The Hanged Woman

Whenever my thoughts turn to Primrose Wood, a warm ticklish sensation runs through my body, filling me with pure, innocent memories of long ago. I remember the first time I saw her. It was a wonderful summer’s day. A day for picking berries or paddling in the cool river.

      Wendy, my little sister, at thirteen years of age is merely one year younger than myself, but the boisterous tomboy was vulnerable and needed the protection of an older brother. Today, we decided to build a raft; a task beyond most thirteen year olds, but Wendy thrives on a challenge, and mum always said she ought to have been a boy. Wendy would prefer to beck jump, rather than do normal things a girl of her age would do, such as playing with dolls.

    We armed ourselves with a coil of rope and a wood saw, which I sneaked from my father’s shed, before heading for the river. Wendy, as usual took the lead after she wrestled the saw from my unresisting grip. Had it been any other girl, I would have found it embarrassing, but Wendy could be very persuasive.

    With the expertise of a seasoned lumberjack, she ascended the tall chestnut tree and selected the prime limbs for the raft, before sawing away. “Timber!” She would scream, in her high-pitched voice, her freckled-face lighting up when the branch fell to the ground.

    After thirty minutes, an abundance of wood lay at the base of the tree. Wendy, with her hair in pigtails, and wearing unflattering dungarees, descended the tree and slapped her hands together, before she inspected her bounty.

    “Do you think we have enough?” I asked.

    “If we haven’t, there are plenty more trees.”

    She swatted away an irritating wasp, before producing a treacle toffee from her pocket. She teasingly unwrapped it, before sucking noisily on the delicious sweet.

    “Giz one,” I drooled.

    “No way.” Wendy shook her head and sucked even harder.

    “Go on… I’ll swap you for a blackjack?”

    “Two!”

    I pondered. She drove a hard bargain, did my sister. I delved deep inside my pocket amongst the marbles, conkers and football stickers, and handed over the goods.

    Before starting on the raft, we decided to cool our feet, and so we paddled into the river. The welcome cold water refreshed us against the scorching sun that burnt our necks. It was unusually calm, and not even a breath of wind was present.

    Something caught my eye. A huge swarm of butterflies had converged on the riverbank, fluttering their tiny, colourful wings.

    “Wow! Check them out, Wendy.”

    We waded towards them and disturbed a couple of frogs that were taking a siesta on the lily pads. Putting on our shoes hurriedly, we watched the hundreds of butterflies head into Primrose Wood. We bounded after them, giggling as we meandered through the trees and mingled with the butterflies. They reached their destination and hovered at the base of a huge oak tree. Our eyes followed them as they rose skywards.

    We gasped, when we took in the terrifying sight before us. A lady hung from the tree, her eyes closed, and her long, golden tresses covering her shoulders. It was as if she was attempting to conceal the noose around her neck. Her contorted face was the colour of snow; her eye sockets and lips as purple as the most vibrant heather. Her long, white dress fluttered wildly, even though no breeze was present. She swayed back and forth, the creaking of the branch the only sound present when the birds assumed their silence.

    I turned and ran, looking back over my shoulder to see Wendy, who stared up at the lady.
    “Wendy, run! Run, Wendy!”

    She never heard me, and so I returned. I took her hand and led her out of the woods.  

We returned with our father and loped swiftly ahead of him, eager to show him our discovery. We stopped and gaped upwards, open-mouthed, for the lady was nowhere to be seen. We remonstrated with our father, but his mood was one of anger. He moaned about how valuable his time was. His anger was more forthcoming when he discovered that his wood saw was missing. We were grounded for a week, and so decided to tell nobody else of the lady. It was to be our secret.

******

One year passed to the day, before we saw her again. The butterflies as ever were present, but this time we never ran. We were certain by now that she never meant to hurt us. We sat on the ground, ate our jam butties, and swatted away the hungry flies. We watched the beautiful butterflies swarming around the lady, as she swayed gently.

    “Who do you think she is?” I asked.

    “A ghost, what else.”

    “A g-g-ghost. That‘s not funny.”

    Wendy bit into her butty. “Of course she’s a ghost. She was hanged in the seventeenth century.”

    “You’re making it up.”

    “No I’m not.”

    “Are so... How do you know?”

    “I just do.”

    We felt a gentle breeze caress our faces and looked up to the lady. Her eyes opened and I struggled to my feet. I ran as fast as I could, before I hid behind a tree. Wendy remained seated on the ground, looking up at the strange lady and nodding her head, as if she was listening to her. Eventually, Wendy joined me and we walked home, silent, each of us deep in thought.

******

I grimaced when my grandfather clipped his toenails, much to the annoyance of my mother. She was watching one of her soaps, whilst Wendy and myself played with my football figures on the carpet. She annoyed me by disrupting my game, so I punched her arm, but received a more powerful punch back.

    “Mum! Wendy punched me!”

    “He punched me first.”

    “No I didn’t.”

    I relented and sat beside my grandfather. I looked teasingly over to my sister and said, “Granddad, do you want to know a secret?”

    Wendy silently mouthed, “no,” but I was out for revenge.

    “Secret? Go on then.”

    “We know where there’s a ghost.”

    “Is that so?” asked Granddad.

    “Yes, in the woods. A hanging lady.”

    Granddad frowned and turned his head towards us when Wendy kicked me. “A hanging lady?”

    “Yes. We saw her today, and on the same day last year.”

    “Are you telling fibs, Barry?”

    “No, honest… Wendy says she was hanged in the seventeenth century.”

    “Hasn’t your father warned you to stop telling fibs?” moaned my mum.

    “No, wait a minute Joan,” said Granddad. “Wendy, who told you she was hanged in the seventeenth century?”

    “She did.”

    “And did she tell you her name?”

    “Yes. It’s Molly.”

    We watched as Granddad turned a sickly shade of white, and almost choked on his false teeth.

    “Are you okay, Dad?” asked my mother.

    “I’m fine... Who told you two about this story?”

    “It’s true. She was in the woods,” I insisted.

    “Poppycock. Someone must have told you about Molly.”

    “You know about her? Please tell us, Granddad.”

    He sucked on his pipe and settled back. “So the story goes…it was indeed in the seventeenth century. An elderly squire, John Graves owned all of the land around here. He grew to be a powerful man, but was not a happy chap, as his wife died of the yellow fever. The squire was on the lookout for another wife and came across young Molly Keats, the daughter of a woodcutter. He threw himself at her in an attempt to win her heart, but he repulsed her. You see, he was not a handsome man; in fact, he reeked and was downright ugly. The other villagers laughed behind his back, as he was rejected time and time again, so he decided to get his revenge.”

    “Dad, you’ll give the children nightmares with such stories.”

    “Nonsense. Now where was I? Ah, yes. He invented a story, saying that Molly was dabbling in witchcraft. He planted effigies and made a witch’s circle in the woods, claiming that he saw Molly inside the circle. He went to the authorities with his story, but Molly was found to be innocent, and so once more Graves was ridiculed... A year passed before the squire assembled a group of his loyal workers and carried Molly to the woods. They hanged her, as only the highest authorities could sanction burning. He produced several witnesses, swearing they saw her worshipping Satan... Now, who told you this story, children?”

    “What about the butterflies, Granddad?” I asked.

    He opened his mouth to speak, but Wendy beat him to it. “Molly used to collect butterflies. She loved them.”

    “That’s right, Wendy, but how…?”

    “Right, children, time for bed. And you should have more sense than to tell such tales,” moaned mum, pointing at granddad.

******

The next year, early in the morning, we sat in the same spot in anticipation of her appearance. We had our very own Lady of Lourdes. We did not have to wait long until the butterflies made their appearance, fluttering their vibrant wings. The lady once more opened her eyes. It was as if she was pleading with us.

    Wendy clambered to her feet and walked over to the large oak tree. She spit on her hands and proceeded to climb the tree expertly.

    “Wendy, come down, please,” I pleaded.

    It was pointless; she never heard, or chose not to. She reached the same branch as the rope was tethered and edged along it, her skinny legs astride the limb. She was close enough to the lady to have touched her, and I saw Molly’s unblinking eyes turn towards Wendy. I backed up, pleading for Wendy to come down, but she ignored me. She produced a penknife from the pocket of her dungarees and proceeded to cut away at the thick rope; her presence almost invisible amongst the swarm butterflies.

     After several minutes, the rope gave way and Molly fell towards the ground; only she never crashed to the earth, but hovered, as if being held up by the butterflies. She smiled at me and the colour returned to her face, her beauty now apparent. Wendy dropped to the ground and joined me.

    Molly came towards us, not walking, but hovering. My first instinct was to turn and run, but Wendy held my hand in a firm grip. Molly approached, and she was now so close, her face radiant and at peace. The butterflies surrounded her and I closed my eyes. I felt a wonderful tingling sensation when Molly passed through us both.

We giggled and turned to see Molly soar into the air, as if being carried away by the butterflies. She turned towards us and appeared to mouth, “Thank you,” before she turned again and rose towards the clouds. We watched until she had disappeared, with tears streaming down our eyes. We hugged each other, and I acknowledged that Wendy had done something so wondrous. Molly was on her way to heaven.