Shadows and Light

opinionated, I doubt I could write anything blandly enough to meet with approval. Trying to send a letter without that approval... One woman tried to write to family in another village farther west of here, asking if any of her male relatives would be willing to fetch her since we are no longer permitted to travel beyond the confines of our own village without the escort of a male relative. The letter was confiscated. On the orders of the baron and the magistrate, two of the woman’s fingers were cut off so that she could no longer hold a pen.
    We cannot talk to each other without a man present. If we do, we are brought before the magistrate and questioned ruthlessly about what was said — and telling the truth, that the conversation was nothing more than one woman seeking housekeeping advice from another, isn’t believed. The women are “softened” by “small disciplines” until one of them breaks, confessing to having said whatever the magistrate or the baron — or the Inquisitor, if one is in the village at that time — has told her she said. Then, because those “confessions ” usually admit to being a servant of the Evil One or having had contact with a witch, one or both women are killed.
    And any man, especially if he isn‘t one of the gentry, who protests having a wife, a mother, a sister questioned or, may the Mother help him, tries to stop the killing after a woman has been condemned, is also condemned because, of course, no decent man would protest so he must already be ensnared by the Evil One. So even good men who are sickened by what has happened here have become harsh out of fear for their families.
    But all these things are not the worst they‘ve done to us. The baron decreed that too many incidents of “female hysteria” have disrupted the village and disturbed the community, meaning the men. A “procedure, ” brought over from Wolfram, I believe, was declared necessary for people’s well-being, meaning the men. Neither the baron nor the magistrate nor the physicians who performed it explained what this “procedure” was, but men were assured they would not lose the use of their females for more than a few days, and that once it was done, we would be far less likely to be ensnared by the Evil One.
    They cut us, Elinore. They took away that small nub of flesh so that there’s no longer even the possibility of pleasure when we’re with a man. They took that away from all of us — not just the women in their prime, but the elders and the girls. Maureen ... A year ago, my daughter began looking at the young men in the village with interest. As the chains of the baron’s decrees have tightened around us, she looked at those same young men in fear. Now she looks at them with soul-deep dread. She will never know the juicy excitement of being with a man. All she will know is passive submission. That’s all any of us know anymore. It breaks my heart when I hear her crying at night.
    We’re still alive, but we’re no longer living, except in our dreams.
    How many of us, desperate and despairing, made a heartfelt plea for some solace, some escape?
    Perhaps many of us. Perhaps all of us.
    One night I dreamt I was in the Old Place — not as it is now, with so many of the trees cut down and the meadows ripped by plows, but as it was a year ago when the witches who had lived there still walked the land. Maureen and I stood in a meadow, and soon other women and girls joined us. There, for the first time in so long, we could hold each other to give comfort. We could laugh, cry, rage, grieve without being silenced.
    All the women from the village gathered in the meadow of dream. That first night, I noticed a woman standing at the edge of the meadow, almost hidden in the shadows of the trees. I think, somehow, we had summoned the Sleep Sister, the Lady of Dreams, and it was her gift that made it possible for us to be together in spirit while our bodies slept.
    The first couple of nights, we were too relieved about being together to think much about the woman standing at the edge of the meadow. Then some of us began to wonder how physically close she had to be to be able to create this dream meadow for us, and we began to fear what would happen to her if she were found.
    The third night, I approached her. She is truly lovely, Elinore, with her black hair flowing down her back and those dark eyes that see so much. I thanked her for the dream meadow — and I told her it wasn‘t safe for her