The skeptic was tied to a tall pole that jutted out of a pile of logs and sheaves of hay. She was surrounded by a spirited crowd of farmers, townspeople, venders and soldiers, the latter of which served a priest whose face was hiding inside the oversized hood of his black habit, and who appeared to be engrossed in a prayer.
The priest made the sign of the cross and pulled back his hood. He strolled up and down the skeptic’s field of vision until the crowd’s noise died down to a murmur.
He grinned at the skeptic. “What a lovely day. Not too cold and not too hot…yet.”
The skeptic snarled in a voice parched by thirst, “Do me a favor, Truth, and cover your ugly face with the hood.”
The priest signaled the captain of his guard to give the skeptic some water. “Do my scars disgust you, witch?”
For a long moment the skeptic eagerly sucked on the leather water bag held up by the captain. She coughed when the bag was suddenly pulled away. “They do, and if your people had fed me, I’d show you how much. On the other hand, your ugly mug does put an appropriate face on this proceeding.”
The priest smiled at the crowd. “That was quite an eloquent waste of precious time, witch.”
Someone in the crowd yelled, “Burn the witch.”
The priest turned to the crowd and raised an arm. “Bear with me a little longer, my dear people. Even the nasty ones deserve a fair chance to redeem themselves.”
“Redemption? Fair?” shouted the skeptic. “Who the hell are you kidding? A bunch of illiterates, who can’t think for themselves…who can’t even spot a rat in a habit.”
The priest raised both arms at the roaring crowd. “Insulting me or these people won’t help your case, witch. You stand before us today to repent of your unspeakable sins and to face the punishment we, the Lord’s flock, bestowed on you. You’d be well advised to use the opportunity wisely.”
“Hogwash”, sneered the skeptic. “I stand before you because I was labeled a subversive by wolves amongst sheep.”
The priest shook his head. “According to our eyewitnesses, you summoned demons that possessed people, and on several occasions you eluded the soldiers of the clergy on the wings of Beelzebub himself.”
“What your witnesses called possession, was an unfortunate side-effect of my belladonna tincture. And the wings of your Beelzebub were made from the skin of an old cow. There’s nothing dark or sinister about my work.”

Someone in the crowd shouted in a rasping voice, “Tell us, witch, is the Earth flat or round?”
Annoyed by the interruption, the priest turned around and yelled, “Step forward, questioner.”
An old man dressed in brown rags, wormed his way through the crowd and approached the priest with unbefitting confidence.
The priest shook his head. “What’s your name, beggar?”
“They call me Freedom, sir,” rasped the old man.
The priest scratched a scar that ran across his forehead. “Now why would anyone call you Freedom, beggar? Do they believe you can negotiate the release of this witch?”
“They call me that because I speak what I think, sir.”
Frowning, the priest turned to the skeptic. “Please enlighten us, witch, is the Earth flat or round?”
The skeptic raised her brows. “Show me someone who’s been to the edge of the world and I might be swayed to the idea that the Earth is flat.”
The priest exclaimed, “Did you hear that, people? The witch believes the Earth to be round.”
The old man stroked his chin. “I’ve been around and about this world for many seasons and I’ve never even met someone who knows someone who’s been to the edge. Why is that, sir?”
The priest ignored the old man and asked the crowd, “Does anyone of you know someone who’s been to the edge of the world?”
The crowd looked around itself in search of such a person long enough for the priest to get impatient. “You there, innkeeper, you must have served someone who’s been to the edge.”
“I’ve served many, some of whom were on an edge of some sorts, sir, but I’ve never served one who’s seen the oceans disappear over an edge.”
“Does that mean the world is round, Truth?” asked the baker.
The butcher’s wife shouted, “The world’s like one of your flatbreads: hard on the teeth and hard on the ass.”
The priest waved his arms to mute the crowd’s roaring laughter. “Let us not dispute the Church’s ruling on this matter, people. The world is flat and…”
“Damn right, Truth, the world’s as flat as butcher bitch,” screamed the baker’s wife, hopping up and down in agitation, trying to locate the butcher’s wife.
“Stop flapping your big buns, mad cow, you’re scaring the kids,” shouted the butcher’s wife, cheered on by the crowd.
“Silence,” yelled the priest. “Stop wasting my time… Furthermore, anyone who proclaims that the world is round will get ample opportunity to explain their reasoning to my guard.”
The skeptic nodded at the old man. “You’d better think twice before speaking what’s on your mind when his guard’s around, Freedom.”
The old man smiled. “One should always choose his words carefully in the presence of men with swords, witch. Freedom and stupidity don’t mix well.”
The priest said, “Forgive me for interrupting your chit-chat, but is there anything else you’d like to ask the witch, beggar?”

For several seconds, the old man stared at his feet. “There’s one question that’s been bugging me for a long time, sir, but I’m afraid you will not approve.”
The priest shrugged his shoulders. “Try me, beggar.”
The old man stared at the skeptic. “Why did God create the Earth after he created the Heavens, witch?”
The priest looked genuinely puzzled when he turned to the skeptic. “We eagerly await your answer, witch.”
“What the hell is the beggar talking about, witch?” shouted the butcher.
“I believe that Freedom wants to know why God gave us free will and at the same time expects us to live without sin. It should’ve been a breeze for something like him to create a perfect, sinless human on day six.”
The butcher’s wife shouted, “Tell us, witch, why did God create suckers like the baker and his fat wife?”
The baker’s wife screamed, “God sneezed when he created you…With nothing to suck on.”
The priest yelled for silence and signaled the captain to prevent the women from charging at each other. He turned to the skeptic and sighed. “So, witch? Why didn’t the Lord make everything infallible?”
The skeptic smiled. “Because he can’t.”
“Blasphemy,” exclaimed the priest. “The Lord can do anything.”
The crowd frantically booed the skeptic.
“Think about it, people,” shouted the skeptic and waited for the crowd’s noise to die down. “Who among us truly grasps the powers of God? We believe him to be a perfect being because we don’t understand his reach…his motives…his flaws…not even his gender.”
“What the hell are you talking about, witch?” shouted the butcher.
“Let me put it this way: Is a dog perfect because the fleas on his back think it is?”
The crowd contemplated the question in silence.
The priest yelled, “How dare you compare the Lord with a flea-invested, old dog, witch?”
The old man rasped, “Hold on, sir. The witch makes a good point. The fleas know nothing of the thing that feeds and carries them.”
The crowd mumbled its agreement.
The butcher’s wife shouted, “God’s like one of the bitch’s flatbreads: a mystery that won’t break.”
The baker’s wife screamed, “I’ll show you a mystery, skinny bitch.”
Surprised by the speed at which the large woman charged at the butcher’s wife, the captain hesitated a moment before signaling for support. He chased the baker’s wife and tackled her only yards away from where the butcher’s wife was waiting with clenched fists.

The old man smiled and stroked his chin. “What does God expect from us, witch?”
“I believe we were put here to entertain and educate him. With every one of our moments he gains in almightiness.”
The old man frowned. “You believe God studies us because he’s bored?”
“More or less…Makes a lot more sense, doesn’t it, Freedom?”
The old man nodded. “It actually does, witch.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed the priest. “The Lord gifted us with life and teaches us to be worthy of a seat in his glorious Kingdom.”
The old man shook his head. “That makes a whole lot less sense, sir.”
The priest glared at him and whispered, “You tread on very thin ice, beggar.”
“Does that mean God has flaws, Truth?” asked the baker.
Annoyed, Truth turned to the crowd and mumbled, “What?”
The butcher’s wife shouted, “The idiot wants to know if God’s like us, Truth. We are made in his image.”
“Yes, we are made in his image, but not in his grandeur. The Lord…”
“What the hell are you guys talking about, Truth?” shouted the butcher.
“Silence,” yelled the priest. “This is going nowhere…Do you want to make a last remark, witch?”
“What must I do to save my life, Truth? Do you want me to denounce Satan? Do you want me to repent of my unspeakable sins? Do you want me to be a nun? A mistress? Tell me, Truth…I’ll do it.”
The baker’s wife, whose bloody nose was swollen from her encounter with the captain, screamed, “She’ll be a hell of a better bedtime companion than skinny butcher bitch, Truth.”
The captain silenced the butcher’s wife with piercing eyes while the crowd roared with laughter.
The old man rasped, “Is there anything the witch can do to save herself, sir?”
The priest peeked at the skeptic. “Of course there is. All she needs to do is to repent of her sins in the eyes of the Lord.”
The skeptic shouted in a voice that combined sincerity and glimmers of hope, “I repent of everything I’m accused of…of all the pain I’ve inflicted on others…of being what I am.”
“Good,” yelled the priest, cheered on by the crowd.
The old man frowned. “Good? Does that mean she is saved?”
“What about the demons and the cow wings, Truth?” asked the baker.
The butcher’s wife shouted, “Those demons are like your flatbreads: nasty stuff.”
The captain quickly grabbed an arm of the baker’s wife while the crowd roared with laughter.
“Silence,” yelled the priest and turned to the old man, grinning. “I want you to set the witch ablaze, beggar…Enlighten her.”
The old man rasped, “But you said she was saved, sir?”
The butcher’s wife shouted, “That’s what you said, Truth.”
“Does that mean the witch is free to go, Truth?” asked the baker.
“Let the girl go, Truth,” screamed the baker’s wife.
The butcher’s wife shouted, “Yeah, Truth, let her go.”
While the crowd shouted its support for the skeptic’s release, the skeptic began looking hopeful for the first time in weeks.
“Silence,” yelled the priest in a hoarse voice. “Burn her, beggar.”
The old man frowned. “That seems unreasonably harsh, sir. She did repent of her sins.”
The priest wiggled his head. “But not in the eyes of the Lord, and for that we’ll have to burn her.”
“So, we’re not punishing her, but setting her free so she can be judged by the Maker?” rasped the old man.
“Does that mean that the witch will burn, beggar?” asked the baker.
The butcher’s wife shouted, “Just like your flatbreads, moron.”
“What the hell are we waiting for, Truth?” shouted the butcher.
“Yes,” yelled the priest. “Let’s send her off to meet the Lord…Take the torch, beggar.”
The old man grabbed the burning torch handed to him by the captain. “It’ll be a privilege to set you free, witch.”
“What are you doing, Freedom?” exclaimed the skeptic.
The old man threw the torch near the skeptic’s feet on a sheave of hay that rapidly spread its flames to the dry logs around it. He softly rasped, “My job, witch: freeing souls that face final judgment.”
“Burn, witch,” shouted the butcher.
The butcher’s wife screamed, “Rejoice, witch, there’re no flatbreads in Heaven or in Hell.”
The priest drew a cross in the air. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

As the flames began spreading faster, and a grey banner of smoke suffocated the skeptic, and the crowd silently watched how the skeptic’s clothes and skin fused into black blisters, the priest and the old man walked away from the gathering, preceded by priest’s guard.
The priest smiled. “A remarkable performance, my dear friend.”
The old man rasped, “Coming from you, sir, a compliment worth receiving.”
The baker’s wife caught up with the two men. “Damn it, Truth, you were supposed to tell your overzealous captain over there to go easy on the good guys.”
“I told him, but he convinced me that the tackle adds a crucial flavor to the burning,” said the priest and shook his head. “We can’t afford to disappoint our public, my dear…By the way, how’s your nose? I hope it’s not broken.”