The Flame of Remembrance

There was a gentle flicker
deep within her knowing,
A flicker of a flame that had lain dormant for
far too long.
It sparked to life once again.
Awakening an ancient knowing.
That was fiercely focused and quietly determined.

She felt her body straighten in preparation.
Readying herself to speak for all of them.
The Witches.
Named and unnamed.
The persecuted, oppressed and damned.

What rose within her was a No.
Inaudible at first, then rising to a crescendo.
No. No. No.
No more.

She had finally drawn her boundary line
with an ancient knowing that it was now
TIME.

The Trial

It’s 1644.

Underground in the dank smelly squalor of Edinburgh’s old stone dungeons, we’ve been here a while.

Odours of barbaric cruelty waft through the stale air. With cold metal tools they try to make us speak out against them….fellow so called witches.

We go on trial.

He stands before me – that wig wearing judge. On his pulpit. Armed with wooden hammer, he speaks. His voice echoes around these dimly lit surroundings.

Peering down at me and my ragged barefoot form. Shouting lies upon lies at me about my suspected misdemeanours.

None it is true. I gulp the dryness down in my throat. Holding back the tears of years of persecution.

I’m doomed to the same fate as the rest of them.

He lifts his hammer into the air. As it crashes down on wooden pulpit, he sentences me to death.
By burning at the stake.
On the Castle Esplanade.
Time and date to be confirmed…
for Witchcraft.
Citing the Scottish Witchcraft Act of 1563.

I am numb.

Then, I feel that familiar flicker in my belly. Rising from deep within me. Reigniting that old flame with a knowing that I’ve been here before.

This has happened.

Laughing I turn to my children and husband.

“This is real! This did happen!” I exclaim.

We turn and walk into the next room as our tour of the Edinburgh Dungeons continues.

I had volunteered to role play a witch trial. The witches had gotten under my skin!

The Date: 8th August 2020

The Witches Well

That evening I return to the Castle Esplanade. A fierce fury springs forth when I stop at the memorial commemorating them.
My mind is alight with questions.
Who were they? What are their stories?
Was this their last view across the esplanade, down Edinburgh’s Royal Mile to the sea?
I stand a moment longer, bow my head in reverence and quietly pay my respects.
I turn to leave and feel a surge of volcanic power vibrate through me.
Like molten lava it takes my breath away.
This extinct volcano that I’m standing on is awakening a fierce fury within me.
Then they speak to the rhythm of my marching feet:
Witches! Rise Up. Return to Your Power.
Witches! Rise Up. Now is the Hour.
Witches! Rise Up. Step on to Your Throne.
Witches Rise Up. It’s time to Come Home.

Eimear Stassin