Abby the Witch

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any
resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

Abby the Witch

Copyright ©
2009
Odette C. Bell

Smashwords Edition

The clouds
rolled above, grey and magnificent, like the dirty bow of a great
ship sailing overhead. The huge shadows they cast ran across the
port and shaded the solid beams of wood to a dark brown. Ships
gently swayed in the circling waters of the dock, the lap of the
water against their hulls like a wet knock at the door.

The slap of
boots against the sodden wooden beams mixed with shouts and the
growing whistle of the wind. Men with broad shoulders and stiff
necks sprinted between the docked ships, tying down ropes and
tightening knots.

'Get up
there!'

'You! Get over
to the Pembrake!'

'Where's the
Dock Master?'

'Quick
now!'

The
inhabitants of Bridgestock were calling it the storm of the
century, seeing in those tumbling clouds such a foreboding menace
that windows were being taped shut and doors propped closed. The
deep rich colour of the clouds was not the only cause for worry;
along the headland, rattling through the streets and up the hill of
the city, rushed a chaotic wind. It shook signs violently, brought
branches crashing from trees, and sent buckets, plant pots, and
anything not tied down tumbling through the streets.

With ferocity
like that, this storm had to be bad.

From across
the street, adjacent to the port, shoppers stopped to stare at the
frantic work of the wharfies. Old ladies, their baskets laden with
bread and fruit, arched their necks towards the swaying ships,
casting their wizened eyes towards the sprinting clouds. Two old
men hastily packed away their card table and, with shakes of their
heads, hurried indoors. A greengrocer recruited a passing friend to
help him pack away his glistening vegetables, offering a free
pumpkin for a quick hand.

Windows and
doors were being closed and lights were flickering on. The
greengrocer handed over the pumpkin and took a moment to stare at
the sky. He whistled and, tucking his cap further over his head,
retreated inside.

Though the
city of Bridgestock no longer accepted witches, its inhabitants
could not help but be reminded of an old witch proverb.
Storms change things; and the bigger the storm, the more
it changes – whatever you don't hold on to, you will lose to the
wind and rain. Of course, the Bridgestockians took this to mean
that their windows would be broken and their frontages dented from
hail. But the proverb had a much deeper meaning. A storm could
certainly break a window, but it could also break a
destiny, especially one that was not properly tied down.

It was only
midday in the city of Bridgestock, but the town was already growing
dark.

Abigail Gail,
Abby for short, bucked the trend. As people ducked their heads
against the wind and hurried up the avenues leading away from the
port, she walked towards it. In a billowing patchwork skirt and a
thick black top, she dodged the people by walking half in the
gutter, a broomstick held in one hand and a basket of cloths,
soaps, and sponges in the other. Beside her, up on the pavement,
trotted a little black cat. The cat had a clearly imperious look
glinting in its golden eyes.

'You don't
have to look at me like that, Charlie,' Abby said under her breath,
not turning around. 'A job is a job.'

The cat
flicked its tail twice.

'Do you want
to eat tonight, or what?' Abby ducked to the side as a large man
rushed past offering her an odd look which she ignored.

Charlie kept
trotting forward but turned his head towards her and twitched his
whiskers.

She laughed
lightly. 'Well at least we can eat tonight,' she replied
softly, 'which is a relief.'

Abby was a
slim girl, some would say painfully thin and on that she would
agree. It was not a fashion choice, but a result of her even
slimmer money purse. Her eyes were grey, her hair a crinkly
sandy-blond mess. Her body was always swamped under the clothes
that she wore. She never bothered to take them in, hoping that some
day she might be able to fill them out again.

She had a
young face, though it was always set with a melancholic frown that
added years on. She would aim for a severe, perhaps strict grimace,
but she could never make her eyes glare right – so she'd end up
with a nervous, somewhat sad look. But that was the same with
anything Abby did – she would try for something and end up getting
something else entirely. She would want something, but always
receive the opposite. It was almost as if lady luck was scowling so
hard at Abby, that she would be doomed to misfortune for the rest
of her life. It was inexorable almost, inescapable definitely – for
Abby's destiny simply was not a fortunate one.

Abby and
Charlie walked past a grand old building set into the wall and
dodged past the people milling around the doorway watching the
ships sway under the swathe of grey cloud gathering overhead.

'Excuse me,'
Abby tried to duck around a group of men that had chosen that
moment to pour out of the two swinging doors. They were all dressed
in Royal Navy uniforms and were thin-lipped with worry.

'Sorry, love,'
a large man apologised as he bumped into her, almost knocking her
backwards.

'Oh,' Abby
somehow righted herself and tried to dodge around him, but soon
found herself in a sea of men all pouring out of the doors. She
ground to a halt, Charlie tucking in behind her legs to prevent
himself being trampled.

'Coming off
the headland – did you hear the guy in the bar? Said he'd never
even heard of wind like that before. '

'Flattened
several fishing ships out in the deeps this morning, and it's only
getting worse.'

'God, look at
those clouds!'

'You hear what
the old sea dog was saying in there? Said a storm like this
changes destinies, what you reckon he meant by that?'

'I reckon he
meant he wanted another beer.'

Abby had no
choice but to listen. She was stuck right in the middle of what
felt like an entire ship full of sailors. Their worried, wavering
words were bouncing around like the roiling clouds above.

'Okay, okay,'
a deeper, more officious tone blared from somewhere near the doors,
'save your doomsday talk,' the owner of the voice seemed to be
pushing forward.

He must be an
ogre, Abby thought, or a troll to make headway through this throng
of huge men so easily. For her it was like being packed into a tin
full of burly, stripy-uniform clad sardines. It didn't help that
Abby stood a full two heads shorter than most of the men, though
they did provide an excellent windbreak.

The sailors
obviously couldn't see her or thought she was some kind of peculiar
patchwork growth on the sidewalk. She could feel Charlie start to
fret behind her and half wanted to grab her broomstick and just
rise up above the throng like a feather caught in an updraft.

That
would not be popular though.

Someone pushed
through the men in front of her and came to a sudden stop, just as
Abby had her face to the sky, shooting a longing look at the
mob-free air above her.

'Do I know
you?'

Abby snapped
her gaze down and blinked. Suddenly everyone had turned to look at
her. If she had been invisible before, she was now a giant black
dot on pure white paper.

'Abby,' she
squeaked a little too quickly.

The man in
front of her, dressed in a crisp white uniform looked sideways for
a moment. She guessed he was from the South Islands with his darkly
tanned skin and muscular build. He had green eyes though, so
somewhere in there he must have been Westland or Northland
heritage. She deduced he was the one in charge, what with the three
brass bands neatly shining on his collar and the way he had passed
through the tightly packed crowd with ease. And she also guessed,
with a tiny little gulp, that 'Abby' wasn't the answer he was
looking for.

For a moment
the skin on the back of Abby's neck prickled the way it always did
before she expected something. It was a witchly sense she could
always count on, for Abby's neck always seemed to know what would
happen next. Whoever this man was, her neck appeared to be telling
her, he was important.

'Excuse me?'
he cocked his head to the side, his pale green eyes thin slits of
bewilderment.

'I'm stuck,'
Abby pointed to herself for some reason. 'I… can't get past…' she
tried to look anywhere but at the man in front of her. Her mind was
racing through the set of possibilities as to why this man, who she
had never met before, could possibly be making her neck itch so
exquisitely.

'Oh,' the
confusion lifted from his face, replaced with a kind, broad smile.
'Please excuse us, Abby.' He stepped back and turned around to
address the men surrounding them. 'Alright, get off the pavement,
guys; you're blocking it up.'

His words were
like a magic icebreaker, tearing the throng of sailors asunder.
Abby turned to walk away and finally made full eye contact with the
man, he was looking at her with narrowed, but friendly eyes, almost
as if he had seen her somewhere before. But he quickly looked away
and the tingle on Abby's neck passed, as if it had never been at
all.

She hurried
forward. It was like coming out into the light after being stuck in
the deepest of caves. Men parted before her like curtains furling
back from a window.

A touch of
embarrassment warmed her cheeks as she walked through the last
dregs of the crowd.

'Sorry, Abby,'
several sailors called as she passed.

'Sorry,
ma'am.'

'Yeah, sorry
about that.'

'Why are you
carrying a broom?' One of the last sailors said to her. 'Anyone
would think you were a witch.'

It was always
the same. Always the same. A stab of panic arced across her chest
and she snapped her shoulders in, as if making herself a smaller
target. She gripped onto her broom until her fingers threatened to
shatter the wood into a thousand splinters. 'I'm a window cleaner,'
she muttered without looking back.

'Pearson,' she
heard the man in charge snap. 'You're out of line.'

'I'm just
saying what we're all thinking, sir. The Colonel tells us to be
alert.'

'Well the
Colonel isn't your Commander – I am.'

'But he'll be
King soon.'

'And I'll
still be your Commander,' the man said one final time.

Within moments
she had left the group behind, though she did turn one last time to
catch a glance of the man who was apparently a commander and almost
definitely the cause of her still rather prickling neck. He did
meet her eyes, and his glance was no longer friendly. Whether he
thought her to be a witch or not, it was plain that even the idea
of it disgusted him. Which was the standard reaction of any
Bridgestockian.

Still, for
some reason, Abby felt disappointed at this reaction. She couldn't
tell why, but now her neck was tingling like a thousand ants were
dancing across the skin. Something was wrong about this
situation….

She glanced
down at Charlie when they were far enough away: his tail was still
a shock of erect fur. 'That was close,' he said through gritted
teeth. 'Home. Now.'

Abby breathed
into a smile. It was always that way, but, no, it hadn't really
been close. There were no pitchforks for one, no burning torches.
No one had tried to tie her up and thrown her off a cliff or lock
her in a cave with a monster. They hadn't threatened to go and call
the Palace authorities and have her dragged before the Queen. They
hadn't even tried to break her broom.

That had not
been close. But yes… it had been unnerving. Because witches in
Bridgestock were banned and its citizens brought it upon themselves
to enforce that ban and shun all that even looked remotely witch
like.

Such was
Abby's life.

Abby had moved
to this city with the kind of innocence only a newly proclaimed
witch can embody. She'd barely been 18. Sure, she'd heard the
stories, heard the rumours that, in some parts, witches had become
unpopular, something to do with an assassination that had led to a
royal decree. But Abby hadn't really believed the stories. No one
could really hate witches, because they were just so darn useful!
In her own village, high amongst the mountains of the Eastland,
witches had been revered. Baskets of bread, fruit, and honey had
been left at her door the day she'd lifted her first curse, not a
burning bottle of alcohol.

Witches cured,
healed, blessed, and protected. What wasn't to like? How could a
witch have anything to do with an assassination? Who would even
believe that?