The Witching Hour

The five women fell to the floor as the dust settled and the emerald dream subsided. Their clothes were soaked through by the sweat radiating from their sizzling flesh.

Ayla gasped, sputtered, and choked out a series of robust coughs before opening her eyes to the darkened room around her. She felt violated somehow, but the source of which was lost in her hazy memory.

Sitting upright, Ayla scanned the room to assess the status of her sisters. The cast-iron cauldron lay in the center of the room in a melted puddle of globular iron. A single beast-like appendage stepped forward from the shadows looming over the melted metal. The stone ground cracked from the thing’s weight.

Staring at the horrendous misshapen limb, Ayla held back tears as she watched it alter its form into the shape of a human leg and foot, hairless and pale. Ayla followed the foot upward until it receded from sight in the room’s shadows again. Continuing to look upward, she stopped at a pair of glowing, red eyes that peered at her from the dark.

Like two burning coals, the red eyes penetrated her mind and soul, laying everything that made her who she was—her identity and her naked self—bare for the world to see. It was as intoxicating as it was horrifying.

Feeling nauseous, Ayla fell backward onto the stone floor again, catching herself on an outstretched arm. A red, flabby, bulbous tendril penetrated the darkness and slithered outward, jabbing the stale air of the cellar like a serpent before coiling back into the mouth of the being.

A voice broke the silence, which was so jagged and displeasing that it roused everyone from their comatose states. Gasps erupted from the others, along with stifled shrieks, as the rest of the women gazed upon the being they had summoned into their world. Bearing a set of glistening fangs, the beast smiled and looked upon the collection of women that lay at his feet.

“Hallo meine damen. Wie kann ich Ihnen behilflich sein?”

Suddenly, a series of loud banging erupted from the room above the cellar. Someone was banging on the cabin door. The faint sound of dogs barking could be heard from outside, followed by a series of shouting in both English and German.

The young women began to panic, looking at one another and debating what to do. As the door came off its hinges and barreled into the wooden floor above them, torchlight flooded into the room and pierced through the tiny slivers of the wood and into the cellar below.

Amid their panic, Ayla gained enough clarity to remember there being born from the fruits of their labors. Turning to the melted cauldron lying on the floor, Ayla stared in frozen disbelief as the once-shadow-covered being disappeared. The realization that they had not finished their ritual came crashing upon her grief-stricken heart.

Katherine threw her arms around her and began to whimper as the sounds of heavy boots roared through the empty room above them. As they huddled together against the wall of the stone cellar, the women sat in horror as the room upstairs became quiet at the arrival of one man—the witch hunter himself.

A series of murmurs turned to silence as a new pair of boots entered the cabin and began to pound its way down the middle of the room slowly. Each heavy step sent dust over the huddled women in the cellar below. The hunter stopped when he reached the center of the room, his long, black, wool cloak sweeping across the ground and casting shadows over their eyes as it swept over the cracks of the floorboards.

“No one is here, sir. The house is empty,” said one of the English Protestants over the sound of his sword sliding back into its sheath.

There was a long pause. Ayla could hear her heart pounding in her chest. Then the faint sound of someone sniffing could be heard above.

“Can ye smell it? Master Hobbs, that is the foul odor of witchcraft. There be witches in this cabin.”

Then the loud thud of the man’s white birchwood cane colliding with the wooden floor rang out as it slid down from his hand. The women huddled together tightly as they watched in horror as the movement of trickling dust from above made its way toward the cellar door in unison with the pounding of heavy footsteps. There was another pause before the rattling of the cellar door rang out as the man pulled on the iron handle.

Ayla let a single tear fall from her eye as she heard the order from the man above to have someone bring axes and break down the cellar door. Embracing her cousin and holding her tight to her bosom, Ayla kissed her brow and whispered that everything was going to be all right.

It wasn’t long before the door to the secret cellar was chopped to pieces under the countless swings of several rusted axes. The light from the torches filled the basement, followed by the despicable man who had caused them so much pain.

He eyed the five young women with his stern, fiery gaze. The fire from the torches surrounding him paled in comparison to the raging spires emitted from the center of his demoniac eyes. Both burned brightly from under the wide, flat brim of his Puritan capotain hat that the English settlers were so fond of.

As he assessed the women, his fiery gaze didn’t take long to shift toward the remnants of their clandestine deeds. A smirk slowly grew across his face.

“Sherriff Bendorf!” cried the Englishman toward the top of the cellar staircase. “Come tell these young heathens that we will be binding them in chains and they will stand trial for witchcraft come daylight.”

Ayla could not understand the words of the Puritan, but she wasn’t going to sit idle in the corner cowering with the others. Not anymore. If they were going to burn at the stake like persecuted women from the fatherland, Ayla decided she would proclaim her truth before her sisters and the heathen filth that stood shoulder to shoulder with that pig of a man.

“Du wirst für das bezahlen, was du getan hast, Engländer. In diesem oder jenem Leben! Wir werden dich verfluchen, für alle Ewigkeit!” Ayla shouted as she rose from her crouched position, trying to match the intensity of her persecutor with a fiery glance of her own.

Her defiant stance was futile, but it gave her sisters the courage to rise and stand shoulder to shoulder alongside her. Their hands came together as they stood with their heads held high.

The subtle smirk that once graced the sharp rigid face of the Englishman had melted away to reveal a soured face painted with rage. If there was one thing he detested more than witchcraft, it was blatantly defiant disobedience, women who didn’t know their rightful place in society.

Chains and rope were brought down into the cellar. One by one, the women were led from the basement’s darkness to the outside cabin. Standing on the brisk moonlit side of the lakeside hill, Ayla looked down at the small community below.

The entirety of their small community would soon be brought outside to the ringing of the village square bell. She knew she would have to look upon the heartbroken face of her mother. It would be unbearable, but she would have to remain strong.

If there was any change to come, if there would be any hope for a brighter future for the girls inhabiting the new world, then Ayla would have to face the unbearable with a stout spirit.

A lone howl of a wolf echoed over the forest as the five women were led down the hill and toward the cluttered cabins below. As they entered the town center, the village bell rang outside the church house, rousing the village inhabitants from their deep slumber.

Ayla lowered her head and heard a familiar cry ring over the shouts of confusion from the sleepy town members as they entered the village square: the wrenching sound of a mother’s cry.