The Witch
New England, 1600s.
Young Gwendolyne Stacy hung from a tree on Chelsea Hill, pretty neck snapped, golden locks peeking from her bonnet.
’Twas her own father put her there, for many a crime she did commit.
For one, her great falsehoods. Lie she did where she went and whom she spoke to, for they’d never understand. How swiftly did they make her friendless.
For another, the murder of poor Peter Parker from down on Ingram Lane. Inseparable they were, set to wed come her twentieth birthday. They found her weeping over his body. His back was broken. Her hands were red.
For a third still, her raging lust. So unnatural it was. Her father did hear her one night, as her cries and keens echoed in the dark of their house. And he found her lying there, breast heaving and shift hiked up past her knees. She’d her hand between her thighs, in that secret place what was wet and warm.
“The Devil hath possessed her,” he told in court.
More’s the pity, for ’twas no lie.
Yet the clearer truth was that she had possessed him.
The Devil took the shape of a he-goat sometimes. They had a black one on Stacy Farm. Oft those passing by would see Gwendolyne with the billy goat at her side.
The townsfolk made note, for ’twas a big one, larger than any they’d yet seen. The horned beast stood fast at a height with her. It had a mean look, eyes sharper than knives.
The goathouse was hid from onlookers on the road, behind a great chestnut and an outcrop buried in blackberries. None ever saw her lay beside him, cheeks streaked with tears buried in his fur, skirts collecting clumps of hay.
He whispered to her in a voice none else could hear. ’Twas a sound like bells made special, low and cold in the way what she loved best.
Sweet things he promised. Butter what she had never tasted. Pretty dresses what her father could never afford.
A delicious life.
And more, besides. Freedom, always by his side. His arms too, forever warm around her.
“Thou hast no arms,” she said. “I cannot abide thy jests.”
“But ’tis no jest, my sweet. I shall take thee hence and disappear thee into mine arms.”
“Come. Dost thou lie to me?”
“By my troth. I know not how to lie.”
“How know I thou sayest the truth?” she asked.
“Thou knowest not… Saltus fidei. Dost remember thy lessons in Latin?”
“Aye. ‘A leap of faith.’”
“Well-spoke, my love.”
She placed a kiss behind his ear. “And thou wilt disappear me into thine arms? As thou promisest?”
“I promise.”
“What must I do?”
“Dost thou see the book at thy feet? Write thy name upon it.”
“’Tis a wedding, then.”
“Aye.”
“And henceforth I am bound to thee.”
“Wouldst thou have me?” he asked, and for the first time she beheld fear in his eyes. “An eternity I promise thee. ’Tis a long time to abide me.”
“I will not abide thee… For I will love thee.”
So she did. And she lied no more.
Possessed by the Devil am I. And he by me.
First, they tried her. Then, gladly, they sentenced her. Thus, walk up the gallows she went.
One push and one snap, and the world was black.
But not for much longer.
“Waken, little one. Thou art home.”
No longer was he the black billy goat what she had always known, but a man big and beautiful. His arms were warm. His voice was cold. His eyes were red.
Young Gwendolyne Stacy hung from a tree on Chelsea Hill, pretty neck snapped, golden locks peeking from her bonnet.