**
I crouch lower in the hollow of the firs as the mob draws near.
The dogs run in circles, my magick has confused our trail, leaving them no scent to follow. I squeeze my eyes shut as the glow of the torches approaches.
If they see us it is over, they will hang me just for being born, and my son ... I clutch Devon closer feeling him breathe, warm against my neck.
Oh Merciful Lord, please protect my son from what I must do.
They can't see us, they can't see us.
Behind my eyes Devon blazes with life, so much closer and so much brighter than the earth and roots below. I grit my teeth, fighting an unholy instinct to draw on Devon for my spell, and touch the earth instead, feeling the pull in my belly as the magick comes. It wraps itself around our place of refuge, twisting and turning around the hollowed out trunk, playing tricks with the moonlight until we’re obscured from sight.
They can't see us, they can't see us.
I rock as I repeat my chant, my eyes closed tight against the sight of the mob, milling in confusion like their dogs. Soon the chant is all I can hear, all I will allow myself to hear.
They can't see us, they can't see us.
Somewhere in the distance I am aware of the Reverend's voice. It reverberates against the trees and for a moment I am back in the small church, sitting on the hard pew as he stands at the pulpit. Standing as straight as his stooped shoulders will allow, his knuckles white, the wrath of the Lord on his face and promises of damnation on his tongue.
"She's bewitched your dogs Johnson, you can't deny her perfidy now!"
I squeeze my eyes tighter and think harder to drown the sound of his hated voice.
" ... confounded the dogs ..."
"She can't go far ..."
**
Dawn breaks before I let the magick fade.
We are alone now. Above me a bird sings in the morning and I look up, spying the white spotted breast and cinnamon wings of a thrush. From somewhere comes the furtive rustling of leaves and something soft and round catches my eye. A hare hops an arms length from our refuge, its brown sides quivering as it sniffs the air. Its ears twitch once, twice, before it drops its head and paws at the litter of leaves and grass.
For the moment we are safe.
I look down at my son. His soft blonde head rests against my chest. Warm relief twists through me and I press my lips to his curls before resting my cheek against the top of his head and hugging him close.
“Devon,” I say. The hare’s long ears twitch at the sound of my voice. My son does not respond. “Devon.” I look down, noting his pale cheeks and the darkness under his eyes. My heart clutches, something nameless and terrifying crawls into my throat.
My hand shakes as I lay it against his cheek. It is cold. Too, too cold.
“Devon?” My voice rises, becoming strident. The hare lifts its head, ears alert.
I tilt my son’s head. It lolls against my arm. His face is lax, without expression, his lips blue. I press my fingers into the juncture between head and neck.
Oh Dear Lord, please, please, please.
**
I leave my son in a cold grave under the branches of a sapling pine. It will grow. I have ensured that no blade will leave a mark on its smooth trunk. The hare and a nest of starlings paid the price for my spell.
I am cold inside, my innards are laid out next to my son and there is nothing left in me to feel. The coldness is its own comfort though, has its own voice, its own urgings.
**
The village square is grey, silent, tomorrow giving way to today on the crow of the cock. I stand beneath the oak at its centre, no longer cold, no longer empty. A day and night have passed since I left Devon under the pine and I have used the time well.
Now, this morning under the oak, I wait for the villagers to wake and discover the things I have taken during the night.
A shutter clatters. A candle flickers in the general store.
My breath shortens and my shoulders tighten.
The wind rustles in the leaves above me and from somewhere distant a cow lows. Closer I hear birds flutter and call. Of the villagers I hear nothing and my chest pounds and squeezes. I take a step forward, then another, willing, hoping, waiting.
It rings out, high and piercing and piteous, a wail from the little house behind the store, full of pain and grief. The storekeeper’s daughter has found her parents, cold and still like my little Devon.
I smile and wait for the others.
About the author
Nothing stirs Belinda Crawford more than a fast horse, a blazingly fast computer or a really good book.
A Melbourne-based IT graduate, she has expanded her passion for reading, and penchant for science fiction and fantasy, to creative writing, and in 2012 had Elouise: A tale of The Light published in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine.
Somewhere between work, karate training and wrestling her keyboard away from a feline named Faust, Belinda has found the time to write Hero, the first title in a science fiction trilogy for young adults.
Find out more at
https://www.belindacrawford.com
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