Amateur Author

Greetje was standing on the scaffold, overlooking the river. Below her, the water calmly followed its natural course, from the Alps to the North Sea, several dozen kilometers downstream. She swallowed loudly. The rope around her neck had made her skin chapped and red. The stone in her hands seemed to gain weight every minute. But she had to keep holding it. She figured it didn’t matter if she would drop it now or later. But perhaps there was a small chance that…

It all started only a few weeks ago. At several farms, chickens had started to disappear. Just like that, without a trace. That was one of the reasons why the thought of a fox being responsible was dismissed very quickly. Foxes leave traces. They sneak into the chicken coop, grab one of the chickens, and besides the fact that the remaining chickens are upset for days, they leave a trail of blood and feathers. But in these cases, none of that could be found. Not even footprints. It was as if an invisible force swept through the town and made the animals vanish into a void. When the disappearances endured and even farmer Janszoon’s price-chicken vanished, the rumours really started to kick in… Magic. Witchcraft.

On Sunday, during mass, the reverend held a long preach about the servants of the Devil. Although anyone could be seduced by the sly Devil, some gave him their soul voluntary. These doomed souls needed to be found, that was God’s will. And who better to perform this task than the children of the Lord themselves? Perhaps a witch was involved in these mysterious vanishings. Maybe it was even a conspiracy by a warlock, a male witch who was in charge of dozens of witches or a coven. He ordered his followers to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Witches looked like normal human beings, but practiced the Dark Arts on a daily basis.

When Greetje left the church, some already gave her a few accusing glares. Greetje didn’t live in the small town, but in a shack somewhere in the polder landscape outside of the city limits. She had lived there since birth, along with her father and mother. Her mother had died a few years ago. She had been walking through the forest when a thunderstorm formed without warning in sky above. As fast as she could, she had run back to her house, but lightning struck a nearby tree. The old oak had been sliced in half and the heavy lumber had collapsed on top of the woman. Greetje and her father had gone looking for her, and had found the crushed corpse after a few hours. Her father had left the world of the living within a year; he had died of grief over the loss of his beloved wife.

The way in which Greetje’s mother had passed on, had caused some suspicion among the people of the small town. The women in her family had been working with medicinal herbs and potions for decades. The knowledge was passed on from generation to generation, including Greetje’s. This type of knowledge was often perceived as witchcraft, and almost everyone had assumed God himself had opened the heavens to punish the woman for her heresy. Justice.

Greetje had been left alone so far, even though she, like her mother, occupied herself with the herbs that could be found in the nearby forest and the polder landscape. Only very few had dared to make use of her services, and always with positive result. Two months ago, for instance, an herbal compress had healed an ulcerating wound on the son of the local tanner; despite the fact that the healer had suggested that amputation would most likely be the only possibility. A week after Greetje’s treatment, the boy skipped through town with renewed strength, happily playing with his friends.

Nevertheless, despite her good intentions, most townsfolk kept her at bay. None of the young men showed any interest in her, even though she was one of the most attractive women in the region. Her beauty didn’t make up for the fact that she was possibly a witch, a minion of the Beast.

When in the week after the service the disappearances still endured, although in fewer numbers, the bailiff decided enough was enough. He had consulted with the reverend, and they had determined that Greetje had to be the witch. There was only one thing to do: hold a witch trial. So there she was, on a scaffold, the water of the Lek River flowing beneath her. Around her neck was a rope, the other end was tied around a heavy rock. She had been forced to carry the stone to the riverbank herself and was still holding it as she stood there.

Next to her was the bailiff, who patiently waited for the reverend to finish his lecture. Almost the entire village was attentively listening to him. No one objected. No one seemed to care that they were about to explore whether Greetje was a witch or not, even though she, when they had dragged her out of her home and through the village, had screamed at the top of her lungs that she was not a witch, and had never harmed anyone. Even the tanner just stood there and watched. Greetje didn’t even listen to the lecture. She simply stared at the water.

She hadn’t even noticed the reverend had rounded off his long plea about a virtuous life in the service of the Lord, and that the bailiff was ready to start the test. She was startled when the bailiff took the stone from her. She didn’t offer any resistance. Why should she? It would be in vain.

Without saying a single word, the bailiff tossed the stone into the river. The water splashed up and the rope tightened. Greetje was pulled in and a second splatter followed the first. The stone sank to the muddy bottom of the river; Greetje pursued the stone with a one-and-a-half meter feet gap. If she would stay afloat, she would be found guilty of witchcraft. Witches could fly around on broomsticks, and that would only be possible if they were as light as a feather. And feathers didn’t sink, everyone know that. Proving her innocence, she hovered just above the bottom, the rope still tightly around her neck. Her lungs began to scream for air, but were only supplied with river water. Thoughts about her mother, her father, and her life forced themselves onto her, while the life slowly seeped out of her body.

On the riverbank, the townsfolk waited at least five minutes for what would not happen. Greetje was claimed by the river to which she was sacrificed, and didn’t resurface. At first, everyone sighed in relief. She was innocent after all, so Peter would allow her to enter heaven, assuming she had lived a life without sin. Only then did everyone realise that the mystery of the disappearing chickens had not yet been solved. There still had to be a witch operating in the vicinity of the medieval town. The reverend realized that there lived an old woman at the edge of town, who kept aloof from of the rest of the villagers. She even had a hooknose and owned a black cat. Perhaps she was the witch they were looking for. He would discuss the matter with the bailiff later today. The witch had to be found; the future of the town was at stake.

Nearly fifteen kilometres away, Karel and Johan were walking through the Dutch landscape. Johan was carrying a knapsack, a few chicken-legs sticking out.

‘Are you sure there is plenty of food there?’ Karel asked.

‘Absolutely. If we handle it the same way we did over here, by sneaking into the chicken coops in the middle of the night, quietly grabbing a chicken, and use a branch to erase our footprints, no one will be the wiser. As long as we don’t linger at the same place too long, that would only increase the likelihood of getting caught. After a while, those farmers even go to sleep next to the run, just to catch the perpetrator, my dad used to tell me. Dad knew how to live off someone else’s property and taught me everything he knew. Just trust me,’ Johan answered.

‘What the name of that town we are headed to again?’ Karel wanted to know.

‘Barneveld, Karel. Barneveld. There, they have plenty of chickens to live off for a lifetime.’