Young Writers Society

Arvia sat cross-legged on the cold, hard stone floor of her jail cell.

Her green eyes were examining the only colorful thing in an otherwise drab room.

A small dandelion. The little flower had sprouted between the cracks of the rock and grown in the fading light of summer. The light that came through the small, barred window high on the back wall of the cell. But now it was nearly winter and the poor flower had wilted. The yellow leaves had faded to a brownish color.

Similar to Arvia’s own hair, in-fact. Arvia’s brown-blonde hair ran down her back, done in a large braid - as was the custom of the sect of Petals. She pulled it over her shoulder and began to unbraid and braid it, something she did when nervous. As she fidgeted, the young monk hummed a tune. The Old Willow. An ancient melody, presumably created thousands of years ago.

Twisting her head for a moment, Arvia’s eyes flicked to the guard waiting outside her cell. He stood rigid, like a statue, with a spear in his hand and armor on his body. Did they assume Arvia would attempt to run? To escape her own fate? Of course they did, even though she would not.

Arvia turned back to the dandelion. The wilted flowers caused some anger to stir within her. Did these people not respect the Gardener’s creations? Clearly not, as she too was in this cell.

The guard began whistling the same tune that Arvia had. Perhaps without realizing it. Perfect. The Old Willow was like yawning. It spread easily, and had a tendency to unfocus people. Perhaps an effect of its ancient history.

While the guard was trying to get the notes right, the young Petal held her hand out-palm up-and concentrated.

A spark formed, casting a brief, small amount of light. But it grew. Soon, Arvia had a ball of light floating above her hand. It was like a large firefly, pulsating warmth and radiance. Arvia lowered her hand towards the small dandelion. Small specks of light began to float around the flower, and were absorbed by it a moment later.

The dandelion straightened, petals widening, color returning.

Arvia dismissed her Lumen, a small smile on her lips.

Stay strong, young one.

“Oi! Monk lady, nuff o’ that magic!” a gruff voice sounded behind her.

The Petal sighed. She hadn’t noticed he stopped whistling. The light had probably caught his attention. The only other source was torchlight, dimly casting moving shadows onto the wall.

Arvia stood, dusted off her robes, and turned to the guard.

“Why do you fear something more natural than even you or I? Why do you fear the light, my friend?” Arvia said curiously.

His eyes hardened, “Witch, ‘nuff o’ your temptin’!” The man angrily turned away, becoming a statue again.

Arvia sighed again.

Yendians...they were so foolish.

That includes you.

Internally, she chuckled at her own thoughts. Well, of course it included herself. She was just as foolish. Perhaps in other ways, but still foolish.

“Tell me Jethen, when am I going to be executed?” She asked him.

The guard’s eyes widened. “‘Ow do ya know my name? Tell me, witch!”

Arvia rolled her eyes.

“Your captain was talking to you, and he said your name,” she held her hands up peacefully, “No ‘witchcraft’ involved.”

He frowned. “Fine. Your executio’ ‘gins at noon. Suppose the sun ‘ll give us all a ‘etter look a’ your dying face! Ha!” he took the opportunity to spit on her, his frown becoming a hateful grin.

Arvia wiped the saliva off herself, and smiled again, “Thank you.”

A frown again.

Arvia returned to her original spot, contemplating her inevitable end. Her thoughts were once again brought to the small, wilting dandelion.

Just keep living, little one...just keep living...

****

Hundreds of faces watched as Arvia was roughly shoved onto the gallows. She looked around at the crowd. Men, women, children even. They were all there to watch her die.

So Arvia smiled brightly at all of them.

That didn’t go over well. There were some angry shouts and the curiosity on many faces quickly changed to hate.

Oh well.

Arvia stepped up onto the trapdoor that marked her grave.

Please, oh Benevolent Gardener, show these people the light that I failed to.

The executioner put the noose around her neck, the rough fibers scratching her skin. That got a few cheers. Arvia kept smiling.

It wasn’t that she wanted to die, but rather that her death would hopefully bring these people to find the Light - and with it, the Gardener. Inside, she was crying, and screaming. Arvia was terrified. Even though she knew the Gardener was benevolent, he chose those he deemed worthy.

What if Arvia wasn't worthy? What if she would be hanged, and her soul would be burned for eternity. But still, she smiled.

The announcer, on the edge of the wooden platform, read from his parchment.

“ARVIA SCALIDOR, CHARGED WITH WITCHCRAFT AND TREASON. SHE CLAIMS TO BE SENT BY THE “GARDENER” AND USES EVIL TO TEMPT US. SHE DIES TODAY.” The pudgy man yelled, sneering at Arvia. More cheers.

“Any last words, witch,” the announcer asked. Nearby, the executioner had his hand on the lever, ready to drop Arvia to her death.

“Follow the road, swim the river, find the Old Willow.” She whispered.

“Speak up, woman!”

“Dance together, sing forever, ‘round the Old Willow,” Arvia sang, voice louder.

The announcer narrowed his eyes.

“Fear the evil, hide yourselves, ‘hind the Old Willow.”

Arvia continued, even as the executioner tightened his grip, hardened his eyes. Then he pulled the lever at a signal from the announcer.

“Face the shadow, draw your swo-”

She dropped. The noose jerked her head, and stopped her fall. But it didn’t break her neck, rather the noose began slowly squeezing the life from her body. She hung there, gasping for air.

“S...sword….by the...old willow…” she managed to rasp.

“Close your...eyes….breathe….your last….” Her blurry vision began to darken as the cheers died out. The people could hear her. They could hear her final song.

“Neath...the...old...willow…”

Some people began shouting angrily. Why wasn’t she dead yet?

“Rest….forever…….in peace….”

With the Old Willow, an unknown voice finished for her.

Arvia felt the frigid grip of death close around her. Her eyes closed, and her lungs breathed their last. What Arvia did not see was the glow that her dead body began to emanate. A warm radiance. A guiding light. The Gardener's Light.

The riots started later that day.