The Year of the Witching(11)
Just then, a loud jeering sounded above the din of the marketplace. Immanuelle raised her eyes to a break in the crowds and caught a glimpse of the lashing stocks. There, bound and muzzled and swaying on her feet, was a young blond woman, the same one whom Judith and her friend had gossiped about on the Sabbath—the poor girl who’d lured a local farmer into sin with seduction and harlotry.
At the sight of her, Immanuelle snapped Ezra’s book shut so fast and so hard, she almost dropped it in the muck of the street. She shoved it to his chest. “Take it back. Please.”
Ezra rolled his eyes, handing her Judas’ lead rope. “And here I thought a girl with the gall to dance with devils wouldn’t be frightened by such things.”
“I’m not frightened,” she lied, ears ringing with the shouts of the crowd. “But that book, it’s—”
“An encyclopedia,” he said. “A book of knowledge.”
Immanuelle knew full well there was only one book of knowledge, and it had no pictures. “It’s forbidden. A sin.”
Ezra studied her silently for a moment; then his gaze tracked across the market to the girl in the stocks, weeping and struggling against her chains. “Isn’t it strange how reading a book is a sin, but locking a girl in the stocks and leaving her to the dogs is another day of the Good Father’s work?”
Immanuelle stared at him, startled. “What?” She would have never thought the Prophet’s own son—and the heir to the Church, no less—would say such a thing, even if it was true.
Ezra flashed that lopsided grin of his, but his gaze was dark. “I’ll see you on the Sabbath,” he said, and then, without so much as a nod, he took his leave.
CHAPTER THREE
The dead walk among the living. This is the first truth, and the most important.
—THE HOLY SCRIPTURES
IMMANUELLE DID NOT sell the yearling that day. She bargained, she haggled, she called to the passing townsfolk and did all she could to be rid of the ram, but no one wanted him. There would be no new dress for Glory, no shoes for Honor or tithes to pay the Prophet.
She’d failed.
The main road was almost empty when Immanuelle abandoned her market post and began the long journey back to the Glades. As she walked, her thoughts went to that harlot in the stocks. The memory of the girl—shackled and weak-kneed and so young, mumbling pleas through her muzzle—haunted her, even as she tried to force it from her mind and focus on her journey home.
She walked on. The sun sank low to the horizon and a black storm swept across the plains. Rain slashed down from the clouds, and the wind howled about her like something alive.
Immanuelle picked up her pace, pulling the strap of her knapsack higher and tugging Judas along. He fought her at every step, black hooves tripping over the cobblestones, eyes rolling. She tried to talk him down above the thunder, but he wouldn’t heed her.
As they crossed from the main road to the dirt path that cut across the Glades, a bolt of lightning cleaved the clouds. Judas reared with such force that Immanuelle lost her footing and slipped on the rain-slick cobbles. A bone-bruising bolt of pain split between her ribs and kicked the air from her lungs. She gasped, squatting in the muck as Judas shook his head about wildly.
“Easy,” she wheezed, struggling to get back on her feet. “Easy there.”
The ram reared again, hooves cutting deep into the soil as he landed on the other side of the road. He turned to look Immanuelle in the eye; then he lowered his head and charged her.
Immanuelle leaped right. Judas veered left, the point of his horn clipping the edge of her mouth, splitting her bottom lip. She hit the ground on her knees again, scraping them raw.
The enraged ram gave another mighty pull, and the lead rope snapped in two. Freed, Judas bucked once more, then tore toward the forest, disappearing into the trees.
Immanuelle snatched a ragged breath and screamed: “Judas!”
She pushed to her feet, staggering to the curb, where half the road diverged toward the distant woodland. The path through the forest was leagues shorter than the long way around, and if Immanuelle took it she was certain she would make it home sooner.
But Martha’s warning trailed through her mind: There is evil in the woods.
But then she thought of the coming tithes and their leaking roof and the holes in Glory’s shoes. She thought of bad harvests, gruel suppers, and waning winter stores. She thought of everything they needed, and everything they lacked, and she took a step toward the tree line. Then another.
At the forest’s border, it was quieter, the wind dying down. Immanuelle called for Judas once again, hands cupped around her mouth, staring into the shadows between the trees. But there was nothing, just the whisper of the wind threading through the pines and seething through the high grass. Come hither, come hither, it seemed to say.
Immanuelle felt something stir in the pit of her belly. She felt her heart quicken, beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. She glanced back toward the road, toward town. The sun was still partially obscured by storm clouds, but by the way it sat in the sky she knew she had close to an hour before it set fully. An hour to search for Judas, then. An hour to right her wrongs.
She could do it, if she hurried. She knew she could fix her mistake yet, with no one—not even Martha—the wiser.