As I reflect on my life, I’ve come to the conclusion that I belong to no period in time and no period in time belongs to me. I, Alina Blankenship, am a wandering stranger, thrown into a turbulent sea and expected to swim to shore. I am being buffeted in a fierce wind, careening in all directions with no clear line of sight.

My story really begins with my mother, Mathilda, who was one of the most powerful witches ever to touch the earth. Mayhap she still is, wherever she is. My mother was lost to me when I began my journey. Ah, but I flounder. Let us return to the beginning.

I am one Alina Rebekah Blankenship, born of my mother Mathilda and deceased father, Gunther. I never knew my father, for he succumbed of fever before my birth. I was born in a period of time where it was uncommon for a woman to raise a child alone. If her man predeceased her, another eligible man would wed her, or she would return to her family for protection. A child who had no father was shunned, no matter the circumstances that befell the father.

I was my mother’s firstborn. The fact that I was not a male child became more of a burden with no man to provide for us. A woman’s place was home with the children, not doing a man’s work. However, my mother needed to earn money to support us, so she did whatever she could to acquire a few shillings.

I thrived under the watchful and sharp eye of my mother. We were different than most of our townspeople. My mother was a witch, but she needed to have a care about how, when, and where she practiced her craft. If a witch was discovered, she was tried and sentenced to death. Many times, a body was innocent of being a witch but because circumstances and so-called sworn testimony said otherwise, there was no chance of acquittal. I inherited my mother’s magical ability, to which she said was both a gift and a curse. “You must always keep tight control over every part of yourself, my darling Alina,” my mother said to me every night as she helped me arrange my hair before we retired for the night.

“But why must we hide who we are, Mother?” I always asked, not quite understanding the dangers. I was so young and inquisitive that it was difficult for me to understand that people feared who and what we were.

“We must if we are to live.” My mother’s words were firm but loving. “How I wish we could openly show our talent. Secrets are burdens that weigh more and more heavily each day.” It was during these times that my mother showed her tender side. She could be a sharp, sometimes cold woman, but when her heart belonged to someone, she was loving and gentle. Her eyes would go from snapping fire to softening into pools of concern. My mother was a complex woman who appeared as though she lived a thousand lifetimes.

Her goal in life was to rise above her poor station and become one of the most powerful witches, if not the most powerful witch, to ever live. Along with that, she coveted immortality. Nobody showed determination like my mother. “Persistence and patience are virtues, my child. Always remember that,” she always said.

Although the times in which we lived were unkind and harsh, my mother and I prevailed. She did wed once again when I was eight. He was a kind, gentle man named Philip, who took his role as my second father very seriously. Although my mother cherished him, I learned when I was much older and wiser that her adoration and love still rested with my father. I also came to understand that Philip knew this and did not begrudge my mother’s feelings. What was even more miraculous was that Philip knew what we were and approved of our talents. He knew the value of caution, but he always found ways of encouraging and helping Mother and me grow stronger in the craft. While wed to Philip, my mother’s powers grew with intensity and speed. As she learned, she found an Alchemist who gave her the immortality she sought and taught her the steps in recreating the potion once she gave him a blood oath that she would guard this secret with all her might. Only would she bestow the gift herself and share the secret very sparingly and with someone she knew was worthy.

For many, many moons, our life was idyllic. Our days of poverty slowly fell away, and Mother was one of the few women in our village who was fully respected for her intelligence and wisdom. Aye, she still needed to hide her craft from the public eye, but she was very learned and wise in many other areas. It went on like this until I was one and twenty. It was then that our village was savaged by a rampage of smallpox. Only a few survived, and the few who remained became convinced that it was witchcraft that brought on the illness and that it was a witch who chose who survived and who died.

Tragically, Philip was taken by the illness, and I, too, was afflicted. My mother remained untouched, and we both believe it was because of it that it was she who was pointed out as being the witch. It did not matter that Philip succumbed or that I, her firstborn child, was ill. It mattered not that my sweet baby brother, born of Philip and my mother, also was lost. Och, how my mother grieved for Philip and her wee son! She was desperately frightened that I, too, would perish. Even so, it was not long before the entirety of our village, the people who was once our beloved friends and neighbors, were calling for her beheading.

“I feared this day would come,” my mother said, her voice quivering as she bathed my brow with cool cloths. “I have lost ought but you, my Alina. Although we must part, I will not lose you.”

“I fear I shall perish, Mother, for I do not possess the immortality that runs through your being,” I whispered.

“You shall not perish. I will not have it. Do you hear me, child?” Mother said fiercely.

“If the Almighty wishes to take me, there is nothing we can do. Mayhap Father wishes for me to be by his side,” I replied.

“Nay!” my mother said with determination. “It is not your time. This was confirmed to me in my crystal ball. You will live, but it will be in another place and time.”

“I do not understand,” I said. “I am weary.” My eyelids refused to remain open, and I felt sleep desiring to claim me.

“You just sleep while I make preparations,” Mother said, touching my brow as if in benediction. “You will understand. I only pray I can complete the preparations in time.”

When awareness returned, I was being shaken firmly as Mother fought to rouse me from deep slumber. “You must awaken, child. You must look up Alina! Awaken, child, for if you do not, it could mean your life.”

I finally roused with reluctance. “Why do you weep, Mother?” I was vexed to see her cheeks gleaming with tears. It was only during times of deepest distress that my mother wept.

“I weep because I must bid thee farewell, my sweet one,” she said, her hand touching my cheek.

“I am dying?” I asked.

“Not dying,” she said. “You are going on a journey. I have summoned magic from every ounce of strength and learning I possess so I can send you to a place and time where being a witch will not harm thee.”

“But this is our home? How can we depart?” I asked. “Och! I cannot think clearly. The illness has made me sluggish and stupid.”

“We must depart, for if we do not, it will mean the forfeiture of your life. I will not have that, so this is our only option. Come now. You must make haste.” Mother’s arm moved under my shoulders and lifted me in her strong hold. A vial was held to my lips and Mother instructed me to drink all of the contents. My throat hitched as the vile liquid fought to stay down.

“What…?” I asked weakly once I could speak again.

“It is a potion that will keep the illness from being contagious. It would not do well for you to come to a world and time only to infect and annihilate its inhabitants with a foreign illness. Now, come. You must hurry. The gateway is ready.”

“Where are we going, Mother?” I asked.

My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “This is where we must part, my beautiful Alina. You are going to a world called Dragon Valley in the twenty-first century. Alas, I cannot come with you, for I only had time enough to prepare the gateway for one traveler. I will come anon and find thee, but I must see to your departure. It has been discovered that I cannot die, but everyone knows you can. They are coming for you as we speak, so time is of the essence. Come!”

“I do not wish to leave thee, Mother? I do not know how to cope in such a place. And…the twenty-first century? I do not understand.”

Mother tucked a book into a valise she had packed for me. “I thank the gods I had the foresight to teach you to read. You will find everything you need in the valise. In the book, you will find the information you will need to survive. How I wish I had more time to explain things to you, but time is short.”

“I am frightened,” I said, sobbing unashamedly as I clutched my mother desperately.

“As am I,” Mother said, embracing me tightly. “I will come anon to find thee, and then, we will be together, this I swear.”

Thusly, I was shepherded toward a swirling mass of colorful lights that no human has likely ever beheld. “Go now!” Mother shouted as her hands pushed against my back and toward the light. “I love you, Alina.” With that, the light engulfed me. As I was hurled along in whatever direction the lights chose to take me, I had no clear sense of direction. A strange sensation of disorientation assailed me, and I felt faint. I was still afflicted with fever and thought everything I saw and felt was conjured from a state of delirium. When the light receded and I looked around with bleary eyes, I knew it was not delirium. I was now in a place I could not have fathomed in my most vivid imaginings. I blinked stupidly, felt the earth slide from beneath me, and fell into an abyss of blackness.

When I awoke, I was lying on the ground, all sense of time and place gone. I stood up, waiting for the ever-present dizziness to come over me. To my delight, it did not, and I felt much stronger. Blinking in the bright sunlight, I turned on the spot to try to determine my whereabouts. My eyes landed on a large surface with the words “Welcome to Dragon Valley” etched upon it. This was where my new life was to begin. Situating my valise on my person, I began walking down a pathway that I hoped would lead to the town proper. I needed answers, and I prayed I would find a friendly face to help me.

Luck was with me, and my currency was usable. In this new time and place, I knew I needed to be cautious and frugal. Things cost more here, and I knew my money would be gone in due course if I did not spend it wisely. I bought a small house and furnished it with only what I felt I needed. My only luxuries were a small bookcase and an Alchemy Station, which I was elated to find whilst visiting a curious little shop on the outskirts of Dragon Valley.

I adore food preparation. It was I who prepared most of our meals whilst Philip worked and my mother was occupied with practicing her craft. I always found new and innovative ways of altering a recipe to give the food new flavors and odors. Mother said it was a wonder I was not wed and that she was a wee bit fretful about it. Aye, she and Philip could have arranged a marriage for me, but I voiced my extreme displeasure in that regard. I wanted to marry for love. Aye, I realize a woman is looked upon as daft or unmarriageable if not wed by a certain age, but that was not incentive enough for me to live in a loveless marriage. Mother, being who she was, did not force the issue, to which I am exceedingly grateful.

There are drawbacks to not having a man to protect a woman, even if said man is someone the woman does not truly love. I was alone in this strange new world, I did not have unlimited funds, and I needed to somehow make my way. I needed to find work, which vexed me. I did not have experience, nor did I have any record of my origin. I materialized out of thin air, after all, which could be a rather large problem.

As luck would have it, the local restaurant needed someone to fill in after one of their employees became seriously ill. I must have looked desperate when I spoke with the proprietor, for he took pity on me and gave me a job on a trial basis. Much to my chagrin, I did not do much cooking. Instead, I was nothing more than a scullery maid. Even so, work is work and sometimes one cannot be choosy.

It is sad for me to admit that I do not often have the determination or backbone Mother has. In my idyllic life, I became complacent, feeling that things would happen when they were meant to and that I need not fret. At times, I regret that, for now, I must reach inside myself to find that determination, which I am uncertain of finding. I accept that I am woefully inept and inadequate compared to Mother. That does not distress me, for I know that a woman like my mother is very rare. Even so, I somehow must find the will and ambition to succeed in my work so I can prove that I am an able cook.

I am ever thankful my mother taught me to read, which is a rare ability for a woman. I loved reading from the instant I began learning and begged my mother for any kind of book she could acquire. Books were extremely costly because most were penned by hand, but as always, my mother came through. Both she and I were proud of the collection of books she possessed.

One of the first places I visited was a lovely little bookstore. I thought I was in Heaven as I gazed longingly at all the books. There were books as far as the eye could see, and oh, did I feast my eyes on everything! I sighed with ecstasy as I sat reading for hour upon hour. How I yearned to possess at least a small portion of these books. When I asked the proprietor about the cost, I thought I’d taken leave of my hearing. Things were more costly here, but in proportion, books were a fraction of what Mother paid. I must have looked like a woman possessed as I bought what seemed like an entire library. Now that I had work, I felt I could justify spending some of my money on some small pleasures.

I was both puzzled and fascinated with this strange new place. For instance, I was so accustomed to chamber pots that I was nearly frightened out of my wits when I saw a modern day toilet. I was simply amazed by the concept of actual pluming in a house, and I spent much time turning the faucets on the washbasin off and on and flushing the toilet. One such day, I managed to damage my washbasin…er…sink, and water spewed everywhere, including all over me.

I was in a panic, not knowing what to do. I did not know how to employ someone to repair it and certainly was unsure of how it functioned. At times like this, I missed my mother terribly. If she were here, she would know what to do. Why has she not found me yet? Worry and concern for Mother entwined themselves within my panic. Even so, I could almost hear Mother say, “Now, Alina, being panicked will only bring on more panic. Just think it through, and you will come up with a solution. Take into consideration everything you have learned thus far.”

“Och, Mother! What have you gotten me into?” I asked aloud. “And where are you? I miss you so.”

I uttered an exasperated sigh and considered my options. I could go into the village to the pub and announce that I needed someone to repair my sink. This was how the men did things in the past. Otherwise, I could tinker with things and see if I could repair it myself. With luck, it would work, but I surmised I might make the damage worse. My third option was to search for a book with repair instructions. I chose the third option and was pleased to find one so easily. I read the instructions carefully, then realized I had no tools to use. Exasperated once again, I walked to something called a hardware store and purchased everything the book told me I required. My feet were afire when I returned home. I would have to see about purchasing a horse soon, for walking from end to end of this village was not overly efficient.

I repaired the sink and breathed a prayer of thanks. After cleaning up the mess, I desired something pleasurable to do. I could read one of my new books or mayhap experiment with one of my recipes.

I finally decided to test out my new Alchemy Station. Ah, it was wonderful to be mixing potions again. I loved the large book it came with and knew there would be many, many more recipes for me to learn and experiment with. I would have to return to that curious little shop and look more closely at the other items for sale.

I was a little frightened to practice my craft. Aye, I lived alone, and Mother said she was sending me to a place where being a witch would not cause me harm. Habitual behavior sometimes dies hard, but I knew I needed to face my fear. I did not want my craft lying dormant, for that would be the biggest travesty ever to be faced, and Mother would have been so disappointed. The mere thought of causing such a feeling made me feel ill.

Magic flowed freely from my soul and into my wand. In a way, it flowed more naturally in this place than it ever had in the past. Perhaps magic sensed fear and hostility and attempted to contain itself somehow. Once again, I thought of Mother as I worked simple spells at first and then gradually escalated to more difficult ones. Mother would adore how free and easy magic flowed here.

Another talent I possessed was an affinity for painting. I loved color and instinctively knew how to mix it and put it together to make beautiful paintings. I found an art supplies shop and bought an easel and paints. However, I found this little bag that caught my eye. It was something called a street art kit, and I added that to my list of purchases. I studied it intently as I unpacked it, my mind immediately focusing on how I could use this for picture making. I found I had a talent for this as well and instantly became enamored with using these curious little cans to paint. I painted on the ground and on every wall I deemed eligible for “beautification.” I chortled like a madwoman as I worked, feeling as though I’d stumbled upon the Holy Grail.

I had my truly first harrowing experience one day when I was arrested for vandalism. I’d prepared too much food for me alone to consume, so I thought I would be a goodly neighbor and bring some to the people who lived next to me. We often waved at one another and chatted, so being neighborly was second nature to me. I put the casserole in the refrigerator and left a note explaining what I had done. They were absent at the time, but their door was unlocked, so I thought ought of it when I entered. The artist within me then saw an empty wall, so I brandished my street art kit and began working. Some time later, my blood vastly dropped in temperature when the constable came to take me away. My wrists were tugged behind me, and metal bracelets were fastened. I was on the verge of a swoon when he roughly dragged me outdoors.

The constable put me into one of those strange carriages that moved without a horse. I recall the first time I beheld one and how frightened I was when it roared, sounding as though it were breathing fire. It was unnatural to travel at such rates of speed. I was always unnerved when I needed to travel in one. I could not bring myself to learn how to drive one, but I knew I would need to become at least somewhat accustomed to that mode of transport.

As he maneuvered his strange beast over the road. he somehow conjured flashing lights, which burst through my vision. Then, he caused an unearthly wailing, which made me shriek and cover my ears. The constable called them “sirens” but to me, it sounded like an army of banshees caterwauling to the heavens.

When we arrived at what he called the police station, he opened the door and dragged me from the enormous beast. I swayed alarmingly and was then violently sick. To my utter humiliation, I swooned.

When I awoke, I realized my wits were completely frayed. I was lying on a bench with the constable bending over me. I blinked up at him and began to shriek anew and covered my face. The constable shook my shoulders and then slapped me across the cheek. My shrieking ceased, and I beheld him, certain that the terror quaking my soul was etched in my very demeanor.

“Lady, I’m sorry I slapped you. You were hysterical,” the constable said. I had never seen a constable look nonplussed before, but this man did.

Tears welled in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks. “If you mean to execute me, I beg you to be hasty about it. Would that I not suffer brutally in the dungeons.” Oh ye gods! What would Mother think of me? She risked everything to save my life by sending me here only to find me beheaded for attempting to be neighborly. I felt another swoon come over me and would have sank to the ground had not the constable caught me.

“Execute you? Dungeons? Lady, what world have you been living in?” My cheeks flamed as he studied me, then frowned. “On second thought, don’t answer that. What’s up with your clothes? Do you belong to some Renaissance group or something?”

Och, if he only knew! My mother’s warnings abut revealing too much information sounded in my head, so I only shrugged. “Please sir, I beg of you to inform me of my fate so I may prepare myself to meet my maker.”

The constable was silent for a moment as he beheld me. His frown turned to an expression of bewilderment, his hard, brown eyes softening. “Lady, I don’t know what your deal is, but nobody is ever executed for doing street art on private property. You won’t even do any jail time. You’ll just have to pay a fine and get a warning not to do it again.”

I felt my shoulder slump in relief. “I will pay whatever I am commanded. I-I do not know what I did wrong. I was only attempting to be a goodly neighbor.” The tears continued to flow.

The man cleared his throat. “Ms. Blankenship, let me give you some advice, okay? First of all, I suggest you see a psychiatrist. Secondly, what you did wrong was doing street art on private property. It’s considered vandalism to deface someone’s walls in that manner. Around here, that is cause for arrest.”

I did not know what a psychia…whatever is, but I was certain I did not need that. What I needed was for Mother to find me and join me. What I needed was to learn the proper laws here so something like this would ne’er befall me again.

I was instructed to sign some parchments; papers as they are called here. Then, I was told I needed to appear in court on Monday where a judge would inform me of the fine I was to pay. I was bone weary when I was finally released. I declined the offer for a ride home, unable to bring myself to voluntarily climb into the constable’s roaring beast again this night. I had never performed a walk of shame until now, and I aim never to perform one again. It is not a desirable feeling in the least.

My pride remained severely wounded for the next few days. I yearned to carry on with my artwork, so I found solace in my sketchbook. As I sketched, memories of Mother washed over me, and oh, how I missed her! A single tear rolled down my cheek as I sketched her dear face. “Mother, where are you? Please be well.” I knew she could not die, but a crushing feeling of despair settled over me. She would have come to me by now. Of this, I am adamantly certain of. The fact that she had not filled me with dread, for I knew something must be keeping her from finding me.