The Daughters of Warring: Part 9

The Reverend Joseph Warring did not consider himself a hard man. He’d grown up with a strict set of principles, which he lived his life by. He taught those same beliefs every Sunday. The scriptures told him all that anyone could need to know in life– that was what he believed.

There was no room for question. Life was one thing, or another, not something in between.

It was because of his staunch beliefs that he could not understand what was happening to his daughter, Isabel. Had he not taught her the right things? She grew up in the church. How could she have committed murder?

When he was first told of the charges, he assured everyone that the truth would out, that his daughter would be proven innocent under the laws of God and man. He believed that, with all his soul.

When she was convicted, he began to look at Isabel differently. Was this the daughter that he knew, that he raised? Could she have gotten so far away from what she was taught that she would participate in acts that were unclean? Abominations? Was there some truth that Isabel chose to hide from her family, a connection to Eileen and her wickedness? Why did she grieve so for her friend?

Warring went to his church to pray after dinner at night, sometimes staying until the early morning. He hated being at home. The situation with Isabel weighed so heavy upon his wife that she seemed a shadow of herself. She clung to the edges of rooms, rarely speaking. Her hands trembled. She took on the look of a much older woman, a feeble one at that. Margaret rarely met his gaze, but when she did, the outright anger he saw on her face disturbed him. Suzette was quiet, picking up on the household chores that her Mother had begun to neglect.

No one spoke of Isabel.

Warring sought comfort in his faith. For the first time in his life, he did not find it. Words of scripture calmed him for a time, a salve over the wound of losing his child. The pain never went away. Sometimes it rose up in his throat, threatening to make him physically ill.

On this particular evening, only four nights before Christmas, the Reverend decided that he would go home. It was not long after midnight. He could be fairly sure that both his wife and his girls were sleeping. He could slip upstairs to his bed without having to speak.

He turned, and almost jumped.

A dark form stood , leaning against the door of the sanctuary.

She wore a bonnet. Her dress was plain, though well made. It looked like that of a gentlewoman. What kind of woman would be out in the depth of night?

“May I help you, Miss?” The Reverend called out.

As she stepped forward, candlelight illumined her face.

“I do hope that you can. Would you hear my confession?”

When he heard that clear, sweet toned voice, he knew. It had been a while since he had seen her- she looked more sophisticated, older than he remembered. This was Katherine, his daughter’s friend. She was also the friend of Eileen.<

“It’s an exceedingly late hour. It was my understanding that you left town. Why are you here?”

“There is a right to travel, is there not?” she asked.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, young lady.”

“If you would be so kind as to hear my confession, all that might become clear.”

Warring sat down in a pew. The girl walked past him, and sat in the seat directly in front of him. She did not turn. As she spoke, he could only see her face in profile, cast in shadow by faint candlelight.

“It’s been quite some time since I have had confession,” she said.

“That doesn’t matter,” Warring replied. “Say what you must.”

She took a breath, and paused. “I have betrayed a friend . I have sinned, by a lie of omission.”

“How is that so, child?”

“My friend and I grew up together. I knew her well. Knew her family, and all the girls in it.”

The Reverend’s chest tightened. “Go… go on.”

“This friend of mine…she was a very sad girl, once you really knew her. She was anxious and chatty, but always, there was a sort of tension beneath the surface. You could feel it. She was eager to please. She liked to be the center of any space that she inhabited.”

“Such is the way of girls. I don’t understand.”

“Patience, Reverend Warring,” she said softly. It was a moment before she continued.

“I was aware that my friend harbored certain jealousies toward another girl. I did not believe that she would act upon it. When I realized that she had, I held my tongue. I did not want to be insinuated in the mess that she had gotten herself into. I didn’t feel that anyone would believe me if I told the truth. That’s where the sin lies. I refused to speak, and because of it, someone has died. And without intervention, another soon will.”

“Does this have to do with Eileen? Or with Isabel?”

“Both,” Katherine replied. “But not in the way that you imagine.”

“Tell me how.”

“Eileen was an innocent. Her mother was training her to be a midwife . She took interest in making ointments and medicines from herbs. Eileen was never a part of our coven, never practiced the craft. She was just a sweet girl who liked to help anyone she could. ”

“Did you say the word coven?”

She smiled. He could see the movement of her cheekbone. “If I am to continue Reverend, you’ll hear more shocking news than that.”

“Go on,” he muttered.

“My friend found out that this girl, whom she was jealous of, went to see Eileen. She decided then that she would go to the authorities, and accuse Eileen of being a witch.”

“Why?”

“Because it would divert attention away from us. From the coven. At least, that’s what she told the rest of us.”

“You mean Suzette? Suzette did this to Eileen, and then to Isabel?”

“Her scheme didn’t work out exactly as she planned,” Katherine said. “She was the one who sought out the magistrate. Suzette told them that Eileen practiced magic, and that Isabel had taken part. No one wanted to believe that one of your daughters would be associated with such things. There was no proof. When Stephen died, it didn’t take much urging for them to cast blame upon Isabel.”

He got to his feet then, holding on to the pew. “This…I can’t believe, one child of mine would condemn the other…” his voice echoed through the church. He stared down at his hands. Waves of shame and anger sent tremors through his flesh.

“There is almost nothing some women wouldn’t do,” Katherine replied coolly, “when a man is the reward.”

When he looked up, the spot where Katherine sat only a moment before was empty.

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©2010 Lori Titus

Lori is anxiously awaiting the release of her latest novella, Hailey’s Shadow, due for release soon!

I walked around the corner and into an isolated alley in time to see an old homeless man we call The Prophet stumble and fall, hitting his head on an unforgiving brick wall before lying still. Blood trickled from an open wound on his forehead to form a slowly expanding puddle under his unshaven face. Frightened rats scurried down the dark alley, running away from the predator hunting the wounded man. One large rat stayed behind, smiling. He was a big young man dressed in black jeans and ragged black shirt with a Grim Reaper on the front.
 
The large punk massaged his sore knuckles and glared over his shoulder at two teenage boys standing behind him. “Marco, Benny, go see if he’s dead.”
 
Benny walked over and knelt by their victim. He looked at Marco in fright. “He’s barely breathing man! What should we do?”
 
Marco shook his head glancing at the white sign board the old man had been carrying on the street corner, whispering the words aloud, “Jesus Saves.”
 
They didn’t see me approaching from the shadows until I was on top of them. “Yes He does.” I drew my gun.
 
The three boys stiffened in surprise and turned in unison to stare at me. I focused my weapon on the heavily built punk who had been beating up the homeless guy with one hand. My other hand held a fresh cup of coffee. “I’m Detective Sims. I know Marco and Benny, but you don’t look familiar. What’s your name kid?”
 
“Screw you!” He flipped me off.
 
I smiled. “Okay Screw You… get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.” He didn’t move. I had seen this jerk dragging The Prophet into this alley as I exited a coffee shop up the street and followed after them. My walkie-talkie was still in the car, leaving me to handle this without being able to call for backup. I paused, sipping my coffee, thinking. “Marco, you and Benny back up against the wall. Keep your hands where I can see them!”
 
They hurried to comply. Benny spoke up. “We met this guy at the church soup kitchen on 4th street. He told us to call him Reaper, but I don’t know what his real name is.”
 
Marco added. “Yeah Detective Sims, he never told us what he was going to do or anything. He just said follow me if you want to have some fun. We were walking down the street when Reaper grabbed this guy and started beating the living daylights out of him before we knew what was happening.” He hung his head in remorse. “That old man never hurt anyone. He would just stand at the corner every morning, bumming money and talking about the end being near.”
 
Reaper laughed. An evil smile spread across his face. “The end was near… for him. His smile turned forbidding. “You can’t take us all on at the same time pig.”
 
He was right, but I had a way of handling this that might work. “I don’t need too. Benny, you and Marco have been clean for as long as I’ve known you. Hit the road and stay that way.”
 
They ran away leaving me alone with the king of rats. After they disappeared around the corner I gave Reaper my full attention. “Now, get on your knees.”
 
He growled, “Why don’t you put that gun up and make me.”
 
“You will either get on your knees, or I’ll shoot your knee out. It’s up to you.” I’m five foot eight inches tall. Reaper was over six feet tall and heavier than me.
 
He stayed upright until I aimed at his leg and cocked the hammer on my 38 special. “Alright, alright but you don’t have cuffs on me yet.” He got on his knees and held his wrists out to me smiling grimly. “Come on Sims, cuff me.”
 
Lord, isn’t there an easy way to do this?
 
A flash of white made me jump in surprise. The Prophet’s wooden signboard sailed through the air to come down with a crash on Reaper’s head, knocking him out cold. He crumpled to the ground in a heap. The Prophet stood a few feet away talking to angels only he can hear. His head wound had stopped bleeding. He looked to be steady on his feet as he picked up the battered sign and then slipped it back over his head to its rightful place on his chest.
 
I holstered my weapon and tossed my half-empty cup of coffee into a nearby pile of trash before hurrying over to pull Reaper’s hands behind his back before he could recover. A patrol car pulled into the alley with Marco and Benny leading the way. The punk moaned after his handcuffs were secure. I climbed to my feet and looked over at his intended victim.
           
The old fella looked at me with a light in his eyes, smiling. “Jesus saves.”
 
“Yes He does.”  I smiled back.

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©2011 Grady Yandell
 
Grady Yandell is a writer/editor for Abandoned Towers Magazine. An anthology of short stories co written with his wife and daughter entitled “Dream Weavers” is available on Amazon. His first full length novel “With Guns Blazing” has been accepted by Cyberwizard Productions and is due out later this year. http://abandonedtowers.com/blog/