Chapter 23
It takes me only half of one day to confirm I’d rather be killed or seriously injured trying to escape than stay in this compound for any length of time.
The women in training aren’t physically abused—at least not that I’ve yet witnessed—but they’re forced to work all day long and controlled so vigilantly they can’t speak or sit without permission.
The worst part to me is being made to listen to several small sermons each hour and do so without scowling or talking back.
Patience is not one of my gifts. Neither is playing along to avoid conflict. If I’m stuck here for more than a day or two, I’ll for sure explode. Start screaming and knocking heads together.
We need to get out of here fast for that reason alone.
At dawn, a loud bell clangs in the Training House as an infuriatingly grating wake-up call. Then we spend the morning baking bread.
Well, the other women do. They mix dough, form loaves, let them rise, and put them into a big stone fire oven. Over and over again.
I mostly make a mess.
Instead of being paired with Burgundy, I’m stuck with one of the more advanced women in the house named Ruth.
She’s supposed to be giving me instructions, but she mostly talks down to me and sneers over my efforts.
I grit my teeth and manage not to snap back at her, but it takes more restraint than I knew I possessed.
It’s only the hope of escape that holds my tongue.
I keep brainstorming for a way out of the compound, scanning surroundings and routines every time I leave the building, but I don’t see any obvious escape route.
We might not be inside the inner walls—if we were there, we’d have almost no chance—but there are always guards stationed around the Training House, more making regular patrols through the farm and courtyards, and even more manning every locked and barred gate.
How the hell are Burgundy and I going to do this?
If I had the opportunity to chat with her, I’d ask her for more details on guard duties and geography, but we don’t have a single opportunity to speak all morning.
Lunch is eaten at a communal table in silence, so all I can do is occasionally meet her eyes.
Then we have sewing circle in the afternoon, and gossip isn’t allowed there either.
All in all, it’s a miserable, despairing day. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten Burgundy’s hopes up.
The sewing circle is interrupted when one of the elders calls an assembly.
Everyone who isn’t currently serving an essential duty has to make their way to a big open field between the farm and the Training House, and we get preached at some more—this time for more than an hour about the sacred roles of men and women until the purpose of the assembly finally is made clear.
That elder is about to take one of the women in the Training House as a wife.
His fourth wife, if the three wives lined up behind him are the extent of his current harem.
This kind of hypocrisy is the stuff of nightmares. I’d rather men openly behave as monsters than hide behind pious, self-righteous masks and justify their evil with religious proclamations.
This whole compound is kind of like my family was—only a thousand times worse. Using the Bible as a weapon to elevate themselves and lash out at everyone they hate.
Burgundy has managed to maneuver herself so she’s standing beside me for the assembly. During the cheers and applause that follows the wedding ceremony, I catch her eye and make a very quick expression of disgust.
She nods, keeping her eyes straight ahead as she leans toward me and murmurs, “We’re forced into these assemblies at least a couple of times a week, whenever one of the elders needs to feel more important or go on a crusade.”
“A crusade?”
“To capture women usually. Or attack people they believe have done them wrong.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And all under the guise of doing God’s will. Being good Christians.” She shakes her head, keeping her voice so soft I can barely hear her only inches away. “I am a Christian, and it’s not this.”
I liked Burgundy from the beginning, but the bone-dry bitterness I catch in her quiet tone speaks to me, makes her feel like kin in a way she hadn’t before.
I’ve never cared one way or the other about religion. It mostly left a bad taste in my mouth because of my experiences with my family. But at this moment I know exactly how Burgundy feels.
The assembly breaks up at last, and as we’re walking back to the Training House, I notice a woman from one of the bunks near ours dragging a huge metal bin behind her, escorted by an armed guard. They’re walking in the opposite direction from the rest of us.
“What’s going on there?” I murmur, keeping my eyes focused ahead the way Burgundy did earlier.
It only takes her a minute to figure out what I’m talking about. “Hauling compost. It’s punishment for women who misbehave.”
I clear my throat as I watch the woman and the guard walking toward one of the back gates. “Do they dump the compost outside the walls?”
Burgundy goes still for just a moment. “Yes. But never without a guard.”
I’m thinking fast, filled with the first surge of hope I’ve had all day. “Just one guard?”
“Y-yes. Although there are also the guards at the gate.”
“How many are posted at that back gate?”
“Two.”
“What happens if more than one woman misbehaves?”
“They both haul compost.”
“Still one guard?”
“Yes. Just one. But another girl tried it a few months back. She got away from her escort, but she was shot by the guards at the gate.”
“So we need to make sure we’re far enough away before they realize what’s happening.”
“How?”
“We’ll have to make sure the escort can’t shoot or sound the alarm.” My voice is cool and matter-of-fact, but the thought actually fills me with a reluctance so strong it dampens my hope.
I’ve killed people before. Quite a few. But always from a distance with a gun and only when they were an active threat to me. I’ve never killed someone at close quarters with a knife before, and I really don’t want to do it now.
But I will. Of course I will.
It’s the only way we’re ever getting out of here.
“Compost always at this time of day?” I ask.
“Yes, but it’s a twice-a-day thing.” Her voice wobbles just slightly, and I see a shaky kind of hope on her face when I glance over. “They also haul compost first thing in the morning. Before dawn.”
“Perfect. We’ll do it tomorrow morning then. Just follow my lead this evening.”
“Okay.” Burgundy makes a raspy breath. I have no idea how she’s managed to survive here for so long when I can barely make it through one day. “I will.”
That evening, I’m once again given slicing mountains of onions and peppers as my task in meal prep. It’s obviously the job given to the woman at the bottom of the heap.
I’ve got a huge bowl full of them when Ruth, the bossy woman who taught me baking this morning, walks by behind me and bumps into me. Deciding that’s the perfect opportunity, I jump as though she startled me and make a sudden move.
My big bowl of sliced vegetables ends up on the floor.
“Oh no!” I exclaim in a tone I’d never use for real. “You pushed me!”
“I did not. That mess is your own fault,” she tells me with a roll of her eyes.
I kneel down and start collecting strewn pieces of onion and peppers from the floor. When Burgundy catches my discreet look, she kneels down to help.
“What happened here?” Mary, the matron, has come over to see what caused the ruckus. “You spilled all this food on the floor!”
“It wasn’t my fault. Ruth bumped me. I think she did it on purpose.” I’m intentionally sounding quite grumbly now.
“Ruth would never do such a thing, and you should know better than to blame others for your failings. You’re going to have to wash and dry all these vegetables so they aren’t contaminated by the floor. Do it quickly, and be more careful next time.”
I really don’t like to be bossed around—I never have—so it doesn’t take much pretense to make my tone bad-tempered. “It wasn’t my fault. And it’s not fair that—”
“Not another word,” the matron snaps coldly.
“It’s really not fair,” I mutter, soft but still audible.
“That’s it. You get compost duty tomorrow morning.”
“What?” I’m loud and outraged. “But I didn’t—”
“Say one more word and you’ll have it all week.”
“It really wasn’t her fault,” Burgundy says. She’s been waiting for her opportunity, and this is it. “Ruth did bump into her. If anyone is punished, it should be her.”
“Are you in charge here?”
“No, of course not. But it really was Ruth who—”
“Now you both get compost duty tomorrow. And while you’re doing it, you can meditate on how godly women are to be silent and submissive to those in authority over them.”
Both Burgundy and I act appropriately chastened and distressed, but we’re not.
We’re really not.