Mum, I forgive you, I heard her whisper, and her voice cracked like old plaster.
Margaret Whitmore lay still on the narrow bed in the cottage shed called home for as long as anyone could remember. One quiet evening she called her daughter over, her breath shallow.
Emily, love, Im dying. Its time I told you everything. Im afraid I dont have long left. Forgive me, my child.
Dont say that, Mum! Ill call an ambulance straight away! Emily protested, her hands trembling.
No ambulance, dear. Just listen to me, Margaret whispered, her eyes dimming.
She began her tale: It was many years ago, my dear. I had a friend, Gillian. We both grew up in the same orphanage and later went to the teachertraining college together. After we qualified, the County Education Board sent us to a tiny village school.
They placed us in different lodgings: I was given a vacant cottage by the school, while Gillian was taken in by an elderly couple at the far end of the lane. In our spare moments we were inseparable. Wed go to the village hall for the weekly ceilidh, where a handsome lad on the accordion would play. The moment I saw him, I knew he was the one Id waited for all my life. His name was William, darkeyed and striking.
Every weekend Gillian and I would race to the hall. I could not take my eyes off William, and his warm voice seemed to wrap around my heart. It fluttered whenever his gaze brushed my cheek. Then I noticed he kept looking at Gillian, smiling at her, while she blushed like a rose. I realised William preferred the quiet, shy Gillian over me.
I tried countless times to catch his attention, but he barely noticed me. I burned with jealousy, and my love turned to hate. Gillian glowed with happiness, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. One day she burst into my room, beaming, and whispered, Margaret, William and I are getting married soon. In that instant I thought my world was ending. Despair crushed me; I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and the only thought that haunted me was that William must be mine alone. I would have done anything for that.
I heard from villagers about an old crone, Mabel, who lived in the next hamlet. I went to her, desperate.
I know why youre here, the crone croaked.
Fear clenched my ribs, but the image of William gave me courage. Mabel brewed a love potion, poured it into a bottle and handed it to me.
Give it to him in his drink, she instructed.
I offered her a few shillings, but she laughed wildly.
Your money is useless to me. Youll learn what I truly need. Go now.
That night Gillian and William came over. The moment was perfect. I set the table, slipped the potion into Williams glass. He drank, and his eyes seemed to change. Gillian, sensing something amiss, whisked him home. By morning William was at my doorstep, insisting that only I could satisfy him. The crones promise had been kept I had my William. We married soon after and lived in bliss. Williams love for me was boundless; I could not imagine life without him. You might wonder about Gillian.
She kept her distance, yet we still met on occasion. I still see the sorrow in her eyes, the tears she tries to hide. The elderly couple whod taken her in cursed me, calling me a witch. Rumours spread through the village that Gillian was pregnant with Williams child and that she had nearly taken her own life. I felt sorry for her, but I loved my husband more than anything.
One winter, Old Jack, Gillians husband, showed up at our door.
Come with me, he said gruffly.
What for? I asked.
Your friend is dying. She needs you, he replied.
I followed him without a word. In the old couples cottage a child sobbed, and on the narrow bed lay Gillian, pale and barely breathing. My heart clenched painfully; I wanted to flee. Then Gillian opened her eyes and whispered hoarsely:
Margaret, Im dying. Take my daughter with you. Let her be with Emilys father she begs, reaching for me, but her hand falls limp.
The old couple muttered prayers, and Matilda, the village midwife, burst into tears, thrusting a swaddled bundle into my hands. It was my newborn, Emilys sister.
Id never have trusted you with this child! Jack growled, but the crones will had to be honoured. Take the girl and go home. Do not
And so the child entered my life. Her father was angry that I took her in; her incessant cries annoyed him and me alike. William grew reckless, drinking heavily and staying out late. My happy life crumbled before my eyes, and I could do nothing. I despised the little girl with a ferocity I could scarcely describe.
I dreamed of having my own child, yet this infant lay on my chest. Soon I discovered I was pregnant myself. When William learned, he swore off the bottle and began to talk about a son. For a while, happiness seemed to return to our home. A few weeks before the birth, I had a nightmare. I was standing in a dark forest clearing, a hideous creature with black, matted fur reaching out its claws toward me.
Do you know me? it hissed in Mabels voice. I have come for what is mine.
I woke screaming in agony, and by nightfall I delivered a lifeless boy. William, crushed by grief, turned to the bottle once more and died a few weeks later, frozen in the snow after a night of drunken wandering. Jack and Matilda followed soon after, leaving me alone on the bleak moor.
Emily grew up, taking after her mother, and I tried constantly to tell her the truth and ask for forgiveness, but I never found the words. She married, bore a wonderful grandson, and now there is no time left for me to bear this heavy confession. My heart trembles as I speak these final lines.
I am responsible for the death of your parents. Will you forgive me, child? My sin is great before God and before you.
Emilys shoulders shook with a nervous tremor. Tears streamed down her young face as she gathered all her strength, embraced the woman staring at her with pleading eyes, and whispered:
Mum, I forgive you.
Margaret Whitmore slipped away that night in her sleep, a faint smile frozen upon her lips.
