Flemish Folktales Retold: The Tale of a Witch

The Last Letter of Sefa Bubbels

Hello everyone, we are over the moon because Flemish Folktales Retold, an illustrated short story collection reimaging forgotten Flemish folktales illustrated by Cate Zeederberg and edited by Kerria Seabrooke got fully funded! Thank you so much to everyone who has backed our project and has helped us to spread the word! We are so excited that our dream project will now become a reality and appreciate your support so much!

To celebrate I’m sharing another tale that will be published in the collection. There’s still time to back our project on Kickstarter until the 27th of October where we are offering an exclusive hardback edition of the book with two extra tales and one extra illustration, bookmarks and other merchandise including a Flemish Magic Box of which there are currently two left.

And now, let’s hear from Sefa!

The Last Letter of Sefa Bubbels

Tell me, is someone knocking on all the doors in the village to let the people know that there will be dancing and rejoicing around a bonfire tonight? Has someone told the innkeeper that he will sell more beer today than on any of the feast days? Are you smiling as you stare at my gray and bloated corpse? Tell me, are you covering your nose because my body is releasing a foul-smelling stench into the air, or can you still detect that woody fragrance I was known for? You might as well tell me, I know that whoever is reading my last letter did not mind talking about me while I was still walking on this earth. Tell me, whoever told you that the dead can’t hear were lying.

I had a family once. Years ago. Did you see me after my husband and five children succumbed to the plague? I remember I was shaking when I chopped a snake into pieces and rubbed the parts on their fevered bodies so that the evil disease would crawl back into the serpent, and when that did not work, I looked for leeches underneath stones near the creek, but my family died before the slimy worms could fill themselves with bad blood. Did you see me then? When I was alone? Did you see me when I was sleeping on the streets with my feet wrapped in bandages because they were covered with chilblains and blisters? Did you see how dry and chapped my hands were, turned blue by the cold? All you offered me were meaningless words, but did you give me a blanket? No. A cup of ale? No. Bread? No. 

Only after I moved into the hovel at the edge of the town did you begin to see me. But did you really? See me? No, you feared me. I had vowed to avoid everyone who lives in this cursed town but I soon found that I was no longer alone. I was surrounded by friends. Thirteen of them. Owls. They wear a cloak of soft feathers, nothing like the mud-spattered, itchy cloaks you all walk around in while wagging your venomous tongues. But even though I shunned you, I have always seen you. I see you just as clearly as an owl sees a mouse digging in a field while night reigns over this town and snatches that little pest up before it has the chance to flee. There may be many things you think you can escape from, but there’s no escaping the talons of an owl. But why am I telling you things you already know? I taught you that lesson! That night when my owls summoned all the sister-witches in the area none of you closed an eye. One of my sisters suggested gauging them out. I told her to bring me a pair of scissors, but when I held the pointy steel in my hand, I changed my mind. How would you have seen ghosts riding through the black evening sky leaving blood-red trails of mist behind them without eyes? Or the swarms of rats gnawing at your wooden houses until they wobbled? Or the uprooted trees dragging you from one side of the village to the other? You needed your eyes to witness that night of dreadful bliss and I hope that a feeling of horror engulfs you each time you open them.

I withdrew again after that night of vengeful merrymaking. I read books the titles of which would make you tremble and poured liquids into bottles the labels of which would ensure you never left your houses again. And the incantations! Ow, the incantations! The spells I tested on ants and flies would have stopped your heart from pumping blood.

Life is slipping away from me and the devil will be here soon, but like my owls, the rest of my witches are here to stay. All of you have faith. Faith that you will be welcomed in heaven but even if that is true my witches will ensure that you will rot here on earth. In this hell. You think I’m exaggerating? Oh, poor you! See what happens when my coffin is loaded onto the carriage and transported to the graveyard. Women wearing hoods that cover their faces will appear. They will screech. They will wail. They will sing laments. Count them as they mourn me for that’s how many witches live here, and then think, think of all the havoc they will wreak upon your wretched souls!

The Last Letter of Sefa Bubbels from Flemish Folktales Retold by Signe Maene, edited by Kerria Seabrooke, illustrated by Cate Zeederberg.

Thank you for reading!