Spellbound: The Awakening of Aislin Collins by Margeaux Laurent

divination, so we rushed to prepare.
    Sneachta followed me, but stayed far enough
away as not to create suspicion. Cats were still associated with
witchcraft and devil worship and if she followed me as a dog
followed his master, many heads would turn.
    In truth, Sneachta is my familiar, a magical
creature sent to help guide me in the Craft. Although common belief
says that familiars are consorts of the devil, Sneachta is not an
evil spirit. She is indeed a cat, my cat, but she is special.
    As we walked, I kept one hand near the
opening of my pocket in case I needed to ring the bell or cast a
protection spell.
    The market house was a large brick building,
somewhat resembling a barn, open on both ends and spacious inside.
In the interior, many tables were set up for farmers and merchants
to display their goods. These tables, or shambles as some of
the locals called them, were overflowing with vegetables, herbs,
and grain. I looked around at the haggling merchants and buyers, I
saw that that Martha was amongst the crowd. She did not look at us,
but I knew she was there to watch over me, as was Sneachta.
    My mother walked through the shambles,
moving from table to table, picking her sage and rolling the
pumpkins, looking for bruising and insect bites. While she was
busy, my attention was caught by a child’s cries. I walked away
from the stands and followed the wails to outside the building. I
turned the corner of the large brick building and saw a young child, around the age of five years old, sitting
on the ground crying. As I moved closer, I recognized the child;
this was Martha’s grandson, Isaac. Tears streamed down his sweet
cherubic face and he held his little hands over his blood covered
chin. He was trembling as he looked up at his assailant.
    Towering over the poor child stood a nasty
sneering boy, the youngest of the Marthaler family. Mathew held a
dirty, torn, rag doll triumphantly between his fat fingers and gave
the fallen boy a swift kick.
    “What happened here?” I said, stepping
between the two children.
    Isaac sniffled as raised a finger towards
Mathew, “He took my toy,” he whimpered.
    “Is this true Mathew?” I asked sternly.
    Mathew pulled himself up as tall as he
could, appearing rather haughty and as pompous as his older
brother.
    “It’s only a bastard slave. I can do what I
want,” he said.
    I did not think, nor did I hesitate. I
reached my hand back as far as it would go and struck the obnoxious
child across the face. There was a resounding crack as my
hand reached his plump cheek. He flew backward and hit the
ground.
    My hand throbbed, but I did not care. I
walked over to the now wailing Mathew and plucked the cloth doll
out of his hand. I then picked up little Isaac as though he were my
own, and set off to find his mother so I could return the child to
safety. Isaac snuggled into my shoulder as I walked and he clutched
his little doll tightly.
    “It will be alright Isaac. I am going to
find your mother for you,” I said gently.
    We walked to the very east edge of town
until we reached a side gate of a huge home, and followed the dirt
walkway to the slave quarters.
    I noticed that people were staring at us. A
white woman carrying an African child in her arms must have seemed
unusual. I did not care what anyone thought. I had enough of the
Marthalers and their cruelty; enough of their ideas that people
were items that they could trade for and use until they no longer
found them fit.
    I knocked on the door of a small, one story
cabin and waited for someone to answer.
    As I stood with Isaac, I thought of his
mother. Although Becky and I had grown up in the same town, we
never had the time to become as close as I would have liked. As far
back as I could remember, she had been in servitude to her
slaveholders, the Smiths, and they left her with no time to play or
socialize as free children had time to do. While I had grown up at
a leisurely pace, Becky’s journey into adulthood was hastened.