The witch Hazel lived alone in a stone hut on the edge of a glade. In summer, many people came to ask Hazel to read the runes, spread the tarot and contact the spirits through the Ouija board. Hazel was well known as an adept in all things arcane. People feared her, but men also secretly lusted after her, for Hazel was beautiful.

In winter, people were afraid of the dark, foreboding forest, so Hazel spent most of the winter months free from human distraction. Occasionally a man was bold enough to approach Hazel for some sexual dalliance, but invariably he was never seen again. Some suspicion lay at Hazel’s door always, but Hazel was a witch, and people were afraid to cross her for fear of being turned into frogs, newts or other such low creatures. Besides, Hazel’s magic was useful. It worked. Hazel cured people of minor illnesses and her fortune telling was accurate. For this reason Hazel was tolerated, and the people were generally content to live a seasonal, uneasy truce with the witch of the glade.

One day a wandering monk, a missionary, arrived in the village, extolling the virtues of the One God and ridiculing the stupid peasants’ worship of woodland spirits and fairies. He knocked down all their shrines, called them blasphemers, and told them they would all burn in Hell if they didn’t renounce their pagan ways and join in the worship of the One, Almighty God. The villagers couldn’t believe their eyes. They had seen nothing like it before in all their lives. Here was a man with fire in his soul, and he frightened them more than they were frightened of the witch, Hazel.

One night, as the wandering monk stood preaching to them as they sat in a circle, one of the villagers whispered to his neighbour, “What would Hazel think of this?”