Witch in the Wood

Baying dogs. They're closer than the last time I heard them. Catching up. I don't know how long I can keep going; I can barely breathe. Cries of "Witch!" ring in my head, a pounding rhythm that builds with every panicked step. My dress catches and tears, my hands long ago reduced to a bloody, mangled mess. My feet are probably worse, but I can't stop to think about it; if I don't make it out of the woods I won't survive. I have to keep going.

I hit a clearing; I'm going the wrong direction. The wood ends at a cliff this way. Can't stop, don't think, keep going. Feet pounding the earth, breath hitching with every step, I run. There's no time for a plan, no time for thought. Just run; keep running.

A cry of triumph; they see me. I run faster, trying to dodge out of sight. I stumble, my foot catching a stone. Don't think, just get up. Keep going, don't stop, run.

I barely catch myself at the cliffs edge. Time suddenly stills; nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no time to plan. The only thing left is to face my enemy. I turn, the sight of me stopping them in their tracks. Their faces glow with the thrill of the chase, as though this is naught but a game to them. I looked from one to the other, these familiar faces which now held only disgust and triumph mingled.

Were I a true witch I'd burn them where they stood, call fire down to devour them in their moment of triumph. Lacking the power to do so, I'll make use of what I do have.

"Jackson, you illiterate scoundrel, you would dare kill one who has saved your life not 4 months since!" I cry, shaking with hatred.

"And you, Marcus," I continue, steadier now "you'd kill me for giving your brother some comfort on his deathbed? Your mother would be ashamed!"

I see them shift about, uncomfortable at being called out by name. They look to the Witchfinder colonel, who steps to the forefront.

"And why should they not," he declares, his accusing finger directed at me "when they've learned that for all you claim to care you are naught but a witch, intent on wickedness and destruction in the service of your master!"

"You're truly a fool, if you think that knowing how to use a handful of herbs makes me a witch!" I allow the scorn to creep into my voice, standing straight and proud at the precipice. There may be nowhere to run, but I won't let them win.

"If you were not a witch" he grins "you'd not have run! Only the guilty run."

"I'm no witch, you bloody bastard, but anyone with enough spite can lay a curse!" my blood boiling, I raise my hand. "I call upon the earth, air, fire, and water, to hear this day the curse I lay upon those who would kill me for kindness! May drought come upon them," I step back, closer to the edge, as they move forward "may they die in untimely manners, may their flesh rot while they yet live! Let their guilt hang heavy about their necks, at the knowledge that they killed one who did care for them in illness!"

They rush forward, cruel intent in their eyes. I know what comes next, what they'll do if they can. They won't win today.

I throw myself back, suddenly weightless as my feet find no purchase. I stretch my arms out, my head thrown back, as I begin to fall. I stare into their eyes, laughter unexpectedly pulled from my throat. These are the "righteous ones" that sit in church every Sunday, that preach love for enemies. I healed their wounds, tended them in illness, and they have killed me for it. They call me wicked.