Bewitched

by Kaila Patterson

  Her father led her over to the standing chair and gestured for her to sit. He bent down beside her and reached for his sword, which lay on the floor. His hands shook as he carried it over to a hold.

  “You—” He paused, “You never should have sacrificed yourself for me, at the trial. You should have let them beat me; you should have run.".

  “I couldn’t have run,” Eliza said, “And if I did, they would have killed you.”.

  “I’m an old man, Elizabeth,” George replied, with warning. “You have a life ahead of you, I’ve had one behind me. You must escape while you can, flee this town and never return.”.

  Averting her eyes, she stared around the small room. Even after the damage, it still felt familiar.

  It felt the same way it did ten years ago when she sat at that same table, mixing herbs and leaves together in a mix-pot, whispering short-sighted promises that she would find a cure.

  A cure for her father’s life.

  “I cannot flee, father,” Eliza whispered back, “I swore to Lucie that I would return, in exchange for her kindness. If I do not, they will kill her for helping me.”.

  “Yet, you would live.”.

  Eliza stopped. She knew he was right.

  “No, I can’t do that to her.”.

  “You can’t make the same mistake I did!” George yelled, quick tears welling in his eyes. “She, she wanted to leave this town, but I was naïve, I said they would never come for her. And--".

  “She?” Eliza asked, shocked at the sudden outburst. “My mother?”.

  George winced, with his eyes bloodshot. Tears ran down his face, and he clenched his fists.

  “I-I’m sorry, I just—” His voice broke. “I can’t fail you both, I can’t.”.

  “You never could, father.”.

  “Yes, I can, and I have.” He took a hitching breath. “I failed as a husband, but I am not failing as a father; I can’t let you die knowing I could have stopped it.”.

  Eliza turned to the floor. Deep down, she wanted to agree, she wanted to run, she wanted to live.

  Still, if she lived, Eliza knew she would never outlive the fact that the one friend she had, the one person who cared had died in her place.

  “I’m sorry, father,” Eliza said. “Lucie risked herself for me, to help me. I won’t turn my back on someone like that, even if it kills me.”.

  Her father’s face fell, as though the hope he had been clinging to was stolen.

  A tinge of regret flooded inside her heart, but her decision stood firm, even when she was not.

  “You are your mother’s daughter, through and through.” He said, barely above a whisper. “If she saw you now, proud would be an understatement.”.

  Eliza smiled, through equally teary eyes. A silence filled the room, louder than noise could have been. George Spinner rested on the opposite chair, staring into the distance.

  “How have you been, father?” Eliza prompted, eager to change the subject.

  He wiped his tears away, shrugging. It hurt her to see him so lost, going from raging tears one moment, to a void silence the next.

  “Fine, fine.” Her father mumbled. Scratching the back of his head.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Eliza thought to herself, ‘He’s been anything but fine.’.

  The casual, slow conversation felt wrong. Eliza tried to distract him, to take his mind from the thought of her mother. It was simply too late for that.

  “You look strange as Lucie,” Her father commented, “You don’t look like Elizabeth at all.”.

  “That is the idea,” Eliza smirked, “It’s incognito.”.

  “Why?” Her father croaked, rubbing forcefully at his eyes. “What is the use in disguising yourself as Lucie, escaping the tower, if not for escape?”.

  Eliza froze, maintaining a poker-face. She had to repeat the question a few times in her head, struggling for an answer.

  “To see you, the world, everything once more.” Eliza sighed, “You don’t realise what you have, how much it’s worth, until it is gone.”.

  “That’s true.” Her father froze, shutting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”.

  “For what?”.

  The wind blew outside the cottage, and winter rain pounded against their weak windows.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, what is there to say?” George whimpered, “Is there anything to speak of?”.

  “Yes, there is. Speak of anything, I’ll listen to anything.” Eliza prompted. “I want to make the most of what time we have, what time I have. I cannot waste that time being sad, I won’t allow myself to.”.

  Even with the light, dark shadows roamed over them both.

  “Yes, I—” Her father paused, reaching a hand to his mouth.

  Her father coughed up into his grimy hand, his throat aching dry. His breaths were screechy and strained, like an injured animal screeching for rescue.

  Eliza knew how bad his fits could get all too well. She pushed herself back from the table, as the chair screeched against the floor, falling behind her with a thud.

  He was losing his breath, slamming his fists into the table, and croaking her name with every breath.

  “E-Elizabeth...”.

  Her footsteps slammed against the floor as she threw up her dress and ran over to the medicine cupboard. Eliza threw her knee onto the ledge, and gripping the wood of the cupboard, climbed upwards.

  Her father’s wheezing increased, as he were doubled over on his chair, gasping for breath. He spluttered out phlegm and blood, as it foamed from his cracked lips.

  She knocked over glass bottles with a clank. Each were labelled in parchment, as clinking bottles hit off one another, swirling faint-coloured liquid inside.

  “Aha!” Eliza exclaimed, grasping a bottle at the back.

  It was a green-tinted makeshift cure, which had strangely been cast aside to the back.

  She knocked one bottle to the floor, and it shattered into small glass pieces with a bang. Stepping over it, she sprinted across the room.

  Eliza unscrewed the cork from the bottle and grabbing his face in her hands, forced it down his throat.

  He gagged as the medicine ran its course, his mouth wide and eyes strained shut.

  The bottle was soon empty, leaving only the stained remains of the formula. Eliza squeezed her father’s mouth shut, tilting his head back.

  Truth be told, she was never sure if the self-attempted cure did actual good, but it washed down his sickness.

  His coughing fits only got that bad if he had not taken her medicine, which somehow worked.

  Her father swallowed the medicine with a loud gulp, Phlegm and blood still hung from his bottom lip, and he wiped it away onto his dirtied sleeve.

  “T-Thank you.”.

  “You haven’t been taking my medicine, have you?” Eliza confronted; her face gone stern. Her father shrugged, mumbling wordlessly to himself.

  ‘It’s never been that bad,’ Her mind said, ‘Why would he not simply take the medicine? Why be so frustrating?’.

  George Spinner remained silent, meddling with his hands. She knew that he knew there were no more excuses, that he had made no effort to cure himself at all.

  “Why not take the medicine, why allow yourself to suffer?” Eliza pleaded, desperation creeping in her voice. “How can I help someone who doesn’t help themselves?”.

  His eyes had darkened. George Spinner stared endlessly to the floor, unable to work up a response. Eliza knew, he couldn’t give an excuse.

  “Listen, Elizabeth—” He took a deep breath, with a dreaded cry in his voice. “What good would it have done?”.

  Eliza’s face creased, as she stumbled backwards. ‘What good?’ She thought, ‘Has he gone positively mad?’.

  “What good? The good of keeping you healthy, alive!” Eliza spat, fighting back tears.

  Eliza would admit, the medicine did taste revolting, but it was a chance he should have been willing to take.

  She was no expert pharmacist, but she studied,
and even if the medicine did not cure him, it held off the blood and excess.

  “Do you not understand, my girl? I lose your mother, I thought I lost my only daughter; I had no one in this town! Those folks threaten me, they think of me as a fool.” George Spinner pleaded.

  Her father, the man she idolised, had succumbed to carelessness for life.

  She knew how he felt equally, but for a different reason. Her father sighed, hitting his palm against his head.

  He was never a violent person, he tried to please everyone. All and any frustration he had he directed at himself.

  “I do understand, but--” Eliza paused, “I can’t let you do this to yourself.”.

  Her father shook his head, wiping his running nose against his sleeve. He continued to cough and splutter, clearing his throat.

  “And I you,” George said, “I cannot let you give up your life, when you had the chance to save it.”.

  Those words struck her, in a surge of realisation. He was right.

  She wanted him to care for his life, he wanted her to do the same. In the end, neither would have their way. She nodded, sniffling in the dark.

  Eliza reached and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight. The aura had changed so suddenly, from frustration to a strange, uncertain comfort.

  “Father, promise me you will take that medicine.” Eliza begged, smiling despite her sticky, scarlet face.

  He turned to her, sighing heavily against her hand, before nodding.

  The two remained silent for a moment, smiling with stained faces. Eliza noticed how, minus her wig and Lucie’s attire, they looked so similar yet so unsimilar.

  “I know I cannot convince you, but perhaps this might,” Her father said, running over to the fireplace.

  He grumbled as he knocked things over, fussing with his hands until he spotted something. Reaching across with a grunt, he grabbed hold of it.

  She watched as he dusted the object down, handing it to her with a soft grin.

  It was an old, dusty journal. Two initials were carved into the cover, as she carefully traced her fingers over the dips. ‘A.S’.

  “Anne Spinner.” Eliza whispered. “How did you hide this from the knights?”.

  “It was well hidden,” George murmured, “Your mother hid it, years ago.”.

  Her father nodded to her, encouraging her to open it. She flicked to the first page, finding a small introduction handwritten in ink.

  ‘This is the diary of Anne Spinner, yours truly.’.

  “She told me to give this to you, when the time was right.” Her father mumbled, nodding to her. “I don’t know what is written in there, but you deserve to know.”.

  Eliza turned a page, opening to an outdated entry from her mother’s own words. Her mother had the prettiest handwriting, she noticed, and the first letter was brief.

  “Have you read it?” She asked. Her father shook his head.

  “No, she made me swear that I wouldn’t.”.

  Eliza laughed, as she traced each word. With one final breath, she started to read her mother’s words.

  Dear, Elizabeth

  Welcome to the journal of me. I am writing this journal in the hopes that, with whatever the future holds, you can look back on it. Right now, you are no larger than a shoebox, and only a few days old. In your time, I hope you are well, wherever you are.

  Sorry for that brief introduction, I am not great with them nor writing itself. However, I will try, and pray that it does not sound ridiculous.

  Sincerely, despite the awkwardness,

  A.S

  Eliza’s heart swelled with the same pride and love she knew her mother must have felt.

  Her mother’s entry, awkward as it was, had given her a strange wave of nostalgia; for something she never had.

  “Thank you.” Eliza whispered, looking up to her father. She shut the journal closed, clutching it closely to her chest.

  In that moment, Eliza knew that if she were her mother’s daughter, proud would be an understatement.

  9

  Silent Night

  Eliza had cried to sleep that night. She had lost all track of the days, and would never have knew what the day meant, if her father had not said.

  ‘What a celebration, it is.’.

  In a few minutes, she would be officially seventeen. If it had been a usual year, she would be lying in her own bed, her father making his yearly jokes; both together again.

  It was not a normal year, it had to be the worst of them all, and the last.

  Reluctantly, she had slugged back to the castle and snuck in past the maidens, into Lucie’s room as the sun started to set.

  She did not bother going to find dinner, or eat at all, besides the bread her father had provided.

  Eliza waited patiently, watching for hours as the sun set, becoming replaced with swallowing darkness.

  She knelt on the top of Lucie’s bed, resting her arms on the windowpane, and staring at the moon.

  “Seventeen years,” She whispered to herself, a tear falling from her eye. “And it went by in the blink of an eye.”.

  Her heart ached in the strongest way, hoping that the force of time would swoop her away to a simpler stage.

  A time in which she had not realised how fortunate she was.

  Eliza’s eyes glimmered in the moonlight, emulating the stars above. When she was gone, she knew the world would not change.

  That each night, the moon would still fall, and the sun would still rise. The difference was that she would not see it.

  “The world will still turn,” Eliza murmured, tears spilling from her eyes. “And it’ll miss me, dancing in the rivers like gravity couldn’t stop me.”.

  She shook herself to reality, rubbing her face red. Her eyes still wandered out the window.

  The city covered and surrounded by a deep, evergreen forest. Then, the trees of the left caught her eye. Through the bronze gate, there was a graveyard.

  It started at the bottom of the hill and as the trees separated, leading into the woods, continued by high mountains, where only the richest deceased were buried.

  ‘That’s where mother is.’, She thought, her eyes wandering to the satchel. It held the diary, her mother’s.

  She bent down and picked the journal up, tracing her fingers delicately along the spine. The cover was harsh and ripped, but other than that the accounts, the important parts, protected.

  Anyone watching her would be disgusted, seeing a girl cuddling an old, ruined book. To her, it was much more than that.

  This was her mother’s identity. It was the only source that would allow her to uncover who she was.

  Eliza knew any reasonable person would have read every diary entry in one night, if they were genuinely curious, but she wanted to savour it.

  She wanted to preserve the anticipation, the knowledge, for as long as humanly possible.

  She turned back to the graveyard, breaching the window open to see it clearly. She knew what she wanted to do, but this time, she was doing it as herself, as Elizabeth.

  The blonde wig, she had scrapped hours ago; due to the unbearable itch it caused her head, and it would not be worn again that night.

  Tip-toing in the frigid night, she reached for a silver goblet of water, pouring it out onto her bare hand.

  The cold liquid spilled through her fingers and onto the floor. Hesitantly, Eliza splashed the water over her face.

  Beige-tinted droplets ran from her face, washing off the powder and tints.

  Eliza rubbed the excess makeup off with her sleeve, revealing her own greying face.

  Looking up into the mirror, she saw herself. Her own azure eyes, thin face, slight mouth. Not Lucie, not anymore. Instead, Eliza.

  She ran her fingers through her ivory hair in the mirror, pulling it up into a tie. She knew she was taking a risk, with no disguise or self-defence, but it was the closure she needed, for her sake.

  Whether it was an identity crisis or a birthday celebration, it felt necessary. She rea
ched for a white blouse, sat at the edge of the bed.

  The abandoned tight gown and wig lay on the floor, curled together in a ball. Finding a light-blue skirt in the wardrobe, she pulled it out.

  Eliza quickly ran it up her waist, buttoning it on the side. It fit like a glove; unlike the restrained, awful gown she wore.

  She pulled the white shirt over her freezing back and shoulders, buttoning it at the front and tucking it into the skirt.

  It was long-sleeved, and the skirt ran past her ankles, beating the December weather.

  ‘This is one way to celebrate becoming seventeen,’ A voice said, ‘Visiting an abandoned grave, studying your deceased mother’s diary…’.

  “Shush.” Eliza mumbled, shivering in realisation of the emptiness she spoke to. She turned to assure there were no hidden forces, or ghosts, watching from another dimension.

  ‘Obviously not’.

  Swiftly, she grabbed her satchel by the string. A detailed hood was inside Lucie’s wardrobe, and she wasted no time pulling it over her head. The hood covered her head-to-toe, as a noteworthy disguise.

  Pulling the room door open, she slipped into the corridor. The hall was deserted, without a soul in sight.

  A pig-like snore came from down the corridor, echoing through the brick walls.

  Eliza shut the door, tip-toing onto the solid stone. In a dash, she sprinted over to the stairs.

  The silence sent a shiver down her spine. Her hand reached down, clutching the satchel, and feeling for the book inside.