Unafraid of the Dark

Greta knew Johann was dying. He reached for her delicate hand and stroked her long fingers. His skin felt like cold, wet clay. The fever hadn't broken in three days. After weeks of fighting, she watched the dimming of his light happen before her very eyes. The candle at his bedside flickered, threatening to leave them abandoned in the darkness together. Greta wasn't afraid of the dark. She was afraid of being alone.

Johann curled a calloused finger around hers and forced himself to speak, "Greta, I have many things to tell you, and not much time."

"Shhh, don't waste your strength on the past," she said softly and wiped his sweaty forehead with a damp cloth. "None of it matters now."

"Everything," Johann cleared his grating throat forcefully. He struggled to prop himself on his elbows to lean forward and bore his beady eyes into hers. "Everything about it matters."

Greta braced herself for what was coming. She had waited her whole life to hear what she hoped he was about to tell her. Her stomach swirled and knotted with anticipation.

"Do you remember anything before I came for you? When you were five years old?" he asked slowly.

Memories from her early life were scattered and scarce. She remembered a woman, a beautiful, kind woman who spoke differently than her. She remembered the letters Johann sent, to keep her (and the woman, she presumed) up to date on his status and plans. She also remembered the day Johann came to take her home.

"You cried," Johann said wistfully. "You didn't want to leave Marguerite."

Greta tried to remember more on her own before she responded. She couldn't, so then mustered enough courage to ask the question she has assumed to be true.

"Was she my mother?"

"No little mouse. Her name was Marguerite. She took you in when your mother died, and father."

There was silence for some time while Greta absorbed what was said. Through the years, she made up stories in her head about the woman, Marguerite, and even asked Johann about her once. His response squashed any chance of her trying to find out before he was ready to tell her. In a harsh tone she had never heard from him before, he said to never ask about her childhood again. He promised he would tell her when it was time. Now, hearing that her parents were dead triggered a cascade of mixed emotions. She stood up, avoiding her own reaction, and went to get another candle.

The rooms were full of shadows from the moonlight beaming through the front windows. Greta made her way to the front of their dwelling when something outside caught her eye.

They lived in the town center where the roads were made of stone. Johann was the area's well-known and much-loved tailor, with Greta as his apprentice. Their workshop was below the living quarters, at street level. They had a small balcony facing the square, the direction in which she saw the commotion. Distracted, she went to see what was happening.

A group of men were building an altar made of thick wood. Greta immediately knew what was happening. That morning, two women were found guilty of making a pact with the devil, taking the blame for the extended frost that killed most of the food and other vegetation in the area. The entire winter was a struggle, leaving everyone hungry and desperate for relief. Spring's arrival was anxiously anticipated, but the harsh weather never let up. Hertha and Anni were accused by their neighbors to have been performing rituals in their home involving the sacrifice and consumption of human baby flesh. They were arrested, like so many other women before them, and eventually they confessed to the crime. The altar was being staged for their public execution by fire, mandated by the Prince Bishop to be witnessed by every citizen in town.

Greta didn't believe the accusations were true, however. She and Johann had endless discussions about how the current witch craze defied logic, yet brutally ended hundreds of lives over the last several decades. They noticed patterns in the way the victims were, in their opinion, chosen. Mostly defenseless women, elderly, unmarried, sometimes of an odd demeanor, and on occasion when an example was to be made, wealthy and popular. The men that faced the same punishment had either taken a stance in defense of the women accused, or committed a crime themselves that caused the victim wanting their cruel death as revenge. It was easy enough to sling accusations of philandering with devils and get the desired outcome. The Prince Bishop was more than eager to oblige. Johann and Greta did everything they could to avoid being caught in that crossfire. Now, with Johann dying, Greta could feel the vultures circling, knowing she would soon have to fend for herself. For a moment she watched then men build the altar, her blood ran ice cold, then returned to Johann's side.

As she sat on his bed, Johann wasted no more time. Greta saw his eyes mist with tears and deep emotions.

"You must let me finish before you say anything," he urged. Greta agreed. "Your mother was my sister. I am your uncle."

Upon hearing this, Greta felt both shocked and glad. She loved Johann with all her heart. It made sense because he truly was like a father to her. He continued.

"There is a book that your mother kept. I have it hidden. She was a, a..." Johann lost his words. "...she was a midwife. A healer. A very gifted healer. Then all this madness started, and she had to stop everything. Except, she didn't. She just hid it."

Johann pointed under the bed. "Loose plank up against the wall. Find it."

Greta found it. When she opened the book, what she saw silenced her. She slowly turned the pages, fingering the brittle edges carefully, absorbing what she saw. Her eyes widened with each page reveal. She could barely breathe.

Johann whispered, drawing closer to the last bit of strength he had.

"Greta. Your mother. Me. Our family," he drew his finger along the cracked, black leather book edge. "This is our legacy. We are..."

Greta looked up at him. She was deeply filled with fear, uncertainty, and, to her surprise, pride. She finished it with one word.

"Witches."