The Elder Witches

by R.E. Packer

  ****

  The next vision was of Maeve dressed in a frilly silk gown. Her hair had matching ribbons. She smiled as she held the hand of a man wearing a jacket with tails and a top hat. They walked hand in hand from a theater in London's best show house. Walking through the lantern lit streets they laughed and talked about the show.

  Later that evening with drinks, too many drinks, still talking she let it slip that she knew of his plans to buy a house for them on the east side of town. He had been very careful to not let anyone know of the house he had purchased for it had been for his mistress.

  The vision skipped ahead to the man, now red faced and breathing hard, beating her in the street. A crowd gathered round to watch, growing more frenzied every time he called her a witch. Blood ran from her nose, one eye was swelled shut, and her pretty gown was torn showing her undergarments.

  Maeve was covered in blood and dirt. He picked her up by the hair. The man she loved yelled at her, spittle flying from his lips, striking her causing her to double over with a loud exhale. He smiled cruelly at her as he ripped her dress the rest of the way off.

  She knew she has the craft. Usually, it only let her see other people’s thoughts. But one day, like a person giving instructions that only she could hear, it told her to picture fire, flowing her aura into it. When she had tried it, she was so scared by the plume of flame that almost set her room on fire, that she had never tried it again. Until now.

  Maeve knelt on the cobblestone street looking up at the man beating her with her one remaining good eye. The crowd cheering him on, her new dress laid in the mud. Her lover wiped the sweat from his brow between blows, letting the random fist in from the crowd to strike her. He tore at her brazier, and then the voice finally took over.

  “I’m sorry Chester,” she said, “I did love you.”

  Fire cleansed everything that night, changing her life forever.