The Year of the Witching(27)

Lurking in the distance was the shadow of the western Darkwood. The deeper they ventured into the village, the closer the Darkwood crept. While the forests of the Glades in the east were lush and thick, they were nothing in comparison to the wilds that bordered the Outskirts. Somehow, the woods of the west seemed more alive. The treetops crawled with life—fox squirrels as big as cats ran the branches of the trees, and crows roosted in the canopy of oaks and dogwoods, sunning their wings and cawing their evening songs. Overhead, a white-bellied hawk circled the sprawling woodland and a powerful wind stirred through the trees, carrying the scent of loam and slaughter.

Running the length of the wood were tributes and sacrifices—a bushel of corn tucked into a nook between tree roots, a sheepskin slung over the low bough of an oak, a basket of eggs atop a tree stump, wreaths of what appeared to be dried rosemary, dead chickens and rabbits strung by the legs and hanging from the branches of pine trees.

Immanuelle craned out of her seat to get a better view of the strange assortment. “What is that?”

Martha kept her eyes on the road. “They’re offerings.”

The wagon rumbled past what appeared to be a kind of altar—an intricate thatch-work of twigs and branches upon which a goat lay gutted. “Offerings to who?”

“The woods,” said Martha, and she seemed to spit the words. “In these parts, they worship them. The Prophet ought to cast them to the wilds for such a sin. If they love the woods so much, let them return to it.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

“It’s an act of mercy, I assume. But I don’t presume the ways of the Prophet and neither should you.” She cast Immanuelle a firm glance before returning her gaze to the road. “Besides, those in the Outskirts have their station—as we do ours. Even the sinner has a place in this world. And even the heretic can exalt the Father in his or her own way.”

As they crossed into the heart of the shanty village, a young woman with mahogany skin emerged from the ruins of a crumbling cottage and wandered into the middle of the road. Her feet were bare and bruised, and there was a squalling infant bound to her chest with a sling. She threw her arms out as they approached, her parched lips parted, eyes wild. “Water for the baby, please. Spare us a drop to drink.”

Martha muttered a prayer and flicked the reins. The wheels of the cart broke through a puddle, splashing the woman with blood. She staggered back, clutching her child, and stumbled on the hem of her dress as she retreated.

Immanuelle turned to say something, but Martha caught her by the wrist. “Leave her to her sins.”

But Immanuelle couldn’t pull her eyes from the woman. She watched her, crouched and weeping on the side of the road, until she shrank to no more than a mote on the horizon, and then disappeared.

They journeyed on. As they turned south toward the Holy Grounds, the drone of flies and mosquitoes grew louder. The shanty village gave way to open plains and blood-flooded meadows that were drowned by the overflow of contaminated groundwater. In the distance, the sprawling estates that belonged to the apostles of the Church, cornfields and cattle ranges so large they stretched well past the western horizon. They were filled with the rotting, fly-swarmed corpses of cows, horses, and other animals that had died of thirst in the early days of the plague.

“Miriam used to ride these hills,” said Martha, her hands still tight around the reins. She smiled faintly, and Immanuelle caught a glimpse of the woman she might have been before her daughter’s death. Someone kind, warm even. “Abram bought her a pony the summer of her thirteenth birthday. She rode it most every day, up and down these paths—going fast as the devils themselves—until one day she ran it too hard. That mare tripped over a stray stone in the road and snapped its leg at the knee. I watched it happen. She fell right there.” Martha pointed to a copse of dead apple trees along the shoulder of the road.

“What happened to the horse?” Immanuelle asked, and when she spoke her chapped lips split open. She tried to wet them, but her tongue was dry.

“Miriam put it down,” said Martha, in this flat dead tone, as if she was merely remarking on the weather. “Abram was going to do it, but she wouldn’t let him. She fired the rifle herself, shot that pony clean through the eye.”

Immanuelle processed this in silence, a chill carving down her spine. The cart shuddered down the road to the cathedral, the shadows pressing in as the sun set. It was just her and Martha that evening. Anna had stayed home to tend to the rest of the family.

“Go in peace,” she’d told them as they left, and Immanuelle could tell she was worried. Anyone with the sense the Father gave them was. The earth beneath their feet was bleeding, and despite their best prayers and efforts, they couldn’t make it stop. It was just as Miriam had prophesied in her journal.

If the Prophet and apostles knew the cause of the blood plague or a way to stop it, they had not shared their findings with the flock. They simply urged the people to pray and fast, in the hope of winning the Father’s favor. Until then, they were told to ration their resources—harvest fruits and vegetables for juicing, collect rainwater and what little they could from dewfall every night and morning. But these meager efforts weren’t enough. Immanuelle had already lost six of her sheep to thirst or poisoning.

But despite these dire straits, there was some hope. Days after the blood plague, rainstorms swept through Bethel. And, owing to coordinated efforts by the farmers and Church, a fair amount of water was collected. In addition to that, the ice reserves in the catacombs of the Prophet’s Haven proved useful, as did its extensive wine cellars. There was even talk of importing fresh water from settlements beyond the Hallowed Gate. Still, despite these provisions, resources were dwindling rapidly, and with no rain for several days, the panic was beginning to mount again. Cattle and livestock were dying by the day, and more losses, human losses, were expected to follow if the blood plague didn’t end soon.