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The Accused: Closer to Our Graves
They still tell tales about the old woods that delivered me into sanctuary. I remember when my older cousin Jemma used to tell me those stories at night just to scare me. Stories about how there was something living in the old woods that bordered our village. How an old hag had run from Salem in 1692 and made herself at home in our woods. Set a curse on them. I told her I knew she was just trying to frighten me. Said I didn’t believe a word of it and that nothing could hurt me so long as mother and father were at home. But she’d just smile knowingly while getting up to leave for bed.
“Okay.” Jemma would say, half mocking me before blowing out my candle in one swift puff of air. She knew I was really terrified. I’d lay in bed scared out of my mind, paranoid that something was going to come ruin my life. But nothing ever came from that wood. Even if I’d always held the forest in a kind of mistrust, it never did a thing to my family or me. Save for possibly harboring wolves.
No, what eventually came and ruined my life never stepped from those woods. It was waiting for me all my life in the very village. Marcus Reel was the son of our village constable. Constable Reel being who he was, was the richest man around for miles. Not many small villages needed a constable all the way from the city. But strange reports, suspicion and fear finally made the townspeople send out a request for some kind of peacekeeper in the parts of Crewington, the name of my village. This was just a few years before I was born so why exactly he was called out I was never really told. No one would talk about it. When I got a little older, Jemma said it was all just silly suspicions over what the crazy old folk were saying. That something wicked was in the woods.
“Like what?” I’d asked. She’d seemed uncomfortable with the question, obviously in knowledge of something she’d rather not be.
“Just silly things, it’s nothing to worry about.” Her tone was quick like she was trying to shoo the whole subject away.
But no matter how silly she insisted it was, I still kept searching. Sometimes I’d glance out of a window and it seemed that the wood itself was nodding at me, encouraging my curiosity. It wasn’t even an interest really, just a constant wondering for some kind of answer about things the people around me would only hint at.
Somehow Marcus Reel was able to look past that for sixteen years. He was born just after the constable moved in to these parts, making him a few years my senior. Also, being the constable’s son he was rather arrogant and he well believed he could have anything he fancied. He wasn’t very bad looking either, which only fueled his impudence. Of course I was still shocked when he proposed marriage. I don’t even know why he asked me when we barely knew one another. Our mothers were friends, and so of course mine thought it would be a brilliant match. All of my family agreed with her. And who could blame them? He was the son of the richest man among the tiny clusters of villages out in our part of the New England country side. His family was of such a high status around the area and I was lucky for him to even be looking at me. Still, I refused him. Why I did that I’m still unsure. I could have lived with him I suppose. But then just living with someone is something entirely different from being bound to them in holy matrimony.
Needless to say he was shocked, along with the rest of the village. He was furious with me and he made that very clear every chance he got. And I guess he had every right to be after I’d dared to humiliate him like that. But I never thought he’d go so far as to accuse me of witchcraft. He knew very well that the penalty for that was death. There was no fair trial when you were accused of being a witch. You were found guilty whether you pleaded innocent or not and if you didn’t plead at all you were pressed to death.
And so I sat, hands tied behind my back and to a large beam in a stable on my supposed last night alive. I was to be thrown in the creek the next morning and if I lived I’d be burned at the stake. Unfortunately the chances of my surviving the creek weren’t that bad off. But I refused to be burned alive. It took about two hours for a body to fully burn and that terrified me too much to allow such a thing to happen. I’d rather go out and drown myself.
No, I already had a plan. A rather good one at that. Then again, any plan that got me away alive was a good one. I was going to fake my death the next morning when they threw me in. I had it all worked out, right down to the very last detail. Now all there was to do was sit and wait.
After hours of unsettling waiting the barn door finally opened and pale gray light leaked in. Marcus stood at the open door watching with an emotionless look on his face as two more men came in and undid the ropes I was bound by. I watched him intently, my gaze as cold as I could twist it. I continued to glare at him as I was shoved out the door and down the moors towards the madly rushing river. The current in that river was swift but not an immediate death sentence in the least. Not the one Marcus was hoping for anyway. Once down at the river I saw the whole village had gathered at its banks. All of them stood well enough away from the lapping water out of superstition. No one could touch these shores until tomorrow, whether I died or not. They believed my evil would spread into the water and should they drink it or even be touched by it they would be cursed. To them it was an obvious logic; to me it was mockery since there was nothing evil in me at all. The statements of charge were read loud enough for every one to hear them. I did my best to ignore the shouted words as I watched the river. The tide was in, which was a good thing. I’d be hitting water after I fell beneath the surface I wouldn’t have to worry about the sharp rocks laying on the rivers bed. My breathing was deep and calm by force. I closed my eyes as I was walked down to the small dock. The men on either side of me dragged me along and I did nothing to rebel. We stopped where the wooden planks ended and I was lifted up, positioned horizontally between them. My heart raced and I did my best to keep my thoughts calm as they swung me towards the river. I could’ve all but cried then what with all that was happening. And then they let go and I caught my breath in my throat, clamping my eyes shut as tight as I could.
The water hit me hard and I was beneath the surface immediately. After the pressure came the icy cold shock of a thousand invisible daggers plunging into me. The horrid sense of terrorizing fear was heightened by the fact that my hands were tied behind my back. The instinct to gasp and start clawing my way to the surface was incredibly difficult to suppress. I closed my eyes again and calmed myself as I waited. My heartbeat got louder and stronger in my ears. My lungs felt ever dense and heavy. But all I could do was wait and hold my breath. This death had to be believable. Lucky the current was so swift, for it carried me downstream and away from the village hastily. Padding Bridge caught my eye above. It was barely a shadowy swibbley image looking up at it through bitter water. But I clearly recognized it and I knew I was far enough down stream to push up to the surface and not be seen. Good thing too, I could barely keep the mind to think properly. There was so much pressure building under my skin; it felt as if it were threatening to burst. Teetering myself forward I was soon vertically positioned and I could feel the tips of the rocks on my bare feet. Pushing off the boulders with all my remaining strength I cut through the water and up to the surface. I sucked air into my lungs as fast as I could. The relief of being able to breathe made me feel more comfortable for the moment, but men would be running downstream soon to make sure I didn’t run away if I was alive. They would also be collecting me if I was dead. Turning, I situated myself on my back, floating still. I closed my eyes and tried to look as limp as possible, taking in the smallest breaths achievable. The wind over the river caught on my skin and after having been immersed in such cold waters the feeling was worse than being completely submerged in the stream. It was torture. If they didn’t find me soon I was convinced I would die of frostbite. Now I’m sure it was unlikely, but then it seemed so certain.
I would reach the end of the brook soon. Flow into the small lake surrounded by willows and bullfrogs. It was getting much warmer now. The sun was starting to fully rise and its radiance was indeed welcome. This wasn’t so bad really, laying here in the cool water, basking in sunlight. All on my own felt good as I never thought it could. I wasn’t surrounded by people, I wasn’t being stared at, and I wasn’t being judged. I was able to just be. The peace must’ve gotten to me and sooner or later down the line I suppose I fell asleep for I never felt them lift me from the water or take me to the town doctor.
Glad as I was to have it with me for my planned escape into the city, I resented it somehow. Maybe it wasn’t really the dress. More or less the people who had done all this. My family, the constable, and especially Marcus. I was being forced to come up with a plan to sneak out of my own village. The very place I’d been born, grown up and spent all my days. I had friendships with these people. I knew them, all of them. And they just betray me, no questions asked? Oh, but I could not sit here brewing with resentment. I had much to do and a long way to run.
Forcing myself to take a deep, calming breath I began doing my best to shift about to get out of the wooden casket. Executing this task in a large, puffy dress is damn near impossible by the way. Especially in a poorly lit minster in the middle of the night. I finally managed it however and was soon on my way back over the field they’d dragged me through that morning and into the barn.
The night Marcus had announced my charge I had taken care to think up this plan and do everything necessary before they arrested me. In the barn’s second level, under the hay in one of the many mangers, was hidden a bindle. A large sack filled with some of my clothes, a pair of shoes, and as much money as I could find in my home. Slipping my fitted boots on, I threw my cloak over my shoulders and fixed the hood with a brooch. These boots were for fashion’s purpose only and had hardly ever been used, but they would serve their purpose this night. Running through caked dirt and thickets in slippers was unthinkable. My shoes would be ruined as badly as my family name was.
I sprinted through the field, parallel to the river, towards the outer woods. Rushes of feelings were building themselves up as my legs pounded over the ground. Anxiousness, worry, thrill and the need to just get away. If I could have I would have flown then. I can almost swear I was. It was all I could do not to burst, such was the adrenaline surging and swelling in my lungs as I inhaled deep panting breaths. I took one last, fleeting look at Crewington village in the sweet distance as I came upon the woods. Strands of hair whipped gently over my face in the wind I was creating with my own speed. Small, brown houses in a low, evening mist and barely any light to notice them by. But I most certainly did notice them. Each and every one. Even the ones blocked from view by the others. I knew my village like a map and could identify every seemingly congruent structure.
The bakers, the smithy, the thatcher, the butcher and his friend (my father) the fowl master. My father and his colleagues were responsible for rationing out what the butcher prepared and sold. He was also responsible for raising and training the hunting hawks, eagles and owls which contributed in catching the game. Suddenly I realized I would miss watching those hawks. I appreciated their company, petting them, watching them dominate the skies. Roaming freer than I dreamed I would ever be. But I had my own way to fly now. I was one of them, even as I was leaving. The last home caught my eye. It was a cabin belonging to old Mr. McGregor which loomed on the edge of the woods, guarding it. Closing my eyes, I swallowed into my dry throat.
Please don’t see me…please don’t see me…I silently pleaded. My legs never stopped as I continued to tear towards the woods. Suddenly, Mr. McGregor and his wife have appeared at the candle-lit window almost as if they were expecting me. I can feel my pupils literally growing larger in fright. A shriek builds in my chest but I’m too stunned and scared to let it pass my throat.
In a second and a whirl of wind I’ve passed their house. Millions of questions boiled inside my skull as I ripped through the forest in a blur of copper, darkened by the lack of light.
Did they see me? Did they notice me? Will they tell? How do they know they haven’t seen my ghost? Will they call on the guard so soon or wait till morn? Once they see the casket they will all know of my plans. Oh, I knew this would come, but I’d thought to be already in the harbor by tonight and far away from here...if they come after me with their horses and their dogs and the hawks, I’m done for.
All the while I kept up my running. Lungs burning, shin bones seeming to scream threats of breaking, throat dry as a dog’s in the summer; it was all petty at the price of being burned on a stake. Or worse, quartered alive. Besides, running so savagely pleased me. Why, I’m not sure but it didn’t matter. No alarms were being sounded, no warnings or commands being shouted. No lanterns followed my path through the trees, no horses bounded after me. Mr. McGregor probably really did think he’d seen my ghost. The thought was enough to make me want to fit into giggles. But I couldn’t, there wasn’t enough strength in me. I would just have to keep running. And I would, no matter what, I had to keep running.
How drastically roles had exchanged themselves. My feet were taking me away from my home. I was fleeing from what I had always assumed to be safe. And now, my only shelter was the looming dark of the woods I’d always been taught to fear.
