Germination

There is concern that there won’t be enough kindling for the pyre.

Heavy spring rains have fallen for several days, leaving even the smallest twigs soaked and useless. The townspeople desperately dig through their wood boxes, scrape the embers from their hearths, collect dry animal dung to toss on the pile; justice could not wait for drier weather.

The dawn is swathed in dense fog, making it difficult to distinguish more than vague silhouettes. The ignorant masses swarm the town square like flies around a fresh carcass.

Through the bars of my window, I watch them.

At dawn, I had been granted a crust of bread, tossed to the dirt at my feet. I left it untouched for the mice to enjoy. They seem grateful for this small kindness; it is the least I can do in my state.

The chaos outside grows monotonous; I turn away from the window with some effort. My skin feels hot and dry beneath my scratchy wool shift, and my muscles ache as if in the grips of a fever. It’s almost unbearable, but I know what must be done. All is as it has been shown to me.

The pyre is completed to their satisfaction exactly twenty-two minutes later.

Four minutes after that, the guards open the door to my cell. One is older, a former solider, his eyes empty and his grip tight. His face holds no sentiment.

But I recognize the younger man. We'd been playmates, many years ago. I cannot recall his name, only the vague memory of crouching beside him by a stream, digging in the cool mud. I think I may have had feelings for him, in that fleeting way children do.

He at least has the decency to look upon me with pity as they lead me outside.

The air reeks of ozone. I keep my head down, letting my long hair hide my face from the jeering crowd. Perhaps they believe that I am hanging my head in shame.

Even if they do, many hiss at me as I pass.

The guards are kind enough to help me step up onto the makeshift platform. I offer a nod of thanks, but I do not look at them. Instead, I raise my eyes to meet the low, gray clouds hanging above; a low rumble of thunder rolls through the sky.

They bind me to the stake with haste, pulling the ropes tightly around my ankles and arms. I will not receive the mercy of being strangled before I burn.

The constable emerges from the crowd, standing as straight as he can manage. He is a small man, used to intimidating people with his booming voice more so than his physical form. His short stint in the royal militia did not satisfy his bloodlust. Once he was dishonorably discharged for improper conduct, he chose to take out his frustration through his position as a man of the law. I’ve seen countless men like him before, all of them cowards.

He had come to me in the night, as I lay in my cell, plying me with promises of freedom if I would only allow him access to my body. For nearly an hour, I was forced to listen to him carry on about how he’d pined for me since my youth, how he’d watched me play with the other children and knew I would become a great beauty. Now that I am a woman, he believed I could not refuse him.

I was in no mood for his perverted fantasies, and told him as much. In a rage, he had entered my cell with the intent to force himself upon me – he wasn’t expecting me to fight back.

I am not the first to suffer due to his megalomania, but I will ensure that I am the last.

As he stands before the pyre, we are both keenly aware of his small stature as I tower above him. His left eye is bruised, and his pride with it. But I know that he’s getting off on my pain.

I resist the urge to spit at his feet.

He fixes me with a smug gaze, and begins to read the charges:

“Agnes Wickham, you have been found guilty of practicing forbidden magic, spreading false information, and inciting unrest. For these acts of treason against the kingdom and the council, it has been decided by the local magistrate that you are to be burned at the stake until dead.”

The claims are not wholly untrue. But I thought it was only fair to warn the people of what is to come, even if they do not believe me.

His words ring through the square, echoing off the buildings huddled close together along the muddy streets. I gaze out over the crowd. Some have come here to gawk and jeer; others came to see if the rumors were true, if someone truly had attempted to resurrect the old religion.

Most of them look away quickly as my eyes pass over them, but they are not the ones I’m looking for.

There, near the edge of the throng, someone doesn’t avert their eyes.

She’s been watching me too, her dark hair coming out of its braid and blowing in the wind. When our eyes meet, I try to convey everything I want to say to her.

Forgive me, my love. Everything will be alright.

At first, she does not move, standing stiffly and holding her shawl tightly. Then, she gives a small nod, and I know that I have been understood. Our work shall not end with me.

A flash of lightning streaks across the sky, followed by another peal of thunder, louder this time. The crowd is beginning to shift nervously; the hairs on my arms stand on end.

The constable stumbles over his words but finally finishes speaking. He does not bother asking if I have any final words.

Too bad for him; I haven’t said my piece yet.

Once everyone’s eyes are fixed upon me, it is my turn to speak.

My voice will reach further than the constable’s, clear and strong in spite of the dryness in my throat. Even those who have chosen to remain at home or in their fields, who think themselves better than the rest for not observing my execution, will hear me.

My final prophecy is for all of them.

The words rise like bile in my throat, sour and hot.

“Young and old, listen well –

I bring you all a tale to tell;

From the ash, new life shall rise,

Amidst the sound of anguished cries –

When one gives all,

It shall be done.

The second cycle has begun!”

As soon as the last words spill from my lips, lightning flashes above the town, and a palpable wave of panic washes over the crowd.

The constable is pale, and his voice trembles as he orders the men to place the torches beneath me. They hesitate a moment before moving, awkwardly shoving the torches deep into the meager pile of wood and scraps in the hopes of creating a spark. A few small, flickering flames begin to grow, but they are weak and sputter in the howling wind. The crowd grows restless, unsure of what to do.

They needn’t worry – I will take care of the fire.

The heat beneath my skin has spread along my veins, and the gathered throng cries out in terror as an unearthly glow begins to overtake me, cutting through the gloom.

I have little control over it, but I use what energy I have left to focus the heat on the ropes tying me down. With a hiss, they burn and fall away, allowing me to raise my arms. A streak of lightning reaches down to me, connecting to my fingers, but I do not flinch.

I have never felt so powerful.

See how they run from what they cannot control.

I smile. “What shall we do with them?”

Leave them to their fear. They are of little consequence now.

“And what of my fate, my Goddess?”

Worry not, young priestess. A new era of magic begins with you, and from you it shall continue to grow. Are you prepared to take your place?

A rush of euphoria races through me and I almost fall to my knees.

“Yes. Please, O gracious Goddess, use me as you will!”

No sooner have I spoken than the heat within me grows white-hot and overwhelming. For the first time since this all began, sparks of pain shoot through me. My skin feels far too tight, tingling and itchy, but I cannot move – my joints are locked in place, my arms stretched above me.

Just as panic begins to overtake me, I feel myself rise through the top of my head, until at last I am detached, looking down at my body that now begins to change. Bones snap and joints pop as my body grows taller, towering over the people, the pyre, and then the forest itself.

Tawny skin shreds like cloth and falls away, revealing rough brown bark streaked with blood. Branches sprout from my uplifted arms, already budding for the spring. It’s beautifully gory, watching a tree grow from one’s own body. I am relieved that I am no longer connected to it.

The new tree maintains some semblance of a human shape; I can make out the curves of my body within the hulking mass of wood. Part of me lives within it, and shall remain for as long as it stands. Outside of myself, the goddess's power has drained away. But I am not afraid. I embrace the quiet peace of the void.