Everyone Loves a Good Burning

"Are you going to cook me?"

I laughed, "Goodness, no." I grabbed a towel from the wash pot and wrung it. "Besides, I'm not a big meat eater." I cleaned the blood from his forehead.

"You've flooded our village?" The lad hesitated, his eyes darting around in apprehension. After agonizing moments, he summoned his courage and added, "More than once!"

The clumsy lad wasn't used to using his brain. To put it bluntly, he was thicker than a queen's mattress. "That's your ancestors' fault for building in a floodplain."

"A floodplain? What's that?"

"Perhaps I'll tell you one day, but first, tell me how this happened?"

"My horse bolted, and a limb got me."

I reached for my bottle of magic ointment for cuts and bruises and smeared a dap on his forehead. In a few seconds, the wound healed.

"What was that?" He tentatively touched his forehead. "Where's my cut?"

"It's good as new," I said as I returned the bottle. You'd think he'd say thank you or give an appreciative nod, but nope. Instead, he cringed away from me, burrowing into his chair.

"You used magic!" The lad wasn't pointing out the method of his healing. It was an accusation. "But, you denied flooding our village."

"What does that have to do with your forehead?"

He fumbled, trying to think, "Those who use magic are bad. At least that's what Father says." 

"So, healing is bad?" I searched for any sign of intelligent reasoning but was disappointed. 

"Umm, no. I guess not. I don't know. Maybe?"

The prejudice against magic is something I've never understood. I go and heal one boy, and you watch. A mob will come to burn me at the stake, or they'll kick me out of their village if they're good folk. I can't count how many homes I've had to abandon.

"Do me a favor, and don't mention your cut to anyone. Will you do that?" I had a fifty-fifty chance he'd stay quiet.

Unfortunately, luck never liked me. They came at night with the usual pitchforks, clubs, and torches—a scene I've seen too many times. I've discovered that confronting the mob works best in these situations. So, I went out to meet them.

"Hello, everyone. Where's the party?" I said.

The ringleader raised his club at me. A muscular brute that looked suspiciously like the lad I healed earlier.

"You've been accused of using magic! What do you have to say for yourself?"

"We hardly know each other. It seems personal to discuss magic with strangers. Don't you think?"

And that was precisely the problem, he doesn't think. None of them do.

"You are taking this far too lightly. We have a witness. Come here, son."

Sure enough, the boy I healed walked to his father's side. At least he looked remorseful.

"Is this the woman?"

"I'm not sure," he refused to look into my eyes. "It's too dark."

The large brute ordered for torches.

"How about now?" The father asked.

The boy didn't want to, but I could see he would not disappoint his father.

"Yes, she's the one."

The mob went wild, shouting and cursing at the top of their lungs. Several cried, "Burn her," and "Be gone." But none of their threats bothered me. In preparation for tonight, I cast a fireproof spell over me. If they attempt to burn me at the stake tonight, it would feel like a hot bath. Unfortunately, I had no spell to keep them from casting me out. I have reason, but I fear no one in this mob could understand reason.

"You all are getting worked up over nothing," I said. "Healing is no crime." I don't want to leave my cottage. The last five years have almost felt normal. Desperation rose, and I blurted out, "Haven't any of you wondered why orcs haven't raided us since I moved here? It certainly wasn't out of the kindness of their hearts."

The mob de-escalated – their single-cell brains working overtime. Even the fatherly brute paused on that one.

"Our militia frightened them off!" A man from the mob shouted out.

I laughed before I could catch myself. I've been watching our glorious militia train on Saturdays with sticks they pretend are swords. It's a farce. This militia could only overcome an orc with laughter at watching them "train."

"The militia has been around for generations. I've only been here for five years." No sign of comprehension. "The orcs haven't attacked in five years." I could only hear crickets.

"She's trying to confuse us with numbers!" One shouted.

"Cover your ears! She's trying to cast a spell over us!" Another shouted.

The mob began to get riled up and shouted for action. If I took a straw poll, burning would win over casting out. I guess I'd have to pretend to burn to death to satisfy the mob. I could scream and wince like I was in pain. I wonder if I could convincingly appear dead. That fact that I wouldn't be blackened would probably not phase my ignorant comrades.

The brute spoke up. "Quite everyone!" Once he had their attention, he continued, "We are not murderers." He looked at me, "You will leave our village and never return."

"What about the orcs?" I asked.

"Why are you still talking about orcs? Go!"

"If I leave, my protection goes with me." I can't say I'm close to my fellow citizens; after all, they came close to burning me at the stake, which put a damper on our relationship. But I don't want to see them harmed either.

"Confound it, Woman. Our militia protects us. Now, I say this for the last time. Go!"

And there you have it, yet another abandoned home. I packed and left the mob behind. I heard jeers and laughter as I walked into the wilderness. However, after a few miles, those jeers turned into shouts of panic. The church bell rang out as grunts and growls filled the night.

I would have turned back to help, but they would have hated me all the more. After all, the youngest to the oldest villager knows magic is bad.