The Witch And The Oak Tree
Quiet shall we both be under the watchful eye
When I started writing The Crow, I wanted to write thought-provoking pieces that reflected the various ideas and contemplations that perpetually occur to me. Some would be uplifting and beautiful. Others would focus the gaze when we might prefer to look away.
This week I asked myself if I could write something that spanned centuries, yet had a meaning clear and sure, as if time were but an illusion? Something not of history, but of legacy.
This is my answer. Don’t look away.
1.
The Year Of Our Lord, 1669
She looked just like any women in the parish with her weary eyes and strong hands. Unremarkable she was with her linen apron and coif, both tied with a bow. No blood from changelings could be seen upon her clothes. Nor the herb pouch to conjure snakes from thin air. She just looked petrified. Tired to the bone. Disappointing, she was, they said, but a witch nonetheless.
She had walked upon water and summoned the Devil and practiced maleficium and idolatry. Known by her neighbours as a conjurer, they said. Who am I to know better? God’s Will Be Done. But I could not stomach her pleading so I walked from the crowd and the jeering which riled my humour and lowered my disposition. There was hysteria in the air, not of the witch’s doing, but the crowds.
Last year the witch had cured my sister Karin’s cold blood and loin pain with green yarn and honeysuckle and red nettles. She left a milking bucket at the door once when she needed it too, a quarter full. But I speak not of this now in case bewitchment accusers or other priests become agitated against my sister. Quiet shall we both be under the watchful eye.
2.
The Year Of Our Lord, 1670
“I am hesitant to believe that every one of these women are witches,” I said softly, barely allowing the utterance to escape from my lips, “might there not be a soupçons chance that some are…wrongly accused?”
His tapping finger ceased, the gold ring hanging in the dusty shaft of fading light from the window.
“Are you questioning God’s Will?” he asked, as gently as a bleating lamb.
“God’s Will Be Done,” I replied, my eyes lowered, fingers firmly laced.
His finger returned to tapping, eyeing me as a falcon might eye it’s prey.
“You are a representative of the Church, Father,” he said haltingly, “and as such you will abide by the Church’s will, as you abide by God’s Will.”
I spoke not. Nor spoke he. A silence grew between us of which I knew not the timbre of its meaning. Thus a fear grew within me also. I should have kept my counsel, but my heart was aching and thus my tongue spoke more freely than I wished.
He then broke the silence with his calm voice.
“We have had an eye on you, Father,” he said, “if you keep your wits about you, doors may yet open. But do not be foolish. Remember your allegiances. It is a delicate time for the Church. The King has a tendency to expect more of the people’s attention than is, shall we say, in God’s interest. Besides we must stand firm on this matter of maleficium and idolatry,” he laid his hands flat upon the table, “these women interfere with the mandate of the Church with their ignorant and heathen midwifery and such. It matters not if they are innocent or practicing Devilers. We shall make an example of them nonetheless. Are you also hesitant to understand that the need of the Church is greater than the need of the people?”
Outside the window an oak sapling stood in the fading sunlight with leaves like mittened hands. I felt a shame creeping upon me and I know not if I have the strength to bare it or cast it off, even at my own expense. Can I grow more sturdy upon God’s Earth, as this sapling must surely do, if my roots sink into poisoned ground?
3.
The Year Of Our Lord, 1674
There is a hysteria that has spread across the land where fear and suspicion has the power to create witches where none exist. Neighbours have turned on neighbours. Families on families. People pointing fingers with no hesitation. Anyone and everyone is under suspicion, be they women. There is a thick fog of fear settling across every parish. Those that stirred up the loathing and malice no longer control what they have created. The hysteria has grown wings and soars like a vulture consuming all hope.
This dreadful terror must be quashed and vigilant must we be to make sure we never act in such a manner again.
I put down my quill and sighed. I could hear a gang of men approaching the house. Jolly they sounded, almost as if in celebration. My pamphlets had been read and my name was known throughout the parish by accusers and inquisitors who act as juror as judge and constable all in one although they are expert in none of these occupations. I have been released from prison but one week fore, yet I now hear my incarceration is once more imminent.
I wrote a little more in haste, for the pounding on my door shall soon begin.
Forget not this dark and vicious time where power is unleashed without a gentle hand to guide it. May they be clearly remembered, all of those that were thrown upon the fire, each name forever upon our lips, for if we do not take heed this vulture will rise upon you and hysteria will once again boil your blood in some far off future I cannot even imagine.
Then came a pounding of men’s fists, with ignorant certainty in their voices, for they knew better than all others, these sweaty, dirty men with nothing in their hearts but vengeance and self-gain.
4.
2025
In the car park of the warehouse stood an oak tree, 350 years old they say, its trunk the girth of a whale, wrapped with the hide of an ancient elephant, rivulets digging channels gnarling toward the sun, bowed under its own immensity, and branches like petrified lighting, frozen forever in search of Mother Earth, reaching into the void, with leaves like children’s mittens flapping in the wind.
I saw her as she was being dragged past this oak.
She looked just like anyone working in our warehouse, the same weary eyes, the same strong hands. Ordinary really, Levis and hoodie. Nothing like the talk on the radio. Jet black hair in a ponytail with a fringe above her green eyes. No guns or knives or kilos. She just looked overworked and tired to the bone.
She came across the water on a boat or overland or some such, no papers, an illegal. They’re all drug dealers or whores or kidnappers, according to the suited men and women on TV.
I couldn’t stomach the struggle she put up when the Border guys dragged her under the oak toward their van. The shouting and the crying. I felt sick.
Last year she’d covered for Jennifer when she “lost confidence” and couldn’t do her shifts. And she gave us a little witch hazel, honeysuckle and milk concoction that perked Jen right up. We didn’t mention it at the time and I’m definitely not saying anything now. Not with all this shit going on, we’re keeping quiet with all these eyes and tongues wagging.
I'm so grateful for your summary, Lor, thanks so much.
It was a bit of a swerve this one. I'm always thinking of ways to use these short writings to carry messages or ideas, or encapsulate moral conundrums etc, and I'm so glad this one landed with you because, you know how it is, one is never really sure.
It's crazy the way history is a living breathing entity in the present, how we seem to never learn, or how we create myths of the past that lock us into patterns. I remember when Terence McKenna once said "Culture is not your friend," and I understand just what he meant. Culture and tradition can be dangerous allies that lock societies into non-movement.
As always Lor, thanks. I'm honestly so glad you take the time :)
Everything changes, and everything stays the same. That old cliché is never going to change. Can humans change? Can society? I am inclined to say a big no, but it's easy to despair, much easier than to hope. Yet your words always fill me with hope, Jonathan. Because you care -- and one caring person is better than none. So keep writing, my friend. The one might become a legion of love.