Memories of a Non-Witch

I remember her, down to the last delicate detail. That black hair. That pale smooth face. The way her hands were elegantly folded on her lap the way young ladies should. 1

It was the day I got her that I remember the best. 2

Princess Harlena, the daughter of our leader, wasn’t happy that day. She was so sure of herself that when the Mokulos, or simply as us children called it, The Passing, arrived, her inner self would be the most treasured of all, like a piece of jewelry or something that sparkled somewhat. Instead, she got a small piece of green string. It meant her life would be short and full of envy. 3

The Passing was when, we children became old enough to think for ourselves and to be part of the Society. During the Ritual, we would be handed a item that predicted our future. We just had to figure it out what the item stood for by ourselves4

Unless we lived to the day of The Passing, we were just considered an extra mouth to clothe and feed. We usually weren’t cared for and disciplined. They let us run around and do as we pleased. That was probably why most of the children that grew up in my village, were spoiled and thought themselves best.5

I was one of the odd ones. The outcasts. As I was little, I thought of people as objects to hold and to love. When my mother and I would go to the village market, I would run up to the seller and hug them. They would then flinch, push me away gently, and remark at how different I was from the tykes that would occasionally be glimpsed prowling around. Usually when the grimy monkeys approached the venders, it was more than likely to filch something.6

The day of The Passing surprised everyone. No one expected to see a doll handed to the grimy hands of a child from the southern part of the village. It was the most ragged and filthy part where the animals live, therefore where poorest, the beggars and the homeless lived.7

When my name was called for the Receiving of the Item, I even could not believe it when the Peddler lifted her from the velvet bag at his feet, and set her in my hands. I had expected something plain and dull. Because that is how the other tykes describe me. Dolls were myths in the outer villages of Haylem. To have one, you’d have to be either of royal and noble blood, or the child of a bandit that had stolen one. But then again, for someone of common blood to receive something that only nobility should possess, it meant witch folk were loose8

I was afraid. This further separated me from the others of the village. Whispers hung in the air, and rumors waiting to be set loose from the vile tongues of the grownup women.9

After an awkward silence I stiffly walked back the crowd that assembled to watch to Ritual. The crowd parted, as onlookers started at the small person clutched in my hand. 10

When I finally reached my mother, I saw her eyes wide and trembling and something underneath it all that I have not ever seen on her face. I could almost hear her thoughts of disowning me. 11

Time seemed to pass quickly. I didn’t notice until my mother urged me towards the trail home. Nodding dumbly, I obeyed. I walked as if in a trance. Fortunately, I walked the trail many times, for it was the only way to get to our tiny hut.12

Crawling onto the straw mat and under the thin ragged blanket that Mother and I shared, I laid down, thinking. Reaching I touched the smooth white skin of the object beside me. Many thoughts flooded my head. Some I did not even understand. So absorbed in my thoughts, I didn’t notice Mother coming home.13

Now, as I drift on the brink of eternity, I often replay the scene in my head of the doll leaving the hands of the Peddler and onto my dirty ones. That split second I first felt her cool material; my life which was already destined to be the oddity of the village, fell out of order and into complete disarray.14

That night they took me from my bed. I cried and sobbed. But they didn’t care for it.15

While I was asleep, they had built a platform out of firewood. My heart stopped when my eyes laid on it. I struggled desperately at the restraints tied around my wrists, chafing me. But all in vain.16

They tied me to the pole in the middle of the platform. The village priest prayed in front of me as he lit the wood with a torch. He cried out “God! Lord of Lords! Rid us of this witch coming to in the form of the devil’s child to turn us from you and lead us down the path of sin!”17

As the flames rose, the people, my own people, shouted insults at me. Condemning me to a life of imprisonment in hell. Accusing me of bewitching the Peddler to hand me the precious doll. That it was meant rightfully for Princess Harlena. And those who knew me as a harmless little girl held their tongue for fear of witch accusation too.18

The last things I saw as a child on earth was Harlena triumphantly clutching what was rightfully mine and the face of my mother, who was staring at me with cold eyes, hating and cursing her own flesh and blood.19