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“You know,” said Immanuelle. “Now that I consider it . . . I do have a knack for dancing naked in the woods—with the beasts and devils, of course. It’s hard to find the time, what with all the sheep I shepherd, but when the full moon rises, I do what I can.” She smiled brightly at Judith. “Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.”
It often seemed like everything she owned was either too big or too small, like she wasn’t fit for the world she was born to.
Shared or spilled, it seemed that blood did not matter as much as appearance did.
Such privileges were reserved for apostles and men who had money to spare.
My eye is twitching
Only the wealthy had the luxury of minding things; the rest simply ducked their heads, bit their tongues, and did what needed to be done.
“Isn’t it strange how reading a book is a sin, but locking a girl in the stocks and leaving her to the dogs is another day of the Good Father’s work?”
But it wasn’t all of Judas—just his head, severed, bleeding, perched atop a nearby tree stump.
JUDAS. NO.
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.
The Beast’s feet shifted. Her bare toes clutched the mud as she lowered herself to a crouch. Immanuelle risked a glance upward. That great skull head angled to the side, a motion so human, even girlish, that for a fleeting moment, Immanuelle was reminded of Glory.
Her bleed should have been a moment of celebration, relief—against all odds, she was a woman at last—but all she felt was small and wounded and a little sick.
Martha seemed aware of this too, and Immanuelle could tell that she scorned the attention. “Immanuelle will remain where she belongs, with me.”
Anger
Prophets were merely men and men were fallible creatures, prone to the passions of the flesh, tempted to violence, even, when their anger spilled over.
“Well, it’s certainly not a blessing,” said Ezra. “What else could you call it?” Immanuelle thought back to the cathedral, to the stained-glass window that depicted the Mother’s legions being burned and slain. She thought of the muzzled girl, chained to the market stocks. She thought of jeering crowds and flaming pyres. She thought of Leah lying prone on the altar, blood pooling in the hollows of her ears, a blade at her brow. She thought of young girls married off to men old enough to be their grandfathers. She thought of starved beggars from the Outskirts squatting by the roadside with their
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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
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.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Patience, rolling her eyes. “Ezra Chambers has far more important things to do than romp in the Darkwood with”—her eyes traced over Immanuelle, taking in her curls, her dark skin, her full lips—“some girl from the Outskirts.”
you bitch ·_·
And with that pity came a kind of rage, not at Judith or Ezra, but at the system that held one accountable for her sins while the other was lauded.
The forest is sentient in a way man is not. She sees with a thousand eyes and forgets nothing.
“The child comes first. There is no other way.”
Oh im pissed
It was only when Hagar, leaning on her cane, whispered, “Ashes to ashes,” that she raised her gaze to the table again, and saw Leah sprawled—limp and breathless—her glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling. Immanuelle clutched the child closer. “No. She’s not, is she . . . ?” “Dead.” The word rattled through the room as Martha drew away from the table. She raised her eyes to Immanuelle, and tears moved down her cheeks. “She’s dead.”
“Leah didn’t sin,” said Immanuelle. “We took what we wanted from her, ripped it from her belly, and then we watched her die.”
then maybe, just maybe, Leah would be alive today. But instead, he let her bleed, let her suffer for his sin. But the blame didn’t end with him.
And sometimes she thought, in light of everything—the lies, the secrets, the killings, the sin—slaughter was exactly what they deserved.
“For you, and you only, I’ll do it.”
“Perhaps that’s what the Prophet should have named this wretched year. It’s more fitting, don’t you think? The Year of the Witching.”
“Do you think that’s for us?” Immanuelle asked. “Do you think they’re looking?” “If they are,” said Ezra, turning to face the road again, now with his rifle in hand, “they’ll regret it.”
Oh damn ezra
“Good people don’t bow their heads and bite their tongues while other good people suffer. Good people are not complicit.”
It had been at least ten days since she’d returned to Bethel and more than twelve since the Prophet’s Guard had stormed Vera’s house, ripped her from the arms of the only loyal family she had left, and placed her in contrition.
Leave her alone?? Tf??
True evil, Immanuelle realized now, wore the skin of good men. It uttered prayers, not curses. It feigned mercy where there was only malice. It studied Scriptures only to spit out lies.
It was not the Prophet who bore Bethel, bound to his back like a millstone. It was all of the innocent girls and women—like Miriam and Leah—who suffered and died at the hands of men who exploited them. They were Bethel’s sacrifice. They were the bones upon which the Church was built. Their pain was the great shame of the Father’s faith, and all of Bethel shared in it. Men like the Prophet, who lurked and lusted after the innocent, who found joy in their pain, who brutalized and broke them down until they were nothing, exploiting those they were meant to protect.
