by Tillie Cole
Brothers Michael and James wrenched me back to my feet and pulled me from the punishment cell. I shook with every step I took. And with every new step, my anger grew. I could feel it infusing every part of my body, bitterness seeping into my veins like an intravenous drip.
The door to the cell house opened. Sensing someone was near, I lifted my head to see two new guards standing at the entrance. They were both dark haired, with dark eyes. They were heavily muscled, with short hair and dark-stubbled cheeks. They looked as if they were related. Each of them held an AK-47 in their hands, and they were dressed in the typical black clothing and heavy boots of the disciple guards. They flicked their chins at the guards holding me. When their eyes fell to me, their lips curled in disgust.
As I was dragged back to my cell, I noticed an older man and an older woman preparing food at the end of the long hallway. They both looked toward me, but quickly turned away when the guards from the entrance ordered, “Work!”
The guards threw me into my cell. As my cheek slammed against the stone floor, I couldn’t contain my rage any longer. Using the residual adrenaline pulsing through me, I launched myself to my feet and let out five weeks’ worth of screams. I paced around the room in staggered steps, my legs stinging and throbbing as blood rushed to my muscles.
My gaze locked onto the wall of tallies. I counted them. “Thirty-five,” I growled, my voice now husky from overuse. I picked up my sharpened rock from the floor and slammed it against the stone wall, the sharp edge slicing into my palm. I let the rock fall to the ground.
I was back in this cell, left to rot, caged like an animal. Stepping back, I picked up the bloodied rock and, with shaky hands, brought it back to the wall. Starting a new tally, I scraped five new lines on the wall. “Forty . . . ”
I couldn’t stand anymore. I slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall. My torso and back were on fire in the aftermath of the beating.
The silence in the cell was deafening as I sat on the hard floor, the humid air clinging to my skin like glue. The crackling of the commune’s speakers preceded an announcement; Judah’s voice came bursting through the window of my cell.
“People of New Zion. Today’s Lord’s Sharing will commence in fifteen minutes.”
I froze. Ice trickled down my spine when I thought of what would happen in that hall. I felt sick as I remembered the only Lord’s Sharing I had seen. Grown men raping small girls, Judah lapping it up; Sarai, his willing consort, writhing by his side.
I closed my eyes and fought back another scream. The cell darkened as storm clouds closed in, smothering the blue sky. A fitting metaphor for what was happening to me inside. Light was being stubbed out, like a candle in a hurricane. I could feel the talons of bitterness sinking into my soul. The only other time I had felt this way was when I had infiltrated the Hangmen. Then, I had been disgusted by their sinful life, knowing my faith was the only path to salvation.
Now I was beginning to think that as impure as those men were, at least they had honor and pride. And I was damn sure they wouldn’t have raped children in the name of Hades or the club.
My hands shook. My chest was so tight I feared my muscles might snap. It amazed me how quickly I was spiraling into darkness. I could almost feel my torn heart turning black.
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall. I tried to will myself to sleep, just to get the hell away from this crushing reality, if only for a while. But my ears pricked up when I heard a sound coming from the cell beside mine. I frowned. I was alone in these cells, wasn’t I? No one but the guards had been here since I was imprisoned. The guards, and apparently the new people that were preparing food.
I listened harder. I didn’t hear anything at first. I thought I must have mistaken the sound of the guards for something else. But then I heard it again.
I pressed my ear to the stone. Small sniffing sounds drifted through the thick wall. I listened more closely, making sure it wasn’t the pain making me imagine things. But I heard it again, accompanied by a light cough.
My pulse beat faster. There was someone there. I shuffled forward, searching the wall. At the bottom of the cell, there was a small gap where some old cement had worn away. I lowered my chest to the ground, trying to see through. The gap was too small for me to see anything, but as I pressed my ear to it, I could hear the sounds more clearly.
Someone was crying.
Music sounded from outside, signaling the commencement of the Lord’s Sharing. I closed my eyes, trying to push away the images of what would be happening there. The crying through the wall seemed to grow louder.
“Hello?” I said, wincing as the word scraped at my raw throat. I swallowed in an attempt to wet my vocal chords. The crying stopped. Straining my ears, I caught the sound of shuffling.
“Hello?” I tried again. “Is someone there?” I became frustrated as my voice came out too weak and too quiet. I pushed myself closer to the wall, my chest pressing against the stone. I took a deep breath.
“Yes . . . someone is here.”
Excitement flooded my chest. The voice was barely a whisper, but whoever was in there had responded. I drew my head back, trying to see through the gap above the stone brick. I still couldn’t see anything. But I could feel their presence on the other side of the wall.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Several seconds passed in silence.
“My . . . my name is . . . Harmony.”
My muscles froze. The voice belonged to a woman. Harmony. Her name was Harmony.
“Harmony,” I whispered. My heart began to beat faster.
“What . . . what is your name?” Harmony asked. I closed my eyes both at the sound of her soft voice and at the question.
I breathed in and out, once, twice, three times. I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t know who she was, why she was even in the cell. I couldn’t tell her my name. The prophet was named Cain. I didn’t want to be Cain. Nothing within me wanted to be associated with that name ever again. And I certainly wouldn’t name myself Judah.
“Your name?” Harmony asked again.
I didn’t think about my answer. It barely even registered that I had one until I found myself saying, “Rider . . . ” I took a deep breath. “My name is Rider.”
Chapter Four
Harmony
I swallowed and cast a worried look back to the door of my cell. Nerves racked my body. I wanted to keep my voice low so as not to draw the attention of the people outside. New Zion’s guards had checked in on me a few times, and each time I saw a certain lustful look in their eyes.
“Rider,” the deep voice replied. “My name is Rider.”
“Rider,” I repeated. My eyebrows drew together. “It . . . ” I said nervously. “That is not a name I know.”
Rider was silent for a while, then he said, “Then it fits . . . as I am not worth knowing. I am no longer a good man.” My stomach flipped at the obvious pain in his voice. I heard him take a strained, crackled inhale. “I think I was once, maybe, I don’t know . . . but I’m not sure who I am anymore . . . everything is so messed up.”
I drew my head back slightly, confused by his strange, cryptic words and his coarse use of language. But then a flicker of understanding hit me. “They have proclaimed you a sinner?”
I heard Rider’s sharp intake of breath. “I’ve . . . I have done bad things.”
“Is that why you are in that cell?”
“Yes,” he replied, sadly, but there was something else laced in his voice—confusion, hurt . . . anger?
The sound of my cell door opening filled the room. I rushed to sit as I had been before, wiping my remaining tears from my face. I would not let them see the evidence from my moment of weakness. I was afraid that it was one of the guards, but as the door opened I saw a familiar face.
Brother Stephen.
I relaxed, praying that the man from the cell next door did not speak. I did not know why I did not want Brother Stephen to hear him. I knew he would no
t care that I had been talking to the stranger. But he also would not want me to put myself in any kind of jeopardy. Speaking to a fellow sinner would most certainly fall into that category.
“Hello, Brother Stephen,” I said quietly.
Brother Stephen walked into the cell, a tray of food in his hands. He crouched down, placing it at my feet. I cast him a grateful smile. Brother Stephen looked behind him to the door. When he saw it was clear of any guards, he said, “Two disciple guards from Puerto Rico have been put in charge of us here in the cells. The prophet’s head disciple guard, Ezrah, decided it would be best since they are familiar with us.” I drew in a deep breath and slowly released a long exhale. Relief settled over me.
The sound of Rider moving around in the next cell came drifting through the small crumbled gaps between the old bricks in the wall. Rider let out a low, pained groan. Brother Stephen frowned, and his dark eyes darted to me.
“There is a man in that cell,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “I do not know who he is. All we know is that he is a defector from the faith and is being punished. Badly.”
Brother Stephen gave me a meaningful stare. My heart slammed faster in my chest. I nodded to show that I understood. Checking again that the coast was clear, he added, “He is not our responsibility—mine and Sister Ruth’s. Women from the main commune come to feed and bathe him daily. He is also taken away each day by the prophet’s head disciples.” Brother Stephen shook his head, an angry flush crossing his face. “I saw how they brought him back. They are truly making him pay for his transgressions, whatever they may be. He is in a very bad way.”
I swallowed hard, fear for my own safety threatening to rise. I pushed it down. I would not let it consume me. Brother Stephen gave me a sympathetic look. “We do not know what Prophet Cain intends to do with you yet. He may yet deem you a non-Cursed and that will be that.”
My heart beat faster and my blood rushed in my veins. “I know,” I whispered back. “But I am sure I will be branded.”
He lifted his hand, about to lay it upon my head, when the sound of a guard’s boots echoed down the hallway. I placed the tray back in Brother Stephen’s hands just as the door opened. Disciple Guard Solomon stood in the doorway. I relaxed.
“I was delivering her food,” Brother Stephen informed him.
Brother Solomon nodded. He stepped back, waiting for Brother Stephen to place the tray on the floor. Brother Stephen did so, then got to his feet. He nodded at me, looking into my eyes.
I breathed deeply and nodded my head, letting him know I was fine.
When Brother Stephen left, Solomon also nodded at me. A tight smile pulled on his lips, then he shut the door. I looked at my tray. Vegetables and bread. I knew I should eat it to keep up my strength, but I could not stomach it. The fear of being here was still too raw.
“Harmony?” I jumped when I heard Rider’s low, husky rasp.
Moving the tray out of the way, I slumped back down to the gap in the wall. I rested my head on my hands. “I am here.”
This close, I could hear Rider’s crackled breathing again. I winced, now understanding why it sounded so strained. He was being punished daily. Badly.
“Who was that?” Rider asked. “Who . . . who came to you?”
“He is called Brother Stephen,” I replied. “He is a friend.”
Rider was silent for several seconds. I turned my ear to the gap, fearful that he had lost consciousness, but then he asked, “He is to care for you in here?”
Relieved that he was okay, I replied, “Yes. He and Sister Ruth care for me. They protected me from something they should not have.” I paused, debating whether I should reveal anything more. I found myself adding, “They are being punished. They share the cell next to mine, but they have been assigned to clean and maintain this block of cells as their penance. They bring me my food and clothes. You will hear them coming in and out of my cell several times a day.”
“They are being punished for protecting you?”
“Yes.” The sound of shuffling sounded again from his cell. “You are in pain.”
Rider’s sharp inhale was all the answer I needed. The anger that I had kept hidden for so long began to build, bubbling in my blood. Rider was silent.
“Yes,” he eventually answered. “I’m in pain.”
My hands balled into fists. Yet another person hurt. “What are they doing to you? Why?”
I counted four deep inhales and exhales from Rider, before he said, “They beat me.” My eyes closed and I shook my head. “They feed me only minimal food, and clean me, only to start again the very next day. They are trying to make me break.”
“Rider,” I whispered, not knowing what to say.
I heard the sound of rain hitting the roof of the cell. I lifted my head to look out of the tiny window at the top of the far wall. The sky had darkened, and fat drops of rain were falling from gray clouds. As I stared out of the window, my mind drifted to what the prophet had announced a short while ago. The Lord’s Sharing. Disgust built in my stomach as I pictured the depravity that would be happening in that hall . . . the pain and suffering of the women that would be caused by the guards and the disciples.
I cursed the day Prophet David wrote the scripture that endorsed such events. I cursed the day he revealed to the people through his letters that the Cursed Sisters of Eve were to be celestially cleansed by the purest of his chosen men . . . ritually cleansed from the age of eight. Every time I would read our holy books I would almost burst with fury.
“They want me to repent.” Rider’s voice made me turn back to the wall and refocus.
Resting my head back down on my cupped hands, I asked, “That is why they beat you? To make you repent?”
“Yes.”
“But you will not repent?”
The low rumblings of distant thunder echoed above us, but I blocked them out, straining to hear Rider’s response.
“No,” he finally confessed. “No matter what they do, I will not repent.” He dragged in a labored breath. “I cannot . . . I cannot agree with what they want me to agree with, the actions they want me to ignore.”
My heart sank at the pain, the cutting rejection in his deep voice. My head lifted from my hands, and even knowing he could not see me, I pressed my palm against the wall. I knew what that level of pain felt like. I recognized the sadness in the way he spoke.
“What did you do?” I pushed myself to ask.
My fingers pressed harder against the stone wall as I waited for him to speak. “Too much,” he replied vaguely. “Too many unforgiveable things.” He sighed. “I deserve these beatings and more, Harmony. The things I have done . . . ” I could feel his sorrow passing through the thick wall. “I should be here. I should be getting this treatment.” He took a deep breath and whispered, “I am beginning to think it should be worse.”
I stayed silent. I heard the conviction in his voice. He meant it, every single word. He truly thought he should be getting hurt, punished . . . killed. I wondered what he had done that was so bad. I opened my mouth, about to ask, but as I did music began to play outside.
I jumped as the sound cut through the heavy stone walls of the cell. My eyes drifted to the window. The rain had eased, blue skies once again chasing away the gray.
The music faded out and Rider said sadly, “The Lord’s Sharing has ended.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. I clenched my thighs together, imagining what the girls who had been chosen to participate would be feeling right now. Each man who had taken part would have strictly adhered to Prophet David’s guidebook of how to reach celestial purity through intercourse with the girls. The girls whose tender, trusting hearts would be bruised by the wickedness of the men who had just robbed them of their innocence. Nausea built in my throat. I could not bear the dark thoughts, the tightness that fractured my chest.
Rider did not say anything else. I did not speak either. There was nothing much to say. I imagined he knew what was happening i
n that hall of evil just as well as I.
Heavy footsteps came down the hallway, and I straightened to sit against the wall. Just as I righted myself, the door was pushed open and two disciple guards entered the cell: Solomon and Samson. They looked down at me, their guns in their hands. I met their eyes and felt fear take hold of me.
“Come,” Solomon said. I got to my feet.
Samson pointed at my veil and headdress. “Fix yourself, quickly. You have been summoned to the mansion.” My heart fell.
The prophet. Prophet Cain had called for me.
With shaky hands, I fixed my veil in place. I smoothed down my dress. My jaw tightened in trepidation. I hated that meeting the prophet brought out such a strong, fearful reaction in me. I needed to be stronger than this.
Gather your wits, Harmony. You can do this.
“We must go,” Solomon said from behind me. Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked to the guards. My eyes drifted down to the gap at the bottom of the cell wall. I thought of Rider lying on the floor, hurt. My heart lurched. I liked speaking to the stranger. I felt a kinship with him. He was like me, an outcast. His feelings and thoughts mirrored my own. I was desperate to discover why he was here, what he had done.
I was not sure I would ever know.
The guards led me down the hallway. We passed Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth’s cell; through the open door I could see Sister Ruth sewing what appeared to be new veils and garments for me. Brother Stephen was cleaning the floor. I was happy their door was open. It meant they had a freer rein than I. They were at least able to leave their cell to carry out their duties through this mess.
I caught their eyes as I passed. They both stopped what they were doing and cast me supportive, encouraging smiles.
When we went outside, the cloggy stormy air wrapped around me. The breeze pressed my dress against my body, showcasing my figure. I pulled at the material, trying to make it less revealing. It was no use.
We passed a group of disciple guards who were walking toward a building of some kind; they all stopped to watch me walk by. I tried to keep my eyes cast down, but I could not help but look up. Their shirts were loose, and sweat covered their faces. A sudden wave of revulsion traveled through me—they had been at the Lord’s Sharing. My mind drifted to the girls they would have reached celestial pleasure with.
