Corabelle returned to Aunt Agatha's cottage the next day, desperate to find the cure for the aunt who had grown so dear to her. She cleaned out the old lady's shelves of all medicines in the hope that one of them might be the very remedy she needed. Then she packed them up and took them home.
Each time Aunt Agatha awoke, Corabelle questioned her, seeking answers, but her aunt merely stared into nothingness, her eyes glazed, before drifting back to sleep.
The townsfolk passed by each day, throwing surreptitious glances at the house, whispering together before scurrying away. Corabelle's angst mounted. She knew Uncle Rupert was behind it all and that it was only a matter of time before he returned with a posse, especially now that he’d seen her painting of the unicorn. Then, one day, they heard a sharp rap at the door.
Corabelle and Mama gave simultaneous gasps. Exchanging wide-eyed glances, they froze.
A second rap came—explosive.
“Open up!” shouted Uncle Rupert. “I know you're in there. Now hand her over!”
Angry voices rumbled in the background.
“Mama, what'll we do?” Corabelle's desperate gaze swept the room.
“I don't know,” her mother replied.
“How about if we push the chest of drawers against the door.”
A crease deepened on Mama's forehead. “No, they're stronger than us. They'll just move it out of the way.” Raising her voice, she shouted, “You can't have her!”
Corabelle scarcely breathed as she waited for her uncle's response.
“She's a witch!” cried Uncle Rupert, his voice rising above the crowd. “Hand her over!”
“No, she's not. She's an old woman who has medicinal knowledge.”
“Medicinal, my eye. It's witchcraft. Hand her over so we can remove the curse from this town.”
“What curse?” Mama asked sarcastically.
“The curse that killed my son…your nephew.”
Mama's eyes burned with rage. She dug her hands into her hips, then flung the door open. “Your son died of Brain Fever just like all the others.”
“No. It was Agatha's doing. And she'll burn at the stake for it!” he shouted.
With those words, the posse began chanting. “It's her fate to burn at the stake! It's her fate to burn at the stake!” Their words grew louder with each repetition.
Mama swept out her arms. “Stop it, all of you! Are you actually letting my brother lead you like this? My brother? You don't remember what he was like as a child? How he was always in trouble? And do you not remember how Agatha saw you through colds and fevers over the years?”
“No, it was black magic.” Uncle Rupert shot back. “She signed a pact with the devil.”
“She did not.” Corabelle moved from behind the door to her mother's side. “She knows what plants cure what. Like willow bark; everyone knows willow bark tea takes away pain, right?”
A woman nodded. “She's right. I used it on my Sarah in the winter.”
The harsh words of the chant began to soften.
Corabelle continued. “And you all know that tamarind in small portions takes away a fever.”
“It's true,” said a man. “Me wife used it on me when I was burnin' up one Christmas.”
“She knows them all, and she's been teaching me,” said Corabelle, “so I can help you someday.”
The chanting faded altogether, further threats caught in throats.
Then a woman's voice rose from the mob. Corabelle recognized it—Mia's mother. “Then how did you know about the Brain Fever—the one that took my husband away? And how did you know he'd die?” She pointed an accusing finger at Corabelle. “You condemned him.”
“I did not!” Corabelle shouted. “I have second sight, that's all. I don't know how or why. I just know things before they happen.”
“It's because you conspired with Satan and signed away your soul!” Uncle Rupert growled.
“In exchange for what?” Mama said, incredulous. “Poverty? Widowhood? Did you all forget my husband disappeared never to be seen again?”
The mob paused, their gaze shifting between Rupert and Mama.
“But there's the painting.” Uncle Rupert's voice rose in desperation. “Come and see it. She's seen the devil's own creature.”
The crowd pushed past Mama into the house to where the painting adorned the wall.
“It’s true, then,” said a woman.
“No, it’s not,” said Corabelle. “I only dreamt about it.”
“Besides, it's just an animal,” said Mama, “although a rare one. And doesn't the devil have two horns while a unicorn has but one? And doesn't the legend state the creature healed the lost boy?”
The members of the mob exchanged uncertain glances.
“And that the boy entered religious life as a result?”
“Because he feared the demon,” retorted Uncle Rupert.
“No, because it changed him. It taught him to see the light, the goodness, and the love. That's why. And if you don't believe me, then go fetch Father Patrick.” Mama glanced at the steeple in the distance. “Let him decide. This is a matter for the church, not a lynch-mob.”
The people stood, silent.
Then one of the men answered. “There’ll be no needin’ for that. There’s nothin’ wrong here. Just a girl, her mother, and a sick old lady. We’ll be leavin’ you now.”
The townsfolk began to trickle away, their faces becalmed.
“Wait. You know I'm right.” Uncle Rupert sputtered. “And besides, Corabelle threatened me with the Black Murglewumps.”
“The Black Murglewumps?” asked one of the men. He let out a snicker.
“Yes, the Black Murglewumps.”
Several giggles erupted from the mob, changing to mocking laughter.
“Rupert, just go to bed, will ya?” said a woman. “You're always causing trouble.”
“Yeah, we're tired of all your complaining,” said another.
“No, wait…” Uncle Rupert trailed after them.
“The Black Murglewumps,” said a woman, still laughing as she walked away.
When they'd gone, Corabelle let out a sigh of relief. “Phew. That was close.”
“Agreed,” said Mama. “We've won…for now.”