When I was seven I liked a boy and that was not socially acceptable to my peer group. We, girls, were supposed to hate boys. So when I was noticed playing with a boy, I was chastised in the usual manner of seven year olds, with teasing. I knew the drill, I had witnessed it the year before when a six year old had made the mistake of smiling and laughing with a boy she sat near in our class. She was teased constantly. The more she denied liking the boy, the more she was teased. She spent the rest of the year avoiding boys as much as possible. If she ever even glanced at a boy, the teasing again.
I had my back to the group serenading me with the k-i-s-s-i-n-g song, and closed my eyes imagining doing what I knew I was supposed to, to deny it, to avoid all boys from now on and to never play with my boy-friend again. I wouldn’t even be able to look at him. I would have to pretend he didn’t exist as if I didn’t even see him. No! I couldn’t do that.
I turned around and told the whole school yard, “yeah that’s right. I love him and he loves me!” It wasn’t totally true, I had no idea if he liked me back, much less loved me, but it was so worth it to see the shocked looks on everybody’s face. I didn’t know then that I had just repeated (in a small way) the very act I had been killed for hundred’s of years earlier.
I had my clearest past life vision at the age of fourteen. My last name being alphabetically close to a girl who was a Jehovah’s Witness, we couldn’t avoid getting put together at random times. In high school our lockers were side by side. One day she confided to me, “ I was always scared of you. All those books you read about magic, I was afraid you were a witch and would put a spell on me.”
I smiled back but said nothing. My first thought, if I was a witch I wouldn’t waste my time with you, didn’t seem like the right thing to say. My second thought, good thing we don’t live in the middle ages I would’ve been burned for certain, wasn’t much better.
And the third thing that popped in my head was bizarre.
They can’t do that again, because they already did. The voice in my head came out of no where and took me back,
I was standing on a scaffold, arms pulled back around a pole, wrists tied tight, hands numb. Looking down, people were gathering. They looked grim. How did I get here? How did this happen I wondered? It was like watching your life flash before your eyes when you know your going to die.
I saw the life of an orphan girl, a wood spirit, the locals thought her. She had a strange gift of healing. They had much need of that healing in the land now. A sickness was said to be coming, a plague. I had met the source of that sickness, or so he had appeared to me; a great dark demon.
He was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. His face was hidden behind the helmet of a warrior the like of which I’d never seen before. A cloak of dark tortured souls enveloped him, hundreds of thousands of souls of his murdered victims. The hatred in his mind was fresh. We were dirty, ugly, uncivilized animals to him. He felt justified in killing us with a black and painful plague. Yet in his heart I saw a light. It shone bright, like a star on the darkest night. He hated us most for our blindness, our own cruelty. We looked at him with fear and revulsion. We refused to see him before us. He was sad and lonely, so lonely.
I found the key soon after, to purify the soul of the demon with compassion and love. But the demon, after returning to the shape of the man he had been before left me with a shadow of the very thing that had destroyed him, loneliness. When he left, I felt lonely and foolishly sought to alleviate it by telling the villagers of the miracle that love was the way to fight demons.
In medieval times the definition of a witch was a woman who married or otherwise bound herself to the devil. My talk of loving a demon was like an open confession. They had no choice but to put me to death. But they didn’t want to kill me. Over and over they asked me to renounce him. I would not, I knew it was shunning and loneliness that had made him a demon in the first place. I knew I could not promise the townsfolk not to see him or others like him, I could not promise not to help them, the demons I met.
Remembering that on the scaffold gave me strength. I felt sorry for the people who could not see the truth that was right in front of them. People that had to kill me, a young woman out of fear. Poor things. It was the best death I could ask for to die for truth and for love.