by Crissy Moss
I guess I now understood why he had been so harsh with me. I couldn’t blame him.
My steps slowed as I thought about it. I would have to face him again, be berated and feel his loathing. Would he cast me out?
“Hey, Sybel! Wait up!”
I turned, realizing I had been so lost in thought I walked right past James without seeing him. His face had the smut from the forge still embedded on him, and his overalls had pockmarks from metal drippings. I’d walked right past the blacksmith shop where his father taught him the trade without noticing him walking right toward me.
“Hello, James. Sorry, I have to head home.”
“I know, your pa stopped into the inn last night looking for you. He told everyone about your ma. Everyone's there to make the funeral pyre and lay her to rest properly.”
The funeral pyre. A sudden burst of fresh shame hit me. I should have been the one helping my father to care for my mother's final moments, to send her back to the aether from which all of us were born. If they were already there, then the town meant to do so without me. As they should. It was my own fault for running off in the night, no matter the circumstances.
“You okay?”
“No, of course I’m not,” I said.
“Oh of course not,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
I turned back down the road, heading past the general store. A small cart sat next to the sidewalk, baring fresh flowers—yellow daisies, blue columbines, and mountain lilies. A copper piece for a dozen. I patted my side, but my purse wasn’t in its usual spot. Not surprising with how quickly I’d run off.
“I don’t have anything to offer,” I whispered.
James looked up, concerned. Had I been thinking of it, I could have gathered flowers on the walk back from Winifrey’s. Tradition said that all the close family and friends should lay gifts on the pyre to send the loved one off with, but I had nothing to give.
“Here, I’ll get you a dozen to place on the pyre,” James said, digging in a pocket. He held out a copper coin, bent and dirty with age.
“I can’t take that from you,” I said. “You earned that. I’ll just go gather some from the field on my way home.”
“No, I want to do this. Your mother was always there to lend a hand when we needed it. We’re all going to miss her. Please,” he said, holding out the coin.
I smiled shyly at him. I’d always had a soft spot for James. He was quiet and dedicated to the craft his father taught him. Bigger than most boys his age, he seemed awkward and unwieldy. Until you put a hammer in his hand. Once he had a bar of metal and a flame, he could create useful and beautiful items. His father once mentioned sending him down to train with the swordsmith on the coast, where he could become a wealthy man, but James liked the quiet life of the village and was content to fix old pots and sell the occasional piece to the traders.
I took the coin, a spark shocking my fingertips as I touched the metal. We both looked up in astonishment at the pinpricks, but neither of us said a word.
I turned away, almost reluctantly, and bought my mother six daisies and six purple asters. How better to remember her than with the flowers she loved the most?
“Thank you, James. I’m glad I didn’t have to go in empty-handed.”
“Sybel,” he said then paused, his eyes unable to meet mine.
“Yes?” I asked, prodding him.
“Where were you last night? Your pa…he was worried sick when you didn’t come home.”
“Was he? I wonder if that’s really true. He seems to hate me at the moment.”
“That’s the sadness, Sybel. Give him time. He loved your mother more than anything, and now she’s gone.”
“I loved my mother more than anything, too. He isn’t the only one that lost her. Just because I’m a bastard—”
I smack my hands to my mouth, but it was too late. The words were out before I could stop myself. I couldn’t take them back, now. I looked up at him, tears filling my eyes.
“A...bastard? What are you talking about, Sybel.”
“He said...he said I wasn’t his daughter. He said Mother was off with another man, and that’s how I came about.”
“No, stop,” he said, reaching out. He pulled me into a hug, letting me nestle my face into his neck as my tears stained his shoulder. “It’s okay, Sybel. It’s not your fault. Whatever happened between your parents, that’s not your fault.”
“He blames me, though. I didn’t even know until last night, but he’s always blamed me. Always treated me like I was a problem that he couldn’t solve.”
“Then that’s his issue, not yours. You deserve better than that.”
And that was the power James had. In just a few short moments, James had managed to make me feel much better about the situation. I wasn’t sure what I would find once I got back home, but if James was willing to overlook my parentage then it was likely others would as well. He always knew how to say the right thing at the right time.
I pulled back, shyly smiling up at him. “Thank you, I needed an understanding ear.”
James took a step closer and leaned down before I could react, his lips pressing up against mine. I blinked, unsure what to do or say. I’d never been kissed before. A warmth spread through me, a spark of hope that was growing with each second I spent with James.
“Let me walk you back to your home,” James said. “Everyone else is already there, preparing. I was only looking for you.”
“Well, you found me,” I said, my voice coming out a whisper. “We should go then.”
We fell in step beside each other, making our way back to my father's house.
I turned back toward home and walked with a lighter step, the sadness that had been engulfing me starting to lift.
Funeral
I could hear the shuffling of feet and the rasp of wood as I drew near to my father's home. With James beside me, I was able to walk in with more confidence than I had been feeling just moments before. Still, a nagging part of me kept whispering that I shouldn’t be there. I wasn’t wanted.
She was my mother. I couldn’t just leave without saying my goodbyes, could I?
There were about twenty people gathered around a great pyre of hardwoods. A few of them were putting the final pieces into place. My father was at the edge of the clearing, conferring with a couple of the older men.
One of them caught sight of me and looked up, nodding to my father. He turned, and I saw his eyes narrow when he caught sight of me.
“It’s about time you showed up, girl,” my father said as I got closer. “You should have been helping to build the pyre. Instead, you left me to do it on my own.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. What more could I say? He was right; I left at a terrible time. Of course, he probably didn’t tell anyone why I left, either, but that was beside the point.
I could feel the heat of accusing eyes from the crowd staring in my direction, but no one else dared to say anything. This was between father and daughter. A few of them looked at me with pity, and I almost preferred the accusations to the pity. At least I knew the accusations to come from lies, but the pity was justified.
“We’re ready,” one of the men said. Franklin. I remember seeing him at the markets when my mother took me to get fresh meats. He had always been kind to us.
My father turned away from me, the disgust still plain on his face but unwilling to make a scene in front of his friends and neighbors.
Six men went into the house, including Franklin and my father. The rest of us waited beside the pyre. I sidled closer to James, wanting that silent comfort beside me.
The six men came out again with my father in the lead. They had a wooden platform held between them, and my mother had been laid out atop it. A shroud of fine linen had been laid over her, the soft cream colors in bright contrast against the red wooden planking of the platform.
Everyone watched in silence as they walked toward the pyre, my mother
’s weight no more than a leaf on the wind between them. She looked so small beneath the shroud, her wasted body shriveled to a mere husk.
They lifted the platform onto the pyre and settled it into place, awaiting the flame to come shortly.
The others gathered around in silence, slowly adding their tokens to the pyre. Fresh baked cakes, flowers, a worn doll, newly knitted stockings. Things that meant something to the bearer of the gift and to the one they gave the gift to. A way to honor the memories the living held for the dead—and a sign of letting go.
I stepped forward with my bouquet of flowers. I could remember all the times I brought flowers from the field to brighten my mother’s room, or collecting flower crowns with her before she was too sick to go outside. We collected chamomile for teas and daisies to braid into our hair. So many flowers, plucked at the time of their youth by my mother and me. And just like those countless flowers, my mother, too, had succumbed in the bloom of her own youth.
I laid the bouquet across her chest, allowing the blooms to spread out like rain across the shroud.
I couldn’t help glancing over at my father. He stared back with hate-filled eyes. I tried to let it go, to see things from his point of view, but I couldn’t stop the feeling of utter despair welling up inside my breast.
I stepped back beside James. The village elder stepped forward to offer a few words about life, death, and the endless connections of one heart to another.
“We each leave our mark on this world,” he said. “Some in our offspring, others by the goodness we pass on to others. A life we saved or a kind word we passed on. Each moment is a place in time that affects each person we met along our journey.”
I didn’t listen to the rest. I was too busy filling in the opposite side of his speech. Each hurtful word left the same sort of mark. Each death. Each life scared by injustice. One heart linked to another in an endless dance of pain and suffering.
My mother had been a bright light in the darkness, a shoulder to cry on, and a dear friend to those who knew her. I hoped that part of her legacy would live on long after I, the bastard that was the black blight on her soul, had gone.
They brought a torch forward and gave it to my father to light the pyre. Eyes turned to me, expecting him to offer to have me help him light it as a sign of us standing together in this unfortunate time. He did not even turn to look at me.
The fire caught the dry tinder laced through the pyre, sparking and growing as it hungrily gobbled it up. In only seconds, the entire pyre was filled with red flames hungrily licking at the shroud around my mother’s slight figure.
My father began to moan as the shroud charred. He fell to his knees, rocking back and forth, his eyes filling with tears. No one dared to go near him or offer him comfort in his grief—whether it was because his grief was so personal or if they were afraid of his volatile nature, I’m not sure, but I couldn’t stand by.
The shroud shriveled up, a line of fire rising around my mother's body, consuming her, and a moan emerged from my father's throat. A sound of such pain that I had to step forward, had to reach out and give him what little comfort I could give.
He turned his eyes up to me, the hatred burning a hole into me.
“Don’t you touch me, you insufferable bastard!” he screamed, ripping his shoulder out from under my hand.
There were gasps around the clearing, and many of those present took an involuntary step back from him, including me. My hand shot to my mouth, which had dropped open in surprise.
“I-I…” I stammered.
“You?”
He leaped to his feet, head and shoulders taller than me and spitting with rage. I shivered in his shadow, trying desperately to appear as meek and quiet as I possibly could in the wake of his fury.
“I don’t care what you were doing; stop it. Don’t touch me, don’t come near me, don’t breathe in my direction.”
“I just wanted to help you,” I said, the tears freely rolling down my face now.
“You’re a bastard! Nothing but a filthy bastard, and I’ll not have it, you hear me?”
“Tane, calm down,” one of the women said, trying to step in between us. “Everything will be okay, just come inside and get some sleep. I’m sure we can deal with Sybel in the morning.”
“Deal with her? Deal with her?” he screamed, his voice getting louder and louder. “All of you are trapped by that pretty face and eyes. It’s a lie! All of it’s a lie! The man that made her seduced my wife away from me, then infected her with that wasting disease. It’s her fault! Her and that blasted father, wherever he is. They sucked the life out of Ausan so that his bastard could live!”
Mouths went slack around the fire, everyone staring at him in shock. Infidelity they could live with—and a bastard child—but he was blaming her death on me. Laying it at my feet.
Was it my fault? I wondered as I looked at the burning pyre.
I tried brushing away the tears, but more just fell, streaking down my face. At least I had my wits about me this time, and James stood not far away offering me his silent confidence with an encouraging smile.
“It wasn’t me,” I said to the man that once was my father. “I didn’t do this to her. Whatever you think, it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t have done anything to hurt my mother. I loved her.”
Addled or not, he moved too fast, and they couldn’t stop him when he ran at me, hands outstretched.
“You lying bitch!” he screamed, his hands smacking me full force in the chest.
I fell backward into the pyre. Flames rose around me, and I screamed as it hungry licked at my clothing.
I screamed in fear and anger and hatred, my mind shattered into a thousand directions as the fire spread across my body, searing the clothes from my flesh.
And yet I did not burn.
The scream died on my lips as I realized I felt no pain. I held my arms up in front of me, letting the charred cloth fall away and examining my hands. Nothing but soot and smudges from the burned clothing. And though I felt the heat from the flames, it did not hurt me.
“How can that be?” I heard someone say.
I looked out at them, the flames flickering between us, then back down at my body. The dress was charred, but it seemed whatever charm had saved me was saving what was left of my dress, as well. Shorter now, with great holes throughout and the sleeves gone, it still covered most of me.
But there was something else, something deeper than the heat and the flame. As I looked down at the flickering light, I felt a hunger deep within me. Something primal growing as though I had been starving all my life and only now realized it. I wanted to suck down the flames, fill myself up with them, and become a part of them.
Without even thinking, I wrapped my hand around the glowing stump of a burning timber, and the heat warmed my skin but did not burn away flesh. I held the flames up to my face and sucked in a deep breath. Fire seared down my throat, filling me with warmth. It surged through every pore of my body, suffusing me with energy and light. I could feel the hair on my head standing on end, and flames dancing all around me. Dancing over me and inside of me. The fire was delicious. It burned as I consumed it, quite lovely in its subtle notes of hickory and ash.
Lost in the flames, I didn’t see what was happening in the crowd gathered around. I did not even remember that I stood in the center of my mother’s funeral pyre; I only saw the flames.
Then a sheet of ice hit me, and I screamed, the fire slipping from me.
Hands pulled me out, and I fell to the ground. Dirty and naked, covered in ash and dust quickly turning to mud from the water. I tried to cover myself with something, anything. But it was useless. It didn’t matter. No one was paying attention to charred clothing. They were too busy whispering about the flames. About my unbroken skin.
“She’s a wizard; send her away!’
“Send her to Kemoor; let them have her.”
“We don’t need mages here. We have enough problems without mages causing a ruckus.”<
br />
Their words cut, each of them slashing in hotter than any brand could have.
“James?” I whispered, staring at him with wide eyes, the tears streaking down my face for the second time that morning.
James paused for a moment, his mouth moving as he tried to puzzle through this new circumstance. A bastard daughter of a farmer was one thing, but a magic user?
James closed his mouth tight, his fist clenched at his side, and turned his back to me.
I did not think my heart could shatter more, but I was wrong. There was nothing left. My mother was gone, my father had tried to send me with her, and now even James had turned against me. But this time, the tear in my heart left nothing. The tears dried up, and I was too numb from everything happening to cry any longer. I was beyond tears.
Now that the sadness no longer had a grip on me, I could finally think of the present. The flames. The sweet taste of fire inside me. What had happened in the pyre? I had lost myself in that flame, unsure who, or what, I was.
I got to my feet, looking around at the group of men and women I had known my entire life, now staring at me with fear. Then I turned my back on all of them and ran.
Magic
I ran for some time and found myself at the same pond with the same haggard-looking girl staring up at me from the water. What happened? How did I come out of the flames like that? Why had he pushed me into them in the first place?
All the questions tumbled over inside me, my mind racing from one to another, unable to make sense of any of it. Then one word circled to the surface. Magic. Only magic could explain a woman emerging from a funeral pyre unburned. Only magic could explain why my clothes hadn’t completely burned away from my body.
I held out my hand, examining the singed edges of my dress. Little bits of soot had lodged around the fine lines of my hand, but not a hair had been singed. My nails were unmarred. Skin free from blisters or redness. And somewhere I remembered the feeling of hunger deep in my soul, and wanting to devour the flames around me.
