Cate Tiernan - Origins

“What is it, Rose?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “I sense the danger. What’s happening?”

“A band of people is coming,” I said, rushing to stow away the things I had collected for my spell. “I don’t know who they are, but they are not Vykrothes.”

“Let us see,” Ma said, shuffling painfully to the door.

I followed her out to the sea of darkness bobbing with torches and ghostly faces. In the lead the village reverend stepped forward, his mouth a slash of contempt.

“What business do you have with us so late at night, Reverend Winthrop?” my mother asked politely. “Have you come to pay a call upon the sick, for that is what I am. A victim of a hunter’s arrow.”

“I am sorry for your hardship,” Reverend Winthrop said. “But I am here on a mission from the Almighty Father. I have come to take your daughter to prison, Síle. On the morrow she will be tried as a witch.”

“It cannot be!” my mother protested.

“No!” I cried. I clutched my belly, buckling to my knees. A witch! How could it be that these people knew of my love for the Goddess? I had moved stealthily, attending church on Sundays and always careful not to speak of my true life around the villagers. A coldness overcame me as I stared out at them, my tears blurring their faces.

How could it be?

“Upon whose order do you take her?” my mother demanded.

The reverend did not answer. But someone stepped forward from the crowd—Siobhan!

“Upon my word!” she shouted. “I know her to be a witch, and I will testify against her.”

“No!” I pleaded. “ ’Tis not fair. She hates me! She wants to have revenge!”

But no one seemed to hear my cries as the men stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. Brusquely they bound my wrists behind me and shoved me away from the cottage.

“No!” I cried, turning back to see Ma huddled at the doorway. “Ma! Please!”

But she merely watched me go with a stricken expression on her face. She held out a hand to me, as if I could clasp on and save myself from drowning.

But I could not. I marched off to prison, my heart hammering with fear that this was truly my death march. Because of Siobhan, I had been named as a witch. And no one, no one in the Highlands, had ever faced those charges and escaped alive.

On the morning of my trial a guard woke me and roughly ushered me into a cottage near the village center. I hoped they were bringing me to the table to break my fast, but when I saw the minister, Reverend Winthrop, along with a stout, bearded man, I reared back in fear.

“Dr. Wellington is here to examine you for the mark of the devil, Rose MacEwan,” said the reverend. “Off with your gown.”

The guard at the door crossed his arms, smiling at me.

I had never been ashamed of my body, having been raised among circles of unclad witches, but to go naked before such hostile eyes. I began to tremble. Would he realize that I was with child? If he did, ’twould prejudice the town against me.

“I cannot,” I said, folding my arms across my chest protectively.

“Balderdash!” the reverend shouted. He stepped forward and tore at the collar of my gown. “Remove your clothes, and I’ll remind you to make haste, for your trial is upon us.”

“No!” I shrieked, trying to pull away from him. I felt like a trapped animal; there was no way out. Closing my eyes, I began to take off my gown.

I stood there naked, feeling their lust and hatred swirl around me. Something jabbed at my buttocks, and I opened my eyes to see the physician jabbing at me with a stick, as if I were chattel in a field. Keeping his distance, he touched my buttocks, my thighs, my belly, my breasts. Humiliation burned in my throat, and I closed my eyes again.

I could not tell whether he knew I was with child. At this point the mound at my belly was quite pronounced and my breasts were swollen with milk, but I wasn’t sure this physician knew the realities of a woman’s body. His examination seemed more motivated by lust than professional interest.

And thus I began the day of my trial, naked before three peculiar men. After that I was allowed to dress and given a bowl of gruel, which I gobbled up eagerly. It was not enough food to sustain my babe, and I wondered if there would be more at lunch.

After breakfast I was dragged out to the center of our village, where I was tied rather barbarically to a hitching post. Villagers were free to assemble around me and witness the nightmare, and most of the villagers I saw every Sunday in church were in attendance. Among the faces gathered there, I saw the members of our coven—the MacGreavys, Norn, Aislinn, and the others. Ma was there, leaning gingerly on Miller MacGreavy’s cart. I spied Meara with two of the little ones in tow, and I wondered if she was their ma now. Kyra and Falkner were conspicuously absent, but I suspected that their parents had been fearful for their safety. If the village reverend started to get greedy, he might look for others who were guilty by association.

Standing in the center of the village, sweating under the late August sun and the scrutiny of so-called holy men, I felt horribly exposed. An alarming odor filled the air, something I could not identify. Was it a burning herb?

No, I thought, swallowing against the biting taste in my throat. It’s the smell of fear. My fear.

Reverend Winthrop began talking to the crowd, telling of evils prevailing among us. I was trying to listen, trying to create a defense in my mind when I saw someone moving through the crowd—a lean, solid figure.

Diarmuid!

I felt my life force rising as he turned toward me. Our eyes locked, and I could feel it in the air between us. He still loved me. He had come to tell me that and to free me from these charges. He would come forward during the trial and rescue me. I closed my eyes and focused on sending him a message. Diarmuid would rescue me once again. This would all be over soon.

You’ve come to save me! I told him in a tua labra. I knew you would come for me.

I waited for an answer.

But all I heard was the voice of the reverend accusing me of being a witch. “Coming upon her at the brook one morning, I saw her conducting what must certainly be a pagan ritual,” he said in his whiny voice.

I suddenly recalled the morning when I’d heard someone on the path. The morning after Beltane, when I’d slipped off my clothes for a thorough cleansing.

“I was washing,” I said, looking out at the crowd for validation. “Do not most maidens bathe upon rising?”

“Without a stitch of clothing?” Reverend Winthrop asked.

A few of the Presbyterians snickered, as if he’d made a coarse joke.

“Why do you laugh, when most of you could use a thorough cleansing in the river?” Ma said, standing tall. The crowd grew silent. “Or is that odor the stench of hysteria? For I have yet to see a person so accused treated fairly in these Highlands.”

The minister folded his arms, appraising my mother. “Woman, what is your claim here? This is a formal inquisition.”

“I am the mother of Rose MacEwan, and I know her to be a kind and noble child,” Síle said. Her hair was covered by a modest veil, her voice filled with a fortitude that belied her injury. “Whatever evil you have charged her with is false, I swear a solemn oath to that. And I charge you to release her and return her to her proper home.”

It was dangerous for anyone to speak in my defense, but Ma had been willing to take that chance. In some ways, I knew I didn’t deserve it. Pressing one hand against the child in my belly, I marveled at how deep a mother’s love could run.

Reverend Winthrop puckered his lips, as if Síle’s words had left a sour taste in his mouth. “These are the words of her mother,” he announced formally. “Although I’ve yet to know a mother who clearly sees her child’s true flaws.”