BURNT ACRES OF GOD

The Medieval world presents rich pickings to writers wishing to illustrate the silliness of beliefs that still persist despite real evidence...

During the night and before Chazzy made love to his witch three times in rapid succession he dreamed he was going to die.

It was like this. Back in his day (which was a long time before our day) there were a great number of witches in the land. They were signified by any one of several conditions, like a squint in the eye or a mole on the nose (or anywhere, really) or a stoop, or the preference for black hats, or the ownership by a cat - and his witch had all of them.

It was normally perfectly acceptable to be looked on as a witch. People might cross the muddy path to get to the other side and thus avoid close proximity to her, but other than that there were few difficulties, and this wasn't really a problem because Chazzy's witch preferred to avoid close proximity to everyone bar Chazzy himself anyway.

Her name was Janie, and despite it she wasn't that bad looking. Moles and squint apart, she was in her thirties and still possessing some hair that wasn't grey, he rather liked her.

She was a devout believer in God, of course, like everyone, and although tales abounded that witches were in league with the devil in his ages-long conflict with the one true God, a conflict that had raged since long before Eve had fancied an apple, she never really minded when people laughingly or jokingly or merely meaninglessly referred to her as a witch, even as Chazzy's witch at that.

They were sort of married. Back then you could lurk under a hedge or anywhere, really, and make promises to each other and it was binding, and they had taken shelter in the wildwood, and Chazzy had said,

“I love you, Janie,”

and Janie had said, “I can't see why, but yeah, sounds nice,”

and he had said “can we be wed?” and her reply, which had thrilled him, had been

“if that's what you want, count it as done and let's go to my place to bed.”

All would have been well and might have stayed that way but Father Grimwolde was appointed as priest to the land around where they lived, was provided with a wooden church with its altar and holy water, and ordered to collect his percentage from everyone.

Father Grimwolde was particularly fond of French wine, so his percentage was high, and if a parishioner failed to confess his full income and part with a great deal of it in the name of God then Father Grimwolde had ways and means. Back then Priests always had ways and means, all of them beneficial to themselves.

Now, Janie was as devout a believer as existed in those days. She was more devout than the King, and he often proclaimed that in the case of devoutness none was his superior. He was famous for ordering that this or that unbeliever be burnt alive just because he wouldn't recant his disbelief, and in such a way and with such proceedings remarkably common the advancement of true knowledge was greatly hindered. No man, after all, can proceed to discover important things, and elaborate on those discoveries, particularly if any pronouncement he makes might result in his own painful death. It was quite a perpetual status quo, which worked well in favour of the well to do and not so well for the poorer classes, of which Janie was a fully paid-up member.

Father Grimwolde called on Janie for his tithes. It was her turn to empty her coffers into his capacious pockets and he was going to hear no excuses that gainsaid that. But, sad to say, her coffers contained very little capital �" and Chazzy was no better off. They toiled hard at all the things the folks back then toiled at, mostly to do with a primitive version of agricultural, and mostly for the local manorial Lord. He let them keep the chaff, of course, once he'd had the wheat (or its medieval equivalent) but there's not a great deal of nourishment in chaff and it makes shockingly poor bread.

They were almost continually hungry (which is more dramatic than being merely peckish) and their possession of spare chaff was as improbable as Grimwolde's possession of virtue.

“I have come for what is mine,” he told her, taking in the mole on her nose with distaste whilst wondering which of her wandering eyes was contemplating him.

“Yours is the Lord,” replied Janie quietly.

“Mine is what you own, witch!” he cracked. “Mine is the means to grow fat and enjoy inebriation. Mine is your contribution to our Lord.”

“Our Lord has given me nothing, so he can take nothing back from me,” pointed out Janie, mistaking one Lord for another, but not really caring which was meant by the offensive priest. Neither Lord had given her anything unless you count a sack of inedible chaff as something.

“You offend the dignity of God!” shouted the Priest, his eyes bulging. “I demand one part in ten of your wealth as an honest tithe for our Lord.”

“One part in ten of nothing is nothing,” sighed Janie, and, sad to say, she started weeping. “Even now my stomach groans and hurts, for I am sore hungry, as is Chazzy, my lovely husband.”

“Where is this wretched man?” cried the Priest, “I will strike him down and remove one part in ten of his flesh if he cannot pay me in wealth!”

“And you believe in God?” asked Chazzy, appearing behind his loved one. He had been evacuating his bowels behind the simple cottage and was still cleaning himself on a dock leaf.

“I am a man of God!” thundered the Priest, enjoying himself. “You will pay me or be punished! By dawn! Yes, I expect full payment of your tithes by dawn!” And he swept away, bloated, foully.

“What will we do?” asked Janie, still weeping from both eyes, though the tears flowed in different directions.

“We cannot pay what we haven't got, and he must see that under the light of day,” said Chazzy, knowing there could be little truth in his words.

“Then we must make love, for that is our only gift,” said Janie, and taking Chazzy by both hands she led him into the bed corner of their hovel.

And there they lay down, and there, despite his reservations, it being a Friday and all manner of carnal behaviour being forbidden by the Church on Fridays, they made love.

And, much to his own surprise and joy, succeeded in doing it three times.

And it was then that he dreamed that he was going to die. An appropriate dream, really, for the next day the thunderous Priest returned after dawn in the company of six strong overfed monks, and Janie and Chazzy were dragged to the Burnt Acres of God.

There was going to be a treat for the population tonight!

There was going to be a double burning!

And wouldn't God be happy even if his holy tithes hadn't been collected!

And it had nothing to do with witches and witchcraft and all the nonsense of special courts. A man who couldn't pay his God deserves only one thing.

A damned good burning!

Author's Note

set in an unspecified past of an unspecified country....