Sacrifice is the price we pay for peace in our village. Wisteria couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard her mother voice those words. They were especially meaningful because Wisteria and her mother knew firsthand the anguish that had come from Father sacrificing his life to the dragon so that others would live. Even though the event happened a decade ago, it was burned into Wisteria’s mind, and she could recall it as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday.
She was a child of only seven years. Their village, Florin, was on the brink of destruction from the vengeance of the dreaded dragon that terrorized the skies and breathed down fire and destruction on all who were in its path. Her father, known for his fair-mindedness and foolhardy courage, traveled to the lair of the dragon and crafted a treaty—he would give his life on the condition that the villagers be spared. The dragon wasn’t satisfied with merely taking her father’s life. Rather, it wanted to instill fear in the hearts of all with the sound of its terrible screeching.
And so it was.
From that time henceforth, the ritual was set. On the eve of the summer solstice, one villager would be sacrificed to the dragon in the center of the public square for all to witness. Attendance at the ritual was mandatory. Wisteria and her mother had been forced to watch as the dragon ripped her father to pieces with its vicious claws. The deed was so effortless to the dragon that it might’ve been breaking bread. Wisteria wept frantic tears, but her mother had endured the horror with a stoic countenance that garnered respect from her fellow villagers. Only later, when they were back home, did Eleanor completely fall apart.
Some years, the dragon would repeat this same process, ripping the tribute asunder. Other times, it took a more lackadaisical approach and breathed down a river of fire that consumed the victim in a fiery flash.
The approaching solstice filled Wisteria with a quiet terror that rattled her insides. It was always the same. Every year around this time, the trauma would start and wouldn’t abate until after an unlucky soul was sacrificed. Her father’s treaty—though well intended—had bred in Wisteria a fear that grew inside her like a ravenous wolf, threatening to devour her insides.
She lived in dread that she or her beloved mother, her only friend in the world, would be selected by the Village Council as the dragon’s next victim. The Council claimed it picked the victims at random. However, the system allowed a place for the dark side of human nature to breed unchecked. Too much power could canker a person’s soul, as evidenced by the decisions of the Council. They used the yearly tribute as a way to get revenge on those who’d offered an offense—be it large or small. Or perhaps it was envy or greed that prompted the verdict.
When Father was still alive, his skill as a scribe—drafting legal documents, keeping records for the nobles, compiling manuscripts for the clergy—kept the family comfortable. However, when he died, Eleanor harnessed her extensive knowledge of herbs and became a healer and midwife out of necessity to provide for herself and her only daughter.
Even though Eleanor assured Wisteria that her valuable skills would keep them both safe from the dragon, Wisteria couldn’t quiet the rumblings of worry in her gut.
Low moans issuing from the cracked lips of the girl writhing on the bed drew Wisteria’s attention.
“Shh,” Eleanor soothed, blotting the girl’s forehead with a damp cloth.
The girl clutched the linen sheet, winding it around her fists as her thin face contorted in pain. She’d been in labor ever since the cock crowed. Wisteria peered through the latticed panes of the window, observing the dense ceiling of the gray sky. Even though the steady rain prevented her from observing the setting sun, she knew it would happen soon. And there was still no baby. The stench of desperation and other bodily fluids permeated the stale air of the stone room.
A cry of desperation ripped through the girl’s throat. “Why is it not coming?”
Eleanor touched the girl’s skinny arm—so fragile that it could be cracked like a twig with the slightest amount of pressure. “Try to relax.”
Wisteria marveled at the tenacity of her kind and compassionate mother. The lines around her eyes and mouth spoke of her exhaustion, and a layer of perspiration coated her high forehead and turned the hair close to her skin to ringlets. However, she’d not left the girl’s side since they arrived, tirelessly attending to her every need.
This was a commendable stance, considering that the girl and her babe were scorned because of the girl’s unwed condition. Wisteria shuddered to think what would happen to them after the babe was born. Would the Headman and his wife allow them to stay here, or would they be cast onto the streets? Wisteria had caught enough whispers of gossip passing amongst the women of the village to know that the girl was an orphan—completely alone.
Around Wisteria’s same age, the girl was a housekeeper in the grand home of the Village Headman. He was middle-aged and portly with a wide girth and jowls. His thin mustache twitched when he spoke, and he observed everything through dark, squinty eyes. The Headman was second in command to the Baron who resided in the manor atop the ridge. While Eleanor was outwardly congenial to everyone, Wisteria sensed that her mother didn’t much care for the self-important Village Headman or his haughty wife. The couple didn’t strike Wisteria as the type who would show mercy to a careless girl who had been foolish enough to get herself in trouble. Maybe the girl could plead her case to the Baron. He had a jovial nature and was known for showing kindness to the subjects under his care.
Wisteria squinched her face. Nay, that wouldn’t work. She’d overheard Mother speaking to the baker about how the Baron’s mind was slipping in his old age. He’d been confined to his manor for several months and had turned over the day-to-day management of the village to the Headman—a situation that wasn’t boding well for the townsfolk. The Village Headman took a rigid stance on issues, rarely showing compassion to those who erred.
Why had the girl allowed this to happen? She had to have known the consequences that would follow her actions. No one knew the identity of the father, and the girl wasn’t talking. It would seem that she was determined to face the condemnation of the village alone. The fact that she resided at the Village Headman’s home would surely exacerbate the situation. He and his wife would be humiliated that one of their servants had brought shame to their household.
Eleanor’s lips drew into tight lines as she caught eyes with Wisteria. No words were needed to convey the message that her mother was concerned. Even now, with her disheveled dark hair threaded with silver and wearing a simple frock, Eleanor de Avalonia was an attractive woman. When Wisteria was but a child, her mother had been radiantly beautiful. Laughter and smiles came easily. Eleanor’s zest for life was infectious as she shared her joy of living with all who knew her.
After Father was killed, everything changed. Mother stopped laughing. Her expression grew somber, her eyes taking on a hollow appearance. Slowly, her beauty began to fade the way an oft-used chair eventually goes threadbare.
“What can I do to help?” Wisteria asked hoarsely. While she didn’t want any evil to befall the girl or her unborn child, Wisteria’s primary concern was for her mother. For Mother, she would go to the edge of the earth and back.
Arising from her seated position beside the bed, Eleanor stepped up to Wisteria and caught hold of her hands. She looked her daughter in the eyes. “I need you to go on an errand.”
“Of course,” Wisteria answered readily.
Eleanor glanced around as if fearing the walls had ears. She leaned close and uttered in a low tone, “Go to the forest and pay a visit to the old crone.”
Wisteria stiffened. “Nay, you forbade me from ever going there again.” Many times, Wisteria had been tempted to break her promise and steal away to visit the crone. However, above all else, she wanted to honor her mother’s trust.
Rumors of the old crone practicing magic had been floating around for as long as Wisteria could remember. Of course, Wisteria knew firsthand that the rumors were true, but she would never disclose this to her mother. For if she did so, Wisteria would be forced to admit that she was also guilty of dabbling in magic—a practice that was not only outlawed, but punishable by death.
“These are desperate times.” Eleanor glanced at the girl. “Tell the crone that the babe is turned the wrong way. I need her to give me something that will help Alice relax.”
Alice. The girl now had a name. Strange that Wisteria hadn’t thought to ask earlier. Maybe it was because it was easier to think of her as a random girl rather than a person of merit with feelings and hope for the future. Life could be so cruel. Even in her short lifetime, Wisteria had seen far too many people suffer from violent deaths. Watching the travail of this unfortunate girl—Alice—it was painfully apparent that birth was just as traumatic, especially when everything was going so terribly wrong.
Alice thrashed in the bed, groaning. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession from her shallow breathing. She shrieked in agony as she clutched her swollen stomach.
“Hurry,” Eleanor admonished, “I don’t know how much longer she can last.”
That’s all it took for Wisteria’s feet to quicken. She left the room and hurried down the long corridor. While she didn’t relish the idea of venturing out into the pouring rain, she couldn’t deny that she was excited at the prospect of seeing the old crone again. Her abilities were growing stronger. The crone would be pleased.
Wisteria turned a corner to bolt down the staircase leading to the front door when someone stepped in front of her. She stopped in her tracks to keep from running the person over. Her eyes widened as she lowered her head in deference. “Goodman Webster, pardon me.” He loomed over her, his closeness disconcerting. The scent of pork lingered on his breath. She took a step back to distance herself from him, trying not to wince at his unpleasant odor. “My mother sent me on an errand, and I must go at once.” She moved to dodge around him, but he caught hold of her arm with his meaty, cleaver-like hand.
“No need to be in a rush,” he said pleasantly, his thin mustache wiggling like a worm. “I prithee, what is your name?”
Delicately, so as not to offend, she removed her arm from his grasp. “Wisteria de Avalonia.” Why did the master of the house concern himself with her? She thought of Alice and how not only her life but also the life of an unborn child was hanging by a thread. There was no time to waste. But yet, it wouldn’t be wise to be terse with the Village Headman.
Recognition flashed in his bovine eyes. “You’re the daughter of Cedric de Avalonia,” he surmised with a trace of admiration.
She straightened her shoulders with a burst of pride. “Aye.”
He looked her over with a brazenness that made her skin crawl. “Long, raven hair thick like a curtain and bewitching violet eyes ablaze with the flame of youth. A work of perfection,” he murmured to himself, his gaze lingering on her chest. She was disgusted by the flicker of lust in his eyes. He looked as if he wanted to devour her as he’d obviously recently done to the pork.
“I may soon find myself in need of a housekeeper,” he said in a throaty tone that reeked of innuendo. “I must insist that you fill the position.”
Disgust twisted her stomach. As if he could simply speak the words and deem it so. Her assessment of the man had been correct. He was so quick to throw Alice and her babe onto the street. And while the poor girl lay on the brink of death in his house, he was taking undue liberties with a maiden young enough to be his daughter. Wisteria had never known the ways of men, and she certainly didn’t intend to succumb to the advances of this repugnant swine, regardless of how powerful he was in the governing matters of Florin.
Rage burned through her with the intensity of the noonday sun. Tingles started in her hands and pulsed to her fingertips, demanding to be released. She’d never used her abilities to hurt another soul, but she considered doing so now. At the very least, she could have this horrible man quaking in his boots. Her indignation demanded swift satisfaction.
Then she thought of her mother and the turmoil it would bring if Wisteria were to be caught using her powers. Their entire world would topple. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them tightly against her sides. It took all the willpower she could muster to squelch the temptation to teach Goodman Webster a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.
“Forgive me, but I must go.” Quick as a flash, she darted around him and fled down the staircase, not looking back.
It was only when she stepped outside into the pouring rain that her temper began to cool. She’d not thought to grab a cloak when leaving home at the break of dawn when she and her mother were summoned to attend to Alice. No matter. The rain was calming against her hot cheeks. She took in a deep breath as she crossed the cobblestone road with nimble steps. This section of the village was normally bustling with peddlers selling their wares, but there wasn’t another soul in sight. One benefit of the rain was that Wisteria wouldn’t have to worry about being followed to the old crone’s dwelling.
So familiar was the trek that her mind wandered as her feet kept a swift pace. Ever since Wisteria was a child, her mother had paid visits to the crone who dwelled in a shack in the forest. The woman was wise and had a knack for developing unique remedies upon which Eleanor had come to rely for the use of her clients over the years. It was the old crone who first noticed that there was something special about Wisteria—something that she’d tried to keep hidden from her parents and especially the villagers.
Stirrings of some unseen power had always existed inside of Wisteria, only she didn’t have a name for it. All she knew was that she was different from everyone else. As she matured, the power manifested itself in a tingling that spread through her fingers. The tingling mounted until she was desperate for a release. That release came one day when her mother scolded her for disobedience and took away her favorite cloth doll as a punishment. Eleanor set it high on a shelf where Wisteria couldn’t reach it and then went outside to do her chores. On instinct, Wisteria reached out her hand and commanded the doll to come to her. It hadn’t come, but it had moved as surely as if Wisteria had touched it.
Something exalted inside of Wisteria, giving her a feeling that she was rediscovering some long-forgotten part of herself. She made a practice of trying to move inanimate objects with the motions of her fingers, but to no avail. Eventually, she wondered if she’d only imagined that the doll moved. Or perhaps it had moved by coincidence.
Around that same time, Wisteria accompanied her mother to visit the old crone in the forest as she’d done many times before. This time, however, the crone took one look at her and somehow knew that Wisteria was different.
The old crone casually mentioned that she would like to tutor Wisteria in the ways of herbal remedies so she could follow in her mother’s footsteps. Realizing that the old crone was a master at her craft, Mother readily agreed. This began a pattern of weekly visits that hadn’t been broken until six months ago when rumblings from the townsfolk spooked her mother.
“I’ve heard rumors that the old crone is practicing magic,” Mother had said. “It’s unwise for you to keep going there. I can teach you everything else you need to know.”
While Wisteria wanted to raise a protest, she understood where Mother was coming from. Neither of them wanted to draw undue attention to themselves, especially the closer they drew to the summer solstice. Mother especially didn’t want Wisteria to associate with anyone suspected of practicing magic. A shudder ran through Wisteria. Mother would be devastated if she knew that Wisteria was not only practicing magic but was quite good at it.
It was unfair that something so intrinsic to her identity should be outlawed. Singing had always come as easily to Wisteria as breathing. She couldn’t imagine not being able to use her voice to release the music that was inside of her. As her powers steadily increased, she was starting to feel the same way about magic.
When she reached the edge of the forest, the rain finally stopped. Hugging her arms, Wisteria peered up at the leaden sky, grateful for a reprieve from the cold rain. As she entered the forest, she was taken aback by the shiver of foreboding that slinked down her spine. She glanced around at the dense foliage and dark, wet trees crowding around her. Where had the unease come from? While others feared to venture into the forest in the evenings, Wisteria was more at home here than when in the midst of the village. There were certainly plenty of dangerous predators lurking about in the shadows, but in Wisteria’s experience, it was the two-legged beasts in the village that could cause the greatest harm. An image of Goodman Webster flashed through her mind, stabbing her through the center with a sharp dagger of anger. Oh, how she wished she could’ve taught him a lesson. Tingles buzzed through her fingers again.
The air was thick with a danger she couldn’t pinpoint. Or maybe her imagination was running wild. She always got anxious in the days leading up to the summer solstice. And it didn’t help to see Alice—close to her same age—in such a terrible state.
As she made her way through the forest, Wisteria tuned her senses to the sights, sounds, and smells around her. The wet bark from the trees had a musty, nutty scent. She listened to the cacophony of chirping insects. A moment later, the noise was broken by the intermittent squawk of a bird.
The hair on her arms rose. Something wasn’t right.
She paused in her tracks as her heart picked up its pace. Nothing sounded amiss. And yet, she again got the distinct impression of impending danger. It was an awareness that seeped into her bones, filling her with a certainty she didn’t fully understand. Some part of her was awakening, and she wasn’t ready for the repercussions. Her wet body shivered as she rubbed her arms. Should she turn and go back? Nay, not without the remedy. Mother was counting on her. She couldn’t go back empty-handed. Thankfully, she wasn’t far from the old crone’s dwelling.
She quickened her pace to get to her destination. She spotted the familiar outline of the crone’s thatched roof and then caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She whipped around to see a spider the size of a boar crawling towards her. Nay, not one, but several. She looked around wildly, realizing that they had her surrounded. A paralyzing terror overtook her as she stared into the beady eyes of the vicious creature directly in front of her, baring its jagged fangs as it prepared to attack. She’d heard of monster spiders but thought they were a thing of fables. Wisteria was petrified of spiders. It was as if someone had seen inside her mind and crafted the one menace that would surely be her undoing.
She let out a shriek when the spider to her right jumped. Out of self-preservation, she thrust out her hands. A zap of unseen force shot from her fingertips. To her amazement, it was as if an invisible sword had cut the spider clean down the center, where it split into two parts. A fiery rush of power burned in her core and seared a path to her fingertips. She felt invincible and more alive than she’d ever been, but there was no time to celebrate the victory. The next spider lunged. She immobilized it the same way she’d done the first and then began taking out the savage creatures one by one at a lightning-speed pace she didn’t know she possessed. Finally, only one remained. She crumpled her hand into a fist. The spider withered into a decrepit ball and fell harmlessly to the ground.
Wisteria held out her hands, turned her palms facing up, and looked down at them in wonder. She’d not realized she was capable of such astounding power. Her body trembling from the aftermath of both fear and astonishment, she surveyed the corpses of the spiders, taking note of their hairy legs. A shudder ran through her. She despised those wretched things.
Hearing more movement, she readied her body to react to another attack. Were more spiders coming? She was surprised to see the old crone hobbling toward her with labored steps, using her twisted cane for support. “Bravo,” the crone rasped.
Wisteria lowered her hands, trying to comprehend what was happening. “The spiders came out of nowhere,” she began, and then stopped when she saw the wise light glimmering in the crone’s sunken eyes. “You did this,” she surmised, anger swelling in her chest.
A crafty smile stretched over the hag’s withered face, revealing stubs of rotten teeth. “I had to know if you were ready.” The crone was a pathetic sight with her spindly white strands of hair that scarcely covered her baldness, stooped shoulders, and hideous face of mottled, sagging flesh and boils. She gripped the cane with her spindly hand. The skin stretching over the prominent veins resembled the wings of a bat.
The corners of Wisteria’s mouth turned down. “Ready for what?”
“To take the next step.”
She had no idea what that meant. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Frustration boiled inside her. “Those spiders could’ve killed me.” Trembles ran through her. She never wanted to experience anything like that ever again.
“Aye,” the old crone responded. She paused, eyeing Wisteria with meaning. “But you prevailed.”
The deepening gloom of the evening was a reminder that time was of the essence. She couldn’t allow herself to get caught in whatever web the old crone was spinning. “My mother sent me here to collect a remedy for one of her patients—a young maiden in labor. The babe is turned the wrong way, and the girl needs something to help her relax.”
The crone eyed her in partial amusement. “You needn’t have come here for that. A few well-spoken words of an incantation you know well would’ve done the trick.”
Heat fanned Wisteria’s face despite her cold, wet condition. “Aye, but that would mean …”
“Giving yourself away to your precious mother?”
“Aye,” she admitted, not sure what to make of the crone’s bitter tone. She clenched her hands. “If you could just give me something to help the maiden …”
The crone pulled a vial from the side pocket of her muddy-brown frock that dwarfed her skeletal frame several times over. “This is what you seek.”
“H—how did you know?” While the crone knew many useful ways to treat ailments, Wisteria wasn’t aware that she was clairvoyant. Quickly, she stepped forward, took it from the crone’s hand, and placed it into the pocket of her frock.
A brittle cackle fell from the crone’s lips. “There are few things that I don’t know.” She narrowed her eyes to black, fathomless slits. “Including the reason why you stopped coming to visit.”
The need to defend her mother rose fast on Wisteria’s lips. “Please don’t be angry. My mother was only worried for my safety.”
Amusement flitted over the crone’s face, making her look even more grisly. “Because of the dragon.”
One of the boils on the crone’s face was inflamed and oozing pus … a condition the crone had taught Wisteria how to treat with a simple incantation. Why was the crone not using her knowledge to help herself? She was so hideous. Revulsion welled inside of Wisteria, and it was all she could do to keep her expression masked.
She was accustomed to the crone’s awful appearance, but this evening—in light of the spider attack—the crone was more appalling than usual. “Aye.” Her words rushed out. “The villagers suspect you of practicing magic. My mother was afraid that my association with you would …” She worked her jaw. “That it would …” She didn’t know how to finish the sentence. The last thing she wanted was to offend the crone, especially now that Wisteria had caught an inkling of how powerful she was. But it would do little good to deny the truth. The crone knew that Wisteria was coming here to see her. Also, she knew which remedy Mother had sent her to retrieve. Most importantly, the crone had conjured up those dreadful spiders. There was no telling what else she could do. Reason would dictate that the crone already knew everything Wisteria was telling her. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, “that it has been so many months since I’ve come.” She lowered her head in deference.
“The villagers are fools,” the crone scoffed, “as is anyone who thinks that outlawing magic will change the scope of the world.” She lifted her hand and made a circling motion with her withered finger. The wind whistled through the trees and ruffled the leaves, along with Wisteria’s hair and frock. When the crone lowered her hand, the commotion instantly died down. “Magic is who you are,” the crone croaked. “Never forget that.”
“I won’t,” she answered fervently. As if she could ever forget the part of her that was growing incrementally each day. She looked down at her hands again, marveling at the power that had issued forth when she needed it most. Her ability was somehow tied to her fear and perhaps her sense of self-preservation. There was still so much she didn’t understand. If only she could continue coming here to learn from the old crone.
"When will you come again?”
Wisteria jerked her head up. Could the crone discern her thoughts? “I cannot go against my mother.” She spoke the words to herself as much as to the crone.
Fury flashed in the crone’s eyes.
“I prithee, don’t be angry,” Wisteria pled. “You have taught me much. I will be forever grateful.” It was true. Wisteria had learned much, but conjuring spiders? That was a whole new level. All this time she’d been coming to visit the crone, Wisteria hadn’t comprehended the tremendous power the woman could wield. She clenched and unclenched her hands, realizing that she was at the mercy of the crone … here in the thick of this dark, dense forest where all sorts of terrors awaited. She was having to rethink her stance on feeling comfortable here.
“We shall see how deep your gratitude runs.”
She didn’t know how to answer that. A stilted silence descended between them.
"You are finally ready,” the crone observed.
Wisteria made a concentrated effort to keep her voice kind and imploring so as not to come across as insolent. “Ready for what?”
The crone dipped her head, studying Wisteria. “For your first kill.”
Wisteria jerked. “Nay, I will never kill another living soul.” Was the crone wicked? Had she killed before? Wisteria had always viewed the old woman with pity. It occurred to her now, however, that she knew nothing about the crone’s past … how she’d come to be here in the forest. Had she always been so gruesome? It was as if a curtain were being pulled from Wisteria’s eyes, allowing her to see things she’d never noticed before. Everything was escalating way too quickly, and she wasn’t prepared to deal with the repercussions of what might follow.
“You will, and it will make you stronger. Much stronger than you can imagine.”
Her heart started beating furiously. “Nay.” From the time she was young, her mother had taught her right from wrong. While Wisteria was no saint like her mother, she tried to be good. The power warring inside her often made her feel unworthy of her mother’s love. A part of Wisteria wondered if she would ever fit into the society of the village. Was she doomed to become an outcast like the crone? So loathsome. “Nay,” she protested louder, trying to stave off the cold panic building inside her.
Jeering laughter flowed from the crone’s thin lips. “We shall see.” With that, she turned and hobbled away. Her twisting body was repulsive as she took each feeble step.
“I will never take the life of another,” Wisteria vowed. The crone didn’t give her the courtesy of looking back.
No matter. Wisteria had come to a resolution within herself, and that’s what mattered. The tension between her shoulder blades eased a fraction.
She touched her pocket, thinking of Alice as she hurried away.
When Wisteria stepped back into the bedroom and saw the look of anguish on her mother’s face, she knew she was too late.
“Alice and her babe are gone,” Eleanor announced in a somber tone.
A cry escaped Wisteria’s throat. “It’s my fault.” She could’ve at least helped Alice to relax when she first learned the scope of the issue, but she hadn’t. She’d been too afraid to expose herself. Now, she would forever have to live with the guilt that she’d stood by and done nothing while watching another suffer.
Eleanor’s expression grew perplexed. “Nay, this is no fault of yours.” Sympathy softened her features. “Alice’s condition worsened a short time after you left. There was no way you could’ve gotten to the forest and back in time to help her.” She let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. “It’s probably just as well. The world can be especially cruel to an unwed mother and her child.”
“Aye,” Wisteria agreed solemnly. Her gaze moved to the still form beneath the linen. It spoke to her condemnation. A shiver ran through her. She looked down at her hands, thinking how Mother would take leave of her sanity if she knew about the spider attack—the power that Wisteria could wield—and the old crone’s babbling about a first kill.
The world will also be cruel to one who practices magic.
Wisteria would do well to keep her abilities to herself. Nay, more than that, she needed to squelch her budding powers once and for all.
And she would never have any further association with the old crone and her strange, diabolical ways.
