She was young, beautiful and the sun rose in her eyes. A stranger child… found by the wayside and raised by the elders. The village lads vied for her favour. Their mothers nodded doting heads and grandfathers remembered their vigour when the sun struck her midnight tresses, painting them blue.
Superstition is insidious.
The small creatures of wood and field came to her hand and flowers bloomed brighter where she passed. She healed the wild things with her herblore and the dogs were silent as she passed.
Jealousy is a black art.
She danced for joy beneath the full moon, crowned with oak leaves and they who watched saw a shower of stars fall to earth.
They gave her a house, a tiny house, built just for her upon the bridge that spanned the stream, surrounded by stone and far from the green places she loved.
They don’t burn witches any more. Not even here.
Witches cannot cross running water.
The perfect prison.
Centuries later, the house remains.
So does she.