A Witch's Game

Keeping to the shadows of the lofty courtroom, I slinked in and curled up just under Lizbeth’s feet, unnoticed. Her little legs dangled from the seat and only her mop of brown hair was visible over the banister of the prisoner’s box. John Knowle, a pious magistrate, as well versed in the law as the child he was failing to intimidate, loomed over like an exhausted black spectre. Despite his fire and brimstone approach in his cross examination of three-year-old Lizbeth, she took his allegations with a chirpy indifference that only seemed to infuriate him. She spotted me, eyes lighting up as she reached down. No doubt she wanted to run her grubby little hands through my fur and give a good pull on my ears.

“Lizbeth Waterhouse! Do you understand the charges to which you are accused?” Knowle screamed, his voice turning hoarse, stifling the last two words. Muffled chuckles came from behind him. He cleared his throat as his face reddened.

“I’m a bitch?” Lizbeth both answered and asked. The crowd let out another titter.

“You have been accused of using witchcraft to cause death. How say you?”

“Granny made tea for Miss Jenny. Mrs Whittle’s goat fell over and died. I saw it first.”

The crowd murmured until the presiding judge waived a hand. Lizbeth shuffled in her seat, wanting to get down to pet me. Knowle leaned his pointed chin into Lizbeth’s face and saw me, slamming his hand down. I hunched and spat at him, the largest threat I could make in my current state. In my old life I’d have had his head on a spike, but unfortunately, I now lacked both the army and the thumbs to wield an axe. I leapt up and hissed, he recoiled, brandishing his copy of Daemonologie like a torch.

“Come to protect your mistress have you, Devil?” Knowle turned to his audience. Some had stood, backing toward the exit, others crossed themselves and held their own children closer. Amongst the chaos the judge calmly pointed the crowd back to their seats, all the while keeping me in the corner of his eye. Lizbeth, excited by all the commotion stood and ran her hands along my pointed tail, giggling whilst I bared my claws.

“And what do you call this creature?” Knowle said. Pointing at me, back to the wall.

“He says he was a warrior king called McNair.” She answered eagerly, giving my head a squeeze. Knowle’s fire reignited at her answer.

“Ha, you, see?” He turned to the frightened crowd, “she can speak with the devil. Why do you give him that name, child?”

Lizbeth seemed confused by the question, “’cause that’s his name.”

STOP SPEAKING! I told her through our connection. She wound her little arms around my middle and attempted to pick me up. Knowing it was useless to struggle, I went limp, allowing her to hug me too tightly, all the while dreaming of regaining my old body and laying waste to this peasant dung heap of a town. Panic churned in the air, despite being a crisp autumn day, the room was stiflingly hot. The sour tang of sweat hung low. The honourable Gilbert Gerard dabbed at his forehead, jowls shaking.

“Mayhaps we should adjourn till after the Sabbath,” He growled. “Till then, hold the girl in the dungeon. With a watch.” He stood hiking up his robes and stepping past the flabbergasted Knowle. Gilbert shook his head as he left, Knowle let out a petulant sigh.

“Can we go see grandma now?” Lizbeth asked me.

They hanged your grandma – her body still swings in the square! I reminded her yet again.

“But we can ask her what to do.” She insisted. The guardsmen led her away, thinking twice before he laid a hand on her. Lizbeth loosened her grip, and I wriggled myself free.

“I’m going back to that room again. I hate it there, it’s always dark.” She ground a tiny fist into her eyes as tears began to flow.

I crept my way around the far side of the courtroom to the barracks. Below ground, with only a single barred window, lay the dungeon. I slipped through the bars. The guardsman’s torch did little to illuminate the dank, dripping walls as he stepped by me. As dark as my fur is, I may well have been part of the stone. With a violent tug he wrenched open the cell door and nodded her inside. Lizbeth stared up at him. You won’t find an ounce of kindness behind those eyes, I wanted to tell her. She trudged inside. Head low as the door closed, lock snapping shut.

I could have left her there; my curse was to serve her grandmother after all. The old witch had been hanged a day ago and Lizbeth being only a child didn’t understand how she’d soon be joining her. From under the door, I heard the tiny, melancholy pull of her voice. She sang a sweet song. In a place of such despair her gentle naivety forced me to pause. In my old life, I had wrought death upon hundreds, this mere baby witch and her plight should have been nothing but a mild amusement. I dipped into the shadow, squeezing myself under the door.

The dampness hit me first. It saturated the air, slowly working its way down the walls, too cold to touch. The straw hadn’t been changed in months and seemed to capture the grief and panicked stench of every condemned fool to wallow in it. Lizbeth had created herself a little nest out of the drier patch. Legs crossed squarely in the middle she sang her song, all the while tearing up chunks of stale bread.

“McNair the Mad King put old York to the flame,

Little did he know it’s all a witch’s game.

Fought once in steel, now clad in fur,

Mad McNair’s curse, to die with her.”

I gave her a soft mew and she spun around to greet me. Her eyes shone, she squealed with delight and began to pat down the straw. A foreign happiness swelled in me. I shuddered before burying it down. Reluctantly, I curled up in her lap and let her stroke me.

Careful, stroke away from my head! I thought. Lizbeth stroked the other way. I relaxed my spine as she traced the length.

“I saved some bread for you.”

You eat it.

“No, you.”

She tried to stuff a piece into my mouth before I rolled over and gave her hand a quick bat. She drew back, looking hurt. That childish weakness made my blood boil.

Lizbeth, they want to hang you tomorrow. Do you understand? The little girl nodded, on the verge of more tears.

“At least you won’t hate me then.” She lay down in her small nest, soft whimpers and snivels filled the cell. I watched her little chest rise and fall with each sob. A picture of that coward John Knowle flashed through my mind, sitting down to eat with his family whilst a young girl lay weeping in a dungeon.

“I want to… talk to… granny.” She sobbed.

Your Grandmothers dead. I turned tail, leaving the way I’d entered. The watchman sat in the far corner, standing beside his torch, hands firmly tucked into his armpits. My leap from the floor to the window bars shook him from his stupor. He screamed, flapping his arms.

“Go on, Get! Bloody familiar. In Jesus’ name, never cross my path again!”

I crept out into the daylight, lamenting how good it would feel to cleave open his thick head, I took my leave. I crossed into the village square, market vendors hocked pieces of cloth and old jewellery, claiming to belong to the condemned. A way of warding off the curses that had burdened them in life. To see the amount on display you’d think the old witch had been hanged wearing ten tunics. I trotted through the cart-driven mud, skulking under the stalls to the old linden tree.

From a branch of the linden, Agnes, Lizbeth’s grandmother and reason for this morning’s bit of blood-soaked theatre, swung gently in the breeze. She was Lizbeth’s last living relative, and some whispers said her teacher in the arcane arts. That part was true at least, being her familiar I had watched as she desperately tried to instruct little Lizbeth who was more interested in annoying the “kitty”.

The town’s final straw came from one badly brewed potion. For years, the women folk had stolen away to see her. Always after dark, by lamplight, for a variety of herbs and potions. Moon tea being one of them. Used to end the life of a child in the womb, when brewed incorrectly could end the mother just as swiftly. A young washer woman was found cold and pale. Barely fourteen, with a few drops of the tea still left in her cup. Agnes’s trail lasted three days, throughout which she never uttered a word. Her sharp eyes bored into Knowle as he paced and blustered, wielding the cup like a real man wields a blade.

“Lookin’ like you’ll be lickin’ yerself clean, for all time, eh?” a rasping whisper from above. Her body was well into the decaying stages, despite the breeze, the smell of rot clung to her like a drowning man to driftwood. Her eyes had a milk-glass glaze and her tongue, purple and engorged lolled out to the side. The skin on her face looked to have been pulled taut, stretching the mouth into a macabre smile. I scrambled my way up the tree and trod carefully along the branch.

This be your plan for after they done away with you? I asked.

“Was hopin’ they’d drown me.”

What the use in being a bloated corpse?

“Same as bein’ a bloated cat. I was afraid, not ‘shamed to admit it.” She croaked, her voice little more than air through a reed.

Be afraid for Lizbeth, she’ll be up here with you tomorrow.

The old crone grew quiet at that. The rope creaked as it chafed against the tree branch.

Nothing to say for her?

“Save her… I’ll free you.”

Lightning spread through my body, the idea of being human again shook my steady limbs.

How? She’s in the dungeon below the guard barracks.

“Use Knowle… his fear will draw them away long enough.” What might have been a laugh passed her bone-dry lips.

Make me a man again. I’ll tear his tongue from his head.

“Bloom o’ tansy. A flower, with petals like pretty gold coins, should be som’ still on me dryin’ rack. Place it on his desk and watch the pious prick squirm.” Her body began to sway back and forth despite the now dead breeze, legs swinging like an impatient child.

I was back along the branch and down the tree before she’d finished. Still unsure how it would save Lizbeth. I felt my old life a few paces in front of me. Already seeing that simpering zealot Knowle begging for mercy as I draw back my axe. The flower was easy to find, exactly as the old witch had said. It had an acrid bitterness that worked its way up my nose, causing me to wretch. I scurried through the streets. Indifferent to the villagers crossing themselves. Some pushed others out the way at my approach. I savoured the small taste of fear I’d once inspired, passing the courthouse to the scribe’s office.

I knew Knowle kept an office on the second floor. He so loved to scowl down at the peasants as they raked the dirt that kept him fed. I hopped on the wood pile, darting up until I reached his windowsill. He was kneeling by a small altar in the far corner, his hands clutched just below his pointed chin, murmuring. I scoffed, having no idea people bothered with prayer when nobody was about. I leapt down in silence and padded over the sparsely furnished room to his desk. The candle flickered when I hopped up, his inkpot trembled. A scrap of paper sat unfolded on the desk. I had never learned letters, but it knew it to be Lizbeth’s death warrant. Getting it written down before the verdict. Knowle wouldn’t want to devote the sabbath to such a trivial matter.

I dropped the Tansy beside the candle – its warm glow caught the still bright petals just right. I gave my head a shake, glad to no longer have its medicinal sharpness beneath my nose. Unable to resist, I dipped my paw in the inkwell. The death warrant drank up the ink, leaving a fresh paw print over what I took to be Lizbeth’s name. I should have left Knowle alone to discover my antics but instead I hid under the table. My ear as sharp as and old fishwife’s, hunting for gossip.

When he’d gotten his fill of prayer, he pushed himself up to continue with his work. He spotted the paw print before he had even taken his seat. His head spun on his neck like a flanged mace, looking for the culprit whilst clutching his crucifix. He reached for his candle when the Tansy caught his eye, staring up at him through the firelight. His red-faced outrage turned a fish-belly white. He crushed the flower in his fist, breathing hard.

“Jesus in heaven, I beg you. She never asked. I never told her. She wanted to do it.” He whimpered at the ceiling, his pacing becoming almost hypnotic as his panic rose. In a man’s body Agnes would have made a fair warrior, the old hag certainly knew how to spread terror. The magistrate ran to his window and thrust his head out as if to be sick. Instead, he screamed down to his guardsmen.

“Round the men up. Wake the sleeping ones. Door-to-door search.”

The young guard fumbled with his helm, whilst Knowle raced across the room. Revelling in his fear, I took my leave through the window.

I slid back through the bars just as Lizbeth’s guard was pulled from his stool.

Hide under the straw!

Unusually compliant, Lizbeth lay down and piled her straw nest on top of her. Hastened footsteps and a rattle of keys echoed off the walls.

“She hasn’t moved. She hasn’t moved.” The guard mumbled. The rusted lock screamed as the key turned. The guardsman threw open the door to spot me staring back at him. I drew back and hissed. Pure terror poured into his eyes. He stumbled back against the stone, sliding down, tears falling. My heart pulsed in ecstasy.

Let’s go.

Lizbeth shook off the straw, strands still clutched to her hair. From outside, pandemonium had banished the late afternoon lull. Puddles splashed, produce dropped and trampled into the muck. The barracks had been emptied, save for the guardsman lying on the floor, clutching his chest and weeping. Lizbeth patted the horrified man’s head.

“Are we going to see granny?” She asked, as if on an adventure.

Outside, armour-clad men kicked doors to splinters. Judge Gilbert stood a head taller than the rushing crowds, bellowing Knowle’s name at the top of his lungs. I led Lizbeth down the main street, dodging trampling feet and hissing villagers away. As we rounded the main square, a few guardsmen stacked wood under Agnes’s swaying corpse whilst Knowle hurried them. He held a torch aloft as the sweating men backed away, the pile as tall as a man.

Agnes glared down as Knowle threw the torch on the pile. Within seconds the flames were licking at her legs. I watched the fire dance in his eyes, shoulders slumped in a tired victory. The smell of charred meat thickened the air. Judge Gilbert gaped at Knowle, wondering what hysterical madness had possessed him. I tasted bitter Tansy at the back of my throat, watching my last hope for my old life blacken and spit. I felt Lizbeth’s fingers curl round my ear.

“Is that going to happen to me?” She asked.

The smoke climbed higher, threatening to burn the Linden along with the corpse. The rope twisted, Agnes’s body was turned to face McNair and Lizbeth. If she still could see, she would have watched her little granddaughter chasing the raised tail of her familiar as they both left the village for the forest. Fire touched the rope, it snapped, sending the old witch falling back to earth.