heat from the fire and knew it must be twicefold for Künne. Her eyes, rather than watching me, fastened on some spot in the distance. Clouds of smoke kept blocking our vision of her. A spasm crossed her face and I held my breath. Was it the herb working? Or the heat becoming unbearable?
“What are you looking for?” screamed someone. “The devil to fly on horseback and deliver you?”
The fire had crept up the log pile but had still not reached her feet.
I clasped my hands together and prayed, not an elaborate prayer like the friar’s, and not even specifically addressed to God, but a simple, crude prayer, of three words only, over and over: Ease her quick. Ease her quick.
The crackling sound was enormously loud. I thought, in between the repetitions of my prayer, that I would never be able to cook over a fire or sit by one again for warmth without thinking of this fire. Ease her quick. Ease her by craft and false pretense. I wailed in distress at the witch’s song intruding on my prayer for Künne. I had to keep my mind pure for her. Ease her quick. Ease her quick.
The flames would be at her in another moment.
Why had I not grabbed all the plants and simply stuffed them into her mouth? Why had I taken the time to melt the wax and create tiny Pillen ? I was desperate to see her face become lax under the herb’s spell. I could have crept faster, given the plant a longer time to take its effect in her body. I had been no friend. Why, I had even stood still in her cottage for long moments I’d had no right to waste, as my idiot mind tried to regather the purpose of my mission! My hands fell out of prayer and I raised them to batter at my temples. Why had my mind failed me on this most important of days? Ease her quick. Ease her quick. The heat was unbearable. I knew my own face must be red as the sex of a sheep pushing out her lambs. Ease her quick. I watched one flame, the tallest, flicker near Künne’s right foot. If I had failed, we were about to watch death in the most dire way, writhing through intense pain. Please, God. I watched her bite her lip as a second spasm crossed her face. I knew not how to interpret it until she laughed.
And then I was full glad, for I knew the herb had control of her.
It wasn’t one to loosen her muscles but instead clenched them.
She spasmed again and again and tears rolled down my face as she painlessly twisted in the herb’s influence. She leaned forward, as if falling, but the ropes kept her in place. She continued bending, over and over, like she was in the river doing her washing. Her hands and fingers moved, and if they hadn’t been tied they would have flown up into the air like startled birds. And then her hair, her gray hair in flustered waves around her face, a profusion falling onto her thin shoulders, suddenly snapped with white light and burst into flames.
We all cried out; how could we know the fire would not consume her from the bottom up but would instead select the most combustible part of her, like a starting fire chooses the smallest kindling? The flames moved her head around, made it seem someone stood behind her manipulating it, front to back, side to side, as if she wildly agreed with someone and then vehemently changed her mind. Her mouth opened wide, but no scream came. Her eyes glared at nobody. She was already gone.
I gagged at the smell, which clogged my throat. I backed up, bumped into someone.
Künne’s feet were burning now, releasing a sour, fumid smoke that seemed monstrous, from hell. And her face began to disappear in the bright red flames. The fire did strange things to her expression: cocked her eyes, curled her lip. I could hear chants behind me.
“Burn, witch!”
I wondered how they could open their mouths to speak in this cloud of stench. I wondered if goats, sheep, and other beasts that stood in the yard as the smell of their kind’s cooking flesh drifted from the chimney were equally nauseated.
How long would this fire burn?
“What are you looking for?” screamed someone. “The devil to fly on horseback and deliver you?”
The fire had crept up the log pile but had still not reached her feet.
I clasped my hands together and prayed, not an elaborate prayer like the friar’s, and not even specifically addressed to God, but a simple, crude prayer, of three words only, over and over: Ease her quick. Ease her quick.
The crackling sound was enormously loud. I thought, in between the repetitions of my prayer, that I would never be able to cook over a fire or sit by one again for warmth without thinking of this fire. Ease her quick. Ease her by craft and false pretense. I wailed in distress at the witch’s song intruding on my prayer for Künne. I had to keep my mind pure for her. Ease her quick. Ease her quick.
The flames would be at her in another moment.
Why had I not grabbed all the plants and simply stuffed them into her mouth? Why had I taken the time to melt the wax and create tiny Pillen ? I was desperate to see her face become lax under the herb’s spell. I could have crept faster, given the plant a longer time to take its effect in her body. I had been no friend. Why, I had even stood still in her cottage for long moments I’d had no right to waste, as my idiot mind tried to regather the purpose of my mission! My hands fell out of prayer and I raised them to batter at my temples. Why had my mind failed me on this most important of days? Ease her quick. Ease her quick. The heat was unbearable. I knew my own face must be red as the sex of a sheep pushing out her lambs. Ease her quick. I watched one flame, the tallest, flicker near Künne’s right foot. If I had failed, we were about to watch death in the most dire way, writhing through intense pain. Please, God. I watched her bite her lip as a second spasm crossed her face. I knew not how to interpret it until she laughed.
And then I was full glad, for I knew the herb had control of her.
It wasn’t one to loosen her muscles but instead clenched them.
She spasmed again and again and tears rolled down my face as she painlessly twisted in the herb’s influence. She leaned forward, as if falling, but the ropes kept her in place. She continued bending, over and over, like she was in the river doing her washing. Her hands and fingers moved, and if they hadn’t been tied they would have flown up into the air like startled birds. And then her hair, her gray hair in flustered waves around her face, a profusion falling onto her thin shoulders, suddenly snapped with white light and burst into flames.
We all cried out; how could we know the fire would not consume her from the bottom up but would instead select the most combustible part of her, like a starting fire chooses the smallest kindling? The flames moved her head around, made it seem someone stood behind her manipulating it, front to back, side to side, as if she wildly agreed with someone and then vehemently changed her mind. Her mouth opened wide, but no scream came. Her eyes glared at nobody. She was already gone.
I gagged at the smell, which clogged my throat. I backed up, bumped into someone.
Künne’s feet were burning now, releasing a sour, fumid smoke that seemed monstrous, from hell. And her face began to disappear in the bright red flames. The fire did strange things to her expression: cocked her eyes, curled her lip. I could hear chants behind me.
“Burn, witch!”
I wondered how they could open their mouths to speak in this cloud of stench. I wondered if goats, sheep, and other beasts that stood in the yard as the smell of their kind’s cooking flesh drifted from the chimney were equally nauseated.
How long would this fire burn?
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