Daughters From Fire, page 15
Clara overheard parts of the conversation between Mary and Eliza, doing her best to look like she wasn’t eavesdropping. It occurred to her that she might not be able to glamour herself away from Eliza, especially considering she found them so easily when they ran into Matilda. Even Matilda could see through her glamour. What if she wasn’t as strong as she thought and the glamour didn’t last on Matilda? Clara did everything Eliza told her to ensure the glamour would not lift sooner than it was intended to. No matter, she could not sit still at the thought of their plan going awry.
It didn’t take long for Lucy to reemerge from the cabin, clean and in different clothes. She was visibly thinner than before her arrest, but now she had more color in her cheeks. At her side was her satchel of herbs, stuffed to the brim. Sarah helped her into the wagon and looked around at the others. At last Clara emerged from the cabin holding the grimoire and a few other books, placing them in the wagon last. Eliza extended her hand to the books, her eyes wide. “Are these …” she started. Mary slapped her hand away, frowning. “We are not that familiar,” she reminded Eliza. She turned away from the group before anyone could chide her.
“I have a fear,” said Clara quietly as they gathered around the wagon, prepared to leave. “What if … what if it doesn’t work? What if the glamour doesn’t last? What if …” she trailed off and swallowed. Sarah looked to Mary, then to Eliza.
“Gifts are hard to control at first,” agreed Sarah to the silence among the group. “Take Bean, catch up with us. He will outpace most of those horses, and he has more stamina than the showy things they have in town. Hide him well, join us as soon as you can. Do you remember the instructions?” asked Sarah. She reached into her pocket to pull out a compass and place it in Clara’s hand. “I do,” Clara replied, smiling quickly to her sister. Sarah wasted no time in hefting the smaller girl into the saddle of the tall mule. She leaned into his neck and whispered to him. He jerked his head knowingly, letting out a little bray before starting off to the town at an easy lope.
“We’re ready,” said Juan and they started for Mexico.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BEAN WAS RELIABLE as he plodded his way to the town. He could feel the electricity in the air; his usual calm demeanor was replaced by his head jerking back and forth, observing everything. Clara needed only to hold on and let him guide the way, her thoughts clouding her mind as they traveled. She remembered Lucy’s story about the fire — the long, tall black creatures that held fire and burnt the town to the ground. She couldn’t get that image out of her mind, especially when she thought of Matilda approaching them at the jail house. Just before she turned the corner Clara could have sworn she saw the very shadow Lucy talked about — the one Matilda used to cloak herself just a few hours before.
This was a fact she couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried.
The township loomed ahead, so she and Bean took a turn to come up the back-alley way of the town. She cloaked them as best as she could, as best as she knew how, and everyone disregarded her. She was a silent ghost that plodded through the backstreets of the township as the sun began its slow, lazy rise over the mountains on the horizon to the east. The town was stirring awake and most of who she saw were the residents starting their day. They were throwing trash into the street or shaking out their sheets or getting ready to head to work that morning. Some whispered about the hanging — gossip always prevailed — but Clara had the sense it was very much the same thing that happened every morning.
How could they go about their morning knowing they were putting a woman to death?
How was it that her life changed so drastically while theirs did not? She thought of Cora asleep in the back of the wagon and was grateful that she didn’t have to witness anything that day. Clara nudged Bean to a faster pace as they approach the jailhouse.
A commotion already started; the crowd in front of the jailhouse was growing. Right now it was 20 strong, a decent showing for a township as small as theirs. The crowd was visibly angry and moved as the jailer lead a still semi-conscious Matilda as Lucy from the jailhouse. She was convincing. Clara had placed every ounce of energy into making her the perfect mirror of Lucy in those dark hours. Dirty, weak, wretched looking. If you hated her for what you thought she did, you’d hate her more. Clara felt a momentary pang of guilt at the switch — but what else was she to do? Initially Eliza would have been the patsy and the charm would have been dropped when they came into the jail house that morning. Bewildered, Eliza would have mentioned they planned to escape to Albuquerque and sent them on a wild goose chase.
Clara watched them drag Matilda from the jailhouse and realized the critical flaw in their new plan: Matilda would not divert any attention. She would simply be revealed as Matilda and the chase would be on. All directions — that’s where the chase would go. They would catch up with the wagon well before they made it to the small fishing village. The flaws of the old plan and the new plan seemed glaringly obvious to her: All roads pointed to Lucy as a witch. They’d never rest. Clara felt her heart rate increase and, for just a second, Matilda’s disguise as Lucy wavered. She swallowed hard and focused back on the girl, willing her to stay as Lucy. Her head rolled as she was half carried, half led from the jailhouse and marched down the street to the gallows.
Clara followed quietly on Bean, keeping up the farce.
At the base of the gallows the crowd grew thicker, now in numbers closed to 50 people. It was a good portion of the township — those who could afford to miss work or who might work on the busy street. The gallows sat in the town center, not too far from the jailhouse, in the busy heart of it all. A hanging wasn’t uncommon; Clara heard tale of three or four in the last year, but they’d never been particularly interested in the affairs of men. The hangings did not affect them, so they ignored them. Now the raised platform had an entirely different meaning.
She watched as they marched Matilda as Lucy to the gallows and prodded her up the stairs. By this point she was slowly coming to, her steps more insistent and less hesitant. Her eyes blinked into the sun, and when she raised a hand to shade her face she found them shackled. “What …” Clara could hear her say. Her voice wasn’t quite like Lucy’s — in fact it was nothing like Lucy’s — but no one would have known that. Perhaps Mrs. Curtis, but she was far in the back of the crowd, holding that baby against her like a vice. It cried endlessly and disrupted the buzz in the air and she stood, perpetually shaking it to calm it. Nothing, it seemed, would do — and the wail rose and fell with Clara’s breathing.
“We are here to execute a Miss Lucy Witt for the charges of murder and witchcraft,” said the executioner, who was really just a deputy that drew the short straw that morning. His voice was strained, nervous, and he wouldn’t stop twitching and moving around. He played with his belt buckle, massaged his pistol on his side — anything to distract himself from what he was about to do.
“Miss Witt was found guilty yesterday at noon for the murder of Marie Curtis, and then guilty of bringing her back to life by the means of witchcraft,” he continued. By now Matilda as Lucy was crying openly, struggling against her bondage, the understanding of what was happening starting to settle on her. Clara wondered when she would drop the guise; how long did she need to give her family to run? The reality of the fact that these people would keep chasing them was starting to set in. They would be found, eventually, and the family would forever be fugitives. No amount of diversion would stop that fact. They could never return to the United States; even though Arizona was still a territory it was only a matter of time. The government was already sending troops to defend against the natives and the Mexicans. They had their eye on statehood.
Clara took a deep breath and concentrated more, aware that whenever she was stressed Lucy’s image would flicker. She could feel Matilda resisting as she became aware of what was going on, and Clara had to fight back. She was stronger, she told herself, her gift was glamour. What was Matilda’s gift? Deceit? Treachery? She held fast.
“This is wrong!” came Matilda’s voice, now louder. She was struggling harder and harder as the deputy grabbed her by the elbow and led her to the gallows. They slipped the noose over her neck and stepped back after tightening it.
“Have you any last words?” asked the deputy.
“I am not Lucy, you have this all wrong! I am…” before she could finish the deputy kicked the stand and she dropped with a deft speed, dead instantly from her neck audibly snapping. Clara gasped and recoiled at how violent the entire thing was, and how quick it all ended. One moment Matilda as Lucy stood at the gallows, beginning to realize what was occurring — the next she was dead. Clara didn’t feel the push back against her magic anymore; it was silent.
The crowd was silent too, and Clara realized the baby stopped crying. The air was lighter somehow, but Clara wondered if it was all in her imagination. The crowd began to disperse as they hacked the rope to let Matilda as Lucy drop to the ground then loaded her into a wagon and off to an unmarked grave.
Clara’s heart rate was through the roof and she could feel her palms sweating in the cool morning. She just killed a woman, she realized. Not an innocent, and entirely for her family to survive — but she was dead now, and it was Clara’s fault.
In all the excitement she’d been too focused on staring at Matilda and never once looked to the crowd. There, on the edges across the crowd, stood two women that Clara had never seen before. They were staring at her intently, their eyes dark and ominous. Clara felt fear rise in her throat and, without a second thought, turned Bean away from the scene in front of her. She clicked him hard and he didn’t need much insistence to pick up the pace to a steady lope. She tried to hide them as best as she could, but she could feel the razor sharp eyes of the women in the crowd on her as they fled. She turned back on occasion to see if they followed and they did not, but something worried her greatly about their looks. Where were they from? She’d never seen them before — granted she rarely left the cabin like her sisters did — but she should still have some memory of them, right?
Bean picked his way easily through the township and avoided the holes and the people as they milled about. Only one or two passed close enough to turn a confused eye to the sudden rush of empty wind that blew by them as Bean loped along. Before too long they’d cleared the township, but Clara didn’t let Bean stop there. She urged him on more, she wanted even the mountains to disappear behind them as they rode along. By her estimate the rest of the family left four hours prior, so she had quite some travel to do. After fifteen more minutes of loping she slowed the great mule down to an easy walk. He was grateful for this, his pace steady and easy, but she could see the lather from the exercise collecting along his shoulders. They were both glad to leave the township behind them and head to their new adventure: Mexico.
Technically, she supposed, Arizona territory was Mexico … until recently. She’d heard stories from the locals and read in the books Mary brought for her from the school house about the purchases made by the United State government to acquire more and more land. It was why the Indians and the Mexicans fought with the Americans so much: land. They would travel farther and farther west and displace any and all they came into contact with. She supposed her travels west and south were no different. She’d been born into the commune and was used to that way of life — peace. No fighting. Just working, supporting the growth of the commune, magic a pervasive part of their life.
Now? The last two years were empty of the easy life of the commune. The weather changed with the seasons, she and she alone did the chores, and she practically raised Cora — though if she’d paid closer attention none of this would have happened in the first place. How did she not see the signs that the youngest had such a frightening power? And why — now that she thought about it — did Matilda want her? Clara realized that if Matilda was one of the beasts that burnt down the commune two years ago they were probably after Cora then. But why kill so many if they were looking for one?
Clara had the urge to press Bean on farther and faster, but she held back. Juan said it was a few days’ journey to Mexico through harsh deserts. They needed to preserve their strength and their endurance. Thankfully, she noted, it was not the hot season of summer, where many died on the travel north or south. Now it was almost winter, and despite being still warm, it lacked the oppressive heat of the summer.
After another two hours Clara was nearly asleep in the saddle. Bean picked up his speed, his ears pricked forward. This brought Clara to attention, blinking against the mid-morning sun as he pranced and side stepped. Clara had never seen him act so strange, he was always such a calm, reliable beast. Whatever he smelled ahead of them, though, set him on edge.
It wasn’t too long before Clara and Bean wandered upon the scent in question. The wagon was tipped on its side and most of the contents scattered across the ground. She saw no evidence of the animals once hitched to it — just a frenzy of hoof prints leading in all different directions. Bean was now half-rearing from fear and anxiety. Clara dismounted and let him carry on without her, running headlong to the scene. “Mary! Sarah! Lucy!” she screamed as she picked through what was left in the wreckage. The wagon had all four wheels blown out — very unnatural in the way they splintered. She saw some food in the wreckage but no sign of the grimoire or any of their books. Maybe it tipped over and they collected their things and went by foot? Yes, that must be it.
She felt that way until she noticed the crumpled body in the wreckage, not moving.
C.M. Deer, Daughters From Fire
