Description
by John Savage
It was a time when evil walked the land, when witches danced naked in the moonlight and put curses on innocent people. It was also a time of Witch Finders, professional men who went from town to town, seeking out those who might be witches and “putting them to the question”, a polite way of saying that they were tortured until they confessed.
In this time and place, there came Henry Mathews to the small town of Shrewsbury. It was not long before he had half a dozen of the prettiest girls in town in a basement dungeon, torturing them with whips, red-hot irons, with degrading and abusive acts upon their innocent bodies, and other inventive tortures designed to break down their wills and extract confessions from them. The confessions, of course, would only assure their places chained to a stake and burned alive!
Or maybe something worse…
Published: 6 / 2011 No. words: 40,100
The cottage was unexpectedly empty. Conley quickly looked around their smallholding but did not find his wife. Frowning, he set off back to the village.
The first thing he saw upon returning to the village was a woman crying and a man trying to comfort her. He knew the couple and went up to them. “What is wrong?” he asked.
The man looked up, his eyes glistening with tears about to overflow, and said, “Conley! Do you not know what is happening? Terrible times have come to our village! There is evil in the land.”
“I just returned from Hollingsworth. Tell me, why does your wife cry so? And where is my Elizabeth? I cannot find her.”
“Our daughter has just been convicted of witchcraft,” he said between clenched teeth. “There is a witch finder in town, and…”
The rest of the story came gushing out, along with sobs. As the words painted a picture of madness overtaking a peaceful village, Conley’s eyes grew harder. Suddenly, when he could stand it no longer, he cut the man off with, “Stop! Tell me, where is Elizabeth?”
“She’s in the gaol. Accused of witchcraft, she is.”
Without another word, Conley stomped off towards the town gaol where he roughly pushed aside the door and stormed in. The Sheriff, one Hugh Blackthorne by name, was sitting by the fireplace. Three woman, including Elizabeth, sat in the cell, their hands obviously tied behind their backs and their necks chained to rings in the wall.
“Release Elizabeth!” he demanded.
The Sheriff rose angrily to his feet. “I cannot do that. These women are accused of witchcraft and they are my prisoners.”
“Oh, Conley!” Elizabeth cried out. Tears filled her eyes at the sight of her husband. All would be set right now, and after almost all of the day spent in imprisonment and fear, hope filled her heart. She struggled to her feet and would have thrown herself against the bars had not the iron collar around her neck snubbed her roughly.
“Unlock this door and get those irons off her!” he demanded.
The Sheriff stood between him and the cell. “I said I cannot do that. Now don’t make trouble, Conley. I have my orders and must obey.”
“By whose word is my wife imprisoned here?” His anger was so strong that he could hardly force the words out.
“The priest. And the witch finder.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Conley tried to calm himself and managed to ask in a nearly normal voice, “Where are they?”
“In the church. But you’d best not disturb them.”
“And why not?”
“They’re putting an accused to the question.”
For a second, the meaning of that statement did not register on Conley. But when it did, his face flushed with anger. With a quick look to Elizabeth to assure himself that she had not yet been tortured, he stormed out of the gaol. He had heard stories of witch finders and the questioning of witches, and they had not been pretty.
In his anger as he crossed the short distance to the church, Conley did not notice Raven standing there, her eyes fixed upon him. She had heard the tale and knew what was happening in that village. It was a tale she had heard and seen before, and she felt sorry for the townspeople. These witch hunts never ended in good for anyone.
The church’s main room was empty, but there came faint sounds from a side door. When he opened it, the sounds formed themselves into muffled screams of agony in a woman’s voice. At the bottom of the stairs, Conley was greeted with a sight that could have been a scene out of Hell itself. A young woman was hanging upside down from rings in the rafters, her legs spread wide and the ankles tied to the rings. Her arms were bound behind her back with the elbows tightly corded together. Her golden hair hung down to just touch the floor, and a cloth gag filled her mouth. As one man held her, another was dripping hot candle wax onto her.
“What…!” was all Conley could say. He knew the girl, Marla Pritt, a sweet young thing who would never harm anyone, and certainly could not a witch. “Stop that!”
“Who is this?” cried Mathews, the candle in his hand still dripping hot wax upon her sensitive parts.
The priest hurried forward. “Now, Conley, you don’t belong here.”
“What the hell are you doing to her?”
Mathews calmly tilted the candle back into an upright position, and addressed the stranger. “This is a formal court of inquisition into charges of witchcraft,” he informed. “You should leave now.”
Conley looked at the girl he had known all her life. Her body was crisscrossed with whipmarks. Cries of animal pain passed the gag and gave testimony to her suffering.
“You call this a trial!? You’re torturing the girl!”
“It is often necessary to apply pain in order to extract a confession,” Mathews said.
“Witches have been seduced by the Devil,” he continued. “And must have evil driven from them. Only when they confess and beg forgiveness of God can their souls be saved.”
“And then you put them to death,” said Conley. “I have heard of such ‘trials’ before.”
“They go to meet their Maker with clean souls. Those who confess do, at least. Some are unrepentant. I have seen witches hurling curses and taking the Lord’s name in vain even as they burned.”
“And what of those who continue to deny they are witches? Even when tortured?”
“The power of Satan over young women is well known. When he takes one as a lover, her soul is his. But being cunning and devious, they will deny their evil in such convincing ways that most would believe them. Those are the worst, and the most in need of salvation.”
Mathews had walked up to Conley as he talked, and the priest flanked him on one side. Brother Cadfey, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the naked body, took up the other flank. And the Sheriff had come down the stairs to stand behind Conley. Four to one, it was. Still, the young man was so taken to anger that he would have fought them all.
“You can’t do this,” he yelled at them. “Look at her suffering! It’s terrible!” Suddenly he seemed to realize how outnumbered he was. “I’ll talk to the people,” he said, switching tracks. “They won’t let their wives and daughters be tortured. We’ll stop you!”
His threats were quickly put to a halt by a blow to the back of his head by a heavy stick in the hand of Sheriff Hugh. Conley collapsed to the floor and uttered no more protests.
