High in the hills of old Lancashire, there lived a woman as ancient and crooked as any witch you could imagine. No-one still living in the valley could recall her as anything but a bent-backed crone held together by herb lore and thick woollen shawls.

But in the cold spring of 1612, when the witch catchers wound their way up the Ribble Valley, Old Demdike neither ran nor hid. She swept the hearth, fed the cat and wound her thickest shawl around her crooked back as the King’s Men, the Witch Catchers toiled up the hill.

 

They took her to Lancaster Castle and left her in the deepest bare stone cell for a night and a day without light or food or even water.

 

But finally, the great wooden door to Old Demdike’s cell creaked open and in the flickering candlelight stood a man, the Keeper of the Castle, the most evil and beastly man in all Lancaster, Master Thomas Covell.

 

“You, woman! You, will give me the names of every witch who brews devilry between the Ribble and the Lune. And upon the betrayal of your rank sisterhood, you shall kiss the heel my boot in the vain hope of mercy. Not the mercy of the Almighty Father in heaven but the mercy of Master Thomas Covell”

 

Old Demdike, having neither eaten nor drunk nor barely  moved for a night and a day, rose from the bare stone floor slowly. 

 

“Names? I’ll give you names Master Covell if that be what you wish but first I beg thee a sup of something for this here dry throat.”

 

“Pah! You’ll give me names of your sisters even if your throat were but sand and dust. Speak woman!”

 

“If that be’s the way of it Master Covell, here’s a name for you. I have a sister who flies across Pendle Hill in broadest daylight.”

 

“By the blood of the Martyrs! In the light of day? This is worse than we dared imagine. How does this foul witch bestride the winds? By broomstick or some other devilry?”

 

“Nay, neither broomstick nor devilry but with wings. Dark feathered wings which folds up upon her back as she lands.”

 

“Who is this feathered demon? Tell me her name, woman!”

 

“You knows her name, Master Covell.  Her name is Blackbird.”

 

And as she cackled, the door to Old Demdike’s cell slammed shut.

 

But Master Thomas Covell was as impatient as he was cruel and after another night and another day without light or food or water, Old Demdike once again welcomed the Keeper of the Castle to her bare stone cell.

 

“Names. You will give me the names of witches. Not birds! No creature which crawls or slithers or flies but witches! Give me their names woman!”

 

It had now been two days since Old Demdike had had the merest sip of water. Her voice was rasping and painful, and once again she said,

 

“I’ll give you names Master Covell if that be what you wish but first I beg thee a sup of something for this here dry throat.”

 

But again the Keeper of the Castle refused this merest mercy and the old woman rasped,

 

“I have a sister who neither crawls nor flies nor slithers. Yet each day she journeys through every village of the valley. Her name is known to all but the youngest babes yet her wrath is greater than any power of man. And when her force is strongest she may fell the greatest tree or flatten any stoutly built house.”

 

“By the blood of the martyrs! What be the name of this monster?”

 

“You knows her name Master Covell. Her name is Ribble River!”
 

And as she cackled, the door to Old Demdike’s cell was slammed shut.
 

But Master Thomas Covell was as impatient as he was cruel and after another night and another day without light or food or water, Old Demdike once again welcomed the Keeper of the Castle to her bare stone cell.

 

“Not bird! Not river! But witches! Witches who walk upon two legs. Who speak curses with their crooked tongues and brew devilry with their twisted fingers. Tell me their names, woman”

 

But It had now been three days since Old Demdike had had the merest sip of water. Her voice was rasping and painful, and once again she said,

 

“I’ll give you names Master Covell if that be what you wish but first I beg thee a sup of something for this here dry throat.”

 

But again the Keeper of the Castle refused this merest mercy and the old woman rasped,

 

“I knows the name of one witch who walks upon two legs. And with a mere word from her twisted tongue, she can summon water from the driest of stones.”

 

“By the blood of the martyrs! Tell me her name!”

“You knows her name Master Covell. Her name is… “

 

“Tell me her name!!”

 

But Old Demdikes throat would release no more words. It was sand and dust.

And Master Thomas Covell was even more impatient than he was cruel and rushed for a cup of spring water.

 

With a sip of cold fresh spring water, Old Demdike’s voice returned to her.

 

“The witch who can summon water by a mere word? You knows her name Master Covell. Her name is Old Demdike.”

 

“You admit it! You name thyself! You shall die this day, Witch!”

 

He seized the old woman and then froze, for Old Demdike was already dead with a cackle fixed on her old dry lips.