The Song of the Malificae

12 Years (4)

They head to the town hall in the morning, the old couple lagging behind, taking their time in the fresh morning air. Liridona picks up a fast pace, twins trotting behind her. They join the crowd on the benches, attempt to tune out the spoken hopes of a burning soon. Ulrich keeps them waiting in anticipation before he finally arrives in a swish of black fabric, followed by the witch and her usual escort of three officers.

The magistrate steps onto his podium, stands facing the townsfolk, tall and straight, hands clasped behind him. The witch is brought to her knees and the magistrate lets the anticipation build further, until finally, he addresses the town.

"Folk of Gimmelwald. Having attended to and considered the details of the process enacted by us against Aldessa Ingold, and having diligently examined the whole matter, find that the accused is equivocal in her admissions; as for example, pleading her innocence, but nevertheless, there are various proofs which are sufficient warrant for exposing her to the question and torture."

At this, the three siblings gasp, while their mother calmly receives her sentence.

Now to the witch, Ulrich says, "Wherefore, that the truth may be known from your own mouth, I declare, judge and sentence that on this present day at noon, you be placed under the torture."

The next couple days, the accused witch is kept inside the prison, where the magistrate and his officers join her, as they try to exact a confession of her guilt, so they can lawfully execute her. Liridona tries not to imagine her mother being tortured, but nights spent awake—the elbows of her sisters prodding her sides—it's all she can think of. She paces before the window, looks out as if she could see the prison. She resists the urge to go, digging half-moons in her palms, tugging at the ends of her hair. She stays.

And finally comes the day for the final verdict with a toll of the Church's bell.

The audience gathers. The witch is brought in.

Dried blood is caked into her skin, cracking where it was attempted to be washed away hurriedly. Certain areas—around the shadows of her collarbone, in the creases of her neck, between her fingers—are still dark with red. Her week-old skirts are torn at the hem, the plain brown fabric, stained with blood too, are wrapped around her hands roughly. Liridona doesn't want to see what's underneath. She's heard stories of the torture of accused witches—crushing their fingers and toes, stretching their arms and legs—until they confessed guilty, but never had it been so real.

The witch stands hunched and shaky before the magistrate's podium. Her mask ripped off, her face is slack and haggard, black bags hanging beneath her eyes, defeat written in the lines around her mouth and brows.

The magistrate looks weary too, though. He holds his left arm close to his torso, lips pressed tight. Fear and anger seem to struggle for dominance over his expression. Meanwhile, the priest sits hunched in his chair, shoulders tucked up around his ears, Bible held tight in his encircling arms. The hands of the scribes shake as they dip their quills into the inkpot; the officers keeping a closer watch on the woman, even while they keep a wider distance.

Ulrich steps up in front of the expectant crowd. They wait.

He clears his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing, up, down. Pulls a sheaf of papers out from under his arm, looks at them as if this were his first time to see it. Recites:

"I, Ulrich Batz, judge and magistrate of Gimmelwald in the Canton of Berne by the power of the Holy Roman Empire, have seen that Aldessa Ingold has been accused by public report of heresy considering acts of witchcraft. Since I, whose duty it is to exterminate the plague of heresy, have diligently inquired into the said accusation, I found that you are indeed infected with the said heresy.