Righteous

They drowned her in the river on a sunny afternoon.

A priest held her by a chained arm, and asked the crowd if anyone would speak up for her, if any would testify to her innocence. The only reply was the woman's sobs. Then he shoved her head under the water.

The crowd on the bank watched in uncomfortable silence. She had been their neighbor, a friend, someone they'd grown up with. Though doubt may have gnawed at them, none would speak up.

The children on the hill shared rumors as they watched: she was a witch, she’d killed someone, she'd kissed the wrong person. What they all agreed on was she must’ve deserved it.

When the struggling stopped, all breathed a sigh of relief. Then they all went home, ate dinner, and went to bed. All slept soundly, for they remembered they were good people, and good people didn't do bad things.

First was the pestilence.

Dampness seeped into the homes, like roots growing up from the foundations. Black fingers of mold climbed up the walls, defiant blooms resisting efforts to clear them away. Children began to grow ill in infected homes, their gossiping mouths filled with disease.

It was the dead woman, the townspeople cried, she had cursed them! Or, perhaps she had allies hiding in the flock? They found an old woman she bought herbs from, who they’d all bought produce from, and took her down to the river. She screamed and begged as her former customers gave her to the priest.

Besides, they argued, she’d always charged too much. Greedy. Their community would be better without her.

Second was the famine.

They tended their gardens with care, watered their plants, and fed the soil, just as they always did. Then their drops began to wither, sick with something no one had ever seen before. The plants blackened and putrified, rancid and poisonous. The townspeople began to starve, their watching eyes dulled with hunger.

Once more they sought the culprit. This time it was a man, he had been seen speaking the other two wicked souls, he had to be one of them! It took five people to subdue him and drag him to the river.

Third was the water.

The river began to rise up, it spilled its banks and heaved towards the town. The gardens flooded, the homes flooded, their lives flooded. The screaming town was washed away by a force that neither heard nor cared.

The priest fled the drowning town, leaving it to die. It was a doomed place, there was nothing he could have done to save it. Only he could be saved now.

He didn’t get far.

The river itself, with body made of mud, rose up to meet him. It grinned at him, with stone teeth and gorged on the blood of the innocent. His killing hands were ripped from his body. The priest died believing he was righteous.

A lake the rose up where a town once was, one carefully avoided. Murderers and cowards lived there once, the story went. It was a wicked place unlike any other town, that sort of thing could never happen here. This was the story they told themselves, and thought nothing more of it.

***

K. A. Vandivert lives in Rochester, NY, and is a new author who writes science-fiction/fantasy, exploring the mundane in the fantastic. When not working, she can be found painting miniatures, listening to podcasts, and spending time in the company of friends. They can be found on Twitter @kavandwriter, and more information can be found at karenvandivert.com