The Year of the Witching(8)

And it was from that half-world, from the corridors of the cursed forest, that the first witches—Lilith, Delilah, and the two Lovers, Jael and Mercy—had first emerged. The Unholy Four (as they were later called) found a place among Bethel’s early settlers, who accepted them as refugees and offered them sanctuary. The women took husbands and birthed children, lived among the Father’s flock as allies and friends. But while the four witches wore the skin of human women, their souls were made in their Mother’s image, and like Her, they sought to destroy the Good Father’s creations, choking His light with their darkness and shadow.

The four witches planted seeds of discord in the hearts of good Bethelan men, tempting them and leading their souls astray. The roots of their deceit ran deep, and it wasn’t long before the rule of the land shifted into their hands. It was only by the Father’s grace that a young man by the name of David Ford—the first prophet—had rallied a brave army of holy crusaders to overthrow the four witches with fire and purging in a bloody rebellion, banishing their souls to the cursed woods from whence they came.

But the power of the witches and the dark Goddess they served remained long after the Holy War had ended. Even now, their ghosts still haunted the Darkwood, hungry for the souls of those who dared to enter their realm.

Or so the stories said.

Once Immanuelle had finished her breakfast, she rose to continue her journey through the Glades. The main road snaked closer to the Darkwood now, and she could see the memorials dotting the distant tree line. There were wreaths of wildflowers, tokens and tributes, even a small pair of children’s shoes hanging from a fence post by the laces—as though someone believed the child they belonged to might one day emerge from the trees to claim them. These relics were all that remained of those who were lost to the Darkwood. For what the forest took it rarely returned.

Immanuelle and her mother were exceptions to this—miracles, some said. But in her weakest moments, when the wind stirred through the pines and the crows sang their songs, Immanuelle felt as though the Darkwood still had a hold on her, as if it was calling her home again.

With a shiver, Immanuelle walked on, past the shacks and cabins and rolling cornfields, making her way along the forest’s edge, following the path of the stream. Overhead, the sun shifted, and the air grew thick and heavy. The sprawling pasture of the Glades gave way to the stone-paved streets of Amas—the village at the heart of Bethel. Here, barns and homesteads were replaced with a clutter of cobblestone cottages and slate-roofed town houses, stone buildings with stained-glass windows that glared brilliantly in the light of the noonday sun. In the distance, looming high above the rooftops, was one of the tallest structures in all of Bethel, surpassed only by the cathedral’s steeple. It was called the Hallowed Gate, and it was a wrought iron wonder built by the first prophet, David Ford.

Beyond the gate was a wide cobblestone road flanked by ever-burning streetlamps that was called the Pilgrim’s Way. If Bethel was an island in the vast sea of the forest, that road was a bridge to the foreign territories far beyond its borders. But as far as Immanuelle knew, only the Prophet’s Guard, apostles, and a selection of esteemed evangelists were allowed to leave Bethel, and only on rare occasions. And never—in all of Immanuelle’s sixteen years—had a single foreigner entered through the gate.

Sometimes Immanuelle wondered if the cities beyond the Bethelan territories were nothing more than myths. Or perhaps the ever-encroaching woodland had devoured them entirely, the way it might have Bethel if the Father’s light hadn’t forced its darkness back. But Immanuelle knew those ponderings were far above her station. The complexities of the world beyond the Hallowed Gate were better left to the apostles and Prophet, who had the knowledge and discernment to parse them.

Tightening her grip on Judas’ lead rope, Immanuelle shouldered her way through the ever-thickening market crowds. As usual, the square was thronged with stalls. There were candle stands and a butcher with fly-swarmed meats on melting ice slabs. Next to the butcher, a large stall that sold fabric by the bolt, displaying an array of brocades and velvets, twills and soft silks. As Immanuelle passed the perfumer’s tent, she caught the scent of fine oil, brewed from flowers and myrrh musk.

The watchmaker had a stall just outside his cottage. On a long oak table, he peddled his clocks and timepieces to the fine men who dressed like they could afford them. Just a few paces from that, a shoe shop offered leather boots with buckles that were finer than anything Immanuelle had ever owned. Finer than anything she likely would ever own.

But she didn’t dwell on that. She made a point to hold her head high, never straying from the main road or even so much as breaking her pace to examine the wares. Judas trotted alongside her, his black hooves skittering across the cobbles. His ears quirked this way and that, nostrils flaring as he took in the sights and sounds of the marketplace. Sometimes he wandered, but Immanuelle kept the lead rope short so that he was never farther than a pace’s length from her hip.

At intervals along the road, crouching at the cobbled corners with bowls and coin cups, were beggars from the Outskirts. Many of them walked barefoot, rising to collect coins from the passersby who were kind enough to offer them. But most of the marketgoers ignored the beggars entirely. The Outskirters were exiles, after all, dismissed as the lower, less-favored children of the Father. A few of the more radical members of the flock suggested that their very appearance was a punishment, claimed that the rich ebony of their skin was an outward sign of their inner allegiance to the Dark Mother, who bore their likeness.