Hope and memory are deeply connected. —Rebecca Solnit.
The first part of Alison Balfour’s story, for paid subscribers, is here.
On a cold day in December 1594, Alison Balfour was executed atop Gallows Ha, what is now known as Clay Loan. As the town gathered before the pyre, Alison spoke truth to power, declaring that her confession altogether ‘false and extortit.’ The notar wrote down her words, which I transcribe below.
Before I go on, I wonder what this means to us today, in this moment, to read Alison’s defiant words? What hope could a woman condemned to death grant us, over four hundred years after her execution?
I considered holding off on this post. It’s grim and distant, yet also troublingly familiar. I mulled it over, which is why this post is a bit late. Originally I wanted to post it at the new moon, but I worried—am I not reading the room? Here we are with our bruised hopes and coursing terrors in the present day. A war on women, trans and LGBTQ* folks is raging even as I type.
A woman died wrongly centuries ago. What of it? When she was supposed to proclaim her guilt as a witch to the crowd gathered to watch her die, she did something else entirely. To misquote Dylan Thomas, she raged against the dying of the light.
Perhaps it’s best to let her speak.