Chapter 21
Another two days past before Aiden reached the northwestern slopes of Cumberland and Westmoreland. Lacking a familiarity with the area, he continued down from the mountains and toward the village of Appleby. Like many English towns and villages, Appleby was centuries old and owed its existence to the cultivation of rye. As in many other places in England, life in Appleby was difficult. The last four months had brought rain to nearly the whole of England, almost on a daily basis. Entire fields of farmland had been washed out and what little rye there was to farm had become damp and moldy.
Finding the road into Appleby, Aiden pulled his hood up and down over his forehead. As much as he knew about witchcraft, he was entirely uncertain as to how the townspeople would react to someone who made it their business to hunt and kill those in the company of evil. As Aiden neared the town, he was confronted by a sight that left him stunned and slowed his horse to a stop, stared down both sides of the road. Dismounting his horse, he stood as his horrified eyes followed down to separate rows of corpses, each hanging by its neck from the limbs of old, dying trees that lined the way into town. The bodies were all in various states of decay, but Aiden noticed one odd thing about them. They were all female. Part of him was shocked at the sight of so much death. However, the larger part of him, ruled by faith, realized that witchcraft was alive and well in the town of Appleby. And his obligation to God demanded that he pursue it.
Aiden walked his horse into the town. The smell of squalor and decay quickly rose up to his face, forcing him to raise a sleeve to his nose. Approaching the town square, he found its people gathered around a heavy wooden post. He pushed his way through and discovered a woman chained to the post by her ankles. Her face and head bore the welts and bruises left by small rocks thrown at her by the town's children. Pushing his way through the crowd, Aiden saw a heavy woman with short brown hair, kneeling on the ground. Her ankles bled from the rubbing of metal against skin. The throng of people stood around her screaming accusations of witchcraft as they prepared to set her on fire. With his hood still pulled over his face, Aiden turned to an elderly woman at his left.
"What is her crime?" he asked.
The old woman ceased in her hysterics long enough to reply.
"She is a witch!"
She turned to the restrained woman, who was trying desperately to get to her feet. "Burn her!"
He studied the faces within the crowd and seeing their frenzy stepped up in an attempt to reason with them. Aiden was dedicated to eliminating evil, whatever it may be, but rational thinking must prevail so as to properly dissect it from superstition. A man with a bucket of hot pine pitch approached the woman as the crowd became more ravenous for the coming display of pain and death. Aiden intervened.
"Is this woman accused of witchcraft?" he asked.
The near-toothless man sat the bucket on the ground and replied with an angry tone.
"She is a witch!"
She dropped back down to her knees, her open hands raised to the sides of her head, face tipped up, eyes wide and mouth stretched into a broad grimace. "Has she been tried?" Aiden asked.
The man's face was suddenly struck by an expression of humor and disbelief. "Tried!?" he said. "We judge our own here, monk."
Aiden understood the idea of self-preservation, but people deserve to be treated both fairly and justly. Aiden spoke up in a demanding tone.
"What proof do you have of her treachery!?"
The man was becoming impatient with Aiden's insistence.
"Are her actions not proof enough?" Aiden looked down at the woman as she continued her silent ranting.
"Spare her life," he replied. "And I will cast out whatever dark thing inhabits her."
Leaving the bucket of pitch behind him, the man stepped towards Aiden and spoke with a brazen tone.
"We have seen this many times. What makes you think you could offer any cure for this wickedness? You're not even a priest."
Aiden pulled his hood, exposing the mark branded on his forehead. The man stepped back, tripping over his own feet, falling to the ground as the crowd became startled into silence.
"I thought your people were a myth," he began. "Stories told to children."
Aiden removed a small book from inside his robe. The Roman rite of exorcism. He spoke to the man while paging through its contents.
"Well, there can be no speculation or myth when I am standing here, in front of you."
He put his open right hand over the woman's head as he began reading aloud. His body warmed as his hand became surrounded by a faint blue glow. The eyes of those gathered around to witness the woman's fiery demise were not accustomed to seeing what emanated from Aiden's hand and thus were blind to it.
The woman continued writhing as Aiden read the rite. The glow of his hand quickly enveloped her entire body as the crowd stood in silent fear. But, in spite of all the passion behind his words, the woman's condition remained unchanged. He closed the book and tucking it back into his robe leaned in closer, giving attention to her eyes. What he saw gave him the impression that she was not possessed, but struck with some odd illness. Stepping back, Aiden addressed the man who was retrieving the bucket of hot pitch.
"This woman is not possessed, nor is she a witch," he began. "It seems she is struck with some peculiar ailment. All she requires is care."
The man's face, once again, filled with seething anger as he walked towards the woman, who had continued in her mindless tirade.
"Well," the man began. "You are certainly not without good intentions, but we handle our own affairs monk. If she is a witch, she will burn. If she is ill, we will take steps to be certain that our town remains free of whatever pestilence she may have. One way or another, she will die."
Aiden was determined to spare the woman a tortuous death and drawing his sword, pointed it at the man's chest.
"She is a child of God! If she is to die, then her death is to be merciful!"
The man smirked as he put the bucket down for a second time and motioned toward the crowd.
"Merciful?" he replied. "Do you see any mercy here? Look around. God has abandoned us. Our lives are no more than pigs living in their own filth. Who shows us mercy?"
Aiden knew there was no arguing against the reality of poverty. The townspeople still sold God as the creator but had lost their faith long ago. Instead of cherishing life, they directed their resentment at the innocent and while Aiden believed that evil must be crushed, there must also be a distinction between the work of the devil and the breakdown of the body. But, people are given to paranoia and are quick to judge, usually with a harsh solution to a slight problem.
Aiden was determined to help the woman, who still knelt on the ground, her ankles still in chains. But if he could not save her life, he would spare her the agony of a burning death. And continuing to point his sword at the man bent on using her burning flesh for entertainment, he steps around the woman and placed a hand on her head. Leaning down close to her ear, he whispered only one word. "Sleep."
Immediately, the woman fell into a deep slumber. But, before her body struck the ground, Aiden swung his blade over his head and brought it down through her neck with one clean stroke. Her severed head tumbled from the gaping wound of her neck and rolled once, toward the startled crowd. Her blood poured out faster than the ground could absorb it. Those closest quickly grew horrified as her face came back to life, her eyes blinking and facial muscles twitching and quivering.
As the flow of blood began to slow, Aiden turned to the man saying,
"She is with God now."
In their lust for suffering, the crowd became incensed. They knew neither kindness nor mercy and quickly expressed their resentment at being denied the opportunity for vengeance. Not for God's sake, but for their own entertainment. The man who carried the bucket of pitch walked up behind Aiden as the angry crowd began to close in. "Monk," he began. "I would suggest you leave."
Aiden turned to face him.
"Is it a crime to offer even the smallest bit of kindness?"
The man took a deep breath as he looked Aiden squarely in the eyes.
"Such things have no place here," he replied. "We live to survive. Now go."
Mounting his horse, Aiden pushed his way through the crowd. Old women screamed at him, men spat at him and children cursed him. On his way out of the village, he noticed a modest church off to one side of the road. It appeared run down and abandoned. Its doors hung haphazardly off their hinges. The cross that once topped its roof lay on the ground, in front of the open door frame. It appeared that even God had no place here either.