The caged witch stared at Stefan, her lips wet from her tongue licking them repeatedly. His stomach turned as she stared at him. He couldn’t smell her from the porch of the church, but she made him sick just as if she were pressed up against his nose.
Bastion had left him and sent Bjorn home hours ago, just before 3:00 a.m. He said he was eager to brush out his cloak and wash his face. He was asleep in the dormitory that stood across the church garden. Stefan stayed behind to attend to make preparations for noon Mass, though the bell had not tolled 6:00 a.m. yet. Stefan’s head swam with Bastion’s words. Bjorn had stayed and sat with Stefan and Bastion, with a rare smile to let Stefan know he had been forgiven. Stefan wondered at the change coming over Bjorn, his sudden hope in the ways of God, as if hearing the truth for the first time. That wasn’t right—hadn’t Stefan’s Masses been enough for Bjorn to learn the truths of God?
Bastion had spoken of many things as both men listened. Women often became witches, he said, and witches did the work of the Devil.
“Satan spirits them away to celebrate the Sabbath,” Bastion had said, “by fornicating, and spitting on the bread of the Eucharist, and drinking the blood of children.”
“You’re saying witches can fly?” Stefan had asked, his eyebrows arched. He would not be made a fool, especially by a guest he had invited.
“I’m saying their master can carry them off wherever he wishes. As a priest, I am surprised you do not know this. Remember that the Devil spirited Jesus away to the top of a hill in the great temptation?”
True, Stefan nodded. He had been told that could be found in the Bible.
“Men, Scripture is clear: Witches exist. Like their master, the Devil, they can go anywhere at any time. And God demands we rid the earth of them. To deny any of these essentials is to deny Scripture, to deny God. Only a heretic denies God.”
Stefan replayed the words, finding no fault in them, only zeal. He stretched, picking up a rotted peel from the church steps. The church would be full in the afternoon, filled with everyone from the village who had heard Bastion last night and those who only heard his words repeated. They would be flowing out of the nave, pressing him further back into the choir, anxious for the wafers of the Host to be elevated and the bells to ring out announcing the presence of Christ through Communion as the morning sun pierced through the single rose window.
Stefan kept his mouth shut and took shallow breaths through his nose, desperate to keep the witch’s smell from sickening him. He should walk back in. But he had never seen such complete pollution, a woman living in death. She embodied every sin, every condemnation brought to life. He touched the cross at his neck, and fury flashed through her eyes. She howled, throwing back her head so the sound rose above them both into the black hours. Goose bumps raised on Stefan’s arms. A movement at the edge of the square caught his attention. He stared into the darkness but saw nothing. Someone had stood there watching him; he was sure of it.
He refused to look at her again. She had no cause to torment him. He set back to work, sweeping the church steps.
“Father.”
She made it sound like a joke.
He forced himself to do it, walking straight to her, his eyes only on the ground. He grabbed the edge of the wool blanket and slung one end over the cage, running around to take the other end and pull it down, covering her from sight. Her hand shot out from between the bars, flailing in the darkness.
“Father. Father. Father.” Her sour, gritty voice chanting his name. “Hear me. I want to make confession.”
Stefan looked around for Bastion but saw no one. She was either very clever or pitiful and sincere. He could not refuse her, since he was a servant of God. She might ask for mercy. She might want to be delivered. Or she might be blaspheming. He edged closer to her hand, her fingers clawing at the air.
“I know you’re there,” she whispered. “I hear you breathing. You are afraid.”
“I am here.”
“I want to confess. I want to be clean.”
The witch belonged to Bastion. Bastion should know what she said, that she called for confession. Bastion should be there. Bastion would know what to do, handle it all effortlessly, probably rolling his eyes at this rural priest who could not even handle a confession.
Stefan held his breath. He would do it. Bastion would sleep through it all. Stefan would deliver this woman in the name of the Lord and present her to the people the next morning. Their awe at the power of God, through Stefan’s hands, would be immeasurable. What Bastion could stir up, Stefan could stir up. Word would spread.
“God help me,” Stefan prayed. “Help me to free this woman at last. Deliver her through me.”