"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.

"Mary, my darling, I..." she sighed, then smiled. "I am glad you've made friends today."

The girl looked away into the smouldering flames, whose spicily red glimmer danced mockingly against the mark on her head. Her mother grew sadder.

"I love you, Mary Ettensby, more than the faint bit of life traversing through my body. Promise me, love, that you'll do your best to be good. To be courageous and remember father and Peter, and me—"

"Don't!" her daughter cried, rushing to the bed and burying her face in her mother's bosom.

"Don't say goodbye! Don't you dare let such words leave your lips! You mustn't! You mustn't!"

Her mother stroked her hair.

"Hush, my sweet. Everything'll be all right... my brother will come and get you, for I've written to him a while ago. He's an honest man who lives far from here. You'll stay with Mrs. Blanchopp until he comes..."

~

When Mrs. Ettensby's hand stopped stroking her head, Mary sobbed and lay on her breast until the chapel bell chimed the midnight hour. She sat up on the little cot they shared and stared at her mother's face, that seemed happy in the moonlight. She smiled as a single tear rolled down her cheek and leant to kiss her mother's lips.

"At least you're not in pain anymore. I'll see you soon, Mama."

Mary took a knife from the table and stared glassy-eyed at its blade. She wondered if it would hurt...

"You'll let them get away, then?"

Mary dropped the knife with a start, shooting wild eyes about the room. The moon had covered his silver eye, leaving her in the dark.

"Who—who's there?"

"I think you know who I am, dear... come closer."

Mary stepped near the fireplace, whose glowing embers gleamed like vicious lava-filled jewels. One of the half-burnt logs crumbled, sending up a small blaze that steadily grew until it took the shape of a small person, whose fiery eyes made the girl spring back.

"Don't be afraid, darling. I never hurt the good children. You know who I am, don't you?"

"Yes, but you're not real. You can't be... you died ages ago."

"I never died, child. Those of us who didn't die peacefully never truly die. We linger around for new vessels like you."

"Take it. I don't want it anymore. I've lost everything that has ever truly mattered to me. You may have my body if you wish."

"And what of dear uncle?"

Mary shrugged. "I do not know him, so it makes no difference."

"Hmm... Tell me, child, is this what your mother would have wanted?"

The child's lip trembled as she cast a grieving glance at her mother.

"I... no, no I don't think so..."

"I agree, darling. You need a friend in this cruel world. Someone who'll help you along. How do you like the sound of that?"

"I don't know..."

"Those fools out there think you're cursed, weak and scared. We can show them what that feels like. What do you say, Mary Ettensby?"

                                        
                                          ~

Uncle's wagon rolled into the ashen town of Bruntsmire three days later. Crying women clawed through the remains of their homes, calling out to individuals who refused to answer while men with charred black hands and trousers pushed carts bearing seared bodies with screaming mothers trailing behind. An old, shirtless man sat by the wayside with a hand on his chest and eyes skyward.

"Behold, ye heartless devils! Did I not tell ye this day would come? Thou didst not heed me! Now behold the doom you've brought upon us! She's been reborn! Reborn I say!"

Uncle halted his horses and approached the man.

"What's happened here, good sir?"

"Doom! They've doomed us all. They've awakened the—the—I daren't utter her name!"

I'm here to collect my niece. Are you familiar with—"

"Don't talk no more, son, if you don't wish to be mobbed." A one-eyed man took him by the arm and led him away. They reach a scorched plot that appeared to be the remains of a hut.

"The girl isn't here, and I'm afraid you won't see her again."

"What in heaven's name do you mean? Has she died in the fire? My sister wrote for me to come and though I've arrived much earlier than arranged, it appears I've not come soon enough." He fell to his knees and sobbed. "Oh, tell me good sir, tell it to me straight—man to man. Were my sister and niece consumed by the flames of death?"

The man stared at the scorched earth for a moment.

"Indeed, the woman is dead, but it was not the fire that took her. The child you seek is no more for another dwells in her. One who will be a shield for her till the end of her days."

Uncle quickly git to his feet.

"I must find her. My sister put her in my charge."

"You will see the child no more, sir, no matter how you may search. Half the children in town died in the fire and half of those who remain are dumb."

"Nonetheless, I must try. My sister's honour lay upon this quest."

The man stepped closer and lowered his voice.

"I would beg you to leave the matter well alone, but know it is useless to dissuade you. If you should be so unfortunate to meet her, take care to show her kindness and compassion and do not force her to go with you but be patient. And may God help us all if you should forget my words."

But as weeks bled into months and then to years, Uncle did not trace what remained of Mary Ettensby nor would he ever have, for the child grew so quickly and was so much transformed in her appearance, not even her own mother mightn't have known her. She was cheerful and much admired by the gentlemen she met on her travels, but by night she stole the voices of cruel children and made them see terrifying things in their dreams. Bad mothers and wives mysteriously drowned in the lake or wash bins and evil fathers and husbands dangled with broken necks from trees or lay trampled in the road by supposed carriages in the night. Mary listened to the locals' tales with the childish amusement and delight as they fabricated, completely altered or honestly theorised what they heard or thought they saw.

So, when the wind picks up on a clear day, and the smell of wood-smoke lingers in the air, you'll see, not too far off, a cloak-clad woman with a scar above her left brow whose whistle will brush your ears with a sad melody despite the dancing fire in her eyes and you'll know the words even if you've never heard them before:

"To the boys who tug her hair

And the girls cruel and fair.

To the women corrupt within,

And men who discipline not their kin.

Stare into your fires,

Whence come nightmares and death,

And fear the witch from Bruntsmire

Whom they call Mary-Anne Killseth..."