Paul told her to check on Rebekah, right before he left. And to stay out of trouble. She’d done neither. Him gone a few hours, and already Ruth is in for it.
“Forgive me, Paul,” she says.
Where could Rebekah even be? Ruth peers down the black tunnel. Could she be haunting the Mission Pole ladder, waiting on Paul’s return? A stillness. Silence. Ruth would know if someone was down there. Wouldn’t she?
She steadies her nerves. Father will dole it out, and she can take it. Reflections is rougher on the mothers, everyone knows. She can’t bear to see Rebekah suffer, especially now in her great distress. For when Father Ernst must punish a mother, it’s a terrible, terrible thing.
CHAPTER 7
The temperature dips and relents. Paul wipes sweat from his forehead and lowers the shovel. He’s dug a hole about a foot deep and placed a large tin can at the bottom. Then he filled the hole around the can with scrub vegetation pulled from the sand. Now he places a piece of clear plastic over top to trap the condensation. He buries the edges, lines them with stones to hold the can and the plastic tarp in place. Last, he sets a palm-sized rock in the centre, above the can, so the drops will run and collect in the tin. By the time he returns from the forest, it should be full of drinkable water. Next, he wraps a plastic bag around a leafy low branch of an ash tree, then duct tapes it securely. This, too, should produce water for drinking. He’d set more water traps but he didn’t bring any more plastic sheeting with him, and even this light activity is draining. Paul needs to rest.
If he finds thistles and removes the thorns, he can chew on the stalks to relieve thirst. Or cut into a wild grapevine with his sharp knife—that will produce actual water. Survival tips ricochet through his mind, but he must focus. Mistakes happen when you’re jumpy, and even one error can be fatal. The rule of three—Paul’s father drilled it into them: three weeks without food, three days without water, but even three hours of exposure can be fatal.
Paul lies on the kill-house floor beside the Ruger Scout, sleeping and waking in starts. Light dulls in the cracks around the door when he opens his eyes. And when he closes them, his dreams ooze blood memories, offal, the terror of animals come to slaughter. That final culling was mythic. Hens, turkeys, grouse, partridge, one after the other, killed on this very stone, plucked clean and cut up and frozen before they went to ground. A dozen pigs. Three cows. It took days, around the clock. They were to run off the dogs or shoot them, drown the cats. If even one loyal or desperate animal was observed on their scent trail, it could give the bunker away. It was a massacre.
“Forgive us,” Paul whispers to the shadows. But why should they?
Father Ernst sold the horses except for their one great stallion that he gifted, along with the donkey, to a neighbouring farmer. Advance apology. The horse cost a lot, but not even close to meeting the damages of an invading military, the inconvenience of cross-examinations and government suspicions.
Paul sets the magazine upright on the floor beside him. He holds the base of the top cartridge down with one hand and slips the next cartridge into the magazine with the other, and so on, until it is full. Ten rounds. A few bullets left in the box. Hopefully he will not have to reload out in the open. He polishes the grey laminate with a cloth, wipes the custom eighteen-inch barrel. It is smooth and comforting under his fingers. His dad chose the longer barrel without a flash suppressor. It was too large for him to carry easily when he was a child, but Paul has grown into it. He fits the magazine into the opening and slaps it in place, flicks the safety on and slings the Ruger over his shoulder. It is time.
He is cautious opening the door, leaving the shelter. The light is softer, glare reduced. The wind has dropped off.
Walking parallel to the old highway for now, he’s able to set a good pace. He peers through the binoculars at intervals. Nothing. He finds a good stick about two feet long, as thick as his wrist and straight. Heavy. He lifts it, practices swinging it. He throws it, keeps walking and bends to pick it up as he passes it. Throws again. And again. He targets scruff; the stick lands true. Then an abandoned cola can, which he pockets. If he runs out of matches, he can angle the bottom of the can to reflect sunlight and set dry tinder alight. Something else his dad taught him. Paul walks on, using the stick to steady himself, measuring progress not by time, which is deceptive, but by footfalls. Two thousand steps per mile, he guesses, at reduced speed because of his weakened condition. He counts as high as he can before losing focus, fudging numbers. He starts over. After a time he gives up. He lets the rhythm of his feet on the dry, cracked ground guide him.
Soon he is far enough away from the compound that he cannot see the dilapidated barn, the burned church, unaided. Sand behind him, sand ahead. Used to be fields—flatlands interrupted by the occasional silo, water tower, and endless telephone poles like giant crucifixes lining the highway, reminding him always of Christ’s great sorrow. Now the poles careen, drunks holding each other up. Failing that, they topple flat. Miles of wire that once hummed and sliced the great sky dip and pool on the sand like black snakes.
Paul shivers. Serpents. They always represent the devil in Scriptures and in Father Ernst’s sermons. As a small boy, Paul pictured them, wicked and lying in wait. Terrifying. He imagined them everywhere—inching along tree branches, coiled beneath rocks, looped with irrigation tubing, or hiding in the darkest crooks of the barn. Poised to attack, nefarious and ripe with poison. It got so bad Paul refused to go out after dark, refused to do his chores or to use the outhouse alone. He couldn’t be reasoned with.
It was his mother, big with child, who took him by the hand to the forest. She pointed out the various nests of birds and small animals. He recognized many tracks already, despite being so young. Finally, she showed him small holes disguised by long grass or trailing plants, not unlike the tunnels made by moles. “Inside here is another family trying to survive,” she said. “God made everything in His image, so how can snakes be bad? They deserve a life too.”
Paul recalls the quiet tremor of her voice. Unlike Father Ernst, she didn’t need to shout to be heard. Her face, framed by curling hair, was kind. Beautiful, he supposed. She died giving birth to Ruth not long after that day. To honour her memory, he works hard to staunch the old fears. He doesn’t think about her often, but once in a long while, when he least expects it, an image of her appears like a knife in his most tender parts, gutting him.
Paul stops in the hot sand. His shoulders stoop from fatigue and from this sorrowful cloak—memory. He leans on his stick. Peering backward, his strange three-legged tracks diminish toward the horizon. Anyone discovering them will assume he’s old or seriously injured, using a walking stick. They’ll ignore him altogether or at least underestimate him in a fight. Perspiration runs slick down his back, along the sides of his face. He must slow down and steady his breath. Sweating is the fastest way to dehydrate, worse than running out of drinking water. He pushes the gas mask up, and the cooling wind dries his face. The air seems clear, clean. Still, there are few mosquitoes, and he’s hardly seen a bird in his travels: could be chemicals on the wind, driving them away, killing them. He digs a few inches down in the sand to where it is cooler and finds a pebble, pops it in his mouth. He sucks on it, keeping his lips pressed closed, to conserve water and stave off the feeling of thirst.
Paul surveys the horizon. Another long stretch done. He examines the outline of scrub in the glass ahead—a good place to rest. There, the land will be interrupted by plant life more frequently, and the heat of the day will feel less drying on his parched skin. Maybe there’ll be some yucca he can dig up. The roots are nutritious. Memaw used to use the pointy tips as needles to suture wounds on their camp-outs. When she rubbed the fresh leaves underwater, it produced a frothy green soap. Dry yucca leaves could be twined together to make a kind of ropey kindling. These things alone will improve bunker life. And so Paul lowers the mask. He keeps on.
Behind him, the sun begins its true descent. The sky brightens, a fire
ball burst: Armageddon. He sways, staring. The children have never seen a sunset. Never seen the sun. How could he begin to describe it? These colours don’t have names. And there are no reference points in the bunker, only greys, dirty whites, faded pastels. Sombre trousers and jackets for the boys. The brightest things come, always, from Rebekah’s fingertips, her spools of thread, a nearly forgotten rainbow that she coaxes in and out, drawing scenes with her deft needle.
Rebekah. If he can give her one thing it will be this sunset—not this exact one, but another glorious blaze, and he will sit beside her all night as darkness falls thickly and the stars blink into being, one by one by one. Surely this is where God lives, out in the open, in the black skies of midnight under the luminous moon that waxes and wanes in it’s own secretive cycle. He can feel her beside him now—the anticipating shiver, the pull of her long hair when he fingers apart her braid. The silent shock of skin on skin. The wonder of her lips, kissing him. For once, under God’s sky, they could live without the brooding fear of discovery gnawing away their small joy.
CHAPTER 8
Father Ernst bangs the gavel. “Sin is a topside virus that spreads if not cured or cast out. Even in God’s chosen family, sin can enter the refuge and take root. Let us dig it out. Let us reveal our temptations and, in so doing, let us cleanse our hearts and our minds.”
“We cleanse them in gladness and rejoice,” says the Family.
“Who among us bears a shame burden?”
From habit, Father Ernst looks for Cousin Paul. But Paul’s grim smile, the dark glitter of his eyes, is not here to provoke. Hannah stares into her empty lap. All around the table the children are blank as bunker walls, all but Cousin Silas, of course. No doubt he had his hand in the oats barrel again. Little girls fidget. Mother Rebekah stops stitching, holds her breath. Even Susan wipes the creases from her brow, voiding herself of thought, memory. They used to love this—the attention, the redemption. Now it’s the same thing every week; furtive eyes, mouths drawn tight, a closing in of bodies and minds.
“No one has the humility to seek forgiveness?” He stares at Ruth until she blushes. She has a wilfulness that wants bridling. “Mother Susan claims our Cousin Ruth has offended—poisoning the impressionable minds of children, straying from Holy Doctrine.”
Around the table, chins lift. Shoulders straighten. All save Ruth’s.
“Forgive me,” she whispers.
They say, “Cousin, we forgive, but only at a cost.”
Ruth says, “I see the danger and the folly. I wish not to repeat it.”
“Speak. What was this story?”
“It was about twelve sisters whose shoes get worn out each night.”
Father Ernst asks, “You made this up?”
She nods, penitent.
He considers Ruth for a moment. She’s a terrible liar, red in the cheeks and trembling. In fact, he knows this story from his own childhood.
Father Ernst motions, and the Family, now eager, stands and clasps hands. They sway and hum.
“A proud look and a lying tongue—God hates them, and so do I. This is not your story but a heathen tale from the time before. You forget I am a man of the world. I came along a path of sin and, in my great discouragement with that life, I pledged to start anew. I have heard it all, seen it all, in my tortured youth. Do not think you can fool me, Cousin, for you never can.”
Father points to the thin willow in its place on the wall.
“Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Cousins,” Ruth gasps.
She is duly frightened now.
“I can only imagine where you heard this.”
The girl blanches. Hands flutter.
“Your traitor birth father, no doubt. All before you came to nestle below in our Holy Sanctum.”
Ruth drops her mortified head and covers her face.
How high-strung she is. This, her birth father’s shame, this is Ruth’s great wound. Father Ernst can see things unfolding even now; how quickly he will make her come to his service. He inhales through his nostrils, counting to lengthen the exhalation. He must not lose control. Ruth is wilful and proud and prone to flights of fancy. She needs discipline, guidance. Yet she is a hard worker and clearly wants his approval. A heady combination—she must be handled just so. It’s no coincidence she shall be the seventh.
“Seven Angels with seven vials filled with seven deadly plagues of the tainted earth.” This must be God’s coded message come to him at last!
It will be his homecoming. He will be reunited with Memaw Ruth in spirit through her lineage in this young body. He knows that now, in the way of knowing God’s will; that which is beyond language and reason, a truth that bubbles up from deep within. Perhaps God has been purposefully silent, waiting for him to act. All these other brides were only leading him to this next one, to this final resolution.
“Husband.” Hannah nudges him, pouting. She likes to have all of his attention. It’s tiresome, not to mention contrary to the Doctrine. She must learn her place. He ignores Hannah’s upturned cheek.
He says, “Cousin Ruth, you cannot be trusted with the children. This is a terrible blow to my confidence. You, who are soon to come of age, soon to be my bride.”
Beside him, Hannah grimaces. So jealous, this one.
“We await your first blood tide, Cousin. You must know your discipline means everything to the Family. Repeat for me a woman’s role.”
“A woman’s role is modesty and truth,” says Ruth. “She is a vessel to hold and care for Father’s heart.”
“Chastity and vigilance, Cousin. We shall discuss this in private. For now you must seek forgiveness from those whom you’ve injured. Those present as well as those gone before and the future souls your womb shall one day bear.”
Father gestures to the long table, and Ruth crawls beside it on her knees, begging forgiveness from each cousin in turn. Still kneeling, she must beseech the Holy Martyrs. That will pain her. She, who proudly recites the Martyr’s Pledge each week for the hard fast. Then she must stand with arms raised and seek forgiveness from the unborn that shall one hopeful day make her womb their home. Her voice quakes. Ruth slumps shame-filled at his feet, palms raised, when he reaches for the whip.
The willow is light in his hand, a conductor’s wand, a magician’s. Father Ernst bends the tip and lets it fly through the air. A funnel and hiss of wind. The girl flinches. His breath catches high in his chest. If only they were alone. His spine zings with possibility. But the ring of blond heads around her dark one is real. Their mouths gape, faces strain. This is the taut line of Reflections. Shame-burdens unite the Family, and he cannot take that from them now.
Ruth’s face is drawn and resolute. Father Ernst hits harder than usual, lands more on each of her palms. He can’t help himself. How the willow sings, raising heat inside him with each strike. His hair flops wild, and he shakes it out of his eyes to strike again. Still Ruth does not cry. He wants to push her past this line of control, wants to see the struggle break in her. He needs that vicarious release. Silas, the usual penitent, is too easy, grovelling and snuffling at the first touch; it never feels earned. But Ruth is fierce and proud, just like her brother.
Father Ernst catches himself, a violent spiral churning his guts. And still she is a stone. Her one concession: biting down on her bottom lip until it bleeds. Father Ernst hangs on a precarious cliff, roused by fury. He breathes and paces and tells himself to slow and then, finally, to stop. He replaces the whip on its wall mount. The family is one held breath, shoulders hunched, faces wide and wary, waiting for a familiar settling.
“Let us have the Hymn of Temptation,” says Father Ernst in a hoarse voice. Wives and children stir gently and open their mouths to sing.
“Slipped inside our hallowed haven
Satan’s morsel of desire
So among us one doth struggle
Tempted by a wicked fire
A golden hook that bears false prophet
Tears the cousin flesh away
> So we gather for Devotions
Cousin love has lost her way!”
Father Ernst does not join in. He listens to their harmonies, clasps his trembling hands behind his back, and observes Ruth, colour rising in her cheeks. Otherwise she is a pillar. But whether of the temple or of salt, he does not know. He dares not touch her, not yet. For Ruth shall require strict tutelage as the Seventh. Father Ernst’s pulse skips. He cannot wait to begin.
CHAPTER 9
The Chamber of Contemplation is an unloved corner of the bunker. To Ruth, it smells less of body parts and old air than the other rooms. Instead, it sings a song of decay, of mildew and mould with a sulphur cadenza. It’s a damp, lonely smell but not an altogether terrible one. Just herself and the cousin board, a narrow pallet to sit or lie upon, and one rough bucket for refuse. Ruth has been here before, of course. Over the years, there have been transgressions and teachings. All cousins need contemplation once in a while. But the chamber seems to have shrunk. Ruth stands with arms and legs wide as a star. Turning slowly, her fingertips brush the dank walls. The gate’s metal bars cool her miserable hands. She rests her forehead on them, too.
At least she didn’t cry. That’s something.
“Stay out of trouble,” said Paul. Yet Ruth is well in disgrace. Small comfort he did not witness her shame first hand. He’ll hear about it when he returns.
If he returns.
Last time, Paul was gone almost three weeks, long enough to provoke the cousins’ grim conclusion. Rebekah commenced the sacred purse, weeping. Father Ernst began training Silas in provisions. Only Ruth refused to believe the worst. She sat sentinel in the cold tunnel and willed his return. She conjured the stoop of his shoulders, his tangled hair. She cast and reeled, retrieved the invisible wire strung between their skulls, their chests and, as she secretly dreamed, mayhap one day their loins. God saw fit to grant her prayer, and a bedraggled Paul reappeared.
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