Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins (6 page)

“The young man took me gently away from the
port, away from the noise and to an inn. I thought that I would be
raped and left to die or to live as a personal whore. To my
surprise, he requested that I bathe and he left the room. The water
felt wonderful on my skin. I had not washed for months. I scrubbed
my skin as though I could wash away the memories of all that I had
seen. I then found oil to rub on my skin and I also rubbed it
gently on the book.

“When the man came back into the room, I
jumped and hid behind the bed with my old clothes draped in front
of me. He apologized in a gentle way… a way in which I had not been
spoken to by a man since I had been taken from my home. He then
placed a new dress on the bed for me along with a silver brush and
he retreated out of the room. I slowly crept onto the bed and
examined the items. They were of fine fabric and the hairbrush was
bright silver. These were not items that you would give to a
slave.

“When I had dressed he knocked on the door
and entered after I let him know that it was alright. He told me
that he did not want to own me. He explained that he had never
owned a slave and that the only reason he had purchased me was that
when he walked by the platform, he felt drawn to me. He nervously
laughed when he explained that a street fortuneteller had grabbed
his arm the day before and told him to look for the girl with
crimson hair. Then his eyes welled with tears as he explained that
seeing me on the platform filled his heart with so much love that
he felt obligated to save me. He told me that he wanted to make me
his wife, but if I did not want to take his hand in marriage, I was
free to leave with the new clothes he had purchased for me. Indeed
my prayers to the Holy Mother had not gone unanswered.

“I told him that I would not leave him and I
did not. This was the man I had seen in my vision and I knew we
were destined for one another. The man was your father Aislin, and
I was the slave that he rescued.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Afternoon

Martha had brought me a little bell that I
now carried in my pocket along with the salt, a few amulets and a
cross. I barely had room to carry normal things in my pocket
anymore, but I was glad to have all the magical possessions with
me.

Abigail had stopped by early in the day and
my mother agreed that I could sit in front of the house and visit
with her. It felt good to have the sunlight on my face. Abigail was
in a joyful mood and kept looking at me with searching eyes.

“I am glad that you are feeling better. I
have missed spending time with you,” she said, as she reached down
to pet Sneachta.

“I am feeling fine. It is good to see you
too,” I replied while staring down the street, still a little
anxious to be out in the open. This was the first time I was
permitted to walk outside since the incident with the creature.

“What was wrong?” she asked.

“I do not know… perhaps fatigue.” I knew
that was not a good excuse. I also knew that Abigail was very
gullible, and convincing her of this half-truth would be easy.

“Have you missed Zachariah?” she asked
hopefully.

I flinched at her question. “I have not been
in the frame of mind to miss anyone,” I replied as truthfully as I
could without hurting her feelings.

Abigail looked at me shrewdly and slapped my
arm with her hand, “I have news,” she whispered excitedly.

I raised an eyebrow and waited, guessing
that Jack glanced in her direction in the past few days or that she
had finally mustered up the courage to speak to him. I looked at
her patiently and waited for her story but she was dragging out the
silence for effect, looking in all direction as though someone
would be interested in our conversation. Finally, when she saw that
my interest was waning, she set the theatrics aside and said her
piece.

“Zachariah is coming to talk to your
father!” she squealed.

“About what?”

Abigail now seemed rather frustrated that
her great theatrics had been wasted on my naïveté. She rolled her
eyes and placed a hand on her hip. “Aislin you silly girl, he is
coming to negotiate for your hand in marriage.”

A sense of anxiety and nausea flooded over
me.
This could not be. Her mother would never allow it!

“You are mistaken,” I said, as confidently
as I could, “Your mother would not stand for Zachariah to court me,
nor marry me.”

Abigail took my hand in hers and flapped it
around in her great excitement. “Father told her that he does not
care what she thinks. Our father finds you to be a good match for
Zachariah, and that is all that matters. Now we will truly be
sisters.” Her smile kept me from snapping at her, but I could abide
this no longer.

Then I saw Zachariah, peeking his head
around the corner of my front yard and leaning on the gate. I was
angered by his audacity. How dare he assume that I would be
interested in marrying him, the stupid brute!

He sauntered forward, took off his traveling
hat, and ran his hand through his greasy blonde hair. I stiffened
at his presence, and he twisted his mouth into a forced smile. He
had learned that particular smile from his Politian father, who
used it often when he dealt with the commoners.

His father was the Mayor of our town and
used his position of power to increase his wealth, with complete
disregard of those who got in his way. Just like his father,
Zachariah looked down upon everyone around him. Thankfully,
Abigail seemed to have been spared her family’s
trait of ruthlessness, but her brother was power hungry,
cold-hearted, and looked to his father to handle of all his
problems.
He was like his father in so many, many ways,
except that he was still rather slight in build. For Zachariah, his
delicate build always worked to his advantage. Although he appeared
rather frail, many of the men of Burlington quickly learned that
his wicked demeanor and ferocious temperament made him a formidable
opponent. Although I found him to be far less than attractive, what
I found most appalling about the boy was his brutal nature, another
trait that he had inherited from his family.

It did not take much consideration for me to
reach the conclusion that I would not marry this silly little boy,
no matter what the consequence.

“Is your father home?” he asked as he
strutted up to where we sat.

He stared down at us with a pompous air
about him, his brown wool coat made his skin look sallow. He walked
passed me and pulled at the door as though he was welcome to let
himself into my house.

“No, he is not. But if you walk in on my
mother, you are likely to get a pan to the head,” I said
coldly.

“When will he be home?”

“I am not his apprentice and I do not keep
his time,” I growled back.

“Fine, I will call on him tonight.” He sat
himself down next to me. Sneachta maneuvered between us, reached
out, and scratched his hand. “What is wrong with that wretched
cat?” he howled, as he stood up and backed away from her.

“She does not like you,” I replied while
stroking her fur.

“Next time she comes after me, I’ll sick my
dogs on her,” he threatened as he sucked at the blood that barely
broke the surface of his hand.

I looked up sharply at the whining louse.
“You hurt my cat in anyway and you will pay dearly,” I hissed at
him.

Abigail looked rather anxious, but her
brother just smiled at me. “Now, that is no way to talk to your
future husband,” he said.

I could tell that he liked the idea of
exhibiting control over me. If I were forced to marry this boy, I
would live my life under his thumb, governed by the back of his
hand.

“The way you behave, your father better
offer me a fare price.”

“I will never marry you Zachariah Marthaler…
even if the only way to avoid it is by death!”

He froze at my words, as though the thought
of my rejection had never crossed his feeble mind. It took a while
for his composure to come back to him. Abigail scowled at me and
whispered under her tongue that I should take the words back. I
raised a hand to silence her.

“I do not love you Zachariah. I do love
another and I am promised to him. Now please leave and do not
bother me again.”

“Who?” he demanded. I thought about that for
a moment and suddenly felt incredibly stupid. I had no answer to
that question.
What was I to say? I am promised to someone who
visits me in my dreams and bought me this necklace? That I was
never given his name but I somehow, inexplicably, know that he
loves me?

“It is not your concern,” I blurted out.

Zachariah turned on his heel and strutted
away, “Liar,” I heard him call over his shoulder.

“How could you?” Abigail yelled, “You stupid
girl! Who else is going to marry you?”

I noticed that tears were streaming down my
face. I was lost in thought. His words echoed in my head—“
Your
father better offer me a fair price
”. It made me see my mother,
young and terrified, on an auction block being sold like cattle. I
refused to be sold and traded for.

“I need to rest. Please excuse me
Abigail.”

Abigail bolted after her brother, leaving me
on the porch.

I turned and went inside where my mother was
waiting for me, arms open, with a soft cloth in her hand for my
tear stained face. “Do not worry. I will not let such a boy near
you.”

********************

After I drank my tea and calmed myself, my
mother asked that I walk with her to the market house on Broad and
High Street so that we could purchase sage and pumpkins for
Samhain. The holiday was tomorrow and it was the strongest time of
year for divination, so we rushed to prepare.

Sneachta followed me, but stayed far enough
away as not to create suspicion. Cats were still associated with
witchcraft and devil worship and if she followed me as a dog
followed his master, many heads would turn.

In truth, Sneachta is my familiar, a magical
creature sent to help guide me in the Craft. Although common belief
says that familiars are consorts of the devil, Sneachta is not an
evil spirit. She is indeed a cat, my cat, but she is special.

As we walked, I kept one hand near the
opening of my pocket in case I needed to ring the bell or cast a
protection spell.

The market house was a large brick building,
somewhat resembling a barn, open on both ends and spacious inside.
In the interior, many tables were set up for farmers and merchants
to display their goods. These tables, or
shambles
as some of
the locals called them, were overflowing with vegetables, herbs,
and grain. I looked around at the haggling merchants and buyers, I
saw that that Martha was amongst the crowd. She did not look at us,
but I knew she was there to watch over me, as was Sneachta.

My mother walked through the shambles,
moving from table to table, picking her sage and rolling the
pumpkins, looking for bruising and insect bites. While she was
busy, my attention was caught by a child’s cries. I walked away
from the stands and followed the wails to outside the building. I
turned the corner of the large brick building and
saw a young child, around the age of five years old, sitting
on the ground crying. As I moved closer, I recognized the child;
this was Martha’s grandson, Isaac. Tears streamed down his sweet
cherubic face and he held his little hands over his blood covered
chin. He was trembling as he looked up at his assailant.

Towering over the poor child stood a nasty
sneering boy, the youngest of the Marthaler family. Mathew held a
dirty, torn, rag doll triumphantly between his fat fingers and gave
the fallen boy a swift kick.

“What happened here?” I said, stepping
between the two children.

Isaac sniffled as raised a finger towards
Mathew, “He took my toy,” he whimpered.

“Is this true Mathew?” I asked sternly.

Mathew pulled himself up as tall as he
could, appearing rather haughty and as pompous as his older
brother.

“It’s only a bastard slave. I can do what I
want,” he said.

I did not think, nor did I hesitate. I
reached my hand back as far as it would go and struck the obnoxious
child across the face. There was a resounding
crack
as my
hand reached his plump cheek. He flew backward and hit the
ground.

My hand throbbed, but I did not care. I
walked over to the now wailing Mathew and plucked the cloth doll
out of his hand. I then picked up little Isaac as though he were my
own, and set off to find his mother so I could return the child to
safety. Isaac snuggled into my shoulder as I walked and he clutched
his little doll tightly.

“It will be alright Isaac. I am going to
find your mother for you,” I said gently.

We walked to the very east edge of town
until we reached a side gate of a huge home, and followed the dirt
walkway to the slave quarters.

I noticed that people were staring at us. A
white woman carrying an African child in her arms must have seemed
unusual. I did not care what anyone thought. I had enough of the
Marthalers and their cruelty; enough of their ideas that people
were items that they could trade for and use until they no longer
found them fit.

I knocked on the door of a small, one story
cabin and waited for someone to answer.

As I stood with Isaac, I thought of his
mother. Although Becky and I had grown up in the same town, we
never had the time to become as close as I would have liked. As far
back as I could remember, she had been in servitude to her
slaveholders, the Smiths, and they left her with no time to play or
socialize as free children had time to do. While I had grown up at
a leisurely pace, Becky’s journey into adulthood was hastened. She
never knew the joys of running barefoot on a summer’s day or
playing in the creek and picking berries until the sunset, never
having to answer to anyone except loving parents who granted you
freedom to be a child. Instead, Becky worked from sun-up until
sundown for the Smiths. Yet, even under their harsh thumb, she had
managed to find some semblance of happiness. Becky was married to
Pete, who was also a servant of the Smith family. They had one
child, precious little Isaac.