A Collection of Stories

ANNE KILSETH

"Keep away from her, Emir! She's a descendant of Anne Killseth."

"But I'm not! Truly, I'm not! You must believe me!"

A pair of pitiful teacup eyes stared out of the child's scrawny face as her tormentors encircled her like a pack of hounds upon a helpless bunny.

"Liar, liar, burn on fire! You look just like her."

"Look how her hair's so carrot-red like Anne's," someone's small hand took a wild tug at her frizzy mane, causing the child to cry out as tears burnt her eyes.

"My mama says she's got the same evil eyes as her too!" a small boy put in to their delight.

"She's bony and pale like her too!" a thin twig whipped cruelly at her bare legs as fortune could not furnish her with stockings.

"Please, don't," Mary cried as she did every day when the children teased. She fell down in a ball, trying desperately to protect her exposed skin.

"Look at her!" they jeered and pointed. "She's far too cowardly to be a child of Anne Killseth—Anne was fearless!"

"That's true, but that mark her mama tries to hide is just like Anne's!"

The group closed in on the poor child, trying to get a good glimpse of the scar.

"I can't see it. Turn her over—"

"Don't touch her, you fool! Do you wish to be cursed? You mustn't touch a witch's skin, or she'll ruin your entire family."

"But I touched her hair," someone whispered, but no one heard him as they argued about how to see the scar.

"I know," Clara said with a malicious smile. "Let's whip her until she shows us her mark."

Mary put up her hands. "Please listen to me. It was a burn mark I got as a babe—I wasn't born with it. I wasn't, I wasn't!"

But the children whipped her until she lifted her wild hair and showed them the witch's mark, then they chased her home, throwing mud balls at her skinny figure.

"They'll burn you one day, daughter of Killseth! Why do you think your Papa and brother's dead? It's the curse! Your mother will be next Anne Killseth and you'll have done it. You'll have killed her!"

Mary reached home shivering, wet and muddy with the children's parting words burning her ears. She wiped her tears with a cold sleeve and peered into the hut.

"Mama?"

"I am here, my sweet."

She slowly entered the hut and quickly kissed her mother's cheek.

"It's cold and dark Mama, why didn't you light the fire?"

"Oh, I would have, love, but there was no more firewood, and I was too weak to bring some." She reached up and stroked her daughter's face. "Mary... why are you wet?"

"I—I—was playing... with the other children at school and got wet in the lake."

Her mother laughed.

"My darling, why don't you bring in the wood and then tell me all about it, hmm?"

Mary was grateful for the time granted to tailor a story of how she got wet and dirty and was happy to think it was convincing enough as her mother glowed with delight as she stumbled through the tale in her familiarly clumsy way. Her mother slowly helped her to wash and untangle her mangy hair with affectionate, though weak, hands. At last, the cleaning was done, and Mary sat before a timid blaze and nibbled at dry bread with stale cheese and sour milk. Her mother watched her with sad eyes.