One young woman was sitting inside the barricaded cell of city prison with her face to the wall and her eyes to the window and the light. A strange presence came from the door behind her, bringing a strong disgusting scent of death being resurrected by the darkness. The window in front was very uneventful. Not a sound but the happy undisturbed children yelling merrily from the surrounding houses. It was early afternoon, and all the curious men and women were in town at a grand unveiling. The one young woman was daydreaming nightmares of the life she had lost in her time.
They had accused her of witchcraft. No one had stood up for her, but they all whispered and pointed and believed what the church told them. As days went on, the young woman rotting in her prison cell came to appreciate nothing, miss nothing, even think about nothing.
She had no friends. She had no family. They all were against her, in this silent war of God. Some called it a crusade, a holy war. The sooner this town is wiped of the unclean, we can start to infect others.
The prisoner knew of these things they said about her. The young woman didn’t speak much at the town meetings, but she did listen very carefully. They said she was cursed from the day she was born. Before her mother died, she told her of the words that came out of the doctor’s mouth: We should hang her right now so she doesn’t have the chance to live. One second, they told her mother, and it would all be over. No one would miss her.
But her mother would. Her mother had brought her into the world, even after her husband died fighting in a small battle against the Indians.
She had begged and pleaded to let her keep her baby. After all, it was a healthy girl, maybe it would turn out all right.
But the preacher would not let it go. Every week in church he would glare at her and her daughter. He would speak of how they should pledge their allegiance to God. Even preaching one Sunday, about the blackness of hell, and how it would burn their souls for the rest of eternity, lest they sin against God.
In school, she had no friends. Shunned from sewing lessons because before school every morning, mothers would whisper in their daughters’ ear, “Do not speak to the Devil’s child. Do you understand? If you do, you will be condemned for eternity.”
This did not bother her however. She sought solace in nature. Unlike the other girls going home from the schoolhouse, she would wander away from the settlement. Into the woods, and away from anyone who would see, she explored.
She discovered more about the New World than anyone in her tiny town would ever dream of. Abandoning her skirt and petticoat one day, she climbed to the tops of trees. She was glad no one could see her. They would be appalled even at the idea of a girl climbing a tree.
But one day, she appeared nonchalant at school. Ignoring everyone, and having everyone ignore her was the norm. Once away from prying eyes, she nestled into the hollow of a giant oak tree and wept.
And she prayed. She prayed every night for God to take her away, anywhere but where she was. Where she was treated like a deformed. But God never listened, and she knew why: God doesn’t listen to evil children.
They said she had been cursed from the start. They made her believe she was evil, and should die. They convinced her to jump in the river to drown herself. But maybe they were right. After all, her birthday was June 6, 1666. She had been born in a witch’s house, who had recently been hung. She was a bad omen.
But the most curious thing of it all was her name, which had convinced the nonbelievers that she was indeed, the child sent from Hell.
Desdemona. Greek for of the Devil.
