It seemed the entire town had gathered to watch Adelia burn.
Mrs. Hartwell, clutching her sons Jake and Jeremiah close to her—sons whom Adelia had cured of the painful fever that nearly took their lives with a poultice of willow ash—scowled at her in the dimming sunlight. Thomas Miller stood close enough to spit on Adelia, and didn’t pass up the opportunity to do so. His wife, also in attendance, was six months pregnant thanks to Adelia’s help with several incenses. Even young Samuel was hiding at the back of the crowd, pushing himself up on the toes Adelia had saved from frostbite the prior winter, in order to watch Reverend Whitmore give his speech.
“Are there any among you who consort with this devil’s wife, this serpent of evil, this she-wolf amongst God’s sheep? Do any of you wish to stand upon the pyre with her and face the Lord’s judgment at her side?” His face grew redder and sweatier by the second as he watched Walter Mayflower add more and more kindling at Adelia’s feet. Walter had built the pyre himself, and it was sturdy, as were all things he built. The base was a square platform of thick oak, raised three feet off the ground so the entire crowd could witness what was to come.
“Adelia Fletcher, do you wish to confess to the God-fearing folk gathered here?” the reverend asked.
Adelia shook her head.
“Then do you have any final words? Will you beg the Lord for salvation, here, in your final moments, empty as the words may be?” Something flapped overhead—a bird or a bat, perhaps—and young Jeremiah hid behind his mother.
Adelia, her face as still as a porcelain doll’s, cleared her dry throat. “Were I actually guilty of being what you accuse me to be,” Adelia said, her voice low and steady, the crowd hanging on each word, “I would know a good number of things that would trouble you deeply, reverend.”
“Do you hear this?” The reverend spun to face the crowd. “Do you hear the threats that utter forth from the lips of this vile creature? Do you believe now the guilt it carries in its black heart?”
Some in the crowd nodded. Others cursed her name. Still others prayed, while Walter doused the timber at Adelia’s feet in linseed oil. The cricket song in the nearby woods fell quiet, the winds still.
“Were I what you claim,” Adelia continued, “I would know that there is no such thing as a witch.”
“Lies,” the reverend interrupted, and others in the crowd echoed him.
“Not a simple witch, no. There are all manners of practice in those arts, its children claiming distinct categories of power.”
Reverend Whitmore pointed one finger at her, clean and righteous. “Tell us, Adelia Fletcher, before the Devil takes you back—tell us what kind of witch you are.”
The crowd took a step back, nearly reaching the edge of the town square, as Walter placed the flint an inch from the oil-soaked timber. He struck it several times until it finally caught with a low whoosh that echoed off the weathered clapboard buildings.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Adelia leaned forward to feel the warmth rising up to her face. She smiled brightly down at him, smiled as the flames already tickled her toes. “I, Reverend Whitmore, am a fire witch.”
In the mood for more fire? Check out my newest relaxing ambient horror video, “"Relaxing with a Drink as the House Burns Down”
Ah, very nice. I bet they didn't see that coming. Adelia is just warming up, so to speak. Awesome tale, Brian. Thank you for sharing.