Free The Witch's Trinity by Erika Mailman Page A

up and made me drink some water. “It’s not even dented,” she said as she pushed off my cap to run her hands through my hair. “What looks worse is the mark upon your forehead.”
    “The one you termed the devil’s mark,” I said.
    “Which you denied,” she said. She took away the wet cloth and stared hard into my face. “I can’t believe the number of wrinkles that have beset your face,” she said. “I hope to die before my face is that of an apple fallen from the tree and left to shrink and tighten.”
    “For all the frowning that you do, your wrinkles will be a hundredfold.”
    She slapped me.
    I pulled away from her arms and rose to my feet. How bleak this day was, compared to the delicious, secretive dream I had had!
    “I want to sleep again,” I said.
    “Might as well. You sleep until I rouse you for Künne’s unbinding,” she said.
    I slumped onto my straw and began to weep. That was what she had meant by preparing my farewell. It had been three days, and today they would unbind Künne’s arm to see if she had been burned. Everything I touched was harsh. The fronds of the hay poking me, the roughness of my linens, my own skin. I wept silently, wishing something in my life were soft.
     

     
    Jost came home with no food. The traps were empty.
    He came over to my bed. “Why are you yet sleeping, Mutter?” he asked.
    “I cannot bear this day,” I said.
    He nodded. “I wish I had some food to offer you in your sorrow. Do you wish to stay home when we go to the church?”
    I closed my eyes to consider that possibility. How wonderful to drift along on this hay, to try to forget what mischief the day held for such a good woman. “I cannot,” I said. “Mine will be the only kind face she sees. Mine and yours. I must go.”
    “You will do her some small bit of good,” he said. “Where is Irmeltrud?”
     

     
    The church was full to brimming. Those who hadn’t come to Künne’s inquisition had heard of the boiling kettle trial and came with frank eagerness to see what lay under her bandages. When Jost and I arrived, Irmeltrud and the children were already there, standing in front.
    Frau Zweig’s eyes glowed as if her waist were thick with child instead of her heart with hatred. She twisted her hands with excitement. Next to her, Herr Zweig looked miserable.
    Künne sat again on the lofty stool, like a thin bird on the worst branch. Her eyes were uncovered, yet no one could accuse her of casting the evil eye, for she only looked down into her own lap. Her bandages were dingy and browned. Her quarters in the tower must have been foul to so quickly taint the pure white. The kettle was yet on the stove. I did not need to peer into its depths to know there was one spiteful pebble still sitting on the bottom. The door opened, and in the swirl of snow the friar appeared. He paused like the queen of May Day accepting all the lovers’ admiration, then strode to the foot of Künne’s chair.
    “Good people,” he said, “today we see if the test was passed. Frau Himmelmann was not able to gather the three stones of the Trinity, but if God sees a soul worthy of salvaging within her, he will keep her flesh unblistered. If, however, he detects in her the promise she made to the Prince of Darkness to serve him and abandon all that is holy, we shall see the ugly burns upon her skin. For just as her fetid heart is ruined with boils and pus and black sores, so shall her skin show the same rudeness.”
    I shuddered when he said “black sores.” Hensel’s face flashed before my eyes, and I remembered that one horrible mouse-sized sore that burgeoned in his neck, that was purple as a cabbage and caused him such torment. And the horrid surprise of the treacle within it, when it finally burst and fluid seeped forth.
    “Shall we pray?” asked the friar.
    All heads quickly bowed, though Frau Zweig still wore a secular grin.
    “Our Father in the remotest height of heaven, who observeth our every deed and