(The village green at Manningtree where some 'justice' was exacted against prosecuted witches)
I have spent the last couple of weeks wandering through towns and villages, following the whispers of a long hanged 'witch'...
Returning to Essex has also returned my attention to the stories that captured me when I was growing up here. As I wander through my own womanhood they follow along increasing in meaning as I learn more about myself over time.
Matthew Hopkins, self styled Witchfinder General has been sweeping darkly in front of me and I have followed, unintentionally at times, in his wake. Ursula Kemp has been whispering in my window for months now. Buy only last week I read that, just before Hopkins began his crusade against witchcraft, he had been frightened in the night by the the voices of local witches drifting in through his window. I wonder if her ghost , the fear of it, had also spurred him on.
It is difficult not to cast him as a melodramatic villain in his tall hat and his cape. But as I have always been adamant that these witches were just women, I must also remember that he was just a man. A solid product of his time, a very dark time for the whole nation. As much as I love history I had managed to give in to the horror of this one story, forgetting the larger context of horror, a civil war, that was raging at the time.
It is not surprising that such awful practices could germinate in that climate of fear and suspicion, where not only neighbour turned against neighbour, but sibling against sibling and parent against child. A whole nation of people were trying to gain control of a terrible situation, often by asserting any power they could muster, turning against those more vulnerable than themselves. It has unfortunately often been this way, and despite our perceived state of modern civilisation, it could easily be so again. This is a very hard concept for us kind ones, those like myself that believe in the good in people, that think a generous and positive outlook can be a radical force for change. I have long understood that change is often instigated in terrible and selfish ways, that my way is harder. But I am what I am and it is what it is.
And I must also be aware of my own modern arrogance. The stories that I think I know sometimes trick me into a conviction about truths that are not truths. Like witches were not ducked, but swam, ducking was reserved for scolds. Like most witches were hung alongside other criminals, not covered in pitch and burned. Like most of the work was done by other women, perhaps wanting to place themselves outside of the danger zone. Like most of the work was conducted by the mob, by the most common mass hysteria, rather than by a few men and women immortalised in the stories designed to send chills up your spine in the cool crisp dark nights. It is easy for me to assume that we know better, that we would never fall for a good story just because we were in a state of panic. That such things are behind us. But they are not. There are still women, children, men, people being persecuted as witches in other parts of the world. Outside my own sphere of
experience.
So I approach this task with understanding. My empathy is my biggest asset.
And this quest for a profound understanding, of the inner workings...It leads me to a ridiculous idea. Not ridiculous in the sense that it is frivolous or silly, but in the sense that I will be putting myself in harms way. I will be making myself vulnerable, placing myself in a position of risk. But this makes me grin wide and proper, for in that moment of understanding what is at stake in this idea, in that moment of surrender to the fates, in that decision to take a very public risk. I find myself again as an Artist.
So for now I will keep wandering but soon I hope to tell you more. For now I keep following a few of the women strong enough to keep insisting upon themselves in the pages of our His/Stories. For now I give in to that self aware grin.