A Witch Burning
The sun shone this morning more fervently than the months before. Its gold rays cut through the dissipating storm clouds from the previous night, kissing the clay and stone that formed the dozen homesteads of this village. Life seems to be returning to the sleeping settlement; a rebirth has begun. The once deathly silence is broken by wandering birds in search of a snack.
But the smell of burning flesh lingers in the chilly air. And the streets remain abandoned.
In the center of the town square, trampled by muddied footprints, splintered wooden stakes, and waylaid carts, lies a dying bonfire. The heavy smoke is still visible in the morning sky; its last embers are just fading out. And erect upon the once raging flame, a charred post and its bound, hapless victim. The empty sockets of its broken skull locked in an empty stare towards the heavens. Its lower jaws held open for a silent, permanent scream.
CROW recoils from the stench, but her eyes are transfixed at the horrific display.
CROW
My god.
JOS, covering his nose with his sleeve, takes a glance at the steaming corpse before turning away and involuntarily gagging. He clutches his mouth.
JOS (muffled)
I’ll be right back.
As Jos hurries back down the cobblestone road, hoping to find an empty receptacle, Crow, hypnotized by the imagery, slowly approaches the bonfire for a closer inspection.