The Kind of Witch
She looked at them down her long crooked nose and said, for what seemed to be the thousandth time, 'I am not a witch.' And for the thousandth time they ignored her. The large farmhand simply continued his frantic speech.
'I saw her cursing our cows. Her eyes were gone, mama. Gone. No eyes, just two dark holes. She was mumbling something in witch language to poor Cynthia. Trying to kill us by poisoning our meat, our milk, mama. Trying to kill the babies first, no doubt.'
Short of breath, he slouched over to regain it. His mother stroked the back of his head. It was obvious that despite his size he was still a boy.
'It'll be alright, honey. We're here now,' his mother said.
Mother moved toward her, eyes searching.
'She doesn't look like much, does she? Certainly not your everyday witch. She's kinda cute, in fact,' his mother said, 'What kind of witch are you?'
She sighed and stared at the door.
'I am not a witch.'
'Grandpa will decide that, dearie.'
'If I was a witch, which I'm not, why wouldn't I just magic my way out of here, instead of sitting here waiting whatever sort of judgment call you're about to make.'
'Well, I don't know, dearie. Does seem kind of silly.'
'Don't fall for it, momma. She's trying to trick us is all,' said the boy, 'witches are expert liars.'
'Since when do you know so much about witches, boy?' his mother asked, 'Besides, Grandpa will be here soon. He'll sort it all out.'
Three men stood near the door, silent. They flinched every time she dared to take a deep breath. Farm folk were always much too superstitious. A knock on the door nearly had them jump out of their skin. A middle-aged woman threw the door open and walked in, dragging her two children behind her. Her hair was dirty and dry like straw. Her cheeks were deep red, accenting her rubenesque figure.
'What's this nonsense I hear about a witch? Scaring all the housemaids 'till they can't clean a dish,' the woman said, 'I hope this isn't your idea, LeAnn.'
'But she is a witch! I saw her,' the boy said.
'Nonsense! You've been reading too many fairy tales,' the woman said, 'There is no such thing as witches''
'Who is that?' the woman said.
'She's the witch!' the boy said.
The woman's cheeks flushed a deeper crimson.
'Dear god, you've actually caught her. I though it was the boy's imaginings. Oh my.' the woman said, 'Mary, Finn, come here this minute'
The children ignored her call, choosing to keep playing with the soap bubbles in the wash basin.
'What'll we do? Oh, we'll have to burn her of course. Only way to get rid of witchfolk. Only way. Written in the scripts.'
'I thought witches were nonsense, Mrs. Wilks,' said the boy, beaming.
'Quiet, boy,' the woman replied.
'Now, Beatrice, you just calm down until Grandpa gets here,' Mother said, 'I wonder where that old man is anyways.'
'Here, darling,' said a voice from behind.
The old man stood at the doorway, holding onto its frame for support. He slowly shuffled forward, holding his hands outward. She realized the old man was blind or near to it.
'Grandpa, we caught a witch. Just like those old stories you told us. She was cursing the cows. No eyes, grandpa. Holes were her eyes were,' said the boy.
'Nicely done, William. Very good, son.'
'We have to get rid of her before she brings more of them. We must burn her now,' said the fat woman, 'Surely, you agree. It's our duty to He.'
'Mrs. Wilks, how'd you do?' said the old man, bowing his head. He walked forward slowly and stopped only a few feet from her.
'LeAnn, would you please take me to our supposed witch, please.'
'She is right in front of you, father,' Mother said, furling her brow.
'Where?'
'Right there, in front of you.'
The old man smiled.
'Now, I may be long in the tooth, darling, but I know a cow when I see one. We are not accusing dear Cynthia of being a witch, are we?'
'No father, the young woman in front of you.'
Now it was Grandpa's turn to furl his brow. He closed his cloudy eyes. Soon, his eyes sprung open.
'What have you done to this poor child? She is almost dead. I can barely see her. What have you done, William?'
'But she is perfectly okay, Grandpa. She's fine,' said the boy.
'Yes, father. No harm has come to her,' said Mother.
'But she must be terribly hurt. Her life is nearly faded from her,' Grandpa said, 'Who has harmed you, child?'
She raised her head slowly to meet his faded blue eyes.
'No harm has come to me, old man. Except for my detention.'
'This is very confusing indeed. Are you a witch, child? There is no use in lying to me.'
'Can you read my thoughts, old man, and assure yourself of the truth? Or do you mean to intimidate me? Regardless, there is no need for lies. I am not a witch, no.'
The old man's entire face wrinkled in concentration. He turned, ever so slowly.
'Come with me, William. We must talk,' he said.
He and the boy walked over to the corner. The other men joined them. They spoke excitedly in hushed tones. She lowered her head again, eyeing the overflowing wash basin. The boy, Finn his mother had called him, caught her eyes. She smiled at him and watched him pour the soapy water from plate to plate, spilling more each time. He giggled. His mother would soon have her in flames.
'But, surely, she is a witch. We must do something now. More could be on their way,' the fat woman said. The men ignored her. She sat down on the nearest hay stack and begun to pout. She turned towards the supposed witch, determined to express her feelings clearly, as only a farmer's wife could.
'Stop that, Finn! Put the cup down this minute,' the fat woman shouted at the boy. Finn stood near her, trying to hand her a cup full of the same soapy water he had been playing with.
'She's thirsty, mommy,' said Finn.
'Get away from that' that' that beast,' said the fat woman.
'Now, Beatrice, you heard father. She is injured. Let her have the water,' said Mother, 'Is that alright, father ?!'
The old man paused his conversation and nodded.
She took the water gingerly and curtsied as low as her sore limbs would allow before she sat to drink.
'May heaven grant you peace, child.'
She drank the water slowly, deliberately, and ignored the bitter lye from the soap.
'We have made our decision,' said the old man. He shuffled across the room again, perhaps more cautiously this time.
She finished the cup of water and placed it on the ground next to her.
'It is obvious you are not a witch, child. We apologize for your detention. Please forgive us. These are poor farm folk who've heard too many stories. Partly my fault, I suppose.'
'Thank you. I will take my leave then,' she said and began to stand.
'Oh, please, will you not let us arrange a carriage for you. To make up for the time you've lost here.'
'No, that'll be fine, thank you. I must be on my way.'
'Oh, but we must make it up to you.'
'You've done more than enough, old man.'
'I'm afraid I must insist, child. The carriage will be here soon. Sit. More water, perhaps?'
She sighed again and rubbed her limbs to confirm that the soreness had disappeared. She stood slowly.
'Please, sit. We still have time, darling,' said the old man.
'I am not a witch,' she said, 'but you would burn me regardless, for He, I suppose. Torture a soul to save your own. How long will it take your men to stoke the fire? I am certain I smell the ash already. Or is it that you possess burning carriages which travel to the underworld? If you would serve your maker, then I shall help you!'
With the last bit of mortality left to her, she spoke the holy words. The children would not suffer for their patronage. Then she reached into the nether and brought to the village the fear of god.
?
'I am sorry, you're Excellency. I was detained,' she said.
'I am quite aware of that. I've been waiting.'
'It will not happen again, sire. Please forgive me.'
The short, fat man drank from his wide chalice.
'Thirsty, Josephine?' came a voice from the shadows behind the throne. The emperor's mage stepped forward, with a mocking grin, 'We've plenty of wine here.'
'You've best keep it, Oltar. You'll surely need it much more than I.'
He walked toward her and came as close as he could without touching her.
'That's Supreme Magician Oltar to you, Josie.'
'Then I must insist you use my proper title also, sire.'
'And what is that these days? I swear I smell holy magic on those pouty lips of yours.'
He stood at the arm of the throne.
'What do you think, your Excellency? What is the proper title in such a case?'
'Surely you must be mistaken, Oltar. Surely, our Shadow Priestess has not been using holy magic?'
'Surely not, my lord. Surely not. But what would we call her if she did? A witch? No, of course not, what am I thinking. An angel? A nun? A cleric? I must plead your assistance, sire.'
'A traitor.'
'Ah, yes. Slipped my mind.'
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