Page 4 of Of Faith and Fangs
“The doctors say her lungs are nearly gone,” Mr. Brown continued, his voice flat, as if reciting facts about a stranger. “She’s so thin now. Like a bird with hollow bones.” His façade cracked slightly. “My fiery girl, reduced to this.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“The physical suffering, that’s...” Mr. Brown shook his head. “It’s terrible to watch, but it’s natural. Part of God’s plan, even if we don’t understand it. But this other matter—“ He set the portrait down carefully and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a wilted flower. “I brought this back from my last visit three days ago.”
The flower had once been white, but now it was browning at the edges, its petals curling inward like fingers forming a fist.
“She had it on her bedside table,” Mr. Brown explained. “When I asked about it, she refused to answer. So I brought it to—“ He hesitated a moment. “Other trusted Christian brothers who suggested it accords with an unholy spell. One supposed to grant the damned a kind of protection, undoubtedly by the hand of the devil’s diabolical legions. She’d... enchanted it somehow.” His voice caught on the word.
A chill that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature crawled up my spine.
“She started changing after her mother passed, “Mr. Brown continued, turning the wilted flower in his fingers. “Asking questions in Sunday service that no God-fearing girl should ask. Disappearing for hours into the woods. Coming home with strange herbs and stones.” He glanced at the portrait again. “I thought it was just grief for her mother working itself out. I was too lenient, perhaps.”
“Grief takes many forms,” I said softly, thinking of my own after Mama died. The anger, the bargaining, the long nights of prayer that felt like screaming into a void.
“But this goes beyond grief,” Mr. Brown insisted. “This is deliberate turning away from God toward... toward evil.”
I thought of the book he’d shown me in the church, those strange symbols and Latin phrases. “When did you first suspect she was practicing witchcraft?”
Mr. Brown’s eyes flicked to Daddy, then back to me. “Six months ago. I found a book under her mattress—not the one I showed you, another one. Basic spells, it claimed. I burned it immediately and prayed with her. She seemed repentant.”
“But she wasn’t,” Daddy interjected.
“No.” Mr. Brown’s shoulders slumped. “She just became more secretive. By the time the consumption struck, she was too far gone in her... dabblings.”
I remembered my nights sitting with Mama as the consumption ravaged her body. The prayers that seemed to ease her pain, if only for moments. The scripture readings that brought peace to her eyes. “In my experience,” I said carefully, “those facing death often turn toward God, not away from Him.”
“That’s what I’d hoped,” Mr. Brown said. “That she’d see the fragility of life and turn back to faith.” He set the wilted flower on the table beside Mercy’s portrait. “Instead, it’s as though she blamed God for it all, and turned instead to heresy. Worse than heresy. A heretic might be deceived into clinging to a wolf that appears as a sheep. It appears my daughter has wholeheartedly embraced the wolf itself.”
The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. In the sudden flare of light, I noticed how deeply lined Mr. Brown’s face was, how the skin under his eyes sagged with exhaustion.
“I’ve spent so many nights,” he said, staring into the flames, “trying to understand where I went wrong. How my daughter could stray so far from the path.”
“The fault isn’t necessarily yours,” Daddy said, his voice gentle for once. “The devil is cunning, and young women, belonging to the weaker sex, are particularly susceptible to his lures. It was Eve, remember, who the serpent approached first. That is his way. Men are easily seduced to evil by women—thus the devil will regularly corrupt the woman that he might through her afflict righteous men.”
I bristled slightly at that, given I read the Genesis story differently. After all, it was not good that man was alone—and this before sin came into the world. It was the only thing God had made that he’d said wasn’t good. Even a perfect man, it seems, was incomplete without a woman. Woman might have been the first deceived, but the man was altogether insufficient alone even before the snake whispered its first lies. Rather than debate the point with my father—who’d surely chastise me for challenging his paternal authority—I kept my face carefully neutral.
“Still,” Mr. Brown said, “a father is responsible for his children’s moral education. I failed her somehow.”
I thought of my long nights of prayer and scripture readings that had seemed to bring comfort to the dying. The strange peace that sometimes came over them as I prayed. Was that truly God working through me? Or just the natural surrender to the inevitable?
“I’ve heard your prayers have healed a few who’ve fallen to consumption,” Mr. Brown said suddenly, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that made me want to look away.
“I don’t heal anyone,” I blurted. “God heals. I’m just... there.”
“But you’ve never caught it yourself,” Mr. Brown pressed. “Despite tending to your mother, your cousins, and others in the congregation. Everyone says it’s a miracle.”
I shifted uncomfortably. I’d heard the whispers, of course. The speculation about why I remained healthy while others sickened and died. Some called it divine protection.
“I’ve been fortunate,” I said. The same answer I always gave.
“More than fortunate,” Mr. Brown insisted, leaning forward. “Blessed. Chosen, even.” His voice trembled. “If anyone can reach Mercy’s soul before it’s too late, it’s you.”
The weight of his expectation pressed down on me like a physical force. What if I failed? What if I couldn’t bring Mercy back to God?
“I can try,” I said. “When should I visit?”
“Tomorrow,” Mr. Brown said. “I’ve already spoken to the sanatorium. They’re expecting you at ten o’clock. They’ve arranged for you to be her roommate.”
