Chapter II • Severin

'Tis harvest season.

Father and I had just finished threshing the last bit of wheat into the second bushel basket. He starts scooping the grain with a tin measuring cup as the sun began peeking over the horizon, pouring quarts of it into a small, separate bag— this is what we’re to keep.

“Ah, it is time, Severin,” my father says, removing the coif off his head to wipe the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “Are ye ready to head into the neighboring village, son?”

I peek into the bag he is holding and notice that the amount of grain in it is less than what he poured last time.

“That will not be enough for us,” I state, pointing a finger at the bag. “I see no harm in adding another quart or two for ourselves, Father.”

“Yer mother dislikes the grain we harvest, son. That is why two pecks of this grain is what we trade for vegetables; the other bushel is for Lord Davidson.”

I twitch slightly at the mention of my “mother”.

“She is not my mother, and she will never be. Moreover, we are already scarce with food, Father! Who would care a hang if that fussock does not like grain?”

“Oi! You watch that bloody mouth, Severin,” he yells, pointing his sickle towards my direction. “You may not like Beatrice, but she puts cooked food on the table, you ungrateful rascal!”

Father and I look daggers at each other before he looks away with a sigh, lowering the harvesting tool.

“I am aware that losing yer mother was not easy, lad. The whole ordeal affected even the color of yer hair when she and yer sister were executed. All that I am saying is, give yer stepmother a chance.”

I lug the bushel of grain on my back and tie it over my shoulders and torso with long pieces of cloth, preparing to travel to the nearest village. I look back at my father, who seems aged and exhausted from farming.

“Give me some time to think about it,” I respond, tightening the laces of my hood and already making my way to the forest edge, kicking the mud off my boots.

Two summers ago, my mother, Gisela, and sister, Sigrid, were executed under the assumption that they were witches. Mother knew how to read, which many found rather odd, for we commoners are illiterate. Nonetheless, she embraced her differences and even taught me how to read back when I was a wee boy. I had dark, brown hair back then…

During one of his weekly “inspections”, Edgar Davidson, the lord of Augborough, came across my mother teaching Sigrid how to read in a corner in front of our old house in the central village, and questioned them about what they were doing, for commoners were these so-called clodpates. Mother must have stated her justifications towards his awful way of thinking, because Davidson’s men grabbed her and Sigrid and concluded that, undoubtedly, they were witches, and their intelligence was a “symbol of evil”.

It was too late when Sapphire, my youngest sister, and I found them near the middle of the village, tied to a stake.

Before they were put to death, however, I had heard a voice. T'was as if a million people were speaking in an odd language. My mother and sister were then burned, and even after their demise, I could still hear those strange mutterings.

It only stopped when I realized my hair had become green, and Sapphire’s brown eyes became blue. I’d forbidden her from leaving our home because of this, for the gods know what could happen to her if she was out and about. We moved to the village nearest the shore months after their death, and my father remarried.

As I near my destination, I ensure that my hood is securely tied before going through the dense foliage to enter a different part of the land. Carts are being maneuvered by donkeys, a village crier is making his announcements, and merchants and stalls are littered almost everywhere except the center and the pathways to homes.

I make my way to one of the merchants who have root vegetables in their stall, trading quarters of grain for asparagus, onions, and parsnips. I look around to see who else I can trade with, and a fruit merchant catches my eye. They refused to trade, however, so I head to the middle of the village and sell what was left of the grain.

The sun is high and bright by the time I’ve sold most of the grain, and decide that it was time I head back home. As I tie the basket back onto my rear, however, a large man towers over me and points his grubby, sizeable finger at my face.

“You,” he grumbles, grabbing the front of my hood. “How dare you trade your goods at my village?”

I raise an eyebrow at him and realize that he has empty bushels of grain he most likely had sold already.

“I beg your pardon? I see nothing wrong with me selling grain hither as well,” I state nonchalantly, tilting my head to the side as his grip on my hood tightens.

'Tis a good thing that it is tied tightly, for these people would not know how to react to a lad with green hair.

“Not for long if a good-for-nothing like you keeps stealing potential customers,” he yells, his spit spattering my face and his breath smelling like a dead animal. My face scrunches up in disgust, forcing me to pinch my nose to block out the smell. That is horrid!

“O-oh… Use some mouth perfume, perchance? Mayhap you can gain more customers if your breath did not smell like manure.”

Angered by this, the man throws me to the ground with one hand. The bushel basket on my back makes a terrible cushion as I land on it with a loud and painful crack. Struggling to get back up, the man once again picks me up and throws a punch at my face.

“I am the only grain seller in this village, brat. I've not even sold all my grain!”

“Your baskets are literally empty,” I yell back, planting both of my feet onto his chest and kicking him as hard as I can. This surprises him and causes him to release his grip on me, losing his balance and landing on his bottom. I take that as my cue to run for my life.

Despite the distant shouting, I don't stop running until I’ve gone beyond the trees. I find myself on an unusual yet somewhat familiar path, and only stop to realize that this is the trail to the central village.

This is where my mother and I used to collect berries for her special dessert, where Sigrid and Sapphire would be so, so excited when we arrived home.

I smile to myself, reminiscing as I pick out a few red berries from one of the bushes. Ever since my mother and my sister passed, I never bothered to visit the old house again after we moved. It was as if the briny scent of the ocean was a new start for us…

Resolved, I readjust my hood, secure its laces, and follow the path to the central village. I haven’t been hither for a while, so here is to hoping that not much has changed.

When I go through the forest edge, the community is a sight to behold. The old water well in the center, Matilda yelling at her sons, old man John and his gambles, the morning gossip—

this is what our life was before the Davidsons ruined it.

I sneak by a stall with a preoccupied merchant, and head to another pathway in a rush. I must look like a bloody hooded idiot with a wrecked basket on my back.

And then, I find it: the old oak door to the place where I grew up;

where I felt the safest and complete.

I sneak in and find the housee almost completely empty— the dining table and the bed frames were left to collect dust. I look around as I eat the berries I collected and find myself heading in the direction of where my late mother’s bed is, absentmindedly sliding a hand against the heavily-dusted wood. I come to my senses when I feel the thick, powdery filth on my fingertips, gauchely wiping it off on my trousers. The mattress is hither as well, which I find odd since 'tis only stuffed with hay and straw. This should have been brought with us before we moved out.

The mattress emits large puffs of dust as I take a seat, uncomfortably feeling the dried straw poking my derriere. When I shift, I feel a flat, smooth object from underneath. Curious, I get off the bed and lift the mattress to find a leather-bound journal atop the bed slats.

“What… in the gods?” I think out loud, examining the leather. In a small corner at the back, I find the name “Gisela” engraved with a sharp object.

I did not know Mother kept a journal.

Hastily undoing the knots that keep it closed and secure, it dawns on me that it is midday, and I have a family waiting for mealtime and a broken bushel basket on my back. I’ve taken too much time simply staying hither and pondering about the past that I have completely forgotten what I needed to do!

“Ah, Beatrice is going to be furious… not like I care a hang,” I mumble, hurrying out the door and almost running into a brunette carrying some crops in her arms. She yells at me, telling me to be more cautious, but I ignore her, for there are things that are much more important at this moment,

like not getting scolded at.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Out of breath, I do not find my father around the hut. He must have delivered the bushel to the Davidsons' manor when I left. I gingerly open the door, only to receive a slap when I enter.

“Where in gods’ names were you?! Do you have any idea what time of day it is?!”

Ah, ballocks. Not this.

“At ease, Beatrice," I say calmly, attempting to ease my stepmother's temper. “I’ve the ingredients for until supp—”

“How dare you call me by my name? I am your mother, you brat!”

“I do not recall ever coming out of your birth hole.”

 “Your impudence will be the death of you, boy. Hand me the damn trades.”

Unhurriedly, I take the ingredients out of the broken bushel basket, and hand them to the grouchy woman I’m obligated to call my mother.

“What in bloody blazes happened to the basket?” she asks. “Your father will know about this.”

“As if there is anything Father does not know because of you.”

“You hadn't even sold all of the grain! There are bits of it left, fool! And what happened to your face?”

“I got into some trouble—"

“You must have deserved it, you troublemaker. Where is the meat?”

“Meat?”

I'm beginning to feel irritated.

“The grain I’ve traded wouldn’t even be enough for a slab of it, mother.”

“I cannot make today's meal without meat, you bloody idiot! You never do anything right!”

“Of course, as if everyone in Augborough has access to something as inexpensive as meat.”

I block out Beatrice’s usual shrieking towards my effrontery, and find Sapphire peeking from behind one of the hut’s supports, shaking her head at me. I leave my grouchy stepmother to her business and approach my sister, only to find her arms and legs covered in bruises, with a fresh wound across her cheek.

“Mother Beatrice punished me for being a 'beef-brained, useless child' for not knowing how to use a knife…”

I stare at my sister, incredulous at her words. How in heavens will she learn how to use a knife if she is not taught? She is a child!

 “Did you… ask her to teach you?” I whisper, gently placing my hand atop her head.

She nods.

“She hit me when I did… She said she had no time to teach a 'clodpate'.”

Furious at what had happened whilst I was away, I stand to confront Beatrice, but my sister pulls my chemise back to stop me. Her blue eyes plead me not to do it.

“Better me than you, Saph,” I whisper, clasping both her wee hands between my own.

“Pray thee, brother, I have already lost Mother and Sigrid,” she replies, her eyes brimming with tears. “I do not want to lose you, too…”

Heaving a sigh, I wipe the tears that threaten to fall and place my other hand on her shoulder in understanding. I grab a clean cloth, dip it in water, and wipe the blood off of her bleeding cheek.

“Let us get this cleaned.”

After the noontime meal, I teach my younger sister how to properly wash the dishes so as to prevent another beating from our stepmother for not knowing how. I overhear Beatrice tattling to Father about my shortcomings outside the hut as Sapphire scrubs the bowls on her own, the ungrateful woman telling my old man off that meat should be a priority when I leave to trade in other villages. I clench my fist, wondering how my father tolerates this woman.

Ugh. She could be just as horrible as the Davidsons.

I return to the bed my sister and I share to get my mind off of the happenings of the morn, suddenly remember the journal I had found earlier today.

I pull it out of the back of my trousers, successfully untying the journal before flipping through its slightly brown pages. There are... unusual symbols. My brow furrows in confusion as the symbols and words become more and more complicated the further I go, flitting to a stop on a page labelled “If Things Become Dire”.

Under it are the written words “praesidium incantamentum”— which… looks like… some sort of… incantation…?

Huh?

A what?

What language is this?

I turn the page and find that it is a spell of… some sort.

Mother seemed to know what she was doing; side effects...?

Alterations?

Use… on children?

I flip on to the other side of the page to come across more notes, this one sloppily written.

"...this spell may alter one's physical appearance permanently as a side-effect. For instance, skin or hair may become discolored, or a different color completely."

Was my mother… actually a witch?

threshing – “to separate grain from a plant”; coif  – “a close-fitting cap worn by both genders”; fussock – “fat, lazy, or scruffy-looking old woman”; clodpate  – “dull and stupid person”; derriere – “bottom, buttocks”; ballocks – “Old English for bollocks”; effrontery – “cheekiness”