· Web viewthem, adding two drops of olive oil to the mixture before again taking up her pestle. Her mother would soon be in the throes of childbirth, alone in their

1Dearest writers,

No more pixies. No more fairies. But still fantasy.

This submission consists of the first few chapters of a novel which I have completed. Some of you saw the beginning of this story about a year ago, but I’ve rewritten it to give readers a bit more understanding of who the main character is.

Any advice appreciated.

Bev

The Half-Demon’s Sister

Chapter One

Eliza Woodsman squatted at the herb garden next to her cob house and breathed in healing

aroma of mint. She ripped out the oldest peppermint stems as well as the newest which

threatened to take over her beloved rosemary, gently tasting a leaf. The sharp tang of mint bit her

tongue, but she smiled as she rose. It was perfect. Mint was difficult to control as it spread its

shoots across the freshly turned earth. It required weekly attention, but the girl welcomed the

challenge. Peppermint provided protection and strength and she included it in most of her

poultices and potions. Nevertheless, rosemary was still her favorite. Nothing offered more

earthly protection.

Eliza carried the plants into the house and placed them on her work table at the narrow

window by the front of her home. She wrapped the stems in twine, clipped some new leaves, and

swung them over the wooden beams next to the lavender and rosemary drying above her. She

returned to the wooden work table. Eliza added the newest mint leaves to the lavender already

awaiting its fate in the chipped marble mortar. One for courage, the other for healing. She ground

them, adding two drops of olive oil to the mixture before again taking up her pestle. Her mother

would soon be in the throes of childbirth, alone in their cabin in the woods, afeared probably but

due to her own desires. Eliza shook her head as she doubled her efforts pressing down to illicit

the power of the plants. She would save some for her mother, but she had to focus on the birth at

hand. The paying birth at hand. At any moment the knock would come. She scooped up the

poultice for healing and courage into oak leaves, placed them in a basket. It was her most

popular fomentation.

Eliza had everything ready for that knock. Her cloth bag by the door contained her

crucifixes, herbs, rose petals, vinegar and her mother’s magnet. She knew all the necessary

prayers. The family would provide the rags and water, honey and salt, everything else needed for

a healthy birth. Eliza exhaled, examining her humble home. Nothing was out of place. Her

mother would be proud if she cared enough to notice.

Eliza frowned at the thought. Her mother would certainly find something wrong though

she herself was far from a fastidious housekeeper. Well, Eliza was on her own this time. Her first

time birthing a child sans mere. She’d waited fifteen years for this. She would prove herself

today to be as capable a midwife as her deranged mother.

Eliza had smiled, no, glowed, six months earlier when her mother announced she’d be

staying in their cabin in the woods—a two hour walk from the village—for the duration of her

pregnancy. Eliza could finally be on her own here in the village. Put things in order. Prove that

she was capable of being reliable, unlike her mother. She was nothing like her mother. Had that

message been received by the others in the village? Eliza was not a witch, not someone to be

feared. She was sane and blessed by God. She could be their midwife from here on out.

A nibbling ensued. She was forgetting something. She ran through the list again:

2

rosemary, lavender, peppermint. Then she remembered. Pepper. She couldn’t forget the pepper.

Eliza rushed to her shelves. She had a responsibility to the dairyman and his wife, now overdue,

or so they said, and she would provide superior service. She added the pepper and a small vial of

salt just in case.

Your own mother is large with child, a voice from deep inside her said.

She could wait, Eliza answered herself. She’d brought this on. She’d cried out for this

fate, and it had answered her.

Eliza had spied the coupling, her mother’s exaltation and exhilaration; the demon in

human form like a god, huge in body, determined in deed. Eliza’s cheeks burned at the memory.

And when her mother declared this child the child of that demon, Eliza could not even deny the

possibility as she herself had witnessed the act.

When he learned of his wife’s condition, Eliza’s father back-handed her mother. Her

response was a trembling hand to her bloodied lip followed by a wily smile and a crescendoing

cackle. He knew the babe could not be his as he’d stayed in the woods felling trees for months

prior, but her mother had no shame in announcing who the real father was. Soon thereafter,

Eliza’s father had packed up their cart and fled the home, the village, the entire area, with their

only horse, refusing to permit his wife’s wickedness to ensnare him. Could she blame him? His

wife had lain with a demon. Who would stay for that?

Eliza shook her head and ground down harder on leaves. Yes, she could blame him. He’d

abandoned her to this fate. Her father, who had always been her defender and provider, had fled

like a stag before flames with no thoughts of those he left behind.

Why had he not taken her with him?

This fate that would befall her mother would befall Eliza as well. As if she were the one

3

who had conjured a demon. Eliza would be stained by the same shameful birthing blood.

Eliza ground with renewed vigor. Her mother could wait.

A knock sounded at her front door. Eliza paused, drew a deep breath, her heart

quickening, then hurried to answer the call.

Ivan the leatherworker stood at her doorway. A stocky man twice her age with dark hair

and darker eyes, his bushy eyebrows the first thing one noticed, stood with his hand jiggling atop

his belt. It held a sword though she’d never seen him use it. Her mind flashed on a time years ago

when he’d brandished it, but she pushed the memory from her mind.

Eliza curtseyed, keeping the annoyance from her face. She had no time for this man’s

visit.

“I need to speak to you,” he said, lowering his chin but gazing up at her with those

penetrating, suspicious eyes. “The tithing group has met, and we are in agreement. Both you and

your mother must speak to us regarding your father’s disappearance.”

Eliza tensed. Her father had left six months prior. Why were the village fathers concerned

now? She looked past the leatherworker to Nathan, the blacksmith, who hovered behind Ivan.

She’d never liked the man. His face was pocked, his blond widow’s peak severe. He never

smiled. A grunt was the best she ever got whenever she encountered him. He was formidable,

and Eliza felt sure he was the brawn that would defend the brains of Ivan.

“My mother is not here and indisposed.”

Ivan stroked his mustache, overgrown and dangling. “We know where she is. We’ve

heard she’s with child.”

Eliza raised her chin but said nothing.

“Why would a husband leave a wife in that condition?“

4

Eliza, carefully studying the leatherworker and his minion, trembled as the response

could condemn them. As if an unsent prayer had been answered by God, the dairyman’s

daughter, a head full of blonde curls, raced up to the doorstep, breathless.

“Miss, the babe’s coming!”

Eliza rose up, her shoulders back and straight. “This discussion must be postponed,” she

said. “I am needed elsewhere.”

The men backed away somewhat confounded as Eliza grabbed up her bag. She’d assisted

at births since she was eleven, but this was her first on her own. She would not let these men ruin

it.

Eliza drew her satchel, including the salt and pepper, close to her chest and, sending a

prayer to Mary, the mother of Jesus, closed the heavy wooden door behind her. She pushed past

the leatherworker and the blacksmith. Their questions could wait.

5

Black/ The Half-Demon’s Sister/ Page

Chapter Two

Eliza followed her mother’s ways. She entered the dairyman’s house, albeit with a curtsey, and

made no notice of her dark surroundings. She permitted herself to be guided to the mother’s

room. She sent prayers to Saint Margaret and tossed garlic and basil about the birthing room.

Eliza believed in being prepared.

“Oh, thank God,” the dairyman’s wife said under her breath. The flushed woman looked

up from the makeshift birthing chair in the middle of the darkened room. “Where’s your

mother?”

Eliza blushed. Of course, they would expect her mother, but she was just as capable.

“She’s confined. I will stand in her stead,” she said with as much confidence as she could

muster.

The dairywoman pursed her lips until another contraction bested her. All thought and

argument flew from her. She squatted over the birthing chair, her face red from puffing, gritting

teeth and suffering through another contraction. Eliza, at her side, chanted the antiphon of Saint

Edmund three times to assure a safe delivery then crossed herself and hunkered down into

position in front of the woman to examine her. All seemed as it should be.

“Won’t be long now, ma’am,” Eliza said. “But don’t push yet.”

Eliza raised herself up and dug in her satchel for two more candles. The room was

curtained and shadowed as it should be, but a little more light would help. She set up her

crucifixes by the window and by the woman then returned to hold the woman’s hand. She loved

this job, bringing life into the world. It was her destiny. Her mother was always harsh with the


mothers, scowling and ordering, but Eliza felt more empathy, put herself in their place. She

petted them as they labored.

“Where’s the magnet?” the dairywoman cried.

Eliza had the magnet in her bag, but it only served during the first pains.

“No time, ma’am. This babe’s coming too fast.”

“But I need—“

Before she could finish her sentence the contraction was upon her. Eliza examined her

again. It was time. “Push at the next pain,” she instructed, fairly certain she was correct.

Moments later the woman bore down, and Eliza thrilled as the point of birth was upon

them. She chanted anew and then focused on the task at hand.

The muculent head crowned. Eliza wiped her bloodied hands on her tunic and grabbed a

towel. “One more good push now. Have faith.”

The dairyman’s wife again obliged, and the baby slipped into the waiting towel Eliza

held beneath her.

The girl wiped the babe and knew the dairyman and his wife would be pleased. “It’s a

boy!” Eliza said and watched as the sweating mother’s face broke into an exhausted smile. She

handed the baby to the mother who’d collapsed on the stool while Eliza wrapped a string around

the cord and tied another a few inches lower. She unsheathed her sharpest knife and sliced the

pulsing, purple cord as she’d seen her mother do so many times. The baby whimpered while the

mother drew him closer and patted his back. At last, he let out a cry. Eliza grinned wide. Word

would spread. She would take over her mother’s business seeing how her mother could now

hardly handle plans for the noonday meal. Her future was secure.

The door burst open. The eldest daughter, the same child who had arrived at her house


out of breath, with her blonde curls and large eyes, ran in to see the baby. Her eyes glowed in the

candlelight.

The mother, in a panting voice, instructed her to tell her father it was a boy. The excited

girl ran back out again.

The dairyman and his wife were some of Eliza’s mother’s best customers. Sometimes

spring and sometimes fall but every year or so they had need of a midwife’s services even

though the first three had been girls. Eliza understood the woman’s glee. A boy was always a

blessing but especially in this case.

Eliza scooped up the baby. “I need to wash him, ma’am.”

“Finally, a son,” the exhausted woman said rubbing her bloated belly, while Eliza took

the baby to the side, next to the curtained window and rinsed him in the basin. Such perfection.

Long fingers on his tiny hands, a head covered in blond peach fuzz.

Eliza dried the shocked little one then wrapped him in strips of cloth, expertly cris-

crossing as she went, swaddling him from head to toe. This she was comfortable with. She’d

done it dozens of times. She held a pinch of pepper to his nose, making him sneeze out any

existing sin left over from conception, expensive but necessary. She opened a vial and rubbed a

dab of vinegar on his tongue to assure that speech would follow. When her chores were done,

she placed the babe in the family cradle. She returned to the mother to finish the job. She

couldn’t believe how easy the birth had been.

In the few moments that Eliza had tended to the babe, the face of the dairyman’s wife had

turned from apple red to parsnip pale. Eliza rushed to the foot of the woman, panic rising in her.

This would not happen. She would not permit it The water bag covered in blood and muck had

already fallen to the floor—how had she missed hearing that?—and the towels Eliza had placed


under her had turned red as a wet brick. The dairyman’s wife closed her eyes.

“Wake up!” Eliza spat, shaking the woman. “Wake up!”

The woman’s head lolled to the side. The bleeding continued unabated.

The little girl returned, ginning with excitement, her curls bobbing about, but Eliza

pointed to the door. “Out!” she ordered. The girl retreated.

Eliza glanced around the room. She shouldn’t but nothing called for religious

intervention more than this. The old candles were almost spent. They would be useless. She

knew she shouldn’t open the curtains, too soon and bad luck, but she needed the noonday sun.

She rushed to draw back the homespun cloth and sunflower sunlight poured into the bedroom,

displaying a place that didn’t even feel familiar so used to the darkness was she. Eliza rushed to

her bag for the poultice of rosemary and lavender then returned to the woman on the childbirth

stool.

“You will live,” she whispered, waving the concoction under her nose, before she spread

it over the woman’s still swollen belly. She threw the bloodied towel aside and placed one hand

on the woman’s belly and the other beneath her. Eliza closed her eyes, felt the heat of the sun on

her face and drew a deep breath. She sucked in the rays then passed the energy through her arms

into the woman. She opened her eyes but saw no difference. Worse, felt no difference.

Frantic, Eliza rose and rushed back to the window. More! She needed more even though

she was already lightheaded from the effort. She didn’t care. Eliza held her hands outstretched

like a soaring eagle and ordered the sun to envelop her. It did. She felt overwhelmed by power,

as if lifted off the wooden floor. Before the energy had time to dissipate, she turned back to the

woman across the room and held her hands out to her then hurled the energy to the dairyman’s

wife. It lit up the room like a lightning strike.


The woman lurched.

It was a small movement, the arch of her back. Would it be enough? Eliza rushed to her

side.

But the woman collapsed back into her hunched position.

Eliza knelt at the mother’s side, grabbing the last clean towel. It too turned dark, but she

folded it, and, when she held it back up to catch the flow, the blood seemed to have subsided

somewhat. Eliza exhaled onto the woman’s clammy face, huffing, trying to send her whatever

leftover energy she had, stars flickering before her eyes. The mother’s eyes never fluttered.

Eliza held her breath, wiping sweat from her brow with trembling hands. She had no

other solution. She peered up and saw one of the crucifixes she’d placed near the window, then

sent another prayer to Saint Margaret. Eliza chanted the psalm three more times. That was the

best she could do.

Then the dairywoman’s head drooped to the side. The woman’s death rattle emitted black

spirits that billowed about the room, a miasma that swirled around them then fluttered off to

every corner of the room, finally returning back to the woman, escaping into her open mouth.

Eliza blew hard at her but nothing on the dairywoman’s face changed. She had lost her. Eliza

collapsed onto the bloodied floor, exhausted and devastated, not able to open her own eyes.

The minutes passed, and eventually Eliza came back to her senses. She collected herself

although light-headed and jittery. How would she tell the dairyman? She’d let this poor woman

die, and no one would ever trust her again. How long before a priest arrived? The whole village

would know by then.

******

Her stomach in knots, Eliza stuffed the vinegar, the leftover herbs, the amber amulet her mother


had given her and the two wooden crucifixes into her cloth satchel. She glanced over at the grief-

stricken father holding his swaddled son, surrounded by his brood of little girls. Eliza looked

away. She’d done everything right.

“What happened to Mama?” the little girl with the blonde curls asked.

The dairyman tousled her hair. “God has called her home.”

Eliza knew this was true. She knew that you couldn’t know the reasons for God’s

decisions, but she couldn’t believe the betrayal of her Lord. Yes, she’d seen women die before

but that had been on her mother’s watch, not hers. She was better than her mother, stronger,

more connected to God and the saints. Why had they abandoned her?

““I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

The man shook his head. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us,” the man said with a small

smile. “At least, God gave me a son.”

The dairyman passed the baby to the eldest daughter then accompanied Eliza to the front

door. “Here’s a little something for your work,” he said, pressing ten pence into her palm. Eliza

had expected more than ten pennies. Her mother would have been paid double no matter the

outcome. She smiled up at the widower though she couldn’t help but remember that she’d felt

shorted a year ago when her mother had sold him Pumpkin’s calf.

“Tell your mother we were asking for her.”

Her mother, even demented, would never stand for this paltry payment, but what could

she say?

“What ails her?” the dairyman asked as if in a fog, as if he didn’t really care.

Eliza stared up at the spindly dairyman. Did he really not know? The rumors must have

reached him by now.


“She herself is expecting.”

The dairyman smiled as if surprised and pleased. “God bless her,” he said. “I hope she

returns to the village when her time is over.”

Everyone is going to hope she returns soon, Eliza thought, when the village finds out that

I let this woman die. Her mother had birthed everyone in the village and the surrounding

countryside who was over the age of seventeen. She had a proven record while Eliza’s reputation

was now ruined. Eliza had dreamed of traveling, to be renown as the greatest midwife in the

area. That would never happen now.

Angry tears welled in Eliza’s eyes. She fought them back and swallowed hard. She

should be more concerned about this family than her own reputation. She touched the dairyman’s

arm.

“I did everything I could, sir.” Her head still pounded though the dizziness had

dissipated.

He nodded a sad smile. “I know.” He paused. “How’s your heifer doing?”

Eliza was caught off guard by the question. Pumpkin was old. It was a miracle the cow

had birthed Pumpkin Pie last spring seeing how she hadn’t been able to carry a calf for the

previous two years. They should never have sold that calf to the dairyman, but times were hard

now. At least, because of that birth, Pumpkin had supplied milk all summer for her mother. She

figured Pumpkin’s milk was less and less every day.

“She’s fine,” Eliza replied. “How’s Pumpkin Pie?”

A frown crossed his face. “Not well. Bush ticks. I’m keeping her down at the end of the

barn.” He glanced back inside his home, and Eliza recognized the need to leave. She offered her

condolences again and hurried from the threshold.


Chapter Three

As soon as Eliza rounded the house, she leaned against the wattle and daub and vomited. She had

little to discharge but her body insisted on hurling anything available. Her face broke out into a

clammy sweat which caught her off guard. She was never sick and felt no pain as others did. The

only times she suffered was when she used her gifts, but a headache and some shaking was a

small price to pay for healing someone. Her cheeks burned at the thought of her failure.

How had this happened? Should she have given her the magnet? She wiped her mouth

with the back of her hand. Had she reacted too slowly? She’d felt so strong, but the morning

sun’s energy hadn’t been enough. Eliza adjusted her tunic. Twice women had died when she

assisted her mother, but they had looked deathly ill from the start. Eliza stood up straighter and

smoothed her hair. She glanced at the barn. Maybe she could help the calf, a small offering for

her failure. But how could she do anything for that poor creature? She was so tired from her

earlier trials although the lightheadedness had abated. She could at least visit the calf.

Eliza reached the barn, the biggest barn in Lynson Village. She marched down the hay-

strewn aisle and tried not to breathe in the smells of mildew and dung. Rows of wooden stalls

lined both sides of the barn, and she greeted each of the cows with a pat on their fat heads and

most mooed their reply. She smiled at the cacophony.

Eliza stopped. She counted the cows.

Twelve.

Twelve healthy, milk-producing and profitable cows and yet the dairyman had paid her

for the birth half of what he would have paid her mother.


You should be happy he paid you at all, a voice inside her head said, but as quickly as the

thought materialized, she dismissed it. Childbirth was dangerous. There were no guarantees, and

she should be paid the proper wage, especially by one of the most comfortable men in the

village.

She found Pumpkin Pie at the last stall, a younger version of her mother, with orange and

white markings, but this poor thing drooped in the hay, her breath faint and labored. Eliza peered

through the slats and found a cloud of ticks swarming the calf’s inner ears and eyelids. She drew

back in disgust. She opened the gate and eased her way next to the calf, kneeling in the muck.

Ticks covered the cow’s belly, too.

“Look what they let happen to you.”

The yearling raised her head then batted her eyelashes at Eliza before settling back on the

hay.

The slatted rays of the morning sun shone down and Eliza took a deep breath. How much

energy did she need to kill some insects? Pumpkin Pie eyed her again.

“I’ll do my best,” she whispered.

Although she was drained from the morning’s birth, Eliza couldn’t let this poor thing

suffer. Eliza closed her eyes, raised her hands to the sun that streamed in and asked St Francis to

heal this lowly creature.

Something moved behind her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a deep voice bellowed.

Eliza’s eyes flew open. She dropped her arms.

The gate jerked open, and Ivan grabbed her by her shoulder and yanked her to her feet.

He glared at her, his fat nose an inch from hers, his breath stinking of ale even this early. She’d


not noticed that earlier.

Eliza shook at the unexpected intrusion. Of all people to catch her it had to be him.

“Speak, girl! Look at you!”

Eliza didn’t have to look down to know her tunic was filthy, covered not just in muck

from the barn but blood from the birth and more than a speck of retch.

“I was saying hello to Pumpkin Pie.”

“Saying hello? You were doing more than that.”

“I was praying for her. She’s sick.”

“Any fool can see that. She’s covered in ticks and now you are, too, probably.”

Eliza ran her hands down her arms just in case.

“What are you doing in this barn? You’re supposed to be birthing their babe.”

Eliza looked about for an answer.

“You don’t belong here,” he growled. “Why would you want to steal such an ill animal?”

“I wasn’t trying to steal her. The dairyman said I could visit.”

Ivan raised his fierce eyebrows. “Oh, he did, did he? Why would you want to visit that?”

“She’s my cow’s calf.”

“So what? It’s just a cow.” Ivan raised his alarming eyebrows. “Unless you intended to

steal her back.”

Eliza’s ire rose. Her Pumpkin was not just a cow to her and neither was her calf. Pumpkin

was Eliza’s oldest friend.

The man grabbed her by the arm. “You’re coming with me. We’ll ask the dairyman

himself.”

Ivan dragged her through the barn out into the morning air. She tried to yank her arm


from his grasp, but he held her tight. “I don’t have to speak to you!”

Ivan pulled her to face him. “Do you know who I am?”

Eliza glowered at him. “Of course, I know who you are. You’re the leather worker.”

He squared his shoulders which did little to hide his pouch. “I am also the capital pledge,

voted in last week by the fathers. I am now responsible for ensuring that the law is upheld in this

village.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You were trespassing. With intent to steal another’s property.”

“I just delivered the dairyman’s son this morning,” she said, gesturing to the bloodied

front of her tunic. “You know that’s why I was here.”

Ivan didn’t respond.

“However,” Eliza said, “it didn’t go well for his wife.”

The man scowled at her. “What do you mean?”

Eliza took a deep breath. “I mean it was God’s decision to take her, and the dairyman is

very upset, as you can imagine. His girls are all crying.”

Ivan crossed himself.

“I’m just thinking that it’s not a good time to bother him with this silliness. I was just

praying for the calf.”

Ivan furrowed his bushy brows. “Then we’ll have that talk I wanted to have earlier.”

Eliza sighed. “Sir, I am very tired. Couldn’t this wait?”

“What happened to your father?”

Eliza looked down the road, noticed two scruffy boys who’d stopped to watch them. She

looked back at Ivan. “He left last fall.”


“And where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s odd your father disappeared like that. Any idea why he did that?”

Eliza knew precisely why he left, but she wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of an

answer.

“There are rumors there might have been foul play.”

Eliza, angry and annoyed a moment ago, was now on alert. She peered up at the man.

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps your mother had something to do with his disappearance. There are lots of

rumors about her in these parts.”

Eliza turned back towards the road, staring straight ahead. “My parents are not your

concern.”

“On the contrary,” Ivan said loudly, “everything that happens in these parts is my

concern.”

“I can assure you there was no foul play. He told me he was leaving, bade me farewell

last fall. We haven’t heard from him since.”

Ivan nodded his head. “And is that what your brother told you three years ago when he

went missing?”

Eliza gasped. Steven had not gone missing. “He drowned. Everyone knows that.”

Ivan leaned in, his breath offensive. “Everyone says he drowned.” The capital pledge

shrugged. “But who knows?”

Eliza panicked, face hot and hands trembling in anger. “I know! I was there. He tripped

playing in the creek. Hit his head. It was an accident.”


“How many seventeen year olds do you know who play in the creek?”

Eliza stared at the man. She could think of no reply.

“You’re about that now, are you not?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“So, I’ll ask you again, how many boys your age still play in the creek?”

There were few boys her age in the village and all of them, even those a few years older

or a few years younger, worked with their fathers or as apprentices and had no time for play.

Eliza pulled back.

“I will accompany you to your house.”

“I don’t need you to accompany me.”

“Oh, no. I’ll go with you. Wouldn’t want you to stop off at the butcher’s to visit with any

fatted pigs or headless chickens.”


Chapter Four

Eliza trudged down the dirt road that made up the heart of Lyson Village as Ivan marched by her

side. According to the old people, the village used to be three times its current size, but the Great

Plague of 1348 wiped out many. Both her parents were born after that time so a one road village

was all they’d ever known, but they’d heard stories and had repeated them.

Now the houses were scattered hither and thither, with their broad thatched roofs and

narrow windows. The ale house stood in the middle of the main road but empty this early in the

morning. The bake house next door did its best to overwhelm aromas of shit and piss with fresh

baked bread. Eliza had no fond memories of the village, but, as with everything, her mother was

to blame. The other children refused to play with her. The gossipy women spread nasty rumors

about her family, especially after Steven died. It was a relief when her mother decided to move

up to the cabin in the woods last fall. Eliza had actually believed she could make her own way

here. Create a new life for herself. She turned and saw the boys following them. She scowled,

and they scattered.

As she and Ivan reached the end of the road, Eliza drew up short. She stared at her lime-

washed house. A small fence ran around the cottage and garden, just as her parents had left it.

Piles of firewood stood by the side of the house which she’d prepared last fall, and the barrels

filled with rainwater filled her with pride. She’d worked hard to keep it up. But from this

distance, the house felt different. Home sewn curtains graced the windows. The herb garden and

vegetable garden were newly planted. Of course, the garden up at the cabin was twice the size,

but Eliza hated going there.


With a smile, she remembered Pumpkin. Her mother had taken the cow with her when

she left late last year, said she’d need the milk. Eliza missed the old cow. She threw her head

back in an attempt to toss away the loneliness. She’d be seeing the old girl soon, should probably

leave today to check on her mother.

“I’m officially home,” she said, hoping Ivan would leave her in peace.

“I think I should visit your mother again. I’d like a word with her.”

“We’ve told you everything we know.”

“Your mother is expecting another child, is she not?”

Eliza crossed her arms over her chest and remained silent.

“Seems like an odd time for a man to abandon his wife.”

She didn’t know how to rid herself of this annoying man. Plus, now as the capital pledge,

he could cause problems for them if he wanted to.

“It’s something I would never do to a wife of mine,” Ivan said, staring at her a bit too

long.

She’d never thought about Ivan before. He was just the one you paid when a shoe broke

or you needed new leather bindings. He did make excellent saddles—she’d seem them on

display at Christmastime—but he was really no one to Eliza. Now, with his new position, she’d

have to pay closer attention to him.

“You know my friend fancies you, don’t you?”

She eyed him. “Who?”

He nodded to the blacksmith’s shop at the other end of the road. “Nathan.”

Eliza almost laughed but caught herself as Ivan’s eyes held no mirth. She relaxed her

arms a bit. She had no interest in any man in this village, much less the blacksmith with his


pocked face and dour personality. She had no idea why he’d abandoned Ivan and was no longer

present, but she was fine with that.

“You could do a lot worse than him. Not that many men around these parts would want

you with that mother of yours.”

Eliza didn’t know how to respond so she turned on her heel and tramped toward her

home.

“And he could protect you. He’s my second in command.”

She stopped short. The one man she thought would always protect her had abandoned

her. She didn’t trust any man. “Protect me from what?” .

The leatherworker, the so-called capital pledge, said with a smirk, “Who wants a witch

for a mother-in-law?”

Eliza felt slapped. How dare he. She swung around to face him. “She’s not a witch. She’s

a bit touched, that’s all.”

“The men under my control ran off the other three. You better have a husband to protect

you before they come for her.”

Eliza studied the man in his leather jerkin and knee-high boots. So self-important. But she

had to keep in mind he was important, at least, he was important here. And if the blacksmith was

his assistant, she’d have to show respect to him, too. But one day they would be meaningless.

When she made her way to London they would be a bad memory and as insignificant as two-

legged beetles. “My mother is not well, and she needs me. You delay me without cause. Am I

free to go?”

Ivan the leather worker, the new capital pledge, flourished an arm to grant her wish. She

hitched up the satchel higher on her shoulder and turned back to the house, but she couldn’t deny


the fact that he was right. Her mother was a witch.

The highfalutin capital pledge threw out, “They’ll think you’re a witch, too!”

As she reached the threshold, Eliza thought to stop again and yell back that she was

certainly no witch. That her gifts came from God, but decided to hold her tongue. She trudged

on, entering her ordered home, and left Ivan in the middle of the road.

The satchel slid from her shoulder. All she wanted was to be normal. Normal and

respected. To be well respected. Highly respected. Maybe to even be renown. Of course, she

wanted more than a passel of children which seemed the fate of all women. She wanted to travel.

To visit London and maybe even go abroad. Why couldn’t she go to Paris? Florence? Rome?

Others did.

She’d always felt odd. Other people had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, even

grandparents. She had none of that now. Just a mother who cast spells and hexes. Who conjured

demons.

Eliza sighed, headed for the hearth. The morning’s early water still sat in the pot as she

blew on the embers and raised the flame. Camomile would help. She folded her legs beneath her.

Her father had been a good man, cold, but not cruel, so why did she distrust men so?

Even the knights she’d seen along the road passing through the village. Some were so tall and

handsome, but she knew they were as dangerous as rabid dogs. All the other women in the

village twittered over them, batting eyelashes and blushing if they responded. Why did she want

what she shouldn’t and didn’t want what she should?

Because you live in a dream world, she thought with a smile. That’s what her father

always used to say, but kindly, with a tweak of her nose. She’d always imagined a different

world, one where people really knew her and accepted her and loved her.


She picked a burr from her woolen tunic. She could dream all she liked about London,

but she knew she’d never leave Village Lyson. She’d have to care for her mother now that the

baby was almost here. Someone would have to bring in money from perfumes and poultices

when births were few because, ever since she got pregnant, her mother had been more loopy than

ever. And Eliza would never get a husband here, even if she wanted one, because Nathan the

blacksmith was the best Village Lyson had to offer. At least, now she’d have a baby brother or

sister.

Be careful what you wish for, she thought with a wry smile.

Eliza rose to ready her cup and leaves. She cut a piece from her diminishing block of

cheese, wrapping it in cloth for a trek to the cabin. She loved the deep, earthy smells of moss and

damp leaves. The cabin should be a haven for her, away from the gossip and troubles of the

village. It used to be but hadn’t been for a long time.


Chapter Five

Eliza took up her satchel of birthing tools, lowered a basket from its hook then cast a last look

around the small house. The fire was out. The herbs would dry in her absence. There was nothing

keeping her here. She closed the door and left for her father’s cabin in the woods.

Eliza followed the dirt road north. It was a ribbon cut through the middle of the woods

with trees to her left and trees to her right. She saw no one on the road but was too caught up in

her own thoughts to worry. She relived the dairyman’s wife’s death over and over trying to

figure out what she could have done differently. She churned with a mixture of guilt, shame and

anger, but no one knows God’s mind. And soon she’d have another birth. What if her own

mother died at her hands? As much as she criticized her, Eliza still loved her mother. She’d

always defended Eliza against Steven. She used to be a good mother. Eccentric perhaps but not a

bad person.

Halfway to the cabin, Eliza veered into the woods taking a short cut. She relaxed a bit

once deep in the forest, breathing in the freshness of the shrubs and mosses, the lichen and

wildflowers. She relished the softness of the forest floor and the glory of its canopy. She slowed,

stopping to pluck mushrooms and wild blueberries and raspberries. The farther she distanced

herself from the village, the better she felt which seemed at odds with her earlier reluctance to

visit the cabin. She’d forgotten the peacefulness she found in these woods.

Eliza heard the creek before she saw it, a soft, innocent rippling over river rocks, the

sound growing as she drew nearer. She hastened towards it but paused once she spied the

diamonds of sunshine skipping from stone to stone. She tried to remember being a child, when


this was her favorite place, a hiding place cut out just for her. She would lie in its clear waters,

fully clothed, no matter how her mother berated her afterwards. She felt at one with the clear,

playful water that would cascade over her. That ended three years ago. It had come to her

defense, and now the creek felt like an accomplice, one who ended her suffering but filled her

with guilt.

Eliza crossed over the creek, no longer jumping like a carefree child from rock to rock,

but tentatively, careful to place each foot firmly on the flat rocks, and refusing to look at the trio

of stones further down that had not changed in three years. She reached the embankment,

exhaled, then trudged up the incline towards the cabin. When she reached the vegetable patch,

she saw her mother, Agatha Woodsman, standing further upward next to the pen, ankle deep in a

heap of cow dung, gesticulating like a broken scarecrow on a blustery day.

“The time is nigh,” Agatha screeched to the skies. “Lord Asmodeus, come to me.

Comfort me in my hour of need.”

Eliza stood quietly at the vegetable patch below their cabin shaking her head. The sound

of her mother’s cries had assured her that nothing much had changed in six months except her

mother’s belly. Midnight, her mother’s stray with a missing eye and half an ear, rubbed up

against Eliza’s legs, weaving around her like he was casting a spell. Eliza knelt down and petted

him, grateful for the bony ball of fur.

“Glad you kept an eye on her while I was away,” Eliza said with a smile.

The cat meowed and walked away.

“Sorry about the eye joke.” She stood and watched as the cat trotted off. “No offense,

Midnight,” she called out.

The cat didn’t look back.


Hopefully, when this baby arrived, her mother would calm down. Things could not go on

like this. Eliza reluctantly inhaled the summer breeze that rippled through the trees and exhaled a

cool current of air up towards her mother to alleviate the stress her mother suffered. It was a trick

she’d learned last year, and she wasn’t quite sure how it worked because her breath didn’t move

anything in its wake. Not a leaf. Not a blade of grass. It simply cooled a brow or calmed a heart.

It was the Holy Ghost working through her.

Agatha stopped her mutterings, like a dog who, while still sniffing the wind, had lost the

scent. Agatha stood next to their lone cow, Pumpkin, and frowned up at the noonday sky as if it

were the heavens’ fault she’d lost her train of thought. She cast about apparently searching for

something. She found Eliza and pointed down at her.

“Set the pot to boil,” Agatha bellowed. “The son of Asmodeus arrives.”

Eliza sauntered up to the pen, mud glubbing her cowhide boots. “Nice to see you, too,

Mother,” she said. “Now stop this.”

Her mother had aged in the past six months. Always thin, now her leathery skin clung to

her arms, tapering down into spindly bones with yellowed nails. Her cheeks were cherrystones

under hollowed out eyes. And her mouth, once red and spirited, now just a thin, a white line

drawn down. She hadn’t had a child in fifteen years, and if the dairyman’s wife who had babies

every year could die, her mother could, too. Eliza regretted her harsh words.

“Mother, let’s go to the cabin. Is it time?”

Agatha, all long skirts and scarves, twirled and faced her daughter. She again pointed her

bony finger at Eliza. “You shall be eclipsed.”

Eliza sighed and trudged up the hill towards their cabin. “By the demon’s son. I know.

But right now we need you inside, safe, and comfortable.”


Agatha screamed in pain.

Her daughter rushed to her side. “Mother? Come with me.”

Agatha swatted the girl.

“Don’t fight me, Mother. I’ll help you.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I can. I’ve helped you with countless births. I know what to do. Just today I birthed a

healthy baby boy on my own. I can do this.” She would tell her about the dairyman’s wife later,

if she asked her.

“You can’t. This is the son of Asmodeus.”

“It’s still a baby. Trust me.”

Her mother straightened. “I’m fine. He won’t come till sundown.”

Eliza glared at her mother. “So why should I set the pot to boil?”

Sometimes she didn’t know why she cared so much. Agatha certainly didn’t deserve

Eliza’s love. She was possessed. A witch, to be sure, but at this point, could she truly be

considered a concubine or even a servant of any demon, let alone the demon of lust? His servants

would be young and voluptuous while this woman was closer to forty than thirty and haggard.

“Come inside, Mother. I’ll make you some tea. We can wait until sundown.”

“I’m going to call him Raven,” Agatha said as she waddled up the hill to the house,

leaning on Eliza’s arm.

“That’s not a name for a baby.”

“This isn’t just a baby. This boy’ll be special.”

“Ravens eat dead animals. It’s a horrid bird and a horrid name.”

“Do you know that demons can only sire babies every seven years? And this one is a year


early. He’s special.”

Eliza paused. She’d never heard that before. “So maybe this is not the child of a demon.

Maybe it’s daddy’s baby.”

“I will be called most high as the mother of Raven, the son of Prince Asmodeus.”

“And who, specifically, is going to be calling you that, Mother?”

Agatha put a hand to her lower back to massage it. “Ravens cleanse other animals. This

child will clean the world of liars, cheaters and hypocrites. He will.”

“That’s all demons are, Mother. They’re nothing but liars, cheaters and hypocrites.”

Agatha scowled at her. “You know nothin’ about them. Shut yer trap.”

“So is this baby going to wipe out all the demons? Or just the humans?” Eliza expected

her mother to be confused by the question but she was not.

“Mark my words, girl,” Agatha muttered. “This babe will do wonderful things,

marvelous things. He’ll be feared by both the righteous and the doomed.”

Eliza shook her head. This baby would end up stuck in Village Lyson just like Eliza and

Steven had.

Agatha grabbed Eliza’s arm with surprising strength. “Don’t doubt me, girl.” She tapped

a finger to her temple. “I know it.”

“Come,” Eliza said, taking her mother’s elbow. “Let’s have some tea.”

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· Web viewthem, adding two drops of olive oil to the mixture before again taking up her pestle. Her mother would soon be in the throes of childbirth, alone in their