A New Life
When Giselle’s eyes open, she expects to see fire. Relentless, scorching flames licking the surface of her skin, readying to consume flesh. Instead, she lies in an unfamiliar bed surrounded by unfamiliar walls. There is no smoke. The air smells of fresh herbs and fermented grapes. Beyond the window, the sun shines bright, and she hears children’s laughter carried on the wind.
She sits upright against the headboard. Her head is throbbing and restless. She holds no recollection of what had come after her burning. When Giselle attempts to grasp her memories, they fall through the intervals between her fingers like sand. She thinks: What has happened to me? Soon, panic squirms into her stomach, as if a large bunch of vigorous worms were eating at her intestines.
“There is no need for worry. The side-effects of the elixir will soon wane.”
It was then she saw him during her moment of distress. By her bedside, a young man dressed in white robes sat on a chair made of citrus wood. One leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed. His face struck her with the same, tender charm she saw on the angels depicted in frescoes: personifications of light with blonde hair and soft skin. It was his peculiar perfection that struck her suspiciously. What was most bizarre, however, were his eyes. At their center is brown ochre, melting into a ring of light blue.
“Might you be an angel?” She asks, her voice wary.
His brows arch, both confused and curious. “Don’t angels have wings?”
“It may depend,” Giselle replies, holding her arms across her chest. “Some are winged, some are horned. Some lose their wings after betraying the lord. They are deceivers, regardless, who bring only ill tidings.”
“It sounds like your experiences with angels are most unfavorable.”
“Verily.” She pauses. “You mention an elixir?”
The man nods. “You were grievously wounded. Upon your loss of consciousness on the journey here, I provided a restorative elixir to address your injuries. Many nights of rest you require. Until then, your memories and mind may remain clouded.”
He looks at Giselle’s chapped hands, the bruises encircling her wrists from biting rope, and the bumpy burn scars atop her bronzed skin. “Your condition left you nearly dead,” he says. “But it seems you are healing nicely now. Come, I will show you where you are.”
He leads her outside the cottage. The scorching sun lingers high in the sky, and the earth is warm beneath her feet. Under coconut trees surround a group of humble houses. Children with their mothers peel fruits, sucking at the juice trickling down their wrists. Colorful birds bathe themselves in stone baths built near every wooden bench. Beyond this golden sand and greenery threshold, the world was hundreds of miles of glistening sea. It is a stunning painting worth being framed in gold. That is, if she had gold.
“I will make ready a bower where you may rest,” says the man. No more is left of his warm expression when he watches the scene from a distance; Giselle observes. He looked afloat, absentmindedly scratching his forearm. She notices the faint scars scattered along his skin. Does he scratch himself often?
“Thank you,” she speaks softly, eased by his hospitality yet still cautious. “But who are you?”
This strange man’s manner returns when he looks back at her. He smiles apologetically and stops scratching. “Pardon me, my name is Carden, and this is my island which bears refuge for all wronged and wounded. You have the liberty to dwell and heal, and when you are prepared to leave, a ship will depart you to one of the mainlands with the next group.”
Carden—she pronounces in her mind. The blueish-purple color of thistles.
And he was also beautiful.
Carden tells her the story of how she was brought to his island which no man could find with just a simple map. He recounts his travels to Giselle, speaking of trying to find new medicines for the isle’s folk, yet was thwarted in his search by a witch burning in Brandenburg. My witch burning: she thinks. Giselle could scarcely recall her memories now. The sun gleamed behind Carden’s head as he extended his hand towards her, rays serving as a halo of blinding light whilst she was tied to the stake.
“They could have never foreseen it coming,” Carden shrugs when he gets to the part where he casts a somnolent enchantment on unwitting soldiers present that day. He was correct, for male witches did not exist—as per the current understanding across the continent. A common lie sewn by patriarchists as she saw it. The truth was laid bare before her.
Indeed, male witches existed, and they resided under little to no suspicion. Her face contorted with unfavorable feelings at the thought.
Sympathetically, Carden offers, “I am sorry for your misfortune and the suffering you have endured,” he then gestures an arm toward the houses. “But on Loione, you are safe and may practice magic as you please. Every hapless soul here is someone borne enough sorrow for a lifetime. You will find yourself welcome amongst them.”
“What if there is nothing left for me to return to?” Giselle inquires in a voice more irritated than she intended. “The world bestows no clemency for people like me. Do you truly think I will ever have the choice to leave?”
Carden does not look bothered by her tone. “Then, girl, allow me to help you make something new. That is all I can do for you.”
