BEDRIDDEN

Agony shreds through me. The mere act of breathing is onerous, as though my soul is ripping from the inside. The ring on my finger heats, burning and strange. I am coming apart. My spirit stretched thin. Heaviness surrounds me, pulling, confining, an impenetrable wall of black. Complete utter darkness, so thick it chokes. I breathe in the promise of nothingness, but it denies me. Something pulls me back. Someone.

"Hwā mē cīgeð?" the warped voice asks in Old English, but I am too tired to try to comprehend it.

Abrupt and decisive, I am whisked away from the suffocating darkness along an unseen current. A migration seemingly unmarked by space and time. Then, with a jolt that reverberates through my very being, the darkness parts like a heavy curtain drawn aside, dropping me down into a moonlit chamber. I feel contented there, the pain in my chest gone, the ring on my finger now aglow—crimson, and at odds with the silver lustre of moonlight.

"Ālǣt mec," the voice urges, floating, its true form a mystery. I lay in the darkness, considering the strange presence—what the practical difference is between hearing something and thinking you have heard something truly. I have taught myself to watch and listen. I have seen enough suffering to know that the diseased mind is prone to invent all manner of phantoms. Better to blame the children of the Deofol—a scucca or a puck—for the souring of milk than one's sanity. Than one's own mind. There is no coming back from that.

"Ānfeald dēaþ mæg þis gefyllan," the voice sounds far away. "Eart þū gearu tō gemētan þīnne?"

Maybe I am already damned, I think, unable to speak. Maybe I am dead.

The warm numbness slowly fades, content bleeding into discontent as the darkness returns, along with concentrated agony.

~ ¤ ~

"And never before has she had such convulsions?" the doctor inquires.

Widow Whitmaw shakes her head. "No, never before."

Doctor Cobb makes a low, thoughtful noise before renewing his examination. He begins by tugging at the veiny flesh beneath Maeve's eyes, then moves to the mouth, the jaw, the neck, the heart, the arms, the hands. "What is this?" he inquires, eyeing the glowing ruby center of her ring, finding it to be odd and otherworldly.

"I cannot tell you, but it cannot be removed. I tried," Joan adds. "Neither is she betrothed." Her lips pinch, her expression dead-eyed and grim. She stands like a child at the foot of the bed, face-to-face with a nightmare.

"Sin, hot and foul. The Deofol has marked her here. Along the neck." He clears his throat, parting his lips decisively, eyeing the welt. Two small, interlocked circles mark the slope between her neck and shoulder, red and inflamed, like a fresh bite. "She may yet be saved."

Joan Whitmaw remains silent, a squeeze in her chest, supposing her daughter must have sinned.

"Fetch me some holy water from the gold receptacle in my bag. Yes, quickly now," the doctor injects from the bed, sending for a wide dish and a wet cloth.

By the time Joan returns, Maeve's affliction has modified once more. Doctor Cobb watches with muted concern as a deep masculine voice that is not her own reverberates from her person. "Ālǣt mec!" Maeve repeats over and over, the voice with each repetition becoming more like her own.

By midnight, it is concluded that Maeve's affliction is most likely incurable, and by every rational mind, unearthly, leading to the only conceivable explanation: daemoniacal possession. By mid-morning, half of Pilvere had heard the same.

~ ¤ ~

"... need to rest, Joan."

"I will rest when I'm dead."

"Prayer will do nought if you are bone-weary."

"Leave me."

"Perhaps, something to keep the cold off? A little cupful of something—"

"—Leave me."

~ ¤ ~

"...she does as she's bidden. She's a pious girl. Is this truly his will?" Morris says, which elicits a murmur of communal displeasure. Glances are exchanged. Joan Whitmaw and Matron Briga take assemblage of the silence before the tension is punctured.

"I remind you, ill behooves us all. We are but humble servants of Amel," the Matron says with an edge of finality. "There is reason within every test of faith."

Delmeza Morris makes no reply.

~ ¤ ~

When I open my eyes, there is a hollow feeling in my chest. I am unaware of how much time has passed, but I am unnerved by my weak trembling limbs, nonetheless.

My mother slumbers to my left. She looks innocent, alone, at the edge of the bed, so banal, so inoffensive. I can feel the heat of the furs, bemingled emanations of warmth against my cold. The room is warm, fire kindling, but I shiver. I hope this is one of those odd, detached moments when you realise everything is a bad dream.

Has Amel forsaken me?

Settling my hand on my mother, she stirs out of slumber. "Maeve?" she mutters, sleep-ridden, the hollows of her cheeks stretching. The edges of her lips are raw and dehydrated, and around her mouth, cracked and uneven. "Bless'ed day, you're awake?" she asks as though she can't quite believe it. How long was I unconscious?

"Hm," I groan, my throat sounding raspy. "It appears so." Mother mutters something I do not hear as she presses her hand to my temple.

"Never do that again," she exclaims, nonsensical, rising from the bed and groping for a pitcher of water. She draws some for me. "Drink."

I do just that. I drink, long and deep, my swallow ceding to silence.

"I don't want to die, Mother," I whimper, then laugh a little, despite myself, delirious, as I realise it is the truth. Then we embrace hesitantly for a short moment there at the bedside, listening to the shuddering of the fire.

"Well, tough, it will happen one day. Your time will come, yet many years hence. Believe me, I've a cunning eye." She tutts, her chin pressed to the crown of my head, caressing my dampened mop of hair. I think her wrong but keep quiet. "Be at peace."

Even now, I can recount the darkened presence of a dreamlike voice. I imagine it, corrupted, beset by fiends. Hands that reach out through the black. I ponder the thought: how can I discern whether they offer genuine guidance or aim to steer me away from the path of redemption and into the clutches of the Deofol?

It isn't until the next day that I am told I was unconscious for nearly four days. My mother never left my bedside, devoting every moment to prayer.

~ ¤ ~

It is past noontime when Doctor Cobb makes another visit, not long after hearing the news of my rousing. He appears stately in his overcoat, with a little bag of pincers and pokers, fleams, a lancet, and a glut of medical cloths. My mother forgoes dressing into a fresh gown or combing her hair, consumed by shame at even the notion of momentarily abandoning me—this, of course, she regrets immediately, as the doctor arrives in the company of the Heofonweard himself.

"Oh my," she gasps frantically, pushing her hair down. "Sire, how good of you to come!" A shrill noise follows as she dashes around the room, tripping on her skirts. Respectably, my mother dips, disguising her misstep. "Forgive me for the state of things. This is a difficult time."

I lay there, finding the whole procedure comical—but stifle any smile. In my present condition, I am wholly unable to recite Cyrican scripture without feeling lightheaded, yet the Heofonweard is here, which must be significant somehow.

"Understandable, by all accounts," the doctor smiles. "A miracle." The Heofonweard nods, exchanging a short greeting with my mother, complimenting her consistent faith, reassuring Amel's protection with compelling details of celestial spirits and quiet affirmations. I can hear my mother weep in relief.

Do not withhold discipline from youth, strike with the bravery of Solas. Death will not ensue. If you strike with the bravery of Solas, you expunge the Deofol's imbrue.

For all the Heofonweard's grandeur, there is a presence, a mottled quality, and wrath, behind his tarnished eyes. I look away, doubt bucking and reeling through my mind. Amel demands loyalty, Amel demands loyalty, Amel demands loyalty. I tell the voice to cease at once.

Embarrassed by the sentiment, the doctor inquires, "Have you been applying the salve, as instructed?"

Foul and bedridden, the Heofonweard considers me in my entirety, with a thorough, perplexed, non-believing eye like all this time he thought me a mouse but now, rather, a cat. This makes the skin prickle at the back of my neck, near my newly minted Deofol-mark. Musing, I envision his judgment; at root, it just doesn't seem churchly that a girl so sinful and poor should persist in living.

"Yes, twice daily," my mother nods. She looks happy now, like the Heofonweard has opened his mouth for her and carefully crooned celestial gold from his tongue. The assurances that my mother has done well, passed Amel's test, have her glowing—because anything is better than being overlooked, even by the Deofol. Maybe I'm the exception.

The doctor delves into a discussion about my symptoms and potential remedies. Amidst their discourse, I turn, considering how tenderly my mother and those around her care for me. Now, Deofol-marked.

"I hope you have remembered the bottoms of the feet. Good footing is integral, even spiritual bodies." The doctor pushes open his bag, reaching in for a fresh jar of salve. "Some additional provisions. We will see this through, salvation willing."

There is no subtlety, speaking as though I am not present. I try to untangle my mind, who said or did what to whom. I know I suffer, and suffering is attributed to sin, so I suppose I must have, despite being expunged. But a daemonical possession due to a morsel of bread is absurd, and the thought stirs a universal want. A want to be heard, to be understood.

"Sire," nausea rolls through me as I address the Heofonweard rather audaciously, holding back tears. "If I have sinned, I have done so unwittingly. Please uphold me. Shrive me, ease this uncertainty."

"You are marked, Miss Whitmaw, by the Deofol himself. I am told you bear his ring." He gives me a shrewd look. "As sick as soot, defiled hideously."

I can feel the tears escaping now. The Heofonweard says my name, bidding me to look at him. "You may yet stand among the righteous, Miss Whitmaw, but it is beyond my domain. Only the Cyrican courts can decide your fate." He speaks with a solicitous urgency, damning me, nonetheless.

I am doomed.

Feeling faint, I want to inquire about celestial ministrations, specific herbs, and tonics to cleanse, soul-healing virtues and teachings—instead, I find the entryway vacant.

The Heofonweard had already departed.

~ ¤ ~

My mother takes a seat at the table, her hands cupping her nettle tea before lifting her heavy gaze to me. She knows I am unsettled but doesn't press me. "I'd much prefer some grog," she sighs, taking a long drag of her tea. "Something to keep the cold at bay."

A week has gone by since my affliction, and I have all but recovered physically. Mentally, an air of repulsion clings. An uncertainty and stain of what monstrous consequences come from little things. I am tempted to think there are no little things, but there is a growing sense that appearances must, now more than ever, be kept up.

Small talk is made over the whole ordeal: She's administered urchin pins twice daily, says Mrs. Bibs. She vomits up blackened blood, claims Phillipa Bronwyn. Doctor Cobb arrives periodically to slather her in salve. Then the rumours begin, scathing and relentless: I hear she has horns, shaves them nightly to hide them underneath her hair, claims Jule Morris. Nanna says she makes terrible scritches and strange neesings like a pig woman, and Nan knows a lot, whispers Rinna Bainsbridge. She's a slattern, a wanton peg, says Isaack Dawes. She'll enslave the married and unmarried alike. Just you wait. It does little to aid my reputation; in fact, no good seems to come of it. All I can do is hide away. No doubt, my mother is already whispering alternatives. Dossa Mythine, another occult ambulation, seems to draw her mark. What will she do next?

"Are they to expect you tonight then?" I pose.

My mother gives me a look, and I feel relieved to linger on lighter topics. "Noon past, I'd gone. I couldn't again, not in his chill," she says, squaring me a firm look, before her eyes light up, seemingly caught in the grapevine. "The Danbys from Sunhelm showed their faces today. A gentleman and his daughter, akin to your age."

"I've seen the daughter in passing," I reply. Joan Whitmaw, the seasoned critic of Pilvere, requires an audience. I sit back, ready to play my part. I needn't do much, maybe shake my head, frown, or gasp. Any reaction seems sufficient, so long as I am listening.

"Engelise, I believe her name is," my mother laughs breathily, incredulously. "Ironic, by engels' glory. The girl, darling is the face of that one, but the venom she spits. It's positively hellish," she declares, branding Engelise an ungrateful sap. "Hateful talking's and words of running away. The daft girl has only just arrived."

My ears perk up; my response forgotten. I can't help but recall Engelise's sunken face and empty eyes at church. "Running away?" I breathe.

"Hm. Her father has the right mind to snatch her up, stirring up such a place. She need only pray," my mother spits back before diving into another piece of gossip. "Why, three eves prior, Morris told me her trollop of a daughter Jule had refused to pluck the dinner preparations. Plainly said, 'I will not,' whilst warming her cockles by the fire." Her eyebrows raise, prattling on. "I said, a girl of that rearing, it isn't right. She needs only listen."

"She's with child!" I chide, finding her ridiculous; finding fault in nought.

"Hm, perhaps, but she is not yet encumbered. Having all the posture of a wet toe-rag belittles oneself. There is talk of her daughter leaving; her mother doesn't believe the chitchat, hearsay, and lies, she says."

"She says," I repeat.

We exchange a look, and mother gives a scandalous smile.

"Bunkum! Hearsay and tittle-tattle, come off it." I can tell the joy my mother feels in all this, posing a question with a suggestive smile. They say motherhood is the ultimate act of unselfishness—that you cease to be the centre of your own universe, ceding that place to your children. Often, I wonder if she offloads gossip for my sake; like it is somehow meant to evoke a personal connection to the townsfolk. But other times, it feels like a pinprick underscoring my ostracism. "Have you ever heard the like of it? I praise Amel for giving me such a pious daughter."

I want to laugh bitterly now, knowing her to be spiteful, knowing her to be baiting. I don't bite. Much happier to not broach the subject, and wholly ignore the ring welded to my finger; ignore its red glow; ignore all that has happened; ignore everything.

My mind was torment enough.

In fact, many of my thoughts have been occupied by the uncanny sequence of events. I fear, feeling myself to blame for this. Not in the sense that I did it nor willed it done, but in the sense that I heaped my own sins upon the invisible agglomeration shedding its rot over all of us, manure for the Devil's dark flowers—it cannot mean nothing. Even with the aid of goose fat, I could not pluck the ring from my finger. It clung to me, steadfast and unyielding, as though it was part of my very flesh. I am a plucked flower, a Deofol's bride bound by some unholy fate. Of course, I suspect myself to be beneath his notice—the Deofol, that is—or had thought so. But things have changed; what is to stop him from standing right behind me, sitting by the window? Is anywhere safe? Perhaps it is a mark of courage to consider this past week to be trials of fortitude, Amel's ingenious design... in which I lack the circumspection or wit to fully comprehend it.

A Deofol's mark.

Sick as soot, he had called me. As sick as soot, defiled hideously. It tarnishes the skin like a cattle brand, a collar tightening my throat. There is a metallic taste in my mouth now, like the taste of blood. I look down at my hands clasped over my skirts and see that they are soiled with dust. What, after all, is a cloak of virtue? But more fabric to stain.

I fold, wiping them on my smock, a wayward idea conjuring. There is only one person who could help me now. And mother isn't going to like it.