by Will Hill
“I’m stopping this session,” says Doctor Hernandez. “I’m sorry you’re upset, Moonbeam, but please understand that I have your best interests at heart. Try to trust that.”
“You’ve said that before,” I say. The anger has disappeared as quickly as it arrived and I can feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I force them back as hard as I can because I’m not going to cry in front of him, not again.
I’m.
Just.
Not.
Going.
To.
“And I meant it,” says Doctor Hernandez. “You experienced a remarkably traumatic incident, Moonbeam, to say nothing of the years that preceded it, and I’m profoundly impressed by the strength and resilience you continue to display. I should probably have told you that more often than I have, and for that I apologize. But you have to understand that there are rules, and schedules, and even though I know you find it hard to believe, they really are for your own good.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“For my own good,” I say. “Do you know how often I’ve heard that?”
“No,” says Doctor Hernandez. “I don’t. But I want you to tell me, I really do. We just need to be careful. We need to take things slow.”
“Let’s call it a day,” says Agent Carlyle. “It’ll do everyone good to cool off a little.” He stands up, puts on his jacket, and looks at me. “You’re not in any trouble, okay, kid? Get some rest and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“What if I don’t want to?” I ask, although I know it’s a stupid question, because what I want isn’t a consideration. It never has been.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” repeats Agent Carlyle.
Doctor Hernandez stares at me as he sorts his pens and his notebooks back into his bag. There’s something in his eyes, something it feels like he wants me to understand, but I can’t work out what it is.
Pity? Sympathy? Concern?
Whatever it is, it makes my skin itch with anger.
He gets up and follows Agent Carlyle out of the room and I close my eyes and take a deep breath as I wait to be taken back to my room.
It’s all right, whispers the voice in the back of my head. You did well. It’s all going to be all right.
Nurse Harrow smiles at me as she closes my door. As soon as I hear the lock turn, I sit down at the desk and grab a sheet of paper and start drawing.
Water. Cliffs. The house with blue walls.
Me.
My mom.
The First Proclamation of the Holy Church of the Lord’s Legion, Faithfully Transcribed by the Lord’s Most Humble Messenger, Father John Parson
In his Infinite and Perfect wisdom, The Lord has shown the True Path to those men and women whose Faith is strong, whose hearts are Pure and True. He has shown that the True Path is hard, and long, and has shown that Darkness lies on either side.
Certain things have been revealed to me, that my Brothers and Sisters might better serve the Glory of The Lord.
THOSE WHO ARE GONE MUST BE FORGOTTEN. There cannot be space in the hearts of the True for Heretics. They must not be spoken of, nor allowed to enter the minds of the Faithful.
Outside is corruption, and Godlessness, which will poison even those whose Faith is strongest. THERE SHALL BE NO MORE DEALINGS WITH THE WORLD OF THE SERPENT, beyond that which is necessary as we wait to Ascend. No member of the Legion shall risk their Eternal Soul in the Outside, where Monsters and Demons roam and the True Word of The Lord is rejected by those whose eyes and hearts have been closed.
Those who are True must cast aside Earthly Concerns. All that is mortal is Godless, all that is human is Flawed.
The Lord is Good.
It’s a hot day, even by Texan standards, when Amos finally goes back to Layfield.
The relief felt by the men and women of The Lord’s Legion is palpable. We know that everyone beyond the fences of The Base hates us and wants to hurt us – it isn’t something Father John ever allows us to forget – but living with that knowledge isn’t always easy, and the idea that some kind of attack from Outside might be actually imminent weighed heavily on people during the lockdown.
As a result, when Amos gets into the red pickup and drives out through the Front Gate, there are actual cheers from some of my Brothers and Sisters who have gathered in the yard to watch him go. But as the long afternoon stretches out, and the time when he would normally be expected to return approaches, euphoria begins to be replaced by nervousness.
The sun has just dipped below the slanted roof of the Chapel when I hear the distant rumble of an engine. I’m working in the shooting range behind the Big House, sweeping up the spent bullet casings and clearing out the rocks and fallen leaves, and I immediately drop my tools and head for the yard. I never believed anything bad was going to happen to Amos – not really – but I’m surprised by how relieved I’ll be to see him arrive home safely.
Most of my Brothers and Sisters have gathered on the tarmac by the time I get to the yard, their eyes all trained on the Front Gate. Dust is rising beyond the low hill that hides the curve of the dirt road and the engine noise is getting louder. As I squint against the glare of the setting sun, the pickup truck appears and the tightness in my chest that I hadn’t even really been aware of relaxes.
Luke and Bear unlock the gate and Amos drives past them and brings the pickup to a stop in the middle of the yard. A fresh chorus of cheers goes up at the sight of the mountain of boxes and sacks and bags in the bed, and within seconds my Brothers and Sisters are swarming around the truck; some are clapping Amos on the back and welcoming him home, others searching for sorely-missed potato chips and candy.
“Vultures,” says a low voice beside me, but there’s no malice there, and I grin as I turn towards its owner.
“Be nice,” I say. “Everyone is just happy to see him back in one piece.”
Nate grins as he rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says. “I bet that’s exactly what it is.” I give him the most convincing frown I can manage, one that’s sort of undermined by the wide smile below it. “I hope you’re not suggesting that our Brothers and Sisters care more about Milk Duds and Gummy Bears than Amos’s well-being?”
It goes without saying that Nate is the only person in the entire Legion I would say such a thing to. The only person I would even think about saying it to.
He snorts with laughter. “Of course not,” he says. “That would be extremely wrong of me.”
“It really would,” I say, my smile widening into a grin. “I’d have to tell the Centurions and it would make me sad to see you get locked in a box.”
“Then it’s lucky for us both that I didn’t say it.” He throws an arm around me. “Isn’t it?”
And just like that, I can’t breathe.
Everything inside me has been frozen solid by the feel of his callused fingers on the bare skin of my shoulder, the warmth of his arm across my back. I try to say something, anything, but nothing happens, because my brain has been reduced to mush and my vocal cords aren’t responding. But if Nate notices, he doesn’t comment; he just walks me forward, towards the pickup.
Of course he didn’t notice, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Why would he? You’re like a little sister to him, and nobody thinks anything of putting an arm around their sister.
I tell the voice to shut up, even though it’s right. I know that’s how Nate sees me, how he thinks of me, and most of the time that’s okay. But I can’t help the thoughts that sometimes drift through my brain, the ones that make my face burn with heat and my stomach flip like an acrobat.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if there’s anything left worth having.”
But by the time we reach the pickup, all that’s in the bed is a pyramid of brown and yellow UPS boxes addressed to James Carmel. Amos appears beside us as we stare at them, his lined face flushed with the humble pride of the returning hero, as though he has just fought The Serpent himself single-handed rather than merely driven down to Town and back.
“That lot are for the Big House,” he says. “Get a move on, girl.”
I roll my eyes and grab the nearest box, but it’s heavy and I can barely lift it. Nate immediately offers to help, but I give him an I’ve got this shake of my head as I wrestle the box into my arms, and set off across the yard with it. Behind me, I hear Amos start to tell Nate the tale of his journey Outside, his epic, perilous quest to the Layton County Walmart.
I make it across the yard and up onto the porch of the Big House and kick the door with the toe of my boot. I hear voices and footsteps inside the house and I wait with the box in my increasingly trembling arms until the door opens and Bella smiles at me.
“Moonbeam,” she says. “Has Amos returned?”
I nod. “A couple of minutes ago.”
Bella’s smile widens. “The Lord is Good,” she says, then drops her gaze to the box. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Parcel for Father John,” I say, like that isn’t obvious.
“How kind of you to bring it,” she says. “What are our big strong Brothers doing letting a little thing like you carry such a load?”
“I wanted to help,” I say. I didn’t – I wanted to find a fresh doughnut or a candy bar, and when that didn’t happen I wanted to impress Nate. But the lie sounds better.
“Of course you did,” she says, and steps aside. “Come on in, Sister.”
I thank her and stagger through the door. The downstairs of the Big House is one huge open room, with the fireplace and sofas and chairs at one end and the kitchen at the other – and, as always, it’s full of people. Esme and Lena and Star all shout greetings and about half a dozen of the children who are yelling and laughing and chasing back and forth pause what they’re doing and look in my direction, before clearly deciding I’m not that interesting and carrying on.
The walls of the room are hung with bright crayon drawings by the many children who call the Big House home, black-and-white photographs of the desert and The Base, framed extracts from the Bible, and the original handwritten versions of the Proclamations, the ones that were transcribed by Jacob Reynolds. The floor is covered with rugs of every shape and colour, many of them so threadbare that the wooden boards can be seen through them. Toys are everywhere, cars and puzzles and books and balls and airplanes – there are more things to play with in this one room than in the whole of the rest of The Base.
It’s good to be one of Father John’s children, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Even if you really aren’t.
The sheer scale of my own Heresy almost makes me gasp out loud. I swallow hard and something gets caught going the wrong way and I burst out coughing.
Bella frowns. “Moonbeam? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I splutter, as I try to suck air into my lungs. “Where do you want me to put this?”
“You said it was for Father John,” says Bella.
Obviously.
I nod.
“You know where his study is,” she says. “Go on up. He’ll be glad to see you.”
I nod again, and pick my way carefully over to the stairs. I have no idea whether I’m going to be able to get this stupid box up them without toppling over backwards and breaking my neck, but I know Bella and the others are watching me so I take a deep breath and step onto the first stair.
Five steps later, less than halfway up, my legs are trembling so badly I don’t know if they’re going to hold me up. Six steps more and I feel like I’m going to burst into tears of pain and frustration. By the time I put a shaking foot onto the upstairs landing, my arms feel like they have white-hot metal rods inside them.
I stagger over to a little side table, set the box down, and almost weep with relief. Pins and needles instantly stab at my flesh, but they feel wonderful compared to the agony they replaced. I let my arms hang straight down at my sides and look around while I wait for them to come back to life.
The upstairs of the Big House contains Father John’s bedroom, his study, and the bedrooms that are occupied by his wives. There are six of them – for the time being, that is – and it’s easy to work out where they stand in Father John’s favour by where they sleep. One of them shares his bed, one has the room next door, and the other four make do with the two bedrooms further down the corridor. The arrangements are not something that are supposed to be discussed, but it’s widely believed that the six women move rooms on a weekly – sometimes even daily – basis, depending on the preferences of their husband.
You’re going to know for sure, whispers the voice in the back of my head. When you live here too. It’s not that long now…
I push the voice away. It’s on a roll today as far as painful truths go, but I really don’t want to hear it.
Up another set of stairs is the attic, where Father John’s children sleep. I’ve never seen it with my own eyes, but I’ve been told that it’s split into two rooms, both full of bunk beds: a large space for the boys, and a much smaller one for the girls. There are eleven kids living up there, although it’s not quite as straightforward as it sounds.
All of them were born after The Prophet arrived at The Base, and the official story is that each and every one of them is his, even the ones who arrived before he married their mothers. That’s the official story.
But there are rumours, because people are still people even though the Third Proclamation is sacrosanct.
Rumours about some of my Brothers visiting the Big House after the doors are all supposed to be locked, supposedly with Father John’s permission.
About the same men who visit Alice and Lena and some of my younger Sisters after lights out, who are let into their darkened rooms by the Centurions.
About things that aren’t supposed to happen.
I can just about feel my arms again – they’re still tingling, but I’m pretty sure they’re actually there – so I take a deep breath and pick up the UPS box. My muscles instantly scream in protest, but I grit my teeth and carry it across the landing to The Prophet’s study. I give the door a kick, far gentler than I gave the one downstairs.
“Come in,” calls Father John, and I’m amazed – as ever – by the booming power of his voice. It slices through all other noise, shutting it out and almost physically commanding you to listen.
To obey.
I bend my knees and try to reach the door handle. The tips of my fingers brush against it, but I can’t get any kind of purchase without letting go of the box, which is wedged between me and the door, and I’m suddenly aware that my legs won’t actually straighten any more – they seem to have locked in their bent position.
“I said come in!” shouts Father John.
I freeze.
I can’t turn the handle and I can’t let go of the box and I don’t have the slightest idea how I’m going to explain this ridiculous situation to The Prophet. I crouch where I am, my shoulder against the door frame, my legs trembling beneath me, until I eventually hear movement inside the study – the scrape of chair legs across floorboards, followed by the heavy stomp of footsteps.
The door is yanked open and Father John fills the frame, his face flushed as he stares down at me. Then the crimson annoyance disappears as he recognizes my predicament, and he gives me a radiant smile full of utter benevolence; something lurches inside me as I realize how desperately part of me still wants his approval, despite my mom and everything else.
Pathetic, whispers the voice in the back of my head. Absolutely pathetic.
“Moonbeam!” he exclaims, and snatches the parcel out of my hands as easily as if it was a box full of feathers. “Who told you to bring this to me? Who was too lazy to do it themselves? Tell me.”
I shake my head. “Nobody, Father,” I say. “I wanted to bring it.”
“You’re a good girl,” he says, his smile widening. “A good, kind girl. Come in, do.”
“Thank you, Father,” I say. A sharp ache in my lower back and a throbbing pressure in my head have joined the pain in my arms, but I just about manage
to walk through the door without grimacing and try to catch my breath as The Prophet closes it behind me.
He walks around behind his desk, sets the box down next to the thick leather-bound Bible that he reads from on Sunday mornings, then frowns. “Are you all right, Moonbeam?” he asks. “Do you need to lie down?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay, Father,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I sound at least vaguely convincing. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“Did this come back with Amos?” he asks, gesturing towards the box.
“Yes, Father,” I say. “There’s a few of them.”
He nods. “The Lord is Good.”
“The Lord is Good,” I repeat, instantly.
Father John smiles, and sits down in the battered leather armchair behind his desk. “Did you see the name on the shipping label?”
I hesitate, because I’m not sure what the right answer is; one of the things you quickly learn from talking to The Prophet, even just once or twice, is that it often isn’t what you think it’s going to be. His smile widens.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re not going to be in trouble. You saw the name on the parcel, didn’t you?”
I nod.
“What is it?”
“James Carmel.”
“Is that my name?”
“No, Father.”
“Correct,” he says. “Can you guess why the name on the label is false?”
I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this one.
“Because it wouldn’t be safe.”
He narrows his eyes. “What wouldn’t be safe?”
“If the Outsiders saw your name on a parcel they might steal it,” I say. “Or put something bad in it before Amos collected it.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his bright green eyes locked steadily on mine. At the precise moment when I start to wonder if I’ve somehow said the wrong thing, he nods and breaks into a smile that – over the protests of the voice in the back of my head – fills my heart with guilty joy.
“That’s right, Moonbeam,” he says. “Those are exactly the kind of things the Servants Of The Serpent would do. Well done. Extremely well done.”
