—Sarah J Mass
Lizzie
I came to Lancaster to assist on an archeology dig, not get involved with witches.
Emma Manley the local historian invited me and I brought along my assistant Lizzie Willard. But when we met up in The Golden Lion Pub, Emma broke the news we’d be excavating a seventeenth century witches’ cottage.
“I thought there was a Bronze Age burial there.”
“There is, Simon—but don’t you think witches are more exciting?”
Lizzie seemed amused by the whole thing. “Sounds like a scam—the old bait and switch.”
Emma was nonplussed. “Oh really, you two—where’s your sense of adventure?”
“C’mon, Emma—the local archeology society wasn’t eager and you figured you’d rope us in.”
Emma took a sip of her Guinness, “ Well, that’s about right—they’re a stodgy group—not open to novel projects like this one.”
“Ah, but we are, eh?”
“If you’re the same Simon Morley I used to know—Yes! Unless, of course, living in New York has dulled your passion.”
“Emma, you conniver—you know how to twist my arm, don’t you?”
“I just thought you’d be up for the adventure.”
That’s how it started. We drove to Barley to take a look at an unimposing mound of earth.
Emma saw our doubtful expressions. “The geo-fiz boys assure me there’s a layout for a cottage under there.”
“Okay, Emma. We’ll start in tomorrow and give it a go.”
Oh Simon, you’re a dear.”
“Famous for it,” I reassured her, but inwardly I still had my doubts.
We booked into a local bed and breakfast and stowed our gear—then Lizzie and I thought we’d have dinner and drinks at the local pub. We had no idea what lay in store for us.
The waitress brought our plates and we toasted each other with glasses of IPA. I noticed an older, peculiar-looking man, sitting in the corner, smoking a long slender pipe and eyeing us suspiciously.
I smiled at him and that turned out be a mistake.
“Where are ye from?” He asked.
“From America—New York, actually,” I said brightly.
He scowled at Lizzie. “Ye be from here, missy?”
It was inflected as a question, but the intent was more a statement of fact.
“Oh no,” said Lizzie, “I’ve never been in the U.K.”
“But ye are from here,” He insisted, “I know ye be one of them.”
“One of who?”
“One of the Redferne’s,” he replied.
“That’s funny—I do recall that name from our family history.”
“Best be wary, then—that’s my word to you, missy.”
With that, he got up and shuffled away.
I looked at Lizzie quizzically. “Is your family from the area?”
She shrugged, “I think so, back in the distant past—but that was so long ago, he couldn’t possibly connect me with any living relatives.”
We looked up and saw the old man whispering with the pub owner and some patrons—they all stared back at us warily.
“Maybe your great-great grandfather left an unpaid bar bill,” I joked, but Emma seemed unnerved by the stares. I could see she was disquieted, so I suggested we leave.
The group at the bar followed us with their eyes all the way to our Austin Mini parked outside.
“What do you make of that?” I asked.
“I guess I made quite an impression,” Lizzie laughed nervously. “I hope they still don’t burn witches here.”
It was a strange remark and it kind of hung in the air between us. I decided to let it go and we returned to our separate rooms at the inn and turned in early.
Lizzie and I have a strange relationship. I find her attractive and intelligent, but there’s always been a gulf between us.
My early advances were rebuffed and now we’ve settled into a stiffly formal arrangement that is both professional and distant—but every now and then, I flirt with her and her coldness appears to be thawing.
The next day we brought in an earthmover and it scraped away the first few feet of dirt. Suddenly, I spotted the top of a doorway, and after that we worked with shovels.
Emma was ecstatic—there was no doubt the cottage was from the 1600’s and it confirmed what she researched in the local historical documents.
“What do the local records say about the village?” I asked her.
“There was witchcraft in the area. In 1612, the parish register states, four people were murdered as a result of falling under witches’ curses.”
Lizzie shivered. “That’s horrible—What happened to the witches?”
“Eleven were tried at Lancaster Assizes—one was found not guilty—and the rest were hanged.”
It was a warm sunny day, but I felt chilled.
“Have you been to Pendle Hill, yet?” Emma asked.
I shook my head.
“You and Lizzie should drive over later. Apparently, the witches used to carry out their rituals at the top of the hill. The place is still a magnet for witches—about thirty covens are active in the area.”
We continued excavating and uncovered stone walls—in one of these, we came across a mummified cat, probably immured alive in order to ward off evil spirits.
Evidently, there was evidence of later occupation and someone trying to reuse the cottage, despite its sordid past.
Later that afternoon, Lizzie and I drove to Pendle Hill. My first glimpse reminded me of Ayer’s Rock in Australia, an equally imposing geological feature and one also considered a spiritual site by the aborigines.
As we stood there looking up at the massive, flat-topped hill, great bowers of dark gray clouds towered above it, giving it a menacing appearance. It was threatening rain, so we decided not to climb, but in truth, neither of us had the stomach to undertake the task.
We ate dinner again at the local pub and once again had to endure the wary stares of the patrons. We were beginning not only to feel uncomfortable, but also to feel unwelcome.
The following day, we uncovered most of the remaining walls of the cottage. It was an eerie feeling standing in the very rooms where an executed witch once lived.
Emma dropped by in the early afternoon with a picnic basket and we took a break and chatted with her.
“I was reading an account of the witch trials,” she told us, “and the accounts say the witches sold their souls to a demon who in turn, gave them powers to use against their enemies. Apparently, the witches were regarded as healers, until several people inexplicably were struck dead.”
“How’d they figure out the witches were guilty?” Lizzie asked.
“They found clay effigies the witches used—they’d break them, burn and immerse them and over time their victims would suffer painful torture and eventually die.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Lizzie looked pale.
Suddenly, Emma brightened. “Oh, by the way, I found out who lived in this cottage—it was one of the eleven witches put on trial—the innocent one, Anne Redferne.”
I looked at Lizzie and her eyes were wide with surprise, but neither of us told Emma.
We decided to close down our dig and turn it over to Emma and whatever local archeologists she could charm into helping her.
We couldn’t endure another night of strange stares from the local pub goers.
It’s been a month now since we returned to New York. My relationship with Lizzie has finally thawed—we’re now officially dating. Sharing our own private secret has in some way brought us closer together.
Lizzie’s done her own research on the Pendle Hill witches and became quite the expert. She’s also joined an ancestry site and is learning more about her family, especially the Redferne side of it.
It’s weird. We went to England for what we thought would be a straightforward archeological dig and got a whole lot more besides.
As Emma said, it was an adventure, but I think it was also fate. It brought Lizzie and I closer together and caused me to fall under her spell.
All I can say is, if she really is a witch, then she’s a good one.
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