Salem's Witches (Neitherlands Book 1), page 9
“And did you start the brawl?” The woman was still taking notes.
“He didn’t fall for it, no. He asked around if anyone had seen me before, but nobody had. People in Ussuck, they tend to respect the law. It’s not a fair set of laws they have there, and often there’s corruption inside the government, lots of it, but people respect it. They love that corruption; they feel it’s theirs. They don’t respect each other much, but they respect the establishment, and this includes the police. So when this policeman went down asking about the girl, nobody lied or confronted him. It just was not like the taverns in my books. I was a smart little girl, however, so when I noticed he wasn’t going to fall for it I kicked him in the shins and tried to steal his pouch, hoping he would have a map in there. I tried to make a run for it, but somebody stepped in the doorway and grabbed me. He surrendered me to the policeman, who wasn’t mad at all. He seemed puzzled more than angry.”
“So you faced no consequences?”
“The policeman did all he could: He took me to the police station. And when we get there, who do we find? My father. My parents had noticed my escape not long after I left, and they chose to separate to make it easier to find me. So my father, a more institutionally minded man who would always rather go through established ways, went to the police station and waited for me there. My mother disagreed. She said she knew her daughter, and that I was probably out trying to mimic some of the adventures I’d read and talk about—how right she was! She chose to stay home, by the door. She was sure I would find my way back, and feared that if I came and found the house alone and the door locked I would wander away again.
“When we got back home, there she was, sitting by the door waiting for us. For some reason, that moment—when both my dad and my mom looked for me in their own way—it made me understand how loved I was in my family. It is a special memory I have always held dear.”
The woman remained silent for a few seconds, still writing. “So,” she eventually said, “you ran away from the established institution, lied to an officer of the law, tried to steal his pouch and involve him in a brawl that could hurt him. You did all this and faced no punishment, right? And now you feel happy about it, maybe even proud?”
“Well, I was but a child. I’m sure someone older, someone with actual knowledge of what they were doing would have been punished, harshly so even. But you can hardly blame a child for being imaginative and acting on it.”
“I see.” The woman wrote on. “Now…tell me of a moment in your life when you were young and important to your family.”
“Why, I believe that same moment I just told you about would count.”
“All right.” The woman wrote furiously. “I need to know about a moment when, as a small person, you felt like you held an important place in the world for the people around you.”
“I think the same story applies too.” Veronika wasn’t sure if the woman was doing this just to try to annoy her. “As far as I’m concerned, you have asked me the same question three times in a row.”
“Hmmm… I see. It was an interesting story you told there. Now, you will tell me the address where you spend your nights and where you sleep. If there’s a key hidden somewhere that you use if you forget yours, you will tell us where it is.”
“Excuse me?” Veronika jumped on her chair. “What kind of question is that?”
“I just asked if you had had a good relationship with your grandparents, Miss Veronika.” The woman gave her a smile that soon morphed into a grin—a wide, toothy grin. “Why, did you hear something else?”
“I had a nice relationship with my grandmother, thanks for asking. And I might have misunderstood you, sorry,” she added, smiling back and knowing she hadn’t misunderstood a thing.
“Now, tell me about your departure from Ussuck. As I get it, there was a family feud, wasn’t there? Tell me about it.”
“There was no family feud!” Veronika was reconsidering her determination to be accepted in the church. The urge to slap that woman silly was just too big. “I don’t know where you got that from. I came here because, twenty years later, I was still a young woman looking for adventure. So I came to New Wakilork, which is the closest to the wilderness my parents would allow me to go back then. I don’t know why that was either, I’ve read of entire jungles that are safer than this city. But anyway, I never had a falling out with anyone. My family has always been dear to me, and even today we often write each other.”
“That’s good to know.” The woman struck out some of the things in the notebook. “We Quackologists value family a lot and trust in it. After all, we are your new family and you will trust us. Now, you will tell me about any secrets you may have that, were they to become public, could easily ruin your career.”
“What! I’m sorry, but what’s the point of this?”
“The point of what?” The woman gave her that horrible grin once again. “I can’t see what could be wrong with asking what you work with. It is important for us to know about the livelihood of our members. Miss Veronika, if you’re unemployed, we can understand that too. We may even be able to find you a place here with us.”
“I must have misunderstood you, again,” said Veronika. She once again smiled at the woman.
“If you’re hearing voices, Miss Veronika…” The woman kept flashing her that grin. “That’s something we need to know about. Maybe we can help you. Don’t you think that, maybe, this auditing session is bringing out some of your inner ghosts? It can happen, and fighting those ghosts is an important part of the path to becoming Clear.”
“You know what? Maybe it is so.” Veronika chose to play along with the auditor. If the entry interview was this horrible, being in was likely worse. And she wasn’t going to leave, not without knowing exactly what went on in there. “I think I’m getting tired today. It’s been a very eventful and exciting day so far. I’m glad we are finding my inner demons, but could we please continue this in our next session?”
The woman smiled again. This time it was an actual million dollar smile. “But of course, Veronika. I’m glad you have chosen to join us in the path to enlightenment. Now, here: take this.” She gave her a piece of cardboard. It had her name and a drawing of her face: Her Quackology ID. The machine had produced it while she spoke of her childhood. “As an entry-level Quackologist, you gain access to our base and its entry zones. You are also invited to our weekly meetings, specifically our sermons, held on Sundays, and the Grand Tribunal hearings, where people branded suppressive are judged and condemned each week. These hearings are also on Sundays, with sentences carried out on Wednesdays.”
The woman walked out with her and told everyone to cheer up, for Veronika had become the newest addition to the Church of Quackology. She then waved her goodbye, reminding her that she should try and join at least one auditing session each week, since it was part of her entry training and just the thing the good Quackologist would do.
“So, who can tell me what standards we use to declare a person has attained Clarity?” Annabella stared at the room, full of new recruits to Quackology, and wanted to throw up.
The damned ship was rocking again. It hadn’t stopped rocking since sailing, and it was doing a number on her stomach.
Then again, Quackology itself did a number on her stomach. So it was difficult to know the real cause of her sickness.
A hand went up, and Annabella pointed to it. “Peace of mind, loyalty toward what’s good, willingness to sacrifice for a better future, and lack of material attachments,” said one of the students. She nodded and wrote all four standards on the whiteboard.
Meanwhile, she thought of how absurd it was that of all things, they were forcing her to teach Quackology to new recruits on a ship that doubled as a prison and…a deluxe cruise for the wealthier members of the cult. It was the most ridiculous punishment she had ever seen, and one some could think of as poetic justice…without the justice part.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny the wicked cleverness in the idea of using the ship as a prison: Any members in danger of leaving were put there against their wishes, generally to see if they disliked the church enough so as to literally jump ship.
The ship only sailed shark-infested waters.
“Right,” she said once she was done writing. “Now, how do we attain any of these?”
“By performing good quackologist deeds,” said a voice. Annabella didn’t bother figuring out who had said it, for it was unimportant: All these people had paid greatly for the right to be aboard the ship, and therefore they all were going to pass the course unless they did something unforgivable, like setting it on fire.
She wished somebody would do just that. She’d pass them for sure.
“And who can tell me what a good quackologist does?”
“A good quackologist always puts his church first,” said one of the voices. There was no trace of doubt in it: Whoever had said it truly believed what he was saying. Whoever they were they had probably also given everything to the Church of Quackology already. They’d be sitting among the rank twelve higher-ups within a year.
“What else?”
“A good quackologist will let the higher-ups know if there’s anything fishy going on,” said another.
“Right, the information clause,” said Annabella, jotting it down in the blackboard. She had seen an awful amount of people go down thanks to it, often for harmless things. The church openly offered rewards for people who told on others, making it so people would report pretty much everything. “What else?”
“The good quackologist will shun anyone who becomes suppressive,” said another, “for suppressive people work for Xianuu and are the blight of the world.”
Annabella stopped for a moment. The phrase sounded oddly like an attack on her, even though she was sure nobody there knew about her—not to mention it would be ridiculous to let them know they were going to be taught by what the church called the worst of the worst. “That’s a good one,” she said after taking a breath.
She started writing it down, and stopped midway through it.
“Now, who can tell me what’s so bad about suppressive people?” she said, going a mile or two off the script. “Does anyone know what it is suppressive people do that makes them so bad?”
“They work for Xianuu,” said one.
“They are evil,” said another.
“They want to destroy the Church,” a third offered.
“They are the blight of the world,” said another.
“And what does any of that mean?” Annabella no longer wrote anything on the blackboard, she instead stared at her audience. “Have any of you ever met anyone suppressive?”
Several scoffed. A few more seemed to laugh. Soon enough, there was a single one brave enough to answer. “Of course not,” someone said. “Suppressive people are quickly dealt with, to keep them from causing much damage. Most quackologists never get to meet any. Their evil is quickly noticed, so they never make it far.”
“So none of you have ever heard of anyone suppressive?”
The room fell silent. Nobody answered.
“The Church of Quackology has a rule. One that says suppressive people are to be forgotten. Each time somebody is branded, everyone must forget about them and their existence. If anyone talks, or asks, about them, they are branded suppressive themselves, for so much as thinking about them is considered against Quackology. What do you think about that?”
The room remained silent. Once again a single person was brave enough to answer. “B-but, that’s fair,” they said, their voice’s shakiness betraying them. “If we keep those people in our minds, Xianuu can get to us and—”
“What if one of those people were your own daughter?” Annabella was threading unexplored territory. She hadn’t so much gone off the marked path as she had gone off the map and possibly the entire plane of existence. It was dangerous, reckless, and the kind of crime that could only be punished in unspeakable ways.
That would have been a great deterrent if only she cared enough.
Murmuring took over the room, but no voices rose above to confront her. She knew what people were whispering: “My daughter wouldn’t”. No one ever thought they’d find themselves in such a position, until they did.
“Suppressive people are often branded so because they doubt Quackology, but I must ask you all, have any of you seen anything proving Quackology to be true?”
Another wave of whispering took over, while Annabella smiled. Soon enough, a voice rose above it all. “I heard o—”
“We don’t care what you’ve heard,” said Annabella. “What have you seen?”
Silence reigned. It didn’t so much take over the whispering as it entered its house, grabbed it by the neck, and threw it out. Nobody seemed to know what to answer, because the teacher had just made them doubt the core beliefs they had been taught. The same teacher that, they believed, was a good quackologist and therefore couldn’t be wrong about suppressive people. Annabella smiled. Making those fools who had already been parted with their money doubt their own intelligence was its own reward.
Had anyone answered with the truth, they would have mysteriously slipped that night while walking the deck, right into the shark-infested waters. Luckily no one did, because they weren’t stupid enough. Instead they all allowed silence to reign, a part each of of them hoping somebody else would say what they all knew…because then they could all gang up and call them a suppressive person.
After all, the whole thing had to be a set-up. A test. One everyone wanted to pass.
“I see nobody has an answer… Then, let me tell you about a thing or two I have learned in my sojourn with Quackology…”
There was one thing Annabella hadn’t learned in her sojourn with Quackology. It was a little fact about the windows in the classroom. They were all small and conveniently placed to provide the room with much-needed ventilation.
They were also conveniently sized to allow for a person with, say, a crossbow, to aim through it straight at the lecturer’s heart. A guard with one had also been conveniently placed behind it, and he had been waiting for the right moment to strike if necessary.
Annabella signed her death warrant the moment she went off the script. The guard was waiting for the right moment, hoping she wouldn’t go far enough to require immediate termination: After all, it would be simpler to poison her during the night.
It was right before the guard pulled the trigger, and just as Annabella spoke of a supposed lack of evidence to back up any of the church’s claims, that the most unexpected thing happened.
First, a cloud of dark purple smoke appeared behind Annabella.
While the new quackologists stared, the cloud became a tall, thin, winged figure that hovered over Annabella as she said the most dramatically suppressive things ever uttered.
The winged figure then produced a long, thin scythe. It raised it above Annabella while she went on with her decidedly unquackologist tirade. Then, just before her closing statement, the figure lowered the scythe. It went right through her, leaving her body intact.
Annabella dropped dead immediately, and the winged figure disappeared as soon as her body hit the floor.
A ruckus ensued as a panic spread through the room, with most of the students screaming and trying to leave the classroom immediately. The guard didn’t know what to do, and a part of him felt he had missed the chance to pull the trigger on the betrayer.
Nonetheless, the story shaped itself in such a form for which the church could only be thankful. After all, what would fit their narrative better than a suppressive person mysteriously dropping dead right as they publicly decried the church? Not only was it a good tale, but it was one with tens of eyewitnesses. It was a real story.
It was, all in all, almost too good to be true.
T. Peter Howard was an old man, as is common among church leaders. He hadn’t so much grown old as old age had been thrust upon him against his will, a requirement he had to fulfil if he was to keep his job. He hadn’t enjoyed it one bit, but at least people seemed to respect him more as he grew older, so there was that. Perhaps the respect and admiration were worth it… But then again perhaps they weren’t.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he said after making sure none of his many luxuries were visible. He was supposed to live like the poor, after all.
The almost too-big double door opened to let in a small woman carrying a black wooden box. “This just came in the mail, sir,” the woman said, staring at the floor. Most of his followers seemed to fear staring at him.
“Bring it in, please.”
The woman approached Howard’s desk slowly and put the box on top of it. From up close he could distinguish its features: It had been carved with utmost care, with several birds decorating it—beautiful. Probably a gift from one of his followers too. One of the good ones, as opposed to the many letters and flowers and whathaveyou he often got that went straight to the trash pile.
“Thank you. You can go now,” said Howard.
The woman retreated without turning around and closed the door after exiting the room. He had seen more than one of his followers fall flat on the floor due to their reluctance to turn their backs on him. It was ridiculous, although at times those falls were hilarious. Not that he would laugh at them to their faces, he had to wait until they were gone for that.
Howard took the box and examined it further. Whoever had carved it was a true master, and looked even better under the moonlight. It should be worth a pretty penny, and he guessed it had probably taken many weeks to make it. The box was also heavier than expected, which meant there was something inside.
He placed it on the desk and grabbed the padlock when the box stirred: Whatever was inside had apparently moved, which was most uncommon. Most people did not put living things in boxes, after all. It was cruel, and often led to people receiving dead things in boxes, which made for very poor gifts. Puzzled, yet curious, he unlocked the box.
