Chapter 2 #2
I shake my head. “But there are also men in the commune who will protect the Prophet at all costs, even if it means fighting you off with pitchforks and shovels.”
“Forks and shovels we can handle,” Roman growls. “It’s the men with guns I’m worried about.”
“They will try to protect the Prophet, though. Don’t underestimate them.” I’m worried they’ll go into this thinking it’ll be a walk in the park.
Roman takes a sip of his protein shake and grimaces. “We should take down the Prophet before he gets the chance to start this bullshit ascension. If he’s not there to lead it, it won’t happen.”
Malachi flips back his black hair. “Cut the head off the snake, and the body will die.”
Roman nods. “We’ll need to be there before sunrise on the day of the ascension. Do we know where this ascension is likely to take place?” he asks Daisy.
“Yes, in the church. It’s big enough to fit the whole commune, and of course, it’s the right place for something like that to happen.”
I picture the church filled with dead bodies—women, children, and men.
The mental image is overwhelming. I almost find it hard to believe the Prophet would do this to his own people, but he believes in his own madness.
It’s the ultimate show of power, to convince innocent people to take their own lives, just because he says so.
I already know he won’t do the same. I imagine he’ll keep his closest men alive, too.
What will he do then? Move to another location and start again?
Is the reason he’s decided the ascension needs to be now because he can sense that outsiders are closing in on him?
“Then we’ll know where he and all his men will be,” Roman says. “What does he look like?”
Daisy reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls a crumpled piece of paper out. I stare in shock when I realize it’s a photograph of the Prophet. I immediately avert my gaze, the sight of him making me feel sick.
“I managed to sneak this out of the village,” she says quietly. “We aren’t allowed photographs, they’re vanity, but he has a few of himself, in an album. I sometimes would be sent to his house to clean, and I borrowed one.”
I want the Prophet dead so he can’t hurt anyone else, but I still find myself conflicted at the thought.
It’s probably all those years I spent being forced to worship him, but somehow, I can’t imagine a world without him in it.
What if, when he dies, it’s still not the end of him?
He always told us in his sermons that it was impossible for him to die, that if his body died, he would just return in another form.
Maybe that’s what I’m most scared of—that even in his death, he’ll still haunt me.
If that happens, I’ll never be free of him.
I can’t only think about myself, though.
I need to consider all those poor people who have been persuaded to take their own lives by a madman.
Outsiders would probably call them gullible or stupid, but they’re not, they just don’t know any different.
It’s been their life for so long, it has become ingrained.
Human beings are remarkably resilient but also remarkably easy to manipulate.
I can’t judge them because even though I always wanted to escape, I was manipulated too, into believing he's always in my head. I can’t shake the idea of him as omnipotent even when, factually, it’s wrong.
I wonder if the Prophet has noticed Daisy’s absence yet.
Has her family? They must have, but whether they’ll have gone to the Prophet about it, I’m unsure.
Her mother and siblings would want to protect her, but what about her father?
If the Prophet realizes she’s gone, will he figure out that she’s come to find me?
He saw we were close, and both of us running off has got to make him believe it’s linked.
Daisy takes a final mouthful of her burrito, sips some tea, and wipes her lips with the paper napkin, then stands. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course.” I stand as well. “I’ll show you where it is, and where the downstairs bedroom is, too.” I don’t want her wandering around by herself and accidentally discovering the altar room, like I did. I really need to get the Preachers to lock it, but I haven’t had a chance to ask them yet.
I show Daisy the bedroom. It’s small and plain, but she’s not used to luxury. I notice her dress is dirty from her journey and realize she came here with nothing. She doesn’t have any clothes or even toiletries.
“Wait here,” I tell her. “Don’t move.”
Obediently, she folds her hands in front of her body and stands straight. “Okay.”
I leave her there and hurry upstairs to what’s now my room.
The guys had all my belongings moved here—at least what remained in my old dorm room that I hadn’t taken with me in my haste to leave with my parents—and so I go to the closet.
I select a couple of dresses, then go to the bathroom to grab Daisy a new toothbrush, some toothpaste, a hairbrush, and a couple of hair ties. It’s not much, but it’ll do.
I carry the items back down to her. She’s still standing in the same position I left her in.
“These are for you.” I lay the items out on the bed.
Her lips part and she shakes her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly accept them.”
“Of course you can. Come on, let’s get you changed out of that dirty dress.”
I make sure the door is firmly shut, so there’s no chance of any of the men walking by and seeing in, and then I unzip the back of Daisy’s awful maroon dress.
The item of clothing stirs up so many memories in me.
All the women at the commune are told to dress the same, in this identical item, which covers everything from the throat to the ankles to the wrists.
The material is thick and scratchy, and even in the height of summer, when we’re all sweating beneath it, we were never given an option of something more comfortable to wear.
The men in the commune wear the same color, too, but they’re allowed to display their legs, and arms, and even bare chests, if they so choose.
It’s always one rule for men and another for women.
Daisy has a slip underneath the maroon horror, and I know better than to ask her to remove it. Her modesty wouldn’t let her.
“Let’s try this one,” I say, choosing a dark blue dress with a long skirt and capped sleeves.
It’s got enough coverage to still be modest, and the color isn’t garish. I slip it over her head and help her get her arms through the holes—as though she’s a young child instead of being almost grown. I settle the cloth over her body and straighten the neckline.
“There.” I turn Daisy around so she’s facing the full-length mirror in the corner.
She claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh my!”
The dress is a little too fitted on her because I’m so small, but it looks good. She looks good—like a regular member of society. I reach to the bun at the back of her head and pluck out the pins until her straight brown hair—so long it reaches her bum—flows down her back and across her shoulders.
I stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders, and meet her gaze in the mirror. “You look so beautiful,” I tell her.
She bites the inside of her cheek. “Vanity is a sin, Ophelia.”
“You’re allowed to feel pretty, Daisy. Feeling good about yourself isn’t a sin. It’s just something we’ve been told to undermine our confidence and make us easier to control.”
She fingers the skirt of the dress. “The material is so soft.”
“It’s a cotton blend. You can keep it.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “What about when I go back to the commune?”
I shake my head. “Once my men are done with the Prophet, there will be no more commune, or at least not one with the Prophet at its head. You’ll be free to wear whatever you want, okay?”
I hope that’s the truth. I don’t want to think about how it’ll be far more likely that another elder of the commune will simply decide to step into the Prophet’s shoes and continue his work.
Earlier, Malachi said that if you cut the head off a snake, the rest it will die.
But perhaps the cult is more like a lizard, and the Prophet is its tail.
If we cut it off, another one will simply grow back to replenish the beast.
“You can sleep in here,” I tell her. “And the bathroom is right across the hall.”
“Where will you sleep?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “I have a bedroom upstairs.”
She hesitates then says, “Ophelia, I’m sorry if this is an awkward question, but what’s going on with you and those three men? I guess it seems like … I got a feeling like it’s the way it is with the Prophet and his wives.” She frowns and gives a tiny shake of her head. “But it can’t be, right?”
I didn’t want to have this conversation, but I guess I’d known it was coming. “We’re in a relationship, you’re correct.”
“What do you mean? In what way?”
I am literally going to have to spell it out for her. My cheeks burn like someone has set me on fire from the inside. “I’m sleeping with all three of them, Daisy. But it’s special. We love each other.”
“You can’t be sleeping with all of them.” Her face has paled.
I grimace. “Well, I can, and I am.”
Her eyes widen. “Like, you spend one night with one and then swap?”
I clear my throat again, unable to meet her gaze because that would be easier to explain. “Umm, something like that.”
I decide she doesn’t need any more detail, but if she sees the bedroom with the huge bed, or just after she spends the night here and realizes we’re all together, she’s going to figure it out quickly enough.
“But Ophelia, what about saving yourself for marriage? And how will you pick which of them to marry and start your family with?”
“I’d marry all three of them, if I could.”
She gasps. “That’s an abomination in the eyes of God and the sanctity of marriage!”
I shake my head. “That’s only what the Prophet has taught you. In the real world, marriage comes in lots of different forms. There are other relationships like ours right here at Verona Falls. One of them even has a child.”
“But-but-how does the child know who their father is?”
“All three men are the child’s father. The genetics part doesn’t matter.”
Daisy has paled even more. “That seems very wrong to me.”
“Surely, the more people a child has who love them the better?”
She doesn’t reply. I know I can’t expect her to understand.
I don’t like feeling judged under my own roof, though.
It makes me feel like I do when I hear the Prophet’s words shaming me in my head.
I also don’t want to argue with her. I haven’t seen this girl for so long, and we were close.
I swallow down my upset at her words and try to get things back on track.
“Let me show you the bathroom,” I say, wanting to change the subject.
She gives a tiny nod and follows me out.
I show her where it is and leave her to it. I’m worried about her snooping, but it would be weird for me to linger outside. I return to the living room and find Malachi on the couch. I sink down beside him with a sigh.
“Something is on your mind,” Malachi says softly, leaning in, his shoulder brushing mine. He turns his head, holding my eye intently.
I flash him the tiniest smile. “Everything is on my mind.”
“I wish the girl hadn’t come here if her presence is troubling you so much.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m glad she did. At least now we have a chance to help people, and to put an end to this for good. I don’t think you’ll ever truly understand how brave she’s been by coming here. She’s walked away from her family and out into a world she doesn’t really understand.”
“You did the same thing,” he reminds me.
“It was different for me. I knew there were people waiting for me to come home.”
“She knew there was someone out there, too. That someone was you.”
I lift his hand to my lips, placing a kiss on the backs of his fingers. I pause, turning his black painted fingertips one way then the next. “We need to do something about those nails.”
He gives me a slight frown, as though he expects me to complain about the fact he embraces nail polish and eyeliner, so I allow my smile to widen a little. “You can’t go around with them so chipped.”
He chuckles and leans in and kisses my forehead. “Then you’ll have to paint them for me, if we ever get a minute to fucking relax.”
“Deal.”