Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set

by Bridget E. Baker

  The audience stands up to cheer this time.

  Rosa rises to her feet and takes her microphone in her hand. “You're not a supplicant asking for forgiveness, but possibly our new leader. God will forgive the mistakes we make, but that doesn't mean we qualify to manage God's people. I hardly think quips and joke provide evidence that you're prepared and able to lead us in difficult times.”

  Sawyer Blevins leans forward in his seat. “And yet, a sense of humor can help us through difficult times and can be a real blessing. How about we proceed with the test and see how she does?”

  Rosa frowns and sits down. I don't think I'll be scheduling a trip to go dancing with her in Miami any time soon.

  “The last question for your first round is this,” Sawyer says. “Many of the Psalms are called 'Messianic.' What does that mean?”

  Messy? Anic? I raise my eyebrows. “They aren't clean when you read them, or maybe that means they aren't clear? Because I read some this afternoon and I had no idea what they were saying.”

  Sawyer shakes his head. “I’m sorry but that’s not correct. It indicates they relate to Christ and his mission as the Messiah.”

  The next few questions don't go my way either. Even though Quentin and Steve try to lob me some softballs, it's clear I don't know anything about the Bible. I try not to make jokes, but sometimes the audience laughs anyway. They don't stand and cheer, not since Rosa's reprimand, but it's almost like I know them and they're pulling for me.

  Twenty questions later I've only answered two more right, for a total of five correct and twenty-two wrong. I'm definitely doomed.

  The fabric around my armpits is darker than the rest of my dress from sweat. Ugh. Not that it will matter when I'm headed for the same incinerator I fed my biological father to this morning. I'm supposed to wait for Wesley, but I can't wait any more. It's time. I'll have to trust that he comes through so I can pull this off.

  Sawyer Blevins opens his mouth to ask my next question, but I talk over him. “This all happened too fast for me to prepare for a test like this.”

  Rosa says, “Your father made no proviso for timing.”

  “True,” I bark, “and you lot jumped at the chance to do it immediately, knowing that the time was up to you. Knowing that if I fail this test, of which you are the authors, I will die and the scattering of my ashes will name one of you to rule in my place. Regardless, this isn't about my lack of knowledge of Bible trivia or even Bible basics. David Solomon's edict states that the purpose of this test is to determine whether God has chosen me, and whether I will bend to God's direction when it matters.”

  “That is true.” Rosa raises one carefully manicured eyebrow. “And so far I'd say you've indicated you're not very receptive.”

  Something inside my heart expands and words pour out unchecked. “God doesn't care about trivia. I can't say I know God all that well, and I certainly haven't prayed very often in my life. I’ve read the Bible even less as you’ve made abundantly clear. But the night my father died, we discussed the state of affairs in our world. We talked about the future of those children who were Marked, and the ones who had survived by suppressing their bodies' natural processes. Children who were left parentless, resourceless, and without guidance.” I turn to face the audience. “Children my father left to starve and die.”

  I pause and stare into the faces of my people. No one is laughing now. The Port Heads don’t say a word either.

  Finally I continue. “My father intended for those children to die at WPN's hand. He called his plan a Cleansing. He may have been God's instrument at one point and he may have led you all to where you are now. You’re safe, prosperous, and healthy and I’m sure that’s a good place to be, comfortable even. I honestly don't know about all of that because I wasn't here. I laud him for saving all of your lives, but King Solomon was dead wrong in his plan to kill a hundred thousand people. If God decided it was time to replace him, that’s the reason.”

  Again, I scan the audience. Every face is solemn. No one is mocking me, no one is laughing, and no one is booing.

  “God very clearly spoke to my heart that night. Those children aren't guilty for their parents' decisions, whether they were right or wrong. They deserve our pity and our help, not our condemnation. After I'm crowned there will be no Cleansing. Instead we will provide help and support to those who have been Marked. The suppressant's failing and they're dying soon. I know it's scary to all of you, like having a rabid dog at your door. Your fear tells you to put the dog down any way possible. Shoot it between the eyes if you have to, but these Marked children, they aren't dogs, they're people just like you and me. If we can find a cure for their illness, and I believe we can with God’s help, we'll work to distribute it. If not, we will not put them down. We'll ease their suffering as God wants us to.”

  Sawyer stands, his face bright red. “The Cleansing was revealed as God's will to all of the Port Heads. We are God's chosen leaders. We are administering this test, and as much as it saddens me to see my own first cousin once removed performing so miserably, I think the results of this test have been clear. You're in over your head and you didn't take the offered lifeline from any of us. You lack the experience, the knowledge, and the humility to lead these people by God’s direction.”

  I toss my head. “Do I? God protected me when I was taken by the Marked recently. My father prayed for my protection, and God listened. I walked among them and as you can see, I am unmarked still. I didn't contract Tercera then, and I can't contract it now because I'm God's chosen. Instead of this test constructed by power-hungry men, I demand a Trial by Fire. And when I survive it, God will tell me which Port Heads are still listening to him so I can replace the ones who aren’t.”

  A gunshot sounds outside the Assembly Hall and all heads turn toward the back doors.

  Adam speaks quietly into his walkie. “Yes, bring them inside.”

  The back doors open. Wesley, bless him, walks through them, perfectly timed.

  “Your guards refused to let me inside until I threatened them rather dramatically, but there's a Marked child here who has a message. He claims it's for the ruler of WPN and he claims it's urgent.”

  I point at Wesley. “Move aside and let him speak.”

  When Wesley steps aside, I'm surprised to see a young man with hair black as night and skin as pale as bread dough. Where's Rafe?

  “Your majesty,” a small, high voice yells. “I had a dream last night and an angel told me to come across the bridge and deliver a message to you. He said I was supposed to touch your face, and that God would keep you safe. He said you needed me to help you so you could help all of us.”

  Josephine walks up the steps and onto the stage. She looks from one end of the Assembly Hall to the other. “I believe my daughter is entitled to a Trial by Fire, and I believe it should be performed by exposing her to Tercera. It may not kill as quickly as fire, but it burns through the body's defenses and kills just as surely as flames. If she remains healthy and uninfected in spite of the contact with someone infected, God's will is clear. Do you agree?”

  The audience goes wild.

  The young boy walks up the aisle slowly, the people around him bending as far away from him as they possibly can. This young boy is brave, with a stronger heart than the one that beats in my chest. He faces straight forward and walks, step by small step toward me, never looking to the side, never flinching. He walks up the steps at the front of the stage and past the tables. Here on the raised platform though, he turns.

  He looks at each Port Head in turn. “Would you stand still while I touched each of you, trusting in God's power to protect you? Would you survive a Trial by Fire?”

  He reaches his hand toward Sawyer's face, and grand old Port Head Blevins scrambles backward, knocking his chair over. He turns toward Quentin, who holds up both hands and shakes his head. When he reaches for Rosa, she shrieks and claws at the table to shove away from him.

  The young boy turns toward the audience. “R
emember this, that Ruby Solomon has more faith than any of these educated and polished Port Heads.”

  I cringe a little when I hear him say my name is Solomon, but I’m sure any onlookers assume I’m nervous about being touched, so maybe it’s good. Obviously Wesley told him to call me that, to remind the people whose daughter I supposedly am, to help transfer their inexplicable love for him to me.

  He turns and walks the last few steps to reach me. He points at his forehead. “This is my Mark. I've had it for ten years now.” He shoves up his sleeves and holds up his arms. “You can see that I've progressed to second year symptoms. I have sores on my arms, my legs and my torso.” He turns back toward me and reaches out tentatively. His palm hovers inches from my face, but I don't fear his touch. I may not trust in God, but I trust my father. I lean toward his hand and press my face into it.

  The audience lets out a collective sigh.

  “How will we know whether she survives this?” Terry Williams asks. “It's not like fire or lions, where tomorrow morning will make her fate clear.”

  I smile. “It's not, that's correct. If you're all satisfied that this brave young man is Marked, I recommend we release him to return home with gratitude for his willingness to answer God's request.”

  The Port Heads nod. They can't get rid of him fast enough. Only now, they're looking at me the same way. Like I'm infected, like I'm dangerous, like they might die from breathing the same air as me.

  “I'll walk carefully to whatever hospital you'd like to designate and wait until an appropriate amount of time has passed. You may draw my blood and examine it, or scrape my skin cells and examine those, to verify that I am not infected.”

  “Three days,” Sawyer Blevins says. “The Unmarked quarantine people for three days, don't they?”

  I nod.

  “I'm happy to extend the seven of you the time you didn't offer me before this test.” I turn toward the audience. “In three days' time, on Saturday at eight in the evening, you'll have your answer. In the meantime, I'm afraid this means I won't be present for my dear father's memorial tomorrow.” I suppress a smile at my cleverness in escaping that torturous event. And I realize with glee, no one will be doing a fitting on me between now and then either. “I look forward with great joy to my coronation, which I'll reschedule for Sunday morning.”

  The Port Heads nod and the crowd cheers. “See you Sunday,” one voice calls out. “Long live Queen Ruby,” another yells.

  I walk down the steps and back toward the limousine, maintaining careful distance from all of my guards, Sam, and my mom. It's a tight fit in the car with me on my own row. I doubt Sam and Adam will ever want to talk about how close they sat to one another, but we make it work. Wesley rushes toward us before Adam can close the car door.

  “Wait, let him inside,” I say. “He should likely be quarantined too, with as close as he was to the Marked boy.”

  Wesley nods, and slides over next to me. “I think that went well.”

  I smile. “Me too. You had me sweating, though.”

  Wesley whispers. “When I got there, they were all gone.”

  “Is that why you didn't bring Rafe?”

  Wesley nods. “Cleared out. He's back in Baton Rouge already.”

  I swear.

  “What's wrong?” Sam asks. “You know you're safe.” He glances at Adam. “I mean, we have faith that God will protect you again.”

  I nod. “I believe that, I really do, but without Rafe here . . .”

  Sam curses when understanding dawns.

  “You'll never make it to Baton Rouge by Saturday,” Wesley says. “You won't even be crowned until Sunday.”

  I managed to outsmart the Port Heads and thwart David Solomon's attempt to reach out and stop me from the grave. I can finally stop the Cleansing and get the Marked the help they need.

  But if Rafe doesn't see reason, my cleverness may cost Rhonda her life.

  5

  Quarantine’s a nuisance, and the irony of being in quarantine with Wesley this time isn't lost on me. “You know.” I play an ace of spades and take his king. “I had to sit in a stupid room like this all by my lonesome last time, reading my dad's boring old journals thanks to you.”

  Wesley takes my five of diamonds with a six.

  “That's just rude.”

  “I don't make the rules, I only win by following them better than you.” Wesley grins. “That feels like years ago, not weeks. I'm sorry you got stuck in quarantine alone. I screwed up a lot back then.”

  “Not anymore?” I roll my eyes.

  “Well, I wasn't going to toot my own horn, but now that you mention it. I went to find Rafe, as ordered, and found a whole lot of nobody. Did I panic? No, I did not. I calmly raced over to the maternity ward, and luckily found a small team scavenging for medical supplies they’d left behind. And I think he handled the story I fed him with aplomb. The kid could be an actor if we get them all healed up.”

  “I am glad you didn't throw in the towel when you realized Rafe was gone. I'd be a pile of ashes a bunch of power hungry nut jobs were diving for instead of playing spades while skipping David freaking Solmon’s memorial service. Thanks for that.”

  Wesley beats me, again, but this time when he starts shuffling, I stand up. I pace from one end of the room to the other. “I can't play another hand of cards.”

  “Wow, I never knew you were such a poor loser,” Wesley says.

  I spin around. “I can't stand it, sitting here while Rhonda's staring at a clock, hoping Rafe doesn't kill her. I'm sure she's wondering where I am. I don't understand why the physicians can't just test our blood and see that we're not infected.”

  “You know why we haven't pushed for that,” Wesley reminds me.

  Because if they find the antibodies at ten times the normal level in my blood, that might lead to questions. If they find my dad's journal, which I'm unwilling to destroy, well the whole thing might come out and we'd likely all be shot for deception. Or lack of faith in God. I'm unsure which one they'd consider to be more egregious.

  “You need to calm down and be patient,” Wesley says.

  “I can't be patient. I thought I killed her once before when Rafe's goon Todd captured us. She stayed in my place then, and I can't let her die for me again.”

  “She didn't die then, and she won't die now. Rafe's an angry guy because he has reason to be, but he's not stupid. He needs you and shooting your sister isn't going to motivate you, not like he wants.”

  “He's desperate and if he doesn't kill Rhonda, we'll know he won't kill Job. He can't bluff the first hand, Wes.” I bite my lip and bang on the wall.

  Wesley, unconcerned about my fear, flops back on his twin bed. “Don't be so melodramatic.”

  We're lucky this time. Our room has actual beds with thick, fluffy mattresses, which is a significant improvement over the cots in Port Gibson. Actually it’s much better than what we had in this room only last week when loony David Solomon locked me in with Wesley for being insouciant. It feels strange to be in the very same building where Solomon tried to teach me a lesson about discipline. This one's outfitted differently, with a Plexiglas window we could draw curtains on for seeing people who come to visit, and a tray on the floor that can slide open for the provision of food.

  I stomp. “My frustration isn't melodrama Wes, it's an appropriate level of drama for the situation.”

  He sighs. “We sent a messenger explaining the details and Rafe will be reasonable. Obviously you can't control what WPN decides you have to do before the coronation. He's impatient and he wants to make progress toward a cure, but he's not going to kill Rhonda. You may dislike Todd, but the guy is smart and Rafe listens to him. He used to work for Solomon, actually. He'll talk Rafe out of shooting his leverage.”

  “He'd still have Job.” I continue to pace in the small room, walking from the foot of my twin bed back to Wesley's. They offered us private rooms in case we worried about cross contamination or wanted privacy, but we both wanted compa
ny. “Rafe meant what he said. It wasn't a threat.”

  When I hear tapping coming from the large square Plexiglas enclosure in the wall, I turn. Sam waves. The low rumble of his voice is muffled, but it penetrates well enough for me to understand him. “I hope my little brother isn't that insane. Rafe's been through a lot, but I really hope Wesley’s right this time. You did the right thing, so try to stop fretting about it.”

  Sam's not pleased that Wesley and I are stuck in quarantine together, but Wesley had to find the Marked kid to be on hand for my Trial by Fire, and that means he had to “save” him when the boy followed him back to the island. Wesley was exposed, according to what they know, and might be Marked.

  Sam tried to wait with me in here too, but Wesley appropriately pointed out that we need someone on the outside making sure things are moving ahead properly. Josephine's competency has improved dramatically since shooting her husband, and she seems to genuinely care for me. She's even come around on the subject of the Cleansing, but she's not very decisive or capable in a crisis. As Chief Fancy Pants of the military, or at least interim Chief Fancy Pants, Sam has access to nearly everywhere on the island. Plus he’s Sam, so people listen when he talks.

  Josephine's head pops up next to Sam's, which tells me the funeral service has ended.

  “I hope the proceedings were touching and provided everyone the closure they needed.” I don’t care actually, but she won’t realize that.

  Josephine probably means for her smile to be encouraging, but it makes her look a little unhinged. I don't think she spent much time smiling over the past twenty years. Maybe she's forgotten how, or perhaps her jaw's rusty from disuse.

  “It was a beautiful service.” She wipes away a tear. I'd be impressed with her acting skill, except I know she's not acting. She really does mourn her late, and very abusive, husband.

  “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

  Josephine puts her palm to the glass, and I wonder if she imagines I'm going to place mine next to it, like I'm longing to share in some form of mutual grieving over Solomon's passing. If so, she's going to be sadly disappointed. I’m not grieving and I don't need comforting, at least, not over that.