Chapter 11
Stratford, England, 1504 ( Renaissance )
Veronica slid down the smooth trunk of a tree, ripping off flakelets of a pale white bark in the process. In her hands she held a few fruits from this particular kind of tree, as well as some leaves and twigs.
" Perfect." She declared proudly, laying these in a straw-woven basket along with all the flowers, wild herbs, and berries she'd accumulated over the past hour. Now she stood in the midst of a wild thicket in the woods. The place was alive with wet, luscious grasses, trees of every description, and more bushes and brambles than she'd ever though existed. Not to mention all the colorful wildflowers and delightful little birds and animals which called these parts home.
It was beautiful. Nothing short of the word.
With a flutter of wings, a thrush alighted on one of the topmost branches of the tree she'd just been in and began it's joyful little song. Veronica regarded it kindly, and with a warm smile.
" Why hello to you too, little thrush." She greeted, for she had always had a habit of speaking to animals even though she knew that they could not understand what she was saying. Her mother had told her never to do this around other people though, as they tended to view such actions as signs of mental illness.
Of course, thrushes do not understand French or any other language known to man, and this one was no exception. It stopped it's song to acknowledge the source of the noise; tilting and cocking it's head from side to side in swift, jerky movements, eyeing the young girl warily.
Now that she was sure she had the bird's undivided attention, Veronica dug around through her herbs basket and retrieved a nice brown pinecone. One of the smaller varieties, it was one of which she and her mother sometimes used in incantations. She held it up high between her thumb and pointer finger, showing it to the bird.
" You want to see a magic trick, Mr. Thrush? " She asked cheerfully, totally oblivious to the fact that the bird watching her happened to be a female.
The bird cocked it's head, and Veronica took that as a 'yes'. " Watch."
Slowly, and with the outmost care, she parted her fingers, concentrating entirely on the task at hand. When no part of her hand was any longer touching any part of the pinecone, it still continued to float in the air; suspended by an unseen force. After a second it began to rise; drifting higher and higher into the air until it was almost eye-level with the bird.
" Is that impressive or what? " Veronica beamed, feeling very proud of herself. She twirled her finger slightly and the pinecone began to twist midair.
The thrush was unimpressed. It's thought processes were actually very simple, and if translated to a human tongue would go something like this: The creature below me cannot fly. The creature below me is making no effort to climb up and get me. Pinecones are not predators.
In it's mind, the fact that pinecones were not usually found hovering in midair, that this shouldn't even be possible, did not register. Birds don't study physics. They can't appreciate magic when they see it. Bored, the thrush turned her head upwards, scanning the sky for hawks and other dangerous raptors.
Veronica took a bow. " Thank you." She cut the trick and let the cone plummet to earth, " I've been working on that one for a long time."
Talking to animals went hand-in-hand with always assuming they thought the best of you--or at least it did in the case of Veronica Wells. Following the bird's gaze, she noted with concern the growing darkness and thick clouds which, though they still hung in the distance, were unmistakably heading this way.
There would be a bad storm tonight. It would hit in about three hours, Veronica guessed. She shot a look around the thicket and shook her head.
" It's been really great," She informed the thrush, who couldn't have cared less, " But it's getting dark now, and Mother will want me home. Also, the woods are dangerous at night with all kinds of wild animals that might want to eat me. I'm not even supposed to be here, really. Mother would be most cross. So I bid you farewell, my feathered forest friend, and I hope to see you again! "
She spared a quick wave before gathering up the basket and heading home.
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When Veronica reached her mother's tiny cottage, she was in for a surprise. The front door sttod ajar, and the house was alive with heavy footsteps and hasty ruffling. She heard chairs thrown aside violently and was nearly hit in the head by an oil lamp flung out the window.
What's going on?! Veronica's blue-violet eyes went wide with equal portions of alarm and concern. She dashed for the door, dropping the basket of herbs.
" Moth..." A hand clasped tightly over her mouth, silencing her. She looked up into the face of a young man she had never seen before.
This stranger was in a hurry. He scooped Veronica up--it was not a hard feat, since she could not have weighed more than 65 pounds--and darted across the yard and off to the side behind a very large blackberry bush bordering one side of the house.
Veronica didn't dare to struggle, as the man holding her could very easily crush her, therefore it was probably not a good idea to make him mad.
Setting her down, the brown-haired man--he was wearing a simple tunic, betraying a low social status--pursed his lips and put a finger in front of them. " Shh. You are in danger. Stay low and do not make a sound." His words came out in a rushed, urgent whisper.
Thankfully it was French, so Veronica understood.
Seeing that the man obviously had her best interest at heart, and seeing as how she didn't have a clue as to what was going on herself, she obeyed. With a curt nod she crouched low, flattening her stomach against the ground and grimacing in discomfort as a sharp thorn pricked her flesh. Still, she did not utter a sound.
This proved to be a very wise decision, as just then a man's voice bellowed, " Where is she? Where is the witch's daughter, where is Veronica? " in a thick, heavy English. The owner of this voice was a gruff, short man around the age of thirty with long sideburns and lots of facial hair. He stepped out of the cottage with a sour expression on his face, and noticed the fallen basket.
Veronica could not see any of this because her face was practically in the dirt, but her benefactor did. He had found a peep-hole through the leaves of the bush and was watching nervously.
A quartet of men emerged from the dwelling; each clutching torches in one hand and various trinkets and personal belongings in the other.
" Sir, there's no trace of her." A guy shivered, obviously spooked, " Perhaps she turned herself into some sort of animal and escaped." His eyes fell on the basket, and his worries were magnified. " How did that get there? "
The older guy, the one who had first spoken and who was plainly the leader of the group shook his head, a frown of suspicion forming. " I do not know. We have to be very careful; the witch was clever and tried to fool us. Her daughter, likewise, will try to trick us. She will pretend to be an innocent young woman. But do not let that fool you! They are servants of the devil."
" What doth that mean? " Another asked, pointing to the overturned basket.
Leader made a face of disgust. " It is ingredients for the witches' spells! No good can come of it. Quick! Someone burn it! "
A lean young man stepped forth and kissed the little straw basket with his torch. Setting it ablaze.
Leader nodded his approval. He turned to the men with an anxious gleam in his beady eyes. " Fan out, search the countryside--we must find the witch's daughter and burn her at the stake along with her wretched mother. If she escapes, it will be ill for us all. Witches are evil, vengeful creatures. We must make sure that she doth not live to seek revenge!"
At this a wave of fear swept the face of Veronica's savior.
Because she spoke very little English--and whenever she did try and speak it most people gave her funny looks or out and out laughed--Veronica did not understand much of what was being said. Two words she recognized for sure though were 'witch' and her name, and that was more than cause for alarm. There was no way that could be a good sign.
The stranger who had rescued her thrust his arms into the briars, ignoring the sharp prickles of pain, and parted the leaves to reveal a small natural tunnel leading through to the center of the bush.
" Get in! " He directed in a quiet, yet powerful whisper, " And once you are in, do not come out or you will be killed. Stay there and do not make a noise until I come for you, which will be after dark. I'll explain later. Understand? "
Veronica nodded to show that she did and crawled in among the leaves and thorns. It hurt, but it was a blessing compared to what she knew would await her if she refused. Though a bit strange, Veronica was not in the least stupid. She understood someone had found out about her and her mother being Wiccans, or, as these ignorant people put it, 'witches'.
Her mother had told her time and time again about what was in store for those who practiced 'witchcraft': about the terrible tortures and the painful deaths. Yet in spite of it all she had continued to do it; continued to concoct her herbal remedies and use what magic she had to heal the sick and bless the town. She had still continued to pray to Hecatate and other deities. And she had passed this tradition down to her offspring.
All in the face of the superstitious times they lived in.
Indeed, Margaret was not evil. Just...different, and stubborn. She had devoted her life to this particular belief, knowing full well the consequences and yet choosing to ignore them. Choosing to keep her religion and spitting in the face of the very idea of being caught.
Part of Veronica hated her for that. Curling into the fetal position among a painful nest of thorns and smooshed blackberries, she shut her eyes tightly. Held back the stinging tears she wanted to cry. She was worried about her mother, but to shed a tear around these witch hunters would be fatal. She would have to wait quietly until either the stranger returned at night or her mother came for her.
The man who had rescued Veronica emerged from behind the bush, knowing that the others might have heard a rustle and determined to protect the child within. He was meant with anxious eyes.
" Stilling! Where hast thee been? "Leader barked, his tone as friendly as a rabid dog's.
Veronica's rescuer--Stilling--shook his head. " I was just checking the area for the witch's daughter. I think she may have went into the forest." He replied in fluid English, nodding towards the woods.
Would the trick work?
Leader scratched his beard stubble, considering. The other men waited for his orders. Stilling held his breath.
" Hmm...I think thee may be right." He turned to the assembled men. " Gentlemen! Where is the most likely place to find a fleeing witch? The woods! Go forth and find her. Kill any suspicious animals thee may cometh across. One you find her, drag the demon back to town so she may die with her mother. Go! " He brought his hands together in a loud clap and the others moved out.
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It was well into nightfall before Stilling arrived for Veronica. When he found her, she was shivering in the bush: wet cold, stiff, and scared.
" It's alright." He cooed gently, " Come out now and I will take you to safety."
Veronica emerged--a shivering, shaking mess. Though it had been only hours, she felt as if she'd been there for days. She could barely see Stilling's shape outlined against the consuming darkness, let alone see the grim expression on his face. A few feet away, a horse neighed softly.
Slowly, she rose to her feet. Stilling wrapped her in a blanket and carried her over to his horse.
" Wha...what happened to my mother? " Veronica coughed, an emotional wreck.
Stilling sat her gently in a little place he'd made for her --a kind of second saddle--close to the horse's rump. " I am sorry, Ms. Veronica, but your mother was tried, convicted of witchcraft, and burned at the stake. All this happened hours ago...long before the storm hit." His voice was sympathetic, understanding. " We must leave now and go far, far away from here. To stay would mean your death. We can start anew. I will care for you now."
He climbed into the saddle and spurred the horse to go. " My name is James by the way. James Stilling."
Tears dripped down Veronica's cheeks, disguised by the rain. " Not that I am not grateful beyond words, but I...I don't understand something. Do you think I am a witch? " Her voice came out small and weak.
" No." James said flatly, " I don't believe in witches. Any little bad thing that happens that can't be explained, people blame it all on 'witches'. They are afraid of the inexplicable. Witchcraft is their way of explaining the unknown. And it's not fair to the innocent people who get caught up in and killed in these messes."
The horse broke into a gallop along a dirt path out of town. Fortunately it was night, and a stormy one at the night. No one traveled in conditions like this. They would be able to escape town unobserved.
