The Year of the Witching
Alexis Henderson
For my mom, to whom I owe everything.
THE BEAST
SHE WAS BORN breech, in the deep of night. The midwife, Martha, had to seize her by the ankles and drag her from the womb. She slipped out easy, dropped limp into Martha’s arms, and lay still as stone.
The midwife’s daughter gave a low groan that bubbled up from her belly. She grasped at the folds of her nightdress, its hem soaked black with blood, but she made no move to reach for her child. Instead, she turned her head, cheek pressed to the tabletop, and stared across the kitchen to the window above the sink, gazing into the woods.
“Her name,” she demanded, eyes sharp with moonlight. “Give me her name.”
The midwife took the babe, cut her cord, and swaddled her in a scrap of burlap. The child was cold against her breast, and she would have thought her dead if it weren’t for the name that rattled at the back of her throat, its flavor bitter as bile, and yet sweet as wine. The taste of the name the Father had chosen for her. But she didn’t want to say it—not out loud.
With the last of her strength, the girl twisted to face her. “The name. I want her name.”
“Immanuelle,” she finally bit it out like a curse. “She will be called Immanuelle.”
At that the girl on the table smiled, blue lips stretching taut. Then she laughed, an ugly, gargling sound that echoed through the kitchen, spilling out to the parlor, where the rest of the family sat waiting, listening.
“A curse,” she whispered, still smiling to herself. “A little curse, just as she said. Just as she told me.”
The midwife clutched the child close, locking her fingers to still their shaking. She gazed down at her daughter, lying limp on the table, a dark pool of blood between her thighs. “Just as who told you?”
“The woman in the woods,” the dying girl whispered, barely breathing. “The witch. The Beast.”
PART I
Blood
CHAPTER ONE
From the light came the Father. From the darkness, the Mother. That is both the beginning and the end.
—THE HOLY SCRIPTURES
IMMANUELLE MOORE KNELT at the foot of the altar, palms pressed together in prayer, mouth open. Above her, the Prophet loomed in robes of black velvet, his head shaved bristly, his bloodied hands outstretched.
She peered up at him—tracing the path of the long, jagged scar that carved down the side of his neck—and thought of her mother.
In a fluid motion, the Prophet turned from her, robes rustling as he faced the altar, where a lamb lay gutted. He put a hand to its head, then slipped his fingers deep into the wound. As he turned to face Immanuelle again, blood trickled down his wrist and disappeared into the shadows of his sleeve, a few of the droplets falling to the stained floorboards at his feet. He painted her with the blood, his fingers warm and firm as they trailed from the dip of her upper lip down to her chin. He lingered for a moment, as if to catch his breath, and when he spoke his voice was ragged. “Blood of the flock.”
Immanuelle licked it away, tasting brine and iron as she pressed to her feet. “For the glory of the Father.”
On her way back to her pew, she was careful not to spare a glance at the lamb. An offering from her grandfather’s flock, she’d brought it as a tribute the night before, when the cathedral was empty and dark. She had not witnessed the slaughter; she’d excused herself and retreated outside long before the apostles raised their blades. But she’d heard it, the prayers and murmurs drowned out by the cries of the lamb, like those of a newborn baby.
Immanuelle watched as the rest of her family moved through the procession, each of them receiving the blood in turn. Her sister Glory went first, dipping to her knees and obliging the Prophet with a smile. Glory’s mother Anna, the younger of the two Moore wives, took the blessing in a hurry, herding her other daughter, Honor, who licked the blood off her lips like it was honey. Lastly, Martha, the first wife and Immanuelle’s grandmother, accepted the Prophet’s blessing with her arms raised, fingers shaking, her body seized by the power of the Father’s light.
Immanuelle wished she could feel the way her grandmother did, but sitting there in the pew, all she felt was the residual warmth of the lamb’s blood on her lips and the incessant drone of her heartbeat. No angels roosted at her shoulders. No spirit or god stirred in her.
When the last of the congregation was seated, the Prophet raised his arms to the rafters and began to pray. “Father, we come to Thee as servants and followers eager to do Thy work.”
Immanuelle quickly bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
“There may be those among us who are distant from the faith of our ancestors, numb to the Father’s touch and deaf to His voice. On their behalves, I pray for His mercy. I ask that they find solace not in the Mother’s darkness but in the light of the Father.”
At that, Immanuelle cracked one eye open, and for a moment, she could have sworn the Prophet’s gaze was on her. His eyes were wide open at the height of his prayer, staring at her in the gaps between bowed heads and shaking shoulders. Their eyes met, and his flicked away. “May the Father’s kingdom reign.”