The Song of the Malificae

6 Years (2)

They put the poor woman through a series of trials over the next few days: searching her body for Devil's Marks and pricking her skin, finding proof where there is none, forcing her to confess through near torture. She is found guilty and sentenced to burn at the stake. Her mother brings Liridona again to the burning, though she tries to resist. "This is the world, schatzli. You can't ignore it," she says, voice leaving no room for excuses, eyes glaring ahead as she leads, practically dragging Liridona down the mountain.

She goes. And again she watches as the woman's skin peels, blistering and angry, again she hears the screams, again she looks into her eyes and sees nothing but pain. She watches on with horror, fear, but an inkling of anger trickles its way in too. This woman, like the first, appears innocent. Liridona looks up at her mother who watches impassively, but Liridona has a feeling that her mother believes this too. The woman up there hasn't made a pact with the Devil to practice witchcraft, hasn't ruined this year's crops. Liridona is young, but she helps her mother in the fields—planting seeds, harvesting the wheat. Bad crops come with poor soil, drought, improper care.

These thoughts stoke the anger and she feels her skin grow hot even though she and her mother are far from the pyre. Her hair fizzes out like the smoke rising into the air. With only a brief glance at her daughter, her mother squeezes the girl's hand, hard, and the girl lets out a surprised cry. But Liridona feels her skin cool, and her hair falls limp around her face. Only then does her mother look upon her daughter, smile small. They turn to leave.

That night her mother sits on the edge of the siblings's sagging pallet of straw, sits quiet, thinking. The silence grows and Liridona finally speaks up, says quietly, "That woman wasn't a... wasn't a witch, was she." It's not a question.

Her mother glances over at her daughter, the girl looking small with her knees drawn up to her chest. She smiles sadly, more a grimace than anything else.

"No, she wasn't."

"She didn't speak to the Devil."

"No."

"It's not fair!" The girl's fists clench and pound the mattress, a tear squeezes out from squinted eyes. She feels her skin grow warm, her hair floating around her face, in the air. This time her mother gives a real smile.

"I know, schätzli. They're scared, and their fear justifies finding blame wherever they can."

A spark flares up on the sheet where Liridona's thumb touches the cotton, and she yanks her hand away, surprised. Her mother pats it out easily, unperturbed.

She holds Liridona in a strong gaze. "It's not a witch's fault for this crop season."

A nod.

"What reason would we have to gain for it anyways?"

"We?"

"Yes." She looks through her lashes at the girl, stern. "But we've never made a pact with the Devil."

A long pause. "Then, we are...? I am...? A, a-"

"Not a witch."

The girl's brows crease, mouth slightly unhinged.

"I prefer the malificae."

The simple sentence sounds so formidable, so proud, Liridona can't help a little smile, a little twitch to her lips.

Her mother stands, walks to the edge of the loft, glances over her shoulder. "We'll work in the fields tomorrow." Smiles conspiratorially.

Liridona hears her step down the ladder and the twins—two girls of four years, blond hair pulled back in braids—come clambering up to the loft, already in their nightdresses. Their older sister doesn't say a word to them as they enter, barely even glances over, ignores them as they try grabbing her attention. She sits deep in thought, reflecting, until they're told to say their prayers. The three girls speak as one, kneeling in a row against their shared bed.