Witch Island (17 page)

The knocking became pounding, the door rattling thunderously in its frame. Whoever was on the other side was indeed desperate for something. She heard multiple voices too. Panicked, she swallowed the lump in her throat, and stood by the door, gun pointed at it.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“It’s Constable Ryan. I’ve got Father O’Brady here and he’s very sick.”

Margaret wondered what they wanted from her. She was no doctor, not the traditional kind anyway. Her ways were shunned by most and would never be considered, especially for a priest.

“It’s late and my husband’s sick,” Margaret said. “Take him to Doctor Frederick.”

“The doc’s gone. Had to leave town and won’t be back for another day or two.”

If it was anyone else, she would have refused, but Constable Ryan was the law, and Margaret rather liked Father O’Brady, having met him earlier that day. He must have told the constable to bring him to her.

When Margaret and her husband had arrived in town, the place seemed like a dream. The area was beautiful, the countryside exactly where she and her husband had wanted to live and raise a family. Previously, they’d been living in the slums of Manhattan, a dangerous and dirty place not fit for rats, though they seemed to thrive there.

Initially, the people of Salisbury Mills had been kind, smiling and welcoming, but when the couple didn’t attend church services, especially on Sunday, that all changed. Rumors spread. People no longer spoke with them. Some turned their heads; others watched them with narrowed eyes and scowls on their faces. Margaret grew somewhat worried, until Father O’Brady paid them a visit, giving her hope.

“Good day, ma’am,” he had said. “My name’s Father O’Brady.” The man had a close-cut beard, was broad-shouldered and handsome.

“Yes?” Margaret asked, looking past the man to see if he was alone. “What brings you out this way?” Margaret thought she knew the reason. Back in the city, she’d been visited by men of faith before, the reasons always the same—to get her to change her ways and see the light.

“Is Mr. Rivers home?”

Margaret wanted nothing more than to slam the door shut in the man’s face, but held her anger in check and grinned. She didn’t want to upset the townspeople any more than they already were.

“No, Mr. Rivers is not able to come to the door at this time,” she said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The man’s brow furrowed. He looked concerned. “Your absence at the church has been noticed.”

Margaret felt her face redden. She ground her teeth, holding the grin steady. “We’re not religious in your ways, Father.”

“Ahh,” the man said, nodding. “In what way are you religious, if you don’t mind me asking such a personal question?”

Margaret’s anger dissipated. She wasn’t getting a bad vibe from the priest. In fact, she was sensing honest interest in her situation. “You’re not like most priests, are you?”

The man smiled warmly. “God loves all his children, whether they are on His direct path or not.” A moment of pause as the two stared at each other. “May I come in and talk with you?”

She stared into his unblinking eyes, trying to find a reason to send him away, but came up with nothing. It was wiser to be nice to the priest. If anything, his word might carry some weight with the townsfolk. But more than that, it was because she was intrigued by him, sensing she might even come to like him.

“Sure,” she said, moving aside to allow him entrance.

She led him to a chair in the kitchen. The walls were decorated with paintings of countryside landscapes—hillsides, mountains and forests with deer and rabbits present—all painted by her and her husband when they had lived in the city. The couple would often pretend the paintings’ frames were windows, the paintings themselves views of what was outside their apartment, giving them hope that one day they could move to a place where such views really did exist.

Father O’Brady sat at the kitchen table in front of the fireplace.

“Care for some English tea?” Margaret asked.

“Would love some, thank you.”

The kettle had already been filled with water. Margaret set it over the flames, using the fireplace mitt. It came to a boil quickly and tea was served. She sat adjacent to the man.

“As a man of the cloth, it is my duty to spread the word of God, but more than that, His message.”

“And what is His message?” Margaret asked, taking a sip from her cup.

Father O’Brady chuckled. “You are a strong woman, Mrs. Rivers.”

“That I am,” she said. “But please, call me Margaret.”

“Okay, Margaret.”

“Look, I know why you are here. My people have been persecuted for centuries, first in Europe and now in America. Killed because of our beliefs. We are good people, just like you.”

The priest’s face sobered. “There is no excuse for violence. I have traveled to distant lands, spreading His word. I’ve been witness to horrible things. Man has a dark side, this I have no doubt. We are truly living in strange and difficult times, and that is why I have come to your home today.”

A groan of pain came from the back room.

“Is someone hurt?” Father O’Brady asked.

“My husband is ill.”

“What’s wrong with him? We should get him to the doctor.”

“He has a fever. Hasn’t been eating well.”

“May I see him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. He needs his rest. He’ll be better in a few days. I’m treating him.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No. I am a healer.”

“I see.”

“Margaret,” came a weary voice from the other room.

Before Margaret knew it, her husband was standing in the kitchen doorway, ragged and sleepy-eyed. His face was pale and dotted with sweat.

Margaret sprang from her chair and went to him. “What are you doing up?”

“It sounded like we had company,” he said.

“That’s not for you to worry about,” she told him, and tried ushering him from the room, but he held strong for a moment.

“Hello, Mr. Rivers,” Father O’Brady said, standing. There is no need for concern. I’ve simply stopped by for a quick visit with the missus, to properly introduce myself. If I’d known you were sick, I would have come at another time.”

“Please, call me Jonathan. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I must apologize for my condition, as I am not up to having company.”

“No, no, you mustn’t apologize. It is I who apologizes.”

Margaret put her hand under her husband’s chin so that he looked at her. “Let’s get you back to bed.” Jonathan nodded, then stumbled against the wall. Father O’Brady jumped up and took hold of the man. Together, they walked Jonathan to the bedroom.

They laid him down and he erupted into a coughing fit. He pushed himself up, leaned off the side of the bed and expelled a wad of yellow phlegm into a wooden bucket filled with water. “Please, excuse me.” He collapsed back down, eyes closed.

“Not at all,” Father O’Brady said, holding up a hand. “I shall take my leave, as I see you need to sleep.”

“Aye,” Jonathan said, “that I do.” He reached out and grabbed Margaret’s hand. “My wife’s going to fix me right up. Always does. She takes good care of me.”

Margaret tucked her husband in. “I’ll be right outside. Now get some rest.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Jonathan,” Father O’Brady said.

“The same, Father,” Jonathan said. “Please, come back in a few days when I’m better, and we’ll talk.”

“I will certainly do that.”

Back in the kitchen, Margaret asked if Father O’Brady wanted more tea before he left.

“No, no,” the man said kindly. “I’ve intruded enough.”

Margaret walked the priest to the front door. He walked out, then turned around. “I thank you kindly for your hospitality.”

“You are most welcome, Father,” Margaret said. “Please, come back anytime.” It was the proper thing to say, but she truly meant it. This man was unlike any priest she had ever met, and she looked forward to getting to know him.

Father O’Brady stared at her, grinning. Margaret felt a bit awkward, wondering what was going through the man’s mind.

“You’re good people,” he finally said. “Different than most I come across. I have an open mind and heart. I follow God’s laws and believe in what I teach, but I also believe not everyone is meant to be the same. The most important thing I teach is love. That’s the bottom line. I can see that you and your husband are good people who truly love one another. I may not agree with your religious practices, but this land is open to all, is it not?”

Margaret forced a smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I’m glad we agree on that.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid there are others, most of the town in fact, that are not as understanding. I am somewhat new to the town myself, having only taken over the church a couple of years ago. Before that was Father Duncan, a good, but stern man and strict in his teachings. I do my best to preach God’s love, but as with most people, they fear what they do not understand or know.

“I will do my best to make your stay in Salisbury Mills as comfortable as possible, but it wouldn’t hurt to come to church, at least a meeting or two a month. I preach more than just the word. I’d hope you’d consider having an open mind as I do, and come visit. Give me a chance. You and your husband can introduce yourselves, and let the people of the town see how wonderful you are.”

“Thank you, Father,” Margaret said. “When my husband is well, we shall consider your offer.”

“That’s all I ask.”

The man thanked her again, then headed off down the trail.

Now, Margaret was holding a shotgun, pointed at the door, ready to blow away whoever was on the other side. And for what? Because she was afraid of the past, of what she’d been witness to, the hangings, burnings and stabbings. The city was far away, that part of her life gone. She needed to change with her new home. She needed to trust people. The priest was a good man, and if he was hurt and needed her help, then she would help him.

Margaret unlocked the door, readied her hand on the knob to open it, when it flew inward. She yelped and jumped back, nearly squeezing the weapon’s trigger.

A crowd had gathered outside. Many held torches, pitchforks, axes and other tools. Father O’Brady was nowhere in sight. His earlier visitation must have been a trick. He had been a spy. Anger flared in Margaret’s bones, her grip on the shotgun tightening.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, stepping forward, afraid, but attempting to show no fear.

“Witch!” someone shouted.

A man wielding an ax rushed at the doorway, screaming. His eyes were wide with fury. Margaret raised the shotgun and fired, blowing a huge hole in the man’s chest and sending him back into the crowd. She rushed forward and slammed the door closed, locking it. She knew it would do little to keep them out.

Panic seized her. She couldn’t believe this was happening again. She and Jonathan had only been in town a short while. They had done nothing to provoke this. Skipping church wouldn’t have brought this on. Someone had lied, said they saw something. It had to be Father O’Brady, but he’d seemed like such a good man. She thought about escaping out the back window, but her husband was too ill and wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before the throng caught him.

The couple’s friends had warned them to stay in the city. Sure, it was a dirty place where the rich had it great and the poor suffered, but at least her kind were able to blend in better, pretend. Some were found out, but most were not.

Living in the city had been about survival, not living. Margaret and Jonathan wanted to raise a family, live off the land and practice their religion. Why was being in touch with nature such a crime?

“Come out, witch,” a male voice shouted.

“I’m not a witch,” Margaret answered, knowing the declaration was pointless. These people were worked up, in a frenzy. They had already decided her fate.

The crowd was chanting now. “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

Margaret glanced out a small window and saw villagers tossing their torches at the house.

“What’s happening?” a voice from behind said.

Margaret jumped, inadvertently squeezing the trigger, and sent a round of BBs into the floor.

“Margaret?” Jonathan asked, holding a hand over his heart, clearly caught off guard.

“We need to leave,” she said. She opened the gun, pulled out the spent shells and loaded new ones. If she had to, she’d carry him to safety.

Her husband started coughing. He grabbed onto the back of a chair to steady himself.

Margaret ran to him. She smelled smoke. Looking up, she saw gray, snake-like plumes slithering through the air. Flames erupted from her right along the windowsill. “I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving the shotgun with her husband. She ran to the bedroom and looked out the window. Men were standing in the backyard, holding torches and farming tools. The house was surrounded.

Margaret’s heart sank.

The window burst, sending shards of glass over her and the room. She put her arms up and jumped back, feeling glass slice the flesh along her arms and forehead. A large stone rested on the floor before her. Movement caught her eye and she looked up. A torch came through the window and landed next to the bed. The blankets went up immediately.