A-Dancin' in the Grove

by Carrie L. Gubesch

    They were in love, ye ken. We could all see that. My son tossed his limbs in the air, rejoicin' in the tinklin' laugh o' the pretty lady. The man laughed with her and picked up the child from the blanket in the middle o' the grove. He began tae sing a happy song, swingin' the bonny lass about. The woman joined their dance til they collapsed from dizziness, laughin' still. They stayed til Mother Moon burst from her cloud coverin'.

    "We'd best be gettin' back," said the man.

    "Indeed. I canna let young David handle the even crowd by himself," said the woman.

    They gathered their things intae the blanket and headed tae town, the woman carryin' her tired child in her arms.

  *  *  *

Excerpt from the Journal of Connor Tiberius MacGregor - August 13, 1596

    I have grown tired of my occupation. It has become too easy and I fear a great number of those brought to trial and condemned may have been innocent. It has gone too far.

    Today, I assisted in the trial of Josephine Cranston, a kindly old woman who was well liked by others in the town. She had been accused by her neighbour, Thomas MacIain, of bewitching his cows so they were dry of milk. She proclaimed her innocence and denied setting foot on MacIain's property in the last three months.

    She was easily broken. The first bout with the rack and she confessed to attending a Sabbat in the oak grove. George Stewart demanded the names of the others in attendance. She said yes to everyone he suggested. But he only named ten and turned to me for help with the eleventh. "Isabel Harris" issued forth from my lips before I could think. What have I done? I never meant to bring her harm. She is good of heart, showing me the error of my judgements. I have grown to love her. Mayhap it is my own guilt over our actions that forced me to act thus? I know not. She will be brought to trial in a day or so. How strong is she? Can I with good conscience perform my duties upon her person? How easily will she break?

  *  *  *

    The men came agin; took one o' the young ones. The circle was once considered sacred and there's fear in the eyes o' the two who actually do the cuttin'. But t'other one, the one in gen'leman's clothes, he's cold and takes not tae superstition. He pointed tae the poor saplin' beside me.

    "Are ye sure, squire? It looks a bit green," said the crofter.

    "Aye, then it won't burn so fast, will it," the gen'leman's replied and walked back tae the village.

    The two woodcutters watched him go. They turned as one tae look at the chosen one. The nearest man crossed himself and said a li'le prayer. The other invoked the wood spirits and asked their forgiveness. Then they set about choppin' my son doan. I heard him scream as the first strokes cut deep. Twas over quickly and he fell with a crashing of branches. At least he didna suffer.

    The men set about removin' the limbs that t'would be cut smaller to feed the fires o' the people in the town. He was not but a straight pole and I knew his fate then. I had seen it many times from my vantage point, towerin' ower the heads of my kin. I could clearly see the busy people in the centre o' town.

  *  *  *

August 20, 1596

My precious daughter,

    I am dictating this letter to Father O'Connell; at least they have allowed me this comfort after breaking the bones of my right hand. Though I know you are but five years old and still innocent, when you are old enough, I want you to know what has befallen me. No one is more surprised than I to be in this situation.

    Six months ago, a man named Connor Tiberius MacGregor came to our inn. You may remember him. He was handsome and, for the first time since your father passed away, I felt the need of a man. I don't want to shock you, nor the priest, but feel I must be absolutely honest with you. He told me he had been employed by the townfathers as a witchpricker, which I had never heard of before. Although not a man of the cloth, he told me he worked on behalf of the church to identify witches. He stayed in our best room and I often went up to speak to him about his work; I told him many times how those discussions frightened me.

    Over the next few weeks, our friendship grew and I believed I was falling in love with him. I'm certain he felt the same. I am ashamed to say that we became intimate without the blessing of marriage. I plead that our love must count in the eyes of God and we will be forgiven.

    After he had been at the inn for a week, he became very busy in his occupation and there was a trial in the community house. Maeve Lessley was accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake in the town square. One after another of our grandmothers were found guilty. I lost count. Six months of fear and death. Just a few days ago, Josephine Cranston, the mid-wife who aided in your birth, was burned.

    And then they came for me. I do not know what I did to Josephine to have her turn on me. But I feel I know what must have happened to bring the accusation out of her. You would not believe the amount of pain they put me through, but I must tell you from the beginning.

    I was made to stand in front of George Stewart, a man whose influence in the town has grown over the past year. He read out from a great book all the charges against me: attending the Sabbat in the grove, being a concubine to the Devil, performing malicious acts upon the children in the town, and even causing impotence in Peter Cameron's prize studhorse. He demanded that I confess to each of these crimes. I laughed; how else could I respond to such preposterous statements. His face grew red and his eyes bulged. He ordered that I submit to the ministrations of the witchpricker.

    I fought viciously with those that held my arms until my strength was near exhausted. They, men who had frequented our tavern while my husband was alive, dragged me down the stairs into the basement. I was forced upon a table on one side of the room. Tiberius stepped out of the shadows, a stricken look upon his face. He mumbled an apology to me then picked up the hems of my skirt and petticoats and flung them over my head. I screamed and struggled against those who held me down.

    Tiberius said to me, "Tell me if you feel this." He jabbed something sharp into my thigh, making me scream again. Over and over he pricked me, in various spots, including my most private that were exposed for all the brutes to see.

    When my skirts were finally withdrawn from my head, he was gone. My arms were released but I had no strength to move. I must have slept for I was awakened by the booming voice of George Stewart. He said the witchpricker had found the Devil's mark upon my body and demanded again that I confess. Speech had left me and I shook my head.

    I was dragged off the table and forced into a chair. My legs and arms were bound and my right hand squeezed into a hideous contraption. With a turning screw, a board was brought down upon the back of my hand, lower and lower until I heard and felt the bones grinding together. Then the snap and crack as the bones shattered under the force.

    I will spare you more details, child. I will say that I was kept awake for long periods, never given a single morsel to eat while I was in that grisly room, and have suffered great gaping wounds upon my body. I am ashamed to say that I have confessed to dancing with the Devil in the moonlight and have, in turn, named others in the town as my companions in the grove. Josephine, I understand and I forgive. I pray they will forgive me also.

    Know this, my darling: I am not a witch; I believe fully in the Lord our God; and I love you with all my heart. I beg you to pray for my soul.

Your mother,

Isabel Harris

  *  *  *

Excerpt from the Journal of Connor Tiberius MacGregor - August 19, 1596

    There she was, brought into my domain, set upon my table, awaiting I know she knew not what. I stepped into the light. The look on her face wrenched my heart. I said that I was sorry but I must perform my duty. I threw her skirts over her head so that I would not have to look at her face, that angelic face. Words she had said to me drifted through my mind.

    I pricked her eight times and each time she screamed. I could do no more and walked out of the room. George was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. "Well, did you find it?" he asked as soon as he saw me. I could not look him in the face. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me.

    All I said was "Aye" and he was down the stairs in a lightning flash. I briefly caught the frenzied look in his eyes.

    For two days they tortured her. I could not go down there while she screamed. I prayed she would confess, give a name; just one and they would stop. This morning, one of the men came upstairs. "She confessed," was all he said, then walked out the door. I was relieved and sat down out of pure exhaustion, closing my eyes against the bright sunlight streaming through the open door.

    "Connor Tiberius MacGregor, you have been accused of witchcraft. How do you plead?" said George Stewart from the top of the stairs.

    "Guilty," I said.

August 20, 1596

    I have been tortured also. George could not allow me to escape without some payment. When asked for the names of others at the Sabbat, I named only those who had been previously condemned, names branded on my soul.

    We, Isabel and I, are to be burned at the stake tomorrow. I hope this will atone for all my sins in those innocent deaths.

  *  *  *

    Ower the bushy tops of my kin, I could see the crowd gathered in the centre o' town. It was mostly men and children standin' about.

    My son, along with another young tree that had been dragged from the grove the day before, were set up in the middle o' the square. Tied tae each o' them was a person dressed in a simple garment. I could see ropes wrapped about their necks. Two men climbed the platform and took position behind each pole, slippin' a short stick intae a loop behind the heads o' the chosen ones. The sticks were turned until the tongues o' the people stuck out o' their mouths and their bodies went limp.

    The man in gen'leman's clothes brought forth a burning torch and lit the platform. My son would have shaken with joy to know his purpose was fulfilled. I was verra proud to see him honoured in such a way.

The End

A-Dancin' in the Grove © 2002 by Carrie L. Gubesch

While working full time in fundraising and part-time on her BA in English, Carrie finds time to write. Carrie has had stories published online at Shadow Feast and Altared States, and in print in Under the Armchair and Shadow Feast Best of 1997-1998.

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