I am not a witch.
I suffer, as do the farmers, when the land is fallow; my sheep have no grass upon which to graze, the people have no money with which to buy my cloth. There is little reason why I am suddenly a prisoner in the Common I have always known, but that blame must be placed upon someone’s shoulders.
It was morning, and as all days, a clear and pitiless blue sky lay over the Common. The Lord’s soldiers milled among us, demanding we pay the taxes the Lord knows we cannot. A farmer near me whispered that perhaps, perhaps the Lord would have pity. My mouth twisted bitterly and I scoffed.
“As soon as I spin straw into gold, friend.”
A soldier heard my idle remark and accused me of treason to the Lord and of witchcraft.
I am not a witch and only a fool would believe that I am. The Lord is a fool. In these times, he demands yet more from his people, and when they protest, they are killed for treason.
I am taken the Lord’s prison. My cell is a square of cold stone walls and shadows cast from the torch on the wall dance wildly. The door is barred with heavy iron and no windows let light in. A small pile of straw lies forlornly in the farthest corner. I know I am dead when I am carried over its dreary threshold. As the soldier locks the heavy iron door, he glances back at me and laughs.
“Change that pile of straw into gold, witch, and perhaps you shall escape your prison.” He laughs again and saunters away, the keys to my prison jingling as he walks through the dark hallway.
I know escape is impossible by the ropes that bite into my flesh. I can no more escape than I can spin straw into gold and I shall serve unwillingly as the king’s lesson of treason. I shall unwillingly quell the rebellion forming, and I will truly be a traitor to the people of the Common.
But—the soldier has left the torch in my cell! I laugh gleefully and the noise echoes faintly. Slowly, laboriously, I stand up. My feet are bound, I cannot feel them. I hop a little and sway for a moment. Pressing my shoulder to the stone wall, I clench my jaw and take another hobbling step. Another, and another, until I reach the torch. I reach for it and force my benumbed hands to grasp the stem. My hands are bound, I cannot feel them. But I have the torch.
I hobble towards the pile of straw and stand in the center. In the ruddy glow of the torch, the straw appears luminous and smooth and bright. As though it were pure gold, instead of common straw. I smile.
I drop the torch onto the straw.
I stole the title of this story from a wonderful story by Vivian Vande Velde. The stories aren't similar, but the title caught me and I started to think about how one might realistically turn straw into gold.
