A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
We're getting close to the end...
Chapter 13 – The Wind
Andover Village, Massachusetts Bay Colony - October 29, 1692
The morning's nausea grows as Mother and I briskly make our way to market. For the entire walk, the wind battles us, beckoning us back the way we came. And so every step forward be hard-won. Dry, brittle leaves and bits of flying debris attack our faces. Mine eyes water, and my vision blurs. The empty basket in my hand sways and threatens to blow away, carrying me off. 'Tis almost as if the wind wants us away.
Nevertheless, I maintain a tight grip on the basket. With my free hand, I clamp my hood round my face. Mine ears and cheeks sting from the biting cold that winds under my cloak and climbs like ivy up mine skirts.
Shivering, my mind attempts to warm me by gifting me visions of Edward, my Soaring Eagle. Yet, for a handful of moments, I forget what I know, what I have seen, and what he himself has told me, and I worry for him out in this bluster, racing through lands of which I know very little. I know not where he shall traverse, what manner of beasts he shall encounter, nor what dangers he shall face as he searches for his Aunt Aquinnah. And so the follow-on shivers that race up my spine have naught to do with the cold.
Then I recall that Edward be the strongest being I have ever known. Moreover, he feels neither hot nor cold. He shall be well, and he shall return for me as soon as may be. And then, with his powerful frame wrapped around me and our bodies joined as one, I shall never be cold again.
"What causes such a wondrous smile, Isabella," Mother inquires, "in conditions such as these, and when ye be feeling poorly?"
Her gaze remains forward, and as I realize how incautious I have been, I concurrently think of how to reply without further inciting her curiosity.
"I merely dream of warmer days, Mother," reply I truthfully yet vaguely.
She does not answer immediately. When she does, she first stops and rounds on me so suddenly that my breath catches in my throat. Mine eyes, which had been narrowed against the wind, grow round when her palm rests on my cheek. For, between Mother and Father, Mother has been the least demonstrative with her affections.
"As do we all, daughter. Yet I have learned in my four-and-thirty years that warmer days come not without sacrifice. And aye, I…I be willing to sacrifice," nods she vehemently, "if it means my child shall feel that warmth promised to our forefathers when they left England for this land, yet it still eludes us. Perhaps our ancestors were cursed. Perhaps we cursed ourselves."
"Mother, I do not understand."
She offers me a brisk, wistful smile, her lips trembling before she speaks again with strength.
"We have arrived, Isabella. Let us procure what we need without excess conversation so that we may return home with haste."
"Aye, Mother."
She turns and walks toward the market, and I follow. To save time, we have split our list, and I know what I am to procure. So while Mother heads to her section of the market, I move toward mine.
A cacophony of villagers call out their offerings, and purchasers shout their corresponding requests. The noise rises and mingles with the whistling wind. Market Day be full. 'Tis the final one, the last opportunity we in Andover have to trade and purchase what we shall need for the long winter. Or, in my case, what mine parents shall need for I will not be here.
'Tis in this nostalgia that I wind my way through the crowd of fellow villagers, smiling at one and all and in a charitable frame of mind to forgive all real and imagined faults experienced at their hands throughout mine eighteen years. For I shall never see any of them again. Here be Goody Stanley with Jessica, the former who once tended to a scrape of mine when her daughter and I were little girls and fell whilst running. I now see the scolding she offered me for being the race's instigator as a mild, insignificant thing. There be Angela with Goody Weber, the latter who once gifted me with a cornhusk doll so that I would cease my caterwauling, as she called it, when I lost my rag doll while at Sunday school. Aye, 'twas good of her to shape me the pretty doll.
I keep the greetings short, for Mother has warned me. Moreover, 'tis an energy in the air as if everyone this morn be eager to return to the relative warmth and safety of their hearths. Nonetheless, I smile at all, for I know 'tis my final opportunity to do so.
My smile only wanes when Goody Platt, with her old and shriveled façade, appears abruptly before me in the crowd. Catching me unaware, she plucks my right hand in a hard grip. With a noise of startlement, I attempt to pull away. Still, she only squeezes tighter, glaring at me through the filmy opaqueness of her ancient eyes.
"Where be thy rings, girl?" demands she.
"Pardon?"
"Thy rings! The ones I gave ye!" screeches she with such force that mine eyes instinctively search left and right, expecting all around us to have stopped in shock at such a sight. I am left further disconcerted when all continue about their business, with nary a glance our way. I see Mother a few yards away, with a root in hand. When she glances in my direction, I am sure she shall, at the very least, appear as puzzled as I. Or, she shall stride over and demand Goody Platt release me.
Instead, she merely offers me a soft smile. She returns to conducting business with the root's grower as if she has seen nothing more than I, standing alone.
"Goody Platt, release my hand," say I with more courage than I feel.
"The rings!" shouts she.
"My hand itched, and I, therefore, removed them!" I shout back.
"You stupid girl!" cries she. "Those rings were all that would keep ye protected from her!"
I shake my head. "I know not what ye mean, Goody Platt. Release my hand, I pray ye."
Her foggy gaze penetrates and sends a shudder through me before panning over my shoulder. She shakes her head. When she again meets my eyes, her fury be abated. Nothing but undisguised sympathy be in her soupy gaze.
"I did it for him, for despite his betrayal, I know he loved me still, and so I came to this land with those rings in search of he. Yet, I never found he."
"Ye speak in riddles, Goody Platt."
"And not finding him," continues she, moving in closer and dropping her voice to a whisper, "I protected ye for his son. But now…ye shall soon know of what I speak. May fortune be with ye, child," says she, pulling back, "for the Lord's protection no longer be."
She takes a handful of steps backward before turning. With slow, unsteady footing, Goody Platt vanishes amongst the crowd. For a long moment, I stare after her in bewilderment. My heart races. When I turn round, Rosalie stands before me.
"Rosalie!" gasp I audibly, setting a palm upon mine heart.
"Did I startle thee?"
"Aye," I nod.
She says nothing more, merely watching as the wind blows at her cloak and skirts.
"How do ye?" I add now that the initial moment of fright has passed, inquiring softly, for all those tender moments of reminiscence held before hold doubly with Rosalie; she and I were once best friends. I see not one moment of companionship, but dozens in my mind's eye.
Still, she makes no reply.
"Rosalie, mean ye never to speak to me again? I know not where or why our friendship faltered," I say, "but allow us to heal the breach so that we…" I pause, and as I hold a hand out to her, the very hand her grandmother just left throbbing, I reconsider what I was about to say, which was a wish to not part forever on bad terms. For I cannot mention such things. Instead, I prepare to say-
"Emmett," says she before I may say anything.
"Emmett?" echo I in a whisper, once again examining mine surroundings. For we are in the midst of the entire village and likely not the best place for such a discussion. But, as with the dispute with her grandmother, 'twould appear no one notes us. Nonetheless, I continue in a voice barely above a breath. "'Twas he why ye ceased speaking to me?"
She offers me a slow nod. "At first, aye.
"I did not want him, Rosalie," say I with a vigorous shake of my head, "I never wanted him as more than a friend."
"But he wanted ye, and he was plain about it."
"I did all I could to discourage him and to turn his interest in thy direction, I promise ye."
"I know," agrees she in equal whispers, her tone calm and controlled. "Do ye recall, Isabella, when we were young girls?"
"Aye, Rosalie," I say with a gentle smile. "I was just recalling some of our finest moments of friendship."
Again, she nods. "Do ye recall what the adults around us used to call us – the light-haired beauty and the dark-haired wit."
"Aye."
She cocks her head. "When did ye become both the beauty and the wit, Isabella?"
"Rosalie, I-"
"Had ye not led Emmett into the woods that day, perhaps all would have resolved itself."
All my breath leaves me in a dizzying rush. Shock at her knowledge of the event gives way to alarm at her having uttered such a thing in public. Again, I look around. Again, no one appears aware of us in the least. Everyone rushes about, purchasing what they need before the cold around us sets in until spring.
Rosalie, however, notes my qualms. "Worry not, they cannot hear."
"How is that-"
"As I was saying, I be confident that had ye not led Emmett astray, he would have eventually seen reason."
"I led him into nothing," I spit through mine teeth.
She raises a dubious brow, and when she replies, she does so in the slow manner of an adult speaking to a naïve child.
"Isabella, men may be the stronger sex, but they are weak-minded creatures. They cannot be expected to turn down what is made readily available. By walking into the thicket with Emmett, ye made thyself readily available."
"He meant to ravish me, Rosalie!" hiss I under my breath, unable to keep mineself from examining mine surroundings again. "How can ye blame me for that? And not all men are weak-minded. Not all men-"
Here, I cut myself off, but my chest heaves, and flaring nostrils invite biting, chilling wind like sharp icicles up my nose. An uproarious riot of emotions roils within me. Still, when Rosalie grins, fury and mere trepidation morph instantly into terrifying dread. For this be not the young woman with whom I grew up. I am not sure who she is. I do not think I ever truly knew.
"Ye speak of being ravished, yet ye emerged from those woods not only unscathed but with doubly the protection with which ye entered, did ye not?"
"I know not of what ye speak," I lie.
She sees easily through me, just as I now see through her; at least, sufficiently to know she is not my friend, not anymore. She is more than a foe. She is my nightmare coming to life.
"Truly know ye not?" mocks she. "Isabella, ye had Grandmother's rings on thy finger…and the most beautiful, powerful creature I had ever beheld at your side." At this point, her tone cannot be called anything other than covetous awe. "Why, had I not read of his existence in Grandmother's journal, of the existence of beautiful, immortal souls capable of bestowing their beauty and immortality on those they bed, I would have been as bewildered as ye are now."
By this point, though I only comprehend bits and pieces of what Rosalie speaks, 'tis enough to stun me, to terrify me beyond speech. To warn me of what…of who she wants.
"He is mine," hiss I instinctively, protectively.
"And so Emmett becomes the least of what lies between our friendship, does he not? But I shall repeat Grandmother's query, Isabella. Where be thy rings? And furthermore…" says she, while I glare at her with more hatred in mine soul than I ever thought I would feel, "where is thy beautiful, protective lover?" Before I may wish her to the deepest pits of hell, she moves in close and adds, "Do not worry, dear friend, for he shall not be lonely for long."
"Over mine-"
"WITCH!" cries she as she pulls back.
My breath hitches wildly. "What do you do, Rosalie?"
"Ye bewitched him!" shouts she. "Thou art a witch!"
"Utter not such blasphemy!" hiss I, my gaze sweeping around us, praying that the inexplicable state of inconspicuousness in which we found ourselves wrapped for the past few minutes remains intact.
All market activity has ceased. Dozens- nay scores of pairs of confused…of wary eyes be on us. On me.
"I observed you smiling during the prayer service for Emmett!" Rosalie shrieks.
"She often does smile during prayers," I hear someone whisper.
"Aye. Ye are correct," someone else replies. "She does. 'Tis blasphemous."
"Ye smiled because ye bewitched Emmett, and ye mean to bewitch all the villagers!"
A collective gasp rises up.
"Rosalie, no," say I quietly, my voice shaking, my entire being quivering. "I beg ye. No."
"A red-eyed demon!" adds she instead. "She communes with a red-eyed demon!"
Shutting mine eyes, I plead, choking back a sob, "Do not do this. I implore ye."
"She be a witch, and she communes with darkness!"
More voices now join the debate, each one more phobic and averse than the one before.
"Did she say, witch?"
"And demons…with red eyes?"
"Dear God in heaven, save us."
Above the growing din, Mother's voice erupts. "Isabella?"
My eyes shoot to where she stands eerily still, holding on to her ginger root, her features inscrutable, yet her gaze petrified. She takes a step forward toward me. A pair of arms encircle her from behind. A fellow goody, protecting her.
"Nay, Goody Swan! Thy daughter is lost!"
"Let go of me," Mother says. At first, her voice be even and firm, the calm tone I recognize from my childhood, from all mine life, the manner of a puritan woman who walks everywhere with her head high.
But the arms enfolding her fail to obey her dictate. Moreover, another pair joins in.
"Goody Swan, for thine own good, ye must stay back from it!"
'Tis when Mother's calm act crumbles.
"ISABELLA!"
"Mother!" cry I.
"Release me! Release me! My daughter needs me!"
"Goody Swan, your daughter be a witch!"
"No! No!"
"'Tis true!" Rose yells. She lifts a long, thin finger and points at me accusingly, her features contorted by her vitriol. "Thou art a witch, and ye commune with darkness!"
"Rosalie, cease your lies!" I refute.
"I saw you!" Rosalie cries out. "I saw with mine own eyes as you led Emmett into the woods!"
"I did nothing to him! He lied to me!"
Before I may continue my attempt to exonerate mineself, to try to salvage the situation before it grows further out of hand, Rosalie angles her head sharply to the sky. The shrill scream she emits pierces mine eardrums, for I am the nearest to her by far. I cover mine ears.
"Look! It hurts her ears because she be a witch!"
Rose continues screaming with so much revulsion and terror that the townspeople begin crying out with her. Children cry. Their parents shout at me to stop. All step further away from me while the echo of my former best friend's fear carries in the wind. When it finally, blessedly ends, I have a mere fraction of a moment to breathe in relief before Rosalie wraps her arms around her midsection.
"She hurts me! Help me! Help me! She casts her red-eyed spirit over me and hurts me! Help!" With one final, cut-off plea, Rosalie falls into a faint.
For an eternal moment, the town falls silent.
"Someone fetch Reverend Newton before the witch escapes!"
"Grab her before she may call upon more demons to help her flee!"
"NO!" Mother howls.
And as a mob of arms grab me forcefully and twist me into painful contortions, my empty basket falls to the ground. The last thing I see before I am dragged away is the basket rolling with the wind, carried away from madness.
A/N: Thoughts?
A few chapters ago, someone (I'm so sorry, I can't remember exactly who!) corrected me when I said "ravage" instead of "ravish." So thank you so much if I haven't gotten around to thanking you. That being said, I also haven't gotten a chance to go back and correct it in the chapter where I made that mistake. However, I kept the correction in mind and called it what it is in this chapter. So thanks again. :)
Chapter Song Rec: Dark Horse, covered by Sleeping At Last (originally performed by Katy Perry).
Make me your Aphrodite
Make me your one and only
But don't make me your enemy
Your enemy, your enemy
So you wanna play with magic?
Boy, you should know what you're fallin' for
Baby, do you dare to do this?
'Cause I'm coming at you like a dark horse
Are you ready for a perfect storm?
'Cause once you're mine, there's no going back
Facebook: Stories by PattyRose
Twitter: PattyRosa817
"See" you soon!