he was ancient now, a crone, limbs twisted with rheumatism as she bent over her pot. The woman, once called by the name Mariel, had been in middle years when she'd first found the caverns to her liking. With two goats and a pregnant bitch, she'd taken up residence in the series of caves shunned by the locals, farmers mostly, who called the place unholy. They had been uninhabited for a hundred years or more, ever since her Celtic ancestors had abandoned the chambers carved from the stone by the underground River Axe over millennia.

The living Celts had abandoned the place, but their dead remained. A far rear chamber had been used as sacred ground, a burial crypt for the honoured remains of the tribe. Perhaps it was this which gave it an unholy reputation and kept the local villagers away.

The interior maintained a fixed and moderate temperature, 11 degrees Celsius, high summer or fell winter. Goat's milk and cheese, and wild herbs, roots and grains which grew in abundance, provided for her needs. Mariel's simple wants were well met.

There had been two goats in the beginning, but they had died after leading long lives. One of their offspring remained, now in it's dotage. The aging hound was the last of the bitch's pups, he too grown old along with the woman.

The three were well suited to each other's company and cared for none other.

Mariel chose, I think, to live apart from the rest of her race to be free to follow her own traditions. She was to her knowledge, the last of the Wise Ones, Priestess of the gods displaced years ago when the Romans had come to occupy the land. The deities she worshipped were more ancient by far than the new 'One God' of Rome.

Few were there left alive now who remembered the old religion. The ways of the Old Ones had been forsaken by all save she, left alone to mark the turning of the Wheel.

Sighing, the hag turned to the small fire whispering arcane words over the knife before using it. The rabbit being readied for the pot had been a gift sent by the gods. It had been caught in the thick bramble just off the rough track, held fast by long thorns entangled in the soft fur. The gift was gratefully accepted by the old woman, who's eyes could no longer see well enough, nor her fingers move nimbly enough to tie the simple snares as once she had.

The knife wielded clumsily in her hands, managed to skin the animal tolerably. She cut chunks of the sweet meat and set them to simmer in the black pot hung over the fire. Two stone hollows filled with grain stood in a corner. The Mabon harvest had been good. There was enough to see her and the goat through to Yule. The dog snuffled at the pot, pulling back a burnt paw with a yelp as the smell of stewing rabbit filled the wide chamber.

She pushed the graying muzzle away affectionately.

"There dog. Let it stew a bit longer. Your teeth are no better than mine, and we'll both be grateful for the softer bits."

She fed two handfuls of grain to the goat, and threw another into the stew to thicken it. Though the grain was plentiful, she no longer had the strength to grind it to flour.

When the stew was thick, hot and bubbly, Mariel lifted her hands in thanks for the bounty the Earth Mother had seen fit to share with them. Today and tomorrow, with care the next night, she and Dog would eat better than they were used to.

The wheel of the year was turning. In five days, by her reckoning, it would be Hallowmas, the final harvest. Winter would soon follow. The days were already growing short and outside the darkness brought a chill to old bones. Gone was the summer's heat to drive away the cold, and the dull ache seemed always with her these days. Meal consumed, she settled to sleep uneasily, the old hound nestled against the curve of her back.

There had been a time when the local folk would come occasionally to ask a boon. Healing draughts, poultices, sometimes no more that a whispered word to the old gods, were favours asked of the witch in the caves. Often in those times, offerings were left in gratitude for a healed wound, or nightmare driven away. Fresh baked bread and sometimes a fruitcake were mark of the simple folks respect.

But that had been many years past. Now there were no more offerings. No one remembered. It had been many turns since she'd seen another human being, and more than that since she'd actually spoken to one. All the old traditions had been lost, her craft forgotten. Even her very existence had grown misty, a legend only half believed.

Hallowmas came and went, and bitter cold sealed the crone in her cave as surely as if a giant's hand blocked the entrance. Conscientiously, she ticked off the days until she reckoned it was Yule-tide, time again for the birth of light into the World.

Wrapping hands and feet in strips of cloth woven from goat hair, she bundled herself into her shawl and hobbled painfully to the cave's entrance. As she made her way laboriously along the stone passages, she could feel the cold draft upon her face.

Frigid sunlight danced on bright snow and the old woman's eyes, weak from months underground, burned and watered. She squeezed them tight feeling salt tears freezing along her wizened cheeks. Cracked lips formed a tentative, toothless smile as she felt the sun, warm despite winter's chill, kiss her face. It was a fine day for winter; still and windless. There was no sound until the goat's bleating brought her from her reverie. Dog pushed his cold nose into her palm and woofed softly as if to question why they were standing in the glacial air when the comforts of a cozy fire beckoned within.

Aged eyes had adjusted somewhat and the hag took in her tiny realm in a glance. The delicate hoof-prints of deer crisscrossed the clearing, and great strips of bark had been torn from the giant oak two handspans above her head. Shaking herself to motion, Mariel gathered the fallen branches which jutted starkly from the snow, and turned away. Just at the mouth of the cave she paused to look back. A small, melancholy smile touched her face. For a fleeting moment, some trick of sunlight and shadow granted the illusion of youth to the wasted features, then it faded and was gone.

Her shoulders slumped as she bore her last burden inside knowing she would never again venture forth from the caverns which were her home. It was the last time the fledgling Sun God would be welcomed to the Earth. As she walked, she wondered who would tend watch over the farmer's fields when she was gone. Who would be left to bless the conception of next Autumn's harvest? Would the Gods consummate their union of joy if there was none to bear witness?

Sighing deeply she let fall the branches for her fire and shrugged out of her shawl. Such mundane matters were no longer her concern.

As she watched the Yule fire coals turn to embers she knew her time in this body was ending. Near the fire circle the goat lay panting, it's eyes dull, it's breath wheezy. They would end together.

Slowly she gathered her sacred tools, sharp dagger and alabaster ball. In a fluid motion the goat's throat was slit, warm blood spilling along the rough stone. This final task completed, Mariel offered the sacrifice upon the makeshift altar. Then, she lay down, Dog nestled snug at her back, and closed her eyes.

In the morning the sun rose, spilling light into the entrance passage of Wookey Cavern. Within, there was no movement, no life, just the stiffening remains of an old woman, her dog and a goat.

pring came, but did not bring blessings to the district. For the first time in living memory, the rains failed. Everywhere animals sickened and died. Ewes dropped their spring lambs too early. Most did not live. Cows and goats gave little milk from udders ragged with sores, and what there was soured easily. There were three still-births and several children born who might have been better off if they had been. What crops sprouted were stricken with blight. Most knew the gnawing of hunger deep in their bellies.

By midsummer it was clear that a famine year was upon them and the villagers were frightened. Mothers wept helplessly for hungry children, who had not the strength for tears. Whispers about the witch of the caves began. Soon rumours that the hag had cursed them for some imagined slight were shouted in the streets. Angry as they were, the locals dared not approach the caverns themselves. Their own cowardice fueled the hostility until finally the aging parish priest could no longer ignore the desperate situation. Reluctantly, he sent to the Bishop of Glastonbury for help.

The help arrived eight days later in the form of an old and feeble seeming Franciscan monk, on an equally old and feeble donkey. Still, he was the Bishop's representative. The cleric listened gravely to the flock of the small parish and his heart grew heavy. The bishop had been right to send him. The simple farming folk were not too far removed from their own Pagan roots. Superstition and fanaticism already dominated the Holy Church throughout Europe and the monk knew that letting this pot boil over would create even more vicissitude in an already overburdened populace. The lid had to be brought down hard on the cauldron before things got seriously out of hand. In a dramatic sermon, he agreed to see the witch himself and put an end to the malediction.

He went on Sunday, the bravest of the village men following behind to very near the mouth of the cave. The area had changed greatly since any of the villagers had been there last, and not for the better. The great oak, once considered sacred, had withered and failed to send forth leaves. It stood twisted and bent, as though lightening struck, barren branches grasping skyward. The smell of decay was barely, though undeniably perceptible in the stagnant air. Those brave souls who had accompanied the priest began to mutter, many crossing themselves to ward off evil as the monk moved forward.

The smell worsened inside the entrance passage and the cleric paused to light the candlewick. The flame flickered dimly in a slight updraft from within, throwing weird shadows against the stone walls. He coughed and twisted his cowl around, holding it over his nose and mouth as he slowly made his way forward.

When he rounded the corner, stooping nearly double to avoid the low hanging ledge, the stench hit him with the force of a blow even through the coarse fabric of his habit. As he choked and gagged the candle slipped from his fingers and went out, rolling away down the slight incline which led to the first chamber. In the sudden darkness he cried out, dropping to his knees. It took a moment for him to regain his composure and start groping sluggishly forward, feeling his way along the cold unevenness of the cave's floor. He could tell by the movement of air that he had reached the large chamber. To go further he needed light. Fumbling around for his candle, his fingers found instead the sharp blade of the crone's knife.

The sudden pain brought another cry and he cursed softly under his breath. With his other hand he located the candle. Standing slowly, injured hand dripping crimson on the limestone, he lit the wick and stared. Before him rose the spectre of the witch looming a full fifteen feet over his head. His hand trembled wildly and it was all he could do to keep hold of the fragile light. As he stepped back, gasping involuntarily, his foot brushed something soft. At his feet lay the remains of the old woman and her two companions, the source of the dreadful smell. He forced his eyes upward to gaze again on the ghastly being towering over him. He smiled realizing ruefully that what he had at first taken to be the witch of Wookey was a natural stalagmite, weirdly formed and so, mistaken in the shadowy half light for some supernatural evil.

Blood flowed freely from the bone-deep cut on his palm, and fell unnoticed mingling with the dust. Gently, holding his breath against the smell, the old monk made the sign of the cross, whispering words of Latin over the woman. Noting the crude marks drawn in the dirt around her, he made another sign, an ancient one, meant to send the dead swiftly to the old gods. Reverently, he replaced the double edged blade next to the scrying stone and withdrew.

As he made his way back through the limestone passages, the throbbing in his hand reminded him of his own mortality. It struck him that he could use this incident to reinforce the strength of his God, the One God of the Holy Church, in the eyes of the peasants.

At last he stumbled from the cave into bright sunlight which effectively blinded him. The hand still bled profusely and he fell, nearly swooning, into the arms of the headman.

He was cared for in the village until he felt strong enough to travel. His wound, which they said had been incurred in the pitched battle with the witch, was bound and dressed in much the same way as had been in practice for centuries. A bread poultice wrapped in comfrey leaves and bound around with clean (or nearly so) linen, kept the cut from festering and staunched the bleeding. Already word had spread how the Franciscan had vanquished the evil, turning the devil's handmaiden to stone. It was a tale that would grow in the telling for centuries. Eventually, legend would even credit King Arthur himself for slaying the powerful sorceress.

After three days he was much improved and took his leave of the village. Silently, as he rode his slow-paced donkey back toward the cathedral, the monk reflected. Could the crone have been responsible for the blighted year? Perhaps by her very death, leaving none to follow the old ways after her, she had doomed her village to famine. The priest shuddered. Such thoughts were nothing less than heresy at the least, sorcery at the worst. Hurriedly, he pushed such wonderings from his mind. Let the simple peasants believe the tale they had deduced from his fevered ramblings. The old woman was long out of reach of any harm that could come of such accusations.

Alone in his cell he dutifully penned his report to the bishop and went to bed secure in the belief that the entire affair would be quietly forgotten by next harvest.

The local legend of the Witch turned to stone persisted.

In the early part of the twentieth century, archeologist Herbert Balch, went to study the iron age remains found in the series of caverns known as Wookey Hole. Among his discoveries were the skeletons of an old woman, a goat and a dog, with an alabaster ball and a double edged knife arranged near the remains.

The stone formation is still there today, and the tale of the priest's battle with the evil Witch of Wookey is told to visitors who come daily to marvel at the great cavern's chambers which are called the Witch's Kitchen and the Witch's Parlour.

©1991 by Trish Reynolds