Sharpe Tongue

“Keep thee mouth shut,” That’s what she had said. “That sharp tongue will get thee into trouble.”
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and try to breathe slowly. How I wish I had listened to her for once. My mother’s face floats into my vision, taunting me.
A pleasant aroma of burning wood drifts up to my nostrils in a grey curl and then out into the night. The crowd is jeering and laughing.
Then comes the heat.
I look down at the crackling orange glow. Small flames lick around the logs, gently reaching toward my naked feet. It is a cold night and the warmth feels pleasant, as though I were sitting by the fire grate, legs stretched before me, warming my toes as I had done as a child. But then the flames leap higher, scorching the soles of my feet. My instinct is to flinch and pull away. I try to kick, twisting this way and that against the ropes that bind me to the pole, turning, squirming, trying to get away.
The hem of my dress catches fire in a sizzle. It burns fast. The pain, the heat. I hear a scream. I look around at the cruel faces. But the sound is coming from me.
My skin begins to crack and peel. Pain sears through my entire body, even my eyes. I begin to cough, choking on the smoke, and unbearable pain.
“Tell him you’re sorry.” Her hand had prodded into my back. “Tell him!” My mother’s words crash into my ears as I recall the moment I was done for. I had hung my head and made my apology, but it had not been enough for him. The Witchfinder General wanted a witch, and it was to be me.
I had always had a waspish tongue and could never hold it. But my words were deserved. The preacher had touched my friend in a way that no man but her husband should. She had run away, but I would have none of it. I had had enough. He had done it to me when I was younger and he was not going to get away with it again. I had marched into the chapel just before evensong and called him a letch. The congregation had gasped, and he bellowed that I was out of my mind. I put my hands on my hips and said it again.
‘She’s an evil little witch,’ someone behind me cried. In less than a heartbeat a pair of arms had grappled me, dragging me into the vestry. Before I knew it, I was chained in a cell and the Witchfinder was brought to town.
The stench of my hair is the worst. It grips my throat as it frazzles around my burning scalp.
Then the pain stops, as though my body can take no more and just ceases feeling. The laughing and jeering stop. I look out at the stone-silent crowd. The last thing I see is the tiny glowing embers of my burning body glinting over their heads.

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