The Midwife
A thick fog hung low over the ground, curling around the roots of twisted oaks and concealing the path as Lucia moved steadily forward. The air was damp, and heavy with the earthy scent of decaying leaves. She kept her hood pulled low, her steps careful and silent. With each day, she grew closer to her destination—a towering pillar of dark magic, visible only to those with the gift. Her lavender eyes marked her as one with such a gift, a trait that came with the weight of two lifetimes.
Boston was only a few days' journeys south of Salem, but Lucia travelled cautiously. The witch trials had thrown the small towns of Massachusetts into a frenzy. No one was safe; even a glance could be twisted into proof of witchcraft, and suspicion clung to the land like a poisonous fog.
So Lucia kept to the woods, avoiding settlements. She travelled hidden paths, trading discreetly with any covens she encountered for food or shelter. Her journey took her ever closer to the pillar of dark magic, a faint beacon near Boston. She was glad it wasn’t far.
In the city, women-led different lives compared to those on farms. They could socialize outside of family circles, and some held jobs as seamstresses, midwives, innkeepers, or nurses. City women were generally more educated, and witch burnings were rarer than in rural villages. Boston, in particular, had not seen a witch trial in years. The last had been Ann Glover, hanged as a witch in 1688.
In 1692, the Salem Witch Trials became a source of fear not only in Salem but in nearby communities like Boston. Initially supportive of rooting out witchcraft, many influential Bostonians grew uncomfortable as the trials grew erratic. The use of "spectral evidence" (testimony based on dreams and visions) raised ethical and religious concerns. One prominent critic, Increase Mather, argued that it was better to let suspected witches go free than to risk executing innocent people. His Cases of Conscience Concerning Evil Spirits (1692) was pivotal in ending the trials. Governor William Phips, swayed by skepticism, banned spectral evidence, putting an end to the trials.
Now, in 1693, many towns had long banned such trials, though fear of witchcraft lingered.
After three days' travel from Salem, Lucia arrived. The town near the bustling port had many fishermen and traders, and its outskirts were veiled in darkness, with mysterious runes unfamiliar to witches. Unlike natural magic, dark magic was tainted, its pollution harmful even to its wielders. Most witches only used runes of nature, created over centuries of careful study, or channelled energies from other dimensions with great caution.
As she neared Boston’s edge, Lucia spotted a modest, candlelit cottage. A plump elderly woman moved inside, busy at a table. The scent of dried herbs and lavender drifted through the open window—a familiar, welcoming smell. Drawn to it, Lucia approached, knocking softly on the wooden door, hoping for news or information.
The door opened, revealing a kind-looking woman with graying hair and lines of worry on her face. She glanced around before settling her gaze on Lucia.
"Are you lost, dear?" she asked, her voice soft but guarded. "We don’t often see travellers out this way. It’s dangerous for a young woman to be alone."
"I know," Lucia replied softly. "But I am seeking work… and perhaps a place to stay the night." She hoped that her guise as a wandering healer would be enough.
The woman nodded slowly, her gaze cautious. "I’m Marigold, the village midwife," she said, stepping aside. "I could use some help if you’re familiar with herbs. Plague has struck, and the women are weary. Babies are still being born, yet many don’t survive."
Lucia's heart ached at the mention of the plague, a familiar and cruel visitor. She nodded, stepping inside. The small room was crowded with dried herbs, poultices, and simple tools of the trade. She could tell the woman knew a little herbology and potion-making but it was incomplete.
"I know some things about herbs," Lucia said. "I can make tinctures, tonics, and charms… ones to ease pain or fever."
Marigold looked at her with a mix of hope and suspicion. "Then you may be a blessing here, but… forgive my caution." Her eyes flicked to a cross on the wall. "There are whispers of dark forces, demons that walk unseen. Some say the plague isn’t natural."
"Has the fervour of the witch hunts reached Boston, too? I fled Salem after my mother was tried and burned as a witch... She was a healer, who taught me all I know," Lucia replied softly.
Marigold’s expression softened with sympathy. "Salem… I’m sorry, dear. I can’t imagine the grief you must carry."
Lucia bowed her head, letting the words settle. It had been many years, and she had had many mothers, but each one—was seared into her heart. She took a slow breath, steadying herself, before meeting Marigold's gaze once more.
"They say the witch hunts are over," Marigold continued, "but fear still lurks. I don’t trust everyone here… Some’d accuse a woman for curing a fever. And this sickness—it’s like nothing I’ve seen. It moves quick, like a devil on the wind."
Lucia nodded. "I can help you, Marigold. I’ve seen sicknesses that strike without warning." She hesitated, deciding to offer a fragment of her truth. "I’m here on another task as well. There is… a dark force I seek. It’s drawn me here, and I feel it growing stronger. I wish to remove it before it causes more death."
Marigold’s brow creased as she glanced at the small shrine she kept by the window—a simple cross. She looked back at Lucia, noting her lavender eyes.
"This dark force… some say it’s no sickness at all. They say it’s a curse… or the work of a..."
Lucia’s eyes met the old lady's inquisitive one. She nodded at the unspoken question. "I am a potioneer, not a witch. If what you say is correct then perhaps my talents are best suited here."
Marigold let out a slow, shaky breath, wringing a cloth nervously. "Then you must be careful, There are whispers of something walking at night. Strange lights, shadows like creatures, and… there’s a new preacher, Father Ambrose. He’s made it his mission to root out anything… unholy." Marigold might not be a witch but she sure was knowable of their kind.
'Perhaps a half-blood, 3 generations down.' Lucia thought as she measured the meagre magic hidden within marigolds body.
"And has he… found anything?"
Marigold’s lips tightened. "No, but that hasn’t stopped him from trying. He’s turned the townsfolk suspicious of one another, desperate to blame anyone. You’ll need to keep your hood low, child. Strangers aren’t welcome these days."
Lucia nodded, glancing around the dim room. It was small but sturdy, warmth seeping from the walls as if Marigold’s care had soaked into the wood. Her eyes noticed the charms of protection and goodwill engraved within the walls. She understood now why Marigold’s place stood untouched at the edge of the woods.
"Thank you, Marigold," she said. "For giving me a place to rest… and for sharing what you know. I’ll help you as best as I can. From one kin to another."
Marigold managed a faint smile, gesturing to a cot in the corner. "It’s not much, but it’ll keep you safe tonight. And in the morning, there’s plenty of work—if you can stomach it."
Lucia gave a slight nod, removing her cloak and settling onto the cot. As she lay down, her thoughts drifted to the pillar of dark magic. She could feel its pulse, its twisted energy, calling her.
Placing a charm shaped like an eye on her forehead, she focused on her question as she fell asleep. Soon, an answer came. Whatever demon or curse had poisoned this place would face her.
In the darkness, she saw the face of a sickly man in a black priest’s robes. He shook her hand.
“Your plan will not succeed unless…”
Two visions unfolded before her: in one, she sat on a throne; in the other, she screamed in agony as her soul burned to ash.
“I have help,” she murmured, glimpsing a figure in the mist, shrouded in golden runes and magic.
(End of Chapter)