He will come for thee and they will take thee from me.”

Oliver crouched to the floor, levelling himself to where Emily sat. “My dearest love,” he said earnestly, “no one in the world could take me from thee. Mine heart is Emily’s and we shall never be parted.”

Emily tried to dispute, “But—”

Oliver cut her off. “We shall live together until we are old and senile! And then we shall die together, also. And when we return in the next life, we shall return together.”

Emily smiled sadly and played along. “What if we do not return together?”

Oliver gripped his chest theatrically. “Then I shall not rest until I find thee. That is mine eternal oath.”

“What if I am forgotten?” she challenged in good humour.

“Impossible. I will always come for thee. And when thou ask how I found thee, I shall tell thee, my love lives in my heart.”

Emily wound her fingers through his hair. “My Oliver,” she said, “thou art dear to me.”

“Always. Now, I go in search of broth. For I knoweth what I love, and it is my Emily and her broth!”

She watched him trot away with a spring in his step. And she knew the routine that would follow. Oliver would sit beside the fire with his meal, and then take a short nap in his best chair.

That gave her time. Time to make sure that Oliver’s actions had not caused chaos in the town; to put her mind at ease once and for all. 

She quietly left the house and paced along the cobbled streets of Salem.

The town clock chimed eleven, and a flock of crows cawed raucously overhead.

Emily spotted a gathering of men assembled by the town hall. They were in uproar, some of them carrying flaming torches and batons.

“What is it?” Emily called, rushing to them.

The town grocer turned to her. “Witch hunt.”

He raised his torch, causing the flame to waver in the breeze.

“Who hath been accused?” Emily demanded urgently.

“Oliver Sadler, thy very husband!”

Emily’s heart stopped. She could no longer feel the ground beneath her feet.

“Oliver is not a witch,” she protested. “He is a good man.”

“Burn the witch!” The grocer cheered.

“No!” Emily wailed. “I beg of thee, not my husband.” She fell to her knees, pleading with them.

But her pleas were drowned out by the commotion of the mob.

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” the men chanted, their torches pulsating up and down, moving as one fierce monster.

“No!” Emily screamed. She lunged into the crowd and grabbed the arm of the ringleader. “Please, Oliver Sadler is not a witch.”

The man looked into her eyes. His gaze was cold and as black as the eyes of the crows above. He sneered and pushed her to the floor.

Emily crawled on her hands and knees, tangled in her own dress.

“Look at the pitiful maiden,” the leader bellowed. “Her husband is a witch, and she is crawling the floor like the peasant that she is!” He cackled wildly.

Emily clambered to her feet, regaining dignity. “Lathiaus Rapp, I beg of thee, do not harm my husband Oliver.”

Lathiaus spat at her, “Thou art not permitted to speak.”

Emily squared her shoulders.

“Stop!” she commanded the others.

She took a deep breath, suddenly overcome by an inexplicable sense of peace.

“It is I who am the witch,” she declared boldly.

The horde hesitated, all eyes upon her now.

“Yes,” she continued. “It was I who bore flight to Dolores Rapp’s livestock. And I am proud, for she deserved it.”

Lathiaus stood before her. Their eyes met in a harrowing stare. He seized her wrists, and then in a low, menacing voice, began to chant.

“Burn the witch, burn the witch…”

The crowd joined in, growing louder and louder. “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

Lathiaus had caught his first witch.

OLIVER AWOKE FROM HIS SLUMBER
with a jolt. The embers glowed in the fireplace, warming his feet.

“Emily?” he called, glancing over his shoulder. Her chair was empty.

When there was no reply, Oliver’s heart skipped a beat. It didn’t take long for him to realise that something was wrong. In a house as small as theirs, it would have been absurd to think that she had not heard him
—
or he her, for that matter.

Oliver leapt up from his chair. “Emily!” he yelled, frantic now.

He strode quickly out of the house and ran down the cobbled street.

A huge gathering of people congregated around a bonfire, chanting and cheering like feral hyenas. 

Oliver ruptured through the crowd. “Hast anyone seen my goodwife Emily?” he shouted, but his voice was lost in the din.

“Emily!” he shouted until he was hoarse, shoving through the people, his heart hammering.

And then, it was as if he’d been struck down. His life ended at that moment
—
the moment he saw Emily drowning in flames.

“No!” he howled like a wounded animal. “No!”

The town clock chimed the stroke of midnight.

“No!” Oliver shoved people aside, trampling them in his race to get to the bonfire.

“Emily!” he sobbed.

Oliver charged to the front, cursing himself for not being able to run faster. The fire hissed and crackled and smoke filled his lungs. He had to get to Emily.

With his last ounce of speed, Oliver dived into the flames.

And that was where they took their last breaths.

Together.

I AWOKE SOBBING, RAPT WITH
grief and screaming for Oscar.

I heard his voice immediately. “I’m here, I’m here!”

He lifted me into his arms. Only then did I realise that I had been lying down. It was dark, but I recognised that I was in the tree house. The smell of damp wood and the restricted walls were unmistakable.