The Witch’s Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

still my whirling mind. There existed only two options. Denial, ridicule, making light of events, accepting no argument, and thereafter firmly distancing myself from Tegan. This was surely the more sensible course, but it saddened me, built as it would have to be upon lies and half truths. The other path, however, was one not to be taken without care. It was a journey once started that would require thought and time and consideration, for there would be no turning back. Somewhere deep in my being, I felt a spark of excitement, a scintilla of hope. Could it be, after all this long, long time, that I was going to share my secret with someone? That I would no longer be forced to hide the truth from everyone? This innocent girl had seen through my defenses in a way that no other had, so that now I felt an overwhelming desire to have her know me, to have her understand. And to visit again the events that have brought me here. I opened my eyes.
    ‘If you will listen,’ I said, ‘I will tell you a tale of witches. A tale of magic and love and loss. A story of how simple ignorance breeds fear, and how deadly that fear can be. Will you listen?’
    ‘Yeah, cool! Bloody right I will.’ Tegan nodded energetically.
    I held up a hand, ‘Really? Are you truly able to be still and quiet and listen?’
    She nodded once more, slowly and deliberately this time. I sighed, a long exhalation, a letting go.
    ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let me tell you what it means to be a witch.’

Batchcombe, Wessex, 1627
    1
    That year the harvest was good. Rain early in the season had given way to a dry summer under a fruitful sun, and the last cut of hay from the top meadow was the finest Bess had seen. She pushed up her shirtsleeves, dark wisps of hair from beneath her cap coiling into the curve of her warm neck as she stooped. Her brown skirts skimmed the mowed grass, snatching up stray stems as she gathered armfuls of hay. Ahead of her, her father, John, worked in swift, practiced movements with his fork, digging deep before flicking the hay high onto the rick, apparently without effort. Atop the stack stood Thomas, at sixteen a whole year older than Bess and a head taller, deftly working the hay into the shape required to repel the weather and hold firm through autumn winds. He shared his sister’s coloring and angular body, both inherited from their mother, Anne, as was the seriousness that he wore like a cloak about his shoulders, but his practical way of being in the world, his measured habit of facing life, those were qualities handed down to him from his father.
    Bess paused, rubbing the small of her back, straightening to stretch tired muscles. She enjoyed haymaking: enjoyed the sense of completion of another cycle of planting and growing, of a successful crop gathered in, of the security of fodder for the beasts and therefore food for the family for the coming winter months. Her enjoyment did not stop her body complaining about the hard work, however. The heat was fatiguing. Her sweat-wet skin was gritty with dust and itched from a thousand grass seeds. Her nose and throat were uncomfortably dry. She shielded her eyes with her hand, squinting toward the leeward hedge. Two figures approached. One tall and lean like herself, striding with purpose and containment; the other a small bundle of energy, dark, nimble, skipping over the ground as if it were too hot for her dainty feet. Bess smiled. It was a smile only her little sister could induce. The child was a constant source of joy for the whole family. This was due in part to her happy disposition, her prettiness, and her sweet laughter that no one could resist. But it had also to do with the painful years that had preceded her birth. Bess and Thomas had been born quickly and without difficulty, but later siblings had not been so fortunate. Twice Anne had miscarried a baby, and two who had survived to birth had dwindled in her arms. Another, a rosy-cheeked boy, Bess remembered, had lived to the