“Come on cadets, look at you! How do you expect to graduate, slow as you are! And you too, Miss Cadet Roman! You don’t get a pass because you’re a girl! If you want to be a witch hunter, you better run like a witch hunter! Move it, Gabriel! Move it, Roman!”

            The heckling patter was the same, and had been the same for years. Matthew Gabriel barely even noticed it anymore. He concentrated on digging his boots into the rocky dirt of the Appalachian mountain and propelled himself forward. His brown hair was plastered to his head by sweat, and the weighted backpack he was bearing––120lbs––had been grating on his shoulders, digging into his skin the last nine miles. Despite that, he was still in the lead and with only a mile left to go.

            Behind him, he could hear his age-mate, Luke Roman, panting. The other boy was trying to run him down. Matthew and Luke had been in training together since they were ten years old, and Matthew had never lost a race to Luke. There was no way that he would let that happen during his final exams. He picked up his pace and was rewarded with a wheezy curse from Luke. There was a sharp “thwack” and a brief cry of pain from somewhere behind Matthew and a sharp rebuke from the training master: “Cadet Roman, you keep your foul mouth silent! This is God’s work you’re training for!”

            “Sir, yes sir,” Luke panted out. Matthew smiled grimly and pushed himself forward. He passed the old oak, scarred by generations of witch hunters making too-narrow turns, and nearly scraped it himself, trying to cut the turn. The old oak meant one more mile. Time fell away under his feet, and the weight on his shoulders did too. One more mile and he would be free of the training master­­––forever! He sprinted forward. The finish line––scratched in the hard-packed dirt between two old posts that had stood since his grandfather was in training––was in sight. He powered towards it with the last of his reserves and crossed over the scarred earth, stumbling to a stuttering stop after a few yards. Standing patiently near the line and out of the way was a girl in traditional Enclave clothes; her dress covered her from neck to wrists to shins, her white socks, trimmed with delicate lace, were neatly folded over her ankles, and her face was shielded by a ruffled, flower-printed bonnet that matched the delicate rose shades of her dress. She was holding two metal water bottles in her pale, soft hands, which shook as Matthew approached. Matthew, fiddling with the straps on his weight-sack, didn’t notice. All 120 pounds of the sack finally came loose with a hitch, and Matthew eased it off with a near-sigh of gratitude. He took one of the girl’s water bottles, snapping it open and gulping down the water as the girl stared at him with wide eyes shaded by her deep bonnet. A faint pink blush was trailing over her pale cheeks and her pink lips quivered, then parted; she was clearly working up the nerve to say something.

            Oblivious, Matthew had already turned back to see the end of the race before she could get up the courage to speak. He was, as usual, completely ignorant of the delicate signals proffered by girls. They were all the same to him; all fair-skinned and skirted, all trailing shining hair beneath lace caps and bonnets, all soft hands and downcast eyes, hesitant smiles and whispered echoes of the Reverend’s teachings. They were all the same to him, interchangeable, except for Sarah Roman, who was even now trailing down the path towards Matthew as he watched, with Luke Roman puffing like a steam train right behind her. They were twins, both with the same height, olive skin, light grey eyes, and messy, dark brown hair. Sarah’s was long, pulled back into a braid, but aside from that, there was little difference between them––they wore the same style of army fatigues with their Army of God patches on the sleeves. The baggy shape of the fatigue jackets disguised many of their differences in body shape. Matthew watched as Luke, clearly flagging, made a desperate bid for the finish line, staggering to the lead, but he petered out too soon. Sarah flew past him gracefully, her braid whipping in the wind like a narrow victory banner. She crossed the finish line with seconds to spare and tossed down her burden, grabbing the other water bottle from the startled civilian girl and gulping half of it down immediately. Luke crossed the finish line last, red-faced, huffing and puffing, and looking murderous. Their trainer trailed him, hardly out of breath––he’d had an easy run, completely unburdened except for the correction stick he carried. He had his own water bottle, but didn’t stop for a sip. “Come on, Roman, you know the drill. You’ve lost enough races. Get those sacks up and get them back to base, double-time!”

            Luke, looking as if he would rather murder the sacks than carry them, picked up Sarah’s sack, and then Matthew’s, and began to stagger away, loaded down by 360 pounds, with their trainer still heckling him. Sarah and Matthew followed behind at a sedate pace, sipping at their well-earned water bottles. The whole process was familiar––the three had been singled out as being nearly ready for graduation for almost four months. In that time, Matthew had almost always come in first, and had never lost a race. Sarah usually came in second, and occasionally won. Luke, always overeager to push himself past his limits, usually lost, and had to cart the bags back to base, and suffer thirstily all the way there. Matthew had no doubt that Luke was the strongest of any cadet––senior or not––but he lacked any form of strategy and was usually outsmarted.

“Are you ready for the ceremony?” Sarah asked, cutting into his thoughts. Her voice was rough, and she spoke between pants. The pink-clad civilian girl trailed behind the two of them, observing Sarah with huge eyes and censorious looks.  

            In exchange, Sarah sent the girl a long, steady, challenging stare that had the girl dropping her eyes to gaze at the dirt. Satisfied, Sarah repeated her question to an oblivious Matthew.

He nodded. “I’m ready. I’m nervous, but I’m ready.”

            Sarah laughed. “Don’t be nervous. What do you have to be nervous about? You’re a Gabriel. You’re like one step from the angel himself. From the way the Reverend talks about you, you’d think your dad actually was an angel.”

            A faint flush brushed Matthew’s cheeks as he laughed nervously. Behind them, the civilian girl was giving Sarah looks of undisguised horror. Sarah was sometimes uncomfortably blunt, and her words were sometimes almost critical of the Reverend––bad enough in a man of the Army of God, but impossible to believe coming from a woman’s mouth. And Sarah was just barely a woman, perhaps not even a woman at all. The traditional marker of a woman was to be marriageable, and Sarah, as a cadet in the Army of God, was hardly that. But she wasn’t a girl, either. Matthew was sure of that, sure that no one could call Sarah a girl anymore, even though he didn’t get to spend much time with her. During training, the trainers and training masters made sure to keep them working hard enough that they rarely had time to exchange more than a few words, and outside of training, they rarely saw each other. The Gabriel family houses were on the south side of the Enclave, and the Roman compound, made up of four large family houses, was on the far edge of the north side. Their families didn’t interact much either; the Gabriels were one of the founding families of the Enclave, while the Romans had come from a failed Enclave in the Midwest only about ten years ago. It made Matthew uncomfortable that Sarah was always referring to his family status. “Just because I’m a Gabriel doesn’t mean I can’t mess up,” he muttered. “And I’d get punished for it just the same as you.”

            Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by their trainer. “Cadet Gabriel! Miss Cadet Roman! Don’t dawdle back there; you still have inspections to pass!”

            Matthew walked home from his last day of on-base training and evaluation with the family rifle slung over his shoulder and his assigned Colt M1911 in its holster at his hip. His instructor had given them a thorough inspection to make sure they’d been well-cared for, but of course, nobody in the Enclave would keep a dirty or malfunctioning gun. He’d passed all of his shooting evaluations easily, of course, as well as his fitness tests and hand-to-hand combat training. His neck was sore where Luke had gotten him in a hold earlier that afternoon, and Matthew was absently rubbing at it as he walked. Whenever he raised his arm, his jacket rustled. In his top pocket was a thick paper announcing all of his passing scores, as well as his promotion to Senior Cadet, written in the flowery and formal hand of the Enclave archivist. It was covered in stamps and seals to mark it authentic and official.

That was the first thing he showed his mother when he got home. She snatched it from his fingers with greedy joy, her eyes devouring the declarations. “Oh! Oh, honey! My darling son, the Senior Cadet!” She snatched him into a tight hug, then pushed him away. “Now dear, hurry into the shower. The ceremony is in a few hours and we don’t have the truck tonight because your uncle’s not home.” She took his guns, hanging them up in their designated positions by the door. “Now go on! Scoot!” She gestured, and Matthew went off to the bathroom, barely glancing at himself in the mirror before he stripped down and jumped into the shower.

He scrubbed himself clean, making sure he’d gotten all the mud out of his hair, but didn’t linger. His mother had set out clean, pressed fatigues, with his new Senior Cadet stripes already sewn on. He smiled as he shrugged into them, and then realized there was a box beneath them. With a confused frown, Mathew opened the small box to find an old watch. It had clearly been a pocket watch at one point, but was now attached to a worn leather band. On the back of the watch was a detailed engraving of an angel, ringed with the characters of an Angelic language. Matthew couldn’t read them––only the base archivist would be able to do that––but he could at least recognize that their intent was protective. It was the Gabriel family watch, passed down from first son to first son for four generations. He hadn’t seen it in years; the last time he’d seen it was on his father’s wrist. There was a letter folded up inside, and Matthew took it out to read it.

Dear Matthew, my son,

If you are reading this letter, then I have fallen. As a witch hunter, I knew from the time I graduated that any and every day could be my last, and that every further day was gifted to me only by the grace of God. I am fortunate to have had as many days as I have had already. There have been so many witches that came close to ending my life, but the grace and the spirit of the Lord protected me. By his divine intervention, I have had time to marry your mother, to see you born, and to see your sister born as well. I am blessed by God to have the family that I do, and the chance to continue on the Gabriel line.

Although I love Essy just as much as I do you, from the time you were young, I have always known that you would be something special. You are my heart, my first born son, and no matter how many children I have, there will never be another like you. I want you to know that I am proud of you. As I write this letter, you are ten years old and have decided to enter the witch hunter training. Although you hide it well, I know that you are nervous. But you go anyway, because you believe in the duty and honor of the witch hunters, and the sacred beliefs of the Gabriel family. You are so young, and yet so precious and good. I hope that the training program will nurture that sense of goodness and rightness in you, and make you a strong, capable warrior. We are doing great things in the world, but they are not easy, and they will never be easy. You must know, and I hope that I will be able to teach you, that the right decisions are usually the hard ones. Have courage, my son.

To aid you in your task, I have left for you the Gabriel family watch. If you are reading this letter, I am no longer here to give it to you myself on the eve of your ascension, and for that, I am sorry. I had hoped to see you step into the ranks beside me. Nevertheless, I am sure you have done well, and will continue to do well. Take this watch, with all of the Godly protection it bestows.

Love,

Your Father

“Matthew! Matthew! Are you done yet? We have to go, the meeting will be starting soon.”

Matthew put down the box and hurried to the mirror. He nervously adjusted his pressed fatigues, adding the short ribbon tie that marked its formal usage. But his formal tie didn’t seem to want to lay straight and his slicked down hair was starting to curl back up. He despaired as he shoved his feet into the boots that his mother had cleaned and shined while he was in the shower. He quickly laced them up and hurried out. As he came into the small area of the house that comprised the kitchen, living room and dining room, his mother stared at him critically. She herself was wearing one of her nicest dresses, vertically-striped with thick and thin lines in various shades of blue, grey, and white. It had a high neck and long sleeves, appropriate for a meeting, and buttons going down the side that looked like pearl. Matthew knew they weren’t, of course. Only the Abrahams had money enough to afford real pearl buttons. Nevertheless, it looked fancy enough. The hem hovered modestly near his mother’s shins with a dainty line of gleaming white lace. Her dress shoes were brightly shined as well, and her long, dishwater-blonde hair had been pulled into a low, flat bun at the back of her head. An oval of dainty blue lace covered the crown of her head and a black ribbon strip around its ruffled edge marked her a re-married widow. Matthew couldn’t help but feel proud of his mother’s cap. Some women, he knew were not eager to re-marry when widowed. Some never re-married at all. But his mother’s cap meant that she had realized her duty as a woman to being a Wife and Mother. She was as dedicated to the Army of God way of life as his father had been. His uncle still was, and Matthew spared a wish that his uncle would be here in time for this meeting, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. His mother would have to stand by for him. She had apparently taken this duty seriously, fixing him with a hard and searching look.  

 “Where’s your watch?” she demanded. “And your tie’s not straight. Come here.” Matthew came obediently, and let her fuss over him, straightening his clothes and smoothing down his hair, because that was what mothers did and he expected it. “Now go get your watch,” she said when she was done.

Matthew obediently went back to his room, his belly full of butterflies. He stopped just inside to look at the watch and the letter on the bed. His thoughts, scattered impressions of Senior Cadet, father, proud of you, flitted through his mind.

His mother snapped him out of it, calling, “Hurry up, Matthew. You know we have to walk up to the meeting site and it’s going to take us time.”

“Right, sorry,” Matthew apologized. He grabbed the watch and ran back to the front room. “Let’s go?”

They made the three-mile trek into the woods that made up part of the land owned by the Army of God. The deep thatch of tall trees hid the clearing that was used for smitings. The woods were so thick here that the light from the clearing was obscured even a few hundred feet away. When Matthew and his mother finally cleared the woods, they could see the great bonfire already blazing, lighting up the darkening sky, and the civilian congregation, along with soldiers and witch hunters of the Army of God were gathered all around it, giving it a wide berth due to the heat.

“I didn’t know there would be a sacrifice tonight,” Matthew’s mother murmured. “Aren’t you a blessed boy?” She ran one thin hand over Matthew’s shoulder in pride. Matthew, embarrassed, glanced back at the clearing.

On one side, a platform rose above the heads of the assembled mass and the highest flames of the bonfire, so that all could see the Reverend Jeremiah Abraham. Beneath the platform, the hunt-trainer, the thick-faced man in worn fatigues in charge of all the training masters, stood at parade rest. Next to him was the senior-cadet training master, and beside him stood the Roman twins. They were dressed in bright, new fatigues, as crisp and well-pressed as Matthew’s. Some of the women milling about were giving Sarah’s fatigues long looks––they were a sign that she had put off the fulfillment of womanly duty in order to stem the threat of witches, but not every woman was pleased with that. Some of the women would have been more than happy to pull the first female witch hunter in twenty-seven years out of her fatigues and stuff her into an Enclave dress and cap and marry her off to the first eligible bachelor they could find, just to set her in her ‘place’. If Sarah knew that, knew about the whispers of her name that filled the Women’s Meeting Hall on Wednesday evenings, she gave no sign, simply stared forward, expressionless. Beside Sarah, Luke Roman was staring straight ahead, his jaw hard and his eyes boring into the bright fire. Matthew imagined the bruises around his neck, delivered by Luke’s hands, throbbed at the sight of him. Suddenly, Matthew didn’t want to go over and take his place on the line of cadets that were poised to graduate. He didn’t want to stand next to Luke.

He must have hesitated too long though. Matthew felt his mother give him a little shove, and he took a few cautious steps forward, then felt a rush of courage as people recognized his face and began to part to let him through. Finally, he stood on the line next to the Roman twins. Sarah gave him a nod, but Luke didn’t bother to look at him. The hunt-trainer didn’t look at him either, but he gave a signal, and the murmurs of the congregation calmed. Behind Matthew, the old wooden platform began to creak. Matthew didn’t have to turn and look to know that Revered Abraham was ascending the narrow steps. Reverend Abraham was the only one who ever went up there. Matthew couldn’t see the Reverend now, but he had seen the Reverend often enough—at least three or four times a week—to imagine him; he would be powerful and severe in a stark black suit with a white shirt and a thin and narrow black tie. His skin was sallow, but he had a thick jaw and a large frame that belied any illness. His eyes were dark, but lit with a particular fire; the fires of God, people said. On the platform, he would be lit by the flickering, shifting light of the bonfire. The firelight would chase strange and serious shadows over his face.

“People of the Lord,” the Reverend began, his voice rolling out over the silent assembly. “We are gathered here to witness the workings of God’s Will. As he commands, Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” The assembled crowd roared with approval. Above the approving cheers, a thin scream pierced the air. The congregation slowly fell silent as the grizzled old Enclave hunt-master and his young lieutenant dragged a struggling girl into the circle around the bonfire. She was young, probably no more than thirteen, and very slight. Her clothes—Outsider clothes of tight denim pants and loose cotton shirts—hung off her frame. She looked fragile, like a bird. Matthew wondered if her bones were hollow. She was a witch, after all. She wasn’t quite human anymore, not after selling her soul for magical power and debasing herself with demons.

As she was dragged into the midst of the congregation, she looked around, wild-eyed. “Help me!” she screamed at them. “Help me! Help!” Of course, no one would meet her eyes. No one wanted a witch’s curse laid on them, nor did they want anyone to think that they might have a shred of pity for a witch. “Please!” the girl screamed. Witch, Matthew corrected himself. The witch was screaming, but no one was going to save her. This was right. This was justice. The witch struggled, but she was no match for two fully-grown men; trained witch hunters. She struggled uselessly in their grasp until the huntmaster casually punched her in the side of the head; her scream cut off with a whimper. The congregation murmured with approval.

“Quiet!” An admonition came from somewhere in the crowd, and the murmurs died off. Even the witch fell silent, but her wide and terrified eyes seemed to scream on some unheard frequency. It made Matthew nervous. She’s a witch, he told himself again. Witches have to be put to death. Witches are evil. If we don’t stop them, they’ll run unchecked and destroy America. Still, it didn’t settle his stomach to see how tiny and pale she was, so close to his sister’s size and coloring. He turned away, searching Esther—Essy, everyone called her—out of the crowd. He spotted her standing with the Benjamins—she and Leah Benjamin stood side-by-side in identical chocolate-brown, pink polka-dotted dresses. The two ten-year-old girls were in the same age-group at school, and had been working on those dresses for a month. Matthew was glad that Essy had gotten to wear her new dress—he was certain that would make her happy. At least one of them should be happy today. He frowned at the errant thought. Shouldn’t he be happy too? Hadn’t he been working for seven years for this night? He was graduating. But all he felt was a simmering unease. 

The Reverend's voice boomed over the assembled crowd. "Tonight we come not only to see God's work done, but for special purpose––to sanctify the journey of three senior cadets who will undertake their first solo mission in the name of the Lord." Cheers greeted this proclamations, and the huntmaster stepped forward, leaving his lieutenant to hold the captive witch.

"Senior Cadets!" the huntmaster barked. "Step forward!" Matthew stepped forward into the empty space that surrounded the bonfire. He could feel the eyes of the assembly on him as he lined up with Luke. "Bring the condemned," the huntmaster said quietly. He made a small gesture with his calloused hands, and the thin, pale girl was brought forward. Her eyes seemed to get wider and darker with each step she was dragged. "Senior Cadet Sarah Roman," the huntmaster barked.

She stepped forward, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, her dark braid swinging on her back. "Sir, yes sir," she answered.

The huntmaster reached out and grabbed the little witch by the hair, ignoring her whimpering. "Senior Cadet Roman, is this a witch?" he asked.

Sarah's eyes widened slightly, and despite her squared shoulders, she looked suddenly hesitant. "Um, yes?" she offered, then quickly amended with, "I mean yes, sir."

            The huntmaster leaned forward slightly. "Are you sure, Cadet?" he demanded. "If you went past this girl on the street, would you be sure?" This was a well-known ruse used to test cadets for the magic-sensing abilities that had been granted by God. The girl might actually be anybody. She could be a vagrant, or a volunteer actress from another Army of God enclave, or somebody's future wife from the Outside. If Sarah chose wrong, she might be demoted. Matthew wondered if Sarah would be able to bear the shame of being demoted. Would she give up? Or would she go back to the training camp and try again? He spared a brief, pitying thought for her. It was hard to be a female witch hunter; he was certain of that. It was natural for girls to want to be Wives and Mothers, and it was certainly a great sacrifice for those who had God's gift to put off marriage and children and do men's work. There hadn’t ever been many women witch-hunters anyway, and their gift was never as good as the men's. They were smaller and weaker too, and Matthew thought it was probably hard for them to see so much proof of original sin all over the world. He thought it must be shaming for them to have to see the proof of Eve's mistake. At least the Wives and Mothers of the Enclave didn't have to deal with seeing such shame all the time.

            He peeled his thoughts away from his pity for Sarah Gabriel’s situation just in time to hear her say hesitantly, "Yes, sir, I think so, sir."

            "I think so isn't sure!" the huntmaster barked. Sarah looked chastised, but kept her strict posture. The huntmaster dismissed her back into line with a point of his chin. The tight clench of her fists was the only signal of her feelings. "Senior Cadet Luke Roman," the huntmaster called.

            The messy-haired boy stepped forward. "Sir, yes sir," Luke barked.

            "Senior Cadet Luke Roman," the huntmaster said, his hand still fisted in the young girl's hair. "What is to be done with witches?"

            "They are to be put to death, sir," Luke responded.

            "And is this a witch, Senior Cadet?"

            "Sir, yes sir," Luke answered with calm surety.

            "And you're sure, Senior Cadet?"

            "Sir, yes sir."

            "And if I kill her, based on that surety?"

            Luke blinked, opened his mouth slightly, and then closed it again. With a grim look, the huntmaster pointed him back in line.

            "Senior Cadet Matthew Gabriel."

            Palms sweaty, Matthew pressed them flat against his crisp fatigue pants, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward. "Sir, yes sir," he said, grateful that his voice came out strong and sure.

            "Senior Cadet Gabriel, is this a witch?"

            This close, the tingle of magic raced over Matthew's skin like static electricity. There was no mistaking the feeling. "Sir, yes sir," Matthew answered.

            "Are you sure, Senior Cadet?"

            "Sir, yes sir."

            "And if it is only your word that would put her to death, would you still be sure?"

            The sharp tingle of magic was completely unmistakable, but Matthew still hesitated. "Sir, yes sir."

            The huntmaster pulled out a knife; one of the big hunting types, and pressed it into Matthew's hands. "Senior Cadet, what is to be done with witches?"

            "They are to be put to death, sir."

            "Senior Cadet, execute this crime against God and nature, and purify her body in the flames."

            "Sir, yes sir," Matthew answered automatically, but only gripped the knife, staring at the girl, who stared hard back at him, her eyes open wide, as if she could hold him off with the force of her gaze. Could she hold him off with the force of her gaze? Matthew had never done anything other than witness other witch hunters execute witches. He'd never done it himself. He’d never even been that close before. He could feel beads of sweat roll onto his forehead from beneath his hairline and drip down his face. The world seemed to shrink down to his hand, the knife in his hand, and the witch. He couldn't make himself move.

            Suddenly, a larger hand came into Matthew's field of vision, wrapped itself around the knife and his hand which was holding the knife, and drove them all together into the witch, who gasped, almost silently. Matthew watched his own hand, enclosed in the older, scarred hand, as it withdrew the knife and punched it into the witch again. This time she whimpered and slumped. She struggled weakly for a moment, looked up, and moaned, "Ochosi." Then she coughed up a spatter of blood, all over Matthew's best fatigues, and died. Matthew’s circle of vision finally widened to include the mean, craggy face of the huntmaster. 

"No hesitation," the huntmaster intoned.  "Hesitation'll put you at the mercy of one o' these creatures." His single eye rolled to stare Matthew down. "You understand me, Cadet?"

            "Sir, yes sir," Matthew whispered faintly. 

Things moved along in a daze after that––Matthew was vaguely aware of being anointed with oil by one of the deacons of the church, was vaguely aware of kneeling, along with the rest of the Army of God, as the Reverend prayed over the Senior Cadets. As if in a dream, he watched the huntmaster take something from around the girl’s neck, and then throw the dead girl into the bonfire. The Reverend began to deliver his sermon as the witch burned. 

The smell of burning flesh invaded Matthew’s nose and it almost more than he could bear. Yet he held his position in the line of Senior Cadets, determined not to be a disgrace to the family name by flinching away from a dead witch. He was a Gabriel and he had a Duty. Above him, the Reverend droned on and on as the smell of burned flesh tortured Matthew.

Finally, the sermon drew to a close and the Reverend announced, “And finally, our Senior Cadets have been assigned their first missions. Matthew Gabriel will travel to Florida and assist our Pensacola enclave with a special infiltration. Sarah and Luke Roman will visit our Fallon, Nevada Enclave to assist in excursions into California. It will be very dangerous, but these bright young soldiers of God’s army will prevail!” Another cheer went up from the crowd as Matthew digested this. He was going on a mission… to Florida? He’d never been so far from the Enclave before.

“Wonder what we’re going to be doing,” Luke muttered beside him. He sounded excited. “Hope we’re gonna burn some witches. Hope we’re gonna burn them all!”

“Cadets, dismissed!” said the training master. The Reverend descended from the platform and the congregation began to break up. Matthew was gratified to see that many people had begun to move away from the fire immediately after the conclusion of the Reverend's sermon. He shifted towards the tree line, hoping not to be noticed in the shadows. He thought his mother would be awhile—the conclusion of a meeting was generally cause for socialization, and Essy would be gathered into a group with her friends, as if they didn’t see each other every day at school. 

"You've got blood on you."  Matthew looked up.  Sarah Roman was giving him an inscrutable look.  She pointed at her own cheek.  "Right about there," she offered. Matthew looked down, offering her a glimpse of his hands, still wet with blood. 

"Ah."  Sarah looked slightly ashamed of her oversight.  "Sorry."  She rifled around in the pockets of her fatigue jacket, pulling out a few crumpled handkerchiefs. They were the sturdy gingham type that most Enclave children used to wrap their lunch in. Matthew took them with a grateful smile. "Thanks," he said, wiping at his hands. “I’ll have my mother clean them before I give them back.”       

“Don’t worry about it," Sarah said. “They’re old, just rags.” She paused while Matthew wiped at his cheek. "So, I heard your gift is really strong. The Reverend told the huntmaster it was the strongest in two generations." 

Matthew felt a faint heat rising into his cheeks. "I don't know," he said.  "I mean, I can sense them--I never... I never doubt it, when I feel it. It feels strong, like getting a static shock." 

Sarah sighed. "I wish it were so strong for us," she admitted. "Sometimes, I know for sure, but sometimes I have to take my mom or dad's word for it because I can't feel it all. To me, that girl felt... like a maybe. And... don't tell anyone, but Luke can hardly sense them at all." 

 "How can it feel like a maybe?" Matthew frowned. Either there was a touch of electricity or there wasn't... right? Sometimes there was a stronger shock, which meant more magic, and sometimes the touch was weak, which meant less magic. Maybe Sarah was talking about when the touch was very faint.

Sarah shrugged.  "I think I don't feel it the same way you do," she said. "To me, when I sense a witch, it feels like... like knowing the right answer to a test question. Like knowing that up is up and down is down. I just know. But sometimes it feels uncertain, like when you haven't studied for a test and you're not sure you picked the right answer. You know what I mean?" 

Matthew frowned, the creeping uneasiness churning in his stomach.  "Yes,” he said, even though his magic-sense didn’t work like that. But how else could he explain the doubt that was plaguing him? How else could he explain the sickness that he felt inside about killing a witch?

            “Matthew Gabriel.” Matthew looked up. The Reverend was standing just a few paces away, flanked by the huntmaster and the training master.

“Sir,” Matthew said, standing to attention. Beside him, Sarah did the same.

The Reverend moved forward, studying Matthew with sharp, dark eyes. “The Gabriels have always been some of our strongest hunters,” the Reverend said. “Your father Timothy was a terrible loss for our side.”

“Yes sir,” Matthew agreed. His father had been a great hunter, as well as a wise and compassionate man. He had taken down many witches in his life and had died in an attack on some sort of magical stronghold in Washington DC, defeated by a witch wielding hellfire. The Reverend paused as if remembering Timothy, then said, “We hope you will be up to the challenge of taking his place, Matthew.”

Matthew couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably. “Thank you, sir. I will try.”

A smile cracked the Reverend’s severe face. “Good,” he said simply, and wandered away into the crowds of the congregation, ignoring Sarah altogether.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Nice to know he cares about us Romans too,” she muttered, once the Reverend had completely disappeared into the crowds. She glanced at Matthew. “See you later, I guess.” Then she turned and walked away, her back straight and her shoulders projecting haughty irritation.

              Matthew walked through the woods behind his mother, his feet dragging in the dirt. He knew he should be walking ahead. It was his duty to act as the head of the family when his uncle wasn’t there, and to protect, lead, and guide the family, but he felt physically and mentally exhausted. He didn’t know why. He walked twice as far every morning to get to the training center next to the Enclave school, and then home again after miles of running, hundreds of pounds lifted, and hours of sharpshooting. And he was usually carrying his rifle and heavy training materials. Tonight, he was weighed down by nothing except the blood on his hands. He shook that thought away. He had wiped the blood off. It had just been a witch after all, even if she had been so very small and scared, even if he had seen the glimmer of a little gold cross around her neck. Matthew frowned down at his feet, barely visible at all by moonlight. Why was he thinking about her again? It was just a witch, and she was dead now, her body burned, her magic cleansed from the Earth. His entire life, he’d been raised in the Enclave and taught about the danger of witches. He didn’t doubt that they were wicked, evil things hell-bent on destroying the world. But he did wonder… “Cadet Gabriel, are you sure?” He had been sure. He had been unshakably sure that she had been a witch. So why was it nagging him? Why did he keep seeing his own hand stabbing into the girl, and coming away bloody?  He wanted to say something to his mother, wanted to ask her a question, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t know what he was feeling, much less how to express it. So he continued to trudge, Essy dragging her feet beside him.

            “’m tired,” Essy spoke up. She looked up at Matthew. “Carry me?”

            He did sometimes, carry her piggy-back from meetings. He had always been tall and strong, and by fifteen, he’d been as large as his father. But Essy was growing too, and at ten, she wasn’t exactly light anymore. And he was so tired. “Not tonight, Essy,” Matthew said. He reached out in the dark and brushed her hand, and she quickly latched on to it.

            “Matty,” she said—she was the only one who still called him Matty since he’d earned the rank of Cadet, but he allowed it, because she was his baby sister. “Matty, are you going away?”

            “Yes,” Matthew said. “The Reverend said I’ll be going to Florida.”

            “Florida is far away from West Virginia,” Essy observed with the wisdom of one who’d just recently been learning American geography in school. “It’s a peninsula. That means it has water all around it. How will you get there? Will you walk? Mrs. Solomon says it’s a lot of days by driving to get from the East Coast to the West Coast, so I think going to Florida will be a lot of days by driving too, so I don’t think you can walk.”

            “I won’t walk,” Matthew said, although he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to get to Florida. Maybe that was part of the test.

            Essy was excited now. “Matty, Matty,” she sang, perking up. “Will you take a train? Like the one that comes through on the edge of town? It moves so fast, Matty, and it’s so big. It must be wonderful.”

            “Where did you see a train?” Matthew asked suspiciously. “You and Leah haven’t been sneaking down to town when you’re supposed to be going to school, I hope.”

            “No!” Essy said, shocked. She stared at him for a moment, then said, “I would be too scared, even if Leah came along too. I saw the train with Daddy, when he took me to get fitted for new shoes at Mrs. Little’s store last month––”

            “He’s not Daddy!” Matthew hissed. “That’s Uncle Paul.”

            Essy looked wide-eyed, a little afraid. “But, but he married Mommy,” she said softly.

            Matthew sighed. “Just don’t call him Daddy, please Essy? Please don’t.”

            “Okay, Matty,” Essy agreed. She was quiet against his arm, so he gave her hand a little squeeze. “Tell me about your trip to town with Uncle Paul.”

            Essy perked up again. “It was when you were away at training in the woods for so long, remember? When you came back, I forgot to tell you all about it. It was so exciting! We went all over town, and I saw everything, even a television! Have you seen a television, Matty?”

            “Yes,” Matthew said briefly. “There are a lot of them around on the Outside.”

            “They’re so wonderful!” Essy said. “There are all kinds of things on them, people talking, and playing sports, and doing plays, like the shows we put on at the school.”

            “Television is bad,” Matthew said, a little sharply. “You might think it’s good, but there’s horrible things on television too. People killing each other and people doing witchcraft, and lying and cheating, and women taking their clothes off and acting like Jezebel. You don’t need to be interested in television.”

            Essy was silent for a long while, and Matthew started to feel bad. She was young, it was natural to be curious. But he didn’t want his sweet, innocent little sister to turn into one of those women he’d seen on a television with clothes that barely covered their secret bits and a never-ending supply of foul language. She was supposed to grow up to be a sweet, good natured Wife and Mother, just like their mother.

            After a moment, Essy spoke again. “I saw a lot of people too,” she offered. “People in town, I mean. There’s a doctor there, a lady doctor! I want to be a doctor, Matty.” 

            “You can’t,” Matthew said, alarmed. “Women aren’t supposed to work and do things. Women are supposed to submit to their husbands and raise children.”

            “Why?” Essy whined.

            “Because that’s what the Reverend says!” Matthew replied waspishly. “Don’t you read the Bible? It says in there.” There was a pounding in his head, like a headache, and he reached up to touch his head before recalling that he’d gotten splashed with blood. Just as quickly, he remembered that he’d already cleaned his hands, but he kept his hands by his side. He hadn’t cleaned them enough, he decided. There was probably still some blood on them. He would wash his hands again thoroughly when he got home—he didn’t want to touch his head when there might be some witch’s blood clinging to his hands or arms. He was so caught up in thinking about the blood that he didn’t realize that Essy had scurried away from him until he looked around to make sure she hadn’t been left behind. But she was clinging silently to their mother’s arm now, and their mother was walking along silently, uncomplaining of the weight of the ten-year-old girl.

            They trudged home like that, with Matthew out of sorts and ready to be snappish at any moment, but there was nothing to snap at. His mother and sister remained silent.

            When they had gotten halfway up the long, winding road that served as their driveway, Essy suddenly cried, “Uncle! Uncle Paul’s home!” She pulled away from her mother and set off at a run.

For the first time that evening, their mother spoke up. “Esther Gabriel! You slow down right now! You’ll trip over a hole in the dark and break your neck!” 

            Essy came to an abrupt halt, glancing back over her shoulder guiltily. “Yes, Mama,” she agreed, but began walking faster and faster, until eventually she was all but running again, growing brighter as she ran into the wall of light generated by the floodlights. She pushed open the heavy iron gate that blocked the opening between the high, cement-block walls that encircled their house compound. “Daddy!” she called again excitedly, letting the gate slam behind her. “Daddy!”

            There was some kind of low yell from the main house; Matthew couldn’t make it out, but Essy squealed a little and disappeared up the stairs and into the house. Matthew and his mother followed at a more sedate pace. Matthew’s snappishness had all dried up by the time he reached the gate. Now he was just nervous and anxious. What would his uncle say? Matthew hoped that he wouldn’t say anything about the dead witch. He imagined his uncle congratulating him on his first kill and shuddered. It wasn’t his kill anyway. He’d hardly done anything. He didn’t know what he would say.

His mother spoke. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

Matthew blinked, then moved forward to open the gate for her. “I’ll miss you too,” he said truthfully. Honestly, he wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to survive without his mother. How would he eat? Essy and his mother made the meals, and he ate in the cafeteria when he had to eat at the training center. He only knew how to cook food over the campfire. Matthew supposed he could do that. He might get sick of canned beans and fire-roasted meat, but he wouldn’t starve. That was something. But what about other things? Cleaning his clothes, for instance. That was a mysterious art that belonged to women alone. The only thing Matthew knew about it was that his dirty clothes were whisked away, out of the hamper, twice a week and came back pressed, folded, and smelling fresh, free of stains. Cleaning house was another mystery. He knew how to scrub, at least. It was his job to scrub out the training base workshop, and all of the Cadets were assigned some cleaning chores. Probably scrubbing floors in a house wasn’t much different. He hoped. 

            “Shut the gate, Matthew,” his mother said, unaware of Matthew’s inner turmoil. He obediently pulled the gate closed and locked it, securing the compound. The main house was lit up; the others sat dark and unused, securely locked and boarded. There weren’t enough Gabriels left to fill them. One day, Matthew would take a wife and bring the light into one of those small, dark houses. And maybe then he would have a son, and his son would move into another. Perhaps one day the Gabriel compound would be filled again. He lingered on the steps leading up to the porch, but at the doorway, his mother gave him a look, and he followed her inside, doing up the deadbolts and checking the angel seals that decorated the lintel and protected the house from witch attacks. They were fine; nothing had been scraped or filed away; they were as clear and legible as always. He could hear voices from the living room, but he hesitated, distracting himself with checking minutia until he couldn’t justify himself anymore and peeped in from the main hall.

            Paul Gabriel, Matthew’s uncle, was stretched out on the couch, wearing battered fatigue pants. His fatigue jacket and black shirt were neatly folded and tucked beneath his head, propped on one arm of the couch. His boots were sitting neatly next to the couch, his socked feet propped up on the arm of the couch (it was slightly too short to accommodate Paul’s tall frame). Essy was kneeling on the floor next to him, chattering excitedly. The huge first-aid kit was set out in front of her, opened to display its neatly stored contents, and Essy was tending to some nasty scrapes and burns that ran up his arms and over his chest and neck.

            “Are you okay?” Matthew blurted out.

            Paul tilted his head and smiled. He looked disconcertingly like Matthew’s father when he smiled.  “Ah, the man of the hour! Come and let me see you, son.” Matthew drew closer obediently and let his uncle take in his new fatigues, his blood-spattered shirt, and his dusty boots. “Heard you got your assignment.”

            “Yes sir.” Matthew paused. “Did you know?”

            “Of course I knew,” Paul said. “I’m your father.”

            Matthew frowned and Paul amended, “Stepfather,” with an easy smile that Matthew didn’t return. Uncle, Matthew silently corrected. Paul would always be his father’s brother to him, even if Paul had married his mother.

            Paul tilted his head to smile at Essy, even though he was speaking to Matthew. “Well son, I guess you better go and get packed.”

            “You should pack a swimsuit,” Essy said, with the bossy authority of a novice scholar. “There’s a lot of water in Florida. Lakes and rivers and the ocean.”

            Matthew frowned, but Paul said, “He won’t have time to play around in the water, Esther. He’s going to do God’s work.” He looked up at Matthew. “Isn’t that right, son?”

            Matthew nodded. “Yes sir.”