The Year of the Witching

by Alexis Henderson

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 such.

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. Ezra obviously fell into the former category, and she the latter.

“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?”

“The Father’s mercy is one matter,” he said as he tried to recover his composure. “But mine is another. You’d do well to remember that.”

“People do foolish, reckless things when they’re desperate to find ways to escape themselves.” He sighed and hung his head. “As ugly as it is, sometimes the truth is nothing more than that.”

thought you were afraid of the woods.” “I am. Anyone with the good sense they were born with would be,” said Immanuelle. And while this was true, she’d come to realize that fear wasn’t a reasonable excuse not to do what needed to be done.

“Some things have to be done whether they scare me or not.”

“Well, it’s certainly not a blessing,” said Ezra. “What else could you call it?”

Immanuelle answered Ezra’s question in a hoarse whisper: “A punishment.”

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.

The forest is sentient in a way man is not. She sees with a thousand eyes and forgets nothing.

“Once a sigil is made and a curse is cast, it’s done,” said Adrine, clearly exasperated with her. “It doesn’t matter if a person leaves or dies or forgets; the power that mark was made to represent lives on.”

The maiden will bear a daughter, they will call her Immanuelle, and she will redeem the flock with wrath and plague.

We will soon have to choose between who we wish to be and who we must be to carry on. One way or another, there will be a cost. —FROM THE LAST LETTERS OF DANIEL WARD

“In life, most of us have the luxury of nuance. We may be angry, but we balance that anger with mercy. We may be filled with joy, but that doesn’t prohibit us from empathizing with those who aren’t. But after we die, that changes and we’re distilled down to our most rudimentary compulsions. A single desire so powerful it trumps all others.”

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

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.

but all she thought to do was conjure a curse:

Let those who have raised a hand to me reap the harm they sow. Let the shadows snuff their light. Let their sins defy them.