A Burning Thing
by Elizabeth Broadbent
With a life uncomfortably resembling “Malcolm in the Middle,” she lives in Richmond, VA, where she enjoys lecturing her children on the evils of capitalism, listening to David Bowie, and attempting to befriend the local crow population. Her work has appeared, or is upcoming in, Penumbric, Wyldblood, Flash Fiction Magazine, Ghostlight, The Cafe Irreal, and Tales of Terror.
Find her on the web at https://www.writerelizabethbroadbent.com.
Heat came first, then the sharp scent of smoke and a fire’s crackling snarl. I opened my eyes. A blood moon hung high and orange-red; a deep winter chill gripped the earth beneath me. I sat up, popped my knuckles, and wiggled my toes.
Ella Lee stood beyond the circle of flame.
I sighed a long puff of white. “Goddammit.”
“Henry.” Her voice brimmed with love and grief and absolutely no remorse.
“Fuck you.”
“Please.” A strong wind tangled her blonde hair. The bald cypresses beyond her didn’t rustle; no swamp-sounds rose over the flames’ snapping. “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about!” When I scrambled up, the fire reached my navel. I could jump it with a running start.
“No!” Ella Lee held up a hand. “You can’t go beyond the circle.”
I folded my arms. “Still ordering me around—how many years later?”
She looked away, maybe off into that swamp. “Ten.”
“Witch.”
“Henry.” Her voice caught. “Please.”
I stared her down. “What else should I call you? You dragged me here—”
“Our daughter’s nine. She’s beautiful—your spitting image, dark hair and all.” I hardly heard her over the fire.
Using that kid to manipulate me—another cruelty. She knew how much I’d wanted a baby. “So is the witchling out dancing with Satan, or did you leave her alone in the middle of the night?”
“Don’t you call our daughter that!” She rose from tears into anger, and that wild wind picked up. The fire leapt. “Don’t you ever say that about her!” She looked away again. Softly, Ella Lee said, “Her name’s Talitha. She asks about you.”
“What do you tell her?” My crossed arms seemed more like a protective hug, as if I were searching for an unreachable comfort.
“The truth.” She was watching that swamp. I could tell her what was out there, and God help her if she asked. I wouldn’t spare details. “You walked into the swamp and never walked out.”
“I walked in there to die because you never loved me. You used me to get a baby who’d lie like you did.”
“I wasn’t lying!” She caught herself mid-sob. “I swear to God, I never did anything to you. Never.”
I spit. “Why the fuck should I believe that?”
“You just trust me, I guess.” Her voice was small.
“I was a clueless anthropology student who thought Lower Conagree might have some good folk tales. But you found yourself a dumbass who didn’t ask questions. You made me fall in love with you, got a baby off me—”
“I never made you fall in love!” The fire leapt again. “I told you then and I’m telling you now. I never worked anything on you.” Her words dropped to a hiss. “You know I could’ve had you on your knees, Henry Jenkins. You’d’ve done any miserable thing I wanted and thanked me afterward.”
The fire flared hot on my face. It had battered me back then: Ella Lee killed men who deserved it and healed women who didn’t. But she was right. She could’ve made me crawl. She never did. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” I hugged myself tighter. “You hid it because you had me under some spell.”
The flames roiled between us. Ella Lee took a long time in answering. “You know the worst part?” she finally asked. “I worried you wouldn’t love me if you knew what I could do, and I was right.”
“I do love you!” I shouted across that fire. “But how do I know it’s real?”
Tears traced pale trails down her sooty face. “Because you’re dead, Henry. Spells die. Love doesn’t.”
It slammed like a punch. Ella Lee had never spelled me into anything. She loved me, and I loved her, and we’d made a baby because we loved each other. “Oh, fuck you.” I swallowed a hard sob. “Goddamn you, Ella Lee.”
“I didn’t want some witch baby.” Smoke and tears turned her blue eyes red. “I wanted your baby.”
“I wanted her, too.” I closed my eyes for a moment, like I could hold in some terrible hurt. “She looks like me? Talitha?” My daughter’s name felt strange in my mouth.
Ella Lee nodded.
I’d left them. I’d walked into suicide instead of raising my own child. My life had turned on one misunderstanding, and in that doubt I’d lost everything. I’d lost my daughter. I’d lost Ella Lee.
“I love you.” Tangle-haired, ash-faced, red-eyed and weeping, she was beautiful. I stared past the rising ring of flame, then through it, and I held out my hands. “Oh God. I love you and I’m so sorry.”
“No, Henry!” she shouted. “You can’t leave the circle!”
I wouldn’t lose Ella Lee again. “Spells die,” I told her. “Love doesn’t.” Arms open, I walked into her leaping blaze.
© A Burning Thing by Elizabeth Broadbent. 2023. All rights reserved.
