Abby the Witch

by Odette C. Bell

  Witches, Ms Crowthy would say, must always keep their dignity. Power, after all, is mostly in the eyes of the beholder, and the more you can maintain your perfect façade of dignity, the more people will amplify what power you have. Abby had always expected it was like looking into the eyes of a wild animal and not ever turning your back on them – the second you lost face around someone, you gave them permission to rearrange your features into whatever fanciful fool they decided upon.

  If a tilt of your chin and a good hearty sniff weren't enough to see you through the most embarrassing of upsets, Ms Crowthy had suggested that the only method left was to leave with your head held high sniffing like no tomorrow. So Abby turned her head, flicked her crinkly ponytail over her shoulder and continued down the street without a word. See if she was going to let Pembrake take her power.

  'You witches are confusing creatures,' he called after her, 'no wonder we banned you in the future.'

  Abby set her teeth and almost snorted with rage. She should turn and face him, wheel around on her feet and chastise him for using a revealing word like ‘future’ when they were stuck in the past. If he wanted to walk down the street sounding like a crazy fool, then let him. She wasn't here to pick up after him.

  They walked on in silence for several minutes, this time with Abby at the lead. It had taken her several blocks of red-faced anger to calm down sufficiently to think of where they were going. She couldn't turn to Pembrake and ask him if he had any ideas; that would be tantamount to bowing her head in concession. Instead she walked towards the only place she could think of – her own tiny attic home. Who knew what it would be in these times – probably a den of vile intrigue or the source of a hideous plague, knowing her luck. Still, it would be a familiar land mark, and right now she needed to remind herself of home.

  Charlie had been maintaining a suspicious silence, probably more irked by Pembrake's dominating presence than her little friend would like to admit. She'd told him of how Pembrake had thrown her broom off the cliff, and poor little Charlie was probably wondering if he'd be next.

  In a way it was better for both of them if Charlie stayed quiet. She wouldn't have to put up with a constant barrage of 'do you call this a plan? Gadding through town with a puffed-up fool while you poke giant holes in the timeline?'. And Charlie’s sudden vocalisation would probably shock Pembrake into throwing more things off cliffs.

  Better to introduce him to the talking cat slowly.

  It wasn't until they'd left the wide well-kept streets of inner Bridgestock for the dark and damp alleyways of the 'slumps', that Pembrake quickened his pace to match hers. She was almost amused at the glimmer of concern in his eyes.

  Of course it had taken time to get used to the 'slumps', but with nowhere else to go the young Abby had come to call it home. She knew all the back alleyways and shady street fronts selling 'wares' and 'goods'. She knew which streets to avoid and which hunched over, ambling figures to cross the street from. It may not have been the safest of places to live, but it was the only place where she could feel a bond with people in Bridgestock. The people in the slumps may not have been witches, but they were all considered second-class citizens to the rest of the city.

  And now she had something over the powerful, self-assured Commander. The boy from upper Esquire street had probably only ever heard of the stories from the 'slumps', the violent ones.

  She could see he wanted to pull her aside and whisper a warning into her ear, anything to see them walking back the other way into the 'better' half of the city. But in doing so he would have to concede two things – 1) that he actually cared what happened to her, and 2) that the strong Commander was scared of getting dirt on his collar.

  'Abby,' he eventually managed with a low, even voice as if he expected the residents to pounce on him like wild animals should he talk like a normal human.

  'Yes,' she said quite loudly.

  'What are we doing here, this place is… dangerous.'

  He finally said it and Abby had to bite hard on her lip not to smile. 'No it's not.'

  'Abby,' he took a step closer to her, his face setting with a determination that made her swallow, 'yes it is.'

  She was faltering; there was something in his tone, but she wasn't about to give in completely. 'I happen to live here, thank you, and it's perfectly pleasant. Just because you grew up on Esquire street doesn't mean you have to buy into the stereo types-'

  He stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. '28 years ago this place was full of Turn Abouts, not little witches like you.'

  Abby was speechless. Turn Abouts was a name given to group of mercenaries who fought in the Elogian wars. They were killing machines, imbued with no morals or allegiances beyond that which money could buy. They had fought for both sides, neither side wishing to be without their skill. But the stories she'd heard of them were enough to make even the strongest of armies falter.

  Turn Abouts were about the most horrible thing she could imagine.

  'We need to go,' he whispered quickly, 'and you need to brush up on your history before you march us into any more firing squads.'

  He latched onto her arm and began to pull her away, but she snapped free soon enough. Ms Crowthy would go throw the oven at Abby if she allowed herself to be dragged along by a man. Not only did it go against the golden rule of avoiding boys, but it went against the natural independence of a witch. Witches don't get led anywhere they weren't already happily walking towards, thank you.

  He didn't try to re-grab her wrist, which she was thankful for. What with the rising fear in her stomach, she probably would have just let him have it.

  Charlie shifted uncomfortably in her arms and looked at her with twitching whiskers.

  Great, it seemed everybody thought she was a fool. But she couldn't blame them – she was a total idiot.

  Turn Abouts – why hadn't she remembered that? She had read it in the history books, and she really should have remembered that her beloved slumps were home to some of the seediest and most dangerous of criminals in this time. She just hadn't been thinking strait, and now what was supposed to be her big coup d'état against the arrogant Pembrake, had turned into a massive embarrassment.

  Her face hot and flustered, she rushed after him, keeping her head low. At one point they passed a man leaning against the wall, glowing cigarette in hand. He stared at them both, but allowed his eyes to linger over Abby with a cold mix of indifference yet interest. The man, tall and thin with shoulder-length oily black hair and a pointed sallow face, took a mouthful of smoke from his cigarette then blew it at Abby.

  She was surprised when Pembrake slowed, inserting himself between her and the man with what looked like a casual move. Abby coughed into her hand, more thankful than she could ever let him know, and followed Pembrake as they quickly walked away.

  'Thank you for almost getting us killed,' Pembrake eventually said when the street had widened and the shop fronts had changed from dirty grey to clean beige and white. He opened his mouth to apparently finish the blow, but decided against it with a sniff.

  Ms Crowthy always approved of a good sniff. There was a lot that could not be said with words that could be conveyed quite clearly with a sniff. Abby wondered what it was Pembrake's sniff was supposed to mean. Was that a sniff of 'I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone, I can see you are still quite scared'. Or a sniff of 'how dare you take us into such a stupid situation, you idiot witch'. Or just a sniff of 'well that was a waste of time, what do we do now?'.

  Abby was trying to put the creeping fear behind her, but it had been a fright. That man, for the most of it, had blown her tingling fright into full gut-wrenching panic. The way he had blown smoke into her face and looked her up and down had made Abby revert to a child seeing monsters under her bed.

  'So what do you have to say for yourself?' Apparently Pembrake wasn't about to let up. 'I hope you appreciate how stupid that was.'

  She tried for a sniff herself. This one, and she hoped he'd understand, meant 'cl
ear off, can't you see I know how stupid I was'.

  'We went looking for a witch and all we found was cold-blooded mercenary – remind me never to let you help me look for anything again.'

  His constant, pointed nagging was pushing her fear to the corners of her mind. 'Look, I'm really, really sorry I scared you, little Commander, but we did not lose time. I'm not sure what you were looking at, but I was looking for a witch’s shop. And I didn't see one,' she licked her lips quickly, hoping that sheer haughtiness would carry her lie, 'so no time has been wasted, we've just narrowed down our search.'

  'Right.' It was the most sarcastic concession she'd ever heard.

  'So now I suggest we look elsewhere.'

  'Another good plan, Abby: let's see where this one takes us.'

  It took them, after what felt like hours of searching, to the front of a small building set into one of the tessellated walls above the port. It was tucked in between a bookstore and a dress makers. They'd walked past it several times before Abby had guessed what it was. After all, there were no clues; no signs reading 'witch here' or pictures of a broom and a black cat. It was only after a little surge of magic trickled along her back that Abby had suggested they try it out. And when they'd walked in the doors to find a group of middle-aged women, all dressed in flowing black skirts and all sitting down to tea with black cats purring on their laps, Abby had turned to Pembrake and grinned.

  Pembrake hadn't even bothered to grimace; he was just too busy staring at the witches, his cheeks sallow and limp.

  It must be confronting for such a bigoted man as Pembrake to come face-to-face with a room of witches. Especially considering they were all dressed so alarmingly to the stereotype she partially tried to deny. Yes, it was mandatory to have a black cat and a broom, but there was some leeway when it came to clothes. Not all makeup had to be thick eyeliner and not every skirt had to remind you of a black cloud of ominous death.

  The witches had looked up as they'd entered, no doubt expecting their entrance minutes before they'd arrived. The largest lady with the lightest grey hair sniffed very loudly and rattled her tea cup. Abby took this to be a greeting and bowed respectfully.

  'What you doing here, witch?' the woman sniffed again. 'You set that cat of yours down so he can have a drink, and take a step closer, youngin.’

  Abby let Charlie bound out of her arms, and he settled beside another black cat who was lapping milk out of a saucer. She was heartened to hear the officious tone of someone other than Pembrake in the old Crone before. But most of all Abby was gladdened by the company of other witches. For six years she had been on her own except for Charlie, and that had weighed heavily on her heart. 'Yes,' her voice had broken but she'd redeemed it with a very long sniff indeed.

  'Come to seek our advice, she has,' another witch piped up, 'that boy on your arm too.'

  Pembrake looked sideways at Abby. He was obviously not used to the company of witches.

  'Oh there's something odd here there is,' said one witch as she scratched her purring cat under the chin, 'these folks aren't from around here.'

  The thing about witches was that you had to let them come to their own version of events. And they would; with enough tea and chatting back and forth, they'd soon have your exact life plotted out. It may require a lot of patience and hot water, but there was no better way of dealing with a witch than letting her sniff out the trail.

  'My word indeed,' said a particularly wiry-looking witch as she pushed up her glasses, 'not even from this time.'

  All the witches clucked like a group of hens searching for worms and there was a good deal of rattling of tea cups. Abby stood there patiently, hands clasped in front of her just like a good little trainee witch. Pembrake, on the other hand, kept moving his gaze warily from witch to witch: like a captain contemplating the choppy sea.

  'Some kind of storm,' one witch grabbed her tea cup and stuck in a gnarled finger, agitating the liquid with a flick of her wrist, 'a chaotic one.'

  The other witches gasped, and started whirling their own cups.

  Abby supplied her own sniff, just to show that she was following affairs.

  'A witch and a sailor – this wasn't supposed to happen.'

  'No, no, no, something's gone wrong here, something isn't as it should be.'

  Abby frowned slightly, she had hoped for better news. She knew that look on their faces – Ms Crowthy would get that same look when her morning tea would tell her of a big unseasonal storm – it was a look that said that something wasn't right with the world.

  The head witch put up a quick hand and silenced the mumbling that had erupted. 'You come here, child.'

  Abby obeyed and took the cup of tea that was offered her, taking a polite sip and handing it back to the waiting witch.

  The other witches held their breath, waiting for the prognosis. It was clear from their eager silence that they all thought it would be something horrible. Abby tried to remain stoic, but she knew from experience that silent witches were a bad omen.

  'Hmmm,' the head witch had her face set over the tea, watching it with beady yellowed eyes. 'well I ain't seen this for a while, not for a long while indeed. This is wrong.'

  Pembrake cleared his throat and appeared to be about to speak until Abby shot him a look dripping with warning. This was not the time for Mr Arrogant Commander; these witches would eat him alive.

  'You shouldn't be here, child,' the witch looked up shaking her head like a farmer that had lost a calf, 'and you shouldn't be with him,' she pointed a crooked finger at Pembrake. 'You shouldn't be anywhere near him.'

  Silence broke after her words, and Abby thought it best to ignore the strange look of panic that had clouded Pembrake's face. What was he thinking? Abby wondered as she tried to remain tall and strong, accepting her fortune with the dignity of a-Ms-Crowthy-trained witch. And what did they mean… what kind of fortune was that?

  'Oh you've gone and broken something you have. Somewhere along the line this storm as ruined things – ruined future things.'

  Abby bit her lip to stop it from trembling. She couldn't have ruined the timeline already? She had tried….

  'You, boy,' the head witch pointed again at Pembrake, 'come drink from this cup.'

  There was a moment where Abby was not certain Pembrake would comply; after all, he didn't seem to be the type to be ordered around. But whether it was the present company or something else, he slowly walked forward and accepted the cup, sipping quietly and returning it to the old witch's hand carefully.

  The head witch just shook her head as she stared at the contents. 'Well, well, well – things have changed, haven't they?'

  'Destinies?' another witch piped up, leaning forward in her chair.

  A chill shot down Abby's back. You can't change destinies like that….

  'Hmmm, yes,' a different witch mumbled, 'I can see it now, these two children were supposed to lead different lives.'

  The head witch nodded. 'They were never meant to meet, and now look at them; they'll likely never be apart again.'

  Abby blinked quickly, what on Earth did that mean? She glanced at Pembrake and he was staring at her, eyes full of alarm, one eyebrow raised.

  'Oh, yes, I can see it now too. He was supposed to be a captain of ship somewhere.'

  'Had a wife named Pearl, three children too,' one witch said as she took the tea cup for the head witch, 'dies at sea, he does, age of 45.'

  'Shark attack,' one witch grinned at Pembrake, baring her yellowed teeth.

  'And you, youngin,' one witch pointed at Abby, 'you were supposed to live in Bridgestock, never leaving, never abandoning your duty.'

  All the witches nodded at the apparent proper behaviour of Abby's broken future-self.

  'But you're hunted, running out a work and money, starving and homeless, nowhere to run for help.'

  Abby felt slow, her breathing shuddering to a bare nonexistent, shallow hush. She was aware she was blinking too much, but couldn't stop it.

  'You dies
on the streets, youngin, you and that cat of yours. You is 26.'

  All the witches sat back and nodded.

  She had two years to live… or rather, she had had two years to live. But the revelation, regardless of how true it was now that she had travelled into the past, was making the blood in Abby's veins freeze to solid lumps of dread. Dying on the streets, starving and alone – that had been her destiny.

  That's all a witch was good for in the present day.

  She was aware the witches were looking at her, Pembrake too. But she couldn't turn to him. What a future he'd had, she half expected he'd be happy to go in a shark attack; he didn't seem to be the kind to want to die in his bed.

  'It's broken now,' the head witch said slowly and carefully, 'can't happen at all. Because everything's changed. Your destinies are like loose strings flapping in the wind, no longer attached to the ends of your lives, but lost out in space with nothing to anchor to.'

  'They have to be tied down,' one witch nodded to her solemnly from over her cup of tea, 'they have to be tied to something or you'll be lost in space for ever, not knowing where you're going, and not getting anywhere at all.'

  If the story of her once-destined death had been horrible, then the implication of their warnings was on par. Their allusion to strings flapping free in the wind was more than illustration. Destiny was like a tie, like an anchor fixing you to a direction in time, to a direction across space. It's what ensured the countless souls of the universe could all travel at different times and different places, all in their own unique direction. Without direction, without destinies, her and Pembrake would become lost souls drifting through the universe with no hope and no future.

  'They have to be tied to something,' a different witch repeated, 'something so as they don't get lost.'

  Tied to what, she wondered, what on Earth could you tie the broken destinies of two people two? A tree, a rock, a house? It was all very well of the witches to warn her, but what was she meant to do about it? She could not fix her broken destiny as sure as she could not snap her fingers and return her and Pembrake home again. She wasn't that powerful.