About two hundred years ago on the banks of the river Ogmore at Southerndown, (near modern day Bridgend), and quite near to Kate the famous Flanders witch, lived Dorothy Charles. She sold love potions, told the future and did some cursing to order, as well as lifting curses. There were many tales circulating about her in the area. Some of them were fantastic, telling of how she rode around on her broom with her pet Raven on her shoulder to attend the witches' Sabbath. Even more unbelievable were the tales of how she flew around in the night stealing babies and young children to sacrifice to her master Satan. Dorothy in the minds of the villagers of Southerndown at the time was surely held in high esteem by the Dark one himself. Black magic or not, Dorothy died at over a hundred years old, and as no one could really prove that she was a black witch, was given the same burial as any other member of the parish. The rector had always laughed at the stories of her deeds, so he would never have refused her a Christian burial. Terrified of her though they were, everyone who could make it from the village made it to her funeral. It was a lovely clear day in June until the moment the funeral cortege left the tiny cottage where she had lived all her life. Suddenly the sky turned the colour of her pet raven's wings. (The bird had flown away immediately after her death.) the river Ogmore, quite close to the cottage began to hiss and bubble as if trying to burst its banks and drown the lovely village. The wind howled, lightning forked and sleet flashed, the thunder echoed around the cliffs and the rain fell in torrents, increasing the villagers fears about the river which had looked so threatening even before the rain fell. The four stalwart pallbearers had great difficulty in keeping their balance, as their feet were slipping on the narrow path to the church, which had become a sea of mud. Several people left the funeral procession at this point and went home. They were rather afraid the coffin might fall and of what they might see inside if it burst open, or worse, they might discover Dorothy's coffin to be empty. Water gushed into the parish church, rushing down the aisle and swirling around the font. It did not reach the altar, but stopped short in front of it. Men with large birch brooms had to sweep most of the water out of the church before anyone could enter it. The rector conducted an unusually short service, and even he was starting to get nervous. Never before had he or his parishioners seen such heavy rain. Out of the church came the funeral procession to meet a terrible sight of destruction in the churchyard. Part of the wall of stout Welsh stone had collapsed. Two massive yew trees lay straddled across the path to the grave and had to be dragged out of the way to one side. The force of the wind had uprooted gravestones. It seemed to all present that the very elements of nature were set on preventing Dorothy from being laid in her grave. With great difficulty her body was committed to the earth and only then did the storm abate. Within minutes everything became as calm as before the coffin left the cottage, even the sun shone brightly once more. The few people left walked away speaking in whispers to each other. Most of those present begged forgiveness from God, for attending the funeral of a witch. All were quite certain that the storm was a sign of God's displeasure that a servant of the Devil should be buried in consecrated ground. The events of the day of Dorothy Charles funeral were related to children, grandchildren and great grandchildren by the people who had attended the witch's funeral.
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