‘Do ye not know, laddie?’ his colleague jeered, throwing open the cell door. ‘Ye should never scorn the condemned.’ He leaned towards him, lowering his voice in a foreboding tone. ‘For they’ll come back to haunt ye.’ He laughed out loud, then his face suddenly dropped, as he turned to the girl.
She winced as he removed the rope from her burning wrists.
‘Away with ye, lass!’ he said, shoving her into her tiny prison.
Stunned, she stood with her back to the door, then jolted as it was slammed behind her. She closed her eyes tightly on hearing the key being turned, its grinding sound marking the moment her fate had been sealed, without reprieve.
‘Ye called her lass!’ she heard the younger say, over the echo of their departing footsteps.
Their voices continued to reverberate throughout the gaol, as they made their way to the next hearing, their tone brightening.
‘Och! Sure, ’tis all the same to me, lad, “Lass” “Lassie” “Witch”, as long as I get paid me Testoon. Aye, ’tis all the same.’
‘Aye, too true,’ said the other.
‘Anyway, lad, just a couple more, then I’m off to have me a wee dram, or two. Will ye join me?’
‘Aye? I will, ta. Och! What say we…’
As their voices faded, leaving her behind in her torment, she slumped to the freezing stone floor. Hands grasping her legs, she stared at it, shivering and in pain, until a stream of sunlight distracted her, filtering through the bars of the small window, high above her. She looked up, its pale, yellow light enticing her. Slowly rising, she groaned, aching, then reached up—the tips of her long, thin fingers touching it, feeling its warmth, giving her some solace.
She then looked sharp and turned—the distant faint sounds finding their way to her cell: the hammering of the magistrate’s gavel calling for “order” as the hungry crowd cried out for the next poor unfortunate souls’ judgement. She listened, pitying them.
When the noise ceased, she turned again, looking up at the window. But the sun had dipped, taking with it its comforting light, plunging her into a grey, depressing mood as the tiny cell began to close in on her.
With nothing but time and her thoughts to keep her company, she took herself to the coarse, woollen blanket—the pathetic excuse for a bed—and lay down, its rough fabric irritating her sensitive skin. She tried to avoid scratching, but it persisted. As she attempted to ease the itch, she looked down, noticing the new, dark stains on her tattered garment; the blood from the incisions had finally seeped through. What does it matter, now? she thought. She curled up, nestling her head on her hands, clasping them together as a make-shift pillow. She glanced over at the water bucket, too tired to contemplate dragging herself to it, to quench her thirst; besides, it was likely they had not changed it. Next to it, a dish had been left out with food—no doubt, unfit to eat. The mice were welcomed to it.
The tears began to flow, when her mother’s cries returned to plague her. She recalled being forced to watch the excruciating pain being inflicted on the innocent woman. And her “crime”?
Her occupation: Herb-wife.
Their natural remedies—Trade Secrets—had been passed down through their family and used to help the sick—simple yet effective formulas to cure common ailments.
Life had been good to them, until a sudden misadventure. Through no fault of her own, her mother became embroiled in an incident: accused of the death of a young child—eventually leading to her wrongful incarceration.
Before that, they had relied on one another, since her father’s death, when she was a child.
The guilt had never left her after he had given his life, trying to save her from the Loch—and now it seemed it would finally have its way with her. She shook her head at the irony of it.
If only you had survived, she thought, imagining he could hear her. Then, perhaps, we would still be… if only...
They had survived on her mother’s skill of making ointments and healing lotions, extracted from the forest’s wild plants and herbs. Her mother taught her all she knew and, it was clear from a young age, she, too, had inherited the “gift”.
Many from the Burgh came seeking their help, and those who were treated welcomed a swift recovery. But rumours had begun to spread of the “gifted woman”, leading to false accusations of sorcery; and accusations made by some of the “Godly folk”, whom she had treated successfully.
From then on, the mere sight of her mother gradually sent fear into the local community: to be associated with a “Witch” would render them as her accomplices. They soon learned quickly; by denying all association, their betrayal would assure their evasion of death.
The young woman now knew what awaited her. It was becoming a “popular method”, according to her condemner: tied to a wooden seat—at the end of a large wooden plank—she would be taunted at, while left suspended above the Loch’s icy waters. And should she survive, it would mean, the waters associated with baptism would have rejected the Tool of Satan.
A Monarch had once claimed: “Water is so pure an element, it repels the guilty.”
It was almost laughable. And, even if she did survive, there was the possibility they would still burn her. Regardless of it, both methods of torture were used for one thing—and one thing only: to elicit a hopeless confession.
“The proof of innocence is survival!” they had also proclaimed.
‘Then I must try,’ she whispered to herself, in the confines of her prison. ‘I must survive!’
Convincing herself she would be liberated from her retribution, she repeated her words, to the point of near madness. I must survive! I must survive! I must…
Soon, tiredness and hunger took their toll, taking her into a deep and troubled sleep.
Two long weeks of endurance dragged her to her day of reckoning.
When her gaolers returned, she shrank into a corner, hearing the approach of their eager footsteps. One of them was whistling an old, sprightly tune—the older one, no doubt. The door flew open. A momentary silence passed between them, as they regarded her pitiful state.
‘Not so appealing now,’ the younger remarked, running his hand under his nose, before wiping it on his mud-stained breeches.
Her hazel eyes, once brimming with life, glared at him through their deadness. He stepped back, disturbed by her vacant stare.
The older one, rolling his eyes, shuffled towards her. He had something in his hand, and was smiling.
‘Right ye are, lass!’ he said, beckoning her with his deformed finger—the thick stump clearly visible where its tip use to be. He held out the item to her, ignoring her stare; he’d seen it all
before: that deadpan look on their corpse-like features, before the execution. ‘Put that on!’ he said, still smiling. ‘His Lordship wants ye looking bonnie.’
For one sweet moment, fooled by his light-hearted tone, she eagerly snatched the clean, white smock, daring to believe in her absolution, and put it on—covering the stained, tattered piece of cloth she had worn, since her trial. Perhaps the judge had changed his mind, after all. But her hopes were quickly dashed, when the younger one stepped out from behind his senior, toying with an object in his hand. She stared at the thick rope, then slowly looked up at him, crushed and resentful.
He hesitated.
‘Step lively, lad! She won’t bite!’
But he was reluctant to touch her, recalling her sinister words as she glared at him:
“I will remember you, in death.”
‘Give it here!’ the other insisted, growing frustrated. His rough hands wrenched her forward as he tied the rope around her tiny wrists, aggravating the red marks, where they had almost healed.
It was only then she noticed how thin and pale she had become. Her long, dark hair fell limp about her face, its lustrous sheen, long gone. She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears.
I must be strong! she told herself, staring up at him, silently pleading innocence with her despairing eyes.
; Her gaoler paused and looked at her, his face now emotionless, bringing with it the realisation of her imminent fate.
‘Time to die, Witch!’
Chapter Two
With no reprieve, she faced her demise. Hauled out into the dark of night, her short journey to hell was one of endless humiliation—the villagers taunting her along the rugged path, from her prison, to her point of death. Forced to walk, she struggled to keep up with the two gaolers, almost stumbling on the rocky surface beneath her bare feet, as she was dragged passed her spectators—some recoiling, when she glanced their way.
She winced when the rope burned into her delicate skin, re-opening her wounds, as she was tied to the wooden seat. Not once did her gaoler look at her as he secured her place in death. Behind him, the younger one watched yet kept his distance, still wary of her threat. Satisfied with his handy work, and that his job was done, her gaoler nodded once, turned, and walked away.
Her anxious spectators watched and waited in the damp night, growing restless in her presence. Many she knew, their faces betrayed by their own torchlight.
‘Cowards!’ she shouted at them, as the large beam of wood was slowly forced out, over the lingering depths.
‘May God forgive you!’ replied one brave soul, out of pity.
‘God, you say?!’ she retorted, spitting the word back at them. ‘What kind of world do I leave behind that a “God” could instil such evil, inflicting it upon an innocent soul such as I? If this is the way of it… then you may take it!’
She glared at them, scrutinising their faces—one in particular standing out: the face of the man, who had wrenched her from her father’s arms to safety, before he had drowned. He had been hailed as a “hero” for saving her life. Only now, she saw nothing but shame in his eyes, making no effort to save her, this time. For an instant, their eyes met; in his guilt, he discreetly turned his face away and left, fearing any association.
The night was biting cold; it mattered no more to her. She looked into the murky deep, its blackness, waiting like an old enemy—waiting to take her.
Through the dim light, she caught a glimpse of her distorted reflection. The waters momentarily calmed, revealing an image of her mother, smiling back at her.
‘If this is madness,’ she whispered to it, ‘then I gladly welcome it.’ She smiled, feeling comforted by the thought of their reunion, and braced herself.
A sudden jolt forced her back as the beam was pushed forward by three, strong men, selected to perform the deed. She felt its unsteadiness as it hovered above the Loch.
As the night’s freezing breath clung to her she shuddered, waiting for the hands of fate to cast her to her death. The onlookers hung on, anticipating the drop. She looked out at the night spread wide before her, feeling the weight of their stare. No. She would not leave them in silence.
She took a deep breath, gasping as the cold air hit her lungs.
‘Before you send me to my death,’ she began, ‘know that I am innocent, as was my mother. You are the guilty ones! You own the blame for my condemnation! And for that, I say to you all: I have committed no sorcery; nor am I a Witch. But as you have already sealed my fate, by wrongfully declaring me so, I shall not disappoint you.’
The villagers exchanged nervous looks and words, confused by her meaning. She smirked to herself, relishing in their uneasiness. Satisfied, she prepared her final farewell.
‘I curse those of you who betrayed me,’ she warned them, ‘and vow to return to you in your dreams, where I will haunt them for the rest of your days.’
Gasps of horror were thrown out into the night, shocked by her threatening words, while others sobbed uncontrollably, convinced.
‘Fear me!’ she persisted. ‘For I fear you no more.’
‘Drown her… drown the Witch!’ one woman desperately cried, throwing salt, to ward off her evil.
‘May you have a long and painful death, Witch!’ her condemner retorted, before finally sending her to her watery grave.
With the expectation of it all, she took one, long final breath.
As she entered the dark waters, its freezing impact stabbed her like sharp blades, forcing the air from her lungs. She gulped at it, desperately trying to pro-long her life.
Eager to watch, the villagers dared to push forward. Raising their torches, they strained to see, hoping to witness a magic spectacle, of sorts; no evidence of a Witch rising from the waters had yet been documented. They hoped to be the first to see it.
‘Look!’ a boy shouted, pointing to the Loch. ‘I see her! The Witch has saved herself!’
The crowd pushed dangerously close to the edge—some almost losing their footing—in a desperate bid to be the first to witness the sorcery. They suddenly gasped, when tiny bubbles rose frantically to the surface, anticipating her return.
But no sooner had they appeared, they subsided.
Beneath the inky surface, the young woman struggled to free herself—the rope, tearing deeper into her flesh with each struggle. Her mind raced; time was running out. She tried not to panic, but her body’s natural defences fought for survival. Looking up through the murky waters, she saw the faint lights from their torches; they were dancing above the surface, searching for her.
She fought hard, clinging to her diminishing breath—the stabbing cold, hampering her efforts. As the remnants of life slowly began to leave her weakened body, she watched as it rose through the water.
“They say, drowning is a peaceful death.”
Her mother’s words came back to reassure her. But there was nothing “peaceful” in her barbaric death sentence. It was all too real as she felt the pressure through her agonising pain mount with each struggle. Distraught, she prayed for death to take her quickly.
Suddenly she was thrust forward. They had forced the great beam down into the Loch, to make certain her death. Panic took over as she slid from its perch into her slow descent. She thrashed out. Her white tunic swirled in unison with her long hair, impairing her sight. And as her failing body began to spasm, her breath shortened. It was now a hopeless struggle.
Numb with cold, she no longer felt the pain of her mutilated wrists; nor the ropes which had bound her. She looked down, watching the ghostly beam disappear into the blackness below, her body now floating, giving her a sense of freedom. Convinced it a trick of the mind, in her final moments, she embraced the elation that unexpectedly came over her. But the moment was short-lived as she felt the pull of death slowly drag her down. She looked up again—the water now stinging her eyes, watching the torchlights fade into tiny speckles, until they disappeared. She now knew her diminished strength would not take her to the surface.
Accepting her end was near, she finally chose to give herself to the Loch, when a swift movement caught her eye, in the form of a dense, black shadow. She struggled to see it, but could no longer fight against her slow demise.
The shadow rushed by her again, growing closer with each flowing movement, its size increasing as it drew nearer. Her eyes flickered when it came into view.
It suddenly stopped, floating freely before her.
Staring into its large, black eyes, she felt an overwhelming sense of peace, and smiled. No longer frightened, she closed her eyes and reached out….
Chapter Three
For days, she drifted in and out of consciousness, tortured and restless. He watched her, moving closer when she stirred, inwardly battling against her demons, mumbling words that made no sense… except for one. Then she would stop, settling into another deep slumber. But he knew the demons would return.
‘It will pass,’ he kept whispering to her subconscious, urging her to fight the nightmare that had brought them together… again.
The smell of smoke filled the small, candle-lit room, touching her senses. Gradually it roused her from her deep-rooted nightmare. Every muscle of her fragile body ached before she attempted to move. Her delicate wrists throbbed beneath the gauze that had been tenderly wrapped around them.
It will pass… it will pass…
The young woman’s eyes flew open, to the soft welcoming glow of flickering light.
Am I dead? she thought, her mind muddled in confusion.
The crackling sound of a log fire and the enticing smell of hot food renewed her senses,
telling her she was very much alive. Well… almost.
She drew in the wafting smells, wincing from the pain that shot through her lungs.
Her bloodshot eyes widened, when an image of the creature jumped into her mind. Had she imagined it?
No, I did see it! didn’t I? She struggled to recall her last moments, with no wish to dwell on it. However, when the feeling persisted, she was forced to remember.
She suddenly gasped.
It saved me! she realised. Opening her mouth, she desperately tried to speak, but her throat burned. Anxious, she struggled through her unbearable pain.
‘Be still, lass!’ came the soft voice by her side. ‘You have been through quite an ordeal. Now rest.’
Heavy with tiredness, her eyes followed the voice until she found his face. His features were strong, but kind. She noticed his hazel eyes; they were similar to hers, and displayed warmth. It was clear he had years on her, but she could not distinguish his age.
‘You’re safe now,’ he assured her. ‘And your audience have returned to their homes, safe in the knowledge they have rid their world of yet another “Witch”.’
The scathing tone in his voice was followed by a smirk. There was something in his manner that made her trust him, instinctively. A weary, faint smile crossed her face.
‘Ah! A sense of humour, perhaps?’
She lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
‘We will have you back on your feet, soon enough,’ he said, ‘casting more evil spells on your neighbours.’
Her eyes shot up, staring at him as she was reminded of her plight.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, seeing the terror in her expression. ‘In my miserable attempt to make light of your ordeal, it seems I’ve offended you, instead.’ His voice was soothing, and apologetic.
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