There be Witches - post 3 c L Mann 2014 it was raining the day the men came and took Grandmog away. I remember everything was grey. The trees outside the backdoor, the rutted road, the old wooden bench ... even the very light had that grey sick tinge. My mother cried and clung to my grandmother and my father had to prise her away. She clawed at him with nails like a cats and the soldiers laughed as he caught her up and bundled her out of the kitchen and up the backstairs, the muted screaming lingering long after she had gone. I just stood by the black iron range with my fingers in my mouth, biting down on them until they bled. Grandmog said nothing as they read the list of accusations out in the overly silent room. The beans that she had been trimming lay in a green swathe across the scrubbed oak table and I listened in abject misery as a drowsy bee clambered amongst the long thin pods, its feelers reaching out blindly. One of the men reached over and with a grin smashed it open with a mail gloved fist. Grandmog muttered something under her breath and looked at me sideways. What was that witch? The hooded man demanded looking up from the length of greasy parchment he was reading from. I was wondering if the child could fetch me my old gardening cloak. It ud be warmer than the one I has on. Grandmog replied with a shrug as if it didnt make much difference either way. The man glared at her, his beady piggy eyes staring first at me and then at my grandmother as if willing us to say more. When neither of us spoke, me from sheer helpless terror and Grandmog from calm knowledge, he sighed and muttered.Go on then girl do what your grandmother asks and fetch her her cloak. I did as I was bid, rushing from the room to skid almost blindly down the darkened back passage to the hooks at the side of the scullery. I had to stand on an old bucket to get the brown tartan cloak off the rusting hook and it took almost all my strength to haul the heavy woolen folds back to the kitchen. When I got there it was empty. My Grandmother had gone. I didnt see her again until the Eve of Laamas and then I didnt recognise her. She had aged and shrunk. was she always so tiny, her step so hesitant, her back so bowed? Gone were the ripe apple cheeks and the sparkling brown eyes. Gone the quick, crisp walk,the head held as high as a prancing peacock. They led her to the centre of the green and tied her to a stake of yew, felled that morning from the churchyard and then began to pile faggots of pale wood around her. My father stood beside me, holding my mother up with arms which shook from some strong emotion that I was too young to recognise. Then I thought that it was fear, now I know that it was rage, an anger so strong that it would consume him until his last breath. The entire village had turned out to watch as like us they had no choice. The witchfinders had the tax list and had even been known to drag the ill from their beds and the pious from their prayers to attend the burnings. There was silence as they lit the edge of the damp tinder. Damp because it had been soaked in a substance the smith always used to ensure that the forge was hot within minutes. No one uttered a word as the first flicker of bright orange licked around the corded wood. There was a bright, white flash and then the flames leapt towards the figure at the centre of the twisting smoke. I saw Grandmog turn her head towards me and her eyes met mine. Something passed between her old and shattered frame and my
Posted on: Mon, 03 Nov 2014 19:09:26 +0000
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