The last words of Bianca Atterborn

A Story by Worriedkatt

“Witch” hung until dead in England 1576

They did provide me with a lot of coin for ingredients and my talents. It feels like they will be back though returning with more demands and threats. It always is that way first begging, as much as a nobleman can and when cured with salves from my hands, not a single sign of gratitude. Only stern eyes looking upon me like the blight they consider me to be; accompanied by threats. And of course their god. Their one god who with all his might still cannot cure the simplest ailment? I wonder.

Why this charade? Why these white draped divine farces. They don’t convince me so it must be in order to convince themselves. But still their gold is as good as any and even though I’m old I still need to eat. If they only knew how many newborn skulls I have had my gnarled fingers around, scrambling and trying not to slip on the blood and mucus. I must have helped deliver half of those who live there. Probably would burn the town to coals if they knew my diabolic hands had been near their inhabitants. Yet again I lack any type of thanks or appreciation for my work. They shun me like the plague but when a mother screams enough and from lack of blood she turns white, even pestilence like me gets invited inside their homes.

Yes, it’s true that I am very old and that I have seen many moons but their suspicions are making me weary of life; their prying eyes and their scornful smirks when I make my way down the roads on the outskirts of town. A mixture of being repulsed and fascinated is what I see in their faces. Why don’t they just ask? If I am such an abomination to them why are there not more who can’t stand not knowing, and simply ask me for how many ages I have walked these dirt roads. Always the staring but very rarely a word. I don’t require it to be kind or a word of praise, simply an acknowledgment of the fact of me also being a member of the same community.

I often submerge myself into the shadows around the large ferns guarding the gravel roads, not often the main paths but those which are narrower and darker in their nature. The townsfolk believe it is because of my malicious character and my foul intent to feed on lost children or livestock. Fools. Did I feel inclined to prey on their young; I could read an incantation this very midnight to have them all wander into my arms like sheep. The reason for my presence in the dark of the forest is to harvest fungi and sun-fearing herbs that prefer the shade and moisture. Blood roots, Ink hats and the like.

Oh, the irony of it all. In my harvesting I feed the flames of their fear and hate, all with the intent to make for myself a living. All I could teach were they only be willing to learn. We could bask in the shade as a whole and learn ways to lead death astray just a little longer if they wish and to cure the curses and diseases inflicted upon them by their ignorant ways. But it will never be since they find it easier to make a fist than to extend a hand.

My secrets of life and that which I have learned will leave this realm together with my soul the day my heart rests. And the townsfolk will be none the wiser. They will most likely feel no loss since in order to feel loss one needs to first realize someone’s value, and I believe in their eyes I have none.

It would to me be a great surprise if when I have been embraced by the warm bosom of the earth mother they should stand next to my resting place and say:” What shall we do without old Bianca? Who shall cure our boils, remove our nightmares and give us charms to help fertility?”

But one cannot go through the corridors of life in hopes of receiving praise in the afterlife. I will not change my ways, because I know that they are pure. Even though my skin is cracked like the bark of the trees and my nails are yellow like a wolf’s fangs, and my grizzled grey hair reminds one more of moss than anything else, I will not be shunned and I will not remain in seclusion simply because of other’s inability to see the possibilities I offer instead of reasons to fear.

Even though I still have my freedom if this should soon be the end of my time here, I ask anyone who reads this to take care of my cat. His name is Bartholomew and he is black like the hearts of those who threw stones his way. He is kind and wise, and will be all I leave behind which can be seen as knowledge. Treat him well and there might be something to still your greed at the end of it.