Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins (2 page)

My father agreed cordially as we broke away
from the gaggle of clucking hens and when we got back home, he told
my mother that we would continue my education in the evening at our
house, and no one was ever to know. My father believed that I was
intelligent and that an education would enrich my life. I secretly
knew that my father treated me in many ways as he would have
treated the son he never had. Each night, after he returned from
work, we would sit together and study arithmetic, and he would
bring me new books to read whenever they came into his shop. Most
often, I was given the New Jersey Gazette. My father printed and
distributed the paper each week

It was dark now. The walk in the brisk night
did not seem to take that long and I found myself back in town. I
decided to take the long way home and walk through the town.
Beautiful lantern lights lined High Street, the main thoroughfare
of Burlington. Many of the shops had candles lit in the windows,
giving the street a welcoming air. It was pleasant to say hello to
the shop owners as they closed their establishments for the night.
I walked passed the cobbler’s shop, which was a small building,
painted gray, with large windows that allowed patrons to watch the
cobbler while he worked. He was a portly man with a jovial
expression, and he waved happily before he tootled home for the
evening. I passed the apothecary on my right, and further up the
street I passed my father’s print shop on my left. I smiled as I
looked upon the shop, knowing my father was still inside, busy at
work. The building was large for one business, but then again my
father required a tremendous amount of space for his work. My eyes
drifted up the side of the building, scanning the cream-colored
exterior until I spotted his silhouette pacing back and forth in
one of the structure’s many windows. I did not stop to say hello,
as I knew my mother wanted me home. Instead, I turned west and
followed the narrow street that bordered the port.

I walked quietly passed the
witch’s
tree
, an old weeping willow that was used to hang the last
witch and wizard accused of witchcraft in our town. It had happened
only five years ago and though I was only fourteen, I understood
the severity of this event. I remember that the happening had made
my mother angry. She told me that neither of the accused were
witches. As I passed under the looming branches, I was compelled to
stop at the tree. Legend said that this was where the witches went
for wood to make their brooms. I wanted to inspect the limbs, but I
was forbidden.

My mind drifted back to that night; to the
moment I learned who I really was, and why I could do so many
things that others could not. I remember the room was dark. My
mother paced back and forth in front of my four-poster bed, running
her hands through her auburn hair as she talked to herself. I sat
quite still, anxious, as I waited to hear what my mother was
struggling to find the words to say. She clutched an old book in
her left hand. It was small but well worn, she lifted it up to the
candlelight, as though asking it for guidance and then finally she
sat down next to me.

“Aislin, what I am about to tell you may
come as a great surprise and it will most certainly go against
everything you have learned from the Minister,” her blue eyes
sparkled in the soft flames that blanketed the room in warm light.
She peered into one of the candles as though in a trance. In truth,
she was searching for the right words.

“My people,
our
people, do not view
special gifts or powers to be evil. In fact, back home it was
common for women and men to have special gifts. These special
people were considered to be close to God and gifted by the
Creator. I have the gifts, as did your Grandmother. I had thought
that perhaps you would not because your father is not from the
Isle, but yet you possess them, and they are more powerful in you
than I have ever seen.” As she spoke, I could hear anxiety building
in her voice.

I sat silently. I felt as though I was
walking in a dream. I heard her words but they were almost
shrouded.

She continued, “I have seen you call animals
to you. I have watched you predict when events would occur. I have
witnessed you play with the wind and kindle the fire downstairs.
Now I have no choice but to teach you because you
must
learn
to control your powers or you will surely bring eyes full of hatred
and fear upon yourself.” She was fighting back tears, her alabaster
complexion flushing as she struggled to control herself.

“I’m so sorry Mother,” I said frantically as
I took her hands in mine, forcing the ancient book to drop between
us on the bed. “I will not do it anymore. I won’t!” I insisted, as
fear welled up inside me. “What is wrong with me?” I asked.

My mother pushed a tendril of my dark hair
away from my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “No! Do not think
like that,” she insisted, “Nothing is wrong with you dear child.
You are special, you are … a witch.”

As she spoke the word, I felt time stop. I
felt a sensation of being enveloped in complete and total truth. I
felt whole, and yet in the back of my mind spun all the possible
and horrible ramifications of such a reality.

“Am I evil?” I breathed the words in a
hoarse whisper.

“No, you are no such thing. We believe in
the same God that they do, the same God you learned about in
church. Unlike them, we also embrace the Goddess and we know that
much knowledge has been hidden. There is much more to our God than
people in power would want us to know. You are by no means evil
Aislin. You are blessed.”

“So, witches are not bad?” I asked in a
hushed tone.

My mother took some time before she
answered. Finally, she responded to my question. “Some witches are.
Some choose to follow the dark path and they are indeed dangerous,
and as much a threat to you as those who would hang you in the name
of their Lord. We are good witches. We follow the white path and
what we do is meant to help others.”

We talked all through the night and my
mother made plans to teach me about the Craft during the day while
my father was at work. I was never to discuss such things with
anyone and I was never to do anything to bring attention to myself.
The ramifications of doing otherwise would not only fall on me, but
also on my mother.

While I found great joy in my newfound
identity, I also savored all the time I was able to spend at my
mother’s side. We were so much alike, and this new discovery had
only brought us closer. Unlike all of my friends, my mother and I
did not exactly resemble each other. While I was petite with an
hourglass shape, my mother was tall with a slight build.
She was nearly as tall as my father, who stood
five feet and nine inches in height. Our differences did not stop
at our height.
She had deep auburn hair while mine was
nearly black, just like my father. Although his hair was greying
now as he was reaching his later years. My mother and I both had
the same crystal blue eyes with flecks of silver in them, and the
same stark white skin, although our bone structure differed
greatly. She had thin lips, smaller cheekbones and far less
pronounced features than I did. I often noticed this as we stared
into the scrying bowl together while she was teaching me to see
into the future. My lips were full and my cheekbones higher,
features that also resembled my father.

During the day, my mother would allow me to
study her book. This was our ancient family book that had been
passed down from one generation to the next. She taught me how to
read and write in the ancient language so that I could keep the
book in its original form, which would also act to encrypt the book
from prying eyes if its secret hiding place was ever found. She
taught me how to conjure things, how to control my gifts and how to
amplify them through practice, prayer, and herbs.

In the evening, my father would return home
and we would continue our lessons, which now comprised of me
helping him with his weekly receipts and tallying up the weekly
expenditures of the shop. I was not permitted to accompany him to
work after those nasty women had bombarded my father with
complaints, but he would not let that stop him from spending time
with me or teaching me about his trade.

In truth, he found his apprentice, Jack, to
be a bit of a drunk and did not trust him with looking after the
records and business affairs. My father would not have even
considered taking Jack as his apprentice if he had not been the
governor’s nephew and felt social pressure to comply. Jack was
immature and lazy, but my father felt obligated to keep the young
man out of the governor’s hair.

A strong wind picked up as I walked by the
front gate that bordered the property of my home. It was a
two-story white and grey home. The house was not particularly
large, but quite comfortable for three people. Inside were four
chamber rooms, and outside, many gardens full of vegetables and
herbs were scattered throughout the large backyard.

As I stepped passed the gate, my cat,
Sneachta, scampered by; flecks of moonlight reflected upon her
white fur. She had been following me the whole way from Abigail’s
house, as she always did.

CHAPTER TWO

Abigail and I were dressed in our traveling
clothes. She wore a bright blue woolen cloak, while mine was a
shade of dark green. The type of cloaks needed for the long winter
that would soon be here. We sat in the carriage as Abigail’s older
brother, Zachariah, drove the wagon down to the dockside. Their
family carriage was very luxurious, and perhaps worth more than
most of the villagers’ means, but Mrs. Marthaler insisted in
showing the family wealth and was often seen making purchases that
would make even her husband’s stomach lurch. While Mrs. Marthaler
asked much of her husband, my mother, Deirdre, asked my father only
for herbs, and fabric to make us clothes. Today, Abigail and I were
sent to purchase items for our mothers.

Word had come to town that new merchant
ships would be in today, carrying many new items for the local
community to buy. Some items were of necessity, while others would
be purely for pleasure.

My mother wanted me to collect as many herbs
as I could. She had provided me with a list to follow and she also
wanted me to purchase fabric for my new gown and had requested both
taffeta and silk. This was the gown that I would wear to the
Governor’s Ball. The gala, which would be held in December before
the Christmas holiday, was the talk of the town, and all the young
women in Burlington were in the midst of preparing for the event.
While I hoped I could find the fabric my mother wanted, I worried
that I would not be able to. Items brought into the docks varied
with the ships that came in.

Before I had left the house, my father
handed me some extra money so I may purchase something special for
myself.

“Think about some trinket that may look
pleasant with your new gown. A necklace perhaps… or maybe
earrings,” he recommended as he helped me into the Marthaler
carriage.

Zachariah had scurried and tried to beat my
father to the carriage door, but to no avail. He had been
attempting to court me for the past two years. Although he was
fancied by all the girls in our town, I felt nothing for the boy. I
found him to be cruel and rather self-centered. He was determined
to prove himself otherwise and continually tried to woo me with
flowers and kind words. I knew that his mother would never allow
Zachariah to marry me and for that, I was grateful to Mrs.
Marthaler, even if her motivation for thwarting Zachariah’s plans
was out of pure hatred for me.

“This is not the way to the port. We are
headed to the forest!” I exclaimed, as I looked out the carriage
window.

“Mother wants Zachariah to take us to the
Philadelphia port instead. She believes that the merchants will
have better quality products there.”

I shook my head in disbelief, “It will take
all day to reach that port. Ours’ is closer and better,” I
protested.

The sun was beginning to brighten the early
morning sky and I knew that we would not be getting home until long
after it had set. The Philadelphia port was far away from our
town.

“It is what my mother wants,” Abigail
shrugged.

As I looked out the window, I noticed that
we were passing the Leeds’ home. It looked dark around the home and
unkempt. The canopy of trees overhead filtered out most of the soft
dawn light, leaving the house in a shroud of darkness. The Leeds
children were playing outside and some were running in and out of
the house. I noticed the carriage speed up as we came in sight of
Mother Leeds. I thought of Zachariah observing the pregnant woman
and wondered if thoughts of similar plans for me had entered his
mind. I shuttered at the thought, but then remembered the
impossibility of his intentions and I relaxed.

Abigail was in a talkative mood and sighed
deeply to get my attention. “I saw Jack outside your father’s shop
yesterday.”

“Did you speak to him?” I inquired,
wondering if she would ever build up the courage to do so.

“No, but I waved to him and he smiled at
me,” she said excitedly.

I tried to remain interested, but this
conversation has occurred at least once a week, for the past six
months. It would be a lie if I said that I was not interested in
love or men, or marriage for that matter. Maybe that was not true.
A more accurate assessment would be that I am not interested in any
of the men I have met. I want to be married to someone who will
treat me as an equal. I want someone who will allow me to have the
same freedom that my parents have granted me. I believe that I will
never find such a man.

“My brother is smitten with you,” Abigail
said quietly so Zachariah could not hear.