THE WITCH OF EYE
THE
WITCH
OF
EYE
KATHRYN NUERNBERGER
ESSAYS
Copyright © 2021 by Kathryn Nuernberger
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced without
written permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Nuernberger, Kathryn, author.
Title: The witch of eye : essays / Kathryn Nuernberger.
Description: Louisville, KY : Sarabande Books, 2021
Identifiers: LCCN 2020016771 (print) | LCCN 2020016772 (e-book)
ISBN 9781946448705 (paperback) | ISBN 9781946448712 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Witches—Biography. | Women—Miscellanea. Marginality, Social. | Witchcraft—History.
Classification: LCC BF1571.5.W66 N84 201 (print)
LCC BF1571.5.W66 (e-book) | DDC 133.4/30922 [B]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016771
LC e-book record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020016772
Cover and interior design by Alban Fischer.
Printed in Canada.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Sarabande Books is a nonprofit literary organization.
This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Kentucky Arts Council, the state arts agency, supports Sarabande Books with state tax dollars and federal funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.
for M. Patricia Nuernberger, PhD,
my mother
&
Sam Nuernberger,
my sister
Contents
Hag, Crone, Cunning Woman, Witch
Lisbet Nypan
Walpurga Hausmännin
Agnes Waterhouse
The Invention of Fire
Two Elizabeths
Titiba & the Invention of the Unknown
The Devil’s Book
Horseshoes
Glas Gaibhleann
Hildegard von Bingen
The Aristotles that Never Were
Agnes Sampson, the Wise Wife of Keith
The Invention of Familiars
Maria Gonçalves Cajada & the Invention of Love Spells
Medusa
Angéle de la Barthe
Bloodroot
The Long Lost Friend
The Eye of the Hagstone
Double Vision
The Witch of Eye
The Invention of Roses
The Invention of Mothers
Translations of the Conclusions & Findings Report for Catalina Ouyang as the True Confessions of Johannes Junius
Marie Laveau
Sources
Acknowledgments
THE WITCH OF EYE
Hag, Crone, Cunning Woman, Witch
An aspen grove lives for a thousand years, the tongues of the leaves shaking after the wind. No aspen tree is just a tree, each is also a limb rooted into a much larger body that is an entire forest breathing together.
They called the old women crones, hags, cunning women, and witches. Names to make a daughter think she should devote herself to becoming something, anything, other than what she is. Like the women I descend from, the ones called hysterics and manics, obsessives and depressives, I feel as if I have an aspen grove that stretches from my stomach to my throat. Sometimes I can hardly speak for trying to hush those leaves.
This little apothecary I keep of wild lettuce, St. John’s wort, a dozen jars of elderberry syrup, is a way of saying to myself what I need to know of myself. My great-grandmother swore by Lydia Pinkham’s compound of unicorn root, life root, black cohosh, pleurisy root, and fenugreek seed preserved in 19 percent alcohol, so I keep a half-empty bottle dug from a barn loft fifty years ago on the shelf. My grandmother, locked away by a patriarchy of doctors who didn’t want to ask and didn’t want to know, never stopped calling for someone to bring the pills, so I keep an unopened cardboard tube labeled Lithium Carbonate and stamped 1968 there too. I keep an even older medicine I found among the forced confessions and brutal executions, a torn page with a little spell to cure your ague, that ancient disease of trembling.
It was no cure, how I begged God to turn me into a bear or a cow, a constellation, or winter. No use translating myself into lullabies or ending every sentence with “I’m sorry.” For no use I ran like a woman wishing to be released into the still silence of a laurel tree.
The aspen leaves shake because the cross was made of aspen wood. Or, the leaves shake because this is where the wives gather to tremble their tongues. Or, the leaves shake because the tree was cursed by Jesus after it would not acknowledge him when he spoke to it. This was after he smote a fig tree just because it was winter and the tree could bear no fruit for him. There are so many stories in the margins about what an asshole that young, handsome Jesus could be.
For a thousand years the theory of medicine was the same as the theory of magic. Called the Doctrine of Signatures, the axiom was that herbs resemble the parts of the body that they can be used to treat. Toothwort has those baby teeth blossoms; eyebright blinks its petals. Walnuts have the perfect signature of your aching head. The theory is that the world is talking to us. The theory is that God is talking to us through the world.
William Henderson did not save the name of the woman who gave him the spell I have come to think of as “Spell for the Likes of Me” to be included in his Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders. If he even asked her about it, he made no notes of what it had taken for her to carry such knowledge into a future one hundred years beyond the last witch trial.
I cut a lock of my hair and used it to bind the bark, wishing, I thought, to be turned into the kind of woman who can hold still and keep her peace. Whether or not it worked is a complicated question tied to the larger question of whether or not I wanted it to. There were words to go along with that ribbon of hair laid against the wood and I hesitated to say them. What is it to live, I wonder, if not to tremble?
Not only did the aspen tree refuse to bow before the Lord, but it declared that it was free of sin and had no reason to weep. This is the tree, the clerics say, that became the cross. This is the tree used to pierce the buried body of a witch through the heart to prevent her from rising again.
Watching my lock sway in the wind, I thought about the elixirs and unguents, the scoldings and catechisms I have been offered as a way of living into some shape and form and voice twisted away from my own. The Doctrine of Signatures promises God created “Herbes for the use of men, and hath given them particular Signatures, whereby a man may read … the use of them.” It promises you can find a resemblance of yourself that will be your medicine somewhere in these woods.
Among those old bowers it felt then as if a metaphor of myself separated back into its two halves—there was me and there was the woman I have been afraid of becoming looking back. The vision perhaps was magic or perhaps it is just what the words do if you let yourself say them. “Aspen tree, aspen tree,” the old spell goes, “I prithee, shiver and shake instead of me.”
A day may come, if I live this life as well and courageously as I hope I can, when a tribunal decides to stake a branch into my old heart to hold me down. As if it weren’t rooted there already. I will not bow down just because some man who withered a fig is passing by. I am going to spill every last leaf into the ear of this endless wind.
Lisbet Nypan
—FOR LYN COOPER (1951–2013)
The settlement of Lisbet Nypan’s estate was assessed at eighty-five silver coins—quite a comfortable living for a wife and a tenant farmer. Th
eir wealth came from Lisbet’s practice of healing muscle aches and rheumatism by conducting rituals of salt.
When questioned, she was only too glad to explain her methods. This, after all, was her business and had been for over forty successful years.
She would lay salts over the body of the afflicted and smooth them with massaging hands as she prayed:
Jesus rode over the moors, he stood forth
and made the leg, Lord in flesh, skin, bones
ever since as before. God’s word. Amen.
Then she brushed all that salt onto a plate and either she ate the salt or the patient did. One woman testified that Lisbet cured her pains and agony by giving her a potion of soil, water, and salt. She said this not with malice but gratitude. And confusion. Had Lisbet sinned? Had she? It had never occurred to her that this could be wrong.
Lisbet’s husband was prideful and short-tempered. Also, he was an idiot. In disputes with neighbors he would raise his gnarled, seventy-year-old finger and scold, “You forget who my wife is.” I like him for the way he seems to have thought of himself as belonging to her as much as she belonged to him. For the way he was proud of her. He must have been very sorry about all that foolish pride, though, when he had to watch her die before they cut off his head.
During the trial, he followed Lisbet’s lead and refused to confess to witchcraft or to admit wrongdoing in any way. Perhaps their three children, grown, with children of their own, wished their parents would say what the prosecutors wanted to hear. But to Lisbet these inquisitors were nothing more than boys, that eager generation of sons the people sent south to University so they would have an “educated” clergy. The boys came home from Belgium and Germany and environs as young men now and obsessed with the spectral evidence and inquisition that were so popular in the churches of the lowlands. She would never plead to such as these, and certainly she would never apologize for herself.
I too have known some very good and steadfast women. You could not make them say words they did not want to say. Nor could you make them sorry.
But they didn’t start that way either. They are the first to tell you many of us start out meek, as beautiful virtuous apologies of ourselves until, if we let them, the passing years make some more meaningful purpose of our lives.
One of these women Lisbet Nypan reminds me of is Lyn Cooper, who was sometimes like an aunt to me, sometimes like a friend. She’d been a nun and she’d been an ex-nun, in the closet and out of it, so she knew a little bit of almost anything a person might feel. If you visited her house, she’d put you to work, drinking and stuffing envelopes for the next fundraiser. If you had AIDS in those terrible early years and your family wouldn’t know you, even if you were dying; if doctors were afraid to touch you, even if you were dying; if anyone who knew of what you were dying might turn away, you went to Lyn, who built one hospice in our city after another. If you were being abused or your children were, you went to Lyn’s partner, Maggie, who built one safe house after another. If you were thinking about giving up on some difficult thing you had set out to do, you went to Lyn and she told you to get it together and you believed her that you would.
Once, on a business trip to a very nice golf course with developers and financers, she slipped her favorite, most cheerful of blowhards a pot brownie. He didn’t notice the difference, but talked longer and faster about urban development until she was so bored driving the highway of his visions that she told him he was stoned and to shut up already.
To pull such a prank and be loved even more for it, you would have to be some kind of witch. When another of the men flew into one of his characteristic rages, throwing his putter across the green and storming off to kick at the sand trap, she asked him over a beer later why he was really so angry. Chewing a cigar on the balcony of her wake, he would say the simplicity of that question opened up the rest of his life. He was not the same person he had once been.
This is a very old world. You could spend your whole century just trying to count its revolutions. Elijah threw salt in the water at Jericho. David struck down eighteen thousand Edomites in the Valley of Salt. In the first century of Christianity the converted savored the blessed salts as well as the dunk of baptismal waters. Saint Augustine of Hippo called savoring the salts one of the visible forms of grace. John the Deacon explained the use of salt in this way: “So the mind, drenched and weakened by the waves of this world, is held steady.”
When Jesus ached, his own mother treated him with the ritual of reading over the salts. Lisbet Nypan told this to the court, not as a confession—she would never give them a “right” confession—but as an explanation for those who seemed to know so little about where pain comes from and where it might go.
Walpurga Hausmännin
The herein mentioned, malefic and miserable woman, Walpurga Hausmännin, now imprisoned and in chains has, upon kindly questioning and torture, following on persistent and fully justified accusations, confessed her witchcraft.” Or so says the “Judgement on the Witch Walpurga Hausmännin,” a court record translated by E. William Monter in European Witchcraft.
The second child of Anna Kromt, the one Magdalena Seilerin delivered prematurely, a child of Stoffel Schmidt—two pages of accounts, forty-one in all. Walpurga killed, she said at her trial, by rubbing salve on the children or putting something in the mother’s drink or rubbing salve on the mother’s belly.
Also with her ointment she brought about the deaths of Leinhart Geilen’s three cows, Max Petzel’s cow, Duri Striegl’s cow, Hans Striegl’s cow, a cow of the governor’s wife, a cow of Frau Schötterin, a cow of Michael Kilnger, and Bruchbauer’s horse.
She said she dug up the bones of children to make hail over the county on two separate occasions. “She confesses likewise, that the blood she sucked from the child, she had to spit out again before the devil, as he had need of it to concoct a salve.”
Reading the court reporter’s summary of her confessions, one wonders which parts the woman believed were true. For example, when “the above-mentioned Walpurga confesses that she oft and much rode on a pitchfork at night with her paramour,” was she just saying anything to get that hot poker off her back or had she once stumbled into the woods tripping medieval magic mushroom balls?
The way the story of the court records goes, when she was newly widowed, Walpurga cut corn for Hans Schlumperger. In that field she made arrangements for sex with Bis im Pfarrhof. “Him she enticed with lewd speeches and gestures.” But instead, at the agreed-upon hour, a demon named Federlin came to her in this man’s clothes. After fornication she felt the cloven hoof of the whoremonger, who promised to save her from her poverty. She flew with him sometimes on a pitchfork.
For thirty years she worked as a licensed midwife, which meant induced labor, pain meds, birth control, fertility treatments, and abortion. It meant woman who gives you choices you didn’t think you were allowed to have. It meant woman who knows more of death and birth than anyone else in a village in a century when everyone knew so much of both.
It’s hard to resist the sense that you can hear truth inside the confessions. Far more likely you’ve just caught an echo of something about yourself. For example, I think Walpurga had feelings for that corn-cutter who turned out to be something else altogether. I think for a time she felt wanton and reckless and happy. And that she was sorry about it later.
She was wrong of course to feel guilty. Our lives are so short as it is. But hers was a different sort of time and anyway what is right and wrong to a feeling?
After they tortured and burned her, they dumped her ashes in the nearest flowing stream. This last part at least seems right to me. After absorbing every crime the village had ever known, every stillbirth, every miscarriage, every sick cow, so the inquisition of Dillingen, Germany, could be snuffed out with her, she ought to be have been set free to wander the aimless drift of water down through one forest and field after another.
She says she is sorry so many times in these records. She seems to
really believe she deserves what is happening to her. Centuries later, I want to absolve her of this cruel spell the judges put on her. To say, “Walpurga, who among us?”
To add that it was only when I came to the end of my capacity for so much pointless guilt that I understood deeper than that sorry fear was need. Need of something to float on that was not just another abyss. Need of an old forest growing wild in defiance of all reason. Need of an unreal world beyond all this.
It is the midwife who understands when we are giving birth to someone we are learning the history of dying—the lover, if they are not in some other room pretending there is nothing they don’t already know, watching all that blood pour from this person giving birth; this person giving birth watching the lights in the room dim to one polestar of pain; this third person to say something that sounds like “baby,” to catch something in her hands she says is your baby. I was not alone in the room, but it felt as if I was learning all of it alone.
I have needed Walpurga Hausmännin to explain how you can come back from this. Here in this chaos of honeysuckle and wild grape vines with stems as thick as your arms clamoring the pines, among those invisible calls of owls and nightjars, the quivering constellations of fireflies trying to find each other, the water makes such a nice song of itself as it passes by. Walpurga, who has learned how to be here and how to be here without being here.
Agnes Waterhouse
Agnes Waterhouse, age sixty-four in the year 1566, was an impoverished woman who had a white cat named Sathan that spoke in a strange, hollow voice and would do anything for a drop of blood. She had him kill her pig to prove what he could do, and then had him kill the cows and geese of her neighbors, with whom she had quarreled; neighbors themselves, with whom she had quarreled; her husband, with whom she had quarreled.
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