That one truth had become painfully evident on her tenth birthday, when young Ester had been permitted to accompany her mother into town to visit the marketplace. The two had set out early, dressed in their unadorned black clothes, with their hair secured under simple caps made of white cloth. As they walked down the road, Ester kept her eyes down cast, as she had been instructed. Mother and daughter had completed their shopping and were about to pass through the town gates toward home, when the hateful taunting had begun.

A group of children were playing near the gate, but abandoned their games to follow behind the two, calling out “Witches, Witches go from here. Witches, Witches leave our sight.” Ester’s mother had grabbed her hand and hurried them toward the gates. But the yelling had only been the beginning, for soon the children were throwing stones at the fleeing pair. When Ester stumbled, her mother scooped her up and ran for the woods, protecting her from the projectiles. Clinging to her mother, she hid her face until they reached the safety of the forest. By the time they made it to the clearing around their small cottage, Ester was wiping at a warm, sticky substance that was running down her face. Her mother, however, never reached their home. She collapsed to the ground, landing heavily on top of Ester. The young girl screamed until her father ran from their cottage and rushed over, then dropped to his knees next to them, pulling his wife into his arms. Ester stared in shock as tears rolled down her father’s face, while he rocked her mother back and forth. Glancing down at her hands, Ester saw that there were bloody streaks along the backs and palms. She looked to her mother, who stared sightlessly at the bright sun, while blood dried on her face and matted in her hair.

Her father’s heart had died with his wife that day, leaving a hardened shell of the man he had once been. Over the next few years, the only time he ever spoke to Ester was to instruct her in the rituals of their worship. Then two years ago, four years to the day of her mother’s death, her father did not awaken from his night’s rest. On that day, Ester had dug a grave and buried her father next to his wife. She did not know it at the time, but she was not alone during that burial ritual, and while she spoke the secret, sacred words, a young man watched from hiding and decided to keep her secret, as long as she agreed to become his wife. Then three weeks ago, the young man, now a scorned suitor, used his damning knowledge to exact his revenge.

Locked away in her dark prison for weeks, in constant pain and fear of the next “test,” Ester had given up hope of ever feeling the warm sunshine on her flesh again. Then one morning in the middle of winter, she was finally pulled from her cell and led outside, through snow which was knee deep, to the town meeting hall for her “trial”. She shuffled across the frozen courtyard, each step a new agony as her bare toes, which were in various stages of healing, became refractured with each step. Stumbling up the stairs leading to the meeting hall door, she thrust out her chin, squared her shoulders and held her head high, refusing to allow the crowd of townspeople to see any signs of fear. As she walked through the doors, she shook the falling snow from the inch long golden hair which had just began growing back after her head had been shaved, so her tormentors could look for the markings of her “God” on her scalp. When she was led to stand before the assembled council of elders, her frozen fingers brushed against the remnants of her wool skirt and the tender flesh at the tips turned crimson, blood oozing from the ravaged fingers, her nails having been pulled out as a part of one “witch test”.