I watched with pride as they built the gallows. How fitting that the wood came from the forest near the witch’s cottage. How I loved poetic justice. Waiting in the village square for the trial to commence, I briefly wished the sun weren’t so glaring and that we had a real courthouse. They had laid the corpse in the shade, but even so I worried the heat would make it smell.

I beckoned my nephew to sit beside me. Ever since the last Scourge when we lost  his mother, I had been especially careful with Peter. By some miracle, he recovered days after his mother died, but I could not forget the stench of death in my sister’s cottage and the sight of his motionless body. His older sister Helen escaped the epidemic entirely.

Others were gathering now, squeezing extra chairs into the filling square, excited to see Old Miriam punished. I noticed Helen staring at the corpse, and I slapped her hand. For a girl of fifteen she really had no manners. Tense whispers flew around me, but they ceased when Old Miriam appeared. I noticed with a flicker of annoyance that she was not bound.

I leaned over to express my concern to Martha, the woman in charge while the men were up in the mountain pastures.

“She didn’t put up a fight, so it didn’t seem necessary to restrain her,” explained Martha. “Honestly...her manner makes me uneasy. She seems confident in her...powers.”

“Relax,” I responded. “She’s an old woman; she knows she has nowhere to hide.”

“Should we have sent for the men?”

I snorted. “We don’t need men to handle an old woman. We get along fine every summer without their help.”

When I sat up straight again, Helen was watching the witch.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“The heat makes her tired,” whispered Helen. “She needs a chair.”

I frowned. “This witch killed a sick man. You want to make her comfortable?”

Helen turned away.

Martha stood hesitantly. I gave her a grim nod of encouragement as I joined her in front of the crowd. “Friends,” she began, “we are gathered here today for the trial of Miriam, the woman accused of Jacob’s murder.”

I did my part, describing the circumstances of Jacob’s death: How he had returned desperately sick from the mountain pasture and collapsed in the street, screaming about voices we could not hear. How Old Miriam had taken him into her cottage to “treat” him, then brought out his body two days later, claiming he died of Scourge. How her witchcraft had caused the death of this courageous and valuable man.

Witnesses stood up, and one by one testified to Old Miriam’s wickedness. Her strangeness, all these years. Her uncanny ability to cure sickness. Her foreknowledge of natural events. They did well, I thought. I was proud of their thoroughness.

When the witnesses had finished, Martha addressed us again.

“Does anyone wish to defend the witch?”

We all knew there would be no defense; this was just a formality. We waited politely for several minutes while nothing happened. But Helen was biting her lip and glancing at her brother. Then she stood.

“Helen,” I hissed. “Sit down!” I tried to pull her back, but she broke free and darted to the front.

“What is it, dear?” asked Martha, gently. I felt a wave of relief. The heat had simply gone to Helen’s head. But her words shattered my fantasy.

“I wish to defend the witch.”

After a moment’s startled silence, Martha nodded a few times.

Helen continued, “Old Miriam is our healer. Why do you fear her? She was the only one who dared go near Jacob. You wouldn’t touch him. If he’d died in the street, whose fault would that be? But because she took him in and could not save him, his death is her fault?”

I felt myself leaving my chair, my anger bearing me forward. “Don’t interfere with what doesn’t concern you,” I spat at Helen.

She scuffed her toe in the dust. “It does concern me.”

“What?”

“It concerns my brother.”

“Peter?”

Helen lifted her chin and faced the crowd. “After Mother died, I asked Old Miriam to save Peter. She cured him.”

Martha must have seen that I was at a loss for words, because she took charge. “Peter, come here,” she said kindly.

Peter slipped off his chair and came shyly forward.

“Did Miriam help you get better?” asked Martha.

Peter took my hand. “I don’t know.”

I glimpsed a way out. “You never saw her?” I asked Peter.

“No.”

I held my breath. “Did Helen tell you she got medicine from the witch?”

“No.”

“Because I didn’t tell him!” Helen wailed. “But it was her! I swear it was her.”

Martha sighed. “Peter is a strong child. He could have recovered without help. If you cannot prove that Miriam aided you, we must go ahead with the execution. Please take your seats.”

“I know why you’re doing this,” Helen hissed in my ear. “You never got over Aaron’s death.”

“This has nothing to do with my son.”

“I’m not stupid. Mother told me. When Aaron got sick, you sent for Old Miriam, but she couldn’t save him. Stop pretending this is about Jacob.”

Martha and several others were preparing the gallows now. Knotting the noose securely to the top beam.

“Stop it, stop it,” moaned Helen.

I ignored her, but my gaze strayed to the accused. She looked ready to pass out from heat and exhaustion. When she saw me looking at her she smiled faintly and bowed her head.

She knew. And she was going to stand there and say nothing and let herself be hanged.

I struggled to breathe. My heart racing, I pulled Helen aside and beckoned Martha to join us.

“Tell Martha what you just told me,” I directed my niece.

When Helen had finished, Martha frowned. “But...Aaron died nine years ago. What does this have to do with Jacob?”

“Don’t you see?” cried Helen. “Old Miriam isn’t a witch, she’s just a healer. She can’t save everyone!”

Martha turned to me in confusion. “If Helen is right, we can’t hang Miriam.” Then, angrily, “Why did you have to accuse her? Was Jacob even murdered?”

The insanity of what I had done in Aaron’s name finally hit me. “He was poisoned,” I admitted wearily.

“What? How can you know that?”

“Because it was I who killed him.”