A Witch's Tale

A Witch's Tale

by W. Richard St. James


I am not sure that you can hear me.  I am not sure if you are still near to me, somewhere in the dark.  I am not even sure that you are still alive.  Last night, I heard you sobbing.  The night before, I heard you scream when they came for you.  Perhaps it was your screams, later on, that were punctuated by my own.  Perhaps you cannot hear me, perhaps you will not comprehend the words that I am using.  Perhaps you are not there at all.  Still, I will continue to shout out my confession, to you and to the One God, as long as my voice persists.  Would that I could write, but there is no vellum, no ink, no light.  My arms are chained to the prison wall, spread above me.  It is futile, futile.  But, perhaps, if you can hear me, perhaps, if you can comprehend, my memory will live on for another year, another day, another hour.  My time grows shorter now.  I can hear the drums beating, the drunken peasants cheering.  Even in this dungeon there is the sickening smell of burning flesh.  They have already begun their festival day.  Soon, perhaps, I may be served up for their amusement. “What they did to my mother was unspeakable, and yet, if we do not speak of it, how will we ever know, ever learn, ever stop that horror?  So I will speak of things that should not be spoken, tell of things that should not be told, reveal the mysteries that must remain forever hidden.  And you, hanging in the cell next to me, my unseen, unknown companion, you cannot run away from me, you cannot cover your ears.  You can, perhaps, scream loudly enough to drown out my exposition.  But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say.” Hanging in a dungeon cell, waiting for the bonfire, Fiona screams out her confession.  And what a tale it is.  Her sins are numerous and exotic.  There is hardly a taboo she has not broken, a forbidden pleasure she has not sampled.   She tells it all with intense longing and regret.  Her last few months have been full of danger and adventure, loss and discovery, lust and horror, love and loathing, revelation and betrayal.  She has learned the dark secrets of the ancients.  She has tasted their power, their knowledge, their utter depravity.  She has yielded to utter degradation.  What has she become – monster, goddess, slave, assassin, whore, something of all of these?  Will her life be a blessing, or a curse, or will it simply end here, futilely, burned at the stake?  Brace yourself for A Witch’s Tale.


About The Author


My creative endeavours have been something of a random walk, with forays into mathematics, software development, poetry, musical composition, and, of course, fiction. My first serious attempt at writing novels came over thirty years ago, and, had it been more successful, my life might have been very different. As it turned out, I spent much of the intervening time as one of the key programmers for a giant in the computer industry. I have always been a serious pianist, but in my late thirties I discovered that I also have a talent for composition. During my years as a road warrior, I used to stay at hotels with pianos in the atrium, and give impromptu concerts in the evening. If I add that I was a soccer player in college, some may suspect an alter ego in my novels. Now that I am retired, I have time to return to one of my early vocations. Hopefully, I have become better with time.

I live with in a large house with my wife of many years and a cat that lingers on long after the children who petitioned for it have moved away to their own lives. I am an active church member, but I believe that binding our understanding to ancient texts is foolish. The world of my novels is one where God is still at work in dangerous and unsettling ways, perhaps a world very much like the one we live in. Some may shocked that such a se