Suffer Not the Witch to Live by Kinto Mythostian They put a hood over her head, as though they were too ashamed of what they were about to do to look her in the eye. They all agreed it was necessary, that it was just. And no one was about to stop it. But still. It was hard. No one would miss her. Her mother had been the town drunk, before she fell and broke her head last winter. Her father was unknown entirely. There had always been something off about her. Her eyes seemed just a tad too big, her tail a smidge too short. Every aspect of her appearance was just a hair's breadth away from being attractive. In the spring, peculiar things had begun to happen. Little oddnesses. Milk soured unusually quickly. Things disappeared and reappeared out-of-place. She was a strange one, uncivilized and unteachable, but harmless enough. It was no use trying to employ her for any productive end. She talked hardly at all, spending most days in gloomy silence. She had her fits, but they were few and far between. She was pitiable, and idle and simple, a blemish on the town. But none would ever have thought to call her evil. She lacked the capacity, they believed. The sprouting maize was struck by an unknown blight. Huxley's chickens stopped laying. Thackeray's best stallion suddenly took ill and died within a day. People began to whisper. Huxley had beat her after catching her stealing eggs. Thackeray had knocked her down while out riding. With no one ever being the first to say it, the word 'witch' was on everyone's tongue. They had just caught one over in Wittshire, after all. It could happen here. It was never the ones you would suspect. One morning Yandling's youngest could not be awoken, still breathing but in a sleep as impenetrable as death, with a fever like the breath of Hell. In tears, Goodwife Yandling confessed that she had seen her dancing - /dancing/ - at the crossroads the night of the big storm. No one ever asked why Goodwife Yandling had been there to see. Goodwife Yandling was an honest and upstanding vixen, while she... well, she was not. It became clear. The town had a witch, and everyone understood what had to be done. She was in one of her calm moods when she was arrested, sitting outside the blacksmith's doodling in the dust. Her clothes dirty and tattered, barepawed like an animal. It was doubtful she recognized what she was accused of. At her trial she raised not one word in her own defense, neither acknowledging nor denying the charges against her. No one wanted to question whether a mistake had been made, and the so townsfoxes' accusations were growing louder and more hysterical with each passing moment. Until. It was the worst outburst anyone had ever seen from her. She lunged. She raged. She tore at her clothes and her fur. The congregation scattered, vixens swooning to hear her scream and curse. There were words in languages long dead, words in languages never heard before by vulpine ears, words there was no possibility of her ever having learned. It lasted past sundown, until abruptly it stopped. When the townsfolk finally ventured back into the courthouse, the place was in shambles. Chairs and tables overturned, papers and books shredded and scattered helter-skelter. Strange lines and sigils scratched deep into the wooden walls and floors. They found her curled up and asleep, naked under the magistrate's chair, as peaceful as kit in her mother's arms. There was not a mark on her. There was no longer any doubt. For the good of the town, the witch would have to be hanged. Before sunrise the next morning she was taken from the gaol and led past the solemn crowd to the mule cart. She looked different in the hazy predawn light, more like the young vixen she was. It would be easy to forget what they knew her to be capable of. They could afford no pity. They must steel themselves for the task that must be done. Goodwife Yandling had donated a black dress and stockings for her to wear, an act of charity toward her enemy that she prayed might move God to save her own kit. She looked nervous and uncomfortable, her too-big eyes roving anxiously, her hands already bound tight behind her as the cart was drawn out of town. She still may not have yet understood what was happening. Huxley had fashioned a coffin for the witch's corpse; it rode in the cart beside her. The crowd followed at a respectful distance, to see justice carried out. At the crossroads Thackeray had already dug her grave. Standing upright on the back of the cart, she looked smaller than ever beside the looming black bulk of the gallows tree. They pinioned her arms to her sides with a thick coil of rope. More rope bound her tail and her knees and her ankles, to prevent her from struggling and the crowd from seeing up her dress to preserve her propriety. The binding only made her look less like a righteously condemned witch, and more like a vulnerable young vixen, barely more than a kit. The sun crested the eastern horizon. She wasn't crying. No one had ever seen her cry. No one ever would. They put a hood over her head, as though they were too ashamed of what they were about to do to look her in the eye. They all agreed it was necessary, that it was just. And no one was about to stop it. But still. The rope was tossed over an outspread branch of the tree. The noose was closed around her throat. The slack was draped over her shoulder. She made a single whimper, the only indication that she ever understood the purpose. She was a witch. She had to be hanged. Seconds dragged by. Everyone knew what must be done, yet no one quite wanted to be the one to take the cart away. Her tail was trembling like an autumn leaf. Abruptly, and to the shock of everyone, Goodwife Yandling stepped forward and gave the mule a hard smack on its flank. The cart was jolted forward, away. She dropped like a diving swallow before the rope abruptly pulled taut. A terrible choking gasp emanated from within the concealing hood. Goodwife Yandling turned away, unable to watch. The town were amateurs in the business of justice, especially towards one so young and underfed. The rough knot did not slide smoothly shut. The coarse noose was barely tight around her neck. She squealed and shrieked, incapable of words, speaking only in pain. Her legs bound, she could not kick. Her whole body flexed back and forth, flopping on her rope like a trout on the end of a line, suffocating. The noose dragged tighter with each movement, achingly slowly, closing but nowhere near tight enough to properly crush her throat. The hood bunched up, wedged beneath her chin, meager insulation between her and the fatal snare. The crowd watched in uncertainty, none wanting to be the one to question whether something ought to be done to hasten her passing. She was a witch, after all. She deserved to suffer. This was necessary. The sun climbed sluggishly higher. Even more slowly, her struggles abated. Her shrieking fell to rasping. Her delicate weight bore on the front of her fragile throat, choking the life from her straining lungs, pinching her veins. There were chores to be done, back in the village, and this was taking far longer than any had expected, but no one would dare be the first to leave. They had all enacted this sentence upon the witch, and they all must see it carried through. Her rasping fell to wheezing. Her paws curled, her toes spread, stretching the wool enclosing them, quivering, shuddering. Every wheeze sang fainter than the last, drawn out and wretched to perceive. The crowd strained to hear, listening above the riot of the ignorant songbirds in the boughs above and the guilty thunder of their own hearts. Her wheezing stopped. The crowd watched the last pained twitches of the tip of her tail. The crowd looked at each other hesitantly. She was dead. No one could hang for two hours and not be dead. Not even a witch. Not even a small one. They cut her down and lowered her directly into the coffin without untying her nor removing the hood from her face. Huxley had had to guess at her size. They had to bend her awkwardly to make her fit. Everyone saw her stocking paw twitch and everyone silently agreed it was just the normal spasms of a freshly dead corpse. They hurried to nail the lid on and roughly lowered her into the grave. The bottom of the shaft was uneven; the box rested at a distinct downwards slant towards the dead witch's head. Everyone pitched in to fill the grave. They all wanted to be done with this business and away from this unholy place as soon as possible. The harsh rasping noise was only the sound of dirt and stones falling on the lid. All that remained was a low unmarked mound of dirt by the roadside. The witch must be unremembered, forgotten. Everyone privately knew she never would be. Solemnly, the town as one made their way back to their homes. Goodwife Yandling lingered for a moment, gazing at the ephemeral hummock destined to be the only monument ever raised to the memory of the day's events. They had done it. They had saved the town. This must be what pride of accomplishment felt like. It ought to feel better. First draft written May 11, 2016. Editing completed May 22, 2016.