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“You’re a prodigy, you.”
Caleb chuckles, ears red. He looks away and tucks his hands under his arms. He shrugs his shoulders, a habit he has when flustered.
Endearing when Philip elicits such a reaction from his brother. But now, watching, he seethes.
“No, no. I’m just an apprentice.”
“Oh but you make better carvings than your master.”
“Well, you know what they say…”
She tilts her head as she does the figurine. “And what do they say?”
“A student is only as good as the teacher.”
The fury that bubbles within him is great. Them. Whispering and laughing like fools drunk on mead on the eve of harvest day. There is nothing that disgusts him more than the smile his brother gives that girl. She flatters him, placates him, can’t he see that? Empty platitudes like what everyone else utters. His brother none the wiser to the enchantment being… cast upon him.
That witch.
So he turns and runs to
the church sat at the base of the hill.
He breaches the threshold
feigned tears streaking down cheeks—
He kneels before the priest in supplication.
“Help my brother,” he cries.
“He is being bewitched!”
The sky bleeds red as the townsfolk marches towards the house of the nefarious witch. Caleb keeps to himself as he makes his way home, eyes downcast, avoiding the distrustful gazes thrown his way. By the time he reaches their little hut, the shadows have become starker.
Philip stands by the windowsill, the gentle silver of moonlight softening his brother’s features. Fifteen and he is already growing taller, growing older — those big blue eyes now sharp, button nose more defined, face longer than it is rounder, hints of a stubble tracing his jaw.
“Will you join me tonight, brother?”
Philip looks over his shoulder, donning that beckoning smile that tugs at his heartstrings. Shadows curl around him in an embrace. Caleb inhales.
“I heard they caught another witch.”
Choked breath— Exhale. A shiver threatens to run up his spine. Caleb stamps down the unease that claws at his gut as his little brother draws closer.
“They’re going to burn her tonight.”
He only gave her a carving. The Mother of God.
(She wears the colour of innocence as they secure her wrist arms legs.)
He might as well have struck the match and laid it at her feet.
Shame. Caleb cannot bear to hold her in his sight, not when he has brought her the ire of his dearest little brother. He looks away. Away. Towards where? It doesn’t matter, as long as he doesn’t see the terror in her eyes.
And, as it always does, his gaze falls lightly upon Philip, blue eyes of forget-me-nots witnessing what Caleb cannot stomach. There is an unmistakable glint in his eyes.
Son of man, your judgment is passed.
Who is Caleb to object?