Disclaimer: After a while, you get tired of typing disclaimers. I don't own the BBC.
No, I thought. No you must be absolutely mad to go back there. What if I am? Then you're a fool. No, I'm not. They'll hang you. I'll escape. No, you can't. Then it's only my life. But you aren't afraid? What would they hang me for? For being a witch. Do they think I am? Yes, they do. But I'm not. They have proof. Do they? Are three deaths enough proof? But it wasn't my fault. You're smart. Is being smart any proof? They don't need proof. You'll hang. No, I won't. Yes, you will. No, I won't. Yes, you will! No, I won't! Yes, damn you! You can't even listen to yourself! No, I will not hang for going to my own house! You should die for denying the truth! No, I won't! Yes, you will die! NO, I won't! YES, YOU WILL! NO, I WILL NOT! YES, YOU-
"SHUT UP!" I shouted. "I cannot hang for going back to my own house!"
And it was settled. I would return home for clean cloth and to tend to my wound, then I would leave and never come back.
I had decided to walk Luna instead of riding; she had done enough running anyway. And speaking of running, I really needed to get some cloth and water, for the blood from my cut was beginning to run down my leg.
Finally, within the day remaining, I reached my village. But, I wasn't given a proper greeting. Smiles and hugs and laughter is what I first expected-but no, people dropped whatever they were doing, ran into their houses and slammed the door shut. I didn't look towards them, for I knew they would be terrified and think I'm a witch. I had to forget the simple abuse of the people I befriended so many years ago, and get on with my current goal-my physical wound and forget all the emotional wounds.
I limped into my house only to find it ransacked- table and chairs either overturned or missing, blankets and pillows torn or stolen, the few pence I left behind, scattered over the dirt floor, a Bible laying open on the upturned bed, shattered pottery everywhere, some scorch marks on the walls, and the horrible stench of mould.
I was forgetting my true purpose here. I limped to an overturned chair and set it upright. Over by the bed, I picked up a wooden cup. That would do. Now I need some water and cloth. Beneath the bed was a bucket for the well. I picked it up and went to the wall for the water-literally, I stumbled to the well, because my knee was beginning to swell and I was in great pain. Eventually I returned to the house, and found some cloth near the hearth. It wasn't the cleanest but it would do.
I lifted the leg of my trousers to begin the procedure. Oh my- I thought. I had nothing to say but that. There was nothing to say but that. My wound had swelled and had become slightly purple. I was wrong. This would need stitching. Luckily, I came prepared.
With the cloth, I cleaned the wound. Though it hurt, I could handle the pain. Dip, pat. Dip, pat. Eventually, the water became pink with blood and I began the stitch. Stitch, wince, stitch, wince, and gasp with pain. The wound was clean and done, so I wrapped it in the cloth, just in case.
I had decided to rest my wound for some time and I needed something to pass the time. With this time, I cleaned the dried blood on my leg, sewn together the tear in James's old trousers, and thought of the one way I would get food-Nottingham.
But I would need food for tonight. There has been no food for several days and my hunger was beginning to take its toll. There was no bread, no meat, only water. I desperately do not want to steal. I cannot steal. Stealing is for thieves and outlaws- I cannot be condemned to hell for this vanity and thieving.
Finally, by the time it was near sundown, I was ready to leave my home. But right when I was closing the door, there was a small child, possibly five or six years of age, running towards me with open arms and two blonde plaits following close behind.
"Ellie!" she shouted with a small excited voice, and I knew exactly who she was: Jennie, the cooper's young daughter. Before Adelaide was born, I would watch after her while her father made barrels and her mother worked in the fields for a few pennies.
"Jennie!" I smiled and kneeled down to her height.
"Oh Ellie, I missed you! Where have you been for so long?" She cried.
"Jennie, I haven't even been gone for a month," I laughed.
"But it felt so long!" she whined.
That's because you were so alone. Not old enough to work and your mother has to work, so you're alone. I thought. "Jennie," I said, quickly changing the subject. "How old would you be now?"
"Five, I think," she raised her right hand to show me five fingers. I smiled.
"Not meaning to be rude or anything, but may I stay with your family tonight? Someone tried to destroy my home and-"
"Oh, so you know." She cut me off. If she was older, I would have become agitated. But I can't scream at Jennie, she's only five. "Soon after you left, some men tried to find anything devilish in your house to try and see if you were really a witch. They had torches and were about to burn down your house, but Papa stopped them."
"That explains the scorch marks," I mumbled.
"What?" she stared up at me, her head cocked to one side and her eyes beaming.
"Oh, nothing, nothing - but can I?"
"Of course! We might not have much, but there's enough…sometimes," she started, her tone becoming depressed. I knew exactly what she meant- Father worked in the mine for pennies every week up until the cave-in, and still not having enough to feed a family of five. "Papa makes barrels, but we only have money when the barrels are sold, and he's not selling much now. Mum works in the fields for some pence, but sometimes…there's still not enough."
"I know." I said grimly.
I'm sorry for the people who put this story on alert or subscribed, or anything of the like. I had some trouble and had to delete and re-upload it. R&R please!