Joan of the Stake.
Chiamaka Eze@chiamakaeze425179
11 months ago
“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
The background bellows hypnotise me into a daze as I am dragged along by a twine tightly wound around me, its thorns prick my skin letting fresh blood dye my smock.
The smock draped over my body does little to prevent the cold of the night from seeping into me and stinging my core.
My bare feet register the smooth, cool terrain and the occasional pierce of stones.
In the distance, I see the waver of burning torches and immediately snap out of my daze.
I look around and am welcomed by stone-hard faces of people I used to know, mindlessly chanting in the same tone of voice.
Some wield burning torches, its flames shadow their faces once blown around by the wind. Others brandish garden forks, logs, even canes and in the middle of the chaos, I'm enshrouded in a ball of ignorance.
I catch sight of Helen at my side, the sweet town's baker, and I give out a sigh of relief. She's always loved me — giving me free loaves of warm banana bread whenever she catches the sight of sweat on my forehead — what's some information she would not share.
“Helen!” I call out but she's mindlessly chanting away, not sparing me a glance.
“Helen! Helen!” She looks at me this time, lips moving. “What is happening?” I ask.
For a brief moment I catch her eyes waver with emotion and glisten then she stops chanting along.
“Helen,” I begin, “please tell me what is —”
Blood rush to my face as I feel myself fall face first on the terrain from an abrupt pull of the twine wound around me, immediately interrupting my plea.
Tears trail down my face as the thorns pierce further into my skin with warm blood trickling down my face from the different holes pricked by stones from my fall.
I lie unmoving letting the tears mingle with my blood.
Just as sobs begin to escape my mouth I feel two palms, noticeably calloused through the sleeves of my smock, wrap around my biceps, lifting me off the ground and moving me forward like I weigh nothing.
I float through a sea of chanting bodies with the help of the strong hands, trying to recognise faces in my blurred vision.
I blink once, bracing myself for the faces I'd get to see, but all I see are blurry faces.
I exhale deeply and blink repetitively, shaking my head as I do so and letting my tears and blood flow minglingly down.
“Stop!” a screech make its way to the front and I feel myself getting lowered to the ground.
My knees feel like jam under my weight as I wobble and fall, straining my neck upwards to prevent my face from hitting stones this time.
I open my eyes and am immediately met with sandalled feet. I trace the figure upwards but its face is shadowed by the dancing flames of the torches overhead.
I am pulled up and held upwards opportuned to properly see the face.
My younger sister, Meredith, is in front, her eyes bloodshot and face glossy with sweat and tears.
“Oh, Meredith! Thank goodness.” I exhale.
“Joan is not a witch! She's my sister! I would surely know better!” Meredith scream, her chest heaving noticeably.
“Yes … Yes, I am not a witch,” I stutter, drawing courage from Meredith's audacity.
The crowd is still now, attentive, listening. My heartbeats even out with the thought of me having a chance to prove my innocence.
“You are mistaken. All of this is a misunderstanding,” I say, my voice shaky, while I make an effort to face the crowd.
“Yes! She is not a witch,” Meredith echo my claims.
“I promise, I can do anything to prove —”
“The devil will do anything to get itself out of punishment,” a voice — calm, deep, commanding — drift towards me with the wind, cutting me short, “even if it means by manipulation.”
The Preacher's young, attractive face makes its way to me.
“What?” I ask in confusion to no one in particular as I stare at the smirk on his face, the dangerous glint in his eyes making me shudder.
My mind races to when this very face used to have on its relaxed, airy charm. The easy smile that lit up his face and infected everyone else was no where in sight.
In my mind's eye, I replay the events of the evening he invited me to his bed, his voice soothing as he spelled out praises to me.
How his face had fallen from cheerful to downcast and his smile had cracked as I turned down his offer.
How his hands had left me as if I burned him.
How he had sent me out of his chamber, voice tight like never before.
It all sums up now. The Preacher considered me a threat all along, a threat to his lustful acts.
“We wouldn't want plagues to befall our children and livestock now, would we?” he asks, facing the crowd.
“No!” the crowd chorus and a babble further enshroud us.
“You would agree with me then that it is in fact best to burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”
“Burn the witch!” the crowd chorus his chants and we're in motion again.
Meredith is shoved to the side. She is left screaming my name and claims no one bothers to pay attention to.
The Preacher leads the procession now, his back to me, between two men, one of which pulls me by the twine.
#nirclestories
#fiction
#storywriting
#contentcreation
𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠!
𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑱𝒐𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦.
𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑐𝑒.
𝐹𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑡.
𝐴𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 ...
