The Skinwalker's Apprentice (10 page)

Easthampton, NY

1658

It had been seven days since Margo had seen sunlight, since she had seen her family or felt a cool breeze on her face. She had lost weight and had come dangerously close to losing consciousness twice before The Priestess had finally let her sleep a full night and have an entire meal. The Priestess watched over her nervously as she did both, tapping her fingers on her temple the entire time. She had taken to pacing back and forth through her chambers for hours on end as Margo tried her hardest to reverse the clock. It was no use, however, and with every passing moment, The Priestess was becoming more impetuous. All remnants of civility were rapidly fading, and the once stern but fair Priestess was replaced with a callous demon. She taunted Margo about her family and told her she would never see them again. She withheld food but cooked lavish meals every day, letting the unfortunate witch savor the rich smells but taste none of it. She no longer let her stay in the beautiful spare bedroom, fearing she would escape in the middle of the night. Instead she built a makeshift prison of enchanted wire, which would burn Margo to the bone with a simple touch.

Margo remembered the night she was encaged vividly. The Priestess had thrown open her windows in a rage after another failed attempt at time-telling.

“AHHHHHHHH,” she had screamed in anger into the night sky.

Her chest heaved as she looked out her window with contempt, Margo could almost hear the cogs in her head turning. The Priestess’s face took on a look of satisfaction, and she gurgled deep in her throat before letting out a sound like a small bird. Margo had watched behind her in horror, knowing whatever punishment her teacher had just dreamed up, would be a horrible one. She was right. A tiny blue bird fluttered to the windowsill, chirping happily as The Priestess picked him up, a devilish smile on her face.

“What are you doing, teacher?” asked Margo in a small voice, her head bowed in fear.

“Oh, I just want to show you what will happen if you decide to try and escape your new home,” she said calmly, grabbing the bird and taking large strides towards the small coop she had conjured in the center of the room.

“Please,” begged Margo, tears streaming down her filthy face and making tracks of pink-colored flesh, “don’t hurt it. I’ll do anything.”

“I’ll do anything,” mocked The Priestess, mimicking Margo’s voice perfectly, one of her many skills.

“That’s the problem you, good for nothing witch. You CAN’T do anything,” she snarled. “And this is what happens to little witches who can’t do as they’re told.”

She tightened her grip on the small bird until it let out a squeak, Margo shaking her head in horror. The Priestess lowered her hand, and pressed the bird’s body against the cage. The fledgling chirruped loudly in pain, as Margo fell to her knees, the small blue feathers burning to a dark charcoal color.

“NOOOOO,” Margo screamed in anguish, “PLEASE STOP!”

But this only served to make The Priestess press harder, and soon the bird had fallen unconscious from the pain. Margo sobbed violently; her whole body shook as she held her hands out to The Priestess, begging her to hand the creature over.

The Priestess’s own hand was raw from the wires, but she did not so much as wince.

“Get inside,” she commanded Margo, her voice like venom as she opened the confine. Margo crawled inside, the side of her face had grazed a wire and a large welt appeared instantly. She sat inside facing The Priestess and opened her hands again, begging for the small bird. The Priestess looked down at her in contempt, a contempt she’d hidden well, but that Margo could now see had been there all along. She threw the fledgling at Margo, who caught it and cradled it gently in her small hands. The creature was still breathing softly, its eyes closed, and Margo sang softly to it, tears streaming down her face, as he passed on from the pain.

The bird had reminded her of the day she learned of her apprenticeship; how happy she had been and how very foolish. Being injured was commonplace for the young witch, as The Priestess continued to put Margo to trial, trying her hardest to elicit another time-telling event. If she could only observe her once more, The Priestess thought; but no matter how exacting she was, nothing was working. She could tell that Margo was becoming weaker by the day, and soon her family would seek help from The Coven. She did not want The Coven involved for as long as possible, though she knew they would eventually catch wind of everything as well, no matter how careful she’d been at covering her tracks. On the morning of the seventh day, when Margo awoke by asking if she might go see her family just once, The Priestess agreed. She had someone to ask a favor of before she turned to her last resort, and she knew Margo would try to escape anyway while she was gone. Best to allay her family’s fears and buy herself more time. She cast a healing spell over Margo as she left the stone house, and instantly any traces of the past week of abuse vanished. Her chopped hair was long again, and her cheeks were full and rosy once more. Margo barely noticed. Inside she was still ravaged. She ran furiously towards her home, her vision blurred with the hot tears in her eyes. She had learned many crucial things in her time as an apprentice, not the least of which was the truth about who The Priestess really was. One evening, before Margo had been locked in her hutch, The Priestess had been making Margo drink potion after potion, forcing the pungent liquids down the young witch’s throat. Margo’s lips were caked with blood from the metal spoon crashing against her mouth. The Priestess watched Margo be sick, and with rage in her eyes forced her to drink more of the vile concoctions, not caring that Margo was on the verge of keeling over. The potions were meant to bring on another time-telling episode, but they had been unsuccessful. Finally, an incensed Priestess took a copper-colored glass bottle from a drawer in her kitchen. The dark liquid swished inside of the bottle as The Priestess stalked towards Margo. She opened the glass bottle, which was etched with decorative flourishes, and poured the black liquid into her own mouth, gritting her teeth at the taste.

“You are useless,” she spewed, looking Margo over with disgust.

“I should have known better than to choose
your kind
for an apprenticeship. Animals, the lot of you,” she said, taking another large swig from her bottle, her long black fingernails scraping against the glass as she did. “Filthy, worthless, mongrels,” she spit out. The Priestess then smiled at Margo, tilting her head as she did and looking as frightening as she was inside, looking like the monster that she really was. She laughed bitterly and turned away from Margo, walking towards the stairs, already wobbling as she walked up each step. 

“Do not come upstairs, and do not disturb me or I’ll make you drink the rest of your beloved potion,” she said bitterly. Margo could hear her talking to herself, arguing, as she went into some unknown room and slammed the door. She could hear her screaming and thrashing about the room as if she were in a lover’s quarrel, Margo could hear glass shattering against the walls. It had been the first time since Margo was held captive that she was left alone. She waited until it was silent above her, and walked towards the front door. It was, of course, sealed shut with a spell, but she had to at least be sure. She walked towards The Priestess’s chambers, which she had never seen. She found the small metallic chain she’d seen The Priestess pull whenever she went inside. It hung from the ceiling, and had a silver plumb bob attached. Margo looked closely; it was engraved with words.

“To open chamber, pull chain three times,” she read in a whisper.

Margo pulled the chain and stood back as the door began to revolve rapidly, stopping as it split in two, leaving a small opening for Margo to slip through. She looked behind her, her heart pounding and her skin dewy with sweat. Had The Priestess found her, Margo was almost certain she would be killed right then and there. She would not have strength for much longer, she knew, and this might be her final chance to escape.

She looked behind her once more, but there was no sign of The Priestess. She stepped inside; the room was like any room in that house, decorated beautifully and lavishly. Margo walked around on her tiptoes, willing herself not to be sick on The Priestess’s pristine floors. She was still feeling ill from the potions and would have to rest soon. She spotted a table at the far end of the large room and walked towards it swiftly. She dared not rummage around, for fear of knocking something over. Instead she surveyed the table, covered with glass vials and heavy books. She spied one book that looked quite different from the rest. It was a small book bound in what looked like fur. Emerald ran her hand over the light gray covering. It was soft and felt almost . . .  warm. It was held shut with a leather belt. Margo looked around again, silent as a mouse, listening for any signs of movement. She heard none, so she grabbed the book and hid it inside her skirt pockets.

That night as The Priestess slept above her, she read what she could of the book. It was filled with unintelligible symbols and writing. There were some things Margo was able to decipher, but she would need her grandmother’s help to read the rest. Margo knew her Mary was well versed in magical characters.

As she ran towards her home on that seventh day, she touched the small book made of wolf pelt in the waistband of her skirt to make sure it was secure. Margo knew that in that book was the truth about The Priestess, about what she was. She knew whatever time she had was scant, that The Priestess was not done with her obsessive trials, and that soon she would be hunted.

She was nearly home when she heard the screams. Piercing shrieks, louder than anything she’d ever heard. She covered her ears, but the sound penetrated every surface of her skin. She took one step, and then another, but her breath was labored and every move felt as if a boulder were being smashed against her body. The forest began to turn like a top, and in an instant, the world around her had gone black, with Margo asleep on the ice beneath her.

Easthampton, NY
,

1658

The sky was dark above her, and Margo knew she had slept through the day. Her dress and hair were stiff with the cold. She struggled to stand as her mind raced to her family. If there were ever a time for her time-telling to kick in, this was it. But as she struggled to walk towards her house, though she tried to concentrate on turning time back, nothing happened. Maybe she wasn’t a time-teller after all, and all this had been for naught. She had to get to her family and get them off the island. She knew of a place in New Amsterdam; she could keep them there until she gathered enough strength. They could summon The Coven in the meantime. She knew they would want to know the whereabouts of the witch, whom she had until a few days ago believed was The High Priestess.

Margo had never known of black magic until she was imprisoned in the stone house, and now she feared it with every vein in her body. The things that witch had described and threatened her with were more horrible than any nightmare she could have conjured up.

“For today’s lesson, we will play a game,” The Priestess had said on one of the days Margo was her prisoner.

“I will ask you a series of question, and for every incorrect answer, you shall be penalized. If you answer correctly, I will consider feeding you today,” she said, as if there was nothing wrong with withholding food from a young girl.

Margo had been too tired and weak to respond, she just waited in silence for the questions, trying her best to clear her foggy mind.

“First, what is the first rule of brewing transformation potions?”

Margo wracked her brain,
transformation potions, transformation potions
. Yes, she remembered.

“This first rule is to always have some piece or body part of the transformation subject on hand, and to make doubly sure it belongs to the desired party,” answered Margo, her voice trembling.

The Priestess ignored her, and continued to the next question. Margo had answered correctly.

“What is the spell for conjuring heavy objects that are out of sight?”

Margo thought hard, but her mind was blank. She could not remember the spell, and had begun to panic.

“Your time,” said The Priestess, smiling, “is up.”

Margo covered her cheeks with her hands, crying out in pain, as hundreds of tiny scratches began to appear all over her face, stinging Margo terribly.

“Next question.” The Priestess paid no mind to Margo’s cries, and continued with her vile game.

“How does one conceal oneself from an enemy’s sight?”

Margo’s face was bright red, welts were forming around the cuts and she did all she could to keep from crying. She knew the pain of her tears would be unbearable on her raw skin.

A bubbling noise came from Margo’s throat, and she spit blood out, he entire face was throbbing, as the cuts continued to slash her face.

“The spell of concealment,” she managed to choke out, “
occultior
.”

“INCORRECT,” shrilled The Priestess, “the correct spell is
occulto
.”

Margo was not beyond anger, in fact, every fiber of her being shook with anger.

“I beg of you, I only made a slight mispronunciation,” she pleaded, the cuts continuing to burn her already swollen face beyond recognition, “it’s unfair.”

Margo could see instantly, she’d made a mistake.

“You know better than to talk back to me.” The Priestess’s eyes burned with indignation, “
incorrect
,” she reiterated.

Margo’s heart raced, and she felt her pulse quickening to a dangerous pace. She could no longer hold her fury. She was tired of being hurt, tired of worrying about her family, she was hungry, and she was in tremendous pain.

“LET ME OUT,” she screamed, “I HATE YOU. YOU’RE A VILE, DISGUSTING MONSTER.” Blood dripped from her face, as she let out the anger she’d been trying so hard to keep inside.

“I see,” said The Priestess. “But that doesn’t change the fact that your answer was not the correct one,” she chuckled maniacally.

Margo could barely see now, her face was so swollen that her eyes were on the verge of shutting, but she heard clearly when The Priestess’s voice boomed, “FORTY LASHES!”

Right before she fainted, Margo saw The Priestess’s entire body vibrating with anger, her skin rippling as she clenched her fists. Margo felt as if a whip had cracked across her back, and then another, she was flung against her small enclosure, her body burning from the enchanted wire. The whip lashes continued, even though Margo had long since lost consciousness.

She strained through the frozen woodland as she remembered that dreadful night, until she could finally see her home. She smiled in relief; smoke from their chimney was billowing on the roof and into the night sky. She broke into a run, the excitement of finally seeing her family after all that time giving her a surge of energy. But when she reached the door, she knew something was wrong. The inside of her home was usually bustling with noise at this time of night; the sky was a purple blue, and she knew the sun had set not long ago. She pushed the door open reluctantly, afraid of what she might find. She had been asleep for hours, and anything could have happened in that time. She held her breath and walked in. Her family was all there, gathered around the hearth. But no one greeted her. There was no warm embrace waiting for Margo. Her mother, father, grandparents, and little sister were all face down, lying on the floor. She was too late.