"Never in history have women been subjected to such a massive, internationally organized, legally approved, religiously blessed assault on their bodies." - Silvia Federici
1645, Bury St Edmunds, East Anglia
Sitting in a candlelit room enveloped by enchanting, velvet ripples of sweet incense smoke. I begin to remember. People, places, and things flood deep into my consciousness. I twist through endless halls of time space, until I'm there again.
I remember my last day like it was yesterday. The sun was sohigh. Sweat and tears meandered down my cheeks, tracing clean interwoven trails onto my otherwise dusty skin. Breathing though the delirium that comes with days of sleeplessness, I closed my eyes and warmed my face. The heat felt strikingly odd on my recently shaved head, and the healing pin pricks on my body were starting to make my skin itch. Some burned, likely infected. The balm I'd mixed just last week would have had every cut healed in a day. But you will likely never go home, my brain retorted.
I had given up a day or two ago on trying to scratch myself on the chair beneath me. My only hope left was that the sweet relief of death would come soon, and that my dear friend Prue would treat my girls like her own. For now, I would soak up this peaceful moment in the sun. Since it was just quiet enough to count the clouds, and enjoy birds singing their songs in the wind one last time.
I looked up at the sky, and savoured the sweet, often taken for granted, feeling of air in my lungs. A blundering imbecile of a young man sat not too far away from me. His scrawny frame resting against Hopkins' horse cart. "Give her water periodically, enough to keep her alive, not so much as to let her stand," Hopkins ordered - I don't recall how many days ago. I made sure to give his little pet my best deranged glare, as and when he was unfortunate enough to meet my gaze. "You better watch me extra closely; you wouldn't want me to run away," I taunted.
Not that I could. My legs would have buckled before I straightened my knees, and I would have ended up an unimpressive pile in the dirt. But it was fun to watch him squirm even if only a little bit. Gulping iron tainted spit down his narrow gullet, tooweak. Hopkins would surely flick a bullet between his ribs before the month was out.
Matthew Hopkins, the self-proclaimed "Witchfinder General," lay dozing in his tent. Only his boots poked out, worn from trawling through towns like a pompous grim reaper, harvesting souls for pay. A midday nap by the stream, how delightful. The last day of my life, while significant for me, was a rather bland working day for him. I doubt he would have even remembered it. If you ever get the chance to speak with him, please ask for me, won't you?
Image Credit: Sky History "The Life of Matthew Hopkins, The Opportunistic 'Witchfinder General"'
In any case enough about my death. While I have the chance to be listened to, I'd like to tell you about my life.
See, before Hopkins and his well-behaved little dogs rode in, I was a midwife and medicine woman, in a small town in the kingdom of East Anglia. My name was Minerva Cuthbertson, and I had recently turned 28 years old. I loved that name.
Using the knowledge passed down through my maternal lineage, I had maintained a quaint practice in my village since my mother passed away. I spent most of my days caring for my two young girls, mixing tinctures for the village people, attending and facilitating births, and offering solace to those who needed it.
How I missed my kitchen.
Adorned with talismans, old books, and jars full of powerful medicines. Plants hung from every shelf. I remember how I would hold my girls up and show them the shape of the leaves. Teaching them all about the purposes and properties of each amazing herb. Their little faces would beam with wonder. I would always let them do the mixing for me at the end of putting together one of my Grandmother's sacred recipes. I hope they managed to keep her practices alive.
I wonder what became of my beautiful, innocent girls.
Image Credit: Medievalists.net - "Can Medieval Drugs Help Modern Patients?"
The room closest to the garden was embellished with the finest red and pink silk curtains. Making the window look like a womb of the world. I didn't have a great amount of money, my work was a labour of love and heritage, but women from the town would often bring me gifts as a token of their appreciation.
Inside a small pot on the table, burned sacred healing herbs related to ease and wellbeing. Women would gather here when birthing or menstruating, and I would bring them comfort in those vital moments. A woman would enter the sacred space a maiden, and leave a new mother, with a beautiful new babe to nurture and care for. Full of wonder and hope. I was so grateful for my work that it left a birth mark on my soul. I carried that wonderment of women and birth through every lifetime henceforth.
The last birth I attended was exactly one week before my untimely death, and it was so perfect. It was the night of the summer solstice, and as the sun began to disappear beyond the horizon, I made my way over to my neighbour's house. Anne and I had played together as children, she was three years younger than me, and was becoming a mother for the first time. I held her through the night in her bedroom, letting her long, golden locks drape down my arm as each wave overwhelmed her body.
At some point in the night by the flickering of the candle and the early sunrise, her baby emerged into the world. I pulled him from between her thighs as rivers of red ran down her legs and pooled in the towels below. I passed his delicate, slippery body to her and lay him on her chest whilst she cried sighs of relief. Love erupted from her as she cooed to him, whilst I cut his umbilical cord and welcomed him officially to earth.
On the walk home tired eyed, high on the smell of a new babe's fuzzy head, and full of love, I would think of how I would like to birth a boy someday.
Massaging her stomach, the familiar smell of my birthing oils filled my senses. Lavender blossoms, chamomile flowers, and other herbs from Nana's secret recipe book. It's pages dog eared at the edges and tatty. The placenta lay in a metal bowl of carefully selected herbs, waiting patiently to be washed and buried in the earth. Nana always said that this process was very important. So important in fact that those whose mother did not undertake it would forever feel disconnected and lost. Lacking a true connection to Gaia, their home. Leaving them forever searching for their missing root everywhere they placed their feet.
I always thought it looked like an embroidered image of a tree, woven from the veins of the newest life, each one so unique.
This work had been my pride and joy for a decade, but lately I had to be careful. The rise of the Universities, ran by arrogant, dull men in suits, had caused changes to the laws from the church. They had decided that only those with a license should be allowed to practice medicine. And to obtain a license? You had to go to the Universities. To go t0 the universities? You had to be a rich young man from a rich family. My family's sacred knowledge, passed down through treasured books, gifted from Mother to daughter by whispers at dusk under the moon, was no longer enough. In fact, it was ruled as witchcraft, a crime punishable by torture and death. I felt the scorn decades deep, in the bowl of every womb in my heritage.
Henrich Kramer's "Malleus Maleficarum" (Translates to "Hammer of the Witches")
Two days after the birth, when Hopkin's men began torturing women to get information about any witches who might be living in the village, mine was the first name to get spilled. By Anne's own sister, the pain of betrayal singed my heart to embers. Though I knew she acted out of undiluted fear, it still hurt. She told them of my practices, and my address. I caught word they were coming for me and at least had some time to prepare. I bundled my sacred books and texts into chests and buried them at the end of our yard under the waning moon. I sprinkled dandelion seeds over the patch, a symbol of resistance and resilience, and a marker for my girls when they grew old enough.
I hope they found them.
Then I went to my kitchen and bagged what tinctures and potions I could and hid them in a deep corner of my home's attic. Sobbing as though tears poured from my very soul itself, I begged Prue to take my girls in if Hopkins men were to kill me. Exhausted I curled up into my bed, and held my babies close for the very last time. I didn't sleep a wink, but watched every delicate breath, and whispered incantations of luck and protection over them as they slept.
A few days later they wrestled me from my home, tied me up and took me into their camp. Beady eyed they watched closely, pupils darting over and around my limp body, to see if any familiars would show up. A familiar was like an animal accomplice that those practicing the craft were said to have a magical relationship with. I had two small cats as pets, but they were far too clever to follow me here.
Image Credit: "An Arrest for Witchcraft in the Olden Time - John Pettie" (Pinterest - Ocean's Bridge)
After days tied to a chair in the middle of the camp, refusing to confess to anything or give any information, Hopkins became frustrated. His accomplices manipulated my weak muscles with ease through my clothes, and I was stripped totally bare. My arms were bound so tightly they thrust my naked breasts forwards, leaving me exposed and ashamed in the unforgiving midday light. The binding at my ankles only served to verify that Hopkins' took some perverted joy in his torturous practice. Joy that exalted his monetary gains. You could see how it fulfilled him in the demonic twinkle in his bloodshot eyes.
He pricked my skin in search of what they called the Devil's mark. An imaginary place on a supposed witch's body where she allegedly couldn't bleed from. He scraped and scratched my body for hours, pricking everything from my scalp to my genitals, and the soles of my feet. Each time my skin opened, the glint in his eyes grew. He took so much pleasure in the practice doubt began to murmur in the camp, as he almost forgot what his crowd were waiting to see. Losing himself in his wicked indulgence in my pain.
With a skilled flick of the wrist only a conman could possess, he switched out the needle for it's dull sister. Giving the crowd what they wanted as they gasped in horror. He feebly feigned shock. I pondered what kind of crowd gasps at a lack of blood, but never at the sight of it.
He could have been a famous ring master if only the rotting meat, found only in the most grotesque of men didn't sit idly below his blotchy flesh.
I opened my mouth as wide as I could, and screamed into his face. Rivulets of spit blowing in the gale of my almighty breath. He didn't like that at all, and hit me hard across the face, leaving me bruised, swollen, and a little more bloodied. He left me there for the rest of the night until the morning, when he decided I needed a more intense trial since I wouldn't say a word. The manufactured mark alone was not enough to accuse me.
If I could just stay silent, even if it killed me, I could stop this cascade of women betraying women. I could inspire others not to break, not to give up any information, and we could end this together.
Image Credit: Blogspot - "The Salem Witch Trials, Women in the 1600s"
This afternoon they would see if I could float. If I sank, I was innocent, but if I was to float, I would be hanged near the church. Afterwards my body would be set alight on display. My corpse a blazing torch, a charred warning for any women practicing medicine that was no longer priest approved. I was terrified, but I refused to crack. This had to end here.
As the evening began to draw in, townspeople began to gather. I knew it was nearing the time. It was ordered that I be untied from the chair I had spent days on. I think I counted four, but I could be wrong. I was so tired I could barely stand, the acidic stench of my own urine near incinerated the skin inside my flaring nostrils as I stood. I was marched to the river's edge. As scared as I was, I couldn't wait to feel the refreshing water cleansing my skin and wetting my tongue. My whole body felt dry.
After a decent crowd had assembled Hopkins had a couple of his men push a rowing boat out onto the river bank. I was hauled up by my wrists and walked to the water's edge. I hyperventilated, but stayed as defiant as I could. They pushed me into the boat and rowed out into a deeper section of the river, the scrawny man from the camp tied a rope around my waist. As the boat came to a standstill I felt a push, and before I knew it, I was swirling in the cold water.
Image Credit: History Extra - "Witchfinding: what drove the hunters’ cruel crusade and what methods did they use?"
It was stunning, so refreshing. I opened my eyes to see the bubbles dance their delicate dance with me. I tried so hard to stay down. Hoping maybe if I could sink, they would pull me up and I would be acquitted of my supposed crimes. But Hopkins wanted to make an example of me. I forced all the air from my lungs hoping to fall towards the river bed, but before long my exhaustion gave in, and everything went black.
I awoke being pulled back into the boat to the cries of some of the townspeople. "Witch!", they screamed, horrified. Others, friends and family members, covered their mouths and turned their faces to sob into each other's shoulders. They had learned my fate before me, I was to be hung near the church yard this evening, accused of witchcraft and sorcery. An unconscious body is so easy to nudge to the surface when you have a rope around it's waist. In fact, if you pull it lightly enough, it might appear to float.
Image Credit: History Collection - "These Accounts of European Witch Hunts Reveal Deadly Origins You Weren’t Expecting"
That evening, under the foreboding light of raging torches and the crescent moon, I was hung alongside my two sisters. And also, my beloved friend Oliver, who made a quiet living peacefully sourcing rare herbs from foreign lands at the ports. He had a small hut on the river bank, he was a gentle man who was always happy to stop and talk. And yet he would meet his end here with us. He was so scared he defecated himself on the stand. I wish I hadn't taken that last look at him, only to see his usual spritely light forever extinguished from his weary eyes.
With my final moments I said prayers for my daughters. Eyes closed tight I pictured radiant light emanating from my body, and filling their physical vessels to the brim with strength. I begged the powers that be to show them the way, and steer them towards our legacy so that our years of knowledge could be unearthed someday.
Cruel windings of twine snaked around my neck. I wondered if their craftsman had known whilst he worked, that the strings he twisted and weaved in the morning light would see my end. A gnarly use for what must be such a peaceful craft. If he would have seen the faces of my girls, maybe he would have spared a thought for where his work went when it left his hands. I braced every muscle as I felt it tighten. Finding it too painful to hold their rosy cheeks in my final thoughts, I willed the fibres of my mind towards revenge.
Whilst holding the biggest final breath I could muster with my aching lungs; I spun the most blood curdling hexes. Visions of crimson rain, peeling flesh, and barren harvests. Visions of crows feasting on Hopkin's eyeballs and dogs nibbling the remnants of his ligaments, soft and stringy, flossing the tiny gaps in their teeth. I let my rage pulsate through my entire body. Then I opened my eyes, looked Hopkins dead in the face, and screamed one final cauldron filling scream. A wordless promise that one day we would wake, and come for everything he believed in.
His expression, his sweating brow and nervous twitching lip, was the last thing my eyes of that lifetime ever witnessed.
Image Credit: Chronicle Live - "How 14 witches and a wizard were executed on Newcastle Town Moor"
It's warm. Soft. Black. I am suspended entirely in gooey water. I emerge into the light, screaming as I was on the stand that fateful day. I cry and cry, until I'm cradled by a homely woman, who smells of lavender.
I grow, I feel as though I've had a terrible dream, but I can't remember the content of it now. I play, I laugh, I learn. My mother scoops me up and takes me into the kitchen, she teaches me recipes. She always lets me mix the bowl.
I learn, I study, I read. It feels familiar, I don't know why. I meet with other young girls and give thanks to the moon. We read old stories from dusty books a friend of mine found buried at the end of the garden.
We give thanks to the women who sacrificed themselves so we can have this freedom tonight. We share tinctures and oils we blessed at home, and cast incantations whispered by our mothers.
We share, we bleed, we rebel. An interesting slogan stands out to me on my friend's shirt because I like the writing.
It reads "We are the Granddaughters of the witches you couldn't burn, and the ones you did".
blogpay
Total Comments: 0