When the first rock hit, I spit fully into the face of the mayor. Then I raised my head and began to sing. My song was not a pleasing melody, but a tune blistered by hate. My song caused heartache to enter the souls of the townsfolk. Men and women lowered their heads and wept. Rocks slipped from every clenched hand, and then the townspeople collapsed into tears of despair.
The townsfolk were too hardened by selfishness and loathing to feel remorse for their cruelty. It would not change their feelings towards me or make them better people. But I continued to sing my song, temporarily disabling their revenge, if revenge was the correct label, for I had never flung out anything but goodness.
The mayor was right that I was a witch, but I’d never been evil. The only magic I’d ever done before that day was white magic, that kind that made a person well or helped someone in their time of need.
But those deeds had been forgotten when the mayor called me a witch, and so, I continued the song until my feet took me far from the town. I paused at my shack to pick up my winter coat, to saddle my horse, and to pack some clothes and food, I continued singing even after I’d saddled up and left. I kept on singing as I galloped away, until my throat grew parched, and until the song at last died on my lips.