Her feet were nimble as they pounded the pavement, each step jolting through her frail form as she ran. Her breath came in ragged gasps that materialized before her in puffs of white vapor, only to be carried away by the wind as she fled. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs as she clutched the book to her chest, hidden by her shawls.
The blood roared loudly in her ears as she trudged through the snow, but not even that was enough to drown out the roar of the crowd in pursuit of her.
Her sisters had warned her. They'd told her not to be so obtuse, to value her life and her secrecy above all else, but she'd been a fool, and look what had happened!
Her legs and her lungs both burned, and she could hear them growing louder, closer. She felt like she was going to be sick, as the dim light of the evening began to fade. The sun set over the horizon, and gave way to the inky blackness of night. She thanked the Gods; escaping under the cover of night would be so much easier.
The darkness had always been their friend – a secrecy they couldn't achieve in the stark light of day, that laid everything bare before them, from the tiny scars on their hands to the pouches around their necks and at their hips to the symbols and ancient letters scrawled across their belongings, embroidered in their clothes, drawn in the dirt behind their homes. The night had always been a kindly cover, one that provided them escape from all who wished to harm them. Nighttime was the Gods' way of saying they were watching over her and her sister.
Everyone is afraid of the dark.
As human beings, we are programmed and conditioned to fear the unknown. The dread of what's lurking beyond the light of our lanterns far outweighs our curiosity. It's an age old instinct that stretches back farther than any of us could hope to combat.
It's what keeps us alive.
Some of us have unlearned our deepest fears, waded into the unknown and grasped the strange beings they meet there firmly by the hand. They have learned to accept the eldritch forces of the world beyond the veil, the furthest reaches of our own reality.
They possess the power of belief, the infallible presence of will that drives their craft. They know that the forces will guide them, that their magic, the very lifeblood of the great beyond, is an incredible, untapped power in their hands. And so they dabble in that power, bend the universe to their will and undo the very fabric of reality if they so desire.
The power of their well-trained will is a force to be feared. Once they realize the extent of their power, that there is nothing stopping their magic so long as they believe so, then they possess power far greater than anything the mortal plane has seen. Throughout history, these rewriters of reality have been heralded and hunted, revered and resented, hailed gods and prophets and agents of the Devil himself. They've been the keys to the success of nations, the fall of civilizations, healers and leaders and consultants and teachers. They were hunted and slaughtered by the thousands, sisters and mothers and daughters taken from their homes and tried against an unfair court.
In more recent years, they've been called many things.
Hags, Crones, even Devil's Whores.
But now, they were called Witches.
Quietly, she pressed her back against the cold face of a building, feeling the clammy brick and mortar send a shiver up her spine as she pulled her hood back, her thin fingers clutching desperately to her Book of Shadows. She'd had to leave everything behind when they'd come for her, but this was the one thing she'd managed to take with her – the one thing she needed. Her Book of Shadows was invaluable, and so long as she had this, she had the power of the pantheon behind her, with all the ancient knowledge she'd been entrusted with by her sisters since her indoctrination so long ago.
She took a moment to catch her breath, feeling the chill of the sea breeze spilling in from the harbor.
If they caught her, she was almost certainly a dead woman. There was the ever slim chance that she might make it out alive, but if the slaughter of her sisters was any indication, it was far more likely she could jump headlong into the bay and survive.
If they caught her, they would soon catch her sisters. She had no doubt that they were already taking precautions, hiding themselves away from the public eye and doing their best to keep their silence while she was out here, having paid the price for letting her most sacred secrets slip. She had grown up with these people, her friends and neighbors. She'd never expected them to be so quick to want to hoist her to the gallows.
She peered around the corner, pulling her hood back over her dark hair and clutching her book to her chest as if it were a lifeline, the last safety in the world. For her, it certainly was. It was the last thing she owned in this world, now that she'd been driven from her home. She'd watched it go up in flames; no doubt they'd hoped to trap her inside.
Her footsteps echoed in her ears, far too loud for her liking as she slowly made her way down the pier. Each step was met with a wet click of her heel against the puddled boardwalk, and each pace step sent a jolt through her, expecting at any moment for those hunter her to hear the telltale sign of her escape and charge after her.
She tried her best to remain calm and collected as she moved down the pier, her eyes locked firmly on the little boat just beyond the last bracket at the edge of the dock.
She wasn't a thief. She wasn't a criminal! But she certainly wasn't going to stick around and let those men catch her and drag her back to town like escaped cattle being brought to a slaughter.
Her breath came in nervous little puffs before her as shaking, cold fingers tried to pry apart the knots that held the little boat tethered to the dock. She didn't know where she would go, or how she would get there, but she was confident that so long as she had her book and a means of escape, that she would find her way. She liked to think that she was an innovative individual, if nothing else. She'd figure it out.
She glanced over her shoulder in a cold fear – she could hear chatter carried on the wind. They were nearing!
Her heart lurched and she tried to pry the wet rope apart, her terrified fingers doing little in the way of helping as they kept slipping against the dense rope.
"Say, miss. You look like you could use some help."
She looked up, the sound coming from the darkened waters between the brackets of the dock. If she squinted, she could just make out the form of a tall man in a boat. How long had he been there? The sudden appearance of the form, not having notice him before, was a little startling to her, but she couldn't waste time worrying about her silly nerves.
"Yes!" she gasped, hearing the men grow louder as they stepped foot onto the pier. "Please!"
There was a shout, her darkened, cloaked form spotted in the lantern light of the dock. She looked back, spying three of the men rushing towards her.
The man below showed little concern. "Jump in then! I'll take you where you need to go." He offered, and she suddenly felt a massive weight lift from her shoulders as, without a second thought, Winifred Hughes jumped.
Her feet left the dock and she seemed to hang in the air for a moment as the three men rushed towards her, armed with guns and rope and a crucifix as they tried to stop her. Several gunshots went off in the still of the night, but she was too far gone by the time they flew by.
She plummeted, clutching her book, bracing herself for impact with the tiny boat. As she fell, she could swear she saw a brief flash of something – a wicked grin in the lamplight – but before it had even registered with her, she was sinking down, swallowed whole by the form of the boat below her. The moment she hit it, it shifted and changed, fluid like the sea water as it closed in around her. All was dark, and as the three men came scrambling to the edge of the dock, poised to shoot and ready to kill, they were surprised and confused to find the waters below empty, if perhaps a bit choppy.