A WITCH'S JUSTICE

                            by 

                          Watcher



Part 1
 
The museum was small, compared to the ones Emma was used to, but 
it held her interest in a way other grander buildings could not.  
Finding this place had been difficult, but she was on a mission 
and so far it had been worth the effort to track down this 
isolated village and its quaint museum.
 
A life-sized wax dummy stood just past the roped off area that 
separated the visitors from the displays.  The mannequin was 
dressed in period costume and had been shaped with a cruel, 
leering expression as he pointed sternly at another wax figure, 
a woman this time, clad in a rough dress that had seen better days. 
In fact, it might be more accurate to say she wore rags that had 
once been a dress.  She was kneeling, barefoot, with both her 
hands clutched together before her in a plea to the man.  In the 
background there was everything you might expect to find in a 
dungeon, even a life-sized rack. 
 
"Quite the monster," a woman's voice said and, distracted, Emma 
pulled her eyes away from the image before her.
 
"Excuse me?"
 
The woman looked to be around her own age, perhaps in her 
mid-twenties, and, from the way she looked at the depicted 
scene, Emma could have sworn it held special meaning for her.
 
"The infamous Witch-Finder, Matthew Hopkins," the woman said with 
a nod to the male figure standing over the cowering woman.  "This 
very town saw some of his particular brand of cruelty over three 
hundred years ago."  Then the woman held out her hand.  "I'm 
Samantha, Samantha Jones.  I'm one of the guides here."
 
The moment she took the woman's hand, Emma felt a jolt, almost as 
if she had touched a live wire, and, from the sudden widening of 
Samantha's eyes, it looked as if she was not the only one who 
noticed it.
 
"Emma Jameson," she introduced herself.  "You think he was a 
monster?"
 
Distracted, Samantha rubbed her hand for a second, but then she 
forced a smile and put both hands behind her back.  "Of course, 
he terrorised these parts for years.  The things he did to the 
so-called witches....  Most of them were nothing but simple women 
who knew the use of herbs or were single or too pretty."
 
Emma listened for a bit.  This was not the first time she had 
heard stories like this.  Of course she had a slightly different 
perspective on the Witch-Finder.  "I've heard that he was a good 
man, a man who did his best to root out evil and corruption where 
he could."
 
"A good man," Samantha repeated.  She looked like a woman tasting a 
new fruit or sweet and finding it revolting.  "Do you have any idea 
of the things he did?  Even these so-called witches he liked to 
prosecute were innocent of any evil-doing.  They never harmed 
anyone; they tried to live their lives in harmony with nature, but 
that did not stop Mr. Hopkins from brutalising them."
 
Samantha took a deep breath to gather herself.  Then, in a calmer 
tone, she want on.  "I'm sorry.  Sometimes I get a little caught 
up in the history of this museum.  I can get carried away.  Why 
do you think he was a great man?"
 
Emma shrugged.  "Well, my family had all sorts of stories about 
him.  I'm his great grand-daughter, with a few more greats thrown 
in."
 
"You are a blood descendent of Matthew Hopkins?  It sounded almost 
like an accusation, coming as it did from Samantha.
 
Emma drew herself up to her full height.  "I am.  I grew up hearing 
stories about my famous ancestor, and I've managed to trace back 
through the old records to confirm the family tree."  A touch of 
pride crept into her voice at that, but she didn't care.  She liked 
history, but this had been a labour of love and no small effort 
to trace things back that far.
 
"The way I was taught, he spent his life going from town to town, 
village to village, protecting innocent men and women from those 
who were quick to abuse their knowledge of herb lore or alchemy."
 
For a moment the museum guide said nothing, her face a perfect 
mask, but then she asked, "Are you staying in the town for long?"
 
Emma shrugged.  "I'm booked into the hotel tonight."  There was no 
need to name the hotel; the town was small enough that it had only 
one (and not a great hotel at that).  "Then I'm heading off." 
 
An idea occurred to her, and her expression brightened.  "I can 
give you some accounts my family have of him.  A museum should be 
balanced after all, and I'd be happy to share my family's version 
of the man for the record."
 
Samantha's smile looked forced.  "I will pass on your offer to the 
curator.  Now if you will excuse me, I really must be going."
 
		******************************
 
They met in a circle, as was traditional.  They were a circle of 
equals from the newest initiate to the most experienced elder.  
Nature had a place for them all in its design, and, unlike so 
many other organisations, the coven had never embraced the 
ambition-inducing structure of a rigid hierarchy. 
 
"Sister Samantha has asked to address us early this evening."  
John Williamson said, as it was his turn to act as Speaker.  
He inclined his head toward Samantha.  "Sister...."
 
"A blood descendant of our old enemy, Matthew Hopkins, is among us 
-- a woman by the name of Emma Jameson."  She paused to let that 
information sink in.  Even after all these centuries, the name of 
the Witch-Finder still had the ability to stir deep emotions among 
those of their kind. 
 
"I have spoken with the woman, an ignorant fool quick to defend her 
ancestor and the evil that he did.  I have asked that we meet ahead 
of our usual celebrations so that we may consider a proposal...of 
justice long delayed, albeit on the carrier of the Hopkins's 
blood."
 
"What are you suggesting?" John asked, frowning.  "Blood of his 
blood or not, this woman has done us no harm.  If we use our craft 
to bring injury to her, we will but prove everything that Hopkins 
said of us and the practitioners of the craft to be true."
 
Samantha held up her hands quickly to allay any fears they might 
have.  "I do not propose that we harm her, simply that we educate 
her in the truth.  Tonight is the great feast of Samhain, of All 
Hallow's Eve.  Tonight we of the Craft are at our strongest, and 
many things impossible become possible this night.  This is what 
I propose...."
 
They listened carefully to her suggestions, and, as she watched 
their faces, Samantha knew that she had won them over.  One by 
one they gave their assent and stepped closer to join their hands. 
This working of the Craft would require skill and strength, but, 
with the barrier between the present and the past, the living and 
the dead, thin as it was this most special of nights, she had no 
doubt that they would succeed.  Emma Jameson would soon have a 
night she would not soon forget.
 
		******************************
 
The pounding on the door woke her.  Trying to rub sleep from her 
eyes, she pulled back the blankets and swung her legs over the 
side of the bed until her feet dangled over the floor.
 
"The hotel had better be on fire," she muttered angrily under her 
breath.  The bed had not impressed her before she lay down for the night, and, if anything it was worse now, hard and lumpy.  She 
could not really see very well in the dark, but even the blankets 
felt different, lighter for one, and rougher, much rougher. 
 
Still half-asleep, she climbed to her feet.  The biting cold of 
her bare feet touching chilled stone woke her completely fast 
enough.  "Stone," she thought, as her brain began to fire on all 
cylinders.  There should have been a worn and faded carpet on the 
hotel room floor.  
She looked down and could see very little, but there was no 
mistaking the feel of cold stone beneath her feet.
 
A second later, the sound of wood giving way under the impact of 
some great blow filled her ears and, afraid now, she turned toward 
the source of the commotion.  Perhaps the hotel really was on fire. 
But, if so, why would the manager need to break down the door?   
Wouldn't he have a master key?
  
Light spilled in through the door frame, and what she saw there 
froze her blood.  It was not the hotel manager, not unless he 
had decided to attend some Halloween fancy dress party dressed 
as some sort of soldier.  A soldier dressed in a dark uniform, 
with a metal helmet and breastplate that gleamed in the light.  
And he was not alone.  Holding a flickering lantern, the source 
of the light, a second soldier came in behind the first.  And 
there were two other men behind them, one tall and ominous, 
the second shorter and younger.
 
"What in hell is going on?" she demanded.  Then, even though her 
attention was focused on the intruders, from the corner of her eye 
Emma saw that her hotel room had vanished.  Instead, it had been 
replaced with an open fireplace, dead at the moment, surrounded by 
a few rough wooden shelves on the walls that held various jars and 
things.  The room looked almost like something sprung from the 
museum, a recreation of how someone might have lived centuries ago. 
 
She felt the beginnings of panic now.  Where had the hotel room 
gone?  Who were these men who had just broken down her door and 
were advancing on her as if she were some dangerous beast that 
might lash out and kill them at any moment?
 
"Listen, I don't know what you guys are trying to pull, but I want 
some answers, and I want them now, or I swear I'll make sure there 
will be hell to pay for what you've done." 
 
Obviously she must have been moved when she was sleeping and taken 
to this place, whatever it was.  Why was another matter entirely, 
and who had done it?  Emma intended to find out.
 
"She invokes the power of Hell," the tall man dressed in black with 
white lace at his throat and wrists called out.  "Bridle her before 
she calls down a curse on us."
 
Before Emma could move to stop them, the two soldiers were beside 
her side.  One grabbed her arms roughly and the other reached into 
a leather knapsack and pulled out some sort of small metal cage.
 
"Now wait one minute," Emma began.  A student of history, she recognised that device for what it was -- a metal cage designed 
to be locked around a person's head with a bar of metal that 
protruded into the mouth of whomever was unfortunate to be 
forced to wear it. 
 
She opened her mouth to scream as the "Scold's Bridle" was pulled 
around her head, and, moving with the skill of a man carrying out 
a well-practiced manoeuvre, the soldier forced the metal bar into 
her mouth.  She felt it pressing down hard on her tongue even 
before the thing was locked.
 
Wide-eyed with fear, she began to try to protest, but she quickly 
stilled her tongue.  The bar projected into her mouth, and, with 
the brank locked in place, there was no way for her to remove it.  
Worse than simply pressing down on her tongue, it was barbed, so 
that, if she tried to talk or fight against the gagging effect, 
all she would do was to cut her tongue.  The harder she tried to 
talk, the worse the damage would be.
 
"Goody Thatcher, in the name of the King, I attaint you on the charge of Witchcraft."  As he stepped closer, Emma, shocked, 
almost forgot the brank.  She recognised that man.  She had 
looked at his wax likeness only hours ago in the museum.  This 
was Matthew Hopkins.  Only it couldn't be.  Matthew Hopkins had 
died centuries ago.  Yet here he stood, real as life, directing 
the soldiers that the witch be chained.
 
A moment later, she felt cold metal close around her wrists as one of the soldiers locked fetters on her.  He took hold of the short 
length of chain that joined the two cuffs and, using this as an 
anchor, pulled her forward out through the remains of the door.
 
Outside was just as changed as her room.  Instead of the corridor 
of her hotel, she stood in the middle of some village that looked 
like it had been plucked straight out of a history book.  She saw 
a village green complete with pillory, and all around were small cottages that looked just as crude and mean as the one she was 
dragged from.  A tavern of some sort was there, from the sign hanging above its door she could make out its name, "The Roaring Badger."
 
With strength born of desperation, she tried to pull away, and 
break the soldier's hold on her fetters.  What exactly she was 
going to do if she did break free was still a bit hazy.  Emma 
was too shocked to think that far ahead -- or that clearly.  All 
she knew was that she had to get away from these men; they did 
not mean her well. 
 
She might have been a child trying to pull away from an adult.  
The soldier actually smirked at her effort before giving the chain 
a yank that almost pulled her off her feet.  Even walking was hard, 
for the dirt was cold and damp and littered with stones that dug 
into her bare feet with every step.  Her captors did not seem to care that she was barefoot.
 
Then Emma received her second shock.  The sun was starting to 
creep above the horizon, just enough to give enough light for 
her to catch her reflection on a pool of water beside the road.  
The face that stared back at her though the bars of the scold's 
bridle was not her own.  She wore a stranger's face.
 
Shock gripped her until they reached their destination, a nearby barn or shed with an empty blacksmith's forge out front.  The soldiers opened the door into the barn and dragged her inside. 

		******************************

Part 2
 
What is going on?  How can this be happening?  A thousand 
questions rushed through her brain...questions she had no 
answers to.  And perhaps the most important was one she was 
afraid to learn the answer to: what were they going to do to her?
 
She did not have long to wait.  One of the soldiers tied one end 
of a rope around the centre of her chains and then flung the other 
end over a beam high up in the ceiling of the barn.  A moment 
later he began to pull on the rope until Emma felt it go taut, 
drawing her arms up by her chains.
 
He did not stop even when her arms were level with her head.  She 
began to whimper in fear as her fetters were drawn up until her 
arms were stretched out, and she was left with her full weight 
hanging by her wrists, her bare toes brushing against the 
straw-littered barn floor.
 
"She appears frightened."  The young man spoke for the first time.

"Of course, Stephen," the Witch-Finder agreed.  "What creature of 
darkness does not fear when its deeds are drawn into the light of day?" 
 
He stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of Emma, who shook her head in a frantic effort to convince him that some mistake had been made.  Already she could feel where her tongue had been cut from trying to form the words that would explain how 
wrong he was about her.
 
"Note the panicked look on the face," Hopkins said.  "Do not be 
deceived.  She would have us believe that she wishes to address 
us, perhaps to give an account of herself.  All we need do is to 
remove the bridle."
 
Emma nodded.  If they could only take off that dreadful thing, she 
could explain, or at least try to.  She had no idea what was going on, but, whatever had happened, she was the innocent party here.
 
A cold, thin smile crept over the Witch-Finder's face before he 
turned to look at his younger colleague.  "It is but a ploy, for, once she is free of the bridle, she would bewitch us all.  No, 
once the witch has been taken, the bridle must never be removed."
 
The young man called Stephen nodded his head, but slowly.  He did 
not look entirely convinced.  Emma for her part felt her eyes 
water, and she realised that she was starting to cry from fear. 
Why wouldn't they let her explain?  Why was this happening to her?
 
"If she is not permitted to speak, how then may we question her?" Stephen asked.
 
Hopkins smiled at his younger colleague's innocence.  "We do not need to hear her words to carry out our investigation.  When one had made a pact with the evil one, nothing that comes from her 
lips is to be trusted.  The first step in our investigation is 
to examine her body.  Strip her."

Emma shook her head in a frantic negative, from side to side.  
Whatever had happened to her, she had woken wearing nothing 
but a simple knee-length white shift, but it was a flimsy 
garment, and she was all too aware of how her posture caused 
her breasts to thrust out against the thin fabric.
 
Seeing Stephen hesitate, the Witch-Finder shook his head.  
"Stephen, Stephen, you are here to learn how to identify a 
witch.  How can you determine her guilt if you are afraid 
to look upon her?"  He reached up to grip the shift just 
under her neck, and, with a casual tug, he tore the thin 
fabric, ripping it from neck to hem.  A few more yanks and 
the shift was torn from her body.
 
"Nuuu," Emma murmured into the brank, wincing when she felt that 
jagged edge press painfully against her tongue.  How could this 
be happening?  She had come to finish the documenting of her 
ancestor's life, and somehow she now found herself hanging by her wrists, stripped completely naked, before the very man she had 
been brought up to admire.  Her brain refused to process events.  
It simply could not be.  The man was dead for centuries.
 
Yet here she hung, stripped and helpless.  She could not even stand; all she could do was to paw at the ground with her toes, desperately trying to find some purchase.
 
"Note the ripe breasts and the erect teats," the Witch-Finder pointed out as he stroked her right nipple.  After a few seconds, 
Emma felt it stiffen. 
 
"You see," Hopkins cried out.  "The teat reacts, for it is 
well-accustomed to suckling her familiar sent from Hell itself."
 
"She is comely," Stephen agreed.  While his mentor burned with the 
hot flame of fanaticism as he regarded her naked form, Emma could 
see that a more mundane lust was beginning to fire young Stephen's 
blood. 
 
He glanced at the older man, and, seeing his nod of approval, he 
stepped closer and lifted Emma's left breast.  She grimaced into 
her iron gag as his hands caressed and teased and squeezed.  She 
had never, in her wildest nightmares, dreamt that this could 
happen to her.  With all the care of a man taking off a coat, 
they had stripped her, and now this young man, who looked as if he 
might be around her age, was playing with her breast as if it were 
a toy, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. 
 
"Good," the Witch-Finder murmured with approval.  "Good.  Probe 
her flesh; you must know her body as well as you know your own.  
Let your fingers range over her flesh, and let no part remain 
hidden from your touch.  How else might you discover if she had 
the Devil's Mark?
 
Stephen did not need to be told twice.  Emma squeezed her eyes 
closed, hoping that somehow she could shut out what was happening. 
They had reduced her to the level of an animal.  She felt as if 
she had been transformed into some sort of beast being considered 
for purchase.  Tears streamed down her cheeks at the humiliation 
of being so intimately probed by a stranger. 
 
No matter how tight she pressed her eyelids together, she could 
not escape the sensation of young, eager hands running over her 
breasts, lifting and manipulating them, before trailing down her 
stomach to her bellybutton.  Then they were at her side, sliding 
over her ribs and down the swell of her hips to her legs.
 
Then he was behind her, and she felt his hands rest briefly on her 
shoulders before slipping down her back, trailing the length of her 
spine before parting to caress her bottom cheeks.  Then he was 
feeling her legs. and Emma could feel those fingers shift to test the tautness of her inner thighs then drift up closer and closer 
to her sex.
 
"Hold," the Witch-Finder ordered, and Emma allowed herself to 
breath again.  He was the last person she expected to receive 
a kindness from, but, at his command, she felt Stephen's fingers 
stop just short of her groin. 
 
"Secure her legs.  We must shave her to ensure that she has no 
hiding place left."
 
It did not take them long.  Once her legs were tied and drawn 
apart, the full amount of her weight fell upon her poor wrists.  
The fetters dug in painfully, and she could now not even try to 
take some of her weight onto her toes.
 
She did not dare move or even breath hard when Hopkins began the 
process of lathering up the hair between her legs.  The razor 
looked so dreadfully sharp, and she could not get the image of 
what damage it might do if she caused him to make a mistake.  At 
best, he might knick the lips of her sex, but if his hand was 
unsteady, his vision unclear....  She was acutely aware of how 
vulnerable her position was.  He could ruin her with one misplaced 
sweep of his hand.
 
"There," the Witch-Finder gestured when he was finished.  Emma was left feeling completely exposed and vulnerable once her pubic hair was gone, but she could not help looking down at where he was 
pointing.
 
"Observe this brown marking there on her mound."  From the way 
Hopkins spoke, Emma felt certain he believed he had uncovered 
some incontrovertible proof as to her guilt.  All she could see 
was a natural birthmark, nothing special.  If this was supposed 
to be an investigation, why then had the old man effectively 
muzzled her, reducing her to silence, and then proceeded to take 
every feature of her body and turn it into damning evidence 
against her?  Had everything she had been taught about her 
ancestor been wrong?
 
"Such marks are often common on witches.  It is the aftermath of 
the Evil One's touch."  Looking well pleased to have found such 
a vital piece of evidence Hopkins gestured at her groin.
 
"Allow me," he instructed the younger man.  "But observe closely."
 
Even the scold's bridle could not stop the gasp that escaped her 
lips when Emma felt Hopkins' fingers thrust into the folds of her 
sex, parting the lips of her labia.  He probed until finally his 
rough fingers found their target, her clitoris.  He began to play 
with it, running calloused fingers over it.  Emma threw back her 
head as far as she could and tried to ignore the terrible sexual 
tension his touch evoked, mingled with the humiliation of knowing 
that he was playing with her sex.
 
"Behold," Hopkins announced after a few minutes had passed.  "See 
how her lips quiver and moisten to the touch."  Standing at his 
side, Stephen was taking his duties seriously, so seriously that 
he did not even seem to blink as he stared at the denuded sex of 
their captive.
 
"See how she is aroused.  What decent woman of good character would 
enjoy such contact?"  Just as witches are keen to spread their legs 
to capture the virtue of innocent men, it is often in this place 
that final proof of their guilt can be plain to see."
 
"She is indeed aroused," Stephen agreed.  He sounded both shocked 
and regretful.
 
"Nuuu," Emma shouted into the gag.  How could they say this was 
proof of her guilt?  She wanted to see if any one of them could 
avoid responding if some woman started to masturbate their 
penises.  How could this prove anything?
 
"The wet slit is the downfall of many a witch," Hopkins chuckled.  
"See even now she would deny the evidence before us.  Yet what 
virtuous maiden would respond so to any but her lawful husband?  
No, I fear, there can be no doubt, this wench is a Witch."
 
For a moment both men regarded her.   Dangling in her chains, Emma 
could not stop herself from shuddering.  She wanted to throw up at 
the indignity and humiliation of having them touch her between her 
legs, but, mingled with the shame, was a growing sense of fear.  
Either this was a very elaborate hoax, the sort that got people 
arrested and sent to prison for a long time, or, impossible as it 
seemed, somehow she had been transported back into the past...and 
apparently into another woman's body...a woman who had just been 
found guilty of witchcraft!
 
"And what is to be done with her?" Stephen asked.  He appeared to 
be totally unconcerned that she was to be afforded no trial, no 
chance to face her accusers or lay a defence before the court.  
There was not even to be a judge and a jury.  All she was given 
was the non-existent mercy of a man who she felt certain had 
decided she was a witch long before the examination had begun. 
 
He had not started his crude investigations with the intent of 
discovering the truth.  In this man's hot fanatic eyes she saw 
him revealed for what he was.  He had his own version of the 
truth, knew it for an unshakable certainty.  All that remained 
was for him to find the facts that could be used to confirm what 
he already knew.  Anything that might suggest he had erred in 
his judgement was to be brushed aside as unimportant.
 
"The people of the village must see justice be done lest they grow 
to fear the power of the witch.  When they see her debased before all, they will know she holds no power that cannot be opposed by virtue and dedication."
 
As he spoke, the Witch-Finder picked up a pair of shears, the sort 
normally used to cut the winter coats from sheep.  The blades were 
not nearly as sharp-looking as the razor he had used earlier, but 
Emma found she could not pull her eyes away from them as they came closer and closer to her face.  Eventually she could not stand the fearful tension, and she closed her eyes.
 
A hand gripped her hair, and then the shears began their work cutting away the long locks that graced her head.  Emma was 
crying freely now.  This face was not her own, this body belonged 
to someone else and the locks of light brown hair that drifted 
down to the ground were certainly not the same as her blond hair, 
but feeling those hairs brush against her body as they fell to 
the ground, she also felt some part of herself dying inside. 
 
It did not take long for him to finish his work, for he needed to 
take no care to make the cuts match.  Instead he simply attacked 
her hair, hacking it away until all that remained were rough 
unruly stubs jutting out from her skull.
 
When the rope holding her chains up was loosed, Emma tumbled to 
the floor, and there she curled up, crying and shuddering in revulsion of what had been done to her. 
 
She was not allowed to remain there long, for, after what seemed 
to her to be a very short time, one of the soldiers picked up the 
chain that linked her wrist fetters and began to pull, dragging 
her back to her feet.
 
"Bring her," the Witch-Finder ordered. 
 
Then, turning to his student, he explained.  "When the witch is 
captured, it is important that the people of her village or town 
see that she holds no power over them.  It is vital that their 
fear of her is cleansed and a warning sent to any other souls who 
would dabble with the dark powers."
 
Stephen nodded; he could see the importance of that.  His eyes 
widened at the full realisation of what the Witch-Finder intended. 
Emma was now completely naked, deprived even of the hair between 
her legs, but this added humiliation would only strengthen the 
message being sent. His shock quickly faded away to be replaced 
with a noticeable bulge at the front of his breeches.
 
Emma tugged at the chain, tried to shout as best she could without 
tearing her tongue to shreds.  She saw the barn door ahead, the 
opening that led out into the village.  That was directly where 
the soldier gripping her chains was headed.  Surely they could not 
intend to take her outside, not like this, naked and bald, clad 
only in chains?
 
It had been bad enough for the two soldiers, the Witch-Finder, and his apprentice to see her like this, but, if she were taken outside, everyone in the village would see her...see her stripped, 
sheared (head and crotch), and chained like some criminal.  How 
many people were in the village?  Would they all come to see her?  
She shuddered at the very idea.
 
But it came to pass.  The soldier shoved her out the barn door, and 
Emma took her first step outside.  How she hated them, hated the 
way the Witch-Finder made a mockery of his search for truth.  He had condemned her simply because of a birthmark and the fact that the body she occupied had betrayed her when they had masturbated her. 
 
A special hate was reserved for the brank.  Such a simple device, 
simple but effective.  As long as she wore it, she could not argue her case, could not try to explain herself.  She could not even protest at what was being done to her.  It forced her to go meek 
and silent like a lamb to the slaughter.
 
Word must have spread, for, when she emerged, it was to a crowd 
of onlookers.  Like her tormenters, they wore what Emma would 
have termed period costumes (except they did not look like 
costumes).  It looked like as if these were the everyday 
garments of these folk.
 
With the soldier holding the chain, she could not pull her hands 
back to try to shield her body, and a great cheer went up as the 
villagers caught sight of her naked and chained body.
 
"Good people," the Witch-Finder began, but his voice was lost in 
the general tumult.  He held up his hand for silence, and gradually 
the crowd began to quiet down.
 
"Good people, as I pledged, so do I deliver.  I have found the 
witch and confirmed her guilt beyond any doubt." 
 
Fresh cheers went up, and Emma bowed her head in shame and despair. 
Whosever body she wore had been a neighbour of these people.  Yet, 
looking around her, she saw no sympathy.  No one stepped forward 
to drape a cloak over her.  No one tried to defend her or speak up 
on her behalf.  From the men she saw hatred mingled with barely 
restrained lust as they drank in the sight of her naked body, 
paying particular attention to her shaved mound.  The women were 
no better.  Over and over she heard the words "Jezebel" and 
"harlot" hissed and spat.
 
"Send for your friends, your family.  Let all come forth and bear 
witness to the inevitable triumph of good over evil."  Hopkins 
turned from the crowd as he saw a few slip away to pass the word, 
and he nodded to the soldiers.
 
The sudden yank on her chains dragged Emma from her feet, but she 
was given no time to recover.  Still holding the chain. the soldier 
simply dragged her over the village green to the waiting stocks.  
There Emma was finally freed from the fetters, but only long enough 
to force her head and hands into the proper place before the open 
top of the pillory came down, trapping her bent over and staring out across the village green.  A moment later she felt hands at 
her ankles, as her legs were prised apart and bound.   
 
With the body of the pillory blocking her view, Emma could not see 
what was used to tie her ankles.  All she knew was that her legs 
were now spread apart as wide as they could be.  She had no way of 
knowing how many people were behind her, but she knew that anyone 
there would be getting quite a show.  With the pillory holding her 
bent over and her legs secured so far apart, any observer could not 
have failed to see the puckered lips of her sex or her winking 
arsehole, revealed intermittently by her bottom cheeks clenching 
and unclenching.
 
"They have seen her stripped and helpless," Hopkins said quietly 
to Stephen as both came to stand directly before Emma's trapped 
head.  Forced into silence all she could do was look up at them 
with a mute plea for mercy.
 
"Now they must see her punished."  Then, in a louder voice meant 
for the villagers presumably looking on, he said, "Let the witch 
be birched."
 
A wide smile spread across Stephen's face at this.  For all his 
initial hesitation, the sight of a nubile young woman stripped and 
helpless under his power appeared to have melted his reluctance.  
Now his breaches bulged, and an eager fire shone in his eyes, as 
eager as any of the rabid villagers.
 
Seconds became minutes, and still Emily could feel nothing but the 
wind brushing past her exposed bottom, caressing her secret lips.  
But she could not stop clenching and unclenching her buttocks in 
fearful anticipation.  And then it began, and she learned the true 
meaning of pain.
 
Over and over the birch fell, a dozen twigs and rods bound together 
into one mass.  Each stroke assaulted her most tender regions.  
Instead of one solid blow they came separately, a hundred little 
fingers of pain as the birch rod began to fray.  Scores of stinging 
lashes assailed her bottom cheeks, making her jump as far as the 
pillory would allow.
 
Heedless of the damage to her tongue from the Scold's Bridle, Emma 
screamed with each blow, for she had never experienced anything 
like this.  By the fourth blow she would have happily sworn any 
declaration or admitted any falsehood if only the birching would 
stop. 
 
On and on it went without mercy, until her bottom was a mass of 
agony.  Even the tender region between her legs did not escape 
the attention of the birch.  When finally it stopped, Emma knew 
that she would have collapsed if not held up by the pillory.
 
In a daze, she heard Hopkins tell Stephen what he had planned for 
her.  She would stay in the stocks for the day so that the 
villagers could satisfy themselves that justice had been done.  
The soldiers would stand guard to prevent any companions trying to 
free her.  The soldiers would also ensure that the villagers did not kill her in their wrath, but would not lift a finger to prevent 
any rotten vegetables the villagers might care to throw at her.  
And if any of the village gentlemen were uncertain that she had 
escaped too lightly, they were free to inspect her well-thrashed 
bottom for themselves.
 
And then it would be on to the city, where she would meet her fate. 
For that journey she would be transported in the mobile cage that 
Hopkins used.  It was nothing but the flat bed of a wagon upon 
which a structure of strong steel bars had been erected.  Anyone 
so confined would be unable to escape, for the gap between bars 
was too small for any but a new born to have any chance of 
slipping through.  At the same time, they would be wide enough to 
allow any passerby a good view of the naked form of the prisoner 
confined within. 
 
Not that she would travel through any of the neighbouring villages 
in the cage.  That was for the road.  As soon as she neared the edge of any village, Emma would be dragged out to trudge behind 
the Witch-Finder's horse naked, with her thrashed bottom well 
displayed.  Only after countless humiliations before every stranger 
who cared to witness her punishment, would her ultimate fate be 
decided.
 
		******************************

The museum was quiet as Emma entered.  Every step made her wince 
despite the long bath she had taken.  She had awakened safe and 
sound back in her hotel room, her last memory being confined in 
the pillory, watching the sun slowly appear above the horizon.  It 
had all been so clear, so vivid.  She could recall the terror of 
being condemned as a witch mingled with the anger at the injustice 
of it all.  By the Witch-Finder's criteria, anyone could have been 
convicted of witchcraft.
 
And, of course, the humiliation, the sense of shame.  She 
remembered that all too well.  She was left on display in 
the pillory, naked and birched for the amusement and 
satisfaction of the villagers.
 
She had tried to tell herself that it had been a dream, an 
unusually vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless.  That 
explanation died before it had even formed.  A dream did not 
leave the pain of stripes across her bottom.  A dream did not 
leave her unable to sit without crying.  Only a birching could 
do that.
 
Dressing had been difficult.  Every time she bent over, pulling 
the muscles of her bottom tight, it brought a gasp of pain, but 
she had to know.  Had it been real?  Had she somehow re-lived a 
day in the life of a victim of her famous ancestor?
 
She had skimmed over the record book at the museum yesterday with 
no great interest.  It had been filled with the details of women who had been accused and convicted of witchcraft.  She had come here looking for information on Matthew Hopkins, not the women he prosecuted.
 
Emma flipped past the first few pages, scanning each page quickly to see if there was anything that could help.  All she had was a name, Goody Thatcher.  That was what she had been called.
 
And then she found it.  Goody Lucy Thatcher, aged nineteen, 
condemned as a Witch.  There was even a faded sketch of her 
face.  Leaning over the page, Emma was able to see the artist's 
note.  It had been made by a Stephen Laurence.
 
"Welcome back," a half-familiar voice said, and Emma gave a start. 
Looking up from the record book, she saw the museum guide she had 
met yesterday.
 
"Did you have a nice Halloween?" the woman asked.
 
Emma gave a non-committal shrug, since she did not trust her voice 
yet.  There had been a real Goody Thatcher, a young woman whose 
likeness had been captured by someone called Stephen...a woman 
whose face Emma could remember seeing when she caught sight of 
her reflection.
 
It was impossible, but somehow it had been real. She had lived a 
day in the life of this woman, the day she had been arrested on a 
charge of Witchcraft.  She looked up and saw the wax image of the 
Witch-Finder.  Seeing his cruel expression was enough to make her shudder.  She knew now, all too well, what he had done to his 
victims.
 
"You mentioned leaving some accounts of your ancestor," Samantha 
reminded her, nodding to the wax mannequin.
 
Emma looked at her for a moment then remembered how yesterday she 
had tried to defend this monster.  Her words rang hollow now.  
"I'm sorry, I have to go," she said at last as she backed away 
from the record book and the looming image of the Witch-Finder.  
Seeing a likeness of the man was enough to make her stomach clench.
 
She was being rude, as she all but ran from the museum, but she did 
not care.  All she wanted was to put as much space between herself 
and this place.  If she never thought of it again -- or what she 
had endured last night -- Emma knew she would count it a blessing.
 
Watching the young woman dart out the door, Samantha let some of 
her satisfaction show on her face.  The pain in her bottom would 
ease in the next few days, but the memories would be slower to 
fade.  She doubted very much if Emma would ever again try to 
defend the man who, three centuries ago, had plucked out pretty 
young girls almost at random to be stripped and humiliated before 
their neighbours.
 
She above all people could now appreciate the injustice that had 
been inflicted on the man's victims.  More than poring through 
dusty records and family accounts, Emma had lived a day in the 
life of one of those victims.  She better that most would 
understand what the victims had undergone. 
 
"Rest in peace Goody Thatcher," she murmured softly and carefully 
closed the record book.  "You have helped open the eyes of a 
foolish young woman."  Well-satisfied, Samantha started to whistle 
as she turned away to return to her work.  Halloween was always 
her favourite day of the year.  She could not wait to see what 
next year's Halloween would bring.



Edited by C. Lakewood