The Year of the Witching(42)
Ezra clenched his jaw, conflicted. “This is a fool’s errand.”
“Just keep hold of the rope,” she said, stooping to take Abram’s knife from her knapsack. “If you do that, then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But the water’s tainted.”
“Well, I’m not going to drink it, am I? I’ll make like a fish and swim. You’ve got the rope. If anything goes wrong—I’m under too long or I start to struggle—haul me back. No harm done.”
Ezra’s hand tightened around the slack. “Fine. But the instant that something goes wrong—you so much as splash too hard—and I’m reeling you back to shore.”
“Fair enough.”
Knife in hand, Immanuelle started down the shore. The cold, blood-black mud oozed between her toes and sucked at her feet, the brine making her blisters sting. Swallowing back a wave of nausea, she trudged in up to her ankles, her knees, her waist, cringing as the cold, bloody sludge lapped at her belly and seeped through her slip. Pausing to steel herself, she walked on, wading through the gore. When her bottom lip was barely above the water, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered her prayer to the Darkwood.
“I’ll not tell you my name, because you know it already. I’ve heard you call me before.” She paused a beat, pushing up on her tiptoes, straining to keep her head above the surface. “I’m here on behalf of Bethel, to beg . . . no, to plead for an end to the plagues that were spawned here weeks ago. Accept this sacrifice. Please.”
And with that, she raised the knife to her forearm and made a deep cut.
As her blood mixed with that of the pond, a great wind moved through the forest, so strong it bent the pine saplings double. Wide ripples radiated from the center of the pond, as though someone had dropped a boulder in its depths. Waves broke against the shore of the pond in quick succession, and Immanuelle had to root her feet in the muck to keep from being swept away.
Ezra gave the rope two sharp tugs, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He yanked on the rope again, harder this time, shouted her name above the roaring wind. But before Immanuelle had the chance to answer him, a cold hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her under.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The woman is a cunning creature. Made in the likeness of her Mother, she is at once the creator and the destroyer. She is kind until she is cruel, meek until she is merciless.
—FROM THE EARLY WRITINGS OF DAVID FORD
THE WITCH OF the Water floated in the shadow of the deep. She darted around Immanuelle, swift as a minnow, as she flailed and struggled, trying not to drown. The witch cocked her head to the side, ebbed closer, so they were nearly nose to nose. Her expression twisted into a frown, lips ripped apart, and when she wailed, the blood began to bubble, and great black shapes rose from the shadows of the deep.
Immanuelle thrashed, so startled she nearly snatched a breath and choked. The shapes were figures, women and girls. Some were Honor’s age, some even younger. As they drew closer, Immanuelle could see they were all gravely wounded in one way or another, little more than corpses caught in the current’s grasp. One woman’s throat was gashed open. Another wore a noose around her neck. A third’s face was so bruised and swollen she barely looked human. A fourth cradled her severed head to her chest the way you would a baby. More and more souls rose from the shadows of the deep until the dead were near legion.
From the black came a bellow, like a cathedral bell was tolling in the deep. At the sound, the corpses stirred to life and floated back into the darkness.
Then, from the murk and shadow, a new face appeared.
The Prophet?
No. Not him.
This was a face Immanuelle recognized from the statue in the market square, from the portraits that hung from the walls of the Prophet’s Cathedral and Haven.
He was the first prophet. The Witch Killer, David Ford.
Ford’s lips stretched into a ghastly grin, his mouth yawning wide like he meant to swallow her whole. He took a deep breath, and a lone cry echoed through the pond.
And then, from the black, there was fire.
The flames stormed through the water and devoured the women. Their cries became a chorus, mixing with the deep, roaring laughter of David Ford. The women wept and thrashed, some pleading for their mothers, others for mercy. But the flames didn’t relent.
Immanuelle strained forward, reaching for their hands, desperate to help them, but the rope around her jerked, the knot biting into her belly. She fought it, clawing forward, toward the women and girls, as the fire raged.
Another yank on the line knocked the wind right out of her. She gasped, and blood rushed in to fill her mouth. In the black depths of the pond, she could still hear Delilah screaming.
* * *
IMMANUELLE DIDN’T REMEMBER breaking the surface of the water or being pulled to the pond’s bank. One moment she was in the bloody depths; the next she was lying on her back, staring at the treetops. She sat up—rolling to her knees—and vomited. Blood and bile spattered the shore. It wasn’t until the second wave of sick subsided that she raised her head and squinted through the twilight shadows. She could swear it had been just past midday when Delilah dragged her under. How long had she floated in the depths?
The pond’s conjurings flooded back to her: the figures, the pleas and shrieking, the fire. Those women and girls weren’t all witches—some were too young to practice any faith at all. They were victims, innocents slaughtered by the likes of David Ford under the guise of a holy purging. He’d killed them in cold blood. The Holy Scriptures had always made those conflicts seem like battles and wars, but in actuality, it was just a massacre.