Writ in Blood By Kateryna Udovychenko

The chaplain’s mangled head was a dark,

swollen pulp – grey and bloodied – his face half-gone, skin peeling off like the flesh of an overripe fruit. His chest was caved in, clothes shredded. The sharp stink of rot and iron curled thick in the air, mixed with the green tang of grass and the wet soil of the woods. Flies buzzed. Near him lay a bloodied axe – the one that had always hung behind his door, now slick and rusting at the edge, as though the weapon itself had been made to rot with its master.

His arms were wrecked beyond recognition. The bones jutted through his torn flesh; his left palm snapped backwards, as if he'd tried to fight off the axe with his bare grip. His right hand was a wet stump, fingers cut off. Four of them lay nearby, blue with death and caked with dirt. And his face? What remained of it was barely human. The skin had sloughed away in places, bloated, and blistered, as if it had started to rot before death took hold. His mouth hung open, lips split and dark. The remaining eye stared, glassy, and empty. He had been here for days. The flies moved in and out of him like he was already part of the earth. A pile of raw meat in a priest’s clothes.

Mara stood behind the Prophet, her expression thick with horror. The stench clung to her throat. She dared not breathe with her nose. The image burned into her eyes. She had never liked the chaplain very much, but at that moment, she felt truly sorry for him.

The Prophet was motionless, his tall frame rigid, his face was long, gaunt, pale as stone. His calm eyes, dark and deep-set, were chained to the lifeless body. A few villagers wept. Others whispered, clutching their scarfs or crosses. A woman’s distressed voice cut through the murmuring.

‘Sir… it couldn’t be anyone but Caleb. He said Thorne was locked up sick in their hut for two days.’ She trembled.

‘Yeah, and Caleb’s not even here,’ muttered a man behind her.

‘Silence!’ The Prophet struck the earth with his sceptre. ‘We will find the murderer soon enough,’ he said. ‘And deal with him as the Code commands. We will send some men to collect the body and bury it later today.’

He turned sharply, robes brushing over the grass, and began walking across the pasture towards the village, mist trailing at his heels.

Mara was still looking at the body, terrified. Her throat clenched with horror. She saw it. A twitch. The faintest shift in the ruined mass, as if the corpse had drawn a breath. Her limbs froze. 

Someone’s fingers touched her hand.

‘Come on, Mara, we should go,’ said Elias.

She blinked. The body was still. Her muscles tensed. Her heart pounding, she turned to the lad. The other people were leaving already. Elias stepped away, and Mara followed him. The woods behind them watched.

The village was already stirring when Mara and Elias returned. Smoke drifted from the cooking fires, pale against the grey sky, and a crowd had gathered by the crooked hut where Thorne and Caleb had lived. People shouted. The wind caught their cries and tossed them across the roofs like birds in a panic.

Caleb stood in the centre, flushed, and shaking, his ginger hair wet with slick sweat. He was a plump man, cheerful in his nature, but now he stiffened like a scolded child.

‘You said he was locked up sick!’ someone spat.

‘I didn’t mean to lie,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘I only thought… It–it was a deliberate measure. To keep you from finding out that he was gone. I told him! I–I told the Prophet!’ Despair was written all over him.

‘You let him rot like a dog,’ another man snarled.

‘Here, look!’ Caleb pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘This is one of the letters we shared with the Prophet to discuss the matter!’

‘What is all this mess?’ asked a grave voice. The Prophet appeared from within the mass of the villagers like a storm rolling from the hills. His robe dragged the dust behind him. He raised his sceptre, and the crowd quieted.

Caleb stuttered and trembled like a drenched kitten, scrambling to explain himself. The Prophet stood silent, his expression tightening, his annoyance growing with every word he heard.

Elias’s warm breath brushed Mara’s ear.

‘This is getting out of hand,’ he whispered.

She nodded.

The Prophet took his place beside Caleb and looked at the people that circled them.

‘What this man is telling you is true. Chaplain Thorne’s death is no accident. It is a punishment wrought on him by God,’ he proclaimed. Whispers filled the square, and he waited for them to fade. ‘He was doubting. We’ve been watching him for months. He would have left us. He turned from the Code, from me, from God.’

Mara gripped Elias’s hand, her legs stiff. She couldn’t look at Caleb or the others. Her mind itched with a smell that wouldn’t leave her – the cloying stink of rot and wet earth.

‘That serves him right,’ the Prophet continued. ‘But the one who laid hand on him... is still guilty of sacrilege. He will be burned on the pyre, and the fire will cleanse him.’

Elias leaned towards Mara.

‘I don’t trust him,’ he said softly.

Mara blinked, eyes dry and wide. ‘Hush.’

The Prophet began to recite a passage from the Code, detailing how those who threatened the harmony of their secluded society were to be dealt with. He spoke solemnly of the sacred duty to remain united, reminding them that the world beyond their borders was already lost to divine wrath.

Mara’s gaze drifted. It slid over the shocked villagers and then touched the damp wooden huts. She turned around. There he was – Thorne. Standing behind the crowd, his face a ruin, his glassy eye watching. Jaw hanging loose, bloodied lips muttering something inaudible. His hand reached for her. Her knees trembled.

‘Mara?’

Elias pulled her closer, his blue eyes concerned. She blinked, and the man was gone.

‘Mara, is everything fine?’

‘Yes,’ she managed.

‘You are as pale as milk.’

Elias studied her face a moment longer, but the worry in his expression faded into urgency. He straightened.

‘Let’s go. I have a plan,’ he said, pupils darting past the people. 

Before they could move, a voice piped up from behind them.

‘Where are you going?’

It was Annie – Elias’s younger sister. Thirteen and always hovering near her brother, especially when Mara was nearby. She stepped forward with that usual stubborn manner.

‘Can I come?’ she asked.

Elias turned to her. ‘No, Annie.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re too young. And too noisy.’

Her mouth dropped in disbelief. ‘Noisy?’

‘Go home,’ Elias said firmly, already moving.

She stood still a second longer, eyes narrowed, then spun around, and stormed off, mumbling under her breath. Mara didn’t like her. Annie always tried to meddle. They didn’t have time for her tantrums.

The crowd on the square had thinned. People were drifting home like shadows. Mara and Elias walked close together, their pace fast, their boots soft in the mud. The village was quieting behind them. Fog was creeping at their feet. Mara's fair hair clung to her neck, wild in the wind. She kept looking over her shoulder.

‘So, where are we going?’ she asked.

‘To the Prophet’s house,’ Elias replied. His voice was low. ‘I want to find the letters Caleb spoke of.’

Mara stopped for a moment, staring at him.

‘You think they planned it all along.’

‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘And I believe there’s more to it than they’re letting us know.’

She didn’t answer, just followed him. 

The Prophet’s hut stood gloomy before them; its crooked shutters drawn tight. Elias pulled the rusted doorknob. The door was locked. It was the only building in the whole settlement that had a second floor. It hovered over them, the dark oak beams holding it up tiredly. Mara stared up at it uneasily. She hoped they wouldn’t need to go upstairs.

Carefully, Elias moved along the side wall. Hesitantly, she went after him, her breath catching with each step. They circled the house, searching for a way to enter unnoticed. Suddenly, the lad stopped. Another window. Standing on his toes, he tried to open its shutters. It groaned softly. He tried again. It gave in. His eyes lit up. Without a word, Mara helped him climb onto the sill. After he had got in, she lifted herself up, slid through the window, and landed gently onto the dirty floor.

The air inside was thick and full of dust, smelling of wax and mildew. The hallway was narrow and dark, lit only by a faint flame of a candle that stood on a small table in the corner. They turned towards the nearest door. It creaked open with the sound of splintering bone.

It led into a study. The room was lined with warped shelves stuffed with decaying books. Mould bloomed on their ancient spines. Mara looked at them with fascination. Only Thorne, Caleb, and the Prophet had ever been allowed to possess such things. A desk sat near the window, stained with wax and ink, its surface scattered with scraps of paper. Elias hurried to it, his fingers sweeping across the clutter.

Mara waited, her hands in her cloak. She couldn’t read – in her nineteen years of life she had never learned to. But Elias did. He yanked open the drawer and dug through the items inside. His face changed.

‘To Caleb,’ he whispered, holding up a folded page. ‘Aha!’

Just as he began to read, the front door creaked open.

‘Quickly, time to go!’ Mara hissed.

Elias threw the letter back into the drawer. He pushed it in too roughly, and it jammed halfway. He left it as it was.

They spun towards the window above the desk. Elias fumbled with the latch, hands trembling. A second passed. Then another. The shutters opened with a pop, and they both scrambled through, falling. The bushes beneath scratched their skin. Mara turned and half-closed the shutters, fingers shaking. They crouched, heartbeat loud in their ears. Footsteps thudded inside. Then voices.

‘Sickness! What were you thinking? I told you not to use that excuse.’

‘But I thought it would– ‘

‘You thought? You thought?’ The Prophet’s voice was cold and furious.

‘It was the best excuse I could come up with. Maybe they will not blame us.’

‘You are an idiot, Caleb. Now they’ll talk. I’m sure one of them already questioned it.’

‘Who?’

‘That sheep-boy.’ 

‘Elias?’

Mara looked at him sharply. A mix of fear and bewilderment flooded his expression.

‘He’s always watching. Always doubting. Like the chaplain did.’

‘They won’t believe him. He’s just a boy.’ 

‘They don’t need to believe,’ retorted the Prophet. ‘They only need to wonder. That’s what you’ve done. You’ve planted the seed. And you know what happens when people begin to wonder.’

Caleb did not reply. The Prophet sighed.

‘They forget, you idiot, they forget the wrath of the world. They forget that I am the only one who keeps them close to God.’

‘We’ll fix it, sir. We’ll finish the ritual, and they will never know.’ 

Elias shifted. A twig snapped under his foot. The Prophet’s voice was low.

‘Did you hear that?’ 

The floor creaked under heavy boots. Elias grabbed Mara’s hand. They ran, the forest swallowing them in brambles.

The sky had begun to dim, the clouds were heavier than in the afternoon. Shadows lengthened as Mara and Elias crept back into the village along the forest's outer edge, their cloaks damp with moss and soil. The trees thinned ahead, and the first crooked roofs of the village slanted into view.

They walked fast, their steps hard and quiet. Elias didn’t speak for a while. Then, glancing sideways at his friend, he cleared his throat.

‘We can’t let this rest. Not after what we heard. I am clearly in danger.’

Mara kept her eyes low. Her stomach was turning.

‘Should we… should we tell the others?’

‘Yes. That’s our only way.’

They approached Elias’s hut. Annie was sitting there by the well, studying some leaves she was holding in her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw them coming, but before she could speak, Elias grabbed her arm. ‘Come with us.’

‘What?’

‘There is no time to explain. We must gather everyone in the square,’ Mara replied.

The girl obeyed, half-running to keep up. The three of them moved through the village, each knocking on separate huts. They spoke in hushed tones, asking the residents to come out. Some listened, yet some looked unsure. Curious and uneasy, the group gathered in the square by Caleb’s house where afternoon’s judgement had taken place. Mara stood among them, her hands clenched under her clothes, watching Elias step forward to face the crowd.

‘I have something to tell you,’ he began. ‘And I need you to listen to me closely.’

Everyone was silent. Their eyes were all tied to the lad.

‘I have just been to the Prophet’s house,’ he continued. ‘I had the chance to overhear him and Caleb talking about some… ritual.’ He scrunched his nose at the word. ‘They resolved to finish it no matter what and talked about how important it is to keep you from finding out about it. I am sure they are the ones responsible for Thorne’s untimely death, and it is obvious that they will try to accuse someone of the murder.’

A few gasps. He left out the part where they spoke of him, Mara noticed. Clever. Better to let them wonder who might be next.

‘I also found the rest of the letters that Caleb had mentioned,’ Elias went on. ‘I am sure that they are full of information they are hiding from us.’

‘What was written there?’ someone called.

Elias paused. ‘I… Actually, I didn’t have time to read them.’

Mara felt the crowd shift around her. Annie looked anxious. Whispers were growing more persistent. She studied the uncertainty on the faces of her neighbours. That’s when she saw them.

Caleb walked into the square, three sturdy men trailing behind him – those he had selected for the burial. He stopped dead at the sight of the gathering. Moments later, the Prophet appeared behind him. He strode closer to the villagers. 

‘What’s this now?’ he asked, his furrowed brow sharper than ever.

‘They know what you’ve done,’ Elias announced.

The Prophet tilted his head, a slight smile forming on his lips.

‘Oh, do they?’ He glanced in Caleb’s direction triumphantly. 

Caleb stepped forward, his voice like a blade. ‘How dare you say anything? You eavesdropper! A burglar! You broke into the Prophet’s home. You rifled through his things. You read what was never meant for your eyes.’

The Prophet’s tone was gentler, but no less threatening. He faced the crowd. ‘He has always doubted our faith. Even as a boy. He never trusted the Code. And tell me – how does a shepherd miss a rotting body in the very field he tends?’

‘I don’t go near the trees,’ Elias said, breath unsteady. ‘That corner’s all thorns. The sheep avoid it, and so do I.’

Some heads nodded. Most of them didn’t move. Suspicion hung thick in the air.

Elias turned to Mara. His eyes searched hers. ‘Tell them!’ he begged. ‘You were there. You saw what I saw.’

Her breath caught. Everyone listened. She froze.

‘I–I have no idea what he’s talking about,’ she mumbled. ‘He’s lying. Don’t drag me into this!’

Elias stared at her, stunned. ‘Mara…’

The Prophet raised his hand. ‘That’s enough.’

Two men moved at his signal.

‘Take him to the sinner’s cellar,’ he added. ‘Post guards. He’s not to leave unless I command it. Tomorrow, he’ll be judged.’

Elias didn’t fight when they seized him. His baffled expression pierced her mind.

Annie stepped back, shaking. The murmurs spread around the clearing. Mara left before anyone could talk to her. She paced quickly to her hut.

Having entered, she slammed the door shut and rushed to the bedroom. Her knees hit the floor as she reached under the bed, pulling out a small box with her trembling hands.

‘Your time has come,’ she mouthed.

A minute later, she slipped outside again, pressing the box to her heart and glancing over her shoulder every now and then. She avoided the main path and moved through the gaps between the buildings, running right to Elias’s house.

Behind the sheep pen, she crouched, box set aside. She dug her nails into the dirt, the soft soil moving under her fingers. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She placed the box into the shallow grave, covered it, and patted the earth down with her hands. Wiping them against the grass, she felt someone’s gaze on her back. She stood and looked around. Nothing. No one. Through the grey twilight, she hurried back home.

Mara slipped through her door and shut it behind her with a soft click. The house was still. Cold. Her boots left damp prints on the wooden floor. She took them off and placed them in the corner. Walking silently, she entered her bedroom. The air felt heavier here. She took a tinderbox with her hand and lit the candle on her table. It flickered wildly, throwing long shadows against the walls.

She paused. Her cloak. Still hanging off her shoulders. With a sigh, she stepped back into the hallway. She froze. At the far end of the corridor, he stood. Chaplain Thorne.

His robes were soaked black. Blood dripped onto the floorboards with soft, wet taps. Flies buzzed thick around his body, their faint shadows dancing on his ripped chest. His smashed head hung to one side; neck bent at an impossible angle. One blue, dirt-smeared hand reached in her direction.

Mara’s heart skipped a beat. She ran back. Blindly. Slamming her bedroom door shut behind her and dragging a chair beneath the handle. Her hands shook as she pressed it tight.

Then she heard it.

The chanting. Slow and steady.

Prayers, spoken in an unknown language, words muffled.

She covered her ears with her hands. In vain. The sound was inside her now. The muttering rolled beneath her skull, pressing on her temples. She screamed and staggered backwards. Her legs hit her bed, and she fell onto its hardened mattress. The whispers clung to her like flies, crawling through her mind. The room seemed to sway.

The door creaked open.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Slow footsteps dragged the body cross the floorboards.

Creak. Croak. Groan. Creak. Closer. Closer.

The stench hit her. The sickly reek of decay. Nausea gripped her throat.

She curled into a ball.

‘Stop,’ she rasped, her voice thin and useless.

He was hovering over her. Breathing heavily through his battered lungs, air escaping with a whistle. His blood dripped onto her cheek, running down her skin slowly.

‘Stop!’ she tried again, louder this time.

Silence. The chants ceased. She opened her eyes. Thorne had vanished. Her cheek was dry, her limbs felt numb. The walls spiralled around her. Everything turned to black. The scent of death clung to her still.

They were knocking on the door with all the force of the world. Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming.

Then again. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Her stomach dropped.

She rose, legs trembling beneath her, and crept to the front of the house. She opened the door. Caleb. And three men.

‘You must come with us. Now.’

‘Wait–’

They didn’t give her time to speak. They grabbed her by her cloak and pulled her out of the hut. Her bare feet struck the cold, wet dirt.

The sky was pale, not long after dawn. Mist clung low to the ground. They led her towards the square. The Prophet stood at the centre, Annie beside him, her chin high. The crowd was silent, watching. The Prophet raised one hand, and someone passed Caleb a length of rope. 

‘Bind her.’

‘No, wait, please–‘ she tried to break free, but the men were stronger.

The rope cut into her muscular arms. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.

Her eyes met his. Elias. Held by different men. His wrists and ankles tied. His face was hollow, his stare empty. His hair stuck to his forehead. His shirt was smeared with dirt.

The Prophet cleared his throat.

‘Last night, after twilight, I received a testimony from one brave and loyal soul. Annie, step forward.’

Annie’s voice rang clear, colder than the morning air.

‘My brother is no murderer. I saw enough of Mara’s actions.’

The observers caught their breath.

‘After they both returned from the Prophet’s house, she looked shaken. I am sure she had made him follow her and break into the hut. Then, when Elias was taken, she left quickly. I followed her silently. She went home first. A minute later she ran out, hiding in the shadows, and headed to my and Elias’s yard. Then, I saw her bury something behind the sheep pen.’

Whispers broke out.

Annie turned to the Prophet. ‘I came to you at once.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘At first, I did not believe her. It was, I thought, a sister’s plea to save her brother. But I sent men this morning to dig where she described.’

He reached into his robes and pulled out that same wooden box. No bigger than five inches long. He opened it and approached the villagers, showing everyone what was inside. 

Gasps. A child fainted. Someone gagged. Mara’s legs buckled.

The Prophet walked forward. He stopped before her and held the box up to her face.

A severed finger inside, blue with death. A golden ring hugging its swollen flesh. The same one that was missing among the other four.

‘I think we have found our little criminal,’ he smiled. ‘Explain yourself.’

Mara didn’t respond. The crowd dissolved around her. Her gaze fixed on the box, yet her mind drifted into the depths of her memories.

At first, her father started skipping sermons. Then, he told her not to trust the Prophet. She watched him in the nights, standing by the door to his room long after he had snuffed out his candle. He would mutter to himself, low and bitter. ‘They’re wrong. They’re all wrong.’ One evening he told her they were leaving after the sunset tomorrow. Made her pack her things. He believed the world was more than this cursed village.

But then, Thorne came, the friend of the family, uninvited. Her father’s jaw clenched. He told Mara to stay in her room. She obeyed but put her ear to the slit in her door. They argued. Their voices sharp but not loud, as if they feared being overheard. Thorne told him he would not go with them and advised him to leave the idea behind. That it was dangerous. That he had a duty to report this faithlessness. Her father’s voice cracked – with both dubious and fury. She heard something knock over. Then footsteps. The door slammed behind Thorne as he left.

The next evening, her father was gone.

No note. No sign of a struggle. Just an empty bed, his boots still beneath it, the hunting knife left behind. He hadn’t taken anything, really. Forgot about his daughter. She couldn’t believe it. She was now alone, with no parents left.

The Prophet said nothing. Neither did Thorne. The villagers feared to speak of it, and even Mara began to doubt. Had he left without her? Or had someone stopped him? The second question dug into her brain. Her eye fell on the chaplain. In her mind, he was clearly responsible.

A hand gripped her shoulder. Rough. Mara blinked. The square came back into focus. The Prophet’s demand thundered above her. She blinked again and spoke.

She had taken the axe that afternoon. Thorne was careless enough to leave it outside. She hid it in the hollow of the tree just beyond the pasture, at twilight, when Elias had already left. When the dark had swallowed the village, she found Thorne by the chapel. Breathless, she told him she’d heard something – someone - crying for help near the woods. A woman’s voice. Maybe a child. She didn’t recognize it.

Thorne frowned, suspicious. She pleaded him to help, trembling, her eyes full of tears. He followed her. They reached the tree line.

‘It came from further in,’ she said, stopping.

‘I don’t hear anything,’ he answered with annoyance.

Turning his back to her, he took a few steps into the forest.

It was all it took.

One blow to the back of the legs. He shrieked and fell forward into the dirt. She hit again. Once, twice. Bone cracked like firewood. He screamed, louder than she thought a man could. Like something wild. Like something dying.

Then her arms moved on their own.

At first, he tried to crawl, then he turned over, his arms extended to fight off.

She hit, and she hit, and she hit.

His chest. His neck. His jaw. His fingers.

She raised the axe once more.

Silence.

There was blood in her mouth. She hadn’t noticed it until then.

She looked down at his ring. Stained, clinging to that stiff finger. It still twitched. She took it. To blame someone if she was caught. Anyone.

She felt Elias’s gaze before she saw it. Burning through her skin. She lifted her eyes. He looked at her as if she were the very corpse that stood at the end of her hallway. His handsome face, distorted by horror. She couldn’t bear it. She turned her head away.

The Prophet yelled for the men to start. More hands seized and dragged her through the crowd. Her tied feet kicked; her teeth sank into the soft skin. She was screaming curses, choking on her tears. Someone struck her temple. Thunder growled in her skull. They shoved her against the pyre and bound her to the stake.

Then, came the flame.

The cleansing had begun.