Runaway Magic

one

I didn't know my sister was a witch until I caught her playing with matches.

I was nine and she was seven. It was Saturday morning, and my head was buried under the scratchy blanket we shared. Usually, I had to be up early to do the chores for Mama while she was at work, but Saturdays brought a brief relief from my duties. Even so, I woke up strangely early that day, blinking sleep from my eyes just as the sun peeked above the horizon. The space next to me in bed was empty, but there was nothing too unusual about that. Unlike me, Kenna was already developing the dreadful qualities of a morning person. Even so, I couldn't shake the unsettled feeling that had burrowed into my bones. The air practically hummed with something ominous. So I forced myself to stumble out of our cluttered bedroom, my hair still framing my face like a tawny birds' nest.

"Kenna," I called as I snuck my head into Mama's room. Sometimes, Kenna liked to snuggle in Mama's bed when she was gone. Even when Mama was working long hours, her sheets still smelled like her, all honey and sugar from her bakery. But Kenna wasn't in there, her round little face nowhere to be seen. "Kenna?" I called again, stepping back into the hallway.

Check the kitchen, a soft voice whispered. I stopped, narrowing my eyes at the peeling walls around me. I must have been more exhausted from the week than I had thought, because my dreams had trailed me into the waking world. Even so, I couldn't deny the voice's reasoning. Kenna took after Mama in her love of food, so it would be no surprise to find her tucked into a cupboard, secretly gnawing on our stash of candies.

When I stepped into the kitchen, my bare feet pressing against the cold floor, a chill shot through me like a jolt of lightning. I stumbled from the shock, my body left tingling as the humming in the air rose to an ear-burning roar. Out of the corner of my eye came a flicker, fiery red and gold.

"No, Kenna!" I cried, lunging for my younger sister. Her eyes shone bright and fervent as she stared into the flame. The tips of her feathery hair paled before my eyes, shifting from reddish-brown to ivory white.

I swatted the match out of her hands, knocking it to the floor along with the rest of the box. Immediately, she burst into tears, but I paid her no mind. I stamped out the meager flame, barely wincing as it singed the soft underside of my foot. I didn't stop until the match had splintered into tiny slivers, any hint of fire gone.

"Why did you do that?" Kenna pouted, staring at the broken wood.

"You were scaring me," I whispered, shivering as I remembered the eerie way her eyes had shone. Not to mention her hair, which was now white from root to tip. The only people I had ever seen with hair that light were the creaky old grandmothers and grandfathers who liked to sneak us sweets and bore us with stories of their childhoods. Her hair was unnatural, and I shivered to even wonder what the other townspeople would think when they saw its new color.

"You don't need to be afraid of the fire!" Kenna protested, glaring up at me. "I'd never let it hurt you." Her words struck a fearful chord in my body. A horrible thought dawned on me.

I sat down, putting my face so close to hers our skin almost touched.

"What were you doing?" I asked, watching her eyes dart to the side before flickering back to focus on me. "Kenna, tell me right now or I swear I will tell Mama about you eating all the candy." At that, Kenna froze. Our mother was the kindest and most patient woman I knew, but she did not hesitate to dole out punishments for our misbehavior.

"Fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "I was trying to see a story in the flames, like I did when we roasted marshmallows over that big fire last winter. But someone interrupted me before I could see anything." She blinked at me before crossing her arms, "Well?" she pressed. "Are you happy now?"

"Sure, Kenna," I whispered, standing up woodenly. I thought back to that fire. Even then, I had noticed the intent way Kenna had gazed into the bonfire, but I hadn't thought anything of it. Kenna was always a strange little girl, and I could never keep pace with her imagination. Suddenly, my bones barely even felt solid enough to support me. Before Kenna could hear the panicked beat of my heart, I retreated back to our bedroom, leaving her sitting sullenly on the floor.

I couldn't blame Kenna for not being afraid. She didn't know enough to fear magic. She hadn't been there a few months ago when a young girl was paraded through the village, her arms shackled together with gleaming iron chains. The girl was only a few years older than me, stick-straight hair framing her sweet-looking face. As she walked by, she stared at me. I shrank away from the hollowness in her dark eyes. I knew she had done something bad, because Mama and the other adults watched her warily, as if they were afraid of someone half their size.

The village leaders marched her to the square where bits and pieces of wood had been lashed together. Only when they removed the girl's chains did I realize what they were going to do to her. Instinctively, I moved to creep away, but Mama set a firm hand on my shoulder.

"Stay, Sera," she ordered, forcing me to stand in front of her as the men strapped the quiet girl to the wood. By then, the entire village, save for Kenna and the other little ones, had formed a wide circle around the pyre.

The hollow girl stood perfectly still as the men wound rope and iron around her, binding her so tight I could see the red marks where the material bit her red-brown skin. A man tugged on her bindings before retreating back and nodding to the others. One stepped forward, a match clamped in his hand and a stricken expression sprawled across his face. A face that looked very much like the girl's.

"Kimala," he whispered, tears streaking down his red-brown cheeks.

"Mama," I whispered, clawing at her legs. She refused to look at me, but her eyes crinkled with unshed tears. "Mama!" I cried, turning my head away as the man dropped the match on to the pile of wood, setting his daughter ablaze. As the flames climbed higher, tendrils of red and orange licking the sky, I trembled. With fear, but also with disgust. That day, I learned what our village did to witches. And I swore Kenna would never have to witness the same horror.

So as I sat on the edge of my bed, replaying the scene of Kenna with a match in my head, over and over again, I shivered with the same fear I felt back then. Now, I promised to never let Kenna be the one on the pyre, her skin crumbling to ashes on the wind.