Frozen Flames
Frozen Flames
Their shouts rose over the dying winter trees. Men and women of all ages cheered and cursed, with their torches that lead the way towards death. She screamed for mercy, begged them to listen. None would hear her pleas. Her hands were bound behind her back, and a large man with hungry eyes pushed her forward. She struggled against him, pushing against the ground in her bare feet, pushing back, away, from what lay ahead.
This girl had long, waving brown hair that grew past her waist. Her eyes felt haunting when she held a gaze. She could make a man crawl on his knees with one whisper from her perfect rose lips. Her soft pale skin reflected the light from the moon, and the radiating light only convinced the God fearing public that she was evil.
This girl was labeled a witch. Her crime was beauty; her punishment was death. Her dark blue eyes stared past the hair that fell over her face. She looked at death: the upright pole, the chains and ropes, the torches. It all promised a painful and slow death. Once more she begged for sanity, for someone to hear her words and believe her plea. A tall man stormed over to her, and slapped her across the face, ordering her silence. She whimpered and fell silent. Gentle tears froze to her face as they fell from her eyes.
It began to snow as the priest started his prayer. He wished that the Lord have mercy on her demonic soul, and that her eternal torture is not too awful; that she gets only what she deserves and nothing more. She stopped struggling. She knew it was useless. Her head bowed in defeat. She was a statue, unmoving during his prayer as snow collected in her hair, over her tattered clothing. She did not even shiver.
Three men pulled and pushed her, and tied her to the tall wooden pole atop the piles of timber. They enjoyed tying her – that was obvious. The roped was tied around her legs, waist, chest, and shoulders, and then once more down around her chest. Finally, at her feet, a chain was padlocked to her thin ankles, to insure that she could not run away, lest the ropes burn away or she ‘cast a spell’ to release herself. Finally she raised her head once more. Her eyes were deep in the light from the torches. She stared at the crowd, sending them into a silence. She did not speak – there was no need. The fear and guilt that overtook the crowd was eminent.
With no more words spoken from the priest, a flame was lowered at her feet. The torch touched the timber, and fire skipped towards her. It began at the base, and slowly spiraled up. The fear that crossed over her calm face excited the crowd. They believed, as their beloved priest told them, that this girl was a demon from Hell, and her death was necessary. At once they chanted: ‘Burn the witch! Burn the witch!’
First she began to cough. She bent over as much as the rope would allow her, eyes shut tight, in a coughing fit. Black smoke rose up, engulfed her. Tears streamed down her face, and mixed with the ash from the burning timber. When the fire first touched her skin, all the public knew it at once. A horrified shriek escaped her lips. It was pain and fear, exploding from her body. It shocked the crowd, and once more they went silent. Her eyes opened wide and her gaze went skyward, as the flames crept over her flesh.
A sudden winter wind came in and blew the flames aside just as she died. Even in her gruesome death, she was lovely. Her head was bent as if in prayer, eyes shut, she seemed peaceful. Her white skin poked out past black charred skin, which still gleamed in the light. When she did die, it was as if her soul leapt from her body. The serenity disappeared, and she looked as if just a doll. The flames completely covered her, now, and then it was over.
No one cried for her death. She had no family – her mother and father died when she was a little girl, and she had no siblings. She had no love. Alone atop the hill she lived in peace, selling baked goods to the townsfolk. No one bothered her, and she bothered no one. Why now, after her living there quietly for fifteen years, a man from the village decided to accuse her of being a witch, is a question that shall not be answered. The witch is buried and forgotten, like so many before her, and so many after.
This girl had long, waving brown hair that grew past her waist. Her eyes felt haunting when she held a gaze. She could make a man crawl on his knees with one whisper from her perfect rose lips. Her soft pale skin reflected the light from the moon, and the radiating light only convinced the God fearing public that she was evil.
This girl was labeled a witch. Her crime was beauty; her punishment was death. Her dark blue eyes stared past the hair that fell over her face. She looked at death: the upright pole, the chains and ropes, the torches. It all promised a painful and slow death. Once more she begged for sanity, for someone to hear her words and believe her plea. A tall man stormed over to her, and slapped her across the face, ordering her silence. She whimpered and fell silent. Gentle tears froze to her face as they fell from her eyes.
It began to snow as the priest started his prayer. He wished that the Lord have mercy on her demonic soul, and that her eternal torture is not too awful; that she gets only what she deserves and nothing more. She stopped struggling. She knew it was useless. Her head bowed in defeat. She was a statue, unmoving during his prayer as snow collected in her hair, over her tattered clothing. She did not even shiver.
Three men pulled and pushed her, and tied her to the tall wooden pole atop the piles of timber. They enjoyed tying her – that was obvious. The roped was tied around her legs, waist, chest, and shoulders, and then once more down around her chest. Finally, at her feet, a chain was padlocked to her thin ankles, to insure that she could not run away, lest the ropes burn away or she ‘cast a spell’ to release herself. Finally she raised her head once more. Her eyes were deep in the light from the torches. She stared at the crowd, sending them into a silence. She did not speak – there was no need. The fear and guilt that overtook the crowd was eminent.
With no more words spoken from the priest, a flame was lowered at her feet. The torch touched the timber, and fire skipped towards her. It began at the base, and slowly spiraled up. The fear that crossed over her calm face excited the crowd. They believed, as their beloved priest told them, that this girl was a demon from Hell, and her death was necessary. At once they chanted: ‘Burn the witch! Burn the witch!’
First she began to cough. She bent over as much as the rope would allow her, eyes shut tight, in a coughing fit. Black smoke rose up, engulfed her. Tears streamed down her face, and mixed with the ash from the burning timber. When the fire first touched her skin, all the public knew it at once. A horrified shriek escaped her lips. It was pain and fear, exploding from her body. It shocked the crowd, and once more they went silent. Her eyes opened wide and her gaze went skyward, as the flames crept over her flesh.
A sudden winter wind came in and blew the flames aside just as she died. Even in her gruesome death, she was lovely. Her head was bent as if in prayer, eyes shut, she seemed peaceful. Her white skin poked out past black charred skin, which still gleamed in the light. When she did die, it was as if her soul leapt from her body. The serenity disappeared, and she looked as if just a doll. The flames completely covered her, now, and then it was over.
No one cried for her death. She had no family – her mother and father died when she was a little girl, and she had no siblings. She had no love. Alone atop the hill she lived in peace, selling baked goods to the townsfolk. No one bothered her, and she bothered no one. Why now, after her living there quietly for fifteen years, a man from the village decided to accuse her of being a witch, is a question that shall not be answered. The witch is buried and forgotten, like so many before her, and so many after.