An ode to the witch

Forgive me for not knowing how to address you,

You have held many titles and many names. Yet none feel appropriate for this occasion, one so terrible and momentous. I remember that your grandmother used to say that the world is bound by invisible lines that divide the human and the fae. If you step across the line, you cease to be human. You become a fairytale. We scoffed at her at the time. But she may have been right.

I don't know what will follow in the months, or even the years after you are burnt at the stake. But already stories are spreading of golden haired maiden defending the northern mountains in the whirling snow. The blood of her enemies cooling on her silver armour as her sword sang against the freezing wind . No one can decide whether the maiden is a saint or a witch but stories are seemingly here to stay.

So you will be immortal in death. A witch now that the empire has fallen and a saint when it rises once more. Yesterday, I wondered whether such a fate was blessing or a curse before realizing with a start that I too was starting to believe the fairytale. Indeed, with time even I will forget that you were ever anything else. Perhaps then, the greatest ode to a witch is to remember that she is human and in that case, allow me to begin this letter again.

To my dearest friend,

The first time we met, we fought over the last cake at the summer banquet. You won, but I stole half the sweet anyway. If someone had told us then that we would spend our preciously short summers together ever since, I at least, would have laughed. Nevertheless, the willow winds  soon told me that that was exactly what we would do. And they were right. Our short summers together are some the brightest memories I have but rest of them revolve around you too.

For most of the year when our village was rooted in winter, I would meet you and your grandmother next to burning fireplace in your home. I would watch in fascination as she would make poultices and medicines from the seemingly useless or even dangerous plants you brought her from the woods. Her careful hands rendered their poisons harmless and her medicine made an endless number of common diseases and wounds non-lethal.

I would listen with rapt attention as she lectured about the fae and the magic that held the world together. She would decipher the language of the wind as it blew through the trees, and explain it's changing cadence as the crinkle of various leaves gave it different words. She would drone on about how birch winds heralded great change while Elder winds brought despair. Most of all, she would nag us to never, ever ignore the words of the willow winds because one way or another they always came true. I would nod along with her words like an obedient puppet feeling warm by the fire and safe in her presence.

In the other room, your older brother would teach you how to wield a sword and drill you on the military tactics he had learnt while you waddled around hilariously in his oversized armour. He would teach you how forts were built , what kind of trenches would be required in certain situations and areas as well as how to fight according to the terrain. You smiled freely when you were with him, your whole face brightening with joy that made my heart skip a beat when I saw you. Even years later when you were scared , you would remember the low drawl of his voice and his calm assured instructions.

Despite the warmth and the peace, however, none of us spoke above a whisper, barely heard over the crackling fire. We were told that such delights were against the will of god or at the very least, against the will of the church. I confess that I believe even now that god wouldn't have minded. But even back then , our village was raided by those barbarians every other week .Sunday Masses had always began with tears, fear and respect to dead. After that, the priest's assurances that god hadn't abandoned us and the hymns praising his magnanimity seemed shallow, even cruel at times.

But for some this made them pray with an even more desperate fervor . Fear made them anxious and violent until they stopped believing in anything except prayer. They shunned your grandmother's medicine when they were hurt or ill , preferring to be locked inside the church instead to pray for god's deliverance. Yet they always seemed to blame her instead of god when more died.

I confess I believed in the willow winds more than god as I could actually hear and understand them. They also always delivered on the things they said, whether I liked it or not . So when they told me a hero would rise to save us and I believed them.That said ,I am also not above admitting that they may have well been a part of god's plan.

You on the other hand didn't seem to have any faith at all. You didn't seem to believe that anyone would save us; not god, not man, not the kingdom and not the church. Yet instead of being bitter your faithlessness seemed to give you grace. You were kind to the grieving who were irrational and violent. You were kind to your grandmother who was exasperated and hurt by those who chose to forgo treatment and you were kind to those lost in their faith,treating them all with an indifferent compassion and understanding. By having no faith, you were able to understand and sympathize with those lost in theirs. Perhaps that was the reason everyone was so willing to believe you were a saint? I'll wonder, but I don't think I really want to know.

Regardless of our faith however, we did celebrate Christmas. It had very little to do with god and much to do with the childish stubbornness to make one day happy, to laugh even in the midst of all the death and despair. To look forward to something all year and pretend nothing could harm us . On that day even the hymns to god didn't feel shallow or cruel and we could sincerely thank him for the few blessings we had.  Was that the reason I decided, for the first time, to ignore the words of willow winds despite the fact that they always came true? Maybe so my friend, maybe so.

Ironically enough, on that faithful day we met on the hill where the oldest willow tree in our village lived, the very place where the willow winds were born. Dressed in our best clothes we giggled at the silliest of things as we watched our rundown village light up with candles, sweets and festive wreaths. You wore a linen blue dress adorned with silk roses made from the worn, moth- eaten cloth of your great grandmother's wedding gown and to this day that sight of you is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I remember I made you laugh about something, your face lighting up as the long leaves of old trees cast soft shadows across your radiant eyes. The sound your laughter made me catch my breath as my heart felt as sweet and warm as fresh honey from the comb. I knew then that I would give you the last breathe of my life and follow you to the ends of the earth. And that knowledge made me feel as light and joyful as the yellow roses that bloomed in spring.

Yet the willow winds cried out in protest. The rustling that  had once been so wise and peaceful was now crass, annoyed and authoritarian. No! I cried desperately, hoarding my feelings like a miser against the wind's prophecies. I don't care, I am happy, I am finally happy! I yelled at winds as their words became harsher still and I gaurded  my heart with even more desperation. You had stared at me with concern before yelling at me to reveal what the winds had said. I couldn't say a word, I was in pain. The wind's voice was akin to that of nails being dragged across a wooden washboard and as it's final cry abated I fell to my knees, large tears rolling down my face, onto the ground. You held me up in your arms, unsure of what else to do. When the midnight bell rang that day, a lot of things had come to an end.

That was the last time I heard the willow winds. Elder and Birch soon took its place as the raids in our village increased tenfold and it was then we truly realized just how fragile human life was . And the many, many different ways it could end. As the dead piled up in droves, the living lost all dignity. Panic , grief , fear and hunger had ensured that we had nothing left in life.I saw you break and shout once on the day the your brother's corpse was returned by the army. Then you became quiet.Too soon, we became orphans, then alone, and finally irrelevant as all we loved left us one by one.

Your grandmother was the last person to leave. And she was killed not by hunger or raids but by her own patient , who in his grief had believed her to be the cause of his misfortune. By now even the village,for shame, had believed him. The priest had considered it kindness to let you use the church for her last rites. I found it humiliation after all she had suffered. You didn't care. You pointed out that we needed the help and even in my disgust , I had to admit that you were right.

So we conducted her last rites in an empty church at the dead of the night for a witch couldn't be given the grace of being seen in the day. The pew was empty, and the church was cold, the two of us soaked from the raging storm outside , our shoes caked in mud . We kept silent the entire time and offered the lady no eulogy. I am afraid I found no words to honor a life so noble. The sky started lightening as you stood and walked on to the pulpit. I thought you had finally found the words. And you had.

You addressed me like a commander, a title with which the world would address you soon enough, and spoke simply. "These barbarians need to be driven out of our country". I started to hear the whisper of the birch wind. "How?" I asked desperately, somehow knowing what you were about to do. You smiled, for the first time your face not brightening. "The northern mountains need to be secured and the rightful king needs to be on the throne" came the reply, simple, as though it had been the day's chores rather than the impossible, foolhardy claims they were.

And yet the Elder and birch winds were howling as sunlight filtered through the stein glass window making your eyes glow red. Your clothes were haggard.Your hair was blown wild, soaked from the storm outside. Your youthful face was set with a hard determination that made you look human. All too human. I knew then that I would give you the last breathe of my life and follow you to the ends of the earth.

But my own heart was beating so hard it hurt to look at you. Helplessness made my mind whirl.

Once upon a time, the willow winds had warned me that loving you would be like writing on sand.

Blown away by the burning dawn.