Raven Wings
With the assistance of a raven, a woman accused of witchcraft finds the power to save herself.
A raven shrieks down at me from a hawthorn tree – its voice unrelenting and on edge. My mother used to say that ravens were messengers from the gods. This one seems to be issuing some kind of warning… but I can’t afford to heed its call; I have too many patients to visit.
Their ailments turn out to be minor ones: burns, cuts, sore throats. Nothing out of the ordinary. The anxious knot in my stomach begins to loosen, and by the end of my rounds, I’ve nearly convinced myself that the raven was nothing more than a coincidence. Until I see it waiting for me at the edge of the woods, that is.
It flies from tree to tree – yelling, scolding, imploring. “I can’t understand you,” I shout back, hurrying home. Dread twists my insides when I spot the group of men standing sentinel outside my cottage. The raven cries out one last time, swoops low in front of me, and drops a feather at my feet. I bend to pick it up, and when I straighten, the men are walking towards me – their faces full of thunder.
“Mistress Branwen, you have been accused of witchcraft,” the leader booms.
Ruthless hands clamp around my upper arms as I am physically taken from the life that I have built for myself. They put me in a cold, dark cell with iron bars. I’ve never done well without the sunshine on my face. I lay down on a bed of damp straw; its sour stench turning my stomach. I think of my mother and what she would say to me if she were here. True strength is born from darkness. Tears course down my cheeks, settling in the hollow of my collar bone.
Hours pass before the jailer brings me a bowl of watery stew. While I eat the unsavory meal, I search my mind for what I could have done wrong… aye, ’tis true enough that I’ve lost patients before – although the same can be said of every healer. If I had been born a man, would they have dared point their finger in accusation? Nay, I know very well they would not. A knowledgeable woman is a dangerous creature, after all. She will always be suspected. But a bird locked up in a cage is no threat to anyone at all.
* * *
The metallic shriek of hinges rouses me awake. “Get up, Mistress Branwen,” the jailer orders.
“Give me a moment.” My voice cracks with disuse, and the inside of my mouth tastes stale. If I were at home, I’d begin the day with a cup of peppermint tea and some porridge sweetened with honey. But I shall get no such meal inside this windowless prison.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You must be at the courthouse to face judgment.”
I stumble to my feet. My entire body aches from sleeping on the hard ground. When I exit the cell, a pair of men take hold of my arms – their fingers digging painfully into the bruises they’d left the day before. “Please loosen your grip. You’re hurting me.”
“A prisoner has no right to make any demands,” scoffs one.
“Best keep your mouth shut, witch,” growls the other.
The air outside is fresh and damp. I breathe in deeply, reveling in its life-giving energy. A fine drizzle caresses my face as I squint up at the stormy sky. Then I see a flash of black overhead. The raven alights on the courthouse roof, letting out a disgruntled yell as I’m forced through the doors.
The hostility inside the room makes my head spin. I can hardly hear the judge over the ringing in my ears. My vision goes black, and then I’m falling, falling… a raven plummeting from the sky. “Fly, Branwen! Fly!” But I don’t know how. Water fills my lungs as I sink into the sea. Down, down… I can’t breathe!
I come to – spluttering and coughing. Someone hauls me roughly to my feet. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. The raven. The courthouse. The accusation. “Why am I wet?” I ask through chattering teeth.
“You fainted. We had to throw water on ya.” The guard pushes me towards the bench.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Use this to wipe your face, my dear,” a gentle voice says.
Blinking the water from my eyes, I turn to see an elderly lady with a kind expression. I’ve treated her many times over the years. Gratitude fills my heart. At least one of my patients has not forsaken me. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan.” I clean myself up as best I can.
The judge clears his throat impatiently. “Have you recovered, Mistress Branwen?”
“Yes, your honor.” My voice sounds small as a mouse, and just as scared.
“Very well. Then we shall proceed.”
I listen in mute horror as the villagers come forward one by one to accuse me. Most of the complaints come from the families of former patients I could not save, but there are a few ludicrous stories thrown in for dramatic effect. Two children claim to have seen me howling at the moon, and a teenage girl says I gave her rival a love charm to tempt away her betrothed. All lies, of course. When I am sentenced to hang on the morrow, I feel numb with disbelief.
They take me back to the cold, dark cell. I curl up on the straw and hold the raven feather between my clasped hands. “Please help me. Please tell me what to do.” I can see no way out of my predicament. Hopeless despair crashes over me, and I cry myself into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
In my dream, I am perched in the rafters of my childhood home. A woman who resembles me is brushing a little girl’s tangled hair. She is no more than five years old.
“There, Branwen,” she says, “now it shines just like a raven’s wing!”
Ah, so that’s it… the woman speaking is my mother, and the little girl is me.
“Mam, why did you name me ‘Branwen?’ I am not beautiful nor clever like a raven.”
“Yes, you are, cariad. You have a gift that hasn’t been seen in my family for many generations.”
The little-girl-who-is-me frowns. “What kind of gift?”
My mother leans forward. “Have you ever wanted to fly?”
“Aye, very much! But all I can do is climb trees. I don’t have any wings.”
“Oh, but you shall someday. You just have to believe.”
“Mam, don’t be silly! A person cannot fly.”
My mother touches my forehead. “You think too much with this, my daughter, and not enough with this.” She places her hand over my heart. “When the time comes, you will know what to do.”
* * *
I stare up at the ancient yew and wonder how many people have lost their lives beneath its gnarled branches. Twenty? Fifty? One hundred? I rest my hand upon its knobby trunk. The tree’s voice echoes inside my mind. Forgive me, my child. I never wanted to be used for such violence. Tears fill my eyes. We are both victims of their cruelty.
I hear the rustle of wings overhead. The raven peers down at me – a mournful expression in its dark gaze. I wait for it to scold me, but the sound that issues from its beak isn’t that of a bird. My eyes widen in understanding.
“Mistress Branwen, will you pray and repent of your sins?” the parson asks.
I turn to him. “I will. Please untie my hands so that I may do so properly.”
The executioner tries to argue against this, but the parson is a compassionate man. He hasn’t forgotten that I saved his wife from childbed fever. “Cut her bonds,” he commands, and they have no choice but to obey.
I clasp my hands in prayer and invoke the power that has lain dormant inside me for so long. Gasps erupt from the crowd as I transform right before their eyes. The sensation is a peculiar one… a shrinking down – an unbecoming – and yet a rebirth all at once. I am more myself now than I have ever been. My raven wings beat frantically towards the sky. Soon, I am well beyond their reach. I let out a triumphant cry, elation singing through my feathers as I glide weightlessly through the air.
My guide joins me a moment later. “You did well, my daughter,” she praises.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, mam,” I reply.
“There is nothing to forgive, cariad. Rejoice in your freedom, and waste no time in regret.”
My mother is right, of course. And now that I am free, I will never be put inside that cage again.
~~~~~
Author’s note: Some people are fascinated by the medieval witch hunts, but it’s always been a deeply upsetting subject for me. I wrote this story to honor the thousands of women who lost their lives during the trials (and to give them the happy ending they never received). May we all find Branwen’s inner strength in our own times of adversity.
Not too long ago, I came across a song called “The Hanging Tree” by Blackmore’s Night. I found it very touching because it reminded me of the yew tree in my story. Give it a listen if you’re interested 😊
Witch hunts are still occurring, sad to think we have learned nothing.
I love this story! Thank you so much for sharing this with the world!