Smuts

Smuts

Prologue

~Summer 986~

Taking advantage of what little breeze could be found the swan soared south, following the course of the River Ouse below, flowing past endless coppices, charming villages, fields brimming with beautiful golden corn shimmering in the red sunset, ripe for the harvest, orchards, silvery streams and snaking hedgerows. Beautiful. But it was time for home.

The ancient city of York, with its rotting Roman battlements, grand cathedral and winding streets reared on the horizon. Home.

Circling above the city first, enjoying the feeling of flight, air rushing beneath its wings and the sight of the tiny people below, the swan finally skimmed down onto the river, gelatinous and oozing in the heat of the summer evening. It swam slowly to the bank and waddled, rather ungraciously, into an obscure back street.

Two minutes later a pretty, blonde girl, of about sixteen, emerged at the other end. Her ivory skin looked ever so slightly flushed with exertion and the hem of her dress was rather damp. Breathing deeply and smiling contentedly she walked purposefully through the streets.

Nearing the large square that was overlooked by the cathedral she began to smell smoke, smoke tinged with a fatty smell like meat on a spit. She saw the blue, noxious fumes rising above the mismatched chimneystacks.

Coming even closer she heard the jeers, the stifled, shocked whimpers, the horrific, stomach-churning screams.

Rounding the corner she didn't notice the pitying glances, the hushed whispers, the audible accusations. All she understood was the face of the accused witch on the pyre. That loving, adored face twisted in unimaginable pain. The woman on the pyre threw her head down as if to weep but in doing so caught sight of her roasting legs, the black, mutilated flesh dropping of into the flames and spitting fat. The screams became more desperate.

In contrast the girl was frozen, living up to the icy blonde hair tumbling down her back and cold grey eyes trained on the face.

The woman seemed to screech, "She's the real witch! It's her!" But no one else seemed to hear this but the girl.

Finally the girl stirred and screamed, in matching volume to the victim, "Mother!"

Ashes from the fire floated towards the girl, permeating her clothes and staining her cheeks. She rubbed desperately at the smuts, particles of burned human flesh, but she'd never clean them away.

~

I was that girl, and that was the last sight I ever had of my mother: screeching, writhing in pain and rage, hair burned away, scalp red raw, her flesh revolting and mutilated. I still can't think of it as if I was really there. I'm sort of detached.

She was burned as a witch. She was innocent of course but it must have seemed obvious to the simple, muggle townsfolk; she was an old woman who served the notorious Gryffindors for years and odd flashes of light come from her house now and then. I escaped accusation and was more often pitied. I was the poor, little girl reigned over by a tyrannical witch, far too young and handsome to be one myself. Their ideas of my innocence couldn't be further from the truth.

~