A Sure Cure for Witchcraft Read online

  Praise for Laura Best

  A Sure Cure for Witchcraft

  “In A Sure Cure for Witchcraft, author Laura Best takes readers on a beautifully written and thrilling adventure about friendship that alternates between the past and the present. Middle-grade readers will gobble up this page-turner, which focuses on the challenges faced by seventeenth-century Lilli—including accusations of witchcraft and being forced to move to the new world—and present-day Lilly, who’s racing against the clock to unravel the mysterious connection between herself and a neighbour. Thought-provoking and inspiring, this book is sure to spark many conversations about women’s empowerment!”

  –Wendy McLeod MacKnight, author of The CopyCat, The Frame-Up, and It’s a Mystery, Pig Face!

  “A mystery, some witchery, and a touch of the supernatural make for a compelling read about the power of friendship. A beautifully written and evocative tale.”

  –Julie Lawson, author of A Blinding Light

  The Family Way

  “This prequel to Laura Best’s two previous novels about Cammie is another magnificent example of middle-grade historical fiction that truly resonates with readers of all ages….

  The author brilliantly captures the small-town setting and provides an insightful glimpse into the heartbreaking true story of the Ideal Maternity Home and its terrible secret.”

  –Canadian Children’s Book News

  “Tulia is a wonderful main character, an intriguing combination of adult and child….By the end of the novel, she is older, wiser, and infinitely more aware of the circumstances and events around her. Best makes the history come alive.”

  —Canadian Review of Materials, highly recommended

  Also by Laura Best

  Middle Grade Fiction

  The Family Way

  Cammie Takes Flight

  Flying with a Broken Wing

  Bitter, Sweet

  Adult Fiction

  Good Mothers Don’t

  Copyright © 2021, Laura Best

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3660 Strawberry Hill Street, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Cover Design: Heather Bryan

  Editor: Penelope Jackson

  Editor for the press: Whitney Moran

  NB1530

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, are used fictitiously.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: A sure cure for witchcraft / Laura Best.

  Names: Best, Laura (Laura A.), author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210214430 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210214481 | ISBN 9781771089777 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771089845 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8603.E777 S87 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  For my German ancestors who braved the harsh

  Atlantic to follow their dreams.

  Even in a world that is being shipwrecked,

  remain brave and strong.

  —Hildegard Von Bingen

  Prologue

  New Germany, Nova Scotia, 2011

  Lilly found the first memory when she was five, hidden between the covers of a book with blank pages she received for her birthday. When she pulled a green wax crayon from the box and touched it to the empty page, she suddenly remembered another book she used to have. When she mentioned this to her parents, her father quickly spoke up.

  “There was no other book,” he said.

  “Yes, there was,” insisted Lilly. “Don’t you remember? It had brown covers. There were pictures and words. I used to read from it.”

  Her father laughed. “You can’t read a word. You haven’t even been to school.”

  “You must be remembering a dream,” said her mother. An odd expression settled on her lips. “Now, sit up and draw me a pretty picture with your crayon.”

  The first picture Lilly drew was of a large leaf. She added veins and a stem. Next, she drew a flower with pretty blue petals. “That’s a cornflower. It’s for making medicine.”

  “Making medicine?” Her mother sounded amused. “How could you possibly know that? You have never even seen a cornflower.”

  “I remember it from before. A woman gave me one, for a gift. But it was when I lived There, not Here,” said Lilly, and she continued to draw. Yellow, orange, red, violet, and blue—Lilly filled the page with colour. Of all the gifts she received on her birthday, the book with the empty pages was her favourite. Somehow it awoke wonderful memories inside her. She carried the book around for the entire day, never letting it out of her sight.

  “You should put the book on your dresser,” her mother said when nighttime came, but Lilly insisted on keeping it with her. Her mother looked at the bound pages clutched so tightly in Lilly’s hands and smiled. But Lilly did not smile. Her mother and father were wrong. There had been another book with drawings and words. She’d opened the covers. She’d turned the pages. She’d read the words. It was a long time ago, before she ever came to New Germany.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  In the memory she was also called Lilly. Her hair was thin and wispy and long and the colour of yellow straw, tied up in braids. She was standing on a wide riverbank; rippling water moved across her reflection. When she waved, the reflection in the water waved back at her, but it wasn’t the same face she saw in the mirror when she brushed her teeth every night. The face in the water was hers, but it belonged to someone else too, someone she had never seen before, someone much older.

  Another memory came with laughter, rich and full. The sound reminded her of the babbling brook where she and her father went to catch fish. She couldn’t remember if she was the one laughing or if it was someone else. At night she danced and pulled roots from the earth, and smiled into the moon’s soft, round face. She sang sweet songs with the birds. She was happy.

  Some nights Lilly dreamt about the drawings in the leather-bound book, and the words on the pages that made no sense to her. A hand flipped through those pages, through the veins and stems, leaves and blossoms. The pictures swayed and bowed and quivered upon the page. The drawings were fine, detailed, and perfect. The book meant something precious and lasting. She’d held it many times, turned the pages with great care. It felt familiar and right. It was one of her favourite memories. There was also a mysterious cinnamon-haired woman who made her laugh. After a night of dreams, Lilly would open the book she got for her birthday and draw more plants on the empty pages.

  “I know you,” said Lilly the day a strange woman came to visit. She was sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea with Lilly’s mother. Her hair was long and thick, the colour of cinnamon, and her eyes were emerald green. She was the cinnamon-haired woman from Lilly’s dreams.

  “Lilly, this is our neighbour, Alice Goodwin. She moved into the Jennings house a while back. I’m afraid you’ve neve
r met her,” said her mother. “Alice is a herbalist and she knows all about plants and herbs. She’s going to open a practise right here in New Germany. She is the one who sent you the book on your birthday.”

  Lilly ran off to find the book and brought it back to show Alice.

  “Look at all the lovely drawings,” said Alice, studying the pictures with great interest. “When I heard that a little girl down the road was having a birthday, I wanted to send something. Everyone loves gifts on their birthday.” Her parents had tied bright balloons onto the mailbox that day with a big sign that said Happy Birthday Lilly. “I can see you are putting the gift to good use.”

  “Lilly is quite the artist and storyteller,” said her mother, smiling. “She’s been inventing plants and making up stories to go with them.”

  Lilly scowled. The plants were real. She’d told her mother many times—and so were the stories.

  “I see you have drawn some chamomile, and that looks like feverfew!” said Alice, pointing to the page.

  “Feverfew?” Lilly’s mother pulled the book from Alice’s hands and gave a small laugh. “Lilly doesn’t know what feverfew is…is that even a word?”

  “Absolutely,” said Alice. “It’s used for treating fever and headaches, and all sorts of ailments. It’s an important healing plant that’s been used for centuries.”

  “I don’t know anything about healing plants,” said Lilly’s mother as she set the book on top of the refrigerator, “and neither does Lilly.” She forced a smile.

  “You had a different name,” said Lilly as she reached for a cookie on the plate.

  “What do you mean a different name?” said Alice. She smiled and then sipped her tea.

  “When I knew you from before.”

  “How interesting,” said Alice, playing along with Lilly’s unusual talk. “I’ve always imagined being someone else. Do you remember what my name used to be?”

  When Lilly shook her head, her mother’s face turned red and she laughed. “But I remember you talked to the plants,” continued Lilly.

  “But did the plants talk back? That’s the important question,” said Alice in a playful voice. Lilly wanted to laugh. “I do like growing things, and talking to plants sounds like fun. Perhaps one day you can help out in my garden. We can carry on a conversation with the dahlias. Who knows, maybe they’ll answer us back.”

  “Plants can’t talk,” giggled Lilly.

  “‘You talked to the plants,’” said Lilly’s mother, shaking her head. “How does she make these things up?”

  Reaching for another cookie, Lilly took a bite and added, “And you made people better.”

  “That is enough, Lilly,” said her mother, firmly. She was no longer smiling. “I’m afraid you’ve never met Alice before. I already told you, this is the first time she’s been to the house.” As her mother reached for the teapot, Alice Goodwin smiled at Lilly. It was the smile of someone who knows a secret that they are not about to tell.

  “Our Lilly has a wild imagination,” said her mother, turning back toward Alice with the teapot in her hand.

  “Einstein did say that imagination is more important than knowledge,” said Alice, continuing to smile at Lilly.

  “Now run along,” said her mother, pouring more tea in Alice’s cup. It was then Lilly noticed the unusual pendant Alice was wearing.

  “Do you like it?” said Alice when she saw Lilly staring. Lilly quickly nodded.

  “It’s very pretty. What kind of stone is it?” asked Lilly’s mother.

  “It’s called a labradorite stone, but,” said Alice, her eyes lighting up as she spoke, “a much better name for labradorite is rainbow moonstone. This necklace has been in my family for centuries, and do you know what, Lilly?” Lilly shook her head, anxious to hear more. “There’s a wonderfully delicious story that goes along with it, a story that holds a mysterious secret. But,” said Alice sitting back in her chair, “it’s a family secret, and I can’t tell.” Lilly begged to hear the story behind the rainbow moonstone, until finally Alice gave in.

  “Very well then, but you must promise to never ever repeat the story I am about to tell,” said Alice seriously. Lilly promised; with all her heart, she promised. More than anything, she needed to know what the mysterious secret was. She moved in closer and Alice began.

  “This is the story that was told to me when I was about your age. The stone was a gift given to one of my ancestors back in the eighteenth century by a dear friend. These friends spent many days together exploring the forest near where they lived. But the day came when they had to part ways, as one was setting out on an adventure to the New World. That is what they called Nova Scotia back then. It was not known if her friend ever made it to her destination, for many people at that time did not survive the trip across the ocean.”

  Didn’t survive? Lilly’s eyes grew wide with apprehension.

  “It was a torturous trip, from what I’ve read. Many people on these ships became sick and died. The water was horrible and so was the food. The ships were dark and smelly. There weren’t even any bathrooms.”

  “No bathrooms?” Lilly couldn’t imagine a trip being so horrible.

  “That is true,” said Alice as she continued. “Now, the friend who was leaving didn’t want to say goodbye, but before she left, she gave her friend this lovely pendant.” Alice reached for the labradorite stone, squeezing it between her fingers. “The story goes that when the time is right, the pendant will somehow unite these two friends again.”

  “That’s quite a story,” said Lilly’s mother.

  “Is it true?” Lilly seemed unable to take her eyes off the stone now that she knew its mysterious secret.

  “It’s true if you believe it’s true,” said Alice. “Anything is true if you believe.”

  Chapter One

  Württemberg, 1743–1748

  The day after Lilli’s fifth birthday, a breeze, quite warm for September, rustled the leaves on the sycamore trees, causing them to sway and bow in a most peculiar manner. The circular motion of the trees caught Mutter’s attention. She looked down at Lilli playing with some pink and brown pebbles in the dooryard. When a white dove landed on a post near the place where Lilli was playing and cooed three times before flying off, Mutter knew the time had come. She did not imagine that Vater would be at all pleased.

  “Stand up straight and remember to smile,” said Mutter moments before she knocked at Alisz’s door. Lilli was mesmerized by the flowers growing nearby: bright hues of violet, yellow, orange, sapphire, and pink. Never before had she seen such lovely colours, certainly not in their own dooryard. Mutter and Vater grew things to eat and fields of flax, not plants with beauty and colour.

  Friedrich reached out and grabbed a handful of his sister’s hair. Mutter quickly pulled him back. “Pay attention,” she said, quickly smoothing Lilli’s hair into place and touching the tip of her nose.

  “Who is this woman?” Lilli asked, seeking Mutter’s reassurance once more before the door opened.

  “I have told you already. Alisz is family. A distant cousin on my mother’s side. Now smile.” Mutter stood straight and tall, clearing her throat as they waited to be welcomed inside the small cottage. But the moment the door opened and Alisz’s voice rang out, Lilli’s smile disappeared.

  “Marta, my dear! Come in, come in,” Alisz chorused, her voice lashing out like a whip. “I thought perhaps you might come today,” she said, her face beaming with delight. Lilli knew that was impossible. Mutter had only made up her mind to come that very morning.

  “It is about time I brought Lilli,” said Mutter, her one arm wrapped around Friedrich, the other now encompassing Alisz in an embrace. “As you know, Lilli has just turned five, and five years is a very long time. I did not want you to think that we had gone back on our word to you.”

  “I have always had faith you would kee
p your word, Marta. Believe it or not, I have been counting the days. Please, do come in.”

  Lilli felt her legs turn to wood. Suddenly this did not feel like such a good idea. Even Vater had put up a fuss moments before they were about to leave. But Mutter had looked at him and quietly said, “I will not go back on my word.”

  “For goodness’ sake, go inside. Alisz will not harm you.” Mutter pushed on the back of Lilli’s head, sending her stumbling through the doorway.

  “Now, Marta, do not blame the poor child for being frightened. It is not every day that you meet a witch—is it, Lilli?” Alisz tossed her cinnamon-coloured hair as she spoke, her eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Lilli’s mouth dropped wide open. She had never met anyone like Alisz before. Mutter sometimes visited with Frau Weber, who often scolded Lilli for not sitting still. Frau Weber would never laugh and call herself a witch, and yet here was this woman, someone she had never met before, doing just that. Vater had warned Lilli about witches in the past. “There were those who came before us, Lilli, good Christian people, left to wither and die at the hand of witches,” he would say. They can even slide down the chimney in the middle of the night and bewitch you while you sleep. Vater had stories, so many of them, about people who had been bewitched. Sometimes the stories frightened Lilli and she would run to Mutter, crying.

  “There, there,” Mutter would say. “You must not listen to what Vater tells you. There is no such thing as a witch. No one is capable of performing the things he has described. It is only his belief because of the things he was told when he was young, but you must remember that not all beliefs are true. This is one that is not. Vater means well, but he is frightened by the things he does not understand.”

  Lilli quickly looked back toward Mutter, trying to sort out her confusion about this strange woman now standing before them, but Mutter did not look at all confused. She was beaming a bright smile that quickly burst into laughter. There was something pleasing about the vibration that rose then from Mutter’s throat. Lilli had never seen Mutter’s eyes dance with such glee before. This Alisz made Mutter very happy.