Witch, She Said

“Fizzle, crack, fizzle, crack, now I have my husband back,” sighed Lizzie through her cracked and scabby lips.

There came another hiss as a fat raindrop fell upon the corpse tied to the stake, and a tiny wisp of smoke wove its way starwards through the pungent air. Lizzie imagined it was part of Becky’s soul, dark and evil, making its way to the next world.

Fizzle, crack, fizzle, crack. The corpse belonged to Lizzie’s neighbour, Becky. That blackened, charcoal skin which until recently glowed with the rosy confidence of youth. So sure had she been of her beguiling that Lizzie had lost all hope of retaining her husband. Until, that is, the Witchfinder came to town.

Clop-clop, clop-clop, she had heard as the hooves beat upon the dusty track that they called their street. Lizzie had turned from wringing out the washing, the cold wind turning the water to ice to crack her skin open further like weathered rock, and to sting her eyes to tears.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! If anyone knows of a witch let it be known it be your duty to make report of such a witch.” And so he continued the clanging of the bell, crying loud then quiet as the call was tugged in different directions by the aggressive wind. She had turned away, back to her washing, for she knew of no witch. There were none that came close in the village, save old Mrs Lavern, and she was merely an apothecary.

Lizzie sighed, her heart as heavy and dark as coal, her mind on more mundane things. Her husband would no longer cast her a glance; he screamed at her that she would not smile, that she would not comb her once glossed locks of harvest gilded hair. But it hurt her so to smile, her lips crisped as burned bacon rind and her scalp so scabbed she dare not pull a comb through her hair for fear she may lose it. And so he was away, leaving her to fend on her own, to wipe his brats frozen snot away while he dallied with that… that… witch!

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live! I if anyone knows of the presence of a witch let it be known it be their duty to the Lord and King James to denounce said witch. Point the finger; show us your witch…”

Lizzie’s eyes clung to the retreating wagon as if stealing a free ride while she dabbed the moisture way from her eyes with cracked fists. The washing was left in a freezing, twisted rope.

She began to follow the wagon, slowly at first as she tried to think. The wind threw the dust of the road in her face to cloud her vision as her rage clouded her mind. Had not the beautiful Becky brought her husband a potion? She had said it was ale but if she were a witch she would surely not have told the truth. And could it be possible that it was not the frozen wind that had cracked her lips but a spell cast upon her by her neighbour?

It was all falling into place now. Why, Becky even had a familiar - a mouse. Lizzie had seen it with her own eyes at it scurried as furtively as a wind tugged leaf, so deceptively now, Lizzie remembered.

How naïve she had been to stand aside and let her brazen witch of a neighbour beguile her husband. Her rage grew until she no longer saw that the wagon had stopped. Oh, poor Tom, poor Tom, she thought. And all the time she’d been blaming him.
She bumped into the wagon. “Please sir?”

“Yes lady? You wish to report a witch?”

The man was as large as an outhouse and as ugly as a bear’s ball-sack. Suddenly her rage had died and she felt very silly. Witch indeed; her husband had left her for someone younger and more wholesome – it happens. “Yes sir, I mean no sir. I am sorry to have troubled your good self.”

The man seemed to soften; he moved closer and smiled toothlessly. “Don’t be afraid my dear, I be on your side. If you know of a witch do not hesitate a moment for the devil will invade your pretty head and sway you. Now quickly Miss, you need say nothing, just point and I will do the remainder.”

Lizzie raised her arm; she would not to be swayed by the devil, and pointed her fissured, reddened finger.

It had been easy, for the Lord and King James had helped her. All she had done was point the finger and… “Fizzle, crack, fizzle, crack, now I have my husband back,” she whispered.

The audience had gone now that the screaming had ceased.

Lizzie’s skin had cleared, her hands and lips had healed and she was able to pull a comb through her hair; sure sign that she had been under her neighbour’s spell. Or was it simply that the chill of winter had lost its bite?

Tom now stood beside his wife and took her hand in his. Spots of rain now darted across the pyre, quickening its cooling. “You saved me from the Devil, Lizzie. How could I have been so easily led?”
They both gazed at the corpse as the Witchfinder came to cut down the body.

“Madam you have changed so. Is it possible that Our Lord could manage such a miracle?”

At the sound of his voice the corpse’s eyes cracked open as they watched, marble-white against blackened lids. It raised a charcoaled arm and pointed a fissured, reddened finger. The jaw fell open, tongue and lips barely human wrapped themselves around a single word.

“Witch,” she daid.