Post by Haine on Dec 17, 2009 12:58:19 GMT -5
Fed up with "made you look"
and dirty crooks without a clue
They all wear the same face
and it says, "Hangman I'm on to you."
Black. All he could see was black. His head was throbbing rhythmically in time with the bangs on the door; slowly becoming more persistent and louder as the minutes passed. The man rolled over in his bed, desperately trying to block out the sound and continue to cling to the theory that the person on the other side of the door would soon get bored and leave, something that a quarter of an hour had so far proved to be highly unlikely.
Whatever it was surely couldn’t be that important.
He turned over again, longing to return back to the land of sleep, only to find the other side of the bed empty. Huh. That was strange. Extending a stiff hand, his long fingers ran over the smooth material of the bed sheet. Cold.
“Anatole,” the muffled voice came from outside impatiently, seeming to have finally gotten tired of knocking to no avail. Anatole made no sound or any intention to move from the dark room, nor any hint that he was actually there.
“I know you’re there Anatole, now come on. I’ve got something that you need to see.” Resigned, Anatole forced himself off the bed, across the room and into the threshold. With a yawn he pulled open the door and stared blankly at the man, waiting expectantly for a reasonable explanation.
“Well, Byron?”
“Well what?” Byron replied slightly nervously.
“I assumed that you had a perfectly good reason for having to show me something in the middle of the night.”
“Ah, yes-“
Anatole cut across him.
“Because surely it can’t wait until morning, God forbid!” he continued his voice dripping in sarcasm.
“Actually, it can’t.”
Before Anatole could respond, Byron was already walking away into the murky night, stopping momentarily to beckon Anatole to follow him.
Slowly and with a feeling of uncertainty Anatole stepped into the darkness and tried to catch up with the disappearing vision of Bryon’s back. Where were they going and what was this all about?
His train of thought was broken as Byron’s voice cut through the silence once more.
“I’m sorry about all of this, Anatole.”
Anatole smiled weakly at his friend’s moonlit silhouette, holding back another yawn.
“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s worth it really…” his sentence trailed off as the silhouette shook his head.
“I’m not so sure,” it said, turning to face him, “yet I guess we’ll just have to see…”
“This is about more than just dragging me out here, isn’t it?”
Byron pretended not to hear and proceeded to walk again.
“We’re here,” he announced a few uncomfortable moments later. Anatole looked around bemused, wondering where exactly ‘here’ was.
It appeared to be a clearing, an area drenched by moonlight surrounded by a near-perfect circle of trees. In the middle of the clearing was a fire; the unusually large pile of wood was the largest source of light in the area, with waves and waves of smoke billowing off it and making the air thick. It was quickly becoming clear that the look-alike pyre was here for more than just keeping warm. The next thing that Anatole noticed was the large crowd of people surrounding the flames. To him they seemed vaguely familiar and upon closer inspection he recognised them as local people from the village. The glow of the blazing fire outlined some of their features, a few people looking at him with the utmost contempt while others with the greatest of sympathy. He swallowed, now deeply perplexed and exceptionally fearful. His stomach churned as anxiety tried to take over him, battling his mind for control of Anatole’s disintegrating rationality. The once steady and piercing eyes now darted around the area, glancing at everything and everyone with deep suspicion. He shook; reason finally succumbing to nerves and the cold was beginning to hack away at his arms and chest.
The only logical thought that the now nervous wreck had was that these people –people he had once considered to be friends and allies- were going to kill him. There was little evidence pointing to this and he knew it, yet what else could it be
A cool hand pressed lightly on his shoulder. Anatole flinched, yet it was only Byron smiling down reassuringly at him.
“No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Anatole was not convinced. “So I’m just here for the hell of it, like the rest of you?” he addressed the group sceptically.
“We just need your help with something-“
“That couldn’t wait until morning.”
A few withering looks were sent in Anatole’s direction as he started to relax a little. Byron once again did not bother to acknowledge that the man had said anything and continued on undisturbed.
“Anatole Amery, what do you know of magic?” he asked clearly and loudly enough for even the furthest back in the clearing to hear.
“Only that it’s the devil’s work and not to be meddled with,” Anatole replied as if on cue.
“And what happens to those who practice such witchcraft?” interrupted one member of the crowd.
"They are punished for going against God by whatever means necessary, usually death.” he answered shortly.
“Do you agree with that?” asked another.
Does it really matter what I think? Anatole thought, yet said what they wanted to hear anyway. “If I did not believe in my words then I would not have said them.”
The crowd beamed at him.
Byron gave a sort of pitiful smile in his direction before cutting through the crowd and out of sight.
“Did you hear that, Witch? Even he is against you. You have abandoned your God and now you must pay your price.” His voice carried across the area, bouncing off trees and echoing in ears.
The previous feeling of confusion and fear returned instantly, having been shed from Anatole only moments ago. Had they just put the life of a young woman who was probably innocent in his hands? And unwittingly had Anatole just thrown that life away?
Gradually Anatole pushed past the people blocking his view to get a proper look at what was going on. Teary eyes, bound and gagged at Byron’s feet was Anatole’s wife.
What had he done?
He bent down, reaching a shaking hand to touch her tear-stained face; still unbelieving that this was really her and that the two were really here. It all seemed so impossible, so dream-like, that none of this could ever be real. Yet it wasn’t a dream, and it never would be a dream. It was a nightmare come to life.
“W-why?” Anatole stammered out, the word slowly tumbling out of his mouth.
“You yourself said that those who practice witchcraft punished for going against God by whatever means necessary, and here’s a witch.”
“Yet why her?!”
“Because. She-is-a-witch.” Byron enunciated slowly, as if Anatole was a small child. The glare and cursing that he received certainly proved otherwise.
“You have no proof!”
“We don’t need proof. The livestock are dying, trading is bad, and if we keep this on, our water could be poisoned too. It’s obviously the work of a witch!”
“But-“
Before Anatole could argue any more, a pair of burly hands had seized him from behind and was dragging him away and through the crowd to the furthest part of the clearing. Anatole kicked, yelled, did everything in his means to try to get free, yet his pleas were met only with more sympathetic smiles and murmurings of ‘I’m sorry Anatole,’, ‘It’s for the best, Anatole,’ and ‘You’ll thank us for this later. You’ll see, Anatole’.
The fire had now been reduced to just smoking embers, his wife now being tied to a stake in the middle of the wood pile. Byron did not seem to have any feelings of remorse or pity as he threw fresh wood and straw onto the pyre, which he then lit. The smoke started billowing once again, now accompanied with the screams of the tortured woman.
They did not cease until the last bit of life had been drained from her, and there was nothing left aside from the charred remains and some shining melted metal from a simple necklace.
Still held back, Anatole had watched the whole thing; finding himself unable to bring himself to tear away his gaze, no matter how much he wanted to. It still seemed to impossible, yet the deed had most certainly been done. The throng seemed very satisfied, now disassembling themselves and walking away in groups of twos and threes. The person holding him back eventually let go and also left.
Anatole just stood there, unable to move, unable to speak. His mind was just playing the scene over and over again.
Little did they know that the real witch was the crushed husband, mourning with the glowing flames.
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I actually wrote this for my English coursework, and it turned out pretty damn well, even if I do now have a deep hatred for this story.
Critique is most certainly welcome.
:]
