Goddess In Flames: Black Silhouettes

Swabia, 1558

Her words were passionate, but plagued with melancholy and confliction as they came, “The world has so many realms,” she said, pondering it all. Her voice was bodied with the strength that wrote every bit of her very being, but there was a sense of hurt, and love, and childlike spirit woven within. A girl was in there still who just wanted to be a girl, but the hard world wrought her into steel, it made Adalia sad when she thought on it. “In the East they recognize four elements: Earth, Fire, Water, and Air. In the West there is Heaven, and Hell, and Earth is only a dead thing to be pillaged, and exploited. Where my family comes from there is Earth, there is sea, and Sky. But the imagination… here,” she touched her on the forehead, it made her blush; she was such a shy thing then. “There is no end here. In the mind you can go anywhere… You are free.” She was so beautiful.

A shrill scream tore Adalia from her sleep. Her father’s irascible wroth had been woken in the late hours. It was an unwise thing to do. She listened. They went quiet for a moment. She shrunk under her bed covers, fearing what might come next. Then she heard her mother mewling, and begging, and through the walls the sounds of her suffering bled through. Her mother quailed, and her father cursed. Tears drew from Adalia’s eyes. The blows were so deafening in the night they echoed off the boards that walled her room. The neighbors would be waking soon. If she were going to get away she would need to move fast. There was nothing that could quicken the lust hungry monster that was in her cruel father like the disappointment that her mother drew out of him. Quickly she wriggled herself into her dress and pulled on her boots. Then she escaped out her window and she ran, crying. Her father would only storm into her bedchamber to find it empty long after he was finished objurgating his wife for whatever great offence she could have caused him. There at the doorway he let go of his rage, falling into confused despair. He looked at the swollen bruises on his knuckles, and listened to the waning whimpers still clinging to her lips. It was her fault, he told himself. The girl was as wild as her mother’s treachery.

Adalia did not know where she was going, she just ran. On and on she went, hurtling into the foliage, and up an old road until she was lost in the wilderness. The forest never scared her, not so much as did her father’s quick temper. Her home was so much like a prison to her, and in the woods she felt the breath of freedom. The critters went scrambling from her as she walked. She could not see them, but she knew when they were near. She always had a sense for such things. Animals seemed to love her; at least she liked to think so. Nothing ever hurt her out there. It was her place to go to feel safe. But after a time she saw something strange. There was a fire; its brilliance was swelling through the threaded branches. Wind burbled around her as she went to see where it was coming from.

She found the home at the top of the hill. Of course, it was the Eisenbergs. They were a queer presence in the city, mostly because they were scarce seen in the city. A new family, with a keen sense for business and art, it had fed them well since they had first arrived. She heard laughter, so she tentatively moved closer. Adalia suddenly found herself crawling in the brushes trying to see. The big cabin house was in the way. Her dress snagged on a limb from a bush. She yanked if free to the startling scream of a tear ripping in her skirt. It sounded so loud out there. But no one heard it. Twigs and dry leaves crushed and crinkled under her. She went on, moving as deep as she would dare to go, but the ranch was still so far away. A pile of rocks eclipsed the fire, but she could see figures swinging round and round. They were his children. The silhouettes bounded about so graceful, so happy. It was a queer thing, as they always seemed so miserable when found in public seeing, helping their father sell off his stores at the market square. But here they were, in high ecstasy. Capering, and singing strange songs, on the strangest night they could ever choose to do so. It was a cold night, and the end of harvest, said to be the darkest season of the year. A chill went down her spine, but for Adalia it was all so very exciting. She wanted to know more about them. She wanted to taste this joy… this freedom. Here, before a lively hearth they whirled, and cavorted under the stars. Their black impressions burning against the fire as it flailed like a golden banner made them appear as though they were weightless, like they were flying without wings. And Adalia watched with coveted eyes, ensorcelled, stolen with the wonder of a fly caught in the web of a seductive black widow. That night was October 31^st, and she would not soon forget it.