Julia Vanishes by Catherine Egan Read Free Book Online Page A

the blessed waters of the river Syne wash away the poison that threatens us all, that threatens our children: this dark magic, the terrible power of the witch.” He pauses and then leans forward and says: “I derive no pleasure from death, from killing. But what would you do, you mothers and fathers, to protect your dear children? Would you not do whatever was required? Would you not murder those that threaten them, and think it just?
You,
the honest Fraynish people, are my only children, and without qualm I shall put to death all those that wish you harm.”
    Wild applause follows. I’m worried Florence is going to fall overboard, she’s clapping so hard. It is a masterful bit of oration, delivered with every appearance of absolute sincerity. Whatever resentment common people may feel about his stamping out the old folklorish ways, the prime minister’s implacable pursuit of witches has earned him widespread admiration, and it is said that no country in the world is less disrupted by magic than Frayne.
    Agoston Horthy bows his head, clasps his hands before his chin, closes his eyes. I think there are tears on his cheeks, but it is difficult to tell from here. A Rainist holy, all in white, speaks a blessing, while his devoted lights the torch to prove that these are witches. There is one witch with brown hair, a bit younger than the rest, keeping very still, although she is next to the witch who keeps sobbing and collapsing. I watch her as the Rainist holy gives the order and his devoted lays the flaming torch on the bare arm of each witch, one at a time.
    A couple of them scream and pretend to burn, and the crowd laughs. The devoted holds the torch to them for longer to show the crowd that they do not burn. The crowd shouts and stamps. I think I hear an odd sound from Chloe, or maybe from Florence, but I am too busy watching the young brown-haired witch. She doesn’t move when the torch touches her. She shuts her eyes.
    Somebody shouts, “Catch it, Agnes!” and a small thin object goes sailing through the air. Whoever threw it is trying to escape through the crowd, but they have him already; they are beating him without knowing yet what he has done.
    The giantess and another witch, one of them presumably Agnes but perhaps not, lunge for the object. There is a shot and the giantess staggers, a red stain bursting across the front of the man’s shirt she wears. She falls against the rail of the barge. We have drifted so close that we are looking right up into her face, twisted with rage.
    “Pen,” she says hoarsely, as if she is asking us for one.
    I suppose that’s what was thrown. But neither witch got it. The giantess is hauled back into line, bleeding heavily as our man rows us a little farther out. She is unsteady on her feet, but it takes more than a gunshot to kill a witch. Drowning is the surest way, for no witch can swim, or even float. Water is their great enemy; fire their friend.
    It is a small bit of drama to liven up the Cleansing. A year or so back, a witch actually managed to snap a guard’s neck before being shot three times and hurled overboard. I still remember the look on her face as she twisted his head, the horrible sound it made. Agoston Horthy watches expressionlessly, one hand on his gun, and the holy rambles a bit about the Nameless One showing us grace for doing His bidding while the man who threw the pen is beaten to an immobile, bleeding heap on the low path. I fix my gaze on the young witch again, her eyes and mouth squeezed shut, her fists clenched. Something is building in my chest, some terrible pressure.
    The witches struggle, some of them, but there on the ledge with a row of soldiers behind them, there is nowhere to flee to. They are hurled untidily into the water, clothes flapping, screaming or silent. The young witch just holds herself tight and falls. Like all of them, she sinks like a stone. The crowd roars, a deafening sound.
    Nine years ago, I watched my mother die like