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The sleeping pills (her own) had been diluted in the little baby's bottle. As an afterthought, she added a little more sugar. She gently lifted her little prince in her arms, and even more gently fed him. Did he notice anything strange in the taste of the milk? Maybe. Anyway, he was too hungry to reject it. Then they both lay down on the bed, the little boy happy and secure in his mother's embrace.
Once she was sure he would never waken again, she knelt by the bed. She prayed for forgiveness, feeling a cold and hopeless fear, like an orphaned sigh. Ten minutes later she rose, a strange and frightening beauty lighting up her face, made more beautiful by the tears that hovered on the edge of her eyes, but refused to fall. She brought the wet towel over from the table, and knelt by the bed again. She looked on the lovely features of her only child. Red-orange hair, to remind her of Billy. Strong little fingers, like her mother's. A stronger heart, she knew, still beat within that little breast -- a heart like her own. What could he have become, given half a chance? What heights could he have climbed, what depths plunged, if only he had been born another day, another place!
A tremor shook her body. A sigh was softly breathed out, hardly audible. She prayed again (for courage,this time). A swift, small prayer. Swiftly still she pressed the towel to her little king's face, and gently pressed it down, pressing her face at his side on the bed, feeling his smell for the last time, hearing his little heart beat, picturing him again in her mind, smiling, crying, praying for courage, sobbing, and finally fainting.
As she regained conscience, trembling, she struck the match quickly, and shaded the flame with her hand until the bed-clothes caught fire. Then she quickly left the room, turned the key, and shoved it back into the room, beneath the door.
Outside the large, stone house, the crowd of angry villagers caught the first glimpse of smoke, heard the first cracklings of the fire. For over three hours they had been beating at the old wooden door, thicker than all their heads put together. It would soon give in, and they were wild and excited with thoughts of death and violence. The sight of the smoke made them roar all the louder. They wanted fresh, flowing blood, not a charred, dead body. With the strength of a multitude carried along by the collective hate and wickedness of normally loving and calm people, they tore at the door, shouting and screaming, thirsty for the blood of the woman and the blood of the baby.
She appeared at the balcony. Ah, how she was beautiful! The moon shining on her golden hair, the sad, unfathomable eyes, the calm smile on her face, the dignity of her movements. But their eyes couldn't see any beauty. They roared the louder, a collective madness of hate and fear and lust. As she stood on the balcony gazing at the smoke rising to embrace the moon, she was still smiling. She knew they would kill her after their initial hateful burst was satisfied. But her thoughts were on the little boy, her little man, her little eagle already soaring high on the flames out of their reach, her little warrior who had fought his last battle.
At least he was safe -- they would never touch him.
