I was but a boy when they came for the witch,
In the valley where shadows grow long,
And though fifty winters have silvered my hair,
The echoes still linger, still sharp and unfair,
I still hear her hammer’s last song.
She worked at the forge where no woman should stand,
With soot on her cheek and her brow,
But the fire caught gold in the fall of her hair,
Dancing and bright, like the sparks in the air,
And I loved her—I see that now.
She forged in the dark by candle and star,
And the iron sang bright, sang bright, sang true,
The darkness stayed distant from door and from hearth,
Where her hammer rang through.
That year brought the famine, the cold and the fear,
The livestock lay dead in the field,
And whispers grew loud of the things in the night—
Things that would maim, and extinguish the light —
That only her iron could shield.
The chief priest came calling with wine and with gold,
With promises whispered at night,
But she turned from his gifts and she turned from his praise,
She turned from his lies and avoided his gaze,
And he swore she would pay for her slight.
He brought forth the scriptures, he pointed to sin,
Called her iron the devil’s own trade,
“These charms that she forges are cursed,” he proclaimed,
“Her magic defiled, her desires unrestrained,
And the price for her sin must be paid.”
She forged in the dark by candle and star,
But the priest’s words rang bitter, rang bitter, rang through,
“She summons the darkness to door and to hearth!”
Though her hammer rang true.
They called for a witness to stand for the truth,
The priest looked to me with his stare,
I knew what she was—I knew what she’d done—
I knew of the fire and the iron she’d spun,
But I remained mute, frozen there.
They took her at dawn from the forge and the fire,
They took her from valley, from me,
They took her from all that we needed her for—
They took her—I knew that I’d see her no more,
And darkness came swift on the lea.
No forge in the dark, no candle, no star,
And the iron fell silent, fell silent, fell through,
The darkness crept closer to door and to hearth,
Where no hammer rang true.
We learned what she’d held at the edge of our world,
When it came through the doors she’d protected,
The valley grew silent, the valley grew stark,
The valley grew weak and succumbed to the dark,
Her warnings of death were rejected.
No forge in the dark, no candle, no star,
The iron lies broken, lies cold, lies through,
And darkness now dwells from our door to our hearth,
Where her hammer shall no more ring true.
So speak not of witches nor devils to me,
I witnessed the priesthood’s decree,
They took the one soul who could rescue us all—
They took her with malice, and envy and gall,
They took her with no thought of what might befall,
They took her—they took her from me.
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