The Persecution of Moll Dyer - by DB Sullivan

The Persecution of Moll Dyer- A Gothic Poem by DB Sullivan

“A curse!” my fist upraised in spiteful pain.

Departing country of my birth, upturned

By war, disease. This England, inhumane,

Where all my past and aspirations burned.

West Indies bound, with brothers, to fulfill

Indentured servitude on Nevis land.

Eight years I worked and toiled there until

Emancipation from contract’s command.

But all the while in service to my debt,

I learned of herbs and healing charms and rites,

From African descendants that I met,

Who gave me knowledge under moonlit nights.

The practices and skills I mastered there -

Twas Voodoo that I learned and brought to bear.

Twas Voodoo that I learned and brought to bear,

And practiced healing methods as my trade,

As blowing winds of change were in the air,

When plans to sail to lands anew were made.

St. Mary’s County, Maryland would be

The place where I would strive to build a life

Of quiet service in community

Where tolerance and peace supplanted strife.

I worked the fertile fields with grit and pride

That all my efforts lifted those in need

Through persevering work that dignified

My efforts for the village to succeed.

Despite my earnest struggle to upraise,

Suspicion always seemed to stalk my days.

Suspicion always seemed to stalk my days,

By whispered words or cautious, wary glance.

Though healing practice often won me praise,

My dealings often seemed to feel askance.

The Puritanic disposition here

Would view outsiders with uneasiness.

The nonconformists lived with modest fear

Of retribution for unseemliness.

A delicate relationship maintained

A peace between the members of the church,

And denizens who lived there unconstrained

By dogma, doctrine, or of Christian smirch.

This tenuous existence would unbind

In Sixteen Ninety Seven’s wintertime.

In Sixteen Ninety Seven’s wintertime,

Calamities unfolded in the town.

The first, a death, was thought to be a crime,

A charge of mine would accidentally drown.

Another came of unexpected cold

That set just after Samhain of that year.

It stayed beyond what almanac foretold,

And racked the hearts of men with mortal fear.

An illness plagued the homes of old and young,

Consistently defying scripture’s laws.

As bells of solemn funerary rung,

Their beasts of burden died without a cause.

An icy grip of fear would tribulate,

As anxious Christians sought to obviate.

As anxious Christians sought to obviate

The pestilence that hereupon was set,

They sought official seal to perpetrate

The persecution of suspected threat.

The Council met to hear complaints of those

Affected by suspicious tragedies.

The governor declared a writ to discompose,

Evict the ‘witch’ - the source of maladies.

Expressing reservations, some of them

Suggested much more civil remedy.

But hateful brutes moved swiftly to condemn

What they had judged to be their enemy.

As howling wind and snow befell the night

The mob set out to remedy the blight.

The mob set out to remedy the blight,

That they suspected had to come from me.

A ‘witch’ they claimed, had surely caused their plight,

And only death could end her blaspheme.

No trial, judge or jury sealed my fate

Just superstitious Christians and their fear,

With burning torches lit to conflagrate,

My home, my peace, and make me disappear.

They came for me, encircling my house,

They came for me, when I was warm in bed,

They came for me, as silent as a mouse.

They came for me, in hopes to see me dead.

The flames engulfed my cottage straightaway,

I had but seconds to escape the fray.

I had but seconds to escape the fray,

With nothing but the clothes upon my back,

There into blinding blizzard cast away,

Absconding from unmerciful attack.

I trudged through blinding snows with helplessness,

And found no sheltered harbor to protect

My body, from the tempest’s dreadfulness,

Or soul, that God would surely soon collect.

Exposure quickly forced a quivered breath,

With freezing force that I could not suppress.

Before my body fin’lly froze to death,

I screamed with all my might and forcefulness:

“My wrathful spell, on thee, I appertain!”

“A curse!” my fist upraised in spiteful pain.

Gothic Poetry by DB Sullivan

Copyright ©2025 by D B Sullivan. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.