Hanna held Ahmre closer. The child was right. Soon, she wouldn’t be around to ask Ahmre about her daydreams, to help navigate the child’s intricate network of imaginary friends. Hanna surveyed the family now, walking together, the youngest children holding hands, their mothers steering them away from the woodlands’ edge, the twins sharing—or were they fighting over?—a torn blanket. She pictured them a week from now, walking without her. It wouldn’t be all that different than if a giant hand reached out of the sky and plucked Hanna away.
“Can I ride on your shoulders?” Ahmre said.
“You’re getting too big.”
“Just this once?”
Hanna lifted the little girl up and felt Ahmre’s warm legs wrap around her collarbone. Together they made their way down the gravel path. The journey would take just over thirty minutes. Clearhaven was a small town, isolated by woodlands on its sides, with a dense, impossible-to-traverse marsh at its southern end. On the far side of Clearhaven was The Road—the single entrance point into town. Hanna had never set foot on The Road. Only once, many seasons ago, had she stood at its edge. Hanna knew The Road didn’t go on forever. But, at sunset, the way it dipped into the horizon, its view unbroken by mankind’s creations, The Road seemed to lead straight into the blistering yellow orb in the sky.
In between The Road and the marshlands, Clearhaven’s homes were clustered on winding semi-paved avenues, a tangled labyrinth leading in circles; counterintuitive and largely unnavigable to outsiders but second nature to Hanna and the other townsfolk. The newest and largest houses had been built near the church and the marketplace, quite some distance from Jotham’s home on a small street toward the edge of town. Farmland dominated the northeastern side of Clearhaven, offering abundant livestock as well as fields full of produce and grains that all contributed to the town’s self-sufficient nature. It was a settlement sovereign by design. If ever there was a more autonomous township, Hanna had yet to learn of it.
What Hanna knew about Clearhaven’s bureaucracy, its internal operations, she gathered mostly from conjecture. Her sister-mothers were masters of deflection on the subject. From what Hanna understood, the town was managed by a council of which Jotham had once been a part. Hanna remembered being seven years old, hiding behind the banister at the top of the stairwell and watching important men visit Jotham’s house. They made a great commotion as they entered through the front door, each of them with raucous voices and cigar smoke hovering over their heads like buttermilk clouds.
The important men hadn’t visited in years. What role Jotham now played—whether it was essential, occasional or tenuous at best—Hanna didn’t know. What she did know was who was in charge. It was Brother Paul, the minister at church. It was Brother Paul who ran the police force, Brother Paul who negotiated Clearhaven’s independence from the city beyond The Road. It was Brother Paul whom Hanna was walking to see that morning; Brother Paul who spoke often of understanding. At least, that was the word he used. Faith, to Brother Paul, was equal parts obedience, conviction and understanding.
Hanna set little Ahmre down. She watched the girl run to catch up with her brothers and sisters, and then she shook her head. When that didn’t work, she shook it again, anything to push today’s church service from her thoughts. She hadn’t arrived at the church yet. There was still time to masquerade in her mind, still time to imagine none of this was happening.
She gazed into the woodlands on either side of the street, at the tall trees covering the hills, the vastness just beyond her reach. What would happen, she wondered, if she simply slipped away? It wasn’t impossible. A girl could disappear into the woods and no one could ever find her. Hanna had never been outside Clearhaven. The big city was somewhere beyond those hills. The place Jotham loathed was that way.
A break in the trees appeared, a patch of worn shrubbery signaling the traces of a pathway. Hanna pictured herself walking into the woods, her feet settling into the moss-covered ground, the first few steps toadstool-soft, then the sudden sinking sensation of quicksand. For a split second, white stars of terror would explode in her head. Hanna would stretch out her arm—grasping for anything: a boulder, a tree branch, her mother’s hand—before strength gushed like waves inside her. Then Hanna’s foot rising, the ground beneath her boots turning firm, Hanna striding deep into the woods, bold and unafraid, the wolves cowering as she marched past their den. The tension inside her stomach—balled up like a fist for weeks—would finally relent.
Inside Hanna, a second person pulled free from the first. Hanna stepped away from the pathway and kept walking with her family, wondering what would happen if she dared enter the wild, while the other—the Hanna she wished she could be—bounded bravely into the unknown.
A hand touched her elbow.
Hanna jumped. She turned to see Kara walking beside her. Her mother’s cheeks were unusually pale, a glint of perspiration on her forehead despite the chill in the air. Earlier that morning, Hanna had noticed Kara scraping her fingernail against the edge of her thumb. She looked down to see Kara’s skin frayed, the edges red and worn.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” Kara said.
“You look more afraid than me.”
“I’m serious,” Kara said.
They were passing houses now, the large homes that had been built close to the church. Hanna pictured the forest, green and blooming and alive as it had been before winter took root, those trees into which a girl could escape and never be seen again.
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
Kara took her hand. She pulled her close.
“I know you are.”
* * *
As the family rounded the final corner toward church, Hanna saw fully the house that Brother Paul had built. Two seasons ago, work had been completed on a massive edifice, a wide, dome-shaped structure, multitiered, with enough lights that its glow could be seen from almost every home in the township. The new church, with its white walls and abundant skylights, was the focal point of Clearhaven. Beside the new church stood the old tower cathedral, taller than the new building, with an abandoned congregation room at its base, decrepit and ramshackle in comparison. The lights inside the tower cathedral were turned down this morning. No one was inside. The stained glass Hanna knew so well growing up—replete with tear-shaped roses blooming in a golden orchard—had not been washed since Brother Paul ordered the construction of the new building. The sunlight still caught the stained glass in places, but a thick layer of dust obscured its brilliance.
Jotham’s truck sat in the distance. Belinda had parked at the edge of the lot in order to better see the rest of the family approach. Other vehicles were arriving. Parishioners were greeting one another, exchanging pleasantries, talking about the ceremony about to take place. And Jotham was waiting, his arms crossed, jaw clenched, impatience in his stony eyes.
He called out. “We shall not be late!”
When they arrived at the truck, Emily locked arms with her big sister. As she’d done several times over the past few weeks, Hanna wondered if she’d done Emily a disservice, allowing her to become so dependent. Hanna slipped away from her sister’s grasp and joined the family congregating around Jotham, to see if he had any final words to say before they stepped inside.
Jotham shifted his back brace. He placed his hand on the truck to steady himself and then coughed, a single whooping hack that spoke of a burgeoning cold. He didn’t make eye contact with Hanna this time. He didn’t have to. She already knew what he needed her to do.
“If I see a single act of disobedience today, it’s the lash,” he said.
Beside Hanna, her brothers cowered. Just four days ago, Jotham had caught Hanna’s seven-year-old brother, Pratt, spilling a can of paint thinner on the back deck. Jotham’s rage overtook him. Hanna could still remember Pratt’s screams, Kara’s frenzied, fruitless attempt to intervene, the sound of Jotham
’s belt striking the boy’s legs, her sisters crowding behind her, the hawkish air in the house. When it was over, Hanna had watched Jotham storm down the hallway, belt in hand, panting and desperate for whiskey; his eyes curiously devoid of emotion; his hulking frame shuddering from the adrenaline surge it took to hold the boy down. Afterward, Pratt couldn’t stand properly for twenty-four hours. It took two days before he could walk. He stood next to the truck now, coatless and shivering, a lopsided cowlick sticking out of his head, still wobbly on his two feet.
Jotham surveyed the family one last time and then turned and walked toward the new church doors. The others followed.
Hanna’s rib cage suddenly felt tight. Her breath came out in rapid puffs. Every sound, from the pushing breeze to the hum of car engines pulling into the parking lot, resonated tenfold. Hanna’s childhood was over and her life was about to change. There would be no cocooning, no holding on to the moment she was in and never letting go. With age came responsibility. There was purpose. There was womanhood to attend to. She followed Jotham toward the church doors, aware of every loose pebble on the pavement, of the movement of her legs, the mechanics of her arms brushing against her sides.
The moment Hanna’s foot crossed the threshold, the wind sailed out of her. She felt as though she’d run into a brick wall. Her knees buckled and it was all she could do to stay on her feet. Six hundred sets of eyes turned toward her. They’d all been waiting for Hanna. They were staring, expecting, knowing.
And in the center, clad in white robes, was Brother Paul.
3
“Without obedience, there exists only chaos.”
Brother Paul stood on a raised platform, his arms spread wide. The room was dim, save for one bright overhead light that clung to Brother Paul like a magnet, casting a reflective sheen over the pristine robes of Clearhaven’s chief luminary. He looked otherworldly, a far cry from the Brother Paul Hanna had met in his office last week, the one in the collared shirt with the spot of mayonnaise clinging to the corner of his mouth. Hanna wondered what the darkened faces looked like to him, whether he saw their eyes at all. Brother Paul’s mouth hung open. He was close to concluding his sermon and soon he would turn his attention to Hanna, to selecting her husband.
“Children, when your father brought you into this world, he did so with the knowledge that the Creator believed this was good. The Creator wanted you here. Take a moment to think about that. The Creator plucked your soul out of nothingness and instead of casting you into a place of eternal torment, he brought you to our little township. Now, why would he do that? Is it because he acts in random ways, dropping souls to the earth as though scattering pebbles in a lake? Or is it because he knew you’d be safe?”
Brother Paul paused to allow his words to sink in. Hanna looked past him to the faces on the other side of the room. She searched for their smiles, their nodding heads.
“The Creator knew you would be safe because he had someone in place to protect you, someone who had sworn allegiance to him. And that someone is your father. Look at your father now, all of you. Look at him and understand the Creator chose him for you. He chose your father to be your instructor in the ways of the world, your protector against all things duplicitous and corrupt.”
Hanna looked at Jotham. All the men were standing, even the boys. The women were kneeling, their arms resting on the same glossy support board that circled the auditorium. Jotham gazed down at Hanna. Their eyes met and quickly she turned away.
“Without your steadfast obedience, how can your father protect you? Wives, I ask you, without your husband to watch over his flock, how could you ever truly know you’re out of harm’s way? The taking of multiple wives, our very way of life, is an extension of the Creator’s wish to protect the ones he loves.”
Brother Paul stepped over to the podium where he kept his notes. It was so quiet in the church that Hanna could have heard a leaf falling from a tree. Beside her, Emily was starting to slouch. She held the girl’s elbow, helped her find her balance on the kneeling board. On Hanna’s right was Jessamina, Jotham’s fourth wife—his newest wife—who at nineteen had already given birth to a baby boy. Hanna had endured Jessamina’s intermittent scowls during the service. She tried to ignore her and concentrate. At any moment, Brother Paul would invite Hanna up onto the stage.
“Before we get to the objective of this gathering,” Brother Paul said, “and announce the two souls who will be joining together under the Creator’s loving embrace, I want to first take a moment to acknowledge some young men who will be leaving our township. For as important as it is for our young women to be protected, treasured and loved, it is equally important for our young men to find their true purpose, to go out in the world and carve a niche of their own.”
Brother Paul called seven people to the stage. It took a few moments and then a family slipped out of the darkness and approached the podium. It was the Rossiters: a man, his three wives and their two sons. Hanna recognized their faces, although she’d never spoken to them before. The Rossiter children had long been schooled at home, away from Jotham’s clan, and they hadn’t been to church services in quite a while. Hanna counted six family members, not seven. If she recalled correctly, there was a third son. However, if Brother Paul was surprised that one of the family members was absent, his face certainly didn’t show it.
Brother Paul placed his arm around the father. “Finally, our beloved benefactor has returned from his excursion outside our borders,” Brother Paul said, eliciting a smile on Francis Rossiter’s lips. “From my sermons these past few weeks, you all know how excited I’ve been to have Francis come back to Clearhaven. I’ve said it many times, but it bears repeating. We owe him an enormous debt of gratitude. For it was Francis who financed the hallowed hall in which we now stand. It was Francis who arranged its construction. It was Francis who transformed the Creator’s vision into a reality.”
Brother Paul lowered his head.
“In the name of the Creator...”
Hanna closed her eyes. She lowered her head and recited with the others. “In the name of the Creator, may he protect my eternal soul.” The six hundred voices speaking in unison sounded different in this new church than they did in the old building, where the families who arrived late had to crowd into the balcony and stand by the door. This room, with its white walls and arched glass ceiling, made the voices sound dreamlike, their echo arriving at Hanna’s ears before she spoke her next word, creating a sensation that the walls were talking to her.
Brother Paul looked up again. “Together, and with my guidance and counsel, Francis Rossiter and his wife Eileen took their three sons, James, Kenneth and Daniel, on a journey of discovery beyond The Road, to teach them about life outside our borders, to prepare these young men for their future.”
He wrapped his arm around the benefactor’s oldest son. “How old are you now, young man?”
“Nineteen,” James said. “Kenneth is eighteen.”
James was tall and plump, with thin lips that made him look like he’d just sucked on a lemon. Beside him, his brother Kenneth was a little shorter, with a youthful face and a faint mustache that grew fainter in the light. The third son was nowhere to be seen.
Brother Paul beamed, a wide, overcompensating smile. “Ah. The perfect age to stake your claim in the big world out there.” He leaned into the young man’s ear and whispered. The quiet words went on for some time and as they did, the young man’s stone-faced expression wavered slightly but never cracked. Brother Paul shook the hand of the younger son who looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.
“As James and Kenneth will be leaving us shortly to seek a new life outside our borders, I would like to thank them for their contributions to our community,” Brother Paul said. “Fear not for their well-being. These two strong young men were born to thrive. And rather than say goodbye, which has a certain finality to it, I s
ay instead—Godspeed. James and Kenneth, remember us in your hearts and in your minds. Remember Clearhaven and the lessons you’ve learned as your journeys continue.”
Hanna watched the family step offstage and slip back into the darkness. The father, Francis Rossiter, looked just like any other man in Clearhaven, with his plaid shirt tucked neatly into his pants, his black hair combed over to conceal a bald spot, wire-thin glasses resting above his nose and his face shaved clean. The brothers, though, had grown into young men in the time they were gone. For all their height and broad shoulders, their features were soft and unmarred by age. They were a strange sight to see, the older one especially, a boy not a child and not yet an adult.
“You know why Brother Paul pushes them out, don’t you?” Jessamina whispered.
Hanna glanced at Jotham’s newest wife. Jessamina had her baby positioned between her knees and was looking at Hanna from the corner of her eye.
“Shh,” Hanna whispered, wary of drawing Brother Paul’s attention.
“It’s to rid themselves of their competition,” Jessamina whispered back. “It’s so a man like Jotham can marry a girl like me.”
Hanna knew exactly what Jessamina was saying. She’d seen it time and time again. Clearhaven’s patriarchs would select a single male heir (often their youngest child) to take their place as they grew old. The other boys were ushered out of town as soon as they reached adulthood. It was the only way for a polygynous society to survive. If the fathers let their sons stay, and allowed an equal number of men and women, there would be competition. A slew of younger, stronger and more physically attractive rivals would arrive with each generation. Men like Brother Paul would no longer be able to claim dozens of wives. Jotham could never claim a bride as young as Jessamina. Hanna would never be brought to church on a day like today.
Hanna bit her lip and turned away from Jessamina. Jessamina might have been correct, but that was no reason to encourage her. Hanna needed to focus. Her moment was fast approaching.
Hanna Who Fell from the Sky Page 2
