She fell to the ground with a snapping yet dull thud, after the fire engulfed the ropes holding her fast to the pyre. Above the bumble and bustle of the crowd, a voice laughed, looking down at the limp girl at his feet. In the darkness of the torchlit night, his face was indistinguishable from the common nobody, his only identifications were his merry, playful tone of laughter and the short pale-gray locks that flowed down his neck, glowing bloodred in the fire’s light. The very same gray that once framed her pale complexion. Behind the westmost alley, a boy watched the fire flicker, before it was smothered in its own ashes, as spades unceremoniously dumped the cinder over the live flames. He had a fire of his own, too. but it rained no more than seven minutes after the fire was stifled.
and it didn’t stop. It didn’t stop when the sun rose, concealed by the clouds on the day after.it didn’t stop after the evening mass.
it didn’t stop after they found the preacher, collapsed dead at the base of wet stairs.
it didn’t stop after the privies leaked into the freshwater wells.
it didn’t stop after the lake overflowed to the grain fields.
it didn’t stop after the wheat fields withered away, drowned in stench and rot.
it didn’t stop after the bread ran out.
it didn’t stop after they prayed to every god for forgiveness, for salvation.
it didn’t stop after they burned sacrifices. Finest herbs. Finest ale. Finest maidens.
it didn’t stop after the first babe was thrown into the muck.
it didn’t stop after the second, nor the third, nor the fifteenth.
it didn’t stop after the treacherous were exhausted, and so the guilty were next.
it stopped when they did. When they ran out of stones to throw. When they ran out of felons.
Slowly, waterlogged wood was replaced with fresh boards the treecutter journeyed far away to find. The stonemason recarved what was left of eroded rock and chapels. The charlatans and performers made the smiles return to their faces. The grocers sold the very last grains they kept during the downpour, and bread returned. The mystics and matchmakers sorted pair after pair, in the warm, sunny days of love both new and rekindled. The new order outlawed conviction based on spiritual evidence. They were happy. Their god was pleased: the fare of holy repentance was paid. But not for the boy. Not for the girl.
It rained again. A different kind. Not water.
Flames fell from the sky, though not sent by heaven.
It was ungodly. A malediction against justice itself.
It was the revenge of a small boy.
And it was wholeheartedly human.