“Things?”
“Things you’ve wondered about. Between a man and woman. He’s happy when you try.”
Ruth gasps. “I cannot.”
“Oh, you can. Close your eyes and pretend it’s someone handsome. It’s your only job, may as well be good at it.” Hannah shrugs. “Besides, you get treats.”
The sugar cube. Ruth swallows. “I’d rather be a ratsticker.”
“You look like one. Comb out your hair. And wash between your legs. Are you still bleeding?”
Ruth shakes her head.
“Good, Father can’t abide that mess.”
Girl whispers. Leah and the twins come in. They strip and leave clothes in piles on the floor. They pull out their best dresses. Hannah helps, for once. She fluffs the thin, patched skirts and begins braiding Leah’s hair. She ties little ribbons in place. “Go on,” she says. She tosses a towel to Ruth.
Ruth paces the shower room’s cold floor. This is happening. Her legs tremble, and her knees are watery. She believed Paul would save her. He tried. They sat at the cairn the night before he left. Paul held her chin and said, “May as well slit your belly as stay. We got to go up, Ruth.”
She was shocked. “We Ascend when the time is right. When Father says. Not when we’re fearful or desolate.”
“Come with me.”
“For shame, girls can’t,” she said, although a thrill heated her. “Though foraging is better than being a cousin mother ...”
He said, “Not to scavenge. I mean to live. Permanently.”
“Blasphemer! Topside, they hate us. The bunker will inherit the earth. You must have faith. You must believe!”
“Father Ernst can’t make me and neither can you.”
“Shush, Paul.” How frightened she was, covering his mouth with shaking fingers. “What will Father say?”
Paul took her hands and held them. He touched one finger to the thin skin of her chest below the collarbone, where her heart should be. It unhinged her. He said, “Father Ernst is a liar. A murdering raper. Know what that means? I don’t want that for you. Us leaving has to be a secret.”
A sob caught in her throat. Paul was tainted, the Devil had taken his spirit. Like their father, fallen to evil. Yet—the humping grind—she’d seen Father Ernst do that to Hannah. Who would ever want that?
At last she said, “We’d marry, you and me, topside?” There was that picture again: flowers in her bridal veil, the clasping of hands, the singing of vows.
“What?” Paul shook his head. “You’re ... a kid.”
“I’m not!”
“You’re my sister.”
“There are no brothers and sisters, Father Ernst said so. We are all cousins, now and forever. We could homestead. I could keep you.”
“No, Ruth.”
Once, Ruth dropped a pebble down the cistern. That was her belly: the long-drop wait and finally pain, landing with a splash. Am I not yours? she longed to shout as her dream broke open and fell about in pieces.
“I promised our dad to protect you.” Paul wiped his face with his sleeve. “We can camp in the forest like we used to. Like he taught us.”
The hurt of rejection stung, gathered momentum, and hissed between her teeth. “Like traitors. Like infidels? I won’t leave my people.”
Now, on the cusp of becoming a cousin-bride, she could see that Paul had been clear. He had not led her on, not once. Had only ever tried to keep her safe from harm. It was Ruth’s great imagination, her yearning, which filled the empty space between what was and what might be. It flourished in that great void—furtive and fearful, with those other unvoiced hungers.
A child in the doorway startles her. “Blessed Flowering, Mother Ruth,” says Rachel. She kisses Ruth’s cheek. “We got the bridal gown out. It’s pretty. Hannah says you’re to come get dressed.” Ruth hasn’t even started washing. She drags out the grey-water bucket and dunks a rag. “I’ll be there soon enough,” she says, and steps out of her pants, her leggings, her socks. When Rachel is gone, she hoists her skirt and begins to bathe.
CHAPTER 33
Father Ernst grips the podium. He’s wearing a slightly cleaner gown with the ministry shawl, gold-embroidered with the Family insignia. Susan helped with his room and also with his hair, his beard. It is trimmed somewhat, and she combed the glass shards out. He looked good when he checked the small mirror hanging on his chamber wall.
Ruth trembles before him, her mother’s green comb in her sparse hair. The bridal gown sags open at her neck. There’s the whiter ring of her throat where she washed with a damp cloth and the grime below that line—her collar and shoulder bones perch above non-existent décolletage. The girls have tried to stitch the fabric down to fit her better. Pins glint, here and there, where they ran out of time to sew. The waist is wrapped with a pale sash, extra fabric folded in behind. Painted Mason jar screw-top lids for bracelets. Father Ernst hesitates. She looks even more a child in this oversized dress.
He remembers coming in from the barn, scraping mud and manure from his heels, stepping out of his boots, and opening the back door. Sock feet silenced his entrance to Deborah’s kitchen. Hand on the knob, body frozen in shock while he struggled to make sense of the scene unfolding before him. The kids were playing dress-up, clomping on the linoleum in Deborah’s modest pumps. The toddler, Rebekah, was swimming in Deborah’s party dress, clutching a shiny purse. She chucked paper confetti at the other two. Deborah’s eldest daughter, that heretic, wore Ernst’s good suit with cufflinks and a tie. She had drawn a moustache under her nose and swaggered, holding the family Bible, mimicking him. Who was the pretty bride holding the sagging bustier with one hand, suffocating a bouquet of wildflowers under her bare arm, wedding veil tucked into curled blond hair? Mincing and cooing and fluttering long lashes—it was none other than Thomas, their youngest boy. Sacrilege. Obviously the girl had orchestrated it. She had painted their lurid makeup, styled their hair, got them into the grownups’ clothes in the first place. That Jezebel took a whipping for it, right after the boy. The rage that transported Ernst left marks on their skin for years. Deborah wept and tried to intervene, but he would not be placated. “It’s unnatural,” he shouted. “Where were you to let the Devil enter my house and poison my children?” He whipped her too, and forced the devastated children to watch. She prayed as he hit, even when it broke the skin, finally speaking in tongues in a gnashing frenzy before collapsing on the floor while the children clung to one another, sobbing.
Father Ernst hears the shuffling of small feet, a rattling cough from the benches. He blinks. The Great Hall. A small gathering. He’s at the pulpit. How long has he been standing here? He searches out Susan’s grim face. A young bride bites her lip. The Union ceremony. Yes. He holds the girl’s hands, kisses her cheeks, forehead, and last, presses his mouth to hers. The girl leans away, even as he pulls her closer. She’s holding her breath. His moustache bristles against her skin, his beard catches in the gape of her dress. Hot breath whistles out his nostrils, tickling the wiry hairs. When he lets go, the girl gasps. She will have to learn to kiss better.
“Kneel.” She lowers herself to the Vestal Cushion. The Seventh, that’s right.
Father Ernst clears his throat. “Today we give thanks and celebrate. I have guarded our Cousin’s innocence, as I guard you all, awaiting this day to stake my claim. God says the Seventh will bring abundance and joy. She shall provide for us all—children to fill our home, to rebuild our church. Soldiers, for God’s great army. How do we pledge?”
The children say, “We give ourselves to God.”
“Let us raise our voices, that God hear our prayers.”
“We lift them up unto the Lord.”
“Let us sing!”
“Cousins shall seed and breed and feed, and one day die in glory!”
“Amen. Now the time is come for the Initiation. Woman’s modest duty—to humbly serve both man and God in purity of Thought, Word, and Deed. To reject Satan and sinful pleasure, though the Dark
Prince may try to tempt her. Let us sing together the words our Father taught us:
“Blessed be the mother
Chaste in body, pure in mind
She that humbly beseeches God
Watch over her
Provide an earthly steward
Watch over her
A husband, the one true path
Watch over her.
“Very good. And I say women who do not revoke Satan are not women at all. They are a devil-rotting witchery, unworthy of my love. Cousin mothers, noble arms in waiting, bosom soldiers of God, shall never mix with demon flesh, that which parades as female but holds the dragon’s key to sin’s lock, and turns it as she likes.”
Father Ernst glares at the small congregation. The youngest children gape, fuelling him.
“Cousin Bride. Are you free of shame burdens? Are you ready and worthy of my Claim?”
“I am, I hope,” Ruth peeps. Her eyes dart around.
“And do you accept your sworn wifely duties?
“I do.”
“And will you forsake all others?”
“I w-will,” she stammers. Wipes her palms on the skirt.
“You are sworn by the divine rights given me by God Himself. I declare you Cousin Bride, Seventh of my Holy tribe. Praise be.” Father Ernst leans close and seizes her waist. A sharp pin jabs, and he hisses. A drop of his blood on the once-white cloth. “Thorns on my new rose,” he says. He presses his mouth on her again. He will show her what a kiss is.
The children say, “Praise be.”
He shouts, “Let us feast!”
Father points to the bench on his left, and Ruth slides in. He pats down her billowing skirts and rests his hand on her quavering thigh. Hannah, sulking, serves a meagre bit of water, and Susan limps after with the warm bowls. Ruth gets a large portion, oat gruel with the oily meat. She stares at it. Looks up at him, looks away.
So tiresome. At least the others begin to eat.
“Wife, you will need your energy tonight. Eat up!” Father Ernst laughs, but no one joins in. What a dreary bunch. “This is supposed to be a celebration,” he says. “Finish your food. Then we must sing, Cousins!”
The others scrape bowls with their spoons. The dishes clatter when Hannah and Susan collect them. “The Wedding Hymn,” shouts Father. “Have you young ones learned it? Silas, lead them.”
Silas pushes the twins beside Abel and Leah. “Together first, then in rounds,” he says. He claps to count them in.
Such harmonies—mostly all the right notes, not bad for an hour or two of practice. Strange, he never noticed how mournful this song sounds. Memaw wrote it for Deborah’s wedding, sitting at the church piano one morning. It had been sung at each Union ritual since.
“Again,” he shouts. “This time, we will dance.”
The littlest one, the girl, curtseys and hops but tires quickly. The twins encircle the little boy, and he stamps his foot off-time. Silas hovers beside Hannah, no doubt hoping she will take him in hand. She doesn’t. She’s pouting, arms crossed, won’t look Father Ernst in the face, won’t look at Ruth either. She will learn to fall in line.
“Come, my Bride! The wedding waltz.” Father Ernst extends his hand. It starts off poorly, gets worse. She stumbles on his feet, tramples the hem of her gown. When he leads left, she careens into him. When right, she bangs her head on his shoulder, looking the wrong way. She did not practice, obviously.
“Relax,” he says into her hair. “You must learn to follow me. I am your God, your Master.” He spins her around; her braids twirl. One, two turns—the girl reddens and begins to cough.
“Please,” she says. She is winded.
“There, there,” he says, “that will do.” He holds her close. His chuckled baritone should soothe her, but she pulls away, still coughing. He clamps onto her, gets pricked with another needle. “Damn!” Father Ernst licks his lips. Half moons from his sharp nails press into her arms. His hands tighten around her waist, then slide down to cup her buttocks through the gown. Fingers knead her flesh. There is something underneath her dress—what?
The girl steps back to face him. A nervous smile.
“Again,” he says. He presses the length of his body against her, takes up her left hand in his right. He steps, counting out loud. “One-two-three, one-two-three. See? It’s not too hard.” His hips move against her, eyes wrinkle shut. Although her limbs are plain enough, he is roused by the excitement of the day, by the clumsy dance. So many things must be shown to her. It all begins tonight.
CHAPTER 34
Should have slept while he had the chance. The blisters on Paul’s feet chafe and bleed into the boots, and his calf muscles cramp. His stamina, already compromised, is waning. He cannot keep up with Thomas and his friends, who lope through the forest as silent and graceful as the animals watching from the shadows. The full moon hangs low in the sky, lighting their passage, but he can barely make out their silhouettes, so far ahead. Whenever the treetops’ leafy splendour overtakes or clouds pass in front of the powerful orb, Paul is lost. He trips on a root, smacking face-first into thick and twisted branches. Cobwebs ghost across his face, and the frantic scrambling of tiny legs causes him to shudder, to bat the insects away with his thin arms. He half hopes to lose the rebels, to be left on his own, for good.
The Family, paralyzed and toxic, has no future. He knows this as well as his own name. Thomas might not even need Paul to get cooperation from the others. They’ll be shocked to see him alive, for starters. Plus they’re desperate for food and water: they need help. Diego has promised medical attention, protection, and a safe place for the children to recuperate. They’d be better off with Thomas’s people than scrounging a meagre forest life with Paul. If it weren’t for Rebekah, Paul would tear away right now and hide in the black woods. He could eke out a basic survival—or not. For once it wouldn’t matter, with no one else depending on him. He’d be accountable only to himself, allowed to fail or even abstain from trying: its own kind of freedom.
Giving up. That’s exhaustion talking. Paul can almost hear his father’s voice, chiding. Yet isn’t that what Thomas did when he escaped—surrender to an unlikely future? Thomas cast himself out into a world of violence and treachery, yet he lives. Alone in the wild, he was reduced to gleaning among the sheaves for survival, was despised and rejected, and then transformed, rose up, and returned, cloaked in mystery, full of purpose. Like metal forged from an ancient fire, Thomas, reborn, cuts through confusion and so many lies. Just like His Holy blade of Truth in the Doctrine.
Who is Paul without Ruth, whose very existence defines him? Orphan, brother, guardian. Or without Rebekah, who has made it all bearable with the recent gift of her love? An invisible pendulum seeks balance: heavy burdens weigh in against a few quick moments of joy, the wonder of possibility. If he gives up one, will he lose the other? Who would he even be, minus Father Ernst’s oppressive yoke chaining him in place? Like pedalling the bunker’s stationary bike; if it were plucked out and set free by God’s hand, where would he ride?
Paul freezes, pulse in his throat. Trees surround him: silent accusations. The trail made by the others is nowhere to be seen. Distracted, he has crept off-course, twice in as many days. Abandonment, that old fear, consumes, and a rush of futility floods him. He wished for independence earlier, and now? Paul scurries in one direction, then its opposite. Another gossamer web pulls at his forehead and across his cheek, and he panics. Bends at the waist to shake out his hair—could be a black widow crawling in there. Then, a familiar sound: chuckling. Paul wheels around, gasping. It’s Sondra, the stealthy huntress.
He who loves nature, the Family’s best forager, is losing his nerve. “Thought you were up ahead,” he mumbles.
“Just making sure you aren’t snake bait, again.” The dips of facial contours, the hollow workings of her throat, hum with the moon’s silver light.
Paul tries to smile, but the joke digs. Before these rebels appeared, he was in good control of himself. He had p
lans and hopes and, most of all, confidence in his own skills. He was going to save the Family, or die trying.
“You okay?” she asks, touching him.
He flinches.
“We’re almost there. Got to make it past the dead zone. We hid our truck in an old barn.”
“We’re not walking back across the sands?”
“God, no. That would take a day or more,” she laughs.
Paul does not join in.
“Sorry. That must sound bratty. I guess you’ve only been on foot.”
“Yes.” He can still feel the heat from her hand where she placed it on his shoulder.
“Come,” she says. She smiles—she, who might have killed him only the day before, whose eyes first set upon his like a predator’s. Paul’s throat sticks with an unknown emotion.
Paul follows her and the forest thins. They work their way through the most drought-damaged section—the southern tip, nearest the Great Standoff’s local bombing site. He’d never come this far on his foraging missions, and for good reason. Dead and dying trees, as far as he can see, are dusted in ash. Sondra ties a rag over her mouth and gestures with her hands: don’t touch. His UV hood, gas mask, and gloves would be useful now, but Thomas took them, along with Paul’s rifle. Paul copies Sondra, and they pick their way with slow intent, stepping in tracks left by Diego and Thomas, trying not to stir up the dust. Who knew if it was still toxic? They move as one, helping each other climb and balance and scale the downed logs. When she leans into him, he absorbs her weight, buoying her slight frame. When he must press back, her strength surprises him.
Carnage, that’s what they trek through in the pre-dawn light. Tree corpses, staggering and broken open, branches helter-skelter, pointing sun-bleached fingers of blame. This act, witnessing, chokes the spark of hope buried deep inside and threatens to undo him. Like in the Book of Matthew, he feels he has been thrown into the furnace of fire with much weeping and gnashing of teeth. The whole time, it is the slope of Sondra’s back, the determined set of her shoulders, that keeps him moving forward until, finally, they break from ghostly brambles and reach an old fence line with untilled land on the other side.
Tarry This Night Page 16
