It was just bad, bad luck that led
Britney into the small village.
She had been hiking with a few
friends; they’d set up camp, and she had gone for a short walk to check out the
surroundings. Not far from camp, she
had spotted a rocky ridge that seemed to offer a fantastic view of the
surrounding woodlands, so she headed for it.
Five hours later, she
admitted to herself she was lost.
Shining with sweat, her white tank top and grey walking shorts grubby,
her boots dragging a collection of twigs and leaves, she fought her way through
inhospitable foliage, hoping to find some clue to where she was. Branches constantly snagged her black hair.
Britney was tiny - only five feet
tall - but she had fierce determination, and refused to give up. Eventually, she found herself on a well-worn
walking track. With a
self-congratulating smile, she followed its course.
She came across the village soon
after. Just a collection of houses, an
old church, and a general store at the side of a cracked two-lane highway that
snaked off into the forest in either direction.
The store was closed for the
evening, so Britney decided on the church.
She crossed the road with confidence, tugged on the wrought iron handle
of its heavy wooden door. It was
locked. The red paint was badly
peeling, and she scowled at it.
“Someone
hasn’t been doing their maintenance!”
Making a small fist, she pounded on the door. “Hey! Anyone inside?”
There was the sound of
movement. Britney waited, hands on
hips, as a bolt was drawn on the inside.
Slowly, the door creaked inwards.
“Hello?” The priest who peered out looked friendly enough; in his fifties,
dressed in a simple white cassock. He
focused on Britney’s eyes. “May I help
you?”
“Hello yourself!” Britney huffed impatiently,
and pushed past him to get inside the church.
“What does it look like, doofus?
I’m lost! D’you have a phone in here, or what?”
“I’m sorry, how rude of me. Please, come in,” said the priest, shutting
the door. Britney was already halfway
down the aisle, looking up at the wooden ceiling.
“A bit crappy in here, isn’t
it? You got cobwebs,” she noted.
The priest followed after her. “Well, you know how it is. There aren’t so many occasions to clean it,
these days.”
“No shit,” said Britney.
“Your language, my child, is
inappropriate for a House of God,” the priest reminded her.
“Ah, c’mon. Fuck that and get me a phone, would you?”
The priest hesitated. Then, with a sigh, “in that case, please,
come this way.”
He led Britney to a small doorway;
it opened to reveal a spiralling staircase leading down beneath the church.
“Holy shit! This is where you live?” Britney gasped in
wonder.
“After you,” said the priest.
Britney descended the stone stairs,
perhaps twenty feet down. The only light
spilled from the doorway above, and a burning bulb in the room below. As they reached the concrete floor, Britney
frowned.
“Well where’s the …?”
“There is no phone, Sinner!”
Without warning, the priest seized Britney by the wrist. She shrieked and tried to tug away, but he
twisted, and Britney’s arm folded up between her shoulder blades.
“Oh! Ow! Fuck, stop, stop!”
she bellowed. “You’re breaking my arm!”
“Walk with me,” the priest
hissed. Britney had no choice but to
cooperate, as she was marched through the cellar towards a crypt, a tiny
enclosure dug into the bedrock, closed off with a barred iron gate.
“Please,” Britney panted, as she
drew near. “I get claustrophobic!”
The priest took no notice, simply
drew the door open and shoved her inside.
She stumbled to the floor, and before she could get to her feet, the
door slammed shut. Britney watched
helplessly as the priest fitted a padlock to the door, and locked it.
“Don’t go anywhere, Witch,” he
scowled.
“Witch? Witch? Oh, mister, you’ve got it wrong!” Britney’s arrogance was traded for desperate
humility. “Please, I’m not like that at
all!” But the priest was already
leaving, unheeding Britney’s calls. She
watched him climb the stairs, and, a minute later, heard the door above slamming
shut.
Britney burst into tears. She slumped to the floor, drawing her knees
up to her chin and hugging her bare legs, sobbing uncontrollably.
*
The sound of the door opening
upstairs woke Britney from her doze.
She sat up at once, rubbing her bare arms against the cold cellar air.
“Hello?”
She could hear footsteps descending
- not just one, but perhaps three people.
No, four! She was saved! She scrambled to her feet. “Hey!
Hello! I’m down here!”
“We know.” It was the voice of the priest, and Britney froze at the sound.
“What’s going on?”
The priest appeared first, followed
by a policeman of a similar age, then another man, in his thirties, and,
finally, a woman, also in her thirties.
The latter two, particularly, looked like normal, friendly people. The man wore smart trousers and a business
shirt; the woman wore a simple summer dress.
“Oh!” It was the woman who spoke, as all drew near. “She’s pretty.”
Britney was worried. “Who are you? What’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry about, young
lady,” the policeman said. “We just
weren’t sure who you were, or why you were here.”
“I’m Britney Martin, and I came out
here with my friends, we were hiking, but I got lost, and -“
“Does anyone else know where you
are, then?” the businessman asked.
Britney glared at him. “No, doofus! Mr. Bible Basher over here locked me in here
before I could get to a phone!”
“We should torture her first,” the
woman said.
Britney blinked at her. “What?!?”
“No,” said the businessman. “There’s no time. They’ll be looking for her.
We have to do it tonight.”
“Do - fucking - what?” Britney demanded.
She grasped the bars of her prison, shook the door. “Come on!
Let me out, already!
Please! I’m freezing in here!”
The policeman nodded. “She’s perfect. Let’s get ready.”
“Hey!” Britney called after the four, as they departed; but nobody
looked back.
*
Hours passed. Britney finally heard the door upstairs
opening again. This time, she got to
her feet cautiously, watching to see who arrived. It was the same four as earlier, but this time, they were
differently dressed.
The
priest wore black and purple, his finest robes. The policeman had his full dress uniform. The man wore a smart suit. The woman, still wore the dress, but her
blonde hair had been carefully tied with flowers and some leaves of ivy, and
she wore a gold bracelet on each wrist, a gold band around her upper arm. Britney shook her head in disbelief.
“What the hell …?”
“Time to go,” the priest said, as he
unlocked the door.
“Go where?” Britney was hesitant to emerge from her
cell, but did so on the bidding of the priest.
As she stepped out, however, both priest and policeman grabbed her. “Hey!!”
Britney fought, but had no chance against two large men, and they
wrenched her arms behind her back. It
was the woman who produced a length of rope, and busily set about tying
Britney’s wrists behind her back.
“Ow! Fuck, that’s too tight!” Britney yelped.
“Let’s go,” the policeman said. As soon as Britney was bound, they hurried
her to the stairs and began to lead her up.
Britney was shaking, her mind racing.
“Damn, you guys,” she said
nervously. “It this turns out to be one
of those practical jokes for TV, I am not
going to be fucking laughing!”
“Shut up, for God’s sake,” the woman
said.
Britney glared at her, but said
nothing more as they started up the stairs.
Somebody had cleaned the church.
It was nighttime, but all the
church’s chandeliers were blazing, candles lit along the walls, and the place
looked spectacular. It was enough to
even distract Britney for a moment, before she was hurried towards the doors.
The air was cool outside, and
goosebumps coursed over Britney’s bare arms as she was marched across the road;
but a moment later, she forgot all about the cold as her jaw dropped in horror.
In an open space between who large
old houses, a tall wooden stake stood in the ground. In neat piles, around it, were stacks of wood, straw, and
twigs. Halfway up the stake, a metal
ring, two manacles dangling on chains.
Perhaps a hundred people stood in a wide circle about the scene, twenty
of them holding burning torches.
“Oh, God, no,” Britney moaned in
utter horror.
As they urged her forward, she tried
desperately to free her hands. Now she
was in the hands of the policeman and the businessman; the priest went to stand
in the middle of the circle of onlookers.
“People!” All fell silent at his
raised voice. “Our prayers have been
heard! We asked God to deliver us a
witch to burn, and last night, she arrived at the very doors of my church! This will
be the answer to our woes.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Britney
shrieked. “He’s lying! I’m not
a witch!”
“Divest her of her clothing,” the
priest ordered.
“No,” Britney protested weakly, but
the woman held a blade of some sort, and in moments had neatly cut down the
front of Britney’s tank top. The
garment was ripped from her; a simple snip
severed the straps of her bra, and a moment later Britney’s button-breasts
were bared to all. Her boots were next,
then her shorts and g-string; in less than two minutes, Britney was stripped
bare in front of the hundred onlookers.
Her body looked perfect in the flickering light of the fires.
“Prepare her!” the priest ordered.
As the two men forced Britney forward, the crowd closed in behind them, watching as the naked girl was marched up to the stake. She chose a moment to suddenly pull back and twist, hoping to get free, but the hands on her bound arms held her, and she was pushed against the stake.
The woman was on hand with a length
of thick rope interwoven with wire; as Britney was held against the stake, the
woman crouched at her feet, looped it tightly about Britney’s ankles, then
around the stake, lashing them tightly.
“You’re making a mistake,” Britney
said. “God, tell me this is a joke!”
“This isn’t a joke,” the businessman
said.
With her ankles secured, they untied
Britney’s wrists. She tried to fight,
but was helpless as they pulled her arms high above the stake, and locked her
hands in the metal shackles.
“What are you going to do to me?”
Britney asked in fear. A droplet of
nervous sweat ran from one smooth armpit, down her ribcage.
“We’re going to burn you,” the woman
said calmly.
“No-o-o!!” Even as the men stepped away, Britney began tugging wildly at the
chains that held her arms up; but she was helpless. One by one, the gathered people began picking up straw and wood,
and piling it about Britney’s feet.
“Please,” she wailed to the priest.
“My parents have money, they’ll give you what you want, please!”
“We don’t want money,” the priest
said.
“Then what do you want?”
“We want a miracle.”
Her face framed by her upstretched
arms, Britney shook her head, tears pouring from her eyes. “I can’t give you a miracle!”
“You can, and you will, by dying for
us.”
“I WON’T FUCKING DIE FOR YOU!”
Britney shrieked. But the wood was
piled about her, as high as her knees, and all she could do was watch, and
weep. Eventually, the people all moved
away. The woman who had bound her now
came forward with a hair-tie. Britney
said nothing as her black hair was pulled back and secured away from her face,
but when the woman was done, sniffed, “why did you do that?”
“So your face won’t burn too soon.”
At that, Britney let out a long wail
of misery.
The policeman whispered something to
the priest, who held up his hands again for silence. The crowd went silent, until the only sound was Britney sobbing.
“We do not have long, so we shall
start. We have gathered here, tonight,
to witness the burning of a sinner, a witch, whom God delivered to us. Through this act, in which we honour God by
ridding his world of Satan’s whore -“
“Satan’s what?” Britney was
outraged.
“ - we can be sure that the troubles
we have endured will soon be at an end.”
“I can’t believe this! Please, tell me it’s a joke!” The tears were pouring down Britney’s face,
and she struggled to free herself. Out
of the corner of her eye, she saw movement, the flicker of a burning torch
being brought closer. “Please, please, don’t burn me!” she sobbed at
the onlookers.
The woman, whose role in all of this
Britney had so far failed to understand, moved into view. She, too, had stripped naked. She wore nothing but the gold armband and
bracelets. She stood in front of the
terrified Britney, holding a fluttering torch, her nude body gleaming in its
light.
The priest said, “by the hand of a
virgin, pure in the eyes of God, the fire shall be lit.”
Britney watched in horror as the
naked woman crouched, touched the flames to the straw at the base of the pyre.
*
For the longest time, there was only
the growing fire.
To Britney, it was surreal. Her heart thudded as tiny orange flames
skittered and flared in the straw, jumping from one twig to another, their
flickering light revealing the circle of onlookers in slowly increasing
clarity. She could smell the sweet
smoke of its burning. The tears raced
down her cheeks, sweat shone in gleaming trails down her naked body. She continued to beg and plead to the crowd,
but nobody stepped forward.
The fire grew. Somebody coughed. Britney tugged her hands against the manacles that held them above her head, tried to pull herself up, but her bound ankles kept her anchored. Tiny sparks began to rise up through the stacked wood, riding the currents of hot air, and one stung her bare thigh. She gasped, jolted back against the stake.
The night was cool, but windless,
and the fire was taking a long time to grow.
It would have given Britney’s tormentors ample time to rake the burning
straw back and free her, but nobody moved, and the flames jumped ever
higher. Britney tried to shrink back,
but had nowhere to go. The flames were
dancing closer and closer towards her, and she began to feel the heat, at first
just the comfortable warmth of a bonfire or barbecue; but as the flames rose,
it began to feel uncomfortably hot.
“Please!” she begged.
The smoke was drifting in
ever-thicker clouds past her pretty face.
Beneath the stacked wood, a tight bundle of straw caught alight, the
flames crackling up through the twigs close to her right calf, and she gave a
small shriek. There were a few moments
when nothing more happened; then, fifteen minutes after the fire had been lit,
a flame licked the side of her foot.
“Ohhhh
Goodddddd!!!” The moment the flames touched her, Britney was screaming in
pain. She thrashed about with renewed
strength; but the fire’s first assault was quickly reinforced by a small,
fluttering trail of flames that engulfed both feet. Fire began to lick, hissing, at her shining calves. Britney screamed at the top of her lungs,
but she could not tug her feet from the agony. Sparks drifted up, stung her
bare arms and breasts and belly.
Twenty minutes. The crowd was slowly moving back as the fire
took hold of the wood. Flames began to
jump higher; the first tongues of orange crackling up through the bigger logs,
and flickering out towards Britney’s bare thighs. Wherever fire touched, her skin reddened, blistered. Her whole body shone as if it had been
oiled.
Still she screamed; twenty-five
minutes into the burning. Her feet and
lower legs were now alight, and the fire was hungrily attacking her knees,
climbing slowly higher. A spark settled
in her pubic hair and there was a brief flurry of flames as most of it turned
to char. The distinct smell of burning
hair reached the crowd, and several people held their noses.
Britney howled in agony as the
crackling, hissing fire reached her thighs.
The first flames fluttered at her hips, too, and a brief, savage flutter
of flame flew up between her legs, burning her sensitive lips. She threw her head back, screaming in
unbridled agony. Now, the oils and
lipids of her body were turning to tallow, and, like a candle, had become its
own fuel.
“Please! Kill me now!” Britney bellowed through
her screams. It was half an hour since
the fire had been lit, and now she was suffering beyond all endurance. She was tugging madly on the manacles above
her head, blood running down her arms from her lacerated wrists. The fire was growing faster, flames flashing
past her belly. The undersides of her
breasts were beginning to blister. She
still struggled. Then, without warning,
there was a loud POP! from one foot,
like a small firecracker, and a cloud of sparks rose up on the fire’s
heat. Britney howled, and suddenly lost
all the support of her legs, her full weight hanging from the manacles. It was evident, now, why they had chained
her hands above her head; to stop her falling into the fire and dying too
quickly.
There was another pop, then another;
the bones of her ruined feet, exploding with heat. At the same time, fire finally began lapping at her naked
breasts, hissing flames sizzling through the sweat that covered her skin. Fire kissed her shoulder blades, ate
hungrily at her belly and ribs; skin peeled back, flesh caught alight. Britney screamed and wailed.
She had been burning for twenty
minutes, when her beautiful black hair, suddenly, flared in a crackling
fireball. Its flames seared her arms,
tore her scalp, but her face was barely touched, and through the rising fire
and drifting smoke, all could clearly see the agony on her face as her entire
body became embraced by fire. The
flames began to rumble, like a passing freight train, the savage heat funnelling
the fire up around the twisting, screaming Britney. Flame danced in her armpits, and, finally, embraced surrounded
her pretty, upturned face.
Twenty-five long minutes since her
feet had felt the first touch of fire, Britney hung, twisting helplessly in the
all-engulfing inferno. There was no
escape from the agony. With a
distinctive thud! thud! her breasts
burst, hot, melted fat flung out across the grass. Her voice, at once, became a rattle of agony. She was inhaling fire, now, and it was
searing her lungs, blistering her throat.
Thirty minutes. Britney’s voice was finally silenced. She hung in the fire, only her hands, at the
very apex of the flames, showing that she still lived, still felt the agony:
her fingers slowly curled and twisted, shaking, pulled hard down into the
manacles by the weight of her burning body.
Finally, even her hands were
engulfed by fire. The onlookers watched
as the dark shape within the flames slowly came apart, as bones burst,
destroying what little was left of Britney’s firm young flesh. Nobody knew if there would be a miracle as a
result of this night; but for Britney there were no miracles.
K.S.
12-10-2002