I am Maggie Loughty, a native of western Scotland, and I am dead. I was gone long before any of you reading this were born. I lived in the days when the fields were green, crops were plentiful, the air was fresh, and witches were respected. The townspeople came to us to birth their children, heal their ailments, communicate with those who had passed over and for some of us, help them with their darker problems. So while it is true that some feared us, most at least respected us for our abilities and wisdom. I myself was feared by some who openly condemned me for having no husband or children, for living alone and laterly not bowing down to what they wanted me to be. I say laterly because it was not always so, but with the rise of christianity coming to my lands and changing their beliefs, I became an outcast, offell that they would occasionally have to deal with when left with no other option than death. Gone were the days of openly celebrating the likes of Ostra; instead, it was replaced with their stolen Easter. The eggs that were once the symbol of fertility, new life and the awakening of our beautiful nature became a cold rolling stone tied forever to the resurrection of their new god, whom they happily bent the knee to. There was to be no more dancing naked in the forests, worshipping nature as we had for thousands of years, which was now seen as obscene and sacrilegious to them. We witches have always lived a life that most could not fully understand, but as my years passed, the faith in the old ways dwindled to near extinction outside the practitioners. Some of us stood strong, refusing to give up our beliefs, our gods, our customs, our identity, and it drove us farther away from a society that we had once been an integral part of. I stayed away from them, honouring myself and my craft alone for many years and with very few interruptions from the outside world. I was happy living off the land with only my animals and nature for company, and that was how it was until my fiftieth year. That was the year they came for me, a group of local men who shouted and threatened me and any of my kind within earshot. They dragged me out, destroyed everything that they could, slaughtered my animals before my eyes, oh my how they screamed, haunting pleas that begged to be spared their senseless brutality. I gritted my teeth as I felt the tears form in my eyes, but I never let them see my pain; they only saw vengeance in my eyes. I was dragged to the nearest town and thrown in a dirty, stinking cell and tortured by a succession of pious men. They decreed that I was an emissary of satan and made empty promises of sparing me any more pain if I simply repented and renounced my evil ways in favour of their new lord and master. I refused and said that I had never been in league with their satan nor had I committed any evil acts in maintaining my beliefs. I said that my beliefs were my own and I had never forced them on anybody not willing to hear them, contrary to what they were doing. Day and night, they forced their lies upon me, stuck me with the picker, dunked me headfirst into barrels of cold water until I was near drowned, broke my bones and made me bloody, but even then I would not break for them. The day before I died, Thomas Brooke, a town elder, came in to speak with me. I had known Thomas all my life, his family too, now he stood in front of me, filled with hellfire and brimstone, his hate spilling out from every fibre of his being. Finally, I lifted my tired and bloody head, looked him in the eye and asked him if he had forgotten all that I had done for him, his family and the townspeople. He had no answer for me, turning in his pious white rage, he curtly told the guard that I would burn in the morning. I didn't fear my fate, although it was far from the end that I would have chosen for myself. We witches have always lived in a life between the living and the dead, so why would I fear what was to come? Surely the fear was all theirs, all the wonders that they could now not comprehend, and if you're willing to burn a witch, are you not admitting that our magic and beliefs exist? They will never know the beauty of our life and the sadness of our death at their hands. It was a cool morning when they led me to my pyre, my head held high, meeting my once friendly neighbours with a steady gaze, although it gave me a little pleasure to notice that several turned their gazes from mine, perhaps in shame, perhaps in fear, I will never know. I allowed myself to be tied to the sturdy pole as one of their godly types spoke words that held no interest for me, while I asked my gods to accept me when I crossed over. I could feel them placing more rushes at my feet, prickling the souls to remind me that for now, I lived in spite of my inevitable fate. The fire of their torches warmed my skin as they put them to the pyre beneath me, the heat spreading quickly to the thin flesh of my feet as the smoke began to invade my nostrils. As the smoke thickened, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the arid tar of the fire, making my head spin dizzily. I did not cry out for release or mercy, I did not repent to their vicious god who demanded my subservience even as my flesh was burned from my agonised bones. I inhaled the thick plumes until I passed out, free from pain and hate. I am gone to the winds now, scattered across the world in the many who survived through the centuries of persecution, closeted practices and inherited ignorance. These people are the keepers of the old ways, they honour our memory, keep our beliefs alive through the generations and never back down to the fascists. I am Maggie Loughty, I am dead and live on.

Those Who Came Before

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Those Who Came Before

RavenFrost

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Those Who Came Before

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