Evil Rising Read online

  The Dark Witch:

  Evil Rising

  By Tabitha Scott

  This work is copyrighted. No part of this book may be reproduced in

  any form without permission in writing from the copyright owner. Don’t touch my stuff.

  Copyright 2018 © by K. S. A. Butcher

  All rights reserved.

  Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

  ASIN: B07D6DCXFZ

  Disclaimer and Acknowledgement:

  Any similarity to any existing covens, witches, or persons is probably due to compulsion and, therefore, not really my fault. Otherwise usual stuff… this is fiction, and the stories told are therefore fictitious.

  Where background research was needed I relied largely on Wikipedia.

  For the front cover I’ve used the Grave digger font by Dieter Schumacher.

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to all those people who end up in foreign places.

  Table of Contents

  The Dark Witch:

  Disclaimer and Acknowledgement:

  Dedication:

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Broken

  Chapter 2: A Foreign School

  Chapter 3: Changes Again

  Chapter 4: The Library

  Chapter 5: Stonehaven

  Chapter 6: Telling Pulania

  Chapter 7: The Trip to the Library

  A call to readers:

  The Series to date

  Chapter 1: Broken

  It be ungainfully, unnice, being broken. I do not dream because of it. I guess, that one must have a past to dream, and I do not have one. That be why I am broken. Sometimes when I sleep, I see things that are, and things that will be, but they are not dreams, they are real. Perhaps, one day, a long time from now… one day when I may actually have a past… I might see things that have been, but somehow, I suspect they will not be dreams either, because I do not dream.

  “Tis I, Pulania!” The door has blown open shooting across the room. No doubt, it would have killed me if I were in its path. That is, if I were mortal, but I am not.

  I cast a disparaging look. “And who else would I expect. I know none other.”

  “Ah, well, this be true. But tis I, none-the-less.”

  I gather my anger, for there be much, and focus on the splinters of wood that were my door. Blackness curls forward and gathers that which be mine, reconstituting a stronger fencing that she may challenge herself with next time, for Pulania be my only friend.

  “Doors be in short supply,” I hiss.

  “The war has made it so. Are you ready for your classes?”

  I sigh. “It be such a long distance. Must I go so far?”

  “We must. There are dark ones there that we must follow, you know this to be true.”

  “But Pulania, they are… ugly creatures.”

  “As are we.”

  “We are not ugly, we…”

  “We, are ugly inside.”

  She says this because we are not ugly at all, but dark. At my fourteen years of age I am not uncomely, and Pulania, much my senior at some twenty and one, be a beauty of our age. Her eyes are of raven black; her hair be that of dawn’s end; her skin be smoothness and cream. Men, I have noticed, notice her. If only I had her beauty, I would be a Helen of this time.

  “We, are dark. I see no ugliness in this,” I reply. For I do not.

  My sister in darkness allows this. “Perhaps this be so, but we are alone, and darkness alone will soon be smothered by the light.”

  There be no smile on her face. I know what she says be true, but it be a faraway worry for me. I do not like the classes I keep, and it be such a foreign place for me.

  “Be there no places here in Scotland? There must be darkness here?”

  “There is,” she replies, and there be a shudder to her words. “But I doubt that we would survive it.”

  Dark witches must have a coven. Solitary darks fall prey to humans, and to others of magikal ilk. We are abhorred and there be safety in numbers, but joining a dark coven be a gamble. The wrong coven might well kill any new applicant. I turn my head to the book I am reading, because I do not wish to think of these things. A tear or two come to my eyes, and scatter down my cheeks.

  “Take heart, Amura.” Pulania leans in to provide me comfort. “We are well hid, and our nature is not betrayed to those who would hunt us. There be time, we will find a coven, and the Americas hold hope for us.”

  I put my hand on hers. “The other children are mean and cruel to me.”

  “You have my permission to hex them,” Pulania smirks.

  I smile back at this, because she had banned me from it previous to this.

  “There are several horrible girls who will suffer at my hands.” Do I sound gleeful? I hope so, because the prospect be exciting for me! “They will suffer greatly.”

  “No death, Amura. Death will bring investigators. We do not need those, but anything short of that be gamely.”

  “No death,” I repeat, but there be a smile upon my face. I have games to play.

  “Have you coffee ready?” For Pulania does little to help herself of earthly pleasure, but be helped by others.

  “I have built the fire of my oven, stoked it so; broken the ice to pour water so that it might be boiled by the kettle, and so, after an hour of my toil, there be coffee awaiting you. Though I do not see what attraction it makes of you?”

  “I would not come if you did make the coffee,” she smiles at me.

  “There be milk, and sugars for you too.” I know she be not serious, we are closer than sisters, her and I.

  She makes the coffee from the pot that I have brewed, straining the grounds through a sieve. “Nice and strong, much as I like.”

  “It has a nice smell, though I prefer my teas.” Around my home, I have herbs hanging and drying, some of which I use for teas, though there are other things hanging and drying that I use for other… concoctions.

  We sit pleasantly in each other’s presence, I, reading my book by one of the Bronte sisters, while Pulania sips her sugared and milked coffee. When she be finished, she rises.

  “It be time to go, Amura.” The moment I dread has arrived.

  I rise and follow Pulania to the door. She passes through, and I pass behind her, I do not lock the door behind me, as my house be hidden from the world. As we move along the magikal path, I glance back to the cottage which be mine. Tis encompassed in willow, and looks very broken down and ramshackle, with old weathered boards, and paint largely peeled away. Inside, tis clean, and newly painted, for I like it so, but outside, it be old and unremarkable to the eye.

  The magikal path takes us from my home in Scotland to Pennsylvania in only a few turns through the forest. Soon, I stand in front of the small town school of Pershing High. I think it be named after some American war hero of long ago. I care not. Pulania has already gone on to Harrisburgh, to watch and court the dark coven that be centred there. With luck, we will survive knowing them and be admitted to their circle, but until then, I have school to contend with.

  Chapter 2: A Foreign School

  I hesitate on the edge of the forest. From other paths children of the town are making their way to classes. As a girl of fourteen, I have one last year before it be expected that I find work, though my loss of memory may allow me extra time in study as much history has been lost to me. It has been a long year relearning things that I may once have known. Thankfully, I must have had some schooling before, as my memory of Science, Math and even English, remain largely intact, though many of the other children still regard me as an idiot.

  “Ficketty feck!” I am shoved from behind by a much larger local boy.

  “Out of the way, Irish slut.”

  I have fallen t
o the side of the path, and am unceremoniously kicked in my behind when I try to rise. However, one other thing I have not forgotten be my magiks. I roll over to glare at the boy who stands above me. He be daring me to rise with his eyes, but the wrath in my face takes him aback – perhaps he can see a flash of the darkness I gather about me. In a mutter of my Scots tongue – because I am Scottish, not Irish, as the ill-mannered oath pretends – I lay upon him a curse of peeling skin. It be like acid be splashed on him, for immediately his face boils forth with breaking, and puss filled, blisters. The same be happening for his nether regions. As he falls to the ground, howling and wreathing in pain, I pick myself up and dust myself off, leaving him to his misery. It seems that today will be a good day after all.

  As I make my way toward a side entrance, which I use because I am less assaulted there, the first bell be rung by a young lad who be running around the school grounds. This means that I have ten minutes before my first class. It be a bad time to come though, as many people do not go inside until that first bell be rung. It affords me no opportunity to slip in unnoticed. There are gangs of youths who prey on others unlike themselves, many besides me are ill-treated here. The staff are all women and old men, none of whom can weld a rod with any vigor. Most of the young male teachers have gone to the Great War that wages against the Kaiser in Europe. My dark clothes; older ground-length skirts and heavy chamois, mark me as especially different, in contrast to the lighter tans and greys, and shorter, ankle-length skirts preferred in the Americas. Of course, I dress myself magikly, so I could conform and be less noticeable if I chose, but I am of a stubborn incline, and will not be broken to the conformity of others.

  For a second I stand where I am, and then quite purposely change my direction. Today I will go through the front entrance, for today be an end of my victimisation. As I approach, I can see the many spiteful young men and women who line the way readying themselves with jeers and insulting calls, pooling their packs of friends. A female teacher, hardly a few years older than myself, turns away, for she will not aid me against villains of greater strength. These youths hold no respect for the teachers here, perhaps because many of these vile man-boys have little to look forward to except soldiering in the year to come, or working in the iron mill that feeds the town. Education does them little good.

  As I approach the wide steps that are lined with groups of taunting youths, the spit balls begin, but today none of them hit me. Bits of paper and the odd piece of food are thrown in my direction, but they all miss. I keep my chin up, and look past them all. As I mount the first of the steps, a boy-man, a foot taller than myself steps forward to block my way but inexplicably trips over his own feet falling down the stone steps to lie in my way. I ignore him and do not break my pace as I step over his stunned body, and continue forward. At the top of the steps, a haughty girl attempts to also detain me where the larger youth had failed, again, she trips down over her own feet, and again I step over her as though she were hardly more than a small rock in my path. As I reach the door a silence has fallen behind me, broken only by those who be trying to aid their two fallen confederates, and by the whispering of one word in particular that I know quite well, “witch.”

  Inside the main hall, my way by blocked by a gaggle of loons, who in the past had tripped me and knocked me into the walls with overt threats and kicks to my body. Today, they fall away as the blistering pustules overcome them. I stride past without taking notice, though behind me I hear again that word uttered by those who were not inflicted, “witch.”

  Hugging my slate and some paper notes close to my breast, I move into the class of my English teacher, an old man who I much admire, but who be not able to keep control of the rowdier elements of his class. Today will be different. I am one of the first to enter, and take my place at a corner of the back, where I am hidden from attentions.

  “Good day to you, Amura,” Mr. Pulton greets me as I enter.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pulton,” I answer respectfully.

  “Are you enjoying Wuthering Heights, Amura?”

  “Very much so, I find it extremely well written and hard to put down at night. Our gas bill will be higher this quarter for the lighting.”

  “Good to hear, I find all the Miss Brontes’ to have been exceptional in their art.”

  As the second bell rings and others come in, Mr. Pulton begins writing some of his lesson on the blackboard. This term we are learning about British authors, though I also wish to learn of Twain, and Poe, and other of the American greats, which we will study later this year.

  As the seating fills, the usual noise begins. In better times, when a teacher called for quiet at the beginning of a lesson, it would have been given, but these are not better times, or a better place. As usual a group of boys at the front start antics of throwing a scrunched up paper between them, pretending it be a baseball. They will talk over poor, old Mr. Pulton for the whole lesson if given the chance. However, as one of them throws the paper ball in the air, it catches alight, flaring in flame for a moment, before falling to the ground in ash. A second pretend ball does much the same a second later. Some of the boys look back at me, as word has quickly spread of my entry through the main door. However, my attention be squarely on Mr. Pulton, and my hand be in the air.

  Somewhat surprised, when he has finished writing, Mr. Pulton turns to us and be faced by the unfamiliarity of silence. After a moment, he notices my hand. “Yes, Amura.”

  “Mr. Pulton, do you think that the Bronte sisters might have been tried for maleficium if not for the British Witchcraft Act of 1735?”

  “What? Witchcraft? Well, that is a strange question, Amura, but on reflection…” Mr. Pulton being quite ancient, hesitates in reflection, “…yes, yes, I believe they may have been if they had lived at an earlier period. Even in the period when they wrote, some 60 years ago, the sisters wrote under the pseudonyms, Acton Bell, Currer Bell and Ellis Bell, because women were not widely accepted in literary circles. At the time, Wuthering Heights was thought to be a work of such immorality and violence that if it had been known a woman had written it, she might well have been burnt at the stake,” Mr. Pulton laughs at this last bit, believing he had made a joke. I smile back, the poor, old gentlemen does not realise that I had brought up this line of conversation for other reasons entirely, but the effect on his audience tis as I envisaged. Not one of them will say a word for the rest of this lesson.

  “You must have a special affinity for the works of the three sisters, Amura. Is there similarity to the life they describe in northern England and that of the Borderlands of Scotland?”

  “Aye, there be some, but my affliction leaves me with little for comparison.” In days past, such an admission might have brought snorts and sniggerings, but not this day, as today, I am a figure of darkness and malevolence. They be afraid of me.

  The school principal, Mr. MacNeeb, a once retired teacher brought back to take on the role of principal in place of a younger man who has gone to war, interrupts the lesson. “I am sorry to break in, Mr. Pulton, I am glad to see such a well behaved class, but an emergency has occurred in the school. There has been an outbreak of some disease. The school nurse and I concur that all the children must go home after being examined, a quarantine will be established for all those who are afflicted.” He turns to address us. “You will all be examined, and then sent straight home if you show no symptoms, the school will be closed until the outbreak has been contained.”

  I can see that there be a repressed jubilation in the class. I, on the other hand, was quite looking forward to a period of discussion on the Bronte sisters.

  “Amura, can you come with me, please, you will be examined first. The rest of you children remain here, and continue your lesson until you are called for examination.”

  Oh, that just seems so unfair. I want to stay, while everyone else, apparently, wishes to go. Why should I be first? And then it dawns on me, I am first because I am in trouble, they realise that I be the source of the o
utbreak.

  I follow principal MacNeeb into the hall, but we do not go very far at all, before he turns to me. “Amura,” he addresses me, “you are Scottish, are you not?”

  “Aye, from the Borderlands.”

  “My mother and father were from Dumfries. They found it difficult to adjust to life here in America, I understand that it has not been made easy for you?”

  “It has not been easy,” I confirm.

  He continues down the hall, talking to me as we go. “I lost the Scots accent my parents gave me when I first went to school, only my name tells people of my heritage now. I am, for all extensive purposes, American, but, in becoming fully American, I often feel that I left a part of myself behind.”

  “I am a Scot,” I reply. “I cannot be elsewise.”

  “Yes, I see that you are.” We amble along the hallway at a very leisurely pace, the old principal apparently wishes to speak to me about something. I wonder what? But I still suspect I may be in trouble.

  “Many of the children are saying that you caused their symptoms, Amura, but from the report of Miss Allan, who was supervising the front of the school before class this morning, I do not think that you are concerned by this.”

  “I do not have any friends here, if that be what you mean?”

  “Not exactly. My Scottish background tells me that there is more to this world than is often admitted. I have spent part of the morning explaining to hysteric children that science tells us that what they are saying is not possible, and that they are simply victims of their own prejudice, but my own background tells me elsewise.”

  We have come to the entrance of the school. Mr. MacNeeb be looking at me, and there be amusement in his eyes.

  “We have not come to the nurse’s office,” I observe.

  “No. And you should be aware that there are students who have already been released to the grounds, but somehow, I do not think they will be a problem for you.”