Intervisible: Mutually visible; each in sight of the other
Sister: A female who has the same parents with another person or who has one of them only
Accuser: One who accuses one who brings a charge of crime or fault
—–
‘So I put it to you Goodie Western, that you are a witch. A bride of Lucifer and weaver of sinister spells. The punishment for which, of course, is death.’
The Hunter raises his staff to the judge and takes a seat, thin wooden legs splaying under his weight, then slings an arm lazily onto the table before him. The cuffs of his jacket are an off white, greasy.
‘Yes, thank you Mr. Lancaster, your testimony has been noted.’
The Judge, old, chipped from wood and mossy. Hunched into the uncomfortable high chair behind the dais. It’s the law. He coughs gruffly, some kind of chest cold or some such. He begins speaking in reedy tones,
‘Goodie Western, your accuser stands before you, your contentions are intervisible betwixt you, and it is by the grace of God that I am required to hear your testimony – now in this court of fair and just law.’
The silence is thick, muggy, rife with peasants trying to work out what the word ‘intervisible’ means.
‘She’s a witch!’ calls a voice from the back of the room. The Judge roars to life instantly, a hawk grabbing a fish,
‘Silence! Silence Mr Robertson – Apprentice Tanner,’ he spits the words vilely, ‘remove him now!’
Mr Robertson, apprentice tanner, is removed from the room. A twinkle grins in The Hunter’s eye. It’s almost too easy. As she stands, the woman’s chains remind him of falling coins.
‘You may begin, Goodie Western,’ says The Judge, magnanimous once more, composed and gnarled as bark. The old woman nods, the folds of her skin scrunched up like paper and almost translucent.
‘I see here before me,’ her delivery is loud and crisp, intoxicating in its subliminal ferocity, ‘friends. And good people, but I don’t see no family. And why’s that? Because my sister is dead. And I stand here before you all, accused of her murder through witchcraft. You all knew her condition then. You all know me now. It were my medicines that made her better, you all know that.’ The old woman pauses, casts a bruised eye over the small crowd. ‘Goodie Meadows, who was it what delivered your three chillen?’
Goodie Meadows feels the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes boring into her, iron pokers, she shudders in her soul. Without saying a word, she nods. Several more white heads bob up and down of their own volition. Lot of chillen in this town here today because of Goodie Western. Lot of women too, come to think of it.
‘And what do we know about this man here?’ Goodie Western points at The Hunter, the glint in his eye slightly smaller, shrinking. ‘This man, who appears from nowhere last week, days before my sister was murdered, yes murdered! This man who calls himself a hunter of witches and decries me as a sibling killer and a bride of lucifer! Where were you that night Sir? Where were you?’
She spits on the ground, there’s blood in it. It was a rough night.
A single bead of sweat rolls down The Hunter’s temple, the glint in his eye just a flicker. The old woman is good, very good…but he’d come across better.
‘Mr Lancaster?’ says The Judge.
Tidying his cuffs, The Hunter stands, clears his throat and begins to speak, greasy fingers leaving their marks.
Stories On The Sofa 