The Turning Read online

  Praise for The Witches of Storm Island, Book I: The Turning

  “Watkins takes us back to the year 1685 and the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Fear, suspicion and the hushed whispers of witchcraft are rife amongst the Puritanical enclave. Ms. Watkins does a masterful job in bringing to life the daily lives of the colony’s inhabitants in this all-too-brief novella… The Witches of Storm Island will leave you wanting more.”

  ~Neil A. White for Readers Favorite

  “The Witches of Storm Island Book I: The Turning by Linda Watkins is a remarkable story of the historical time of the Salem witch trials and the dangers that surround individuals viewed as “different.” The unexplained actions of persons of this time period are explored and brought to vivid detail that keeps the reader captivated with the injustices suffered by the ignorance of early American settlers in the attempt to justify heinous punishments that defy religious and personal beliefs. Linda Watkins weaves an addictive tale that explodes into what I believe is a bestselling saga. I can’t wait for the continuation of The Witches of Storm Island!”

  ~Lisa McCombs for Readers Favorite

  “The Witches of Storm Island is a captivating read, both for what it reveals of the religious rigidity of that ugly era in American history, and for its tantalizing insertion of the supernatural into what is otherwise a beautiful love story. The plot is well executed, the characters well-drawn, the dialogue plentiful, and the emotional engagement high on the part of the reader. You will close this book eager to see what happens next. What a way to hook your fans! Well done, Linda Watkins.”

  ~Viga Boland for Readers Favorite

  THE WITCHES OF STORM ISLAND

  Book I: The Turning

  Linda Watkins

  Contents

  Untitled

  Prologue

  1. Thirteen Years Earlier, Massachusetts Bay Colony

  2. Imelda

  3. Apprenticeship

  4. First Date

  5. Falling in Love

  6. The Courting

  7. The Old Man

  8. Spring

  9. Discovery

  10. Imelda

  11. A Wedding

  12. An Unexpected Guest

  13. A Return

  14. Dangerous Times

  15. Planning for the Future

  16. An Unfortunate Accident

  17. Witchery and Skullduggery

  18. Leaving Home

  19. The Village of Falmouth

  20. A Home of Our Own

  21. Storm Island

  22. The Village of Falmouth

  23. Disturbing Revelations

  24. The Auction

  25. Aftermath

  Special Note from the Author

  About the Author

  THE WITCHES OF STORM ISLAND, BOOK I: THE TURNING

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Watkins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, places and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, is entirely coincidental

  Editing by Red Road Editing/Kristina Circelli

  (http://http//www.kristinacircelli.com/red-road-editing/)

  Cover design by Jessica Ozment (Magic Quill Graphics, www.themagicquillgraphics) and Linda Watkins

  (www.lindawatkins-author.com)

  ISBN: 9781944815097 (PB)

  Created with Vellum

  “Ah, destructive ignorance, what shall be done to chase thee out of the world!”

  ~Cotton Mather

  Prologue

  Just off the Coast of Maine

  Storm Island, June 1, 1698

  MY ARMS ACHED from rowing and I paused for a moment, glancing over my shoulder. Storm Island was still visible in the distance – beautiful to see in the fading light, but I knew better. It was, in fact, a cold place and had proved itself, in the last twenty-four hours, to be ever so deadly. I spat into the sea, cursing its name as my skiff slid silently through the icy waters. Gazing at the ocean around me, I thanked the powers that be that, for at least this one night, all was calm. The sky was rapidly darkening, the full moon hidden behind dense cloud cover. This, too, was a blessing. No doubt there were searchers out looking for me.

  A dark tear slid down my cheek. Storm had been my home for six years and I’d been happy there. Had everything I’d given up been worth it? I’d thought so, but now I didn’t know. Taking a deep breath, I shook off my melancholy and acknowledged that now was not the time for soul-searching or recrimination. That would come later; that is, if I survived to think on it.

  Turning my head once again toward the mainland, I angrily brushed my tears aside and leaned my shoulders to the task at hand. The coastline now loomed large and my breath quickened along with my stroke. A chance for freedom would soon be at hand.

  But, what then? What would become of me now? And, how could I live with the memory of the carnage I had just witnessed? A sob escaped my throat when I thought about those who had recently perished and about my loved ones whose fate was still to me unknown. Perhaps they were in God’s hands now, be that a blessing or a curse.

  A deep-seated anger pushed aside my sadness and I rowed with renewed vigor. The bastards who had hunted us down would pay. Oh, maybe not tomorrow – maybe not in the next year or even in the next hundred years – but they would pay! They would suffer as my people had suffered. And they would rue the day they let me escape. Yes, the name Maude Levine, née Prichard, would be a curse on their souls and the souls of their families for generations and generations to come.

  Deeply distracted by my woolgathering, I was surprised when the skiff hit the rocks and I had to cling to its sides to keep from being thrown overboard. Finally, when the craft righted itself, I laughed. Had I escaped the burning only to be tossed into the cruel sea and drowned? No, that end was something I would not abide.

  Resolved, I pushed my small boat off the rocks and paddled, looking for a place to put to shore. Finding a tiny cove, I lifted my heavy skirts and, bracing myself for the icy bite of the water, stepped from the craft and waded ashore.

  The moon broke through the clouds as my feet sunk into the soft sand. For the first time that night, I felt a glimmer of hope. I had made it – I was free – free of the island, free of the ignorant clergy, and, most importantly, free to plot my revenge.

  Thirteen Years Earlier, Massachusetts Bay Colony

  June 1, 1685

  IT WAS THE Year of Our Lord 1685 and I was fourteen years old. My family lived in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, in the town of Boston. My father was a shipwright by trade and worked long hours. I was the eldest of three children and helped my mother around the house and in caring for my two younger brothers, Timothy and Peter.

  There was little levity in our home, our father being a pious man. We were Puritans and worshiped at the Congregational Church. Thus, our lives revolved around our faith and community.

  My days were well-structured. After morning chores, I attended school with several other children at Widow Parson’s home. The good woman instructed us in reading, writing, and simple mathematics in exchange for help with her household chores. After school, I had some time to myself and usually spent it with other girls my age, playing marbles, spinning tops, and enjoying other silly games. But, by late afternoon, I was home again, helping my mother prepare the evening meal and tending to the chickens and livestock kept in our barn.

  My father, a strict and plain-speaking man, often said that ignorance was a trick of the devil. Th
us, he put great value on learning and in the evenings, before bedtime, would have me stand and read scripture from our family Bible. Not a man to bestow praise frivolously, I could still tell, from a slight nod of his head, when he was greatly pleased with my recitation. Cursed with a stern expression and thinning hair, he was not a handsome man, but he was fair and did his best to provide for us.

  My mother, on the other hand, was a striking woman, although she did her best to hide it. Some in our church gossiped that she was tainted by gypsy blood because of her dark hair and eyes. She laughed at these comments, insisting that her heritage was pure English. But there were times when I observed her as she sat brushing out her long black hair, that I wondered whether or not this was wholly true.

  In looks, my brothers took after my father, but I was my mother’s child. My hair was long, dark, and would glisten in the sun on the rare occasions I was allowed to go without my cap. My eyes, dark also, often flashed with anger or frustration at the restrictions our church imposed upon us. I struggled to control these emotions and strived to be a good, God-fearing woman and emulate my mother in all things. I was to be subservient to men and embrace my eventual role in life as a bride, wife, and mother.

  However, God, or some other celestial force, had other things in mind for me, and my destiny and I collided on a warm summer day in the Year of Our Lord 1685.

  It was mid-day and I was walking home from Widow Parson’s. This would be my final year in school and, while I looked forward to becoming an adult member of our community, I also feared the transition. But on this day, I put all that behind me. The other children in my class had run off to fly kites, but I declined to join them. One of the boys, Zachariah Palmer, son of the local magistrate, had some sort of fixation on me and I dreaded the thought of being alone with him. He was a pimply-faced youth who was always trying to kiss me or put his hands on my body. Thus, I decided to avoid him and, instead, walk the streets, taking in the sights and sounds of the city around me.

  The heat from the sun kept most of the townspeople inside or down by the water where it was cooler and, as a result, I had the streets to myself and took advantage of the lack of prying eyes to skip merrily along my way, singing as I went.

  I was halfway to my home when a woman stepped through a doorway and put out her hand to stop me.

  “Little girl,” she called. “Come here.”

  I stopped and stared at her. She was tall with long, red hair that fell freely to her shoulders, unfettered by a cap such as the one I, and all other girls I knew, wore. Her clothing was also different. Like my mother and the other women in our community, I wore a long, plain gray dress made of poplin that covered my body from neck to ankle. Over this dress, I wore a crisp white apron. My shoes were sensible, too, plain and unadorned.

  But this woman was anything but plain. She wore a white blouse, cut low enough that I could see the beginning of her bosoms, and a long, full skirt comprised of so many colors that I could not count them. I watched, transfixed, as the skirt, which seemed to have a life of its own, danced around her calves in the warm summer breeze.

  “Girl?” she said again. “Has a cat got your tongue?”

  I pulled my eyes from her legs and stared at the ground, not knowing if I should speak to her or dash away.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Sorry, missus,” I finally whispered. “How may I help you?”

  The woman began to laugh and I felt the heat rise in my face as my hands clutched at my apron in embarrassment.

  Sensing my discomfort, the woman ceased her merriment. “Sorry, child. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. And, yes, you may help me.”

  I gained the courage to raise my eyes and, as I did so, noticed her feet were bare and that on one ankle she wore what looked like a bracelet.

  Watching me, she cocked her head to one side and, with a kindly smile, reached down and lifted her skirt, revealing a slender ribbon of leather from which dangled numerous golden bells.

  “Would you like it?” she asked, shaking her foot so that the bells rang out merrily.

  To my dismay, my mouth fell open and I feared I looked like a simpleton.

  She laughed, reached down, and untied the anklet, then held it out for me to see.

  Impulsively, I reached for it, but as my fingers brushed the bells, she pulled it back, out of my grasp.

  “You may have it, but first you must do my bidding. I have a package that needs delivery and I’m unable to do it myself. Will you do me this favor?”

  Tongue-tied, I was barely able to nod. I knew I should consider the bracelet a forbidden, sinful thing and reject it out of hand. But I wanted it badly and knew I would do anything for it.

  “Good,” she said, smiling as she tucked the bracelet into her pocket and walked back inside the building, leaving the door ajar.

  I watched as she ambled over to a table and picked up a small bottle, wrapped it in plain white paper, and tied it with twine. She came back to the doorway when she’d finished and handed the package to me.

  “Deliver this to Widow Hardy. You know where she lives?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Tell whoever answers the door that this is for the good Widow’s hands only. You must not give over this package to anyone else. Are you clear on that?”

  “Yes, missus. Give the package only to Widow Hardy.”

  “Fine, and I’m sure the good woman will have a penny for you, too. When you’re done, come back here and the anklet will be yours. Now hurry off with you.”

  I nodded and turned to go, but she stopped me with her hand on my arm.

  “Girl, what’s your name?” she asked.

  “Maude, missus. Maude Prichard.”

  “Well, Miss Maudie, go swiftly now and be back before sundown.”

  As she spoke she pulled out the bracelet and shook it lightly. I grinned as the bells rang and, with one last glance at the prize that would soon be mine, ran down the road, clutching the package tightly in my apron.

  Imelda

  I SOON LEARNED the strange woman’s first name was Imelda. What her true surname was remained a mystery. She revealed little of her background, but I knew instinctively that she was not of our church. I guessed her age to be close to that of my mother or maybe a little younger.

  It soon became a habit for me to walk by her shop and there was always a package or two to be delivered. In exchange, she bestowed upon me baubles and bangles, all of which, I was sure, were sinful and would send me straight to Hell. But I was fourteen and didn’t care. I loved the shiny ornaments and sound of the bells on the bracelet which I longed to wear, but didn’t dare do so.

  I secreted all these gifts and the pennies I received for delivering Imelda’s concoctions under a floorboard in the room I shared with my brothers. But soon, there were too many for this hiding place so I moved my stash to the barn. This was a fortuitous decision as many of my chores – milking the cow, gathering eggs – took place there and I often dallied, fingering my many prizes.

  For the remainder of that year, I did Imelda’s bidding. Then, when I was about to turn fifteen, she surprised me by inviting me inside. I hesitated at first, but her smiles and laughter finally convinced me that no harm would come to me. Her rooms were warm and cozy and smelled of exotic herbs and spices.

  “Go on,” she said, indicating the small piles of leaves and berries that sat on her workbench. “Pick them up, smell them, feel the power in them.”

  Tentatively, I did as she instructed, fingering a sample from each pile, then placing it under my nose and inhaling its scent.

  “Can you identify any of them?” she asked.

  “Yes, missus,” I replied. “This is milk thistle and this is clove.”

  “Very good. I was sure you’d get clove but the thistle surprises me. You have a good nose. Come here.”

  As she spoke, she walked to a bookshelf and pulled out a large tome and handed it to me. “This is my grimnoire,” she said. “Look inside.”

/>   The term “grimnoire” was alien to me, but I was curious to see what it contained. The book was heavy and I placed it on the workbench before opening it.

  I pulled back the cover, which was plain, without title or decoration. The pages inside were darkened with age. The writing on the opening page was in a strange language and I looked at Imelda quizzically.

  “I can’t read it,” I said.

  She frowned. “You can’t read?”

  “No, missus,” I replied. “I mean, yes, I can read, but the words written here – I’m not familiar with them.”

  Imelda leaned over and looked at the page, then smiled. “Not there, Maudie. That’s written in Medieval Greek. I wouldn’t expect you could read that. Look further inside.”

  I rifled through the pages wondering what she wanted me to see. Finally, I looked up at her and smiled.

  “They’re recipes, missus. I can read them.”

  “Good. Because if you want, you could learn to make them.”

  “Make them?” I asked.

  “Yes, be my apprentice. Would you like that?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears and I nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, missus. I want to learn. But I don’t know if my parents would let me. You’re not … I mean …”