the witches - 4. celia

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin the witches

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despite the widespread woe and chaos that they have been credited with spreading, individual witches, unlike kings and conquerors, have not had their lives much chronicled by those scribes who have undertaken to record the histories of nations. it may be doubted if a single witch has attained real fame, by name, in the history of humanity. the witch of endor, described in the first book of samuel, is not named other than as "the witch". it is commonly believed that joan of arc was accused of being a witch and tried and executed for being so. in fact she was tried and condemned for the more unromantic crime of heresy. those persons of an antiquarian bent who are interested enough, can, of course, find the names of actual persons condemned as witches and wizards in europe, in the british isles, and in north america, particularly in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. let us return, then, to our story in the fourth century of the christian era. the three women whom the old soldier probus had encountered on the road to mother ariana's alehouse - were they, in fact, witches? let us dispense with speculation and simply note that they, and a few others like them, were considered to be so by most of the inhabitants of the area, and that they considered themselves to be so, though they would never acknowledge this outright to any but each other. if the authorities had not taken note of them, it was because there hardly were any authorities, as a citizen of today's world would understand the term. barentius, who had constituted such authority as there was in the region, was quite indifferent to their existence, as were his sons (except as they might view the younger of them as pleasing specimens of femininity). the devout asmeralda, however, was scandalized by their existence, and had she had the ear of a more complaisant governor, or of some powerful abbot or bishop, would have urged the utmost zeal to be employed in the investigation and prosecution of their suspected activities. the youngest of the three women who had amused themselves by frightening poor probus, and whose melodious voice still echoed in his brain and sent a thrill of mingled terror and excitement through his simple martial soul, had a history which was no doubt repeated thousands or millions times over in all places and ages - the beautiful young woman of the peasant or beggar class who comes quickly to the attention of the males, young and old, of all classes - who excites the jealousy of women of her own class and the contempt of those of the higher class (and sometimes, the amusement of those of the very highest class) - who resists, briefly or not so briefly, sometimes spiritedly, not infrequently to the death - the casual but implacable cupidity of the siegneur - who is then cast aside to the mockery of her former fellows and the horror (though very occasionally the compassion) of the pious - who is regarded as fallen and ruined by all - who then makes her way as best she can until vanishing into that darkness which awaits the peasant and the potentate alike. it is not to be wondered at that many of these women join the ranks of "witches" or "sibyls" or whatever other designation would be used in a particular time and place. their presence would also account, to the rational minded, for the common belief that witches were almost all either young and beautiful, or old and withered, and that they traveled in groups embracing both types. it also seems obvious, on reflection, that the fear engendered by assuming the role of the "witch" would be regarded as a form of protection, to be courted even though risking the alternate peril of arousing the attention of the inquisitor or witch-finder. perhaps less obvious, though not immediately susceptible to refutation, is the idea that some very young women, perhaps alerted to their coming dangers by observing the fates the others, should anticipate their attackers by joining the unholy ranks even before reaching the first bloom of womanhood. such in fact was the story of celia, the young woman whom probus had encountered on the dark road in our previous chapter. celia had had an older sister, even more beautiful than herself, who had aroused the attentions of the third son of barentius, named claudius, who had long since departed for the capital and a lieutenancy in the imperial army. the sister, paula, had also departed, none knew where.

***

rosalind yawned. she stopped pecking at her typewriter. she got up and looked out the window. there was nothing out there - the same nothingness and blackness that was out there every night. if she scrunched her neck around - or if she opened the window and stuck her head out but it was cold - she could see a few dim lights from the houses on the mountainside. what a bore this whole thing was. what a crushing, frightful bore. rosalind missed the excitement of the war. but the war - sigh - was over. this stupid "contest" was taking forever - even more forever than she had expected. and when it was over, then what? what would be more of a bore, being "empress" or some kind of lady in waiting or lady's lady or whatever in this dreary post-war world? not that she actually knew what was going on in the outside world, but with the sort of people who won the war - really, what could one hope for? look at the lack of respect she got even in this place, where at least she was recognized as a princess. though of course nobody seemed to appreciate that she was not just a "princess" but a member of the british royal family. it had never crossed rosalind's mind that she might finish last in the contest and suffer the consequences it entailed. she tried, without success, not to think of jeffrey. or where he might be. at least writing the stupid novel kept her mind off jeffrey. jeffrey, her beautiful - so much more beautiful than herself , dashing, heroic, doomed brother. who would always be hers because he had absolutely no interest in other human females. where oh where was he now? behind her the bed squeaked a little. sarabelle, her regular night guard, had sat up and was yawning and scratching her neck. "i hope i'm not keeping you up," rosalind asked her. the girl was impervious to sarcasm and just about everything else. "not me. did you want the bed?" "not now." sarabelle flopped back down and closed her eyes. her whole being oozed disrespect. she was a pleasant enough companion in some ways, but nothing could make her understand, in bed or out of it, who was the mistress here and who was the servant. rosalind had hardly ever been alone for a minute in her life, and being alone was the one thing in the world that frightened her - actually terrified her . she kept one of the guards or the maid - she was one of the few contestants who had chosen to keep a maid - in the room with her whenever she was in it. but the maid went home at night and she was left usually with saucy sarabelle. what rosalind would like to do - really, really like to do - would be to take a switch and beat some respect into sarabelle and the other little jills who thought they were as good as their mistress. yes, that would be jolly fun. but it was not meant to be. she turned from the window and sat back down and resumed typing. to be continued

the witches - 3. a digression and a dream

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

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there are perhaps no subjects which have so exercised the imagination of fearful humanity, and about which so much has been written, and so little known, as witches and witchcraft. those learned authorities who have pondered and studied the subjects, and discoursed and written on them at length, begin by disagreeing, in the most extreme manner, on the extent that they have ever existed. the learned friar h-------------, resident scholar of the abbey of p----------, in the century of otto the great, averred confidently, not only that witchcraft has existed in all human societies since adam and eve were banished from the garden, but that as many as seventy-five percent of all eve's daughters have been initiates of the dark arts since that event (an event the culpability for which he ascribes entirely to adam's unfortunate helpmate). the modern reader, heir to what he perceives as centuries of "enlightenment", will no doubt smile at the monk's conclusions, and might smile even more, if he were to take the time to peruse his arguments, derived about equally from scripture and from the recorded lives of such heroes as alexander and charlemagne. the most opposite, and most aggressively argued opposite view is found, somewhat surprisingly, not in the most recent scholarship, which tends to the view that belief at least fostered some attempt to justify the beliefs, but from the perhaps unjustifiably obscure writings of the erudite abbess s------------, a contemporary of gervase of tilbury and rudolf von ems, who took the stance that the very notion of the black arts was a canard to be ascribed to the sages of the early christian era, particularly the "pagans" who sought to question the validity of the new society coming into being under the twin aegises of the church fathers, and constantine and his imperial successors. a modern reader, thinking from my description to find a kindred spirit in this learned lady, should be forewarned that no small part of her arguments derive from the study of astrology, which was just then beginning to be reintroduced into europe from the moorish world. i have briefly sketched the two most opposing views. the most notable aspect of the cacaphony of intermediate views may not be their divergence or their multitudiousness, but their dispersion over the whole terrain of recorded human existence. the witch is young or old, a woman of the country or the town or the forest or the desert, the woman in the next cottage or the follower in the train of the invading army, she is in possession of the most terrifying powers or the most trivial, but she is everywhere, or somewhere, in every time. the ferocious were-wolf, the insatiable vampire, the ghastly zombie, and the dread leopard-man, among others, have had their local fear and fame in various corners of the globe and odd stretches on the track of time, but perhaps only the ghost can rival the witch in the lore and belief of all peoples and eras. in conclusion it must be noted, that in this as in so many other subjects, the most confirmed skeptics often pass by in silent contempt, not deigning to spend their allotted time on earth arguing beliefs that seem to them beneath notice. *** reader, we apologize for this digression, which says both too much and too little. the dust emanating from the corners of our library has no doubt affected our brain and caused us to imagine ourself possessing some little authority on this elusive subject. we return to our story, where we left the old soldier probus on the dark road in quest of father propertius, whom he sought in order to administer the last rites to his old master barentius. the laughter of the three women he had encountered faded away behind him as he hurried down the road to mother ariana's, where he hoped to find the cleric. if not there, he would have to try the church, where the priest would surely be asleep. as he hurried his aged frame along as best he could, guilt and fear went back and forth in his mind like wind and waves. guilt - at having fallen asleep by the side of the road, thereby endangering his chance of finding father propertius in time to give barentius the last consolations - perhaps putting the very soul of barentius in jeopardy? fear - of the three women behind him , who had answered exactly to the most common description of witches - one young and beautiful, two old and wizened - the third indeed, old beyond description. the fear gradually overcame the guilt. he had difficulty imagining his masters soul but the three witches had been there before him - they could have reached out and touched him! was that their laughter - the laughter, in particular, of the young one - that he still heard? no, it was only the wind in the trees. suddenly he remembered the dream he had had before awakening. he had been walking alone down a dark road much like this one - or was it the road to the capital city - or the road to heaven - or the road back to the forest where he had been born? unlike this road, though, it had had a light at the end of it - a light now golden, now red, blazing brightly, but without lighting up the darkness around it. and without growing larger or smaller as he approached. in the dream he passed a dark building made of rain. and the rain spoke to him in a language he did not understand. he passed another building on the opposite side of the road. the building was made of wind, and it laughed at him. he came to a third building, low and round, on the same side of the road as the first, made of blue flame. and the blue flame spoke one word to him - the word was blown away by the wind. the light in the distance went out. three forms appeared on the road before him. and then he had awakened. or had he? was he dreaming now? the three women - had he really seen them? or just dreamed them? in the center of the dark road, in the shadows beside it - what did he see now? and did he hear laughter? 4. celia

the witches - 2. a roadside encounter

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin the witches

click here to begin the 14th princess

although showing on the map as part of the "empire", it should not be thought that the region in which our story is commencing had many of the imperial features of order, security and gracious living so celebrated by modern authors like gibbon. and in such a backwater as the old soldier barentius had established himself, the rough, hardly "roman", roads between farms and towns offered little more safety than that of daylight itself, such as it might be said to offer comfort to the senses of the traveler. probus, the servant despatched to the village to summon the priest, father propertius, had gone about halfway when he felt a cramp in his leg. he sat down beneath a tree by the side of the road, to give himself a few minutes to recover - a luxury he would never have allowed himself, or the rough recruits under him, in the vanished days of his career as a sergeant at arms. when he awoke, darkest night had fallen. a pale sliver of moon was barely visible through the trees. and he was thirsty. "ah," he said aloud to himself. "i should have taken aquilina." he was referring to the old, cantankerous mare that barentius' s sons had offered him. he had preferred the surer method of walking, to her unpredictable and potentially disastrous ways. "did you say something, old man?" came a female voice from the darkness. he turned and saw a woman outlined against the road. he scanned the darkness and saw another female form, off to the right and slightly behind himself. he felt a moment of unease but it quickly subsided when he could not find a third. he knew that witches always traveled in threes - wolf-women in packs of three or more. "i was talking to myself," the old soldier politely answered the first woman. as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that she was slightly bent, and far from the bloom of youth. "nothing wrong with that," replied the crone. "who better to talk to, eh?" "ah, i am afraid it is a sign of wandering wits. and of not being as young as i used to be." "not at all, not at all. who talks to themselves more than babes in arms?" "it is kind of you to make such an observation." probus straightened himself up as best he could and brushed a few leaves and twigs from his clothes. despite his advanced age he had an aversion to seeming weak or foolish before the fair sex. he continued to scan the darkness. though probably not witches or wolves, the two might be in league with brigands. "and who more attentive to what you have to say, eh?" the second woman laughed - a low melodious laugh of a young girl. so - maybe they were witches after all. witches traveled in threes - two old and ugly, and one young and beautiful. occasionally two young and one old (these were to be particularly avoided). was there a third in the darkness, behind a tree? "are you lost?" the older woman interrupted the old man's thoughts. "no, no. i just stopped to rest a bit. i am on my way to the village to summon the good father propertius." "ah. the good father propertius." "i wonder, though, if he will still be awake. i seem to have tarried longer than i planned." the younger woman answered. "if mother ariana's alehouse is open, he will be up." the older one laughed, and added, "yes, he makes himself available to his flock." they both continued to stare at him from the shadows. the old soldier did not wish to be rude, but wanted to be on his way. just a couple of countrywomen, he decided, loath to give up on the smallest opportunity to gossip. he rubbed his hands together and took a step forward. "i had best be on my way then, before mother ariana closes up. and before brigands or any other creatures of the night make their appearance." the older woman shrugged. "yes, the night advances." "even in these peaceful times," added the voice of the younger one behind him. the old woman stepped aside as probus reached the road. "would you believe it," he said familiarly to her, " i had the strangest dream just before i woke up." "ah. you dream a lot, old man?" "sometimes," "sometimes?" "yes, i dream of my old campaigns." "ah, a soldier! you know, sister, i took him for a soldier right away!" "as did i," came the musical voice behind him. "it hardly seemed worth mentioning , it is so obvious." "so, mother," said probus, "you are skilled at reading dreams? you and your - sister?" "heavens, no! what do you take us for? we are good christian women. we pray to the holy saints and take what comes what may. none of that old fashioned foolishness for us." the young woman laughed, louder than before. "this is the new age. we love the emperor constantine - the light of the earth - and the holy saints and jesus king of heaven." "yes," added the older one, "i wonder what good father propertius would say if he heard you asking such a question of devout christian women? as if we were - what did they call such women in the old days, sister?" "let me think - sybils?" "yes, that was it - sibyls." "and who knows," continued the young one, "what he may suggest to us next - being a soldier and all?" "i was only having a little joke," probus replied. "i served the emperor constantine loyally. as you know, of the many things the emperor demands of his troops respect for women is among the foremost." "of course. long live the great emperor constantine!" shouted the old woman. "yes," cried the young one, "long may he reign - constantine - the messenger of heaven and the scourge of darkness!" her voice echoed through the trees, probus laughed. "i feel like i am back on the parade ground." the old woman laughed back. "well - we will let you go. we would not want you to miss father propertius." "thank you." probus stepped to the center of the road. as he did he saw a dark shape among the bushes on the other side. it was a woman, so small as to be virtually a dwarf. a wide brimmed hat gave her a toadstool shape. she looked a hundred years old. 3. a digression and a dream

the witches - 1. a deathbed scene

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rosalind strode up to miss prue. she took a paper from the white hat. "anti-religious. huh. what religious am i to be anti?" "that is for you to decide. let me say to all of you," said miss prue, "that some of these categories are indeed very broad. you will have to use your own judgment as to what is best meant by them." "you mean to read the judges' minds," said ameline. "if you want to put it that way," said miss prue. "pick from the black hat , please," she told rosalind. "sir walter scott. " rosalind rolled her eyes, and returned to her seat. "i believe scott was the oldest author in the list," said miss prue. "next."

the witches

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by roy dismas , konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

the spread of the christian religion through europe, in the first twelve centuries of the new era, was not nearly so unimpeded, or so complete, as the devout of modern times generally believe. in the northern forests of the continent, in particular, the old religions not only survived but were little troubled by the attentions of those devout apostles of the new faith, later distinguished by the name of inquisitors, who made such severe and sincere efforts against the adherents of the old ways in the sunnier and more pastoral regions of the former empire of rome. in those northern regions in which our story takes place, rome itself had never truly succeeded in planting its banners. with what indifference and contempt, then, did the rough chieftains of the almost impenetrable forests view the few apostles, often armed only with crosses and crudely printed scriptures, who presumed to trespass their dark domains? but there was one class of persons who viewed the ragged evangelists with somewhat more respect, even a modicum of alarm - the women who formed the priestly class of such religion as existed in the forests, the menfolk being chiefly, if not solely concerned, with hunting boars, drinking grog, and cracking each others' skulls. it would seem that in all times and places the contemplation of eternal mysteries is largely the province of the distaff, but especially in those where existence is the proverbial daily struggle. in any case, there were no "priests" in the forests, only those women who would be designated in more supposedly enlightened times as "witches". *** our story begins in the depths of the fourth century. the long breakup of the roman empire had begun in earnest, with its interminable fits and starts, and inevitable end. barentius, a rough soldier in the army of the emperor constantine, had so far prospered in that great man's service, as to be able to retire to a small estate in the province of dacia - recently retaken by the soldier-emperor, after having been lost by his less warlike predecessors in the previous century. the estate he purchased, however, taxed his old talents as a warrior at least as much as his new inclinations to be a farmer, as the entire region was constantly thrown into turmoil by the continued flareups of rebellion from the elements of the populace still indisposed to suffer the yoke of empire. nature, too, proved unfriendly to the old soldier and a series of poor harvests had reduced him to near penury and a stoic despair after twenty-five years on the frontier. one thing only had proved fruitful - the young local woman he had betrothed on arrival, and who had given him six living sons and a daughter in the first twelve years of their marriage. three of the sons had repaired to the capital to take up the profession of arms in the imperial forces, leaving the oldest son, the daughter and the two youngest sons to watch, with their mother, over the old man's deathbed, when, after a quarter century of doing battle with pitiless nature and recalcitrant rebels, he expired in the same taciturn manner as he had lived. asmeralda, the daughter, who had proved as dutiful a daughter and as pure a maiden as ever graced the earth, was the only one of the five witnesses to show any emotion as the graybeard lay breathing his last. she had sent the only servant - an old soldier almost as old as the master who had served him faithfully since he had been a lieutenant in constantine's army - to try to find the local priest, but he had yet to return. the lone candle by the old man's bed flickered fitfully. asmeralda, wringing her pale hands, stood at the window looking out into the darkness. "oh, probus, probus, why do you not return?" she turned to the others. "i hope nothing has befallen him." "nothing has befallen probus in almost sixty years," retorted the oldest son. "it would be too good a stroke of fortune to be rid of him at last." the fifth son laughed, and the matriarch smiled grimly, at this sally "oh, how cruel!" cried asmeralda. "surely you are in jest, brutus, but this is no time for your raillery." "as you wish, sister," brutus replied. he looked down at his sire. "come, old fellow, we have stood here long enough, would you not agree? this is quite as wearisome as a night's watch on the marshes. have you anything to say for yourself, at last, eh?" "no." "i did not think so." brutus stretched his long arms and went over to the window, which asmeralda had vacated. asmeralda, meanwhile, had knelt by the bedside. "oh, father, probus has not returned with father propertius. but surely, surely you can see our dear lord coming for you. surely you can see him on the cross, beckoning to you as he did at the milvian bridge!" the old man raised his hand, looked back at his eldest son standing at the window, and tried to speak. he gasped three times, and died. "oh, he is dead!" asmeralda began to sob. the youngest son, asmodeus, looked at his feet, a bit abashed. the other three looked on coldly as asmeralda continued to weep and shake. "he blessed you, brutus, did you see him? he blessed you!" "but you can bless us even more," laughed commodus, the next to youngest son. brutus had returned to the bedside and casually slapped commodus across the head. "silence! we can have a little respect here, eh, mother?" he poked commodus in the chest. "speak when i tell you to speak." "oh," cried asmeralda, "what will become of us all now?" "an excellent question, " replied brutus. "we will discuss it in the morning." he turned to his mother and two brothers. "we will bury him in the morning whether the priest shows up or not, eh?" the mother nodded assent. "what about her?" "let her sob." the old woman shrugged and regarded her only daughter. since early childhood asmeralda, who had now attained the age of twenty-two, had had only one wish - to enter a convent. her family, however, had other plans. "she can stay up and wait for the priest," she continued. "if he ever shows up." "not for a while," said commodus. "him or probus either. you know the two of them are sitting in a ditch somewhere. i mean the three of them - the two of them and a wineskin." "did i not tell you to be silent?" asked brutus. he smacked commodus across the skull again, harder than before. they fell silent, except for asmeralda. none of them made a move to leave the room. the air grew a little colder, and the candle, which had been flickering, burned steadily. 2. a roadside encounter