LYSSA SAW HER FIRST WITCH TRIAL and public burning when she was six years old. But it wasn't until she was ten that she learned the witch-hunters were after her and her parents. And it wasn't until she was thirteen that the witch-hunters finally tracked her family down.
It was a quiet summer evening. Her father, who owned and worked the same land his father had cleared and plowed before him, was outside for one final after-dinner check on the animals before coming in for the night. Lyssa and her mother were at the kitchen table, kneading and forming dough, which they would leave to rise overnight.
Lyssa heard a sound near the door that she thought was her father cleaning off his boots before coming in.
But her father didn't come through the door.
Lyssa had just long enough to wonder what was delaying him. Then the door burst open with a crunching of wood and a crash. And a voice was shouting at them not to move, don't try anything, don't make a bad situation worse. White-garbed witch-hunters rushed into the kitchen—five of them ... no, six ... no, eight—men and women alike, their heavy, muddy boots stomping across the kitchen floor that Lyssa's father wasn't allowed to walk on except with stockinged feet.
Before Lyssa could move—before what she was seeing had fully registered—her mother grabbed hold of her, dough-covered fingers digging into her shoulders, trying to put herself between Lyssa and the witch-hunters.
"Don't—" her mother started, but by then the witch-hunters were on them, and they yanked them apart.
There was movement from behind, more witch-hunters, who had come in through the back of the house. "Satanic bibles," one of those said. He was wearing thick leather gloves that reached almost to his elbows, as though the very touch of the books would contaminate him. He let the books drop to the floor. Three of them. Hers. Which meant the man had been in her room, looking through her things, had lifted the mattress off her bed. It must be the most common of hiding places, that he had found it so quickly. She could hear someone still rummaging through her parents' room. Already the witch-hunters had her mother's hands bound behind her back. "The child?" someone asked.
It was the first time Lyssa was glad to look younger than she was, for the witch-hunter in charge hesitated, then shook his head no.
And then there was another flurry of activity by the front door, and another witch-hunter entered.
Any hope of her parents being able to talk their way out of this situation, of finding a means to escape—any hope sank with the realization that the newcomer was Norah Raybournne, the woman known as the Witch-Hunter General. She had no such title, of course, only a relentless enthusiasm to seek out God's enemies, and a gift for leadership. It was said Norah Raybournne was well aware of the name the people had given her and did not object to it.
"So..." the Witch-Hunter General said softly, walking around the room, as though to study Lyssa and her mother from different angles. She made a wide circle, lest the hem of her white gown pass over the books her people had found in Lyssa's bed. "So..." Her hair was gray, and she wore it in a simple braid that hung halfway down her back. There was nothing soft, nothing frivolous about her. She was a tall woman, and when she stopped in front of Lyssa, Lyssa found herself at eye level to the heavy gold cross the Witch-Hunter General wore low on her chest—a cross engraved with an eye, the witch-hunters' symbol, to indicate ever-vigilance.
Not ungently, the Witch-Hunter General took hold of Lyssa's chin, forcing her head back and her gaze—unless she closed her eyes—up. Her touch was dry and cool. Like a snake, Lyssa thought.
As though she could read Lyssa's thought through her eyes, the Witch-Hunter General shook her head. "Pitiful," she said. Not letting go of Lyssa, she shifted her attention to Lyssa's mother. "Pitiful child of Satan. How could you corrupt her like this?"
Instead of answering, Lyssa's mother demanded, "Where's my husband?"
Neither did the Witch-Hunter General answer. She said, "You and your husband both have much to answer for." Her eyes came to rest on Lyssa once again. "Perhaps it's not too late for the little one," she said, "with fit parents. Though I much doubt it."
Lyssa jerked her face away. She could imagine what fit parents meant to witch-hunters.
"Burn the house," the Witch-Hunter General ordered.
Lyssa's mother kicked the shin of the witch-hunter standing nearest her. Startled, the woman cried out, drawing everyone's attention. Even the Witch-Hunter General.
Fit parents, Lyssa thought. Once the witch-hunters handed her over to her new fit parents, she'd be trapped for life—or until, if ever, she could convince them she'd forgotten her witchly ways. If she had the power the witch-hunters were so afraid of, she'd use it. But her only chance—her parents' only chance—was for her to run.
And run she did, heading for the back of the house.
Except that she'd forgotten the witch-hunter with the gloves.
He lunged at her, and she dodged, but she was just the tiniest bit too slow. His bulky hand was about to close around her arm when her foot came down on the pile of books on the floor. The top volume slid forward while the other two stayed where they were, and Lyssa all unintentionally dropped below the grasp of the man's hand.
Lyssa grabbed one of the books and, in one fluid motion she'd never have accomplished if she'd stopped to think about it, brought the edge hard against his knee. By luck, she struck just the right spot, and his leg buckled.
And then she was on her feet, still holding the book, and running past her parents' room. The witch-hunter who'd been searching there made a rush for her, but she eluded that one's grasp also and made it into her room. She leapt over her possessions, which had been dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, and scrambled through the open window.
She heard shouting. Witch-hunters were following, some coming the way she had, others—who must have been in the front guarding her father—circling around the outside of the house.
Drawn by the commotion of the witch-hunters, neighbors had gathered. Simple farmers for the most part. People she'd known all her life. Some few might be sympathetic, but there was no being sure if or who. Lyssa headed off into the woods. Branches raked at her hair and arms. She knew she was leaving a trail anyone could follow, but there was no time for cleverness. She had to get some distance ahead of them, then she could try backtracking or crossing the stream or climbing a tree and jumping squirrel-like to another—tricks she'd learned from reading Satanic bibles.
Her dress snagged on a branch, pulling her up short. She tugged, ripping the fabric, and went skittering down a bank, closer to the stream than she had expected. Her books had taught her about walking in the water, so as not to leave telltale impressions of her passing. But now that she was here, she saw that going upstream would bring her rapidly out into the open, and downstream was impassable because of a fallen tree, which would take too long to climb over, or around, or under.
Still clutching the book, unwilling to lose her last tie to her parents, she splashed through the unexpectedly chilly stream and scrambled up the other side, leaving distinctly fresh gashes in the muddy bank where her feet slipped.
Though it was dusk, dark was a long time coming on summer nights, and suddenly, behind her, she heard the baying of the witch-hunters' dogs, trained trackers. There would be no gathering of fallen branches and last year's leaves to hide beneath.
Lyssa pressed her hand to her aching side and zigzagged through the woods. She came to the stream yet again, pursuit still close enough to hear. Upstream was the same felled tree that had blocked her before. Or downstream, which the witch-hunters would know was the only way she could go without running into those on the far bank.
She splashed noisily. The water came up to her knees, dragging at her, making speed impossible. And then the ground was no longer where it should be. She pitched forward, almost dropping the book, as the water closed in over her head. But as soon as she stopped panicking, she found she was able to stand after all, with the water only to her waist. Still sputtering, she waded out on the side where her house was, hoping her pursuers wouldn't look for her this close to home.
If only she could elude them till dark, she thought. Then she could cut across the field unseen, make her way to her aunt's house. Surely her aunt would protect her for family's sake.
But suddenly a bright light flashed out of the dimness, blinding her. A loud voice called out, "Escape is impossible."
Lyssa spun around to retrace her steps. But after that incredible brightness, she could make out nothing but shadows. Hands grabbed her, took hold of her arms, turned her back in the direction of that awful light. Somebody shouted an order, and the light went out. Lyssa was marched in the direction of the voices and the dogs by two sure-footed witch-hunters. The books were full of people using spells to get out of situations just like this, but there was nothing Lyssa could do.
They reached her backyard in minutes. Her escape attempt had been pathetic. Her parents had already been taken away. She might never see them again.
The Witch-Hunter General stepped forward from the brightly lighted front lawn. Shaking her head, she wrenched the sodden book from Lyssa's hand. No gloves for her, Lyssa noted. She wished the book did have some special power. She wished the Witch-Hunter General's hand would fall off.
But of course it didn't.
***
Norah Raybournne, representative of Citizens for a Better Community, watched as the black-and-white police car rounded the curve of the driveway, taking away the evil child. Norah never referred to herself as a witch-hunter, though she rather liked the name. She performed a valuable and sometimes dangerous service, and the fact that the people she pursued called her witch-hunter provided what any straight-thinking person would find an unsettling insight into their psyches.
She dropped the Satanic bible in a plastic bag, not because she was afraid of being contaminated, but because it was dripping. It would have to be dried out before it could be destroyed at one of the public burnings. She had seen this particular version before anyway and didn't need to inspect it. So sad, she thought. How could people do that? Intentionally pervert their own child, exposing her to Satan's influence so that she would never—Norah was sure of it—be fit for anything besides life in a federal penitentiary, where she wouldn't be able to spread her evil influence to others.
The dispenser of hand wipes that she kept under the dashboard was empty, so Norah wiped her hands on her grandson's football jersey, which would be easier to launder than her uniform. Then she opened the case of her computer to catalog the Satanic bible. What was the appeal, she wondered with contempt, of a book whose only purpose was to deceive?
Norah scrolled down the checklist to the section for children. The biggie, of course, was Unauthorized Miracles (a.k.a. Magic), subsection Wishes Refilled by an Agency Other Than God (Implication: SATAN).
She also put checks by:
—Grossly Unlifelike Illustrations, Giving Children a Distorted Sense of Aesthetics So That They Become Dissatisfied with Their Own Appearance.
—Women as Victims.
—Inaccurate Historical Representation That May Confuse.
—Unrealistic Depiction of Animals That May Cause Disappointment and/or Physical Harm to Children Expecting Real Animals to Behave in Like Manner.
—Unfair and Demeaning Stereotypes of Nontraditional Nuclear Family Units.
—Fulfillment of Unreal Expectations, Leading Children to a Life of Disappointment and Self-Recrimination.
Norah Raybournne snapped shut the lid of the computer and started the car. She shuddered at the thought of the book beside her, even though she wasn't a superstitious woman, even though she knew it couldn't harm her unless she let it.
Cinderella.
It was one of the worst, and she wouldn't rest easy till she had destroyed every copy.