Bewitching, Page 2

  Impossible. And when I saw him the next week at church, he avoided my eyes.

  I told no one about the incident. There had been other signs, like my talent with herbs or the way some animals, particularly crows, seemed to follow me, or the fact that, indeed, bad things seemed to happen to those who tormented me, but none were this blatant.

  Until now.

  “Where are we going?” Charlie demanded as we left our house before dawn the next morning. I had plied him with soup and stories all day long, not daring to leave his side lest he rise and learn the truth, that our entire family was gone, or lest he become sick again. But, as the day wore on, he became stronger and louder and more demanding. My wispy hopes became solid things. After nightfall, I began my work.

  I had decided I must leave town. Mrs. Jameson knew Charlie was sick. If he was suddenly cured, she would tell others and then, there would be suspicion. In our town, there were some, like Mr. Howe, who, like me, never sickened with the plague, and there were those who died, but none who had gotten it and survived. That alone would be looked upon as strange, an act of witchcraft in a town looking for someone to blame for their woes. But if William remembered how I had defended myself against him, that would make it worse.

  It occurred to me that if I could cure Charlie, I might be able to cure others. I doubted, however, that I could do it before they drowned me for witchcraft.

  “The truth of it,” I lied to Charlie now, “is that the others are very sick still. We have little food left and must walk to the next village to find more.”

  I took with me a jug of milk and the last of the chicken, then tied Bossie outside with a note that read “Please take care of this cow. You may have the milk” and hoped that the village would forgive me. I took, also, the last of the wheat.

  “Once we leave town, sprinkle this on the ground. Then we can follow the trail to find our way back.”

  Charlie nodded. I knew we were not coming back. We would find another village, a new life.

  We headed past the boundary stone and out of town. I hurried Charlie toward the hills, the better not to be seen by anyone passing by. We would not be able to enter any other town if the people there knew we were from the plague village, as it had come to be called. I encouraged Charlie to run.

  We stopped only for a lunch of chicken when the sun was highest in the sky. Hours later, my stomach growled again. There was no village in sight. There was nothing, no food, no one to help us. We would survive the plague only to die of hunger.

  “Let us lie down, Charlie. We will search more tomorrow.”

  “But I am hungry.”

  “I know. I am hungry too, but there is nothing to be done for it. We will gather berries in the morning.”

  “Berries? I thought we were going to a village. What about Mother and the others?”

  “Tomorrow will tell. The good Lord will provide.”

  His very hunger must have persuaded him to stop arguing, for he lay down beside me. I sat longer until the sun faded in the sky. I wondered if I might use magic to conjure food. I tried to remember the mystical words I had said the day before, to make the magic come once again. Doubt overcame me, and finally, I too fell asleep.

  The dawn’s light pried open my eyes, and I looked for Charlie. He slumbered still. I allowed myself the luxury of worry. What would we do? Where would be go? I had been so certain of my powers, and yet, I must not be a very good witch if I could not even conjure a bit of food. We would starve. It was over.

  I looked to my other side. Did my eyes deceive me?

  I shut, then opened them again.

  They did not deceive me. It was a house—a darling little house of brown with white on the eaves and a sort of fence around it. Perhaps we were saved after all.

  I crept across the craggy ground. As I approached closer, I noticed something strange about the little house. It did not appear to be made of wood or brick and certainly not of stone. Instead, it was made of something smooth and golden brown, with trim of every color. Closer still, the most delicious smell met my nostrils. Was I delirious? Was I so near death from starvation that I had lost all sense? Still, smell brings memory, and this scent held a memory so sweet, so dear, a memory of a long-ago trip to Shropshire with my father.

  A sob caught in my throat. Father!

  He had called it gingerbread and said it was made with a spice from the Far East and had strange, medicinal uses.

  I inhaled. Was someone baking gingerbread in that house? With not a glance back at my sleeping brother, I ran to the cottage, searching for a window. Maybe I would be turned away. Still, I had to try. The alternative was starvation.

  I snuck closer. The smell grew stronger, drawing me toward it like a mother’s arms. I found my window. Dared I look in?

  As I rested my hand on the house, I noticed something very strange. The smooth, brown wall was soft. What strange material was this? And, when I pressed it, my thumb sank inside. I sniffed. Gingerbread. Could the whole house be made of gingerbread?

  Impossible. The smell was overpowering because I was so hungry, not only for food but for memory, my parents, my past. I inhaled deeply and remembered walking through the marketplace, a slab of gingerbread in one fist, Father’s hand in the other. I pressed my thumb deeper, and again, the wall gave way.

  Impossible! And yet, it had to be gingerbread. Either that or I was sinking into an enjoyable delirium. I hunched down, searching for an inconspicuous spot to nibble. Perhaps this was the magic I had tried to make. What else could it be? But if I could heal the dying and make food, what more could I do? The possibilities were endless! Endless!

  And yet, I could not bring back my family.

  No, but I could save the one left.

  I grasped a windowsill and twisted. Bits crumpled in my hand. I chomped into it.

  It was! It was gingerbread. I took another bite, then another. I was like an animal, ravenous, incapable of satisfaction.

  “Hey!”

  I jumped. Could it be the house’s owner?

  “Kendra, what is that you have?”

  It was only Charlie. I crowed. “Sweet boy! The house is made of biscuits!”

  I handed him a piece. He seized, then bit it. I watched as the grin bespread his face.

  “We are saved!” I cried. Then, I grabbed him, and we did a dance around in circles, round and round, up and down, like the children we used to be, the children we maybe were again at this moment. When it was over, we fell back, eating ravenously, until our faces felt likely to break from the effort of it. We were saved!

  By some tacit agreement, we both decided to eat from inconspicuous parts of the house, so as not to break it too badly. Still, we each had to try a bit of the frosting eaves, the candy trim, and of course, the low-sloping gingerbread roof.

  “Gotcha!” It was a woman’s voice.

  I was roped, trapped in some sort of spider web. Someone or something was pulling me away from the lovely house, even as my jaws kept chewing, chewing automatically.

  “Teach you to eat someone else’s house! And now, the other!”

  Before I could even twist to see who was speaking, I heard Charlie scream. She’d got him too. I struggled to free myself from the web of threads that seemed to multiply even as I assured Charlie, “I will save you.”

  “There is no saving him,” the voice said. “Yourself either. You stole from me, you greedy children. I will take you both and bake you into gingerbread for my fence.”

  Too late, I got a close look at the fence that encircled the house. The strange-looking pickets were not pickets at all. Rather, there were faces at every post. They were gingerbread children—baked children!

  Trying to shut out Charlie’s shrieks, I twisted further, as far as I could, and made out a woman, a beautiful woman with flaming hair. Though Charlie and I both struggled, she seemed to use no effort to hold us. Rather, she was laughing.

  “New gingerbread for my little fence.” Her eyes sparkled green as ivy, a glowi
ng, inhuman green that seemed all too familiar. I knew what she was.

  “You’re a witch!”

  “Perhaps I am, but protecting what is mine doesn’t make me one.” She pulled us closer. Charlie was crying, but I tried to keep calm.

  “I know … it is only…” I stopped. I had been about to tell her I was a witch too, but I sensed that, perhaps, it was best to keep something hidden, particularly because I was still unsure of my skills or if I had them at all. Perhaps Charlie’s survival had been mere luck. “My brother has been very sick. He could be contagious.”

  “A likely story. I will not let you go.”

  “See for yourself. See how skinny he is.”

  The woman—or witch—shook her head. “I will not catch any disease. However, you are right that he is too skinny to make a proper addition to my fence. You both are.”

  I glanced around at the tortured gingerbread children. “If you release us, I promise we will run far away, and you will never see us again. We apologize for eating your house.”

  If she let us go, we would run, our bellies full of food, as far away as we could, perhaps to the lonely moors near Yorkshire or even Shropshire, anywhere but here.

  The witch appeared to think, and as she did, her eyes grew more intensely green. Then, they flashed scarlet.

  Suddenly we were someplace else.

  The scent of gingerbread was, if possible, stronger. My hands were bound, as were my legs. In fact, the only parts I could move were my eyes. They sought Charlie.

  He was tied, hand to leg, like a calf for branding. I tugged at my own bonds. They would not give. If anything, they tightened. I tugged again. Pain seared up my arm.

  Charlie said his first words since we were caught. “Kendra, what will you do?”

  It all seemed to collapse in on me then, and I wanted to scream at him that it wasn’t my fault. I had rescued him from the plague. I had changed everything about myself.

  “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I will get us out.”

  “Ah, there you are, lovelies, ready for the fattening.”

  “Let us go!” In spite of myself, I pulled at the threads. When I did, they clenched around me so that my arms felt cold, as if they had no circulation.

  “Let you go?” The witch laughed. “But you are so hungry, and it is so far to the next village. If I let you go, you will starve. No, no, I would be a poor hostess were I to let you go unfed. This will be better.”

  From the air, she produced two spoons of gleaming metal, the likes of which I had never seen before. She waved her hand, and the spoons filled with something gray and soupy. They began to move toward Charlie and me.

  “Open up, dear children. Have your porridge!”

  My mouth began, involuntarily, to open. “Hey!”

  Too late. It was filled with oatmeal that tasted exactly like Mother’s, just the right bit of sweetness. I wanted to cry. If I were baked into gingerbread, would I join Mother and Father in heaven? Or would we stay on earth as cookies? There were those who said that witches had no souls. Had I sold mine to save Charlie? Or was I a witch whether or not I engaged in witchcraft? Had I been doomed from the start?

  I could think of it no longer. All I could do was chew and swallow, chew and swallow as mouthful after mouthful of porridge slid down my throat.

  “Stop! Stop!” Charlie was gurgling as the spoon approached him over and over.

  I tried to shut my lips. It worked for a moment but then, some stronger magic forced them apart. The witch nodded, satisfied, and left.

  The spoons continued force-feeding us, barely allowing time to swallow one bite full before presenting the next. I tried again to shut my mouth. This time, in my mind, I brought myself back to the day I had made Charlie well. I had been praying. But then, my prayers had turned into something else, turned to words coursing from deep in my belly, words in an ancient language I did not understand. Yet, I did, and that understanding had caused the magic to flow from me.

  Perhaps it was merely a matter of concentration.

  With all my might, I stared at Charlie, stared at the only one I had left in a world where even a hen could not survive. His mouth struggled against the spoon’s intrusion, and his eyes pled with his older sister to stop it. Soon, I could not bear to look, nor could I look at my own spoon. Instead, I rolled my eyes far back inside my head the way I used to when I was a little girl and wanted to irritate Mother. I took myself back to our house, that once-dear place. I willed the witch part of me to the surface.

  She came. I felt the room spin around. I opened my lips wide despite the wretched spoon, and I felt words course out of me, around my head, and spiraling through the room like a magician’s scarves. That was how they appeared to my mind’s eye, words of scarlet, emerald, and gold, words swirling out of me and around the room, and somehow, I knew what they meant even though I did not. I was calling upon ancient spirits to do my bidding, to move earth and make thunder, and suddenly I realized I was no longer being force-fed. I heard the spoon clatter to the floor. Then another one, Charlie’s.

  “Wha … what happened?” he asked.

  I looked forward, shaking my head. “I do not quite know.”

  “Did you make it happen?”

  “Of course not, silly.” I made myself laugh. It would be better for him not to know.

  “You did it,” Charlie insisted. “You talked to the spoon, and it stopped. How did you—”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. Stop saying that. Can you untie us too?”

  I shook my head again. Then, my whole body was quivering, not only with hunger and fear but with the enormity of what I had done. Charlie’s cure could have been a coincidence. This was no coincidence. I had summoned magic, and magic had come. I was a witch.

  But was this what witches did? Trapped children? Baked them into gingerbread? If it was, I did not want to be one. The sweet smell of gingerbread invaded my nostrils and sickened me. I knew that, should I survive, I would never eat it, never use magic. Saving Charlie was enough. But did I have a choice? I was unsure.

  Perhaps witches could use their powers only for good, to help those in need or to punish wrongdoers. That was the sort of witch I wanted to be. I vowed that, if Charlie and I survived, this would be the sort of witch I would be.

  Yet, all I had ever heard of witches told me they were evil, daughters of Satan, devil’s harlots. I did not want to be like that.

  “Can you untie us now?”

  I did not want to be evil. I did want to free Charlie. What choice had I?

  None. I held my head as stiff as I could and whispered, “Yes, yes, dear. But tonight, when she cannot hear us. In fact, we should be quiet now, just in case.”

  “I want to go home!” His voice quavered, as if he was trying not to cry.

  “I know, I know.” I went cold in my heart, remembering the ruined place that had been home. “Soon. But be a good boy for now. We will escape tonight.”

  “Kendra!” He nodded at the abandoned spoons and bowls. I would need to clean those up somehow, before the witch saw.

  “I know. Let us play a game, the game where we see who can go longest without speaking. You always win that one.”

  He never did, but I could try.

  With one look around, he said, “All right. Go.”

  We were silent, very silent, but my thoughts would not lie down as easily. My eyes darted around the room, searching for a possible escape. The only windows were the spun sugar ones we’d seen from outside the house, but they were near the ceiling. Yet, the walls were still made of biscuits. We could tunnel through.

  Trouble was, the room was empty but for the bowls and spoons. The witch had given us little means of escape. Perhaps the spoons might be useful for digging, could I but conceal one. I concentrated on the bowls, wondering whether I might be able to cast a spell without words if I waited long enough. I did not recall saying anything the time I escaped from William. I would try. I listened for footsteps. There were
none. With no danger imminent, the cocoon of webs felt almost safe, like a blanket, or my mother’s arms.

  Mother.

  Would she be angry to know I was a witch or grateful I had saved Charlie?

  She would be frightened, as was I.

  I grew used to the scent of gingerbread. I watched the light change and gave Charlie my eye every time he ventured to speak. I had to concentrate.

  I stared at the bowl and felt, rather than thought, the meaningless words I had said before. I blocked out Charlie’s whimpers and only stared. After many moments, my vision blurred, then blackened. The room seemed to tip on its side, and I closed my eyes to prevent the sick feeling. But that was worse, for the room seemed to spin. When I opened my eyes, the bowl was empty, and I felt the spoon, stuck into my hand.

  I had done it. I could do it. I must only wait until it was dark.

  Seconds later, the witch entered the room.

  “Ah, you have finished, pretties. Did you enjoy your porridge?”

  “Let us go, you witch!” I tried to shush Charlie, then thought better of it. Were we too complacent in our imprisonment, the witch might suspect my escape plan.

  “Please let us go,” I said. “Our parents are looking for us. They will find us so.”

  “Your parents are dead. You’ve come from the plague village yonder. Almost everyone there is gone.”

  Charlie let out a cry, and I met his eyes, begging him to be still.

  “Nay, Mum.” I could not let her know our family was dead. “We are not from Eyam, but from Shropshire. We—our whole family—are on our way to London on holiday. We stopped to sleep, but my brother and I woke early and wandered off. Our parents will be searching for us.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “If they find your house, they will alert others. The law will not look kindly upon…” I pictured the baked children’s faces and blanched. “… what you have done.”

  “The law will not find out, nor will your parents, who are dead as doornails. Stay, my lovelies. I will be back soon.” She stooped to get the bowls. “What is this? Where is the spoon?” Her eyes searched mine.

  I clenched the bowl of the spoon in my fist. “How can I know? I am tied up.”