Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins (33 page)

My palms were sweating and cold. I plunged
them under my legs to hide them. While next to me, I saw my
mother's jaw tighten and her breath become shallow.

“Now, fear not good people,” the Minister
went on as he slammed his hand down on the pulpit to quiet the
frantic crowd. “I have hired an expert in the field of witch
hunting to weed out those who are responsible for these
atrocities.”

The congregation seemed to let out a sigh in
unison, reflecting their relief. He waved a hand in a welcoming
gesture, and up to the pulpit sauntered Lamont.

My mother looked like she would pass out with
fright and I was not in a much better state. I knew that she had
sewn charms into all our clothing and we each carried a small
satchel of salt with us as well. While this was some comfort, it
could also be used as evidence against us if we were searched.

Lamont stood in front of the pulpit, his dark
overcoat giving him the appearance of a specter.

“Now, calm yourselves good people of
Burlington,” he raised his hands in a silencing motion as he spoke,
and the crowd went mute.

“I am well versed in demonology and
witchcraft. So much so, that I can even now sense a witch among
you,” he sneered as his eyes landed on me.

The congregation all turned in their pews to
follow his gaze. I did not move an inch. My eyes met Abigail's and
horrific recognition spread across her face. She knew he was
right.

He raised a bony finger and pointed it at me.
My heartbeat was deafening and my eyes wide. The churchgoers gasped
and stared, and then, in one swift motion he swept his arm away
from my direction and over to the far corner of the room
at—Martha!

“WICTH!” he roared, as numerous men leapt
from their seats and descended upon the old woman.

I stood from my seat and started to bolt
towards her, but my mother and father both pulled me back. The
church had grown silent. I could only hear Martha's hastened
breaths as the men bound her hands with rope.

********************

My mother and I sat in her bedchamber. She
was shivering from the fear and shock with which we were now
contending.

Becky ran back to her cabin after her mother
was taken. I would guess that she went to warn her community of
what had occurred.

“She has been a mother to me since I was
taken from Ireland. She is my closest friend,” my mother
sobbed.

I had no words to comfort her, so I stayed
and cried with her. My father knew of the close bond between my
mother and Martha, and he respectfully left us alone to handle our
grief.

“Of all our holy days, that monster picks
Alban Arthuan to do this,” she was incensed.

I blinked the tears away, “Do we still
celebrate the Solstice . . . even with what happened?”

My mother squeezed my hand in hers, “Yes. He
will not stop us from our rituals and rites. That is just what he
is planning on, that he will weaken us so greatly that our Craft
will suffer for it.”

“But Martha . . .” I choked back tears.

“This is what she would want us to do,” she
replied with determination in her voice.

********************

My mother, Sneachta and I walked in haste
through the forest. She was searching for something, and moved with
a great swiftness as the light grew dimmer through the barren tree
branches.

The snow dampened our footsteps as we
clambered through the woods, and the soft flakes that fell around
us gave the forest a ghostly silence. If my mind were not consumed
with thoughts of Lamont and his Puca, I would have found this
experience to be lovely. However, at every turn I found myself
glancing over my shoulder.

Finally, my mother stopped. She bent down and
picked up a small log from the forest floor.

“This will do nicely.” She held the piece of
wood up and examined it.

We walked back to the house, but stopped
behind the shed. There we decorated the log with holly and ivy,
blessed it and then brought it into the house.

My mother distracted my father while I took
the log into the back parlor and placed it carefully into the
hearth. Then, I tossed more holly berries and ivy on top of it.

“We have done well,” she said, from over my
shoulder.

“Have we?” I could not see how rummaging
around the forest floor for over an hour was more productive then
spending that time finding a way to help Martha.

“We have honored the Goddess and her son by
observing our traditions. We did not let Lamont wreck this sacred
day. Yes, Aislin, we have done well.”

My mother moved her chair towards the fire
and stared into the glow. It appeared that she was in a trance, but
I knew she was divining by reading the flames.

She did not move an inch for the remainder of
the evening and long after I went to bed, she stayed up searching
for a way to save Martha.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Martha had been taken away. Not even the
family she tended to, the Smiths, knew of her whereabouts.

Becky sat with me in my room, “They went
through my mother’s cabin and they found the altar,” she said
through her tears, “Now they have all the proof they need that she
is a witch.”

“We have to do something,” I said, as I paced
the floor. “We cannot just sit back and wait for Lamont to kill
her.”

Becky and I stayed in silence for a long
while as we thought of our options.

“If we knew where she was being held, then we
could help her escape,” Becky suggested in frustration.

“Maybe Greer has already saved her,” I
thought aloud.

Her expression shifted from intense thought
to pity, “Aislin, Greer was not well when he left here . . . we
cannot count on him having the strength to help anyone right now,”
she said, leaning her head against the bedpost.

“We have a few more days,” I said, as I
flipped through the book looking for guidance. “They will not
proceed until after Christmas. In fact, we might be able to use
that toward our advantage.”

Becky picked up Sneachta and stroked her fur
as she spoke, “There is something you must know Aislin. Ever since
I was a little girl, my mother has prepared me for something like
this and she made me promise that if she was ever taken…that I
would not endanger myself to save her.”

My eyes widened, “Did she foresee this?”

“No. I don't think so. Not
this
exactly. But, we live by a different set of rules then you do.
Everyday we face the reality that we are at the mercy of those who
own us. If they wish to beat us, they do. If they want to rape us,
they will . . . and if they choose to kill us . . .”

I slumped down on the floor below Becky and
Sneachta.

“Have you asked your ancestors for guidance?”
I clutched my side and tried to make the biting pain settle, my
ribs were bothering me and I still found it hard to catch my
breath.

“Yes… but I have to be careful now. I think
they suspect me as well. Pete told me that the witch hunter had
talked to him and even our son, Isaac, about his grandmother and
me. Pete took all my spiritual possessions and hid them so they
would not be linked to us.”

“Is your husband in danger as well?” I asked,
alarmed that another person may become entangled in our
problems.

“I do not know. The best I can say is that
none of us are safe.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

We had been required, as were all, to attend
church in the morning. We clamored around the house and scurried to
make it to the service on time. My mother had stayed up all night
and showed obvious signs of exhaustion as she swayed and yawned
while we walked. The other families accompanied us through
town.

All were talking of the same events—the
Marthaler's, Rebecca and her sisters, the Native girl, Clement,
Jeremiah, Zachariah and, of course, Greer. Many looked in my
direction and whispered, but I stared straight ahead and tried to
block out their comments.

We were one block away from the church when
all around us grew silent. I did not know why, as I was in the
midst of the crowd and could not see over or passed the bodies that
stood in my way, but hissing noises and jeering started emanating
all around me.

My mother pushed her way through the crowd
to discover the source of the commotion. She only stared for a
moment, and then she staggered backwards and almost toppled over a
few of the Leeds children.

Some of the men in the crowd started making
leering comments as we kept walking, and it was not until I let
myself fall behind the crowd that I knew why.

There, to the right of where I stood, was
Martha. She was bound in the pillory, her head and hands locked
between two planks, knelt over for all to see. Her face was crusted
with blood, her gaze cast downward. I gasped and froze in place,
anguish too great to control was overtaking me.

The strong priestess that I loved, the woman
who had rescued my mother and guided me in the Craft, looked frail
and ancient. For the first time in my life, Martha looked fragile .
. .
mortal
. I ran to her and wiped her face with my
cloak.

“No child,” she said in a raspy voice. “Do
not be seen near me, you must go.”

I tried my hardest to be strong in front of
her and to hold in my tears, “But Martha . . .”

I felt a hand on my elbow, it was my mother's
hand, “We cannot be seen here,” she said, as she pulled me to my
feet.

“Promise me the same as Becky has,” Martha
said as I kissed her cheek. “I know Becky has talked to you . . .
promise me Aislin,” she insisted.

I did not want to make that promise. I wanted
to save her. I wanted to pry the planks apart with my bare hands
and take Martha far away from this wretched place.

Yet, I would do no more to upset her. I
nodded in reply as I pet her dangling hand, “Yes Grandmother…I
promise.”

My mother then dragged me away from our
beloved friend before we were caught as well.

********************

Guests were coming to visit and had brought
instruments to play and celebrate the holiday. My parents had been
planning to entertain for a long while, but no one in our home was
in the spirit for merriment.

My mother and I had both protested the idea
of the Christmas gathering, but my father insisted upon it. He
thought it would lift our spirits to have music playing. I could
not imagine dancing or enjoying music while Martha was in torment,
alone, in the frozen winter night. I had been sick to my stomach
all day and was now using it as an excuse to avoid
participating.

I heard guests arriving but refused to come
downstairs. I stayed in my room with Sneachta. My book was hidden
and I had to be sure that all my spiritual tools were as well. This
would be a perfect opportunity for someone to start snooping around
our home in search of evidence.

For all I knew, Lamont himself would show up
tonight.
My dimwitted father had probably handed him a personal
invitation. Perhaps he will name Gillis Sutphin our guest of honor
and he can spend the evening further tarnishing Greer's
reputation.
My thoughts fueled my anger.

I paced the length of my chamber as I heard
the band start to play. The same people that had cast insults at
Martha now sat in our home, ate our food, and relished in our
hospitality. The thought of it made me furious. I started
fantasizing about walking down the stairs and forcing all the
furnishings to fly about the room with magic. I knew that Martha
would not approve of my thinking and I quickly stopped.

I went to the window and stared out into the
darkening night. The scenery had not changed. Nothing had changed
at all. There were no signs of Greer.

No letter rested on my windowsill and no
trinkets were tucked out of sight for me to find. He had vanished.
It had been five days since he left, and although I knew I would
not hear from him, my heart could not accept this truth. Every time
I passed the window, I checked it for some sign of contact. Every
time I looked outside, I peered into the tree line with the false
expectation of glimpsing him amongst the shadows. He was never
there.

********************

After a few hours had passed, my mother came
into my room. Her auburn hair was loose and her eyes were rimmed
with red. She had been crying.

In her hands was a tray and on it a cup of
hot liquid and some cake. She carefully closed the door behind her
so no one could hear our conversation and she placed the tray on my
bed.

“The Governor's aide just told me that they
plan on hanging Martha tomorrow morning.”

I sat perfectly still as she spoke. I felt as
though a heavy weight had settled right on top of me, crushing my
ability to breathe or move.

We heard the uneven steps of someone
intoxicated making their way up the stairs and my mother left me to
help her guests.

“Drink that,” she said, as she reached for
the doorknob, “It will help you sleep. We will need to be up early
. . . Martha should not face this alone.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The tea was filled with a strong sleeping
tonic and it had worked well. I drifted off into a deep slumber
within half an hour's time of finishing the beverage.

My dreams were strange and unfathomable. I
shifted from place to place, but could not make sense of anything.
A large oak tree crashed to the ground as I stood in the forest, a
winged beast flew over my head as I watched a great horse gallop
passed me, Becky held rope in her hand and the room we were in
seemed to tilt. Visions were skipping about so quickly that I could
not comprehend the meaning behind any of them.