The Witch of Ballyvale: Excerpt
The shouts overwhelm her. Strong hands grip her
body, shoving her onto the damp sands.
The same hands drag her through the cold sandy ground. She fears the
oncoming waters. Placing her feet under her once more, she manages to stand,
pushed forward under his force. The bitter cold water reaches her feet
pulsating through her body. The strong hands push her deeper into the Atlantic
waters, down into the murky depths overwhelming her senses.
She gasps, suddenly becoming aware of her
surroundings; the sweeping broom in her hand and the dust still on the floor.
The loud banging on the door follows with her name. “Mags! Mags!” It is little
Tommy Walsh, the blacksmith’s son. As she opens, she rests her eyes on his.
“Quick! Bill Roche is in the town square! His cattle
were poisoned last night and he says it’s Heather Rose! They are after her and
she has been seen on the beach,” he splutters out of breath.
“Return to your home. I will find her,” Mags
quickly responds grabbing her shawl from the nearby chair and exiting into the
damp morning.
A fog of mist lies heavily around her having
rolled in over the sea blocking out all signs of daylight. It is late October,
not an unusual occurrence living by the coast for this time of year, but she
knew the morning would be like this. Racing, she reaches the narrow path
leading to the beach. The grass is damp under her feet. It soon changes to sandy patches as she
climbs higher until the whole of Ballyvale beach spreads out before her.
Through the watery fog she spies an outline. Heather! Moving quickly towards
her, Heather’s voice reaches her.
“Go home Mags. This is no place for you.”
“Heather, the villagers are out looking for you!”
“Led by the mighty Bill Roche.”
“You must hide!”
“No point in hiding my girl; he will find me.
Listen! I hear the murmur of voices.”
“Please, Heather, come with me!” Mags pleads,
reaching for Heather’s arm in an attempt to drag her off the beach.
“Get out of here now Mags! Leave! You never saw
me. Go, or they will think you are like me,” Heather responds by pushing Mags from
her reach.
Hearing the voices growing, Mags fears the moment
and retreats through the sands to the top of the beach. Sinking into the tall
grass, she waits. The waters lapping on the shore edge soon disappear under the
shouts of the village people. Peering through the reeds, she spies Bill Roche
appearing on the sandy edge of Ballyvale beach shouting. “Witch!” His voice
directs at Heather echoing through the dampness of the early morning. She eyes
his son, Michael Roche, standing next to him.
He has made his intentions of his affections for her more than clear.
Watching the scene before her, Mags concludes they are all cowards, sheep,
following one man, afraid to stand up and voice their own thoughts. Bill Roche
is a large strong man with a personality to match. He is the largest tenant
farmer for landlord Crosby; but his strength, she believes, comes from the fear
he instils and from his loyal bunch of followers.
The crowd becomes silent on sighting Heather. The
grey outline becomes clear as they move near her. Bill’s booming voice echoes
throughout the beach carried by the quiet morning.
“Witch! You have done the devil’s work for the
final time! I warned you!”
Heather stands firm facing her judge and jury.
Grabbing her by his strong hands, he pushes her onto the sands. Mags closes her
eyes unable to watch the scene that will unfold before her eyes. The townspeople raise their voices in shouts,
their words inaudible. They surround Heather and Mags loses sight of the victim
whom they lead to the cold watery grave of the merciless Atlantic. Retreating,
Mags races quickly towards the safety of her home.
I first called my visions a gift, as Heather used
to call them, when I was four years old. They were something I learned to live
with, even if at times, their instant arrival without warning overwhelms me. My
dear mother feared me, but I believe she feared being treated as an outcast
even more, or having her friends of high society ridicule her. She was happy to
hide me, wrapped behind the walls of her grand house. But on hearing a rumour, my father, a man of
standing, could not bear to have such a story leak into the public.
I should take a step back and explain that I have
not always been living at Ballyvale, but in the grand stately house of a rich
merchant. I still have memories of my home, big it was, with many rooms. There
were servants, and I had my own nanny to care for my every need. I had no
sisters or brothers, well none until I left.
Perhaps some followed and exist today, totally unaware of my existence.
My memory of that night is blurred. I was awoken
from my sleep during the night, wrapped in a warm blanket smelling of soap
after being freshly washed. The smell of that moment lingers today. Through sleepy eyes, candlelight flickered in
the hallways until the cold of the night struck my face sending a shiver
through my body. Drops of rain fell against my warm jaw wiping away all slumber
from my body. Hushed voices echoed across the courtyard of my home, and I was
lifted onto a trap.
Soon, my home, my parents and all childhood
memories were left behind. It was then, for the first time, I found my voice
and fear crept over my body. Unsure of where I was going, I recognised the lady
next to me, Alice, one of the kitchen hands. She refused to answer my
questions, just repeating that I should go to sleep while she held me tightly.
Sleep crept upon me again with the rocking of the
trap and the echoing horseshoes off the ground.
On opening my eyes, the light of the morning sun rising to the east gave
the night sky a warm glow, sending the night away for another day. I lost track of how long we had been
travelling. Alice still held me tight.
Rising above the warm blanket perfumed with soap smell, I spied the
ocean glitter softly against the warm glow of the morning sun. Shortly, my eyes
fell on a small group of houses spread across a valley leading to a sandy
beach. I suddenly feared the outcome as
the horse pulled us down the slope entering the valley. The outline of the houses soon came into view
through the early morning dew. Before
long, we left the main crop of houses of the little village and entered a track
secluded by trees on both sides. For several minutes, we continued before the
trap stopped. As the driver’s strong
hands lifted me onto the ground, my eyes fell onto a little cottage that had a
low door with a small window on either side.
Its roof was thatched, and white smoke drifted upwards from its chimney
into the calm morning. Bushes and trees surrounded it; everything was
quiet. We waited for a little while,
then the door opened and I saw Heather Rose for the first time.
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