Maleficium

The chiming of bells came but a moment before the roar of the roiled up, infuriated crowd, causing Jane's knees to tremble under her weight.

"It's time," the town blacksmith spat in her face and grabbed her by the arm, pushing her so hard she nearly tripped. "Go on, witch. Walk!"

Jane swallowed a whimper, fearing it would only make the violence worse. She pressed a palm to her lips and clamped down on her tongue to stop the tears from falling, tasting blood as she stepped into the biting cold of late February. The crowd became restless with every contact of her bare feet to snow. She hugged her frail frame and lowered her head, wishing she could sew a coat of her own hair to bury herself inside.

"Blowse! Wench!"

A rotting fruit was thrown at her head. She winced, and the blacksmith shoved her forward.

"Damned you be, servant of the Devil!"

As much as Jane tried to mute the insults thrown her way, they rose in the air and burned their way inside her mind. As much as she wished she could shield herself from their hatred, and as much as she prayed to find the strength to fight back, she knew any words she had to offer were futile. They would merely fly out of her mouth and turn volatile, drifting far away into the mountains before anyone could listen to them.

The crowd parted when Jane arrived before Reverend Burnard. She dared not look up to meet his pair of scornful eyes—it was wrong of her to feel shame, but she did.

"Jane Venning, you stand before the witnesses of God, our lord and savior, for your trial, having been accused of devilry and witchcraft within the walls of our pious village. Simple women do not dance in the woods," he condemned, the wrinkles on his face meeting in a disapproving scowl. "But those who let the Devil whisper in their ear do."

Jane kept her eyes on the worn rim of the Reverend's robes, but the bible in his hand and wooden cross he held in the other could not be ignored. "Let us allow God's judgement to pass, and see the truth for ourselves."

Terror climbed up Jane's throat, restricting her air flow and driving her mad with nausea. The blacksmith, towering behind her, tore through the thin linens of her clothing and ripped it all off, leaving her in nothing but modest undergarments. She clutched herself, flinching. Goosebumps ran across her bare skin, aching as the townspeople laughed and sneered at the sight of her vulnerability. They reminded her of beasts, as ridiculous a thought as it was.

For beasts didn't know of such malice.

"Bind her."

Complying without needing to be told twice, the blacksmith took hold of her wrists, tightly tying them together with coarse, heavy rope before doing the same to her feet. Jane, unable to hold in her fright any longer, broke down into tears.

"Please, Reverend, I'm begging you! I know nothing of—"

"Silence!" Burnard screamed. "I will not allow you to even utter his name."

Jane sobbed as she was edged forward. Any trace of hope she might've latched onto vanished when she laid eyes on the object of her trial: the frozen pond.

"The ice this time a year is thin and will unquestionably give in," the Reverend spoke loudly, addressing the all-too-eager crowd. "If Jane sinks, we will know of her innocence, but if she floats, we will have no other choice than to accept the evidence provided to us—of which she has spurned the sacrament of baptism, and offered her body to the Devil himself."

The furious howling of the people haunted her nearly as much as the pond did, and Jane craned her neck to watch them one last time—the town baker, who used to slip extra loaves of bread in her basket and throw winks her way; Mrs. Irwin, who had taken care of her when she'd fallen ill as a girl; Josephine and her husband, two individually respectful individuals she had grown very fond of in the recent years.

All regarded her with unfathomable animosity. It was as though the outcome of the trial didn't matter, for they already saw her spoiled, diseased, possessed.

Jane turned back to the pond, her ears ringing as she thought that maybe, just maybe, death would prove to be liberating after all.

Nothing could be worse than this.

In the seconds that followed, she was tossed onto bladed ice. Her feet stung, clinging to the frost hard enough to make her heels bleed. She stumbled, coming close to slipping at least a handful of times before she finally crumbled to her knees.

The cracking of ice split the winter air in half.

She fell in, feeling her lungs collapse just as a thousand needles pierced her skin.

It hurt.

And as Jane sank, with no hope of even making her way back up, she welcomed the sweet release of death. For through it all, she had, at least, stayed true to her own innocence.

⛧

When the last few bubbles reached the surface of the water, everyone held their breath, waiting to see if the fruit of their torment would make an unnatural return. Men hid their fear behind thick mustaches, while women rose to the tip of their toes, clinging to handkerchiefs.

"Dear townspeople," the Reverend spoke up, dishonest sorrow pulling at his eyes. "it looks like Jane Venning... has sunk."

Reactions broke loose—veiled relief from men, tears of insincerity from women. Jane's atrocious fate had caused a shift in emotions, turning all uglier than Hell itself. The Reverend began his frivolous speech, preaching the tragedy of death, and the beauty of reaching heaven with your soul unscathed.

"Hypocrites," Penelope hissed under her breath. She watched them—all of them—as they wept, engraving their names and faces into her mind.

Penelope spun on her heels and began to walk away from the group of fools, her eyes turning a deep shade of red. She slid a hand beneath her robes and grasped the upside down cross she wore as a necklace, sending one last thought to poor, sinless Jane.

"Fear not, sister, for retribution is coming."