In Fallen Woods

by R N Merle

  With trembling fingers, Darklin pulled the stopper from the bottle of potion, and poured its contents in a circle around the walls of the house. With her wand in her hand, she touched the tip to the trail of spilled potion. It was her first spell, now it was to be her last.

  ‘Flame flicker,

  blaze and burn.’

  With those words, the potion sparked into flames, and lit a ring of fire around the house. The flames licked up the stone walls, and as they reached the dry wood of the roof, blazed through it like kindling.

  Darklin turned to walk away, but thick smoke wrapped around her like a smothering blanket. She began to feel faint. She coughed and gasped. She tried to move, to find fresh air, but her knees gave way, and she fell to the ground. The air was better near to the soil. She crawled from the fire as best she could, but she was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Each time she tried to raise her head, the world spun so swiftly that everything blurred into one. Her eyes were so sore, and dry from the heat and smoke, that she could barely keep them open. Exhaustion was pulling her into oblivion. All the while, a diminishing voice in her head told her to get back on her feet and go to Shadows End, but soon she could not hear it.

  Darklin was dead to the world.

  At last, through sickening dreams, she thought she heard a voice. It grew louder.

  ‘Up witch!’ the rough voice commanded.

  Darklin felt a sluice of icy water drench her face. She began to cough, unsure of what was happening. ‘John?’ she said hazily.

  Her bleary eyes began to focus, first she saw the witch’s house crumbled, charred and smoking, then a large black figure standing over her. She struggled to sit up, a fearsome chill creeping over her. A man with iron grey hair and a battled scarred face, held a sword poised over her heart.

  17

  The Night

  ‘Do not attempt to escape, or I will run you through. I would in good conscience kill you now, but it is only fair that the people of Fallenoak have an opportunity to see for themselves exactly who has been tormenting them for all these years.’

  ‘No, you are wrong.’ Darklin murmured. She wanted desperately to believe that she was still dreaming, but the point of the sword pushed against her chest with a pressure that she could not doubt was real.

  ‘No. I am not.’ the man said coldly.

  ‘It is not me that you are looking for.’ Darklin began. ‘I can explain…’

  ‘Then you can explain to Squire Baines, and the people of Fallenoak. Now put your hands together, as you do when you pray to the devil.’

  Darklin tried to swallow, but her mouth was stone dry. Her eyes darted around her, as she calculated if she could move out from under the blade quick enough to run away. She would have to move faster than a blink. She glanced up fearfully into the face of the witch hunter. His eyes keenly followed every movement of hers, his countenance merciless. She didn’t have a hope.

  Hidden by her cloak, in her clammy hand, Darklin still held her wand, and from somewhere she gathered the wherewithal to conceal it. With one hand, she managed to slip it through a hole in the lining of her cloak. Then, hesitantly she reached her hands forward, mindful of the glistening blade, that would require little force to stop her frantic heart.

  In a flash, he dropped the sword and had her hands bound, tight enough to burn. It was then that Darklin began to struggle. She wriggled and twisted away from him, rising awkwardly to her feet. She took two clumsy steps before he tackled her from behind, throwing his weight on top of her, so that she lay face down on the earth. The points of his knees painfully crushed the backs of her legs, as his iron hands gripped around her upper arms.

  Darklin screamed, loud enough to make her throat raw. Wild, feral panic flooded her body. His weight and his strength pinned her, so that only her feet could move. She kicked into the earth, trying to dig herself in, to gain the traction to pull herself out from under him. Her toes felt that they were breaking, as her boots rebounded off the hard, unyielding soil. She could not drag herself an inch forward.

  She could feel herself tiring from the exertion of fighting him. She stilled for a moment, gathering all the force of her strength, and tried to lift her body from the soil. If she could only unbalance him…. She turned and twisted and bucked, but she could not shift him.

  ‘Help me!’ she screamed. ‘John!’

  ‘Silence!’ the witch hunter commanded. Darklin felt the balance of his weight change. He grabbed her by the arm, and roughly turned her over. Darklin struggled. ‘Someone help me!’ she screamed. She saw the back of the witch hunter’s left hand rise to the right of her face, then everything went black.

  As Darklin stirred, she felt the jostling movement of being carried on a horse, and saw blurry cobbles on the ground beneath her. Once the ringing faded from her ears, she became aware of words and sounds.

  ‘Send her back to the devil!’

  ‘String her up!’

  ‘Cut out her heart!’

  ‘I will see you hang, Witch!’

  She glanced sideways at the crowds of people lining the street of Fallenoak, their faces grim and full of hate. Men and children spat at her as she passed, and some made the sign of the cross. There were others who turned their heads away in fear of catching her eye, and there were eyes that bored into her with a look of such sadness that Darklin wondered what it was that Gressyl had done to them. She rapidly closed her eyes again, squeezing them tight shut.

  ‘No!’ she whispered, ‘It is not real.’

  The horse tilted as it strode uphill to the castle. Darklin trembled, remembering every curse that Gressyl had used on the Squire, recorded in the book. She started to struggle, but the witch hunter had tied her so firmly that she could not move. The horse’s hooves echoed loudly over the draw bridge, and soon they stopped outside the stables.

  ‘Take her!’ the witch hunter commanded one of the servants. He loosened the ropes, and Darklin fell awkwardly backwards onto the stony ground. The servant grabbed Darklin by the upper arms, his grip digging painfully into her skin. He pulled her to her feet, restraining her until the witch hunter dismounted and took hold of her. Darklin was conscious of her wand, travelling around the lining of her cloak, dreading it would fall out somehow, giving him all the evidence he needed…

  ‘Tell the Squire I have her.’ he commanded.

  They followed the servant in silence through long lines of narrow corridors, up flights of stairs. Several times, Darklin’s legs buckled in fear and she stumbled, but she was swiftly and harshly righted by the witch hunter’s hard grip. They paused outside a room with two large doors, while the servant knocked and announced their presence.

  The Squire sat in a large chair by a fire. He glanced up, and then quickly away as they entered.

  ‘So this is the witch.’ he said, getting to his feet. His voice was high and reedy. ‘Show her to me.’

  The witch hunter pushed Darklin roughly toward the Squire.

  ‘What is that all over her face? She looks as though she’s been bathing in ashes.’

  ‘Soot from a fire, sir.’

  Darklin kept her face low, and her eyes down, but she could feel his small blue ones skit across her form. They moved quickly at first, as if he was afraid to look at her. Then slowly his gaze grew bolder, until she could feel his eyes raking every inch of her, as she stood shivering in front of him.

  ‘She isn’t much more than a girl.’ he sounded relieved, amazed. ‘Are you sure this is the right one?’ he asked. He spoke loudly, in a way that made Darklin start with each new sentence.

  ‘Yes, without question. I traced her to her house in the woods, trying to burn the evidence of her ways and deeds.’

  ‘Girl, Witch, whatever you are. Are you behind the curses on the village?’ asked the Squire.

  ‘No, I am not.’ Darklin replied, in a low shaky voice.

  ‘What is your name?’

  Darklin did not answer, remembering what Bess had told her about her name
not seeming Christian.

  ‘Are you a witch?’

  ‘No.’ cried Darklin.

  ‘What was your business in the woods?’

  ‘I lived there with my… mother.’ Darklin was unsure how much she should reveal. She doubted if anything she might say would make a difference. If she told them her whole story, she didn’t think they would believe her, and she would have to own up to being a witch. They might hang her for that alone.

  ‘I did not see anyone else.’ said the witch hunter.

  ‘She died. Last night.’ Darklin explained.

  ‘Why then, did you set fire to your own house?’ asked the witch hunter.

  Darklin did not answer.

  ‘You set fire to it to hide the evidence of your evil doings. I have little doubt it was full of potions and instruments of witchcraft. You could think of no other way to be rid of them.’

  Darklin shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you.’ said the Squire. ‘I must say I am impressed with you, Colonel. Tell me, what led you to our witch here?’

  ‘Last evening as I was stood on the ramparts, planning where we should next search, I saw black smoke rising. A providential sign. At first light, I simply headed in the direction of the smoke to the darkest, most God forsaken depths of the woods. An evil place. I found her there. She is an unholy girl. She even has the devil’s mark.’

  The witch hunter took out a dagger from his waistband, and firmly took hold of Darklin’s arm, roughly snatching back her sleeve to reveal the faded burn mark on the inside of her wrist, the same one James had noticed. Near the burn, the Colonel nicked her skin, enough to cause blood to flow. Then he attempted to do the same on the burn mark. It did not bleed. Darklin saw how he faked it, somehow the blade retracted into the handle instead of going into her skin.

  ‘See how it does not bleed.’

  The Squire peered, then looked at the witch hunter, impressed. He turned to scowl at Darklin, his eyes full of menace. ‘What have you to say for yourself? What have you to say to me? I remember well all the curses you put on me.’

  He did not wait for an answer. He slapped her viciously across her face, making her head snap to the side. He wiped the back of his hand on his breeches, as if touching her had sullied his skin.

  ‘Gather the people for a dawn hanging, they will want to see justice as urgently as I do.’

  ‘Perhaps we should give it time for news to spread.’ suggested the witch hunter.

  ‘I will show her as much mercy as she has my people. We will suffer her no more. Now, take her to the dungeon.’

  ‘No, not the dungeon. Please let me go.’ Darklin screamed in desperation. ‘I have done no harm here, it was Gressyl who cast the spells, not me.’

  ‘Take her away. Don’t have her worked on, I don’t want her looking pathetic for tomorrow.’

  Darklin was pushed roughly from the room by two servants, and marched downstairs. Darklin thought they did not look as formidable as the witch hunter, and attempted to jerk out of their grip, but they held on too tightly.

  ‘Don’t try anything, Witch. You’ll not get away, I’m looking forward to the hanging.’ The two men sniggered.

  ‘A dawn hanging. It will be a scene. A good crowd will be there I’m sure, so don’t you worry.’ the other said to Darklin. They both laughed.

  ‘It’s a shame she wed herself to Satan. She’s quite a pretty thing.’

  ‘It’s witch’s potions. You mark my words, it’ll wear off by morning, and she be nothing more than an ugly old hag.’

  As they descended, Darklin grew colder, conscious that they were underground. She smelled the dungeon, long before they reached it. At the bottom of the stairs, the jailor stood waiting, whistling softly to himself. Darklin recognised him from the night she and Gressyl had stolen in, when he had been snoring in his chair.

  ‘What have we here, fellows?’ he said to the men.

  ‘We’ve got us the witch, Mr Cox. The Colonel fetched her in this afternoon.’

  Mr Cox took hold of a lantern, held it up to Darklin’s face, and stared hard. His eyes were large and brown. Darklin noticed a look of conflict cross over his face as he examined her.

  ‘How old are you girl?’

  ‘Sixteen.’ Darklin rasped.

  ‘Don’t you believe her, she’s disguised herself with magic.’

  ‘Is he sure he’s got the right one? Folks were not happy after the Squire had Hawkes hang little Annie Sparrow.’ said the jailor, sceptically.

  ‘He swears he knows it’s her, and she’s got the devil’s own mark on her wrist.’ The servant untied Darklin’s hands and held up Darklin’s left arm for the jailor to examine.

  ‘I see.’ he said. ‘What does he want me to do with her?’

  ‘Shut her in for the night. The hanging’s at dawn.’

  ‘Very well.’ he said, as he turned the creaking lock, and opened the door. Darklin was half carried down the walkway between the cells. She could feel the other prisoner’s eyes taking her in, until she was shoved into a tiny cell, that the jailor opened at the end of the row. As the metal bars shut loudly behind her, she flinched and retreated into the corner, as the echoes of the noise died around her.

  As the jailor and the two servants were leaving, one of the other prisoners called out, ‘What’s she in for?’

  ‘None of your business. Quiet the lot of you.’ Mr Cox snapped back.

  ‘She’s the witch. We’re hanging her tomorrow.’ one of the servants spoke out for all to hear.

  A crashing wave of cheers, shouts of anger, and rattling of bars, filled the dungeon. Darklin cowered, trembling in her cell.

  ‘You’re the reason I’m here.’ she heard someone say.

  ‘Devil’s whore!’ one exclaimed.

  ‘You cannot leave her here with us!’ a woman pleaded.

  ‘Silence!’ shouted the jailor, ‘Or I’ll send you to see Mr Hawkes.’

  The prisoner’s voices quietened instantly, but a thin, dirty and dishevelled man in the cell opposite, started throwing bones and rotting food at Darklin, and when he ran out of things to throw, he spat. Darklin turned her back to him and faced the wall. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, and pressed her hands tightly over her ears.

  The cell was cramped, dark, damp and cold, and there was no way to escape. Her soul cried out for John, and she wondered what he was doing at that moment, as tears welled in her eyes. She guessed the time was somewhere near nightfall. He would be sitting in the parlour, with Grace on his knee, and Willow at his feet. There would be a roaring fire, and Bess would be making tea and toast, and warmed milk for the children. John might be silent, wondering why she had not come that day.

  She didn’t want to think of how he had kissed her, the fleeting moment of bliss she had experienced. She wished it had never happened. She would rather she had never found out there was something so exquisite to live for. John would not know where she was, or what was happening. He could not save her. She hoped they would never find out what had become of her. Thinking of the family and Shadows End was too painful, and she could not bear it. She closed off all paths of thought that led to the Somerbornes, and bid them farewell with all her heart.

  The night dragged onward. Darklin desperately searched for ways she might escape. It wasn’t long before she realised that magic was her only option. She dreaded the consequences of using the dark magic again, but she dreaded the hangman more.

  Darklin removed her hands from her ears. The prisoners were no longer shouting. She fumbled around in the lining of the cloak for her wand. She began to panic that it had fallen out, but eventually she found it, and with great difficulty manoeuvred it upwards and out through the hole she had made.

  She had already thought of the spell she would use to unlock the doors. It was the same spell she had seen Gressyl use on the castle gates, last winter. Darklin prepared herself, knowing she must not fail. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Day,’ she thought, then concentra
ted on all the dark happenings of her life. How she had been cruelly stolen from her family, how unfair it was that she would never see them again. How she had spent most of her life with Gressyl in the dark. How she had been lied to and beaten. The injustice of fate, to be taken as the witch, and be held responsible for all the things Gressyl had done. The injustice of life for rewarding her with one perfect summer, for giving her people to love, who loved her, and ripping it all away.

  As she brooded on her hatred and anger, the dark energy rose in her blood. She could feel the icy power of it, coming stronger than it ever had before.

  Very slowly, she turned around. Darklin gasped, and whipped her head back to face the wall, not quick enough to erase the image of the man opposite, with his sweaty white face pressed up to the bars of his cell, his eyes wide open and staring at her, unblinking.

  ‘Burn in Hell.’ he said clearly and slowly. Darklin frantically stuffed her wand down the front of her dress, where she could feel it tight against her stays, then covered her ears again.

  The stinking condensation dripped down the walls, and she wondered how long was left until morning. Darklin hadn’t really given a thought to what would happen, after... Gressyl had told her hell was not real, but she had lied about so many things, and everyone else seemed to believe in God and the devil. Would she descend straight to the depths of hell? Darklin was suddenly terrified to use her magic. If she tried and failed, her last action might define her for eternity. But how else was she going to save herself?

  She grew dizzy with indecision and despair. A ghastly carousel of images spun around her head, accompanied by echoes of hostile voices and accusations. The prisoner’s crazed stare, the Squire’s red face, the witch hunter poised to strike her, the faces of those Gressyl had tormented, Gressyl herself, dead in her chair, and the red eyes of the devil waiting to take her to hell. They sped, round and round, the voices growing louder and louder, until her mind became silent and blank.

  At dawn, the jangling of the jailer’s keys echoed through the dungeon. Two sets of footsteps clomped down the stone corridor, and stopped outside Darklin’s cell.