The First Witch Hunt: When Fire Became Fear
- A HumanKind
- Mar 17
- 4 min read
It begins in whispers.
A name spoken too often, in too many hushed voices. A neighbor glancing over her shoulder before leaning in closer. A mother pulling her child away as someone passes in the market square.
You hear it before you understand it.
Marta.
At first, you think nothing of it. After all, Marta is your friend. She is a kind woman, gentle and wise, the sort of person who never lets a wound go untended. She has brought food to your door when illness left you weak. She has wrapped your hands when they cracked from the cold. She has sat with you in silence when grief made words useless.
But none of that matters now.
The child is dead. A sickness, some say. A curse, say others. And then, with voices lowering and shoulders stiffening—Marta.
She was near the child the day before. The mother remembers, though her memory shifts each time she speaks. Someone saw Marta gathering herbs near the riverbank—why was she there? Someone recalls how Marta’s hands once trembled when she stitched a wound—unnatural, they say. And someone, the loudest of them all, swears on their very soul that they saw Marta whispering under her breath, just days before the fever took hold.
And that is enough.
The whispers grow into certainty, certainty into law.
The summons is swift.
The Trial Begins
The square is suffocating, filled with bodies pressing inward, leaving no room to breathe. The judge sits high above the crowd, his face carved from cold indifference. The priest stands beside him, his voice carrying over the silence.
“Marta of Valais, you have been accused of witchcraft—of consorting with the devil, of bringing ruin upon this town, of bending nature to your will. How do you plead?”
Marta kneels in the dirt, hands trembling, lips parted as though the words are caught in her throat.
“I have done nothing,” she whispers.
It is not enough.
There are no proofs to be shown, no evidence to be examined. There is only the weight of fear, and it crushes everything beneath it.
They call forward witnesses. A mother who swears Marta placed a curse upon her child. A man who claims his crops wilted after Marta passed his field. A girl, barely old enough to speak with confidence, who hesitates before saying she has seen Marta’s shadow move on its own.
The priest nods solemnly. The judge folds his hands.
A verdict is spoken before Marta has finished pleading.
But then—a voice cuts through the stillness.
“She is no witch.”
The Breaking Point
You turn, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Anna.
She stands alone in the crowd, trembling, her face pale but set with fierce determination.
“She has done nothing but help you!” she cries. “She is a healer, not a murderer. You have all come to her for aid, for kindness. Will you truly believe these lies?”
The silence is sharp enough to cut.
Anna turns, searching for your eyes, pleading. Your stomach knots. Marta has been your friend longer than memory. Anna has never been afraid to speak truth. And yet— no one moves to stand with her.
Not even you.
And then, it happens.
The priest’s gaze shifts. The judge leans forward. The crowd, moments ago a mob against Marta, turns—and now Anna is the one they are watching.
Why would she defend a witch?
Unless…
Unless she is one, too.
Anna realizes her mistake an instant too late. Hands seize her arms, dragging her forward. She thrashes, screams, but the sound is swallowed by the hungry silence.
“Take her,” the priest commands. “We will see if her tongue betrays her in the questioning.”
You feel the air shift before you hear your own voice.
“She is right.”
The words are out before you can stop them.
The crowd snaps their heads toward you.
For a moment, nothing happens.
And then—the weight of every eye falls upon you like a stone.
You are not standing with them.
You are standing against them.
The Cell
They do not burn you immediately. That would be mercy.
Instead, you are left to rot in the damp darkness, the stench of fear thick in the air. Anna is curled beside you, silent, the fight drained from her body. Marta sits across from you, knees drawn to her chest, lips moving in silent prayer.
You try to swallow, but your throat is dry.
The hours stretch into days.
They come for Marta first.
The cell is silent when the guards return. You do not ask what they did to her. You do not want to know.
Then they come for Anna.
And then, finally, they come for you.
The questions never end. They ask how long you have practiced witchcraft. Who taught you. If you lay with the devil.
You swear your innocence until your voice cracks like broken glass.
But innocence is not what they want.
They want names.
You give none.
The Flames Await
The sky is heavy with smoke.
The pyre stands tall in the village square, the wood piled high.
You are dragged forward, the ropes biting into your wrists. Marta is beside you, barely able to stand. Anna stumbles, a bruise darkening her cheek. The crowd is restless. Hungry. They want to see the flames.
The priest speaks of righteousness, of salvation through fire.
You do not hear him.
Your world has narrowed to the scent of burning oil, the sharp tang of torches held too close, the heat licking at your bare feet as they tie you to the stake.
Marta whispers a prayer. Anna bites back a sob.
Your own lips do not move.
A hand lifts the torch.
Your heart is thunder in your chest.
Someone in the crowd gasps—and for a moment, you think, perhaps they will stop this. Perhaps someone will come forward.
But no one moves.
Not this time.
The fire catches.
The heat steals the air from your lungs.
And still, no one moves.
Not even you.
The Spark That Became an Inferno
Valais, 1428. The first recorded mass witch trials in Europe. A fire that would spread across centuries.
First, they came for one. Then another. And another.
The fear did not die. It only changed form.
Even now, the embers smolder.
And history waits.
To see if we have learned.
Or if we will burn again.
Sources & Further Reading
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