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| An old Irish cottage - Perhaps Gitta would have lived in something similar. |
Along the path of novel writing, I decided to take a break and write another short story. The first draft of Williamsburg Hill, my next book, is coming along, but research is slowing it down a bit. I needed to feel a sense of accomplishment by completing something, so a short story it was. Thanks for reading The Witch of County Down. As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson). Now back to the novel.
The Witch of County Down
By Veronica Randolph
Batterson
The water sloshed
over the bucket, soaking her feet and adding to the muddiness of the path. It had stormed for days, making the ground
slippery and treacherous. Gitta had
fallen twice since collecting the rain water, the weight of the pails hindering
her journey; there would be two more treks up the hill and back before she was
finished. It figured to be a long
evening as the moans of her houseguest had yet to grow deep; lengthy intervals
spaced the pains.
It was early, barely daybreak, when the young
woman had knocked on her door.
Desperation marked her features; water stains and spots of blood
revealed her plight. Most came alone,
driven by poverty, shame or both. This
one was no different. Gitta marveled at
how those, even the poor, could be so judgmental.
“Been told you’d
help me,” the woman said, leaning against the splintered door frame. She drew a tattered shawl around her
shoulders, her face and legs streaked with dirt and grime.
“Come,” Gitta
replied, ushering the woman inside.
“Don’t have any
coins, but I can sew and mend,” the woman breathed before bending over in pain
and grasping her stomach.
“No need to worry
about such things,” Gitta said, holding up the woman. “Breathe. The spell will pass.”
Once the pain had
eased, Gitta readied the woman for the long hours ahead. She washed her patient’s limbs as best she
could, even though barrels of hot water and a bar of lye soap would have served
her better, and she tried to make her patient comfortable. The pallet of straw provided little relief
when the spasms started, but Gitta figured the bed was better than what the
woman was used to having.
“You have a name?”
Gitta asked, spooning broth into the woman’s mouth.
“Fiona,” came the
whispered reply.
The young woman’s
skin, freckled from the sun, stretched across sharp and angled features. Hair as red as fire fell across her
shoulders; Gitta imagined it came to life when clean. Her hands, dried and cracked from use and
neglect, fared better than the swollen and split bottom lip that was either
parched from thirst or split from a fist.
Probably both.
“Here, drink
this. It’ll quench the dryness in your
mouth,” Gitta said, pulling a flask from a shelf and opening it.
“I’ll not drink
water,” Fiona jumped, panic arching her back.
“I’ll not.”
“I boil my water,
just like that broth, you see,” Gitta soothed, attempting to calm the
woman. “And it is rain water, kept separate
from the river. Rain directly from the
heavens.”
“I’ll not get the
sickness. Saw too many of my own die of
it,” Fiona replied, shaking her head.
“This is a little
stronger than water, dear girl,” Gitta said, shaking the flask.
“What then?” Fiona
asked.
“Plain old scotch.
You’ll be needing it,” Gitta replied, tempted to drink some herself. Fiona sipped, and choked.
Gitta understood
the woman’s fear, and had seen the horror with her own eyes. The filth of the river had caused dysentery and
death, nearly eliminating entire families at the height of the epidemic. It took the sight of a bloated cow floating
down the river to keep the remainder of the villagers away from the water, even
though years of contamination had been evident.
At the height of sickness, few came to her for help. Fear of Gitta had been greater than potential
death. Murmurs of sorceress and witch
still burned her ears as she remembered being ostracized for her ability. Most thought she had powers when Gitta would
argue it was nothing more than common sense.
Carrying the pails
up to the cabin, her thoughts of the morning troubled her. Would the young woman inside have a place to
go once the child made its appearance?
The ones who knew where Fiona sought help might view her as cursed. It had happened with others, yet Gitta had
been less caring in the past. The young
woman inside was nothing more than a child herself.
“My mam says to
trust you,” Fiona exclaimed as Gitta entered the room, pails of water dripping
on the floor.
“I have nothing to
gain if you do or do not,” Gitta replied.
“Will my babe
live?” Fiona asked.
“Your babe has yet
to be born,” answered Gitta.
“But what they say about you knowing things. Can’t
you tell? Most are afraid, scared you will bring bad luck,” Fiona started, the
beginnings of another labor pain twisting her features.
“What is said is
just talk. Nothing more,” Gitta soothed, setting the buckets by the door and
reaching for the pot of lavender. She
rubbed the oil at Fiona’s temples, and began chanting a prayer in Welsh.
“What’s that
you’re saying?” Fiona hissed, teeth clenched against the pain.
“Just blessing you,”
Gitta replied.
“Is it the devil?”
Fiona asked, fear tempting her movements but the labor pain held her in place.
“Not the devil. Those
who understand say it’s goodness. Some who believe, say God,” Gitta replied.
“Never heard talk
like that before,” said Fiona.
“Most haven’t,”
Gitta said.
“Where do you come
from then?” Fiona asked, the pains subsiding.
“Wales,” was all
Gitta offered. She told no one of her
past, caring not to share the story of her life, of the hardships brought on by
a father who loved the drink better than he liked his wife, of a traveling,
nomadic existence that forced her to beg for scraps wherever they stopped. “A poor, needy child gets more sympathy,” her
father had laughed, snatching any extra coins she might have collected. Then he’d leave for the night, drinking away
her day’s work.
He had not been a
cruel man, just lazy, and Gitta never saw him work much at anything. She and her mother would sell trinkets and
herbs, a poultice or two for various aches, and homemade remedies for common
ailments in order to keep their bellies full. Eventually, they learned to hide their
earnings from her father until he grew tired of doing without his ale. He left and Gitta never saw him again.
She and her mother
were taken into the folds of a traveling caravan of gypsies. They continued selling their herbal cures,
and Gitta got quite good at mixing concoctions and experimenting. Within a year, her mother died of
consumption; Gitta, heartbroken that none of her remedies could cure the woman,
vowed to do for others what she couldn’t for her mother.
She remained with
the caravan, proving herself even more useful when she assisted in delivering a
child that was breech. The laboring woman,
a person of prominence, had visited the gypsy stalls one morning and her pains
came early. Without thinking, Gitta took
charge and through a long and difficult birth, both mother and child
survived. She was rewarded with coin,
food and reputation, but even greater, Gitta earned the attentions of a young
Irish soldier.
They married impulsively,
and she followed him to his homeland where news of their union was met with
hostility by his family. Gitta endured
criticism on all levels, from her coloring to the way she spoke. It was her refusal to abandon the cures that
finally drove her husband away and instigated the rumors of witchcraft started
by his family. With no one to turn to,
she stayed where she was, alone. She
grew old.
“Oh, help me. It
feels like the babe is coming,” Fiona’s voice cried, interrupting Gitta’s
thoughts.
“Not much longer,”
Gitta reassured the woman. The pains
were intense and closer together; it would soon be time.
Gitta marveled at
new life as the baby made its appearance, fists drawn and screaming from
healthy lungs. A son for Fiona. As the woman held her child, Gitta felt a
fleeting stab of envy. What she’d give
for the chance to hold a child of her own.
“You have been
kind to me. Kinder than most of my kin. I’ll not forget it,” Fiona murmured,
exhaustion marking her face.
“Thank you,” was
the only reply Gitta could give.
Over the following
days, Gitta looked after woman and child, providing nourishment and teaching
Fiona how to care for her babe. She
shared simple remedies and stressed cleanliness. As she
readied them for their journey home, it was her turn to thank Fiona. She had felt purpose for the first time in many
years. Perhaps age had softened her,
made her less bitter. She wished to
think it was more than fate that brought the woman into her life.
“Might William and
I come visit again?” Fiona asked, standing at the door, preparing to leave.
“That is his name
then?” Gitta asked.
“Yes, it is. Felt right to me,” Fiona replied.
“I would like that
very much,” Gitta said, “the two of you visiting.”
She watched as
mother and child vanished into the morning mist, making their way back to the
village, to Fiona’s home. Gitta’s cabin
was quiet and felt empty. She busied
herself cleaning, mixing herbs and boiling water, and when the loneliness
seemed to engulf her, there was a knock upon her door. Gitta ushered in another needing soul to give
her purpose.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
