Here there be witches, p.48
Here There Be Witches, page 48
He shuddered, rubbing his eyes.
Alexa Wardwell, one of the last witches he’d hanged, stared him down with an icy glare.
“How can this be?”
“The veil between worlds thins when one is about to pass to make their journey to the other side,” she answered.
“Are you here to kill me?”
She gave her head a shake. “No need.”
“Are you the cause of this scourge?” His rasping cough shook the bed.
She didn’t respond.
“I thought you claimed to be a healer—that you caused no harm.”
“I said I do not harm innocents. You’re a far cry from that. An eye for an eye, right? You strike me as an Old Testament fellow,” she said, picking up his Bible. “Besides, you have blood on your hands; more than anyone will ever truly know. Did you really think there’d be no consequences for your actions?”
He shifted in bed, trying to sit up.
“Was it worth it? Selling your soul for a few pieces of silver?” She picked up a pile of coins on the table and tossed them one by one next to him on the bed.
“I was doing God’s work. I shall be rewarded for that.”
“If you believe what you preach, then you have no reason to fret over where you’re going in the afterlife.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you have doubts.”
His nose crinkled. “Doubts…about what?”
“Your true intentions. You say you were called to defend the godly against the wicked ways of the Devil. But we both know better than that.” She tossed the final coin on the sheet covering his frail body. “If the money had dried up earlier, your hunts would have ceased shortly after they’d begun. What do you think God will have to say about your greedy ways?”
“I only asked a fair amount for the work. Travel isn’t free.”
She scoffed. “Fifteen pounds for a week of false accusations and coerced confessions? It would take the farmer down the road a year to make those wages. Is that the fair price you speak of?”
He shrugged. “A small amount to save a soul.”
“Whose soul? Not the women you persecuted. Not the accusers who you encouraged to throw their neighbors to the wolves for revenge. Not the frightened villagers whose heads you filled with fear of satanic rituals and demonic attacks. The only soul you cared about was your own, and you damned that one, too.”
He looked over at her in alarm. “Is this payback then?”
She tipped her head. “This is justice. The hunts must stop, one way or another. This vicious cycle must end.”
“And you’ve come to take me?”
She nodded. “I’m here, just as I promised—to make sure the hunts in these parts stop with me. Your reign as Witchfinder General is over.”
His eyes darkened. “The hunts will continue because I was right—here there be witches, right under our noses in Manningtree, in Chelmsford, in Ipswich—all around.” His lips curled in that familiar sinister fashion when he’d detected a witch. “And I have rooted you all out.”
Alexa smirked. “You haven’t even made so much as a dent. No man can erase the old ways. That ancient magic will forever flow through the veins of those who honor the traditions of our elders.”
He snorted. “But you hold no power now in this world.”
“I will soon return in the flesh to finish our mission. We all will—all those you condemned in your rise to power. But we were your downfall, too.”
Her sisters, Iris and Hattie, appeared beside his bed, flanking Alexa.
Hopkins stiffened. “This is a feverish dream. None of this is real.”
She leaned over the bed and whispered in his ear, “For once you see the truth standing before you. It was the rest that was the illusion.”
“It can’t be,” he muttered to himself. “Why would God allow such a thing?”
She scoffed. “It was never God’s side you were on.”
He trembled as his body grew cold. He coughed into his handkerchief and looked at it, eyes wide. A splatter of blood covered the white cloth.
“Not much longer now,” Alexa foretold.
He gathered the covers and pulled them over his shivering limbs. A young maid entered the room and refreshed his water, scurrying quickly out of the room before he could flag her down.
“No family to speak of?” Alexa asked coldly.
He cut his eyes at her.
“What was this all for? Not a soul here at the end to pray with you, no one to hold your hand. Who will mourn you, witchfinder, when you’re dead and gone?”
He shivered again.
“There’s still time to repent,” she noted. “Is there even an ounce of remorse in that frail frame of yours?”
“I was only fulfilling my duty. If I have done any wrong, I pray my maker will offer me forgiveness.”
“Pray they do,” she said coolly. “You will need all the forgiveness you can muster to wash your sins away. If you were expecting sainthood for your deeds, you will be sorely disappointed. Your kind are a dying breed. When the hunts end, there will be hell to pay for the injustices racked up in your name.”
She flung his copy of The Discovery of Witches onto the table by the bed in disgust. “You’ve hunted your last witch, witchfinder. Your reputation has certainly taken a turn for the worse in recent months thanks to those courageous enough to speak out against your torturous and unlawful methods. Your defense didn’t sway any minds your way,” she said, casting her eyes at the book now resting on the nightstand. “No one holds any confidence in your skills at witch finding any longer. Not that you ever had any. You were nothing but a ruthless opportunist, making your fame off the necks of the innocents you hanged. May the blood on your hands carry over to the afterlife. There will be plenty to atone for on the other side.”
She returned her gaze to his pale, clammy face. “There will come a time when witch hunters are extinct. But know this, there will always be witches, and the world will come to understand that we are not the enemy you portrayed us to be. The ones you partnered with to track us are the ones who bend the laws of nature to suit their will. The rest of us have come to heal the world of their hurts. All you’ve done is wipe out the very healers who could have cured what ails you now.”
His pained eyes looked over her way. “Help me then,” he pleaded. “Show me some mercy; I beg of you.”
She stared blankly at him. “You’ve brought this upon yourself, witchfinder. That fate cannot be delayed any further.”
He shook his head defiantly. “No. There’s more I have left to do. The hunts must continue. I do not believe the lies you foretell.”
Alexa straightened her back and proclaimed proudly, “I have seen it with my own eyes. It may take time, but people will come to see what you are, just as I see you—a soulless fraud, willing to sacrifice the innocent lives of countless souls to line your pockets.” Her lips curled upward. “There will be a time many centuries from now when witches will be celebrated all the world over. I will be there to usher that new age in; your kind will be obsolete. Only then can the world truly begin to heal the wounds you’ve wrought. Magic will thrive, and women like me will be revered. I claim it, so shall it be.”
His breaths grew fainter with each inhale, but he drew them out as long as he could, willing himself to defy the grip of death. This could not be the fate he deserved. Like Saul, he had driven the witches from this land. Where was his reward?
He had never given this moment a thought. No one thinks of dying at this age. Barely twenty-seven and not even married. He’d lived for his work. But the fame had been so fleeting. He needed more time. He could find a way to regain favor with the Crown and resume his hunts if only his body could stave off this affliction.
“My legacy has to be more than this,” he stammered.
Alexa laughed. “Let me tell you what your legacy will truly be. Long after you’re gone, the words ‘witch hunt’ will no longer evoke justice or righteousness. Instead, those words will be tainted by fear and hysteria, forever known as the senseless persecution of the innocent. Your legacy will serve as nothing more than a cautionary tale—one of cruelty, fueled by unchecked power.”
Shaking his head, he let out a raspy cough.
She extended her hand. “No more delays, witchfinder. Prepare to meet your maker tonight.”
Panic coursed through his body. The witch’s words had shaken his faith. He tried to banish the doubts from his mind, terrified there could be any truth to what she spoke of. He took one final ragged breath as the life drained from his broken body. His final thought was, who would greet him on the other side—God or Satan himself?
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Alexa Wardwell
Haverhill, England, April 13, 1665
Alexa made her way through the woods to the clearing she remembered from years ago when Jack had brought her here—to his mother’s home.
Her heart dropped when she realized the small cabin that once resided here was no more. She walked through the empty field, searching for any trace left behind of the woman she’d entrusted with her daughter. She ran her hands through the burnt grass. Only a bit of bone, some ash, and the smell of herbs remained.
As the moon rose, she followed the light to the stream nearby. She stopped in her tracks, struck by the beauty of the young woman sitting beside the water.
The light from the moon glistened on her daughter’s straight chestnut hair, the same color as her father’s. She tilted the wooden bowl into the stream, filling the bowl with the water that had been basking in the blue moonlight. She peered into the bowl, studying the shimmering water.
Moira glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Alexa in the corner of her eye.
“What do you see?” Alexa asked her, walking slowly toward her.
“What I see every time I look.”
“What’s that?”
“You,” she replied, turning toward her with a smile. “Why have you stayed away so long this time?”
“Giving you space to make your own way in the world. But I’m always with you even when you don’t see me.”
The corners of Moira’s lips curled. “I know. You promised you would be in your letter. I still heard your voice on the wind even when you were out of view.”
Alexa nodded, tears stinging her eyes. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. Sorry for how things had to be.”
“I know…you never have to apologize. You didn’t start this war. It’s not like you had much choice.”
“Not good ones, but I think I made the right one.”
Moira nodded. “Granny Sarabeth always said she couldn’t have done what you did, and that we should be grateful you could. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“And look at you, my girl—nineteen and beautiful with the whole world ahead of you. You’re the last of us.”
“Not quite.” Moira rubbed her belly.
Alexa smiled.
“Granny said it’s going to be a girl.”
Alexa’s heart swelled.
“One day she’ll wear this amulet.” Moira placed her fingers around the amulet Alexa had once worn. “I’ll keep Granny Sarabeth’s for myself.”
Alexa chuckled to herself, finally sliding pieces together from a life that seemed so long ago.
Elsie once told her that this very same amulet had been her birthright from the moment she’d stirred in her belly. Moira must have had the protection of the amulet all along, shielding her from the witchfinders learning of her existence and from Magdala’s sight. Alexa recalled calling on the amulet for protection inside the dungeon as Magdala slept, wearing the amulet she’d stolen. But it still offered protection for the babe she was carrying. Even she had doubted that the babe would make it. But Moira had defied the odds and come into this world early and had been defying the odds since.
Alexa placed her hand on Moira’s belly. “Then I made the right choice indeed!”
Moira pulled a tattered piece of parchment from her journal. “Your letter is a balm for my soul whenever I’m lonely.”
Alexa smiled at her daughter, all grown up now, about to be a mother herself.
“It was all I had from you other than this.” Moira pulled out the locket that had accompanied the letter Alexa had written her in the jail. “I carry you with me everywhere I go. I hope to make a difference as you did.” She looked up at her mother lovingly.
Attached to the letter was the article John Gaule had published in the paper with Alexa’s full testimony she’d given him when he’d visited her in the dungeon of Colchester Castle. It had taken a few years, but the hunts diminished greatly after his weekly sermons against the witch hunts, and Alexa’s testimony on Hopkins’ misdeeds had brought his reign to an abrupt end.
“Your words weighed heavily on those who had enabled the hunts. You made that happen, and if I can do the same in some way, I will. I just want to make you proud.”
“You already have, my dear girl. Sarabeth and Elsie raised you right. I knew you’d be in good hands.”
Moira nodded.
“They gave me a good life. They taught me the magic of blood and bone, stone and fire.”
“I knew they would. That magic will live on through you. I have no doubt you will go on to create your own kind of magic, but sometimes the old ways are best. Now, you will have the best of both worlds.”
Moira opened the locket and took out the sketch her father had drawn of her mother and turned it over. Alexa leaned in to read the words. Exist on your own terms.
“You taught me just as much as they did.”
Alexa grinned and glanced over her shoulder at Jack, standing near the clearing to the woods, watching out for them like always.
Moira began to hum the lullaby Alexa had sung to her all those years ago when she was still in her womb.
Alexa smiled, knowing that the old songs would live on.
“Granny Sarabeth is gone,” Moira whispered, a hint of sadness in her voice.
“I know.” Alexa tucked a strand of hair behind Moira’s right ear. “I see there’s nothing left.” Alexa glanced toward the spot of land where the cabin used to stand.
“I thought it best not to leave any trace of us behind.” She let out a sigh. “She’s with Granny Elsie now.”
Elsie had passed several years back. Alexa had suspected her heartbreak had a lot to do with her declining health.
Moira pulled a heavy chain out of her pocket, revealing the amulet Granny Sarabeth had worn until she passed.
“What of our things—the scrolls and books we guarded?”
“Granny Elsie shipped them all to Dorthea and Charlotte in Romania when her health started to fade. Their children have all relocated there. They’ll keep them all safe after they pass. I plan on visiting shortly before moving on. They’ve taken up with the Romani and have returned to fortune telling.”
“So, you aren’t staying here?”
Moira shook her head. “Our kind still isn’t wanted here. Many are fleeing to the New World to start a new life. Maybe there I won’t have to hide.”
Alexa gently stroked Moira’s face, the moonlight casting a soft glow over her features. “Then look for me there, dear. The circle starts again soon. There’s still so much healing left to do in this world and so much to teach those who hunger for the old ways. That’s where you will find me.”
Epilogue
Devonshire Museum of Witchcraft, May 15, 1948
Wilma Cavendish, the curator at the Devonshire Museum of Witchcraft, unpacked the last crate that had come back with her from her travels across the English countryside. She had spent the past few months collecting artifacts from the regions across Essex and Suffolk Counties (Colchester, Chelmsford, Ipswich) for the new Witchfinder General exhibit that would be unveiled next month.
She pulled out a heavy metal contraption and carefully set it on the table.
“What in God’s name is that?” her daughter, Ruby, asked.
“It’s a witch’s bridle used in the 1640s. These muzzles would bind witches from casting spells while imprisoned.”
Ruby’s eyes grew wide. “That one was actually used?”
Wilma’s brow pinched. “We think so. It was found buried near the entrance of Colchester Castle, known to have held accused witches during the witch trials of 1645-47. It was rumored that this was used on one of the last witches the Witchfinder General captured and executed. He fell ill shortly after that.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died in 1647 shortly after his eighteen-month reign of terror across these regions,” she said, pointing to a map she’d framed last week. “He was only twenty-seven years old.”
“What did he die of?”
“Most likely tuberculosis, but we will never truly know.”
Ruby tilted her head as she examined the bridle. “Maybe the witch he used this on hexed him,” she said with a glint in her eye.
“Maybe,” her mother replied with a slight smile. “That would be karmic, wouldn’t it? There was a pernicious rumor that circulated for years that he was suspected of witchcraft himself and that some gentleman had swum the Witchfinder General as part of a witch test—the same one he’d used to drown witches himself. The story goes that he floated and had to be put to death, but there’s no truth to this outlandish tale. It just goes to show how far his star has fallen since the height of the hunts. History hasn’t treated Matthew Hopkins kindly, reduced to a melodramatic exorcist in some eyes.” She winced. “That one has to sting.”
Ruby chuckled.
“Sightings of his ghost in and around the Thorn Inn in Essex might just be his attempt to restore his sullied reputation. His spirit can’t be at peace knowing the mockery he’s become.”
“Sounds like he deserved it.”
“Many would say so. He was infamous in his time. He caught and interrogated more witches than most of the hunts combined from the century before. I wish I could say the hunts ceased completely after his passing, but it would be a few more decades before they diminished significantly. There were always a few outbreaks that would pop up in small villages here or there. We have records of a female witch turned witchfinder who made the rounds in the 1660s. She’d worked with Hopkins in 1645 and 1646 to track down other witches.”
