Toil & Trouble Page 4

  Speak the name of your mother three times

  A paste of water, flour, and mustard rubbed on the nail with a freshly cut onion

  Collect a cup of the water, drink it immediately after you know the man whose seed you desire

  Soak the afflicted toes in a bowl of water and oak leaves

  “On the Bearing of Desired Fruit”

  Instructions for getting with child, buried within sentences about another remedy. Wide awake with curiosity, I continued to read. The next several pages contained nothing unusual, but then I came upon The Shadow of Mary, another odd malady I’d never encountered, this one to address the numbness of earlobes. Again, halfway through the recipe were sentences out of place. This time they described a method for finding someone who is lost.

  I did not sleep the rest of that night. When dawn crept through the window, I had collected a treasure of hidden gems and stowed them in my mind.

  * * *

  Mr. Smyth: Who is the father of Sarah Cooke’s babe?

  Mrs. Prower: I do not know.

  Mr. Smyth: Did you ask for the name of the father while she labored, as is custom?

  Mrs. Prower: Yes. I asked for the name.

  Mr. Smyth: But she did not give a name?

  Mrs. Prower: She gave no name...but she did speak. She spoke one word.

  Mr. Smyth: What word did she speak?

  Mrs. Prower: Master.

  Mr. Smyth: Did you take any meaning from this word?

  Mrs. Prower: At first, I did not understand. But when I saw the monster she had birthed and after I had consulted with Reverend Alcott, the signs became clearer. She named the father, her true master. The Deceiver. The Devil.

  Mr. Smyth: Why do you believe the Devil to be Sarah Cooke’s master?

  Mrs. Prower: Because she kept company with no man in the village, but took long walks alone in the wilderness. And the Devil resides in the wilderness, so Reverend Alcott has taught us.

  * * *

  Midwife Ley and I are toiling in the garden when the four men arrive: Reverend Alcott, Judge Prower, and Magistrates Smyth and Hammond. We carry the crib outside and the babe sleeps between us as we pull weeds and the nanny goat grazes nearby. For a child borne of such violence, she is astonishingly peaceful, rarely crying or even fussing. She does not yet have a name, nor is there any certainty as to her future. She is an orphan, like me.

  I stay on my knees, gazing up at the men while my fingers dig into the earth, needing its steadiness. Midwife Ley rises, brushes the dirt from her hands, and faces the visitors.

  Magistrate Smyth speaks first. “Midwife Ley, you have been accused of consorting with the Devil, of the practice of witchcraft, and of murder.”

  “I am innocent.” My mistress is straight-backed, her face calm.

  My fingers have clawed so deep into the ground that my hands are buried to the wrist. Beside me, the baby stirs and makes a small, mewling sound of distress. The nanny goat lifts her head and bleats.

  “You will answer these accusations at your trial,” says Judge Prower. “Through the course of which, you shall be confined to the stockade.”

  “If it must be so,” Midwife Ley replies. “I will come with you.”

  I pull my hands from the garden, soil raining down on my skirts as I stand. I must speak for my mistress. I must tell them she has done no wrong. They cannot take her away.

  But Midwife Ley silences me with a look. Her face shows not fear, only resolve, and I marvel at her courage, though my heart is rent in two.

  Reverend Alcott’s attention is drawn to the infant, who has begun to cry.

  “Has your apprentice the skills needed to care for this child?” he asks as I take the babe from her crib and try to soothe her.

  “She does,” Midwife Ley tells him. “Moreover, she has skill enough to tend to any sickness in the village and to aid with any birth.”

  I can do nothing but hold the child close to me as they lead my mistress away.

  * * *

  Mr. Hammond: You accuse Judge Prower of adultery? A man of upstanding character and great esteem in our village. A man who cannot defend himself because he has traveled to Boston on business.

  Miriam Ley: I make no accusation, sir, only offer another interpretation of the word master. For Judge Prower was Sarah Cooke’s master, and she could have named him thus.

  Mr. Hammond: Can you bring forth a witness to corroborate this testimony? Have you evidence that Judge Prower had carnal knowledge of his servant Sarah Cooke?

  Miriam Ley: Goodwife Prower and Deliverance Pond heard her utterance in the birthing room. I give no testimony except to question the meaning of her word.

  * * *

  I am present when they search my mistress’s house. I stand aside and think on the things that make this house my home. The single room with hearth and chimney against one wall, a square table and two chairs near the door, two narrow beds at the far side of the room. Always it smells of drying herbs. When I first stepped through the door, I was overwhelmed by the marvelous unction. Now I can separate and identify each plant and its properties by scent alone. While the baby girl squirms and fusses in my arms—something she never does when we are alone—Magistrates Hammond and Smyth empty the cupboard and the chests. They unfold quilts and blankets. They lift the mattresses and hunt beneath the beds and find the empty wooden box. Twelve books are confiscated.

  I close my eyes and catalog the herbs that hang along the walls, remembering what is missing and should be gathered soon from garden or forest.

  * * *

  Judge Prower: Midwife Ley, you have been found guilty of consorting with the Devil, of the practice of witchcraft, and of the murder of Sarah Cooke. Should you confess your crimes now, the court may show mercy in passing your sentence.

  Miriam Ley: I have committed no crimes.

  * * *

  The stockade is damp, the heated summer air close. No good for any person, but especially not for an infant. I know I cannot linger.

  Midwife Ley turns her face away from the small, square opening in the cell door. I do not like the hacking sound that spills from her lungs.

  “I will bring you a tonic for your cough,” I tell her. “Do you have a fever, as well?”

  “It does not matter,” Midwife Ley says after the coughing fit has passed. “Nor should you bring me a tonic. You must stay away from this place, Deliverance. You must shun my company.”

  The hot air does not keep me from shivering at her words. “I will not abandon you.”

  “I will be gone soon enough.” Midwife Ley does not sound afraid, but I wish she would not sound so certain. “I am condemned and will hang, though perhaps not before this sickness takes me.”

  “Do not speak thusly,” I argue. “You have done nothing wrong.”

  Midwife Ley coughs again, then smiles sadly. “In my mind and yours I have done no wrong. But my words contradicted those of our minister and the judge’s wife. I alone raised the possibility that the judge got a child by his servant. In the eyes of the village, my truths cannot be suffered to live.”

  “Let me go before the magistrates again. I could do more to affirm your testimony.” I lower my voice. “What if...what if I showed them the book?”

  Midwife Ley hisses, and then the hiss becomes another fit of coughing that lasts and lasts. When it finally ceases, she shakes her head.

  “To show them the book would only mean you swing from a noose beside me,” she says.

  “But there is no devil in the book,” I whisper. “No evil.”

  “Deliverance, they will see the Devil in those pages because they will choose to.” Her gray gaze shifts to the babe in my arms. “She looks well.”

  “She is healthy and strong.” Despite my sorrow, I cannot stop my smile when I look down at her little face. “And very greedy for goat
’s milk.”

  “Good,” says Midwife Ley. “She is fortunate to have a skilled midwife to care for her.”

  I look at my mistress. “I am only an apprentice.”

  “No more,” Midwife Ley tells me. “Deliverance, you have honored me with your love and loyalty, but you cannot save me.”

  “But—”

  “Save yourself,” she continues. “Save the child. You are free of suspicion now, but I do not know for how long. And that babe, so innocent...the shadow of her birth will haunt her all the days of her life, as will the whispers of cruel, sharp tongues. That is...if she remains here.”

  I turn my eyes to the child again, my fingers gently touching her cheek. She is asleep, safe from the sorrows and horrors of this stockade.

  “She does not have a name,” I murmur. The tears gathering on my cheeks threaten to spill onto the peaceful infant.

  “You will find one for her.” Midwife Ley smiles at me, but her eyes are glistening, too.

  * * *

  Mr. Hammond: An examination of Midwife Ley’s body was made by the leading women of this village?

  Mrs. Prower: Myself, Goodwife Smyth, Goodwife Hammond, and Goodwife Alcott examined Midwife Ley as ordered by the magistrates.

  Mr. Hammond: Upon your examination, what did you discover?

  Mrs. Prower: We discovered a witch’s teat upon her right thigh and a birthmark upon her left breast in the shape of horns.

  Mr. Hammond: Were your discoveries confirmed by a second examination?

  Mrs. Prower: A second examination was attended by Reverend Alcott, who confirmed our discoveries and their interpretation as signs of the Deceiver.

  * * *

  The last thing I do before leaving Midwife Ley’s house is to open the book to its first page.

  To:

  Miriam Ley b. 1610

  I add:

  d. 1650

  Then, just below, I write:

  Deliverance Pond b. 1634

  To the north, along the coast, there are fishing settlements where English, Dutch, and Algonquin peoples live and trade together, shirking the fastidious rules of Boston, Plymouth, and like-minded colonies. Or I could go east, into the woods more dense and dark, where I might live with Papists and their priests, whom Reverend Alcott denounces as just as devilish as any witch. In his mind my soul would be imperiled, but among the Jesuits I would be safe from this village’s judgments. I would have to learn French, but I have a quick mind and a willing spirit.

  I know not where this journey will end, only that it will be a place in want of a midwife and healer. Somewhere that welcomes a young mother, named Deliverance, and her daughter, called Miriam.

  * * * * *

  THE HEART IN HER HANDS

  by Tess Sharpe

  BETTINA CLARKE HAS never had much time for destiny.

  She’s sixteen when she feels the burn of the soulmark work its way to the surface of her skin. She’s in the tea shop alone when she feels it, but instead of lifting her shirt eagerly to see the words emblazoned on her hip, she shifts behind the counter, trying to ignore the pain. Her fingers clench around the canister she’s filling, and she has to uncurl them and breathe deep. Still she does not look.

  Not all acolytes of Lady Fate feel the burn of the mark, but the Clarke witches have followed Her longer than most. Every witch in her family for generations has carried Lady Fate’s mark. It is the Clarke way.

  She thought she’d have more time.

  Later that night as she undresses for bed, she finally looks down on the mark embedded in her skin. Her fingers trace the letters on her hip, a dreadful tightness gripping her chest.

  Bette, huh? Not Betty?

  The first words her soul mate will speak to her.

  The mark means they’re coming. And soon.

  Bette wants nothing to do with them.

  * * *

  She tells no one. Not Brenna. Not her mother. Not even Auggie, who shows up the next morning. Her ever-present bandanna—to keep her curls in check when she bakes—has rainbow skulls on it today. It’s one of the sixteen carefully chosen ones Bette got her for her last birthday. A bandanna for each year.

  “Jasmine water and honey,” Auggie says, thrusting a scone, wrapped in a vintage handkerchief, at Bette.

  Bette takes an obedient bite, her lips almost brushing against Auggie’s thumb. The scone’s crisscrossed with golden icing and the sugar flakes just so as the taste sweeps through her senses, the delicate jasmine floating through the deeper notes of the honey.

  Auggie looks at her expectantly, and Bette wipes the crumbs off the corner of her mouth. “Really good,” she says.

  “Better than the rosewater ones from last week?”

  Bette tries not to smile. Auggie is her own biggest critic. “The ones from last week had candied ginger chunks. You know I’m biased when it comes to anything ginger.”

  “You and your spicy things,” Auggie says, making it almost sound like a scolding. “Come on.” She hands her the rest of the scone and takes the travel mug of tea out of Bette’s hand without asking if it’s hers. “We need to get going.”

  “Wild grapes again?” Bette asks, as they get into Auggie’s VW van. They spend hours in the woods this time of year, gathering the forest’s bounty long forgotten by anyone who doesn’t know the hidden paths.

  “Violets,” Auggie says. “I’m making flavored sugar and your sister needs some for a new tea blend.”

  They hike deep into the woods to gather the violets that grow in the shadow of Castella, and Bette lies on the forest floor, her head in Auggie’s lap, as Auggie weaves wild sweet peas and braids into her red hair.

  As the sun begins to set, they head back out of the forest, and before they part, Bette squeezes Auggie’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

  Auggie laughs at her and asks, “Where would you go, weirdo?” and tells her to go get ready for Circle.

  Bette tries to ignore the burn of the mark against her skin.

  * * *

  This is the thing about Bette: She will never let anyone control her again. Not even Fate Herself.

  She wears gold plaited around each of her wrists, a series of delicate chains twisted together in nine-stranded braids. When she was five and her power blossomed, her wrists were snapped into leather cuffs crafted by the Elders. They were butter soft, but the magic in them was itchy and uncomfortable. They were spelled so that only her mother’s touch released her from them. Only then would she be allowed to use her power—when her mother or the Elders deemed it.

  It was for her own good, they said. Healing Hands are dangerous when they belong to a young witch. Her magic might go wild, racing to heal everything she touched before anyone stopped her. It could drain her, leave her a lifeless husk before anyone had time to intervene. She needed to learn control, they said. By being controlled.

  When she was eleven, her father took her on a hike. Just the two of them.

  She came back. Her father didn’t.

  It hadn’t been quick. The rock slide had pinned them both, and he’d used whatever magic he had left to move the rocks off of her.

  She’d been helpless. Trapped not by the rocks, but by the Elders’ spell. She’d watched her father die because she couldn’t heal her broken leg and go get help.

  When the search party had finally found them, nearly a day later, Bette refused to let the Elders come near his body at first. She had hissed and screamed and spat at them while her mother made sounds Bette had never heard a human make, and it was the first time she’d looked at her and actually hated someone.

  Even then, after all of that, after the pain and the nightmares and the grief that still sits heavy in her heart, the Elders refused to release her.

  It was not the way things were done. Even after such a tragedy.

&nb
sp; Fate takes us when She chooses, Bettina, they said.

  That was the first time Bette thought: Screw Fate.

  It took months to craft the spell. But she was patient. She gathered the ingredients when her mother wasn’t paying attention. Her sister was too deep in her own grief to see that Bette’s had turned to rage, but she could hardly blame Brenna for that. When Bette was finally ready, she slipped out during the full moon to venture deep into the forest at Castella’s base, where a ring of thirteen volcanic stones lay, long forgotten: a perfect circle of power.

  She’d plaited the chains under the light of the harvest moon, sitting cross-legged in the center of the stone circle, stripped down to her skin and shivering in the autumn air. With each loop and twist of the chains in her fingers, she hummed a tuneless song, drawing the heat buried deep in the stones to the surface and into the braid. The gold glowed hot and red and then orange as she continued to hum.

  Her magic, a dark green twist, was like springtime, and roots thrusting through the soil, and the soft brush of a girl’s hand against her own. The feeling twined around her veins and muscles and bones, settling there. She sealed the braids with her blood, grave dirt, and three tears collected from grieving hearts, and when she wrapped the chains around her wrists, they burned the leather—and the Elders’ spell—to ash.

  She blew the soot gently off her skin, away from the gold braids, and for the first time since her power had blossomed as a child, she felt free.

  When she saw Bette’s chains and felt the old magic of Castella in them, her mother was furious. “What were you thinking?” she demanded, her violet eyes sparking with power.

  “It’s my choice,” Bette replied.

  “You’re a healer, Bettina,” her mother spat out. “There is no choice. We belong to the Lady, to our Circle. As healers, our lives are theirs; we are integral to the health and bounty of the Circle.”

  Her mother had done everything right in her life. Growing up, she had obeyed the Elders. Her Hands had been bound until she was twenty-one, and it would have never occurred to her to burn herself free. She had helped grow the Circle by having daughters, she had taken her mother’s place among the Elders when Gran finally passed through the veil, and even now, with her husband dead and her child at war with her, she stood tall.