Roots

I tell folk we hail from a long line of cunning folk, that our roots stretch all the way back to the Druids.  They baptized me Elizabeth Southerns as a bairn but everyone calls me Old Demdike – the local name for a wise woman.

Come to me with your dreams and I’ll make you a potion.  Bring me your nightmares, I’ll chase them away with a charm.  If ye labor in vain I’ll aid in the birthing, and chant in your milk on the midnight air.  But cross me and mine at your peril, for there’s none can curse as good or foul as our lot.

We all live together at Malkin Tower in Blacko, a cottage in the shadow of the hill that’s seen better days.  There’s my cock-eyed lass Squinting Lizzie, widowed a good few years back from John Device.  And the three of her brood that survive: Jim, a moonstruck lad as daft as a brush; Ali, the minx who started this witch hunting lark; and bonny wee Jenny.

Jenny’s the viper in our midst.  She tattled to Justice Nowell about our doings and now a dozen of us are standing trial for murder on the lies that spewed from her gob.   Who’d have ever thought a nine year old cur would bring down the mighty Demdike?

executioner

 

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