The Last Fire

They come at sunset, following the narrow, winding path through the trees, their torches bobbing like vengeful stars against the darkening sky. I can smell them before I hear their footsteps — the bitter tang of sweat and fear, the iron-heavy scent of their weapons, the faint whiff of herbs meant to guard them from whatever they believe I am. Superstition and ignorance, thick and choking, hang over the forest like mist. But tonight, there is something new — an edge sharper than the torch flames, a layer of grief and fury woven through their fear.

From my window, cloaked in shadows, I watch them. They are coming for me; they are always coming for me.

Once, it was only one or two — hunters who thought themselves brave enough to face me. They were easy to welcome with tea and gentle words. My voice, soft and soothing, wrapped around their suspicions, untangling the twisted stories they carried with them. Sometimes, that was enough to send them home.

And there was a time — before fear took root and spread like ivy — when they came to me not in anger but in need. When mothers brought their children to my door, feverish bodies trembling in their arms, and I would guide them into my home, soothe them with herbal balms, murmur words of healing into the night. I remember the gratitude in those mothers’ eyes, the warm loaves and jars of honey they pressed into my hands.

Now, though, they come in numbers. Twenty, perhaps thirty, armed with pitchforks, sticks, and torches. This time, they bring fire.

As the torches’ light reaches the edge of my clearing, I feel the earth stir beneath my feet, a low, thrumming pulse as old as the roots that twist through this land. They would not know it, but I have my own fires to light, my own preparations to make. I pull my cloak around me and move to the center of my room, to the cauldron that has passed from hand to hand through centuries. Tonight, I will draw power from the land itself — the land I am bound to, the land that remembers.

As I drop the first dried herbs into the cauldron — nightshade and yew, a lock of my own hair — I begin to murmur the words, calling to the forest, to the places that hold pieces of me. My voice vibrates through the air, low and deep, stirring the memories held in earth and stone.

I call to the ancient oak on the hill, the one I planted as a child, just a twig then. Now its roots stretch wide, strong and deep, wrapping around the bones of the earth, holding its secrets close. Beneath its branches, I whispered my first spells. I feel its strength pulse back at me now, a steady heartbeat that fills me with resilience.

I call to the spring nestled between the rocks, the one I blessed long ago, its waters cool and clear, laced with the herbs I left floating there to ward off sickness. Every sip taken from it since has bound those who drank to me, and now, the water rises, its memory a chorus of quiet voices, promising protection and purity.

Finally, I call to the stone circle, half-buried in the woods, where I’ve sat so many nights under a starlit sky, speaking to the spirits, listening to the land. Those stones, weathered and wise, answer me now with a low hum that shivers up my spine. They remember every touch of my hand, every word murmured into the night air, and they lend me their unyielding strength, a grounding force older than any of us.

As the voices grow louder outside, I step out of my home. Torchlight spills across the clearing, sharp and bright. I am the dark in their blaze, the whisper in their shouts.

“There she is,” someone mutters, and the crowd presses closer, a wall of rage and fear.

Their leader — Greg, face hard and voice louder than the rest — steps forward, his words sharp and rehearsed. “You’ve cursed this land long enough, witch. Tonight, we put an end to your evil.”

A woman from the crowd steps forward, her voice breaking with sorrow. “My son...my son fell ill after he wandered into your woods. He was never the same. His laughter vanished, replaced with whispers and fevered dreams. I know you did something to him. He was just a boy.”

A farmer raises his voice, bitterness roughening his tone. “Last season, my crops withered under the sun while the fields around me flourished. My family barely survived the winter. I came to you once, and you cursed me when I turned away from your charms.”

Another man spits at the ground, his hands gripping his pitchfork so tightly his knuckles turn white. “My wife... she could not carry our child. You blessed her once. What else could it be?”

I let their words fall around me, empty as stones. Yet, a pang of sorrow pierces through my resolve. I want to shout, to shake them from this trance of fear and superstition. Do they not remember? Have they so quickly forgotten everything I’ve done for them? Why do you refuse to see me as I am? I think, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.

“What do you think I am?” I ask softly, my voice slipping through their shouting, laced with a sadness I can no longer hide. The words feel like an offering — fragile, vulnerable — and I hold my breath, hoping it might reach some forgotten part of them.

“A demon!” someone shouts. “A monster! You’ve taken our children, cursed our fields!”

“Have you forgotten?” I murmur, my voice trembling with the weight of years spent tending to them, of nights filled with whispered prayers and herbs crushed beneath my fingers. “Forgotten the times you came to me with your sick children, your wounded. I held them in my arms. I healed them. And now, you come with torches?” I take a step forward, the ground beneath me trembling with each word. “Is it easier to believe I am a monster than to face the truth — that this land was never yours to tame?”

They falter, some looking away, a flicker of shame or confusion twisting their faces. For a brief moment, I glimpse the trust that once bound us, a fragile thread stretched thin but not entirely broken. Yet even as I see it, Greg steps forward again, his jaw set, his eyes filled with an anger that drowns out anything else.

The fire they bring laps at my cloak, eager, consuming, but I am ready. I feel the strength of the oak rise within me, steady and strong. I feel the cool, cleansing touch of the spring water wrap around me, soothing the fire’s burn. And from the stones, I draw resolve, their silent endurance a balm against the heat.

They do not see the power gathered in the air, thick and heavy, like a storm about to break. They do not feel the way the roots stir beneath their feet, the ancient oak’s branches creaking in response, nor hear the gentle trickle of the spring. They do not sense the stones, thrumming with silent rage.

“Then burn me, if you must,” I say, my voice carrying through the clearing, laced now with a sorrow deeper than anger, a sadness for what will be lost. “But know this — I am not so easily forgotten. Every breath you take, every step you tread, I will be there, in the roots, in the rivers, in the stones beneath your feet. I am this land, and this land is not yours to claim.”

The fire they bring laps at my cloak, eager, consuming, and I feel the first sharp bite of heat against my skin. My instinct is to recoil, to shield myself, but I stand still, letting the fire wrap itself around me. Each spark blooms into a searing pain that travels up my spine, prickling, relentless, as the flames begin to devour fabric and flesh alike.

I close my eyes, pulling myself inward, feeling my heartbeat thud against my ribs, steady and defiant, a rhythm anchoring me. My lungs scream for air, yet I force them to stay calm, drawing each breath slowly, savoring the chill of oxygen amid the heat. I can feel the agony twisting through me, sharp and ragged, but beneath it, another sensation — a pulsing, almost gentle, echoing from deep within the earth. A reminder that I am not alone in this.

The ground beneath my feet is cool, grounding, even as the fire swirls higher. I let my senses flood with it all — the crackle of burning fabric, the roughness of smoke curling against my throat, the tang of scorched herbs rising around me. I open my mouth to scream but find the sound caught, swallowed by the flames, swallowed by my resolve. Each moment stretches, slows, every second slipping like honey, thick and golden, as I cling to the memories of those I’ve loved, the mothers who came to me for help, the children I’ve soothed.

A final, deep breath, and I feel the pain settle, soften, as though the land itself is pulling it from me, piece by piece, absorbing the agony into its soil. The fire becomes something other, not an enemy but a passage, a release. Through the haze of burning flesh, I feel my spirit stretch, a strange lightness seeping through me. My senses grow dim, yet sharper too, as if I am both here and everywhere — the whisper of wind against the leaves, the trickling stream nearby, the roots stirring beneath my feet.

And now, I let myself sink. I feel my spirit reach out, intertwining with the roots, feeling each twist and turn of the oak tree’s ancient body as though it’s my own. The stones, weathered and wise, hold me, grounding my spirit in their solid, unyielding presence. The spring waters flow cool and pure, washing over me, carrying my essence through the land.

The fire dims, leaving only embers glowing faintly against the darkened clearing, but my presence remains, nestled deep in the soil, threaded through roots, and woven into the land’s very bones.

The villagers, breathing heavily and clutching their torches, glance around as the silence settles. A breeze, cool and unexpected, stirs the air, brushing past them in a gentle, almost familiar caress, soft as a mother’s hand against a feverish brow. One of the women gasps, touching her cheek as if sensing something that cannot be seen — a fleeting warmth, then a chill, as though the earth itself sighs in quiet mourning.

Greg shifts uncomfortably, casting a wary glance toward the edge of the trees where the shadows seem to deepen. The oak branches, swaying with the night wind, creak and groan, a sound that hums low and constant, reminiscent of her voice, murmuring words of healing and comfort. Somewhere, the faint trickle of the spring reaches their ears, the sound mingling with whispers no one dares to acknowledge.

A young boy tugs on his mother’s sleeve, his eyes wide as he stares into the trees, pointing to where he swears he saw something — a figure, a shadow darker than the night, standing just beyond the torchlight. The mother shushes him, her face pale, but her eyes dart to the same spot, her heart hammering with a doubt she cannot shake.

They try to ignore it, to shake off the feeling, yet it clings to them, woven into the air, grounding their steps, an awareness of the land that was not there before. Each time they tread upon the soil, a shiver of recognition runs beneath their feet, a gentle but unyielding reminder.

And here, in this forest of shadows and whispers, I will wait, patient as the roots beneath their fields, as constant as the rivers winding through the land. They may not see me, but they will feel me — in the restless wind that brushes their cheeks, in the shadows that flicker just beyond sight, in the rhythm of the earth itself. For I am here, entwined within the bones of this place, watching, remembering, as the land remembers.