(no subject)
The little girl sat cross-legged by the fire watching her mothers boiling pot. It was a normal black pot, hung over the fire. She was boiling potatoes for supper, or pretending to. Her mother washed the two scraggly potatoes and put them in the water over the fire. The little girl stirred the pot occasionally, feeling important. She was young, maybe four. An aura of innocence surrounded her, making her seem like a small angel, or a sweet animal. She was pretty, even for a child. Her skin was soft and light, her hair brown, with gentle curls. It was long, so the curls often hung themselves out, and often tangled, because she cared more about playing in the yard then keeping her face and hair clean and healthy. Her mouth was soft and red, but usually had some of her last meal around it. She had a young child’s pudgy stomach and stocky legs, and ran everywhere she could. Her eyes though were perfect, normally a deep forest green, they had changing amounts of brown and blue so they were a never the same color twice. They changed to suit her mood and the weather transforming her entire face. Many people whispered that they were an enchantment, a faerie’s doing, but they were afraid to say anything for fear of upsetting her mother.
Her mother was the midwife for the village, not the best, but good enough. She was the kind of person that people liked to be around. She was comfortable talking charge of any situation. People let her tell them what to do because she always knew what task was suited to which person. She could predict where a person could succeed, where one would fail, and when someone would simply do nothing. She ruled her home with an iron fist, making sure everyone and everything knew its place.
The pot the little girl was watching boiled over, and sizzled on the fire. A wave of sparks shot out over the girl, and slowly drifted down to meet her. Quickly she glanced around, for her mother would beat her if she saw her touching fire, calling it unholy. She put out her hands to catch the sparks, and they settled into two even piles in each of her hands. She brought them close to her face to watch the last light dance in them, and tiptoe away. When the last golden fire had ebbed out of the little pieces of ash, she gently replaced them on the fire. The fire pulsed under her tough, brightening and growing, stretching like a cat. She withdrew her hand and the fire slowly subsided, disappointed she had left.
Twelve winters later the same girl watched the same pot in the same grate. The stew she was cooking simmered cheerfully, it’s enticing aroma permeating the house and even seeping outside to tempt passerby. Her mother burst in, fuming. She bustled around for a few minutes, pretending to tidy the kitchen, one of the three rooms in their cottage. After a few minutes she stormed over to the girl. “I hate that man! He is so… so . . . I hate him!”
Her daughter did not have to ask whom she was talking about. Everyone in the village knew that Ayn and her neighbor, John, were not on the best of terms. “What did she do this time?”
“Oh, the usual. He thinks he’s so much better than I am. She was talking very loudly to that friend of hers at the well today, saying I shouldn’t act
“That’s not too helpful”
“She told me that it wasn’t my place to help Ms Reily. That woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She has no notion of what that woman’s been through! Why…” Unaware that she was only talking to herself, Ayn kept on talking, telling herself why she was right and John wrong, how only she could ever mend the world’s problems, and how others had no notion of what women of her caliber put themselves through to help the unappreciative masses. Only when she barked a command did her daughter snap back into attention. “I’ve a headache! Go in the back to the lean-to and fetch me some… let me see… rosemary, thyme, fennel, peppermint, and… what am I forgetting…”
“Sage”
“Yes, that’s right, sage. Don’t roll your eyes at me young lady; I’m not in the mood to deal with it now. Hurry before my head splits in half”
The girl hurried to do her mother’s bidding. She scurried to the lean-to, a shack leaning against the outside of the house only accessible from the yard behind the house. Inside were stored all the herbs that grew anywhere near to her home. They hung from the ceiling on strings, they were stacked in corners, and sat in baskets on shelves. The tiny space was packed with herbs and plants of many shapes and sizes. It was filled with all the shades of green one could think of, and many shades of red, violet, yellow blue and orange. The smells in the shack were the most tantalizing, repulsive, intriguing, and downright disgusting smells that could be smelled anywhere in or outside of England. Everything had a use in the lady’s medicine, no matter how vile it may have seemed alone. Muttering the names of the plants under her breath, she gathered the herbs for her mother’s secret tea, as she had so many times before, and started to rush back to deliver her burden to her mother. Midway to the door, the girl paused. She looked next door to the house of her neighbor, John. Smoke poured from the chimney, as it did from every house in the town this time of year. Still muttering, she imagined the fire that must be raging in the hearth, the scents that must be filling the two rooms inside. The fire was so happy; it loved to eat the wood that the tall lady fed to it. It leapt with joy, and tasted something new, something softer, cleaner, with a very different taste. Once again the flames leapt, pouring into the pot with all the strength given by the girl who watched in her mind, and began to devour the stew within. Thick smoke and sparks gushed from the chimney, like a shimmering black waterfall falling to the stars. The sparks quivered, terrified to be on their own, and clung to the chimney and thatch roof. There they buried their teeth, and began once more to burn. The roof blazed easily, tired after the long summer and fall, and weak from the dry heat it had endured for months. It crackled and popped, drowning out the crickets and toads singing to the full, dim moon now obscured by smoke. Three people rushed out of the burning structure, a woman and two small children, a girl and her younger brother. The children stared at their burning home as their mother screamed at the village for help. The young girl shyly looked around her, clutching her mother’s skirts. She watched their big girl neighbor, who she was never to talk to, stare at the flames, whispering a spell to egg them on. She gazed in wonder as the older girl came out of her trance, glanced around quickly and leapt back into her house as if she had been pulled back on a rope.
Mary gave the plants to her mother carefully. “Why did I have to call you in?” was the curt reply. “You know where everything is, you had enough time to clean the lean-to while you were out there. In fact, I think you should do that now. Here’s your broom.”
Sighing, Mary accepted her broom and trudged back out to the lean-to. However, instead of going inside and cleaning, she set her broom against the wall and sat down on the cold uneven ground to watch the fire, her hand against the wooden wall of the hut. Many men had come to help at John’s call, but there was not much that they were able to do. The flames had mostly calmed down now, they were tired of the wood of the house, it was old and boring, and they had tasted wood before. Slowly the house slumped to the ground, giving up the fight to the flames. The children screamed at the shower of sparks, but the flickering specks floated gently to the ground around them, creating a circle of light two feet away from the children. Their mother gasped at the un-natural movement of the fire, and shepherded them away from the house. As they left, the little girl glanced back at Mary, sitting in a trance on the ground. Her mother noticed her gaze and looked over her shoulder at the young woman. She stopped moving, and let a little cry escape her lips. Quickly she dropped her children’s hands, as if they burned as hot as her house was.
Mary looked over at the tall woman. She was very thin, with thick graying hair that fell far past her shoulders, currently lashed into a tight bun, but bits of hair were always trying to break free of the bun’s tyranny. Her face was pretty, but aged, and she reminded Mary of a wizened oak tree, full of majesty and commanding power. As she looked, John seemed to sense her glance and nervously looked back. For a fleeting second their eyes met. John saw fire dancing in Mary’s, as if the very wellsprings of hell lived behind her eyes. Mary looked into the deep grey of John’s and glimpsed the sea churning, determined to run over the rocks and take the land as it’s own. John looked away, and said something to one of the men who had come to help put out the fire. He looked quickly at Mary, then away again. He nodded stiffly to John and jogged off north, in the direction of most of the town and the town centre.
Mary sighed and stood up, going into the herb shack to start her cleaning. She could feel the loss of excitement of the blaze; she had sucked the last remaining joy into her until she could take no more. She shook out her skirts, and was surprised at how warm her hands were. Her eyes shifted to where her hand had rested moments before. There lay a perfect handprint, scorched black into the wood a millimeter. Slowly she smiled. Not a grin, just a little smile, for here was at least one place that would remember her.
The next day came cold and full of darkness. Even the sun seemed to be a dark spot marring the perfection of the gray sky. The dawn came late, casting long shadows on the hard ground, slowly melting the thin layer of earth exposed to the sun. Ashes from the devastated house were frozen in chunks, pieces of cloth and dishes visible through the destruction. A scrap of fabric from a scorched calico curtain fluttered in the slight breeze then tumbled away unsteadily as the wind strengthened into a sharp gust. The bucket sitting above the well cover shuddered and tipped over, rolling a foot before coming to an uneasy rest. Small pebbles scurried along the path before the coming gale. Clouds seemed to appear out of nowhere, multiplying from nothing to fill the sky quickly and soundlessly. A drop of rain slowly floated down from the massed billows, to delicately spot the wooden fence a world below. Two more followed it, reveling in their newfound freedom. The other drops were content to sit and watch everything that went on without them. The three rebels quickly dried and were gone.
Mary slowed and watched the shifting sky as she lifted water from her well. Smoothly the clouds stirred under her gaze, old clouds collapsing and contorting into new clouds that grew, folded over, and broke in upon themselves in a never-ending cycle. A tiny patch of brilliant sapphire appeared, only to be vanquished again in a moment by the bank of gray. She sat and watched the sun bravely try and cross the horizon, but the guards on the hilltop were determined to prevent it from entering. In a last valiant attempt the sun broke free and slowly began to rise, sacrificing half its strength to get through. It tried to force its claws into any crevasse it could to pull itself over the horizon, but it found none and sat heavily on the edge of the world. Reluctantly she gathered her pail of water and crept silently back to her door to begin breakfast for her mother and herself. At the door she paused again, for a last look at the sky. She saw instead a man hastening along the path to her door. She recognized him as the man who had spoken with John the night before. He was shorter than she had remembered, and wider, built compact and strong. His legs were un-proportionately long, making him look like a tall water bird teetering above the ground. She could tell from his build that he was much stronger than she; he had the walk of a fit man comfortable with his body. His face was the only unpleasant thing about him; it looked stoical and uninterested in anything she might have to say. His face caused one to assume that he did not want any friends; any attempt at friendship would not only be a waste but scorned. As he came closer Mary saw that he carried a paper in his hand, folded neatly and tucked into his left hand. She waited quietly as he stepped up to her door and nodded politely to her. “Are you Mary?” he asked. His voice was calm and quiet, soothing, a voice that caused Mary to find herself thinking that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, not even realizing that she had thought him bad in the first place.
“Yes I am. How may I help you?”
“You have been accused of witchcraft by John Tanner. You are to come with me to be tried by the church of Our Lord. You have five minutes to gather what you need for a few days. I’ll wait here.”
Mary hurried inside and poured the water into the pot over the already crackling fire. Her mother would be up in a few minutes and could make her own porridge. She was really not nervous at all, which she found strange. It was if she was in a dream and none of this was real. She expected to wake in a few hours and get ready for the day. She realized she was indeed living in reality when she fell and hit her knee in her rush to get an extra blanket to take with her. Her lack of fear made her nervous; she felt she was not taking her predicament seriously. To be accused of Magic was to be condemned to death, for the people believed that there was a grain of truth in everything. If someone thought another to be a sorceress, that must be true. This belief did not carry as far as to the accused person’s protests of innocence. To claim innocence too fervently must mean that there was something to be covered up; unmistakable guilt. Only someone who had something to hide would go to such lengths to hide it. However, if one was to remain silent to their accusers there was no way they could be innocent. If even they could not defend themselves, then who could?
Mary hurried back outside to where the young man was waiting. He nodded stiffly to her and set off toward the centre of the town at a brisk pace, his long legs taking him a great distance in a very brief time. Mary had to walk near a jog to keep up with his fast gait. Her breath made clouds of steam before her mouth as she huffed and froze in the muffler she had hastily thrown around her neck in her hurry to leave. Her breathing started to become ragged and caught in her chest as she began to slow, unable to keep up the hasty pace set by her partner. They reached the center about fifteen minutes after they started. By then Mary was panting and out of breath, though trying not to show it. Her companion seemed hardly to notice that they had for the last quarter of an hour been walking so fast as to almost be running; he breathed easily and was not even flushed. They entered a long building near the center, with a low door that Mary had to stoop to enter. Immediately to the right was the town’s church, an older building with a high steeple and two church bells that the town had spent three years raising the money to buy. Inside was dim and musky; it took several minutes to adjust to the faint light. It was surprisingly warm inside, and there was no tell-tale glow from a fire.
Mary sweated under her warm layers, partially from her forced walk, partly from the fear that had now come upon her in full force. She did not want to die; she had enjoyed life to this point. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light she could make out a long low table, with a few people seated along one edge. She knew a few by sight, but most of the people in the room were foreign to her. Her escort motioned for her to sit, facing the other occupants of the room on the floor. She sat down, her knees to her right under her skirts. The reason for the stifling heat became apparent as one of her legs brushed against a hot brick wrapped in rags set under the table. They were a calm, dormant heat, dry and dead, not lively and young like the heat of a fire. They made her feel crowded and nervous; it seemed as if the room’s walls were closing in on her. She recalled the crackling of her flames at home, so cheerful and glad to greet her every morning, docile and loving when she left them in the evening. As her thoughts meandered she thought saw in the corner of her eyes a spark fly from the wall. In her mind’s eye she watched the fire bloom and grow, spreading to cover the entire wall. She was distracted from her day dream as a woman cleared her voice. Startled, Mary realized she had been staring at the wall in a trance. She had to make a better impression than that, or she would seem exactly as a witch would, lost in her own world or that of Satan. The priest addressed her. “Mary, you are accused by your neighbor, John, of practicing witchcraft and using it to destroy his home last night, setting it afire through your sorcery. As you know the punishment for any work of Magic is death by fire, we can not have Satan living among us.” At this many occupants of the room hastily made the Sign of the Cross on their chests. Even to have even the Devil’s name spoken was to invite him to enter their minds, their souls, their bodies.
“Through no will of my own did Master John’s house burn. What proof does she have that I did it?”
“He has the witness of his daughter, Elizabeth. You were watching the house burn, whispering a spell to bring the flames to life. The child is a smart girl, and very devote. Her mother says that she also saw you ordering her fire to destroy her home, yet only Elizabeth watched the entire thing.”
“What reasons have I to burn John’s house, even if it was within my power as a Christian? He is my neighbor, and a good man. I have no quarrel with him.”
“Elizabeth’s eyes were guided by Our Lord to catch the Devil’s handiwork. Why would the girl lie?”
The speaker looked into Mary’s eyes, and saw the fire burning there. She knew Mary possessed a large amount of Magic, the fire in those eyes could do anything, and she was afraid. She tried to look away but was held fast, the eyes melting her own until they had no will of their own. Years passed, and still she could not rip her eyes from Mary’s. She knew to do so would mean death, but she would gladly have leapt into the chasms of Hell to escape the holocaust in the young girl’s eyes. Slowly Mary blinked, and the long moment ended. The old priest hastily looked away, and was silent. The man to his right continued. “Have you anything to say in your own defense?”
“Sir! I did not burn Master Tanner’s house! I posses no witchcraft, nor I have I ever had any. I am a God fearing woman, I only want to live my life and do His will.”
“Very well” the man replied. “You will remain here tonight. Tomorrow we will talk again.”
Mary was left alone in the windowless room, the door locked behind her. She lay down, and thought for a while. She was no witch; she’d never practiced witchcraft in her life. She used to play with fire as a child, but her mother had taught her how dangerous it was. She still loved fire, but then who didn’t? It gave light, heat, and a way to cook food; it was nearly impossible to live without it. She smiled softly as she remembered her fire at home, its cat-like grace and charm.
A loud bang woke her suddenly. Startled, she sat upright, and began to panic. Where was she? The banging continued, only making her confusion worse. Slowly she remembered what had brought her to this room. A knocking on the door put a halt to her thoughts.
“Are you decent?” called a man’s voice.
“I am” replied Mary, and heard a key turn in the door’s lock.
Even in January the sun was bright, and Mary had to squint not to be blinded by the light streaming past the silhouette of a man. As her eyes adjusted, she recognized him as the man who had accompanied her to this building in the first place.
“Come with me please” he asked again. This time Mary asked no questions, but followed like a duckling. He lead her to the back of the same building, this time the door was high enough for a grown man to pass through without stooping. She entered, and the door was closed and locked behind her as her escort left. She found herself in a smaller room than the last, with high windows and a roaring fire. There was a small wooden table in the center of the room, and on it an assortment of long needles. A straight-backed chair was placed next to the table, and on it sat an old man. He was short and round, with a moustache just showing the first signs of grey. His beard was dark and full, and his hair was beginning to draw back from his temples. He stood when they entered, and placed the cup of tea he had been holding on the table near the needles.
“Is this the witch?” he asked shortly.
“I’m no witch!” exclaimed Mary. “How dare you accuse me of something I’ve never done?”
“You’ve been fairly accused, and from what I’ve heard I believe it. Remove your clothes.”
“What? I will do no such thing!”
“You will or I shall do it for you. Remove your clothes.”
“Why?”
“I am to see if the devil has left his mark upon you. For that, you must remove your clothes. Now or I will take them off of you, and that will not be pleasant.”
Slowly Mary began to peel off first one layer, then another. When she reached her undergarments, she stopped and looked up at the man. “Those too,” he said sharply. Reluctantly she stepped out of her corset and drawers.
“Now we begin,” exclaimed the man, and snatched one of the long needles from the table. Sharply he stuck it deeply into her arm, and tugged it out again. Where he had struck a thin trickle of blood flowed, and slowly dripped onto the floor.
“Ow! Why did you do that?”
“I just said, I must see if the devil has left his mark on you,” and he darted in with his needle again. This time Mary gave a yelp of pain, snatching her arm back.
“I must check every dark spot on your body,” said the short man. “When it does not bleed, I will know that the devil has touched you. If you are going to flinch and cry out every time, it will be a long process, and I shall be very annoyed.”
He stuck her again, this time on her face. She drew back and he plunged his needle into her shoulder. Again and again he jammed his needle into her body, and each time her blood flowed out from the puncture. At last he stabbed a small dark spot on her right leg, it did not bleed. He prodded it with his finger, still nothing. He opened the door with a key from his pocket and called to someone outside the door. Her escort entered again.
“Henry, I’ve found the mark,” he proclaimed. He pointed to her leg with his finger. Mary tried to hide herself behind her hands, crouching to make herself smaller. Henry, her escort, glanced at her.
“Show me,” he demanded.
The short man forced Mary to stand, and prodded the spot again.
“Stick it again”
Once again she had the needle thrust into her leg and pulled out, and still no blood flowed.
“This is proof,” the man with the needles insisted. Henry said nothing. Looking past him to the outside, Mary saw the sun was low in the west. She had been prodded all day. And she’d eaten nothing, she realized as her stomach rumbled, sounding just like thunder. Rapidly she became faint, and had to sit. Her situation came over her in a wave of terror, and she felt as though her inside was tearing apart.
She woke up back in the room where she had first been lead. Her head pounded, and she ached all over as if a heard of horses had trampled her body. A crack of light slipped under the door crack from the west, shedding a rosy glow over the cobblestones around her. Seeing the light, she realized how cold the room was, even with the warm bricks. Her breath misted before her, reminding her of the steam off a hot pot.
She huddled into the corner of the room, drawing all her cloaks around her. Unable to sleep again, she drifted between worlds; no longer awake, yet still conscious, she drifted within her mind. It led her down an old trail, bereft of anything but the occasional old skeleton leaf. She walked down the trail with short steps, gazing around herself. She knew where she was, she just couldn’t remember. Ahead of her the trail veered steeply to the right, and she followed. Steeply it climbed, and she continued to trudge up the hill, but she did not tire. As she approached the peak, the trail dropped beneath her, displaying a deep gorge curving away from her. She hiked on, but she did not follow the laws of gravity and continue along the path. Instead she stepped out over the gorge and stopped, hovering in the air.
She peered down below her, at the river flowing through the valley. It was an odd color for water, more grey than usual but hauntingly beautiful. It seemed to flow slowly, and although there were rocks there were no rapids, on what should have been a very fast part of the river. She began to get tired; the long climb caught up with her and her legs began to throb. As her strength began to ebb she slowly sank in the air. She came closer to the strange water, and as she did so she began to get nervous. Soon her nervousness turned to fear, and then to pure terror. The farther she fell and the closer she got the more nervous she became and the harder she tried to keep from falling. The harder she tried to keep from falling the faster she dropped, until she hit the river with a soft thump. The surface stopped her for a moment, but then she began to sink in freezing ooze. A grey decrepit hand brushed her face, and she jumped back and inhaled sharply, only to find her mouth and nose filled by the frigid demi-liquid.
Quickly she thrust her way to the top in a blind panic, thrashing with all her limbs simultaneously. Reaching the top she inhaled deeply, gasping for breath and panting in her panic. She looked around at the river. Wherever she looked she saw people floating, drifting, squirming; dead, lifeless, grey and insubstantial. Thrashing, she spun in circles, fighting to stay above the river of spirits striving to pull her under the surface to live with them. Her eyes landed on one in particular, and she lost control over her limbs. She slowly fell to the bottom, and the river around her slowed to a crawl. She landed with a gentle thump, and a puff of silt bloomed from her landing. She had a strange sensation of calm, her terror evaporating. Her lungs didn’t need air; it was as if she could hold her breath for eternity. As the river cleared, she could make out the bottom of the river bed. She sat upon the bones and decaying flesh of thousands, millions of the dead. It was as if every time a person died, they came here. Their shell sank to the bottom of the river, and their spirit refusing to leave the bodies they had always known, floated above. Over the millennia the restless dead had carved a gorge, circling and squirming in an effort to be near the bottom. It was all clear to Mary as if someone had whispered it into her ear as she slept. Her lungs began to ache for air, and she again thrust toward the surface, this time launching off of a skull long in disuse. It was far harder to fight her way to the top than it had been to sink to the bottom. She kicked with all her might, trying with her hands to reach up before and hoist herself up. The need had planted itself in her mind to reach the surface, soon. She felt her eyes growing dim, and her legs grow heavy, pulling her back to the blanket of dead. Her arms seemed detached from her completely, and were of no use to her. She stopped fighting and closed her eyes, anticipating the calm of the dead river.
She woke again in the same room to insistent pounding on the door. She was completely drenched in sweat, making her shiver in the morning cold. The knocking continued. To Mary it sounded miles away, muffled and dim. Her teeth chattered and her hands shook. She felt violated, distant, as though her body was no longer her own. The pain from the needles had vanished. Thinking back, she had felt no pain, or any other feeling than cold, since she first touched the concentrated phantoms. The knocking stopped. Through her veils of thought Mary heard a key scrape in the door’s lock, and the door being forced open.
“Mary? Are you alright?” The voice was Henry’s. “You didn’t answer the door.”
Mary said nothing, still lost in her trance.
Henry continued regardless. “Since the mark of the devil was found on you” here he made the sign of the cross on his chest, “we must test you again. Here is your breakfast, I will return in an hour.” He placed a bowel of porridge and a small loaf of bread on the floor by the door; next to it he set a bucket of cold water. Mary stirred, called from her meditation by the pangs of hunger in her abdomen. She crawled over to the food as Henry locked the door behind him. She started with the porridge, scooping the thick gruel with her fingers. In her haste to fill her stomach she spilled on her face and dress. She licked it off and continued gorging herself. After wiping out the porridge bowl with her bread, she drank her water, spilling it down the sides of her mouth. When all her food had been consumed she lay back with a groan. She was getting colder and colder, nothing could warm her up.
She realized later that she must have dozed off; the knocking and unlocking of the door startled her awake. Henry came in again, and beckoned for her to follow him. She rose slowly and cautiously. She felt as though a puff of wind would scatter her across the world, one drop of rain would shatter her into tiny fragments, though she wasn’t sure what made her feel that way.
Quietly she followed him into the cobbled courtyard in the town center. It was lightly raining and cloudy. On the far west horizon the sky was clear and bright blue, and in the east a rainbow hung in the sky. Serenely Mary walked behind Henry. They made their way down a path that lead to the north of the village. The path led across a river, the current mild and very deep. A small crowd was gathered at the bridge, not making much noise, but the quiet chatter was a deafening roar to Mary’s ears. They grew silent as Mary approached, all eyes following the accused sorceress. When they reached the bridge, Henry took a long rope from the ground and deftly tied it around the northern bridge post. Quickly he tied the other end around Mary’s waist. Without a word he picked the girl up and threw her over the bridge into the river. Mary smacked the biting river 20 feet below on her side, knocking the breath from her lungs. She struggled to breathe as the current, stronger in the deep part, pulled at her rope and forced her beneath the water. She fought to come up; she did not want to be a part of this river, ever. This river was cold and merciless; the frightening beauty of the river of dead was nowhere present. She felt none of the same fear as she had when she had encountered the spirit river. Her thoughts went back to the last river she had seen. Of their own accord her feet began to kick, her arms to grasp and pull. Slowly she forced her way to the surface, thrusting her head through the water to the cold air above, out of the steel water’s grasp. Relieved she gasped in the cold air, her lungs rejoicing at the refreshment.
The blazing flames inched slowly to nibble on her feet and legs. She could feel their warmth rising around her, driving back the chill of the crisp January air. She gazed around the town square, feeling slightly dazed. It was full of families celebrating her burning, as good as a festival or a party for the entire town. Her neighbor looked slightly smug, leaning on the arm of the young priest, and flirting heavily with anyone around her. She told anyone who would listen of how the girl now tightly bound before them had threatened her with witchcraft, even going so far as to set her house afire, curse her children, and cause her garden to stop growing. The girl watched her coolly, as the flames inched closer to her knees. She cocked her head slightly to one side, as if deep in thought. Tension filled the square, though no one noticed at first. It slowly built higher, until some of the less drunk villagers began to look around quizzically. It sat heavy in the air, the calm before a thunderstorm. Suddenly the air cleared in a huge anticlimax and the villagers forgot the brief change.
The girl turned to look at the old man who had stuck his pins into her. He was as drunk as the rest, looking forward to a witch going up in flames. As she watched him, the snow around her fire slowly began to melt away, gaining momentum as it went like a rock tumbling down a hill. Soon all the ice had evaporated as if the August sun had been beating upon it for hours. In a few minutes the entire town was free of a winter’s worth of snow.
This terrified the pious villagers. Was Satan vexed that they were burning his vassal? Quickly many villagers made the Sign of the Cross to ward off the devil. Slowly the ground began to heat up. The newly revealed dirt began to steam, then to crack and harden. The trees around the square turned brown and limp. A riot was quickly forming, the townspeople unsure of what to do. Was this God punishing them, or the Devil taking revenge? How could they appease the Holy Father? The father was not angered; it was the devil, avenging the impending death of his devote! The girl must be immediately disposed of. It must be God, she may be innocent! The arguments went on, some watched in fear, nervously glancing from the girl and her bonfire to the arguments raging between the leaders in their village to the dead and dying plants all around them.
Suddenly, all the thatch roofs burst into flame, as if on cue. The flames cackled merrily, enjoying the dry straw. From inside the homes, screams could be heard from the children to young to come and their mothers. Old men and women to old to walk called out to their sons and daughters for help. Strong men ran to try and open the doors and let them escape as many people broke down and wept as their loved ones, homes and possessions were destroyed. But it was as if the doors were part of the walls they stood in, not one would budge. The arguers stopped their quibble as the air was filled with the crackling of the holocaust, and the eerie screams of the humans cremating within.
The people stood around for a few moments as the fires subsided, then as one began the arguments again. ‘This proves it!’ They all agreed, but what it proved they were no longer sure.
They turned to face the girl, to watch her die. Her flames burned slowly, as think porridge would run in a river bed. The flames were slowly lapping at her waist, and she showed no signs of pain. She hypnotized her onlookers; they were unable to look away, and they felt no real need to do so.
Over on the side of the clearing where the children stood a baby started bawling, one of the few brought to witness the execution. His mother paid no attention, being one of the many enthralled with the spectacle of the burning witch. His tears turned to shrieks, then screams. The other children began to cry and moan. The baby let out a scream of pure distilled pain, writing in agony. He fell from the wall where he had been set, and landed face down. A young girl picked him up, but shrieked and dropped him an instant later. She looked at her hands, they were red and blistering. The other children stared at the ground where the child had first hit; he left a scorch mark in the dead brown grass matted over the hard earth. The area began to smell of cooking meat, then burned flesh and clothing. The baby’s cries dwindled, then stopped as his lungs were baked from his inside. His blood began to boil, and his heart ruptured. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose; his bloodshot eyes stared defiantly up at the clear winter sky. He continued to cook until he was nothing but a tiny black skeleton covered in charred flesh.
The other children watched him die, too frightened to do anything but stare. They hadn’t long to wait before they too, felt as if they had come across the worst fever of all time. They simmered in twos and threes, as if to prolong the viewing time of the others. The adult’s hypnosis was shattered by the din of their children’s screams of terror. They too watched on helplessly as their children were consumed by a flameless fire within them, burning hotter than the hottest stove. The onlookers were forced to back up as the heat around the dying increased to an unbearable heat, singing the clothing of those who were too foolhardy to back away from the intense heat. This time the captive audience tried with all their might to cast their eyes elsewhere. It was as if a thread connected their eyes to the massacre, preventing them from even blinking.
Mothers watching their children die one by one screamed, bawled, tried to fight against the unbearable heat to reach their beloved children. Fathers watching the gruesome scene retched where they stood, unable to turn heir heads away. The vomit sizzled and blackened as the circle of heat forced its way outward. A new mother stood riveted to the ground, watching her toddler’s skin crack and peel, the blood pouring from his ruined shell and drying and sticking to his arms and legs. The youngest were the first victims, but they did not last long, and soon the blistering plague spread to the older children and the adults. None were spared; it took only an hour to destroy the entire village. Only the girl in the center remained, her fire fighting to rise higher, turning at last to devour its final prey. The girl took a last look at the destruction. “I never knew I could do that”, she thought. She gazed around at the captivating remains of her people as the flames leapt to engulf her body and consume her mind.
The flames rose slowly to lick around her feet and legs. She could feel their warmth rising around her, driving back the chill of the crisp January air. She gazed around the town square, feeling slightly dazed. It was full of families celebrating her burning, as good as a festival or a party for the entire town. Her neighbor looked slightly smug, leaning on the arm of the mayor, and flirting heavily with anyone around her, telling of how the girl now tightly bound before them had threatened her with witchcraft, even going so far as to set her roof afire. The girl watched her coolly, as the flames inched closer to her knees. She cocked her head slightly to one side, as if deep in thought. Tension filled the square, though no one noticed at first. It slowly built higher, until some of the less drunk villagers began to look around quizzically. It sat heavy in the air and then suddenly was gone, in a huge anticlimax, and the air once again returned to normal.
The girl turned to look at her father’s friend, the one who had tried her. He was as drunk as the rest, looking forward to a witch going up in flames. As she watched him, the snow around her fire slowly began to melt away, gaining momentum as it went like a rock tumbling down a hill. Soon all the ice had evaporated as if the August sun had been beating upon it for hours. In a few minutes the entire town was free of a winter’s worth of snow.
This terrified the pious villagers. Was Satan vexed that they were burning his vassal? Quickly many villagers made the Sign of the Cross to ward off the devil. Slowly the ground began to heat up. The newly revealed dirt began to steam, then to crack and harden. The trees around the square turned brown and limp. A riot was quickly forming, the townspeople unsure of what to do. Was this God punishing them, or the Devil taking revenge? How could they appease the Holy Father? The father was not angered; it was the devil, avenging the impending death of his devote! The girl must be immediately disposed of. It must be God, she may be innocent! The arguments went on, some watched in fear, nervously glancing from the girl and her bonfire to the arguments raging between the leaders in their village to the dead and dying plants all around them.
Suddenly, all the thatch roofs burst into flame, as if on cue. The flames cackled merrily, enjoying the dry straw. From inside the homes, screams could be heard from the children to young to come and their mothers. Old men and women to old to walk called out to their sons and daughters for help. Strong men ran to try and open the doors and let them escape as many people broke down and wept as their loved ones, homes and possessions were destroyed. But it was as if the doors were part of the walls they stood in, not one would budge. The arguers stopped their quibble as the air was filled with the crackling of the holocaust, and the eerie screams of the humans cremating within.
The people stood around for a few moments as the fires subsided, then as one began the arguments again. ‘This proves it!’ They all agreed, but what it proved they were no longer sure.
They turned to face the girl, to watch her die. Her flames burned slowly, as think porridge would run in a river bed. The flames were slowly lapping at her waist, and she showed no signs of pain. She hypnotized her onlookers; they were unable to look away, and they felt no real need to do so.
Over on the side of the clearing where the children stood a baby started bawling, one of the few brought to witness the execution. His mother paid no attention, being one of the many enthralled with the spectacle of the burning witch. His tears turned to shrieks, then screams. The other children began to cry and moan. The baby let out a scream of pure distilled pain, writing in agony. He fell from the wall where he had been set, and landed face down. A young girl picked him up, but shrieked and dropped him an instant later. She looked at her hands, they were red and blistering. The other children stared at the ground where the child had first hit; he left a scorch mark in the dead brown grass matted over the hard earth. The area began to smell of cooking meat, then burned flesh and clothing. The baby’s cries dwindled, then stopped as his lungs were baked from his inside. His blood began to boil, and his heart ruptured. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose; his bloodshot eyes stared defiantly up at the clear winter sky. He continued to cook until he was nothing but a tiny black skeleton covered in charred flesh.
The other children watched him die, too frightened to do anything but stare. They hadn’t long to wait before they too, felt as if they had come across the worst fever of all time. They simmered in twos and threes, as if to prolong the viewing time of the others. The adult’s hypnosis was shattered by the din of their children’s screams of terror. They too watched on helplessly as their children were consumed by a flameless fire within them, burning hotter than the hottest stove. The onlookers were forced to back up as the heat around the dying increased to an unbearable heat, singing the clothing of those who were too foolhardy to back away from the intense heat. This time the captive audience tried with all their might to cast their eyes elsewhere. It was as if a thread connected their eyes to the massacre, preventing them from even blinking.
Mothers watching their children die one by one screamed, bawled, tried to fight against the unbearable incalescence to reach their beloved children. They were unable to breech the wall of heat; it was so intense it was almost solid. Fathers watching the gruesome scene retched where they stood, unable to turn heir heads away. The vomit sizzled and blackened as the circle of heat forced its way outward. The surrounding scenery shimmered and shifted, contorted by the acute fever. The youngest were the first victims, but they did not last long, their small bodies cooked quickly. Soon the blistering plague spread to the older children and the adults. None were spared. In the space of three hours every member of the village was dead, baking and burning on the cobbles. Only the witch in the center remained. Her fire, dormant and mild throughout the butchery, fought to rise higher, turning at last to devour its final prey. Mary took a last look at the destruction. “I never knew I could do that,” she whispered to herself, completely void of emotion. She gazed around at the captivating remains of her people as the flames leapt to engulf her body and consume her mind.
an assignment for LA, I felt I had to do something with it. SOme parts I really like, others I hate. Don't read it if you've no time, it's long
Her mother was the midwife for the village, not the best, but good enough. She was the kind of person that people liked to be around. She was comfortable talking charge of any situation. People let her tell them what to do because she always knew what task was suited to which person. She could predict where a person could succeed, where one would fail, and when someone would simply do nothing. She ruled her home with an iron fist, making sure everyone and everything knew its place.
The pot the little girl was watching boiled over, and sizzled on the fire. A wave of sparks shot out over the girl, and slowly drifted down to meet her. Quickly she glanced around, for her mother would beat her if she saw her touching fire, calling it unholy. She put out her hands to catch the sparks, and they settled into two even piles in each of her hands. She brought them close to her face to watch the last light dance in them, and tiptoe away. When the last golden fire had ebbed out of the little pieces of ash, she gently replaced them on the fire. The fire pulsed under her tough, brightening and growing, stretching like a cat. She withdrew her hand and the fire slowly subsided, disappointed she had left.
Twelve winters later the same girl watched the same pot in the same grate. The stew she was cooking simmered cheerfully, it’s enticing aroma permeating the house and even seeping outside to tempt passerby. Her mother burst in, fuming. She bustled around for a few minutes, pretending to tidy the kitchen, one of the three rooms in their cottage. After a few minutes she stormed over to the girl. “I hate that man! He is so… so . . . I hate him!”
Her daughter did not have to ask whom she was talking about. Everyone in the village knew that Ayn and her neighbor, John, were not on the best of terms. “What did she do this time?”
“Oh, the usual. He thinks he’s so much better than I am. She was talking very loudly to that friend of hers at the well today, saying I shouldn’t act
“That’s not too helpful”
“She told me that it wasn’t my place to help Ms Reily. That woman doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She has no notion of what that woman’s been through! Why…” Unaware that she was only talking to herself, Ayn kept on talking, telling herself why she was right and John wrong, how only she could ever mend the world’s problems, and how others had no notion of what women of her caliber put themselves through to help the unappreciative masses. Only when she barked a command did her daughter snap back into attention. “I’ve a headache! Go in the back to the lean-to and fetch me some… let me see… rosemary, thyme, fennel, peppermint, and… what am I forgetting…”
“Sage”
“Yes, that’s right, sage. Don’t roll your eyes at me young lady; I’m not in the mood to deal with it now. Hurry before my head splits in half”
The girl hurried to do her mother’s bidding. She scurried to the lean-to, a shack leaning against the outside of the house only accessible from the yard behind the house. Inside were stored all the herbs that grew anywhere near to her home. They hung from the ceiling on strings, they were stacked in corners, and sat in baskets on shelves. The tiny space was packed with herbs and plants of many shapes and sizes. It was filled with all the shades of green one could think of, and many shades of red, violet, yellow blue and orange. The smells in the shack were the most tantalizing, repulsive, intriguing, and downright disgusting smells that could be smelled anywhere in or outside of England. Everything had a use in the lady’s medicine, no matter how vile it may have seemed alone. Muttering the names of the plants under her breath, she gathered the herbs for her mother’s secret tea, as she had so many times before, and started to rush back to deliver her burden to her mother. Midway to the door, the girl paused. She looked next door to the house of her neighbor, John. Smoke poured from the chimney, as it did from every house in the town this time of year. Still muttering, she imagined the fire that must be raging in the hearth, the scents that must be filling the two rooms inside. The fire was so happy; it loved to eat the wood that the tall lady fed to it. It leapt with joy, and tasted something new, something softer, cleaner, with a very different taste. Once again the flames leapt, pouring into the pot with all the strength given by the girl who watched in her mind, and began to devour the stew within. Thick smoke and sparks gushed from the chimney, like a shimmering black waterfall falling to the stars. The sparks quivered, terrified to be on their own, and clung to the chimney and thatch roof. There they buried their teeth, and began once more to burn. The roof blazed easily, tired after the long summer and fall, and weak from the dry heat it had endured for months. It crackled and popped, drowning out the crickets and toads singing to the full, dim moon now obscured by smoke. Three people rushed out of the burning structure, a woman and two small children, a girl and her younger brother. The children stared at their burning home as their mother screamed at the village for help. The young girl shyly looked around her, clutching her mother’s skirts. She watched their big girl neighbor, who she was never to talk to, stare at the flames, whispering a spell to egg them on. She gazed in wonder as the older girl came out of her trance, glanced around quickly and leapt back into her house as if she had been pulled back on a rope.
Mary gave the plants to her mother carefully. “Why did I have to call you in?” was the curt reply. “You know where everything is, you had enough time to clean the lean-to while you were out there. In fact, I think you should do that now. Here’s your broom.”
Sighing, Mary accepted her broom and trudged back out to the lean-to. However, instead of going inside and cleaning, she set her broom against the wall and sat down on the cold uneven ground to watch the fire, her hand against the wooden wall of the hut. Many men had come to help at John’s call, but there was not much that they were able to do. The flames had mostly calmed down now, they were tired of the wood of the house, it was old and boring, and they had tasted wood before. Slowly the house slumped to the ground, giving up the fight to the flames. The children screamed at the shower of sparks, but the flickering specks floated gently to the ground around them, creating a circle of light two feet away from the children. Their mother gasped at the un-natural movement of the fire, and shepherded them away from the house. As they left, the little girl glanced back at Mary, sitting in a trance on the ground. Her mother noticed her gaze and looked over her shoulder at the young woman. She stopped moving, and let a little cry escape her lips. Quickly she dropped her children’s hands, as if they burned as hot as her house was.
Mary looked over at the tall woman. She was very thin, with thick graying hair that fell far past her shoulders, currently lashed into a tight bun, but bits of hair were always trying to break free of the bun’s tyranny. Her face was pretty, but aged, and she reminded Mary of a wizened oak tree, full of majesty and commanding power. As she looked, John seemed to sense her glance and nervously looked back. For a fleeting second their eyes met. John saw fire dancing in Mary’s, as if the very wellsprings of hell lived behind her eyes. Mary looked into the deep grey of John’s and glimpsed the sea churning, determined to run over the rocks and take the land as it’s own. John looked away, and said something to one of the men who had come to help put out the fire. He looked quickly at Mary, then away again. He nodded stiffly to John and jogged off north, in the direction of most of the town and the town centre.
Mary sighed and stood up, going into the herb shack to start her cleaning. She could feel the loss of excitement of the blaze; she had sucked the last remaining joy into her until she could take no more. She shook out her skirts, and was surprised at how warm her hands were. Her eyes shifted to where her hand had rested moments before. There lay a perfect handprint, scorched black into the wood a millimeter. Slowly she smiled. Not a grin, just a little smile, for here was at least one place that would remember her.
The next day came cold and full of darkness. Even the sun seemed to be a dark spot marring the perfection of the gray sky. The dawn came late, casting long shadows on the hard ground, slowly melting the thin layer of earth exposed to the sun. Ashes from the devastated house were frozen in chunks, pieces of cloth and dishes visible through the destruction. A scrap of fabric from a scorched calico curtain fluttered in the slight breeze then tumbled away unsteadily as the wind strengthened into a sharp gust. The bucket sitting above the well cover shuddered and tipped over, rolling a foot before coming to an uneasy rest. Small pebbles scurried along the path before the coming gale. Clouds seemed to appear out of nowhere, multiplying from nothing to fill the sky quickly and soundlessly. A drop of rain slowly floated down from the massed billows, to delicately spot the wooden fence a world below. Two more followed it, reveling in their newfound freedom. The other drops were content to sit and watch everything that went on without them. The three rebels quickly dried and were gone.
Mary slowed and watched the shifting sky as she lifted water from her well. Smoothly the clouds stirred under her gaze, old clouds collapsing and contorting into new clouds that grew, folded over, and broke in upon themselves in a never-ending cycle. A tiny patch of brilliant sapphire appeared, only to be vanquished again in a moment by the bank of gray. She sat and watched the sun bravely try and cross the horizon, but the guards on the hilltop were determined to prevent it from entering. In a last valiant attempt the sun broke free and slowly began to rise, sacrificing half its strength to get through. It tried to force its claws into any crevasse it could to pull itself over the horizon, but it found none and sat heavily on the edge of the world. Reluctantly she gathered her pail of water and crept silently back to her door to begin breakfast for her mother and herself. At the door she paused again, for a last look at the sky. She saw instead a man hastening along the path to her door. She recognized him as the man who had spoken with John the night before. He was shorter than she had remembered, and wider, built compact and strong. His legs were un-proportionately long, making him look like a tall water bird teetering above the ground. She could tell from his build that he was much stronger than she; he had the walk of a fit man comfortable with his body. His face was the only unpleasant thing about him; it looked stoical and uninterested in anything she might have to say. His face caused one to assume that he did not want any friends; any attempt at friendship would not only be a waste but scorned. As he came closer Mary saw that he carried a paper in his hand, folded neatly and tucked into his left hand. She waited quietly as he stepped up to her door and nodded politely to her. “Are you Mary?” he asked. His voice was calm and quiet, soothing, a voice that caused Mary to find herself thinking that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, not even realizing that she had thought him bad in the first place.
“Yes I am. How may I help you?”
“You have been accused of witchcraft by John Tanner. You are to come with me to be tried by the church of Our Lord. You have five minutes to gather what you need for a few days. I’ll wait here.”
Mary hurried inside and poured the water into the pot over the already crackling fire. Her mother would be up in a few minutes and could make her own porridge. She was really not nervous at all, which she found strange. It was if she was in a dream and none of this was real. She expected to wake in a few hours and get ready for the day. She realized she was indeed living in reality when she fell and hit her knee in her rush to get an extra blanket to take with her. Her lack of fear made her nervous; she felt she was not taking her predicament seriously. To be accused of Magic was to be condemned to death, for the people believed that there was a grain of truth in everything. If someone thought another to be a sorceress, that must be true. This belief did not carry as far as to the accused person’s protests of innocence. To claim innocence too fervently must mean that there was something to be covered up; unmistakable guilt. Only someone who had something to hide would go to such lengths to hide it. However, if one was to remain silent to their accusers there was no way they could be innocent. If even they could not defend themselves, then who could?
Mary hurried back outside to where the young man was waiting. He nodded stiffly to her and set off toward the centre of the town at a brisk pace, his long legs taking him a great distance in a very brief time. Mary had to walk near a jog to keep up with his fast gait. Her breath made clouds of steam before her mouth as she huffed and froze in the muffler she had hastily thrown around her neck in her hurry to leave. Her breathing started to become ragged and caught in her chest as she began to slow, unable to keep up the hasty pace set by her partner. They reached the center about fifteen minutes after they started. By then Mary was panting and out of breath, though trying not to show it. Her companion seemed hardly to notice that they had for the last quarter of an hour been walking so fast as to almost be running; he breathed easily and was not even flushed. They entered a long building near the center, with a low door that Mary had to stoop to enter. Immediately to the right was the town’s church, an older building with a high steeple and two church bells that the town had spent three years raising the money to buy. Inside was dim and musky; it took several minutes to adjust to the faint light. It was surprisingly warm inside, and there was no tell-tale glow from a fire.
Mary sweated under her warm layers, partially from her forced walk, partly from the fear that had now come upon her in full force. She did not want to die; she had enjoyed life to this point. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light she could make out a long low table, with a few people seated along one edge. She knew a few by sight, but most of the people in the room were foreign to her. Her escort motioned for her to sit, facing the other occupants of the room on the floor. She sat down, her knees to her right under her skirts. The reason for the stifling heat became apparent as one of her legs brushed against a hot brick wrapped in rags set under the table. They were a calm, dormant heat, dry and dead, not lively and young like the heat of a fire. They made her feel crowded and nervous; it seemed as if the room’s walls were closing in on her. She recalled the crackling of her flames at home, so cheerful and glad to greet her every morning, docile and loving when she left them in the evening. As her thoughts meandered she thought saw in the corner of her eyes a spark fly from the wall. In her mind’s eye she watched the fire bloom and grow, spreading to cover the entire wall. She was distracted from her day dream as a woman cleared her voice. Startled, Mary realized she had been staring at the wall in a trance. She had to make a better impression than that, or she would seem exactly as a witch would, lost in her own world or that of Satan. The priest addressed her. “Mary, you are accused by your neighbor, John, of practicing witchcraft and using it to destroy his home last night, setting it afire through your sorcery. As you know the punishment for any work of Magic is death by fire, we can not have Satan living among us.” At this many occupants of the room hastily made the Sign of the Cross on their chests. Even to have even the Devil’s name spoken was to invite him to enter their minds, their souls, their bodies.
“Through no will of my own did Master John’s house burn. What proof does she have that I did it?”
“He has the witness of his daughter, Elizabeth. You were watching the house burn, whispering a spell to bring the flames to life. The child is a smart girl, and very devote. Her mother says that she also saw you ordering her fire to destroy her home, yet only Elizabeth watched the entire thing.”
“What reasons have I to burn John’s house, even if it was within my power as a Christian? He is my neighbor, and a good man. I have no quarrel with him.”
“Elizabeth’s eyes were guided by Our Lord to catch the Devil’s handiwork. Why would the girl lie?”
The speaker looked into Mary’s eyes, and saw the fire burning there. She knew Mary possessed a large amount of Magic, the fire in those eyes could do anything, and she was afraid. She tried to look away but was held fast, the eyes melting her own until they had no will of their own. Years passed, and still she could not rip her eyes from Mary’s. She knew to do so would mean death, but she would gladly have leapt into the chasms of Hell to escape the holocaust in the young girl’s eyes. Slowly Mary blinked, and the long moment ended. The old priest hastily looked away, and was silent. The man to his right continued. “Have you anything to say in your own defense?”
“Sir! I did not burn Master Tanner’s house! I posses no witchcraft, nor I have I ever had any. I am a God fearing woman, I only want to live my life and do His will.”
“Very well” the man replied. “You will remain here tonight. Tomorrow we will talk again.”
Mary was left alone in the windowless room, the door locked behind her. She lay down, and thought for a while. She was no witch; she’d never practiced witchcraft in her life. She used to play with fire as a child, but her mother had taught her how dangerous it was. She still loved fire, but then who didn’t? It gave light, heat, and a way to cook food; it was nearly impossible to live without it. She smiled softly as she remembered her fire at home, its cat-like grace and charm.
A loud bang woke her suddenly. Startled, she sat upright, and began to panic. Where was she? The banging continued, only making her confusion worse. Slowly she remembered what had brought her to this room. A knocking on the door put a halt to her thoughts.
“Are you decent?” called a man’s voice.
“I am” replied Mary, and heard a key turn in the door’s lock.
Even in January the sun was bright, and Mary had to squint not to be blinded by the light streaming past the silhouette of a man. As her eyes adjusted, she recognized him as the man who had accompanied her to this building in the first place.
“Come with me please” he asked again. This time Mary asked no questions, but followed like a duckling. He lead her to the back of the same building, this time the door was high enough for a grown man to pass through without stooping. She entered, and the door was closed and locked behind her as her escort left. She found herself in a smaller room than the last, with high windows and a roaring fire. There was a small wooden table in the center of the room, and on it an assortment of long needles. A straight-backed chair was placed next to the table, and on it sat an old man. He was short and round, with a moustache just showing the first signs of grey. His beard was dark and full, and his hair was beginning to draw back from his temples. He stood when they entered, and placed the cup of tea he had been holding on the table near the needles.
“Is this the witch?” he asked shortly.
“I’m no witch!” exclaimed Mary. “How dare you accuse me of something I’ve never done?”
“You’ve been fairly accused, and from what I’ve heard I believe it. Remove your clothes.”
“What? I will do no such thing!”
“You will or I shall do it for you. Remove your clothes.”
“Why?”
“I am to see if the devil has left his mark upon you. For that, you must remove your clothes. Now or I will take them off of you, and that will not be pleasant.”
Slowly Mary began to peel off first one layer, then another. When she reached her undergarments, she stopped and looked up at the man. “Those too,” he said sharply. Reluctantly she stepped out of her corset and drawers.
“Now we begin,” exclaimed the man, and snatched one of the long needles from the table. Sharply he stuck it deeply into her arm, and tugged it out again. Where he had struck a thin trickle of blood flowed, and slowly dripped onto the floor.
“Ow! Why did you do that?”
“I just said, I must see if the devil has left his mark on you,” and he darted in with his needle again. This time Mary gave a yelp of pain, snatching her arm back.
“I must check every dark spot on your body,” said the short man. “When it does not bleed, I will know that the devil has touched you. If you are going to flinch and cry out every time, it will be a long process, and I shall be very annoyed.”
He stuck her again, this time on her face. She drew back and he plunged his needle into her shoulder. Again and again he jammed his needle into her body, and each time her blood flowed out from the puncture. At last he stabbed a small dark spot on her right leg, it did not bleed. He prodded it with his finger, still nothing. He opened the door with a key from his pocket and called to someone outside the door. Her escort entered again.
“Henry, I’ve found the mark,” he proclaimed. He pointed to her leg with his finger. Mary tried to hide herself behind her hands, crouching to make herself smaller. Henry, her escort, glanced at her.
“Show me,” he demanded.
The short man forced Mary to stand, and prodded the spot again.
“Stick it again”
Once again she had the needle thrust into her leg and pulled out, and still no blood flowed.
“This is proof,” the man with the needles insisted. Henry said nothing. Looking past him to the outside, Mary saw the sun was low in the west. She had been prodded all day. And she’d eaten nothing, she realized as her stomach rumbled, sounding just like thunder. Rapidly she became faint, and had to sit. Her situation came over her in a wave of terror, and she felt as though her inside was tearing apart.
She woke up back in the room where she had first been lead. Her head pounded, and she ached all over as if a heard of horses had trampled her body. A crack of light slipped under the door crack from the west, shedding a rosy glow over the cobblestones around her. Seeing the light, she realized how cold the room was, even with the warm bricks. Her breath misted before her, reminding her of the steam off a hot pot.
She huddled into the corner of the room, drawing all her cloaks around her. Unable to sleep again, she drifted between worlds; no longer awake, yet still conscious, she drifted within her mind. It led her down an old trail, bereft of anything but the occasional old skeleton leaf. She walked down the trail with short steps, gazing around herself. She knew where she was, she just couldn’t remember. Ahead of her the trail veered steeply to the right, and she followed. Steeply it climbed, and she continued to trudge up the hill, but she did not tire. As she approached the peak, the trail dropped beneath her, displaying a deep gorge curving away from her. She hiked on, but she did not follow the laws of gravity and continue along the path. Instead she stepped out over the gorge and stopped, hovering in the air.
She peered down below her, at the river flowing through the valley. It was an odd color for water, more grey than usual but hauntingly beautiful. It seemed to flow slowly, and although there were rocks there were no rapids, on what should have been a very fast part of the river. She began to get tired; the long climb caught up with her and her legs began to throb. As her strength began to ebb she slowly sank in the air. She came closer to the strange water, and as she did so she began to get nervous. Soon her nervousness turned to fear, and then to pure terror. The farther she fell and the closer she got the more nervous she became and the harder she tried to keep from falling. The harder she tried to keep from falling the faster she dropped, until she hit the river with a soft thump. The surface stopped her for a moment, but then she began to sink in freezing ooze. A grey decrepit hand brushed her face, and she jumped back and inhaled sharply, only to find her mouth and nose filled by the frigid demi-liquid.
Quickly she thrust her way to the top in a blind panic, thrashing with all her limbs simultaneously. Reaching the top she inhaled deeply, gasping for breath and panting in her panic. She looked around at the river. Wherever she looked she saw people floating, drifting, squirming; dead, lifeless, grey and insubstantial. Thrashing, she spun in circles, fighting to stay above the river of spirits striving to pull her under the surface to live with them. Her eyes landed on one in particular, and she lost control over her limbs. She slowly fell to the bottom, and the river around her slowed to a crawl. She landed with a gentle thump, and a puff of silt bloomed from her landing. She had a strange sensation of calm, her terror evaporating. Her lungs didn’t need air; it was as if she could hold her breath for eternity. As the river cleared, she could make out the bottom of the river bed. She sat upon the bones and decaying flesh of thousands, millions of the dead. It was as if every time a person died, they came here. Their shell sank to the bottom of the river, and their spirit refusing to leave the bodies they had always known, floated above. Over the millennia the restless dead had carved a gorge, circling and squirming in an effort to be near the bottom. It was all clear to Mary as if someone had whispered it into her ear as she slept. Her lungs began to ache for air, and she again thrust toward the surface, this time launching off of a skull long in disuse. It was far harder to fight her way to the top than it had been to sink to the bottom. She kicked with all her might, trying with her hands to reach up before and hoist herself up. The need had planted itself in her mind to reach the surface, soon. She felt her eyes growing dim, and her legs grow heavy, pulling her back to the blanket of dead. Her arms seemed detached from her completely, and were of no use to her. She stopped fighting and closed her eyes, anticipating the calm of the dead river.
She woke again in the same room to insistent pounding on the door. She was completely drenched in sweat, making her shiver in the morning cold. The knocking continued. To Mary it sounded miles away, muffled and dim. Her teeth chattered and her hands shook. She felt violated, distant, as though her body was no longer her own. The pain from the needles had vanished. Thinking back, she had felt no pain, or any other feeling than cold, since she first touched the concentrated phantoms. The knocking stopped. Through her veils of thought Mary heard a key scrape in the door’s lock, and the door being forced open.
“Mary? Are you alright?” The voice was Henry’s. “You didn’t answer the door.”
Mary said nothing, still lost in her trance.
Henry continued regardless. “Since the mark of the devil was found on you” here he made the sign of the cross on his chest, “we must test you again. Here is your breakfast, I will return in an hour.” He placed a bowel of porridge and a small loaf of bread on the floor by the door; next to it he set a bucket of cold water. Mary stirred, called from her meditation by the pangs of hunger in her abdomen. She crawled over to the food as Henry locked the door behind him. She started with the porridge, scooping the thick gruel with her fingers. In her haste to fill her stomach she spilled on her face and dress. She licked it off and continued gorging herself. After wiping out the porridge bowl with her bread, she drank her water, spilling it down the sides of her mouth. When all her food had been consumed she lay back with a groan. She was getting colder and colder, nothing could warm her up.
She realized later that she must have dozed off; the knocking and unlocking of the door startled her awake. Henry came in again, and beckoned for her to follow him. She rose slowly and cautiously. She felt as though a puff of wind would scatter her across the world, one drop of rain would shatter her into tiny fragments, though she wasn’t sure what made her feel that way.
Quietly she followed him into the cobbled courtyard in the town center. It was lightly raining and cloudy. On the far west horizon the sky was clear and bright blue, and in the east a rainbow hung in the sky. Serenely Mary walked behind Henry. They made their way down a path that lead to the north of the village. The path led across a river, the current mild and very deep. A small crowd was gathered at the bridge, not making much noise, but the quiet chatter was a deafening roar to Mary’s ears. They grew silent as Mary approached, all eyes following the accused sorceress. When they reached the bridge, Henry took a long rope from the ground and deftly tied it around the northern bridge post. Quickly he tied the other end around Mary’s waist. Without a word he picked the girl up and threw her over the bridge into the river. Mary smacked the biting river 20 feet below on her side, knocking the breath from her lungs. She struggled to breathe as the current, stronger in the deep part, pulled at her rope and forced her beneath the water. She fought to come up; she did not want to be a part of this river, ever. This river was cold and merciless; the frightening beauty of the river of dead was nowhere present. She felt none of the same fear as she had when she had encountered the spirit river. Her thoughts went back to the last river she had seen. Of their own accord her feet began to kick, her arms to grasp and pull. Slowly she forced her way to the surface, thrusting her head through the water to the cold air above, out of the steel water’s grasp. Relieved she gasped in the cold air, her lungs rejoicing at the refreshment.
The blazing flames inched slowly to nibble on her feet and legs. She could feel their warmth rising around her, driving back the chill of the crisp January air. She gazed around the town square, feeling slightly dazed. It was full of families celebrating her burning, as good as a festival or a party for the entire town. Her neighbor looked slightly smug, leaning on the arm of the young priest, and flirting heavily with anyone around her. She told anyone who would listen of how the girl now tightly bound before them had threatened her with witchcraft, even going so far as to set her house afire, curse her children, and cause her garden to stop growing. The girl watched her coolly, as the flames inched closer to her knees. She cocked her head slightly to one side, as if deep in thought. Tension filled the square, though no one noticed at first. It slowly built higher, until some of the less drunk villagers began to look around quizzically. It sat heavy in the air, the calm before a thunderstorm. Suddenly the air cleared in a huge anticlimax and the villagers forgot the brief change.
The girl turned to look at the old man who had stuck his pins into her. He was as drunk as the rest, looking forward to a witch going up in flames. As she watched him, the snow around her fire slowly began to melt away, gaining momentum as it went like a rock tumbling down a hill. Soon all the ice had evaporated as if the August sun had been beating upon it for hours. In a few minutes the entire town was free of a winter’s worth of snow.
This terrified the pious villagers. Was Satan vexed that they were burning his vassal? Quickly many villagers made the Sign of the Cross to ward off the devil. Slowly the ground began to heat up. The newly revealed dirt began to steam, then to crack and harden. The trees around the square turned brown and limp. A riot was quickly forming, the townspeople unsure of what to do. Was this God punishing them, or the Devil taking revenge? How could they appease the Holy Father? The father was not angered; it was the devil, avenging the impending death of his devote! The girl must be immediately disposed of. It must be God, she may be innocent! The arguments went on, some watched in fear, nervously glancing from the girl and her bonfire to the arguments raging between the leaders in their village to the dead and dying plants all around them.
Suddenly, all the thatch roofs burst into flame, as if on cue. The flames cackled merrily, enjoying the dry straw. From inside the homes, screams could be heard from the children to young to come and their mothers. Old men and women to old to walk called out to their sons and daughters for help. Strong men ran to try and open the doors and let them escape as many people broke down and wept as their loved ones, homes and possessions were destroyed. But it was as if the doors were part of the walls they stood in, not one would budge. The arguers stopped their quibble as the air was filled with the crackling of the holocaust, and the eerie screams of the humans cremating within.
The people stood around for a few moments as the fires subsided, then as one began the arguments again. ‘This proves it!’ They all agreed, but what it proved they were no longer sure.
They turned to face the girl, to watch her die. Her flames burned slowly, as think porridge would run in a river bed. The flames were slowly lapping at her waist, and she showed no signs of pain. She hypnotized her onlookers; they were unable to look away, and they felt no real need to do so.
Over on the side of the clearing where the children stood a baby started bawling, one of the few brought to witness the execution. His mother paid no attention, being one of the many enthralled with the spectacle of the burning witch. His tears turned to shrieks, then screams. The other children began to cry and moan. The baby let out a scream of pure distilled pain, writing in agony. He fell from the wall where he had been set, and landed face down. A young girl picked him up, but shrieked and dropped him an instant later. She looked at her hands, they were red and blistering. The other children stared at the ground where the child had first hit; he left a scorch mark in the dead brown grass matted over the hard earth. The area began to smell of cooking meat, then burned flesh and clothing. The baby’s cries dwindled, then stopped as his lungs were baked from his inside. His blood began to boil, and his heart ruptured. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose; his bloodshot eyes stared defiantly up at the clear winter sky. He continued to cook until he was nothing but a tiny black skeleton covered in charred flesh.
The other children watched him die, too frightened to do anything but stare. They hadn’t long to wait before they too, felt as if they had come across the worst fever of all time. They simmered in twos and threes, as if to prolong the viewing time of the others. The adult’s hypnosis was shattered by the din of their children’s screams of terror. They too watched on helplessly as their children were consumed by a flameless fire within them, burning hotter than the hottest stove. The onlookers were forced to back up as the heat around the dying increased to an unbearable heat, singing the clothing of those who were too foolhardy to back away from the intense heat. This time the captive audience tried with all their might to cast their eyes elsewhere. It was as if a thread connected their eyes to the massacre, preventing them from even blinking.
Mothers watching their children die one by one screamed, bawled, tried to fight against the unbearable heat to reach their beloved children. Fathers watching the gruesome scene retched where they stood, unable to turn heir heads away. The vomit sizzled and blackened as the circle of heat forced its way outward. A new mother stood riveted to the ground, watching her toddler’s skin crack and peel, the blood pouring from his ruined shell and drying and sticking to his arms and legs. The youngest were the first victims, but they did not last long, and soon the blistering plague spread to the older children and the adults. None were spared; it took only an hour to destroy the entire village. Only the girl in the center remained, her fire fighting to rise higher, turning at last to devour its final prey. The girl took a last look at the destruction. “I never knew I could do that”, she thought. She gazed around at the captivating remains of her people as the flames leapt to engulf her body and consume her mind.
The flames rose slowly to lick around her feet and legs. She could feel their warmth rising around her, driving back the chill of the crisp January air. She gazed around the town square, feeling slightly dazed. It was full of families celebrating her burning, as good as a festival or a party for the entire town. Her neighbor looked slightly smug, leaning on the arm of the mayor, and flirting heavily with anyone around her, telling of how the girl now tightly bound before them had threatened her with witchcraft, even going so far as to set her roof afire. The girl watched her coolly, as the flames inched closer to her knees. She cocked her head slightly to one side, as if deep in thought. Tension filled the square, though no one noticed at first. It slowly built higher, until some of the less drunk villagers began to look around quizzically. It sat heavy in the air and then suddenly was gone, in a huge anticlimax, and the air once again returned to normal.
The girl turned to look at her father’s friend, the one who had tried her. He was as drunk as the rest, looking forward to a witch going up in flames. As she watched him, the snow around her fire slowly began to melt away, gaining momentum as it went like a rock tumbling down a hill. Soon all the ice had evaporated as if the August sun had been beating upon it for hours. In a few minutes the entire town was free of a winter’s worth of snow.
This terrified the pious villagers. Was Satan vexed that they were burning his vassal? Quickly many villagers made the Sign of the Cross to ward off the devil. Slowly the ground began to heat up. The newly revealed dirt began to steam, then to crack and harden. The trees around the square turned brown and limp. A riot was quickly forming, the townspeople unsure of what to do. Was this God punishing them, or the Devil taking revenge? How could they appease the Holy Father? The father was not angered; it was the devil, avenging the impending death of his devote! The girl must be immediately disposed of. It must be God, she may be innocent! The arguments went on, some watched in fear, nervously glancing from the girl and her bonfire to the arguments raging between the leaders in their village to the dead and dying plants all around them.
Suddenly, all the thatch roofs burst into flame, as if on cue. The flames cackled merrily, enjoying the dry straw. From inside the homes, screams could be heard from the children to young to come and their mothers. Old men and women to old to walk called out to their sons and daughters for help. Strong men ran to try and open the doors and let them escape as many people broke down and wept as their loved ones, homes and possessions were destroyed. But it was as if the doors were part of the walls they stood in, not one would budge. The arguers stopped their quibble as the air was filled with the crackling of the holocaust, and the eerie screams of the humans cremating within.
The people stood around for a few moments as the fires subsided, then as one began the arguments again. ‘This proves it!’ They all agreed, but what it proved they were no longer sure.
They turned to face the girl, to watch her die. Her flames burned slowly, as think porridge would run in a river bed. The flames were slowly lapping at her waist, and she showed no signs of pain. She hypnotized her onlookers; they were unable to look away, and they felt no real need to do so.
Over on the side of the clearing where the children stood a baby started bawling, one of the few brought to witness the execution. His mother paid no attention, being one of the many enthralled with the spectacle of the burning witch. His tears turned to shrieks, then screams. The other children began to cry and moan. The baby let out a scream of pure distilled pain, writing in agony. He fell from the wall where he had been set, and landed face down. A young girl picked him up, but shrieked and dropped him an instant later. She looked at her hands, they were red and blistering. The other children stared at the ground where the child had first hit; he left a scorch mark in the dead brown grass matted over the hard earth. The area began to smell of cooking meat, then burned flesh and clothing. The baby’s cries dwindled, then stopped as his lungs were baked from his inside. His blood began to boil, and his heart ruptured. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose; his bloodshot eyes stared defiantly up at the clear winter sky. He continued to cook until he was nothing but a tiny black skeleton covered in charred flesh.
The other children watched him die, too frightened to do anything but stare. They hadn’t long to wait before they too, felt as if they had come across the worst fever of all time. They simmered in twos and threes, as if to prolong the viewing time of the others. The adult’s hypnosis was shattered by the din of their children’s screams of terror. They too watched on helplessly as their children were consumed by a flameless fire within them, burning hotter than the hottest stove. The onlookers were forced to back up as the heat around the dying increased to an unbearable heat, singing the clothing of those who were too foolhardy to back away from the intense heat. This time the captive audience tried with all their might to cast their eyes elsewhere. It was as if a thread connected their eyes to the massacre, preventing them from even blinking.
Mothers watching their children die one by one screamed, bawled, tried to fight against the unbearable incalescence to reach their beloved children. They were unable to breech the wall of heat; it was so intense it was almost solid. Fathers watching the gruesome scene retched where they stood, unable to turn heir heads away. The vomit sizzled and blackened as the circle of heat forced its way outward. The surrounding scenery shimmered and shifted, contorted by the acute fever. The youngest were the first victims, but they did not last long, their small bodies cooked quickly. Soon the blistering plague spread to the older children and the adults. None were spared. In the space of three hours every member of the village was dead, baking and burning on the cobbles. Only the witch in the center remained. Her fire, dormant and mild throughout the butchery, fought to rise higher, turning at last to devour its final prey. Mary took a last look at the destruction. “I never knew I could do that,” she whispered to herself, completely void of emotion. She gazed around at the captivating remains of her people as the flames leapt to engulf her body and consume her mind.
an assignment for LA, I felt I had to do something with it. SOme parts I really like, others I hate. Don't read it if you've no time, it's long