by Jess Bentley
“Watch myself do what?” he singsongs like a little kid.
He's teasing me, thinking I'm going to get afraid of him. But I'm not afraid of him. He is still just a scrawny little jerk on the inside. On the outside, he’s barely anything you could call a man. He’s spindly and weak. Spineless. Cowardly.
“You just need to act right. You can’t treat an innocent like this, Seth. You’re lucky I don’t tell Mary how you’re talking to me. I have to be going now,” I huff.
I try to turn away again and feel his bony fingers snatch up my sleeve. Automatically I yank my arm back, but he is using those long legs to shift to the other side of me. Before I know what's happening, he has caged me in, his arms and legs boxing me against the side of the barn.
“Seth, knock it off,” I choke out, but my voice sounds strange. Some feeling rises in me, an acidic sensation that tells me something has gone very wrong. The situation has gone sideways off the path, skidding into a ditch. He really is bigger than me, I realize. And stronger than I would have guessed. I can’t get away.
“You need to learn a lesson,” he growls, reaching down with one hand and yanking at my skirt. He shoves his arm against my leg, squeezing me hard just over my knee and pulling my legs apart.
“You stop that right now!” I try to say, but I'm not sure the words got all out. Outrage, terror, and anger slosh through me. I’m overwhelmed by this mysterious feeling of being frozen, unable to move. Like in my worst nightmares, all of my body parts have suddenly turned to concrete, and I can't figure out how to run away.
“That's right, Angel,” he grunts, his breath oily and sick against my bare neck. I feel his hand drifting upward as he jams his hips against me. I should have known how strong he'd be. I feel as weak as a weed, crushed under his weight.
Something in his pants is hard and pointy, poking painfully against my belly. He fumbles at the front of his pants, trying to expose it.
I close my eyes tight, not knowing what's going to happen, but knowing it's going to be awful. I don’t want to be here. I want to be asleep, or away, or unconscious. I don't want to live through this. I don't wanna…
And then daylight.
My eyes open again and I try to make sense of what I'm seeing. It’s Father Daddy. Seth is tumbling off to my left, falling in slow motion while his arms pinwheel frantically. He looks a doll that's been kicked in a game. Eventually he hits the dirt, right on his backside with his ankles shooting up into the air like a poorly drawn cartoon.
“You're okay, right, Angel? Tell me you're okay.”
My eyelids flutter as I look up and see Father Daddy standing over me. His teeth are bared as he searches my body, probably looking for signs of injury.
It is all starting to sort of make sense. He must have taken Seth by the scruff of the neck and just tossed him like the mangy little runt that he is. Just tossed him away into the weeds.
“I'm — I'm okay,” I stammer, not entirely sure that's true. I feel the bruise starting above my knee where his hand clawed at me. Another bruise. How humiliating.
“Annie!” Father Daddy barks out. Annie appears from somewhere and comes to me. She looks concerned at first but scowls judgmentally as soon as Father Daddy’s eyes are elsewhere. I see the sneer flash across her features as she sniffs, disgusted. I probably look a mess. I’m dirty, with bits of weeds all over my skirt, crushed into the wrinkles, and now the stink of Seth on me too.
“Yes, yes, Father Daddy,” she mutters obediently, careful to conceal her true feelings from him. “What can I do to help?”
“Take her to her mother,” Father Daddy commands her. He won't even look at me now.
“Right away,” Annie simpers. She holds me gently by the elbow and guides me toward the other side of the barn, but as soon as Father Daddy can't see us anymore her grip tightens cruelly. She's almost dragging me down the path. I stub my toes again and again on half-embedded rocks in the dirt, but I don't even care anymore. What part of me isn't ruined by now?
“You're hurting me,” I finally tell her she drags me toward the quilting shed.
“You're hurting all of us!” she shoots back, then grins to herself in triumph. Annie always has something to say to everybody. The perfect mean thing to say, every time.
She flings open the door, shoving me in ahead of her. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust but when I do, I see everybody is staring at me, mouths open slightly, fingers poised in midair with sewing needles glittering faintly like tiny, lethal weapons.
“What is this?” I hear my mother say. For a moment I'm grateful to hear the sound of her voice. Comforted, even.
“This one almost let Seth rape her behind the barn!” Annie practically yells, outraged. I twist away from her grip and stumble a few steps to my left. Everyone seems to gasp in horror at me and glare their judgments upon me.
“I didn't let Seth do —”
“Sit!” Annie commands me, snatching my sleeve again and jerking me toward a low, wooden stool. Obediently I sit. I try to keep my eyes down, but everyone is still staring at me. Their lips purse and work back and forth as they consider what they could say to me.
“You say that you didn't—” I hear my mother say. Her voice quakes slightly.
“I didn't! I swear I didn't!”
She narrows her eyes at me, looking me over. Taking me in. I'm sure she sees my hair is a mess. I'm sure she see the smudges of dirt on the knees of my shift, right where I was kneeling in the confession shack. I'm sure she's thinking most awful things about me now.
“You're sure!?”
“I'm sure,” I plead. “Father Daddy came and… nothing happened!”
My mother's mouth drops open. She looks at Annie for confirmation.
“Yeah, Father Daddy saved her. Can you believe it? Outrageous!”
I look around, confused. Outrageous? Why? What did I do?
But the aunties all seem to know what I did. They all seem to have some kind of understanding of how I've transgressed. I'm sure it's related to my demon. I'm sure they all suspected all this time. And with all the evil thoughts I've been having, they must be right. I know it.
“Your mother should make you a dress that fits, anyway,” Mary murmurs, leaning closer to me. Her eyes slide back and forth over my shift, taking in the parts that are probably too tight, the tear that seems to be lengthening against my thigh as I sit here.
“How am I supposed to make her a dress that fits every couple weeks when she keeps eating like that?” my mother shouts back, brazenly addressing Mary from across the large, complicated quilt they're all working on. Several of the women drop their eyes back to their patterns and begin sewing again, at least pretending to not get involved.
Mary takes a deep breath and lets it out in a cough. She’s the oldest, so she gets the most respect, usually.
“It's your responsibility, Melissa,” she informs Mama imperiously. “Exactly what do you need to do besides keep your daughter’s flower safe until the ceremony? If making her appropriate clothing is too hard for you, you should've reached out to us.”
I hear my mother draw in a sharp breath, that familiar sound before she goes full warfare on someone. But to my surprise, she seems to change her mind.
“You know how these young women are,” she says in a measured voice, one with the venom almost completely hidden. “As far as I'm concerned that dress does fit her. She's just wearing it wrong.”
Mary looks at me again, as though she is considering whether or not I might be outgrowing my dress on purpose.
“Well there's one easy way to solve this,” she sniffs. I watch her begin to sew again, her sharp, gleaming needle tracing ovals in the air. It dives back into the fabric then out again, like a bird of prey plucking fish out of the river.
“Do you have an idea, Mary?” Annie scoffs from her seat. She's not even pretending to work. From what I hear, Annie doesn't ever pretend to work.
“Get her through the ceremony. She'll join the others in a marriage�
�� She’ll have her own home. She’ll have a Master. Everything will be done.”
Despite myself, I gasp. The ceremony? Already?
“Ha!” Annie barks. “That's not up to us, Mary, and you know it. Father Daddy and Brother Owen will let us know when it's time to —”
“It's time,” Mary interrupts.
The room goes quiet. Mary keeps sewing while her curly, salt-and-pepper hair falls around her wrinkly cheeks. She doesn't even need to raise her eyes. She knows things. She's been here since the beginning too. She helped write the ceremonies. Some people call her “Mother Mary” behind her back but we don’t have an official “Mother” in the Family. Just a Father.
Everybody starts peeking, watching to see what Mary will say next. Her word is almost law, almost as much a law as something Brother Owen might say. But not quite.
“I'll tell him myself,” she says calmly with a nonchalant shrug. “There's no good reason to delay. She's obviously ready. We can demand it.”
“Oh, we can demand it, can we?” my mother sneers. Her voice is higher than it should be, as though this idea worries her for some reason. I don’t look her way. I’m afraid she’ll see right through me.
“We can. Actually, you could have requested it any time in the last year, Melissa, didn’t you know that?”
Mary stops. She raises her chin and looks directly at my mother who blushes and clamps her lips shut. I don't understand exactly what just happened between them, but apparently my mother doesn't have anything else to say about it.
Mary drops her hand and pets me gently on the knee, careful not to dislodge any bits of vegetable matter filth that's clinging to me currently. When she picks her hand back up, she rubs her fingers together to clean them.
“We'll get you fixed right up, dear,” Mary tells me dotingly, though I realize some of this is contrived as a way to aggravate Mama for some reason. “When you take your place among the women, and then you get a Master like a woman should, then you'll see. You won't have to deal with this sort of strife anymore.”
Is she referring to Seth? Or is she referring to Mama?
“Thank you,” I whisper, because I know I'm supposed to.
“You should go now,” she says in a low voice.
I stand up quickly, knowing that her permission will only last a few seconds before someone else has a chance to object. No one tries to stop me, but I hear little whispers rise up as I move away.
As I push out the door toward the sunlight again, I wonder exactly what this all means. They are going to request a deflowering ceremony? For me? And then… what?
But, I can't worry about what happens after that. All I can think about is what would happen on that day. That beautiful night, where I will be the girl on the floor. Where I will be transformed by our beautiful leaders. Where I will learn the secrets of being a woman, from the most perfect men in the whole world.
I'm thrilled, happy enough to dance. But then I feel it again. My demon. I feel it as though I've just disturbed it from slumber. I feel it lift its head and sniff the air. I feel it in my belly, hot and throbbing, ready to uncoil again.
It's still in me.
Silas
I find Owen close to the quilting shed, talking with Mary. Even from fifty yards away, I sense that something isn't right. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, while her hands dart frantically in front of her like birds. She apparently has a lot to say. It looks like she's making her case by physically shoving it at him.
As I get closer, her gaze flashes toward me. She narrows her eyes menacingly and pauses just for a moment. I see her pause, standing still with her lips slightly open, before returning to launch another assault on Owen.
I don't mind that at all. He can take everything she feels like dishing out, as far as I'm concerned. I've got enough on my plate, that's for certain.
For a moment I consider taking the long way back to my house. Maybe a shower to clear my head. Maybe even finding my old tennis shoes and going for a run. Anything to work out this nervous energy that seems to be lighting me up like an overactive switchboard. Some kind of old-fashioned, outdated machine that has more lights than anybody knows what to do with. It's too much at once.
And now there's all this to deal with.
“You let this happen!” she hisses at me when I'm close enough to hear her. She stabs at the air with one finger, directing the complete force of her accusation in my direction. Owen looks visibly relieved and takes a half step back.
“Don't go anywhere,” I warn him. “I need you.”
“How could you let this happen?” she continues. “Who was watching her? What have you been teaching Seth?”
I get within eight feet of her and stop, raising my hands in front of me like I'm surrendering or something.
“I don't know what you’re talking about, Mary. I promise you that nothing Seth did was condoned in any way by either Brother Owen or myself. I can’t believe you would even think such a thing, much less make that accusation.”
“Will he must have learned it from somewhere!” she hisses.
I shrug helplessly. Learned it from somewhere? Does she seriously think anyone has to train a boy up like that? All our efforts going to training that kind of vulgarity out of them.
But I suppose she's just mad. Probably mostly mad at Seth, and Angel too, if I know how the women around here work. But Owen and I are certainly closest to her at the moment, so we are getting the brunt of it right now. If Seth were here, I would fear for his life.
“I’m going to take care of it,” I inform her.
She knuckles her wide, pillowy hips, her elbows jutting out at acute angles. Bending at the waist, she leans over slightly.
“I should hope so!” she snarls. “We can’t have that kind of thing here. It’s like a fungus — it spreads! Fix it!”
I don't think I've seen her quite so invigorated in a long time. She mostly parades around here like a bonafide prophet, waiting for people to listen to whatever she has to say.
But I suppose, she has earned it. Mary mostly engaged herself by writing rituals and ceremonies as soon as we started. She authored much of what newcomers think has always been the Kingdom Come dogma. Many of them don't even realize it was Mary who invented many of our holiest procedures. The deflowering ceremony was her idea, originally. She felt it would enhance our Family connection.
“Perhaps you should give the education of young men a little more thought, Mary,” I suggest, trying to keep my tone even so she doesn't think I'm taunting her, which I sort of am. Her meddling has not always been my favorite thing. But we are a tight community, and sometimes you have to take the help you are offered.
“Maybe I will do that. Somebody should!” she sniffs.
“Get back to me on that. I look forward to your counsel.”
Her chin juts proudly in the air. She’ll come up with something, I’m sure. And it will definitely be a help. We are about to have four women who need Masters, and none of the boys are ready for that responsibility.
“So I suppose you know what we have to do now,” I sigh, glancing sidelong at Owen.
“Oh,” Mary exhales as she realizes what I’m referring to. She wrote this one herself, too. She knows exactly what we have to do with Seth.
“I think he has probably gone along home to nurse his wounds,” Owen observes. He looks away, clearly dreading the next hour.
“Let’s get this done, then,” I suggest, unable to keep the sour tone from my voice.
Owen says nothing as we march down the dusty path, not making eye contact with anyone. From the looks we’re getting, I sense the excitement is growing. Seth’s crime is a highly unusual one in the Family, and the punishment is suitably dramatic.
When we get to Seth's front porch, the door automatically opens and he steps out, shoulders slumped forward, his eyes cast to the ground. Before his door closes I see his mother’s face in the darkened interior. Her eyes are wide with fright, but she scurries away, further int
o the house. He knows what's going to happen too. It's unavoidable now.
The three of us walk down the widest path to the center of the compound, an oblong clearing with a covered platform in the center. Typically this platform is used for casual, simple occasions, something where everybody needs to gather and mill around, maybe have a picnic or something. It's hardly ever used for this purpose. There's usually no need.
Word must have spread quickly, because people are starting together around us. They squint hard against the remaining sunlight, hands shading their eyes, noses already wrinkled in disgust.
We lead Seth to the platform. He stands in the middle, silently watching the clearing fill with Family members. After another dozen or so make their way into the dusty, open space, I finally figure out exactly what I need to tell them.
“Brother Seth was witnessed in an act of attempted theft,” I announce, casting my voice high over everyone's heads. As soon as I say it, people begin to chant, to whisper at first. They stand with their feet planted as they rock back and forth in unison.
“Shame, shame, shame.”
“He was not successful!” I call out, making sure this crime lands solely at his feet without sullying Angel in any way. “But he was so willing to steal what rightly belongs to another man, that he must be punished!”
“Shame, shame, shame.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Brother Owen pull the small hatchet from a loop in his belt. He tests it against his palm, feeling the weight there. Seth moves to one end of the platform and jams his hands against the railing. Tears have already started streaking his dusty cheeks, and a glob of snot trembles wetly along his upper lip.
“We know the price to be paid for this crime!” I call out, addressing everyone at once. “Before all of you, he is to be punished! Before us all, he is offered redemption through transformation!”
“Shame! Shame! Shame!”
