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INITIATION
Nana hobbled into the living room, dragging her left leg behind her, waving the evening newspaper. Red-faced and out of breath, she drew everyone’s attention. Mother ran over to her, wrapping one arm around her and urging her to sit down.
“Please, Mama, you must calm down. It’s not good for your heart.”
Father nodded from his place in the kitchen doorway, drying a plate. Leah’s brother, Ethan, watched his grandmother with an expectant expression and drawn breath, probably certain she’d fall to the floor, as she had only a couple of months before. Luckily, they all lived together. She’d never have survived the stroke on her own. The doctor had instructed them to keep her calm, but often Nana demonstrated the high drama associated with a teenage girl.
Leah stood up and walked over to her grandmother, taking the newspaper from her hand. “What is it, Nana?”
Her brother announced from his spot on the couch, “It’s the cyber-bullying article on the front page. I’ve no worries, Nana. No one bullies me.” Ethan pushed up his sleeve and clenched his fist to display a meager bicep, though probably more than most ten-year-olds could lay claim to.
A smile crossed the woman’s lined face. “No, sweetheart, no, this is much worse.”
Leah’s mother, Maura, managed to get Nana to sit in a chair with some difficulty, since only one leg worked right. Leah looked away. It reminded her of the time she’d watched a three-legged dog lie down. The dog never acted like it minded, but it still made her feel bad watching it.
Crouching beside the chair, her mother took Nana’s hand. “Tell me, tell us.”
Pointing with one hand to Leah, who still clutched the newspaper, she commanded, “Read it to them. Let them know the barbarians still exist. There is no justice, no fairness, no equal rights, and no protection.” Her voice became louder and stronger with each word. Her body shook as she half rose from the chair.
Mother cut her eyes meaningfully at her husband, who nodded at Leah, who paged through the paper.
Leah searched for what could be upsetting her grandmother. “Lead story is local boy signing with an NFL contract.” Both her father and mother shook their heads no. She kept paging through the paper. “A huge storm is predicted for the Northeast?”
Grandmother waved her hand in a circle to keep going.
“Ah.” She knew that wasn’t the right story, but what could it be? On the back page of the front section near the fold was a small article. She knew instinctively it was the one her grandmother meant. “Yesterday, in Papua, New Guinea, a twenty-year-old woman accused of being a witch was burned alive. The young widow and mother left two small children behind.”
Her grandmother shook off her daughter’s hand. Stabbing the air with an emphatic index finger, she crowed, “See? See? They’re at it again.” Her dark eyes darted around the room to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “That poor girl. What was her crime, really?”
Maura sighed. “Just twenty, so young. Could be she was too pretty and attracted a married man’s eye. Calling her a witch is always a good way to get rid of her. It worked countless times before.”
Her father laid down the plate and towel and walked into the living room to join the conversation. He sat down on the couch on the other side of Ethan. “Something happened in their village. Chickens weren’t laying or a goat died. It’s always easier to blame it on the evil eye or a hex, than accept it for what it is. Just life, luck, usually both. People always seem to believe life owes them more than they deserve. The only way to rationalize not getting it is to blame someone for blocking it.”
Ethan joined in. “Just like calling someone a cheat, a liar, or even a bully.”
“In a way,” Maura agreed. “But not exactly. People don’t feel it is okay to kill people for telling a lie or even being accused of telling a lie. The hatred goes bone deep, associated with fear and helplessness. Even the simple fact she had no man to stand for her would be enough to persecute her.”
Leah stood, silent, thinking that only a few years separated her from the young woman burned alive. Yesterday, her history teacher, Miss Santiago, had grown as animated as Nana talking about human slavery in the US. Her voice had become shrill as she’d spoken of undocumented workers not receiving any pay for their work and being kept in unheated garages, treated no better than animals. After class, the popular girls, Lauren, Brianna, and Alexis, had joked about Miss Santiago’s behavior, even pretending to be her, waving their arms and bugging out their eyes, spitting out the words. Most of the other students had pretended to enjoy their performance. Leah hadn’t. Besides being mean, she’d had no reason to appease the girls. She already knew she was on their short list.
Yeah, she knew her teacher had gone overboard, but she knew without having it spelled out that it was personal. Often Leah knew things without words, just as she knew someone close to Miss Santiago had died under such conditions. Leah knew all about taking things personally. A woman burned as a witch was personal for her family. How could it not be when her entire family followed the old ways?
Her family circled her grandmother, trying to calm her down without much success. Leah leaned back against the wall the offending newspaper still in her hand, she wanted to throw it to the ground and flee. An image took shape in her mind. It was dark, most likely night. The sound of running, yelling, and then screaming, a long prolonged scream as if whoever uttered it felt absolute terror. A spark charged the night, then caught fire and became a flame, growing into an orb of light. It illuminated sweaty, dark faces with feverish eyes and determined countenances. Two strong men stripped to the waist held a woman between them. Her long hair covered her face as she struggled.
Off to the side, a chair sat on a dais. An almost skeletal man sat there, garbed in a long robe. His lips quirked up as the men wrestled the woman, who wore a coarse, shapeless gown, to a standstill in front of him. A brutal push shoved her to her knees. The sound of weeping almost broke Leah’s heart. She was watching what had happened in New Guinea only days before.
No doubt, the man on the dais had caused this woman to be in such a situation. The crying continued as the man ordered. “Let me look on the face of the witch.” The surrounding crowd hissed and murmured. Most threw their hands in front of their faces or looked away as if looking at the woman’s face might cause harm. She couldn’t. The woman deserved her respect. One guard grabbed her long dark hair and yanked, snapping her head up. Despite the tears glistening on her skin, her expression was defiant. Her face was familiar. It should have been, since she saw it every morning in the mirror as she brushed her hair.
Her legs, more rubberlike than bone and muscle, slid out from under her, landing her on the floor. What did it mean? Nana used to tell her the visions she received were similar to a tornado watch. It didn’t necessarily mean the vision would happen, but it was best to get ready for it in case it did. Most of her visions included small things, such as being ridiculed by Lauren and Brianna or failing an algebra test, or slipping on the ice and losing two teeth. It all had happened, except the teeth. Whenever she saw anything glistening like ice, she avoided it, keeping her teeth intact so far.
The image of the man on the dais chilled her, unlike any amount of teeth-cracking ice could. The clothes she wore, the way the man spoke, none of it made sense. Her mother’s voice broke into her daze.
“Leah, what are you doing? Try to be of some help, will you? Go get your grandmother a glass of water. Ethan, go get Nana’s protection heart charm from the box in her bedroom.”
Pushing up to her knees, she watched her brother scamper out of the room to retrieve the charm. Her mother threw her an irritated look, probably because she was still sitting there. Standing, she walked to the kitchen, but she could hear them talking. Her grandmother’s shrill voice carried.
“Maura.” Her voice had an imperious tone that defied her fragile appearance. “Be gentle with your daughter. Soon, she will be called on to make the ultimate sacrifice.”
The ultimate sacrifice? The water splashed over the glass rim as she continued to hold it under the faucet, not seeing it but instead the glee in the man’s face who’d called her a witch. She truly hoped her grandmother didn’t expect her to become a burnt offering.
Turning off the faucet, she tipped the glass to pour out the excess water. Taking a dishtowel, she dried the glass. Nana could trace her ancestry back to Romany gypsies. She claimed this centuries-old bond allowed her to turn the Tarot cards with surprising accuracy for her loyal clients. Leah had doubts about her grandmother’s actual ability, though the fact she’d seen the same clients faithfully for years made Leah wonder. Then there were the crystals and charms strewn about the family home, which kept her from inviting classmates over. All she really wanted was just to be another teenage girl obsessed with drama and boys. Well, only the boys part…one boy, Dylan Torres, if she was honest with herself.
As she handed the glass to Nana, their hands touched. Her grandmother’s eyes gleamed dark with intelligence. The brief glance conveyed awareness of Leah’s inner turmoil and comfort. It was the equivalent of kneeling to bury her face against Nana’s shoulder, sobbing out her confusion, her fears, and her inappropriate attraction to Dylan, whose father happened to be a Pentecostal minister. A bad thing about the Pentecosts was the fact they actually believed witches existed and shouldn’t, rather like cockroaches.
As her grandmother’s fingers touched hers, the look, the touch, and the sudden knowledge that her legacy was to never be a normal girl caused her heart to plummet. No matter what excuses she might make for Nana’s uncanny ability, she recognized Nana was never wrong.
Curious why so many well-heeled ladies would come month after month to have her grandmother tell their fortunes, she’d asked. Nana’s answer had implied that knowing helped people shape their destiny and relieved stress. Seeing herself about to be burned at the stake didn’t make her feel less stressed. Rather, just the opposite.
* * * *
Nana eventually calmed down. Adam, Leah’s father, talked his determined mother-in-law out of calling the news organizations. Any negative attention might influence her father’s engineering job. Nana understood this on one hand, but on another, she didn’t since she chose not to hide what she was. Her grandmother had as much bravado as a drag queen in full costume demonstrating for marriage equality. There was a good chance she was pecking out a letter to the editor on her old typewriter. Leah had noticed a few of the letters in the papers, signed as Pagan Philosopher, had sounded exactly like Nana in full rant.
Her father had never mentioned the letters, which meant he hadn’t seen them or had realized he could exercise no control over his mother-in-law. For years, the family had maintained a careful balance trying to please both extended families. Father’s family was ultra-religious and had named their children Adam and Eve, somehow missing the incestuous connotation in the pairing. Everything that was part of the secular world was not only evil, but also forbidden. How he and her mother had ended up together appeared to be an unfathomable question. It could have been the lure of the forbidden, but more likely, it had started out as lust. Her father never would put it so bluntly, but she had seen the pictures of them together in college. No doubt, many men had craved her mother’s dark, almost foreign, beauty, but she’d chosen instead the shy, short, bespectacled engineering student.
Her mother’s reasoning for their romance was he accepted her the way she was. It would be great if someone accepted Leah for who she was. She peered at her own image in the mirror, complete with a disbelieving smirk. It indicated her non-belief of her father’s total acceptance of her mother. Nana had chided her son-in-law on numerous occasions for keeping quiet about their religious beliefs. Inquiries from his parents asking if they’d been to church that week were usually appeased by saying they had. He intentionally forgot to mention their services took place on a farm ten miles out of town, often under the light of a full moon. Her father had decided to follow the old ways to humor his wife, but Leah suspected it was mainly to get his mother-in-law off his back.
Setting her alarm clock for the school day, she noted five hours had passed since the news meltdown. Theodora, her cat, jumped on the bed, kneading the pillow with her paws as if preparing it. Leah knew the feline was making her own bed. Grabbing another pillow from the floor, she placed it on the bed. Dropping her clothes on the floor, she climbed between the cool sheets. Locking her hands behind her head, she stared at the ceiling, thinking about her parents’ relationship. Her parents got along better than most. Her family life was unusual in that she had both original parents living in the same house. Still, she wanted more than what they had, something stronger, bolder, something void of the timidity her father demonstrated in hiding from his parents that Maura was a witch, as was her grandmother.
No doubt, they had figured out Esmeralda Hare was a bit different, loving to play up the image of the carnival fortune-teller with flowing skirts, too much jewelry, and always wishing everyone a blessed day or merry meet again. The word most commonly used for Nana was “colorful.” Nora, Leah’s older sister, had confided once she’d overheard an argument between their parents over her father never telling his parents they didn’t celebrate Christmas or Easter. None of the kids had cared because they’d enjoyed the Easter baskets and Christmas presents given to them by their grandparents.
Grandfather had retired from the ministry the same time his wife had divorced him. Instead of warning everyone to stay on the straight and narrow, he’d donned tie-dyed shirts, made home-brewed beer, and attended the concerts of aging rock stars. Nora had pointed out that Grandfather would accept the family’s religion since he had changed so much on his own. Of course, her father chose to say nothing. As much as Leah loved her father, she acknowledged, if only to herself, most of his actions were motivated out of fear of being different or that people might not like him. It wasn’t so much that he accepted mother just how she was, but rather she accepted him with his fears, worries, and rules, able to see past everything to the caring man inside.
Scratching Theodora’s head, she confided to the cat, “I won’t be like that. I am who I am. It doesn’t matter what people think.”
The feline blinked her eyes as if commenting on the bold statement. Leah sighed. “You’re right. I know. For all my brave words, I am no better than my father.” Balling up her fist, she pounded her pillow in disgust. “Coward, that’s all I am.”
Threading her fingers under Theo’s heavy body, she cradled the cat. The cat let out a few plaintive mews, but resigned herself to the cuddling, even to the point of purring. “Theodora, what am I to do? I know I am a fraud. I talk of nothing of consequence to Dylan. Questions about homework, reactions to pop quizzes, and comments on the weather are another way to spell lame. Brianna, at least, flirts with him.”
The popular blonde’s flirtatious banter always seemed to switch on whenever she was near a cute guy. It didn’t matter that her boyfriend, Marcus, was a senior football player who’d scored scholarships at six colleges. Could be Brianna was looking for a replacement, not that she’d consider Dylan. He was too small a deal for her, too young, not popular enough. His father was a minister, which made him the male equivalent to poison ivy. Brianna only flirted with him because Leah liked him. Worse, she’d confessed to liking Dylan in a brief spate of time when she and Brianna had been friends.
Looking back, she wondered if it had been some elaborate scheme to get information. No doubt, Brianna had relayed to Dylan that Leah had a serious crush on him. If it bothered him too much, he could stop talking to her. Then again, if he did like her, he could ask her out, which he hadn’t. The third option was Brianna hadn’t told him or he’d chosen not to believe her. If it were the last, then he’d showed more sense than Leah had.
“I can see your light on,” her mother called through the locked door.
Leah clapped her hands, turning the light off. As a kid, she’d been so enamored of the clapper lamp that her parents had bought her one. Most people would label it hokey, but she still liked it.
“Good girl," her mother admonished, before tacking on, “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom,” she called back, closing her eyes, easing into sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, just like so many others. The image of the man in the throne-like chair flickered into being. Sitting up, she shook her head to shake the offending image out. “I refuse to dream about him. I’ll think of something pleasant, such as Dylan asking me to the homecoming dance.”
Lying back down, she let her eyelids flick closed. Maybe Dylan didn’t dance. She’d heard some of those religions had rules against it. Something about if people danced, they’d end up having sex like rabbits. As she drifted off to sleep, her last thought was she couldn’t remember ever seeing a dancing rabbit.
* * * *
The smell struck her first. The acrid, smelly odor reminded her of her fourth-grade field trip to a pioneer village. The candle maker had intrigued her by dipping wicks in what she had assumed was wax until the woman explained it was made of animal fat from butchered animals. That’s what it smelled like, along with the campfire aroma of burning wood.
In the misty night sky, a clouded crescent moon shed meager light on the surroundings. Turning slowly she examined the primitive thatched hut behind her. In the small front garden, a split log supported by two stumps served as a bench. An oaken bucket sat by a door that flew open. An elderly woman hobbled out, dressed in a black cloak. The woman reminded Leah of her grandmother, but instead of a look of fierce determination, terror pulled her face into an anxious mask. Reaching Leah, she tugged on her clothes, pushing her toward the woods. “Flee, flee, they come. Smell the torches.” The woman pointed to a path winding toward the east.
A dim glow was coming from that direction, along with the sounds of voices and snapping branches as dozens of feet marched in their direction. An overwhelming desire to run after the unknown woman came over her. Another part of her wanted to see who was coming down the path. It was only a dream, right? People couldn’t be hurt in a dream, or could they? She struggled to remember what her psychology teacher, Mr. Schaeffer, had said. He’d said either people couldn’t be hurt by their fears or your fears could kill you by bringing on cardiac arrest.
A few men came into view, burly men garbed in shapeless garments, with wild hair and ragged beards, Held high, flickering torches illuminating a small circle around them. One held a curved knife, reminiscent of the scythe the grim reaper carried. It didn’t bode well. One of the men spotted her, yelled, “Witch!” and charged her way. It was a definite bad sign, causing her to sprint toward the woods in the same direction as the old woman. Sticks, rocks, and briars pierced her feet, reminding her of her shoeless state. At home, she excelled in cross-country, but she had shoes, sunlight, and a feel for the course with no angry villagers behind her. The running men drew closer. Leah stumbled over a tree root, wasting precious time.
“Here, over here.” The voice came from overhead. Staring up into the canopy of leaves, she saw a small hand motioning to her. Of course, hide in the trees. Why didn’t she think of that? Grabbing the lowest limb, she pulled herself into the leafy covering. In the dark, she felt for the branches, climbing higher. Eventually she grabbed an ankle or calf, and received a hand up for her trouble, helping her climb higher.
Good Goddess, how many people were in this tree? She held her breath as the light and noise came closer. The few men below argued about which way to go, while a woman waded in with her opinion. “Samuel, let the witch get away. Mayhap he uses the witch for his own purposes.”
One of the front-runners denied the accusations. “Martha seeks to harm my name, because I did not plight my troth with her.”
The argument moved on a little farther away from the tree. Leah exhaled in a whoosh, thanking the stars for the scorned woman and lack of dogs. As if hearing her silent prayer, a long canine bay rent the air.
More footsteps ran underneath their tree, where there was some minor disagreement about which way to go, then they ran after the previous party. The sound of her heart was so loud in her ears she couldn’t believe her pursuers hadn’t heard it also. The barking dog came closer, along with the sound of its handler.
“Ar-roo, Ar-roo.” The dog sounded close, very close. Its nails scratching at her tree stopped Leah’s heart, or it felt like it. Stupid canine. She was history. She was ready to drop out of the tree and give herself up when a hand touched her and stopped her in the dark. A single word sounded in her ear. “Wait.”
Two villagers stood under the tree, arguing. “Pull the hound off the tree. You will anger the tree spirits. Misfortune will befall us entering the forest at night.”
“Umfrey, still your wild speech. You speak of the old ways. We are now all Christians by order of the king. Such talk will cause the witch hunters to take you up.”
“I tell you this, Collin. A decree does not make the tree spirits, the fairies, the mysterious lights in the woods cease to be. Do you think they bow to kings?”
The dog’s protest about the lack of interest in his treed prey caused Leah’s heart to slow a tiny bit, but not return to normal. Crouched in the tree, similar to blackbirds on the line, she waited with the still unseen others.
“Morn is coming, and the field needs plowing. Umfrey, I will return, not because of your fears of tree fairies and what not, but because I’ve land to attend to.”
“Good call. Your Mary may have some porridge simmering over the fire.”
She listened to them move away. The staying hand remained on her arm. They all crouched in the tree for what seemed like hours as they waited for each group of witch hunters to pass by them. Dawn colored the sky with a pink glow, giving way to the sun’s rays.
Finally, the hand released Leah’s arm. They dropped out of the tree, one by one, the old crone in the black cloak, a young woman a bit older than herself but not by much, and a man, which surprised her. “I didn’t think they took men as witches.” She covered her mouth with her hand, realizing she’d spoken the words aloud.
The young woman stared at her, “What manner of speech is this?”
Before she could answer, the weathered-looking man chose to answer her inquiry. “They take whoever has trespassed against the village elders in some form or manner. My sin is I accused the miller of using unfair scales. People like Old Margaret, who has no one to stand for her, also are taken.”
Turning to the young woman, Leah touched her own chest with her hand. “My speech is different because I am from America.”
“A Mer Rica.” The young woman tried to sound out the name. “Strange, I never heard talk of such a place. My name is Sabina.”
“Leah,” she answered, pointing to herself.
Sabina cocked her head at her slightly, “Is that your real name or your witch name? It is best you do not speak your Christian name.”
Her witch name? Her grandmother had insisted on giving her the witch name Raven, but she never used it. “I assume Sabina is your witch name.”
Sabina bobbed her head as if the whole discussion was a no-brainer. “It is and isn’t. I didn’t have a witch name to begin with, but since we will go to a new town, I will need a new name. Sabina it is. Witches only give out their false name to each other else it will be spoken under the pain of torture.”
It made sense. She remembered something about that when Nana had made her watch one of those online videos about the Burning Times, full of grainy black-and-white illustrations of people being tortured in myriad of ways. Guilty or innocent, somehow the people had always ended up dead.
Margaret started walking in the direction of her house. The man grabbed her arm. “No, someone will wait at the cottage for your return.”
The old woman struggled in his grasp. “I must save Odo.”
“Odo is a creature of the wild. He can take care of himself better than you,” the man insisted, turning the woman to walk deeper into the woods.
A whoosh and the sound of crackling caused them all to turn in the direction of Old Margaret’s house. A thick plume of smoke filled the air, darkening the morning sky. The old woman cried out, “That is all I have!” and shook in the man’s half embrace.
Sabina stepped forward to touch the woman’s cheek, wet with tears. “You have life, Margaret. Once the witch hunters come, you can never return home.”
Sorrow swept over Leah for the weeping devastated woman weeping. Margaret raised her head to glare at Leah. Pulling herself out of comforting arms, she pointed one bony finger at Leah. “You are the reason they came. If I had not found you in the forest and took you and gave you succor, I would have my home and my beloved Odo.”
Found her in the forest? At least that explained how she’d ended up here, but not really. “I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you or Odo.”
“Margaret,” the man inserted. “You are speaking out of your loss. It was only a matter of time before they came for each of us. We all knew it. Why else did we create witch names or our dark clothing so we can vanish into the night? We do not call ourselves witches. We may not worship the new god or practice the old ways to ensure a good crop, but that does not make us evil, or witches. Still, once others call us witches, we have to prepare.”
Leah wanted to protest that witches weren’t evil, but she listened and considered the trio. The man served as a sort of shepherd, as he managed to get everyone back on the trail through the woods. He nodded to Leah. “You can call me Henry.”
Leah nodded to him, well aware that Henry probably wasn’t his name. “Thanks. This is a new place for me, and I appreciate your help.”
Henry nodded and gestured to the path ahead. “Make haste. Many have chores to do. Most fear the monks more who travel to villages stirring up suspicions with their talk of witches and intercourse with the devil. They will head back into the woods in search of people they can label witches. Their sins might have been lingering in the woods too long or picking herbs for a disorder instead of calling on a physician. I heard an entire town in Germany was taken up as witches, the children, and priests, too. The blood lust is on them, making me wonder if there will be any people left to populate the earth.”
Leah shuddered. Hearing or reading about the Burning Times was something entirely different from walking through the woods with people accused of being witches. Not a good different, either. She preferred the distance accompanying a span of centuries. Still, there had to be a reason behind this. These dreams were more realistic than anything she had dreamt before. Was the universe speaking to her? Was this something she should understand? In a way similar to her father, she never spoke about her faith. Could be she was having a crisis of faith.
“Sabina, I was wondering what happened to people who practice the old ways.”
“Same thing,” the woman replied matter-of-factly. “We are all people in the way of the newest religion, government, or what comes down the road. No place for differences. Everyone has to be the same. Is that the practice where you come from?”
Just before falling asleep, she had wondered the same thing. “I thought it was, but not as bad here. Being different or practicing the old ways might keep me from getting a date I might want or hanging out with the popular kids, but I doubt our house would get burned down.”
Sabina regarded her oddly. “What is a date or hanging out? Why are these things important?”
Good question. How did she explain dating, especially if these people participated in the practice of arranged marriages? She searched for a way to explain, but a beeping interrupted her explanation.
Leah blinked. Dawn’s light peeked through her blinds, dappling her walls. Theodora meowed in her ear, reminding her breakfast, at least hers, was eminent. A loud trio of knocks rattled her door.
Ethan yelled, “Are you awake? Mom said to make sure you were awake so you wouldn’t be late to school.”
“I’m awake! I’m awake.” She gently pushed Theo off her chest to sit up. Placing her bare feet on the floor, she cataloged everything familiar. Yes, she was home. The woods were just a dream.
Nana hobbled into the living room, dragging her left leg behind her, waving the evening newspaper. Red-faced and out of breath, she drew everyone’s attention. Mother ran over to her, wrapping one arm around her and urging her to sit down.
“Please, Mama, you must calm down. It’s not good for your heart.”
Father nodded from his place in the kitchen doorway, drying a plate. Leah’s brother, Ethan, watched his grandmother with an expectant expression and drawn breath, probably certain she’d fall to the floor, as she had only a couple of months before. Luckily, they all lived together. She’d never have survived the stroke on her own. The doctor had instructed them to keep her calm, but often Nana demonstrated the high drama associated with a teenage girl.
Leah stood up and walked over to her grandmother, taking the newspaper from her hand. “What is it, Nana?”
Her brother announced from his spot on the couch, “It’s the cyber-bullying article on the front page. I’ve no worries, Nana. No one bullies me.” Ethan pushed up his sleeve and clenched his fist to display a meager bicep, though probably more than most ten-year-olds could lay claim to.
A smile crossed the woman’s lined face. “No, sweetheart, no, this is much worse.”
Leah’s mother, Maura, managed to get Nana to sit in a chair with some difficulty, since only one leg worked right. Leah looked away. It reminded her of the time she’d watched a three-legged dog lie down. The dog never acted like it minded, but it still made her feel bad watching it.
Crouching beside the chair, her mother took Nana’s hand. “Tell me, tell us.”
Pointing with one hand to Leah, who still clutched the newspaper, she commanded, “Read it to them. Let them know the barbarians still exist. There is no justice, no fairness, no equal rights, and no protection.” Her voice became louder and stronger with each word. Her body shook as she half rose from the chair.
Mother cut her eyes meaningfully at her husband, who nodded at Leah, who paged through the paper.
Leah searched for what could be upsetting her grandmother. “Lead story is local boy signing with an NFL contract.” Both her father and mother shook their heads no. She kept paging through the paper. “A huge storm is predicted for the Northeast?”
Grandmother waved her hand in a circle to keep going.
“Ah.” She knew that wasn’t the right story, but what could it be? On the back page of the front section near the fold was a small article. She knew instinctively it was the one her grandmother meant. “Yesterday, in Papua, New Guinea, a twenty-year-old woman accused of being a witch was burned alive. The young widow and mother left two small children behind.”
Her grandmother shook off her daughter’s hand. Stabbing the air with an emphatic index finger, she crowed, “See? See? They’re at it again.” Her dark eyes darted around the room to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “That poor girl. What was her crime, really?”
Maura sighed. “Just twenty, so young. Could be she was too pretty and attracted a married man’s eye. Calling her a witch is always a good way to get rid of her. It worked countless times before.”
Her father laid down the plate and towel and walked into the living room to join the conversation. He sat down on the couch on the other side of Ethan. “Something happened in their village. Chickens weren’t laying or a goat died. It’s always easier to blame it on the evil eye or a hex, than accept it for what it is. Just life, luck, usually both. People always seem to believe life owes them more than they deserve. The only way to rationalize not getting it is to blame someone for blocking it.”
Ethan joined in. “Just like calling someone a cheat, a liar, or even a bully.”
“In a way,” Maura agreed. “But not exactly. People don’t feel it is okay to kill people for telling a lie or even being accused of telling a lie. The hatred goes bone deep, associated with fear and helplessness. Even the simple fact she had no man to stand for her would be enough to persecute her.”
Leah stood, silent, thinking that only a few years separated her from the young woman burned alive. Yesterday, her history teacher, Miss Santiago, had grown as animated as Nana talking about human slavery in the US. Her voice had become shrill as she’d spoken of undocumented workers not receiving any pay for their work and being kept in unheated garages, treated no better than animals. After class, the popular girls, Lauren, Brianna, and Alexis, had joked about Miss Santiago’s behavior, even pretending to be her, waving their arms and bugging out their eyes, spitting out the words. Most of the other students had pretended to enjoy their performance. Leah hadn’t. Besides being mean, she’d had no reason to appease the girls. She already knew she was on their short list.
Yeah, she knew her teacher had gone overboard, but she knew without having it spelled out that it was personal. Often Leah knew things without words, just as she knew someone close to Miss Santiago had died under such conditions. Leah knew all about taking things personally. A woman burned as a witch was personal for her family. How could it not be when her entire family followed the old ways?
Her family circled her grandmother, trying to calm her down without much success. Leah leaned back against the wall the offending newspaper still in her hand, she wanted to throw it to the ground and flee. An image took shape in her mind. It was dark, most likely night. The sound of running, yelling, and then screaming, a long prolonged scream as if whoever uttered it felt absolute terror. A spark charged the night, then caught fire and became a flame, growing into an orb of light. It illuminated sweaty, dark faces with feverish eyes and determined countenances. Two strong men stripped to the waist held a woman between them. Her long hair covered her face as she struggled.
Off to the side, a chair sat on a dais. An almost skeletal man sat there, garbed in a long robe. His lips quirked up as the men wrestled the woman, who wore a coarse, shapeless gown, to a standstill in front of him. A brutal push shoved her to her knees. The sound of weeping almost broke Leah’s heart. She was watching what had happened in New Guinea only days before.
No doubt, the man on the dais had caused this woman to be in such a situation. The crying continued as the man ordered. “Let me look on the face of the witch.” The surrounding crowd hissed and murmured. Most threw their hands in front of their faces or looked away as if looking at the woman’s face might cause harm. She couldn’t. The woman deserved her respect. One guard grabbed her long dark hair and yanked, snapping her head up. Despite the tears glistening on her skin, her expression was defiant. Her face was familiar. It should have been, since she saw it every morning in the mirror as she brushed her hair.
Her legs, more rubberlike than bone and muscle, slid out from under her, landing her on the floor. What did it mean? Nana used to tell her the visions she received were similar to a tornado watch. It didn’t necessarily mean the vision would happen, but it was best to get ready for it in case it did. Most of her visions included small things, such as being ridiculed by Lauren and Brianna or failing an algebra test, or slipping on the ice and losing two teeth. It all had happened, except the teeth. Whenever she saw anything glistening like ice, she avoided it, keeping her teeth intact so far.
The image of the man on the dais chilled her, unlike any amount of teeth-cracking ice could. The clothes she wore, the way the man spoke, none of it made sense. Her mother’s voice broke into her daze.
“Leah, what are you doing? Try to be of some help, will you? Go get your grandmother a glass of water. Ethan, go get Nana’s protection heart charm from the box in her bedroom.”
Pushing up to her knees, she watched her brother scamper out of the room to retrieve the charm. Her mother threw her an irritated look, probably because she was still sitting there. Standing, she walked to the kitchen, but she could hear them talking. Her grandmother’s shrill voice carried.
“Maura.” Her voice had an imperious tone that defied her fragile appearance. “Be gentle with your daughter. Soon, she will be called on to make the ultimate sacrifice.”
The ultimate sacrifice? The water splashed over the glass rim as she continued to hold it under the faucet, not seeing it but instead the glee in the man’s face who’d called her a witch. She truly hoped her grandmother didn’t expect her to become a burnt offering.
Turning off the faucet, she tipped the glass to pour out the excess water. Taking a dishtowel, she dried the glass. Nana could trace her ancestry back to Romany gypsies. She claimed this centuries-old bond allowed her to turn the Tarot cards with surprising accuracy for her loyal clients. Leah had doubts about her grandmother’s actual ability, though the fact she’d seen the same clients faithfully for years made Leah wonder. Then there were the crystals and charms strewn about the family home, which kept her from inviting classmates over. All she really wanted was just to be another teenage girl obsessed with drama and boys. Well, only the boys part…one boy, Dylan Torres, if she was honest with herself.
As she handed the glass to Nana, their hands touched. Her grandmother’s eyes gleamed dark with intelligence. The brief glance conveyed awareness of Leah’s inner turmoil and comfort. It was the equivalent of kneeling to bury her face against Nana’s shoulder, sobbing out her confusion, her fears, and her inappropriate attraction to Dylan, whose father happened to be a Pentecostal minister. A bad thing about the Pentecosts was the fact they actually believed witches existed and shouldn’t, rather like cockroaches.
As her grandmother’s fingers touched hers, the look, the touch, and the sudden knowledge that her legacy was to never be a normal girl caused her heart to plummet. No matter what excuses she might make for Nana’s uncanny ability, she recognized Nana was never wrong.
Curious why so many well-heeled ladies would come month after month to have her grandmother tell their fortunes, she’d asked. Nana’s answer had implied that knowing helped people shape their destiny and relieved stress. Seeing herself about to be burned at the stake didn’t make her feel less stressed. Rather, just the opposite.
* * * *
Nana eventually calmed down. Adam, Leah’s father, talked his determined mother-in-law out of calling the news organizations. Any negative attention might influence her father’s engineering job. Nana understood this on one hand, but on another, she didn’t since she chose not to hide what she was. Her grandmother had as much bravado as a drag queen in full costume demonstrating for marriage equality. There was a good chance she was pecking out a letter to the editor on her old typewriter. Leah had noticed a few of the letters in the papers, signed as Pagan Philosopher, had sounded exactly like Nana in full rant.
Her father had never mentioned the letters, which meant he hadn’t seen them or had realized he could exercise no control over his mother-in-law. For years, the family had maintained a careful balance trying to please both extended families. Father’s family was ultra-religious and had named their children Adam and Eve, somehow missing the incestuous connotation in the pairing. Everything that was part of the secular world was not only evil, but also forbidden. How he and her mother had ended up together appeared to be an unfathomable question. It could have been the lure of the forbidden, but more likely, it had started out as lust. Her father never would put it so bluntly, but she had seen the pictures of them together in college. No doubt, many men had craved her mother’s dark, almost foreign, beauty, but she’d chosen instead the shy, short, bespectacled engineering student.
Her mother’s reasoning for their romance was he accepted her the way she was. It would be great if someone accepted Leah for who she was. She peered at her own image in the mirror, complete with a disbelieving smirk. It indicated her non-belief of her father’s total acceptance of her mother. Nana had chided her son-in-law on numerous occasions for keeping quiet about their religious beliefs. Inquiries from his parents asking if they’d been to church that week were usually appeased by saying they had. He intentionally forgot to mention their services took place on a farm ten miles out of town, often under the light of a full moon. Her father had decided to follow the old ways to humor his wife, but Leah suspected it was mainly to get his mother-in-law off his back.
Setting her alarm clock for the school day, she noted five hours had passed since the news meltdown. Theodora, her cat, jumped on the bed, kneading the pillow with her paws as if preparing it. Leah knew the feline was making her own bed. Grabbing another pillow from the floor, she placed it on the bed. Dropping her clothes on the floor, she climbed between the cool sheets. Locking her hands behind her head, she stared at the ceiling, thinking about her parents’ relationship. Her parents got along better than most. Her family life was unusual in that she had both original parents living in the same house. Still, she wanted more than what they had, something stronger, bolder, something void of the timidity her father demonstrated in hiding from his parents that Maura was a witch, as was her grandmother.
No doubt, they had figured out Esmeralda Hare was a bit different, loving to play up the image of the carnival fortune-teller with flowing skirts, too much jewelry, and always wishing everyone a blessed day or merry meet again. The word most commonly used for Nana was “colorful.” Nora, Leah’s older sister, had confided once she’d overheard an argument between their parents over her father never telling his parents they didn’t celebrate Christmas or Easter. None of the kids had cared because they’d enjoyed the Easter baskets and Christmas presents given to them by their grandparents.
Grandfather had retired from the ministry the same time his wife had divorced him. Instead of warning everyone to stay on the straight and narrow, he’d donned tie-dyed shirts, made home-brewed beer, and attended the concerts of aging rock stars. Nora had pointed out that Grandfather would accept the family’s religion since he had changed so much on his own. Of course, her father chose to say nothing. As much as Leah loved her father, she acknowledged, if only to herself, most of his actions were motivated out of fear of being different or that people might not like him. It wasn’t so much that he accepted mother just how she was, but rather she accepted him with his fears, worries, and rules, able to see past everything to the caring man inside.
Scratching Theodora’s head, she confided to the cat, “I won’t be like that. I am who I am. It doesn’t matter what people think.”
The feline blinked her eyes as if commenting on the bold statement. Leah sighed. “You’re right. I know. For all my brave words, I am no better than my father.” Balling up her fist, she pounded her pillow in disgust. “Coward, that’s all I am.”
Threading her fingers under Theo’s heavy body, she cradled the cat. The cat let out a few plaintive mews, but resigned herself to the cuddling, even to the point of purring. “Theodora, what am I to do? I know I am a fraud. I talk of nothing of consequence to Dylan. Questions about homework, reactions to pop quizzes, and comments on the weather are another way to spell lame. Brianna, at least, flirts with him.”
The popular blonde’s flirtatious banter always seemed to switch on whenever she was near a cute guy. It didn’t matter that her boyfriend, Marcus, was a senior football player who’d scored scholarships at six colleges. Could be Brianna was looking for a replacement, not that she’d consider Dylan. He was too small a deal for her, too young, not popular enough. His father was a minister, which made him the male equivalent to poison ivy. Brianna only flirted with him because Leah liked him. Worse, she’d confessed to liking Dylan in a brief spate of time when she and Brianna had been friends.
Looking back, she wondered if it had been some elaborate scheme to get information. No doubt, Brianna had relayed to Dylan that Leah had a serious crush on him. If it bothered him too much, he could stop talking to her. Then again, if he did like her, he could ask her out, which he hadn’t. The third option was Brianna hadn’t told him or he’d chosen not to believe her. If it were the last, then he’d showed more sense than Leah had.
“I can see your light on,” her mother called through the locked door.
Leah clapped her hands, turning the light off. As a kid, she’d been so enamored of the clapper lamp that her parents had bought her one. Most people would label it hokey, but she still liked it.
“Good girl," her mother admonished, before tacking on, “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom,” she called back, closing her eyes, easing into sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, just like so many others. The image of the man in the throne-like chair flickered into being. Sitting up, she shook her head to shake the offending image out. “I refuse to dream about him. I’ll think of something pleasant, such as Dylan asking me to the homecoming dance.”
Lying back down, she let her eyelids flick closed. Maybe Dylan didn’t dance. She’d heard some of those religions had rules against it. Something about if people danced, they’d end up having sex like rabbits. As she drifted off to sleep, her last thought was she couldn’t remember ever seeing a dancing rabbit.
* * * *
The smell struck her first. The acrid, smelly odor reminded her of her fourth-grade field trip to a pioneer village. The candle maker had intrigued her by dipping wicks in what she had assumed was wax until the woman explained it was made of animal fat from butchered animals. That’s what it smelled like, along with the campfire aroma of burning wood.
In the misty night sky, a clouded crescent moon shed meager light on the surroundings. Turning slowly she examined the primitive thatched hut behind her. In the small front garden, a split log supported by two stumps served as a bench. An oaken bucket sat by a door that flew open. An elderly woman hobbled out, dressed in a black cloak. The woman reminded Leah of her grandmother, but instead of a look of fierce determination, terror pulled her face into an anxious mask. Reaching Leah, she tugged on her clothes, pushing her toward the woods. “Flee, flee, they come. Smell the torches.” The woman pointed to a path winding toward the east.
A dim glow was coming from that direction, along with the sounds of voices and snapping branches as dozens of feet marched in their direction. An overwhelming desire to run after the unknown woman came over her. Another part of her wanted to see who was coming down the path. It was only a dream, right? People couldn’t be hurt in a dream, or could they? She struggled to remember what her psychology teacher, Mr. Schaeffer, had said. He’d said either people couldn’t be hurt by their fears or your fears could kill you by bringing on cardiac arrest.
A few men came into view, burly men garbed in shapeless garments, with wild hair and ragged beards, Held high, flickering torches illuminating a small circle around them. One held a curved knife, reminiscent of the scythe the grim reaper carried. It didn’t bode well. One of the men spotted her, yelled, “Witch!” and charged her way. It was a definite bad sign, causing her to sprint toward the woods in the same direction as the old woman. Sticks, rocks, and briars pierced her feet, reminding her of her shoeless state. At home, she excelled in cross-country, but she had shoes, sunlight, and a feel for the course with no angry villagers behind her. The running men drew closer. Leah stumbled over a tree root, wasting precious time.
“Here, over here.” The voice came from overhead. Staring up into the canopy of leaves, she saw a small hand motioning to her. Of course, hide in the trees. Why didn’t she think of that? Grabbing the lowest limb, she pulled herself into the leafy covering. In the dark, she felt for the branches, climbing higher. Eventually she grabbed an ankle or calf, and received a hand up for her trouble, helping her climb higher.
Good Goddess, how many people were in this tree? She held her breath as the light and noise came closer. The few men below argued about which way to go, while a woman waded in with her opinion. “Samuel, let the witch get away. Mayhap he uses the witch for his own purposes.”
One of the front-runners denied the accusations. “Martha seeks to harm my name, because I did not plight my troth with her.”
The argument moved on a little farther away from the tree. Leah exhaled in a whoosh, thanking the stars for the scorned woman and lack of dogs. As if hearing her silent prayer, a long canine bay rent the air.
More footsteps ran underneath their tree, where there was some minor disagreement about which way to go, then they ran after the previous party. The sound of her heart was so loud in her ears she couldn’t believe her pursuers hadn’t heard it also. The barking dog came closer, along with the sound of its handler.
“Ar-roo, Ar-roo.” The dog sounded close, very close. Its nails scratching at her tree stopped Leah’s heart, or it felt like it. Stupid canine. She was history. She was ready to drop out of the tree and give herself up when a hand touched her and stopped her in the dark. A single word sounded in her ear. “Wait.”
Two villagers stood under the tree, arguing. “Pull the hound off the tree. You will anger the tree spirits. Misfortune will befall us entering the forest at night.”
“Umfrey, still your wild speech. You speak of the old ways. We are now all Christians by order of the king. Such talk will cause the witch hunters to take you up.”
“I tell you this, Collin. A decree does not make the tree spirits, the fairies, the mysterious lights in the woods cease to be. Do you think they bow to kings?”
The dog’s protest about the lack of interest in his treed prey caused Leah’s heart to slow a tiny bit, but not return to normal. Crouched in the tree, similar to blackbirds on the line, she waited with the still unseen others.
“Morn is coming, and the field needs plowing. Umfrey, I will return, not because of your fears of tree fairies and what not, but because I’ve land to attend to.”
“Good call. Your Mary may have some porridge simmering over the fire.”
She listened to them move away. The staying hand remained on her arm. They all crouched in the tree for what seemed like hours as they waited for each group of witch hunters to pass by them. Dawn colored the sky with a pink glow, giving way to the sun’s rays.
Finally, the hand released Leah’s arm. They dropped out of the tree, one by one, the old crone in the black cloak, a young woman a bit older than herself but not by much, and a man, which surprised her. “I didn’t think they took men as witches.” She covered her mouth with her hand, realizing she’d spoken the words aloud.
The young woman stared at her, “What manner of speech is this?”
Before she could answer, the weathered-looking man chose to answer her inquiry. “They take whoever has trespassed against the village elders in some form or manner. My sin is I accused the miller of using unfair scales. People like Old Margaret, who has no one to stand for her, also are taken.”
Turning to the young woman, Leah touched her own chest with her hand. “My speech is different because I am from America.”
“A Mer Rica.” The young woman tried to sound out the name. “Strange, I never heard talk of such a place. My name is Sabina.”
“Leah,” she answered, pointing to herself.
Sabina cocked her head at her slightly, “Is that your real name or your witch name? It is best you do not speak your Christian name.”
Her witch name? Her grandmother had insisted on giving her the witch name Raven, but she never used it. “I assume Sabina is your witch name.”
Sabina bobbed her head as if the whole discussion was a no-brainer. “It is and isn’t. I didn’t have a witch name to begin with, but since we will go to a new town, I will need a new name. Sabina it is. Witches only give out their false name to each other else it will be spoken under the pain of torture.”
It made sense. She remembered something about that when Nana had made her watch one of those online videos about the Burning Times, full of grainy black-and-white illustrations of people being tortured in myriad of ways. Guilty or innocent, somehow the people had always ended up dead.
Margaret started walking in the direction of her house. The man grabbed her arm. “No, someone will wait at the cottage for your return.”
The old woman struggled in his grasp. “I must save Odo.”
“Odo is a creature of the wild. He can take care of himself better than you,” the man insisted, turning the woman to walk deeper into the woods.
A whoosh and the sound of crackling caused them all to turn in the direction of Old Margaret’s house. A thick plume of smoke filled the air, darkening the morning sky. The old woman cried out, “That is all I have!” and shook in the man’s half embrace.
Sabina stepped forward to touch the woman’s cheek, wet with tears. “You have life, Margaret. Once the witch hunters come, you can never return home.”
Sorrow swept over Leah for the weeping devastated woman weeping. Margaret raised her head to glare at Leah. Pulling herself out of comforting arms, she pointed one bony finger at Leah. “You are the reason they came. If I had not found you in the forest and took you and gave you succor, I would have my home and my beloved Odo.”
Found her in the forest? At least that explained how she’d ended up here, but not really. “I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you or Odo.”
“Margaret,” the man inserted. “You are speaking out of your loss. It was only a matter of time before they came for each of us. We all knew it. Why else did we create witch names or our dark clothing so we can vanish into the night? We do not call ourselves witches. We may not worship the new god or practice the old ways to ensure a good crop, but that does not make us evil, or witches. Still, once others call us witches, we have to prepare.”
Leah wanted to protest that witches weren’t evil, but she listened and considered the trio. The man served as a sort of shepherd, as he managed to get everyone back on the trail through the woods. He nodded to Leah. “You can call me Henry.”
Leah nodded to him, well aware that Henry probably wasn’t his name. “Thanks. This is a new place for me, and I appreciate your help.”
Henry nodded and gestured to the path ahead. “Make haste. Many have chores to do. Most fear the monks more who travel to villages stirring up suspicions with their talk of witches and intercourse with the devil. They will head back into the woods in search of people they can label witches. Their sins might have been lingering in the woods too long or picking herbs for a disorder instead of calling on a physician. I heard an entire town in Germany was taken up as witches, the children, and priests, too. The blood lust is on them, making me wonder if there will be any people left to populate the earth.”
Leah shuddered. Hearing or reading about the Burning Times was something entirely different from walking through the woods with people accused of being witches. Not a good different, either. She preferred the distance accompanying a span of centuries. Still, there had to be a reason behind this. These dreams were more realistic than anything she had dreamt before. Was the universe speaking to her? Was this something she should understand? In a way similar to her father, she never spoke about her faith. Could be she was having a crisis of faith.
“Sabina, I was wondering what happened to people who practice the old ways.”
“Same thing,” the woman replied matter-of-factly. “We are all people in the way of the newest religion, government, or what comes down the road. No place for differences. Everyone has to be the same. Is that the practice where you come from?”
Just before falling asleep, she had wondered the same thing. “I thought it was, but not as bad here. Being different or practicing the old ways might keep me from getting a date I might want or hanging out with the popular kids, but I doubt our house would get burned down.”
Sabina regarded her oddly. “What is a date or hanging out? Why are these things important?”
Good question. How did she explain dating, especially if these people participated in the practice of arranged marriages? She searched for a way to explain, but a beeping interrupted her explanation.
Leah blinked. Dawn’s light peeked through her blinds, dappling her walls. Theodora meowed in her ear, reminding her breakfast, at least hers, was eminent. A loud trio of knocks rattled her door.
Ethan yelled, “Are you awake? Mom said to make sure you were awake so you wouldn’t be late to school.”
“I’m awake! I’m awake.” She gently pushed Theo off her chest to sit up. Placing her bare feet on the floor, she cataloged everything familiar. Yes, she was home. The woods were just a dream.