They walk to the edge of the woods without incident, holding hands like children in a fairy tale. Only he's the wolf; she's the witch. They're usually the villains, the ones who steal children from god-fearing folk such as the ones who would kill both of them if they knew.
Devon has never felt like a villain. It's never been in her nature to want to hurt anyone. Even knowing that one of Rafael's favorite happy thoughts is that moment in a fight when he -- and his prey, his opponent -- know that he's stronger, that he's going to win, Devon can't quite understand it personally. She doesn't like to see pain, to start with; she hates causing it even more. What happened to the butcher was not something she took pleasure in, or even satisfaction. She felt physically ill most of the day after what she did to him. She felt dizzy right after it happened. Even that brat Nicholas, even when she thinks about 'smacking' him, it's abstract. She wouldn't, not really.
So that puts her one-time threat to Rafael to punch him in his balls if he fucked anyone else in perspective.
--
Her footsteps and his both scuff on the underbrush and tall grass as they walk. Still in the shadows but with the homestead in sight, Devon stops. And Rafael stops. And she turns to him, and he to her, and they embrace for a long time. This time she isn't so filled with longing that she gasps at the contact of his arms, the feel of his breath on her neck. She holds onto him with aching, overwhelming love. She missed him. She misses him in anticipation already. So she holds him very, very tightly for as long as she dares. It's hard to let go.
But it is hard to turn into a beast and hunt, and kill, and survive.
It is hard to divine the future, or move things with her mind, or brew potions and elixirs.
Devon kisses him one more time, softly, tenderly, before she goes. He watches her go to the homestead and let herself in, carefully. Perhaps he stays to watch over her, but more likely he has his own adopted life's homestead to return to. The Thorntons get up early, and are already likely ashamed by their son's loutish behavior and heavy staring at girls in the township.
One girl.
One particular girl, and a peculiar girl at that.
--
Devon goes upstairs with soft footsteps. She slips out of her bonnet, shoes, apron. Tonight she isn't hunting down a little boy in the woods, running into witches and goddess-spirits. She unwinds her hair and dresses down to her shift, crawling onto her pallet to sleep. Samuel and the children will sleep deeply, longer than they should, and be groggy when they wake. Maybe she'll make them peppermint tea in the morning. Maybe she'll whisper to the peppermint as it brews, strengthen it, cajole it into making a different sort of magic, and then the family will wake easier, be bright-eyed,
and less likely to look for a witch in their midst.
She exhales, sighing. She can faintly smell Rafael on her own skin, on her shift. She moves her arm so that her sleeve presses to her face, giving her his scent as she falls asleep.
RafaelAfter the events of the day, sleep should not come easily to her. And yet -- after the exertion of the day, the night, and nearly the day again, it does. It crests over her like a wave, silent and grey; it pulls her inexorably under.
--
She dreams of the village. She dreams of the woods. She dreams, terribly, of the massacre, the bodies in the church; she dreams in snatches and fragments of what those men did to deserve their fate, and she cannot know if it is borrowed memory or imagination.
She dreams of the butcher flying through the air; the wet snap of bone when he landed.
She dreams of fire.
And of mist. And of the ocean. And of the waves pulling back, revealing hidden canyons and clefts all aglisten beneath the moon.
--
Despite her late hours, she wakes before dawn the way Mercy always does. There is a cow to be milked, goats to be fed and watered, eggs to be collected, floors to be swept, bread to be baked for the breaking of the fast, and all of it before church. Her life is tedium here, incessant and boring and backbreaking and dull. Stepping out into the grey morning with pails in hand, feed in her apron, she can see lamplight from the village diffracting through the fog. It is odd that there would be so much activity this early, but then she already knows: today is the day the magistrates arrive.
The goats bleat as she tosses handfuls of hay to them. The chickens cluck, flustered and affronted, as she scoops out eggs still warm from brooding. The cow is waiting for her, patient and familiar, chewing its cud as she places pail and stool, sits.
"Psst!"
Comes from behind her, in the murky shadows of the milking shed. It's Hannah, pretty blonde hair tucked up beneath a coif again, apron-hem dirty from the walk. Her eyes are wide. She beckons the witch over, hurried and tentative.
DevonHer dreams trouble her. She flinches in her sleep, trying to look away. What was done to the men. What they did to deserve it. What came before. What she has done. How it felt.
It is not the first time she's dreamt of fire. Of being burnt, perhaps. She almost wakes here, sweating and trembling, but the dark stillness of pre-morning tugs her back under: what is under the sea. Who -- what -- looks down upon that sea. How the stillness raises moisture from the earth to transform it to mist. And what can hide in the mist.
She slips back under. She sleeps again, heavier now, relieved of her nightmares and delivered into silence.
--
But she wakes. Morning light comes in and cocks crow and she wakes, groggily. Drags herself up and, while the family goes on sleeping off her witchery, she goes to the well, fetches water, and washes herself. Mercy has at least one other set of everyday clothes and she changes into them, halfheartedly washing the others and putting them up to dry. She discovers she learns how to milk. She hisses at the goat who bleats too loudly at her. A roaming cat swings by the farm, pretending not to care, and Devon gives it a bit of the cow's fresh milk. She does chores by rote, not even realizing what all she knows. The baking of bread. The order of the housework.
The whispering startles her. It's late enough now that the family should be awake, but they haven't yet -- she will have to wake them soon. She blinks, then puts her hand over her brow til she finds the person whispering at her.
Devon blinks. She glances at the house, then slips over to the shed, head tilted.
"I doubt I should be talking to you," she whispers, but she does not sound like she worries overmuch about this.
Rafael"I came to warn thee," Hannah whispers. There's still a livid handprint on her throat where the butcher grabbed her. "They came for us last night. Mary Goffe's been taken, and Ulu too. Njemile ran away. They're hunting her with dogs. And they took Sarah Baylie, and Anne Walsh, and half a dozen others who had naught to do with any of it.
"They had me, too. For a while, after -- after what happened with the butcher." Hannah's eyes slip away, touch the ground, return beseechingly. "I had to give them a name. I had to, Mercy, or they wouldn't believe my confession. I had to."
DevonThe sight of the bruise makes Devon frown. She already begins thinking, but -- her thoughts are derailed. Quickly. Her lips press together and her eyes feel like they pierce the air in front of her.
"I know," she says, quickly, brushing aside Hannah's shame. She knows. She learned. History. Literature. Hannah's lucky to still have her toenails. She scowls. Nods at the girl's throat. "Find parsley and crush it in your hands. Put it on your bruises and wrap it with a bandage. It should help."
Comfrey would be better, but Devon doubts it lives around here. Arnica, too, but... same problem.
She feels helpless, but then she realizes something and stops. Looks at Hannah. Her brow wrinkles deeply. "My name," she says, flatly. "You gave them mine, didn't you?"
magistrate's men"Not until they threatened to throw my mother into jail," Hannah says, wretchedly. "Not even when they beat me. I didn't want to. But I had to.
"They'll come for you soon, Mercy. You mustn't stay here. If you run, if you hide in the woods -- tonight, Mercy, tonight I will find you and we will call to the Ladies together. We will find some way to help the others, and... we'll find some way."
DevonDevon feels her heart break a little. She closes her eyes a moment, then opens them. She thinks of them questioning Faith. Samuel wouldn't let them. He hates her, would give her up in a second, but even he might rebel if they started harming his daughter, who is barely past being a baby to him. Who looks -- so very much -- like his late wife.
She wants to go back inside and gather things -- food, for one thing. They'll wake later and find fresh bread on the table. Milk ready to churn. The animals fed. But they will also wake to the magistrate and his men banging down the door.
She just nods. She does not look back. She does what Samuel forbade and crosses the gate -- for the second time, little rule-breaker that she is -- and nods toward the woods. "Let's go. Quickly."
magistrate's menHannah balks. "I can't. Not now. They sent me home to my mother. They mean to call me for testimony, again. I had to creep out -- if I do not return, they'll take it to mean I'm witched after all. They'll accuse my mother for certain, then.
"Tonight. Meet me in the woods, where you first saw us dancing. I will be there, I promise."
DevonNow Devon is actually angry. She looks ferociously at Hannah.
"You already gave them my name, and you think I should trust you?" she snaps, the words hissing. "To go back and be beaten again, to break again, to tell them where to find me and the others, to tell them what we do in the woods?"
She leans toward her. "I saved. Your life. Yesterday."
Her nostrils flare. She squares her shoulders. "Come with me, and help me protect your mother, and little Faith, and all the others who haven't yet been broken. Or go home, if you will. But I warn you: nothing they might do to you will compare to what will become of you if you betray us again."
magistrate's menWe.
Us.
One might ask when it was, exactly, that Devon became part of that whole. When she saved Hannah, perhaps. Or when Mary Goffe acknowledged her. Or when the Ladies of the Wood spoke to her. Or perhaps there was no becoming. Perhaps she always was part of the whole that she recognized instantly, instinctively: that sisterhood stretching across time, there but always-elusive, never quite in her grasp. Not in her lifetime, at least. Not in her century, her era, her age.
Whichever it is, Hannah does not question it. She cows immediately, as much to the flash in Devon's eyes as to the shame in her own heart. "Aye, Mercy," she says, meekly. "You speak truly. I'll -- I'll come with thee."
--
Then she sees it: over Hannah's shoulder, still far away. Fires in the morning mist. Torches, bobbing and swaying. The magistrate's men, come to drag a witch from the home where she'd sunk her claws.
Devon[manipulation + intimidation]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 3) ( botch x 1 )
DevonDevon @ 9:32PM
[Manipulation + Intimidation]
Roll: 2 d10 TN6 (2, 10) ( success x 1 )
[perception + alertness]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 8) ( success x 1 )
DevonDevon @ 9:32PM
[Perception + Alertness]
Roll: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 8, 8) ( success x 2 )
They never had to accept her or welcome her with open arms for her to be a part of what they are. It means everything to her, it breaks her heart, but if it came to it, she would stay in the shadows, away from them, rejected, feared, and she would still protect them.
Try to, at least.
They are her.
She's a part of this. She always has been.
--
Devon's eyes flick past Hannah. "Now," she says, hushed. "Run, this way. But when you get to the trees, go slow. It's still too dim for them to see us in the trees, but the noise will draw their attention. Go!"
She waits for Hannah to run, first.
Hannah cannot protect herself, she thinks.
So she will.
magistrate's menHannah runs.
She runs fast, like someone thoroughly frightened of capture -- who she is, and which she is. Even in her heavy skirts, even recently-beaten and manhandled as she was, she is quick, disappearing into the looming forest well before the magistrate's men are near.
They are approaching, though. They march briskly but without rush. As they grow nearer, the witch can catch their outlines through the fog. There's five or six of them, one on horseback, the rest on foot. Two have muskets. One is yawning. Witch-hunting is tiring work.
They are undoubtedly coming to Samuel Noyes's farm. As she watches, they veer off the hardpacked road, taking a shortcut through the wheat.
DevonDevon is just a step or two behind her. Takes off, unashamedly lifting her skirts up, glancing back once to see how much lead they have. Darts into the woods after Hannah but, following her own advice, slows as soon as she's within the shadows of the trees. She closes her eyes, exhaling for a moment, casting a quick prayer. She doesn't know much about spirits, not really, but she whispers aloud to herself, asking the shadows themselves to hide her and Hannah.
She thinks she remembers something her godmother taught her. She thinks about what a shadow might want that she could give. An exchange. But all she can think of that shadows want is light to grow long in, light to show their heavy contrast, to prove they are not just night-darkness but special, their own beautiful thing. And the sunlight is not hers to give.
So she just prays, quickly, to be hidden. To be protected. Maybe it won't work. But she prays anyway; lots of things have been happening that she doesn't know might work until they do.
Realizing her breath is shallow, she licks her lips and begins walking. Slow. Towards the heart of the woods. Maybe even the same direction that she and Rafael walked, before.
magistrate's menThe girls run. The woods aren't far. Hannah breaks into the brush first, slowing as she was told. Devon's a step or two behind, and as she gains the treeline the very shadows seem to lengthen, deepen.
It's still not enough. Maybe her coif is too white; maybe her skirts are too voluminous. Maybe she's just not very good at hiding. Across her uncle's fields, one of the soldiers turns his head at exactly the wrong moment. Catches a glimpse of something. Thumps the man beside him with the side of his fist --
"Who's that?"
"Mm?" Two men squinting at the treeline now, the two women fast disappearing in the shadows. Frowning, suspicious, not quite decided -- yet.
The one on horseback draws up and dismounts. Even from the forest, Devon can hear the thud of his fist on the Noyes's front door. A long pause. Then louder, insistent, hammering at the door.
Meanwhile, the man who first caught sight of her has begun to cross the field. He is on foot, but his stride is long and sure, accelerating. He has a gut feeling. He's following it.
DevonShe hopes. She prays and it seems to help and then her heart freezes in her chest. She rushes into the woods and bites back tears. "Hannah, go," she whispers. "Just go, quickly. Find the others."
For her part, for now, in hope, she goes a different direction. She decides to walk. And as she walks, she stops occasionally, shaking, to pick flowers. Herbs. Carries them in her apron pocket, her fingertips cold.
magistrate's menHannah hesitates. "But -- no. I should... I should stay behind."
DevonDevon snaps. "Hannah, I swear to god --"
Takes a breath. "I will meet up with you. But one of them is coming, and I want you to be safe."
magistrate's menJust another beat of pause.
Then Hannah turns and runs. Quickly, heedlessly, crashing through the trees -- slowing only when she remembers to go slow, be quiet.
--
And for her part: she walks. In a different direction. She picks flowers with her cold, shaking hands. Soon enough she hears footsteps, the metallic clank of firearm-and-blade, shackles, boot-buckles and belt. They are far enough from the house now that she can no longer hear the hammering.
"Girl! Halt!"
DevonDevon, obedient as Mercy may have once been, halts.
She turns to face the man. She quickly drops into a neat little curtsy.
"Sir," she says, trying not to sound too questioning.
magistrate's menTime works against her. She knows even now they may have finally roused her deep-sleeping uncle. Even now they might be talking to him. It would only take the space of a few words for him to realize they'd come for her. For witchcraft. Doubtful if he'd protect her, but even if he does, his resistance would only add a few minutes. After that -- seconds to realize she was gone. Minutes to start coming after her, perhaps even following the trail of this one man-at-arms who, at this very moment, is eyeing her suspiciously in the grey morning light.
"And who might you be?"
DevonHe doesn't know who she is. Her eyes flash.
He may know who Hannah is. He may have been one of the ones to beat her.
"Abigail," she murmurs. "Williams."
Why not?
"I came to see Mercy, but I think everyone is still asleep. So now I am going home."
In her apron pocket, she rubs the edges of the gathered lavender, crushing the flowers between her fingers idly.
magistrate's menHis eyes narrow. He stares at her a long moment.
Then he unslings his musket, sets the butt on the ground. Takes a step closer. "Mercy. Tall girl. Brown eyes. Fair hair. Yes?"
DevonMercy, who is Devon, who is now Abigail, tips her head, looking confused. "Are you sure you know who Mercy is? If you're looking for a girl who looks like that, you may be at the wrong farm."
She smiles. "I do need to go home, sir. My parents will be afraid, and my father will beat me if he hears I spoke to a strange man in the woods."
magistrate's menAnother beat or two. Then a sudden scowl, a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Begone, girl, and be quick about it. Best not wander these woods unaccompanied nor visit thy friend again. Dost thou not know there be witches afoot?"
DevonThank all the spirits and goddesses there are. She didn't want to have to seduce him. Or bewitch him. Devon blinks, and sticks out her lower lip, and looks shamed. She nods. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'll not be naughty no more," she finishes, echoing Nicholas from the other day.
And she turns, heading off quickly, keeping her steps as fast and light as she can.
magistrate's menShe must run in the direction of the town, of course. He wouldn't believe her if she ran deeper into the woods. And even so, for a long time after, she can feel his eyes on her, hard and suspicious.
When she's beyond a bend in the path, a copse of trees, she can turn woodward again. Double back the way she came. Look for Hannah. By then the magistrate's man is gone, headed back to Samuel Noyes's farm.
Where he'll discover he's been duped.
Where they'll all discover she's gone.
--
She's well into the forest when she hears them again. All of them this time, shouting angrily. Three of them go in the direction where she last spoke to the soldier. The other three fan out into the woods, blindly, smashing their way through the dense, shadowy undergrowth.
They're well behind her.
DevonDevon runs. Not hurriedly. She all but prances off like the to-be-beaten young girl she is, with a fearful gait. It doesn't last. Eventually she just takes off, twists around, goes back the other way. Pauses, listening, looking through the trees, trying to see if she's been followed. If they've sent dogs after her.
She washed her clothes. They could still get her scent from her bed.
Then there is smashing, crashing, booted feet breaking twigs and branches. She can't stay in the woods forever; she doesn't know where to find the others. She exhales and goes deeper, deeper than she did when she looked for Nicholas. She doesn't even risk her strange and unpredictable magic this time; she will exhaust herself and she doesn't know what might happen. It won't help if they all become convinced that the woods are bewitched. They'll burn it all down.
She remembers dreaming of fire last night and thinks of the name she gave that man with the musket. What will it take for them to stop this? History tells her it takes dozens dead, mostly women: tortured first, then dying screaming. Her own generation has told her that sometimes even hundreds dead won't wake people up to stop their madness. Devon flinches from the sound of the men and their noise.
And she falls to her knees, and her hands cover her face, and she whispers into her palms:
"Help me, Lady. I don't know what to do."
magistrate's menNo dogs. At least not today, not now. Just men, crashing into the forest, flailing angry arms and blades and guns at the catching twigs, branches, trees. Shouting each to each, and also to her:
"Show thyself, hellspawn!"
"You cannot hide from the Lord's justice!"
"Satan's whore!"
"WITCH!"
Growing nearer, and nearer, and nearer --
until suddenly she can see one of them. Just in front of her, shining soldier's boots blemished by forest mud and dirt. Gun dully agleam. Head turning to and fro, this way and that, eyes searching a forest within which she hides by virtue of shadow, a grey day, the thinnest veil of foliage.
DevonShe is kneeling, her dull clothing blending with the shadowy forest floor. She stops breathing. She stares at him, motionless, but her lips still move.
Lady, help me. Lady, please help me.
magistrate's menNo divine intervention comes.
At least -- none that she can see, or hear, or identify. The man looks. The man hunts. The man's eyes bounce and skitter and scan, graze right over her
and pass on. It's a vast forest. This spot is no different from a million others. He pays no particular attention, and soon enough he wades off into the green and the grey. The voices grow ever more distant, fading into the mist.
DevonPeople have always ascribed luck to the gods. But it's possible, Devon thinks, that even the smallest vagaries of chance and good fortune really are the gods.
Same with bad luck.
She remains still for a while, waiting for the retreat of the man's footsteps. The voices leaving. And then she breathes more normally. She gets to her feet when the woods are quiet again. She resumes her trek, trying to find the others.
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