WnW 0.1 Memory

It was quiet around the table. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the creaking of chairs. My brother’s pained gasps would sometimes disturb that rhythm, but it elicited no reaction from the diners.

The three nobles sitting at the table all dined at different speeds.

The fastest of them was Viscount Markley. He leaned heavily over his plate and would stab a piece of meat and bring it to his still-chewing mouth, slipping it in amongst the half-eaten mash, like a churning mill. Sweat gleamed on his brow from the task and the evening light from the windows made him squint until he looked very much like a pig. The light did wonders for his clothes however, bringing out shades of brilliant yellow like the sun had fallen from the sky to alight on the Viscount’s shirt. It was a wonderful colour worn by a horrible man.

Given nothing else to do but kneel on the cold stone floor in my restraints, my eyes wandered to the next colourful individual. The Viscountess picked daintily at her food, showing restraint that was matched by her rigid posture. She wore a pale blue gown and through the slashes in it, I could see the vibrant deep blue of her kirtle underneath. What a wonderful colour, like the sea, I thought. My father called it Loyal Blue. I shivered, burdened with the knowledge that depending on how this evening went, I may never see him again.

As for the last person sitting at the table, I did not recognize him. I knew he was rich, as black dyes were expensive, and his coat was black as night with fur-lined sleeves. It matched his wavy hair. Like all nobles, his hair was not greasy and it flowed along his shoulders. The man wasn’t eating. His eyes roamed the room restlessly and I quickly looked down before our eyes could meet.

The Inquisitor standing next to me cleared his throat and spoke, “My lords, I must ask that we address why you de-” The Inquisitor flinched at his own words and corrected himself, “requested that I bring the accused to you.”

The man was practically shaking in fear. He clearly had not intended to meet the Lord of Kensmire today. The Viscount glanced at my brother and I, kneeling and bound, a few arm-lengths away from the table. He said nothing and continued to chew.

The black-haired man spoke, “The boy is clearly in pain, Inquisitor. Was this your doing?” He spoke with an accent that was too slight to place. It made his words softer, with less strength in the hard consonants, but it made him sound graceful.

The Inquisitor responded, “A result of his transformation I suspect, a retributive pain for turning away from the eyes of God.”

My anger lunged out from a deep part of me and I tensed every muscle in order  to remain still and silent. Lies. He had cut my brother’s shoulder with his blade. Blood stained James’ clothes. He panted softly, hands shoved between his legs, eyes squeezed shut. I had seen what had happened to his fingers. It was hard to argue this wasn’t the Devil’s work.

The black-haired man turned to me. His gaze roamed my body and I shivered.

He spoke again, “Who is this girl?”

The Viscount replied, “His sister. It’s a shame she is not as talented as her brother.” He patted his greasy mouth ineffectually with a napkin and wrinkled his nose. “I can smell the dyeing vats from here.”

The strange man had yet to look away from me, eyes wide and ravenous, like they could consume me. “Does she sing?” he asked.

“My lords,” the Inquisitor cut in quickly, “she is a witch. We cannot allow her to speak, lest she endanger you all.”

The man’s lips curved slightly at the corners, a mocking smile. “I must confess, I’m having difficulty thinking of either commoner as a threat.”

The Viscount made a small sound, “Hmph. My subordinates have already confirmed that this is a clear act of maleficium. You saw the boy yesterday, Marquess, he was untouched and healthy. The girl must have cursed him never to play again.”

My brother spasmed and for a moment I glimpsed his hands. His fingers moved like centipedes, never still, with too many segments.

“I remember it clearly, how could one forget such a beautiful performance? The boy has a gift,” the Marquess responded. He wasn’t looking at my brother as he spoke. His gaze remained fixed on me. As I held his look, my anger bubbled up once more and I grit my teeth. If only… If only the people I had once called friends hadn’t told the Inquisitor about my brother’s transformation. Life could have continued on. They had done so with such readiness I couldn’t help but wonder… had they been waiting for an opportunity?

The Viscount took a noisy gulp from his cup. He looked more unhappy as this conversation went on. “He had a gift. Rare in the common class. He could play it all with those fingers; organ, harpsichord, piano. I’m sad I will never experience music like his again.”

The Marquess sounded exasperated, “Perhaps he still could. Shall we bring the piano closer? We could judge for ourselves if his talent has been tarnished.”

The Inquisitor was alarmed and his frustration bled into his voice, “My lord! We do not know the extent of this dark magick. I will not allow this beast to move freely. The Church will-” The Inquisitor faltered as the Marquess picked up a knife from his plate.

The room grew quiet. The Viscount stopped chewing and both him and the Viscountess watched the Marquess toy with the knife, testing its edge with his finger. The man’s eyes were too wide, a little too much white showing. He spoke in low and quiet tones. It would have been comforting if not for the anger that bubbled in the Marquess’ smooth voice.

“Inquisitor, I am well familiar with the threats to Christendom. To presume to speak for the Church is foolish. Who do you think drove back the infidels from our borders countless times in the name of God? When you were still being trained to fight the Devil’s temptations, who do you think the Church relied on? Do not think that your voice has the same weight with the Church as mine, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor stuttered, but could not form a word.

I wanted so desperately for the Marquess to act. To fling that knife at the Inquisitor, and I would watch it bury itself into his heart. Once again, the Marquess looked to me. The curve of that mocking smile returned and this time, it was meant for me.

The Viscount spoke, “Marquess Wright, this is the most clear form of maleficium I have ever seen. We must execute them both, lest this sin corrupt more of the common folk.”

Marquess Wright’s gaze slid back to the Viscount. He had yet to put the knife down. After a pause, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You have been an excellent host, Markley, do as you wish.”

The Viscount straightened his back. “Take them away,” he ordered coldly. “They will be executed tomorrow in the town square.”

My insides felt like they were sinking into the floor. As a child, I had seen a witch burned at the stake. It had imprinted itself so clearly in my memory. The flames eating away at her legs. Her cries of injustice. Her screams echoed in my head, bouncing around, building strength instead of dying out, flaring with the fire inside me until the scream became my scream and burst out of my throat, “This is not right!”

The Viscount looked offended and the Viscountess had a pained expression on her face which only incited me further.

“We don’t deserve this!” The words were raw. “My brother doesn’t deserve this!”

I continued to scream as my brother and I were dragged away. The nobles returned to their meal, appetites unbothered.

My cries bounced around the empty castle, not finding a single ear caring enough to listen.

We were thrown into separate cells. I staggered as I was shoved inside, my legs weak from hunger. But anger drove me back to the bars, where I came face to face with a man with a somber expression and cheeks reddened from drink.

“I know you,” I said, dumbfounded.

The jailer averted his gaze as he finished locking the door.

“You’re Winthrop. You drink with my father.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You are! I recognize you. You know me! My name is Cecily. Look at me, Winthrop.” I pleaded desperately.

He kept his eyes on the floor as he chewed on his lip. Finally, he looked up, fists clenched, jaw locked. “I don’t know you, witch. You’ll be burning in hell by tomorrow morning.”

I said nothing as he walked away. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes and suddenly the people, the community I thought I had been accepted by, all of it was nothing but dirt.

My anger simmered, mixing and roiling like the fabrics turned in my father’s dyeing vats. The cell door looked old. Countless spots of rust speckled the metal. I examined it closely for weakness, for a spot where the reddish-brown corrosion was most concentrated. The colour again made me think of my father’s dyes.

My heart ached. “Angry ochre,” I murmured. I didn’t want to die. But that fear was deep in the back of my mind. At the front was rage. It was that witch, her voice was mine, burning, screaming, gnashing in rage. My fingers curled around the bars. My muscles strained. I poured my anger into that ochre metal. And just when I thought I felt it give a little, I heard footsteps approaching my cell.

I stopped my attempt and sat back down on the damp cell floor. There was nothing more to say to my drunken jailer.

A tall black figure in a sweeping coat stopped in front of the bars. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the Marquess, gazing back at me. I lunged for him like a madman, arms stretching past the cell bars. My fingernails just barely scratched at his nose.

The Marquess’ eyes were unnaturally wide, drinking in my misery. His mouth was parted, like he was about to say something, but he just stared. There was no good reason to stay quiet. How could I be killed worse?

My voice was rough from screaming. “I curse you, Marquess Wright.” I uttered, finger pointed at him. “I curse you to suffer from rotting flesh while you still live. I curse you to cry out in pain as your skin sloughs off leaving raw meat in its place.”

The Marquess began laughing. A short barking laugh that made me think of crows. My mind was writhing, my hatred for this man squirmed and twisted in my head.

“I curse your descendants,” I continued. “They will always smell your dead flesh and hear your screams as you tried to relieve yourself from the pain.”

The Marquess’ laughter slowly faded into a chuckle. He grinned and said in his fluid voice, “Cecily, my dear.” I shuddered to hear him say my name. “You are no witch.”

I wanted so badly to hurt him, or if that wasn’t possible, just to scare him. To make him feel even a fraction of what I felt would be enough. Enough to make me believe that the world had a little justice in it.

I grinned and tried to look sinister. “You saw what I did to my brother. And he was merely a passing thought. I could breed maggots into your eyes. I could give you a pig’s snout, Marquess. I could make you wish for a disfigurement like my brother’s.”

The Marquess locked eyes with me and I was transfixed. His eyes were black like the rest of him, devoid of any humanity. He spoke very slowly, his voice felt like suffocating water. “No. You didn’t do that to your brother. I did.”

I stared at him. What did he just say?

My body felt strange. It rumbled, yet the sensation wasn’t limited to my stomach. This was not hunger, it was something alien.

I could no longer see anything but the Marquess’ remorseless eyes. His blackness seemed to have darkened my sight into a tunnel.

“You are right, of course. I could do the things you said you would do to me. But I would much rather have a wolf than a pig.”

My skin was moving. Strange muscles pressed up against it. None of it hurt. The only thing I could feel was anger. Anger too hot to be touched, it branded my mind. I realized that I had not known rage before this. Those other feelings were ghosts, mere tastes of the true thing. I let out my voice and what came out was a roar unrecognizable as my own. My limbs were swelling in size. My hair moved like a living thing.

The Marquess’ eyes were wrapped in flame, imprinted onto my mind. I pried the bars and found that they bent like frail reeds under my strength. I swatted aside the remainder and stepped out into the hallway. I felt good. I felt powerful.

Then my eyes laid on the man. He looked back at me, pale and terrified. A bottle of alcohol lay abandoned on the floor.

I didn’t remember his name. I only remembered the callous hurt he had inflicted upon me. Claws I didn’t remember having tore through his midsection. His body gave way like paper and his blood spilled onto the floor.

That brief cathartic action gave way to more rage, unsated.

“Kill them all. Save your brother,” the Marquess whispered in my ear.

He was right. The people of Kensmire had been the ones to bring the Inquisition to our doorstep. I would make them hurt. I would rip into them until there was nothing left.