Strip the Willow

‘She’ve been marked already,’ commented one in a rich local accent. ‘Them switches’m good’uns.’

‘She picked well,’ said Evan from behind my shoulder.

‘Here now,’ said Great Aunt, watching as one of the elders brought a washbasin into the room and placed it at my feet. ‘The waters of the river. Let’s get you washed.’

‘It’s the spirit of Grimgerda,’ said Evan conversationally as his great aunt sponged me all over with the tepid, slightly earthy-smelling water. ‘It is in the flow of the river that claimed her body. If you have it on your skin, the switches can whip her spirit out of you. I think that’s the idea.’

‘Does it ever occur to you,’ I said, watching rivulets run down into the valley of my breasts and over my belly, ‘that you are ...’ I paused, realising that ‘barking mad’ might not be a diplomatic turn of phrase. ‘I mean that this ... Grimgerda ... probably never existed.’

Hisses and sharp intakes of breath all round the room. Sheesh, maybe they all believe in the tooth fairy too.

‘Though who can tell?’ I amended hastily.

‘The story has been passed from father to son for over a thousand years,’ the Colonel ticked me off.

‘And from son to female incomer,’ I muttered. For one split second of terrible doubt, I wondered if they really had made all this up to humiliate me. But no. There were other traditions like this. Beating the Bounds, for instance. So I stood, statue-like and emotionally disconnected from the fact of my public nudity, while Great Aunt finished the job of painting me with the spirit of Grimgerda.

‘Nice to see a proper bush on a gal these days,’ commented the Colonel embarrassingly. ‘Not like the ones in the magazines ahem ahem ahem.’ He lapsed into a coughing fit, realising too late that he had outed himself as a connoisseur of male interest publications, while various others shook their heads and clicked their tongues.

‘I think you’ll do,’ decided Great Aunt. ‘Evan, dear, fetch the robe, would you?’

The robe. It was white linen and reminded me of nothing so much as one of those awful hospital gowns that cover the front of your body but lace up behind, like an apron, exposing your bottom. The fabric was lighter and cooler, but the principle was the same. Evan tied it at the nape of my neck and stood behind me for a minute or two, tweaking and fussing with the material as it sheared away across my shoulder blades and flapped at my hips.

‘You’ve a fine figure,’ said Great Aunt, smiling at me. ‘Here. You must carry this. And now I think we are ready for the procession.’

She handed me the willow switch, which I had to carry diagonally across my chest, it seemed, and then she threw open the front door and I shrieked.

Outside by the gate, the entire village had congregated, their avid faces flickering in the torchlight.

‘Evan!’ I said in a panic. ‘I ... I’m not sure ...’

‘They love you, Faith,’

he said, kissing my cheek. ‘They are here to support you. Hold your head high – you have nothing to be ashamed of.’

It was easy for him to say, but I was spurred forward all the same, placed at the head of the procession like a perverse Queen of the May, flanked by Evan and Great Aunt, with the entire village filing behind me, eyes glued to my fortune-determining bottom. My arse, I realised with a hysterical jolt of amusement, was not just my arse to them. It was their harvest and their well-being and the future of the village all in one curve-cheeked package.

As our flaming-torched crocodile meandered towards the village green, I became aware of a low humming in the air. A chorus of nocturnal bees? No – it was the villagers themselves! I looked around wildly – even Evan was doing it! What did it mean?

‘What’s ... why are you doing that?’

He made no reply, but placed a big batsman’s hand on top of my head, turning it back to face the front, keeping the momentum going. The village green hove into view, the Maypole starkly outlined in the moonlight – and next to it there was something else. Something like ... no, not like, it was ... a medieval pillory!

My feet kept moving forward as if on automatic pilot, while the humming swelled and swooped, growing louder until the villagers were opening their mouths, sending their one-note song of praise out into the far corners of the night, surrounding the village green with its mystical power.

My audience began to file left and right, forming a barrier around the Green, a circle of light and noise inside which I was sealed. Evan and Great Aunt took hold of my upper arms and supported me the last few steps of the way. Beside the pillory, we stopped and Evan motioned the crowd into silence.

‘We know why we are gathered here tonight,’ he said, his deep tones ringing across the heads of the congregation. ‘Our lovely friend and fellow villager, Faith, has agreed to perform our traditional ritual. We are grateful to her, and will show our gratitude in every way possible for as long as she chooses to stay here. Which we hope will be a very long time.’

The people applauded, and Evan stroked the crook of my arm before turning to ask for the switch, which I handed over. I felt dumb and numb at this juncture, as if I were watching myself in a film. I allowed Great Aunt to lead me to the pillory and bend me down so I could place my wrists and neck in the lowered grooves. There was a cheer from behind as I felt the robe fall completely open, exposing my taut buttocks to general view. With my back arched so low, I would have to work hard to keep my thighs pressed together if I did not want to give everyone an eyeful of my sex cleft – would this be possible? From my recollection of the rehearsal over jeans, it would not be. I clenched my teeth and fists, determined to maintain a modicum of dignity, but the way Evan was slicing the willow wand through the air in preparation did not bode well for my resolve.

I could hear appreciative whistles and comments coming from some of the male members of the audience and, crude as they were, I began to feel aroused by the consciousness of my display – a closet exhibitionist, or so it seemed. Evan moved behind me and began to run the slender rod ticklishly up and down my helpless bum, causing me to squirm and rock on the balls of my feet.

‘Ten strokes,’ he said. ‘I have to make them hard, Faith. You understand, I hope.’

‘I understand,’ I managed to whisper.

‘Good. Then let us proceed.’ He tapped the rod lightly and quickly against the broad swell of my buttocks before shouting, ‘Out with you, Grimgerda!’