The Witch

by Mary Johnston

“What,” said Aderhold, “is religion?—Is it love of good? Then, with our hand in death’s, I dare aver that we are not apostates!” He smiled at the old man. “Since we entered this room you have shown us a piece of religion.”

“I would show you truly,” said the old man earnestly. “I would show you Jesus.”

Aderhold answered gently. “You do so, sir. Believe that all of us know Jesus when we meet him.”

The old man looked from one to the other. “You do not seem to me wicked people. I know not how it is, but you seem—” The sheriff and his men rose noisily from table. There immediately ensued a bustle in the place—boards and trestles being taken away—bundles of straw brought in—men going forth to look after the horses—men coming in with the breath of the wet night. One came and called the old parson, drew him away toward the small inner room where he was to rest. Going, he said but one word more to the two. “Good-night. I wish you good sleep.”

The host who had called him held up his hands. “Reverend sir, I marvel how you can stand to talk with such miscreants—”

Joan and Aderhold lay upon the stone floor and slept.... Night passed, the rain ceased, the clouds broke, dawn came with magnificence. The old parson, approaching, too, in the course of nature, his death hour, slept on like a child in the inner room. But Joan and Aderhold went forward with the guard. The inn sank from sight, the road stretched before them.

This day, riding into a village, they found there, the centre until their arrival of excited interest, no less a matter than an officer of the law with three or four subordinates, come from the town to which they were bound—despatched thence by the authorities with orders to meet upon the way the party known to be bringing from London that witch and sorcerer, join themselves to it, and so give touch of that town and county’s importance, assuming charge, as it were, even leagues away, of their own sinful ones.... Aderhold and Joan recognized the head figure—across the years they saw him again at the Hawthorn trials—a tall, lean, saturnine minor piece of the law’s machinery who had herded the prisoners in and out of that hall of judgement. He was so tall and lean and lantern-jawed and grim that he might have been a prize man for the rôle of Death in a mystery play. For his part he came and looked at them, threw back his head and laughed. “Ha, ha!” he said. “We’ve got you back! The wicked do not prosper!” With that he returned to the sheriff with whom he would ride.... This village was of the places where stones and other matters were flung, together with whatever epithet came to the lips. Joan and Aderhold opposed a quietness. Both were bleeding when at last the law persuaded or threatened down the raised hands and bore them away for its own blows. Out even upon the open road came, borne by the wind, “Witch—Witch—Witch! Vile Witch!”

There was a man with the added party who proved to be of kin to the Hawthorn end of the county. He knew Hawthorn and Hawthorn Forest. Riding near to the two prisoners and discoursing with his fellows, the two heard mention of many a familiar name. He had a body of great bulk and a round, good-humoured face, and a liking for his own speech which he delivered—so as not to disturb his superiors—in a monotone of low pitch. The two heard him talk of the Hawthorn crops and fields and weather, of the times good and bad, of the stock, the sheep and cattle, of the streams and woods, of the people.... This day was a high, cool autumn day with a tang in the air. The sun shone, but there was a wind and whirling leaves. Joan and Aderhold knew that now there were not many miles.... At dusk they halted within a hamlet where the folk were too few to do more than stare and talk. There was no gaol. The two were thrust into a damp and dark place where firewood was piled. Bread and water were given them, but no straw for sleeping upon. When the heavy door was shut and barred, and those without and the hamlet’s self sunk into sleep or silence, all was as black, as cold and still, as the grave is supposed to be.

The two knew that next day they would reach the town and the prison from which, six years and more ago, they had fled away. There they would be separated.... Probably they would die together—would be brought forth together to die—might then each reach the other’s hand, might clasp it until nearly the last. But not again in this life would they be together like this, alone together, free, shut from the world.... To-night, at first, all things flowed away save the fact that they loved, save human passion and sorrow and clinging. They lay in the space left by the heaped firewood, in the intense dark, and they held each other in their arms, close, close! as if to defy all parting, and there were broken words and sighs and tears. The last night—the last night—

The higher mood returned, though slowly, slowly. With the bending of the night toward dawn, it was here. They lay with clasped hands, and when they spoke they spoke of love. All things else flowed away, or did not flow away, for it was now as though love tinted all, made the vast whole warm and vital.... They spoke of their child, and of their island life and home; they spoke of the old chief. They spoke of people they had known and loved—of old Roger Heron, of Master Hardwick—of many, of all people. The draff and dross, the crooked and bent, all came into the glow, the solvent. Love—love—love!... Love took this form and took that form, and now it flew with these wings, and now with other wings—and it was love of the body and the earth and all nature, and it was love of wisdom—love of knowledge—love of the search—love of love—love of truth! It was love that was not afraid—that rose on splendid wings—that outwatched the night and saw the morning coming....