The Monk's Tale

The fish were still leaping but time was running out. The salmon had nearly made it back to their roots. The splashing again and again was unnerving him. He crouched there, as he had before, regretful but sad. The others had talked but no answer was found,….. what was fuelling the grief, the hate, his passion?

It was born from another time, a carefree time, youthful and before the brotherhood and habit had won his life. The place was Glen Roy, nestled in a valley, and the time, half a century earlier when the village was all he knew. It was all she knew too, the village and him, Athole.
They were young and together.

His home with his father was central and well known within the community, his father, being of senior rank within the church. Forrester was their name, descended from a long line of woodlanders until his father had broken the line and chosen another path. The church, made up of self important elders whom at the best of times were unruly, deeply bonded and ran the village and surrounding areas with a rod of iron.
Fear was their greatest weapon.

She was far removed from the village to a point, living on its edge beside Breckles Wood with her grandmother. Rowan was their family name and they had very little input to the village, living a solitary existence, trading occasionally in herbs, fortune telling and curing illnesses. A close knit family, they had always been,
Witches they were always believed to have been….

It was autumn time, cold, leafy and wet. Sickness was common at this time and recovery was slow, if at all. Amongst others, mostly the elderly, Athole had grown weak, was smitten with something and of the age of only 13 was young enough for a painful recovery. Forrester senior was portly and warm hearted who loved his grub and made the most of his time at the table.

He was growing concerned as the boy failed to shake off the illness and tried various remedies to cut it short to no avail. His mind was at war, use his faith, which had failed him so far, or venture up to Breckles wood?

This act would defy the sect and would almost certainly cause no end of troubles for his family and his position within. But it must be......all else had failed.

His fellow elders, two in particular, one being Smithy, an odd shaped being, somewhat of a strange character, a musical man with a strong godly way. The other being Strachan, another artistic man, talented but with daydreaming tendencies. Another kindly soul who kept himself busy with aspiring enterprises.

These were his closest allies.

Forrester had made his mind up, and with the help of  Smithy and Strachan, they ventured up to the woods to seek the witches help. The boy would need carried, horses deemed too noisy. Covered in head to toe in warmth, the journey alone could finish him off.

It was a god fearing night, wind ravaged the valley and torrential rain soaked the travellers and bogged down the footpaths….was this the church calling, maybe warning??

Thump thump Strachan pounded the door. It creaked open and they were allowed in without a true welcome.

“What do you want from us?, why are you here?” the Rowans asked.
“My son” Forrester pleaded, help him if you can.

“He’s smitten, I can see”, croaked Rowan, “leave us now, return around midnight”

The elders left and battled back to reality.

The child was laid out and with candles alight and various odours and flame flashes, they began…

"I banish the smitten with the power of fire. So mote it be."

"I banish the smitten with the power of Earth. So mote it be."

“I banish the smitten with the power of Water. So mote it be."

"I banish the smitten with the power of Wind. So mote it be."

Over and over again……

With this pentagram I do lay,

Protection here both night and day,

And to the one who should not touch,

Let the fingers burn and twitch,

I now invoke the law of three:

This is my will, so mote it be!!

The hours dissolved and the door banged, the elders were back.
“Take him, he is ready and watch over him, time will tell, be patient, please be patient” she murmured as they left.
Forrester grasped her hand, “I won’t forget”……

They returned, and the hours turned to days, then weeks and the illness grew, until death’s door had arrived. Word was out in the village what had gone on and the church was up in arms and ready to take control. An outspoken man, McWelsh, a tall poetic man, understanding in nature but strict within the walls of the Church and its principals. He had many contacts even out-with the village and moved in many circles. The events had possessed him and he had false revenge in his thoughts.
Hell had arrived for the Rowans.

The witch-hunt had began….

“Drown the witches, Burn the witches” were the chants as the mob had climbed the valley to the Woods, mayhem would follow…..

The cottage was razed to the ground, the Rowans dragged to the river, manacled and man handled, hair ripped, clothing stripped!!
There, the “Ducking Stool” awaited.

One whole day it lasted, over and over and over again, the drowning was one thing but the perishingly cold water was usually the killer…the mob, being in such a psychotic frenzy, there could only be one outcome…

And that it was, two limp lifeless bodies lay on the rivers edge by twilight.

Forrester, Strachan and Smithy knew of what had happened but had made no appearance, hiding from the baying mob, clever or cowards, would they have made a difference?

The following morning, the healing began. Within days Athole had awoken and was back in the world of the living. He grew stronger and stronger and fully recovered.

One day, soon after, he discovered the truth……

He walked from the village that following dawn……....