The Trials of Agnes Violet Ewart McCrum

If I had been born a few centuries earlier, let’s be real—I’d have been kindling.

I decorate too well. I make cakes that could make a person travel 75 km to get but one slice. I can paint, funny as hell (thanks trauma!!), I can cook, I am super clever and free-spirited, My hair does its own thing, and I have opinions. This combination, historically, was lethal.

My red hair and freckles come from my mother, and so does the spunk. She inherited both from her mother, a fiery Scotswoman who crossed the ocean as a war bride, bringing with her a thick accent, a sharp wit, and an unshakable resilience.

My mother would always remind me of the tough ancestry we came from—women who didn’t wait to be saved, who faced life with grit and stubborn determination. The red in my hair is more than just a colour; it’s a thread that ties me to those before me, a reminder that strength, tenacity, and a little bit of fire run deep in my blood.

Image of Barbara Kerr McCrum and my mom, Nan Catherine.

In the 1600s, Scotland was having an absolute meltdown over women who dared to function outside the carefully drawn lines of obedient wife or silent spinster. Over 4,000 people—mostly women—were accused of witchcraft in Scotland alone. And the “evidence” for this? Being good at midwifery, looking too young for your age, or—my personal favourite—laughing too much at a joke.

It didn’t take much to find yourself on the wrong side of suspicion. A sharp tongue, a talent for healing, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time could be enough to seal your fate. The rules were unwritten, but the punishment was always the same. And centuries later, some things never really change.

My Great-Grandmother Agnes and Great-Grandfather Andrew, my mom when she was little, and baby uncle George.

CHAPTER 1: The Pie Incident…

It was the pie that did it.

Not the fact that I sometimes talked to myself (thinking out loud is illegal now?). Not the way I arranged my herbs in a way that just felt right (decorating is a crime?). Not even the fact that I always knew when it was about to rain (highly suspicious behaviour, apparently).

No, the town decided I was a witch because of a pie.

It wasn’t just any pie. It was the pie. A honeyed fruit pie, golden brown, edges just slightly caramelized, crust flaky enough to make a bishop weep. The kind of pie that, had I been born in a different century, would have gotten me a cooking show. Instead, in this century, it got me a death sentence.

I didn’t even do anything weird while making it. No muttered incantations, no sinister laughter. Just butter, flour, honey, and fruit—simple things, really. But in a town like this, where mediocrity is godly, anything too good might as well have been sorcery.

The mistake, I now realize, was putting it on the windowsill.

A dumb, thoughtless act of pride. The smell drifted out—warm pears, honey, cinnamon, a hint of something almost floral. Within minutes, Bessie McDougal was outside my cottage, sniffing at the air like a bloodhound. She stopped mid-step, tilted her head as if she’d heard the Devil himself whispering from my kitchen, and scurried off.

By sundown, the rumours had begun.

“She makes things taste too good. Surely, she’s using unnatural means!”

“Her hands never get burned taking things from the oven. How does she do that?”

“I once saw her bread rise twice as high as mine. Twice. Tell me that’s normal!”

By morning, the whispers had turned into accusations, and by afternoon, I heard the words “witch trial” spoken in full confidence.

All because my pie didn’t suck.

The Knock at the Door…

It’s never good when the town elders come knocking.

It’s even worse when they bring an audience.

I wiped my flour-covered hands on my apron, took a deep breath, and swung open the door. There they stood—three very serious-looking men, flanked by at least five women who had definitely been whispering about me at the well that morning. In the back, Bessie McDougal stood with her arms crossed, victorious.

I smiled. “Oh, good, I was just about to have some pie. Would you like some?”

They did not like that.

Elder William cleared his throat, his beady eyes flicking to the cooling tart on the table behind me. “It has come to our attention that… certain unnatural events have been associated with your baking.”

I gasped. “Oh no, what happened? Did someone choke? Is there a bad batch of flour going around?”

Another elder, Thomas, shook his head. “No, no one choked.” His voice was grim. “But it has been said that your crust was… too flaky.”

The room fell silent. Somewhere, a baby coughed.

I blinked. “Well, that’s just butter.”

Elder William held up a hand. “And the filling was too rich. The sweetness too… balanced.” His face darkened. “Bessie says she has never in her life tasted something like it.”

I turned to Bessie, who pursed her lips and refused to meet my eyes.

“Oh,” I said, nodding solemnly. “I see the problem now.” I folded my arms and sighed. “You’re all jealous.”

A ripple of offended gasps passed through the group.

“I mean, honestly,” I continued. “If this is about Bessie’s unfortunate crust-to-filling ratio, we can fix that. Maybe a little less lard next time, hm?”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Bessie shrieked, her face burning hotter than my oven.

Elder William shot her a look and cleared his throat. “The town council is willing to let this slide—for now. But we will be watching.” He jabbed a finger toward me. “Do not give us reason to return.”

I placed a hand over my heart. “Oh, of course not. I will be extremely normal from now on.”

They gave me one last, suspicious look and shuffled off. Bessie scowled at me over her shoulder before stomping away.

Crisis averted.

For now.

Part 2: The Bird Incident

Agnes outside chatting with a magpie.

It all would have blown over if it weren’t for the magpie.

See, I am normal. Extremely normal. But I do have a few habits.

For example, I don’t like opening umbrellas indoors (terrible luck). I will never put shoes on a table (tempting fate). And, most importantly, have an agreement with birds.

Particularly magpies.

So when I was out hanging laundry and saw a single magpie staring at me from a fencepost, I had to acknowledge it. That’s the rule. You must say hello. Otherwise? Disaster.

So I turned, gave it a respectful nod, and muttered under my breath, “Good afternoon, Mr. Magpie. I hope your wife is well.”

And wouldn’t you know it—Bessie McDougal was watching.

image of woman with bulging eyes looking at someone in shock.

Her eyes widened.

She crossed herself.

She ran.

And by the time I got back into town, the whispers had started again.

Part 3: The Final Knock

This is where it all went wrong.

I probably could have survived the pie incident. I might have been able to talk my way out of the magpie situation.

But then came The Incident.

Maybe it was the fact that I always seemed to know things before they happened (some might call it observation, but sure, let’s go with “dark magic”).

Maybe it was the fact that I knew how to make soap that actually worked, while half the town walked around smelling like rancid tallow.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that I once muttered, “Men are exhausting”, and suddenly that was the line society wouldn’t cross.

Whatever it was, they had their minds made up.

The council knocked on my door one last time, and I knew—I had run out of time.

I opened it to find their solemn faces, their judgment already made.

“The town has decided,” the head councilman intoned.

I sighed, stepping over the threshold. “Well,” I said, “let’s get this over with.”

If they thought I’d go quietly, they hadn’t been paying attention.

Part 4: The trial

I stood in the freezing wooden hall, having a gorgeous hair day, looking so fresh; surrounded by everyone who had ever borrowed my sugar and then decided I was evil.

Elder William stood at the front, reading from a list of “suspicious activities” in his very merciless town-elder voice:

    •    Baking that is too good.

    •    Unreasonably flaky Crusts.

    •    Talking to birds.

   •    Flowers in the garden are better.

    •    Knowing things before they happen.

    •    Making soap that doesn’t smell like a dead goat.

    •    Being difficult.

Elder Thomas adjusted his glasses. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Agnes?”

I exhaled. I could beg. I could cry. I could try to blame Bessie and hope they turned on her instead.

But honestly? I was tired.

I had spent my entire life walking a line, making myself small enough to survive, agreeable enough to be tolerated, and useful enough to not be cast out.

And for what?

So I stood up, smoothed my skirts, and said:

“First of all, John Scott has the stomach of a weak old goat, and I refuse to take responsibility for that.”

A gasp. Someone fainted.

“Second,” I continued, “if making decent food is a crime, then burn me now.”

The room fell silent. I could feel the energy shift. That was the moment. I could see it in their eyes.

They had been looking for a reason. And now I had given it to them.

Elder William turned to the crowd. “The evidence is clear,” he said. “The girl is a witch.”

And that was that.

Image of smoke in a valley in Scotland.

Epilogue: A Legacy Remembered

Picture from Article: Roberts, Lizzie.

Centuries later, Scotland would create a tartan to honour the women who suffered under these trials. A pattern woven from sorrow and resilience, it stands as a quiet acknowledgment of the lives lost to fear and superstition. But no thread, no fabric, no solemn recognition can change the fact that for generations, power was measured by the ability to silence, to accuse, to destroy.

The women they condemned were not witches. They were healers, midwives, widows, daughters—women who dared to exist beyond the narrow margins allowed to them. And though time has softened the edges of their stories, the pattern remains.

Because history may weave itself into something new, but the threads of injustice are never so easily cut.

But for Agnes Violet Ewart McCrum?

There would be no memorial. No statue. No songs.

Just a whisper in history.

And a really, really good pie recipe.

The End.