To Reach Without Magic

I

Edward Carter stands at the door to the Mt. Vernon Street mansion. His name is not Carter and it will not be for long.

Caron Cynig answers his knock and he smiled and tips his hat politely to her.

“Mrs. Cynig!” Edward exclaims as he enters the house. He hangs his coat and hat on the rack just inside before his hostess hugged him. There is snow in his hair that makes it stand in stiff spikes and freezes his hands. Caron takes his arm and guides him to the parlour where Abigail waits for him.

His fiancee’s father hands him a cup of hot whiskey tea from the tray where it has been waiting for his arrival, and he holds it between his hands to warm them after the long walk in Massachusetts’ wintery air.

A few flattering remarks to Mrs. Cynig about her taste in decor and housekeeping abilities, to Mr. Cynig on the state of politics and their shared interest in the new Montgomery Trade Company and Abigail’s parents are in love with him more, he feels, than the girl herself. He speaks to his beloved and her family of his drive to achieve prestige and wealth, to care for Abigail as best he could, though certainly not as well as her parents.

Edward plans to take a job with Mr. Montgomery. The other man has no children, no heirs to his company and growing fortune, he saw Edward’s college grades and promised to groom him for the position. He was looking forward to the job, and to the power he could gain from it.

The ambition of young Edward Carter is plain to everyone around him, his motivations self-serving but well meant. His name is as disingenuous as his charm, but he is in control enough for now to hide that.

II

Abigail Cynig, lifelong resident of Boston, MA, and her husband, Edward, have just celebrated an extremely public fourth wedding anniversary. Married at nineteen, Abigail is the only living descendant and of the esteemed Cynig family.

Boston Gazette, 1866

Abigail slumps down in a chair in her room, after the long day Edward had planned and executed. Her olive-toned skin is liberally studded with dark freckles which stand out with how pale she is now, she trembles as her head sinks into her hands. Eyes hidden from the glaring light of the streetlamps outside her second story window, she finally finds relief.

The newspaper lies on her dressing table, a reminder of the day. Edward is climbing the stairs now. Knocking at what seems to be her skull but is really only the door, coming in without waiting for her call. She raises her head, straightens her hair and skirt, and blinks as the light crashes back through her aching eyes like a child through a narrow doorway.

“My dear, are you ready for tonight?” Edward strides about the room as though he owns it (he does not, this is her family’s home, her childhood bedroom), and flings her curtains open. Moonlight and streetlight and the noise of traffic blares through her head now that it is no longer buried in her lap, sending her stomach roiling. She chokes back the nausea and forces a gentle smile.

“What are we doing tonight, darling?” she asks politely, trying to seem interested.

Edward either does not notice or ignores her discomfort. “It’s perfect for Mr. Montgomery’s spell,” he remarks, gazing at the night sky. He grins at Abigail. The sight is more menacing in the silver moonlight shade than it would be in the soft yellow glow of candles or the glaring, white-bright sun.

Mr. Montgomery’s spell, Abigail knows, is a clever way to mean, “the spell I want you to cast to make my boss miserable.” Nevertheless, she follows Edward down to her mother’s old spell-room. The dank basement had once been wood-panelled and painted with green and silver accents. There had been long windows around the ceiling and a skylight in one end of the room that had let in light from the pavilion above. Now, the room is dungeon-like, the panels stripped to reveal bare wet rock, grey and black and moulding. Edward had her beloved windows boarded and heavy black curtains hung over them, which Abigail cannot reach without magic. The skylight, once hinged and lovingly lain with stained glass by her father, had been smashed, the frame removed, and the opening bricked over for entertaining in the space above.

Abigail carefully selects a red and light purple bottle from the shelf of empty ones. Edward sits in the only chair at her workspace, forcing her to stand, "Montgomery deserves this, Abigail." She does not respond as he begins to rant, "He promised me that promotion, swore I would be his partner by now, but he just will not listen to reason!"

She flows around the room, gathering garlic and spicy herbs, cinnamon, zesting an orange into her mortar, crushing it all together before wetting it into a paste with vinegar. Edward writes “Montgomery” on a slip of onion paper and holds it tightly between his hands, focussing on his anger and ambition. Abigail takes the fragile scrap, rolls it and taps it through the neck of the ceramic bottle. She clutches the spell as she turns to fetch a candle, sealing it. Edward cannot work magic himself, so he watches her closely to ensure her proper cooperation, but she mutters a counter, the weakest and only one left to her, “slowly,” as she pours the wax, trying to alleviate his malice. He thinks it is a womanish way to remind herself not to burn her fingers on the wax. Long ago, Edward had decided incantations and wand-and-crystal work was useless silly drivel and Abigail has no intention of disabusing him of that notion.

III

Doreen quickly makes her way into the dusty Kansas air. Wispy curls escape the braids under under the wide-brimmed hat which shades her eyes from the hazy morning sun. Her pink blouse is already coated with a fine layer of dirt, save the ends which are tucked into her trousers and the open collar where the dusky skin of her chest peeks out is covered by a kerchief. She heads toward the saloon where her mother and sisters have worked for years. Her first days back from big Junction City after her father died were filled with mourning and moving, but now she had to help support the houseful of cousins, nephews and nieces.

Sheriff Tom Manson holds weekly poker games in the Alida saloon with his “deputies” - all men of ill repute with no problems using jail cells for occupants without criminal histories. Every Sunday evening, he would sit down at the largest table in the square room, demand an open tab of gin for himself and a round of whatever tickled the fancies of his dozen-odd henchmen. After a few hours of losing spectacular amounts of money, drinking ridiculous amounts of liquor, and making amazing amounts of noise, the sheriff would turn his attention to the more carnal pleasures the saloon seemed able to afford him.

The owner’s pretty daughters were easy targets for the drunken attentions of the most powerful man in the down, and his young deputies were more than a match for the dandy owner Frank Muloney. Usually, he would leer and grab and pull the girls into his lap, stealing a kiss before letting go and returning to the game. Today however, Manson pulls Francis - the older girl is named after her father - with him up the stairs and she goes silently up before him. The screams start soon after the couple disappears up the second set of stairs, etching themselves into the mind of each patron.

People stop and stare as the scream resounds through the street. Most people lower their heads and keep walking, some wait in horror for the sound to cease. Doreen jumps immediately at the sound, her foot just touching the boards of the walk. She sprints into the saloon, from whence the creak and crash of a table full of glasses breaking can be heard. Crunching, grating noises and the grunts of men fighting became clear as she enters the building.

The citizens of Alida use the opportunity of being drunk to outnumber the sheriff’s henchmen and start a brawl, which Doreen uses as cover to make her way to the staircase. Francis’ younger sister Clara faces Manson’s sone Jerald when he makes an unpleasant remark about her sister, and she slaps him when he tries to make a grab for her, knocking him back into one of the wooden support posts. Those of his father’s men who are near laugh at his humiliation, and he seizes the girl’s wrist, prompting her father to jump into the fray while the other deputies are busy with their own adversaries. The saloon patrons revel in the chaos and fight their oppressors on even footing for what seems to them to be the first time.

Just as Doreen reaches the bottom step, Tom Manson stumbles down onto the landing, Francis follows, leaning down for what looks like supporting the man. The sheriff is clutching his chest and making little wheezing breaths. Doreen climbs the stairs two at a time to reach them, dragging Francis out from between the wall and banister just as Manson collapses. Francis pulls a knife with her, blood dripping from the tip, and stashes it in her skirts as she moves away to sit on the steps above him. The other occupants of the bar continue their fighting, but Jerald notices his father fall and roars his fury, charging toward the women. Doreen leans down and wrenches the twin pistols from the sheriff’s holsters as his son makes an easy path toward them, cocking one and firing it while she does the other, finding her target in Jerald’s heart.

The fight stops abruptly at the report and Doreen glares down the old sheriff’s henchmen. “You can get gone or I can shoot you,” she says calmly, and most of the men run for the door. The four who stay stand their ground, unarmed, and Doreen fires off four shots in quick succession, each bullet finding its mark without fail.

Frank pulls Francis into him when she flies down the stairs and Clara wraps herself around the two of them. Muloney looks up at Doreen in grateful awe, tips his fingers to his forehead. “Madam Sheriff.”

IV

Abigail leans slightly forward on the bench, her head lowered against the rain as she looks down the rails for the train. The station master has told her it would arrive at least ten minutes late, but they would be able to leave on time. Despite the dreary weather, the fine mist covering the platform, and the thin smoke from a sputtering fire around which workers huddle, Abigail seems to be radiating light. Her eyes, as they look for the train, are sparkling, her skin, the naturally olive tone dulled by too much time out of the sun, was emitting a subtle golden glow. Her hair, usually into a cruel-looking bun which pulled her skin too tight and accentuated the too-early wrinkles around her eyes and forehead, has been let loose, cascades of inky black tresses tumble about her shoulders and sway with every minute movement. Even though her clothes are faded more than those of the fine ladies about to board with her, they equal a ball gown to the young boy staring at her as she stands to bounce on her toes, twirling lightly to catch a glimpse of the approaching train. To him, she is a princess.

Abigail has no bags or trunks with her. Those who wonder at it assume her belongings have been sent ahead, but most do not care enough to think about it. She owns only a smallish purse which contains all her worldly wealth, the lothes she is wearing, a tiny gold trinket on a thick silver chain, and the great secret treasure within her. When Edward had begun spreading the rumours of her hysteria to their friends, she knew she had to leave, and quickly.

The screech of brakes on the rails pulls each passenger from their little reveries, prompting them to prepare for boarding. Virgin passengers shuffle about, unsure of how to act, who to direct and where to go, while old-timers to train travel stride from their benches inside the station out to the vehicle as if they live it every day, direct the boys who wait eagerly behind the fancy porters to pull trunks on board in exchange for nickels and dimes, and take their seats with frightening efficiency.

Abigail’s gaze flits between the two types of travellers. She usually would have remained with the former creatures, waiting until a man took her elbow and led her to their seats. She has left that behind at the house with sleeping Edward, however, so she takes another look at the men who are striding onto the vehicle with purpose, at the women who sweep up along behind them. She tilts her chin up until the rain tips off her lashes into her eyes and enters the car indicated on her ticket as if she has done so a thousand times before.

Abigail Cynig 8:40 Boston to Junction City Jan 4, 1866

V

The cells have been scrubbed, the mattresses changed and lain out over them. It is the best Doreen can do without burning the building to its foundations. She has swept out the office, filed what few documents the Mansons have bothered to keep, and flushed the vermin out as best she can. The tiny apartment upstairs has sat virtually untouched and is now stuffed with old furniture from her father’s house and handmade parting gifts from her youngest brother. The hustle of a lawkeeper’s life is still more peaceful than a houseful of cousins. Her sheriff’s pay was more than her mother had made in all her years at the saloon, and she used it to help her family.

Most of the citizens of Alida are so grateful for the absence of Manson that the idea of a woman sheriff barely even registers. Doreen does her job well, does not take kindly to violence in her town, and recompensed the families of any who had been wrongfully incarcerated by they previous sheriff.

The heady racism of the South is kept well and firmly out of Alida by those who had been part of the saloon brawl, and they backed their new lady sheriff with zeal. Crime in the small town has dwindled to a manageable level, and Doreen hires two deputies from a pool of candidates after they pass a series of strict tests. Doreen sets up her new sheriffdom as a sanctuary town, offering the same safety as a church would to any who are seeking asylum, for those persecuted for no other reason than who or what they are. Though she offers protection, she is not naive, and ensures her town’s safety from any and all who might seek to harm its citizens.

The newest upset in their small community is the arrival of a beautiful, pale woman off the west-bound train.

VI

The little black kitten is curled under the stairs leading off the platform. Though her fellow commuters had tromped loudly down the stairs as one entity, Abigail is walking slowly enough that the sound of her boots does not drown out its pitiful mewling. She picks up the scrawny fellow and cradles him to her, sharing her warmth and life into his soggy fur. Hitching a ride on a supply wagon from Junction City to Alida, the safe haven she has heard so much of on her journey, she feeds the tiny creature and wills him to survive.

When they arrive in town, Abigail decides to appeal to the local sheriff for aid. Finding her hands at full capacity when she tries to open the door, the young witch curls the kitten around her shoulders like a breathing black stole and enters the sheriff’s office.

If Abigail is taken aback by the tall woman in pressed trousers and high-shine tall boots, it is nothing compared to the shock Doreen feels when she sees a small woman with a living kitten wrapped around her, a lady with glowing olive skin and wavy black hair which flows around her shoulders like a child’s, almost hiding the creature laying there.

Abigail recovers first, putting out her hand to shake and introducing herself. Doreen’s chestnut eyes liquify to honey at the edges, and crinkle in the corners as she smiles at the other woman.

“Please, sit, Miss Cynig,” Doreen replies. “My name is Doreen Aderford, and I’m the sheriff round here.” Abigail sits in the hard wooden chair across the desk from Doreen’s and fidgets as she prepares to explain what she needs. “What can I do for ya, ma’am?”

Abigail takes a deep breath, “I need a safe place to stay, Madam Sheriff. My husband is- He used to be a good man, Miss Aderford, he had aspirations and perseverance, but now… I fear the unfulfilled promises of an old man are no longer able to satisfy him. When he discovered I was with child, he began to,” she pauses, wipes her face with the corner of a dirty handkerchief, “to tell our friends I was hysterical. He tried to commit me to an asylum, to convince the doctors to take my baby away from me. He wants the power she would give him, you see, to control her without my interference.”

Doreen does not interrupt but she is confused. How would a baby make a man more powerful? Abigail goes on, “I fear he may try to come after me, though he does not know where I headed. I would like to live here, if I may, Miss Aderford. I can earn my keep, I am a good cook and a prized baker back in Boston.”

Doreen listens solemnly as Abigail tells her tale. “Well,” she drawls, thinking, “we have need for a cook in the saloon. My mother works there, an’ she would look after ya just fine. I don’t know as there are any rooms to let, but we can just see if anyone around town is willin’ to put ya up for awhile until we can find decent lodgin’s.”

Abigail stands, her face glowing even brighter than it had been when she walked in, “Lead the way, Miss Aderford, and I will follow.”

Doreen flushes shyly and takes the other woman’s arm. “Doreen, please, ma’am,” she says softly.

The witch grins, “I am Abigail.”

VII

The sun peeks out over the tops of stained wooden buildings, showcasing the shadows of Main Street. Doreen in trousers and boots, double pistols strapped to her thighs as always, her sheriff badge gleaming in the afternoon sun and Abigail, visibly pregnant in her pinstripe dress dusted at the hips with flour stand in one end of the street. They face off against Edward, who looks out of place and angry in his dusty, travel-worn suit, tall and too thin and pale.

“You cannot hide forever, little girl. I will take the child, if I have to cut him from you myself!” Edward, shouts down the road at the women. He stalks toward Abigail and the wagon she is using as cover.

“They en’t goin’ nowhere with you, Edward Cynig!” Doreen retorts, touching her pistols gently as she steps between them.

Abigail shudders, but when she hovers a hand over her stomach, her face clears. She has a plan. She will protect her daughter. “You cannot possess me, for I belong to myself,” she begins the ancient oath as she stands and moves toward her husband. “What I used to wish to give, it is now mine to keep. You cannot command me, for I am a free person. What once you require’d I served, now it rots in my hand.”

“What are you doing?” Edward demands. He could not feel the bond of magic as they had forged it, the oaths of marriage forcing Abigail to submit to his whims but not him to hers - his vows were mundane. He can feel it now though, as the power drains from him.

“Once we two were one,” Abigail continues, her eyes fill with tears for what could have been, for what he had promised her parents. She stalks further down the street toward Edward as she incants. “Let these two now part and become once more twain.”

“Stop. Stop it now!”

“I part and unbind from you.”

Doreen sees the pistol Edward draws from the back of his waistband, screams for Abigail to get out of the way, and draws on Edward. The witch pays no heed to anything else, her focus narrows to Edward and her spell. “I am no longer yours, you are no longer mine. What is yours is not mine, what is mine is not yours. What was yours is yours, what is mine is mine.”

The spell is finished. Abigail smiles softly. Edward stumbles back. Abigail tugs a tiny goldglass jar from its string around her neck, throwing it to the ground at his feet.

“No. Stop! I demand-“ But the spell cannot be stopped, and there is no one left to defend Edward. The jar-spell is already working against him. Spiny tendrils of gas waft up, ensnaring him in their incorporeal grip. He fights it, but the gas pulls him in, shrinking, sliding, sealing the broken shards back together. Edward is no longer a man. He is a tiny part of the substance of her spell, a component and nothing more.