An insert from Mae Feller’s diary
13th of August, 1681
Father watched me closely today. More closely than usual. I think he knows something. There was a look in his eyes, sort of feverish and wide, that frightened me. If he knew, why would he stand by and wait? Is he looking for proof? Is he waiting for me to make a mistake? He will have to wait a long time, if this is so. Because Philip is gone.
He promised me. But men have proven throughout my life that they do not keep their promises. I should have known. Betty Ann cries herself to sleep every night because of John. He asked her to marry him, and then he went and eloped with one of the serving girls down at Persey’s place. She hasn’t said anything, but I think she fears she’s carrying his child. Sometimes I catch her clutching her stomach, a look of pure terror on her face. I pray I am wrong. Her family is the sort that would put her out of the house if this is so.
A knock at the door. That would be Henry, come to call. No doubt he has asked Father’s permission. He always does. Henry is a good boy.
Maybe that’s what I don’t like about him.
2
My days are all the same. There is a pattern to my existence now, a consistency that I cannot shake and have no desire to. The villagers sense my presence sometimes. They fear me. But still I do not stop my wandering. What else do I have to do, now?
The witch is the only break in the pattern. I hate her. She calls me when she pleases, forcing me to the one place where this world and my old one meet. She strokes my hair and forces me to look at myself in the mirror.
“So pretty,” she croons. “So perfect.”
I do not understand her motives or her actions, but always I endure her touch. I am under her control. The one instance I attempted to leave this place, tried to escape the routine and the same people day after day, she came after me. With one whip of her hand, I was at her side.
“Do not think you can leave me,” she had hissed. “You are mine. You will answer to me now.”
It is because of the blood. The night Mae had used the knife and thrown me into the fire where the witch and my father had stood, the crone had absorbed it inside of her. Now my soul is tied to hers. It is a magic I do not understand and have no hopes of reversing. There are rules in this dimension that I must follow, that cannot be broken. Even now, so many years later after the night of the blood and the burning, I am still discovering the boundaries.
She is summoning me again. I have not seen her in a fortnight; I’ve been expecting it. I stand under a tree on the outskirts of the village and feel the tugging coming from within me. Come, her voice says in my head. Come now. I have no choice but to comply.
The house is in the woods, far from the hustle and bustle of the village. Those who have chanced upon it do not enter; there is a sense of foreboding within this place that warns all those alive away. It is the perfect place for her. It is where she works her magic and mumbles the words. It is where she communicates with the others that are stuck here.
“You lingered,” she says to me when I appear in the doorway. “This displeases me.”
I do not reply. She would only use whatever words I uttered against me.
It is dim in the large room. She keeps old blankets over the windows and there is always a fire going in the hearth. A cat, long dead and forever flattened by whatever wheel caught him beneath it, resides in one of the corners. Its green eyes are always watchful. He is her loyal companion, and for that I hate the cat as well.
“Come in,” the witch urges. “Sit.”
When I do not obey instantly she growls and twitches her fingers. I fly across the room and land roughly in the chair she has put out for me. It groans in protest to my weight, but it does not break.
“You have been at the smith’s much of late,” the witch begins, slowly picking some petals off of a flower. A cauldron boils before her, black and faded from long use. From past experience I know she uses the juice of the flower to reach the others. Sometimes she let me stay for the communications, other times she sends me away. It is a matter of what sort of mood she is in.
She is waiting for me to speak, and I know that if I do not open my mouth soon she will force the words out of me. “I like to watch him make the tools,” I say. “I like the way the metal turns red.”
“‘I like the way the metal turns red’,” she mocks me. “Silly child. What I do here is far more extraordinary than the efforts of a smith.” She sneers.
I have had my say. And I know the witch will require nothing else from me. She finishes with the flower, letting the petals boil in that water, and she approaches me. The hairbrush has materialized in her hand, and I steel myself for her touch.
“Do you miss your mother?” she asks me, her voice so soft, so gentle. I know better.
“I have no mother,” I say.
Her approval permeates the air. “Poor Mae,” she says. “She did love you, you know.”
Now the crone is playing with me. She wants to feel my pain, sense my fury. Though my body can grow no more in this place, my mind and my anger knows no bounds. They both continue to stretch taller and taller, threatening to explode in my dull, everyday routine.
I grit my teeth to keep myself from blurting anything out. It is what she wants. I do not know why she taunts me so—why she went through so much effort to steal me away from life—but I know her. She loves her games and her habits. She loves this existence that we live. And I knew that she will never let me go. She has proven her abilities to make me suffer and I will never go back to those days, those moments when I first arrived here, ever again.
“So silent,” the witch observes. “Do you have something on your mind? Something… troubling you?”
The smirk is evident in her voice. I glance at the cat, meeting his intense emerald gaze, and clench my fist. Stroke after stroke. She moved the brush through my golden hair gingerly, with all the tenderness of a real mother.
It takes all of my willpower not to tear away, not to strike out and scream. I can feel it building up inside of me, making my throat tight and my stomach roil. If I do not escape this house soon I will do something that I will greatly regret. I know that I must bore her, make her think that it is not rebellion that keeps my lips pursed, but idiocy.
“May I pet the cat?” I ask her, keeping my gaze on the dead feline. His tail twitches.
The witch pauses. “Of course,” she says after a moment. I can feel her mulling over this new interest. “Go over to him. He will not hurt you.”
I move away from her with relief, but I try to hide this by keeping my back to her as I approach the cat. She thwarts this by moving so she stands before me, where she can fully see my face.
“Does he have a name?” I ask, forcing a childish smile.
Her lips twist. Her eyes sparkle. She likes this game. “I call him… Stephen.”
“Stephen,” I repeat, stretching out my hand slowly. I’m trying to hold back my cringes, because I know what will come as soon as I touch him. Indeed, the black creature swipes his paw at me, and I withdraw with four new red scratches on my arm.
“Oh, silly animal,” the crone laughs. “I don’t know why he would do such a thing.”
I do. I press down on the blood with a corner of my skirt, glaring at the cat. Those eyes meet mind steadily, as if to say, You represent no threat to me. I wish I were a threat. I wish it was his blood spilling now and not mine.
“Malise,” the witch and I heard suddenly. “Malise.”
The witch smiled at me. “Enough of you. Go back to the smithy’s if it pleases you so much, silly child. I will see you soon.”
She does not want me to hear this conversation. I can see it in the way she twitches, in the way her smile is forced and impatient.
I wish I could hide somewhere nearby. I wish I was not tied to her. For then, then I could find her weaknesses. I could use what I know against her.
But I will wait. It will just take time. And time is all I have.
