The Burning

Dear Reader,

Sitting alone at night in my private study, (during lapses in activity) I am often given over to quiet moments of reflective thought. On occasion I find myself mesmerized by the dancing flames that flicker atop my candelabra. They sway to and fro, like a troupe of lithe and perfect ballerinas. How graceful and wondrous the fire is. It stands apart, unique from the other base elements. It is more graceful than earth, more vibrant than air, and certainly more beautiful than water. The flame itself is a paragon of the most delicate balance. It is in need of oxygen to feed it, and yet the slightest breeze will cause it to waver. Too much air and it will be snuffed out completely. The flame sustains us by cooking our food, but has also been used as an instrument of death. We harness fire to heat and shape metal, but uncontrolled it can destroy an entire city. The flame also plays an important part in our collective mythologies. It is widely known that the Oracle at Delphi used flames for prophecy and the god Prometheus was given eternal punishment for delivering the flame into the hands of man. Since ancient times fire has been seen as a sacred, holy essence that must be tended and kept by only the most devout individuals. Of late however the flame has been put to a more ignoble purpose and placed in the hands of ordinary men asked to perform a most ungodly task.

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Alphonse stood in the dark bedroom of his less than spacious flat. The sky was a slate gray hue and menacing clouds threatened rain later in the afternoon. Perhaps his duty would be postponed for today. If the officers of the church had their faults inefficiency was not one of them. It was on cold days like this that he was thankful for the thick folds of his black velvet robe. He knew that before long he would have warmth that would be more than sufficient to sustain him. With a labored sigh he gazed into his looking glass. How tired he looked. In the background he saw the crimson hood laying on the bed, it’s empty eyeholes staring up at him. How long had he been doing this? How many times had he donned that vile garment? He had lost count. The answer however was the same as it had always been for at least the last two years…too many. He knew in his heart of hearts there would be many more. One did not simply leave the service of Holy Mother Church.
         
The bells of Notre Dame rang out. They could be heard all over Paris and Alphonse knew he could delay no longer. He reached down, grabbed the hood and pulled it over his face. He was not sure which part of his job disturbed him the most, but the walk to the churchyard always made him uneasy. It must have been the stares the people gave him. A man in any other line of work could walk down the avenue and not give any clue whatever of the business he would be undertaking. For Alphonse however, everyone knew where he was going, and what was to happen when he arrived. Some people crossed themselves as he passed. Others tipped their hats, but he knew deep down that he, like all members of his profession was revered and despised in equal measure. At least the first of his kind had the wisdom of using the hood to hide their identities. So long as no one saw him exit his home he would be assured of complete anonymity.
         
Another few minutes walking brought him to the front courtyard of Notre Dame. A sizeable crowd had already gathered, and most fell silent as they caught a glimpse of the robed figure in the blood colored hood threading his way through the crowd. A few of the spectators hissed as Alphonse passed, but most simply shrank away from him. He saw only one stake set on the mortared stone scaffold. Silently he thanked God that there would be only a single soul to account for in confession this week and then cursed himself for his selfishness. The Holy Inquisitor stood upon the raised brick platform waiting for the proceedings to commence. He nodded cordially as Alphonse mounted the steps and took his place next to the stake. He had stood next to this man countless times before but would be damned if he could remember the fellow’s name. Alphonse gave the pyre a cursory examination and found it ready to receive the condemned.

All at once the crowd grew louder and more agitated and soon resembled a buzzing hornets’ nest. A slow, rickety wooden cart labored its way toward the cathedral. In the back of this undignified conveyance sat a lonely fear-stricken woman. Her head had been shaved (a sign of a condemned heretic) and rivers of tears streamed down her face. Most of the crowd booed and hissed at her while some of the more zealous spectators took it upon themselves to pelt this poor creature with spit, stones, and any other loose objects they could find. One particularly proficient marksman managed to score a direct hit to the woman’s face with a rotten seed melon. Alphonse wondered if this perverted pageantry was really necessary. This woman, who more than likely had committed no real wrong, would die horribly enough. Why force her to endure this base degradation? He already knew the answer. All one had to do was scan the faces of the crowd. Every one of them waited impatiently with an almost animal bloodlust. This was entertaining for them. He wondered how many would find it so if they had to light the pyres.

After what seemed to be an eternity the cart came to a rattling halt at the foot of the scaffold. Two heavily armored guards took this sobbing, quivering woman by each arm and guided her faltering steps up toward the pyre. Alphonse hated the criers. These were the ones that disturbed him the most. Many nights he would lie awake in his bed hearing the awful sounds of condemned women crying over and over in his head. He much preferred dealing with aristocrats. Not only because of the boon of the extra pay, but they always met the pyre with a quiet stoicism that left no lasting memory at all. Once she reached the top of the scaffold, the woman collapsed. The guards stood her up and turned her to face the Inquisitor. The next bit of ceremony was about to begin, the reading of the charges. With a wave of his hand, the Inquisitor silenced the crowd. In a deep, thunderous voice the charges were read.

“Gisele Barleau, you have been charged and found guilty of the heinous crime of heresy, practicing the black arts, and cavorting with all manner of demons, including Lucifer himself. Will you not confess now and save your soul?” If the woman confessed her supposed wrongdoings she would be branded and thrown into prison for an indeterminate amount of time. If she still professed her innocence, Alphonse would be put to work. Confess confess! It was all Alphonse could think when the Inquisitor had finished speaking. While it was true that if she ever got out of prison (which was unlikely) her brand would make her an outcast, at least she would be alive. More importantly she would not give this bloodthirsty crowd their “entertainment” for the day.

Gisele, still bearing the scars of the torture she had already endured, raised her eyes to the Inquisitor and with trembling lip managed to squeak out,

“All people sin, but I have done none of the things you say.” Oh no. The Inquisitor hushed the rising volume of the crowd.
         
“If you will not recant your sins, then you will have to be purified by fire before you pass from this life. May God have mercy on your soul.” The crowd now erupted in boisterous cheering. Silently Alphonse cursed them. This was Christian morality and love of neighbor. Surely “Thou shall not kill” had become a negotiable thing at best.
         
With almost mechanical movement, Alphonse dipped his torch into the bucket of pitch that lay in the corner of the scaffold. The thick black liquid slowly dripped from the torch like tar colored blood. He held the firebrand aloft in the direction of the cathedral, and within a minute, a lit candle was passed from the vestibule of Notre Dame, through the multitude, to the edge of the scaffold where the Inquisitor took hold of it. Crossing himself with the illuminated taper he held it out to Alphonse, who without a word lit his own torch from it. The firebrand hissed to life, but this sound was lost in the midst of the wildly triumphant tumult coming from the throng of spectators. The torchlight glittered in Gisele’s tears like sunlight in the morning dew. She unleashed a torrent of unearthly screams as the two guards fastened her to the stake with her wrists above her head. Alphonse could hardly bear to look at her, but it was much easier to observe her terrified features than to see the giddy faces of the mob. Further roars erupted from the horde as Alphonse held the lit torch out towards them. Much to his disgust a chant began to rise from the multitude.
         
“Burn her! Burn her! Burn her!” He hated to drag this out any further. The best he could hope for now was for the girl to die quickly. With a heavy heart, amidst Gisele’s shrieks of horror Alphonse touched the flame to the dry kindling at the bottom of the pyre. Within seconds the fire blazed up and Gisele’s screams rose even higher in pitch and took on a desperate wailing sound that made the executioner’s soul shrivel deep within him. The poor girl howled and thrashed for many seconds as her skin bubbled and blackened. Black acrid smoke billowed into the sky. The churchyard reeked of burned flesh, while the condemned woman convulsively twitched against her bonds. Finally, mercifully, with a mask of agony forever burned on the remnants of her face, Gisele died.

While this pitiful girl’s suffering was at an end, the spectacle was not yet concluded. As per Church law, the body had to be burned until there was naught but a pile of ashes in its stead. Unfortunately the pyre had burned itself out. Now it fell to Alphonse to cut the woman down, heave what was left of her body in a stone trough lined with straw and pitch to allow continued burning. He pulled a small knife from the belt of his robe and stood before the charred remains. The stench of the still smoldering bones invaded his nostrils and gave no indication that it would leave any time soon. His head hung down as a feeling of utter defeat washed over him. For if the Church…the holy institution of God on earth could commit such a heinous atrocity, what was there left to believe in? Alphonse sliced the remnants of the bonds and instantly Gisele’s blackened, skeletal hand fell and came to rest on his shoulder. A loud horrified shriek filled the air. Only after the scream had faded into the ether did Alphonse realize the voice that cried out was his own.  A sharp cracking sound could be heard as Gisele’s empty eye sockets turned to face him, locking the executioner in her lifeless gaze. With a panic spurred on by escalating terror Alphonse picked up the skeleton and quickly tossed it into the pitch-lined trough like so much rubbish. Not wasting another moment he lit the second conflagration and watched with a cold, empty relief as the remains continued burning.

The crowd was eerily quiet and only the sound Alphonse could hear aside from his own rapid breathing was the crackling of Gisele’s bones. He jumped with a start as the Inquisitor tried to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The church officer could see the panicked look in the eyes staring at him from underneath the scarlet hood, but in the end he figured it was nothing a few days of uninterrupted rest couldn’t cure. Reaching into his pocket, the Inquisitor retrieved a leather pouch filled with gold and handed it to Alphonse. The Inquisitor bade him go home and relax. With a lifeless nod the executioner took his payment and stiffly made his way through the crowd. The spectators parted so that he may pass unhindered on his solemn march back home.

While walking through the winding, gray streets of Paris, Alphonse could focus on nothing but his own swirling thoughts and the sound of Gisele’s frenzied screaming that was still echoing in his mind. Soon however the shrieking in his mind was mixed with a more forlorn vocalization that snapped him back to reality. Alphonse saw a penniless woman and her starving infant huddled at the mouth of a dank alleyway. The mother was begging for alms from all those that passed. When she caught glimpse of the tall, ebon robed figure standing before her, she immediately went deathly silent.

“What is your name Mother?” The executioner inquired in a soft voice. The terrified woman was trying to quiet her crying infant and managed to stammer out,

“A-A-Anna Marie.” Alphonse reached into his robe and procured the heavy leather pouch the Inquisitor had given him. From within its confines, he plucked a single gold coin. He weighed the coin in one hand and the purse in the other for many moments. Finally, he handed the bulging pouch to the destitute woman and kept the coin for himself. The young mother’s eyes glistened with tears as she whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. With the same quiet voice the executioner advised,

“That should be enough for you to find a place to live, and to feed yourself and the child for quite a while.” The woman nodded, smiled and with her free hand embraced her robed benefactor.
         
“God bless you sir.” Alphonse stroked the woman’s hair gently with a gloved hand and after freeing himself from her embrace, continued home.

When he finally arrived at his domicile, the headsman immediately stripped off his executioner’s garb and hung the garments in the closet. He took the single gold coin he had remaining and turned it over and over in his hand before stashing it in a chest with many hundreds of it’s fellows. If nothing else, serving the Church paid very handsomely, even if it was blood money. He was so well paid in fact that he had no real need to work a regular trade like his fellow countrymen, but instead worked at something he truly enjoyed. Nothing gave Alphonse greater fulfillment than his afternoons making artistic pieces in Monsieur Landrieu’s crystal emporium. There was a subtle art to cutting, faceting, and polishing crystals. Not to mention the use of heat and flames to shape the crystals into more intricate shapes. When he was finished he had the satisfaction that he had created something beautiful. Quite a departure from his other, less savory trade. The executioner’s apartment bore some of the fruits of his considerable skill, as all around there were crystal sculptures, goblets, and other objects d’art of his own creation. When Alphonse lit candles in the evening the flat seemed to glitter in the luminescence of hundreds of tiny lights. He gave a fleeting thought to having lunch, but the very thought of food made his stomach churn. It was just as well; he would have to hurry if he was to arrive to work on time.

After a satisfying evening in the crystal emporium, Alphonse arrived back at the flat and decided to relax with a nice glass of brandy by the fire. Striking a spark from his tinderbox the executioner lit a candle. The flame flared to life and Alphonse found himself transfixed by the dancing light. How strange he thought, that such a beautiful thing had been used to cause so much pain and suffering. He stared at the flame for some time, and had to suppress a startled cry when he noticed images forming in the candlelight. It was a face, the face of Gisele Barleau! Alphonse blinked, turned away and then looked once again at the candle. It was there! That poor woman’s face was once again writhing in supreme agony in the midst of the fire. The fire he had lit. All at once his ears were flooded with sounds of Gisele’s tortured screams. Or was it just in his mind? No! He heard her wailing. It was as if she was being burned alive all over again in the candle flame. Beneath the cries of suffering, Alphonse could hear another sound, a deeper, more ominous sound. Almost in time with his own thunderous heartbeat he could hear a hundred lifeless voices whispering,

“Burn…Burn…Burn.” The frightened man looked around the room and could see hundreds of tiny reflections of the tortured figure of Gisele Barleau in all of the carved crystals in his home. With a howl that bordered on madness, Alphonse flung the candle, (stick and all) into the hearth, which blazed to life on impact. The sudden flash of light blinded him for a few seconds and when his eyes recovered he was presented with an even more heinous vision than before. In the fires of the hearth he could see souls contorting in the worst sort of anguish. Their cries of lament stabbed their way into his brain like a red-hot poker. It was as if they were burning in the very fires of Hell itself. Looking more closely at these ghastly images, the executioner could see they were all bound with their wrists above their heads as the ever-present flames licked at their flesh. Had these poor people been plunged into eternal damnation by his own hand? Unable to withstand the increasing weight of his own conscience, Alphonse quickly grabbed one of his water jugs and tossed its contents into the fireplace. The water extinguished the flames and plunged the room into total darkness. The faces of the damned were gone, but like the throb of his own pulse he could still hear the awful whisper,

“Burn…Burn…Burn.” He had to try and do something to drown out the choir of horror inside his head. It felt to him a bit like returning to the scene of the crime, but the executioner felt compelled to return to Notre Dame. Perhaps if he prayed for forgiveness the Lord would take pity on him and remove these vile visions.

As he walked back to the churchyard, Alphonse passed by torches and lamps lighting the doorways to shops and public houses. His heart skipped a beat when he caught a glimpse of a burning person’s face in each of these as he hurried by. He broke into a full sprint along the Seine and finally felt the solid wood of the cathedral doors in his grip. He staggered into the church, slumped into a pew and immediately fell to his knees. The gentle scent of incense wafted into his nose. He let he welcoming sense of sanctity wash over him. The enormity of Notre Dame never ceased to amaze him. The gorgeous Rose Window would bathe churchgoers in a divine light of hundreds of colors. When taken as a whole the window seemed to be the very eye of God looking out onto His worshippers. Truly this place was close to the holiest of holies. Here he would find respite from his torment. Alphonse closed his eyes and softly whispered a heartfelt prayer that begged forgiveness for his sins. In the back of his mind however, he still heard the unrelenting chant that had now taken on a more bloodthirsty timbre.
         
“Burn…Burn…Burn.” A mind-rending shriek drowned out the chanting, but as Alphonse looked around the church, the few individuals present looked undisturbed. A priest was lighting candles around the altar. Alphonse shuddered in horror as he watched each newly ignited flame transform itself into the twisting, writhing figure of a person being tormented by fire. Their screams multiplied in volume and in strength as another singer and another were added to the wailing dirge. It was clear now that their performance was meant for his ears alone. Why would God torment him so? He had faithfully carried out the most undesirable duty the Church could thrust upon a layperson. And yet God saw fit to visit these horrendous images upon him. Why? Instead of gaining answers in church, Alphonse found himself with even more weighty questions than before. It was readily apparent that he would receive no help here. If anything they would think him completely mad and have him locked away. He would return home. Perhaps a night’s sleep would clear his mind.

The wooden pew creaked as Alphonse rose from his knees. He looked up at the altar and the statues of the saints in the hopes the he might find some comfort in their gentle gaze, but none was forthcoming. Dejected, he resolutely shuffled up the center aisle until he reached the vestibule of the cathedral. A glimmer in the corner of his eye caught the executioner’s attention. The marble font stood like a squat sentinel at the back of Notre Dame. Alphonse slowly approached and realized that the glimmer he saw was the holy water that almost overflowed the rim of the baptistery. Alphonse looked into the sacred vessel and stifled a scream as he saw the image of a burned and blackened skull staring back at him. The only aspects of the horrid visage that were not utterly dead were the eyes. The eyes were alive. His frightened eyes were staring up at him from within the charred countenance in the holy water. Alphonse reached his hand toward the sacred liquid in order to bless himself, but immediately pulled his hand back as he saw that its reflection too was charred and ashen. Even this small act of faith was denied him. He could not understand the church’s rejection of him. Was he not doing God’s will? Albeit, in the most distasteful fashion imaginable. Was he not worthy of the same love that was shown to the most vulgar sinner? Alphonse shook his head in resignation and left Notre Dame.
He walked unsteadily along the river and watched the moonlight glitter on the surface of the Seine. He loved how it seemed to sparkle like a handful of gems. It looked as though God had draped a diamond necklace on the city of Paris. He kept his eyes on either the river or the ground in front of him throughout his journey.

When he finally arrived home, by force of habit he was about to light a candle, but quickly thought better of it. Alphonse was forced to stumble around in the dark. He knocked a chair over and almost toppled his curio cabinet. Finally he managed to find his bedroom without destroying anything. While he was lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, the executioner was about to go through his nightly litany of prayers, but the toll of the day demanded to be paid and sleep quickly overtook him before he uttered a single word.
Alphonse snapped awake after a night of restless slumber and dreams infested with visions of burning people and hellfire. His sheets were soaked with sweat and twisted around his limbs like a constricting serpent. Much like a drunkard recovering from a night’s indiscretions he shakily arose from his bed and looked to see what was for breakfast. The executioner retrieved two eggs from the coup he shared with his neighbor and set to fry them for his morning meal. He picked up his tinderbox and was about to strike when he suddenly stopped. If he did light a fire in the hearth would he be subjected to seeing his victims burning to death all over again? Perhaps it was best to start with something small. He fetched a candle, set it on the table and hesitated once again. In the end he thought, well, the Lord hates a coward, and lit the candle. Instantly the flame contorted into the face of a woman once again suffering though her immolation. Alphonse swore in disgust and snuffed out the candle. He would go out and purchase breakfast from a public house. A few minutes walk brought him to Sir William’s Tavern. He passed the barmaid a gold piece and ordered steak and eggs. In a few minutes the food arrived and Alphonse lingered a moment over the delightful aroma. All at once his stomach roiled. The steak and eggs had taken on the sickening smell of burning flesh. The color drained out of his face and his appetite died on the spot. Alphonse dropped two more gold coins on the table and left the pub without sampling a single bite of his breakfast. He began to feel a maddening, itching sensation on his hands as he walked home. He looked to see what the source of the irritation was and gasped in horror when he saw that the skin of his hands had taken on a charred blackened color. Every place he scratched, a little more of his ashen skin flaked off. Immediately he stuffed his itching hands into his pockets and ran the rest of the way back. By the time Alphonse got home his hands felt as though they were positively burning! Quickly he filled a basin with water and thrust his hands into it. The soothing coolness of the water permeated his hands as he closed his eyes in relief. Upon opening his eyes, Alphonse observed that his hands showed no outward sign of burns or injury of any kind. His relief however was short lived as he once again heard the anxious, chanting crowd.

“Burn…Burn…Burn.” Alphonse let out a horrific cry of pain. It felt as though someone had set fire to his chest. He tore open his shirt, stood in front of the mirror and gasped in absolute revulsion. He saw the exposed skin begin to blacken and bubble. The chanting of the crowd continued as the burning agony traveled from his torso and his limbs, until his entire body felt as though it was becoming a living crematorium. Alphonse thrashed about in agony, knocked into his wardrobe door and caught sight of his executioner’s garb along with the heavy chest. The chest that was laden with the gold paid to him by the Church. Blood money. He tried to focus as his mind threatened to spiral out of control from the pain. Through the haze of his agony, an idea struck him like a hammer in the chest, and in spite of his pain, he grinned.
The next morning all of Paris was abuzz with the news. The home of the Holy Inquisitor had burned to the ground with the officer of the Church trapped inside. That same morning, the local orphanage found a box on their doorstep. It contained a red velvet hood that reeked of smoke, stuffed to overflowing with gold coins and a letter asking that the money be given to the orphans. The only payment the mysterious benefactor requested in return for his generosity, (and was most emphatic about) was that all the orphans pray nightly for him so that his soul would escape the fiery torment of eternal damnation. The following day, a constable found a man’s body in the river, wearing a black velvet robe. The man was tied to an ornate chest full of rocks. The corpse seemed to smile.

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