That spectacular moon deserved to be the opening scene of a novel. In my mind I could see Sarah Elizabeth Archer. The title Bitch Witch came immediately to mind and the entire story unfolded in several heartbeats. Sarah’s house took form in my mind. Many moons ago I lived in Shrewsbury, Massachusetts. I knew she’d work at Mass Power and Light, because I once temped there, besides, what better name for a book about power and light?
That very night I pitched the story to my publisher, thinking surely Bitch Witch is a concept and title that’s been taken. Yet it was as available as any title can be. I wrote as fast as I could, barely giving a thought to the fact that my mother would probably have to change churches after this book (sorry, Mom.) It wasn’t until the book was out of my hands and in the capable hands of my editors that my publisher said, “This book will redefine you as a writer.” Uh-oh, I thought, quickly followed by an uncooperative whatever.
My job as a writer is to write stories with honesty and fearlessness. I hope you enjoyed your time with Sarah as much as I did. Surely there’s a little bitch witch in all of us, and even when we follow the light there’s just no getting rid of her completely, is there?
With love and light,
S.R. Karfelt
LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, ‘If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.’
Then he said, ‘Good-night!’ and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, ‘All is well!’
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed.
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
T
he hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
The light.
The night.
The muse.
My amazing editor.
The Bitch Witch Launch Team.
My Women Reading Aloud Kula.
Blue Harvest Creative.
My stoic and astonishingly patient husband, and
The Blue Moon. You complete me.
Where in the brain or heart does story come from? I don’t know, but I do know that it takes a team to make a book. Bitch Witch thrived thanks to my talented and insightful editor, and early story edits by Shieldmaiden for Hire.
My launch team’s feedback proved invaluable. Thank you: Kim, Kelsey, Tom, Patricia, Colette, Jennifer, Laura, Bailey, Ashley, Mirdala, and Jan. I appreciate your feedback and your laughter as we shared far too many witch memes.
To my Kula who magically brings story to the surface, I love you ladies.
Blue Harvest Creative, thank you for answering my questions 24/7, letting me romp when I ran amok, and propping me up when my enthusiasm waned.
An entrepreneur, wife, mother, and novelist, S.R. Karfelt enjoys spending time with her muse and living outside her comfort zone. She currently resides in the soaring capital of the world.
Visit the author at:
www.SRKarfelt.com &
www.bhcauthors.com
Cover design, interior design,
and eBook design by
Blue Harvest Creative
www.blueharvestcreative.com
Table of Contents
About the Book
Title Page
Copyright Information
Also by S.R. Karfelt
Dedication
Bitch Witch by S.R. Karfelt
01 - Right on Target
02 - Masstards and Cock Fighting
03 - Oh, Hail No
04 - Labor Slay
05 - Spelled Out
06 - Jail is not Prison
07 - The Blue Guy
08 - The Blind Side
09 - Prickle in the Middle
10 - Toil and Trouble
11 - Logically Speaking
12 - Work Out
13 - But, Kitten
14 - Human Sacrifice
15 - Power and Light
16 - Gotta Go
17 - That Hurt
18 - Exes and No’s
19 - Which Witch?
20 - Light Up Your Life
21 - Warlocks and Family Treasure, Oh My!
22 - Here, Kitty Kitty
Epilogue
Dear Reader…
Paul Revere’s Ride
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Meet the Design Team