The Witch

The Witch by Jay Ridge

My chest heaves, my breaths short and laboured, as I cower, hiding, in the cold. I try to distract myself by watching my breath turning to smoke in the harsh chill.

Trying desperately to keep warm I tug my mother's old tattered patchwork shawl tight around my frail shoulders; the slight smell of her still lingers past the death embrace that recently stole her from me. It's the only comfort I have in this damp hole that I'm struggling to shade in.

Small perfectly formed droplets of icy rain hit the floor beside me, their impact against the wet floor amplified tenfold with my heightened senses.

My eyes fixate on the oranges and yellows of a warm flame that I can just make out in the distance, dancing through a small gap between the wooden slats of this poorly made shack, taunting me with promises of warmth and dry clothes.

I can hear the angry mob as they gather outside, with their pitchforks, rage and unfair prejudice. My nerve endings tingle, goosebumps cascade over my dirty flesh. Every ounce of their hatred soaks into my blood and lights my senses in explosive sensations that send uncontrollable shivers down my bony spine. It's almost unbearable. I almost cry out, but, I manage to quell the rising hysteria by putting my head in my hands and gripping my ebony hair between my slender fingers, pulling to the point that my roots scream in protest.

Footsteps closer than I'd like, bring me out of my trance. Releasing my hair, I shuffle around, crouched down with my back pinned against the hard mud, my eyes wide scanning the dark. I can just make out an outline of a figure, mostly hidden by shadows. My dark brown eyes scan wildly, darting from left to right, searching for any indication that they have found my hiding place.

I don't deserve this, to be running and hiding like a vagrant looking to escape. The heavyweight of uneducated justice upon the necks of the wrongdoers of our pathetic small society. What did I do that was so bad? The call of ancient traditions beckoned me with their delightful and mystical desires. If anything, I'm guilty of caving into the primal urges that were laid out bare before me, calling to me. I did not harm anyone. I am one with mother nature and mother nature is one with me, she fed me from her bosom of life and I opened my arms and accepted all that she had to offer, then embraced her in all her glorious beauty.

I cast my thoughts back to the reason why I'm hiding in the first place, I let my thoughts roam over the Series of unfortunate events that lead me to run for my life. All I wanted was to create something beautiful, something magical,but, alas, that wasn't to be.

It's hard to believe that it was only a few short moments ago that I was truly happy, sat content, reading from my great great great grandmothers grimoire.

My one true and only love was out on the hunt with some locals - I awaited the quandary he would bring forth for our humble dinner table but the reality is all I wanted to do was to see his warm face once again smiling in my direction. I remember his last words before he left, talking of love and trust and a future unwritten between us. He always suffered with pride and felt condemned for loving me the way he did but not did he relinquish his passion for me, his future bride and oh I love him so for it. That last touch upon my cheek and gentle bearded kiss against my soft lips - one I could never forget.

As I carried on reading from the old, torn faded pages that held long kept secrets that could create magic for anyone who understood nature's true beauty. The wonders trapped in those pages could change lives; or destroy them- if in the wrong hands.

I sigh deeply, recollecting my stupid error.
Unfortunately for me, the door to my dwelling had been slightly ajar. A young child from the other side of our small village had been watching me with curious awe. I don't know how long he had been there but the assumption he had made had been correct. I tried to smile to say hello; but he ran before I could stop him, telling all who would listen to his thoughts. That Eliza Bishop was a wican. A witch!