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.

Chapter 14 - The Seidr Witch

Massachusetts Bay Colony - Andover Village, October 30, 1692

When I was a child of about six years, Mother, Father, and I, along with most residents of Andover save for the sick and infirm, took a trip to Salem Town. The purpose of the fifteen-mile journey by a caravan of ox carts was to attend the ordination of Salem Village's new pastor. In those days, the villages of Andover and Salem were under the same Royal charter, issued by King Charles of England to the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The Charter belonged to Salem Town proper, but all villages surrounding Salem Town were bound by it, and so all participated in the welcome of Salem Village's new minister.

"He be their second pastor in three years and likely not their last. For I cannot imagine ministering the contentious and oft disputing residents of Salem Village be rewarding." I recall Father hissing this as he drove the cart, with an askance glance toward Mother, one that I, being the curious child I was, clearly observed while sat in the cart's wagon.

"Hush, husband. We arrive." Mother's reply was delivered succinctly, quietly, with her typical serene gaze focused on the town before her and her countenance as inscrutable as ever. For we rode in one line with our neighbors, carts ahead of us and carts behind us, and 'A woman who allows simple deduction of her countenance also allows simple dictation of her life,' were words I oft heard from her.

I now begin to understand Mother much better.

But back to that day.

As one cohesive group, we traveled to minimize the risk of attack by the natives. Having safely reached Salem Town and entered its limits, we rode to the meeting house via a road parallel to the misty port. I recall the port bustling with life. A ship had recently come in, and through the damp, gray fog, the mast could be seen rippling in the sea breeze, the wind whistling through it and carrying the pungent odor of sea and fish wafting inland. 'Twas a malodor, yet I found it fascinating because I had never smelt it.

There was more I had never observed, such as the men unloading crate after crate, hefting them down wooden planks. They were clothed peculiarly in woolen caps that covered their ears, black kerchiefs knotted 'round their necks, and loose flowing shirts worn without tunics and gathered into hose much wider than those worn by Father. These men shouted to one another in loud, gruff voices, using words I had never heard at that age.

"Isabella, cover thy young ears," Mother called over her shoulder.

I obeyed – with the barest pressure to mine ears, which did not hinder my auditory abilities. A good thing, for I clearly heard the ensuing exchange between Mother and Father.

"Husband, cannot we take another route that does not expose thy daughter to such scandalous occurrings?"

"The road be the road, wife; I cannot move it."

Satisfied with the exchange's outcome, I returned to the arresting sights. Their powers of enchantment only decreased when the nebulous blanket of mist suddenly moved aside, and I beheld the bay's dark waters beyond the ships, crates, and mob. Thousands upon thousands of the sun's rays lay hidden just below the water's surface, their light straining to break free. I could almost feel their desperation. Moreover, this gleam spread far and wide, all the way to where the water met the horizon, for as far as the eye could behold.

My breath hitched, for I had never seen such a sight. I had no words with which to speak of it. I had nothing to which it could compare, not as I do now. Suddenly, I was sprinting headlong toward it, mine hair sprung loose from my cap and waving much as the mast before me. Mother, abandoning her serenity, shrieked.

"Isabella! Charles, she surely shall jump!"

I admit I may have. All I knew at that moment was that I simply had to touch the sun's rays. And so we shall never know what would have won out once I reached the port's edge: curiosity \or fear of the unknown. For 'twas only two or three seconds later that Father caught me by the waist and hefted me in the manner of a sailor hefting his cargo.

"Badly done, Isabella," Father scolded on the walk back to the cart, holding me in his arms, his voice shaking from what I now realize was as much fear as fury. "Very badly done."

"I wished to see the water closer, Father, and the way the sun…" I wriggled my fingers, knowing no other way to describe it.

I also now realize that Father's upper lip twitched below his mustache in an attempt to stifle a smile. He deposited me on the cart's seat betwixt he and Mother. And so, my run earned me further curtailment. My dismay at having lost the small freedom of riding in the back of the cart must have shown in my expression because Father offered some consolation in the form of a new word.

"The word ye seek is sparkle."

Before I could rejoice in this new knowledge, a sharp pain struck my ear, and I cried out. Yet the pressure only increased, the agony augmenting.

"Encourage her not, for she already recognizes precious few boundaries. Never do that again, Isabella," Mother hissed in the ear she was at that moment twisting betwixt her thumb and forefinger. "A young girl does not run headlong into danger, for there will come the day when no one shall be near to save ye!"

I recall that, at the time, I attributed Mother's almost blinding outrage to a parent who loved me less than the other. I now realize 'twas a parent who knew me better than anyone. The next time, I would not stop; she knew this. I would push those boundaries and test them, and the day would come when neither she nor Father could shelter me from my curiosity. Yet, I wonder if she knew…if what happened next remained with her throughout the years. Or if, like I, Mother set it from her mind and thought of it not…until now.

"She shall be the death of ye. Mark my words."

Mother, Father, and I all turned, taking in Goody Platt's presence with various levels of surprise. The Hale's cart, being behind ours, had been forced to halt when Father halted our cart. While Rosalie's parents urged her return, Goody Platt stood beside our cart with her cloudy, opaque gaze aimed at me.

"Goody Platt, how do ye?" Mother asked with some breathless bewilderment.

"That child's curiosity shall end ye both."

"She be full young," Mother said placidly. "She shall learn to mind her ways."

"Mm," Goody Platt grunted, pursing her shriveled lips and continuing to ignore her relatives' pleas for her return. "I think not. I feel it in mine old bones. Bones which hath traveled oceans and delved into foreign lands. I see it with a third eye that be not clouded by age as be these two…" she pointed at her eyes, "and this child be either cursed or blessed-"

Beside me, I felt Mother stiffen, though she remained silent even as Father allowed his impatience to show.

"Goody Platt, I must respectfully ask ye to refrain from such nonsensical talk about my-"

"And unless we find a way, she…" she stressed, pointing a long, thin finger at me, a finger I noted bore three silver bands that glinted when the meager sun caught them, "she shall be the death of us all."

She then swept her jaundiced eyes toward her family's cart, where Rosalie, my friend of an age, stood in the wagon. She observed her maternal grandmother and us through wide, blue eyes, the ends of her golden hair escaping her cloak and waving in the breeze. I could clearly read the curiosity in her gaze, but a much more docile child than I, she remained where she was. When her eyes met mine, we smiled at one another.

"They both shall be our deaths," Goody Platt pronounced.

"Goody Platt," Father cut in, his voice sharp, "allow me to escort ye back to thy family."

With that, he took her arm cautiously yet firmly and returned her to her cart, and I watched her amble away, her gait weary and uneven even then.

"Isabella, look at me. Isabella," said Mother, reclaiming mine attention and searching mine eyes when I met her gaze. "Isabella…ye are young but recall my words when the time comes. No one may decide thy fate without thy permission."

OOOOO

"Isabella, look at me…"

Mine eyes open and shut, open and shut. 'Tis the cold that keeps me from fully succumbing to sleep. I doze for mere moments, drift and stray into thoughts, memories, half-dreams…and realizations that usually occur in the quiet solitude of night. Still, the cold prevents the peace of proper slumber.

"Isabella…"

I have been provided neither cover nor accommodation, so I lay shivering on the icy ground. The church's cellar was not built as a place to spend more than a handful of minutes unless one is storing wheat – or unless one is a thief or another form of criminal. In which case, one's hand is bound in heavy rope that is further tied to the colossal bags of wheat.

The cellar 'tis where reserves of wheat for the winter, which each family has tithed from their stores, be housed. The village pastor is meant to distribute the grain to families in need as he sees fit.

"Isabella, look at me…"

For the past few winters, since Reverend Newton became Andover Village's spiritual shepherd, the wheat reserves grow. Reverend Newton is of the belief that God shall provide, and if He does not, 'tis His will. 'Tis not for man to interfere in the Lord's will. Yet, in the dead of winter, 'tis not unusual for the scent of fresh bread baking to emanate from the good Reverend's chimney.

Another realization: Reverend Newton be, incredibly, even more of a vile hypocrite than I imagined.

"Isabella…"

This cold. 'Tis painful. It seeps into mine bones as I imagine the seawater must seep into the bones of the sailors on those long-ago ships. 'Tis so intense, it almost makes me forget the rope fibers digging into my wrist and the ache in my midsection. Curled on the ground as I be, I wrap mine arms 'round it, noting its distention. 'Tis almost the cramping aches of mine courses, but not.

"Isabella, look at me…"

I think of Mother.

I think of Father.

I try not to think of him, for Mother and Father shall have one another, but he…

That he shall kill her, my false accuser, my childhood traitor, tear her to shreds for this, I doubt not. Still, afterward, he shall have no one. He shall be alone in a world where only a handful truly know him, even less understand him, and where no one shall ever love him as I do.

"Isabella…"

My midsection rumbles against mine hands. Hunger pangs, I am sure. Yet my body asks for that which the state of my mind would prevent. If food passed my mouth at this moment, I would indeed cast it up. Yet the rumbling continues. Demands.

"Isabella…"

'Tis in a rare moment of clarity that I note that the voice be not in my mind nor be it a remembrance of Mother on that long ago day. This voice holds nothing of fear nor of a love concealed by fear. This voice, even in its quietness, verily sings with glee. With a dark sort of triumph.

"Isabella…look at me…"

With a sharp gasp, I push my upper frame off the frozen ground and turn toward Rosalie.

That my childhood friend could be beautiful, even in her betrayal, does not surprise me. Her features have oft been called angelic. Indeed, despite her earlier commentary, she be the handsomest betwixt us. Ever have we been compared to one another, for always were we together – light and dark.

She pushes off her cloak's hood, shaking loose golden hair not covered by a cap. She be taller than I, even were I on mine feet. She be shapelier than I.

And I have never cared. What good would beauty have done me in Andover? My lot, mine choices would not have been altered by an angelic face. I would still have been married off soon to one of the unmarried men in the village and its surrounds, and none which I ever wanted as husband. I would have been forced to surrender my body, conceal mine thoughts, and bear children who would have suffered the same woeful lack of choices.

Only one man – well, two, counting Father – have I met in my life who never forced me to conceal my true thoughts. Rather, they encouraged my mind. What is more, 'twas my curiosity, that which has ever been my curse here in Andover, which these men not merely tolerated but nurtured.

I was never Rosalie's rival.

"Where is my mother?"

She does not reply.

"We were friends, Rosalie," breathe I. "Why?"

"We were friends, aye," she nods, taking a slow, steady step closer. "Yet, ye thought not of our friendship when enticing Emmett-"

"I did not entice Emmett-"

"-nor when embarking on thy escapades with thine lover."

My mouth clamps shut. Bewilderment makes me dizzy, makes my heart race furiously.

Rosalie watches me silently then sighs. "Isabella, I have already told ye, what care I for Emmett when men…when a man much more potent and beguiling exists?" She holds my gaze, offering me one of her beatific smiles.

"He shall never have you."

"I believe he shall."

"He shall kill ye," hiss I through clenched teeth, "tear ye to shreds limb by limb and show neither remorse nor mercy. Think ye thy beauty shall entice he? It shall not for he be more than Emmett and more than any man in this and all the damnable towns in the bay, and beauty entices him not."

She angles her head, and her ensuing, condescending tone be that of a patient elder with a naïve child.

"Beauty entices all of them, Isabella, mortal and immortal."

My furiously pounding heart ceases to beat so abruptly that my breath hitches wildly and loudly. For an endless moment, we remain locked in one another's gaze.

"My grandmother keeps a journal," says she. "I discovered it…last year."

The change of topic, and related so conversationally, as if we were still friends sharing girlish gossip, makes me flounder like a fish popped out of the sea in which it belongs. My brow furrows, and I know not what to say in reply.

"Isabella, do ye know her age?"

I feel the lines of confusion upon my forehead deepen, and I shake my head. "Thy grandmother? Nay, what- what…I…?"

"According to her journal, Grandmother Platt was born in the year of our Lord, 1597. Can ye imagine?" She pauses, again waiting for mine contribution to the conversation as if nothing were wrong, as if I were not locked in a cellar, accused of being a witch, at her word.

And aye, 'tis a shocker. For birth in 1597 would make Goody Platt five-and-ninety, an age almost unheard of. Nonetheless, Goody Platt's age matters not to me.

"I commend your grandmother on her long life, but what care I-"

"Oh, I believe ye shall care. For, in the year 1614, Grandmother Platt was a new, young wife in England, her husband a captain in the Royal Navy. He had been gone many months on an expedition to the new world, while she remained behind, living with and caring for her father-in-law. In her journal, she describes her father-in-law as a demanding and severe minister I liken to our Reverend Newton."

Rosalie's tale spurs my heart back into a fiery jaunt. It pounds so furiously I am sure it shall rip through my chest at any moment. For I easily recognize the year 1614 as the year of Edward's, my Soaring Eagle's birth. Furthermore, I recall a captain and a minister in England also figuring in the tale Edward told me of his birth.

My temples throb. The pain in my midsection worsens, and I wrap both arms 'round it.

"You see," Rosalie resumes, "Grandmother comes from a long line of women with The Sight, with Prescience, as I have told ye," she whispers this last part and angles her head to the other side. "Though, I believe ye always thought me teasing, did ye not?"

"Aye," I admit. "I did."

She snorts. "Of course, ye did. Such a curious and intriguing claim would only be thine's, would it not?"

"I never said such a thing."

"You did not have to. All our lives, you were the curious, intriguing child, while I was the pretty, though uninteresting one. Such a fact would have been believable from ye, not from me. Regardless, it appears that Grandmother's devout, God-fearing father-in-law learnt of Grandmother's ability to foretell, for she awoke one night, screaming and speaking of her husband, of his son being attacked in the new world and being turned into a monster. He shook her awake, and already an unpleasant man, he grew cruel and suspicious. She spent her days and nights praying for her husband's return so that he might protect her and take her away from his father's house. Alas, one day, word arrived about her husband, but it was not what she would have wished to hear. Can ye guess, Isabella, what it was?"

Ice runs through my veins, making me even colder than I have been. I remain as motionless as possible, refusing to reply, though I cannot suppress mine shivers.

"Young Esme Cullen née Platt received word that her husband had died in the new world of a disease…of a sickness no one could name."

Esme…Cullen.

Cullen.

I recall with perfect clarity a portion of Edward's tale:

"Sokanon, whose heart ached for the turmoil in which she had found Captain Cullen, volunteered to watch over him. Five days and four nights, she tended to him. She later told Aquinnah that in his disorientation, the captain saw visions. He imagined his wife, whom he called Esme, present, though she was in England. He began to believe that Sokanon was Esme."

Esme…Cullen.

"The poor, young widow was despondent," Rosalie continues while my staggered mind numbs my tongue. "And, adding to her misery, she knew her husband was not dead, and her father-in-law knew how she knew. He cast her from his house, ostracized her from the church community, and named her witch before all. Further, he told her he wished never to lay eyes on her or his own son ever again, for dead or not, to the Reverend, they were both monstrosities who would have been better off not to be born."

I feel a tear escape the corner of my eye and slowly skim down my cheek as a sense of…empathy toward Goody Platt courses through me. Instinctively, my hands tighten 'round my abdomen, protecting mineself, I suppose.

"A horrendous tale, correct?" Rosalie inquires in that same colloquial tone.

I make no reply. Regardless of empathy, regardless of Rosalie's nonconfrontational demeanor, regardless of a desire to obtain more of the tale so that I could…so that I might have someday shared it with Edward, I know Rosalie be not merely entertaining me with her grandmother's story. She has accused me of witchcraft, and unless I am somehow able to defend mineself, I shall hang. I must keep my wits about me. I cannot lose sight of the fact that this beautiful woman, who was once my closest friend, is a vile liar who means to see me dead so that she may somehow take my place beside Edward.

I must find a way to thwart her.

"It does not end there, Isabella," Rosalie says. "With no other prospects, yet knowing that her husband was alive and in need of her, Grandmother Esme took on any and all employment available to women, regardless of how difficult, regardless of how demeaning. During her roaming, Grandmother came upon another woman with her gift. She was a Volva – a witch with knowledge of the ancient Viking magic of Seidr – or seers of fate.

The Volva helped Grandmother learn more about her gift. She taught her how to cast love spells, how to cast nightmares. She taught Grandmother that sometimes, a Volva can manipulate fate. Even heal. She gifted Grandmother a set of rings which were said to be ancient rings made of Viking metal brought to England during the invasions. The rings were…immensely powerful in the hands of those who knew how to use them. Together, the Volva and Grandmother went from town to town, from farm to farm, delivering prophecies in exchange for food, shelter, and compensation.

Finally, Grandmother earned and saved sufficiently to purchase passage to the New World, and 'twas not long after her arrival she heard rumors of a white demon, whom the natives called-"

"Hobomock," breathe I, unable to help mineself.

"Aye," Rosalie nods. "Hobomock. The rumors claimed that Hobomock had slaughtered an entire village, seduced and left a young native woman with child, then disappeared into lands no Englishmen and few natives dared to tread. The rumors further claimed Hobomock drank the blood of men, drained them, and left them dead."

For a long, immeasurable moment, neither one of us speaks.

Eventually, Rosalie sighs. "Grandmother spent years secretly moving from settlement to settlement, English and Native. But the day came when she could learn no more of her husband's fate. Furthermore, the settlements were growing, and she could no longer practice her Prophecies, her Seidr magic, without drawing suspicion. She remarried, for as you and I know, in our community, a married woman is less of a threat, less an object of attention than a single woman. And she kept her past a secret. Yet, she never gave up on her lost love, her Captain Carlisle Cullen."

Another tear streaks my cheek.

"That he had a child, a boy, she knew. For she had espied him with her own eyes during her travels 'round Massachusetts Bay – a young, native warrior who appeared to be in his twenties, yet never aged beyond that, even as she aged into the old woman she be now. She wrote that she recognized him instantly, for he looked just like his father – tall, strikingly handsome, and well-built, though darker-skinned, and with eyes he kept averted, but she had once seen them as black, and another instance as…crimson."

I swallow hard, my tears now morphing into ones of wary fury.

"And…she vowed that though her dark gift of Sight, of Prescience, of Foreknowledge, had failed to serve her husband in his time of need, if ever she could assist his son…the son she should have borne him, she would."

Our eyes lock and hold.

"And so she shall assist him," Rosalie smiles. "For, with the power of her rings, he…Edward…Soaring Eagle shall be with the woman he is truly fated to be."

"Tis instinct when I lunge for her, for she speaks of fate as if she believes herself my love's fate. But, I have been locked in a freezing room for hours; tied like an animal, provided neither nourishment nor water; and with my midsection aching more and more by the moment. I am not quick enough, not nearly. She, however, reacts swiftly, lurching out of my reach so that in my attempted haste and desperation to grab onto her neck and choke the life from her, I land flatly on my stomach.

I cry out as the pain in my midsection radiates into every limb and crevice. Then, for another long moment, I can do nothing but lay there, whimpering. Eventually, I find the strength to crawl and lift myself onto mine knees. Rosalie stands at the other end of the room when I look up, watching me impassively, expressionless.

"Ye are mad!" I shout now, cradling my stomach once more, which feels as if it has swollen with the fall. "Ye offer me stories of thy grandmother, and witchery, and rings! Believe ye I shall swallow such tales wholly?"

She chuckles. "Isabella, ye believe in the witchery that created thy lover but not in the rest?"

"Witchery or not, rings or not, there is no magic ye shall ever be able to cast that will gain you his love! He loves me! He shall always love me! And he shall rip thy head off if ye harm me!"

She studies me through cold, blue eyes before nodding.

"Aye, he does love ye. Isabella, all our lives, were you not the one who said we women were limited in Andover? Did you not believe we women had to take our opportunities where we could find them?"

"This be not opportunity, this be treachery! This be MURDER!"

"Isabella…you became the beautiful one. Do I not have the right to become the clever one?"

Again, she moves closer, taking care now to remain out of reach. In the meanwhile, bewilderment makes me lightheaded. I shake my head.

"I…I know not-"

"Isabella, ye are called the clever one, yet ye have not even asked how I know all I know of you and Edward?"

Nausea rises like bulbous bile into my esophagus. I press my hand across my mouth. Rosalie moves infinitesimally closer and drops her voice, though I know no one be around to hear us.

"I know all because I inherited Grandmother's Sight, and because I learned much…much from Grandmother's journal. What is more, the day ye removed the rings, ye allowed me into thy clever, dark head, and all ye saw, I saw. All ye felt…I felt as well."

With that, I retch before me, and she takes a step back. Then, dropping to her knees, she emits a screech that surely must wake the dead.

"Help me! Help me! She casts her demon upon me! How did I get here? Her specter brought me to her side!"

I cannot defend myself, for I am vomiting just as a crowd rushes in. Someone shoves me, and when I fall backward, I look into the hateful gaze of Reverend Newton.

A/N: Thoughts?

A LITTLE BIT OF NORSE AND VIKING MYTHOLOGY, FOR THOSE WHO ARE INTERESTED:

The Volva:

Among the Vikings were women called Volva, or more accurately Völva, which means "wand-wed" or "staff-carrier" in Old Norse. In the sagas and stories, the Volva are often described as old Viking witches that would wander from town to town or farm to farm, delivering prophecies and performing magic in exchange for shelter, food, and other forms of compensation. Despite their role outside of the normal structure of society, the Volva seem to have been treated with great respect in Viking society. Visiting Volva were given pride of place at the dining table and were free to speak to or ignore whom they pleased, regardless of social rank.

There were male seers and practitioners of Seidr magic, but in general, these were considered feminine arts. Male practice was largely considered taboo. Even Odin, a practitioner of Seidr magic, was criticized by Loki for being unmanly as a result.

The power of the Volva appears to have stemmed from the practice of Seidr magic. This type of Viking witchcraft was linked with ideas of fate and enabled the user not only to read fate and tell prophecies but also in some cases to manipulate it.

Thus, first and foremost, the Volva were seeresses and tellers of prophecies. Seeing the future often required a shamanic ritual that involved a group of young girls singing a spirit invocation while the Viking witch entered a trance that allowed her to commune with the spirits and the gods.

As the incantation came to an end, the seeress was caught between two worlds, and at this point in the ritual, the Volva could predict the future and provide prophecies to those nearby.

But this was not the limit of the Viking witch's power. The magic of Seidr, which means "to bind" in old Norse, also allowed the Volva to do things such as raise storms, cast love spells, and send nightmares to kill someone in their sleep. The Volva were also believed to be able to take on animal form, probably using this shamanic power to fight or to travel long distances.

The Volva also appear to have had powers of healing. According to one story, when Thor is injured while traveling through Jotunheim, the Volva Groa attempts to use her witchcraft to heal the deity. The Volva were probably also considered healing shamans among the Vikings.

At the end of the Viking age, the rise of Christianity saw the persecution of the Volva as dangerous magic practitioners and staff bearers of the old religion. In fact, the use of the types of staff that the Volva carried was strictly outlawed.

It is interesting to note how different attitudes of the Norsemen and Christians to witchcraft, magic and seeresses. Viking witches were honored and respected, while under Christianity, witches and magic workers were persecuted.

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