Herby sat on a log around the campfire and half listened to the tales and gossip being told by the villagers. He took a long draw from the frothy mug of ale and set it back to rest comfortably on his large belly. After each story ended, he’d quietly huff in mild contempt and absent mindedly stroke his beard. None of their tales were any good compared to his. All of the other villagers knew it, but they waited eagerly. Every night, Herby always told his story last and it got better and better each time.
As the night wore one and the campfire turned to glowing red coals, the stories and gossips gradually tapered off. One by one, the villagers grew quiet and waited for Herby to speak.
“Herby, tell us o’ the Blackwood witch again!” one of them shouted. “We been waitin’ all night!”
Herby glared at the villager for a moment in mock irritation, but secretly he knew he loved telling the story as much as they loved hearing it. All the eyes around the campfire turned and looked at him expectantly. Herby met each one and held the gaze for a moment, wringing his hands in eager anticipation, commanding their attention. He took one final long draw from his mug, and then wiped the froth from his mustache with the back of his sleeve. After a long pregnant pause, he leaned forward, as he always did, and began with a low whisper.
“Ye e’er heard o’ the Blackwood witch?” he started quietly, eyes twinkling. “It all started a coupl’a years ago.”
All of the listening eyes grew large and people quieted their breaths as they leaned in closer to hear.
“Jonathan the miller had a daughter. She was fine as sin, she was. Had hair black as a ravens wing, skin fair as porcelain. She was a strange one, that she was. She had the most peculiar eyes any lad had seen, y’see? They were green as emeralds. I suppose that’s why old man Jonathan had named her Esmerelda. But, there was something off about her. I can’t quite explain it, but just one look at her and you could tell that she was the odd sort. Trouble, it just seemed to follow her everywhere she went. We didn’t know why at the time, but the most unusual, otherworldly things seemed to follow her everywhere she went. If she was in the kitchen, the teapot would suddenly boil fer no reason. The funny thing is, nobody turned on the stove. Or, she’d be in the mill, and a sack of flour would drop and narrowly miss yer head as if somethin’s trying ta kill ye. But the oddest thing about young Esmerelda, was that she seemed to talk to herself or something else that only she could see. Spirits, some said. Phantoms of the imagination, others claimed. Nobody really gave it too much serious thought though, y’see, she seemed a bit of a disturbed woman. Sometimes, she’d be yelling curses at the air for minutes. But, nobody had the heart to say a thing about it and just left ‘er alone.”
“Well, one day a lad came down to the mill to get some corn ground into meal for his piggies. He’d ‘ad a pint or two … or three ... that afternoon, but who hasn’t, y’know? Anyways, he wasn’t quite in his right mind either, so he walks into the Mill, and who should he find there all alone? Lil miss Esmerelda. She was chattin’ up a furious storm that afternoon with some spirit or some such thing, and almost didn’t even pay the lad much heed. He got right agitated for havin’ t’ wait though, so he started shouting at her. He said he was just cursin’ her like any ol’ drunk ornery fool does, but she whirled around and looked ‘im right in the eyes with her emerald eyes. Oh, but they weren’t normal lookin’ eyes that afternoon. They had a piercing glow behind ‘em that looked right through ye, right into yer soul. She said to that lad, and I’ll ne’er forget these words, “You know nothing of curses, you miserable wretch. Let me show you a curse.” An’ she did. He said her eyes blazed green like wildfires an’ ‘afore he knew it, little itchy boils came up all o’er his skin, and whenever he scratched at the itchy suckers, little black spiders crawled out. His whole body was covered in these spider filled boils! I shudder to think about it, just imagining spiders crawling on me skin gives me the heebie jeebiees, but spiders crawling out from under the skin? That’s a whole ‘nother level of creepy. O’ course, you could hear ‘is scream clear down to ol’ Jebs tannery, and that’s pretty far considerin’ the walk. Anyways, he ran right outta that mill and left his corn fer the miller t’ take as he pleased.”
“The lad ran all over town that afternoon, screamin’ and shoutin’ at the top o’ his lungs t’ any who’d listen. “The millers daughter is a witch! Esmerelda is a witch! She cursed me with boils and spiders!” an’ he’d show ‘em to any who’d look.
It didn’ take the town long to rabble rouse outta their homes. The good townsfolk grabbed their pitchforks an’ torches, and marched right down to the millers house, shoutin’ for missus Esmerelda to show ‘erself. She knew they wasn’t up to no good that afternoon. She’d seen what they’d done to others suspected o’ witchcraft an’ sorcery, so she wasn’t gonna stick around long enough to have any o’ that. Before the townsfolk even got close to her house, she was gone into the Blackwood.“
“Back then, it wasn’t a cursed forest like it is today and the good townsfolk weren’t afraid to go in it for an afternoon picnic. But that all changed that evenin’. None o’ the townsfolk could find the young missus, but they were out for ‘er blood. Rabble rousing will do that to ye. A few o’ them were decent hunters, so they went off back home and fetched the houn’ dogs. Houn’ dogs are pretty good at fetching foxes, and young missus Esmerelda was quite a foxy lady, so they didn’ have much problem pickin’ up her scent that evenin’. The hunters said they’d go right into the forest and bring her back and then she could stand trial for her sorcery before the whole town, and then she could face the stake like the rest o’ them did.“
“We all heard it. The screams were loud as sin. At first, we thought the hunters had captured Esmerelda and she be puttin’ up a fuss. We all waited around for them to bring ‘er back, but hours went by an’ nobody e’er came outta the Blackwood that night. It later occurred to us that the screams we ‘eard were the hunters themselves. That was the last evening anyone ever saw them hunters, bless their poor souls. We all looked at each other with scared looks in our eyes. Nobody slept well that night. How could ye, when ye know there’s a witch prowlin’ the nearby forests? The next mornin’, a ranger set off to follow the tracks of the hunting party. No one ever saw or heard from ‘im again either. He got snatched by ‘er. From that day on, nobody dared to go into the forest again until the witch was dealt with. Some nights, if yer really quiet and still and listen t’ the wind, you can still hear her talkin’ to those ghosts or spirits, or whatever they are. T’ this day, the Blackwood is cursed. Any poor fool dumb enough to be out in that wood after sundown is a gonner. Probably cookin’ in ‘er witches brew. Stay outta the Blackwood or the witch’ll getcha.”
Herby leaned back finished and out of breath. The villagers shivered a little in the darkness, a little from the cold of night, and a little from fright. The Blackwood forest behind them loomed menacingly in the darkness. One by one, the villagers gave their farewells and sauntered off to their homes for the night.
