***
The trial lasted but a few days, days where those I had considered friends, bought goods from, or sold goods to, came forward to testify I was in the hands of the Devil and should be condemned. The stories brought forth as evidence claimed I, I alone, was responsible for each and every troubles which had plagued my village since my birth in 1630, and in Colchester since my arrival there a scant few years before.
Crops wilted and died when I walked past a field.
Prized animals dried up; their young died, weak and rotten.
Rains fell on the days I was unhappy while the sun scorched on days when I was not.
I listened to these tales with a silent amusement, though I dared not show it. Matthew—aye, he was Matthew to me now—was the head of the judicial party sent to determine my status as a witch.
And Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, had professed his love to me and promised to protect me.
On a day in winter when the snows stretched white blankets over the streets, the judges at last were ready to announce their verdict. I was brought forward to the wooden rail which separated me from the men who would decry my innocence to the world and set me free.
Matthew’s great voice boomed out to cry silence on the crowd gathered to watch the proceedings. All, I could see, were more than eager to leave the chilled room and watch the fire sure to follow my sentence.
His voice echoed across the rail between us and drove into my ears.
“Bridget Sinclair, spinster of Colchester. You have been charged with the crimes of witchcraft, evil sorcery and consorting with the Devil, and have been duly tried by good men and true. In the name of all that is Holy, and with the power invested in me by our gracious lord and king, I proclaim these evidences brought forth as true and valid. And your sentence shall be the same given to all minions of Satan. You are to be taken from this court to a place already prepared and burned, so you will taste the foul, eternal flames awaiting you below. And may God have mercy on the soul which you regard so little.”
Shock hit me first. Anger second. My hands shook in the restraints as the jailers reached for my arms. Somewhere, I found my voice above the noises erupting around us.
“Master Hopkins, I pray you. I crave but a word and will be silent.”
The eyes, which had gazed with love into mine through the nights we shared, now appeared amused as he raised a hand and requested silence upon the courts. When the tumult had ceased, or at least grown lower, he said: “Very well, Mistress Sinclair. And do you be advised these words will be your last.”
I nodded, finding the strength to step forward to the old railing until I could press my hands against it. The Goddess spoke for me, through my anger and hurt, to form the words I needed to say.
“Master Hopkins, for the kindness which you have shown me, I have but one wish: to bless your firstborn son and all of his descendents. Each of these first sons will live long and prosperous lives.”
He smiled and those lips I had kissed so often and had sought mine, lifted into something akin to disdain.
I could feel my face twist in pain and anguish as I continued.
“But with this same breath, mark you all who hear my words, yet do I curse them. Every first male will love one of my own kind. A Chosen One. These loves will be true and deep, but even with all their power, fated to be lost. Those they love, the Chosen Ones meant for them, will be torn and separated from them, aye, even until the end of time. And what will be the outcome, ask you? Why, merely this: these men will moan in torment as their souls are ripped apart by their grief, trampled upon as you have done to mine. They will be unable to fill the vast emptiness within them; there will be no replacement for their lost loves. So it is cast, so must it be.”
The gasp of the crowd filled my ears as I was jerked backward and out into the courtyard where the pyre had been set up. They slammed me against the thick beam and lashed me tight to it; below and around me, the pile of sticks and branches glistened with animal fat.
Meant to make it burn faster.
Meant to make me burn faster.
I pressed against the stake, my eyes closed so the ravenous faces before me could not harm me, as the anger left me and I grew weak. Not until I heard his voice did I open my eyes to view the world once more. One last time.
Matthew Hopkins scrambled to the top of the pyre and wrapped his hands around my waist. His grip tightened as he crushed his lips to mine.
I am saved.
When we parted, his breath grazed the hair next to my ear as he spoke, soft yet clear.
“May you, and your curse, burn in hell where you both belong.”
My anger returned as I growled at him, fighting against the restraints to hurt him as much as he had hurt me. I stopped only when the Goddess whispered through my despair.
Your curse is cast, Daughter. So now must it be.
His descendents and theirs, even unto untold generations, would know my pain.
All would suffer longer than I would ever have to.
They would know what it meant to lose something far more precious than life.
They would know what it meant to lose their souls.
And with this, I could die in peace.
** END **
If you liked Downfall, be sure to check out the book which started it all, The Witchfinder Wars!
********************************
The Witchfinder Wars
Tommy and Anya: two teenagers in love; what could be sweeter and more beautiful? Well, Anya is a fire witch of an ancient line. Tommy is the heir-apparent of WFG Ltd., aka Witchfinder General. So they'll have more to deal with than the flames of love…there'll be pain, deception, loss, confusion and…murder.
About the Authors:
K.G. McAbee has had several books and nearly a hundred short stories published, and some of them are honestly quite readable. She writes steampunk, fantasy, science fiction, horror, pulp, westerns and, most recently, comics. She’s a member of Horror Writers Association and International Thriller Writers and is an Artist in Residence with the South Carolina Arts Commission. Her steampunk/zombie novella recently received an honorable mention in the 3rd quarter Writers of the Future contest.
Cynthia D. Witherspoon is an award winning writer of Southern Gothic, Paranormal Romance, and Urban Fantasy. She currently resides in South Carolina, but spent three years in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Always an avid reader, she began writing short stories in college. She graduated with a Bachelor's Degree in History from Converse College, and earned a Masters in Forensic Science at Oklahoma State University Center for Health Sciences.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends