The Prophet Calls

by Melanie Sumrow

  “What’s that?” I ask, wary.

  “I know it won’t give you back your violin, but maybe it can help,” he says, offering it to me.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want any help from you.”

  “Please, take it,” he says, nudging the air with the paper. “Maybe if you call Tanner, he can sneak you out of Waiting.”

  Despite myself, my heart flutters with hope. “Tonight?”

  Channing shifts. “Next week at the earliest, maybe.”

  Disappointment steals my last hope. “By next week, I’ll be”—I stop myself and swallow hard forcing myself to say it—“married. I’ll be married, and then who knows where I’ll be?”

  His expression changes. Like he didn’t realize I’d be leaving Waiting. Channing straightens and nudges the paper toward me. “Call him anyway. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

  I shake my head. “It’s no use.”

  “You’re just gonna give up?”

  Heat rises along the back of my neck. I snatch the paper from his fingertips and barely glance at the writing. “How do I even know this is Tanner’s number? How do I know it’s not some kind of trick?”

  Channing’s shoulders sink, but I don’t care. I can’t trust him. He proved that when he handed over my violin. I quickly rip the paper and toss the pieces into the air, letting the wind carry the scraps up and away through the bare branches.

  “What’s going on here?” Uncle Hyram yells, startling us both. He charges through the barren trees.

  I edge away from Channing.

  Uncle Hyram’s broad fingers reach and snatch one of the paper shreds midair. He scowls as he looks at the indecipherable pencil-scratch. “What’s this?” he asks me.

  My heart thuds, but I manage a shrug. “Don’t know. I didn’t read it,” I say, which is true. I hardly looked at it before I ripped it up.

  “Channing?” he asks, his tone accusing.

  Channing fiddles with the zipper on his jacket. “It’s nothing, sir.”

  Uncle Hyram presses his lips into a thin line, glaring at us, waiting for one of us to crack. When we don’t say anything, he thumbs toward the house. “Gentry, stay in the house the rest of the day and pray about what you’ve done.”

  “Me?” I ask. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  Channing nods, a little too hard. “We were just talking, sir. Nothing more.”

  Uncle Hyram shakes his head, looking unconvinced. “Are you not an engaged woman?” he asks me. I don’t respond, but he continues, “It’s plain shameful for you to be accepting love notes from another man.”

  Love notes? My insides boil. “I didn’t.”

  Uncle Hyram’s eyes narrow. “You must think about your family and how this reflects poorly on us.”

  “You’re not my family,” I say.

  His expression tightens. “You will go inside. You will fast and pray the rest of the day. And don’t even think about having that imbecile sister of yours sneak you any food.”

  Even though I can sense his rising fury, my anger is stronger. I open my mouth, but Channing beats me to it. “Amy’s not an imbecile,” he says and then adds, “sir.” He smiles at me when he says it.

  Without warning, Uncle Hyram’s energy spins toward Channing. He punches him in the face.

  I flinch as Channing drops to the ground. “Are you okay?” I ask, crouching near him.

  But Uncle Hyram shoves me backward into a tree, sending shards of bark flying from the impact. Pain shoots down my arm. I stumble forward and grab and rotate my shoulder to make sure I can still move it. It’s sore, but I can.

  “I warned you to stay away from her,” Uncle Hyram says as he snags Channing and drags him toward the river. Even though he’s big enough, Channing doesn’t fight back. Why doesn’t he fight back?

  Channing’s heels leave tracks in the snow. My heart races.

  When they reach the edge of the river, Channing’s body remains limp along the riverbank. Uncle Hyram grabs him by the hair and suspends his head above the icy water.

  “Gentry,” Uncle Hyram growls. “I told you to go inside.”

  My feet crunch the snow. “No, please! We were only talking.”

  “Go, now,” Channing murmurs. “I deserve this for what I’ve done.”

  I shake my head. “You didn’t do anything.”

  Channing pleads with his eyes. “I don’t want you to see this.”

  I take one step backward.

  “Please,” he says, and I turn to run toward the house. Right before the splash and rush of water, followed by his sharp gasp.

  19.

  Moonlight filters through the curtains, turning our room a darker shade of blue. Amy snores softly next to me. Her coat hangs from the foot of our bed.

  She tried to sneak me food, exactly as Uncle Hyram predicted, but the carrot she’d originally intended for the rabbit still sits inside her coat pocket. I didn’t want to get her into trouble, too.

  My stomach rumbles with hunger. My eyes remain open, probing the surrounding darkness. The dress form with my finished wedding dress draped over it stands guard next to our bedroom door like a stiff ghost.

  It’s Mother’s night with Uncle Hyram, which—no surprise—he refused to change. It’s high time she grew up and learned to live without her mother, he’d said, because tomorrow she’s going to be someone’s wife. In response, Mother asked Pearline to keep Baby Bill so that I could get my “beauty rest” before the wedding. I almost laughed when she said it. Like I cared how I looked for Dirk. Besides, I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to.

  My mind reels for a way out of this mess. I can’t stop thinking about Tanner. Offering the possibility of escape sometime next week. And Channing. How he covered for me when I ripped up Tanner’s number. And, finally, Dirk. How I know, in my gut, I’m not supposed to marry him. That if I marry him, I’ll be miserable forever. And if he takes me into hiding, I may never see my family again.

  My mind spins the other direction, knowing if I leave the community, Mother will be disgraced. I’ll become an apostate—forbidden from ever returning to the only home I’ve ever known.

  But something deep inside keeps telling me the Prophet’s revelation is wrong. So, so wrong. I can’t imagine God wanted my family to end up so fractured. I can’t understand how I’m supposed to be happy when I’m being forced to marry someone I don’t choose.

  Someday, I want to be a wife and mother. At least, I think I do. But, for now, I want to be a girl who can dream. I want to live with the possibility I can make some of those dreams come true. And in order to do that, I know there’s only one solution: I can’t marry Dirk.

  I have to leave. Tonight.

  I sit up in bed, letting the covers fall to my waist. Careful not to wake Amy, I shift from under the sheets and hurry to get dressed in the bluish light. I pick my heaviest cotton dress and fumble to slip on my three pairs of socks—a light stocking, followed by two heavier ones—over my sacred underwear and slide on my boots.

  Once dressed, I rush to Amy’s side of the bed. She’s still snoring peacefully. I hate to wake her, but there’s no time to lose. Not now.

  I drop to my knees and shake the mattress. “Amy,” I whisper. “Amy, wake up.”

  It takes her a second to stir, but her eyes soon pop wide open. I place my finger over my lips, willing her to listen before she speaks. She reaches over and slaps the nightstand in order to find her glasses.

  She slides them over her ears uneasily. “You’re all dressed,” she whispers.

  I nod. “There’s not much time, and I’m so sorry to do this right now, but now’s my only chance.”

  Lines of worry crease her brow.

  I take her hand and squeeze. “I can’t marry Dirk.” I shake my head. “I just can’t do it. I know the Prophet says I should marry him. But I don’t love him. I don’t even like him.”

  “Me neither,” Amy agrees.

  “I have to leave.” I squeeze again. “And I’d like to take you with
me.”

  She sits up.

  “I’ll understand if you want to stay,” I quickly add, trying to keep my voice steady, trying not to reveal how much I want her to come with me. “If you leave, it would mean leaving Mother and Baby Bill and everyone else in the community.”

  “Forever?” she says.

  I nod. “Forever.”

  She fiddles with the delicate lace collar Mother sewed onto her nightgown. “But if I stay, I’d never see you again.”

  I knead my lips before answering, “Probably not.”

  Amy looks deep in thought and then, after a second, she grins. “You kept your promise,” she says.

  I don’t understand.

  “You promised you’d never leave me, remember?”

  I smile. “You’re my partner in crime. I can’t leave you.” I shake my head. “But this really isn’t my decision. You have to decide if this is what you want.” I take a deep breath and stand, trying to calm my nerves. “It’s time we start making our own choices for a change.”

  Amy throws back the blankets, and then her feet hit the carpet. “Help me get dressed.”

  My mouth splits into a wide grin. I’m so happy, I could explode. But it’s way too early to celebrate. We still have to get out of the house undetected, past the God Squad, and through the gate. And then, who knows how we’ll reach Tanner?

  While Amy digs through a drawer for her sacred underwear, I find her blue corduroy dress in the closet. “Here,” I whisper as I hand it to her and turn away, so she can change. I search through Mother’s drawers until I find two of her knit wraps. I pull one around my shoulders.

  I can hear Amy slip her coat on over her dress and turn to find her fully clothed. I hand her the heavier of the two wraps. “It’s really cold out there. Put this over your head and ears,” I say, reaching for the doorknob.

  “What are you doing?” Amy asks, whisper-shouting.

  My fingers slip from the door as I state the obvious: “Leaving.”

  Amy shakes her head. “We can’t go through the front door. Uncle Hyram knew you were sneaking out to the barn when you went that way, remember?” She points to the window.

  My stomach sinks. She’s right, though the thought of climbing down from our third-floor window doesn’t sound much better.

  “Grab another scarf for your head,” she says, and then moves to the window. I dig through the drawer for Mother’s only other scarf. When my head’s wrapped, Amy opens the window; we both shiver from the sudden blast of cold air. I wish I had my coat.

  My sister turns her head from side to side, craning her neck. “There,” she whispers, and points. I stick my head out of the window, too. The icy wind makes my eyes water. I rub away the tears so I can see what she’s found: a steel downspout that runs from the roofline rain gutter and down the side of the house.

  My gaze follows the drain. It’s a long way down.

  “I’ll go first,” she says before I can stop her.

  My heart races as she shimmies her upper body outside the window. What was I thinking, asking her to do this? What if she falls and hurts herself? Or worse?

  “Be careful,” I whisper, but she’s already reaching for the drainpipe with her right hand, her left still holding the windowsill. Her hand grasps the pipe as she swings one leg out of the window, letting it dangle. She moves with confidence, like when she’s climbing trees. The toe of her boot finds a crook between the logs. When she gets both hands on the pipe, she uses the logs as stairsteps, slowly descending each one until she reaches the snow-covered ground. My chest swells. She makes it look so easy.

  Amy grins, gesturing for me to join her. She doesn’t even look winded.

  I glance one last time at the silken wedding dress Mother made for me and wipe my hands on my skirt. My fingers latch on to the windowsill as I slide my upper body outside the window, trying to mimic my sister’s movements. The frozen air stings the exposed skin on my face and hands.

  “Grab the drainpipe,” Amy whispers up to me.

  I stretch until the tips of my fingers touch the metal and then slip against the ice. My heart races. How did she grab hold with it being so slick? Then I notice: It isn’t icy everywhere—only in certain spots.

  Wiping my hand on Mother’s wrap, I try again. This time, I manage to grip the drain with one hand and carefully drag my right leg out of the window, letting it dangle and bump against the house. I don’t dare look down as my foot clumsily brushes against the logs and finally finds a toehold.

  Suddenly, a light pops on a few windows away from ours—Pearline’s. My foot slips free of its notch. Amy ducks behind a holly bush. With one leg in and one leg out of the house, I struggle to find another place for my dangling foot. My right hand clasps the pipe, while the fingernails on my left hand dig into the windowsill. My shoe kicks against the logs.

  “Lean and swing,” Amy instructs. With a breath, I release the window and swing my upper body toward the drainpipe. My left hand smacks the pipe, sending a shot of pain through my fingers as they curl around the metal. My other leg slips from the window and thuds against the house.

  The curtains fly open. Pearline stares out her window. My heart races.

  Amy dips deeper into the shadows. I press my body as close to the house as possible, but my arms are shaking. The wind swirls around me. Part of Mother’s scarf flies free and whips behind me like a flag, signaling my location.

  With all my strength, I hold on to the pipe with one hand and quickly snatch the loose scarf and yank it from my neck, letting it drop to the snow. With my head exposed, the cold pricks the back of my neck and nips my earlobes. My muscles tremble. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.

  The curtain suddenly closes. The light goes off. I wait a second. Two seconds. Three.

  Amy peeks from between the sharp-edged holly leaves. “I think she’s gone.”

  My hands loosen, and I slide down the pipe, my feet too frozen to find the notches like Amy did. I drop with a hrumph, a snowdrift padding my landing and surrounding my legs like an icy pillow. My lower back aches from the fall, but with no time to waste, I retrieve Mother’s scarf from the ground, shake it out, and wrap it around my head—tighter this time. But now it’s wet with snow, chilling my already frozen ears.

  Back on my feet, I limp-run to Amy and snatch her hand.

  “That was a close one,” she says as we navigate down the steep driveway and slip-slide toward the gated entrance to Waiting.

  We move quickly, but the sound of snow beneath our boots is too loud. The moon is too bright, exposing us to the world—two moving dots against a sheet of white. I consider changing our path so we can use the trees to our left as cover, but that will take us longer and I’m already getting numb from the cold.

  Amy suddenly wheezes next to me, her hand limp inside mine. Our strained breath appears before our faces. I can feel us slowing, and as we move the last few feet, I’m beginning to wonder whether we’ll be able to jump the fence quickly enough if we encounter the God Squad.

  As we round the bend, I snap my arm straight in front of her, stopping us both. My feet slip a little on the slick snow. “Let me check,” I whisper and slide a bit more, so I can check the gate.

  It doesn’t look like anyone is guarding it. I breathe again and wave for Amy to join me. When she does, we slowly approach the entrance to Waiting.

  “It’s unlocked,” Amy says, pointing to the dangling padlock.

  With my numb fingers, I pull on the frozen chain link. The gate rattles and easily opens. Too easy.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  Channing said they usually work the fence line at night. My eyes dart and search the darkness, looking for the God Squad.

  I hear them before I see them. Tires press against the snow. I snatch Amy’s elbow. “Come on,” I say and drag her toward the trees. But it’s too late. A pair of headlights appears from the direction of the house and shines at our backs. I dart sideways. We’re almost hidden by the thicke
t when I trip on a branch and fall. “Keep going!” I shout.

  But Amy returns and ducks to help me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to push her back into the trees.

  “You don’t leave me. I don’t leave you.” She pulls me up as a blackened figure jumps from the running truck. My pulse races. My ankle throbs. Blinded by the headlights, I can’t see his face.

  “I won’t marry Dirk!” I shout and turn toward the trees. Amy squeezes my hand.

  “Are you trying to wake everybody?” a hoarse voice asks as he moves in front of the headlights.

  I squint. Channing?

  “Channing,” Amy breathes with a smile.

  As he staggers toward us, I can see the bruises marring the left side of his face. “It’s a trap,” he says as he reaches us, his voice raspy. Like he has a cold.

  On instinct, I fearfully glance behind my shoulder and into the trees.

  “There’s God Squad posted down the road and in town. They’re waiting for you.”

  I stiffen, still unsure whether I can trust him. “How do you know this?”

  Channing shrugs and then winces from the pain. “I heard Uncle Hyram talking to Dirk about it. I guess they thought I was still passed out.”

  I shiver.

  He sighs an icy breath. “They knew you were going to try to escape.”

  “How?” I ask, doubtful. “I didn’t even know.”

  Channing smiles a little. “Didn’t you?”

  Amy nods. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

  I glance between them, still uncertain as my gaze lands on Channing’s bruised face. “Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you worried about getting into even more trouble?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He shakes his head. “I’m leaving Waiting.”

  My breath lurches. “What about your family?”

  Channing nervously runs his fingers through his dark hair. “I think I finally realized Uncle Hyram was never going to let me go.” He looks past the fence. “My best chance is to try and find them out there on my own.”

  Amy nods. “Good for you.”

  “Thanks,” he says and then clears his throat. “Anyway, we can’t go out the main gate or they’ll catch us before we even go a mile.”