MAMOUN THE WITCH
Wayne Summers © 2008
Mamoun Haycroft sprinted through the forest, her long, raven hair streaming out behind her like a veil in the breeze. Her sun-bronzed face was burning despite the cool rivulets of sweat snaking down it. Both nostrils were flared and her mouth was a gaping hole on a face etched with fear; a vacuum sucking in oxygen like a machine. The sound of her feet crunching the dry, dead leaves beneath her filled her ears, but even louder was the barking and snarling of hunting dogs. If she slowed even slightly they would be upon her, pulling her to the ground and keeping her there, pinned like a rabbit beneath their paws, until their owners caught up.
Her one advantage over the small band of menfolk pursuing her was that she knew the forest better than any of them. It was her whole world and up ahead, just over the rise where the ancient oak tree grew, was her cottage, hiding in the shadows of the forest canopy. But the dogs were gaining ground and she was beginning to tire. She had been running for half an hour. Her lungs were on fire and the muscles in her legs were cramping. She stumbled, thrusting her arms out to break a fall which never eventuated. Somehow she managed to stay in motion, scrambling across the leafy ground until she was upright once more.
Her attention remained on the small rise just a few metres ahead. She knew she'd be safer inside her small cottage, but was under no illusion that her troubles would be over once she locked the door behind her.
Her mind reeled with the events of the afternoon. Fragment upon fragment flooded her brain as she tried to piece together the reasons for this madness. There had been a frantic knocking at her door shortly after midday. It had been Master Hawkins. His mother had gone into labour and Mamoun's midwifery skills were urgently needed. She'd collected her herbs and poultices, placing them hurriedly into a wicker basket, and had followed the lad to his home in the township of Chesterfield.
Behind her the barking grew louder, taunting her and goading her to run even faster. She coughed and tried to swallow though her mouth was as dry as her itchy throat. She thought she would choke.
How had it come to this?
The birth had been an easy one. The little girl had hollered when Mamoun tapped her firmly on the buttocks. Both parents had been beaming. Bessie Goodman, the mayor's wife had been in attendance in an official capacity and had been beaming too.
“There she is!” she heard one of the men shout. Was that glee in his voice? They had nearly caught up. If she could just...
Mamoun had been washing Mrs Hawkins with damp rags when a deafening silence filled the room. She looked up from what she'd been doing to find Mrs Hawkins on the verge of tears, her lips quivering and her eyes searching her husband's face. Mamoun had looked across at Bessie Goodman, who was in turn glaring back at her.
“What have you done?” Bessie had growled as she marched over to the bed. Bessie had never liked her. To her Mamoun was beneath her, no more than a sorceress and someone not to be trusted. Bessie had always had her suspicions about Mamoun and her arcane works.
Mamoun had stood up. The atmosphere of joy had disappeared and another, more dangerous, air had replaced it.
Bessie had looked down at the newborn, its lips growing purple, and then again at Mamoun.
“Do something!” she'd screamed.
Mamoun had hurried around the bed to the infant, but it was hopeless. And then Bessie had uttered the words no woman wanted to hear.
“Witch!”
“N-n-no,” Mamoun had whimpered.
“Witch!” Bessie had repeated, and then was joined by Mr Hawkins. Mrs Hawkins had been too distraught, shaking her infant and pleading with it to open its eyes.
Mamoun had fled the room, frightened and speechless; unable to defend herself or even to comprehend their accusations. She'd stumbled through the streets, her tears blinding her and her unsteady gait attracting attention from passers-by. She'd somehow made it out of town and to the edge of the forest before the first, faint strains of barking dogs had reached her ears. Then she knew she was in trouble.
Panting heavily, she burst through her front door. Her throat was now so dry she could barely breathe. In fact, it hurt to draw breath. She took a swig of river water from the pail sitting on her kitchen table. It was soothing but difficult to swallow at first. She erupted into a fit of coughing, spraying water across the table. She gulped down another mug of water and then snatched up the lump of chalk lying amongst the bundles of freshly picked herbs. With a trembling hand she drew a rudimentary pentagram on the floor and from a small cupboard by her bed she grabbed a handful of candles which she placed at the five points of the chalk star.
Outside she could hear the hollow clumping sound of the men run onto her verandah. Mamoun reached into the fire and took out a small twig that had only half burnt. She stepped into the middle of the pentagram and lit each of the candles in turn. Then, just as the front door came down with an almighty crash, she began to sing the first words of a protection chant.
“There she is!” shouted a burly man as he stepped over a pair of dogs fighting to get through the door at the same time. “Get her!”
Mamoun opened her mouth and began to recite the charm that would render her untouchable. If she succeeded, the spell would give her time to think. Already her spirit familiars were gathering in the ether. She could just make them out as shimmering shapes in the corners of the room that weren't yet fully formed. But with each word they grew stronger. She could feel their power radiating down to her as she stood, still unprotected, in her pentagram.
One of the men lunged at her, tackling her to the ground and winding her. Her words died in her mouth and with them, the spirits. Without her command they were powerless to help, though they would be with her regardless, watching from another plane.
“Get your hands off me!” Mamoun snapped, lashing out at her captors as they rushed in to secure her. “You ignorant pigs! Let go of me!”
The men dragged her kicking and yelling outside into the open air where her curses and insults were lost in the shadows of the forest. One of the men she recognised as Robert the butcher, a stout, unkempt man with a penchant for the drink, barked an order that Mamoun in her rage did not catch. Suddenly two men, no more than boys with peach fuzz on their top lips, ran off into the forest to return minutes later with a large branch, slightly twisted and buckled, but sturdy enough to perform the task they had intended for it.
Mamoun spied the branch through wild eyes and began to kick and twist herself fiercely, making the job of holding her securely twice as difficult.
“You little bitch!” one of them snarled and then both of them began to manoeuvre her to the ground. But she would not go. Every time they kicked her legs out from under her she managed to use the men for support, grabbing onto them and digging her nails into their arms so that they cried out in pain and she remained upright.
Robert's eyes narrowed. He snorted and spat out a great glob of mucousy spit that landed with a splatter on a nearby rock. Then, pushing his dirty, blood-stained shirt sleeves further up his arm, he stepped across to Mamoun, hauled back and punched her squarely on the jaw with such a force that she was wrenched out of the men's grip. An eruption of stars exploded in front of her eyes and for a moment she wondered what had happened. Then, as she fell backwards into the dirt, her world went black and all the pain and fear disappeared like the snow in spring.
When she awoke she was upside down. Her head throbbed and there was a stinging pain in her jaw. She tried to focus but the world around her was rocking backwards and forwards. She looked up and noticed her hands had been tied to the branch and knew instinctively that her feet had been tied too. She was swinging on the pole like a freshly shot wild boar, only she was alive. For the moment at least.
The men walked into Chesterfield proudly displaying their catch. Mamoun's humiliation was now complete. She could close her eyes to the people lining the streets, laughing and gawking at her, but she could not close her ears to their taunts and name calling. Nor could she help the tears which flowed from behind closed eyelids, tickling her cheeks, which burnt with indignation.
As the small party crossed the town square towards the jailhouse, something wet hit Mamoun in the face. Her eyes sprang open just in time to see the pulp of a tomato sliding off her nose and then across her cheek like a snail before dropping off the edge of her aching jaw. Something harder hit her in the side – an onion, and then an old and mouldy cabbage.
“Burn, witch!” the villagers chanted as they bent down to collect the produce that had been hurled from the opposite side of the square. “Burn, witch!”
The boos and jeers of the angry crowd preceded Mamoun's arrival at the jailhouse. As the men who were carrying her approached the building the double doors swung back, allowing them entry, then were promptly pushed shut again, blocking entry to those eager to hurl more abuse.
“What have we here then?” Samuel Goodman sneered.
He was an oversized slab of man, not well-liked but respected due to his twin roles as both the town mayor and judge.
“The witch, Sir,” said the young man at the helm as he lifted the branch off his aching shoulder, dropped it to the ground and stepped back.
Mamoun was seething in a silent Hell, though she was canny enough to remain silent. Time would bring her the opportunity she needed. Her spirit familiars were with her here in this place of damnation and while ever they were close at hand she would not fear what was to come.
Samuel studied the woman lying in the crumpled folds of her dress for a few seconds and then ordered her bindings to be cut. If he thought she was going to thank him for that small mercy he was going to have to think again. She struggled to her feet, exercising as much dignity as she could muster, rubbed her wrists and stared defiantly into her captor's eyes. In them she could see his uneasiness. In those brown ringed pupils she could see the weakness that made him dangerous. On his top lip she could see small beads of perspiration; in his temples, a small throbbing. She smiled.
“Take her to the cells!” Samuel snapped suddenly and immediately two uniformed flunkies stepped forward and grabbed Mamoun by the arms.
“What is my crime?” Mamoun asked quietly, without any hint of the terror that was raging through her very soul.
Her question was met with a grim silence and she was escorted to the back of the building where the cells were.
Mamoun accompanied them without a struggle. What was the point? She could run but she could not run far. And even as they arrived at the cell which was to be her whole world for the foreseeable future, she asked herself why. Why were they doing this to her? Hadn't she always been there for them whenever they needed medical attention or someone in whom they could confide? Hadn't she been there for anyone who could be bothered taking the long walk out to her cottage? And it wasn't as though she had sought them out. They had come to her.
One of the jailers opened the heavy wooden cell door and the other roughly pushed Mamoun inside. She hit the far wall but managed top stay on her feet. Behind her she heard the sound of a key turning in the lock and one of the men shouting something to the guard, though they sounded far away like dogs barking in the night. She was still awash with shock and disbelief. When she opened her eyes she saw the straw scattered on the floor and the scraps of food the previous occupant had left behind for the rats.
After a while, she couldn't tell if it had been seconds or minutes, she lifted her head and surveyed the small space in which she had been cast into. There was a small wooden bed next to her with a lumpy, straw mattress and a moth-eaten blanket thrown over it, and a small three-legged stool. Surrounding her like rain on a stormy day were the spirits of all those who had been there before. She could see each of them as though they were there with her now and hear them pleading for lives which had already ended.
The trial held on the following day was the farce she had fully expected it to be. It was nothing more than two hours of finger pointing and groundless accusations; a succession of villagers coming forth to accuse her of everything from crop failure to soured milk.
Judge Goodman, having deliberated for only a minute, declared Mamoun Haycroft guilty of the crime of murder and sorcery, and ordered her to be burnt at the stake the very next morning. As Mamoun was escorted out of the crowded courtroom, amidst jeers and boos, she head held her head high. ‘They can destroy my body,” she thought, struggling to hold back the tears, “but they will not destroy my dignity!”
“Look at her!” scowled one elderly female as she spat at Mamoun. “No shame at all!”
“Heathen! Whore!”
Mamoun wiped her face clean with the dirty sleeve of her grey woollen dress. She could see the loathing, burning like candles in their eyes, and wondered how she had managed to inspire such hatred. The names they called her were spat like poisoned darts from the many thin-lipped women that lined the aisle. How she wished they would roll off her like water off a duck's back, but the fact these insults were from people she had helped made their venom that more potent.
Only when she was back in the relative safety of her cell did she allow herself to weep.
Mamoun refused dinner that night and as hungry as she was, it was not such a difficult thing to do. The stale piece of bread swimming in a sour gravy that had been announced as stew was entirely unappetising. And with death lurking close by with its scythe at the ready she felt less like eating than she ever had. She lay down on the bed with a dull gnawing in her stomach, her hunger as unsatisfied as her desire for justice and freedom. She closed her eyes and tried to forget her woes, hoping that sleep would find her and permit her to escape, if only in dreams.
Early the following morning, before the sun had risen and the mist in the forest had cleared, the heavy clanking sound of a key in the lock of the cell door roused Mamoun from her slumber. She sat up in bed, wiped the crusted sleep from her eyes and waited for the door to open. Subconsciously her hand moved to a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. She smiled faintly as her hand closed around the small bundle. Thankfully she hadn't been subjected to a body search. If they'd found that bundle, all would have been lost.
The door opened a crack and a dark figure slipped into the cell, turned and took the lantern from the guard. When the figure turned back round her face was illuminated by the light she carried. Mamoun gasped. It was Bessie Goodman, her chief accuser and the wife of the man who had condemned her to burn in the flames of a bonfire.
The woman was small in stature and as she removed her hood, she revealed a face whose features seemed at odds with each other. She had large brown eyes and a tight, pinched mouth. Her nose was Roman and her cheeks sunken, giving the impression that her face had been thrown together at the last minute. Her one asset was her smooth, milky skin, unblemished and perfect; though adding only minimally to a face where everything else subtracted.
For a brief moment the two women eyed each other in the dim light of Mamoun's cell. Then Bessie sneered.
“Well, well. Look at you!” she snarled, her top lip curling.
Mamoun rose slowly to her feet.
“Yes?” she asked, defiantly raising an eyebrow. She had little to lose now.
Bessie took a step back and swallowed hard. Mamoun was an impressive woman; an Irish beauty with lightly curled black hair, pale skin and sapphire blue eyes. Her thick lips were a natural pale red colour; her mouth wide and sensual. She stood at just under six-feet and was amply blessed. Her clothes may have been frayed and torn but even with that against her no other woman in Chesterfield could hold a candle to her beauty.
“Harlot!” snapped Bessie with just a hint of defensiveness in her reedy voice. “Did you think we wouldn't find out?
You may or may not be the witch you've been accused of, but the whole town is well aware of what you get up to in that hovel of yours out there in the forest.”
Mamoun placed a hand on her hip.
“And what pray tell might that be?”
“As a good Christian woman I can't bring myself to say,” Bessie replied piously. “Though I suspect that any of the men who have wandered out to ‘keep you company' could.”
“Oh, don't get all precious on me now, Your Highness,” Mamoun countered, placing the other hand on her hip.
But in truth Bessie was partly correct. Men had on occasion sought her out, but not for the reason Bessie, in all her smugness, was suggesting. Her services as an herbal practitioner were not just required by the womenfolk, and although she worked in secret, everyone in the surrounding districts knew of her healing skills.
It troubled Mamoun that the townsfolk thought of her as nothing more than a common prostitute. After all that she had done for them this knowledge was like a knife in the heart. Had she not served them well? Had she not been the one to bring their babies into the world and ease the suffering of their elderly?
Mamoun's chest was heaving. She could feel her face burning, getting redder and hotter with every second she spent in the presence of this harpy. Then, despite herself, her eyes began to water and as the first tears spilled over onto her cheeks, Bessie smiled a broad, self-satisfied smile.
“Tears won't wash away your sins!” she stated sanctimoniously. “Your despicable deeds have already been recorded in The Book of Life!”
Mamoun threw herself dramatically onto the small bed, sobbing bitterly as she realised that perhaps Bessie was right. Maybe she had no friends, and if that were the case, she could not expect any help from anyone. Mamoun worked her hand into her secret pocket.
“Your death will be a blessing,” Bessie continued, moving closer to Mamoun. “The fire will cleanse your soul and your death will cleanse this village.”
Mamoun removed the small bundle from her pocket and pierce the thin skin holding it together with a fingernail.
“Maybe in the fires of Hell there will be time enough for you to think upon your corrupt life, though I realise it will be a little late to change your ways then,” she added with a little titter at the end.
Mamoun looked up from the bed as Bessie turned and walked towards the door.
“Mrs Goodman,” she sniffled.
Bessie turned around and took a step towards Mamoun, who climbed off the bed and stood to face her.
“May I know the reason for my death?” Mamoun asked. “If I am to burn, surely even you can't deny me such a small mercy.”
“As if you don't already know,” Bessie replied coldly, her eyes narrowing. “You murdered that infant. I don't know how, but you killed it as surely as if you had cut its throat. God rest her soul.”
Mamoun opened her mouth to protest her innocence, but Bessie had only paused for breath.
“It seems that murder is not your only talent. Even in the short space of time it took to capture you other crimes have come to our notice. Aside from your enjoyment of our local menfolk that we have already discussed, your brews and potions have been responsible for our crops failing this year, and we suspect, three seasons ago as well. There are other, lesser crimes too, but I think you have the answer you require.”
Mamoun was speechless for a moment. It was incomprehensible that these people she had lived alongside for so long could think so little of her.
“And how is it you ‘know' these things to be true?” Mamoun asked.
“I know because it is general knowledge. You think your business is a secret, but people talk. People compare notes and report what they have seen in your little cottage in the forest,” Bessie snapped, leaning forward defiantly as though her words would protect her from Mamoun. “People have heard your devilish chanting and seen your potions all lined up along the wall. The devil has his hand in your work and we shall have no more of it. You are now doing more harm than good, and we must stop you before you destroy us all with your unholy works.”
Then Bessie folded her arms across her small chest as if to say ‘and that is that!'. Mamoun could only pity this woman and the others who had relied on her over the years, but who had turned on her out of fear. The whole situation infuriated her, but it made doing what she was about to much easier.
She opened her hand and blew a cloud of grey powder off the small bundle of ashes and into Bessie's face.
“What are you…? What is that? Oh, Heaven help me!”
Mamoun stepped back and held her hands out towards Bessie as she choked and gasped for air, clawing at her throat to relieve the burning. Mamoun spoke the words of an ancient spell. If they were going to brand her a witch, she would give them a witch. Bessie didn't stand a chance against Mamoun's power and her potent powder. She fell to the floor and passed out.
Wasting no time, for there was no time to waste, Mamoun set about removing both her own clothing and Bessie's. Going as fast as she could, she dressed Bessie in her clothing, which almost swamped the smaller-framed woman. Only when she tried to pull Bessie's clothes on did she realise the flaw in her plan, and while Bessie's cloak would do an adequate job of hiding her identity from the guard, there was the matter of her height.
Mamoun had to think quickly. The first light of dawn was creeping in through the metal grid in the window of her cell. She looked at the small bundle in her hand. There was still a considerable amount of powder left, but it would not be enough to use on more than one other person. Still, there was only one chance for escape and it was at that very moment.
“Oh my God!” she screamed suddenly. “Help! Help me!”
The guard came rushing in and Mamoun was ready for him. She blew a cloud of powder into his face and spoke the words of the spell. He fell to the floor choking and gasping for air just as Bessie had. Then he too passed out.
Mamoun grabbed Bessie's cloak and ran out into the main room at the front of the jailhouse, pulling the cloak over her underwear. Seeing that the room was empty she ran to the door, opened it a crack and looked out across the town square. It was early. The streets were still empty although not for long. The townsfolk liked to rise early and get about their business. She would have to hurry.
Taking a deep breath, she threw the jailhouse door open and fled across the town square, Bessie's cloak flapping behind her like the wings she wished it were. She ran like the wind towards the far side of the township. In a quiet voice she finished chanting the words of the safety spell she had begun the previous day and upon her bidding her spirit familiars swooped down and surrounded her, swirling and weaving their way around her as she ran, rendering her almost invisible to the naked eye. If anyone were to look in her direction, all they would see would be a shimmer like sunlight on the crystal waters of a lake.
Once inside the tree line of her forest, Mamoun dropped the cloak and ran through the undergrowth towards her cottage. She knew it would be for the last time. As soon as she had dressed and collected a few of her possessions she would flee from this place, never to return.
The mist, still thick on the ground, swirled and eddied about her as she ran. She was alert to every sound and every movement. She kept looking over her shoulder, but the mist hid everything not in her immediate surroundings and soon it swallowed her up as well. Only the soft, quiet sound of her footfall on the damp leaf litter could be heard, but that finally disappeared too.
The very next autumn, as the days grew from moderately warm to chilly, a great illness swept through Chesterfield, striking down almost fifty percent of the population. Without Mamoun and her potions and poultices to cure them, a third of the population succumbed to the illness. Suddenly thoughts turned to Mamoun and her healing hands. Suddenly there was a measure of regret for the way they had treated the only person who could cure them.
Bessie Goodman, however, as stubborn and arrogant as she had always been, lay on her death bed happy in the knowledge she had rid the town of Mamoun's influence. Even when she took her last breath her thoughts were not of her husband, family or friends, but of the witch from the woods.
***
Wayne Summers currently have stories in Issue 19 of Theaker's Quarterly Fiction; Volume 1, Number 6 of Art&Prose Magazine; The Willows, Vulgata Magazine and as the cover story in Issue 2, Niteblade Horror and Fantasy Magazine. I have other stories about to be published in Aphelion, Cemetery Moon and Black Petals also.