She’s standing there between her mum and dad, clutching the doll to her chest. Even though the raging flames and terrified screams have long died away, she can still hear her hoarse voice – the voice of the witch: “You little brats! May the Devil take you!”
The girl and her big sister had scampered around down by the harbour that day, and they’d laughed at the angry goodwife who had stumbled into the gutter and now lay there on all fours, smeared in shit, and cursed and roared at them.
Not long after, her sister suddenly fell ill and died. Before that, she had been bedridden for a week, twisting and turning and raving as if she was beset by demons.
The girl clutches the doll to her chest – her sister’s doll.
The rain has turned the brittle ashes into sticky grey muck that stains her boots and skirt. The girl’s mum and dad try to soothe her: Now the witch is gone – punished for her unholy acts. But even though the witch has disappeared in the flames of the pyre, won’t that curse still lie heavy upon the girl?
“May the Devil take you!”