The Lynching of Alice Morgan

Earth, Air, Water, Fire; and a girl in her twenties.

She watched, fascinated, as the earthworm burrowed out of the turned soil she stood upon. Dull reddish-brown body grinding against dirt, it went about its business. Eat — reproduce — die. The headings of life were simple; it’s the details that made it such a bitch.

She wriggled her toes in farewell to the segmented dirt grinder, as she watched it move past her. It was all she could do really, being tightly bound — palms flat against her thighs, to a thick pole and all.

Damp, brown, rich soil; exposed in a three foot radius around a pole that was once a budding young tree with ancient tree aspirations. Exposed around her too, since she was firmly bound to the pole, by manner of rope. Talk about heart strings — that made her chuckle.

Stubby grass, an explosion of green around her. Racing into trees at her front and unto the hard packed rocks that was the cliff’s edge behind. It seemed unfair, the sapling that was her pole was dying amidst all this life; but death came to everything in the end, and was close — to the swath of grass directly in her front; and also to her.

A fly buzzed around her head, in that annoying way only flies knew how. Shaking her head to drive it off was futile and the fly emphasized its dominance by settling on the expanse of her nose.

Wings flickering, rubbing its forelegs in glee, the fly danced about its newfoundland. The effect was profoundly ticklish and she opened her mouth, setting air molecules into vibration.

She didn’t see the collective flinch of the malignant entity before her — a human mob, as the sound of her laughter reached them. The mob recovered, and settled into the comfort of certainty, there was a witch before them, their action here was just.

She watched the fly leave. It traced a lazy spiral into the expanse of the darkening sky. Would that she had wings; unbound. Flight, that intricate expression of freedom, now all the more pronounced, given her predicament.

Something struck her right cheek, splattered and traced lazy tracks towards her jaw. Liquid, odor of brine, — sea water. The wind had changed direction, gone was pine effervescence, salt was all the rave now.

She craned her neck backwards, right side of her face pressed against the pole. A squall was developing over the sea and seemingly headed in her direction. Bummer. It just might ruin her fallback. The first sign of worry creased her features.

Noise to her front seduced her attention from the dance of wind and water that is a budding storm. The mob parted through the middle like a bar of butter to a heated knife. Youth carrying bundles of sticks — fuel for her very own bonfire, flowed through the space in a beeline for her; the priest followed closely, cassock billowing.

They moved her up the pole, her feet rested on sticks now — a queer form of royalty, may her feet not touch dirt. Sticks arranged in a cone, against the thick pole; she looked down at them, like a god at bowed, beseeching worshipers. The worshipers would burn first when the fire came, it was ever the way.

The priest grunted his approval, saw the youths join the mob — their job done, and looked up at the devil spawn.
Green eyes, startling in their intensity, beguiling by their depths; eyes of a seductress, was that mirth he saw in them? A freckle sprinkled face, suggesting a youthfulness her eyes belayed; full lips parted in a mocking grin as she held his gaze. A curly mop of hair, dark roots transforming to a colour that danced even in the fading light. The colour of … of … of … fire.

The priest’s face turned beat red, first from a blush — she had just puckered her lips and blown him a kiss! Then from anger that she’d made him blush — her laughter at his reaction, ringing in his ears. The oil torch was placed in his outstretched hand. He bent to set the sticks aflame. Let us see how well you laugh with crisp lips and boiling blood.

Orange flames reached for her, their tongues making the wood sing; a ballad of death told in crackling whispers. For the first time through her entire ordeal, Alice realized that she might actually die.

Beads of sweat left her body to immolate themselves in the fire below; heat from which had blistered her feet, the pain a telling advent of what was to come.

She looked at the mob through the haze of thermals, blank stares replied her regard. Anger filled her throat with bile; she shouldn’t have been so naïve, for all the help she provided, she was still ‘the outsider’, ‘the other’, all it took was a sprinkle of misfortune and a dollop of fear.

A groan escaped her lips as the fire reminded her of their intimacy, her eyes found those of the priest’s and she recoiled inwardly at the triumph glittering in them. She parted her lips in a feral grin at him and stuck out her tongue. Let him make of that whatever he will.

She looked down at the flames beneath, their hunger had finally reached her. The first few tongues licked her feet and her lungs gave voice to their caress.

Bright lights and the deep bass thrum of the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

A deluge of water dissipated the hunger of her fiery lover.

The craft swung downwards, aiming for the people and sending them scampering, clumps of earth exploding in response to the craft’s sonic weapons.

It amused her to no end that the priest had tripped in his haste to get away and now lay in a heap of trampled cassock and tangled limbs.

The craft, a small scouting class, settled unto the clearing. A side door split open and out rushed her friend, in full environmental suit, sonic pistol at her hip, helmet lights at full glare. The miasma of dying sunlight, the craft’s full beam and the flames that danced fitfully beneath her, made her friend look something out of a nightmare. The surreal beauty tickled Alice’s tear ducts.

After a cursory examination of her plight, a serrated edge cut her bindings and she was lowered gently unto her friend’s shoulders.
Seconds later, she was in the craft, on the med-tray, and her friend was voicing instructions to the autopilot.

A curving ascension, and they were leaving the cliff, the fitful flames winking a solemn goodbye.

“What the hell did you do that prompted burning?”

“Oh, regular bathing amongst other things.”

The scrunched face that communicated her friend’s confusion was a most beautiful thing to Alice. Next stop, mother ship, and then, Atlantis.

Image credit: Patrick Hendry , Ricardo Gomez Angel; unsplash.com