Short story (2000 words, or thereabouts)
Jun. 26th, 2010 01:30 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
wren-wild.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writers_loftTitle: Catching Fire
Summary: Kassa has always been quiet, and a little odd, but this, this, is too much.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wren_wild
Catching Fire
When Kassa dropped the candle and reached out to catch it, she missed.
She caught the fire instead.
She was still holding the fire, wondering at how her hand wasn’t burned, when her mother walked in.
She was still holding the fire when her mother breathed,
“Witch…”
She was still holding the fire when her father came in with the priest.
It was then that she gave the fire back to the candle, though she kept a little in her heart.
The candle didn’t seem to mind.
The priest did.
When the guardsmen tied Kassa’s hands behind her back, she did not struggle, for the fire in her heart told her to settle into embers, and to burn slowly.
When they led her into the courtroom, and the judge-also the mayor of her lonesome little village- asked her if she was a witch, she said nothing, for her heart new just as well as the air she breathed in that actions spoke better than words, and it was always best to be clear.
So instead of speaking, she held out her hand, and showed him (he, who though himself so great but new nothing of when to burn and when to blow, when to be firm and when to flow) her little flame, the one she had taken from the candle.
She watched with great interest as his face lost his color, and heard him take a shuddering breath in, and breathe out,
“Witch…”
Kassa took back her little flame, and took comfort in the heat inside her heart, in the air around her, in the water in her blood, and in the earth underneath her.
The guardsmen retied her hands with shaking fingers, and tied her to a post in the center of the village square (though Kassa thought this strange, as it was really more of an oval).
They surrounded her with wood, and on top of that, bundles of straw.
When the priest came towards her with an angry flame that was not little, and not her own, Kassa called forth her own little flame, but the water in her blood told her to be hidden for now, like the currents in the sea, and the earth in her bones told her be firm, and strong and still, like the mountains.
The priest bowed to light the angry fire, and now, now was the time for Kassa to call forth her little flame! Now was the time to rage like the rapids! Now was the time to bear down with the fury of an avalanche!
As like called to like, the flame in her heart called to the flame that would burn her, and it became tempered by the water in her blood, strengthened by the earth in her bones, and fueled by her little flame; the angry flame was not quite so furious now, and so it would not burn her.
She called to the earth in her bonds, and the ropes released her.
She called to her little flame, not so little anymore, and it filled her, overflowed her heart so that when she ran as the river does, she left fire as footprints.
Kassa laughed as she ran, and as she laughed, the earth laughed with her, shaking in its merriment.
The people of the village-no longer her village- were frightened, but Kassa did not understand why; the air and earth were happy, the river was not so excitable as to overflow its banks, and she had gathered the angry fire into herself.
Kassa would be happy for them, if they were not inclined to do so for themselves, and since they did not want her here, she would leave.
Kassa laughed as she ran, and Nature laughed with her.
Kassa thought, as she ran deeper and deeper into the forest, that she would rather be a witch and be free than be just a girl any day.
It has been many years since Kassa left the village of her birth.
At times, she is fierce like fire, and swift as running water.
Other times, she is as slow as the movement of the earth, and as patient as the wind.
More than this, however, Kassa is lonely: the wind that sings to the trees cannot sing with her; the earthy soil once so rich with promises of life now offers nothing but pretty flowers that die all too soon; the river that once was her path to freedom now out runs her, and will not wait for her. Her little flame, oh, its shortcomings are the most painful to Kassa: it cannot love her.
She is lonesome yes, but she is Free. That is what is important.
…Sometimes, Kassa thinks, it is hard to be Free.
One day, as Kassa is tending to her flowers, asking them to bloom for her bees, a priest came across her. The priest looked familiar, though he was old and wizened and hardened by a long toiling life. It took her a while to place him, it has after all, been a good many years since she has seen anyone but the denizens of her Deep Forest. Then she realized who he was: he was the priest who gave her the angry flame.
“I…” Kassa trailed off-it had been a long time since she had spoken with her voice. She tried again.
“I did not ever thank you.”
The priest looked wary, and then confused.
“Thank me?” the priest asked, “Whatever for? We’ve never met.”
Kassa wondered if he really had forgotten the day she was supposed to be burned. The priest must have taken her silence as a prompt to go on.
“What is a young girl like yourself doing out here in the Deep Forest? A witch lives is said to live out in these parts.”
Perhaps, Kassa thought, he just doesn’t recognize me. Kassa picked up on the previous bit of conversation as if the priest had never changed the subject.
“I never thanked you for the day you made my little flame bigger.” She said , and then adds, “And I’m not a girl.”
She was staring absently ahead, but observing the priest from her peripheral vision. He had tensed up, as if in realization, and turned to look at her more fully.
“My God…You haven’t aged a day…” he breathed.
“Of course not.” Kassa was, after all, a –
“Witch…”
Kassa humed her agreement.
The priest left quickly after that, shuffling away as fast as he can in his old age.
He never looked back. Kassa thought on how easy it would be to follow him, just to see. See what, exactly, she doesn’t know.
She followed him slowly, carefully, letting the earth rise up to meet her feet so as to soften the sound of her steps.
She followed him all the way into the village, which was really more like a town now, flitting from shadow to shadow. She followed him as he turned down an old cobbled lane, and walked up to a particularly old, but still nice house (his home, perhaps?). She saw an old woman open the door for the priest (his wife, maybe?), and watched as young children rushed out to greet him (grandchildren?). There were old teens, and young adults in the house, and when the priest entered, they stood up to greet him. Then the door closed, and Kassa was left feeling more alone than ever.
As she made her way back to her clearing in her Deep Forest, she repeated to herself, I am free, I am free…
Kassa thought back on the homey scene that the priest returned to.
Maybe it would not be so bad to be not free.
For the next week and a half, Kassa traveled daily to the village of her birth. Though at first her focus was the old priest, it slowlkey shifted to the man’s youngest son. Something was …off about him.
The same something, Kassa suspected, that was off about her.
It was in the way that the water rippled around him when he swam with his friends, in the way the heat of the sun in the air dried him off the fastest, in the way the fire always flickered towards him, in the way the earth gave way the easiest when he was tilling the small plot of land his family owned.
It was in the way he moved and breathed. It was in the way that even though he was nearing nineteen years of age, he looked no older than fifteen.
Kassa could not wait for the day they declared him a witch. She could not wait to have a companion.
She tried to test him, to see which element his spirit was inclined to; she made the breeze rough, and the river quick, the ground hard and the lamps flare, and did this numerous times to give him any number of chances to settle the elements, but he took no notice of her manipulations.
Gradually, she came less and less to the village of her birth, until came the day that Kassa promised herself she would visit only this once more.
As Kassa flitted closer to the village, she heard the dull roar of a commotion in the center of the village, and so she picked up a light trot, changing direction from the priest’s house to the village square.
As she drew closer, the sound separated itself into the mad chanting of a mob, and the pained wails of a man.
Kassa ran faster, letting the river lend her its swiftness, the air swirl into her lungs, the earth in her bones push her on, and her little flame burst to life in her palms.
Despite herself, she couldn’t help but be eager; even if loneliness the priest’s son was not a witch, the people would think him one. He would be the solution to her.
Kassa ran full tilt down the middle of the lane, not bothering to stay in the alleys and shadows. As she neared the sight of the burning, the mob seemed to grow more furious, more obsessed. Just in case it was needed, she pulled the larger, angrier flame from her heart, and let it overflow into her footsteps.
When Kassa finally rounded the corner, she stopped, confused; her burning, or what was supposed to be her burning, had been a quiet affair. Most people were frightened of her, and others were horrified that there could be a witch in their village. Very few people had come to her burning.
But here, on this day, nearly the whole village had turned out. Kassa wondered what had changed, but then looked more closely at the people and understood.
Their clothing was shabby, their faces were gaunt, and their limbs were skinny. The village was in the mist of hard times, and they thought the priest’s son, the “witch”, was the cause of it.
And suddenly, she was angry. How dare these people hurt this boy at the very cusp of the true beginning of his life? How dare they do something so cruel to her only chance at companionship? How could they be so heartless? How could they how could they how could they?
This boy was so similar to her, it hurt, because nothing was his fault; he did not cause the drought, he did not cause the famine, he did not mean to be a witch!
And suddenly she was furious, and she was crying, and she was roaring a thunderous,
“Stop!”
And everything did.
The fire went out, the priest’s son ceased wailing, the crowd stopped chanting.
As she strode towards the boy, villagers scrambled to get out of her way. When she reached him, she ordered the earth in the ropes to release. The boy sagged forward into her arms and Kassa laid him gently on the ground.
As she called the fire out of his flesh, and clean air into his lungs, she asked him,
“What is your name?”
He coughed out something that sounded enough like “Derek”, so Kassa would call him that, at least for now.
“Then Derek, I would like to ask you to come with me, into the Deep Forest, to live with me.”
He frowned at her, and mumbled,
“That is hardly proper.”
“Neither is trying to burn someone to death. Would you not rather live?”
The boy, Derek, looked at her with something akin to wonder, and asked,
“You don’t mind, then? Me being a witch, I mean?”
She laughed, then, for perhaps the first time in years.
“No,” she murmured as she helped him stand up, “I don’t mind at all.”
Fin
Summary: Kassa has always been quiet, and a little odd, but this, this, is too much.
Author:
wren_wild Catching Fire
When Kassa dropped the candle and reached out to catch it, she missed.
She caught the fire instead.
She was still holding the fire, wondering at how her hand wasn’t burned, when her mother walked in.
She was still holding the fire when her mother breathed,
“Witch…”
She was still holding the fire when her father came in with the priest.
It was then that she gave the fire back to the candle, though she kept a little in her heart.
The candle didn’t seem to mind.
The priest did.
When the guardsmen tied Kassa’s hands behind her back, she did not struggle, for the fire in her heart told her to settle into embers, and to burn slowly.
When they led her into the courtroom, and the judge-also the mayor of her lonesome little village- asked her if she was a witch, she said nothing, for her heart new just as well as the air she breathed in that actions spoke better than words, and it was always best to be clear.
So instead of speaking, she held out her hand, and showed him (he, who though himself so great but new nothing of when to burn and when to blow, when to be firm and when to flow) her little flame, the one she had taken from the candle.
She watched with great interest as his face lost his color, and heard him take a shuddering breath in, and breathe out,
“Witch…”
Kassa took back her little flame, and took comfort in the heat inside her heart, in the air around her, in the water in her blood, and in the earth underneath her.
The guardsmen retied her hands with shaking fingers, and tied her to a post in the center of the village square (though Kassa thought this strange, as it was really more of an oval).
They surrounded her with wood, and on top of that, bundles of straw.
When the priest came towards her with an angry flame that was not little, and not her own, Kassa called forth her own little flame, but the water in her blood told her to be hidden for now, like the currents in the sea, and the earth in her bones told her be firm, and strong and still, like the mountains.
The priest bowed to light the angry fire, and now, now was the time for Kassa to call forth her little flame! Now was the time to rage like the rapids! Now was the time to bear down with the fury of an avalanche!
As like called to like, the flame in her heart called to the flame that would burn her, and it became tempered by the water in her blood, strengthened by the earth in her bones, and fueled by her little flame; the angry flame was not quite so furious now, and so it would not burn her.
She called to the earth in her bonds, and the ropes released her.
She called to her little flame, not so little anymore, and it filled her, overflowed her heart so that when she ran as the river does, she left fire as footprints.
Kassa laughed as she ran, and as she laughed, the earth laughed with her, shaking in its merriment.
The people of the village-no longer her village- were frightened, but Kassa did not understand why; the air and earth were happy, the river was not so excitable as to overflow its banks, and she had gathered the angry fire into herself.
Kassa would be happy for them, if they were not inclined to do so for themselves, and since they did not want her here, she would leave.
Kassa laughed as she ran, and Nature laughed with her.
Kassa thought, as she ran deeper and deeper into the forest, that she would rather be a witch and be free than be just a girl any day.
It has been many years since Kassa left the village of her birth.
At times, she is fierce like fire, and swift as running water.
Other times, she is as slow as the movement of the earth, and as patient as the wind.
More than this, however, Kassa is lonely: the wind that sings to the trees cannot sing with her; the earthy soil once so rich with promises of life now offers nothing but pretty flowers that die all too soon; the river that once was her path to freedom now out runs her, and will not wait for her. Her little flame, oh, its shortcomings are the most painful to Kassa: it cannot love her.
She is lonesome yes, but she is Free. That is what is important.
…Sometimes, Kassa thinks, it is hard to be Free.
One day, as Kassa is tending to her flowers, asking them to bloom for her bees, a priest came across her. The priest looked familiar, though he was old and wizened and hardened by a long toiling life. It took her a while to place him, it has after all, been a good many years since she has seen anyone but the denizens of her Deep Forest. Then she realized who he was: he was the priest who gave her the angry flame.
“I…” Kassa trailed off-it had been a long time since she had spoken with her voice. She tried again.
“I did not ever thank you.”
The priest looked wary, and then confused.
“Thank me?” the priest asked, “Whatever for? We’ve never met.”
Kassa wondered if he really had forgotten the day she was supposed to be burned. The priest must have taken her silence as a prompt to go on.
“What is a young girl like yourself doing out here in the Deep Forest? A witch lives is said to live out in these parts.”
Perhaps, Kassa thought, he just doesn’t recognize me. Kassa picked up on the previous bit of conversation as if the priest had never changed the subject.
“I never thanked you for the day you made my little flame bigger.” She said , and then adds, “And I’m not a girl.”
She was staring absently ahead, but observing the priest from her peripheral vision. He had tensed up, as if in realization, and turned to look at her more fully.
“My God…You haven’t aged a day…” he breathed.
“Of course not.” Kassa was, after all, a –
“Witch…”
Kassa humed her agreement.
The priest left quickly after that, shuffling away as fast as he can in his old age.
He never looked back. Kassa thought on how easy it would be to follow him, just to see. See what, exactly, she doesn’t know.
She followed him slowly, carefully, letting the earth rise up to meet her feet so as to soften the sound of her steps.
She followed him all the way into the village, which was really more like a town now, flitting from shadow to shadow. She followed him as he turned down an old cobbled lane, and walked up to a particularly old, but still nice house (his home, perhaps?). She saw an old woman open the door for the priest (his wife, maybe?), and watched as young children rushed out to greet him (grandchildren?). There were old teens, and young adults in the house, and when the priest entered, they stood up to greet him. Then the door closed, and Kassa was left feeling more alone than ever.
As she made her way back to her clearing in her Deep Forest, she repeated to herself, I am free, I am free…
Kassa thought back on the homey scene that the priest returned to.
Maybe it would not be so bad to be not free.
For the next week and a half, Kassa traveled daily to the village of her birth. Though at first her focus was the old priest, it slowlkey shifted to the man’s youngest son. Something was …off about him.
The same something, Kassa suspected, that was off about her.
It was in the way that the water rippled around him when he swam with his friends, in the way the heat of the sun in the air dried him off the fastest, in the way the fire always flickered towards him, in the way the earth gave way the easiest when he was tilling the small plot of land his family owned.
It was in the way he moved and breathed. It was in the way that even though he was nearing nineteen years of age, he looked no older than fifteen.
Kassa could not wait for the day they declared him a witch. She could not wait to have a companion.
She tried to test him, to see which element his spirit was inclined to; she made the breeze rough, and the river quick, the ground hard and the lamps flare, and did this numerous times to give him any number of chances to settle the elements, but he took no notice of her manipulations.
Gradually, she came less and less to the village of her birth, until came the day that Kassa promised herself she would visit only this once more.
As Kassa flitted closer to the village, she heard the dull roar of a commotion in the center of the village, and so she picked up a light trot, changing direction from the priest’s house to the village square.
As she drew closer, the sound separated itself into the mad chanting of a mob, and the pained wails of a man.
Kassa ran faster, letting the river lend her its swiftness, the air swirl into her lungs, the earth in her bones push her on, and her little flame burst to life in her palms.
Despite herself, she couldn’t help but be eager; even if loneliness the priest’s son was not a witch, the people would think him one. He would be the solution to her.
Kassa ran full tilt down the middle of the lane, not bothering to stay in the alleys and shadows. As she neared the sight of the burning, the mob seemed to grow more furious, more obsessed. Just in case it was needed, she pulled the larger, angrier flame from her heart, and let it overflow into her footsteps.
When Kassa finally rounded the corner, she stopped, confused; her burning, or what was supposed to be her burning, had been a quiet affair. Most people were frightened of her, and others were horrified that there could be a witch in their village. Very few people had come to her burning.
But here, on this day, nearly the whole village had turned out. Kassa wondered what had changed, but then looked more closely at the people and understood.
Their clothing was shabby, their faces were gaunt, and their limbs were skinny. The village was in the mist of hard times, and they thought the priest’s son, the “witch”, was the cause of it.
And suddenly, she was angry. How dare these people hurt this boy at the very cusp of the true beginning of his life? How dare they do something so cruel to her only chance at companionship? How could they be so heartless? How could they how could they how could they?
This boy was so similar to her, it hurt, because nothing was his fault; he did not cause the drought, he did not cause the famine, he did not mean to be a witch!
And suddenly she was furious, and she was crying, and she was roaring a thunderous,
“Stop!”
And everything did.
The fire went out, the priest’s son ceased wailing, the crowd stopped chanting.
As she strode towards the boy, villagers scrambled to get out of her way. When she reached him, she ordered the earth in the ropes to release. The boy sagged forward into her arms and Kassa laid him gently on the ground.
As she called the fire out of his flesh, and clean air into his lungs, she asked him,
“What is your name?”
He coughed out something that sounded enough like “Derek”, so Kassa would call him that, at least for now.
“Then Derek, I would like to ask you to come with me, into the Deep Forest, to live with me.”
He frowned at her, and mumbled,
“That is hardly proper.”
“Neither is trying to burn someone to death. Would you not rather live?”
The boy, Derek, looked at her with something akin to wonder, and asked,
“You don’t mind, then? Me being a witch, I mean?”
She laughed, then, for perhaps the first time in years.
“No,” she murmured as she helped him stand up, “I don’t mind at all.”
Fin
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 02:45 pm (UTC)Whoops
Date: 2010-06-26 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 07:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-30 05:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-30 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-02 09:07 pm (UTC)