A long, long time ago…

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I’m going to die. And painfully, too, which really wasn’t how she’d pictured spending her day. Gardening, yes. Maybe whipping up a few healing potions. Fooling around with her lover. Getting roasted to a crisp while the townsfolk looked on cheering? Not something she would have fit in to her schedule.

Ysabel pulled at the rope binding her to the stake, her mind still cloudy with disbelief. When she woke this morning and went about her chores, feeding the hens and collecting their eggs, tending her herb garden and other mundane tasks, she never expected a mob to descend upon her screaming, “Brujería! Witch!”

The fact they were correct didn’t surprise her. She’d never tried too hard to hide her healing powers. Besides, the whole village benefitted from her concoctions which she used in exchange for items she needed. Smoked ham for a gout cure. A wheel of cheese for a tincture to soften chapped skin. Love potions by the handful for hopeful maidens and their mamas – a lucrative trade for a woman like herself without a husband or father to care for her. As for her title of witch, while she heard it bandied about, she didn’t take offense. She was proud of her heritage handed down, generation after generation, by the women of her family. What shocked her when the screams to string her up and roast her came to her ears, was who headed the mob – her lover’s mother, Luysa.

Dressed in a heavy black gown, her mantilla of black lace pulled back to show eyes burning with hatred and lips curled in a vicious snarl, she screamed “Burn the witch!” loudest.

Shriveled old hag. It seemed someone didn’t want to cut the apron strings to her only son. Yet, Francisco, at twenty and five, was well past the age to settle down and begin his own line. A family he’d promised to build with her. While they met in secret due to his strict mother, and the village gossips, he’d promised to soon publicly announce his intent to wed her. She couldn’t wait, although, now confronted with his angry mother, she wondered if they should have spoken sooner.

Ysabel didn’t put up much of a fight. Why bother when she couldn’t win against the number of folk sent to fetch her? Limp in their grasp, she closed her eyes and mind to their vicious taunts as they dragged her off to the edge of town where the narrow minded village people showed themselves busy, erecting a wooden stake and piling bramble and branches around it. Even as they lashed her to the pole, she didn’t panic. Francisco, her lover with his dark eyes and thick lashes, would save her. Evidently, he’d told his mother of their love, and she’d temporarily lost her temper – and mind. Yet, Ysabel knew the man she loved would come to her rescue. Their commitment to each other would prevail over the mob’s need to execute a witch as the church and religious heads in Rome instructed them.

As the villagers continued to pile flammable items about her and the sun began its descent, signaling the arrival of nightfall, she held on to that belief, clung firmly to her love as the first torch approached, its flickering flame dancing in the light breeze. Despite the situation, the scene was almost picturesque, reminding her of the many bonfires she’d participated in, with these same folk, as they celebrated the harvest and the solstices. Of course, nobody was lashed to the stake on those occasions. Lucky me.

Scanning the eager faces, the first tickle of trepidation went up her spine as she didn’t spy the face of her lover. Surely he’s heard of my dilemma by now? Perhaps he planned a grand rescue at the last moment like the heroes the bards sang of. How romantic.

As the last ray of sunlight disappeared and twilight fell, a hush fell over the waiting crowd as Luysa, a smirk of triumph on her face, stepped forward and held up her hands for silence. Firmly spoken words spilled from her lips with a hate and vileness Ysabel could scarcely give credence. And this is the woman who birthed my sweet Francisco?

“This most unholy of witches must die. She freely practices her dark craft amongst us.”

Heads nodded all around.

Unbelievable. I practice my arts and use them to cure sickness and aide the healing of infected wounds, Ysabel thought, shaking her head in disbelief. See if she’d help them the next time they came knocking at her door in the middle of the night, the betrayers.

“She uses her magic on our young men, forcing them to do her wicked, unchaste bidding.”

Ysabel’s brows arched. Funny, but it was your son who plied me with alcohol the first time he went up my skirts and had his naughty way with me. Of course, I enjoyed it, but still, I never made him do anything.

“The church says thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. So, I say in the name of God and all that is holy, the witch must die!” Spittle flew as Luysa worked herself into a fever pitch and aimed her last remark toward the back of the crowd. Ysabel followed her gaze and smiled. Francisco had arrived.

I knew he’d come to save me. Take that you crusty, old hag.

Tall, dark and handsome, he looked like something out of a fairy-tale, the type of story her grandmother used to tell her. A true hero, come to save his damsel from the wicked witch. Well in this case, he was saving the witch from the wicked, almost, mother-in-law. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd until he stood before his mother and the stake upon which Ysabel hung. His dark eyes darted to Ysabel’s for a moment and a frisson of fear finally tickled down her spine. She didn’t see anger in his expression at her situation. No fear at how closely she treaded death’s path. In his eyes, she read the truth. And it wasn’t pretty.

I’m going to burn, and he’s not going to do a damn thing to save me.

Disbelief made her forget the avidly watching crowd. “Francisco. Tell your mother, I did nothing to bespell you. Tell her of our love for each other.” She didn’t want to beg, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe the dispassionate man in front of her was the same lover who’d murmured such sweet promises.

He didn’t reply and at his silence his mother turned to face Ysabel, a look of triumph on her face. “You shall die for your sins, witch.” The lit torch was thrust into the ruling harridan’s hand and she held it aloft for a moment. “Brujería!” she shouted. “Burn you unholy thing.” Then she lowered the flaming brand, and the dry tinder lit with a whoosh.

Panic clawed at Ysabel as the hopelessness of her situation came home. Too late, she struggled in vain at the bindings holding her. But the rope didn’t budge. Damn Pedro and his rope tying skill. The crackling sound of the flames grew, aided by the ale Alvaro accidentally spilled on the pyre.

Worse than the view of the spreading fire, was the billowing black smoke and encroaching heat. The first entered her lungs and she coughed as tears streamed from her itching eyes.

Sweat beaded on her face as she worked frantically to free herself, her simple spells and charms of healing no match against her captivity and the element of fire.

With frantic eyes, she scanned the crowd, waiting for someone to step forward and cry foul, to come to her aid, but they watched, some in morbid fascination, some with a sick glee, as the flames grew closer. She caught Francisco’s gaze and this time, he didn’t turn away. She pled with her eyes for rescue. Acknowledgement. Anything from the man who’d declared he’d do anything for her. Climb the highest mountain. Defy the wishes of his family. Do anything for her love.

Lies. All of it lies, she understood now as he stood there, unflinching while the fire leapt higher, licking at the hems of her skirt, toasting her toes. He showed not a hint of remorse as he watched her burn.

Fury enveloped her, hotter than the flames licking her body. “Bastardo,” she spat. “You used me. Betrayed me like a coward. I can’t wait to see you in Hell. I’ll see all of you in Hell for this.” She closed her eyes and began chanting, a dark prayer she’d never thought to use. A last resort her grandmother taught her, but told her to forget. A promise to the Dark Lord – one that wouldn’t save her mortal life, but would grant her revenge on those who’d betrayed her. The darkest, most powerful of curses crossed her lips.

As the flames curled around the skin of her feet, burning them and drawing forth screams of agony, she gave her life and soul to the Underlord in return for vengeance. She promised the Devil, whom she worshipped in hiding, anything – her life, her soul, her devotion. He could have it all for a chance to bring Francisco, his mother, and all the sheep-like villagers who rejoiced, into Hell with her. Her cackling laughter at the end of her death spell sounded more like a coughing choke, but thankfully, Lucifer read her intent, and granted her wish. She should have read the fine print.