Prophesy: The Immortal Witch (11)

THE WITCH

When the rains didn’t come, life was difficult. The settlement had reeled from crops failing, illness befalling many and elderly dying of disease. Shavuot had been a hollow affair rather than any kind of celebration. People whispered in doorways; a scourge they said.

Wise men convened to discuss the afflictions beleaguering the community. Why had God deserted them? What amends could they make? There was much to consider.

“But what about Jezebel?” Jobe interjected, his slender hand absently stroking grizzly strands of grey beard. He wore a long white shirt with headdress and band despite being inside. He was the only one with head covered.

Those gathered looked at each other, the confines of the mudbrick hut a place of confidentiality and reason. Recalcitrant flies circled the low flat wooden table that housed gourdes of water and wine.

“What makes you say this?” Abraham was the leader of the community. Now in his sixties, liver spots spattered his arms and chest, his face worn and leathery from the incessant sun. His gaze was firm, eyes stoical with hard-bitten wisdom.

“She is always on her own, tending her land. The people go to her for remedies and ointments. It is not natural the way she is, the way she lives.” Jobe gestured with hands flailing, his voice getting louder as he made his point. He remembered morosely the loss of his wife, the sweat on her brow as injudicious fever wracked her body. How he had held her hand, eyes closed, praying for divine intervention. It was difficult explaining to the children when she had gone. She was no longer with them and yet she was. Her spirit would live on but the bitterness he felt for her loss would also endure.

“It is said that she talks to spirits in the desert. Maybe even the devil himself.” Joseph was the youngest of the council and susceptible to gossip.

“She has lived in isolation ever since her parents and sister died. Now she tends her vines, herbs and plants. She has never taken a husband. Some say she prefers women. This is not normal.” Jobe continued to argue his case that all was not well as long as this situation was allowed to continue.

Abraham mulled things over, eyes rolling back in their sockets and up at the straw roof in thought.

The discussion lasted an hour followed by sage-like deliberation. Eventually, the decision was made to demand the woman’s attendance for questioning and two fit and able young men were charged with bringing Jezebel for questioning. Despite the intended low key nature of the meeting, discretion was almost impossible to achieve and word had got around that the female many had doubts about had been summoned by the elders. Speculation was rife, the villagers suspecting witchcraft. By the time the outlier was being escorted through dwellings, a crowd had gathered.

The interrogation seemed to last an age. Questions were asked of the hermit for which answers were mostly already known: Why did she live alone? Why had she never married? Where did she learn her skills with herbs? What did she do at night? How did she account for the failure of this year’s crops?

Her beguiling beauty was undermined by two tiny moles with hairs sprouting from them on her chin underpinning accusations that she was a witch after all. Raven-black hair, as black as anthracite, cascaded onto shoulders, blue eyes glinted making her look younger than her thirty years. A dress and skirt made of goat skin and tied at the waist with a cloth belt made her seem as innocuous as any other villager. It was known that she rarely smiled, a manner that was as austere as the unforgiving desert that dominated the area.

Time went on, postulation becoming increasingly outlandish. Why did she have moles on her face? Were these the mark of Satan? Why did she talk to devils at night? Were her remedies an indication of active witchcraft?

Finally, a decision was taken to adjourn and examine further evidence the following day. As they all left the hut, the waiting crowd surrounded the men trying to escort the accused back to her land. They pushed and shoved, demanding to know the outcome of the impromptu trial.

With the cortege breaking through the throng, the accused became isolated finding herself standing alone at the edge of the village perimeter. Tensions boiled over, a brief skirmish followed by a rock thrown hitting the vilified woman on the back of the head. Blood fanned out on her ebony hair, her hand groping for broken skin. She crouched down on one knee instinctively making herself smaller.

Things were getting out of hand. Desperate people craved a scapegoat for the devastation reeked on them all. As hard as one or two of the council had tried to defend her, they were no match for the collective force of the men, women and children now intent on punishing the witch in their midst. They had judged her and found the miscreant guilty. Civility had been replaced by a hissing, spitting lynch mob.

There was only one option left for Jezebel and she stumbled onwards towards the waiting desert shocked and scared at the opprobrium. More missiles were hurled, some striking the fleeing outcast on her back and legs, others missing, wide of the mark. She struggled on to a cacophony of catcalls, insults screeched and spittle spat in her direction. It seemed that they might beat her any moment, a lynching to assuage collective ills.

Homes and gardens, cattle and livestock had been replaced by sand and cactus, the Negev welcoming her into its blazing arms. She had been summarily banished although this was preferable to being put to death. She stopped and turned, fearing what she might be greeted by. It seemed that the entire village was watching her leave. Arms flailed, mouths screamed, fists shook and, through it all, Abraham stared on, guilt etched on his features. She tried to catch his eye, pain wracking her limbs from the projectiles that her caused injury and pain. He would not meet her gaze, instead scanning to the side knowing that she was there in his peripheral vision.

For a few moments she stood and stared. The multitude stopped and became silent. Jezebel knew that for all the furore, they would not pursue her. The uncertainty was palpable, a silent terror of the unknown and unpredictable left the baying crowd wrought with indecision. They wanted her blood but none would risk her incantations. It was better that she left. Forever.

In the merciless heat, the undulation of sand dunes can disorientate in a matter of minutes. Buzzards circled above, waiting for carrion below to offer up a defenceless banquet of flesh and offal. There was no way of knowing which way to go or where the nearest place of civilisation was. She had been sentenced for witchcraft by the mob and yet the Arts were of no use to her here. The elements held sway. As the sun relentlessly arced from morning to night then morning again, any hope of discovery by nomads was receding along with her life force.

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