The Witch of Wildfire
Setting Cabins, Camps, and Centuries Alight
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. She lurked, transfixed, witnessing the flame flicker to life. It began tentative, a wavering toddler, unsure of itself. And then it blossomed larger than the waxy cylinder, larger than the iron base… larger than the weathered casement window she was watching.
Her nude feet sank heavy into the mud, moss-kissed ankles bony and protruding. Everything about her was bony and protruding. Hair a mat atop her head, a wild mane of tangled, black silk. Fern blades peeked through the tendrils, coiling away from the heat of her face.
The girl’s skin was orange. It sizzled in the sprinkling rain, steaming with heat as if magma flowed through her spindly veins. Those veins crawled down her throat, arcing her skin as scars, retreating underneath the veil of a tattered gown. The cloth was ripped, scorched, mud-caked, moth-eaten - just as she, herself, appeared.
Her neck snapped to the side when the fire leapt to the curtains. She was focused. Enamored. Flames reflected in her golden eyes, hinting at her true nature. Perhaps the eyes truly are the windows to the soul, as the casement window tiredly framed the downfall of this cabin, revealing its faulty construction and cruel purpose.
The hunters had left. The season was over. Game had dried up in the sun, crunching into dust and then nothing. The forest crackled. Leaves underfoot taunted her with their warm colors. Not yet. The vibrancy of ochre, carmine, and sun would wilt into umbers and sepias. Just as the fire in the cabin would eventually disperse into deep brown scorches and blackened soot. The particles would seep into the soil. And then nothing.
The thought made the witch smile. It was a wicked sort of grimace, curling her wry lips into a jack o'lantern grin. A bed of ash better suited the forest.
Her bare feet caught fire as she blazed into the cabin, tumbling through the blown out window. Rifle shells tripped her toes, beer cans and cigarette butts littered the glowing room. Flames painted the walls, roiling waves of heat like falling wallpaper. A coarse elk hide slumped on the floor, sweeps of dirt across its fur had wiped away dignity from weak men.
She gingerly stepped onto its back, her soles digging into the warmth. Another window burst from the heat.
She began to dance.
The crackling pops of old cedar beat drums, the roaring of the smokey air whistling woodwind. Tinks of rain splattering on the tin roof, highlights of chimes. Her heartbeat echoed in percussive pulses. The music was twisted and wild. It played solely in her own mind. Providing a natural, chaotic rhythm to her stomping feet and flailing arms. Her hair lifted and flew in her twirling, licking the flames and setting her whole head alight. A false halo.
Lightning struck. The flash of light and the intense rumbling crack simultaneous. The witch dismounted the hide, and it rose from the floor. Thick braids of smoke funneled beneath the fur, fleshing out belly and neck and limb. Ash and fire crawled throughout, lighting the empty sockets of its eyes and fueling energy into its legs. The elk breathed.
Timber framing fell from the ceiling, splitting handmade furniture on impact. The witch and her pet danced through what remained of the cabin - melting walls and peeling memories. Their thunderous, musical feet stamped sparking ash in wake, embers glowing beautiful in the rubble.
The devilish pair twirled in wicked dance until the last pop and fizz of the fire. Her feet were now black, the moss had been burned away, the ferns in her hair had disintegrated. Toeing the ash, she battled guilt with pride - she had ravaged the cabin, but lost the greener parts of herself. She was rooted just as deeply in these dark soils as the redwoods that stood witness to her heroinism; she would return to them, and she would rise from them.
A howling squeal sent the witch reeling toward her pet - the fire had died out, and so now would the elk which had breathed it. The beast collapsed to the soot, heaving and wailing. Its smokey limbs twisted in broken knots, its spine shattering beneath the weight of the pelt.
The witch wept acid, clutching her elk in desperate claws. Tears melted her orange skin, the magmatic blood rising and pouring out. Final bellows of the animal crept through the forest that surrounded their ashen grave. Her elk died once again in agony, and through her guilt of toying with its corpse, the witch too, died in agony.
They dissolved, a final shifting of the sediment. The cabin, the fire, the elk, the girl - all had gone, and the trees grew deaf in the silence.
Yet fires only need one spark to reanimate.
About the Creator
Jenna Sedi
What I lack in serotonin I more than make up for in self-deprecating humor.
Zoo designer who's eyeballs need a hobby unrelated to computer work... so she writes on her laptop.
Passionate about conservation and sustainability.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Comments (1)
Great work, very descriptive