"Then shall wicked men know that God is the Lord. They shall know how great that majesty is which they have despised, and how dreadful that threatened wrath is which they have so little regarded. Then shall come on wicked men that punishment which they deserve. God will exact of them the uttermost farthing." – Unknown
Songs:
The Village Score - 06 - I Cannot See His Color - James Newton Howard
Outlast 2 Soundtrack/Music - Heretics Investigate Theme
Resident Evil 7 Soundtrack - 10 Back For More
The word went 'round in Tastrim the following day that Mason had gone missing in the night. His mother, clad in black veils of morning, sat in the chapel like an angel of stone with trembling, clasped hands. His father remained shut in their home, all the curtains drawn. His children, he feared, were both already dead.
The skies were still dark, and no sunrise graced us. Every door in Tastrim had been hung with sage, and I had anointed every doorframe with oil the previous day. We needed the full moon to make our sacrifice beneath: its power would heighten our own, ensuring that Zibarath was returned to his rest. But waiting for the moon was where the real trouble lay. We had five days before us in which the Shrouded One would hunt. Witch Mother and I would do everything in our power until then to ensure the people were kept safe. Even so, the fact remained that the beast was more powerful than us, and far hungrier.
I prayed that Mason had reached safety, wherever he had chosen to go.
"Today, you will learn the Rites of Sacrifice."
Deep in the Pilgrim's Wood, there was a burrow beneath the massive roots of an ancient tree. No one knew with certainty how long it had been there, or for what original purpose it had been dug. Some suspected Danielle had instructed the Pilgrims to dig it, while others believe she had happened upon it. But it led deep into the earth, through a vast network of pathways in the dark. If one was not careful, it was all too easy to become lost within. Therefore, the folk of Tastrim were never told where this burrow lay. Instead the knowledge was passed down, Witch Mother to Witch Mother. Now, it was passed to me.
"The woods are no longer safe. Remember: we are not the most fearsome thing here."
The leaf-bare, snow-laden branches were dizzying and kaleidoscopic above our heads as we traveled through the wood, torches in hand. We wore white cloaks and hoods, so that when we were still, we were no different from the snow. No birds sang. There were no rabbits, no deer, not a single sign of life beneath those trees except us.
"Zibarath will be drawn to our presence. We must be swift, and careful. Within the burrow we are safe. But the woods are his domain."
Woven branches and brush were laid across the burrow's entry, so when the snows came one needed to only dig beneath and seize hold of the thick old rope, and heave back the barrier. Roots and webs dangled within, but I only needed to crouch a short distance as the burrow sloped sharply downward and then leveled, and I could stand upright. As we traveled further down, Witch Mother lit the ancient wax candles that were set in sconces along the walls. The wax had piled and dripped over the years as candles were continually burned down and replaced. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and mold. Small fungal clusters had burst through the walls, and roots hung overhead like hair, brushing against my face. It was nearly as cold as the snowy air above, and I was thankful for the warmth of my cloak.
The deeper we went, down ancient narrow stairways carved in the dirt and dark chambers nearly overgrown with roots, the more I began to feel that we were being watched. My hairs stood on end, and my lungs felt oppressed by the closeness of the earth. As we passed by a dark tangle of thick, serpentine roots, the light of my lantern fell upon something white, something that . . . moved.
It was a hand, that quickly jerked itself back beneath the roots and out of my sight. I said nothing, certain that I must have imagined it, and we pressed on. But in the light as Witch Mother lit the next candle, I saw a figure dash across the tunnel ahead.
"We are not alone Mother," I whispered urgently. She was wearier than ever today, I could see it. The cold and the long journey had exhausted her, and she was stooped heavily.
"Indeed we are not," she said, pressing on. "We are accompanied by the spirits of every sacrifice made here. Those offered to Zibarath will never truly find rest."
After that, I made it a point to ignore the footsteps that scurried behind us, and the dark figures that lurked ahead and vanished before our light struck them. I did not look at the pale faces that appeared out of the darkness in the corners of my vision, or the hands that reached out for me. They were only memories, only visions of the past.
We came at last to a tall, rounded chamber. Thick roots lined the walls like crooked pillars, and innumerable candles lined the walls. As Witch Mother and I lit them, the center of the room was revealed: a raised dais of stone, upon which was a thick stone table. Its surface was covered in stains in varying dark shades of brown and deep red. Its edges were carved with runes, and there were four manacles clamped upon it: two at the lower end, and two at the middle on either side. At the top was a peculiar round wire cage bolted to the stone, which could swing open and closed upon a hinge. Witch Mother ascended the dais, and set the Black Book upon it.
"Come Netalie," she said. "It is time."
With every step toward the dais, I was assaulted with visions of the past, my Sight nearly overwhelming me. The air reeked of blood, like the barn on slaughter day. Within two blinks of my eyes, figures would appear laid prone upon the table, and then vanish just as quickly. They were naked, struggling against their bounds, covered in rivulets of blood. The manacles bound their ankles and arms. The wire cage was clamped over their faces. They could barely struggle as death descended.
Witch Mother opened the book to a marked page. "In time," she said. "You will read this book in its entirety. You will memorize its every word, and you will read it again whenever the need for a sacrifice arises. Our founding Mother, Danielle, was a witch of incredible knowledge and power. There have been none like her since, and will be none like her again, for she carried the magic of the Old World in her."
The pages were covered in Danielle's elegant script on the left, and a detailed diagram of a human body on the right. The body was covered in runes and careful lines. Page by page, the Rites of Sacrifice were unveiled. Where to mark the body. Where to cut. Where to avoid, so that they would not bleed out too soon. The sacrifice needed to be awake. Aware. Prayers needed to be said and herbs burned and blood spilled.
By the time she was done and closed the book, my mind felt numb to suffering of this place. Drowned by the sheer force of fear and agony that filled it. I forced myself to imagine bringing Cassidy here. I forced myself to think of cutting into her flesh. I had to. I had no choice.
"One can never truly be prepared," Witch Mother said. "But I will be there with you, and the Book will guide us. Until then, study it every night. Practice in your dreams. When the time comes, your Sight will guide you."
Practice cutting into Cassidy. Practice taking her life. Practice the slices that would draw such screams from her . . .
"Does Cassidy Glandon deserve to die?" I said. Witch Mother did not answer me at once. She was putting the book back into her satchel. I insisted. "Did you see her initials in the bones?"
Witch Mother sighed. She turned to me, took my shoulders in her hands, and said, "I have committed three sacrifices in my time as Witch Mother. I have called three names. Every time I have cast the bones, without fail, it is my own initials that I see."
Cold bitter reality settled within my chest, like a weight I could not push off. I said softly, "Then you mean . . . there is no divine choice? Is it . . . chance?"
I could clearly see the pity in Witch Mother's eyes. "If it eases your heart," she said. "You may think that perhaps the Lord put the name in your mouth. But the bones . . . are merely bones. Filled with ancient memories and suffering, yes. But bones, nonetheless."
I pulled away from her, shaking my head. "There is no justice in this."
"The people will find justice in it," she said. "As you saw. They pounced upon Cassidy like wolves on a rabbit. They will find whatever sin they can, to justify what must be done. And make no mistake, Netalie. It indeed must be done."
"She doesn't deserve to die!" I cried. Again I saw her on the table. Suffering. Dying.
"Then who among the townsfolk does deserve it?" she said calmly. "Will you be judge and jury? Will you account for every sin? Will you then name who is, truly, most deserving? And do you think the people will accept that, a simple human choice deciding who will die?"
I was shaking my head. "They accepted this farce of Godly choice!"
"Ahhh, indeed they did. But you see: it was God's word they accepted. It is God they cannot question. You cannot say that God is wrong."
I wanted to run, to hide from her. I had never desired so badly to risk everything, and leave this valley. Even in the dead of winter with the pass full of snow, the thought filled my mind that I could run and never return. This was not the life I wanted, this was not a burden I had asked for. I fell to my knees. I felt sick, helpless. Cassidy would die even if I ran. I could do nothing –
Suddenly, Witch Mother was kneeling before me. She took hold of my face, her ancient hands softer than I had ever remembered. "There is no justice in death, Netalie," she said. "The justice is in the life that follows. Think of Tastrim, of the families, the children. Think of the little ones that are born every year. The weddings. The love and joy of the people. That will go on because of Cassidy's sacrifice. Without it, every single one of them will die. The demon will not be stopped."
I could feel my tears falling. I felt so weak. I felt as if I had failed. Failed her, failed Tastrim, failed God. "I cannot do this," I sobbed.
"Yes, you can," she said. "Netalie, you are strong. And your heart is filled with goodness: kindness, compassion, and hope. You care for these people, of that I have no doubt. They will see that. They will believe in you and look to you for assurance. They depend upon you for safety. And when you see that, when you realize their lives rest within your hands . . . you will understand why one sacrifice for the sake of the whole is justified."
I was trying to see, but all I could feel was sorrow. Witch Mother helped me to my feet as I wiped my tears. I did not understand at first, the peculiar look on her face.
"I believe in you, Netalie," she said. "I believe that you will lead these people, that you will guide them. I believe that Tastrim is safe in your hands. Even through all the pain it causes you, your love and care will ensure their safety." She clasped my hand, and squeezed it. "You will be an excellent Witch Mother."
Then I realized. She was looking upon me with pride.
Coming out of the burrow was like walking out of the gates of Purgatory. The air felt cold and crisp in my lungs, refreshing. But the oppressive weight upon me had not eased. My heart still ached, and it was a pain that I now believed would never truly go away. Was this the feeling that had etched deep lines into Witch Mother's face, afflicted her back with pain, made her stooped, and forced her voice to be sharp and harsh? As I watched her pull the woven branches back over the burrow, I had no doubt that I was looking upon a mirror of my future self. It filled me with fear, and yet. . .
Acceptance. What other choice was there save this quiet, calm acceptance that washed over me like a wave? For all the pain I felt, I could not choose the alternative: I could not allow Tastrim to die. My father. Mason. My childhood friends, infants, young fathers and mothers; so many people that would perish if I gave up.
No, there was no justice in sacrifice. There was only justice in the lives of those people.
Witch Mother and I lit our torches, the forest having grown darker even in the few minutes since we had left the burrow. Judging by the chill in the air and the steadily fading like, I guessed that sundown was swiftly approaching.
"We must be quick," Witch Mother said. "We have quite a walk ahead and we must at least reach the treeline before nightfall." She pulled up her hood, and muttered, "I lost track of the time."
We trudged through the snow, moving with as much swiftness as she could manage. Her walking stick stabbed ahead of her, urgency in her every step. A wind picked up through the trees, hitting my back and making me shiver. My torch flame twisted and danced, and I was reminded of the terror of being in the wood without a light. I was thankful to have my flint on me this time. I kept my Sight open, allowing myself to feel the myriad of energies within the forest: the warmth of the small creatures in their dens . . . the hunger of the fox . . . the nervous fluttering of the birds . . . the shocking, painful cold-
In a split-second, it felt as if my brain had been clenched in a vice's grip, squeezed and pricked with sharp claws, teeth descending – and then it was gone, and it was just Witch Mother and I in the forest. The energy of the little creatures was muffled. The birdsong was no more. Witch Mother had stopped walking.
I . . . I could hear something walking in the snow. I could hear the harsh barks of its breath. The darkness was pressing in, shadows burgeoning between every tree. Nothing but trees, trees, and more trees. An endless maze on every side, dizzying.
"Netalie," Witch Mother's voice was calm, firm. She held out her hand, and clutched within her fingers was the Black Book, extended to me. "I need you to run."
My heart slammed painfully in my chest as I took the Black Book, tucking it slowly – automatically - beneath my belt. It seemed as if every new sound came from a different direction, as if we were surrounded. To where then could I run?
To the village. I thought desperately. To the cabin. A witch is more powerful in her own home-
But Witch Mother would never keep up. She couldn't keep up.
Something was moving in the darkness. I could see a gleam of white. As a horrified gasp rushed into my lungs, so too did the stench: death and decay. The type of rot that lingered in your throat and tickled your stomach. I nearly gagged. I felt rooted in place.
Witch Mother dropped her walking staff and torch. The flame nearly guttered but its fuel kept it blazing. She threw back her cloak, and stretched out her arms. This ancient, tired woman seemed to grow three feet in height. Her hair whipped in a wind that came from everywhere and nowhere.
"Netalie!" she cried. "Run girl! Do not look back! Tastrim falls to you! Reach the treeline, Netalie! Reach the moonlight!"
There, just beyond the torches light, Zibarath came into full and terrible view.
I could not guess his height. He loomed above us, and the trees themselves seemed to part their branches for him. His head was the rotting skull of a buck, its antlers raw and bloody. He was shrouded in a dark cloak, but now that he was so close, I could not be sure if the cloak was cloth or ragged rotting skin. Within the eye sockets of the skull, two milky white orbs stared at us. I could hear the gnashing of his teeth.
I felt small. Weak. I was the rabbit, crouched in the snow. He was the wolf, baring down.
Witch Mother let out a terrible cry, unlike anything I had ever heard her utter. Her voice swelled, so that it filled the forest, and seemed to rumble the earth itself. "Et Daemonium ab inferno abierunt! Revertere ad infernum! Revertere ad infernum!"
Magic of the Old World, I thought. In sheer terror, and instinct, I began to back away. My mind was screaming at me, Run, Netalie! Run you fool! Yet I could not look away as Zibarath chattered his jaws and – just like in my nightmares – his cloak-skin peeled back, revealing a massive jaw and a vortex-like mouth, lined with jagged teeth and quivering pustules. I could not look away as Witch Mother's voice was silenced, crushed like a fly, and her body seized up. She rose out of the snow, above my own head, her spine bent backwards at an unnatural angle. Her head hung back, her mouth agape in pain, and her wide eyes met mine.
"M-must . . . reach . . . the tree . . . treeline . . ." Her voice was hoarse with agony. "G-go Netalie . . .go-"
Zibarath consumed her. Bones crunched and flesh tore. My world was reduced to blood and sinew and offal. I felt its warmth on my face, as the demon destroyed the most powerful thing I knew. I stood no chance. None of us stood a chance.
I had not known my legs could carry me at such speed. Surely I was guided only by my Sight as I ran, for my eyes were blinded by horror and disbelief. I could not comprehend what I had seen, not truly. I could not acknowledge this new reality. It was not real. It could not be.
Witch Mother was dead.
Zibarath was hunting me.
Witch Mother was dead.
I could hear his hooves kicking in the snow. I could hear the grunts of his breath close behind.
Witch Mother was dead.
I could see the treeline. I could see the silver moonlight shining upon the snow of the fields. I could see the warm glow of the town.
Witch Mother was dead.
I burst beyond the trees, falling face-first into the snow and scrambling, screams tearing from my chest like a rabbit in an owl's clutches. I felt him bear down on me, I felt the weight and the cold of his form, the way his claws raked across my back and sent burning pain deep, deep into my bones. Words of power and protection fluttered around my head like frantic birds in a hunter's net, unseizable. I struggled onto my back and there he was, standing over me, so close I could see every moldering piece of rot on his body, I could feel his breath, I could see the way those white orbs rolled and glinted beneath the moonlight.
I could manage no words, only cries of fury; cries that surely woke every soul in the town and set the children shivering in their beds. All my rage, my terror, my sorrow, wound itself like a taut spring within my chest. My hands were up and my screams were roars of defiance. Go back from me! Go back from me! Go back from me! My chest ached and my throat was raw. Still I screamed. I watched as Zibarath threw back his head like a spooked animal, stepped back two paces, and then . . .
He spoke.
"Why do you defy me, little witch?"
His voice was oil and ice. It was the rich sap that spilled from chopped trees. It filled my head and squeezed my own thoughts tightly against the dome of my skull. It caressed fingers around my neck and threatened to suck the breath out of me. It was the very voice of Hell.
"Your struggles are futile. You are weak, just like your Mother."
Darkness seemed to close around me as if he could drown out the moonlight itself. Oh how I needed its light! My eyes strained for it like a drowning girl clawing for air. I am not weak. I am not weak! He had backed away, and he would back away again-
But my strength was faltering. Exhaustion was winding itself around my limbs and pressing upon my chest. Everything ached. I could hear shouts from the village, cries of alarm. Zibarath heard it too, and turned his hideous face toward it.
"Oh, how the people scramble like little mice in a barrel. Frightened and helpless." His words were slow, drawing across my skin like delicate scratches. He was savoring this. "I am hungry, little witch. Where is my sacrifice?"
"She is coming," I sobbed. "The full moon . . . I must wait . . ."
"Mmm. But I do not like to wait. What punishment should I exact for this trespass?" He filled my entire vision with his form, his eyes holding me. Suddenly my body filled with the most excruciating pain, as if fire had lit within my veins and scourged through me. Again I screamed, thrashing in the snow, babbling helpless pleas. It seemed it was an eternity before it ceased.
"I do not like to wait, little witch. I will continue to feed. Every day, I will pluck another mouse from the barrel. Every day, I will ensure you know their suffering. A witch's training is not complete until she has realized who she serves."
The fire overtook me. Burning through my flesh and bone, it consumed me. I was lost in a haze of pain, and even the darkness – when it shrouded me – could not ease that suffering.
A/N: Is this really the sixth chapter already? Whaaaat? I have been absolutely immersed in this story the past few weeks and have been having so much fun writing it, even though work has been getting in the way and forced me to push back my updates from two chapters a week to just one.
Anyway! I want to thank YOU - yes, YOU! Hiya, hello there, hi! - for reading this far! You are 6 chapters deep in a story that is honestly my baby and I love it and I love you for being here and giving your time to this. It really, honestly, means a lot to me.
If you've enjoyed this story so far, please don't hesitate to give me feedback or leave a vote. I notice each and every one and as a relatively new author on here, it helps me and makes me super happy <3 Thank you again everyone!