by Amy Cross
The bag with the ax.
He turns his head, not all the way but just enough to allow me to see the side of his face picked out by a line of moonlight. A moment later, I see his breath in the cold night air.
“Are you not coming closer?” he asks finally. “You had no fear earlier, although maybe...” He pauses. “Maybe that was when you thought I couldn't see you. I could see you, though. I realized immediately that only the child and I were aware of your presence, and that piqued my interest a great deal. Your desperate attempts to save her life were rather amusing. The fact that you hid yourself from the others leave little doubt regarding your true nature.”
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. All the anger in my chest has started to twist and harden, slowly forming a core of pure fear.
“You should have struck sooner,” he continues, still not quite looking at me. “Anger is a valuable ally, but once it wears off and becomes something else – sorrow, perhaps, or fear – the battle is lost.”
Staring at him, I still see Jessica in my mind's eye, and I still hear the sound of the blade as it sliced through her neck and the sound of her head landing on the grass.
“There are few things I abhor more than a seminary priest,” Freeman adds, turning his head a little more, until I can see the side of his eyes. “One type of creature, however, fills my soul with such hatred, I truly cannot rest until the last beat has been wrung from the wretch's heart.” He pauses. “You are a witch, are you not?”
Taking a deep breath, I realize that this time he's waiting for an answer.
“What other form could hide itself from the men back there?” he continues. “The little girl saw you, I think, but the others were completely oblivious. That, in itself, is a remarkable achievement. To be honest, most of the witches I have encountered over the years have been loathe to show their powers, but you...” He turns his head a little more, and now I can see that he's smiling. “You almost seem proud. Even your appearance gives you away, you are not a creature born of the natural world. Tell me, what drew you to the Baxendale house?”
“I'm not a witch,” I reply, although I feel certain I must seem hopelessly weak.
“Then what are you?”
“I'm just...” Pausing, I see that he still has his hand in the bag, no doubt holding the hilt of his ax. “You killed them,” I say finally. “I was right there and I saw you, you -”
“They were Catholic sympathizers,” he snaps, interrupting me.
“She was a child!”
“A Catholic child, raised by Catholic parents in a Catholic home! There was no hope for her!”
“So you murdered her in cold blood?” I continue, with tears in my eyes. “You cut her head off!”
“I executed her in accordance with the law of the land,” he replies. “I did nothing that in any way strays from the authority placed in me by His Majesty King James. I had the honor of feeling our king's hand on my shoulder, you know. He personally entrusted this duty to me, and I promised I would never rest until these fair counties have been scoured and rid of the Catholic plague. That day might have fallen long ago, but my resolve only strengthens as the years pass. Implicit in his command was another, however... The order to kill any abomination I might encounter, and the greatest abomination of all...” He pauses, and finally he turns to me, revealing the ravenous anticipation in his eyes. “The great abomination is you, witch!”
“Go to hell,” I whisper, taking a step back.
“You are a foul thing,” he continues, turning his horse and starting to trot slowly toward me. “Never before has one of your kind dared to stand before me with such clarity.” He pulls the ax from his bag. “Do you not fear me, witch? Usually your kind run screaming and hide themselves among honest folk.”
“I'm not a witch,” I tell him, keeping my eyes fixed on the ax. “You can't even... I'm not even really here. I'm just imagining the whole thing, or I'm dreaming somehow or...” As he comes closer, I take another step back. The truth is, even though I've been telling myself that I can't get hurt, I've suddenly started to realize that I really, really don't want to put that theory to the test. All I want right night is to wake up from this nightmare.
“Will you run?” he asks. “Will you try to hide from me? Will you try to use your cursed powers to stop me? I must warn you, I have the might of God on my side and no witch has yet managed to hold me back. Clearly you followed me with the intent to end my life. Fine, I wish to see you try. It would amuse me to witness such a fragile young thing attempt to bring down someone of my stature.”
Staring at him, I realize that it was crazy to follow him. I don't know what I was thinking, it's as if the urge to make him pay was so great, I couldn't help myself.
“Come for me,” he continues, slipping his ax bag into the bag before holding his arms out at his sides. “I am completely unarmed, witch, so do your best. Let us see how God deals with your miserable efforts.” He smiles. “I am a man of the Lord, and I serve my king. It is impossible for me to be slain by a miserable, common witch.”
“I want to go home,” I whisper, taking a step back as I feel tears welling in my eyes. “I don't want to be here.”
Reaching down, I pinch my wrist, hoping that I can somehow wake up.
“Do you hope to find that you're dreaming?” Freeman asks, having clearly noticed what I'm doing. “Perhaps you are the kind of witch who cannot even control her own powers? I had not considered that if you are so young, you likely do not know the extent of your abilities. If that is the case, then you might not even realize that the longer I can see you, the more visible you become to others as well.” He pauses. “Isn't that right, Mr. Connaught?”
I stare at him for a moment. “Mister -”
Hearing a faint rustling sound over my shoulder, I turn just in time to see Connaught coming up behind me.
“No!” I shout, stepping back and then turning again. The last thing I see is Freeman's grinning face as he swings his ax at my face. I close my eyes and try to duck out of the way, and then something heavy slices into my shoulder.
Chapter Eighteen
Daniel
“I don't have time for this,” I mutter with mounting frustration, as Kate and I watch two old women fetching water from a river. “Why did you bring me here? I have to go to Retcham, so that I might locate Freeman.”
“Just watch them,” she replies. “Don't you see what is going on here?”
The women glance at us as they turn and carry their buckets back up the hill, toward the wooden shacks they evidently call home. It's clear from the way they walk that they're tired, yet at the same time there is an unmistakable sense of nobility about them, as if some inner strength compels them to keep going.
“Why do they live out here?” I ask, turning to Kate. “Do they not have families?”
“None that would welcome them through the door,” she tells me. “Nykolas Freeman might be a madman, and he might have killed hundreds of women after falsely accusing them of witchcraft, but that doesn't mean witches don't exist at all.” She pauses, with a faint smile on her lips. “We're real, Daniel. We keep hidden from most people, we're careful not to advertise our presence and we mostly evade notice, but there are a few of us left. Every year our numbers dwindle a little further, and very few are born to each new generation. Sometimes I fear we will be gone one day, but for now we remain, albeit on the margins and living out here far from anyone else.”
“You -” Staring at her, I realize that she's deadly serious. “You can't expect me to believe that you're a witch! Or those old women...”
“Have you heard of the witch's mark?” she asks. Turning, she lifts the side of her dress, revealing three thick, lined scars forming a crude triangle on the flesh just above her hip. “Freeman searches for this on all the women he tortures, but he never finds it. A witch only reveals the mark to those she trusts.”
“I -” For a moment, I think back to the dream I had in Offingham, in which I l
aid my hands on Kate's naked body and felt the scar. How could I have possibly known it was there, unless...
“Do you wish to touch it?” she asks, eying me with a smile. “Again?”
Turning, I watch as the old women struggle back to their shacks. “If they are witches,” I continue, “then why do they not use their magic to carry water? Why do they not strike down men like Nykolas Freeman?”
“If only it were that easy,” she replies. “The truth is, witchcraft is sorely misunderstood. Our powers are limited, we cannot change the world, we can only push it now and again in certain directions. We can hide ourselves well enough from Freeman, but actually taking him on?” She shakes her head. “That would be another matter entirely.” She pauses, and I swear I can see sadness entering her eyes. “We have visions of the future sometimes,” she continues. “Fragments of it, at least. I'm afraid there is a terrible war coming to this land, Daniel.”
“Are the French going to invade again?” I ask. “The Dutch? Whoever comes to these shores, they will be repelled!”
“It will not be that kind of war,” she replies. “It will be the kind of war in which men will take up arms and fight their neighbors. Not under this king, but under his son. I cannot even begin to imagine how many lives will be lost, but the torture and persecution of Catholics and witches will be as nothing compared to the misery that will soon sweep across England. What you see now, the persecution of a few people on the margins, will soon spread to almost every soul. All of this, Daniel, will happen in your lifetime.” She pauses, as if she hopes I might understand already. “That's why Nykolas Freeman is able to keep doing what he does, and it's why other men like Freeman operate in different parts of the country. They're perhaps best seen as a kind of advance warning, ahead of the greater evil to come. The first flies to gather on the corpse.”
“You're talking of civil war,” I reply, shocked by the suggestion. “That will never happen here, not in England. The days of such disunity are long gone.”
She shakes her head. “When it comes, everything will unravel. For a time, at least.”
“You are wrong.”
“I wish that were so,” she replies, “but the signs are everywhere. Pain and misery, division, persecution... First people turn on the weakest among them, then they turn on others, and finally a bloody conflict erupts. Men such as Freeman take advantage of such horrors, and there are other signs too. Cold rain, for one. Colder rain than you can possibly imagine, colder than ice. It doesn't matter whether you believe me, Daniel. Civil war will come to pass in this land.”
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask. “Kill Freeman and somehow save the whole of England?”
“Even killing Freeman might be too great a task,” she continues. “There are barely one hundred witches left in England, and many of them are old and childless. I fear that within a century, the number will be less than half of that. Ridding this country of Nykolas Freeman will not prevent the coming war, because Freeman is merely a symptom of a greater darkness that waits to burst through. Still, if Freeman can be brought down, then at least some lives might be saved.”
“I care only about my sister.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that she believes my plan is doomed to failure. “Let me take you to a safer place,” she says finally. “Let me take you to the church close to the Baxendale house. There, I can perhaps help you understand the nature of the challenge you face, and give you some guidance that will make it easier for you to strike Freeman down.”
I watch for a moment longer as the two old women work at their shacks. It's hard to believe that they could be witches, and part of me worries that Kate is merely slowing me down with these wild stories. Still, there's something about her that makes me wonder if I should at least let her try to help. It's as if, deep down, I know I can trust her.
“Take me to the church, then,” I reply, “but be quick about it. I want Nykolas Freeman dead within the day.”
***
“This belonged to him,” Kate explains as she holds out a gold coin. “He dropped it once while he was riding through a village. I happened to be there, and I took the coin once he was gone. I've held onto it ever since, in case I ever got a chance to use it in this manner.”
Sitting in the church, with night having fallen and only the light from several candles to bring a faint glow to the room, I take the coin and examine it for a moment.
“I have seen coins like this before,” I tell her finally, reaching out to give it back to her. “It's nothing unusual.”
“It belonged to Nykolas Freeman,” she replies, “which means that we can use it. It spent time close to him, it's a conduit that allows us to focus.” She pushes my hand away and then takes hold of my fingers, forcing them to close around the coin. “There's now a link in your mind -”
“Childishness and -”
“There's a link in your mind,” she says firmly, squeezing my hands tight, “that will help us.”
I sigh, but from the look in her eyes it's clear that she's deadly serious. Whatever possessed me to take part in this foolishness, I can only hope that it ends soon.
“Give me your other hand,” she continues.
“Why?”
“Do it.”
“I don't take -” I catch myself just in time; I was about to tell her that I don't take orders from a woman, which is true, but still... I hold my hand out, although I immediately start to pull it back when she holds up a knife. “What are you going to do with that?” I ask.
“A blood bond needs to be established.”
“You've asked me to believe a lot, but -”
“For your sister,” she adds, interrupting me. “Didn't I already prove to you that I've been inside your mind? How else would I be able to know so much about you?” She pauses, before moving the tip of the blade close to my palm and then pressing it against the skin. “Before I do this, you must be absolutely certain that you will not falter. The blood bond will make it easier for you or for someone in your bloodline to kill Freeman, but it'll also make it harder for anyone else. By going through with this ceremony, you're committing to being the bloodline that ends his life.”
“Mark my words,” I tell her firmly, “I will have that man's corpse at my feet by this time tomorrow.”
Without replying, she presses the knife harder against my skin and finally the tip breaks through. I wince, but I keep my hand in place as Kate cuts a long, diagonal slit down toward my wrist. Beads of blood start to dribble from the wound, but she quickly turns my hand over and unclenches my other fist, before forcing me to hold my palms together so that my blood is pressed against the coin.
“There is another rule,” she continues. “You must kill Freeman with his own weapon. An ax, I believe. You must use the ax, or you will give him a chance to return even if he dies some other way. He could become undead, which would allow his reign to continue forever. His death must be sealed with his own weapon, do you understand?”
“But if -”
“Do you understand?”
Staring into her eyes, I can see that she truly believes all of this is necessary.
“Yes,” I tell her finally, as much to keep her happy as to make a promise. “If at all possible, I will use his -”
“Not if possible,” she says firmly, leaning closer to me. “Use his own weapon against him, it's the only way to get rid of him forever. A man liked Freeman is watched over by creatures he doesn't even know exist, and they will seek to resurrect him if they get the chance. I know you might not believe everything I'm telling you, but please, you have to swear that you'll do this properly.” She waits for a reply, even though I'm starting to wonder if she's of sound mind. “When you part your hands,” she continues, “the coin will guide you straight to Freeman. As long as you have the coin, you'll know instinctively which way to go, and that should be all the proof you need that all of this is real.”
“Fine,” I reply, “I
believe you.”
She pauses, before letting go of my hands. “Give it a moment,” she continues, “and then you will feel it.”
I part my hands, while keeping the coin in my bloodied right palm. For a moment, I feel almost embarrassed by the fact that I've even entertained the slightest possibility of witchcraft working, but a moment later I turn and look toward the door. Somehow, I'm starting to sense an unseen force tugging at the very edges of my consciousness, as if to guide my thoughts in a certain direction. Getting to my feet, I'm suddenly overcome by the sense that I must leave the church and follow the nearby river until I get to Wellingham, and then I must follow the left-hand fork until I come across Freeman's farm, which is where I will find him. The idea that I could sense so much is incredible, but at the same time the feeling is too strong to ignore.
“Don't lose the coin,” Kate tells me. “You won't get another chance like this.”
I turn to her.
“You believe,” she continues, with a faint smile. “I can see it in your eyes. Don't worry, Freeman won't feel a thing. He believes himself to be well hidden, he has taken great care to establish a home where he can carry out his work undisturbed. Just remember what I told you about using his ax against him, and you will be fine.”
I want to thank her, but at the same time I'm still not sure whether I'm ready to admit that I was wrong earlier. Filled with a sense that I have to get moving, I turn and head toward the door before stopping and glancing back at her.
“Why?” I ask. “Why would you help me do this?”
“You have no idea how many of my friends have died over the years,” she replies, as several of the candles die, leaving just one burning next to her. “Not just at Freeman's hands, but at the hands of others who style themselves as priest hunters, and as witch hunters and men of God. There are so few of us left, and those of us who survive do so only by hiding in the shadows. Helping you is just one small way in which I can try to save my people from extinction. By itself it will not be enough, but maybe it will be a useful step.”