They barged into my hovel, not understanding who I was. The name “witch” screamed off each tongue as they held their torches high. Not one of them knew it really meant wise woman.
Polished red jasper, shiny black obsidian and pale blue celestine sat upon the wooden shelf lovingly made by my recently deceased husband.
Perched amid the crystals were my vials of powdered donkey skin, bottles of dried yarrow and arnica, salves of comfrey and calendula. Meant for medicinal purposes, they were seen as trinkets of evil. My heart cried when they dashed them to the floor with their axes and mauls. A hatchet slammed into my scrying mirror, glass shards spewing over the floor, my bed, my table. Divination bones, inscribed with runes, were tossed to the ground and smashed under heavy boots.
They forced me from my home, Princess Celeste among them, a contemptuous sneer marring her handsome face as she screeched out the orders to burn me at the stake.
My gardens were trampled, my White Baneberry ripped up by the roots. Its little white berries on red stalks, black at their centers, were poisonous and meant only for admiring. But they claimed I’d stolen the eyes of the dead and magicked them into this plant.
“What is the reason for this?” I cried, knowing perfectly well they deemed me evil and dangerous. I wanted to hear the false claims from the Princess and her worshippers. I had helped these men with their aches, eased the women in their labor, yet here they were to accuse me of wickedness.
In jubilant mayhem they dragged me to the forest and tied me to a tree at midnight. As the fire crackled to life, I recalled the Princess’s earlier request for help with her breathing disorder:
The frogs in my pond would have cured her; she’d only had to eat four small ones. But she’d refused to eat, refused to listen to my explanations. Many had been cured this way I’d informed her, trying to show her my book with the ancient cures. Still, she’d snubbed my help.
They rang my bells, taunting me, and tossed in candles I’d crafted from beeswax, and the athame they claimed was used for ritual killings. Though it resembled a sword it was sacred and never to be used for cutting. My mandrakes went into the blaze next making them shriek.
Collective fear rippled through the throng, thus they ascertained their decision was correct.
Last, came my Regal Birdflower, its petals resembling small birds. Of course they argued that I’d trapped and spelled real birds. They tossed those in the fire too, claiming it would release the birds. “How cruel,” they said, “to treat a living creature in such a manner.”
How ironic, I thought and only laughed, encouraging their fear and fueling their anger.
I called out, raising my voice over the crackle of the flames-
“I will soon blaze forth in your hearths. You will see me in the coals of your smoking pipes. My dance across the sky will be seen in the daylight and mirrored in the moon at night. This night will not be forgotten!”
As smoke slithered over my body, entering my nostrils, my lungs burned, and my skin seared blistering red, the flames blazed higher into the night sky.
I didn’t care. Once this life had been snuffed, my next life would begin.
Kellee Kranendonk has spent a lifetime writing in New Brunswick, Canada. According to her late grandfather she was born with a pen in one hand and paper in the other. She’ll probably die the same way. Her work has appeared in a best-selling anthology, the award-winning magazine Polar Borealis, received honorable mentions, and have been long/short listed. For nine years, Kellee was the editor of Youth Imagination and a children’s magazine prior to that. She has also managed online writers’ groups. Additionally, Kellee’s debut novel “In the End” is available on Amazon.
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