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Mary Parr (the
Christchuch Witch) |
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Sometimes, you just get an idea in your head, and it gnaws and gnaws away until you have to exorcise it somehow. I have dedicated this story to someone who has had some really good news lately - life, it seems, goes up and down a little like Mary's ducking chair - the skill is surviving when your on the bottom of the pond, and then to breathe the joyous air when you are at the top ..... It was difficult
to know which was worse, the icy cold water once again enveloping her
body, or the stench of putrefaction which filled her nostrils just
before she plunged completely beneath the surface. The sounds of
the baying crowds on the lakes bank became muffled once more as the
dirty, stagnant water filled her ears. How long had
they kept her under last time ? Five seconds, ten perhaps. Mary Parr
held her breath and calmly counted she new that this time would be
the longest, perhaps even the last
.. 7
. 8
... As the ducking
stool impacted with the bottom of the lake, even more sediment was
released, muddying the water. Never mind, Mary thought to herself, they
will not get the enjoyment of seeing me drown. If they haul me up again,
I may give them some entertainment, desperately gulping in huge
lungfulls of air, my eyes straining to regain focus..
17
.. 18
.. 19
.. The biting cold
was making her fingers ache. Her arms were tied so tightly with twine to
the sides of the stool, she could feel the circulation being slowly cut
off. As her mind continued its slow count, Mary found herself thinking again of her accusers. It was Jonathon Quimble who was to blame. That insipid, skeletal freak of a man who had barged into her cottage a few days earlier, wreaking as men so often did, of ale and urine. Her nose wrinkled at the recollection of his stench, far worse than that of the water which surrounded her. He had staggered into her home, alarming her from her sleep and had barged his way into her bedroom. She remembered how his ugly drawn face glowered menacingly in the light of the single candle on the windowsill and how his blackened teeth grinned the grin of the insane as he fumbled in the near darkness towards her bed. 35
..
36
.. She allowed herself a calm smile as she relived that moment
when she sprang cat-like from her bed and clawed at his disgusting face,
relishing the way her long nails sunk into his cheeks, tearing at his
dried, stubbled skin. The howl that escaped his lips would have woken
the dead had she not taken a huge swing at him with her hand-mirror,
which impacted on his forehead with a satisfyingly sickening thud. Yes,
he had gone quiet then, out cold before he had fallen to the ground. 42
.. 43
.. She had run outside at that point, fleeing from the horrible man
who had so much respect in the town. He had been mayor of Christchurch
for 5 years. 45
..
The night air had been pleasantly cool on her naked body as she
ran through the woods. She recalled how her laboured breathing had given
way to deep laughter, finally resting against a tree convulsing in
uncontrollable mirth as she pictured the scene back at her cottage. She
had stayed out for the rest of the night happy to be where she felt
safest, amongst the creatures and elements. Mary was
suddenly jerked back to reality, a slight movement of the ducking stool
reminding her of the current situation. 57
.. 58
.. Were they to
let her up again? To allow one final gulp of air before holding the
stool under the water until she was dead? Another wide smile spread
across her face, water surging into her mouth as her lips parted. How ridiculous
this whole ritual was. What had they said as the crowds had pulled her
from her cottage, screaming and whooping in a frenzy of blood-lust? If
she were to drown, then she would be proclaimed innocent and would be
buried in a paupers grave, if she were to live, then she would indeed be
a witch and she would be burned at a stake in the market place. 65
.. 66
.. 67
.. The water
continued to rush in through her mouth, filling her throat and lungs.
With inhuman eyes, she peered up through the murkiness and regarded
Quimble, his obnoxious face peering excitedly into the lake, hoping to
witness the subdued death throes of a drowning tethered woman. Calmly,
she stared at him, taking in every detail of his face, studying his
movements and mannerisms. Mary knew that such details were passed from
generation to generation. Undoubtedly Quimble could boast many an
illegitimate child in the area. Satisfied that
she had enough information, Mary looked for more victims, the two men
operating the fulcrum and lever which were holding her under the water. Yes,
you two will also know me again. 84
.. 85
.. The intense cold
was now almost unbearable, her feet seemed to have no feeling
whatsoever. Never mind,
my time will soon be over, and then I can rest, recuperate
and plan. Again the stool
jerked. Where the fools going to let her up too early? Surely she was
not to endure the pathetic noises of the masses above? Those miserable
creatures who dared believe that they could defeat her. No, just a
movement. The stool continued to rest upon the floor of the lake. For the sons of
the stool operators, it would be disease. Something savage and
debilitating. Something as slow and painful as being drowned in darkness
and stench. Mary smiled as she decided upon her method. Leprosy so
little used by her and her sisters these days. That would be a fine end.
And for Quimble his kin would have something far more dramatic. The
finest of all tortures begin in the mind. Insanity is comfort and
protection. They would go many months before insanity could save them.
Every fear known to mortal man would get to visit them and invade their
feeble, inferior brains. 113
.. 114
.. It is time. Just to leave a
small gesture of defiance Mary twisted her right arm, easily breaking
the double-wound twine which was biting into her flesh. Her hand free,
she swept a lock of raven-black hair from her face. With no need to
breath the air of mortal man, but irritated by the discomfort of cold,
putrid water soiling her perfect skin, Mary decided to end things for
now. To give the fools a show, her lungs spewed out the oxygen she had
taken before the last immersion, the bubble of life rushing to the
lakes surface and belching out for the benefit of those above. And then,
stillness. Utter total stillness. 156
.. 157
.. Oh they were
frightened alright. The last time that this had happened, 50 or so years
earlier, they had lifted her lifeless body from the lake after just two
minutes. Quimble and his cronies were obviously not taking any chances. Mary was amused
by the fear. Even through the stinking water, she could smell their
terror and it was like honeysuckle to her. 204
.. the
chair finally began to rise. Very soon the sun would be warming her skin
once again, but she was not to enjoy the sensation. In order to properly
convince the fools of her demise, she would have to refrain from her
usual worship of the sun. Instead, as her body emerged from the water,
she would have to appear as any mortal would after drowning. The sweet air
wafted over her face. Dark hair hanging in ringlets across her eyes,
sending trickles of water uncomfortably down her neck. Patience Mary, very soon they will have thrown your cadaver into the hole in the ground. There, you can prepare for your next re-birth, and you will be strong. Strong enough to continue your work for The Master. Strong enough to introduce leprosy to the townsfolk. Strong enough to concoct a living nightmare so terrible that those in the Quimble bloodline would embrace death in an instant, should you choose to be so merciful |
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