Braids

by Alexis Lantgen

in Issue 79, August 2018

For hundreds of years, the women of Mont Noire have been renowned for their hair. No matter what the color, their hair was thick and shining with a luster that made them the envy of all the surrounding villages. Even today, when Mont Noire women cut their hair in short, modern styles, the vibrancy of the colors and the luminous shine turns heads wherever they go. But in the past, when women wore their hair long, nothing could compare. They grew rivers of hair so black and shining it was like the heavens on a clear night, or glowing gold like a sunset, or like the earthen fire of a forge. Even age would not mar its beauty. The rich glow of polished chestnuts would become the silver of a moonlit stream or the crystalline white of the first snowfall.

The men of Mont Noire were not so blessed.

It was not always thus for the women either. Chroniclers noted that their hair was much like other womens’, until the arrival of the Haar-witch.

No one knows exactly when Cresputina arrived in the village, and where she came from became a subject of many heated debates. Some insisted she came from the court of the great Emperor in the East, and that she’d fled to Mont Noire to escape poisonous political intrigues she’d stumbled into there. The advocates of this theory noted that she brought with her a wide variety of fine spices and scented oils that could only have come from the glorious cities of the Ancient Empire. Others suggested that she escaped from Espana, that she was a refugee from the Moorish wars or the terrible plague that had ravaged the southern countries, working its way slowly and inexorably north.

Whatever her history, Cresputina arrived in Mont Noire with little property besides a fine set of silver-plated combs, a mirror decorated with the sun and stars, and her collection of mysterious flasks and bottles that contained oils, powders, and scented herbs, many of which no one in Mont Noire had ever seen before.

She had little money and ragged clothes, and her thick accent and foreign ways made the local priest suspicious. Perhaps for that reason, no man would allow her to stay under his roof or even under the roof of his barn. But one of the village women took pity on her (the Bruliard family claim it was their ancient grandmere, but this is disputed by the Montagnes, who insist it was their wise auntie). Thus it was that Cresputina found her way to Mistress Birgitte, the kindly widow who ran the local alehouse.

Truth be told, Mistress Birgitte did not need an assistant. She had five daughters, and while two had married and left home, three remained to help her with the business, and they were good, hard-working girls. Yet, Cresputina’s desperate plight moved the widow to take her in. Birgitte had her daughters fix a pallet by the hearth for her guest and promised to allow the strange woman to stay and work as long as she wished.

Cresputina’s eyes flooded with tears at the widow’s generosity. She pressed a hand to her heart and mumbled a choked up “merci, madame,” before she tumbled onto the pallet and fell fast asleep. The next morning, Birgitte’s eldest daughter came to wake her for breakfast but found Cresputina already bustling about the hearth.

Now this eldest girl was a sweet-faced lass with strong, capable hands, skilled at baking bread and tending her mother’s garden. But alas, she had a lame foot and could only walk with the aid of a sturdy branch. For this reason, her beloved’s family forbade their marriage, though he returned her love and would have no other wife. Cresputina learned all this from Birgitte, who chatted merrily as she tasted the latest batch of ale and kneaded the day’s bread. The Haar-witch examined the unfortunate girl from the corner of her eye as she swept the hearth.

The lass set about her morning chores, kindling a fire, filling the kettle with fresh water for their breakfast pottage, and wiping down the tables. She had her hair wrapped in a kerchief, but when she sat down to eat, she pulled it back to wipe away sweat. Cresputina cringed when she saw the girl’s hair. It was thin and brittle, the tips burnt from cooking over the fire. Brittle hair and broken bones, she thought, but I can help her.

Cresputina waited until the next feast-day, when the stars were right for healing. That evening, as the family put on their finery to attend Vespers and evening mass, she pulled the eldest girl aside. She sat her down and brushed out the girl’s hair with her silver combs and smoothed it with scented oils. Then she twisted the strands into fine-woven braids. As she braided, she sang.

“Sturdy and strong, supple and long, straighten her limbs by the end of my song.” The girl’s hair grew thick and shining as it absorbed the spell from her fingers and the healing oil.

Birgitte’s daughter relaxed under Cresputina’s ministrations, until she drifted off to sleep. “Don’t wake her,” Cresputina said to Birgitte. “The poor thing exhausted herself so. We can return for her after the first service.”

So it was that Birgitte’s daughter woke to an empty house. “Oh, no,” she thought, “I’ll miss the service, and Father Bernard will be so angry!” And she ran out of the house, not even noticing that she’d forgotten the sturdy branch she carried to help her walk.

Her beloved was coming to church late as well. He walked along, whistling a tune he’d heard one of the older women singing, enjoying the quiet golden hour before he had to listen to the priest’s angry sermons. Birgitte’s daughter ran past him, and he stared at her. He could have sworn he’d never seen a girl so beautiful before, yet she had the face of his beloved. But she ran on two strong legs, and her hair was glossy and elegant, styled in a becoming way he’d never seen. He called after her, and when Birgitte’s daughter heard his voice, she stopped and turned.

“How is it that you can run so fast?” he asked, bewildered. “Did you step out of my dreams?”

Her mouth fell open. She’d been running and it felt so good, so right, that she hadn’t even thought…
“It’s a miracle!” she exclaimed. “Unless…oh, all of a sudden I’m frightened it won’t last, and I’ll be lame again tomorrow!” She lifted her skirt a bit and looked at him pleadingly. “Could you please check my limbs–very thoroughly, mind you–check them up and down to make sure they’re as straight and supple as they should be?”

Her beloved’s face flushed. “Quite gladly, my lady.”
And only after he’d examined her body quite thoroughly to the satisfaction of them both, did they return to the church, where he knelt before the entire village and declared his love. With no objections from his family, they were married the next Sunday.

The young bride’s happy fate and the miracle of her cure did not go unnoticed. Publically, the villagers proclaimed it was the work of God, or perhaps the Virgin Mary, or maybe one of the many saints. Privately, many came to visit Cresputina. Her lovely braids and other hairstyles became popular with women and girls throughout the village. She also did a brisk trade in headache cures and hair tonics for men, which were simple matters that rarely required real magic. Then there were the others.

One day a young woman came to the alehouse to speak to Cresputina. She had hair the color of polished walnut and a delicately pointed chin, and she introduced herself as Leda, the butcher’s wife.

“I have been married for many a year,” she said. “But I have not got with child even once. If I do not give my husband an heir soon, he will throw me out.”

Cresputina raised her eyebrows. The butcher was a thick-fingered man with a round belly and a snow-white beard, well over sixty years old if he’d lived a day. His bride looked closer to twenty, with the bloom of health and youth on her face.

“How often does he…perform his husbandly duties?”

“He works at his shop every day besides the Sabbath,” said Leda, without the tell-tale blush Cresputina expected.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. When was the last time he…came to your bed?”

“Well, we only have one bed, so that’s where both he and I sleep.”

Cresputina frowned. “Has he done naught but sleep in your marital bed?”

“What else is there to do?” the girl asked.

“Well, then he can hardly expect you to bear a child–”

Leda shook her head. “A woman is barren, not a man. Or so my husband says. If I do not have a child somehow, he will blame me and cast me out. And without his support, my mother and sisters will starve.”

Cresputina tapped her lips with one finger, thinking. “I have just the thing for you,” she said. She sat Leda down and combed out the girl’s dark hair. Then she began to weave a simple spell. A braided crown for boldness and luck. A cascade of hair scented with spring flowers to evoke desire and ample curls to hold it fast.

“Go now,” she said when she’d finished, “and find your man.” When questioned later, Cresputina insisted she meant the girl’s husband, and that she only intended to make Leda beautiful enough to raise the elderly butcher’s flagging desire. But that is not how spells work. Magic loves a shortcut.

Leda, however, was not in the mood for a shortcut on her way home that evening. The breeze was cool and gentle, and just enough golden light remained when she left the alehouse that she decided to walk past a meadow where the berries had only just begun to ripen. She plucked a sweet red fruit and popped it in her mouth, and she could not remember eating anything quite so luscious before then.

She heard a soft sound near her, like a sigh, and she pulled back the brambles to see who was there. It was Gwaine, her husband’s apprentice. He was near to her age, handsome but shy. Why, he’d never looked her in the eye before! But now he bowed to her politely, and in the sunset he looked as gracious as a young knight.

Perhaps it was the heady scent of flowers in her hair, or the bright taste of the berry in her mouth, but bold thoughts arose in Leda’s mind. She took Gwaine’s hand, a smile on her lips. He knelt before her and spoke words that he’d never dared say aloud even in his dreams. But before he could finish speaking, her lips found his.

When Cresputina saw her a few months later, Leda was round and glowing. Her husband stood by her side, bragging of his prowess in his old age to anyone who would listen. His faithful apprentice followed behind them, careful to assist his master’s wife in her delicate condition, a soft smile on his face.

Not long after Leda gave birth to a healthy, apple-cheeked little boy, Cresputina noticed another child. This one was small and dark-haired, and peeked at her from the local farrier’s shop. The child’s face was so dirty and its clothes so rough and shapeless that Cresputina could not tell whether it was male or female until her friend Birgitte told her. The little one was a girl, the alewife said, and the farrier was her uncle. Though he had no business caring for such a young girl, especially since he had no wife, he’d insisted on taking the girl as his apprentice instead of sending her to the convent school.

“He’s a cruel master,” the good widow said when the subject came up. Indeed, the farrier was a thin, miserly man with a patchy white beard that didn’t quite hide his weasly chin. But his bony hands kept a firm grip on the long leather whip he used on spirited horses, and perhaps his spirited niece as well.

But the child, called Soot because of her dirty clothes, worked for her uncle without complaint until a few months after Leda’s baby was born. On that fateful day, the Lord of Dark Mountain flew into a rage and gave the farrier a sharp cuff on the head.

“Fool,” he hissed as he loomed over the humbler man. “My best courser lost a shoe, so I’ve had to cut short my hunt. If you don’t fix it, and shoe every horse in my stable by the morrow, I’ll run you down with my hounds.”

The farrier emitted a squeak like a frightened rat and set to work with trembling hands and a foul mood. He screamed at his apprentice, who hurried to and fro, working the bellows and trimming hooves. But when the farrier made a crucial error on one of the Lord’s palfreys–pricking the sensitive hoof with an ill-struck nail–his temper blazed white-hot.

“Look what you made me do, you little brat!” he screeched, and he ripped the bellows out of his niece’s hands and struck her across the temple. The iron tip of the bellows burned hot enough to leave a streak of charred and bloody skin across her face and head, and heavy enough to crack her skull.

It was a miracle Soot did not fall down dead right then. Had the farrier stuck her again, she likely would have. But even the hardest of hearts might hide a speck of softness, and her uncle threw down his bellows and let her be.

How she arrived at Birgitte and Cresputina’s doorstep is unknown. Some say she walked there herself, her footsteps guided by providence to the one person who could help her. Some think Cresputina had been watching over her, and used her magic to call the girl to the alehouse, transporting her threw the air by witchery. Others think that regret may have softened the farrier’s heart enough that he deposited the girl on the alehouse doorstep himself. Whatever the case, Birgitte woke that night to a banging sound on the door, and by the time she’d thrown on her robe and come down stairs, Cresputina was already laying Soot out on the long alehouse table.

“Quickly! I need clean water and fresh linens!” Cresputina said. Birgitte hurried to help, and together they washed poor Soot’s wounded head and tried to staunch the bleeding. But already the flesh around the burn had turned dark and swollen, and the blood that seeped from between their fingers smelled sickly-sour. The girl’s breathing came in short gasps.

Cresputina had never treated such a wound before. It was one thing to straighten a limb, especially on a day the stars had aligned on the side of healing and renewal. But this child would surely die without powerful magicks, ones she wasn’t certain she could control.

Soot moaned and grabbed at her grubby sackcloth. “Too hot,” she murmured. Cresputina lifted the girl’s rags to cool her down. The marks she saw on the child’s flesh made her lips quiver with fury. Bruises, burns, half-healed scars. Ribs jutting out of pale, clammy skin.

She would not allow this girl to die, Cresputina decided, whatever the cost. She mixed healing oils, powders, and herbs in a pot. The salve she made felt cool to the touch and smelled the mint leaves and willow bark, but real magic is not in salves but in a witch’s heart. She smoothed the salve on Soot’s burn and murmured a spell. The fever-heat abated briefly, then roared back.

It would not do, Cresputina thought, and her heart was troubled. She would have to draw the fire out of the girl’s flesh, but fire was tricky to control. It flickers and dances, it consumes all in its path. If even a spark escaped her fingers, who knew what havoc it would create?

Cresputina took a deep breath and ran her fingers through Soot’s hair. Clumps of it can loose in her hands and fell to the floor, which meant she had to work quickly. She wove the remaining hair into a spiral braid, one that could channel heat away from the girl’s wound. Clasping the ends of Soot’s hair firmly in her right hand, Cresputina traced her left over the spiral, pulling fire along the braid and channelling it. She hummed a spell, one as wild and changeable as fire itself, trying to direct its heat to safe places–the hearth, the clear cold water Birgitte had brought for her. The swelling around the burn subsided at last, and the wound itself cooled. Hope leapt in the Haar-witch’s chest, even as the water next to her began to boil, bubbling and spilling over its bucket.

With the water boiling and the hearth fire raging, Cresputina did not dare to channel more fire into them. She hesitated, and as fire began to build up in Soot’s braid, her hair turned a deep and vibrant shade of red, one she had all the days of her life thereafter, even as an old woman.

The ground would be the only other place that could contain such heat, Cresputina decided. She directed the last of the fire into the Earth beneath her feet. It charred a hole in the floorboards, but the cold soil seemed to absorb it well enough. Sweat ran down her face, and her whole body shook from the magics that flowed through her like a rain-swollen river. Once, the river of fire overflowed Cresputina’s control, and she felt fire-magic leap off her fingers and dance away. She gritted her teeth grimly, but there was nothing to be done. Birgitte’s alehouse had not caught fire yet, so there was that.

Dawn peaked over the horizon by the time Cresputina collapsed on the floor, weak and shaking, as wrung out as one of Birgitte’s dishcloths. But just before she fell into a sleep so deep she didn’t wake for three days, she heard a chirping voice ask about breakfast. Soot sat up on the table, a halo of fire-red hair floating around her head, and her wound healed as thoroughly as if it had never been.

There are sparks of fire that lodge in dry wood or coals. Other sparks seek the deep earth, where they make molten rocks. A few try to fly up to the sun, a place they feel is their rightful ancestral home. But some prefer to lodge themselves in the hearts of men and women, setting them ablaze with wild passions and fury. These are the most dangerous, for they consume the minds and spirits of their hosts and drive them to strife of all kind.

By some terrible misfortune, or perhaps as the consequence of such powerful magicks, the spark that escaped Cresputina’s fingers when she healed Soot was this last kind. It floated through the village of Mont Noire in the early morn, as invisible as a spider’s web in the grey light, a tiny flicker smaller than the flame of a guttering candle. Had it found only gentle souls, it’s possible it would have just gone out. But that is not what it found.

The spark embedded itself in the local priest, Father Bernard. That night he had a nightmare, and he woke up hot and feverish. Years of austerity and a standoffish belief in his own superiority had desiccated his heart into a bed of dry tinder. The spark set it ablaze with righteous fury, until he rose from his hard bed and knelt at the foot of the cross. Fire purifies, he thought, and the village is full of sin. Why, just the other day he saw the Butcher’s wife looking most coquettishly at her husband’s apprentice, even though she had a suckling babe! He would purify them all.

The very next day the priest began his crusade in the village square, calling down hellfire and damnation on the women there for their irreverence.

“Women adorn themselves in vanity,” he screamed, pointing at a young woman with shining hair spilling out of the braided bands Cresputina had woven across her brow. She shrank away from him, but he gripped her locks in his fists. His face contorted with rage, and perhaps a more carnal emotion, as he loomed over her. She slipped his grasp and fled, sobbing.

“Vain, slovenly wench!” He yelled at her back. “What witch has claimed your soul for the King of Lusts?”

From then on, Father Bernard spent his days railing against the weakness and vanity of women. A few women he bullied into forgoing Cresputina’s lovely braids, or undoing ones she’d already woven into their hair. But her styles were so popular that few women went without them very long, especially when they knew about the good spells she worked in their hair. Many women had Cresputina to thank for their husbands’ increased affection, or their daughters’ happy marriages, or the success of their family’s shop on market days.

Yet the paltry attention most villagers gave his crusade only inflamed the priest further. When he could not interest the village women in his quest for purity, chastity, and modesty, he turned to the men. Here he found a bit more success. A few men grumbled that when they went to strike their wives or daughters, as was a man’s right in those days, their blows seemed to bounce off and leave the intended recipients unharmed. Others spoke of the uncanny way that Birgitte’s daughter had recovered her broken foot. But all of them kept quiet about Cresputina’s involvement in these things, accept the old town bailiff.

“Why old John Farrier wept when he told me. Right miracle it was, he said, the little’un coming back with not a mark on her, but her hair turned red as forge-fire. No harm in it, I suppose, but it’s darned unnatural,” the bailiff told Father Bernard.

“Aye, unnatural. Pray tell, where did the child go? Who was it helped her?” the priest asked.

The bailiff shifted awkwardly. He was a man who liked to hear himself talk and fancied he knew all the goings-on of the village, a point of pride. But he did not like the glint in the priest’s eye, an unsavory reflection of the fire that blazed within.

“Some woman or other,” he finally answered. “None too important, for truth.”

“A woman of power is always important,” Father Bernard said. “For women are weak and changeable, and a woman who cures one day will kill the next.” He loomed over the old man, and the bright flames in his eyes made the shadows underneath them seem deep and dark.

“Well…” the bailiff said, then stopped. He coughed and looked at the floor.

“I see. Does some misplaced loyalty or devotion strangle your tongue? Has your aged mother been indulging herself with spells and enchantments, or your wife, or–” the priest’s eyes widened and his lips curled into a crooked smile, “your daughter? Didn’t I see her just the other day, with twin braids bouncing down her back? They were certainly lovely, and I don’t recall seeing her wear them before.”

The bailiff tried to swallow the bile that rose in his throat at Father Bernard’s insinuations. He had given many confessions to the priest, and the urge to confess pressed on him now.

“She had the spotted fever, and took a turn for the worse, and my wife thought it’d do no harm, sir, none at all, just to have her hair braided like the other girls–”

“Of course, my good man, of course you meant well. How many foolish men have been lead astray by the witcheries of women? Fear not, fear not, no harm will come to you and yours. At least, not if you tell me who has been doing all this enchantment.”

The bailiff plucked at the lacings on his shirt, twisting the leather cords in his hands. A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek, or perhaps a tear.

“It were–it were–” he bit his lip, but words tumbled out of his mouth nonetheless. “It were Cresputina. Her that boards with the widow alewife.”

“There now,” the priest said. “You have made your confession. It’s not so bad, aye? And I will absolve you and your kin for the terrible sin of consorting with that witch. If you go to your master and tell him I must speak to him forthwith.”

The bailiff’s master was the Lord of Dark Mountain, who ruled over Mont Noire and the surrounding villages when he wasn’t fighting in the King’s wars. He was tall and had broad shoulders knotted with muscle and a bristly black beard. But his heart was cold and capricious, and the peasants lived in great fear of his temper. Father Bernard made his appeal very carefully, hitting just the right notes to stir the Lord’s wrath and his eagerness for public executions, of which there had been far too few of late for his taste.

“Have it your way, priest,” the Lord said, scratching his beard. “I’ll have my men put her in irons. Do you want a trial or should we just build a pyre and roast the wench?”

“She’s a foreigner, my Lord, not a citizen. Why waste time on a trial when I have evidence and convincing testimony that she’s guilty? Besides, we wouldn’t want her to escape, or use her witchery to turn the crowd against us.”

“Very well,” the Lord said. He summoned his men and bid them arrest Cresputina.

Cresputina herself was still recovering from the powerful magics that she’d drawn on to heal Soot. She had lain in bed for days, shaking and feverish from the leftover heat she’d pull from the girl. A dark foreboding gripped her, and she saw flames all around her and smelled their smoke. Had she made a mistake with the spell? She was afraid to touch anything, lest her fingers set it alight. Birgitte fed her calming broths and her best ales, and her two youngest daughters tip-toed around the house like mice.

The thunder of hooves approaching the alehouse didn’t frighten the good widow. She was used to travellers stopping in for a drink and a quick bite. Even the pounding knocks at her door, powerful enough to shake the whole house, could be chalked up to thirsty lords eager for her fare. But Birgitte did not expect to be thrust aside with a gauntleted hand when she let the travellers in. When she opened her mouth to protest, the gauntlet crashed into her face with enough force to knock out some of her teeth. Her daughters froze in their tasks, but Birgitte waved at them, silently imploring them to run. Her youngest snapped out of her shock and grabbed her sister. They skittered away.

But Birgitte did not dare scream a warning to Cresputina, even if she could have gotten words out through her swollen lips. So it was that the Haar-witch was unprepared when soldiers stormed into her room. She was too weak to flee or protest. Her fingers flew to her hair, in hopes that she could weave a braid of protection or hiding before they could get to her, but it was too late. Soldiers grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides. One of them slammed a fist into her belly. Black spots filled her vision and she hunched over in pain.

Worst of all, Father Bernard had given special instructions to one of the men. He gripped to the Haar-witch’s hair, which fell in long dark locks around her bent neck, and sawed it off with a sharp knife. Cresputina let out a scream and struggled against the men holding her, but the soldier did not stop. He hacked and cut her black curls until he reached her bare scalp, even leaving great gashes and cuts in her skin.

Cresputina’s stomach heaved, and bile spilled out of her mouth. As they dragged her off, she saw them scooping up her shorn strands and throwing them into the hearthfire. Then she fainted dead away.

She woke up on a cold stone floor, her body aching all over. Where had they taken her? It was dark and smelled faintly of rotten grain, so perhaps a storehouse of some kind. She touched the walls on either side of her with her fingertips. She pulled herself up and felt along the walls for the door. Rough wood, perhaps a little aged, but still too solid for her to break down, not without a spell. And she had no hair to draw power from. She ran her hand over her bare scalp. Shorn away–her beauty, her magick, the essence of her craft. They’d burn her at the stake, as they had so many of her kind. Cresputina curled into a ball, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Father Bernard wasted no time in proclaiming his victory to anyone who’d listen. If a few of the villagers cringed when they heard about Cresputina’s arrest, he didn’t care. If one or two women had tears leaking out of their eyes when they heard his joyous news, that didn’t matter. He’d won. The Lord’s men were building a pyre in the town square, and he’d burn the witch the very next Sunday. That was only the beginning. He’d purify the village, purge the women of their vanity and foolishness, and require them to wear only plain, modest hairstyles and clothes. And those who resisted–he’d have pyres for them, too. He made sure to say that to every woman he met, especially those who cried over the witch.

The day of the witch-burning, Father Bernard rang the Matins bright and early. The scent of blooming flowers and fresh-cut hay wafted through the village on a gentle breeze. The pyre had a light coating of dew, but it was not too wet to keep the fire from lighting. The villagers stood in the square, looking huddled and glum despite the lovely Spring weather. Women and girls were not wearing the vibrant kirtles they usually donned on Sundays, but the dark clothes they wore for mourning. The priest approved of their more modest dress.

The Lord’s men dragged Cresputina out of the church cellar. They’d stripped off her filthy kirtle, leaving only her long white shift for modesty. The thin linen would burn away almost immediately, she knew, leaving her naked and writhing in the fire, bound to the stake. Part of the entertainment, she thought, shivering. She hadn’t eaten in over a week, which made her feel thin and insubstantial, like ashes that might blow away on the wind. She wondered if there was any hope of escape as they bound her to the pyre with heavy ropes. Alas, she thought, looking at the priest. She’d never charm him–he was too bald.

She looked out over the crowd of villagers. At least they weren’t throwing dung and offel at her, or screaming obscenities. The village women were silent as the grave, and the men murmured quietly. Gwaine, the butcher’s apprentice, frowned at the priest, and Birgitte’s young son-in-law was shaking his head, his arm wrapped protectively around his wife.

Only one person was openly weeping. That was Soot, who stood at the base of the pyre with tears streaming down her face. Father Bernard pushed her out of the way to deliver his sermon, a burning torch in his hand.

The villagers could hear little of the priest’s speech above Soot’s sobs, apart form shrill screeches of “Modesty!” or “Vile Vanity!” He thought his words were having the desired effect. Why, after his screed against the immorality of women’s adornment, which ignited the unholy lusts of men, the farrier’s girl took out her belt knife, hacked off her vivid red locks, and laid them on the pyre by the witch’s feet. The girl was weeping, that’s true, but perhaps she only cried in shame at her terrible sinfulness.

After that, women approached the pyre, one by one. They cut off braids and flowing hair, lover’s knots and elegant coiled twists, some still scented with Cresputina’s oils and powers. If a few men shifted uncomfortably, disturbed by the loss of so much of the town’s beauty, they did not intervene to stop their wives or daughters from shearing away their lovely hair. By the end of the sermon, an abundant pile of hair lay at Cresputina’s feet, silver and white entwined with gold and black and fire-red, shining and beautiful. For the first time, the witch’s eyes grew wet, and Father Bernard’s heart softened a bit. The witch could see how the village women were rejecting her sinful wares, he thought. That might be enough to make her repent in time to suffer the torments of purgatory, instead of being condemned to hell forevermore.

With a wave of his hand, Father Bernard lit the pyre. But it did not react the way he intended. The fire did not burn red and orange, as fires ought, nor did it smell of smoke and burnt flesh as expected. Instead, it crackled and sparkled in brilliant hues of pink and green, and the scent of fresh flowers and myrrh filled the air. Many of the villagers wept now, and when he turned to see the witch wriggling and struggling in torment in the flames, she was not there. The ropes had fallen away, and the woman floated above the billowing white smoke, her body as wispy and transparent as a sylph’s. She hovered over the village women who’d shorn their hair for her, touching each one on the head with ethereal hands. Then quick as the spring breeze, she was gone.

After the fire burned down, men searched the ashes but they could find no bones. The priest locked himself in the chantry, and villagers heard him weeping and scourging himself. When he would not come out after a number of days, they sent to the bishop, who had him brought to a monastery where he could spend his days in solitude and contemplation. The new priest who came to Mont Noire was a gentle sort, happy to bless all he met, from high lords to barefoot children.

No one saw Cresputina again, but stories about her spread for miles around. And the women and girls of Mont Noire became renowned for the beauty of their hair, so thick and vibrant and lustrous, so lovely it looks imbued with magic even today.

©August 2018, Alexis Lantgen

Alexis Lantgen‘s stories have appeared in the Gallery of Curiosities, Phantaxis Magazine, and Red Sun Magazine. Her nonfiction articles appear in Renaissance Magazine. This is her first appearance in ​Swords & Sorcery.