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WITCHES, CROWS & DRAGONS
Salem Village, Massachusetts Bay Colony… September, 1692
They hanged the preacher. She should’ve cottoned on then and ran out of town. Except, she hadn’t. It was her refuge and she felt safe there. The stones of her mother and grandmother protected her. Until they didn’t. And now she was alone in the dark. In the cold.
The chains around her ankles clinched heavily, all rust and pain, the metal digging dully into skin, seeping into bone. In the pitch black of midnight, her eyes took in the meager cell, the shackles, the bars, the blood. Her blood. The blood of those already put to death.
It would take a single spell to blow this entire place to smithereens. Leave rubble in her wake. And she was so full of venom and rage, just one breath and she was certain the incantation would fall from her lips by itself.
The righteous fools had left her hands unbound. Mistake. But then they had been making nothing but mistakes for days. Theyfed her. Stale bread and rainwater, but they fed her, nonetheless. They kept her in a cell by herself, left to her own devices. And those devices were slowly driving her mad.
Just one breath…
She could hear the other prisoners and their chains rustle in the darkness. Some were injured, their moans echoing against the moldy walls. Their jailers resorted to torture if they didn’t confess soon enough. And so most were all too eager to sign their own death warrants just to escape being pressed or hung by their arms. She rubbed her own shoulders. They had let her down after a day of being strung up, and only she knew what it cost her to keep her power from unleashing, from destroying them all. Still, she had gritted her teeth and had borne it all in silence.
The wet stones under her skirt reeked of rot. She felt as if she would soon become one with them. Barely moving, she sat still, the fear of her craft escaping the confines of her body and leveling the cursed place too great. The temptation to give in, to avenge, to hurt and to kill, like they hurt and killed…
After all, where the craft was concerned, she was nothing but a vessel. Blessed with it. Damned by it. Smothered in it, shielded by it, only by the skin of her teeth able to keep it secret, sacred, safe. And yet, the craft wanted exactly the same for her. To keep her secret and sacred and safe. Which meant that at some point, her will and the craft would face each other, and she knew she was no match for the power that lived inside her.
And so, the drip-drip-drip of the sewer nearby was counting the seconds till the fire in her chest could no longer be suppressed. Till the wind in her hands could no longer be contained. Till the earth under her feet no longer lay dormant.
Wrapping her arms around her belly, she reclined, mind working, eyes studying the walls, looking for a crack, a crevice. Perhaps her escape would tamp down the poison burning herthroat, seeking revenge, for the beatings, for the surely broken shoulders.
The heartbeat inside her, her child’s life force, was making her even more afraid that the power would simply tear this place to pieces. Kill everyone. Ruin them the way they tried to ruin her.
She sighed, her eyes closing in prayer to the Mother.
Do not come… Please, do not come… Not yet.
“You cannot ask her that.”
She didn’t jump up, but it was a very close call. Taking a deep breath, trying to quiet her heart, she looked up. In the cell opposite hers, two yellow eyes glared at her with the hatred usually reserved for mortal enemies. But then, when all was said and done, she had been one. An enemy. A witch.
“She will come when she wishes to come. And then we will all be dead. All dead but you. All dead because of you.”
The voice, hoarse, raspy, slithered its way into her cell, and she could no longer ignore it now that it had become a wet slap to her face.
“I… I don’t reckon I know what you’re talking about.”
And now she was the one who had made a mistake. The laughter that followed her feeble attempt at a lie was worse than the words. Her fingers tingled, she knew her eyes would be sparkling by now, the craft rearing its might inside her, insulted, humiliated, vengeful. Any moment now.
“You think I don’t know what you are, Gwendolyn Abigail Crowhart?” The crone’s voice slashed like a knife across her chest, the fire coursing under her very skin. One more gash and it would escape and damn them all. “You’re the reason we are all here. You are the reason they hanged all those innocents. The minister. The babes. You are the reason, Crow.”
As she listened to the accusations, her fingers found a crack in the damp brick and latched on. Maybe if she focused hard enough, if she channeled the power, it would not?—
“You’re a witch, Gwendolyn Abigail Crowhart. The only witch in Salem and all those people died because of you. May the men that murdered the innocents never let you know peace. May the bird-catcher and the hunters find you, always. Curse you, witch!”
When the fire erupted, Gwendolyn felt empty, weightless, the darkness taking her under. When it let her go, the ocean was warm and the sand under her naked feet was a succor. In the distance she could see the blinking life of a town. Nothing but a row of tiny dots on the horizon. She was free. The child inside her kicked. She was alive.
With one last look at the distant lights, she turned away. In front of her the island spread its wings, shielded by rock and waves, full of secrets and shadows. She knew this place. A piece of land surrounded in legend and lore. A piece of land no man had lived on before, the storms and the ocean keeping its solitude. A piece of land she would be alone on. Just her and her babe.
She took a deep breath, the salty warm air comforting just like the sand.
She was Crowhart. And as the power surged from her fingers to conjure shelter, it soared from the earth and the woods closed around, vigilant.
She was Crow’s Heart. And as the moon shone down on the new dwelling, she felt her sinew sing with her power, her bones strengthen, her shoulders mend in an instant.
