“Sure,” she said, moving aside to allow him entrance.
She led him to a chair in the kitchen. The walls were decorated with paintings of countryside landscapes—hillsides, mountains and forests with deer and rabbits present—all painted by her and her husband when they had lived in the city. The couple would often pretend the paintings’ frames were windows, the paintings themselves views of what was outside their apartment, giving them hope that one day they could move to a place where such views really did exist.
Father O’Brady sat at the kitchen table in front of the fireplace.
“Care for some English tea?” Margaret asked.
“Would love some, thank you.”
The kettle had already been filled with water. Margaret set it over the flames, using the fireplace mitt. It came to a boil quickly and tea was served. She sat adjacent to the man.
“As a man of the cloth, it is my duty to spread the word of God, but more than that, His message.”
“And what is His message?” Margaret asked, taking a sip from her cup.
Father O’Brady chuckled. “You are a strong woman, Mrs. Rivers.”
“That I am,” she said. “But please, call me Margaret.”
“Okay, Margaret.”
“Look, I know why you are here. My people have been persecuted for centuries, first in Europe and now in America. Killed because of our beliefs. We are good people, just like you.”
The priest’s face sobered. “There is no excuse for violence. I have traveled to distant lands, spreading His word. I’ve been witness to horrible things. Man has a dark side, this I have no doubt. We are truly living in strange and difficult times, and that is why I have come to your home today.”
A groan of pain came from the back room.
“Is someone hurt?” Father O’Brady asked.
“My husband is ill.”
“What’s wrong with him? We should get him to the doctor.”
“He has a fever. Hasn’t been eating well.”
“May I see him?”
“No, I’m afraid not. He needs his rest. He’ll be better in a few days. I’m treating him.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I am a healer.”
“I see.”
“Margaret,” came a weary voice from the other room.
Before Margaret knew it, her husband was standing in the kitchen doorway, ragged and sleepy-eyed. His face was pale and dotted with sweat.
Margaret sprang from her chair and went to him. “What are you doing up?”
“It sounded like we had company,” he said.
“That’s not for you to worry about,” she told him, and tried ushering him from the room, but he held strong for a moment.
“Hello, Mr. Rivers,” Father O’Brady said, standing. There is no need for concern. I’ve simply stopped by for a quick visit with the missus, to properly introduce myself. If I’d known you were sick, I would have come at another time.”
“Please, call me Jonathan. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I must apologize for my condition, as I am not up to having company.”
“No, no, you mustn’t apologize. It is I who apologizes.”
Margaret put her hand under her husband’s chin so that he looked at her. “Let’s get you back to bed.” Jonathan nodded, then stumbled against the wall. Father O’Brady jumped up and took hold of the man. Together, they walked Jonathan to the bedroom.
They laid him down and he erupted into a coughing fit. He pushed himself up, leaned off the side of the bed and expelled a wad of yellow phlegm into a wooden bucket filled with water. “Please, excuse me.” He collapsed back down, eyes closed.
“Not at all,” Father O’Brady said, holding up a hand. “I shall take my leave, as I see you need to sleep.”
“Aye,” Jonathan said, “that I do.” He reached out and grabbed Margaret’s hand. “My wife’s going to fix me right up. Always does. She takes good care of me.”
Margaret tucked her husband in. “I’ll be right outside. Now get some rest.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Jonathan,” Father O’Brady said.
“The same, Father,” Jonathan said. “Please, come back in a few days when I’m better, and we’ll talk.”
“I will certainly do that.”
Back in the kitchen, Margaret asked if Father O’Brady wanted more tea before he left.
“No, no,” the man said kindly. “I’ve intruded enough.”
Margaret walked the priest to the front door. He walked out, then turned around. “I thank you kindly for your hospitality.”
“You are most welcome, Father,” Margaret said. “Please, come back anytime.” It was the proper thing to say, but she truly meant it. This man was unlike any priest she had ever met, and she looked forward to getting to know him.
Father O’Brady stared at her, grinning. Margaret felt a bit awkward, wondering what was going through the man’s mind.
“You’re good people,” he finally said. “Different than most I come across. I have an open mind and heart. I follow God’s laws and believe in what I teach, but I also believe not everyone is meant to be the same. The most important thing I teach is love. That’s the bottom line. I can see that you and your husband are good people who truly love one another. I may not agree with your religious practices, but this land is open to all, is it not?”
Margaret forced a smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“I’m glad we agree on that.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid there are others, most of the town in fact, that are not as understanding. I am somewhat new to the town myself, having only taken over the church a couple of years ago. Before that was Father Duncan, a good, but stern man and strict in his teachings. I do my best to preach God’s love, but as with most people, they fear what they do not understand or know.
“I will do my best to make your stay in Salisbury Mills as comfortable as possible, but it wouldn’t hurt to come to church, at least a meeting or two a month. I preach more than just the word. I’d hope you’d consider having an open mind as I do, and come visit. Give me a chance. You and your husband can introduce yourselves, and let the people of the town see how wonderful you are.”
“Thank you, Father,” Margaret said. “When my husband is well, we shall consider your offer.”
“That’s all I ask.”
The man thanked her again, then headed off down the trail.
Now, Margaret was holding a shotgun, pointed at the door, ready to blow away whoever was on the other side. And for what? Because she was afraid of the past, of what she’d been witness to, the hangings, burnings and stabbings. The city was far away, that part of her life gone. She needed to change with her new home. She needed to trust people. The priest was a good man, and if he was hurt and needed her help, then she would help him.
Margaret unlocked the door, readied her hand on the knob to open it, when it flew inward. She yelped and jumped back, nearly squeezing the weapon’s trigger.
A crowd had gathered outside. Many held torches, pitchforks, axes and other tools. Father O’Brady was nowhere in sight. His earlier visitation must have been a trick. He had been a spy. Anger flared in Margaret’s bones, her grip on the shotgun tightening.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, stepping forward, afraid, but attempting to show no fear.
“Witch!” someone shouted.
A man wielding an ax rushed at the doorway, screaming. His eyes were wide with fury. Margaret raised the shotgun and fired, blowing a huge hole in the man’s chest and sending him back into the crowd. She rushed forward and slammed the door closed, locking it. She knew it would do little to keep them out.
Panic seized her. She couldn’t believe this was happening again. She and Jonathan had only been in town a short while. They had done nothing to provoke this. Skipping church wouldn’t have brought this on. Someone had lied, said they saw something. It had to be Father O’Brady, but he’d seemed like such a good man. She thought about escaping out the back wind
ow, but her husband was too ill and wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before the throng caught him.
The couple’s friends had warned them to stay in the city. Sure, it was a dirty place where the rich had it great and the poor suffered, but at least her kind were able to blend in better, pretend. Some were found out, but most were not.
Living in the city had been about survival, not living. Margaret and Jonathan wanted to raise a family, live off the land and practice their religion. Why was being in touch with nature such a crime?
“Come out, witch,” a male voice shouted.
“I’m not a witch,” Margaret answered, knowing the declaration was pointless. These people were worked up, in a frenzy. They had already decided her fate.
The crowd was chanting now. “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
Margaret glanced out a small window and saw villagers tossing their torches at the house.
“What’s happening?” a voice from behind said.
Margaret jumped, inadvertently squeezing the trigger, and sent a round of BBs into the floor.
“Margaret?” Jonathan asked, holding a hand over his heart, clearly caught off guard.
“We need to leave,” she said. She opened the gun, pulled out the spent shells and loaded new ones. If she had to, she’d carry him to safety.
Her husband started coughing. He grabbed onto the back of a chair to steady himself.
Margaret ran to him. She smelled smoke. Looking up, she saw gray, snake-like plumes slithering through the air. Flames erupted from her right along the windowsill. “I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving the shotgun with her husband. She ran to the bedroom and looked out the window. Men were standing in the backyard, holding torches and farming tools. The house was surrounded.
Margaret’s heart sank.
The window burst, sending shards of glass over her and the room. She put her arms up and jumped back, feeling glass slice the flesh along her arms and forehead. A large stone rested on the floor before her. Movement caught her eye and she looked up. A torch came through the window and landed next to the bed. The blankets went up immediately.
Margaret ran back to the kitchen. Jonathan was standing by the front door, holding a knife at his side. He looked at Margaret. “I’ll hold them off. Take the gun and leave out the back.”
“The house is surrounded,” she said.
More windows exploded as rocks came through, followed by torches. She grabbed the kettle and doused a fire close to her, but it was pointless, as the whole house was aflame. The ceiling was aglow with orange, and the air was thick with smoke, making it difficult to breathe.
Jonathan was doubled over, coughing.
Margaret hurried to him. He finally stopped coughing and looked into her eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Tears filled their eyes as they held each other.
“We have to…leave,” Margaret said, coughing. “Stay behind me.” She left her husband and grabbed the shotgun.
Jonathan blocked the doorway. “No. I’ll go out first and distract them, while you make a run for the forest.”
“Never!” she said. “I’ll never leave you.” Knowing he would try something stupid, she shoved him aside, yanked open the flame-engulfed door and charged outside, shotgun in hand.
“There she is,” someone yelled.
“Get her,” another said. “Don’t let her escape.”
“Leave us alone,” Jonathan yelled from behind her.
Margaret spun and saw her husband standing in the doorway of their house. A loud snap and the crash of timber sounded from above. The house shifted. Jonathan stepped forward in an attempt to flee, but tripped and fell. Flaming beams came down, crushing his legs, setting him on fire.
“Nooooo!” Margaret screamed as she ran to him, but before she reached him, his entire body was in flames. His cries became gargled as he thrashed around, begging for help.
There was nothing she could do. She fell to her knees, crying, her heart wrenched in agony.
The crowd looked on, with stunned and confused expressions on their faces. No one moved. Then they raised their weapons, faces now angry snarls. Three men ran at her. She pivoted around and raised the shotgun. All three men stopped short, terror written across their faces. Margaret aimed at one man and fired, sending her target to his grave. She didn’t stop there, and fired at the next man, hitting him in the face, obliterating his jaw and throat. He fell over, clawing at what was left of his head. Blood gushed from the exposed arteries. Teeth littered the ground. One of his eyes was dislodged from the impact, and was dangling against his cheek.
The third man stared at his friends, then at Margaret. His eyes narrowed. “She’s empty,” he yelled.
The crowd swarmed in. Five men came forth, holding axes, sickles and hammers. Margaret flipped the gun around, gripping it by the heated barrels, and swung it like a club, hitting one of the men in the head. His mouth opened and eyes rolled back as he fell to the ground. She readied the weapon again and heard her husband’s cries. He was still alive.
She spun around, but only saw an unmoving, burning corpse, the jaw hanging open. Tears streamed down her face as the realization hit her hard, and then something cracked her over the head, and everything went dark.
The next thing she knew, she was tied to a pole on the island, burned alive. Her remains were buried, and left to rot.
Now, all these years later, Margaret’s spirit seethed with rage.
Another spike from the devil’s barricade was removed, the crushing weight, the binds, lessening. Then another, and another, until only one remained. Vengeance would soon be hers.
Chapter Sixteen
“I think that’s all of them,” Julie said, holding one of the spikes. Taking a look at the ground, she saw that, where the spikes had been, they formed an elongated hexagon, with the iron pole at the head.
Shay grabbed her backpack and placed all five of the spikes inside, then added Julie’s. She put the bag down and stepped into the hexagon. She stepped out, waited a few moments, then stepped back inside.
“What are you doing?” Julie asked.
“This is incredible,” Shay said. “The air is much warmer here.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, really.” Shay stepped outside the hexagon. “Try it.”
Julie did, and as soon as she crossed the invisible threshold, where the spikes had been, her body heated up, as if she’d stepped onto a city vent, but without the gust. “Whoa,” she said, then stepped back, and felt cooler air surround her again.
“See?” Shay asked.
“Incredible is right.” Julie stepped back onto the soil within the six-sided shape and felt warm air encompass her again, but this time, the air was extremely hot, like the air directly above the campfire. She found it difficult to breathe. She needed to move, to get out, but her body wouldn’t respond. The hot air wafted around her, slithering along her flesh like unseen serpents, leaving a scorching slime over her entire body.
Terror took hold and she tried to scream, but her mouth was frozen shut. Something bad was happening. She felt it in her gut. They’d done something wrong when they removed the spikes, as if the shiny nails had held something in check. Her insides were on fire. Movement was impossible, and she wondered if she was having some kind of seizure. Her vision wavered for a moment, like when she looked through the glass window of an oven set on high, then cleared. The heat level within her rose to extreme levels, and she wondered if her insides were turning to mush. She was being microwaved from the inside out. Then her body suddenly went numb and she moved, but it wasn’t under her control.
The possession took hold. The witch had made it out of her grave and into the body of a girl. She steadied herself, feeling wobbly on her feet. She flexed her arms, jaw and legs.
“Are you okay?” the girl next to her asked.
The witch nodded. She went through the girl’s mind, learning all that she knew, becoming Julie Clark.
“Because you look like you might fall over,” Shay said, and placed a hand on Julie to settler her. “Damn, girl, you’re warm. You better get out of there.”
The witch stepped out of the circle, taking the heat with her, feeling reborn, alive. “It’s gone,” the witch said, using Julie’s voice. “No more heat.”
Shay stepped into the hexagon. “You’re right. What the hell happened?”
The witch ignored her and walked over to the campfire. She eyed Julie’s crush, Steve. The boy was an original descendant of the ones who had killed her. She did not know how she knew this, but she did. She scanned the group, setting her sights on the blond-haired kid, Jim Ryan. Her eyes widened. She knew this name. Ryan. Then she remembered the town constable from her time—Kenneth Ryan. So, she thought, this is the lawman’s kin. She would make sure to deal with him later.
“Have fun playing in the dirt?” Steve asked.
“More than you know,” the witch said. She laid a finger on his shoulder, then traced it up his neck to his chin, feeling something odd, almost painful. The boy was protected, her power unable to be used on him. She looked over Steve’s form, taking notice of the ring on his right hand. It was old, handcrafted and held the signature of a warden. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered what he had done to her. But not to give away her disdain, she smiled and pulled Steve from his seat on the log, making sure to grab him by his left hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“Where are we going?” Steve asked.
Pulling him along, Julie said, “Away from here, and somewhere more private.” She turned her head, winked at him, then faced forward again.
Steve chugged the beer in his hand, then tossed the can over his shoulder.
“Looks like someone, and an unlikely someone, is getting lucky before the rest of us,” Paul said.
Whistles and catcalls came from the group as Julie led Steve into the woods.
A branch scraped Steve’s cheek just below his right eye, causing him to flinch. “I can’t see a thing. How do you know where you’re going?”
Witch Island Page 13