Gunwitch

by David Michael

  Rosalind braced herself with her hands on the top beam and swung her left leg over and dropped on the far side of the fence. Squire Phillips’ field spread out in front of her, the tall grass bounded on the left by a thicket and copse of trees and far to the right by the holly hedge that separated this field from the next. Squire Phillips was pasturing this field, letting his horses and livestock forage. It was the horses that Rosalind was here to see. No animals were visible, though.

  She adjusted her skirts and gave a low whistle.

  “I told you,” Elizabeth said, her face pressed up against the fence, only her eyes visible between the wooden beams. “They are not here today.”

  Rosalind ignored her little sister and whistled again, louder this time. “It’s me,” she said to the empty field. “Rosalind.”

  The grass bowed and rippled away from her as the slight breeze at her back picked up briefly.

  “I told you–”

  Rosalind waved a hand to silence her sister. A rustling in the thicket twenty yards away became the head of a doe. The doe looked across the vacant pasture, then swung her head to look at Rosalind.

  “It’s a deer–”

  “Shh!” Rosalind held out her hand toward the doe, palm up, fingers together. She kept her voice low and gentle as she said, “Come here, girl. Come here.”

  The doe’s ears perked, and the head swiveled to look downwind again. Rosalind could feel the tension in the animal’s muscles as it prepared to bolt.

  “Come here, girl.” Rosalind took a slow step forward. Animals liked her. They always had. “Everything is alright, girl. It’s me, Rosalind.” That was what she said to the Squire’s horses when they acted skittish. Her words seemed to calm the doe, as well. The deer visibly relaxed and turned to face Rosalind again. Rosalind smiled. “Good girl.” She took another slow step forward. “It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.”

  Following her lead, the doe moved out of the thicket.

  Step by step, Rosalind and the doe came closer, Rosalind with her hand still outstretched. Finally, the doe was in reach of her hand. The doe stretched her neck and sniffed at the proffered hand.

  Rosalind felt the soft warmth of the deer’s breath. “Good girl. There you go.”

  The doe licked her palm.

  “See? I’m not dangerous. I won’t hurt you–”

  Thunder crashed, startling Rosalind. Only a step away, the deer staggered and red blood splashed on Rosalind’s hand and on the front of her dress.

  Behind her, Elizabeth screamed.

  In front of her, the deer turned away and tried to bolt, but its left foreleg buckled and it collapsed to the ground, back legs thrashing.

  “Oh, expertly done!” A young man’s voice came across the pasture, breaking the silence that had fallen after the crash of the shot.

  Rosalind became aware of two shapes that had emerged from the thicket further down the pasture, young men exchanging rifles as they walked, but she could not take her eyes off the deer. The doe had forced itself into a three-legged stand and was limping away, its fear pushing it forward, its injury causing it to stumble with every step. Rosalind could feel the doe’s life pumping from the wound in its left flank.

  Another gunshot crashed across the pasture. The doe reared slightly then plunged forward, front legs sprawling, rear legs twitching.

  The deer tried to stand again, but failed, its limbs grown too awkward and weak. The doe swiveled its head and its eyes met Rosalind’s. Rosalind turned away. She could not face the accusation in the brown eyes. Then the deer lost even the strength to hold its head up. The legs still thrashed and struggled, trampling the grass as the red stain of its blood spread, but the doe could do nothing else.

  “Damn. I missed the heart with that shot.”

  Rosalind looked up and saw William Phillips, the squire’s son, walking with his cousin, Robert Phillips. William was the one who had spoken. Robert carried both rifles now, the one in his right hand still smoking. Neither was more than two years older than Rosalind, but they had reached a grown man’s height already.

  “It was a difficult shot,” Robert said. “The beast was trying to run away.”

  “You bastards!” Rosalind shouted. She charged at William, her fists clenched. Her skirt impeded her speed, restricted her stride and threatened to trip her, but she refused to let that stop her.

  William laughed as she ran at him, which incensed her more. She launched herself across the last few strides, flying at him with her right fist cocked.

  He stopped laughing as she crashed into him and unleashed the heat of her anger through her fist. The blow hit him in the chest, knocking out his wind and pushing him backward. He grabbed her, his fingers gripping her blouse, and dragged her with him as he fell. He struggled to regain his breath, but he did not relinquish his hold as she twisted and kicked and tried to hit him again.

  She felt another set of hands on her, hands that grabbed her around the waist and pulled her off William. She tried to spin to face Robert, but could not. She kicked at Robert’s shins and instep and swung her elbows back at him. Robert grunted as he lifted her off her feet and pulled her close, taking an elbow in the abdomen. After that, all she could do was kick. Her right arm was pinned by his right arm across her chest, smashing her breasts, the fingers of his right hand digging into the flesh of her left armpit. His left arm held her left arm to her side and extended across her stomach to grab her right hip.

  “I have her,” Robert called out, the words loud in her ears.

  Rosalind tried hit him with the back of her head, but he pulled his head out of her way. Her heels could only kick him on the leather of his boots.

  “Come on, William,” he said. “I have the witch.”

  In front of her, William made it back to his feet, strands of grass clinging to his hair and shirt. He was not laughing now, but he was still smiling. He brushed the grass off his shirt as he looked at her.

  “We watched you come over the fence,” William said. “If the cobbler’s son only knew what shapely legs you had, maybe your betrothal would still be set.”

  Rosalind spit at him, but missed.

  “We thought we might have a bit of sport with you,” he went on. “Didn’t we Robert? We had no luck all morning with more regular sport. Then you lured that doe out where we could see it.” William stepped closer. She kicked, but he caught her legs and held them, one under each arm. “And suddenly, we realized we could have both. A witch isn’t as useful as a deer, of course.” He ran the back of his right hand along her thigh. “But a witch with such legs and an easily removable skirt–”

  “You let her go!”

  Elizabeth’s shout drew the young men’s attention. Rosalind, still held tightly between the two men, could see that Elizabeth had climbed the fence and now had her head and chest over the top railing. One hand held the post. The other was pointing at the three of them in the pasture.

  “My my,” William said. “Both the eligible Bainbridge girls trespassing on my land. You keep hold of the witch,” he said to Robert, “and I’ll fetch the other.”

  “Run!” Rosalind shouted. Elizabeth hesitated. “Elizabeth, run!” Rosalind tried to wrap her legs around William to keep him there, but he twisted free. He charged toward the fence. “Run!” she shouted again.

  Robert shifted his right hand to cover her mouth. Rosalind struck at him with her newly freed right hand, and bit his hand.

  Elizabeth climbed down from the fence, one rung of the fence at a time, working within the confines of her long skirt.

  Robert’s hand came away from Rosalind’s mouth as she tried to take his index finger off at the knuckle. She spit and shouted, “This is no time to be a lady! Run, you stupid cow!”

  Rosalind twisted, but Robert brought his right arm back into play and pinned her to his chest, making her helpless again. She watched as William reached the fence.

  Elizabeth finally stopped trying to be prim and proper and leaped down the last two beams of t
he fence. When she landed, though, her long skirts tripped her up and she fell. William was up the fence and over it, landing on his feet beside her before she could stand again.

  He held out a hand. “May I offer you my assistance, Miss Bainbridge?”

  He did not wait for a reply. William scooped Elizabeth up and draped her over one shoulder. She shouted and pumped her fists and legs, but William just laughed and carried her up the fence, which creaked under their combined weight, and over to the other side.

  “Tsk tsk,” William said. “Trespassing is a crime. And a crime requires punishment.” With his free hand he spanked Elizabeth’s bottom twice, hard enough to make Rosalind wince. Elizabeth’s shouts became a whimper.

  “Let her go!” Rosalind shouted.

  “I will do no such thing,” William said, almost shouting in reply. He calmed himself and smiled again. “I caught you trespassing. You are both mine to do with as I please.”

  “Take me,” Rosalind said. “Do whatever you want with me. But let her go, William. Please.”

  William paused as if considering it. Then he laughed. “Come along, Robert.” William squatted and scooped up the two rifles from where Robert had dropped them in the grass. “Let’s find us a more comfortable and cozy spot where we can entertain our good friends, the Bainbridge girls.”

  Rosalind renewed her struggle. She slowed Robert as he walked, but she could not stop him. William led the way into the shade of the trees. Elizabeth looked back at Rosalind, eyes swollen, tears streaking her face, lower lip trembling.

  They reached a small clearing.

  “Sadly, we don’t have any rope,” William said. “So Robert will have to hold you while I prepare Miss Elizabeth for her wedding day. Robert enjoys watching, though. Maybe you can help him with that Rosalind. If not, I’ll hold you so you can watch as he takes his release with your sister.”

  Rosalind became aware of Robert’s erection pressing against the small of her back. She tried to twist away, but he held her tighter than before.

  In front of her, William dropped the rifles and threw Elizabeth so she fell on her back in front of him. Elizabeth turned over and started to crawl away, but William caught her by the back of her blouse. He pulled out his hunting knife and ran the dull side down the line of her waist to her hip. “Upsides or downsides, Miss Bainbridge,” he said. “I will be happy either way.” Then he flicked the knife and sliced her skirt and blouse in a single motion. He pulled and tore the clothes off her such that she was flipped on her back again.

  Elizabeth cried out and covered her small breasts with her crossed arms. She tried to cross her legs and turn away from William, but he stopped her. He used his knife again to slice her underclothes before ripping them off. He laughed at Elizabeth’s sobbing.

  On the edge of the clearing Robert squeezed Rosalind closer, rubbing himself against her, but she no longer cared. She could see only the naked, crying figure of her sister. She could feel only her own helplessness and shame. First the deer, then herself, and now her sister, she had led them all into William’s clutches. From the helplessness in her heart came a painful cold, a chill that wrapped itself around her stomach, and pushed into her limbs.

  William pulled down his breeches and stroked himself as he looked at Elizabeth on the ground in front of him.

  “Please,” Rosalind said, choking as her stomach threatened to throw up at the sight of William and the pressure of that painful chill. Gooseflesh erupted down her arms and legs. “Don’t do this.”

  William glanced at Rosalind, showing her a toothy grin, then he got down on his knees in front of Elizabeth, gripped her thighs and pulled them apart. She squirmed and twisted but he was too strong. He pulled her to him.

  The cold stabbed into Rosalind’s eyes and exploded in her chest. She tilted her head back and screamed as her entire body became as rigid as ice.

  She did not feel Robert drop her, only noticed that she stumbled as her feet hit the grass. The pain and the cold hammered in her heart and her head. She paid no attention to Robert shouting behind her. She hardly noticed the cold streams of fog that dripped from her hands. She caught her balance and ran at William.

  “GET OFF HER YOU BASTARD!” The words came out as only another scream.

  William looked over his shoulder and started to stand as she reached him. Her outstretched hands grabbed him and twisted in his wool hunting cloak. Flowers of frost bloomed around her fingers. William’s mouth moved, and his breath fogged the air between them, but she did not hear what he said. She was past hearing. Past understanding anything he could say.

  He tried to pull away from her, but she kept her grip, stood planted as if roots of ice secured her to the earth. Then it was her turn to pull.

  She spun on her left foot and threw him away from Elizabeth. She watched him fly away from her opened hands, twisting as he flew from the vertical to the horizontal. Her breath came hard, her chest a bellows, cold fog issuing from her mouth and curling in the wake of William’s passage. She could not see his face. She regretted that.

  William struck a birch, the force of her throw wrapping him around the narrow trunk. She watched his body slide then flip over as he bounced off the trunk. He landed, sprawled among the moss-covered roots, his arms and legs and erection limp, then he convulsed as he struggled to breathe again.

  She felt her lips pull back in a smile that bared her teeth. She turned around, looking for Robert, but he was gone. She brought her gaze back to William. He had curled into a ball and lay coughing and wheezing. She watched as he vomited.

  A whimper penetrated the frozen silence around her.

  Forgetting William, Rosalind dropped to her knees. A quick glance, fearing the worst, but Rosalind saw no blood. Perhaps she had been able to stop William before he could– Before there was any damage done. She pulled the sobbing Elizabeth to her chest. The little girl’s flesh burned against her touch. “It’s over now,” she said. She stroked her sister’s hair. “It’s over. We can go home–”

  Elizabeth cried out and pushed Rosalind away. She curled into the fetal position, her back to Rosalind.

  “Elsie,” Rosalind said. “It’s me, Rosalind.” She reached out and put a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Elizabeth cried out again at her touch, and Rosalind drew her hand back. An icy impression of her hand remained on the bare skin. And ice had formed in Elizabeth’s hair where she had stroked.

  Rosalind looked at her hands. They were white with cold. For the first time, the cold inside her caused her to shiver. She blew on her hands, but she hardly felt it. When her breath touched her fingers, it became fog. She slapped her hands together and hugged herself, but she could not get warm.

  Her teeth chattered as she gathered the torn remnants of Elizabeth’s clothes and laid them across her sister’s shoulders and legs. She tried to hold the garments with just her fingertips, so they would not get too icy. She had thought to give Elizabeth her own clothes, because hers were not torn, but she was covered in a lace of frost. Her clothes hung on her damp and frosted, as if she had been swimming in the stream in the heart of winter.

  She remembered William’s hunting cloak. He had pushed himself up against the tree, staring at them with glazed eyes. Vomit showed on his chin and down his shirt. He shrank from her as Rosalind walked over. He resisted when she tried to pull off his cloak, then he unclasped it and threw the garment at her.

  “Take it!” he said. “Get away! Witch!”

  Rosalind ignored him and picked up the cloak. She took the cloak to Elizabeth.

  “You–you have to–to get dressed,” she said. She struggled against the muscles in her jaw, trying to force down the effects of the chill. “I–I–can’t–get warm.”

  Elizabeth did not respond.

  “Elsie!” she shouted. “Eliza–be–beth! Please. You have to–to get–dressed.”

  She clenched her hands, hoping they would warm each other. But her fingers were cold even to her. Behind her she was vaguely aware of William stand
ing and staggering away.

  “We–we need to get home. To Father–and Mu–Mum.”

  Finally, Elizabeth moved. She did not look at Rosalind, but she pushed herself to a sitting position. She grasped the pieces of her blouse and pulled them close. Then she picked up William’s cloak and wrapped that around her.

  “Good–good,” Rosalind managed. “Letnd mvs–home.” The shivering kept her from saying anything else. She tried to help Elizabeth, but the girl refused to allow her to get close. Elizabeth never looked at Rosalind. Rosalind understood. The worst was over, though. They would go home and Father and Mum would take care of both girls, their little Rosie and Elsie. And maybe Rosalind could get warm again.

  * * *

  Outrage led to accusations and scandal. William Phillips did not appear in the village to contest the story told by Rosalind and verified by Elizabeth with her eyes downcast. William and Robert were known in Phillips on the Birchwood as “strapping young men”, “lusty and full of life”, and the villagers were only surprised that the girls had managed to fend them off. Other fathers whose daughters had lost their honor to the “lustiness” of the two boys spoke up, and there was talk of a public flogging.

  Since she had somehow healed the cobbler’s wife three years before, Rosalind had not been a topic of kind conversation, nor even many kind words from her parents. She had been a child the last time she could walk through Phillips on the Birchwood without hearing the whispers behind her back. For a brief time, though, from the end of May to the middle of June, as a result of the incident in the pasture, she felt once again a part of the village where she had been born. Old friends talked to her in the street, invited her to tea and accepted her invitations to the same. And if their conversation was a bit strained, ignoring without apology the past few years of avoidance and abuse, Rosalind did not mind.