The Year of the Witching(18)

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.