The Escape

Petals of the rose that grew one night to die with the dawn, wind that traveled from the north in search of a dream toward the south, a tear from a long-lived maiden who waited until death for her lover’s return, land of the place where a final farewell was spoken, the notes of a sad song carried away by the wind on a night of farewell…

All the ingredients mix as the witch conjures her magic over a brew that glows with the shimmer of a bluish moon.

Outside the room, the sunset languishes with its last orange flashes. The night approaches silently placing the first stars in the sky that will await the promised return of their king, who will banish darkness forever and chase the darkness toward the west.

The wind whistles a song, waiting for the tranquility of the night to let its whispers lull the daytime creatures, greeting those who find their home in the darkness.

But the night is not silent. Dozens of people knock on the witch’s door demanding that she come out amidst shouts and blasphemies.

Paozelieth watches from the window and smiles bitterly. Among those knocking at her door with energetic roughness, she recognizes relatives and neighbors, friends and lovers.

There she is the old woman who died last year and whose grandchildren ran to seek the witch, for the doctor had closed his case file, collected his fees, and left to let her die. Talking with her, making faces of horror at the old woman’s statements, is her neighbor, that one who in the middle of the night knocked on that door which now they try to break down, covered by a blanket in search of a way to prevent her husband from finding out that in that flaccid womb she carried the child of another man.

Some men have arrived with axes, among them the witch recognizes her faithful friend, the one who swore to protect her as a thank you for saving her wife from death. The priest shouts out instructions while calling Paozelieth a witch, monster, lover of Satan.

Beneath the tree the judge from the capital watches with satisfaction, believing that soon he will have a new slave to torture, violate, and burn alive. But surely he has never met a real witch before.

The law prevents Paozelieth from using her powers to harm anyone, alive or dead, so she will escape to start a new life. But she does not want to leave alone; she will wait until the last moment before departing, hoping that the one who once swore her love will come to her, fulfilling his promise of never abandoning her.

There he is, among the crowd. He will try to enter first, she knows this because she knows him better than anyone. Then both of them will fly away, riding the wind, resting on the morning breeze until they find a place where love can take root and be born into a new life.


They have torn down the wooden door and are advancing through the interior of the house. They still have to climb the stairs to reach the last room. Destruction and screams can be heard. They enter every room searching for valuable objects.

Paozelieth listens in sadness as they steal the inheritance of her ancestors, as those she believed to be her friends rejoice in the spoils of her death, which they already consider certain. Suddenly a sharp pain pierces her heart, filling her with tears. She hears the silent cry of the precious turtle she had been given by her grandmother when she was a child. They have hurt it, it is suffering. Why?… it is an innocent creature, incapable of harming anyone… Why are they hurting it?

Rage takes over the witch, but there is no time to do anything. The priest and a score of men are already crossing through the door of her room.

With the vial in her hand, the witch watches with hatred those familiar faces that now appear completely unknown. She tries to see in them shame, regret, remorse, but all she finds are anger and lust behind those eyes.

Everyone is silent, holding with trembling hands the household tools they have turned into weapons. Pushing through them, a young man makes his way to the front of the crowd.

As he sees him, Paozelieth’s fierce gaze loses the ferocity it had kept frozen on those men. Hope, gratitude, and love flood her heart. The young man, terrified, takes a few steps forward.

With a smile, Paozelieth extends her hand, inviting him to come closer. Both will drink from the vial and flee upon the wind, fluttering small blue wings that will carry them to some place in the world where they can share eternity, where they can love until dawn and see every night the stars that peacefully sway in the sky.

Paozelieth smiles at the thought of that future, regardless of having lost her home, all her belongings, her life, for now they will be together forever. But the moments pass and he does not come near. The expression of joy on the sorceress’s face turns to doubt and then to disappointment as the boy steps back and hides behind the shoulders of strong men, with an expression of sorrow and shame.

“Get away from him, demonic spawn! You damned dog of Satan! You witch who breeds demons! You blasphemer!”

The priest’s curses echoed through the walls as those men gathered courage to advance toward the sorceress, who had curled up into a ball.

Paozelieth did not hear him, did not care what happened. The pain in her heart burned more than the pyre in which those men, thirsting for blood, eager to inflict pain and revel in suffering, would burn her.

The beautiful sorceress weeps bitterly, hitting the wooden planks that cover the floor in fury. With each strike, a sentence resounds, embedding itself in her heart, a dagger that pierces the flesh and rips her soul without completely piercing through, inflicting pain without killing.

“Love is a lie,” “Friendship is just convenience,” “Kindness is covered in evil,” “True pleasure lies in watching others suffer…” These ideas fly through Paozelieth’s mind, and her soul begs for mercy, mercy for a heart that always believed in love, in sincerity, in the goodness of people. In a whisper, she begs the night to protect her, to make her not feel this pain.

The calm and unchanging, cold and sweet night that covers the skies cradling the stars. The night that cannot feel pain or joy, that knows all the secrets of men and caresses with the wind the cheeks of those who cannot sleep because of sorrow.

The eyes of the sorceress lose their reddened pearl from tears and are filled with the emptiness of darkness. Stars, constellations are drawn in those pupils. The long black nails lose dimension and gain an immense depth, their dark polish is interrupted by the gleam of millions of stars that are glimpsed through them.

Men approach a few steps, brandishing their weapons, eager to end it once and for all and fearful of the sorceress’s power. Their fear is justified, for Paozelieth begins to scream, expelling all the pain from her chest. She screams, hugging herself, with her forehead pressed to the ground and her knees bent beneath her black skirt.

With the first scream of pain, all the objects in the room are expelled and stuck against the walls. Some men are thrown through the door, and once on the other side, they rise and run down the stairs without stopping to think about what pulled them out of the room.

The priest and the judge are not having much luck. Their bodies are stuck to the walls and they are unable to move, just like other men who had been away from the door. The priest’s right hand, which at first held a silver crucifix with beautiful baroque decorations and jade and onyx inlays, is now bleeding. Crystals from the vial impregnated with that blue liquid have been embedded in his palm and a burning heat runs through his palm. The judge, who is beside him, begins to scream in terror as he looks at that hand, for the fingers are twisting, changing with pain and joining into a single appendage. The pores open and from them sprout tiny cannons that are growing and developing the blue bristles that give them a feather-like appearance.

The priest becomes aware and the terror tries to take hold of him. But reciting a prayer, he maintains enough sanity to turn around and scuttle along the wall until he reaches the door, leaping through it.

He is expelled through the opening. Painful, he rises, tears down a curtain and uses it to cover his arm, which has doubled in size and is now covered in blue feathers. After making sure no one can see him, he also takes off running, abandoning to their fate those who could not escape.

Only a young brave man stands at the entrance, gathering all his strength, and tries to advance toward the sorceress. His hair and clothes are violently stirred as if a strong wind were blowing from the sorceress. But the air is untouched. That force emanating from Paozelieth tries to push away everything and everyone.

However, the young man advances toward her and manages to place the palm of his hand on the sorceress’s shoulder while his voice, in a soothing tone, speaks to her ear.

-Enough, Pao, it’s over, it’s time to answer for your sins.

Paozelieth can recognize the touch of that hand. It is the same hand that once ran over her back, caressed her breasts. That voice is the same one that once spoke words that made her feel happy, loved. Those lips are the same ones that ran over her body and whispered in her ear, “I love you,” “I will always be with you,” “I will always follow you, no matter what happens.”

The pain turns into rage. A single movement and those dark night nails pierce the young man’s chest, tearing and sinking into his body, leaving a single black, deep cut. The force that had been driving everyone away has stopped, but nothing moves. Time has stopped existing, distance has become subjective. Reality dissolves as it approaches the wound that holds the terrified, motionless young man who has had no time to step away.

The wound is small and deep, tearing through body, soul, time, infinity and reality. Not even a single ant could fit through it, and the entire universe could easily enter. Through that opening Paozelieth sees a new universe, an empty reality, without hatred or resentment, without love or disillusionment, a universe without reality where he can start anew and end everything.

Leaving everything behind, his clothes, his feelings, his thoughts, the sorceress, powerful and beautiful, crosses through that opening, turning her back forever to a universe, to a reality that only brought him suffering, that tore his heart apart. A terrible reality remains behind, and a new beginning awaits ahead.

It is said that in a forgotten village there exists an ancient house whose builders have escaped into history, for all information about it was lost after a pact of silence and the burning of all existing documentation five hundred years ago, all of it driven by the fanatical desires of a one-legged priest who feared to set a single foot in that house. A wall seals the entrance to a room. Once some teenagers tried to open that room to find out what was hidden, but they found nothing. No matter which side they drilled through the wall, they could only see the exterior of the house. Although the space is there, the room simply does not exist.

No one can explain this phenomenon, but some say that if you listen carefully in the middle of the night, you can hear the voices of men asking for help, mercy and forgiveness.