The witches’ granddaughters

Shepherd's crook and monkish cassock,

Crucifix and jewelled haddock.

The words were chanted over a pitch pot aflame in wreathes of slick and slimy smoke, on a solid island within the rank marshlands beyond the western wall of the city.

Flowing robes and rosary,

Bring the murderous priest to me.

The priest was sat before a huge hearth, completing his supper of game bird and carp with spiced pudding in a rich and greasy gravy.

Blessed Venus hear our prayer,

Summon him from yonder, there.

He refilled his goblet from a jug of the pungent wine brewed by his monastic tenants and levied as tithe. Downing the contents, he belched copiously before refilling the cup and downing again.

Scorching limb and phosphor bright...

After several more goblets of wine he commenced to glug from a jar of apple brandy. Before long he was snoring, his head heavy upon his snot-encrusted sleave.

Bring him here TO OUR DELIGHT!

Waking with a start, the priest found himself, not in the parlour of his ecclesiastical dwelling, sat before his cheerful fireplace, but standing abroad within a cold, dark, dank, foul-smelling swamp.

He looked around him, befuddled, thinking himself in a dream.... or nightmare. It was only then that he noticed, standing before him, a female berobed in crimson and black, a cowl upon her head. Two other women stood apart from her.

He was brought to his senses only when the first woman addressed him.

“Hear us, Bishop, mighty Prince of Lincoln, you do stand before us, accused. How do you plead?”

Thus spake the first woman Abigail, the oldest of the three. With her were her sister Zipporah, matron, and her cousin Miriam, maid, the youngest.

“How dare you address me in that manner, wench,” said the Bishop, trembling with rage and indignation. Not least at thus being stolen from his slumber, not to mention from his home and his hearth. In his ire, he forgot about how he came to find himself in this dread filled place.

“Wench? Wench is it, my lord?” said Abigail. “You best be careful, Bishop, you are not aloft the pulpit now.”

BE it enacted by the King our Soveraigne Lord; the Lords Spirituall and Temporall, and the Commons in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, that the Statute made in the fifth yeare of the Reigne of our late Soveraigne Lady of most Famous and Happy memory, Queen Elizabeth, Entituled, An Acte againste Conjurations, Inchantments and Witchcraftes;

Miriam spoke then, in her crisp, cheery voice. “He is plainly guilty, cousin. Let him burn.”

“Yes,” said Zipporah, less cheery. “Burn him!”

“Know you, Bishop,” said Abigail, “the crime you have committed. You did accuse and condemn our grandmothers of witchcraft, that they be burnt at the stake.”

“If you mean the ‘Skellingthorpe witches’ I absolved them. I heard their confessions and bade they be whipped for their sins and released.”

“Yes, but instead, they were delivered up to the court of King James, under his new laws against conjuration, to be hanged at Newcastle.”

...use, practise, or exercise any invocation or conjuration of any evil and wicked spirit: or shall consult, covenant with, entertaine, imploy, feed, or reward any evil and wicked spirit, to or for any intent or purpose; or take up any dead man, woman, or child, out of his, her, or their grave, or any other place where the dead body resteth

“You can hardly blame me for a change in the law that took sinners away from the mercy of the Church."

“Oh, but we do blame you Bishop, for it was you who signed the warrant.”

being of the said offences duly and lawfully Convicted and Attainted, shall suffer paines of death as a Felon or Felons, and shall lose the priviledge and benefit of Clergy and Sanctuary

At this, the clouds broke and Venus appeared. All three women held up their right hands to the blessed goddess. A shaft of light struck each palm and was reflected upon the Bishop’s cassock.

A smoking and a sizzling and a crackling.

"Wait! What is happening," said the bishop, glancing down at at the glowing garment, now starting to get uncomfortably warm.

Flames appeared at the hem, spreading up to the waist, then all around the writhing figure.

"No! No! What are you doing to me. Stop that!"

He rolled on the ground, begging for mercy, striving to quench the fire, squealing like a sucking pig on a spit.

"Ah, ah, no, no, stop, please stop. No, no, no!"

After much screaming and squirming, he was gone in a cloud of smoke.

“It is done, sisters.”

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This short story was adapted from a flash fiction here under the same name. The story The Witches Grandaughters was originally written in response to a word prompt challenge and posted on the Writers Unite Facebook group.

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