Bewitching

  BEWITCHING

  ALEX FLINN

  Dedication

  To George Nicholson

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Kendra Speaks: Girl to Woman to Witch: England, 1666

  Part One: Lisette and Emma

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Kendra Speaks: The Story of a Lonely Prince with a Helicopter Mother

  Part Two: Lisette and Emma

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Kendra Speaks: The Story of a Mermaid Who Should Have Left Well Enough Alone

  Part Three: Lisette and Emma

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Lisette and Emma: The Finale

  About the Author

  Historical Notes

  Credits

  Copyright

  Back Ads

  About the Publisher

  If you read fairy tales, and who doesn’t, you might believe there are witches all over the place—witches baking children into gingerbread, making princesses sleep hundreds of years, even turning normal teenage boys into hideous beasts to teach them a lesson. But, actually, there are only a few of us. The reason it doesn’t seem like that is because we’re pretty long-lived. We live hundreds of years, as long as we don’t find ourselves fueling a bonfire.

  Which leads us to another quality of witches: We move around a lot. It’s easy for us to get into trouble, and sometimes, we need to beat a hasty retreat (in the dead of night or on the business end of a pitchfork) to another town or another country. So that explains the existence of many tales from different times and places, many of which involve the same witch.

  In quite a few cases, that witch was me. My name is Kendra, and I’m a witch.

  Here’s my story—well, some of it. It involves romance, drama, even death.

  It started in England, many years ago; 1666 to be exact. When I was a teenager, the first time.

  Kendra Speaks: Girl to Woman to Witch: England, 1666

  When Mr. Howe called from the street to ask if I had any dead for him to bury, I told him I did. The chore did not tax me, not physically, though I was but four and ten and small for my age. Little Lizzie, my youngest sister, weighed barely more than a sack of flour even before the plague ravaged her body and our village. After months of hardship, she weighed even less. I hated to give her over to the gravedigger, but what choice did I have? I had no parents left. I had next to no one.

  “Are ye alone now, Kendra?” Mr. Howe asked me.

  I shook my head. “No. There is still Charlie. And Charlie will be well.”

  He seemed doubtful but only said, “I am sorry.”

  I nodded and did not wait for him to take her. I could not. I was accustomed to death now, accustomed enough to know not to dwell upon it. It was the only way to survive.

  The first to leave had been Sadie, my older sister. How we had wept and regretted, not merely because Sadie was kind and good, but also because she was only a month from marriage to Henry, the dairyman’s son, who would have kept our large family supplied with sorely needed milk. Young Henry had not even come to Sadie’s funeral. Too scared was he of catching the dread disease himself. He caught it anyway, though, and was gone in two months’ time, too long to blame Sadie. People in our town were all looking for someone to blame for what happened.

  The reverend had told us to have the funerals out of doors, that we should not spread the disease, but it had not helped. The reverend also told us to stay in the village, so as not to spread the plague abroad, but those with means had left nonetheless. Those with means did as they wished. The reverend lived still, but his wife was gone.

  Next was my youngest brother, John, a mere babe and barely known to us. Still, we said a few words over him. Babies dying was sad business, but not unusual.

  By the time Mother died, there was no funeral, no time for prayers for the dead, only prayers for the living—that they might stay that way.

  They did not. The month past had been a whirl of vomiting, fever, complaints of painful limbs and swelling blisters on arms and legs, cracked lips begging for water and death, so much death. One by one, all who I loved were ripped from this earth as I stopped being a child and became a woman, a sad one. By the end of it, Father and another brother and sister were lost to me, their bodies dragged out between checking to see if the hen had laid and tending the cow.

  Two days ago should have been a particular blow, for it was James whose body Mr. Howe took from me, James, my twin, whose shadow I had been even before we were born. But I had no thought for James or any of them. Had I thought of anything besides how to get food, had I thought of why I, alone, was given the dubious gift of health, I would have lain down beside those once-loved bodies and succumbed myself. Yet the good Lord, if good he was, did not see fit to have me die. He saw fit to have me find scant milk from the cow and no eggs from the chicken and to care for my sick brother—my now only brother—Charlie, age eight, in the luxury of a house that had once held nine but now needed room for only two.

  Human beings, I had learned, could become used to anything.

  This morning, when I went out to collect our one egg, I found, instead, that the hen had died. Then, all the losses I had suffered came down to this one loss. I sat in the sparse hay, buried my head in my hands, and sobbed.

  And then, I plucked that stupid chicken and cut and boiled it for, at least, if Charlie was going to die too, he could die with a good, hot chicken soup in his belly.

  But Charlie was too sick to eat, and as I turned away from him, I knew I must try Lucinda.

  Lucinda Baker was our town’s healer, a woman who knew how to use herbs to cure illness. Once, she had been my friend, but when the plague struck us, Mother had warned me away from her. There were those, Mother told me, who said Lucinda was a witch and that witches were the ones who had started this plague. She worried that, were I too much in Lucinda’s company, suspicion might fall on me by association, particularly because I had always been thought strange due to the odd bright green color of my eyes and a moody nature that differed from the other village girls. Perhaps Mother knew that Lucinda had begun to instruct me in the use of herbs. Lucinda told me that she saw the gift in me and believed I could someday be a healer like her.

  Were healer and witch one and the same? Perhaps. It mattered not now. If a witch was what my brother Charlie required, then a witch was what I needed. There was no mother to caution me otherwise. There was no one but me now, and I would risk all to save Charlie, even being seen in the company of a known witch.

  Thus, I made my sad way through the town, a town which had once been a bustling village of over three hundred, now so empty and silent that I could hear the wind in the trees, even at midday. I passed one, maybe two others, trudging as wearily as I did, but there was no talk, no laughter, no wagon wheels, nothing to drown out the wind.

  My step quickened as I came to Lucinda’s house, and for the first time in weeks, something other than despair gripped my heart. Hope held my hand and tugged me closer. Lucinda could help Charlie. I was sure of it. I only wished I had come sooner.


  The cottage, made of brown bricks, neatly laid, was strangely silent. Only one black crow perched on the eaves, staring down at me. I approached the doorstep with a fawn’s cautious steps and gave an almost silent knock.

  Nothing.

  I knocked again. Still nothing but the crow’s caw.

  “Who is that?” A voice from the street shook me in my shoes. I turned and thought for a moment I saw a ghost.

  But no, it was Mrs. Jameson, mother to Anne and Alice, two uppity girls who had teased me about the ugliness of my flaxen hair. Still, I felt close to weeping at the sight of a familiar face.

  “Mrs. Jameson! It is Kendra Hilferty!”

  “Kendra!”

  I ran down the stone pathway to embrace her. But when I reached the street, Mrs. Jameson’s arms were closed. “Kendra, what are you doing here?”

  I faltered. “I was … visiting… Lucinda.”

  “Visiting?” The expression on Mrs. Jameson’s face was strange.

  I thought it best to change the subject. “How are dear Anne and Alice?”

  Her face crumpled like papers in flame, and I knew.

  “Gone,” she said, “all gone.”

  “All?” I was sorry now to have thought them snobbish girls. “Mr. Jameson too?”

  She nodded. “Of my family, only I have been fated, nay cursed, to survive.”

  “I am the same,” I said. “My brother Charlie, he is the only one who lives yet, and I may find him gone when I return.” It was the first I had thought it, and I glanced back toward the house. Had death become so routine for me? Was I turned to a monster?

  Then, she did take me in her arms, and we held each other and wept and wept as if weeping were the cure for our troubles.

  Finally, I said, “I beg your leave, Mrs. Jameson. I was searching for Lucinda, that she might have some herbs for Charlie.”

  She looked at the house, and her eyes seemed to burn. “Lucinda Baker was a witch who brought the plague upon all of us!” she spat.

  Was that what was being said? “’Twas George Viccars who brought the plague from London on a bolt of fabric. Besides, Lucinda is my friend.”

  “If she is your friend, you may be a witch as well, and should be hanged as one.”

  “How can you say such a thing to me? My family is as dead as yours. I only want—”

  “Oh, Kendra.” Her face broke, and she began to sob again. “I know what you want. Would that you could have it, but it is too late. Lucinda is gone.”

  The crow on the eaves cawed and turned its black head away.

  “Some say she left in the night to avoid those who threatened to try her by water. Others say she came to a different end.”

  I glanced in the window, which was black and empty. Lucinda was gone and, with her, every last impossible hope. I wanted to fall to the ground and weep, but I had not time for that. Instead, I said, “Perhaps there is something left in her garden for Charlie.”

  Mrs. Jameson nodded. “I am sorry for your losses, Kendra.”

  “And I for yours. Perhaps…” I stopped. I had been about to say that perhaps she could come and live with us, that we might not each be alone. Yet I knew I would not be staying in the village. I must leave the site of all this tragedy and go far away. “Perhaps I will see you again.”

  She nodded again and moved on.

  I ran to Lucinda’s garden and gathered what I could of the different herbs. I tried to remember the uses for each. Yarrow, to heal wounds and reduce fever, dandelion for boils, horsetail for strength. I piled all into my apron. In the back of the garden was an herb I did not recognize, yellow and pointy as a cat’s claw. The crow swooped down upon it, as if pointing it out. I did not know its use, but something told me it was the most valuable of all. I took a bunch.

  The crow cawed as I shuffled away home.

  Charlie lived still, and slept. I watched as a shiver wracked his frail body. Without stopping to check for fever, I went to the well, then the stove. I spent my morning brewing teas and making salves, and the afternoon forcing them on him.

  By nightfall, he had improved not at all. Lucinda’s herbs had failed me, and Charlie’s chills had worsened. The boils on his neck seemed redder. Abandoning medicine, I took his hands and began to pray, pray as hard as I could, even knowing that it would not be enough. God, it seemed, had not time for us, certainly not time for me. Who would blame him, for there were so many sick, not only here but in all England, maybe all the world? As I prayed, the telltale odor of rotten meat met my nostrils, and I knew it would not be long before Charlie too was dead, before I was alone, all alone in the world.

  And then, along with my tears, my prayers became more fervent, more desperate, only the words changed to something beyond my comprehension. I leaned forward, holding Charlie’s hand, and felt my own fingers vibrate with a strange energy that combined with the words and flowed from me to Charlie, from Charlie back to me, until the room spun and filled with a strange, sparkling light. I was light-headed from hunger and despair, arms throbbing with the effort of saving him, bizarre ancient words coursing from my lips. I did not know what was happening. I only knew that something was, something stronger than prayer, something stronger than grief had hold over me.

  Finally, I collapsed from exhaustion.

  I woke to the morning sun’s first rays and to Charlie’s voice.

  “Kendra? Kendra? I am tired of always lying around.”

  I started. “What?”

  “I am tired of lying in bed. I want to go outside and play with Tommy and James.”

  He was alive! Alive, and wanting to run and play. I rushed to put my hand to his forehead. His fever was gone and the boils on his neck were gone, gone as if they had never existed. I lifted the covers and examined the rest of him. All gone. He was well!

  “Stop it, Kendra. What are you doing?” He squirmed away from my touch. “Where is Mother? She will let me go out.”

  “Shh. Mother is very sick, in her bed over there.” I gestured at the pile of empty blankets and hoped he would not look too closely. Charlie was alive!

  Now, what should I do? I decided there would be time enough for the grim task of telling Charlie of our parents’ demise. I said, “If you can be quiet all day today, I will bring you some chicken soup and tell you a story and tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, we will go outside.”

  He nodded and said, “I am hungry.”

  Warm the soup. I must warm the soup. But I stood too quickly. I stumbled, and the room spun purple around me. I thought of Mrs.

  Jameson’s words: You may be a witch as well.

  Three thoughts whirled past me, over and over:

  Charlie was cured. I had cured him.

  It had been a spell I had cast.

  I was a witch.

  Once, about a year before, I had been on the way to town, bringing eggs to sell for Mother, when I heard footsteps behind me. Then, a voice.

  “Hey, there. You, Kendra.”

  I turned. It was William Butterworth, an older boy, six and ten perhaps, who thought himself important, for his father was a merchant who did business in London, while my father was only a farmer. I did not care for him. Yet, he was running to meet me.

  “Can I walk you to town?” he asked from behind me.

  “Thank you. But I am in quite a hurry. I have no time for talk.” It was true. I had taken a shortcut through the woods to save time. I thought it strange that he followed me.

  “I can hurry.” He was a big boy with a piggy little nose, and already he was panting to catch up with me.

  I walked faster, as fast as I could without the eggs jumping from their basket, but finally, he ran and was before me, blocking my path.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Indeed.” I stopped walking. “What do you want from me?”

  Now that he had cornered me, he seemed at a loss for words. “Nothing… I mean, I see you at church, you’re… I wondered if, maybe we could take a walk together sometime?”

  “We are walkin
g now,” I said, trying to step around him, to continue on the path.

  He moved left, to impede my progress. “No, but … of a Sunday, maybe. I could walk you home from church, or come to your house?”

  He liked me, thought me pretty, perhaps. It was a compliment. I should have said yes, or made some polite excuse, such as Mother believing me too young. But I was unaccustomed to being a girl boys liked, so instead I said, “I do not think so.”

  “Why not?” he asked, and when he did, his piggy face twisted into an expression that scared me.

  “I have to go.” I tried, again, to walk around him, but, again, he blocked my path, and I was forced into the trees.

  “Think you’re too good for me then?” His voice was a low growl.

  “I said nothing of the sort. Please let me go by.” I started to run. The eggs jostled against one another, and one fell, but I did not care. I had to get away.

  He grabbed my skirt, then my arm. I dropped the basket, all the eggs crashing to the ground. He pulled me toward him. With one hand, he forced my arm behind my back. I screamed in pain, but there was no one to hear. “Turn me down, will ye?” With his free hand, he pawed at my bodice. His tongue protruded from his mouth. He twisted my arm harder until I thought it would break. The pain was unbearable. I concentrated hard on pulling my arm away. My vision blurred, then went all colors and then black.

  And then, next thing I knew, he was on the ground, doubled over, clutching at his stomach in apparent agony and screaming foul words. I stared at him in amazement but did not offer to help him. I was free, though I did not see how. In fact, my arm did not even hurt.

  The basket of eggs had fallen a few feet from where he lay. I scooped it up and ran as fast as I could through the woods to town.

  I went to the shop even though I no longer had wares to sell. Mother would have my hide for breaking the eggs. And yet, when I reached the threshold, I notice that they had not dripped through the basket to my skirts. I opened the cover.

  Every single egg was intact, as if they had never been dropped. Even the first egg, the one I had seen smashed, was back in place.

  Had I imagined it, William in the woods?