SATAN’S WHORE

30 Nov

SATAN’S WHORE

witch burning photo: Witchcraft Woodcut 04-19witchburning.jpg
Auntie Martha scowled and spat at her jailer, who punched her on the face for her cheek.

She wasn’t anyone’s auntie really, but a weird assortment of relationships during an earlier generation’s flibbertigibbet’s love-life made everyone believe she was related to them all.

But that had very little to do with her current predicament.

A simple chain of events, starting with the big man at the Manor losing his eldest daughter to the plague and she being called in to heal her, and failing, a disaster that was swiftly followed by the Priest being caught in flagrente with her on the altar when he thought nobody was looking and her cat going missing during a full moon … seemingly unrelated things that rapidly became close cousins due to pressure from on high, in the Manor.

No man likes to lose a daughter, not even a plain one like she was. And no high Manorial Lord likes the idea of the Priest who should be firmly in his pocket having carnal knowledge of the local wise woman on or off the altar, and as for disappearing cats – this one was black, and everyone knows what that means.

So the order was passed to the county’s witch-finder for a witch, and who that witch should be, and there wasn’t a witch-finder who wasn’t firmly in half a dozen pockets. So Martha, wise woman and healer of most sick (but not all) was declared to be a witch. She was tried at the ducking stool, and survived and so was clearly rescued by Satan who someone said was hovering in a cloud near the horizon with a ferocious expression on his evil face.

This last observation made everyone grovel to the ground and wail, and there was no doubt about it: Martha was as guilty as hell and must suffer the consequences.

And the consequences involved a stake and kindling and a great deal of fire.

The villagers were to have a treat, though Martha didn’t see it that way, which is why she didn’t really mind being punched in the face by her jailer. Any pain was a preparation for the big one, she rationalised. She’d scalded her finger once, and knew how heat can hurt.

The day before the Burning (the Burning Field was already being prepared and all the children of the village were out collecting dry kindling from the forest which surrounded the village in all directions) the Priest came to accept her recantations. He might have felt a bit shy at the prospect of hearing the last words of a woman he’d tupped a few days earlier, and (he knew it and she knew it) several times before that, but he didn’t show it.

“I suppose you’d like my dress over my head and my legs open?” she asked viciously. She could be verbally vicious, could Martha, even when it was a matter of death or death. She knew there was no chance of life, not in this mix, and not with this Priest.

“Satan’s whore!” he rasped, hoping the jailer would hear his words. The jailer grinned to himself. He’d heard her part in the exchange and knew the truth behind her words.

“Does God love me?” she asked, a glint in her eyes. Like everyone back then she knew too much about God for her own good, and she particularly knew there wasn’t a sin so damning she couldn’t be forgiven if she had access to a sufficiently weighty purse. The trouble was, she’d never accumulated wealth. Not that she’d had much of a chance.

“God loves us all,” growled the Priest. “You know that much at least!”

“You told me at the altar mere days ago, with your flesh pummelling mine,” she replied. The jailer almost giggled when he heard that bit. This Martha was a card, all right. He almost regretted punching her in the face. Almost, but not quite.

“Say no more of it!” hissed the Priest. “Renounce your loyalty to Satan and I’ll see what I can do!”

“I have no truck with devils!” squawked Martha.

“Then you will burn as will all sinners,” sighed the Priest, wondering where he would find another willing concubine to conquer once this one was ashes.

“And God you say is love?” she asked.

“Is love,” he confirmed.

“Some love to accept such tokens as an innocent whore’s flesh turned to ash,” she sighed, and the thought made her pale.

Tomorrow this Priest would pray her way to Hell, and as he was doing it she would conjure in her mind an image of his penis. At least that wouldn’t be so difficult and would add a touch of irony to her death.

“God is love,” repeated the Priest, and Auntie Martha closed her eyes and focussed her memories.

© Peter Rogerson 30.11.14

Advertisements

2 Responses to “SATAN’S WHORE”

  1. pambrittain November 30, 2014 at 7:57 pm #

    Goodness.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: