Lorrieann’s World

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“Burn the witch, burn the witch!”

The chanting echoed like wardrums against his scull as William was led past the crowd. He bit down against the bridle and closed his eyes, willing himself not to hear the jeers and catcalls made by people he once considered friends, hoping instead to hear the voice of his lost brother. Are you still with me?

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

Sean? Where are you? No answer found him. He looked at the faces in the crowd and in his half delirium, saw them stretched and distorted, hideously disfigured and scarred, just as they had always appeared in his dragon dreams. My God, Sean, please don’t leave me alone now.

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

No! This isn’t real. It’s a dream. Right? It’s always only been a dream before. He had thought he had prepared himself for the procession to the meetinghouse, but his last shred of hope left him when he saw the structure that was readied for him. It’s a dream. It’s not real. God, it can’t be real. I can change it. He closed his eyes, willing the crowd to vanish as he had done so many times in his nightmares. He opened his eyes, hoping to see them gone; instead he was confronted by more gleeful, ugly faces who seemed to take delight in calling his attention to the piles of kindling and peat that surrounded the platform and stake.

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

I shall not have to face it. Ian promised . . .  Laurel promised, I shall not have to face it . . .  Blessed Mother and Father, please . . .  I meant no harm . . .  He closed his eyes against the sight and turned his head the other way as far as the collar would allow. When he opened his eyes again, the face he saw was Edward’s. Father! It’s not too late.
Please . . .  you can stop it. Speak up, Father . . .  He tried to speak through the bridle but found it impossible to make more than a muffled moan. He looked at Edward, pleading with his eyes for Edward to say something to him.

But Edward stood in his typical silence, offering no words of encouragement nor comfort. William would even welcome words of anger—anything, would be better than the stoic silence Edward maintained. Could it be that he still did not believe what was happening? He said he believed his eyes; can he not see me? He knew his wounds were mostly concealed beneath his clothing but, still, could Edward not see the gash on his face or the bridle? Was this confounded cart not enough? He closed his eyes against Edward’s silence while the hunters pulled him through the meetinghouse doors. Father, why must you still remain silent?