Chapter 41 Rot and Failure
rot and failure
Sariah
My head pounds, and my face has its own heartbeat. The heat and swelling are my first thought.
It’s the second thought that shakes me from my terror. Where is Renée? Where is my daughter since I obviously failed to protect her?
I’m alone, still in the cabin where they brought us originally. The dirt-packed floor smells of rot and failure.
Lying here, I sense what I failed to recognize before… Fabric covers me. It’s itchy and rough and smells acrid. It’s almost like bleach but not as sweet or sharp. It surrounds me and infuses my nostrils.
Lye.
I toss it off my body only to find my nakedness below.
“Well, good morning.” A slimy voice begins. “Or evening, I guess.”
I grab the fabric, knowing instinctively it’s a brown robe, the dress of the women who bear children for the leadership.
Knowing I’m choosing either to attract the men for sex in my nakedness, and the punishment that elicits, or acquiesce and accept the covering, which also means accepting the role, accepting the “elders” as they call themselves into my body.
It’s a lose-lose proposition.
The man paces behind me, getting closer with every pass. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and I’m most certainly the caught prey he’s toying with.
“Why did you cover up, Sariah? I was happy to watch. I’ve been watching. Hell, we’ve been watching since your picture popped up on the news. Thanks for that lead, by the way.” The last sentence is said so slowly I want to gag. How long have I been out? How long have they had my precious daughter?
“What time is it?”
“Almost sunset.”
I try to do the math, but this far north, summer days are so long. Almost sunset could be eight o’clock or after. How long have we been gone from home?
Cian said he was thirty minutes behind us, but when was that? I wish I could trust that he could save us. I know he would if he could, but let’s be real, I’m the one who knows this place. I’m the one with everything to lose. I’m the one who will have to save my daughter…
Or die trying.
Pushing up onto my hands and knees, the room tilts and swirls.
“Eh, eh, eh.” The elder tsks. “No need for that. Unless…” he moves behind me, the whirl of a zipper cutting through the quiet room.
I think the fuck not. Rolling, I plant my body and kick, hitting exactly where I aimed.
He doubles over, his face going beet red—in pain and in blatant anger—as he holds his crotch and groans. He hits his knees and falls like a tree, but he grabs my robe as I scramble. Naked and protecting my daughter is far better than covered and too late.
I run.
Cian
Why didn’t I ask more about Sariah’s childhood or this God-forsaken compound? How many people are here and why are they in fucking robes?
It’s not even a blast from the past so much as a nod to handmaidens and old puritan culture.
It’s creepy. The worst part is everyone looks the same.
Robes with hoods for the women. They walk with their faces downcast, so I can’t figure out who’s who and there are no clues.
They’re barefoot or wearing strange slippers.
Sariah doesn’t fit here. Fuck, no one fits here. This isn’t suitable in modern life.
I stand in a grove of trees, trying to get a pulse on what in the world is happening.
There’s some choreographed pageantry to the snakelike pattern of the robed figures.
Almost all are shit brown. There are a handful of white ones.
I watch those specifically, because there are only a few. Why would so few be singled out?
A flash of yellow catches my eyes. It’s a bold color in a sea of neutral nothingness. It disappears as quickly as it comes.
The white-robed participants are encircled by the larger swell of brown robes, pushed closer and closer to a round, slightly raised dais in the center of the clearing.
There’s little else in the clearing. Men in breeches and pirate-looking open shirts mill about drinking and laughing around the edges as the strange berobed individuals march to their doom. At least that’s what it seems like to me.
Thank God Sariah escaped. Twice.
Thank God Ayla hasn’t seen this.
Thank God Renée will never know this place after today.
I. Will. Not. Fail.
A burst of lavender hits my eyes, and this time I seek it specifically. It’s out of place. Not natural to this spot, and it’s a clue. I seek and find it. Pale purple toenails.
I study the participant wearing a white robe. She doesn’t seem to understand the choreography. She’s jostled a bit. The other five participants are dressed similarly and have bare feet, too, but no color on their toes.
Renée.
Six men stand at the dais, though I didn’t see them appear.
Six girls. Six men.
How the hell can I take on all of them? If I save one, it will be worth it. I’ll take the brunt to save that sweet girl.
The one who loves her mom.
The one who has my same sense of humor.
The one who laughs in the same places I do when we watch movies.
The one whose mom stole my heart long before she was born, who will still own it long after she’s grown and has her own children.
I take one step into the clearing just as something catches my attention.
Sariah.