* * *
THE MORNING OF Leah’s cutting and her binding to the Prophet, Immanuelle woke with her mother’s journal beneath her cheek. She sat up with a start, smoothing the pages before she snapped it shut and slipped it under her mattress.
After forcing her feet into her muck boots, she trudged downstairs and out the back door, crossing through the farmyard and down into the paddock to let the sheep out to pasture. Then, in preparation for the buggy ride to the cathedral, she took the old mule from his shack and brushed him down, then fed and bridled him.
Across the fields and pastures was the black of the woods, the trees cast into shadow by the light of the rising sun. Immanuelle found herself looking for faces among the branches, the Lovers she’d seen in the woods that night, the figures sketched in her mother’s journal.
But she saw nothing. The distant woods were still.
By the time Immanuelle returned to the farmhouse, the Moore daughters were eating breakfast in the dining room. Honor sat at the table, spooning up the last of her gruel, and Glory studied her reflection in the bottom of a polished pot, tugging at her braids and frowning.
Anna wore her Sabbath best. Her hair was heaped atop her head and adorned with wildflowers. She was beaming; she always beamed on cutting days.
“To think it’s Leah who drew the Prophet’s eye,” she said, almost singing the words.
Martha rounded the corner of the kitchen, bringing Abram with her. He leaned heavily on her shoulder, his mangled foot sliding across the floorboards. Martha stared at Immanuelle pointedly, a frown creasing the seal between her brows. “It speaks to her virtue.”
Immanuelle’s cheeks burned with shame at the subtle slight. “That it does.”
With that, she dismissed herself to the washroom, tripping on the hem of her nightdress as she went. She set about the task of readying herself. There was little she could do but wash the dirt off her hands and wet her curls in a sad attempt to tame them. She tried to pile her hair atop her head the way Anna did, but her ringlets tangled, devouring pins and snaring the teeth of her comb.
So she let her hair hang long, the thick curls sweeping the base of her neck. She pinched her cheeks to give them color, bit her lips and wet them.
She frowned at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. The longer she stared into her own eyes, the more her face warped and changed. Her skin paled. Her eyes gaped wider. Her mouth twisted into a sneer.
All at once, it was not her face in the mirror at all, but that of one of the Lovers. The same ghoul that had given her the journal. Her lips twisted apart. A strange and warbling voice echoed through her mind: “Blood. Blight. Darkness. Slaughter.”
Immanuelle staggered back from the sink so fast she crashed into the tub and hit the floor. Upon scrambling to her feet, she fled the washroom and scaled the iron stairs up to her attic bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her.
She snatched a few long breaths in an attempt to still her racing heart. Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face, squeezing her eyes shut as if the dark was enough to keep her memories at bay. But there was no forgetting the woodland women. And worse yet, Immanuelle wasn’t sure she wanted to forget. Surely if she did, she would have abandoned her sin and turned over the journal. Or better yet, cast it into the hearth fire to burn. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. She would sooner take a branding iron to the cheek than watch what little she had left of her mother turn to ashes.
But the witches who had given her the journal, and the evil they wrought, were a different matter entirely. She refused to fall prey to their torments the way her mother had. She wouldn’t abandon her faith so quickly. She resolved to keep the journal, if only as a reminder of what sin could do to someone weak enough to succumb to it.
Lowering her hands, Immanuelle found the dress she had worn to Judith’s cutting stretched across the foot of her bed. It was a faded sable color with a thin skirt, long puff sleeves, and a string of rusty copper buttons that stopped just short of the bosom. A child’s dress, better suited to a girl of Glory’s age than Immanuelle’s.
She sighed. There was no help to be had for it. She certainly couldn’t wear her Sabbath attire. It was far too informal for such an important occasion. But then she remembered the drawing of her mother she’d found in the back of the journal a few days prior. The sketch of her standing in front of the forbidden woods.
Immanuelle dropped to her knees in front of the hope chest and rifled through her belongings. Most were just keepsakes, quilts and bits of ribbon, dried bouquets and other tokens she’d collected over the passing years. Nothing as important as the journal, nothing forbidden. But at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in parchment paper, was her mother’s dress, the same one she had worn in the portrait.
It was nothing special like the gown Leah would wear to her cutting, but it was a well-sewn Sabbath dress, wine red with copper buttons at the throat. On the odd occasion when Immanuelle wore it—in her attic bedroom when all of the others had fallen asleep—she felt perfectly presentable, pretty even, like the girls she often saw wandering the shops of the market with their gloves and silken shawls.
She stripped out of her nightgown and slipped into the dress. It wasn’t a perfect fit, the waist was cut too wide and the hips were perhaps a little tighter than what Martha would deem wholesome, but it was a better fit than Anna’s hand-me-downs and much finer. Plus, its hem fell low to the floor so it would easily cover the tops of her boots, which were too scuffed to be suitable for any occasion more formal than a romp across the pastures.
Once dressed, Immanuelle took a wreath of wildflowers from the top of her wardrobe. The blossoms had dried nicely in the week after she’d picked them with Leah, and the band of the crown—a twisted web-work of braided stems—held fast. Gingerly, she set it atop her head, pinned it in place, and turned to peer at her reflection in the bedroom window.
She couldn’t call herself a vision; her lip was still badly split and bruised from her tussle with Judas days before. But she thought that, alongside Judith and Leah and the rest of the girls who would attend the cutting, she wouldn’t look so out of place. The color of the dress complemented the rich tan of her skin and pulled the color from her eyes, and with the flowers in her hair, her curls looked rather nice.
Immanuelle slipped into the hallway, her skirts rustling around her ankles. She took the stairs slowly and entered the kitchen. Honor was dressed in a dusk-colored smock, her plump feet stuffed into tiny leather boots. She was the first to spot Immanuelle, and she shrieked with glee at the sight of her.
“Let me wear the crown!” she pleaded, laughing and clawing at the air. With a wry smile, Immanuelle obliged her, balancing the wreath atop the child’s ginger curls.
“That’s Miriam’s dress.” Martha stood at the threshold, grasping a damp dishrag.
Immanuelle couldn’t remember the last time Martha had said her daughter’s name. It sounded strange in her mouth, foreign.
Immanuelle took the wreath off Honor’s head and placed it on her own again, quickly adjusting the pins. “I found it at the bottom of my hope chest. I thought I might wear it to the cutting, if you think it fitting.”
“Fitting?” Martha’s lips twisted. “Aye, it is that.”
Immanuelle stalled, unsure of what to say and wondering if she ought to return to her bedroom and put on the dress Anna had laid out for her. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.
To her surprise, Martha’s gaze softened, not with affection, but with what Immanuelle could only describe as resignation. “You wear it like your mother,” she said.
* * *
THE MOORE BROOD took the buggy to the cathedral, the mule dragging the lot of them across the plains. It was a bright day. The sun was a hot kiss on the back of Immanuelle’s neck and the air smelled of summer, all sweat and honey and apple blooms.
As they rode, she was careful to
keep her eyes off the Darkwood. Martha had been watching her ever since the night she’d returned from the forest. Her eye was keen, and Immanuelle knew that the punishment would be swift and painful if she was ever caught wandering the woods again. So she kept her gaze trained on the floor of the wagon, her hands clasped in her lap.
By the time they arrived at the cathedral, most of the congregation was already gathered in fellowship on its lawn. Immanuelle hopped out of the buggy and scanned the crowds for Leah, but instead her gaze found Ezra, who stood with a few boys his age and a gaggle of girls, including Hope, Judith, and a few of the Prophet’s other wives.
At the sight of Immanuelle, he nodded by way of greeting. She waved in turn—conscious of the way Judith and the rest of the girls studied her as she did—and escaped into the shadows of the cathedral. There she found Leah kneeling at the foot of the altar in prayer. At the echo of Immanuelle’s footsteps, she opened her eyes and turned to face her.
Leah was a vision, draped in white, her hair hanging so long it touched the small of her back. She broke into a smile and sprinted down the aisle, catching Immanuelle in a fierce hug.
They held on to each other in silence for a long time.
This was to be the end of them, the end of what they’d shared in girlhood. Somewhere amidst the passing years, Leah had become a woman and Immanuelle had not, and now the two of them would be split apart.
“You look like the bride of a prophet,” said Immanuelle, trying not to sound as sad as she felt.
Leah beamed and gave a little twirl, the pale skirts of her cutting gown billowing, light as fog. She’d hand sewn them from chiffon months before her wedding, working through the night by candlelight, stitching the verses of the Prophet’s Scriptures into her underskirts, as was custom for young brides. Her feet were bare and clean, her hair parted down the middle. About her neck was a new golden holy dagger much like the ones the apostles wore, though its blade was dull and much shorter. She toyed with it a bit as she spoke. “I thought you’d never come. I was worried.”
“Our mule took his time,” said Immanuelle.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here now. I need you. For strength.”
“You have me. Always.”
Leah reached out to grasp Immanuelle’s hand, her fingers cold. She studied the bandages. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Well, I want to know and you can’t refuse me because it’s my cutting day. Out with it.”
Immanuelle gazed down at her boots. “I was burned as a punishment.”
“It was Martha’s doing, wasn’t it?”
Immanuelle nodded, not looking at her.
“She’s too hard on you. Always has been.”
“This time, the punishment was warranted. Believe me.”
Leah frowned. “What did you do?”
Immanuelle stalled, half ashamed, half afraid to tell her. “I went into the Darkwood. My ram broke free of his tether, fled for the trees. I tried to follow him, but night fell fast and I got lost. I was going to give up, wait until morning to find my way home again . . . but then I heard voices.”
“And what did the voices say?”
Immanuelle faltered. “They weren’t saying anything I could understand.”
“So they were . . . foreigners?”
“No. I don’t think so. It’s just that the sounds they were making, they weren’t words at all. It was just whimpers and moaning.”
Leah looked very pale and very sick. “What did they look like?”
“They were tall, very thin. Too thin. And they were lying together in a glen in the woods, embracing the way a husband and wife might.”
Leah’s eyes went wide. “What did they do when they saw you?”
Immanuelle opened her mouth to tell her about her mother’s journal but stopped short. It was better for the both of them if she bit her tongue. She feared she’d said too much already. After all, in a short while Leah would be the Prophet’s wife, bound to him by the sacred seal. Immanuelle knew there was power in a promise like that, and while she trusted Leah as her friend, as a prophet’s bride she wouldn’t belong to herself anymore. “They didn’t do anything. They just stood there. I ran before they had the chance to come closer.”
Leah was quiet for a long time, as if trying to decide whether or not she believed her. Then: “What on earth were you thinking? The woods are dangerous. There’s a reason we’re taught to stay clear of them.”
A flare of anger licked up the back of Immanuelle’s neck. “You think I don’t know that?”
Leah caught her by the shoulder, gripping so hard she winced. “Knowing isn’t enough, Immanuelle. You have to promise me you’ll never go into the Darkwood again.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” said Leah, and her grip slackened. “I hope those women you saw go back to the hell they came from. There’s no place for them here.”
“But they weren’t here,” said Immanuelle quietly. “They were in the Darkwood.”
“And does the Father not have power over the woods as well?”
Immanuelle thought of her mother’s journal, the four words at the end of her final entry: Blood. Blight. Darkness. Slaughter. “Maybe the Father turned His back on the forest,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. “He has His kingdom, and the Dark Mother has Hers.”
“Yet you passed through the Darkwood’s corridors unharmed. That has to mean something.”
Before Immanuelle had the chance to respond, the church bell tolled and the front doors swung open. The Prophet entered in a slant of sunlight. He wore plain clothes, no robes or stoles as he did on Sabbath days. Somehow, his common wear made him all the more intimidating. Immanuelle could not help but notice how sallow he looked. His eyes were shadowed with dark bags and she could have sworn there was blood crusting in the corners of his lips.
The Prophet’s gaze went to Immanuelle first, falling to her dress, and something like recognition stirred in his eyes. He seemed to stare through her, to a lost time when Miriam was still alive. She had never fully understood what the Prophet had seen in her mother. Some said it was love, others lust, but most believed that Miriam had seduced the Prophet with her witchery. There were so many stories and secrets, tangled threads and loose ends, but Immanuelle wondered if the truth lay somewhere in the intersections between them all.
After a long beat, the Prophet turned and nodded to Leah, as if he’d only just remembered she was there. He walked to the altar in silence, only pausing to cough into his sleeve. The rest of the congregation spilled in after him, filing into the pews. The apostles walked around the perimeter of the room, Ezra among them.
Immanuelle tried her best not to look at him.
In turn, Leah’s gaze fell to the Prophet. “It’s time.”
Immanuelle nodded, giving Leah’s hand a final squeeze before she slipped toward the altar. As Immanuelle went to find her place in the pews, the apostles lifted an invocation and Leah climbed up onto the altar, careful to gather her skirts in such a way that her knees didn’t show. And there she lay, motionless, in wait of the blade.
The Prophet placed his hand to her belly. “I bless you with the seed of the Father.” His hand shifted to her chest. “The heart of the lamb.”
Leah gave a tremulous smile. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
The Prophet lifted the chain of his dagger and slipped it over his head. “May the power of the Father move through you, henceforth and forevermore.”
The flock spoke in unison. “Blessings forevermore.”
With that, he lowered the blade to Leah’s forehead and cut her, carving the first line of the holy seal. She did not scream or struggle, even as the blood slipped down her temples and pooled in the hollows of her ears.
The flock watched in silence. Immanuelle gripped the pe
w white-knuckled to keep herself from bolting as the cutting ritual dragged on.
What felt like hours later, the Prophet placed a hand to the top of Leah’s head and stroked her, gently, his fingers lingering in the locks of her hair, mussing her curls.
At his touch, Leah sat up slowly, a trickle of blood skimming down the slope of her nose and slicking her lips. With a wavering smile and tear-filled eyes, she turned to face the congregation and licked the blood away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lilith with her crown of bone
Is mother of the beasts
Delilah with her tender smile
Swims in waters deep
Jael and Mercy sing their songs
to moon and stars above
Telling tales of mortal sin
And their unholy love
But those that venture to the wood
after the sun sinks low
Will never see the morning’s light
Or live to learn and grow
—BETHELAN NURSERY RHYME
A FEAST FOLLOWED the cutting, one of the biggest since the autumn harvest. There were nine tables to accommodate the guests of Leah and the Prophet, each so long they stretched from one end of the churchyard to the other. Every one was crowded with an assortment of platters and dishes. There was braised beef and potatoes, roasted corn, and an assortment of breads and cheeses. To drink, apple cider and barley wine, which the men guzzled from big, wooden mugs, their beards rimmed with lather. For dessert, poached plums with cream and sugar.
Overhead, the moon hung round and full and the sky was spangled with stars. The guests partook in abundance, dining and chatting and laughing, drunk off the power of the cutting. Families gathered in fellowship and the Prophet’s wives moved between tables, tending to the guests and taking the time to greet each person in turn.
At the head of all of this—at a small table set for two—sat Leah and her husband, the Prophet. She was smiling despite the pain of her new wound, which had since been cleaned and bandaged. When she saw Immanuelle, sitting with the Moores in the back of the churchyard, Leah’s smile grew wider still. Her eyes were ablaze with the light of the bonfires, her cheeks flushed from the heat and perhaps a few too many sips of barley wine. At her side sat the Prophet, his elbows propped up on the table, fingers laced. He followed his new wife’s gaze to Immanuelle, and she got the distinct impression that he was studying her.
The Year of the Witching Page 6