Whispers of Ash

In the distance I can hear the townspeople yelling to their God - begging His forgiveness for their perceived wrong-doings. 

I can smell the wood fire, and I know that soon a sulfurous odor will begin to mix with it, followed by the addition of iron and then that sickly sweet musk as the cerebrospinal fluid boils out from beneath the skin.. 

The smell will linger in the air for days unless a strong wind carries it away. The last time it was so thick you could almost taste it. It settled on everything it touched - in the pine branches high above my tiny cottage, on the rich moss covering the rock footpath outside the door. It even seeped into the delicate petals of the fall flowers that were hang-drying in my windows. . 

Luckily today was not a washing day, and my clothes were not all hung on the line, waiting for that same wind to come and dry them. The yelling even gave me time to close the shutters on the windows and start a fire in the hearth. I toss in a bundle of lavender and sage, hoping it will  keep the smell from creeping into the cottage. 

“It seems indecent to keep the smell of one fire at bay by lighting another.” I mutter to myself as I strike the match and watch the kindling start to smolder.

I start to hum to myself, hoping that if I am loud enough in my own singing I will be able to drown out the screams and wailing that I know are coming. I am doubtful, though, as even now I can hear the preacher begin to scream his sermon, exalting their great works to his divine leader, performed in His name.

I know that it is foolish of me to be missed in the crowd, to not be counted among those who have shown up to witness the Holy cleansing that is taking place. There has never been a more dangerous time to be an outsider. To hold differing beliefs than the people around you. To be an unmarried, unrefined woman of childbearing age. 

To be a woman at all.

My hands began to hurt then, and I realized that I had been clutching them together in the pocket on the front of my apron. Separating them slowly, I could feel the dried remnants of sage and sweetgrass, lavender and tobacco lining the bottom of the pocket. I let my fingertips linger there, as I gaze around the cottage at the hanging harvest flowers and herbs drying in the rafters.

“None of this is good,” my brain screams at me, frantic and panicked, as if I am the next rabbit in a cage the hunters will come for.”You need to leave now! Run while they are busy screaming their Holy outrage at whoever they are burning now.”

For a moment, I listen. I contemplate packing a small bag of essentials and running headlong into the woods I know so well. I am certain there are places there I could hide and those zealots in town would never find me. They venture only as far as they have to when hunting. The forest is a means to an end for them - they don’t know the knots of the trees or where the hills crest and fall into hidden knolls or where the best place to find healing lichens and edible mushrooms are. The forest is a part of me and I am a part of it. How could I leave what I have dug such deep roots into?

I am pulled from my inner thoughts by a scream - a sound I wish I had never heard the likes of before. But those screams come more and more frequently these days. They always start so raw, so primal. Loud and shrieking and full of not only the agony of searing pain, but of the betrayal they have faced at the hands of those they loved. These are the screams that I hope haunt the families who stand by and watch their daughters burn. Thankfully, they last only long enough for the smoke and flames to reach her windpipes - and the shrieking fades, replaced with more guttural moans and pleading. 

And then it will be over.

The fervent sermon will come to a close and the crowd's heckles will dwindle and they will pat each other on the backs for another job well done and return to their homes where they will pray again over their fine Sunday meals. The family members of the new pile of ash and bone will be commended for their strong acts of faith and welcomed back into the arms of the church and the community - for they stood strong and shed no tears, not one drop of water, as their flesh and blood paid the price for their betrayal. For their cowardice.

And I will be safe, for another night at least. And upon the altar I have hidden in the back of one of my cupboards I will place a small bowl. I will gather some dried marigolds and lilies, add a sprig of sandalwood and light a small candle for balance and peace. Beside the bowl I will place a feather, to help that poor girl’s soul find its way from the torment it suffered. 

And I will cry - I will turn the altar into a river of tears - the tears her family should have shed, the tears she tried to cry but that evaporated before they could escape her widened eyes. I will cry the water that should have stopped those flames from finding her. 

As my tears extinguish the candle flame, I stand again. I pick up a bag from the chair in the corner and walk into the small bedroom in the back. I pack my warm clothing (I don’t need them yet, the summer evenings are still lingering). I return to the kitchen and in another bag I place as much preserved food as I can carry and I tie both bags together with a rope long enough to cross my torso for ease of carrying. 

I gather the book of recipes (medicinal and meals) my mother left me, from her mother and hers before, and I walk out the door into the forest. It's not really like giving up my home when the trees and hills and rivers and caves are just an extension of my hearth. Or so I tell myself as I begin the walk I have done so many times before, to the hiding place the women in my family have used for generations.