by R.K. Ryals
~Bezaliel~
My alarm clock buzzed, and I threw my pillow at it. It missed and fell on Monroe instead.
“Hey!” she grumbled before sitting up on her sleeping bag reluctantly. I peered over the side of the bed and grinned.
“Oops.”
She threw me a glare before pushing herself off the floor. You didn’t ignore an alarm at the Abbey. The clock read 5 a.m. Days tended to dawn early here. It was a religious thing. And today, of all days, you didn’t oversleep. It was Sunday. At the Abbey, it was a day of reckoning. I sat up and glanced at the window. Light was beginning to chase away the darkness, fog wove along the grass and among the trees, tiny sparkles glinted off a small pond in the distance, and there was an exuberant chorus of bird calls. The sight should have been comforting, but the vision of a face plagued me.
“I guess I’m gone,” Monroe muttered as I turned to look her way.
Her eyes moved from me to the window. Neither one of us mentioned the previous night. There was reluctance there. I nodded. We didn’t talk much in the mornings anyway. It was too damned early for conversation. Monroe threw her stuff into her bottomless overnight bag, walked over to the door, waved at me, and left to drive home in her pajamas. She’d climb back in bed as soon as she got there. She was NOT a morning person. I wasn’t much better. I fought the urge for sugar-laden coffee and artificial flavored lollipops.
“Couldn’t we make sleeping late a priority?” I asked the Heavens, my face tilted upward.
The snooze on my alarm went off. I slammed it against the wall before getting up with a groan to go through my closet. I donned a dark skirt and white-cotton button-down shirt, ran a brush through my hair, and made my way to the door. Will power is an amazing thing.
Once downstairs, I avoided the dining room, referred to as the refectory, and moved to the back stairwell. The longer I could avoid the Order, the better. Sunday was free advice day. Unless you wanted it, it was best to avoid it.
Organ music filtered from the church across the yard, and I moved into the building soundlessly, slipping into the last pew to watch my sister play. Amber sat alone, her back to me as her fingers moved over the keys. I’d always thought the organ sounded haunting, and Amber played it well. She’d learned from a Sister called Mary a few months after our parents passed, and I appreciated the discipline it must have taken. She was a fast learner and desired approval. That same desire was the reason the Order had taken to Amber so quickly after our move. She had, out of the two of us, always sought acceptance. I tended to withdraw. Amazing Grace filtered through the room.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me.
“You’re here early,” a voice said suddenly, and I scooted over.
“You are too,” I replied with a grin.
Harold Grayson sat down next to me with a chuckle. He was an old man, maybe in his seventies, who lived on the edge of Abbey property and tended to minor maintenance issues. His older sister, now deceased, had once been a part of the Order.
“We lost folk have to be, I reckon,” Harold commented.
I covered my mouth and laughed into my hand.
“That we do."
Harold turned toward Amber.
I once was lost, but now am found.
Was blind but now I see.
“Your sister has a way with the organ,” Harold said after a moment.
I nodded in agreement, my lips curling upward in a pleased smile. I was really proud of her. We may have grown apart over the years, even to the point of being strangers, but she was still my sister. My senses flooded with both nostalgia and music as I took in a deep breath and ran my fingers over the soft fabric covering the pew. I loved the way the sanctuary smelled, the way the candles glowed at the front. It almost felt like home.
Amber made it to the end of the song and started over. It was one of her favorites. Mom used to sing it to us when we were children. I closed my eyes as the memory assaulted me. It was an old one. Mom was singing as we helped her make the beds. She always turned it into a game, throwing the sheet up and letting it billow down on top of us. She’d catch us up in it and hold us there until we yelled to be let free. As soon as she let go, we’d beg for her to do it all over again. And the whole time, she would sing. She loved to sing.
“She’ll be one of them,” Harold whispered suddenly.
I froze, my smile slipping a little as the memory left me. I looked over at him in confusion.
“Sir?”
He turned toward me and patted my hand.
“Just the rantings of an old man, my dear."
I stared at his profile as he turned back toward the organ. One of them? The Order?
“How have you been, Dayton?” Harold asked, his gaze still glued to Amber’s back.
I faced forward. Thoughts raced through my head as I worked to keep up with Mr. Grayson’s abrupt change in conversation.
“Okay, I guess,” I answered. Harold snorted.
“They’re too hard on you,” he said knowingly.
I continued to look at Amber. This conversation was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Harold put a hand on my shoulder.
“Our mistakes don’t define us, Dayton. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Our mistakes make us stronger, wiser. If we didn’t make mistakes, we’d be open to much more temptation. Hard lessons learned are harder battles fought."
I swallowed the tears that tried to rise. It had been a difficult year for me. What did the old man know? Was there talk outside the Abbey? My imagination perked up, lifting to attention, and I saw newspapers flipping toward my face from across the room. Headlines flashed neon.
Blackstone Abbey: Estranged Niece Arrested. Blackens Name; Local Order Responsible for Rebellious Orphan . . .
The images made me nauseated, and I shifted. The imaginary headlines ripped and vanished. I had no desire to read them. My heart thudded as I looked at the old man from the corner of my eye. His face was understanding and compassionate. There was no censure there.
“Thank you, Mr. Grayson,” I replied unsteadily, turning to give him a brief smile.
He winked at me before sitting back in the pew. Amber kept playing, the song weaving its soul-searing magic as the congregation began to filter into the church. Chatter and music weaved in and out of the room as people visited, and I snuck away from the pew to the stairs at the back of the sanctuary. No one stopped me to talk. I wasn’t known for mingling. The stairs led up to the balcony, and I walked up them slowly, my thoughts on Mr. Grayson and Monroe. The night and morning had been a strange one.
“You should be sitting on the main floor,” a voice said from behind me and I jumped.
Aunt Kyra. I should have heeded her comment and responded in turn, but I kept climbing. A wall of imaginary flames seemed to sear my back. If anyone could be a dragon, it’d be my Aunt Kyra.
“I feel closer to God in the balcony,” I replied dryly as I climbed the last three steps and took a seat on the front pew.
“Do you?”
I nodded. The organ still played, and Aunt Kyra looked over the balcony at Amber.
“Why don’t you try to fit in at the Abbey, Dayton?”
I looked up at her, my eyes meeting hers before we both looked away. We both knew what she was asking. It wasn’t about getting along with her or the Order. She wanted me to feel a desire for service. I had none.
“You’re old enough now to be considering a place in the Order,” Aunt Kyra said.
I didn’t so much as blink. She knew my thoughts on the matter.
“I don’t want the same thing as the Sisters. I have aspirations outside the Abbey.”
My answer was blunt. Aunt Kyra sat down beside me. I looked over at her, startled. This was new.
“Sometimes destiny doesn’t give us a choice on what we do with our lives, Dayton."
I sat still a moment. What was she getting at? I didn’t want to be a
part of the Order. Was she telling me I didn’t have a choice? As the only Abbey in a state dominated by Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians, I knew my aunt struggled with the low number of initiates called to service. What I never understood is why we didn't have a bigger congregation or a larger number of Sisters. There was a Catholic church in almost every county. As the only Abbey, I always wondered why she wasn't swamped with women who would otherwise have to leave the state. I certainly didn't feel the calling.
“Destiny has nothing on free will,” I finally said.
She put her hand on my shoulder, and I froze. I waited for a feeling of warmth to overcome me. It was finally here, a show of affection after seven years of living under the same roof. Seven years of no hugs, no tenderness, no emotion had culminated into this moment, a comforting hand on my shoulder. And all I felt was cold.
“You should give the Order some thought, Dayton."
Her hand was beginning to disturb me. Maybe something was wrong with me. I should be enjoying this moment. But when I looked up at Aunt Kyra, I realized her gaze wasn’t for me. It was for Amber. Her eyes were frozen on the organ below. I sighed heavily and shook Aunt Kyra’s hand from my shoulder. I used the sigh well.
A sigh, if done right, could translate a lot of different emotions. This one spoke three languages: irritation, weariness, and acceptance. The last was reserved for my sister. It made me feel good knowing Amber had made choices that assured she would belong. She was in her first year of college, did everything the sisters expected of her, and asked questions that hinted at a curiosity for service. I couldn’t make those same decisions. I wasn’t capable of it. I had an innate desire to make myself happy, not to please a collection of women I’d never had a chance to get close to.
“I have given it some thought,” I said.
Aunt Kyra shook her head and stood up. The music downstairs had changed. The service was about to commence. I kept my seat in the balcony. Aunt Kyra moved away from me, and I watched as she walked back down the stairs. The long black robe she wore made her look like she was gliding, and her short blond hair glowed as if she were wearing a halo. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs to converse with four other Sisters, and I cringed as they glanced up at me simultaneously. I felt like a sinner in a room full of Angels. I had been judged and been found lacking. The women looked away, and I relaxed only slightly. My nerves were raw. Aunt Ky's presence had shaken me. She had sought me out. I should be pleased, but I was alarmed instead. I couldn’t help but wonder why.
Lounging against the pew, I snuck a book out from under my blouse. It was a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was the book I always read in church hidden within my Bible. It probably made no sense why I liked reading Austen during a sermon rather than something more gothic like Bronte. Maybe it’s because the sermons seemed less intimidating if I read something light. I flipped to a marked page and tried to immerse myself in the book. But Aunt Kyra’s words wouldn’t leave me alone. Why did she suddenly care about my choices?
Chapter 3
She is being watched. His interest in her has brought her to the attention of unsavory sources. He will endanger her. He will get her killed.
