Salem
The torches weave in and out of my vision. If I squint hard enough I can almost pretend they’re stars, angry red ones. The flames cast the angry, worn faces in an orange glow, their hatred and disgust igniting further in the amber light. It is difficult to see myself as the monster that they have named me when I am looking into a sea of bared teeth and twisted expressions. It is difficult to remember why I tried to save them in the first place.
More torches come into the large clearing, floating towards me, floating like maybe they’ll carry me away. But I am no fool. I will not float. I will burn.
—
My mother knew the earth as an old friend. I swear it could speak to her and tell her all that she needed to know. She had remedies for everything. She knew how to draw every drop of potential out of the plants living in the thick forests of our home. She held knowledge of a different time. For a long time the people of my village admired her for that, counted on her for that, but very soon they began to fear her for it.
It is very difficult to fight what you cannot understand. So this medicine, this seemingly unearthly form of healing, was an unknown that began to cast very long shadows in the eyes of people who could not understand it. Witchcraft, they called it, evil, black magic, defiance of a righteous God. My mother heard the names, saw the scowls and frightened eyes. Yet she continued her good work, right up to the night they came for her.
Torches burned like tiny suns outside our home. She did not make a sound as they dragged her away. Not even as the flames licked at her ankles. Witch, they cried as they bound her wrists. Devil, curse-bringer. She let them hurl their insults and spit their venom. She never cried out, never fought back as the flames swallowed her.
Yet 20 years later I can still hear my own screams piercing that dark night.
—
My own people, neighbors, friends, turned me into an orphan before I really understood what that word meant. I swore I would never forgive them for it, but I was young and the promises we make as children are not often kept. As I grew older, I saw sickness and suffering and began to carry on my mother’s work. I let the earth speak to me and tell me how to use it for good, to be a
force of healing in a time of plague and famine and death. I did it far more quietly though. I’ll admit, I am not as brave as the woman I came from. Yet, still I knew the cost, and soon enough came the night when I was to pay it.
The torches lit up the shadows outside my home just as they did all those years ago. I shut my eyes tight, and tried and resign myself to my fate as my strong and good and kind mother did once. Yet I do not find the peace I saw on her face that night. Instead I find nothing but blinding rage. Complete, unadulterated fury for these people who are so quick to destroy what they cannot understand. Enraged that I allowed my hands only to heal and save, and yet still I will burn for it.
Furious, maddened beyond any hope of relief that these people who call me witch do not even know they are right.
—
The torches weave in and out of my vision as a crowd gathers at my feet. Children I have given medicine to, women who I have aided, men who I have bandaged and remedied, they all gather to watch me burn.
The madness of it all, it is suddenly so overwhelming that I am laughing. Laughing with my head thrown back against the night, laughing a horrible, rumbling laugh like storm clouds gathering in the distance. I laugh and howl and bare my teeth, and when I open my eyes I see that this angry, fire-bearing mob is afraid. One man finally shuffles forward with his torch and ignites the straw at my feet, and still I laugh.
Soon my laughter turns to screams, though I do not feel the flames touch me. I scream for my mother who could have walked from this inferno untouched and destroyed each and every person who would destroy her. Screaming with a horrible kind of agony that splits and folds and doubles in on itself for all the times I did not allow myself to get angry before.
I imagine what I must look like to them now. My black hair now scarlet and twisting, ignited and alive. My eyes full of firelight and fury. The ropes at my wrists fall away and I walk from the fire unburnt.
Witch, evil one, curse bringer, death. My mother died without acknowledging their suspicions. But I am not her, I am not half so good.
Tonight I will breathe life into their names and they will see for the first time what they have given rise to.
After all these years I keep my promise — I am without mercy, I do not forgive them for any of it. I raise my hands and I burn the world to the ground.
— Twenty years later I can still hear the screams. I throw my head back and laugh.
Author Bio: Kaila Fergson was born and raised in Palm Springs, CA. She now lives in Carlsbad with her big chocolate lab, Loki, and a whole bunch of house plants. When she’s not working as a barista, she can be found at some other coffee shop reading a book with her dog at her feet, or dragging her paddle board down to the lagoon. Kaila is studying English and linguistics at Cal State San Marcos. After graduating with her English degree, she hopes to find a job within the writing/editing field and spend as much time as possible traveling and reading good books.