The Year of the Witching(84)

For Bethel’s survival, and her own, she would have to fight for her innocence.

The Prophet emerged from the back of the cathedral and staggered down the center aisle, pausing every few steps to brace himself on the back of a pew and catch his breath. After a long, grueling walk to the altar, he turned to address his flock. “We are gathered here for the trial of Immanuelle Moore, who has been accused of witchcraft, murder, sorcery, thieving, whoring, and holy treason against the Good Father’s Church.”

The congregation jeered.

“Today, we will hear her confession. We will judge her not according to the passions of our hearts, but by the laws of our Father and Holy Scriptures. Only then may she find true forgiveness. Let the trial commence.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR





If you have any honor, any semblance of kindness or decency, then spare her. Spare her, please.

—THE FINAL CONFESSION OF DANIEL WARD





THE FIRST WITNESS to testify was Abram Moore. He staggered forward, leaning heavily on his cane, his face a picture of pain as he hobbled into the shadow of the altar.

Immanuelle didn’t expect him to meet her eyes, but he did. “I’m here to testify . . . on behalf of myself and . . . my wife Martha Moore. Immanuelle is my granddaughter . . . the child of Miriam Moore who died the . . . day Immanuelle was born. She had no living father so . . . I raised her . . . as my own. She bears . . . my name.”

“Did you raise her to be what she is?” Apostle Isaac asked, moving toward the altar. He was the apostle who had replaced Abram in the wake of Miriam’s disgrace, and Immanuelle could not help but wonder if he relished the opportunity to best his rival once again.

“I raised her to . . . fear the Father,” said Abram. “And . . . I believe she does.”

There was a collective gasp, but Abram pressed on. “She’s just . . . a child.”

Apostle Isaac moved to the edge of the altar. He stared down at Abram with a look of such naked contempt, it made Immanuelle cringe.

But Abram didn’t waver.

“I would remind you of the words of our Holy Scriptures,” said the apostle, speaking slowly, as if he thought Abram simple. “Blood begets blood. That’s the price of sin.”

“I know the Father’s . . . Scriptures. And I know that . . . clemency is extended to those who are not of sound mind . . . or heart.”

“She is sound,” the apostle snapped. “We spoke at length.”

“The girl has . . . her mother’s sickness.”

“Her mother’s only sickness was witchery.”

This was met with applause. Men at the back of the crowd raised their fists to the rafters, yelling for blood and burning.

“Sin can be an affliction . . . real as any,” said Abram. He turned to appeal directly to the flock. “Sin has come upon us in the form . . . of these plagues, and yet . . . we don’t punish ourselves. We don’t lay . . . the whip . . . against our own backs.”

Apostle Isaac interrupted, “That’s because we aren’t to blame. We are victims of this evil. But that girl”—he pointed toward Immanuelle with a shaking finger—“is the source of it. She’s a witch. She conjured the curses that have ravaged these lands, and yet you would see her walk among us? You would set her free?”

“I would not free her . . . here,” said Abram. “I would release her . . . to the wilds. Banish her from Bethel. Let her . . . make a life for herself beyond the wall.”

Apostle Isaac opened his mouth to refute him, but the Prophet raised a hand for silence. He brushed past the apostle as if he was little more than a hanging curtain. “Thank you for your witness, brother Abram. We accept your truth with gratitude.”

As Abram shuffled back to his seat, the Prophet cast his gaze back to the people, scanning the pews. “Are there others who wish to offer witness?”

A small, thin voice sounded at the back of the cathedral. “There are.”

It took Immanuelle a moment to recognize the girl limping toward her, chained and flanked by two of the Prophet’s guardsmen.

Contrition had not been kind to Judith. She looked like a corpse.

Her auburn curls, which had once been so long they hung to her waist, had been cut into a scum-matted crop as short as a boy’s. She was deathly thin, and dirty, dressed in a torn bodice and bloodstained skirts. Despite the cold, she wore no shoes or shawl about her shoulders. Both of her lips were badly split, and when she spoke they began to bleed. “I have a confession to make.”

The Prophet nodded. “Speak your truth, child.”

Judith stopped at the altar’s edge, her gaze pinned to the floor even as she turned to face the flock. She wrung her hands, shackles rattling, and peered up at the Prophet, as if waiting for some kind of cue. When she finally spoke, it was in a lifeless drone, as though she was reciting a catechism or Holy Scriptures. “Immanuelle Moore has defied Holy Protocol. She has cast her charms and worked her evils against the men and women of this Church.”

The Prophet appraised her, his expression blank. “And what evidence do you have to charge the accused with these crimes?”

“Her own words,” said Judith, her voice wavering. She struggled for a moment, as if trying to remember what she was told to say. “On a Sabbath, weeks ago, Immanuelle said that she liked to walk the woods with the devils, and to dance with the witches naked in the moon’s light.”