But not at The Retreat. It was a sprawling community comprised of simple wooden buildings and a large, more elaborate structure at the edge of the forest—The Sun Sanctuary—our holy place. Pretty, well-maintained gravel paths connected all of the cabins and there was a magnificent garden at the center that we all took a hand in cultivating and maintaining.
We had electricity in the community buildings and running water in the two shower rooms that was shared by everyone, though the water was often cold. We used a small solar generator to warm the water but it never lasted very long. When I was small, I was one of the last to use the facilities in the morning. Winters were particularly miserable when you had to withstand icy water to get clean. Now that I was older I was permitted to shower before most of the others, thank goodness.
We had all been made to do away with any and all items that appealed to our vanity. No makeup for the women. No hair gel or curling irons. We were not meant to focus on the physical when we needed to stay immersed in the spiritual. Because of this both men and women wore their hair long. I hadn’t had a haircut in over ten years. The men didn’t shave either. I had no idea what any of their faces looked like beneath their beards.
Strangely, the women were allowed to shave their legs. Pastor Carter claimed that God preferred a woman’s skin smooth and clean.
Once, a few years ago, Minnie had made the comment that it wasn’t God, but Pastor Carter that preferred shaved legs. An elder had overheard her and she was taken to The Refuge for a week.
I had no idea how to apply mascara or what I looked like wearing lipstick. My thick blonde hair was a bit on the frizzy side. If I were any other eighteen-year-old, I would be horrified with how out of control it was. When I was going through puberty, I had my moments. When I broke out in zits and wasn’t permitted concealer I had cried. I hated to admit it, but I succumbed to despair over the state of my appearance.
My mother had no sympathy.
Pastor Carter even less.
Three days in The Refuge had reminded me that my time was better suited to other things than primping.
I stopped worrying about my acne and hair after that.
Pastor Carter kept an old rotary phone in his house in case of an absolute emergency. Though I couldn’t remember a time we ever had to use it. It was mostly kept as a means for those seeking the truth to contact Pastor.
I hated the shrill ring. It was loud and out of place in our quiet piece of earth.
Sometimes it woke me up in the middle of the night. The loud tone echoing across the mountain and we knew it wouldn’t be long until our family grew again.
We were told to not drink alcohol or eat sugar. We dressed in clothes we made ourselves. Pastor Carter said that the appreciation of a thing came from the sweat put into its creation. That God loved us so because of the effort it took to make us.
I believed this totally. This—as with all of Pastor’s teachings—made complete sense to me. After years of being told the same basic principles, they became gospel.
Of course you can only truly appreciate something if you’ve had a hand in making it. Even if sewing new shirts for the elders and fixing the holes in my old socks made me want to scream. I never would. I did my duty. We all had a part to play. And I forced myself to be happy with mine.
We lived a passive existence.
We were non-confrontational. We chose to handle disagreements by praying. And The Refuge was always there if someone needed a reminder of their purpose. I subscribed to each and every one of the commandments Pastor set forth.
Though not all the disciples were as committed. The ugly still took root in the cleanest of places.
Despite refusing to ingest toxins in our body or succumb to the dark places in our souls, Pastor kept several guns and a cabinet full of liquor in the gathering room. Everyone was given access to the closet. Even the smallest children.
Pastor Carter said it was important to face the things that tempt us. The sin we were all capable of. The fundamentals of The Gathering’s message were about facing temptation and embracing faith instead. It wasn’t about denying ourselves—but about allowing ourselves more.
I had never known anyone to open the cabinet.
Not ever.
I didn’t really want to think of what would happen if they did.
Pastor stayed up to date on current events as well. All the wars. All the crime. Global warming and mad politicians. He spoke of these atrocities as reminders of all we were trying to leave behind. Pastor Carter made a point to utilize news reports and narcissistic ramblings on social media to reaffirm the importance of staying true to the path.
“It’s only when we see the horrors that we embrace our reason. We can’t hide from reality or we’ll never understand the truth.”
But the longer we resided at The Retreat, the harder it was to face the ungodliness in the outside world. The disciples focused only on cleansing our souls for the day when we’d be called home. The day we’d be able to leave this horrible world behind for good.
Yet the call of the gate was still there. The reminder that there was something else just beyond the hills and cliffs that had become our sanctuary.
Each of us had found the gate in our own way.
In our own time.
For our own reasons.
I remembered clutching Mom’s hand in the evening chill, ten years before. I was only eight when my mother decided it was time to sell our house and set out across the country to the backwoods of rural Virginia, to follow a man she claimed had a voice like God.
She had watched one of Pastor’s sermons on the internet. I have no idea to this day how she found it. Or why she was looking for something like that in the first place. Perhaps she discovered it in the dark days after Dad left. During the nights when I’d hear her wailing.
What I do know is that for two weeks, my mother spent hours watching the man who would become our savior preach about the dangers of modern society. The necessity of finding balance and harmony in one’s own soul.
Of listening to the call to walk the path.
Follow the path, it will lead you home…
“He speaks with God’s tongue, Sara. He is his true messenger. I feel his truth in my bones.”
She had said these words with a heat that caught fire in my naïve young heart. My mother was a zealous woman. Her passion could be thrilling, or it could be devastating. I had lived my entire life in the smoldering ruins of Mom’s erratic moods. She made irrational decisions with absolute clarity—to her. And I was always along for the ride. I never questioned her. I was a child. My mother’s will, no matter how unstable, was law. I trusted her whole heartedly. I loved her with total certainty. I had no reason not to.
So when she decided we’d go live in the Blue Ridge Mountains, cut off from society, I did as I was told. We threw away most of our belongings and trekked 2500 miles to the place we were meant to be.
I tended to shy away from memories of the early days of my time at The Retreat. They weren’t pleasant ones. There were tears—mine and Mom’s. There were the painful recollections of her vicious hand across my cheek when I begged her to leave. I wanted my friends. I wanted my cat, Twinkles, who we left at the local shelter. I wanted my dad, even if he had left and made no effort to contact me. I didn’t want to pray for hours. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the silent dark to make a cold, tense journey to wake the sun.
I hated those memories. They were colored by an ill-informed mind. I forced myself to replace them with others. Ones I was more comfortable with in my new life, ones that I may not have chosen, but became glad for.
Pastor Carter had embraced us, as he embraced all of his flock. And I felt, after those first few fraught years, that I had found a place to belong.
Our venerated leader welcomed every single one of his disciples at the gate. He was present for their arrival. A smiling mouth and kind hand. A warm hug and a whispered prayer. The stray sheep were joyfully enveloped into their new fa
mily. Often they came damaged. Tainted and scarred from the outside’s mistreatment of their delicate souls. And with The Gathering they rediscovered hope. They rediscovered purpose.
They found faith.
But except for my own, I had never been present for an arrival. The elders, or those deemed important to the path, were tasked with the embrace. The moment when a new disciple was brought into the fold.
I had always been too young. Still too unclean.
Until today.
Why today?
It felt a whole lot like destiny. And I wouldn’t question it. Not ever. God had a plan and I was part of it.
I walked from the congregation room with my hand in Pastor Carter’s. I smiled to my fellow disciples. I pretended it wasn’t bitterness and hatred they felt as they watched me.
Denial was comfortable.
I reached out for my mother as I walked past, wanting to connect with her at this important moment in my spiritual growth. Wanting to wipe away the dark emotion she was bad at hiding. But her fingers were stiff. Her hand cold.
And when I squeezed, she didn’t squeeze back.
My heart became leaden in my chest.
“We have to hurry. The arrival is due very soon.” Pastor Carter smiled at me and I answered him with one of my own.
“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, Pastor. Though I must admit, I’m a bit surprised that you chose me,” I allowed myself to say in slow halting words. I pushed my hair out of my eyes. It was particularly wild today. The humidity indicated a late storm. I had become adept at reading the weather on the mountain. And the smell in the late evening air heralded rain.
I began to mentally prepare for the arrival. My continence was of utmost importance. I needed to be calm. Collected. Welcoming. Nerves and apprehension had no place. I was a representative of The Gathering. Of Pastor Carter.
Of God himself.
Pastor Carter lifted my hand to his lips. A tender gesture, not unexpected. Paternal and expressing an affection I hoped to mirror. The Pastor was a physically demonstrative man. He took hands. He hugged many. It was hard not to feel special when he touched you. As if he were transferring some form of divinity. A man with a voice like God made you feel all sorts of things.
I wouldn’t give thought to the wicked blackness that lurked with other memories…
“You’ve been preparing for this since your own arrival, Sara. You must see this is yet another step on your path.” He continued to hold my hand as we walked brusquely towards the rusted pickup truck parked beside the largest cabin he had long ago claimed as his.
“I’m not an elder, Pastor.”
Pastor Carter squeezed my hand, giving me the reassurance I had been seeking from my mother. “All in due time, Sara. Your way is a clear one.” It was easy to see why I loved him. Why I followed him.
He held open the door for me and I climbed in, smoothing my rough cotton skirt beneath me. I remembered riding in this very truck all those years ago at my own arrival. The smell of old leather and peppermint from the mints Pastor kept in the cup holder tickled my memory. Like an itch, it irritated.
I clung to my mother’s hand. She tried to pull away from me, too focused on the tall man with light blond hair who walked beside us.
“I’m glad you found us, Daphne. This is only the beginning.”
Mom’s breathing quickened and her palm was sweaty. It was dark and cold. There were a lot of strange noises in the deep, black night. Rustling in the forest beyond the dirt path. A distant scream that sounded a lot like someone being murdered.
“Mommy, I don’t like it here,” I said a little too loudly.
She pulled her hand from mine, giving me a severe look. “Shh, Sara. Don’t be so rude. It will be wonderful.”
The tall man stopped and looked down at me. His eyes appeared kind. “It’s only a bobcat, Sara. Nothing to be worried about. They can be awfully noisy though.”
He smiled but I didn’t smile back. My mouth felt frozen.
“I want to go home,” I wailed, trying to take my mother’s hand again, but she evaded my grasping fingers.
Mom got down on her haunches in order to look me in the eye. Her expression was strangely blank, her eyes shining in the light of the gas lantern the tall man held. She took ahold of my shoulders and squeezed. It wasn’t a nice squeeze.
“This is our home now, Sara. This is all there is. The beginning and the end.” I didn’t understand what she was saying. She stood back up and followed the tall man to a rusty truck.
I ran to catch up, my chest burning from the exertion.
“But Mommy—”
“This is the beginning and the end, Sara. Listen to your mother. Obedient children are rewarded in eternity,” the tall man intoned darkly. “Children, obey your parents in the Lord; for this is right.”
I swallowed my pleas and climbed up into the cab of the truck. I learned to hide my tears that day. It was a lesson I took to heart.
Until tears were no longer needed and I found the beginning. I found the end.
Just as Mom and Pastor Carter said I would…
“Will anyone else be joining us?” I asked, my body jostled about as we drove over the badly maintained road.
“Not this time,” Pastor Carter said, braking gently as the truck came to a sharp turn.
I glanced at him in surprise. That was unusual. The elders were always present for an arrival. It’s the way it had always been done.
I wanted to ask what was different about this arrival but I knew better than to pester him with questions. He provided information if he felt we needed it.
“Who’s the arrival?” One final question. Just this one.
Pastor Carter smiled. “Do you remember your arrival, Sara?”
My stomach clenched. “Yes,” I replied weakly, my nails digging into my palms.
“Is it a happy memory for you?” Pastor Carter hit a bump and I had to brace myself against the door.
“I don’t know—”
“I recall a scared little girl, crying, asking her mother to go home. Is that how you remember it?”
Where was he going with this? Why did it matter? What did it have to do with the arrival?
“It is,” I admitted, swallowing thickly.
Pastor took my hand again and I felt his serenity on my skin. In my blood. “Not all arrivals are joyous. You know this. You’ve lived it and yet you learned the truth. Compassion is essential.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Pastor Carter released my hand and I felt bereft at the loss of contact. “This is your first arrival, Sara. A perfect opportunity for you to grow. To learn. Our arrival is seeking the same thing all of us are—a spiritual awakening.”
Pastor Carter had a way of talking in riddles that often made no sense at the time he spoke them. It was only later that his words became clear. His meaning obvious.
“What does this have to do with my arrival?”
Pastor Carter patted my cheek. “Be the voice of knowledge found through resistance.”
I wanted to ask more questions but I knew from the downward curve of his mouth, Pastor wouldn’t answer any of them.
Pastor Carter parked the truck in the middle of a copse of trees beside the narrow, packed dirt lane. We got out and made our way to the gate.
A line of unobtrusive fencing ran the length of the property line. The large metal gate was the only barrier between us and the outside.
It was the first time I had been to the gate in ten years. It had been pitch black when I had seen it before. Things are always grander in memory.
And I found that I was…underwhelmed.
Nothing imposing or awe-inspiring, the gate looked more like something you’d see at a cattle ranch. Hardly indicative of the life-changing experience people came here for.
The reality crashed into the memory, jarring me in ways I didn’t quite understand. Pastor Carter pointed a remote at the gate and I watched with a strange sense of malais
e as they opened with a groan.
The recollection of the two solid metal grates had seemed monstrous in my head. It had branded itself on my mind. I remembered the gaping entrance had loomed before me like a cavernous mouth.
I also remembered thinking that Mom was wrong. After hearing Pastor Carter speak, his voice didn’t sound like God’s at all. He was just a man. But I would never say that out loud. Because I too came to think of him as the embodiment of holiness.
Those early moments at the gate had changed my life. And since then, many, many people started their own journeys the exact same way. Now here we were again.
Only the two of us.
I frowned. This wasn’t right.
The arrival we had come for wasn’t at the gate. There were no elders. No other witnesses or welcomers.
Only me.
Sara Bishop.
And Pastor Carter.
“Where are they?” I asked. The wind had picked up. It was early summer, yet spring still held on with cold fingers. I shivered.
Pastor raised a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun that was just starting to dip behind the mountain. “We’re a little early. Just be patient.”
I bit down on my lower lip and took a deep breath. I could be patient. I could wait and wait and wait. As long as necessary. I knew how to be dutiful. The perfect disciple.
I closed my eyes, wishing I could feel heat of the sun on my face. But it was low in the sky behind me. I felt nothing but a chill slither over my skin like slime. I shivered. I couldn’t help it.
Stop it. I have to do better than this.
I held myself perfectly still. I breathed in deeply, exhaling carefully. Controlled.
Peace.
That’s what this was.
Was it?
Peace wasn’t conditioned silence. Peace wasn’t smothering discontent, pretending it didn’t exist.
A strange image flashed behind closed eyelids.
Walking through the gate. Rocks crunching beneath my worn shoes. The thin, itchy material of my skirt brushing against bare legs.
Ashes of the Sun Page 5
