Arrows & Angels (Enlighten Series Book 0) Read online

  “I do not feel you to be malicious in nature. I’ll take my leave so you can resume your meeting.”

  With a nod to the ladies, I disappeared.

  I floated around the town of Salem, in a colony they called Massachusetts.

  The city’s cobblestone roads, the layout, the smells—it all reminded me of London, and of course, that in turn, reminded me of Sidelle. What was it about her that I was drawn to? I only met her for a twitch in time since both of us lived forever, yet she left such an impact on my life.

  A group of bystanders caught my attention in a small park on Washington Square.

  There in the middle was a raised platform with people standing a top of it in lavish attire. One man dressed in fine clothes with a golden crown on his head sat in an ornate chair. On his side, a female draped across his arm in an elegant green gown. A matching crown on her head. Others jested, making people laugh. While more stood in winged clothes.

  I scrunched my face. A blatant disrespect and a mockery of the angels. And of Him.

  As I soared toward them about to give them a piece of my mind, the man spoke in a different language. It was a version of English I had heard many centuries ago. I stopped before I could do anything harsh.

  Not revealing myself, I listened to the words.

  “The king doth keep his revels here to-night,” the jester said. “Take heed the queen come not within his sight. For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, because that she as her attendant hath. A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king. She never had so sweet a changeling; and jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; but she perforce withholds the loved boy, crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy . . .”

  A winged human responded, “Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite. Called Robin Goodfellow . . .”

  The wings, the stage setting, the characters reminded me of Fairyland. Could they be speaking of the King Oberon of Summer? I knew the playwright, William Shakespeare, when he wrote the story back in 1595. Someone, and my guess was Sidelle, had whispered in his ear the storyline.

  Had she given William his inspiration for A Midsummer Night’s Dream?

  More onlookers convened around the open-air stage as the main characters continued reciting lines. I watched as fairies ran across the stage in their version of flying. So humans must know of fairies, or at least they understood that they were made-up characters. How little did they realize that the whole story was true. Except that the changeling in the play was not a boy, but a girl—Sidelle.

  That gave me pause.

  I had heard rumblings in Europe about humans with fairy-like abilities, but I didn’t pay attention to the rumors. I thought I knew that no human possessed magic, even elemental magical qualities. Someone named those groups of people witches. And here I had seen firsthand a little of that magic.

  The next day, I stopped in front of Elizabeth’s bungalow. She wasn’t hard to find in the sea of human auras. Hers shone brighter. Like the north star in the sky; I couldn’t stay away from her.

  I watched as she went about her daily routine: washing clothes and bed linens, cooking and cleaning her house. Every so often she brushed stray tears from her face. She never acknowledged my presence, but she knew I was there.

  Then she let me see why she was alone. She opened her mind to me and recalled the day that made her so sad.

  She had lost her husband a few weeks ago in a terrible accident. At the last minute, Elizabeth had changed her mind to attend a party, feeling sick that night. Her husband left her at their house. The next morning when he hadn’t returned, Elizabeth woke and went looking for him. Her first stop was the residence of the host of the party. They had told her that her husband never arrived.

  She followed the road she thought the carriage would take, where she came upon the accident.

  I knew instantly that something was amiss when I saw the image. No earthly being could create the scene. The horse’s reins hung in the shape of an imaginary horse. The black carriage lay in ruins. The upturned wheels still spun. Two bodies were wedged under the splintered door.

  An evil presence still lingered in the air.

  Dried blood seeped from the mouth of one of the men. The other’s neck bent at an odd angle. Both had been dead for a long time.

  Elizabeth ran to the man whose neck was broken. She tried lifting the door away from his body, but it was heavy. It was too late to save him anyway. She flung herself onto the rain-soaked ground, not caring she’d get dirty.

  Tears fell from her face. A mournful wail flowed from her, causing bystanders to notice.

  How others couldn’t see the broken carriage, the horseless reins, or the two dead persons, I didn’t understand.

  Then I knew.

  There, faintly around the wreckage, a greenish hue mist spread across the accident. It came from Elizabeth’s palms, concealing debris.

  Her face, while still grief stricken, also showed horror. She swept the area with her eyes, frantically tossing around her head and kept glancing at her hands. When she realized that the green fog came from her, she rubbed her fingers together. Then she blew on them. Nothing she did stopped the green from expanding.

  Elizabeth’s eyes bugged and sweat beaded across her forehead. That’s when she knew she was different. She probably always sensed it, but seeing green ribbons flow from her own palms clinched the notion.

  Bells screeched in the distance, causing Elizabeth to glance in the direction they came. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. As she relaxed, and by the time the police carriage arrived, all traces of the green vanished.

  Eventually, someone led Elizabeth away. The gruesome accident was cleaned and the scene faded back to the present.

  I was sure Elizabeth was scared about what had happened to her husband and, more importantly, what she had done.

  “Now you understand why I went to go see Jane and Sarah,” Elizabeth said to me even though I was invisible. “I had to find answers.” She stopped sweeping the kitchen floor.

  I frowned feeling her sadness and made myself visible.

  “I heard rumblings of some local women with special ‘gifts,’” she continued, my sudden appearance not bothering her in the slightest. “So I asked around, discreetly of course. Eventually I got Jane’s address. And you know the rest of the story.”

  “You can see me?”

  “Of course.” She nodded. “I’ve known since yesterday you were there and following me.”

  “How?”

  “I saw your golden aura. You’re like a miniature beacon of light. My own personal star.”

  I pondered this and wondered if there were others in the past who knew of my presence. And it made me pause that we both compared each other to stars.

  “Was that the first time you used your gifts?” I asked.

  “No. When I was a little girl, I suspected I was different. I could change the color of leaves with just a touch, escalate the temperature of water to boil instantly, and make flowers bloom fuller and brighter. A normal girl isn’t supposed to do those things.”

  “And how did you come to know how to do any of it?”

  “Trial and error,” Elizabeth said as a chime filled the small room. “I did try to freeze water, but it never worked. It would only turn slightly under room temperature.” She stepped to the oven and removed a fresh-baked apple pie. “Of course I never told a soul or did any of these things out in the open. After the flower incident, I tried to raise a bird from the dead. It didn’t work. Maybe it was because I wasn’t strong enough, but I didn’t want to practice and get found out. I’d be sent away to an asylum or something. So I stopped altogether . . . until that day. I almost forgot about my gifts.”

  “Do you know where your power comes from?” I pulled out a wooden chair and sat. “I’ve seen others like you in my travels around the world. None here, though. Not until I met you three, but now I’ve made a poi
nt to watch for others like yourselves. Most of them I came across in Europe. Maybe you’re a descendent from one of them?”

  “Maybe. My heritage is from England.”

  “Ah, so that explains it. The question I would have is where the original witches got their gifts.”

  “You’d have to ask Jane that. I honestly don’t know. She told me about a brief history of the Salem Witches, so maybe she knows more. I’m pretty sure she does, she just doesn’t share unless you need to know.”

  A few days passed and my life became a routine. I accepted Elizabeth’s offer and stayed at her bungalow. My comings and goings didn’t seem to bother her, even though she knew exactly when I was at her house and when I wasn’t. That still messed with my wings.

  While I traveled around the city, sometimes invisible, learning the layout, the smells, and its inhabitants, something pulled at me. I couldn’t put my wings on it yet, but I would get to the bottom of my misgivings.

  Evil would show its face.

  Putting that gut feeling aside for now, I resumed my search for the girl.

  As I walked along the main street, I ended up standing in front of the city’s government building. People milled about with stacks of parchment paper, quills, and ink jars. Murmurs flooded my ears about a small group of bad ordinaries.

  My wings perked up, but I cautioned them to remain hidden along with my body.

  A young child was led into the building escorted by two tall, muscular men. Her wrists bound in front of her frail body. Why would this girl need guards? She couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

  “Get inside, witch,” the dark haired man said as he shoved the little girl through the wooden door.

  “I am not a witch,” she said, holding her head high in defiance.

  “That’s not what we hear,” said the escort. “Now move!”

  Could she be one of Elizabeth’s friends’ daughters?

  The more I looked into the girl’s soul, the telltale sign of her possessing magic flared right before my eyes. She had a small presence of fairy in her. Of course, that made me follow the party inside.

  The men led the child into a large room. At the front sat a man in a black robe. Off to the side, twelve chairs had been placed, but were vacant.

  Others from inside the building stood near the back to witness.

  “Come forward, witch.” The robed man waived his hand. “Stand before me.”

  Slowly, the child shuffled to the front of the room. The two men must have thought she didn’t walk fast enough. At the last second, Dark Hair pushed her the final few feet. She fell to the ground, trying to catch herself with her bound hands.

  “Get up you silly, little girl!” Dark Hair yelled. “Show some respect.”

  “I will when I see someone worth my respect.” She glared up at the man.

  “I see how you are,” Robe Man said. “Your neighbors have turned you in for practicing witchcraft. They have witnessed many odd things about you. You have no friends, you don’t go to school, you—”

  “That does not make me a wi—”

  “Silence!” His hand raised. “I will not have you question me or this court.

  Ah, so I’m at this girl’s trial.

  “If I am being tried, where is the jury? Where are my peers? Where are my parents?”

  “No one wanted to sit here, but trust me, they all have condemned you, including your parents.” He stood and towed over her, shaking his fisted hand into her face. “So I must comply with their wishes.” Returning to his seat, he drew in a breath. His eyes unfocused for a split second.

  But I caught the slight movement. I searched the room, checking for demons.

  None were found.

  Then black smoke rolled up from behind the robed man. I shot forward ready to make the people flee from the building, but no char smell filled the air. I relaxed.

  The ink-like ribbons bathed the judge in darkness, then seeped into his skin.

  “No evidence?” the girl asked. “No witnesses? No trial?”

  “You are sentenced to death, Abigail Williams,” Robed Man said in a monotone voice, ignoring her questions.

  They couldn’t just kill an innocent child without any indication of wrong doings. This was the new England where people had freedom to practice religion, freedom from tyranny, and freedom from persecution. This wasn’t right.

  I flew back to Elizabeth’s.

  She only nodded as I was quickly retelling her everything I witnessed.

  “That’s why we have to be diligent at being secretive. I’ve heard that some witches were being tried without a formal hearing or jury.”

  “But that’s the injustice of it. Everyone should be outraged!” I slammed my fist onto the table. “They sentenced a little girl to die based on nothing.”

  “I know. We should hurry and tell Jane and Sarah. I’m sure they know the girl and her family.” Elizabeth grabbed her shawl. “I can’t believe her own parents . . .”

  We walked in silence to Elizabeth’s friends’ house. Thankfully it didn’t take us long when we knocked. The door swung open on its own.

  “Come in, both of you,” Jane said. “I’ve heard already about Abigail.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Her mother is my sister.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “My sister knows what I am, but I didn’t think she would turn in her own flesh and blood.” Jane shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Do you think your sister will turn you in?” Elizabeth asked?

  “Now? I honestly don’t know. So we must really be careful. Trust no one.”

  I came to know Elizabeth, Jane, and Sarah as friends and then watched them hung for their crimes for being witches. It wasn’t right and didn’t sit well with me. Not that I could have stopped it. I learned long ago to not intervene, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t be distraught about their deaths. I knew what they were: half-fairies. They didn’t mean harm to anyone. The witches tried to keep to themselves. They only performed their magic in the confines of the forests, and, on rare occasion, in someone’s home. Besides, most were half-Summer fairies and needed the earthly elements. They were harmless.

  Like any species, there were a few bad witches. I found out a few were from the Winter realm. They had created the unusual rainy summer that year.

  The trials held in Salem executed nineteen, most of them women, fifty people confessed to being witches, over a hundred were imprisoned, and more than two hundred were accused of the witching craft.

  I knew the truth of the trials, the accusations, and the unjust imprisonments.

  Sammael was behind it. He must have thought one of the witches could be the girl to release him from his prison.

  Or be his pawn.

  I would have thought he’d want out of his cell.

  He had whispered into the ears of the clergy, the area mayors, and the important persons of the town. It was he who condemned the women in hopes to stop the Redeemer.

  There must be another reason why he was seeking the girl, too.

  June 24, 1997, 3:26 P.M.

  St. Joseph, Minnesota

  After my time on the East Coast and getting to know Elizabeth, I was ready for another change. I didn’t want to be someone’s imaginary friend or meet them just before they died. I wanted a real life experience. I wanted to have human interaction. I needed to walk in their shoes, as Michael had once told me to do.

  The tiny wail of a newborn baby vibrated deep into the earth’s core. My wings hummed with it, and I wondered if the babe had been born. I remembered Sidelle had said the earth would tell her somehow. This could be the earth’s way and I only had to listen.

  The vibration grew more intense and an unforeseen pull tugged me toward Minnesota. All I knew was that people called it the land of ten thousand lakes.

  As I neared the state’s border, my wings fluttered erratically and my body landed in St. Joseph. It was a small town just north of the Twin Cities.
I flew to a ranch-style yellow house on a cul-de-sac. A tug made me enter the residence. I perused many pictures of a young married couple. A tall woman with her hand over an extended belly. She stood beside a shiny, green car and a man with a warm smile on his face.

  There was something special about this couple. I could sense it. The love could be seen in their eyes for each other and the baby she carried. As I looked around the house, clothes were thrown across various pieces of furniture. Dresser drawers open. Beds not made. They were in a hurry to get some place.

  I remained invisible and circled above the town in search for a hospital or a structure with the letter “H” on the roof. I hovered outside a window of a small, brick building. There lay in the bed, the woman from the picture. Her husband sat next to her, wiping her forehead. Lying in the mother’s arm, a pink blanket showed the face of a tiny baby sucking on little fingers.

  When I entered the maternity room, white light encompassed the newborn baby. I had never seen that before. From the expression of the parents’ faces, they must not have seen anything strange about the girl in their arms. I slowly approached the bedside and peered into the baby’s face. Her lids opened revealing brown eyes and they gazed into mine.

  In my mind, I saw flashes of her as a toddler and then as a teenager. But then nothing of her into adulthood.

  A heavy feeling washed over me. Why couldn’t I see past her college years?

  The mother moved, switching the baby to her other arm. As she did, a pudgy hand reached for me. I didn’t think babies did that.

  I touched her soft, rosy cheek and then she cooed. Her parents smiled. Something about the girl’s eyes, the way she smiled. Like it was only for me, and that small reach; it all spoke directly to my soul. I wished to be here for her. Even if she wasn’t the Redeemer, I wanted—no, needed—to watch her grow. It saddened me that she wouldn’t be an adult, but maybe with me at her side, she’d overcome the odds.