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Authors: Sullivan Clarke

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BOOK: Dangerous Magic
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The girl was cowering now and sobbing from the imagery.

Seeminly satisfied snapped his notebook shut and turned to face Millicent Salter and the Pratts, who sat in wide-eyed admiration of his ability to instill such holy fear through words alone.

"And as for this Widow Bright," he said. "I shall need to talk to her next to determine whether she was aware of what her locket was being used for, and if so whether she understands the grave implications of her actions."

He rose to his feet and the Rev. Pratt rose with him.

"I'm quite sure that if she did she doesn't now," Rev. Pratt offered. "The Widow Bright has become increasingly frail of mind since the spring. Age, you see."

"More likely enchantment," Rev. Fordham said, pulling his cloak about his shoulders and shooting his host a condescending look. "I've seen this before. Witches will often confound those they help, just in case they are questioned."

When Reverend Pratt continued to look skeptical, Gertrude Hatch stepped forward.

"If I may be so bold, Reverend Pratt, what this man says makes perfect sense to me. We are isolated here and are not accustomed to the sophisticated methods this man has seen the devil employ. Much about Lark Willoughby has seemed alarming to me, and when dear Millicent here confided to me what she'd seen I knew I could no longer call myself a Christian if I did not take what I knew to the church."

Millicent turned in shock at the older woman's pronouncement and started to differ with her over events, but a warning glance silenced her before she could begin.

"Wise words, madam, wise word indeed." He turned towards the door. "There is no time to waste. Now, take me to this Widow Bright."

* * *

It was raining by the time Colin Macgregor reached the village, and the weather did not improve the mood he'd been in since leaving Lark's cottage. For the second time, he'd been frustrated by their encounter and the clouds seemed to darken along with his state of mind.

He tried to be objective, telling himself to allow for the fact that she was right and he was wrong. The village was isolated; if the rumors of witch hunts were indeed true then the witch hunters wouldn't likely come to such an out of the way place, but focus on larger towns where a woman seeking to profit from or embellish her arts may make a wild boast of magic.

The skins on his back were heavy, and he walked faster and then broke into a run as larger droplets began to fall fast and heavy. To his left he could hear the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer and ducked into his stall for shelter.

Hiram Fletcher dropped his hammer as soon as he saw Colin.

"G'day young man," he said heartily, extending a beefy hand.

Colin returned the greeting warmly. He'd always liked Hiram, who knew every person - and horse - in the village by name. Colin didn't know all the villagers by name, and only most of the horses by sight. Today he noted that Hiram was working on a large black horse he'd never seen before.

"Nice animal," he said, dropping the skin on a nearby table and moving to stroke the horse's nose. It dipped its head down, grazing Colin's hand with a warm muzzle.

"Don't move your hand too fast around him; he's head-shy."

But the warning had come too late. When Colin moved to scratch the animal's neck, it pulled back suddenly, rolling its eyes in fear.

"Easy, lad," Colin soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you." Then he frowned. "Someone's mistreated him. Who does he belong to?"

Hiram walked over and picked up the horse's right foreleg, matching the shoe he'd been pounding on the anvil to the animal's hoof. With a grunt of frustration he took it back to the anvil, picked it up with tongs and sunk it back into a pile of hot coals.

"Part of a team belonging to some preacher man that came in two days ago," the blacksmith replied, extricating the shoe from the red coals and pounding on it with renewed effort.

Despite the heat coming off the coals, Colin felt a chill go through him.

"Preacher man? What preacher man?"

"Don't really know," Hiram replied. "Not from around here. Came in on a carriage pulled by two black horses and went straight away to the Rev. Pratt's without so much as a 'how-do-you-do' to anyone."

He sank the shoe into a vat of cold water and steam rose in a hissing cloud.

The horse began to move around as Hiram approached it with the reformed shoe still clasped in his tongs. Colin grabbed the lead rope and whispered soothing words to the animal as Hiram leaned down to check the fit again.

"Perfect," he said over his shoulder, shooting a grin to Colin before beginning to nail the shoe in place.

"So what is he doing here?" asked Colin. "Is he preaching Sunday?"

"I don't think so," the blacksmith responded. "I don't think he's a preaching preacher, and if he is half the flock will be hiding under their pews before the first hymn is sung. I caught a look at him when hi and his driver came over with the horses. Scariest looking man I've ever seen. 'Bout as tall as you, only thinner with black hair and a the illest-looking face you ever saw."

"You mean he's sickly?" Colin pressed, feeling hopeful. Perhaps the cold damp weather would drive him away.

Hiram stood stretching his lower back before standing and putting the handle of his tongs back in his leather work apron.

"No, I mean ill as in mean looking. When he looks at you, it's like he's staring into your soul. Made me uneasy, it did, but don't go telling' anyone I said that. I don't want it getting' around that I insulted the preacher's guest."

Hiram walked to the horse's head and undid the lead rope and proceeded to walk the animal to a stall next to another holding its companion.

"At least when he does leave his horses will have a shoe. This team was driven so hard this fella threw his."

"So when is he leaving?" Colin tried to keep his voice casual.

Hiram shrugged. "I don't reckon I know," he said. "The only thing I do know is that they spent the better part of yesterday over to the Widow Bright's."

"The Widow Bright's?" Colin looked in the direction of the mill. What business would Rev. Pratt and a visiting preacher have with an old, addled woman. He looked back at the blacksmith.

"Are they still there?"

"Nope." Hiram chucked some hay into the stalls. "They left and went straight to the church. No one's seen them sense."

"Thanks," said Colin, picking up the skins. The rain had lightened and he decided to get to the tanners as quickly as possible and then find some excuse to check in on Lark again, despite whatever objections she may have. His suspicions were probably being overblown, he told himself. Hiram may have it wrong. The visitor may not be a preacher, but some sort of doctor sent to help an ailing widow who could barely remember her own name. But still, just in case...

He reached the tanner's ten minutes later and after the usual haggling over prices turned over the hides to him before going to pick up a few supplies. He made the short walk to the mill for a small sack of flour that he didn't need but purchased for two reasons. The gift of flour would give him an excuse to stop by Lark's and while the miller was bagging it Colin could keep an eye on Widow Bright's house. Moments later, when the miller came over to give him his purchase, he still had caught no sign of life from the house.

But Colin didn't want to question another person about the goings-on, so he started back, deliberately taking a path by the church and casting glances towards both the parsonage and the church windows. The wind was blowing now, and he heard something and stopped. Had it been a cry? He looked around. It sounded like someone had been moaning from inside the church. Atop the steeple the weathervane creaked and turned on its rusty pivot. Colin shook his head. It was probably just the wind playing tricks on him. Then he heard the moan again and something else, the distinct sound of crying coming from the graveyard.

Moving towards the cemetery gates, he looked around scanning the wooden crosses and headstones for the source of the noise he knew he heard. Then he saw her. Sitting with her back against a rickety wooden cross sat Millicent Salter, sobbing uncontrollably into the hem of her dirty apron. Putting his sack of purchases down against the back of a nearby tombstone, he walked over to the young washerwoman and knelt down beside her.

"There, there, lass," he soothed "Why are you crying so?"

The girl looked up at him, her eyes swollen and puffy in her red, tear-stained face.

"Oh," she said, barely able to speak. "Oh God, what have I done?"

"Whatever it is, surely it cannot be that bad," he replied.

"It is," she said. "It is, and even though they say he's only here to help I don't believe it. They say he is a man of God, but if that is true, how can a man of God cause such pain ---"

The moaning sound returned and this time Colin knew that he'd not imagined it, and it had not been made by the girl. Someone inside the church had cried out.

His head began to swim.

"No," he thought. "No. Not here."

"Millicent," he said. "That I your name, right? Millicent?"

The girl nodded.

"What is going on in there? Who is in there?"

The girl began to rock back and forth and Colin shook her, not hard, but just enough to get her to focus. "I need to know! Who is in there?"

"That man," she said. "That Reverend Fordham. And the preacher. And ---" she began to sob anew. "and the poor Widow Bright. He - Fordham - he says Lark used witchcraft to cure her of the cough. Oh why? Why didn't I just let her say I'd stolen?"

"Stolen? Colin had no idea what she was talking about but didn't stop to ask her.

"What has Lark got to do with this?" he asked her instead. "Tell me! If she needs help I need to know! She is my friend."

"You're a friend of Lark's?" the girl asked, turning her face up to him now and clutching him madly. "Then you must go to her. Go to her!"

Her voice was shrill, keening in contrast to yet another moan coming from the church. "Warn her, please! Warn her before..."

"ENOUGH!!"

They both turned now, startled at the sound of the deep angry voice. And there, standing on the church steps was the tall, dark man that Colin knew could only be the visiting preacher. The man was dressed in black and holding Bible and a piece of white cloth stained with what appeared to be blood. Upon seeing him, Millicent Salter pulled away from Colin and ran screaming from the churchyard.

Colin stood and for a moment the two men faced each other across the stone strewn patch of ground. Colin started to take a step in his direction but at that instant a gust of wind blew across the churchyard, and the sky began to darken overhead. And Colin knew then that this dark man was the personification of his fears. The witch hunter had come to his village. If he didn't hurry, the next cries to come from the church might be those of his beloved Lark. As much as he wanted to confront this man and challenge him to state his purpose, Colin knew it would be the wrong thing to do. The church was the most powerful entity in the village; one wrong move could bring every able village man down on his head. If that happened, he would not be able to warn Lark. So reluctantly, Colin Magregor backed away, turned and did something he had never done before. He retreated from a definite threat.

 

Chapter Six

Despite his growing feelings of foreboding, Colin knew the wrong thing to do would be to panic. He was Lark's only hope, and if he were going to get her out of the village before the ominous Reverend Fordham hauled her in for questioning, he'd need a plan.

He ran to the edge of the village, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers, and stopped again at the blacksmith's barn. Hiram was not inside, which was just as well. Colin would have had no good way of explaining why he needed to borrow two horses, which would be essential to his and Lark's escape.

Out back, the corral where Hiram kept his own two horses was empty. Colin groaned in frustration, and then remembered that the blacksmith was keeping the visiting preacher's horse for him. The idea of helping Lark escape with Fordham's own horses brought a smile to his face and - hoping against hope - he turned back towards the stalls where the two animals still stood, regarding him with suspicion.

"Whoa. Easy," he soothed and within moments had both bridled and led to the door. It had begun to drizzle again, and a cold wind whipped around the sides of the barn in eerie shrieks. It was a bad day for traveling, but a good day for stealing; the damp, windy weather had driven everyone inside. Mounting one of the horses, Colin held the other by the reins and fought to keep his seat as both animals danced around nervously. Although he preferred to walk everywhere, Colin was still a good rider and soon managed to bring the beasts under control enough to direct them down and off the regular path to the less-traveled one that led to Lark's cottage.

As he rode, he tried rehearsing what he would say to her, and imagined in his mind eye an understanding and compliant response, perhaps combined with a grateful kiss before she agreed to ride off with him. He decided that they would spend a night or two in the woods before proceeding inland, where he hoped to contact some distant relatives willing to shelter him and Lark before until they could decide what to do next.

He was so focused on his plan that when he arrived at Lark's cottage, he didn't even knock before entering. She was making candles at the table, and had just pulled a batch of partially-coated wicks from a vat of melted beeswax as he came rushing in. Her look of shock gave away to one of irritation as she saw who it was.

"Colin, really," she began, putting her hands on her hips. "You must stop these unnecessary attempts to --"

He cut her off without so much as a 'hello.'

"This visit is entirely necessary," he said. "Get a few things - whatever essentials you can carry in a bag. We're leaving. Now."

Through the door, she could see the two horses tethered to the tree by her cottage and looked at him, questioning, but did not move.

"I don't have time to explain," he said. "Just do as I say."

BOOK: Dangerous Magic
11.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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