Chapter 9
Icy rain begins to fall as I descend toward the village. It came in an instant, the clouds gathering above the trees as if called there by some greater being. Anguish, I think, and with the name comes terrified laughter, boiling up my throat.
There are some things I know to be absolutely true: The universe is infinite.
We will never truly plumb its depths; we will never know all there is to know of the unending cosmos.
All kinds of things, grandiose and horrible, could populate the stars and we will never meet them; never even guess that they exist.
But gods are not real. Anguish can’t be real.
My feet slide in the mud as I hurtle down the mountain, but the rain falls harder by the second.
The erratic slam of my heart mirrors my chaotic thoughts, my movements distracted and thoughtless.
My lashes grow heavy with cold droplets.
My hair is soaked, plastered to my neck and face.
The leather shoes the sisters gave me are useless here.
I may as well be barefoot in the mud. What I wouldn’t give for my boots right now.
I descend as quickly as I can, but it’s slow going. I try to stay upright even as the mud pulls at me, threatening to drag me down. The trees, pillars of black on all sides, seem to watch me with stoic amusement.
I refuse to look back. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll see him following me. Grasping at me. Inches from my body, inches from dragging me back to him, smothering me, disappearing me.
And who would mourn the loss? Who would come looking for me? Who would worry? I have made every effort to disappear; I’ve cut myself off with purpose. I wanted to get away from my life. I wanted to be forgotten. So that I, in turn, might forget.
Maybe it’s better if I turn back. Part of me wants him to have me, all of me.
And maybe Irena was right. Who in this world has a choice?
Maybe this place, the sisters, the solar flares, this ruin on the mountain …
they have all been on my path since the beginning of time. All I do now is walk toward destiny.
Is it worth all this resistance?
I push my ragged, waterlogged hair out of my face, blinking rain from my eyes.
A figure stands before me on the path. Silhouetted black in the rain, unmoving, and I feel its eyes on me.
My breath catches like a fish on a line, and I halt in my descent, skidding, nearly losing my balance.
The figure steps toward me. It is dressed in white.
‘Irena?’ My voice breaks, child-like and frightened.
She moves closer and I recognize her, the sister I know, the sister I wish I could trust. Her face is twisted, her hands outstretched as if to draw me into an embrace.
‘Midonia,’ she says. ‘I’ve been so worried. The whole village is out looking for you.’
Her words are kind, but her eyes are black and hard like volcanic rock. Her expression is wrong; there is fear, and sympathy, but … something else. Something I can’t name, but it prickles at the base of my skull.
‘You should not have come up here,’ she says. ‘Follow me back to the village.’
I don’t move.
We watch one another as the rain cascades over us, ice-cold.
I’m drenched to the bone. I have no choice but to go with her.
The realization is a fist closing around my heart, and I feel revulsion rising like vomit in my throat.
I try to rationalize that there’s no reason to fear her.
In fact, she ought to be my savior, come to deliver me from the horror that waits in the ruin.
But I think of my ship, grounded. My clothes, taken from me.
No radio with which to contact the outside world.
There is only the sisters, their isolated colony, and the monstrous being who watches over them. A knot forms in my gut.
My missing clothes, the solar flares …
Have I had a choice in anything at all since I landed here?
‘Come,’ Irena repeats. There is an edge to the word, steely and unforgiving.
There’s something wrong with her eyes, I think. Something she’s hiding.
But there is nowhere else to go.
I step toward her. She grasps my elbow, holding me tight. ‘What were you doing up here?’ she asks, her voice dripping with concern. ‘The forest is thick, the slopes are steep. It’s so easy to get lost unless you know the way.’
‘I don’t know,’ I murmur.
‘You did not think. You missed the evening meal.’
‘I wasn’t hungry.’
Her jaw is set, her eyes flashing. Her fingers dig into my arm. ‘You cannot miss our evening meal again. You must pray with us.’ Her expression softens. ‘I don’t want you to starve.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Her reply is guttural, a low rumble in her throat: ‘You will not miss another meal.’
A chill runs down my spine. ‘Fine, okay,’ I relent. What else can I do, starve? ‘I won’t miss another one.’
She relents and her grip relaxes. We descend from the mountain.
As we return to the village, the rain thickens to ice.
Sleet hammers the thatch-roofed huts, and I imagine the rain falling and falling until the river rises above its banks, washing everything away, houses and all, until only the ruin is left, jagged and dark where it clings to the mountainside.
As we enter the village, I think Irena will lead me to my hut and leave me there. But we pass it by. Her grip is still firm on my arm.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, shivering violently. Vaguely I’m beginning to worry about hypothermia. I need a hot bath and dry hair or I fear I might fall asleep and never wake.
‘We are late.’ Irena doesn’t elaborate, but it becomes clear we’re heading for the dining hall. Another meal? Or am I about to be force-fed by Irena? Is she truly so worried that I’ll starve? Am I reading into everything, injecting manipulation and malice when there is nothing but care and concern?
The tightness in my stomach relents, but only slightly. I’m being paranoid. Ever since the incident, things haven’t made sense the way they used to. My brain twists things, darkens the light, projects horrors onto daydreams.
My mind is my worst enemy. Irena is a friend.
She ushers me into the dining hall. I blink, momentarily blinded by sudden light.
The room is awash with ochre light, walls and ceiling flickering brightly, illuminated by an immense fire in a brazier at the center of the room.
And it’s hot. Unbelievably hot. Almost like a sauna, that claustrophobic thickness in the air, the way heat wraps its tendrils around your body and squeezes, unrelenting, slowly suffocating.
Steam rises from my body, my rain-heavy clothes already beginning to dry.
‘Irena –’
But she pushes me forward, and before I can protest, dozens of hands reach for me and pull me in.
The room is full of sisters. The entire village, it seems, has gathered here, all dressed in white, their eyes shining with reflected flames. I realize the tables are gone; there is no food to be seen.
‘Wait,’ I say, struggling weakly, knowing I’m already overpowered. ‘Wait, wait …’
What do I want them to wait for? I have no idea what they’ll do; I can’t understand why they’re pulling me in among them, surrounding me, until I am ensconced on all sides by women in white.
Hot liquid rolls down my neck and spine. Whether it’s sweat or heated rainwater, I can’t tell. My hair is still drenched. My feet squelch in my ruined leather shoes. I’m too hot and too wet and my dress is clinging in uncomfortable places, and I can’t breathe, and I want out.
I want out.
‘Let go.’ My voice is tight, betraying my fear. A rush of a memory comes to me, and I hear an all-too familiar voice in my head. I hear the jangle of a belt buckle. I hear men’s lazy laughter.
A coil of unwanted sensation unfurls within my chest, the memory of that day whetting me like a blade. I drive my teeth into my lower lip, pushing it away, the gnawing ache. I don’t want to let it out. They haven’t hurt me. They won’t.
The nearest sisters begin pulling at my clothes, unlacing, unbuttoning.
The incident was unplanned. An accident.
Bare knuckles slide against my nape as my dress is dragged open, removed, discarded. I am in my wet underdress, plastered to my skin.
It was a mistake. I couldn’t help it.
It’s not in my nature to fight back.
I smell blood. I smell death. When I speak, my words are too polite. ‘I want to go outside.’
But no one seems to hear me. A low chant catches my ears.
The sisters’ voices tangle all around me, repeating the same unintelligible phrase over and over, words rising and falling like waves.
It tickles my skin, pricking me with unseen thorns.
My throat tightens and my eyes water, my lungs struggling to overcome a sudden pressure.
Stop, I want to say, but I can’t speak anymore. There’s nothing but the sisters and their endless chant, swallowing me whole.
They surge into me, firelit eyes gleaming, their fingers undressing me with practiced speed. The underdress falls to my ankles. In a second, they’re unhooking my underwear. Sliding them down my thighs. All my clothes, a wet pool at my feet. I’m naked, helpless in the firelight.
That’s when I finally lose it.