by Bobby Adair
“William! Stop!”
She ran faster, pushing her legs to the point of cramping. Her heart pounded. Her stomach turned end over end.
Why was William running? Why wouldn’t he stop? She scanned the forest—left, right, and behind—but saw nothing. What had spooked him?
Had he seen something she hadn’t?
Whatever it was, she’d protect him from it. She’d do whatever it took to keep him safe. William was all she had left.
She kept on, ignoring the stitches in her side. Her lungs heaved for air. Her legs begged for respite. Run. Faster.
A sound rose from the forest.
A child’s voice.
It was William, and he was calling out to someone. Who was he talking to?
She looked around as she ran, trying to keep pace with William’s wild strides. He darted between trees, leaping over brush. She shouted again, with as much volume as she could muster.
William ground to a halt, as if her voice had snapped him from some animal trance. His shoulders rose and fell as he turned and faced her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
William stared at her, but didn’t answer. She continued toward him. With each footstep, her anxiety faded. In its place grew a swell of anger.
“Don’t ever do that to me again! You hear me?”
She opened her mouth to scold him further, but stopped when she saw the guilty look on his face. His curly brown hair clung to his forehead; his eyes roamed the forest floor. She took him by the shoulders, softening her tone.
“Why’d you take off like that, William? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
William didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the ground.
“Look at me when I speak to you!” Ella demanded.
The boy refused, and she felt her anger return. Her son had disobeyed her. On top of that, he wouldn’t even dignify his behavior with an explanation. If he didn’t answer her soon, she’d—
“I saw Dad.”
Ella’s face went slack. In the second between question and response, the boy met her eyes. She stared at her son’s face, hoping to rekindle her anger, but all she felt was sorrow. Ethan—the boy’s father—had died almost a year ago.
Her eyes welled up as she studied William.
Her husband was gone, but reminders of him were alive in her son—his nose, his mouth, his jaw line.
“Daddy’s gone, honey.” She tried to control the waver in her voice. “You know that. We both know that.”
“But I saw him. He was waving at me through the trees.”
Ella stared past him. The forest was quiet and still.
Of course Ethan wasn’t out there. She’d watched him burn.
“It wasn’t him, William.”
“But I—”
“Remember what Daddy said? Remember how he told us to be strong, like the others?”
William nodded. She could see the memory pass through his face. It was the same memory she’d clung to since Ethan had died—the one that had helped her through many sleepless nights. The one that had helped assuage her guilt, pulling her out of the dark depression that had threatened to consume her.
It was better to remember Ethan’s final words than to think of his last moments: the torches, the fire, the crackle of his burnt skin. The chanting of the townsfolk as they drowned out his screams, sending him off to whatever god they believed in.
She’d stopped believing in anything that day.
Sure, she still said the words when everyone else said the words. She listened to Father Winthrop. She nodded. She knelt. She mimicked the motions of hands. But she’d disconnected the meanings from the sounds, the faith from reality, and she’d given up on her old beliefs.
The only thing keeping her alive now was William.
She looked back at her son. His eyes drifted across the landscape, as if hoping the forest would reveal his father. His face was stained with tears, and she realized her face was wet, too. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said.
He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips quivered and closed. She pulled him against her, letting him bury his head in her shoulder, trying to fill the gap his father had left behind. If only Ethan had been more careful.
If only he hadn’t been infected...
She brushed her hands through her son’s hair, doing her best to console him. His muffled sobs drifted between the trees, and his thin gasps stabbed at her heart. She rubbed his back.
Then she felt it.
Ella’s hands stopped moving, and her breath lodged in her throat. Was she imagining things now? She moved her eyes from his back to the forest, as if it would reveal some clue, some proof that she was in a new nightmare.
But she wasn’t. At least, she didn’t think she was. She could feel her son breathing in her embrace, and she could feel the thud of two heartbeats between them.
She moved her fingers again on his back, slowly this time, hoping she’d been mistaken. But the lump was still there, at the base of his neck. Calcified, knotted, and ugly. Just like Ethan’s had been.
Her heart seized in her chest.
The boy hadn’t been imagining things, after all.
He’d been delusional, but for a reason.
“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Not my son.”
Chapter 2: Father Winthrop
“Why do we Cleanse only the women and children?”
Father Winthrop looked at the boy, reconsidering his decision not to beat him. He turned to his elder novice. “Franklin, the boy is tiring me. Tell him the words.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You and the boy dress yourselves,” said Father Winthrop, “The Cleansing awaits.”
Franklin bent down, picking up Oliver’s pants and pressing them into the boy’s hands. “Put them on.”
Oliver looked down at his naked body, turned his elbow up for a better view, and rotated his wrists slowly in front of his face. “I’m clean, right?”
“Yes,” Franklin answered.
That was one of the things that continually impressed Father Winthrop about Franklin. He was always patient with the boy. Indeed, he was patient with all of the ignorant townsfolk. That patience extended into a talent for planting knowledge and cultivating thought in the barren soil of their minds. He’d even shown a special aptitude for turning their pointless questions back on them in an effort to make them understand how all things good stemmed from the virtues of The Word.
On the other hand, Oliver, as dim-witted as he was, was only half as ignorant as the dirt scratchers and pig chasers who put their butts on the benches morning after morning, moon after moon. There was still hope he could be trained.
After finishing with his clothes, Franklin began his recital of the words Father Winthrop had taught him. “The hearts of men are hard as stone. The man has no need of the tear. The man has no need of the lie. The man has no weakness. The man kills. The man dies. That is the boon and the burden of the man.”
Leaving the two at the top undone, Oliver fastened the remaining buttons on his shirt. He swung his hands down to his sides.
“Come here, Oliver.” Franklin smiled and reached over to button the last two.
Oliver looked up at him. “But I like them unbuttoned.”
Franklin shook his head.
Ignoring the issue of Oliver’s buttons, Father Winthrop put the boys back on track. “Where were we, Franklin? The subject of women next, I believe.”
“Women are weak,” Franklin droned. “Women must be weak to love a baby enough to hold it to their breast. Women’s hearts must be weak to sacrifice for their children. Women must be weak to take the seed of the man. Because women are weak, a woman cannot keep the truth. Love triumphs over truth. So a woman’s words are lies.”
“Wait a minute,” Oliver interrupted again. “Women lie and men do not?”
“Yes,” Franklin replied.
Already distracted from what they’d been talking about, Oliver turned to look thr
ough the window at the nervous crowd outside.
“Listen, Oliver,” Franklin said. “You need to know this. Okay?”
Oliver refocused and smiled.
Maybe Oliver really IS simple, Father Winthrop thought, reconsidering his earlier position. If I hadn’t promised the boy’s father just before the man died, I’d probably turn him out to the field.
With the boys finished dressing, Father Winthrop walked to the door and the boys followed.
“I don’t understand,” Oliver said to Franklin, as they approached the door. “We’re men. Why do we have to be Cleansed?”
“When boys age seventeen years, their hearts become hard like stone. Until then, boys are not men. They are not women either. But they cannot be trusted. They must be Cleansed. Father Winthrop Cleanses us. The only people excused from the ceremony are men who are of age and too busy with their work. You know this, Oliver.”
Oliver stopped and put his hands on his hips. “But that’s what I don’t understand.”
Father Winthrop swung the heavy wooden door open. His patience was at an end. In a voice harsher than usual, he asked, “What is it, Oliver? What don’t you understand?”
“Why can’t a husband Cleanse his wife and children the way you have Cleansed us?”
Father Winthrop looked at Franklin, redirecting the question.
“Um—”
Father Winthrop shook his head. “You should know this, Franklin.”
“I don’t remember the words.”
“As long as you know the meaning, the exact phrasing isn’t necessary. Not yet.”
Father Winthrop looked at Oliver. “The weakness of a woman can soften the stone of a man’s heart. In soft stone, lies can live.”
“You mean men can lie?” Oliver asked.
Father Winthrop shook his head. “Outside with you.”
The boys proceeded through the door.
Walking on, Father Winthrop added, “Best not to let the temptations of a woman soften the stone of a man’s heart. Not all men can resist a woman who urges him to lie.”
“Why?” Oliver asked again.
“You’ll see when you get older,” Franklin told him, as though it were a secret.
The pair ascended the stairs on their elder’s heels. Once on the dais, Father Winthrop crossed a dozen steps and greeted the two men already seated there. “General Blackthorn. Minister Beck.”
“Good of you to finally arrive, Father.” Minister Beck smirked when he said it.
Ignoring the jab, Father Winthrop ensconced himself in his chair to the left of General Blackthorn. He looked out over the thousands of women. Some had children’s hands clutching at their skirts; a few were too old to have children young enough for Cleansing. The men of the township were not in the crowd around the Cleansing stone that stood at the center of the square. A few lingered along the edges, standing near their wives. Most were perched on rooftops or hung out of windows, silently watching, judging. But, Father Winthrop suspected, mostly lusting.
Murmurs ran through the crowd. They shuffled more than usual. They were nervous.
Along with Minister Beck and General Blackthorn, Father Winthrop had presided over the ritual twice annually for thirteen years. In that time, he’d learned to read the mood. Either they could sense the unclean or smudged among them, or they’d seen for themselves when a shameless one of them had exposed her soiled skin. When that happened, the chasers and scratchers never came forward. But the rumors would spread. They’d hide in the crowd, hoping to mask their secret in their numbers.
They didn’t know their nervousness told their secret to anyone who was paying attention.
Didn’t they know they were endangering everyone in the township? Maybe the selfish dullards didn’t care.
Franklin took up his position behind Father Winthrop. Oliver stood next to him.
An armed man walked across the platform and stopped in front of General Blackthorn. “Shall we begin, General?”
“Yes. Please,” answered Blackthorn.
The armed man turned to face the thousands in the square. “Begin The Cleansing.”
The women and children fell silent.
A white stone platform stood just a few dozen feet in front of the dais—ten feet long, with stone steps leading up on one side and down on the other. At the foot of the stairs three tables had been erected. Behind those were the takers of the Cleansing census, whose job it was to ensure all the women and children in the township came forward and were counted.
A woman approached the bottom of the stairs. She’d already disrobed, and she handed her clothes to a young girl next to her. One of the census takers scribbled something in a book.
The woman stared straight ahead, her eyes wide and vacant. She climbed the steps to the top of the platform. She crossed to the center and raised her arms, then spun slowly, no expression on her face.
The crowd looked on in silence. Each knew their turn was coming.
After a full rotation, the woman proceeded toward the stairs at the other side of the platform, where several men in white waited to inspect her more closely. They went to work with practiced hands, examining her body not just for color, not just for warts that protruded, but also for the unnatural hardness of the unclean bumps before they made themselves visible.
Another naked woman—a young, shapely girl of no more than sixteen—walked up the steps on the other side of the platform and the process proceeded.
Father Winthrop heard Franklin’s breath quicken behind him. He turned and whispered over his shoulder. “Don’t let your lust blind you to the gravity of our duty here, my son. For the preservation of all, we must ensure that these weak women are clean.”
Chapter 3: Ella
“Where are we going, Mom?” William asked, his eyes wide.
Ella didn’t answer. She continued stuffing the belongings from their house into two bags, her mind spitting thoughts faster than she could process them.
“William, get me the water flasks from the storeroom.”
“Why?”
“Do it now, William.”
“But—”
“I mean it. No more questions.”
William opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when he saw the look on her face. She watched him dart across the room and to a smaller room on the other side. Ella returned to the bag. She tried to envision what was going on at the town center, but the image only frightened her further.
Relax. They’re probably just starting the line. You have plenty of time to pack, plenty of time to leave. No one will notice until you’re gone—
“Mom? I can’t find the flasks.”
“They’re over by the drying board.”
The line will take most of the afternoon. The women will climb the steps when the sun hits its apex—
“I don’t see them.”
“They’re there, William!”
—and then they’ll spin in a circle and move to the inspectors. And then—
“I still can’t find them.”
“William! Dammit!”
Ella stood up and flung the bag against one of the stone walls. The contents spilled to the floor, blankets falling into heaps and herbs into misshapen piles. She buried her head in her hands and started to sob.
William fled the storeroom and knelt by her side, his hands tight on her arm. “What’s wrong, Mom?”
“I’m sorry, honey. It’s not your fault,” she managed, between the tears. She lifted her head and blotted her face with the sleeves of her dress. “We just need to hurry.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“I told you. We’re taking a trip.”
“Won’t they miss us at The Cleansing?”
She looked into his face, wishing she could will away the years of ritual and lies that had been implanted in his brain. But they were already ingrained in him, hidden behind innocent eyes, adhered to his memory. The Cleansing was as much a part of him as it was of her.
I don�
��t care what they think! I don’t care what they do! Ella wanted to scream.
Instead, she replied calmly. “I’ve cleared it with Father Winthrop. We’ll be fine.”
If they were caught, she’d take the blame. She’d even jump into the fire first, if she needed to. Anything to protect her son.
She collected both her belongings and her thoughts, tucking them away for later. Then she walked William over to the storeroom, locating the flasks. They were right where she’d put them, placed between the drying board and a sack of grain.
She tucked the flasks and some food into the two bags, tested the weights of each, and handed him the lighter one.
“Here you go, William.”
He slipped the bag over his shoulder. It hung from his back like a second body, and she found herself thinking how small he was for his age. Eleven years old and barely as tall as his peers, too skinny for chickenball and too short for the gridiron.
And now he’ll never live to play those games.
STOP IT, ELLA.
She stared at the boy, envisioning the lumps underneath his clothes. How many were there? She still hadn’t had time to do a full inspection.
Even one lump was enough to convict him.
She’d been tight-lipped since she’d discovered it. There was no need to alarm him. She wasn’t even sure if the boy knew what was happening.
“Come on, sweetie,” she said, tugging his hand.
When they reached the door, she took a last look behind her. The room was virtually empty. Two bedrolls sat on the floor, stripped of their sheets. The storeroom door hung open in the corner.
The place looked vacant already. They hadn’t had much to begin with.
She wondered how long it would take for her house to be auctioned. When the officials discovered her gone, they’d seize the rest of her belongings and sell them to the highest-bidding merchant. Perhaps some street dweller would scrape up enough silver to purchase her small home. Her eyes welled up at the prospect of losing it. She’d built it with Ethan.
In just a year, she’d lost everything—her husband, her home, and her faith.
