Haggard

Her power has been stripped from her like fingernails, and her true form has been revealed. It's huddled under a thin, tattered blanket, filthy with mud and blood.

see her cape? gifted by Satan! that's how she flies about at nights... Was she beautiful? Maybe. Compared to now, definitely. They tell of hair, thick and wavy and bright in the sunshine, that hung nearly to her waist. Mind you, they say almost anything. Hardly enough darkly matted strings to cover her scarred scalp, now. She peeps out of the lank curtain at the villagers. The contempt she finds in their faces hits her like the whip. She flinches. These hands will never again write about the properties of hyssop, or how to make a tincture of chamomile, or how feverfew could treat headaches. She nurses them in her lap, vainly trying to cushion them from the jolting. Fingers so long now, each one crooked and broken. The blood, copious, has dried black. A child peeps from a mother's skirts. Horror and innocence writ plain on that rounded face! Pity couldn't be stirred from adults (driving their sanctimonious outrage at her like nails), but here there's hope. Movement must be slow and careful, against the pain, or else whip-quick, to suffer as little as possible. She reaches in supplication. Wordless, because they cut out her tongue, lest it weave a single spell.

the wretched hag creeps close and lurches, hooked claws reaching for the infant

Her pained grunt reveals a mouthful of scant tombstones, blackened and crooked, to match her fingers.

it shrieks, eyes flashing

The child is pulled away.

She knows where they're taking her, can smell the oil being poured, stacked cedar awaiting the torch... Oh, they're a superstitious, hypocritical lot! No amount of cedar could cleanse this. When they drag her from the cart, she stumbles on fractured feet. Stooped, skeletal, she's nothing like the sturdy woman in the wood cottage who made teas and balms. Nobody connected her to the one who helped when that woman birthed twins last month, and they got stuck. They lived, too, all three. She prays, to any god who might be listening, to make the smoke honey-thick, so it chokes her before the flames reach her feet.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Sunday 29th September at 18:01

The story behind the story: This is a story for Marie Sinadjan's Spooky Bingo, using the theme "Forest Witch". Who even knows what pattern I'm after at this point!

Just a reminder that no one ever burned witches. They burned women. That is scary.

who knows why we were taught to fear the witches, and not those who burned them alive?

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 272 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY NINETY-THREE DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed!

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I'm going to be slower to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads, as life gets in the way... but I'll catch up in a week or two.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Just a couple of days left on my dollar challenge!

and here's my review and summary of the recent Unreliable challenge:

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