had
righted
itself.
There was no doubt that it was on fire. It
blazed
. A woman,as he could just make out. Her hair was a vivid red, and redder from the fire in it. He saw her
through
and
in
the fire.
“She was young, and wearing only a white shift. And it all was burning—the shift, her hair, her body—she was furled in flames that never went out—that never ate her up.”
One of the black priests said, “He’s mad.”
Cristiano, to his own surprise, answered, “Hear him out before you judge.”
Berbo exclaimed, “She burned—but she didn’t burn, Signore Bellatoro. She burned but never was
burned
.”
“So you have said. What then?”
Irked at the brusqueness of this blond untonsured priest, standing there in maculum and sword, Berbo rasped, “Doesn’t the Bible speak of wonders, eh? And terrible uncanny things that attend the Evil One, Lucefero?”
“I’m more concerned with what
you
are speaking of.”
Berbo pulled a face. He said he had been transfixed by fear, and as he clung on the wall, the woman walked—
walked
, neither ran nor stumbled—about the yard, and everything—she touched it. And where she touched, that thing took fire.
“Hadn’t sparks already set the wood alight?”
“
No
, signore. It smoldered here and there. But where she put her hands—I could see them in the fire—flames burst up. She was a walking
fire-brand
.”
There had been a darkened kitchen in the yard, and until then it had seemed unoccupied, but now it’s roof was smoking, and the uprights of the door. All at once the door opened and an old man came out.
“I thought he’d been asleep perhaps, and I was sorry for the poor soul—but then I saw he wasn’t in a fix, only standing there lookingabout at it all on fire, and he was grinning, and praising God.”
One of the black priests said, “Too many madmen in this tale.”
“I can’t help it, brother. It’s the truth.”
The burning girl was by this time at the tree, which had been all but consumed by then. Still she was circling round and round it, like a sort of dance. “That’s when I knew for sure she was a witch. The country witches do it. They dance about the trees. So then I knew the fire was her spell, and that was why she didn’t burn up in it.” But, said Berbo, the old man, a slave, probably, now hurried across, and he stretched out his hands to the fire witch.
“Excuse me, signore, but I wet my drawers when I saw that. I went cold in my belly. Do you know what he said to her? No, I’ll tell you. I heard him say, ‘
You are the torch of God
.’”
The crowd which had laughed at Berbo’s admission of incontinence, now produced a silence as dense as iron. Some of them crossed themselves.
Cristiano spoke very clearly. “And could you have misheard?”
“No.
Never
. But then, don’t witches call
him
‘God’ sometimes—him, the
other
one.”
“You’re well versed in the manners of witches.”
“Who isn’t? You have to be cautious.”
Berbo said that the fire-witch left the tree and went to the old man and touched him. And of course, he too went up like a piece of fat thrown on the hearth.
“He never cried out once. He seemed dancing, too.
Round and round, till he fell down and curled up like an insect. And then the wasps came out.”
“Wasps.”
“From the burning wood.Must have been three or four nests there in the timber. Hatched ’em. I’ve seen a man die of wasp stings. I got my legs under me and I ran.” Berbo stood up from his kneeling. He dusted the knees of his leggings, the action of a prudent, fussy man, not a mad one.
“And what has this to do with the girl there?” asked one of the Eyes and Ears.
Berbo said, mumbling now, as if embarrassed suddenly, “It was her, her in the wood-seller’s yard.”
“The witch you saw was covered by fire, you said.”
“I saw her
through
the fire. It’s her.”
Cristiano did not want to look at the girl again. She was a shred of human life, pathetic,
righted
itself.
There was no doubt that it was on fire. It
blazed
. A woman,as he could just make out. Her hair was a vivid red, and redder from the fire in it. He saw her
through
and
in
the fire.
“She was young, and wearing only a white shift. And it all was burning—the shift, her hair, her body—she was furled in flames that never went out—that never ate her up.”
One of the black priests said, “He’s mad.”
Cristiano, to his own surprise, answered, “Hear him out before you judge.”
Berbo exclaimed, “She burned—but she didn’t burn, Signore Bellatoro. She burned but never was
burned
.”
“So you have said. What then?”
Irked at the brusqueness of this blond untonsured priest, standing there in maculum and sword, Berbo rasped, “Doesn’t the Bible speak of wonders, eh? And terrible uncanny things that attend the Evil One, Lucefero?”
“I’m more concerned with what
you
are speaking of.”
Berbo pulled a face. He said he had been transfixed by fear, and as he clung on the wall, the woman walked—
walked
, neither ran nor stumbled—about the yard, and everything—she touched it. And where she touched, that thing took fire.
“Hadn’t sparks already set the wood alight?”
“
No
, signore. It smoldered here and there. But where she put her hands—I could see them in the fire—flames burst up. She was a walking
fire-brand
.”
There had been a darkened kitchen in the yard, and until then it had seemed unoccupied, but now it’s roof was smoking, and the uprights of the door. All at once the door opened and an old man came out.
“I thought he’d been asleep perhaps, and I was sorry for the poor soul—but then I saw he wasn’t in a fix, only standing there lookingabout at it all on fire, and he was grinning, and praising God.”
One of the black priests said, “Too many madmen in this tale.”
“I can’t help it, brother. It’s the truth.”
The burning girl was by this time at the tree, which had been all but consumed by then. Still she was circling round and round it, like a sort of dance. “That’s when I knew for sure she was a witch. The country witches do it. They dance about the trees. So then I knew the fire was her spell, and that was why she didn’t burn up in it.” But, said Berbo, the old man, a slave, probably, now hurried across, and he stretched out his hands to the fire witch.
“Excuse me, signore, but I wet my drawers when I saw that. I went cold in my belly. Do you know what he said to her? No, I’ll tell you. I heard him say, ‘
You are the torch of God
.’”
The crowd which had laughed at Berbo’s admission of incontinence, now produced a silence as dense as iron. Some of them crossed themselves.
Cristiano spoke very clearly. “And could you have misheard?”
“No.
Never
. But then, don’t witches call
him
‘God’ sometimes—him, the
other
one.”
“You’re well versed in the manners of witches.”
“Who isn’t? You have to be cautious.”
Berbo said that the fire-witch left the tree and went to the old man and touched him. And of course, he too went up like a piece of fat thrown on the hearth.
“He never cried out once. He seemed dancing, too.
Round and round, till he fell down and curled up like an insect. And then the wasps came out.”
“Wasps.”
“From the burning wood.Must have been three or four nests there in the timber. Hatched ’em. I’ve seen a man die of wasp stings. I got my legs under me and I ran.” Berbo stood up from his kneeling. He dusted the knees of his leggings, the action of a prudent, fussy man, not a mad one.
“And what has this to do with the girl there?” asked one of the Eyes and Ears.
Berbo said, mumbling now, as if embarrassed suddenly, “It was her, her in the wood-seller’s yard.”
“The witch you saw was covered by fire, you said.”
“I saw her
through
the fire. It’s her.”
Cristiano did not want to look at the girl again. She was a shred of human life, pathetic,
Similar Books
