Canticle (masterful debut)

Brugge, County of Flanders

The young woman appears in the square, wearing neither veil nor wimple, her short brown hair plaited behind her neck.

She’s covered by a cloak of fine maroon wool; specks of white ash have drifted to land on her shoulders like snowflakes.

The acrid smell of bonfire is already in the air.

Witnesses will later swear the girl was lit like a taper, and some will claim she had a halo.

They’ll say the brass steeple cocks spun as she entered the square and the clouds broke apart, fleeing south, fleeing north, at once all directions, impossible.

Church bells snapped their stays and a wild clanging rose from every corner of the great city. No one is quite sure what happened.

As the crowd parts before her, Aleys sees the path of gray cobblestones receding to the stake. Parchment is piled high at its base. Smaller fires have already been lit, dotting the plaza. They’re burning her words, too.

A chant of “Sint! Sint!” rises from the crowd.

Even now, even though the Church has named her heretic, the people still call her saint.

It’s true and not true. They are all saints.

They are none of them saints. They think her a miracle worker.

They think she speaks with God. But really, everyone does. It’s just so hard to hear.

She takes a step, another step, her heart hammering.

Adieu, she thinks, I go to God. This time, truly, I go to God.