Hagatha

I miss my shadow.  I miss a lot of things, but at this moment, I long for my shadow.  To say I’m envious of the living is an understatement.  My name is Hagatha.  It’s an ancient name, but then I guess so am I.  It means child of the moon or something along those lines.  Anybody who’d know exactly what my name means are long gone.  I was born in the Scottish highlands or at least that’s what I’ve been told.  Born there seven centuries ago. My body is just a mere shadow, but my soul is ancient Celtic. My story is that of old folk legends.  My name is cursed and the stuff of a child’s nursery rhyme.

Hagatha, Oh Hagatha, 

You are the witch of the highlands,

Cursed are your fingers and hands, 

You brought a evil to ancient place,

No one can look upon your wretched face,

Without remembering slaugh’s doleful trace,

Spirit of the night

Hiding from daylight

Oh Hagatha, Oh Hagatha.

How I hate it when them lads and lasses sing that dreadful song during recess on the playground. 

Witchcraft.  

It was what they accused me of back then. 

Zealots.

Puritans.

Where I was once welcomed, I became the evil one wandering the fields and glens.  Where once I would bring my magic potions to save a wee one from a plague of maladies.  I would take the infant from his crib, place my hands over his brow and then hand the squirming infant in his grateful mother’s arms. Free from that which would surely have killed him.

Aye, grateful she was too.  She would pay me what she could for the cure of her child.

Grateful they would be for the magic I had been tutored in as a child.  

You see, my mum was a witch like me, but she warned me of the power of magic.  I did not listen. 

“When you grow up, my dear, you will understand the Atlas Obscura.” My mum told me as I was fussing in the kitchen where she kept her potions and magic charms. “These Hagatha are not playthings.” 

“Yesum.” I relinquished the things I had been playing with.  

“We will go into the woods later and fetch us some more material.” She promised. 

“Willa.” I could hear someone at the door urgently knocking and calling my mother’s name. “Willa!” 

“What be it now?” She hissed and walked toward the cottage door.

“Willa, they have executed Isabel Goodie.” Bridgette came into our cottage completely out of breath.

“The devil ya say good lady.” My mother seemed shocked.

“Tortured and rolled her down the hill in a barrel with spikes.” Bridgette hugged mum as she began to sob into her shoulder.

“My God, who else will they come after.” Mum patted her despondent friend Bridgette on her back. 

“Said there be a written confession, there was.” Bridgette said between heavy sobs. “I put some pence into one of the wells.” 

“We all should do that.” Mum said, trying to comfort Brigette. 

“Will we meet this Saturday?” She asked pulling away from mum’s embrace with her eyes filled with tears. 

“Aye, no reason not to have our coven gather to send the spirit of our sister off, now is there?” 

“Nay,” Bridgette whispered as she sniffed.

“This is a time of distress for us, now isn’t it?” She put a cup of tea on the wooden table near the stove. “Drink this, Bridgette.” 

“What is it?” 

“Tea, dear, tea.” My mum shook her head. “Ya know they is accusing women of witchcraft if they be practicing or not.  It doesn’t seem right.” 

“Some are going to the Americas to get away from this scourge.” Bridgette placed her hands around the cup of tea.  She sipped the hot liquid, “Ah, your choice of spices is flavorful, it is.” 

“Thankie.” Mum smiled and then reached down and ran her fingers through my hair.

I still remember her gentle touch. It is the one thing about her I refuse to let go of.  It wasn’t long after Isabel was tortured and executed, the authorities came for me mum, too.  They petitioned her on her practice of being a midwife.  One of the women she helped survive her delivery when her infant son did not, accused her of practicing the dark arts which ultimately ended her child’s life.  

It was false testimony, but when I visited her in her prison cell, I saw her face was puffy and bruised.

“I cannot tell you, Hagatha, what they did to me, because it will put you in danger, too.” She reached through the bars and stroked the side of my face. “There is an outcry about this brutality.  I hope it will end before your time, my lass.” 

“Mum, when will you be coming home, pray tell?” I asked as big old tears began to roll down my cheeks.

“Oh my dear, I won’t be comin’ home.” Her tears began to mix with mine as she leaned against the cold steel bars and hugged me as best she could.

And they done murdered her in accordance with the law.  Bridgette brought me to the gates of the prison to collect her personal belongings after she was executed.  One of the administrators called me into his office and had me sit in a wooden chair, “You are Hagatha, are ya not?’

“Yessir, I am.” I nodded.

“Your mum was executed according to the laws against conversing with the devil.” His face was very stern as he looked down at me, “Her order of execution was signed by King James IV of Scotland.”

He handed the document to me.

“Thankie sir.” Was all I could say.

He coughed, “Please lass, don’t follow in your mum’s footsteps, promise me.” 

“I promise.” I nodded.

Promised?  Such a promise was surely a false oath on my part.  Bridgette took me to her house as my mum stipulated in her final testament and taught me lessons in witchcraft where me mum had left off. 

Meanwhile the world around us went into turmoil as the Reformation swept the countryside.  Where once my ancestors told tales of the magic creatures who lived in the dense woods of the highlands, we were now forbidden to speak of such superstitions and paganism.  Those who followed the ancient practices were rounded up and suffered the consequences of their actions.  But what I could not understand was that this whole Daemonologue of 1558 was nothing more than an attack on women, plain and simple.  While there was some dissension among the citizens in the public square, the Church of England shamed those who dared speak out against the document and the carnage against women continued unabated.  

I would go out to the cemetery where my mother had been buried with the other criminals and paupers and set flowers on her grave.  The pauper cemetery forbade headstones or other such religious artifacts placed on the graves, but flowers were allowed and I bought lilies every chance I got. 

Not far away from where mum rested, was the grave of Isabel Goodie.  I would always make sure to stop at her grave and say a few words on her behalf.  If I was caught by the groundskeeper, I would surely be punished for my transgressions.  No one was allowed to pay their respects to a daughter of the devil. 

“They be scapegoating the witches.” I heard Bridgette tell one of the members of the coven.

“The hell ya say.” Maggie Smythe shook her head.  She was caught practicing divination to which she was condemned to burn at the stake which she did in 1634.  

“This blasted war with England has everyone in a tither.” Bridgette remarked as she folded her bedsheets. “Witches are being blamed for putting curses on those on the battlefield.” 

“I have never heard of such goings-on.” Maggie declared.  

“It’s always the women, ain’t it?” Bridgette said.

“I know some warlocks, I do.” Maggie rolled her eyes.

“As I.” Bridgette put the sheets on the top shelf in her closet. “I would like to return to the days when it was alright to speak to the magic folk in the woods.” 

“I hear things are worse in the lowlands.” Maggie sighed, “My sister lives near Edinborough and she tells me the citizens are in a frenzy.” 

“Serves ‘em right, snugglin’ up to the Church and all.” 

“Damn right.” Maggie giggles.

A flier was posted on the bulletin board in the public square:

Attention:  All good citizens of Scotland, be advised that henceforth, all practices of paganism and witchcraft will no longer be allowed in public or private.  Any questions from church or administrative authority will be considered sworn testimony and could lead to further charges. 

Signed, 

King James VI 

King of Scotland

“The ill wind blows in from the king, I see.” Bridgette said, holding her market basket against her hip. 

“Are we all meeting tomorrow?” I asked.

“Certainly.” Her voice was filled with resolve.

The next evening, we all gathered like we had since I had joined the coven.  

“I say we turn all the village cats into crows.” Katherine suggested, “That will make ‘em stand up and notice.” 

“I do not wish to draw any more attention to us than necessary.” Bridgette spoke out, “I have heard stories from Edinborough about them burning witches.” 

“Aye, and I have heard stories from the colonies in America.” One of the hooded members replied, trying to keep her face from the firelight. 

“It seems we have come to an impasse.” Bridgette raised her arms as she spoke, “We cannot afford to take any chances.  Even divination is now outlawed.”

“What is this war on women?” Another spoke out in anger.

‘We have never offered any resistance.  We have kept to our place in society.” Maggie looked around the circle.

“Truly, we have kept to our part of the bargain.” 

“Please, please, your attention.” Bridgette raised her arms again, “We must not betray who we are.  Once being a witch was considered acceptable, but with this zealot fever that has swept over our land, we must heed to the authority of both Church and State.”

I heard the hoofbeats of horses just beyond the copse of trees.  Within minutes we were surrounded by armed soldiers.  The leader of the group moved forward into the firelight.  He looked at us all with a stern expression on his bearded face, “Ladies, I come with the authority of King James. I am Captain Stewart.” 

Everyone was silent.  Each of us looked at Captain Stewart who many would consider dashing, but under the circumstances we were frozen in fear.

“Does anyone have anything to say?” His eyes scanned each of us as we stood there. “Alright arrest these women.” 

His subordinates dismounted and each of them grabbed one of our coven.

“All of them will be charged with witchcraft.” He announced.  

One of the soldiers grabbed me by my elbow.  I watched Bridgette scream, “No, no you can’t do this.” 

I remained silent, because a couple of the soldiers struck Bridgette with a steel bar.  She fell in a heap along with some of the others whose protest was viewed as resistance.  Once in irons, we were marched to an oxcart where we were herded into. 

“I want to go home.” Maggie complained, “Me husband be expecting his dinner.” 

“Shut up, wench.” I heard one of the soldier command before striking Maggie with the back of his hand. She fell to the ground.  When the soldier went to strike her again, she put her hand up, but it only deflected the blow.  Pulling her hand away, I saw that her cheek was bloody.

“Hagatha MacDermott.” They called my name.

“Here.” I called out standing at the bars of the jail cell. 

“You’re next.” He said as the guard opened the door.  I stepped out of the cell.

“You show ‘em Haggy.” I heard them whisper as I followed the guard through the corridor.  The place reeked of excrement and dirty hay as I walked through the jail.  

“Hagatha MacDermott, you are being charged with practicing witchcraft which is against the law and punishable by death.” 

“I understand.” I say as I state at the floor in front of me.

“How old are ye?” The man at the table asks.  There are documents in front of him.

“I am twenty.” I answer.

“How long have you been a witch?” He looks up at me.

“Sir, I am not a witch.” I shake my head like my mum told me.

“Your mother was convicted of witchcraft?” 

“Yessir.” I answer.

“And from the records in front of me, you became a member of the coven?”

“So you say.” I switch from one foot to the other.

“It is not for me to say.” His face reddens with a bit of irritation. 

“But if I am accused of your charges, what can I possibly say to declare my innocence?” 

“The truth in front of God and all His saints.” He slams his fist on the table.

“And would any of them come down from Heaven and speak for me?” 

“Listen lass, you are in a lot of trouble and you wish to trade words with me?  I suggest you think of another tactic or you will be put to death for your crimes.” He snarled. 

“Is your God not merciful?” 

“He is a fountain of mercy.” He is seething.

“And if so, where is this mercy you speak of?” 

“We have conveneed this hearing to determine if further action must be taken.” He growls.

“I have seen the mercy and justice we were given previous to this hearing.” I turn my head. The guard strikes me on the cheek with his fist.  I fall to my knees. 

“So this is how you wish to be treated for your insolence?” He stands up to show me his superior size. 

“I do not have the say in this matter.” I taste blood from the blow to my face.  

“You are an innocent lass.” He shakes his head with impunity and kneels next to me like an understanding father. “All you have to do is sign this affidavit.”

“For what purpose?” I wipe the blood off my face with my sleeve. 

“To state that the women who we rounded up this evening have been practicing witchcraft.” 

“And then what?” I glare at him.

“They will get the punishment that is due to them, I assure you.” His smile sickens me. 

“Let me see that.” I point to the documents.

“Gladly.” He hands them to me.  I take them and rend them in half. His fury explodes and he strikes me so hard that I find myself swimming in the blackness.

“They have condemned you to burn with the rest of us.” Bridgette his soaking my aching head with a damp rag, one of the few mercies I have been given.  

“Three of our coven have already been burned.” Maggie sits with her head between her shoulders as she sobs. “I do not wish to die.  I know not what awaits me.” 

I take her hand, “There, there. Tomorrow we shall find out. I do not wish to die either, but I am curious as to who or what awaits us.” 

The guards came to gather us.  One of them opened the cell door with a key while the captain of the guards said, “We are here to take you to your execution in the town square, ladies. Father Scott will listen to any last words of contrition you wish to make.  Let me remind you that Jesus will forgive you if you should ask Him.” 

Father Scott stepped forward, his thinning white hair encircled his head like a halo, his voice was gentle and compassionate as he spoke, “Rejoice the Son of God awaits you if you ask for His forgiveness.” 

We were placed in an oxcart like the one that brought us to the prison.  A crowd gathered on each side of the road, yelling out various sediments of both condemnation and in places support.  Women had formed a contingency of their own, but were silent for the most part.  Judging from their somber facial expressions, I could see their pity as the cart pulled up to the place of our execution.

“Hold my hand.” Maggie begged me.

I took hold of her finger with one of my own since we were both shackled. 

The cart came to an abrupt halt.  One of the hooded executioners opened the back of the cart, signaled with his gloved hand, “Ladies, come forward.” 

Each of the six of us in the cart were assisted to the platform where we were bound.  One of the executioners slathered us with grease.  

“Witches are daughters of the devil!” The captain read from the scroll in his hands, “We have a duty as good citizens of this world and the next to rid ourselves of this satanic blight.” 

There was a cheer and then my world was turned to flame.  The pain was beyond endurance.  The last thing I heard was Maggie as she scream out in pain.

And then there was darkness. 

“My dear, Hagatha.  I have missed you so.” I felt my mum’s embrace, “Do not worry, Hagatha, the mercy in this place is great.” 

I was then surrounded by light that blinded me. 

Since Eve took the first taste of the apple before offering it to Adam, women have been convenient scapegoats for the evil men fear be it witchcraft or some other unforgivable sacrilege.  

My eyes have seen injustice given to those who did not deserve their fate, but I am told all suffering will be washed away once they have arrived here. From what I have learned in my time walking the ends of this world, do not judge, lest ye be judged.