The Year of the Witching

by Alexis Henderson

According to legends and the Holy Scriptures, the Darkwood, like all of the cursed and wretched things of the world, had been spawned by the Dark Mother, goddess of the hells. While the Good Father wrought the world with light and flame, breathing life into the dust, She summoned Her evils from the shadows, birthing legions of beasts and demons, mangled creatures and crawling things that lurked in the festering half-world between the living and the dead.

Woman : goddess of hell, witch, darkness, evil, temptation, seduction, adulteress Man : heroic, light, savior, creator, holy, apparently also Weak and easily manipulated by appealing to them sexually, head of the church And in this story, the prophet takes multiple wives and physically mutilates them to brand them. The marriages have extremly unequal power structures - their marraige is holy and a duty to the church, an honor. But the prophet is also physically abusive and sex is dictated by his terms and appetite, not by consent.

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 Ho...

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.

Isolation, minimal diversity

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.

Black skin is demonized, associated with the darkness of the Mother in this religion's story. Black people are "dismissed as The lower, and less favored children" with skin color being the primary determinant of status

There were many stories about how the Outskirters first came to Bethel, but the general understanding was that they were the descendants of refugees who fled there in the ancient days.

A saint called Abdiah ruled the Church at that time. He said that the Father had punished these refugees for their allegiance to the Mother.

He determined that it was the Father’s will to lead those in the Outskirts to Bethel, that they might continue the process of their sanctification through service to the Church. And so, at Abdiah’s bidding, for the first time in its centuries-long history, Bethel opened its gate to outsiders. To prevent what Abdiah called the spread of fallacies, Outskirters were contained to a settlement on the southern cusp of Bethel. There, servants of the Church ministered to them—spreading the word of the Father, turning heathen to believer one soul at a time in what was later called the Great Evangelism. Over

When black people are brought into Bethel, they are: -Made to live in a desiganted, separate part of the city. -People are taught to associate them with danger, and that their skin color is indicative of evil -The people of Bethel are evagelizing and trying to convert these people to their faith and way of life - their goal is to assimilate these people and that is considered a "holy" endeavour - they are "saving" these peope - and their assimilation is painted as "contrition" a penance for the sin of being associated with the mother

the passing decades, those in the Outskirts assimilated to the ways of Bethel. They adopted its faith and common tongue, continued their process of contrition through service to the Church. Gradually, as the generations passed, those in the Outskirts turned their back on their history, until they became more Bethelan than not. But it was clear to Immanuelle that they weren’t treated as such. She wasn’t treated as

Shared or spilled, it seemed that blood did not matter as much as appearance did.

many centuries passed, no matter what they rendered in service of Bethel’s betterment, it seemed the Outskirters would always be consigned to the fringes.

No matter how well they assimilated, they were still black, and that mattered more to the church and the people in it than the good deeds and piety of the Outskirters. Even when they have fully erased their culture, it was still not enough

she had stopped her formal schooling at age twelve, as all girls in Bethel did to observe the Prophet’s Holy Protocol,

Keeping the women uneducated and often illiterate - their role is to be pious, and to produce children

Immanuelle wondered if he felt responsible for Judith’s punishment, if it was their tryst that had resulted in her detainment. If so, Immanuelle feared for her. She and Judith were far from friends, but if the horrors of holy contrition were all that Immanuelle believed them to be, then she couldn’t help but pity her. 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.

Double standards of men and women related to sexual activity and sexual partners

Leah stared down at her feet, ashamed. “We were betrothed soon after.” “Soon after what?” Leah frowned, and she couldn’t tell if it was anger she read in her eyes or hurt. “He came to me one night, before my cutting, while I was doing penance.” Penance. Of course. Many girls in Bethel were invited to serve the Church as maidservants to the Prophet’s wives or other inhabitants of the Haven. As a bastard by birth, Immanuelle was never enlisted, but Leah served often in the years before her engagement. Toward the end of her service, it seemed like she spent more nights at the Haven than she did in her own home. Now Immanuelle knew why. “When did it start?” Leah looked sick with shame. “A few weeks before my first blood.” “So you were barely thirteen?” Immanuelle whispered, and it was so horrible that even as she said it, she could barely believe it was true. “Leah, you were . . . he was . . .” Leah’s chin trembled. “We all sin.” “But he’s the Prophet—” “He’s just a man, Immanuelle. Men make mistakes.” “But you were a child. You were just a little girl.” Leah hung her head, trying to choke back tears.

The Prophet, the head of thr church was raping 13 year old girls. And yet everyone is supposed to revere him, worship him, entrust their salvation and piousness to his care. sexual assault and rape are often perpetrated by male religiou leaders with poewer because their power is intertwined with people's expectations for salvation - and thry exploit their power over children who are easily manipulated and controlled. One of my many problems with organized religion like this.

“Sometimes the things that seem like they’re hurting us are really a part of healing. When a child is sick and you bleed them, to them the bite of the knife seems like a punishment, when really it’s the cure. When your people purge, you do great harm, but you see the violence and the fire as a cure for sins that are far worse. Maybe this sickness is much the same. Maybe it’s a kind of purging, meant to root out a deeper evil.”

To avenge her lover, Miriam had surrendered her daughter, body and soul, to Lilith’s coven. She was their curse made flesh, and everything—the blood and the blight, the darkness and slaughter to come—it was all within her. Miriam hadn’t wanted justice; she had wanted blood . . . and Immanuelle had provided. That night in the Darkwood, when she had bled for the first time, she’d unleashed it all. This was Miriam’s legacy: one not of love, but of vengeance—and betrayal.

perhaps Miriam had as well, all those years ago, when after Daniel Ward’s death she’d fled to the Darkwood and struck her deal with the witches. Maybe that devouring rage had mattered more to her than anything else . . . her soul, her daughter, her own life.

But even as Immanuelle’s anger boiled within her—even as her rage and guilt consumed her—she couldn’t imagine selling her family to the darkness the way that Miriam had sold her. And therein lay the difference between them.

She should have been afraid, but what welled up within her now was contempt—for him, for the Church, for anyone who would cast stones at others while hiding sins of their own. “No.”

She heard the muffled rush of flames. Dragging herself through the last of the wheat, Immanuelle peered down at the plains below. There was a crowd some one hundred strong gathered around a pyre. Standing on that pyre, shirtless and bleeding, was her father, Daniel Ward. A scream broke across the plains. Immanuelle followed the sound to Miriam, who cowered weeping at the foot of the pyre. Like her lover, she was bound, shackled at the throat. She lunged for the pyre, crawling on her hands and knees, the iron brace digging into her neck, but one cruel yank on her chain sent her sprawling, and she collapsed into the dirt again. Immanuelle didn’t want to watch. She didn’t want to move, but she found herself descending the hill, the throng parting to make way for her. She came to stand alongside Miriam, in the shadow of the pyre. The crowds parted again. A man passed through them. It took Immanuelle a moment to recognize him: the Prophet Grant Chambers, Ezra’s father. In his grasp was a flaming branch bigger than any torch she’d ever seen. He bore it with both hands, cutting across the field to the foot of the pyre in three long steps. Miriam clawed at the dirt, shrieking pleas and spitting curses, begging and weeping and swearing on what little she had left to swear on—her life, her blood, her good word—to whatever god could hear her.

Her vengeance makes sense this is horrific

But for all of her pleas and curses, the Prophet did not heed her. He lowered the branch to the pyre, and with a roar, the flames stormed through the kindling.

“Why? Why would you do this?” “Because they took him from me,” Miriam whispered, and at the sound of her voice the candlelight died, plunging the room into darkness. “Blood for blood.”

“How long has she been like this?” “Two days.” Immanuelle stared at her, stunned. “You let her labor for two days without calling for aid?” “Physicians in the Haven were by her side—” “You should have sent for me sooner,” said Martha, a harsh rebuke. “I know, but we were only acting on the Prophet’s orders,” said Esther, rushing to explain. “He asked if we might . . . withhold information about the circumstances of Leah’s condition for a little while longer.” At once, Immanuelle realized why. He was trying to keep the birth a secret. Let Leah labor silently, in the confines of the Haven, attended only by personal physicians of the Prophet who were sworn by holy oath—on penalty of purging—to serve him and keep his secrets. By withholding that information, he could expunge the details of the child’s illegitimacy and, more importantly, his sin. In a few months’ time, he would announce the child’s birth, and no one would question the circumstances surrounding its conception. All would be deemed right and well.

“Will it hurt her child?” Esther whispered, at which Leah loosed another long groan. Martha cast her a glance so sharp it could have withered an oak tree. Esther fell silent.

“We have to save her.” Esther cut around the bed to where Martha stood. “She’s the Prophet’s daughter.”

Hagar—the first wife of the last prophet—raised her voice above Leah’s cries. “Cut her.” There was utter silence. Even Leah’s screams were swallowed by it. A few of the brides clasped hands over their mouths. The youngest among them bolted to the door. Immanuelle heard her own voice rattle through the room. “What?” Hagar’s gaze shifted to Martha. “Cut her. Save the child. It’s the Father’s will.” “No,” said Immanuelle, shaking her head. “You can’t do that. She’ll die.”

“The child comes first. There is no other way.”

Immanuelle shifted her gaze back to the pyre. Through the bloody glow of the flames, she locked eyes with the Prophet. He stood among his apostles, watching his bride burn. His eyes, like Martha’s, were dead. Something settled deep within Immanuelle. It took her a moment to recognize the feeling. It wasn’t the flames of anger stoked, or the cold throes of grief. No, this was something grim and quiet . . . something sinister. Wrath. After all, it was he who put Leah on that pyre. If he hadn’t lusted for her when she was so young—just a girl doing her penance in the Haven—if he hadn’t allowed himself to cow to his own sick depravity, then she would have never fallen pregnant before her cutting. Nor would she have been forced to keep such a horrible secret. If the Prophet hadn’t been trying to cover for his own sin, they would have sought Martha’s aid far earlier, and if they had done that, 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. No. This was the great shame of Bethel: complacency and complicity that were responsible for the deaths of generations of girls. It was the sickness that placed the pride of men before the innocents they were sworn to protect. It was a structure that exploited the weakest among them for the benefit of those born to power. It made Immanuelle want to scream.

The truth struck her: Martha. She’d seen Immanuelle leave, and there was a Guard post in the Outskirts just ten minutes down the road by horseback. She must have gone to them, must have summoned the Prophet’s Guard to drag her back. Martha had betrayed her, and now that the Church knew what Immanuelle had done, the Guard would hunt her down to the ends of the earth to punish her for it. There would be no mercy.

“So they weren’t trying to bait me; they were trying to win my soul?” Vera nodded. “They want you, Immanuelle—your power, your potential. Lilith would like nothing more than for you to join her, as a sister and servant of the coven. And before the end comes, mark me, they will make you an offer. Invite you into their ranks.”

“What happens if I refuse their offer?” “Then you’ll share in Bethel’s demise.”

“When you carve the sigil, it will drag the power of the plagues back to its origin place: you. Once you’ve done that—if you’re even capable of surviving such a feat—the power of the plagues will be yours to wield as you wish.” Immanuelle paused to imagine it: the blight, the blood, and the darkness, and the slaughter to come, hers to wield as weapons. With it, she’d have the leverage she needed to bring the Church to heel, spare Ezra’s life, make the Prophet atone for his sins. She could reign over Bethel if she wanted to, and under her oversight there would be no pyres or purgings. No young girls lying like lambs on the altar for the cutting. No one made to suffer in the squalor of the Outskirts. With power like that, she could raze the Prophet’s Church to the very stones of its foundation. Build Bethel anew.

“Good people don’t bow their heads and bite their tongues while other good people suffer. Good people are not complicit.”

From the stench of sewage alone, she could tell the cells were crowded to capacity with all of the women and girls held in contrition under penalty of witchcraft. She’d heard the Prophet’s guards murmur about the night raids that had occurred while she was still in Ishmel. In hushed whispers, they spoke of little girls being ripped from the arms of their mothers, homes invaded, dozens of women arrested and marched to the Haven under cover of darkness. At long last, the Prophet’s wrath was made manifest.

Ezra—his false confession, his sacrifice, all that he’d said and done in order to protect her. It was a fool’s gesture; he must have known that. She had been doomed the instant she left the Moore house. But still, despite everything, he had tried to save her, lying under holy oath to do it, trading his inheritance, his freedom, his life, for hers. It was a grave sacrifice, and one she was grateful for. Her only hope was that, if a little luck was still on her side, she’d have the chance to tell him that before the end.

Rage boiled in the pit of Immanuelle’s stomach. She clenched her fists. He was all but forcing her to the altar in shackles. Either she married him, or she and Ezra burned on the pyre. There was no other alternative.

True evil didn’t lurk in the depths of the Darkwood. It was not in Lilith or her coven, or even in any of the curses they cast. 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. Lilith had known this, and Miriam had known it too. So they’d cast their curses and summoned the plagues. They’d tried to fix things, in their own twisted way, to put an end to all the evil that began with the Prophet and all the prophets who had reigned before him.

Rage washed through her. Outside, the wind roared through the blackness. “I’m not talking about mistakes. I’m talking about crimes. You bedded Leah long before her cutting, taking her virtue while she paid penance here, under what should have been your protection. You sent my father to the pyre out of jealousy and spite. You’ve jailed your own son on charges you know are false. And the dungeons beneath our feet are filled with innocent girls you torture for the crime of having witch marks on their census files. There is nothing you wouldn’t do, no one you wouldn’t hurt, to keep power in your hands.”

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. The Church, which not only excused and forgave the sins of its leaders but enabled them: with the Protocol and the market stocks, with muzzles and lashings and twisted Scriptures. It was the whole of them, the heart of Bethel itself, that made certain every woman who lived behind its gate had only two choices: resignation, or ruin.

“They’re going to burn my boy,” she said. “They’re going to send him to the pyre.” Immanuelle opened her mouth to respond, but Esther cut her short. “They’ve charged him with conspiring against the Church and holy treason.” “I’m so sorry,” Immanuelle whispered. “I don’t want your condolences,” she said, the timbre of her voice keen and high like a plucked harp string. “All I want is for you to know that if you let my boy die in the name of your sins, I’ll make sure you follow him.”

“It was either the Prophet or the pyre,” said Immanuelle, rushing to explain. “He said he’d spare your life if I married him, and I agreed to it—to buy you time, to save you.” “He lied,” said Ezra, in a tone so low, his words were barely audible. “That was the deal I made with him. He said if I pleaded guilty he would make sure you survived your sentencing, and he’d set you free.” He’d lied to them both, she realized. His deal had never been about sacrifice—hers or Ezra’s. The Prophet claimed he was carrying out the Father’s will, but it was power that drove him. The power to purge, to punish, to control. It was all he cared about.

“You’re a tyrant!” She trailed the Prophet so closely, she clipped his heels with her slippers. “You’re a liar! You’re a madman! You promised me he’d be safe.” She caught his sleeve and yanked it so hard she ripped the velvet. “You promised!” The Prophet turned on her then, drew back his hand, and slapped her. Immanuelle fell back, her head spinning, and crashed into a nearby bench. She heard Ezra cry her name again, his voice ringing in her ears.

“My word is the Scripture, and the Scripture demands blood atonement.”

Immanuelle realized then that the Prophet had never meant for his son to live. He would protect himself above anyone else,

even if it meant surrendering his son to the pyre’s flames and watching him burn. The Prophet turned to face his flock. “Sins must be atoned for by blood and burning. That is our oldest and most important law. Blood for blood. Ash to ash. That is what the Father demands, and that’s what we will give Him tonight.”

“You’re my wife before you are anything else.”

you have my seal. You took a vow, to me.”

A voice echoed through the dark, and to Immanuelle’s shock, Martha stepped forward, moving between tables to the front of the feast. “I’ll go in her stead. Spare her.”

The land-bound creatures followed the winged legion, rushing in through open doors and shattered windows. There were women helmed with the heads of hounds, spiders as large as lambs that scuttled beneath the pews. The legions of the dead—the blight-struck, the lost souls, the flame-mangled victims of purgings past—staggered down the aisles. Upon their arrival, the true bedlam began. Mothers fled with their children; men rushed the broken windows and doors only to be barred by the teeming horde that circled the walls and forced the flock back to their pews with bared fangs and hooked claws. Then the witches entered.

Then Lilith extended a hand. Immanuelle understood her meaning at once: Join us, or die with them.