Madrea spat blood. Tied to a wooden cross on a pyre at the center of the village, she hung there receiving the full brunt of the harsh sun. All eyes were on her. Men, women and children gathered like grains of sand to watch the witch, who wrecked their lives and families, burned alive.
Madrea searched deep within herself but it was not forthcoming. The memory she wished to remember was not there. Not being able to recall what happened up until now frustrated her even more than the deathly stares she received.
"Here," she remembered. Madrea recalled her conversation with the old man but that was it. After that conversation, her memories hit a dead end.
A young woman rushed out of the crowd, yelling at the top of her voice. "You killed my sons! You witch!" she cursed at Madrea before hurling a handful of sand at her face. "She killed my sons!" she cried out, rolling on floor and bruising herself in her frustration.
Madrea could not open her eyes fully because of the sand but she was able to get a little glance of the woman. She did not know what to do any longer. She heard them as they cursed her in their tongue, even wishing terrifying death upon her. Things were thrown at her. Some struck her with any weapon they could lay hands on. Some even spat on her.
"Why?" she whispered, her head lowered. "Why? What did I do to you?" she continued. Only one thought ran through her mind. "Is this how you pay me back!?"
"Why!" she shouted.
The leader of their warriors stood to her side with a torch in hand. "You do not remember, do you?" he asked, leisurely making eye contact with his captive. "You know, you were really a tough one to take down."
Madrea turned to him, short of words. It dawned her what his words meant and she bared her teeth, screaming at him. Madrea shook her hands so much to get them loose that they started to bleed, "You bastard!" She scrunched her brows and turned her head. Faint flashes of last night played in her head.
"Sleep now, sorceress." The last words she heard that night belonged to the old man.
She remembered the beer. "The ale from yesterday..." she said after she had realised what happened.
"It was baneroot," the warrior interrupted her. He nodded, "We added baneroot to yours."
-
It was the first meeting since their victory over the four allied kings. Present that evening were the elder that played the most important role of winning Madrea to their side, other elders, the leader of the warriors and his two most trusted men.
The head warrior knocked on the table, "Don't you get it!" he bawled, "If she turns against us, we're not safe!"
"Lower your voice, Baraka." The old man cleared his throat to speak, "I understand our fears but I'll have us know that we are talking about an elf here. She's stronger than any of us here."
"It doesn't matter, elder Okubo," Baraka argued, "Everyone has a weakness. We just have to find hers."
Okubo shook his head and leaned away from Baraka.
"What is the matter, Okubo? You seem bothered," another elder asked, "You do not agree with us?"
The elder, Okubo sighed. "You all fear that she would be our greatest enemy. What if she turns out to be our greatest ally?"
"You heard her, didn't you?" Baraka spoke to remind Okubo in case he had forgotten, "She hates us. She hates humans. What do you think she will do when she finds out we burned her home?"
Baraka walked out of his seat and towards elder Okubo, "Especially since it was your idea in the first place," he said, leaning in to whisper into his ears.
-
The dark came and a great fire burned at the centre of the camp with people dancing around it. It was the night of celebration in Madrea's honour. The atmosphere was perfect for tales, wine and women for their strong men.
"I cannot do this," Okubo pleaded, trying to leave. Baraka grabbed him by his cloth and dragged him back. "It has to be you. You started this after all, you might as well finish it."
Okubo was gloom. His idea to win Madrea over was a perfect one without doubt, but never did he expect it would lead to the current situation of things. Madrea's demise was never in his plans.
"Or do you not want to see your son again?" Baraka threatened him.
"You wouldn't dare!" Okubo's voice rose as he lifted his cane to strike Baraka. Baraka being much younger and stronger than Okubo grabbed the old man's wrist before his cane landed.
"I was not bluffing."
-
Later, that same night...
Madrea sat alone in a corner, observing. No one would believe she was the one being celebrated. She was cold towards the villagers that no one dared to walk the same road she walked.
The old man approached her with a mug of ale and a hand that shook terribly. Okubo had no choice. Baraka made it clear - it was either the elf or his family.
"Here," Okubo said, handing her the mug of ale. The old man held on to the mug though Madrea had reached for it. Okubo hesitated in giving it to her but Baraka's presence at a distance weakened his resolve.
Madrea left before the feast ended, bumping into things on her way back to the tent she was given. "That's some strong wine," she thought, rubbing her eyes to clear her vision though for a moment. Baraka lurked in the shadows, following her.
"Sleep now, sorceress." Madrea laid on her mat when these words were said to her by the blurry image of a person she saw standing over her.
"Tomorrow, you will cease to be our problem".
In the dead of the night...
"Monster!" the villagers screamed as they ran helter-skelter searching for places to hide.
Overcome by guilt from the massacre of his kindred, elder Okubo ran to Baraka's tent to lament.
"Baraka! Baraka!" Okubo yelled, "This was not the deal!"
Baraka said no words to the old man who just stormed into his tent. He continued with his selection of weapons on a table.
"Baraka! I'll tell everyone the truth!" Okubo threatened. His words finally reached Baraka. He turned to the elder and started to walk towards him.
"And then what? You will spill all our secrets?" he asked.
"I don't care any-" Okubo's body was pulled in by Baraka and his voice muffled. He could not speak because he had so much blood in his mouth. Okubo stared at his palms that were reddened with his blood. He grabbed Baraka's face as he slipped to the floor.
Baraka wiped his short knife of Okubo's blood. "Foolish old man," he cursed, spitting on his lifeless body.
"We have no use for your kind."