The Faceless Woman

by Emma Hamm

  “Lying always comes back to bite you.”

  “So you have told me for my entire life.” Lorcan had been with her through hardships unnumbered. Big yellow eyes with black slit pupils were her first memory when she woke up alone in the forest, not knowing her own name. She blew out a breath. “You said there was trouble?”

  “The villagers cometh,” he said sarcastically. “They’re walking down the road right now. We should slip out the back.”

  “I’d rather pretend to curse them. They’ll leave me alone for a little longer.”

  “It’s not…that kind of trouble.” Lorcan set his paw down. “It’s the pitchfork and torches kind of crowd.”

  She cursed. “So it’s come to that.”

  “It was bound to happen, eventually. We should go.”

  There were so many things to pack. She would need all her spell books. How was she going to travel with those? Aisling could pick her favorites, but that meant the villagers could find the others. And the damage the townsfolk could do with a faerie book was something she didn't want to think about.

  She raced through the hut, her heart beating faster with every passing moment. “How much time do we have?”

  “Enough.”

  “Enough time to get away or enough time to hold our breath and hurl curses as we run?”

  Her door banged opening, slamming against the wall so hard dirt rained from the ceiling. A man raised a pitchfork and stalked inside, his eyes wild with fear and anger. “I knew you’d be too wily and have something up your sleeve, witch.”

  Aisling didn’t recognize him. She knew everyone in this town, although few knew her. Why didn’t she know him?

  His beard was nicely trimmed with specks of gray, suggesting he was of a mature age. His clothing was neatly pressed, almost too nice for their rural village. A white collar rose up his throat, and a gold pendant swung from his neck.

  She bared her teeth in recognition. “They hired a witch hunter?”

  “No one is prepared to deal with the devil’s spawn but those who have the training.”

  “The training?” She chuckled and gestured at the pitchfork in his hands. “I see you’ve had all the necessary training required to catch one such as me.”

  He pulled the cross from his neck and swung it wildly. “Put your back against the wall. Now!”

  The man was mad. He wouldn’t know how to catch a witch if he tried. She flicked her gaze at Lorcan who loped to the corner.

  “Stop!” the witch hunter shouted. “Tell your familiar to leave.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about witches, but I can’t control animals.”

  “I know your ways. Tell it to leave.”

  Aisling shook her head, holding up her hands, waiting for Lorcan to knock over the pot that would fill the entire hut with smoke. They had plans for every situation. Pitchforks and torches were at the top of the list. Witch hunter was a little lower.

  She hadn’t expected the townsfolk to pay to get rid of her. She helped them! Love potions, spells for their cattle, charms to ward off nightmares.

  Lorcan jumped onto the counter, heaved his body onto the shelves above, and touched his paw to the clay pot. Just a few moments now. She’d have to run out the front door, not the back like the children, but hopefully there was time before the mob reached them.

  “You don’t give me enough credit witch,” the man growled.

  She’d been staring at Lorcan or she would have noticed the witch hunter’s grip changing. He swung the pitchfork and caught her across the cheek.

  Crying out, Aisling fell against the wall. She slapped her palm to the stone and blinked through the stars. Warm blood dripped down her cheek. She couldn’t focus. Her vision skewed to the side just as her body listed. He’d hit her so hard she couldn’t tell up from down.

  A loud yowl slapped her in the ear.

  “Now, Lorcan.” She might have screamed the words or whispered them. Either way, her faithful feline tipped the jar over, which exploded into dust so thick it made her cough. The room was spinning, but she knew where the door was. She knew this room like the back of her own hand. She could do this.

  Lorcan jumped from the counter. At least she thought it was him. The heavy thud against the floor sounded familiar.

  She swiped at her cheek and coughed out the smoke. Only a few more steps and the door would be…there.

  As she reached the door frame, a cold metal chain slid over her head and around her throat. She pulled at it with her fingers, clawing so frantically a few nails split. But the chain was too thin, too strong, and he had wrapped it around her neck so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

  She choked, wheezing as his hot breath played across her neck.

  “I know your tricks, witch. You won’t get away that easily.”

  “Lorcan, can—”

  Something struck the witch hunter’s back, slamming them both forward onto the grass in front of her hut. The chain loosened for a brief second, enough for her to desperately inhale and roll onto her knees. Her lungs were on fire, and no manner of coughing seemed to help.

  Crawling, she freed herself from the witch hunter as Lorcan screamed. Black fur surged over the man's writhing body, claws gleaming in the moonlight. He’d claw the man to pieces if the witch hunter gave him a chance.

  “Quickly,” she murmured, “get it over with and let’s go.”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely,” a deep voice interrupted. She recognized the village leader, Master O’Connell, without turning to look.

  Aisling ground her teeth so hard her gum's bled. She turned on her hands and knees, leaving Lorcan and the witch hunter behind. The entire town was piled on the road that snaked up from the village. Pitchforks and torches were an understatement. This was a veritable army with hatred burning in their eyes.

  They were led by a tall, thin man with a mustache that twitched whenever he was exceedingly emotional. She could gauge by its current movement that the man was bound to either lose his facial hair or wouldn’t calm down any time soon.

  “Master O’Connell,” she said and coughed again. “How is your wife? I hope my potion cleared up that cough in her throat.”

  “A little too well, witch.”

  “And Mistress Hayes? I hope your cow is producing milk as requested.”

  “Aye, she is. But she won’t stop crying in the middle of the night, as if the devil is pulling her tail.”

  She met the gaze of every person who she’d helped over the many years she’d lived here and realized not a single one would pity her. They feared her.

  “Now,” Master O’Connell said as he stepped forward and tugged his ancient suit lapels, “call off your familiar. We’ve work to do.”

  “Work,” she repeated. “That’s what you’re calling it? After all I’ve done for you and your kin.”

  “What have you done but curse us with your black magic?”

  “I’ve helped you survive!” She pressed her fists into the ground.

  “No, you haven’t,” he growled. “Witches aren’t capable of doing anything but harm. Now tell that wee beastie of yours to get off our witch hunter.”

  She spat at his feet.

  “Or we could kill him. Your choice.”

  Icy tendrils ran down her spine. Lorcan meant too much to her. He looked after her, and it was far pastime for her to do the same for him.

  “Lorcan,” she croaked. The curses and weak cries from the witch hunter paused. “Let him go.”

  Harsh thumps suggested the cat sidhe stomped on the human as he removed himself, and the witch hunter moaned.

  Aisling glanced over her shoulder and wiped away the blood dripping into her eyes. “Run.”

  He gave her an offended look.

  “Run now and don’t stop until you can’t hear me anymore.”

  “That’s enough, witch.” Master O’Connell grabbed the rags at the back of her neck and hoisted her up. He twisted her arms sharply behind her and tied a rope arou
nd her wrists that bit into her skin.

  His chuckle made her grind her teeth together.

  “She’s marked!” he shouted. “Eyes in the center of her palms, like the devil himself!”

  “You wouldn’t know the devil if you met him on the street, you goat-brained idiot!” She struggled against his hold, pulling and twisting as he shoved her forward. “Those marks aren’t from the devil.”

  He ignored her and pushed her into the waiting arms of the crowd. They pulled at her clothing, crowing when they yanked bits of fabric off of her form.

  She stared up at the night sky, floating scraps of fabric obscuring her vision of the stars. Hands tugged at her flesh, stroking the long lengths of her arms, palming her breasts, trailing along the delicate lines of her collarbone. Not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Lookee here!” Rosamund shouted. Since Aisling regularly delivered a cure for her spots, the woman now had claim to porcelain skin. “Not an old woman after all, are you witch? And here I thought you covered your face because of pox scars!”

  The first nail hammered into her coffin, sending gooseflesh down her arms.

  “A young woman?” The voice of old Hamish was easy to recognize. She’d helped his goose lay more eggs just last summer. “But she’s been here so long. It’s not possible she’s this young.”

  “How long has she been here? She showed up out of the blue years ago. Maybe she’s always been young.” The man was one she didn’t recognize, and he twisted her arms painfully behind her, voice deepening to a growl. “Or maybe she was just a child when she arrived.”

  “Or she’s a bride of the devil!” a woman shouted, her nails digging into Aisling's arms. “He’s kept her young all this time!”

  If she knew the devil that well, she wouldn’t be in this situation.

  Aisling was thrust through the crowd and fell onto her knees in little more than a raggedy shift she’d had since she was a little girl. It hit the middle of her shins and no longer had sleeves. They’d left her dressed in next to nothing for the men to jeer and call at.

  She curled her fingers into the dirt. A spell, any spell, something with the earth and blood… There had to be something she could do.

  A hand twisted in her hair. “Oh no, we’re not taking any chances. It’s too late for that, witch.”

  He brought her head up, and she saw what had taken them so long to reach her hut. They had piled bundles of kindling around an ancient dead tree. It waited for her with ominously raised limbs sticking straight up into the air and rattling in the wind.

  “A bonfire?” she asked. “I thought it was customary to hang witches.”

  The witch hunter stumbled in front of her, blood staining his white collar, and his perfectly pressed clothing was shredded. “I’ve found when it comes to witches, the old ways are best.”

  Her heart stuttered and her palms slicked with sweat as they pushed her toward the tree. She didn’t want to burn alive. Lorcan screamed but kept his distance. She could hear him in the woods, cracking through broken twigs and hissing his frustration. There were too many people between them. It was too risky for him to try to help. Instead, he was forced to watch.

  They were going to tie her to the tree and burn her.

  Aisling couldn’t breathe, as if the smoke had already filled her lungs. “Don’t do this. Don’t make me prove you right.”

  “We already know you’re a witch!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “I’ve helped you. I've given you everything you ask for, everything you desire. What more can I do?”

  She didn’t listen to their screams of rage and justification for what they were about to do. Spells boiled at the tips of her fingers, curses that would turn them inside out, set boils to ravaging their skin, or vomit spewing from their nose. So many missed opportunities she regretted as they tied her to the tree.

  She couldn’t remember a single spell. They leaked out of her ears in the wake of terror and fear so raw her knees quaked.

  Bark bit into her arms, drawing blood that smeared her skin with violent streaks. The rope tore at her sensitive flesh, and the twigs pulled at her shift as they piled the wood higher and higher around her. It must have looked as if she were some strange faerie growing out of the tree. Locks of her dark hair tangled on the trunk, pulling at her scalp in pinpricks of pain.

  Aisling tilted her head back and rested it against the bark as the witch hunter preached his nonsense.

  “Witches must return to the hell from whence they came! She will say things that will make you feel pity, but know we are saving her. This is the only way to purify her soul.”

  She chuckled, her laughter dancing on the wind that tousled his hair and fluttered the shredded fabric of his clothing. “Witch hunter, I think you enjoy this. I think you find a perverse pleasure in burning women at the stake.”

  “Witch!” he screamed and whirled to glare at her with fire in his eyes. “You are no woman. Remember that while you burn and your master refuses to help you.”

  “I have no master.”

  “Renouncing your deeds will not save your soul now! You're too late.”

  After he turned away from her, Aisling closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see the hatred in theirs. She needed to focus.

  A spell, a spell, any spell would do. She’d spent years memorizing every page of every book and yet nothing would bubble to the surface.

  Bark. She could use the bark. The trees listened to everything, and the tree was going to burn as well.

  She twisted her hands in her rope bindings. The witch hunter continued with his drivel, foolish man. He wouldn’t guess she had other tricks up her sleeves because he had never dealt with a witch who learned from the Fae.

  Palms pressed flat against the bark, she whispered, “Roots will pull and branches bend, flee these folk, it’s not our end.”

  No magic tingled on her tattooed fingertips. The tree was long dead; its soul dashed to the wind.

  “No,” she muttered. “Wake up. Wake up, old friend, and run.”

  Cold silence met her quiet cries for help.

  And she had run out of time.

  “Witch”—the man turned and cast a cold gaze over her form—“you have been tried and found guilty of lying with the devil. Although it's not my belief, your townsfolk have requested to allow you one last moment with God. Beg for forgiveness.”

  She spat at him. “I'm not consorting with the devil, and I've no need to beg. I've done nothing wrong. It's the townsfolk who will wear this mark on their soul.”

  “Do you curse us?”

  Aisling noted the feverish excitement in his eyes. He wanted her to curse them. He wanted something else to demonstrate he was right, that his foolish need to prove himself to the world as a “good” man had steered him true.

  If he wanted that satisfaction, then she would give it to him and hoped his sleep was plagued with nightmares of the real witch he'd found. The townsfolk had never seen the true extent of what she could do, and they never would.

  She’d learned a long time ago the most effective curse was a fake one.

  “I curse you,” she started quietly, building up her voice into a wail. “I curse your souls to wander the earth and question whether you made the right decision. Forever more you shall wonder if I was an innocent woman, if your own wives are next, and never shall your souls rest!”

  The witch hunter rolled his eyes. “Enough. Burn her.”

  There was no hesitation at his order. Three men dropped their torches to the bundles of dried sticks that burst into terrible flames.

  The townsfolk flinched back, raising their arms to their faces, as if that might keep them safe from the burst of bright light and the wave of heat. She smelled the sting of pitch and whale oil. They hadn’t wanted to wait long for her screams.

  Fire licked at her ankles. The scent of burning flesh filled the air and stung her nostrils. She wouldn’t wail. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing th
ey had broken her.

  Aisling lifted her head and stared defiantly into the crowd of people. She met their gaze even as flames made her eyes water with their brightness. Smoke clogged her lungs, but she did not cough. She wanted to sear their faces into her memory forever.

  Shadows moved behind the crowd. No, she realized, not shadows at all. Ravens, a great unkindness of ravens seated throughout the trees. They lifted their wings as one and flew to the ground, merging into one dark being who stared at her with soulless eyes. A single raven sat next to him on a branch.

  “Fiach Dubh Ri,” she whispered. He had come for her without a single utterance of his name.

  The flames reached the rope on her hands and loosened her restraints. She twisted her wrist free and stretched a hand out for him. Legs still bound, she felt the aching pain of her flesh burning. “Help me,” she cried out. “Lord Fae, please.”

  He was more beautiful than she remembered, but she had only looked at him through the eyes of a child. He was incredibly tall, at least two heads higher than the largest man she’d ever seen. His skin was porcelain smooth, dark hair framing a chiseled face. His head was shaved on one side, giving him a wild look. A silver earring glinted in his left ear, blinking in the moonlight.

  He grinned at her, canine teeth too pointed to be comforting.

  “Please,” she begged again.

  Neither he nor his raven moved. He stared at her as if she were some strange bug he’d just discovered. A creature who made little sense but existed no matter that he didn’t think she should.

  “Will you not help me?” She bared her teeth. “After all you and your people have done to me? You will leave me to burn?”

  “You see?” The witch hunter spread his arms and turned toward the crowd. “She calls out to her master for help! Hold your families close, townsfolk. We shall not allow her to open a rift in our world for the devil to step through.”

  “Useless man,” she ground through her teeth. The pain was unbearable now. The fire had climbed up her shift and burned her thighs. Her feet were red hot coals burning through the very fiber of her being, and the blasted faerie wouldn't help.

  Damn them all. Damn each and every one of them.