Chapter 9:
Thessela was new to the whole experience of being arrested, sentenced as a witch, and put in the stocks. While it was appalling, and the prospect of being burned at the stake was horrific, she also found it somewhat exciting. Her life had been extremely quiet of late. Living on the outskirts of a dull village making shoes was not exactly every girl’s dream.
She hadn’t even had to make the shoes. All she had to do was make sure there was leather, glue, nails and a workbench. The elves seemed quite happy to do the actual work. She knew they were there, her “secret helpers” as she called them. For one, there was always the smell of pipe tobacco, and she didn’t smoke a pipe. Then there was the night that she had trouble sleeping and had gotten out of bed to find a drink. She had seen the light in her work room and, somewhat alarmed, had peeked through the keyhole. There were the three little elves, diligently filling the room with smoke and making a pair of new boots for the village baker. That explained why the shoes were always finished in the morning. She had been wondering if she did most of her work subconsciously in her sleep. She was rather relieved to know that she did not suffer from any abnormalities other than having a house full of mysterious elves.
Since then, she had taken to leaving some soup or sandwiches and a bottle of ale out at night. The elves must have appreciated the gesture, because the quality of the shoes went up. She had almost saved up enough money to buy a small donkey, and was wondering whether that might get her as far at least as the next town. It all seemed so mundane now, sitting in the stocks with a torn, fruit stained dress, with a broken egg on her head. At least Messaline was company. She seemed very exotic, with her French accent and her strong faith in a Russian prince who would arrive to rescue them.
“I suppose they will burn us alive?” asked Thessela, watching some men erecting a thick post in the square between the churches. “That is how it’s done, is it?”
“I have never been burned before,” said Messaline, “but I think this is the way they do it, yes. Anyway, why do you worry about this? We will be rescued long before then.”
In fact, the rescue committee, made of one Prince Jollyrei and the Sorcerer Wragg, was in conference behind their hedge, planning out their next move.
“I know you’re quite good with a sword,” Wragg said, “but against 20 guards, you might find that you’re at a bit of a disadvantage.”
This made a good bit of sense. After Messaline’s capture, more guards had been posted. Additionally, there were a lot of townsfolk around, erecting the post, and just generally viewing the two pretty women sitting in the stocks. It was more excitement than they’d had since Wednesday and the last flood anyway.
“You don’t think the element of surprise would be sufficient to overcome them then?” asked Jollyrei.
“One man with a sword attacking a whole village,” said Wragg thoughtfully. “I suppose that would be surprising, but no, I don’t think they would all just lie down and die.”
“You may be right,” said Jollyrei. “Still, we can’t let them be burned. Do you suppose those elves of hers would help? They might have mysterious powers. Everyone else in this story seems to have them.”
“Worth a shot,” said Wragg. “You stay here and watch. I’ll go see what the elves can do.” He slipped away down the street.
Staying around to watch, provided an unparalleled opportunity to witness the arrival of a cart of dry firewood. Jollyrei wondered where they had found it. Everything in this village was damp and muddy. He noticed that some of the wood was being given to an old woman who seemed to want to run a tea and coffee stall. Hot tea and a samovar of coffee was considered essential to the festivities apparently. The rest of the wood was brought over to the tall post in the centre of the square.
Messaline and Thessela watched all this from their vantage point in the stocks. Thessela got a bit more agitated, while Messaline seemed completely calm. This Prince Jollyrei must be very good at these rescues to inspire such faith, Thessela thought. She craned her neck to see if there was anything vaguely prince-like charging forward with an army to save them. All that got her was a good look at a couple of street urchins winding up to throw another turnip at her. She wished they could just stick with fruit. It was messy, but the turnips hurt when they hit. She wondered whether they had any tomatoes, but then wondered where they would get tomatoes in the steppes of Russia. The thrown turnip never actually hit her. It bounced off the squirrel cage in front of the stocks with a “twang” sound. Rodentsov glared at the urchins.
As Thessela considered the 17th and 18th century agricultural economy of the Russian steppes, she missed the arrival of the six men who came to unlock the stocks. They left the cage with Rodentsov where it was.
“Hey,” shouted the squirrel. “Leave them alone! You’ll be sorry when I get out of here.” Nobody seemed terribly interested in the opinions of a large squirrel.
Thessela was helped up. It was rather nice to stand on her own feet again. “Thank you,” she said to a man she recognized as the son of the weaver.
“You’re welcome, miss,” he said, grinning at her sheepishly and showing his yellowing teeth. “Can you walk? Only, I’m supposed to take you over to the stake now.”
“Oh,” said Thessela. It all seemed a bit unreal. The weaver’s son was quite large and strong and pulled her along to the post and then pushed her against it with her back to the wood. Messaline was pushed in place on the other side of the pole. A couple of men started winding chains around the two women. The squirrel started to shake the bars of his cage, frustrated at his imprisonment.
“What do we do about the magic squirrel?” asked one of the men.
“Oh,” said the town apothecary, “he’s just a familiar spirit. We don’t have to do anything. He’ll vanish when his mistress is burned. Stands to reason.” As the apothecary was an educated man, they left it at that.
“I don’t suppose anyone’s thought about where we’re going to get shoes now?” asked the tea lady. “I mean you all seem quite happy to burn the only shoemaker.”
“Oh right,” said the weaver’s son brightly, helping wind a loop of chain under Thessela’s breasts. He blushed as he did so. “My mum said to thank you for the shoes you made her last week, Miss. Best she ever wore, she says. Not even a single blister.”
“Oh, good,” said Thessela, not really listening. “Do you see any princes to rescue us yet, Messaline?”
“I’m sure he will come,” said Messaline. “Are you doing this right?” she asked one of the men. “Are we not supposed to be naked?”
The man turned several shades of red. “Don’t rightly know,” he said awkwardly. “But there are women and kids here. Can’t do anything that would be a bad influence.”
“So, you can burn two women in front of everyone,” Messaline said, “but if they see her naked, that would be a bad influence.”
“Well,” said the man, “you’re witches, ain’t you? Always good to burn witches.”
“I’m quite happy that I’m not naked,” said Thessela.
Messaline continued to debate the issues of political correctness, as it pertained to witch burning with the men winding the chains around them, but it seemed to Thessela as if it was a lot like discussing the finer points of Hegel’s existential philosophy with a monkey. These people wouldn’t know an ego if it posited itself directly in their path.
They did know their chains, however, and soon the two women were quite securely bound to the stake around their ankles, thighs, waists, crossed between their breasts and over their shoulders. This left them with their arms free. The effect was that, even with their dresses on, the chains accentuated and highlighted the physical features of the two alleged witches, and a number of people had stopped just to watch.
“Wish they were naked,” said the street sweeper. Thessela crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at him.
She tried moving the chains, but they were quite securely attached, and locked with a large padlock. The men now started piling straw and the dry firewood around their feet up to about mid-thigh level. It was like standing in the middle of a woodpile.
“Now would be a good time to be rescued,” said Thessela, “wouldn’t it?”
“Why aren’t these women naked?” asked Father Boris, striding into the scene.
“No, no,” said Father Ivan, joining in. “That’s for pagan sacrifices. Witch burning is all done with clothed witches.”
“You’re sure?” asked Father Boris.
“Oh yes,” said Father Ivan. “Anyway, the dresses will burn away quite quickly, I think.”
“So, problem solved,” said Father Boris happily. “Let’s get on with it then.”
“We certainly can’t do anything that would suggest we were doing anything pagan, or just gratuitously burning two women for fun,” said Father Ivan. “Wouldn’t be right.”
Jollyrei wondered where Wragg was with the elves. A little help would be great. He watched as the stocks were unlocked. He sprang forward with a battle cry on his lips when the women were pushed against the stake, but realized he didn’t have a plan, and jumped back again.
He drew his sword and was all for charging in recklessly when the men started winding chains around Thessela’s breasts, which he could quite clearly see from his vantage point. Somehow it didn’t feel like the right moment. He wasn’t sure he would know the moment when it came. Where was Wragg?
Where was the Firebird? On the other hand, fire was exactly what they were trying to avoid. Maybe there would be a flood. A flood would be quite handy about now, he thought. Just today, however, the river just flowed calmly. He drew his sword. He crouched ready to spring forward. Thessela was glaring at someone. He raised his sword. He lowered his sword. Jollyrei could have taken indecision to an Olympic level.
The afternoon was wearing on, and that point in the day where the sun is just getting to the point where all the houses glow, and the sky is that deep royal blue colour was starting to saturate the world. Artists call it “magic hour”. It was about this point that a small fire was lit in a brazier near the stake and some pitch covered torches were brought. If only someone could order them to stop. Then the light dawned.
He was a prince. A Russian prince, and this was Russia, well, one of them anyway. If you can’t pull rank occasionally in a village of peasants, then there’s no point in being a prince, he thought. He checked his clothing. He had black boots and good pantaloons. He had the jacket with all the fancy embroidery and gold piping. He had the black fur hat. He had his rather fine sword. In all ways, he thought, his appearance said “prince”. Any more princely, and rain would turn purple.
So he added a bit of swagger to his attitude, and stepped out into the street. It felt good. It felt right. This was the big climax of the fairy tale, he felt. The prince arrives at the last moment, sees the girl. Perhaps their eyes meet. The evil priests quake in fear, while the villagers, nasty, but well-meaning nonetheless, jump forward to do his bidding, unlock the chains. The day would be saved. The innocent girl would be freed. The princess would (once again) be rescued. Surely the words “happily ever after” could only be a scant few words away.
Thessela looked across the square for any sign of, well, anything now. She would have been happy to be rescued by the clowns from a travelling circus at this point. The priests were being annoying and pretending to throw holy water at her. They were pretending because the tea lady had laughed at them when they started making things wet, just after Vladimir Wiszkitotz had gone all the way to the next town to get dry wood. Then the blacksmith had lit the brazier, and her fear increased at the sight of real fire.
And then, in the magical glow of the sunlight, he appeared in front of her. A prince had stepped boldly into the road. He stood tall and strong. His beard was well trimmed and his eye was clear. His hand was on his sword hilt, and he strode purposefully forward. He looked straight at her and their eyes met. For a moment, she felt like they were the only two people in the world. He smiled at her, and she felt that things would be alright. Messaline was right, she thought.
“I think the prince has arrived,” she said. She said it hopefully, but still a bit uneasily, because he didn’t seem to have an army. He didn’t seem to have any help at all.
“See?” said Messaline cheerfully. “I told you he would come.”
Jollyrei strode forward confidently and with a look of determination on his face. As he got closer, the villagers started to notice the well-dressed stranger advancing on them and conversation died down. It was uncannily quiet suddenly as everyone stopped to see what would happen.
“I am Prince Jollyrei,” said Jollyrei in a calm, friendly, and confident voice. “You will put out that fire and release these ladies.” Nobody moved.
“Well, come on,” said Jollyrei finally. “You are peasants. I am your prince. My father is the Tsar of all the Russias. I just gave you a command. Hop to it!”
Wragg chose that moment to arrive. He was pulling a large boot on a wagon. It stood 4 feet tall and was quite wide, but was definitely a boot, complete with leather insole, embroidered stitching, and a polished black sole and heel. Even the priests paused, holding their torches, as they stared at this new intrusion.
“Sorry to be so late,” said Wragg. “Making this boot took some time.”
“Women are being tied to stakes, and you decide to make outrageously large footwear?” asked Jollyrei.
“Ah,” said Wragg conspiratorially. “Just watch this.” He pulled the wagon with the boot up to the priests.
“A gift to the village from Miss Thessela,” he said.
“Why would she make this for us?” asked Father Ivan.
“Goodness of her heart?” suggested Wragg. “Look it’s a gift. It’s for you. Just release the ladies, would you?”
“What’s it for?” asked Father Boris. “Nobody can wear a boot this size.”
“Where’s the other one?” asked the blacksmith. “It’s only the right boot. Where’s the left boot?”
But the boot had the effect of momentarily distracting the villagers and priests, who walked around it, looking it over. Wragg took the opportunity to sidle over to the stocks and retrieved the cage containing Rodentsov.
“It’s really quite clever,” said Wragg to Jollyrei. “The elves made it. They’re inside it now, cunning little blighters. Now, when the time is right, they’ll jump out and…”
“Let me out of here,” said Rodentsov, rattling the cage.
“I think there’s something inside it,” said the weaver’s son, poking at the boot with a pitchfork handle. The elves jumped out, brandishing leather cutting knives. “Get ‘em boys,” yelled Winken.
“Oh, bugger,” said Blinken, seeing that they were surrounded by at least 40 men with pitchforks and sickles.
“Bloody stupid elves,” said Rodentsov.
“It’s a trick!” yelled the blacksmith.
“Of course it’s a trick,” said Father Ivan. “Who gives only one boot?”
The village men gave a shout and surged forward with sickles, knives, and pitchforks.
“Back into the boot!” yelled Nod. The elves jumped back into the boot. Which was studiously attacked and poked with several pitchforks. There was a purple flash and a “twing” sound, and when the boot was upended, there was nothing inside.
“You know, I don’t think that was the right moment,” said Wragg, “to be honest.” He started to frantically work at the latch holding Rodentsov in his cage.
“That was an obvious sign of witchcraft,” said Father Boris. “We should burn them now.” He and Ivan grabbed their torches and advanced on the stake.
“No!” yelled Thessela.
Jollyrei, with his debilitating sense of duty to damsels in distress, decided that desperate action was needed. He drew his sword and charged the two priests. Unfortunately, they were surrounded by a lot of burly village men, and pitchforks can do a lot to hold off one swordsman.
“He’s very brave,” said Thessela.
“Yes,” said Messaline. “Whatever happens, don’t worry. Everything is going well, I think.”
Jollyrei was forced back, and was finally surrounded by angry villagers. One of them hit him on the head from behind and he looked extremely surprised for a second, and then collapsed.
“Is that part of the plan?” asked Thessela. “I can’t figure out his strategy at all.”
“Perhaps a diversion,” said Messaline, as the priests thrust their torches into the dry straw.
“And this?” asked Thessela in some alarm. “I’d like to be rescued before we are burned.”
“We can’t have everything,” said Messaline. She shouted out, “Monsieur Wragg. We need some assistance.”
“What does she think I can do?” Wragg muttered in frustration, finally wrenching open the cage door.
“I don’t know,” said Rodentsov, drawing his small sword. “You’re the bloody sorcerer, aren’t you?”
“Good lord,” said Wragg. “I forgot that. Sorcery. Excellent idea. Stand back!” He drew himself up to his full height, which was reasonably tall, and said “एक लवा के लिए यह सब मैथुन".
Lightning flew from his hands, spreading out over the square, sending out tracers of glittering magic, like white neon outlines, climbing every edge, outlining every window. It traced over the villagers, and over their houses. Thatch burst into flames. Panic broke out among the villagers, and the bonfire with the two woman burst fully into flames. As magic went, it was rather spectacular. Shame about the tea stall, but you can’t have omelettes without breaking eggs.
Between the lightning, their homes on fire, and the sharp stab of a letter opener in the back of the legs, the men around Jollyrei were sent into panic as well and didn’t so much retreat as flee the avenging squirrel, who stood beside Jollyrei shouting insults. Jollyrei rubbed his head.
“You weren’t supposed to light the girls on fire,” he said to Wragg. “Now what?”
“Maybe some sort of water spell,” said Wragg. “I’m a bit out of practice, except with confectionary. I can conjure up some jelly doughnuts if you like, or marshmallows might be more appropriate?” He scratched his head thoughtfully.
There was a pale streak of light in the sky, like a giant firefly, falling toward the village as Thessela watched her dress catch fire. “I don’t think we’re being rescued,” she said. “Oh, ow! Help!”
The Firebird saw the bonfire, and she dived toward it. Her own fire was almost gone after the long flight and she felt weak. Wouldn’t the power of that bonfire be nice, she thought. The bonfire stretched upward and then streaked toward the Firebird, turning her into a fiercely glowing fireball that landed in the square. The bonfire was suddenly stone cold. Eulalia stood in a gown of golden flame, smiling at Messaline.
“You see?” said Messaline smugly. “Nothing to it. That was very exciting!”
“Yes,” said Thessela. “It was very exciting.” She looked down at herself self-consciously, still chained with Messaline to the stake. “Does anyone have anything I can wear? My dress has burned off.”
To be continued…