The smoke had not left the air.
It drifted across the small clearing outside the settlement, thin grey ribbons carried by the wind. The wooden stake still stood where it had been planted, now blackened and crooked.
The smell clung to everything. Burnt wood.
Burnt cloth.
Burnt flesh.
A boy sat stiffly on one of the rough benches outside the small wooden meeting house, his bare feet barely touching the earth. The night air was cool, but he could still feel the heat of everything against his face.
An hour ago, the entire settlement had stood around the stake. They all watched; some prayed, some cried and some recited the scripture.
Most cursed.
The boy did not shout; he had only watched.
Now the townsfolk had gathered again inside the meeting house, lanterns casting trembling light across the room. The preacher stood at the front, one hand pressed firmly against the worn pages of his Bible, the other raised as his voice thundered through the wooden walls.
"And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone for eternity!" His voice cracked with intensity. "A place made and prepared for the beast, for the false prophets and for every servant of darkness that walks among God's children!"
A few people murmured "amen" as they shook their heads slowly, absorbing the sermon.
The boy was seated between two adults, his small hands folded tightly in his lap. His eyes remained fixed on the preacher, though his mind drifted elsewhere.
Back to the clearing.
Back to the woman.
She was tied to the stake with thick rope; her dark hair had fallen across her face, tangled and dirty. But the boy remembered the moment the wind lifted it.
Crooked teeth.
Blackened eyes.
Claws, perhaps.
That was what the preacher had described when he spoke of witches, one of the servants of satan. Creatures who cursed the crops and poisoned livestock, creatures who delighted in the blood of pregnant women and children from infants to teenagers.
But when the boy had looked at her, he saw none of that.
She looked human.
Her face was pale and bruised; her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Dried snot and blood had caked from her nose; her eyes were wide and terrified as the flames climbed the wood beneath her.
At one point, she had looked directly at the crowd. Directly at him
The boy jolted as the preacher slammed his palm against the pulpit, the sound echoing sharply. "Revelation tells us what awaits those who defy the Lord!"
The words hung heavy in the air as the man continued. "Death and sin shall be cast into the lake of fire! That is the second death!" His voice lowered, heavy and deliberate. "And those whose names are not written in the Book of Life shall perish with them."
The boy shifted slightly on the bench. He tried to focus on the sermon, but the memory kept coming back uninvited.
It was the woman's voice. Not screaming, not at first.
She had begged.
Her voice was broken as she pleaded with the men around the stake.
"I'm no witch," she had cried. "Please...I beg you..."
The boy remembered the response: the prayer became louder, and some of the men looked away. They said if you look at her while she begs, just like a siren, you would be possessed to obey her instructions.
The preacher had said that the devil often wore a human face, that evil could disguise itself as good.
Mercy towards such creatures was weakness and a sin.
The boy glanced down at his hands; they trembled slightly. Outside, a faint gust of wind passed through the trees, causing the flames to flicker.
The preacher continued, his voice rising again. "The wicked may walk among us looking as we do! Speaking as we do!" His eyes swept across the room. "But do not be deceived!"
Another slam of his hand against the pulpit: "For man sees the physical only, but the Lord sees what lies beneath the flesh!"
The words echoed through the small room, yet the boy's thoughts lingered stubbornly on the same question he had tried to bury since the fire died.
If she truly was a witch....
Why then was she so afraid? Why did she look so human?
****
[Hours Later]
The smell of smoke still clung to the boy's cloth. He sat on the rough wooden step outside his small house, staring out at the dark field beyond on the road.
The town that had been loud with shouting and prayers earlier now lay silent and wrapped in darkness. Only the wind remained, and it still carried the faint, bitter scent of the stake.
The boy pressed his lips together. He had shouted with the rest of the congregation when the preacher asked if the town rejected witchcraft. He had raised his voice, just like everyone else, and he had said 'amen' when the man spoke about Revelation.
The wicked shall be cast into the lake of fire.
But when the flames began to consume the woman, she screamed like anyone would.
Not like a demon or something evil. Just like someone burning.
The boy dragged a hand down his face; he couldn't help but think their actions were right.
What if she were innocent? What if she wasn't a witch? Am I going to be burnt in hell for not doing anything? But what could I have done?
The boy was wrestling with his thoughts when, inside the house, a weak cough echoed through the wall.
He stiffened slightly; it was his mother. She had been diagnosed with an illness that the doctor said only a miracle could save her from.
He had prayed for her earlier that evening, just like how he prayed in the morning, just like how he prayed every day. He had knelt down beside the bed until his knees hurt.
But nothing had happened; the fever still burnt through her. It was like the more he prayed, the more her life was slipping away.
He had questioned it: what did she do? Is it a result of her sin? Was it a result of his own sin? Would she be punished because of him?
Each thought kept piling up, questions without answers. Someone had told him that the lady was a witch who brought bad luck to the town.
If that were true, then his mother should be cured by now instead of clinging to life desperately.
Then his mind drifted back once more to the church—the preacher's words.
The wicked will burn.
He stared down at the dirt.
"Then why did she look like the rest of us even as she screamed?" He murmured to himself.
Then a voice answered. "Because men are very bad at recognising evil."
The boy flinched, turning quickly to the voice. A tall figure stood a short distance away along the path. The boy shot up to his feet, taking a cautious step back as the man stepped closer, his boots quiet against the dirt.
He looked like a traveller, although his clothes were dark and clean despite the dust of the road. Even though he didn't look threatening, there was something about him the boy couldn't place.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," the boy said.
The man's mouth curved slightly. "I wasn't trying to." His eyes lingered on the boy for a moment longer, making the boy shift a little.
"You heard me talking?" The boy asked, still wary of the stranger.
"A little, if I'm being honest," the man replied before glancing towards the direction of the town square. "They burnt someone today?" He asked as he rubbed his nose.
"She was a witch." The boy nodded, repeating what he had been told.
The man hummed softly. "Perhaps she was one, perhaps not."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The man didn't answer immediately; instead, his gaze shifted to the house behind the boy.
A weak cough came again from inside, causing the boy to stiffen.
"Someone sick?" The man asked casually.
The boy stared at him, hesitant to answer until...
"...My mother."
"Ah." The man nodded in understanding as he scrutinised the house a moment longer. "How long?"
The boy blinked. "What?"
"The sickness."
"...a few weeks."
The man nodded slowly, as if confirming something only he understood. Then after a moment, he stared directly into the boy's eyes.
"The doctor said she would need a miracle, so you've been desperately praying, right?"
The boy's eyes widened in shock; he opened his mouth but stopped. He had nothing to say except, 'How do you know?' But he couldn't even bring himself to say it underneath the man's calm gaze, like the man saw through him.
The boy looked down. "It's really bad; she could die." He admitted quietly.
The man did not answer immediately this time. Instead, he reached slowly into the inner pocket of his coat.
The boy stiffened, unsure what the stranger might be reaching for. His mind racing, thinking of ways to survive if the stranger turned hostile.
But when the man withdrew his hand, he held only a small glass vial. The liquid inside caught the faint lantern light, glowing faintly amber.
He extended it toward the boy. "Take this."
The boy stared at it. "What… is it?"
"A remedy," the man said simply. "One that will ease her suffering."
The boy didn't move, even though his eyes were fixated on the vial. The man tilted his head slightly, studying him with quiet interest.
The boy frowned despite himself. "You're a healer?"
The man chuckled softly. "Not exactly." He stepped forward and placed the vial in the boy's hand before he could decide whether to take it. "It will lower her fever," the man continued.
Joseph looked up sharply, another wave of surprise washing over him. "How do you know she has a fever?"
The man tilted his head slightly. "Because I listen."
"…Why are you giving this to me?" The boy studied him, suspicion creeping in. He was excited that there could be a way to heal his mother but still, he should be cautious of strangers
The man's expression softened in a way that almost looked kind. "Because you asked for help."
The boy frowned, not understanding him. "I didn't ask you."
The man gestured toward the sky. "You asked someone."
The boy looked down at the vial again; the liquid shimmered faintly in the lantern light as his fingers tightened around it.
Behind him, his mother coughed again, breaking down any defence he had left.
The man's voice lowered slightly. "Give her a few drops."
The boy hesitated. "Will it really help?"
The man's smile was slow. "Yes."
The boy swallowed, his voice trembling. "...Why?"
The man turned to leave, already stepping back toward the darkness between the trees. But before he disappeared into it, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Because," he said quietly, "someone has to answer your prayers, Joseph."