Beginnings

Winter 1674

The unspoiled snow fell silently over the cold land, drifting deep against the timber and mud huts of the settlement. Occasionally, a strong gust would drive the fine wet powder forcibly under a door or through a crevice, sending a chill into the very marrow of the occupants.

The warmth of the fireplace was sought by every household member gathered at the hearth, shivering and exhaling frost with every breath. They huddled together through fierce winters, humid summers and wet, damp springs, struggling bravely against relentless odds, and many had survived. So far.

They still resided in shabby huts hastily erected upon their arrival three years earlier. Proper homes would have to wait until the soil was plowed, planted, harvested and crops stored. Yet, for now, they sat in their thatched roof homes waiting for the end of winter, full of dreams and frightened of the future.

A halo ringed the nimbus moon casting an icy illumination on the largest hut of the village. Its three chimneys spurted flickering embers leaving dark speckles against the white snow. Billowing smoke informed all abundant warmth was within and a meeting planned.

The shelter filled quickly with the population shoulder-to-shoulder, talking in low tones of the terrible weather, the terrible harvest or the terrible business of this night. Occasionally, a few would stomp their feet to resume circulation or blow warmed breath onto chilled fingertips. At each end of the structure, burned fires quickly consumed split wood stacked nearby, a smaller blaze burned evenly at the center of the hut.

In front of one sat the Deacon, alone and silent, behind a table with his hands folded under his chin. His robust figure sent his shadow along the dirt floor over the women and children by the center fire. Before him on the table were several pages of parchment, quill and ink. He scanned the cold faces of the villagers, trying to understand why they would leave their beloved Ireland for this horrid land. His eyes closed just as the door opened with a rush of cold air. Three figures appeared. The smaller, enshrouded in tattered and torn garments, shoved harshly from the doorway onto the dirt floor in front of the Deacon.

For a few moments, he studied the aged woman tossed before him. The glow surrounding him brightened as he stood to better his view of the wrinkled crone. Lifting one of the parchment sheets without removing his eyes from her, the assembled citizens fell silent in anticipation of his words. He began to read with a strong, determined voice that filled the room for all to hear.

“In accordance with the laws governing the village of Wexford, let it be known and attested to on this date, February 12, 1674, within said village, meeting has convened to establish the truth and validity of allegations brought against one, Isabel Shea, citizen of Wexford.”

A low murmur went through the room as those gathered nodded their heads, verifying the Deacon’s words. The old woman remained silently on her knees.

“It is stated in Allegation number one,” continued the Deacon, “you have been witnessed spewing blasphemous oaths. Allegation two: Having been witnessed placing a hex on William Cassidy of Wexford, thus placing his being into pain and discomfort causing convulsions.

“Allegation three,” the Deacon slowed his speech to insure all understood the dastardly deed charged against the woman, “you have been accused of stealing a calf from the stable of Jeremiah Fitzgerald and witnessed by same devouring said calf.”

This allegation brought calls of “guilty” and “burn the witch” from the angry crowd who depended on their meager supply of livestock, a prized possession; their theft not tolerated.

“Silence!” called out the Deacon. “I will have order. I assure you justice will be served this night, but it will be reached in an orderly manner.”

The Deacon was not sure, but he thought he heard a quiet laugh emanate from the split lips of the hag before him.

“How do you answer, Isabel Shea?” Not that he cared. Her dark eyes met his appearing as windows to hell. Her lips parted and spread into a mocking grin, placing the Deacon into an uneasy and uncomfortable position because of this woman, perhaps even frightening him.

A chewed apple core flew from the crowd and struck her hard across the face. A roar of laughter burst from the room as pieces of apple meat dripped from her chin. Turning quickly, she found the young boy who had tossed the missile, slapping his knee with delight and laughing along with the crowd.

The Deacon watched Isabel for what seemed an eternity. Her eyes glowed in their sockets while glaring at the lad who suddenly stopped laughing and placed his hands to his stomach. His smiling face disappeared, replaced with the unmistakable mask of terror.

“My God!” the boy’s mother screamed, watching her son buckle from the pain, his face contorting into unnatural shapes. The room went silent and stepped back from the inflicted youth unable, or afraid, to offer assistance.

His face swelled, turning shades of blue and purple as if to explode any moment. Gripping his stomach tighter, he tried to tear from it the pain deep within. He opened his mouth to scream but fell instead to the ground, wrapped in a frenzy of convulsions. Then, without warning, the boy stood and jumped into the center fire. His father and others driven back by the intense and hungry flames consuming the boy’s clothing and distorted flesh.

He stood amid the flames like a human torch, screaming bitter oaths as body fluids and vile pumped from his mouth. Finally, he dashed from the blaze and past the stunned onlookers out into the snowy night. Some quickly followed, closing the door abruptly behind them. The room was tomb silent.

The Deacon stared at Isabel with disdain. Before he and the others could comprehend what happened in those frightening seconds, the door opened. The boy’s father held his son’s burnt and disfigured remains in his arms.

“He’s dead,” he cried. “My son’s dead.”

A tall man stepped from within the crowd and pushed aside a few villagers to near the Deacon. “We have had enough of this witch,” he bellowed, bringing the others from their transfixed state of shock. “There is enough evidence against her.” He pointed to the woman, “Stealing a calf and devouring it is certainly a sin in the eyes of the Lord, and we have just witnessed her association with Satan. She murdered the boy. I say guilty!”

The crowd roared its approval, cheering and shaking their fist at Isabel. Some sat with tear-filled eyes and thought of the dead boy. The Deacon felt he had no choice but to find her guilty. It was undeniable, and there was no other recourse. He raised his arms to silence the crowd.

“Isabel Shea, in accordance with the power vested in me through the laws of the village of Wexford, and the holy teachings of the Lord, our God, I hereby deny you privilege of answer to the before mentioned allegations, including the murder of young Daniel Silloway by means of witchcraft. I find you guilty as charged to all allegations.”

Another cheer arose from the crowd as they pressed forward eager to destroy the witch. The women decided they and their children had witnessed enough horror for one night and hurriedly return to their meager huts, leaving the men to carry out the expected sentence. Two men reached down and lifted the hideous woman to her feet. Still grinning, she remained staring at the Deacon. He stood and leaned over the table, placing his face within inches of hers.

“You will burn at the stake at sunrise, until your evil form has turned to ash. I will not ask the Lord to have mercy on your miserable soul, for I pray he cast you into the fires of damnation for all eternity.”

Another cheer echoed throughout the room. Inwardly, the Deacon felt relief for his subjects were pleased. A loud voice bellowed out, bringing the cheers to a stop. It was the tall farmer who had spoken out before.

“We will have her death this night, Deacon.” He raised a rope above his head for all to see, “She has willed her body to Satan, it will not burn but her neck will stretch from the rope!” The Deacon was growing annoyed at this farmer, but he feared Isabel Shea, who was obviously in concert with Satan. The Deacon wished her destroyed as the others. He agreed with the farmer. “Remove her from the village, execute her swiftly, and be done with it.” He turned and faced the fire, wondering if the farmer brazened or disrespectful.

A mob of angry men dragged the hag from the building into the freezing night air. She was beaten and spat upon as they led her to a large oak tree along the ice-encrusted river atop a confused cow brought hurriedly from the stable. As a rope secured over the thick limb of the tree and knotted around her neck, Isabel finally spoke. Her raspy, chilling words caused many of the men to turn away.

“Least ye not forget me for against thee and thy offspring my vengeance will be swift and terrible. Thy souls shall be damned for eternity.”

The cow was led away before she could say more.

~ * ~

The sleepy village awoke, remembering the events of the evening as they prepared morning meals and built up the fires. Many prayed silently for the young Silloway boy, but all had thoughts of the body hanging in the frigid air along the edge of the river.

The Deacon sought volunteers to cut down the corpse and bury the remains of Isabel. No one responded, therefore, he appointed two men to complete the task. The crusted snow snapped under their weight as they walked across a frozen field towards the tree and the attached body.

“Tha’ witch says she’ll return for what we did to her.” The older man remarked smiling, knowing his words were of no comfort to his younger companion.

“And she’s going to put us to the flame like tha’ boy.”

“Quiet your thoughts, Tully.” The other man said, moving his spade to the opposite shoulder.

“Come, lad,” continued the more confidant older man with his abuse against the young man’s nerves. “Ya aren’t afraid of a dead woman, are ya?”

“It’s not the old woman tha’ riles me, old man,” he answered, sneering at his partner for making fun of him. “It’s the power she possesses. I don’t take her curse lightly.”

“Listen, me lad. When I was ya age back in Ireland I’ve come in contact with giants, pookas, and leprechauns and, on more than one occasion, I’ve heard tha’ wailing of tha’ banshee as clear as a spring day echoing through tha’ forest. I can assure ya, this witch is of no consequence with tha’ likes of me. Just another spirit to be dealt with and shown who’s in command.”

“Go on, Tully,” Shaun grunted a small laugh, “Ya play me for a fool, ya old sot. I believe ya been at tha’ whiskey you’re guarding so closely from the Deacon, demons and leprechauns, the wail of a banshee indeed.”

“I only mean to put ya fears to rest, lad.”

“Thank ya, Tully, but I am still considerably frightened by tha’ whole affair.”

The duo reached an area beside the tree and began removing the snow when Tully suddenly called out. “Wait.”

Shaun abruptly stopped his shovel from striking the cold ground half way through its down swing. He looked to Tully for an explanation.

“She should be buried over tha’ on the opposite bank,” the older man pointed across the narrow banks of the river.

“And why is tha’?” Shaun put aside his spade.

“Because tha’ hag will be away from the blessed land of tha’ village, ‘tis what the Deacon ordered, away from tha’ village.”

“If it will make your heart happier,” Shaun placed his spade across his shoulder. Tully followed suit, and they crossed the river, stepping carefully on the ice-coated boulders exposed from the slow moving current. On the opposite bank, they resumed their labor and shortly stood over a trench.

“Get tha’ body,” Tully casually ordered as he sat on the mound of snow and turned up earth lighting his pipe.

“Bloody hell, why me…?” Shaun anxiously eyed the corpse gently swinging in the cold morning breeze across the riverbank. The witch’s head arched to the right, away from the knot that snapped her neck. A smear of blood from her crushed larynx protruded from her nostril. Shaun squinted into the rising sun brightly illuminating the execution scene. He could not tell if her eyes were open or closed.

“‘Cause ya younger and stronger. I can’t climb tha’ tree but ya can, so get to it, lad,” a tired Tully answered.

Shaun tossed his spade aside and removed his knife from its sheath. He tested its sharpness on a frozen brush as he walked toward the tree mumbling oaths against Tully’s philosophy, yet knowing the old man was right. There was no way Tully could have climbed the tree or carried the dead weight of a human corpse back across the river.

The back of the corpse faced Shaun when he reached the tree, hiding from him the frozen face of death he knew was there. Carefully, he climbed to the limb holding the body and slowly inched his way out to the rope. Isabel’s arms hung limp by her side. Her hands were unbound as were her feet. The crowd, anxious for justice, had placed the noose around the hag’s throat and sent away the cow with no regard for flailing hands or kicking feet.

Shaun remembered. He was there and witnessed the execution. He even brought the cow back to the barn, but for the life of him could not recall the witch struggling against the hemp that bent her neck. He did remember the fearful grin of hatred she wore gazing at everyone present. Then the neck snapped. He winced, remembering the sound.

As he reached with his knife to sever the rope, a gust of wind swung the body. Shaun’s eyes went wide with horror at the sight of Isabel Shea’s grinning face glaring at him. “Tully!” Shaun managed to shout just as Isabel’s frozen fingers reached for him.

The old man jumped to his feet and watched Isabel snatch the knife from Shaun’s shaking hand. Without hesitation, she thrust the blade into his chest.

Tully’s pipe fell from his awe-struck mouth, watching the young man’s lifeless body fall motionless beneath the hanging witch. Her head straightened in the noose and her eyes found his. Her frozen hand raised a blue, frozen finger pointed toward him. She smiled evilly.

The old man felt his heart pound. His limbs grew weak. His flesh became clammy in the frigid winter air and perspiration seeped from his pores. Urine trickled down his leg.

“Saints preserve us,” Tully whispered as he stared at the hanging witch and his dead friend by her feet. He began a sprint along the ice-capped snow, tumbling and stumbling back to the village.

A group of men had gathered, conversing of last night’s activities when Tully emerged from the field. Astonished, they watched him barely able to continue and brought him inside the same large hut where, just hours ago, Isabel had been sentenced to death.

Tully sat on the floor, sweat poured from his forehead and dripped onto his coat. He struggled between gulps of air to relate the terrible tragedy that had befallen Shaun. When he finished, a sharp pain tore through his heart. Tully’s head slowly lowered, his chin rested on his chest, and he died leaning against the mud wall, his dead eyes wide with fright.

Hastily, the villagers armed themselves with sickles, axes, pitchforks and clubs. They recovered the body of Shaun, his own knife protruding from his chest just as old Tully said. Blood smeared Isabel’s hands and evil grin frozen on her face. Deacon O’Connell immediately fell to his knees upon viewing the scene.

“Dear God in heaven protect us.”

The witch was placed within the trench Tully and Shaun had dug out of the cold earth across the river from the oak tree.