Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
30 x 20cm
Mixed media on board
February 2026
They’ve called her a witch for years. She never minded. It was their way. They still came though, when they were sick, or injured, or wanted their tea-leaves read, slipping guiltily through the trees to her cottage door.
She collects ingredients from all over the forest to prepare potions, balms, cordials and dries herbs in the big oven for winter remedies.
Today two children came to her door. They said they had got lost. She had no reason to doubt this. The little boy was only about nine, and his sister not much older. She smiled, inviting them in. She wasn’t very good with children but assumed they were probably hungry. She could feed them and walk them back to the nearest village.
They sat at her scrubbed wooden table, staring at her, strangely silent. She poured out two tumblers of goat’s milk; more staring - almost hostile. As she bent down, opening the door to take out the hazelnut cookies, they had jumped up and pushed her straight into her own oven. They were screaming about magic and evil witches and their mother’s death. The little boy was crying.
As her flesh blistered and the flames took her she wondered why people always blamed those who were different.
30 x 20cm
Mixed media on board
February 2026
They’ve called her a witch for years. She never minded. It was their way. They still came though, when they were sick, or injured, or wanted their tea-leaves read, slipping guiltily through the trees to her cottage door.
She collects ingredients from all over the forest to prepare potions, balms, cordials and dries herbs in the big oven for winter remedies.
Today two children came to her door. They said they had got lost. She had no reason to doubt this. The little boy was only about nine, and his sister not much older. She smiled, inviting them in. She wasn’t very good with children but assumed they were probably hungry. She could feed them and walk them back to the nearest village.
They sat at her scrubbed wooden table, staring at her, strangely silent. She poured out two tumblers of goat’s milk; more staring - almost hostile. As she bent down, opening the door to take out the hazelnut cookies, they had jumped up and pushed her straight into her own oven. They were screaming about magic and evil witches and their mother’s death. The little boy was crying.
As her flesh blistered and the flames took her she wondered why people always blamed those who were different.