Nila stood quivering beside me. The air was chilly but not cold enough to warrant the chattering of her teeth or blueness of her fingers.
She’s petrified.
And for good reason.
“Jethro, I suggest you begin. I’m not getting any younger, boy,” Bonnie muttered.
Daniel snickered, gulping down another mouthful of beer. “Snap, snap, old chap.”
Kes crossed his arms, locking away his thoughts completely.
I looked to the piece of equipment that had been secured to the pond’s banks. It remained covered by a black cape—for now.
Soon, Nila would see what it was, and she would understand what would happen.
But first, I had to be eloquent and deliver the speech I’d been taught to memorize since I’d been told of my role.
Grabbing Nila’s arm, I positioned her on the patch of earth that’d been decorated with a thick pouring of salt. I’d done the design. The sunrise had witnessed my artistry as I followed an ancient custom.
Nila’s eyes dropped to her feet as I pressed her hard, telling her with actions alone not to move.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, slapping a hand over her mouth.
My wintry ice saved me from feeling anymore of her panic; I locked my muscles as I prepared to recite.
The pentagram she stood in gave a giant hint as to the debt she would be paying.
Her black eyes met mine, her hair whipping around her face, just like it had when she’d found the graves of her ancestors.
It was almost serendipitous that she would pay this debt now—especially after I’d thought that she’d looked like a witch casting a curse on the Hawks.
“As you can see, Ms. Weaver. You stand in a pentacle star. It’s well known that the five-pointed star represents the five wounds of Christ. It’s been used in the Church for millennia. Yet a reversed pentagram isthe symbol of dark magic—a tool wielded by Wiccans and practiced regularly in witchcraft.”
My family stared enraptured, even though they knew the tale by heart.
Nila seemed to shrink, her eyes never leaving the thick rivers of salt penning her in a motif of wickedness.
“Your ancestor was found practicing the dark arts, for which she escaped severe punishment. In the 1400’s, it was common for poor folk to seek help from those who promised quick riches. They’d be lured into believing a weed would cure boils or a toad would turn them into a prince. Those who had luck with their spell or incantation did more than just seek men or women who practiced magic—they wanted the power for themselves. They became immersed in Wicca and turned their backs on religion.
“Needless to say, they were caught. Their whereabouts would be noted, their stores of dried herbs confiscated, and the sentence no one survived decreed. They were a traitor to their faith, but they would be given a choice—prove their innocence by drowning, or admit to their sins by burning at the stake and returning to the devil they worshiped.”
Nila’s pasty cheeks shimmered with cascading tears. Her nose went red from cold and she wrapped her arms around herself, partly to ward off the chill but mostly to keep herself from running.
No ropes bound her. She could leave. She could run.
But she also knew we’d catch her and I’d have to add another punishment for her disobedience.
All that I knew. All of it I understood with one look into her glassy eyes.
I even knew she wasn’t aware she was crying—completely enthralled and mortified with where my tale would go.
Taking a deep breath, I continued, “All of what I said is true. However, it came with rules—like most things.”
Cut nodded as if he’d personally been there and watched the pyres burning.
“Destitute people were caught while those wealthy enough weren’t. It didn’t mean that women who dined on cakes and tea and employed servants to wash away their crimes didn’t dally in potions—far from it. They were the most proficient. They sold their concoctions to other well-to-do housewives and bribed any official who dared to ask questions about their faith.”
I made the mistake of looking at Nila again. Her lips parted and a silent word escaped.
