CHAPTER TWO: VICTIMS AND MARTYRS

APRIL 2, 1692

RACHEL SWIFT

If I'm going to begin telling the story of the Magnificent Coven accurately,
I suppose I need to start this particular storytelling about the first witch: me.
My family was like most families living in the seventeenth century. Nothing
was unusual about us. Like most families, we woke to the sound a rooster's
daily shrieking crow and went to bed at dusk. Papa was a farmer and sold livestock,
while Mother tailored clothes and cleaned laundry for more well-to-do families in
town. We read the Bible every night by lantern light and attended church every
Sunday morning.

During the Summer of 1681, Mother gave birth to a seven-pound baby girl.
Her name was Abigail, named after the biblical wife of King David. Abigail
was beautiful with golden-blond hair and eyes as blues as the skies. Many of
the townspeople seemed to have adored my sister. Abigail was a unique child
and more intuitive than most children her age.

Abigail and I were close. One could say she and I were best friends. Also, if
anyone ever had a near-perfect mother, ours was indeed ideal. Yes, our family
appeared to be the typical American Christian family. However, even the devil
himself has two sides. Papa was quite different, indeed. He delighted in his
immoral secret life. Unfortunately, no one suffered more than I did.

Papa often came into my room most nights after Mother went to bed. I would
be sleeping in my bed and then awoke to the unwelcome aroma of his shaving powder.
His hands slowly went under my nightgown, and his calloused fingertips traced the
most intimate and developed parts of my body. He frightened me. I quickly shuttered,
and my eyes widened. A quieted hush came from his bourbon-scented lips, as he
whispered vulgarities in my ear, and both his eyes and mind danced in vile, perfect
unison.

Hellish nights with Papa sneaking into my room continued for years. However,
everything changed that particular night. I tried hard to keep my powers a secret and
use them for a greater good. God knows I did. However, my Aunt Tabitha, my mother's
youngest sister, always said to me, "Little Girl, when you corner a black snake it's
always going to strike."

I laid there in bed, as he continued giving in to his perversions. The longer I laid still
the angrier I became and finally had enough. My eyes watered and breathing was heavy.

"Stop it, Papa," I protested just above a low whisper that was parallel to his raspy,
vulgar voice. He ignored me and proceeded. I protested louder, "Papa, please stop!"

Papa suddenly stopped. He raised from the bed and knelt over me. Enraged, Papa
exhaled deeply between his snarling lips. Many awkward seconds passed before he
raised his hands and struck me across the face.

"You damned-fool girl," he growled. "I am your father, and you will never speak to
me that way again!"

Papa's hand raised again to strike me. Unfamiliar incantations fell off my lips, as I
waved my hands upward, levitating Papa high into the air. His eyes widened with fear.
My eyes blared at him and radiated a massive flame like burning embers.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," he said between frightened gasps, as his eyes
were locked on me. "Burn in hell, Daughter of Lucifer."

The flames from my eyes strengthened, as my rage became unquenching. "You shall
burn in the flames of hell first, Papa!" I shouted enraged.

My attention remained on him with more intensity, as my hands suddenly formed a
fist. Papa's body contorted with each bending of my fingers. Massive screams exhaled
from him until his heart exploded and he died instantly. His lifeless, mangled body fell
on the floor beside my bed and formed into a pentagram. My eyes stopped glowing, as
his body burst into flames and his ashes engraved the floor.

Mother heard the commotion. She ran into the room. The sight of Papa's burnt mangled
body seemed to have violently rattled her, as she screamed. One of her hands covered
her gaping mouth, as the other hand pushed my little sister Abigail behind her. She was
too young to witness such a horrific sight.

I stood numb, gaping with tears flowing down my face with both shame and regret.
There was no question what happened, as Mother learned in that moment her beloved
daughter was a witch. It was evident to Mother it was challenging to rule his death a
general accident. Knowing the townspeople would burn me at the stake for being a witch,
Mother sent Abigail and me to stay with Aunt Tabitha until everything calmed.

The stench of burning flesh still lingered days later. Mother tried to cover the rotting
smell up as best she could with mulch and spices, but nothing seemed to help. A week
passed when Papa began to be missed by some folks in town. Mother told them he
was injured while hunting, but everyone became suspicious. The townspeople arrived
and raided our home. They, like my mother and Abigail, discovered the burnt
pentagram image on my bedroom floor and were evidently horrified.

Instead of me, the townspeople accused Mother of witchcraft. They took her immediately
into town, as they were unanimously confident only a witch could have done such a
heinous, violent act. She was to be arrested, tried as a witch and then burned at
the stake by sundown.

*     * *     * *

A gentleman knocked on Aunt Tabitha's door later that same evening. Abigail and I hid
quietly, as we overheard in the distance a gentleman encouraging Aunt Tabitha to attend
another witch-burning and for her to bring any young girls in the house to witness the
burning. When Tabitha asked him who the witch was, the gentleman informed her the
witch's name was Eugenia Swift, my mother. I lightly gasped, and my eyes watered.
I embraced Abigail and cupped her ears with my hands, so she wouldn't hear the news.

Aunt Tabitha appeared to act unphased, as any indication our mother was her sister might
cause the gentleman to raid the home and find my sister and me. The powers in me began
to make my arm twitch. I wanted to use my magic to help Mother but also knew my
appearance would mean trouble for me as well. Abigail and I were declared missing,
and we all knew if they found us Abigail would be sent to the local orphanage. I would
lose a mother by nightfall but wasn't about to lose a sister as well.

Keeping the truth about what happened to Mother from Abigail was a more difficult task
than I imagined. She asked me daily about Mother and wanted to know when we would
finally return home. Not knowing the answer, I would merely kiss her forehead and replied
with a simple, "Soon, Sweet Abigail. I promise."

After all, it was the only thing I could do.

*    * *    * *

Evening finally arrived. Aunt Tabitha and I sat and wept in the quietness of her house. We
began mourning for Mother. My concern turned to Abigail, as I was sure it would be the
first of many days I would become both her sister and mother. Guilt coursed through me,
as nothing about the situation was fair.

"This is all my fault," I said, racked with guilt. "Mother would be alive right now if it
wasn't for me. The devil touched me, and I was foolish enough to let him."

Aunt Tabitha stood, grabbed me by the shoulders and hugged me. "Hush now, Child,"
she protested. "Your father was the one touched by the devil. That evil, vile man! Like I
said before, a snake will always strike when it feels cornered, and you were cornered."

"You don't understand," I pleaded. "I did that to Papa. My powers killed him. I am a
daughter of Lucifer. I am a witch!"

"You are a daughter of Eugenia Swift, and I will hear not another word," Aunt Tabitha
protested. "Do you understand, Child?"

It was bizarre hearing my precious aunt act as though my being a witch didn't
matter to her. Then again, Aunt Tabitha always thought outside the box and was
ahead of her time. Instead of questioning her actions, I simply nodded my head
and changed the subject.

"I need to tell Abigail about Mother," I said. "Is she resting in her room?"

"Yes, I believe," she said. "Do you need me to go with you?"

"No, Aunt Tabitha," I replied. "I need to do this myself."

I wiped my eyes, hurried to her bedroom door and lightly knocked. "Sweet Abigail," I
said kind and aloud. "May I please enter? We need to speak of something."

A few seconds passed, and she never responded to me. I knocked again louder, calling out
to Abigail but no sound came from the room. I attempted to open the door and discovered
it was locked. Frantically, my eyes glowed like fire again, as I stood back and stretched
out my hand. The wrought-iron deadbolt clicked and unlocked the bedroom door. My
eyes went back to normal, and my powers felt disengaged from my emotions.

I hurried into the room to find nothing but an open window. My worst fear
happened. Abigail was gone. A clairvoyant feeling suddenly came over me, as a
specific vision played out in my mind. Panic clutched me, as I saw in the vision
my sister's whereabouts. Great Mother of God! Abigail went to Mother's execution.  

Aunt Tabitha and I hurried out of the house and took the horse into town. God
only knew we had to get to Abigail before it was too late.

CHAPTER ONE: A KISS FROM A ROSE

PRESENT DAY / THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE NEW MOON

RACHEL SWIFT

“We’ll see you next week,” I say aloud, as my last student of the day runs down the sidewalk and heads home.

My name is Rachel Swift. Some of my students call me “Miss Rachel,” but of course you can just call me “Rachel.” My domestic life seems simple, almost old maid-like. I’m a thirty-something-year-old piano teacher who's never been married and has one black cat named “Persephone.” Brooms hang over my front door threshold, pennies lay on my window seal, and crystals sit on every table in my house. My most prized possession is a sterling silver crescent moon that dangles from a silver rope I wear daily around my neck.

Now, I'm sure you have already figured out I’m a witch. I’m not your typical witch. I was neither born under a crescent moon nor had I descended from generations of spellcasters. Everything about my becoming a witch was a journey as real as the blood that runs through our veins.

My Puritan ancestors helped townspeople burn my kind at the stake. Popularity of the Salem Witch Trials was widespread and growing. Believe me when I say one doesn’t forget the pungent smell of sulfur and burning flesh. They made children attend witch burnings, especially little girls. They wanted them to be aware of the consequences of becoming, as some called it, “daughters of Lucifer.”

Oh, and there’s one more thing about me. I’m not thirty-something years old, as I often tell people when they ask my real age. The truth is I was born on March 12, 1671, which makes me a little over three centuries old. From the Revolutionary War to George Washington becoming America’s first president, I’ve seen it all unfold before my very eyes.

Every witch is different when it comes to the full development of their powers. I kept my magic simple, like guessing the next day's weather or healing a bird's broken wing. But, it wasn't until later my powers were at their strongest, which gave birth to the legendary magnificent coven.

*     *      *     *     *

MARCH 12, 1692

RACHEL SWIFT

Yes, indeed! The year was 1692, and I turned twenty-one years old. Most young ladies wore pretty dresses, sipped tea from a porcelain cup and balanced books on their heads. Yes, most young ladies, well, except for me. I took a great interest in science and how the world came into existence. Church taught me God created the earth in seven days. That never stopped me from learning everything there was to know about the world around us.

I loved books and read everything I could get my hands on. It was entirely unheard of for a young lady to read anything other than a book of romantic sonnets. I read everything from Shakespeare to science. I also had another interest: exploring underground caves and cemeteries.

Do you remember how I previously told you I didn't get my powers through either magical rituals or having a mother who was a witch? It's the truth. Magic found me when I did something no other person dared to do in our sleepy little town. One night, I decided to go against all conventional wisdom and venture into a dark cave located in the back of a local cemetery. It was the same hidden place townsmen buried anyone who was considered wicked and religiously undesirable. That included the bodies of murderers and outlaws, and especially anyone accused of practicing witchcraft. 

Call it idle curiosity or even rebellion. I simply wanted to see the place generations of townspeople appropriately called, "Devil's Cave." I entered Cromwell Cemetery one night holding both a lantern and walking stick. The silvery glow from that night's full moon illuminated the entrance. Roots covered the cave's path, as did pieces of busted tombstones and various other debris. 

The cobweb-covered door entering the cave was wooden and had no handle. A loud shriek sounded, as I opened the door. Bugs vigorously scattered, and rats ran frightened through large cracks in the walls. Hair-thinned roots dangled from the cave's ceiling. I felt rattled with fear, as the cave felt alive. Dead, unnerving silence mixed with the echoing sound of each breath I exhaled almost drove me insane. 

It wasn't worth being dead myself. I had to leave immediately. But, as I turned to go, I heard a voice in muffled unisex utter my name. 

"Rachel...Rachel Swift...Come to me, Child..." 

Part of me was fearful, while another part of me felt drawn to whoever, or whatever spoke my name. I walked further into the cave for as long as my lantern held a flame. Minutes later, a light brightly illuminated the entire inside of the cave. There was no need for the soft glow of my lantern. I sat it down on top one of the tombstones and followed the light that led down another tiny path covered in broken gravel and surrounded by thorns that overlapped the walls.

I reached the end of the path. Something peculiar caught my attention. At first, it appeared to be a simple, overgrown tree root. I walked closer to it and stood in awe. The tree root was a wooden arm plunged out of the ground wrapped with thick roots and covered in thorns. In the hand's palm was a single red rose that glowed with evident power.

The voice spoke again. "...Touch the rose, Child. Touch your destiny..."

At first, I hesitated. Something otherworldly radiated from the rose, as I felt intrigued to touch it. The voice pleaded until I submitted to its beaconed call. My trembling hand slowly inched toward the glowing rose. I let out a deep cleansing breath, gave into temptation and finally touched it.

Roots from the ground wrapped around my legs and tightly bound me. The rose's stem grew into my own hand. Thorns extracted from the stem and pierced my palm. My body shuddered, as the rose refused to let go of my grip. Blood poured from my arm's side and drizzled down the rose's stem, saturating the ground beneath me. The rose and roots absorbed into my hand. Glowing came from my palm and fingertips, then my arm, and then the rest of me--powerful, radiant and unlike anything I had ever felt. 

The mysterious power flowed through every inch of me. Even my eyes ached with intensity. It was more than I could tolerate, as I lifted my eyes to the ceiling of the cave and screamed. The top of the cave ignited with sparks and exploded, causing the roof to blast through the air. The force of the explosion caused the roots to let go of my legs. I flew back and landed on the stone ground.

A glowing green mist began to rise from the ground where the wooden hand existed. The wooden hand turned into a green cloud and levitated through the hole in the ceiling. It disappeared in the misty night air. 

I was frightened and stood. The power continued flowing through me strong, still radiating through my hands. My eyes widened as the thorn marks on my hand and arm vanished. I stretched my hands outward and shook them,  causing the thorns on the walls to rumble and retract. Another reality gripped me worse than the rose itself, as I suddenly realized what coursed through me. Oh, Dear God and the Blessed Mother Mary! It was witchcraft!

My hands trembled. The devil himself placed his mark on my soul. I began to pray harder than I ever had before. "Father God of Abraham," I cried aloud, pleading to my God in faith. "Release me from the devil's mark! I am thy child!" My loud, pleading cries attracted more than Father God. Coming from the darkness, I heard what sounded like snarling. It moved closer toward me: eyes glowing red, and its silhouette appeared broad in the darkened distance. 

I stepped backward, as it finally came to light. It was a wolf; growling and looking at me, as though I was its next prey. My eyes widened fearful. I screamed for help, but no one heard me. It leaped into the air and toward me. I raised my hands toward the creature and involuntarily spoke words I had never before heard. The words felt right for me to say in the dreaded moment. The last syllable was spoken, as a burning sensation once again tingled in my eyes. 

Flames radiated from my hands and onto the wolf. It yelped, being flung back a few feet and quickly rolled the remaining flames out of its singed fur. It whimpered and ran away. My breath was heaving, and I lowered my hands. I sighed relieved, as I looked up and noticed it was gone. 

I decided in that moment to replace fear with destiny; to embrace my newfound powers and realize all the marvelous things I could do with them. It wasn't a curse or the devil's mark, as I was forced to believe. Instead, it was a good gift, and I could do so much good with it.

For the next few weeks to come I attempted little displays of magic. Saturating a field full of lavender, levitating twigs to dance in the air and healing small animals caught in a hunter's trap was just the beginning for me. I vowed from that moment forward my magic would only be used for the greater good and would never harm another living soul. 

That is, until three weeks later.