The Witches' Tree of Sint Anthonis
Anyone walking into the forest of Sint Anthonis usually notices it immediately. It gets quieter. Not uncomfortably quiet, but the kind of silence that feels as if the forest is taking a break. And right by the path stands it: the tree with the twisting branches like arms. The Witch Tree.
The name sounds more exciting than the story actually is. For in the past, it was not naked, lustful witches who came here to worship the devil, but wise women who wanted to share their knowledge. These 'witches' came here simply because the clearing gave off light, even on dark days, and because there was room under that tree to talk without judgment.
They met at twilight. Not for dark rituals, but to help each other. One knew a lot about herbs, another about childbirth, yet another knew the places where the honey was sweetest. They exchanged knowledge as they set down their baskets by the roots of the old giant. Sometimes they laughed loudly, sometimes they just sat next to each other without saying a word. It was their place.
One evening, after a long and far too dry summer, the forest lay exhausted. The leaves hung limp. It smelled of warm sand. Despite the heat, the women came to their tree. They brought water in jugs and poured it at the roots, just as carefully as if they were caring for a child. “He is holding on,” said the eldest. “But he does need us.”
It took an enormously long time, but finally the tree came back to life. Branches that had previously hung heavy downwards curled upwards as if they had regained their zest for life.
Since then, people have been saying that the tree responds to attention. Not literally, of course, but energetically you feel something when you share something with the tree. Children place stones there, walkers leave a thought behind. And anyone standing here on a quiet morning immediately understands why the women chose this particular spot.
And now, centuries later, it still stands there. Crooked, gnarled, beautiful. But also vulnerable. The tree is an official monument, an ancient being that does not have an easy time. The wind is growing heavier, the summers drier, the soil poorer.
Anyone standing there today notices something subtle. A calm, a kind of welcome. As if the place still knows that people came here to care. And it still needs that.
The Witches' Tree of Sint Anthonis is not a story about witches who worshipped the devil or flew through the air. It is a story about attention. About what remains when people care for a place for years. And perhaps, if we keep doing that, it will stay with us for a while longer.
