by Tillie Cole
And I listened.
I listened to what he had to say, not missing once single piece of information . . . and all the while I stood there, unmoving . . .
. . . in complete and utter fucking shock.
Chapter Ten
Harmony
Five days later . . .
The scents of vanilla and lavender oils being poured onto my skin brought a nauseous feeling to my stomach. I kept my eyes to the ground as Sarai roughly applied the perfume, her fingers digging into my skin. I could feel her intense blue gaze boring into my bowed head, but I kept calm. I would not let a girl of her age intimidate me.
Another sister, whose name I did not know, braided two front sections of my hair, then pulled them back from my face. My face and body were still and stoic, but my heart was racing like a duck’s legs swimming frantically under water.
It was fear, pure and undiluted fear.
Today was the day of my wedding to Prophet Cain. Despite the many days counting down to this moment, I could not believe that I was really here. I could not believe that after everything I had already been through at the hands of this faith, I was in this commune, willingly placing myself in this position.
But it had to be done. For the sake of us all.
I inhaled deeply through my nose, exhaling slowly through my mouth to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. My eyes closed of their own accord and I could not help but picture what this wedding would be like.
People. So many people who knew nothing of my existence would today see me wed the prophet. A man I had only met once . . . a man I was told would not see me again until our wedding because I tempted him too much. They would see him take me on the ceremonial bed. They would watch me through the gauze curtain, being taken against my will by the prophet.
And they would do nothing about it. They would praise the Lord for its occurrence.
Disgust swirled within me when I pictured the prophet’s face, but that disgust switched to warmth when I immediately thought of Rider. I never thought of Rider as Prophet Cain. Prophet Cain was a cruel man lording his power over innocent people, convincing them to bend to his will. Rider was a kind, gentle, but tortured, soul. I fought back the smile from my lips as I let my mind drift back over the past five days. When I had awoken the morning after Rider had revealed his true identity to me, I was in his arms. I, Harmony, was cradled to his chest like a contented lover, his large, strong arms keeping me to his side as though he was terrified I would leave.
No man had ever treated me the way he had, staring down into my eyes as I lifted my head to stare up into his. His hand slowly stroked down the side of my face, only stopping to let his fingertips drift over my kiss-swollen lips. His every touch was an answered prayer, the childhood prayer I had refused to ever let wane—that I would be wanted by somebody . . . loved for me and me alone. The wish that every Cursed Sister begs God for, but one that is never answered.
I had held my breath, seeing the undisguised affection he held for me in his dark eyes . . . but seeing the internal struggle he was fighting too. My smile fell. If there was ever a man who physically represented a torn soul, it was Rider. He was two sides of the same coin, a man straddling a barrier only known in his heart. Any mention of his brother caused a visible pain to settle on his face. Any mention of the sins he said he’d committed as prophet struck him as hard as any physical blow. If his hand happened to be in mine, it would always squeeze a little more. I had no idea what he had done to make him hate himself so badly. I could not believe this man was capable of doing anything wrong or untoward. His heart was pure.
His heart was true.
I wanted to help him, but I had no idea how. Rider kept so much back that I knew my knowledge of him was barely scratching the surface. I wanted him to let me in, but he had not let me get that far, always keeping me in a perpetual place of warmth, of happiness. He never let any darkness into our small haven of solace.
He had made it our very own sanctuary.
He knew who we were now. And he knew the reason why we had come back. He never said much about it. But I could see that what I had committed to do pained him.
I had to. If everything worked out, perhaps I could save him too.
For five days we had kissed. Feather-light, innocent kisses, two inexperienced people trying to show how much the other was treasured. I was sure I was now addicted to those kisses. No man had ever simply wanted kisses from me and nothing more. Better still, Rider did not fear me. He did not see me as evil incarnate. I saw the truth of that every time he looked at me. Every time the corner of his lips would pull into a contented smile.
Rider saw me. The real me . . . at least as much as I would let him see. We both had secrets, pasts we had yet to reveal. There was no use burdening him with mine, with the terrors that plagued me each night. Because this short piece of heaven we had found in a stone cell was exactly that—short.
My heart had been irreparably broken many months ago, so much so that I had chosen to live an almost solitary life in Puerto Rico. But since speaking to Rider, that heart had paused in its crumbling. He had given me a short reprieve to breathe again, to chase the loneliness of loss from my spirit. But this week, the pieces had begun to break away again, only in greater chunks. Because as well as the loved ones I had lost so completely, now I would lose Rider. As the countdown to the wedding approached, the pain in my chest had grown worse.
Right now, I could scarcely breathe.
After today I would not share a cell with that man anymore . . . the man I was hopelessly enamored with. I would not know his touch, his lips’ sweet taste, his kindness. From today, I would live with a man that shared Rider’s face, but none of his gentleness.
In mere minutes I would walk down the aisle to celestially merge myself to a man that represented everything I despised. A savage amongst cruel men. An instigator of pain.
Somebody jerked aggressively on my hand, sending a slice of red-hot pain up my arm. I blinked and focused on the culprit—Sister Sarai. I could see the frustration in her expression as she glared at me, lips pursed. “Did you hear anything that I said?” she snapped. I shook my head. “The prophet has given me orders to pass on to you. You must keep your eyes cast down through the ceremony, and you must not speak, except in the moments you take your vows. Never raise your eyes to meet his or anyone else’s. Is that clear? It is imperative that you do this joining by our book. The people need to understand the significance of the Cursed marrying their prophet.”
A wave of ire washed through me at Sarai’s cutting tone, but I tamped it down and simply nodded. Sarai released my arm. A flower garland was placed upon my head, then Sarai waved her hand, motioning for me to stand.
I did, my jeweled sandals tapping lightly on the stone floor. From outside came the tinny sound of speakers playing melodic, lyric-less music. But my attention was captured by what was in front of me. A large mirror was fixed to the wall . . . a large mirror that now showed me in all of my bridal attire.
I stared at the sleeveless white garment that clung to my body. My long blond hair hung in loose ringlets down my back, the two braided front sections secured at the crown of my head, allowing every inch of my veil-free face to be seen. I lifted my hand and hovered my fingers over my cheeks and eyes.
Sarai moved beside me and knocked my hand away. “Do not touch your face,” she ordered. “It will ruin how we have made you look.”
Dark-coated lashes curled like long wings over my brown eyes. My cheeks were pink as though flushed, and my lips were painted a deep rose. I rubbed them together, the colored cream tasting like fruit on my tongue.
A delicate garland of fresh pastel-colored flowers lay upon my head. Sarai thrust something into my hands, and when I looked down I saw it was a small bouquet matching the flowers on my head.
As I clutched the spray, I could not stop trembling. It is truly happening, I thought as I stared at the painted stranger in front of me. I recognized nothing of this woman.
I felt nothing like my true self.
My body suddenly felt weak. Drained of any remaining hope. Drained of the calm I had found in Puerto Rico during my short reprieve from this stifling “Cursed” title . . . drained of the temporary happiness I had found in Rider’s arms. Rider, the mysterious, broken man who had stolen what was left of my shattered heart.
I allowed my mind to drift to the man who had become the focus of my every waking thought. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment. I felt like crying when I wondered who would treat him and care for him after his daily punishments from now on. My heart lurched with sadness as I recalled how his weary eyes would watch me as I washed away the blood and dirt collected on his skin. As if I was his savior, as if no one had ever shown him such care and compassion in his life . . . as if afraid I would leave him, as everyone in his life always had. From today he would be alone again. I could barely breathe as I thought of him sitting day after day in that cell, lonely and defeated.
It broke my heart.
I glanced up at my foreign reflection, and I felt the life seeping from me with every breath. In a better world I would belong to a man such as Rider. We would choose to be in each other’s arms. I had heard the stories of the outside world from Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth, how people were free to live as they wished, with whomever they wished. But in my life, I had only ever experienced hurt and pain. And loss. Such loss that I could not let myself remember those I had loved so fully, yet lost so tragically.
Just the memory burned me alive from within.
These past five days, Rider and I had barely spoken a word. I knew it was the wedding that had occupied his mind. It had clearly occupied my guardians’ minds, and Solomon and Samson’s too.
When I had left Rider this morning to begin my wedding preparations, there had been no great goodbye. Instead, there had been unshed tears of frustration in his eyes. I had held him close, willing myself to commit his touch to memory. When his twin took me, I wanted to picture Rider’s version of their shared face above me. It would make the situation easier to bear.
As I left, Rider had silently pressed a gentle kiss to my lips and run his finger down my cheek. With that, he had turned around to face the wall, fists at his sides, and I had walked out of the cell.
I had left him all alone.
Suddenly, my bridal garment was wrenched up my legs from behind, baring my naked lower half. My arms moved instinctively to try to stop whoever had touched me. But they were then pinned to my sides by the sister whose name I did not know. Sarai moved in front of me, blocking my view of the mirror. Her eyes never left mine as her hand reached out and cupped between my legs.
“No!” I protested. I felt Sarai’s deft fingers spread a cool liquid along my core. “Please,” I begged, trying to get free from the other sister’s grip. I could not move. I wanted to close my eyes. But when I saw the victory in Sarai’s eyes I forced myself to keep them open. She met my challenge by curling her fingers and inserting the liquid further inside me. My nose flared at the unwanted intrusion, but I breathed through the discomfort.
I would not show my weakness.
Sarai put her mouth to my ear. “It is to make you wet and able to take him in the ceremonial bed. He is big, and this joining needs to go to plan. Nothing can go wrong.” I fought back the bile that was racing up my throat. Sarai withdrew her hands, leaving my inner thighs damp.
The door opened, flooding the room in daylight. A guard stood in the doorway.
“Move,” he ordered sternly.
I did as I was told. I passed where he stood, to where another guard was waiting outside. Even from back here, in the small quarters near the prophet’s mansion, I could hear the excitement of our people in the air. They would be in their ceremonial whites. They were only asked to wear their ceremonial whites when something truly special or important was happening. However, I was sure that they would never expect what was coming this day.
The guards sandwiched me between them as they led me along a path to the patch of land in front of the prophet’s residence. With every step my heart beat faster and faster. The supposedly joyous music coming through the speakers only sounded ominous to my ears. My steps faltered when suddenly the music was cut and a familiar voice came through the speakers.
The guard in the front suddenly stopped and held up his hand to someone I could not see. I realized that we must be at the end of the aisle. My hands tightened on the stems of my bouquet.
The prophet began to speak. “People of The Order. You have been gathered here today to witness a miracle. A hope we thought had been lost.” In the long pauses between his words, the commune was deathly silent, the people hanging on to every word the prophet spilled. His voice sent shards of ice down my back. I breathed in slow breaths to compose myself.
“Today, you will all bear witness to an answered prayer. Just when we thought a prophecy would not be fulfilled, God showed us he would never desert his people and delivered us a gift . . . the gift of salvation. Today, we celebrate that gift!”
The guard ordered me forward with a wave of his hand, but my legs began to shake so much I was unsure that I could walk. Sarai appeared in my peripheral vision and motioned with her finger for me to look down. I bowed my head.
Making sure I breathed steadily, I stepped forward until the path turned to green grass under my feet. The guard placed his hand on my back and steered me until I knew I faced the congregation. A collective gasp sounded amongst the people, and in that moment, I was glad my orders were to keep my eyes downcast. I would not be able to move if I had to look my people in the eyes . . . people that detested me as much as they believed they needed me to save their mortal souls.
“Walk,” the guard behind me said quietly, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “The prophet waits at the end of the aisle.”
I slowly made my way down the aisle. The people were sitting on the ground, dressed in white. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see some of their faces. The few I caught actually looked me in the eye, and their mouths dropped in shock. “A Cursed,” they whispered, confirmation traveling through the congregation at lightning speed.
I heard people crying, rejoicing for the salvation they believed me to be. Worse, I heard them praising the prophet, speaking in tongues and wailing in delight.
The atmosphere became electric as I approached the altar. I stopped and turned to face Prophet Cain. He reached out and took my hand in his, and I felt as though I was going to be sick. He was not gentle like Rider; he had taken my hand aggressively, arrogantly.
“Proceed,” he barked at Brother Luke, the Prophet’s Hand. I flinched at the harshness in his voice and tried my hardest not to shake.
The ceremony began. I listened as Brother Luke read from the scriptures and spoke of the prophecy of the Cursed Sisters. I listened as he read Prophet David’s words about a devil-tainted woman’s soul merging with the prophet of The Order to save all those that followed The Order’s path. I did not hear much else; the people had grown louder in their excitement. I heard snatches of Prophet Cain responding to something that Brother Luke asked. Then the prophet pulled on my hand and I knew it was my turn to speak.
“Do you, Harmony, Cursed Sister of Eve, take your lord prophet and savior to be your wedded husband? Allowing him to be the king of both your heart and soul? To rule over you as your master and spiritual leader? To obey his every command and welcome him to chase the evil from your tainted soul?”
“I do,” I whispered, feeling my heart fall in sadness.
The crowd roared as Brother Luke held up his hands and shouted, “The union of the Cursed and the prophet has been sealed!”
I saw Prophet Cain’s feet inch closer to mine. He tugged me closer to him. I cried out as my body collided with his, and before I knew it, Prophet Cain had pulled on the back of my hair to raise my mouth toward his. With no warning, he crashed his lips to mine in a rough, unyielding kiss. I whimpered as his tongue plunged into my mouth. My hands bal
led into fists, instinctively preparing to fight him off. But I dropped my hands down by my side and let him take my mouth. This was just the beginning of what he would take without permission.
I had no choice but to obey.
I kept my eyes cast down as the prophet released me and moved to address his people. “I will now take my bride to the wedding bed and begin the long and heavy process of ridding evil from her soul. Of chasing the devil from her soul with my seed.”
The crowd roared in happiness. Prophet Cain turned us away from the crowd and toward an elevated platform. I risked a glance up at the stage, and my stomach rolled in trepidation. In the center was a large, high mattress draped in a shroud of gossamer-white gauze curtains.
Prophet Cain’s hand tightened on mine. He led us up the staircase to the bed. With every step, my fear intensified. By the time we had reached the bed, I was terrified that I would pass out from that fear.
The prophet came to a stop. I saw Brother Luke’s feet before us. “Prophet,” Brother Luke said. “The joining bed is ready.”
“Thank you, brother,” the prophet replied, releasing my hand to part the curtains. I stood, waiting for my command, my legs wobbling so hard that I did not think I would be able to move.
I gasped as someone moved behind me and drew the garment off my shoulders. It fell to the floor, pooling at my feet. I screwed my eyes shut in shame as my naked body was bared to our people. I trembled with humiliation, and it took everything I had not to break down in tears.
“Go to your prophet,” a low, stern voice ordered into my ear. I opened my eyes. Brother Luke was holding apart the curtains around the bed. The prophet lay in the center, still fully clothed.
“Go,” Brother Luke ordered when I made no move. With leaden feet, I forced myself to walk. I did not breathe as I made my way to the bed. When I raised my knee and crawled to the center beside the prophet, I was sure I would never breathe again.
As I had been instructed by the sisters this morning, I lay flat on my back, keeping my eyes downcast, never meeting the prophet’s gaze. I placed my hands over my stomach, frustrated with myself as I failed to stop their intense, incessant shaking.
