Page 8 of SIN Bone Deep

Light of eye and soft of touch, speak you little, listen much

– The Wiccan Rede

We owned two cars. One was a 1985 Rolls-Royce Corniche, and the other an ancient Ford pick-up. Both were parked in a garage constructed around the time the Rolls was purchased when the family had a brief influx of money and had built sympathetically to match the main house.

The Corniche spent most of its time under a cover, but the Ford saw regular use. It was the vehicle that took us to the nearest town when we needed household essentials, had an appointment, or was taking the produce of our household to the local fairs to sell. These trips were usually done with Callista, as Fennel preferred to stay at the house, however once a month, Fennel would take extra care with her appearance and ask me to drive her into town.

She would sit next to me in the cab, her purse neatly held on her lap with both hands, her wide-brimmed hat with its black lace veil hiding her face behind swirls and flowers. With makeup taking the red from her skin and the veil preventing a clear view, the burn was invisible to the eye.

I did not ask what she did in town on these trips, I simply drove her to the main street and then went about my own business until she found me again and told me that it was time to return home. I suspected that she visited the graveyard and the bank, but only because occasionally my path meant that I saw her from a distance, and they were the two locations that would be logical from her direction.

I parked along the same strip as I normally did, giving no signal that this trip was any different from any other – although we both knew that today’s mail might contain the acceptance and rejection letters that I had been waiting for since the start of the holidays...

“Thank you, dear,” she said primly as she reached for the door handle. “Would you mind checking the post box for me?”

“Of course,” I agreed immediately. We both knew that was my destination anyway.

The flutter and shadow of wings lifted our eyes skyward as a flock of ravens passed overhead.

“So, mote it be, three by three,” I whispered.

“Oh dear,” Fennel murmured. Her eyes met mine. “We had best conduct our business swiftly, Nyx, and return home as soon as we can.”

“Yes, Aunt Fennel,” I agreed for the black wings had sent a shiver across my soul that spoke of shadows beyond our world.

I watched her walk down the road. She drew the eyes of onlookers in her head-to-toe black, the layers of fabric fluttering with her movements, but the fine lace veil secured tightly around her neck so that no stray breeze could reveal what lay beneath. There was something about her that caused the towns’ women to stop and whisper behind their hands, and the men to step aside, clearing the way for her with old-fashioned polite nods of their heads. Despite what they said about our family to each other and behind closed doors, at this moment, their instinctive response was to be polite.

A man, an ex-lover, had, in a fit of jealousy, thrown battery acid at her when she had been in her early thirties. Luck had been with her that her sunglasses had protected her eyes and the acid had only caught her cheek glancingly. However, it had been enough to leave its mark upon her forever more, and in more ways than the scars upon her cheek, her shoulder, and her arm.

As I passed the gelato shop, I saw Nova through the window lifting onto her tiptoes to kiss a blonde man, and I paused. Oh no, I thought. It was starting again. Every time that a Vossen woman fell in love, it ended in disaster.

I shook it off. Despite our family’s bad luck in love, we continued to fall into it over and over again.

I continued along the way toward the old post office. The building was original and held the formality and details of the old-fashioned building techniques that were beautiful to behold and gave little towns like Mortensby their character and appeal to tourists.

As I crossed the road, I passed the square where one of my ancestors, Charity Vossen, had been burnt at the stake and as I waited for the crosswalk lights to activate, I watched her ghost wander through the playground that had been erected over where she had died. Nothing would grow there, and so they had covered it with bark chips, and a model of a pirate ship so the children played where their ancestors had burnt mine to ash…

I shuddered and turned away.

According to my aunts, Bishop Hargreaves had come to the region to cement adherence to the church in the settlers. No ordinary house would represent his authority over the region, and so the great house on the opposite hill to the lighthouse and the Vossen Homestead was built.

The Bishop’s first mission was, of course, to tame the wild Vossen lighthouse keepers. With that goal in mind, he paid a call on them and was immediately enraptured with one of the younger sisters. She did not return his fascination. She was young and beautiful, and he was not, his youth a shadow in his past.

Many times, he sought to seduce her, even offering to pay for the privilege, and had been rebuffed. Eventually, he had taken by force what he sought. When it was rumoured through the town that my ancestor was with child, fearful that she would reveal his crime against her, he had brought in the witch hunters.

What followed was a time of terror and accusations, neighbour turning against neighbour, friend against friend, sister against sister, in desperation to escape the torture of the witch hunters. Nearly every girl and woman in town endured their interrogations, many suffering horrendous injuries in the process.

In unison, the town turned against the Vossen women as the Bishop had intended, and the pregnant ancestor in particular. She was tortured and found guilty, but when they came to burn her, the fire simply would not light. Three times they built the pyre, and three times it would not light.

My ancestor gave birth early, alone in the dank little cell, and managed to smuggle the child out to her sister, who hid it in the Vossen Homestead, without the Bishop having ever learned of its delivery.

The next day, when my ancestor was tied to the stake, the wood caught, and burned with such ferocity that the witch hunters, the Bishop, and the townspeople were denied the satisfaction of her screaming for mercy. This sacrifice was made to hide the evidence of her delivery and save the life of her newborn child.

The Bishop sickened not long after. His death was slow, drawn out, and very, very painful. You do not mess with witches. They will find a way to return the favor, three times three.

My heels clipped along the sidewalk in rhythm with my heart towards the post office. The pedestrian traffic increased the nearer I got to it, with the oldies on their morning out queuing to pay their bills and send their biscuits and best wishes to George and Sandie who never visited but were always held in their thoughts.

As I dodged the tail of their queue a child’s toy landed at my feet, dropped over the shoulder of her father. I stooped to pick it up, and as the child took it, the exchange caught the attention of her father. Our eyes met, and I recognized him as the man who had been waiting for Kristine Sawyer.

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