The Burning

The Burning

Fadzlishah Johanabas Rosli

(992 words)



Dawn

         “By the Power of three times three, come to me, let it be.”

         Sitting cross-legged facing the eastern sky, Caitlyn repeated the chant nine times. Her eyes were closed; she was desperate for any spark, any sign of the Power. Incense crackled in a clay bowl in front of her, and lavender-scented smoke danced in the pre-dawn darkness. Like every morning before, the ritual proved fruitless. She sighed and bit deep into her lower lip, stopping just before drawing blood.

         Caitlyn was the ninth generation of ninth daughters. Her birth heralded a great promise, a fulfillment of a prophecy among the Covens of Salem, or Witchland, as it was called by the denizens of the Otherworld. She was destined to harness the Power greater than a whole Coven could. But she turned out a disappointment, to her mother and grandmother, to her Coven, and most of all, to herself. Caitlyn was a mundane, Powerless.

         Caitlyn sighed again and gave up trying. She had hoped with her eighteenth birthday, the Power would bloom within her, like some of the witches she knew of. She had hoped to be able to return from her exile. Again, she was disappointed.

         A twig snapped somewhere behind her. Caitlyn upturned the bowl to douse the ember and snapped to look at the general direction of the intrusion. Even Powerless, she was still a witch. And all witches feared the Inquisition. In the pastel light of the rising sun, she found nothing out of the ordinary. She packed her belongings and returned to the village before suspicious eyes could see her.



Midday

         As usual, Caitlyn’s spirit rose with the brilliant sun. Her frustrations were at the back of her mind as she hung the landowner’s laundry to dry. She even hummed an old tune her mother used to sing to her and her sisters when they were younger. The sky was an azure canvas dotted with cotton clouds. The breeze was light, dancing with autumn leaves as they floated to the ground. Caitlyn held hope that maybe the Power would come to her, eventually. If not the day after, maybe the next. She held on to the belief that it would be worth the faith. Caitlyn held the empty wicker basket by her side and made her way back to the house she worked in, her steps light.

         Caitlyn froze when she saw armed men standing in a smart line at the front yard. Their steel helmets and shoulder pads gleamed, as if giving off light of their own. No, she thought. Please, no. Much too late, her body made a move to bolt. One of the men was pointing at her. She ran anyway, leaving the basket to roll down the slope. Caitlyn was fast, but there were too many of them. They were much too strong for her; she was too small to fight back.

         “Caitlyn Putnam,” said a tall man with thick black mustache and beard. “You have been accused of Witchcraft and heresy, by decree of the Church. Come with us in peace, and you will have a fair trial.”

         “No,” she screamed, but her cries fell on deaf ears. She was a driftwood in a tidal wave of fear and distrust.



Sundown

         Caitlyn knew that a fair trial was just an empty promise. She had seen other Sisters burned without evidence of witchcraft. She had seen mundane healers burned for the same accusation. Caitlyn kept thinking about the irony of her fate. She was shunned by other witches for being Powerless. Now she was accused as a practicing witch by mundanes.

         “How plead you?” said a white-haired priest in a resplendent crimson robe.

         Caitlyn knew she could deny the accusation, regardless the futility. She was, after all, a mundane. She held her chin high and looked down at the sitting priest. “I am Caitlyn Putnam,” she said, her voice steady and clear. “I was born into a family of pure-blooded witches, a family where the Power runs deep and true. Burn me as a witch, but know this: you burn an innocent soul.”

         Pandemonium.



Night

         Their judgment was harsh, their execution swift. Within a few hours a stake was raised in the clearing at the town center, surrounded by firewood and dry twigs. Caitlyn stood tied for everyone to see. She knew there were Sisters among the crowd, as powerless as she was to stop this cruel injustice. She was scared, more than she had felt when she was exiled to fend for herself. She was scared, not of death, but of dying without ever tasting the Power. She felt warm tears trickling down her cheeks, tears of frustration, tears of longing.

         She did not hear what was said. She only noticed the fire when her feet began to feel warm. Bright flames burned the fine hairs on her body, licking her flapping shift. Her heart fluttered. She was about to die a mundane. With a heavy sigh, Caitlyn closed her eyes.

         “By the Power of three times three, come to me, let it be.”

         Caitlyn felt intense pain on her back, more consuming than the fire threatening to engulf her. She bit her lip until it bled. She bit deeper. When she could not stand the pain, she screamed.

         A strong cold gust exploded in a circle with Caitlyn as its center. The flames died instantly. The stake holding her upright had blown to pieces. She noticed the collective gasp, the fear in their eyes. But she also saw undisguised awe and wonder. A heaviness hung on her back, almost knocking her off balance. Caitlyn looked up.

         Black wings spread from her back like a depiction of an archangel in a church. The feathers gleamed with tiny rainbows, reminding her of a raven’s wings. She felt the Power flooding through her.

         She looked at the Inquisitor.

         Storm clouds gathered, blotting out the moon and stars. Thunder rumbled like an angry god.